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The Nameless

and the Punic Tide

By Brannan K.Published about a year ago Updated about a year ago 21 min read
The Nameless
Photo by Hasan Almasi on Unsplash

The summer air was stifling, but began to cool rapidly as the evening drew to a close, aided by the sultry breezes that swept over the rolling and verdant fields of the region from the nearby Mediterranean waters. This junction where vast expanses of fertile farmland met the endless horizon of the sea made Puglia some of the most desirable, productive, and picturesque land in all of Italy. Though on this early August's eve, the peaceful calm and serenity belied an impending decimation the likes of which the Earth and its denizens - who had all too often displayed their propensity for conquest, subjugation, and violence - had yet to witness. The lurking devastation and brutality, ever brought about by the machinations of the few and the powerful, would soon be carried out by the blade, and by the spear, and by the arrow, of the many nameless and unfortunate souls at their command.

The many prints in the dirt track a league from the coast foreshadowed the scale of the coming carnage. The prints were set deeper into the soil than those of a traveling merchant or farmer escorting his wares and livestock to market. These prints spoke of thousands upon thousands of men, horses, and wagons, marching in tight, disciplined formations. Eight legions of Roman Legionnaires, augmented by another eight legions worth of allied fighting men, men at arms, and thousands of cavalry descended upon the region in the defense of the Republic and her interests. The force was laden with the typical burdens of war; iron and steel, various tools of butchery, armor, medicinal tinctures, bandages, provisions, lumber for constructing fortifications, and siege engines on spoked wheels. The heaviest weights were borne in the pits of the soldier's stomachs, advancing forward, questioning if their doom was neigh upon them, or if they would prevail, returning home to the tender caress of a loving wife and the giddy laughter of small children. Even if the latter were to be true, the wise knew that none would return from this campaign whole and unscathed.

And though the parade had long passed earlier in the afternoon, a dusty haze clung to the edges of the highway, accentuating the rapidly falling darkness, the thinnest of veils separating quiet from chaos. To the east of the veil was the sea and civilization. To the west, somewhere amongst the hills and fields, civility would be forgotten as men devolved into bloodthirsty hounds at the climax of a hunt, prey cornered, fear palpable, survival necessary.

But that would be a scene for the day to come. Currently, nothing stirred as night continued to fall, the sea breeze gently pushing on the fronds and leaves of the surrounding vegetation. Fishing boats drifted in with the tide, captains and crew regaining their land-legs. Lantern light flickered to life in the windows and doorways of the seaside city in the distance as non-combatants settled around cookfires and tables to enjoy their reprieve from the day's labor. The gulls descended from the skies and nestled into their perches near the wharf.

The night drew on, insects singing their nocturnal tunes, creatures on the prowl. A soft whirring noise pierced the silence as a blue aura materialized near the base of an olive tree, not twenty feet off the road. The whirring grew in intensity and pitch as the aura brightened, culminating in a sharp flash. The embrace of shadows consumed the area again quickly, but now under the olive tree stood a man.

He was tall and muscled, his defined physique making the traditional tunic and breeches stretch taut. The man looked down at himself, soaking in the garb of the time and his new physical features. This was always the most awkward part; familiarizing with his new form. He had been sedated, as was customary, before his physical being had been altered, dressed in a disguise reminiscent of the target operation's era, and placed in the machine along with any other Nameless, tools, or objects he would require to complete his mission.

The lengths The Nameless went to were great, but they were necessary. The decentralized complexity was employed for operational security, so no individual Nameless would be able to divulge information damaging to the mission, the organization, or the identities of other Nameless. The Council of Architects would decide the ultimate objectives of the mission, based upon both foreknowledge and speculation of potential desired outcomes in the future. The objectives would be unanimously agreed upon by the Council, and only then disclosed from the Council to The Strategist, who would formulate an operational plan to guide agents in the field. The Council would not be privy to the specific details of the operation constructed by The Strategist. They would not know precisely when, how, or how many Nameless would be involved. The Strategist would provide the required number of Nameless to The Artist. Only the Artist knew the operatives appearance and disguises. A sealed file with their characteristics and other identifiers would be secured in the Operational Archives. The Artist would have that specific memory catalog wiped from his brain - the final line of defense against espionage - as soon as the operatives entered the field.

