Peasant's Battle

The smell of the plush grass whips in the morning wind, it's scent traveling from town to town.  The morning light illuminates the puddles of blood, the vibrant crimson telling the story of the night before.  Townsfolk come together to pray, their day's work halted by fear of the devil's warriors.  Children grasp their battered and torn dolls, wide eyed at the fires burning in the distance.

Thumping boots sound off in the distance, the trees reverberating the dreadful sound throughout the country side.  The towns in near proximity see the gleam of bayonets swaying in unison, encroaching like an impending tidal wave.  The bang of the drum, friendly in rhythm, deadly in meaning, grows louder and louder.  Townsmen hold their weapons tight, their hands tremble, their knuckles white.  Frightened to the core, they look down at the children and the women and remind themselves that they are men, they are the leaders.  They hold onto this thought as they charge.