Exultation of the Wraith

The Beginning of the End

A fiendish essence swept the battlefield like flies would a corpse. There were flies, plenty of them. The forest was awash with a pungent, stifling odor, one that grew stronger as each body fell. It didn't matter what side the men were on, united merely in name alone, Death would truly bring them together. Kingdoms would fall in time, same as the rest.

Yet, amidst the rotting war lied a specter. A woman layered in a cloudy mist, not invisible to the human eye. Eyes fell on her, but a spear throw or sword cut would quickly saw that problem. In her own eyes, this veil covering the murky battlefield, was a veil of prosperity. Her snow-white hair levitated as she stepped over the bodies of dead men, her pale skin touching their armor, caressed with the touch of the Wraith. She was a shadow in this demented canopy. The trees grew larger, branches stretched farther, and sunlight dimmed the further she walked.

In the well of her mind, her thoughts dripped like water. One. Two. Three. Four. Her body count rose, swinging a blade of her own through their tainted flesh. To her, they were all torpid. They tell themselves they fight for their Kingdom, to protect their land; its to vent frustration. To let the animal roam free by taking the lives of others. That was true jubilation. She knew it well, and it only propelled her forward. The Wraith swept through them naturally, like a tornado. Blood spewed like rain now, they turned their swords on her, suddenly the warring sides became one. One against many, but the one was a demon drenched in suffering. It was intended this way of course; she is the architect of this massacre in the woods. Around me lies a thousand youthful souls, anxiously awaiting the Reaper.

She looked around, surrounded and not a step was made until she raised her sword. They charged incessantly, viciously, like goblins pursuing a wandering child. Their faith in any sort of reservation of strength was never any more comforting than a dying flame. The Wraith would blow that flame out. Her poem of decimation ensued when she phased through their attacks, countering and impaling without delay. She ripped through their forces, every so often a fool brash enough to strike from a distance with bow and arrow would be met with the end of a jagged spear. Swords pierced armor and then flesh, screeches slowly bellowed from her diaphragm when the fields were drowned in red; a layer of bloody red mist covered the unworthy like a veil. Who was strong enough to defeat the Wraith? To defeat a harbinger of Death?

It continued on for another two days, the roars filled the sky as they rallied to their end. Conviction of something pushing them forward, but the woman didn't falter. She was clean, tidy, the mess she made only littered the arena as it was destined to. Only a handful of them remained, they had surrendered. Scurrying in pure terror. When night fell, her aura glowed brightly, this was what they saw. This was their final image, a specter acting as a vessel that would guide them into an afterlife they didn't know existed. This was something only fit for a warrior of the dead, like her. She ended them all. Leaving the war with a dead silence. This was the correct path, it elated her greatly.

Through this, she had experienced exultation.

The End