War feeds on blood and dreams, and even when it's over, it never stops hungering. When war calls, humanity answers, its hands already stained from the battles it pretends to forget. The battlefield is where morality dies, and necessity becomes the only god.

War is the only game where the pawns never get to see the prize, and the winners leave the board bloody.
It's not the war that breaks you; it's the silence after, when there's no one left to scream. They call it sacrifice, but all war really is, is the rich convincing the poor that dying is noble.

The scars of war do not fade-they linger in the songs of the wind, the silence of the soil, and the memories of the forgotten. Courage isn't survival it's knowing you might not come back and still walking forward. Every war creates its heroes, but the world would be a better place if it didn't need them.

A saying goes that it's better to die in battlefield than to live under such tyrants. That the greatest tribute a man can do is to die in the battlefield.

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There was loud gunshots outside, crowded with terror and screams. It was an onslaught, their ribcages were torn, the lungs were removed, resembling a battered eagle.
The people of the village begged them to spare their kids even going further to act as a Lamb in exchange for their childrens life.

The children were tied up near a wooden pole. Taking a gardening fork one of the invaders thrust them puncturing the lung, the sharp edges sinking to their flesh.

Their attire accompanied by semi automatic rifle and shotgun, also wearing a wide brimmed hat and a high-crowned stetson. The shirt have pearl snap fasteners and vaquero design accents. Bosom shirts on the collar and chest plate, and cheaper materials on the outside, leather belt decorated with Fringe and conchas with staple tall boots and lastly a neckerchief bandana as the finishing set.

As he entered the tent he saw two infants laying on a wooden cradle. He picks up the two and bashes their heads to the stone, and the pieces of its cranium splatter to the ground.

He watched the puddle of blood as he carefully picked up the fragments. There was a sense of satisfaction rather than regret.

They have a small gimmick, as they run horse tags at intervals and allow a horse specimen to escape only if one survives the bombardments of bullets.

A line of soldiers were ready with their firearms, as the countdown ticks on... then they open fire, killing most of the escapists, leaving only three to escape with their lives.

The remainders of the village people were stacked upon each other using a pole to hold so the structure wouldn't fall off. They were lay flat on the ground, as this monsters cut open the victims butthole using a knife coat with acidic sulfur. The thing is in the process of this torture a handful of paste that they have in readiness, which immediately stops the blood. But they didn't.

For them the reason behind this was to apply more excruciating pain. After that, they thrust up into his body a very long stake metal pole as big as a mans arm, sharp at the point and tapered, which they grease a little before; when they have driven it in with a mallet, till it come out at his breast, or at his head or shoulders, they lift him up, and plant this stake very straight in the ground, upon which they leave him so exposed for a day. And as within the poles he does what those that eat and drink must needs do, creeping things and vermin spring out of the corruption and rottenness of the excrement, and these entering into the bowels of him, his body is consumed. When the man is manifestly dead, the uppermost being taken off, they find his flesh devoured, and swarms of such noisome creatures preying upon and, as it were, growing to his inwards. In this way Mithridates, after suffering for seventeen days, at last expired. This is repeated every day, the effect being that flies, wasps, and bees, attracted by the sweetness, settle on his face and all such parts of him as project outside, and miserably torment and sting the wretched man. Moreover his belly, distended as it is with milk and honey, throws off liquid excrements, and these putrefying breed swarms of worms, intestinal and of all sorts. Thus the victim lying, his flesh rotting away in his own filth and devoured by worms, dies a lingering and horrible death.

The invaders came when the world was not ready, The arrival of such foes was beyond the imagination of Hjalmar who believed in the possibility of a world devoid of war and conflict among its people. His tribe was wise and moderate minding the tensions within them but the martial spirit to withstand the violent aggression was absent. If his opponents were to win, the vision of Styrmir would have helped transform a nation into a war able country inclined to ward off any invasions with extreme force. But this illusion came with a price too. Following Styrmir's beliefs would have meant the extermination of the weak hence, the destruction of the very unity of Väkravia's people long before any external threat.

Thus when this extraterrestrial beings fell upon Väkrava, the world was exposed. The attackers came like a tempest, tearing nations apart and obliterating their past. Tall edifices
fell down, the wealthy land masses swamped, and everything that was beautiful was laid to waste. The land itself appeared to scream to the sky for help, but no answer came from above. The Väkravians whom for centuries strove to become masters of time found themselves trapped in this cage.