TW: Gore, blood, death. Graphic content ahead!
🐉
"He wears the
smell of blood
and death like
a perfume."
🐲
The titian-red bulan peeps behind the clouds, hanging on the cauldron-black sky. Dusk was upon them. The moon was round and crimson, showering its soporific light. The pungent essence of decaying masses of people was imminent. Pile after pile, a mountain of corpses formed on the valleys.
Restless soldiers settle on the elevated ravine, crossbows and axes ready. One could see the crackling tension, the ineffable twinge of dauntlessness and diffidence gliding over their shaking bodies.
They lost a lot of their brothers and sisters. When the battle began, they were thousands of armadas. Now, three days after, they were down to three hundreds. If not, few.
There was nothing much left.
One of them lost a finger, a nail, an ear. They may have lost their families in this apocalyptic war, their carcasses scattered somewhere.
They dutifully moved forward, their sandals and feet soaked.
With blood? Vomit? Nobody knew.
But they are willed warriors, bred to fight and serve to win until the very last breath.
"Do not let any of those criminals cross the border!" A woman announces, one eye bleeding.
"Do not run, do not cower. Cowardice does not run in our blood!"
"Glory to the Kingdom!" The army cries.
"Forward march! Archers ready."
The attacking infantry advances steadily. Placidity sieves across them. Breathing uneven, clutches tight, and mind hazed.
Their General kneels and surveys the area. She tenses and signals her army with a hand.
They paused.
They heard the low humming, the clattering of metals. The roaring. The General swallows thickly, a bead of sweat running down her temple. She glowers, standing.
Seconds tick by, a horde of beasts rose on a steep slope. Beady eyes, long claws, salivating mouths. Along with those monsters were criminals, cackling and jeering.
The results of winning was unlikely. But they had hope and they clasped the little thread of silver within them.
"Should any of us survive, uphold what our leaders taught us. As your last order, fight. May our spirit live on."
Their gelid hands rassled the cryogenic steel as they gazed upon the invaders. Then, a tempest of lance was raised by one of their leaders, highly mounted on a hybrid bison. He smirks inwardly and jarred the edge of his weapon toward the small number of soldiers.
"Charge!"
A storm of arrows fizz through the sky as both armies hurtled, wails of war cry spurting from their mouths. Men were snarling, women blubbering. Armours and spears clangorous under the seething, turbulent skies. The battleground became a theatre of death, grappling with caterwauling howls and shrieks as their shields and swords clashed.
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Fang's Heart 🐉 | Rayaari
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