The night air was cold, the wind from the sea bringing in merciless and plundering creatures on their longboats, covered by the darkness of the night. While the moonlight shone, its shadow concealed their beings from the sights of the patrol.
Yet, the women and nuns hid behind the thin walls of the cabins. The men of the monastery gathered their feces covered forks and dirt tainted shovels.
Trembling behind the small barricade of wreckage they had constructed and piled around the shipment of goods. Trusting in the only swordsman in their ranks, Hubert.
As he stood outside in front of them all, with eyes of black peering into the darkness. His sword, glinting in the moonlight, readied for blood that night.
"Si-sir," the stable boy called, gripping his shovel hard.
Hubert placed his index finger on his own lips.
