There it was.

A tall stone pillar, reaching up to the sky. It looked weathered, battered by the years, but it stood unhindered. Set upon the bottom was a small plaque; unlike the pillar it adorned, the plaque was unmarred by age and nature. Its message was laid bare for all to see.

Thus we pass from this mortal coil

Against unmatched odds, eternal foes

Fell beasts of fell purpose we foil

Thus we pass from this world

Four warriors, a tale full told.

And he was weary. The viewer of the monument was weary. Laying down his blade, he knelt before the pillar, resting for a while.

The visitor was clad in leather and russet cloth, looking a wanderer, used to the wilds of the land. The hood of his cloak was lined with fur, as if he was a wanderer of the deep frosts of the North. Underneath was a mix of plate armor, chainmail, and rough clothing, designed to protect their wearer and keep them warm.

It started snowing as the visitor knelt there, muttering.

His sword was clad in a leather scabbard, marred by many fights, stained red with blood. The hilt was bound with leather, stained dark where he had grasped it, and the pommel was a wolf's head, posed in a snarl, as if to warn off enemies.

The visitor stood up, fixing his hood. He took it off, paying no heed to the increasing snow.

"It was a red dawn this day. As it is in all others as of late."

He spoke as if there were others there, but nobody but the mournful winds and dead trees heard him.

"More fell today. They overtook our defences, tore through them like paper."

His gloved hand tightened.

"Vengeance was had this day too, as in all others as of late."

He looked up.

The visitor seemed to be young, yet seemed burdened with a task beyond his reckoning. His eyes were steely gray, seeming to peer into somewhere distant. His hair was deep brown, with small flecks of snow inside it. His expression was sorrowful and sombre. If there was mirth there once, it was gone now.

"For every man we lost, we felled four of them. They did not escape. Not one."

He picked up his sword and unsheathed it. The blade seemed to shine brighter, despite the darkening day. Though its wielder was covered in the evidence of his battles, and its scabbard was stained crimson with its victories, the sword looked as pristine as the day it was forged.

"Yet it is still a bittersweet victory. Many of us are now dead, and even fewer now are the soldiers ready to protect the fort. So many are injured, and the boy, once eager, will probably not last the night."

The visitor sighed.

"I fear for my friends, my soldiers. The night comes faster with every passing day, and their assault comes quicker and stronger. Soon, I fear, we may have to fall back to our final holding, before the stronghold itself is besieged. I have assumed the worst, that the stronghold is now fallen, that we are truly the last.

Once upon a time, I would have called this a beautiful place. The snow is white and stands out in the darkness, and by torchlight, it looks even more brilliant. I grew up here, and even now, I still stand in amazement at how gorgeous the snowfall appears.

Now, I just call it a boneyard, and the snow a cold reminder of why I stand here today.

Dead men tell no tales, or so they say. Yet I feel as if you stand next to me, and in happier times, you and my friends would have drunk alongside all the others, mirthful and joyous.

A grim task now is at hand. And I fear I may not be equal to what it demands of me."

He said this with purpose, and it seemed as if he was talking to the monument.

But nobody but the mournful winds and the dead trees heard.

With a slow motion, he reattached his scabbard to his belt, taking a final look at the monument.

Taking in what it was, what it meant to him.

They were important to him; despite him not having known them for so long, but then so were the rest.

So young, and so vibrant. Like the rest had been.

And so quickly had they fallen. It was darkly funny, in a way; he'd always thought that it was impossible to fail at the task they had been set by the knower of all things. Was clairvoyance not his domain? Was not prescience?

How wrong they had been.

Now, he was with who had remained, who had escaped. He did not know who else to turn to, nor did he know if others had escaped.

The visitor shook his head and bowed it, before pulling his hood up.

"No time to stay here. I must go. If I do not return, know that I have joined you and the rest of them in greener pastures, in peaceful lands beyond."

He swiftly walked away, a torch in one hand, a sword in the other. He knew that they prowled the woods as the night came on.

The snow thickened, and he trudged on.

Further in the forest, a sad howl echoed, and many came in response.

But only the mournful winds and the dead trees heard.