Last Battle, First Peace
Onestrype Durando
The fighting begins, and the red battle-mist rises in your eyes. You lunge into them, drawing your sword and striking to all sides. The battle gets fiercer now, and so do you. Stab left, swing right, cleave forward, enemies falling to all sides. You grab a spear, and using it like a pole vaulter, launch yourself into the thick angry center of the mob. You're surrounded now, but the madness keeps you from caring. If you looked up, you might see your friends escaping with the prisoners, but you don't look up. Left, right, forward, backward, enemies fall on all sides. You see the leader of the hordes, and you fight towards him. But as you reach the spot where he was, he is gone. In rage you double and redouble your efforts against the forces pressing in, but they are to many, and you find you are slowly losing.
You are buried beneath a crush of snarling beasts, your bloody sword surfacing briefly before it is knocked from your paw. You fight on, biting and scratching, but soon a new mist rises to your eyes, the white glaze of death. Your last thoughts are gone before you comprehend them, and the masses move on to more fruitful conquests, trampeling you underfoot. You are mourned, but the battle is won and rejoicing takes place. You don't notice or care. You no longer must fight the war, a cause lost before it was found. Poor little warrior, nothing can win the battle for you, but you don't mind. You'll like it up on the hill, no more fighting to worry about, no more lost causes or useless enterprises. Perhaps in death you shall live the life you always wanted.
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