Night. Soft, undulating hills, shadowy in the cold light of the stars and the crescent moon. Wind howls through trees stripped bare, their branches like black skeletons, a few dead leaves rattling ominously. Otherwise there is no sound, no motion. Only unforgiving white light prying into the dark places, revealing the horrors within.
A blaze of cold blue light, and Ares appears, his boots sinking into the bloody mud. He casually kicks a corpse, looking around and shaking his head in disgust.
"Wimps," he says, then disappears from the battlefield, leaving the dead in the quiet and darkness.
