"Grave of Memories" is a Season 4 event written March 22, 2015.
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Gareth Ragnar Haddock the Second: Haddock watched his people come and settle into the ruins of the old Grounded Dungeon. They were taking only upper levels of the dungeon, of course, as close to the surface as possible. He understood tactically that the lower levels would be, in some ways at least, more sturdy and secure; however, he hated as it was that they were returning here at all. Haddock could see the apprehension in the eyes of many as they returned to this dark grave of memories, some expressions worse than others. He himself felt a cold shudder walking past a pair of manacles lying on the ground.
The wounded should not have been transported so soon, he worried as he watched the healers looking after those they had carried here. Yet it would have been even more dangerous to remain at the fortress’ rubble, out in the open and void of shelter.
Grey and Mera both eventually shooed him off to rest. “At the very least, sit down,” Mera had hissed, and nearly shoved him down before he could even reach a makeshift chair. “And I’ll be coming back and watching you to make sure you don’t sneak off. Your duty is to rest.”
Haddock was resting now, and he grudgingly admitted he needed it. The doctor’s spell had certainly helped his head, but he still needed it to clear more before he felt fully functional again.
Well. hopefully this is the last stupid injury I get, he thought to himself. Though… not likely… with Ragnarok around the corner. He grimaced, knowing it was highly, highly unlikely he and the loved ones he knew would make it through. He knew what the prophecies said about mankind’s death.
People should not have died today. Especially not so many. A third of his people… gone… in the course of anhour.
He should have… he should have… stopped that. Had them evacuate sooner as soon as Kiri warned them. Had them prepare, at least, for a sudden evacuation. Spoken more widely to the camp about the witch’s looming threat.
I’m sorry… Kiri. I’m sorry… everyone.
Hand wavered toward the slavemark on his forehead.
He touched it. Rubbed at it. It did not burn anymore on his forehead, but his fingers tingled uncomfortably as he traced over the s-shaped mark.
No more mistakes, he told himself firmly, left hand finally lowering to his side. This will not, in any way, shape, or form, happen again. There will be no more unneeded dead. Not so long as I can help it.
I may have made many mistakes as a king. I may make many more.
But I nevermore will make the same mistake twice.