April bleated, not unlike the desperate cries of a sick and dying goat that had given birth to stillborn twins. The weather was as undecided as a woman betrothed by station and awaiting the first glimpse of her prince fair…or not. I sharpened my blade and packed my mount in earnest, kissing the forehead of my loved ones and bedding my mistress to infuse hard memory in her breast, so softer hands did not find their way to my rightful salvation prior to my return.
Springtime was the time of blood letting and scraping of bone. A time to refill coffers and take provisions that would allow summer work to take purchase and provide again for the bleak winter months when the cold handcuffed working men and women from plowing , planting and sowing. The Gods would provide, but not for a man who was not willing to put chivalry and empathy in a sack and store it until he took as many heads as necessary to collect that which he needed to provide for his family and his village. Death was as necessary as any of the harbingers of spring. Blood was but preserve to be spread evenly and thickly, to be eaten with morning toast and a generous portion of salt pork. If his hands slipped, or his mind hesitated but once at the thought of sparing even one of Gods gifts he could forget the mantle of being a free and prosperous people. The first soul taken would be blessed and not unlike a kiss from the Goddess herself.
Springtime was the time of blood letting and scraping of bone.