His tunic was maroon with gold-colored trimming under a light chain-mail vest, layered under a thin, hooded black cloak. A small, barely distinguishable golden "X" was emblazoned near the left collar edging of the tunic. It matched the "X" carved over the radial artery of his left wrist. In ultraviolet light, they would glow like the blue aura that harkened his arrival. They were the only two identifying features he bore, as one of the Nameless. His covert name and identifiers were detailed in the sealed file in the archives. If he was not successful in his mission, compromised, or was slain, the markings would be the only way for his body to be properly identified by a recovery team and his memory catalogs recovered and destroyed.

On his feet, he wore beaten leather Caligae, and a Gladius, the customary fighting sword of the Roman Legionnaire, was belted to his right hip. The sword was scratched and worn, giving the appearance of use. His fierce, ice-gray eyes were set above a sharp nose and below a balding, middle-aged pate. An unruly beard clung to his jaw line and the edge of his thin lips curled in a grin. He was pleased with this form. The displeasure of sloppier, untoward, appearances had been his before, often during operations that required less conviction and daring.

Returning to the moment at hand, he browsed his clothing for any items that would give him the missing details needed to complete his tasks. His briefing with the Strategist had been layered in complexity. Thwarting Hannibal and the Carthaginian incursion of the Republic, here at Cannae, was the ultimate goal. The wanton massacre of eighty thousand men and another Roman Consul, Lucius Aemilius Paullus, would only add to the litany of defeats at the hands of Hannibal, further shattering the will and pride of Rome and her people. If Rome were victorious, momentum would be gained in her favour, bringing the Second Punic War to an end nearly two decades early. In turn, this would ensure the Republic a more stable foothold in northern Africa, allowing her to focus more intently on the numerous Gallic and Germanic tribes of the northern lands that would ultimately be her downfall. The extent of possibilities rendered by another half-century of the Republic's existence were still being diligently explored, and would require additional nudges in the proper direction by The Nameless at various points.

More specifically, and perhaps importantly, Gaius Varro - the surviving Consul - must be proven exceptional. Varro was an inexperienced and mediocre general at best, but a populist politician who had gained the loyalty of masses of plebeians around the Republic due to his modest upbringing as the son of a butcher and his consistent efforts to improve the standing of the lowliest citizens in the empire. If Varro could enhance his reputation by becoming the heroic and sole surviving Consul present at Hannibal's defeat, his succession to Emperor would fall into place shortly thereafter. An Emperor ascendant from the most humble beginnings would be one Rome had never seen before, and would usher in a blossoming era of moral, philosophical, and technological development in the Western world that would not come to pass for centuries under the corrupt and powerful lineages that would otherwise reign. Innumerable generations of men and women would be uplifted from cycles of servitude, violence, and despair. Untold conflicts between nation-states would be avoided altogether. The Republic would be the shining star of civilization on Earth, the beacon of hope and example of prudent societal evolution.

His fingers grasped two scrolls of parchment within the pocket of his tunic. He pulled them out; both scrolls were rolled and sealed. One was closed with a red wax seal depicting an Eagle perching atop the letters "SPQR". The second scroll was sealed with a black wax seal in the shape of an "X". He broke the legs of the "X" and opened the scroll, reading the lines by the moonlight.

"You are Servinius Marcus Palentius for the remainder of your mission. Ensure Varro takes an active role and leads from the vanguard. Deliver the second scroll to Varro. Ensure his safety and that he does not flee nor fall victim to Hannibal's designs. You may divulge knowledge of intended Carthaginian maneuvers and implications. Paullus is expendable, but no direct action is to be taken less he interferes. Moderate losses are otherwise acceptable. No hostile subterfuge is expected or additional time-breaks detected. You will be extracted on the morrow's eve when the ravens descend. Be scarce by then. Destroy this message."

He tucked the remaining scroll securely back into his tunic, following the darkened curvature of the highway with his gaze as it slithered westward. Setting off at a brisk pace, he followed. As he walked, he purposefully tore the scroll into minute pieces, scattering a tiny sliver of the parchment every two-hundred paces. He continued this way for hours, marching inexorably forward through the night, rehearsing his alibi and how he would convince Varro to follow his orders.

Finally, after crossing tens of miles of farmland, the ground shifted into a harder, packed dirt, as the supple, tended crops gave way to stubborn, brittle vegetation that barely clung to life. The contrast between the lush and bountiful fields of plenty and the sparse, unforgiving terrain before him, interspersed with outcroppings of rocks and thorns, was no coincidence. One expanse reciprocated the nurturing it received, bearing life, while the other would scorn in return, recoiling from mankind as it was watered with blood and viscera.

