On battlefields there are soldiers, trained and untrained. Those who have families to go back to and those who do not.

Swords longer than the lifespan of the user were made by the dozen, mass production is the key to win. But in war, no one wins, there are no champions, only death and suffering.

There are the soldiers. But lower down are the corpses of the hopeful ones. They are left trampled, bleeding, gazing with open eyes. Some on the ground were not yet dead but instead wounded. Small, un-evolved creatures roamed the grounds searching for the lost bodies. Once they were found, the feeding frenzy began. The wounded ones were eaten alive, their cries and screams filled the area.

Fear strengthens as the sweet honey hand of death stole the lives of the youthful. A face unrecognised by anyone drew closer, it had a long black hooded cape. Dragged behind it was a tall weapon which could take out two whole armies.

Despite the fear this omnipotent being created, it was also beautiful. Behind death was one of its minions, gently playing the violin. For a minute the battlefield was peaceful, no screams in fear, no blood pouring out, just the sound of violins. The souls of the deceased were dragged away, their fate soon to be decided.