by futilevariable
A dazzling hue of gold shines, brilliantly imitating the radiance of the sun. So beautifully does it reflect a dandelion, giving off a sense of serenity. Sparkles dance about the color, holding a hidden desire to drift, like the embers cast off from newly-created fire.
Limited though is this color to its beauty, for it rests upon plating only a warrior could wear. Life cannot be brought again to this armor, as the warrior recently faded himself. Just how beautiful can one thing be once there is no life to it? Has it the grace of a star, or the sorrow of a dying rose? And so a color sits, first on the plating, then over shimmering blue beneath.
From distant lands shall we find the fallen warrior's home. The populace wave proud an honorable flag. Dominating the banner is an astonishingly bright gold. Sitting amidst the dazzled plains of the fabric, there sits a tiger, his fur the color of blood. Little is known of the great cat, he who bears sharp fang and quick claw. Mighty as he is, he is not without kin. His own brothers guard the warriors, leading them into battle. With brute force, they charge the enemy. Battle cries meet the clang of steel against cold steel.
A splash of red flies from warriors of both sides, landing upon earth it was never meant to meet. Their blood, loyal to country, now dominates blade and spear of the enemy.
Love was lost once oath was taken, and now families weep for the fallen. The tigers bow down, giving respect to those they knew only in war. With a low, subtle growl, heard only to the war-torn spirits, the tiger of the flag begins to speak in their language, "Mighty as they were, they were not alone. We are next of kin. We will stand strong against the enemy."
Upon the battlefield, a desolate wasteland of loss and despair, the tiger's cry carries towards a sun now finally setting. Passionate was his weeping, though bathed in red were his tears.
