• As the moonlight covers the freezing sand; the knights drink of their victory. The high general sits in his tent warm; untouched by the northern winds. His beard drenched in the broth of a woman, a slave. The blood on their blades are washed away as they ready for the onslaught to come. They boast of their battles and the lives they have taken as they taunt their newly captured slaves. One man sits silently as they raise their cups to his power. "To the knight of the crimson spear!" They call in a combined drunken stupor. He keeps his silence; blocking out their pointless chatter. "I am just a soulless drone of this war." He tells himself over and over, to wash is mind of decades of death. He rises disgusted with the sight he sees. The battle field drenched in blood, the bodies of the opposing forces were nothing more then farmers and boys barely tall enough to carry the weapons they defended their homelands with..."We are monsters" his eyes close for the last time. He reaches to his spear in silence. The crimson spear; the famed cursed spear known for its blood thirst, of an enemy or its master. He takes the blood soaked cloth from around its neck, and softly placed it across his eyes. The blood seemed to drip down his face but never touched the sand. "For countless centuries this spear has cut down the enemies of this great nation; for centuries this spear has cut down the lives of the innocent..." His voice booms over the the chatter of the soldiers. "For centuries this spear has eradicated those who could not defend themselves..." The general steps out barely clothed; too find out who spoke these words. "And now... our judgment has come!" He holds the spear with out defense. A man of the same unit rises, full of booze he places his hand on the man "but comrade..." His words are cut short but the silent swing of the crimson spear. Each man stands in aw as his body falls to the ground. "traitor a man calls from the crowd" as each man rises to arms. They swarm the now blinded man with rage in their hearts. He could see them; soaked in the blood of their sins they rushed in his direction, and one after another they fell under the power of the spear. His body spins in unison with the weapon, as though they were one. The general walks slowly with the crowd, his weapon not yet drawn he simply watches. The general known for his shier power of spirit is called the god of force readies himself for what is to come. He sees what no other man on this field can see; that the power came not from the spear but the man who was it's master. He could see the power of this man rise as the spear drank of the fallen warriors blood. The field of ten thousand strong men were now left to two. The chilling northern air cuts threw the desert twisting in the updraft of their energy. The two men's faces meets but the spear could not see; the blood soaked cloth now branded to his face would blind him untill his dieing days. "Boy!" calls the general. "You hold the cured spear of our people, and now you have turned it on your own people!" Before he could finish his thought he was cut off in mid-sentence. "We are no "people" we are a race of monsters thirsty for the blood of the weak!" With that there were no more words only blood...As the sun rises the light revivals two bloody fields side by side. Neither with a victor only death filled the air as a lone man walks with the sun at his back; unable to see his direction he walks. Doomed to live his life as a monster, punished by the sins of his nation, cursed by the spear on his back.