The Leon Pogroms
By GoldenEagle
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
And I don't know why
I don't know if
We are, we are
Seven days and not a return
Seven lives and not a thing learned...
'Cause I am sleeping on a time bomb...
Ask her if she's got an answer
Do you know
Prologue
The "expedition" was quite doomed (or fated) from the start. It was upon a single merchant, his cart loaded with many different types, tastes, and rarities of fish. Such smells in the slowly thinning forests outside of Asturia's borders were too strong to a keen nose, too longed for by an empty stomach, that there really was no chance that the poor trader wouldn't be picked off of. Perhaps if she had made her move earlier, attacked before the whistling, light-stepping man had pulled so close to the wall, things may have ended differently. But there is no rational reason for those who are dying, withering from the inside out.
The man walked along quite happily. He wasn't too tall, but of average height. Young, too, it would seem. The kind of man that you could tell always had something of personal value on his mind at the prime of his life. Most likely a loving family, a faithful wife, maybe even a couple of small, blonde haired, blue eyed children (he was fair headed and light eyed in retrospect, as most Asturians are). He had most likely returned from a long journey, and was looking forward to the warmth of a small home with everything and everyone his simple tastes could really long for.
Then she came along and unknowingly put into action something that would destroy a thousand lives other than her own, including this man's life, and perhaps the well being of his family, as well.
It could be best described as a guerrilla attack, a hit and run tactic. There was a dart of white and black before the man was on his back in the dusty road, that strange moment passing in which he couldn't really decipher what had just happening. He stayed like that for no more than a few seconds, staring up through the top of the trees and the bright, brilliant oceanic blue skies. A few seagulls circled around and around above him before he was back on his feet with a jolt. Something had knocked him over.
That something was taking off with a great deal worth of raw and seasoned fish. This creature was dropping things left and right, so full was its arms of these delicacies. The man growled out. "You damn cat! Bring that back!" Yes, a cat was what she was, a rather thick-furred creature with creamy white fluffs of hair littered with black designs, oval in nature, black surrounding that same creamy white in the middle. Her ears and puffed tail were tipped with ebony as well. Yet had the man seen the frailty of her form, seen the definition of her protruding ribs even through her soiled top, he may have had mercy and let her go without any outburst of emotion. But there was little time left to think of anything. There was a flash of a nutmeg brown and then the catgirl was shuffling back, her deep green eyes wide with terror as she dropped what she had tried to steal and bolted to the left.
It was an Asturian soldier, a troop of them, in fact, that had made the teen cat run, her silver hair escaping the rope she had tied it up with. It flowed like starlight in the midmorning sun as she stumbled and tried to gather her strength to flee. The merchant was first opening his mouth to thank the Asturian force, but it slowly fell open in shock, then clamped shut tightly in horror as the scene began to unfold before him.
The catgirl had almost escaped the clearing, her weak, panicked breath rising above any other noise at the moment. It was with her last bound that the obvious leader of the group (he wore the colors of a high Asturian military power) pushed is horse forward, stepped a little more into the beasts path, and unsheathed his sword in a long, powerful arc. All of this happened so quickly that, if a person were to blink, they could have missed the whole flow of movements. In that same movement, the unsheathed sword rushed forward and struck the cat, hitting her a blow across the face. The man who had been traveling at first thought the sword bearer had struck through the creature's head completely, the movement had been that powerful. But the girl had landed on the forest floor, on her knees, hands grasping. No, he hadn't struck through her head, he realized. The man on horseback looked down at her coldly, waiting for her reaction to the blow he had dealt. The other five men on horseback behind him waited as well, all without a flicker of emotion on their face.
The girl had been clutching the foliage on the road (it was autumn on this side of Gaea) for a few seconds in utter silence. The breeze could be heard whistling through the trees high above, carrying the smell of the ocean to the group and the smell of blood to others who may have been passing by. Yes, the cat was bleeding. It was that clear to the merchant, though why she made no sound, he couldn't understand. Yet, as suddenly as everything had fallen apart about him, the girl's head snapped up in his direction, as if to look at him. But he realized that wasn't possible, and the reason why he understood so made him take a step back, recoil from her. The sword had cut across her face, into her cheekbone, the bridge of her nose, and both her eyes. It was all blood on her face, it seemed. She looked dead already. Then the cry arose from her throat, a noise no human could possibly make. A wailing, screaming, banshee of a cry. The merchant was holding his ears. The Asturians didn't even flinch.
She was stumbling to her feet, that same cry issuing from her. She groped forward, hands slipping from her face and out toward the merchant desperately, her own blood dripping from her fingertips. Still that scream rushed from her throat. Finally there was a reaction from the leading man, a scowl of disgust that contorted his face viciously, and he was forward again. There was a good chance that the traveler had screamed out to her wordlessly in a pitch that was as inhuman as her own, but it was lost in her own desperate pleading to the heavens. The sword was upon her unseeing, unknowing form again, this time slashing down, nipping into her throat. The scream died away. Blood followed its wake, and, by some miracle, the feline was dashing blindly into the forest, running into trunks as she held her throat. The Asturians didn't follow. They had no reason to. She was a fleeing corpse.
By this time, the merchant, the husband, the father, whatever his title may be, was trembling, slipping to his knees. All six of the men advanced upon him as if nothing had happened until finally the leader of the group, dressed in the creamy colors of his position, was on horseback above the man, streams of blood flowing down the blade of his vertical sword until it reached its hilt and puddled there until it finally poured over onto its owner's gloved hand. The merchant was bowing down now, kissing the ground where the man's stallion stood. The horse pranced away from the begging lips, as if answering him, denying him, already of the mercy her so helplessly sought. The trader looked up, his eyes brimming with tears at the realization that his wife, his children, that small cozy house, would never fill his vision again. The man above him looked down with an expression that portrayed admiration for the trembling man on his knees before him.
"Rejoice. Today is great for you," His deep baritone voice seemed to echo in the man's ears. "You will die for the purpose of Asturia, that her cause may be furthered in its honor." And with that he brought the sword down on the merchant's neck.
So was the scene of the history making "Crimson Massacre" in which they say a military troop of Asturian, numbering over one hundred men, was slaughtered by a group of outlaw beast people. This rumor spread far, throughout all of Gaea, passing along a malice for those creatures that were neither fully animal nor human. Yet no one found out the truth.
That the only causalities of the Crimson Massacre was a blonde haired father. Such a lie told to bring about the Leon Pogroms, in which the entire race of those part feline and part human were nearly wiped out. This is the story of the Leon Pogroms, and the wrongs done to the cat people of Gaea.