The screams were like a chorus to him now. It reminded him of a flock of gulls squawking in panic as they angrily took flight when a child ran through them. It was hard to even recognize such weak creatures as humans. These were a raider's morals. This was the part of him that he'd always been comfortable with. The other countries labelled them monsters – but there was nothing more natural than the strong giving a good hunt of the weak. A raid was honourable, he thought. A raid was to be expected.
Children cried, women screamed, dogs barked, and the men desperately tried to mount some sort of defence. Vol ignored them all. That bend in the road was the promised land. In that moment, it held promise even greater than Oliver Patrick's head. He continued along it, throwing his body around the curve, losing no speed, hardly even feeling a burn in his lungs.
