The hammering of building, the sound children running and playing in the air. The smell of fresh baked bread and meat being smoked. The laughing of the comradely of men, the hushed talking and giggle of the women. Knights teaching their squires, horsemanship, sword play, and the noble code of chivalry. Life, not all perfect but good, progress, moving forward with the kingdom into the future.
You can still see all of it in the ruble of this place, like the faint image of a shadow in your eye as the lights are flashed on. The buildings were life was growing, smashed. The places were the cooking happened, burned. Where the women giggled now just lays defiled ground. At the most holiest of places were the priests of Heironeous prayed, the images of hextor’s agents stabbing them in the back can still be imagined, and being see through a child’s eye it would be hell.
The rage I thought that was there before is nothing, it was but a spark. The hate I feel in my heart to any follower of hextor burns with a rage that will only be sated when every one of his followers will not only be killed and defiled but left in unmarked graves and their names be struck from history along with their worthless god. In this life or the next I will have vengeance.