I looked upon the helmet of sliver and golden reflection.
A mist hung over the ground, a crawling hand of death.
Where the sun had set, a blood bath layered the landscape.
Retreating men of war had been slain and had their heads taken.
And mounted them in the trees upon sharp broken branches.
Every head of warrior had been placed in the direction of the setting sun.
They came to conquer with the power of day, but were destroyed by the forces of night. The sun should not rise again for this unfortunate troop.
The mist blanketed the extreme catastrophe and pure horror as I walked gently through the battlefield.
An almost inaudible voice could be heard beneath the thick of mist and stench. I searched for the source of this sound.
I moved the fog with my hands as if it was water of the midnite lake revealing unknown horrors of the deep.
"Pleeease," The voice became stronger as I stepped past a large man with sword buried deep in his chest.
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