War. Such a horrible word for a horrible world that partakes in the destruction of one another. Fires rage and swords gleam with it, the reflection of the fire increasing the amount rapidly. So much dispair and pain in that one word. Lives lost and families in mourning. The decreasing amount of faith in humanity as hunamity itself kills one another with little to no remorse.
She stood out from the crowd. Thinner sword than the rest but twice as much experience than most. War wasnt sometbing she wanted but in the end it was inevitable. To see war in the future was always looked at as an option, the king knew it, the soldiers knew it, hell, even the kingdom knew what was too come. After Prigobeths betrayl, it was only a matter of seconds before the decision was finalised. And here they stood, swords at hand, blood with it. Fighting for their country but most importantly, fighting for survival.
This could have been prevented. All of this could have been prevented if the king had handled it according to the law and taken the king of Prigobeth into consideration and have him killed for the slaughter of his people. But yet again, here they stood, a field full of blood, ash, and decay. Her people, his. Death upon them all.
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Bleeding isn't Broken
PoetryA process of me and dramatic presences that may have driven me to lack of life.