As he crested a small rise in the tracks, sentry fires flared into distant view, encircling a massive camp. In the center of the ring of sentries were cookfires and the outlines of large, canvas tents. The silhouettes of meandering horses and sleepless men drifted in and out of the firelight, but there were no ale songs or murmurings audible on the wind. No bantering and raucous voices dispersed optimism in their own favor. Even the field mice ceased their frenzied scurries and huddled with bated breath. The trepidation of facing the nemesis of Rome come dawn was palpable and proved enough to confine most of the army to silent, restless brooding. The veterans amongst them attempted to find what little sleep they could, knowing the coming contest would require it.

He aimed toward the largest structures, in the center of the camp, where he would likely find Varro. As he drew nearer the sentry lines, he stepped off the roadway, seeking the shelter of the shadows spread between outposts. His disguise and effects would pass the scrutiny of most guards, but he thought it would be best to slip into the camp unnoticed. The beauty of decentralized operations was that those in the field were entrusted with a high degree of latitude to accomplish their goals. He decided the fewer eyes and ears to tell tale of his presence, the better.

He ducked behind a clump of thin bushes and observed the behaviors of the two pairs of guards nearest him. The checkpoint nearest the roadway was the sloppiest; the two men were engaged in a hushed, but fervent conversation, sparing the encroaching darkness barely a glance every minute or two. Security to the rear of the army was plainly lax, as the anticipated threat lay further west. It would be safer to cross near this pair.

At that moment, three men rounded the corner of a tent, shouting to the sentries and causing them to turn their backs to the shadows; shift change had arrived. The soldiers sauntered over and began speaking. Slinking from cover, he stayed close to the ground, crouching as he hurried forward. He navigated around brush and rock, avoiding the telltale scratch and rustle that would betray him. Reaching the cover of the nearest tent, he slowed his pace and stood, crossing the threshold into the bowels of the encampment.

With straightened shoulders and a confident gait, he strode toward a worn track that led deeper into the tangled mass of tents. Dancing firelight shone upon absent stares and contemplating faces of those who had already awoke; perhaps they had never slept. Hushed tones grew louder as a pale glow broke the eastern horizon. Day had nearly arrived and the men of the camp had begun to rouse themselves.

He held the scroll with the wax "SPQR" seal in his left hand, ready to present his case upon question, meeting inquisitive looks with an icy stare that forbade interruption. The tents began to transition from meager folds of tattered canvas with malnourished men at arms curled uncomfortably on a skeleton-thin cot, to larger, squad-sized arrangements with many packs and men huddled inside. They culminated in well adorned and trimmed pavilions, with large, embellished standards hanging ominously below the iconic Eagle of Rome, sculpted in gold and framed with the letters "SPQR". These lavish pavilions had tables bearing fruit, meats, and decanters of wine, often occupied by one or two well-groomed, relaxed veterans or noblemen.

These most extravagant tents were arranged in a cluster, bordered by a low wooden palisade and attentive Centurions with magnificent breast plates and helms festooned with scarlet plumage. He strode purposefully toward the only entrance into the compound. There must be no question that he belonged there; now was not the time for sneaking around. A hulk of a man that was one of the Centurions side-stepped into his path and addressed him, barring his way with an upraised hand.

"Halt and identify yourself! State your purpose!" the Centurion barked.

All eyes in the vicinity were drawn to him. Without hesitation, and perhaps too quickly, he produced the sealed scroll, causing the Centurion to reflexively place his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"My name is Servinius Palentius. I come to deliver an urgent missive from the Senate to Consul Varro. It remains sealed and is for his eyes only. Have I traveled such a great distance from the halls of the Senate to be barred from this most important duty by..." he paused for effect, looking the Centurion up and down. The soldier did not budge, a prime example of military discipline. The scar that ran along his left-cheek concluded at the corner of his pale, ghostly, useless eye. Servinius noted the smoothed surface on the hilt of his Gladius; a sheen only acquired after decades of being drawn and gripped in the hand of a warrior. His one good eye surveyed Servinius with the skill borne of a lifetime spent analyzing whether a man posed a threat or not. After the pause, Servinius continued, deciding to press his hand.

