The warrior roams the battlefield,his armour punctured and his wounds seeping blood. Pale faced, he stumbles to nowhere in particualr, tripping over the bodies of his brothers at arms, and his hated enemies. Both lay to rest, never to wake. He is the only figure who stands, the only source of noise in the otherwise eerily quiet plain. His ruined and blood stained armour clanks loudly as he staggers along, losing blood and energy by the step. He trips, driving his sword into the crimson stained ground to right himself. He regains his balance, and pulls the sword out of the bloodied dirt. It is a fine work of craftsmanship, its steel blade red with encrusted blood. Though one could still see the designs etched into the flat of the blade, and the edge conveys all of the same strength. He shifts his gaze to the hundreds upon hundreds of felled men, and grips the hilt of the sword tighter. He throws the fine blade down in pure disgust, seeing the destruction that many such as it had wrought. He keeps walking, unsure of what it was he was staggering to. It isthen that his strength fails him, he stumbled, and he fallsto his knees.His breathing isragged and shallow, as his exhausted lungs try desperately to pull in air, The drain on his strength intensifies, and he falls to the side. The edges of his vison began to darken, his thoughts becoming more and more muddled. He lays among his brothers, and loses the battle against sleep. Alas, he was never to wake, for he succumbed to his injuries shortly after, just in time for the gore crows to come calling.
Author Notes: Notify me as to your emotions regarding the story. It is short, but I hope the detail is... well... detailed enough for you picture it in your head.
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United States • 21 years old