The Love of Crimson Feilds

A Story by chanze reid

a alternate description peice

The Love of Crimson Fields

The crows screeched into the twilight wind as the echoes of the damned reached up from the field of the fallen. Tomorrow would be no different, another battle, another war. In all truth, I relished the blood, the warm murky liquid that held in itself the life of my foes. The sensation was magnificent, pure primal ecstasy was the only description for the feeling of my enemy’s blood raining down upon me. The bellowing cries of the dying and newly crippled hit me like a soft and lovely spring breeze, and the smell of death gave my anticipation fuel.

I could see everything on the battle field. It was easy; it was reflex. I have been through a hundred battles spanning the length of twelve countries leaving nothing but a trail of the shameful dead in my wake. Now, little got passed my razor edge focus. A thousand foes I have bested and still my form remains ageless and stout. Time itself was irrelevant to me. My solid body had faced the fiercest warriors of the world and come out unbroken. I am no ordinary dog of war, I am the general of the crowns’ right hand, his purifier, his undeterred assistant in death. The war drums crack the fragile sound of the waiting field and push the soldiers to new heights of bloodshed. I needed no such convincing, I yearned for nothing but the fight, nothing but the blood.

The general and I rode side by side, myself only slightly to his right. As we clashed into the enemy lines I descended from horse back like an unyielding bolt from the shrouded sky above. Down I went again and again, each time returning covered in more of the carnage that was the field below me, cutting through foe after foe. My stamina is never ending, my charisma unmatched amongst the whole of the army. I was here for glory to put myself above the rest in this ocean of steel. I lusted after the thought of immortality and while I cut a path though the enemy ranks visions of glory made their way across my mind.

Too soon for my liking the bloodshed ceased. Every battle seemed to grow shorter as the glory grew in strength. My hunger unyielding, never ceasing to increase my need for conflict, overpowering any sense of intellect or peace. Once again my job was finished with fatal precision, and when the general wiped my blade clean and slid me carefully back into my sheath, thoughts of renewed battle danced across my mind; the dark sheath turning into a playground for my dark imagination. Once again clean, free of any remnants of blood to prevent rust. The general always did take excellent care of his sword.