"I apologize, what is your name Centurion? I will be sure to disclose it when I return to Rome and am questioned as to any unfortunate delays I encountered." Servinius finished succinctly, with a slight incline of his chin and eyebrows. He did not break his gaze with the Centurion, meeting the one eye unflinchingly, as he flaunted the scroll between them for inspection. The inflection in his voice had aired a tone of impatient dismissiveness and finality that only one of a higher political stature could muster, or would dream of taking with such a fierce man. The challenge for the Centurion to dispute had been made.

The Centurion snatched the scroll from Servinius' outstretched hand. He inspected the scroll, focusing intently on the red, waxy seal.

"My name is Gailo Arminius..." he stated as he turned the scroll in his hands. "The seal is well done, but may I ask you, where is the date stamped into the bottom of the seal as is customary for any legitimate Senate missive? When was this sealed?" he asked, finally breaking his gaze from the scroll to resume his dreadful stare.

A pit welled inside Servinius' stomach, but he dared not let it show on his face. How could the Artist miss something so blatantly? He thought quickly as he watched a grin creep into the corners of the Centurion's lips.

The Roman ego was historically their greatest fault; always bridling at any challenge and barreling headfirst into it. It was how they had become so entangled in Hannibal's clutches, suffering defeat after defeat by a numerically inferior force. Their historical strength had been their ability to bluff or intimidate their foes out of battle altogether by sheer display of a disciplined force with greater numbers. This Centurion was no different. Servinius realized the game that was at play.

"You really are a fool," he challenged the Centurion. The others that had gathered shared astounded looks. One man took a step back. "You have no doubt earned your keep in battle time and again to earn an esteemed position such as the Consul's personal guard, but do you really expect me to fall for that? Why on Earth would a date be inscribed anywhere on such a critical message, lest it fall into the hands of the enemy, and they gain the advantage of knowing the timeliness of our intentions and deliberations? Gailo Arminius it was? I shall ensure there is a fresh sty of pigs with your name tacked on the cross-bearing when you arrive back in Rome. It will be more fitting for your next assignment," Servinius sneered the last of his words, letting them hang in the air. He waited to see if the bluff had been called properly.

Gailo's smile widened as he chuckled, turning to face his comrades. He bent at the waist and hugged his chest tightly, cackling with laughter for a long moment before straightening to face Servinius. Gailo forced the scroll back to Servinius, thumping him in the chest lightly, and assumed a manic smile. This was obviously the most polite form of capitulation he was capable of.

"It is always your type who speaks with such unwarranted bravado. You provoke the conflicts men like myself must finish on your behalf. I do advise you to be more thoughtful in your haste. One day, you may need this sword. It would not bode well to become an enemy so recklessly," Gailo replied audaciously. The men's faces around them were replete with shock. Such a statement to an obvious man of nobility and direct envoy of the Senate such as Servinius was unheard of.

Servinius retorted with amusement, "Yes, yes, well I can guarantee it would be your sword I require, not your intellect. Good morn, fine Gailo." With that, he grasped the scroll, patted the Centurion on the shoulder, and strode past without further molestation. Gailo turned and watched him pass, still smiling ear to ear.

As Servinius neared the Consuls' pavilion, a separate conflict was underway. He paused outside the entrance flaps just long enough to overhear the end of the conversation.

"Over eighty-thousand souls to throw at him, against what? Half of that? Maybe a slight more? They've been wandering about for months, doing fuck-all, gaining nothing but our ire and depleting their own strength! They are tired, they are hungry, they are barely seeing wages, lest you count the spoils of a chicken coop or a farmer's handmaid for a night! They know they are cut off from their homeland and any reinforcement! They stand no chance of victory, and will buckle upon the first wave, mark my words, Varro," Paullus' voice thundered with a mix of frustration and recklessness.

"We cannot entrust our victory to men alone, Paullus! That is the entire reason we are here on this dusty plain and not feasting and philandering in the great stone halls of Rome, while the carcasses of these Punic rats rot along the banks of the Trebia," Varro sighed in exasperation. "You must reconsider your over-commitment to a frontal assault. I am certain there is some dastardly plan he has awaiting us," Varro pleaded.

A thoughtful pause permeated the inside of the pavilion, tension wafting out to Servinius where he stood. The moment aligned perfectly as he pulled aside the flap and entered. Varro and Paullus spun instantly; Varro, with a hand slowly grooming his stubble, Paullus with a half-filled goblet in hand. Annoyance at another messenger filled their faces, rather than alarm at the unannounced appearance of a potential assassin.

