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*Crack* The tree splinters as the violent winds beat relentlessly upon the boughs. The tired young man snaps back from the startling sound, and regains clarity and focus on his present circumstance: an impending battle, probably the last for him, as the odds seem staggering. You can tell he has cried a great deal in recent days, and today will probably be no different. He's lost many friends, family, and compatriots to this enemy. It has been months since he last saw anyone from his village and almost a year since he was able to rest in his own bed. The crimson-clad soldiers face the valley with the sun casting the final drops of daylight upon their backs. This struggle has been about one thing, and one thing alone: "food." At first, they came to the border towns and farms, taking "their rightful portion", but that soon ended. Swelling and spreading further inward - taking whatever food they could find - like locusts gorging on fields. Now, the only remaining opposition to the invaders consists purely of a ragtag, war-beaten group of mismatched soldier "wanna-be" types -- no true threat to the brawn of "The Mighty Red," a nickname the locals have given to the encroaching threat. The air grows silent as one of the ruby-colored soldiers raises his arm into the air, and holds it. At that motion, the soldiers ready their bows with arrows. It seems like an eternity, but swiftly the hand falls, and the arrows are loosed. Within seconds, the wearied opposition is assaulted with arrow fire, and many drop to the ground, lifeless. The soldier who commanded the archers steps forward, and soon after, all soldiers advance toward the center of the valley where the remaining resistance waits. They stop at another signal, examine the few dozen men that endured, and await the command to ready their bows again. As sure as the sun is setting, the call comes, and more arrows rain upon the remnants. A pause, a signal, and the soldiers march forward again - deeper into the valley. You can hear laughter and cheer from amongst them, for the long-awaited victory is in their grasp. From the back of the crimson-clad soldiers comes a distinct figure, dressed in black - a man of prominence, he makes his way to the frontline to see the spoils, and he raises his eyebrow at the sign of movement amongst the dead. Raising from within the fallen, the depleted young man staggers to his feet. He looks around to see everyone else is perished and begins to shed a tear. With a smirk on his face, the "leader" yells: "BOY! Give up! You're dead already." The wearied young man lights a torch and lowers it to his side and utters, "We were born here. We are, and always have been, prepared to die here," he pauses a moment. "Are you?" he questions as he drops the torch. Within an instant of the torch being dropped, it immediately sends a racing flame retreating to the edge of the tree line. A fierce explosion takes place, and a massive ring of fire surrounds the valley. The winds continue to blow violently, thrusting the blaze inward toward the remaining combatants. What "The Mighty Red" fails to realize, is that even at this moment, the battle is over. The ground begins to rattle at the pummel of the charging soldiers. The invaders were not familiar with where they were racing towards - a place the locals often avoided due to the danger. The valley is known as "the Shift"; a place not suitable for farming or dwelling because it is riddled with sinkholes. Fearing the blazing inferno at their backs encircling them, the racing soldiers paid no attention to the ground quaking beneath their feet. Yells swallow the air as ferociously as the ground swallows the soldiers as the collapse forms a pit. What remains is a canyon hundreds of feet deep. Years pass, and a memorial now rests there reading: "Here lie our native sons who gave their final drops of blood while fighting for our right to live." Fyetter 'Pickle' Dogoma | |