By: Nicholas S.
The air was filled with the stench of many disembodied carcasses of the scorched, stabbed, and slaughtered. The villagers slowly emerged from their huts. All of them in the same stance, ready for anything that attacked. In this crowd was a boy at the age of 11 cycles, stuck in the middle like a bulls-eye on an archery target, his name was Nicholas Roman. His eyes were bloodshot, for he had been up all night. His pants were tattered, his shirt bloodstained. Though he had gotten no sleep, he was extremely alert. None forgot what happened that precedent night and neither would Nicholas.
As the congregation of village people arose out of their cottages, they held wooden shields and scythes battle-ready.