"Yes, what is it now?" spit Paullus.

"He's right, you know," Servinius addressed Paullus as he drew near. "A reckless frontal assault will surely see you to failure, especially against a tactical genius such as Hannibal." Paullus scoffed and looked away before returning his gaze.

"And who are you, a Senate courier, to know anything about battle formations and tactics. Have you ever unsheathed that sword you wear? You are awfully kind to speak of that war-mongering savage with such praise," Paullus retorted mockingly.

"I am Servinius Palentius, and I have an urgent missive for direct receipt by Consul Varro. It is marked from the Senate, but comes directly from Emperor Elagabalus himself. I speak not from personal experience in battle. That, I admit. My expertise comes from study at the College of War. Specifically, the man you will fight within hours time has designed the deaths of more Romans than any other opponent the Republic has ever faced. Failure to acknowledge his expertise speaks volumes of yours. It would do you well to reserve your whims and tread lightly into this battle."

Servinius' words struck Paullus like a ballistae, who recoiled and stood in silence. Servinius approached Varro and held the scroll in an outstretched hand. Varro eagerly took it, breaking the seal without the detailed inspection of the Centurion moments earlier. Paullus was obviously slighted by his exclusion.

"Well, what does it say? Is it truly from the Emperor himself?" Paullus could not hold back his inquisition.

"Yes, I recognize his personal signature," Varro slowly explained as he turned and paced toward one of the pavilions walls, lost in pensiveness.

"Well?!" Paullus nagged, stepping closer to Varro. Varro turned to face Paullus, dropping his arms and assuming an open, genuine posture before explaining.

"In short, it says we are to trust this man and what he has to say for the next few moments. Apparently he has intimate knowledge of the Carthaginian battle plan. How, it does not say. It puzzles me greatly. But this is indeed from the Emperor's own hand, and I cannot in good faith distrust his wishes or intent."

Varro approached Paullus and whispered in his ear. Eyebrows raised and Paullus glanced at Servinius again. Both Consuls slowly turned to Servinius, awaiting explanation.

For the better part of an hour, Servinius explained Hannibal's designs; how he would place his least effective infantry and fighters in the center of his line, and his heavier and most effective veterans on the flanks. He would require the weaker lines in the center to hold temporarily, then feign a rout, goading the Romans into a frenzied, victorious pursuit. At the proper moment, the pursued would turn and re-engage, supplemented by fortified positions and awaiting missile combatants. As the Romans flooded the center gap, chasing their quarry, the heavier infantry and pikes would squeeze and pin the Roman flanks, creating three separate battle lines. To nail the coffin shut, Hannibal's hidden cavalry reserves would flood in from the hills, cutting off any retreat from the rear, completely enveloping the Roman force, leading to near-total annihilation. The sun had been risen by the time he had finished with the specifics.

Though Paullus was so incredulous at first he attempted to exile Servinius from the camp, he and Varro ultimately conceded the design was otherwise militarily sound. They set quickly to devising a counter-offensive to Hannibal's devious strategy that would lull him into a sense of victory, reversing at the pivotal moment, as he had planned for them. Servinius was dismissed and prescribed lodging in a nearby pavilion, within the command compound.

Servinius found a decanter of water and a breakfast of light fruit waiting next to a cot. He nourished his form, then laid down, seeking a short reprieve of no more than an hour, knowing his mission was only half-completed. The Consuls informed him he would be roused before the battle. He would do well to get a modicum of rest before the butchery began.

It seemed his eyes had been shut for only a moment when the rustling flaps woke him. The motion was quick and purposed in his direction, not the verbal arousal he expected. He jerked up on the cot as a heavy bludgeon of iron slapped against his skull and he fell limp and broken to the floor. A woven bag was placed over his head and drawn tight as his vision blurred. He drifted into darkness.

Servinius awoke to the guttural screams of dying men and the frenzied clanging of iron and steel. The metallic stench of blood filled the air. Bright sunlight filtered through the bag still obscuring his vision. His head ached worse than he had ever felt before. He could feel lengths of rope that bound his ankles and outstretched wrists to planks of wood. Gravity told him that he was suspended in the air, and the scent of cut lumber told him he was tied to a crucifix. Dread and despair flooded Servinius. What had gone wrong?

