It had already become day as he opened the big wooden door and stepped out of the shadows. The sun had shown behind the Eastern Forest, bright and warm in a cloudless sky. As his eyes closed, he slowly raised his head. Gently, the morning wind had caressed his face and rustled through his long hair.
The chatter of the birds had become one with the whisper of the black elders, melding with the rhythmic battling of the little brook, which wound its way into the distance behind the humble bridge. But it has not always been like that.
1700 Years ago, during the celebration of the two moons, the enemy (?) and overpowered the villagers under the cloak of darkness. Brave men were cut down where they stood in the cold, crisp autumn night.
The ones who still had life in their veins escaped in despair, but regathered quickly and formed the resistance, many among them women and children, only armed with axes, torches and pitchforks. And it seemed as if all hope had been forsaken.
