Silver Tongue

I’ve just recently stumbled onto the Monday Mixer, which due to time-zones is a productive way to spend my Tuesday mornings. The idea is to pick one word from each of the three lists: location, thing, adjective and do a piece of flash fiction that's exactly 150 words. You can be a sucker for punishment and try and jam all nine prompt words in, but I figure that's a bit much when I'm trying to mark tests.

Picture from Wikimedia

The wind howled over the remnants of the battlefield causing banners to flutter listlessly. The moor was littered with the dead and dying. Broken shields, hacked limbs and viscera were scattered about, the bulk of them displaying the insignia of the Renegades.

Victory was not yet secured though, as Silver Tongue was yet to be accounted for. With luck, his corpse would be amongst the fallen, and this miscarriage of a revolution would finally end. Inspecting the dead was gristly work, but the reward posted for his head more than made up for it.

Behind a clump of furze a pair of boots kicked feebly as their owner tried to rise. Teeth gritted and a bandana pressed against his side in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood, Silver Tongue looked up at my approach. “Not so loquacious now, ye bloody bastard!”

The land would know peace once more.