The bag was ripped off his head and he gazed again into the dead eye of Gailo the Centurion. The manic smile was still in place as he backed away and crossed his arms calmly. Behind him, the battle reached a fever pitch; flocks of arrows arched back and forth, sprouting from men's necks and painting the soil with gore. Men with amputated limbs writhed aimlessly around the battlefield in shock. Servinius watched the Romans plunging forward into the gap they now knew was meant to consume them. What madness was this? Why was Gailo here? Why did he exude such a smug air, as if he were the victor of the day, whilst his kinfolk and countrymen were slaughtered, descending into the maw that would devour them all? He merely stood there and stared, smiling at Servinius.

Gailo drew close again. Gailo's next words would chill Servinius to the bone.

"No hostile subterfuge is expected or additional time-breaks detected." Gailo paused. "You should have expected us."

He cackled again, as he had earlier that morning, while terror washed Servinius' face.

"How!? How could you know!?" Servinius exclaimed, mortified at the revelation.

"You Nameless are overly confident, even a bit arrogant, if you will. You did well to recognize the failings of the masculine Roman ego, but you failed with your lack of introspection in kind. Did you really think that we would not be here as well? That Paullus would not be wounded so? That his dignity, his pride, would allow him to take the backseat to Varro? There is no doubt, Varro would be the better leader of the Republic. Even Paullus knows he is too impulsive himself to fill that role. Did you think his desire to know what that scroll said would not get the better of him?"

Servinius froze as the memory replayed in his mind, an epiphany. Gailo turning, facing away from him as he bent and cackled to his comrades. A slieght of hand gone unnoticed in the moment, as Gailo's hands reached into his own tunic before thrusting the scroll back to him. Before thrusting a scroll back to him.

"What have you done! What did it say? You replaced it, what did it say!?" Servinius screamed, pleading to know why, overcome with grief and rage.

Gailo produced the switched scroll and unrolled it before Servinius' eyes. Servinius read the few lines, concluded with the same fabricated signature, aghast.

"The man before you has been driven mad and employed as a spy by the Punic vermin. He is articulate and convincing. Do not trust him. Play along, then dispose of him as you will. Proceed in your efforts as previously instructed."

Servinius' blood turned cold. He had been beaten.

"Your catalogs will prove most useful to our cause, and I will take much joy in this" Gailo stated gleefully as he produced a hammer and three long, steel nails.

Servinius did not resist any further, resigned to his death. He watched as Hannibal's cavalry crested a hilltop in the distance. Panicked cries arose from the ranks of legionnaires, already embroiled in their fruitless struggle for survival.

His gaze lifted to the skies. The scavengers circled overhead, slowly flitting lower and lower. The first nail pierced his feet, staking him to the cross for eternity. His scream was indistinguishable from the others, but it was the last mark of his existence in time. All went black, and then...


About the Creator

Brannan K.

****Vivid prose and thrills****

Favorite Reads:

Terry Brooks - The Shannara Trilogy

J.R.R.Tolkien - Lord of the Rings

James Rollins - Ice Hunt

Ernest Hemingway - The Sun Also Rises

Cormac McCarthy - Blood Meridian

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Comments (5)

  • L.C. Schäferabout a year ago

    A little slow to start but well worth it! Did not see that ending coming! 😁

  • Zack Grahamabout a year ago

    This was a great dive into the folds of alternative history - an awesome blend of masterful knowledge and colorful exposition. The lore you built around both your main character, and in the true world around him was captivating. I enjoyed the plot and pacing, and the ending caught me off-guard for sure. Great job man, good luck tomorrow!

  • Great job! You did an excellent job of setting the scene and building anticipation in this story. The first sentence particularly stood out to me, "The summer air was stifling, but began to cool rapidly as the evening drew to a close, aided by the sultry breezes that swept over the rolling and verdant fields of the region from the nearby Mediterranean waters." Your use of vivid imagery and sensory details really transported me to the setting of the story and made me feel like I was there. Keep up the fantastic work!

  • Jasmine S.about a year ago

    That was exceptionally breathtaking. This was well thoughtout and executed. I would love a continuation, that ending while satisfying left me wanting more. Bravo, Top Story worthy.

  • Alex H Mittelman about a year ago

    Great story and great descriptions! Sad ending! You write like Earnest Hemingway! Very good!

Brannan K.Written by Brannan K.

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