Bodies lie scattered, broken spears thrust askew, and the roadside yellow-white flowers had long been stained crimson with blood.
Black smoke billows from the farmland, fields set ablaze by Border Knights before the battle, still burning now.
The wheat, almost ripe, has now turned to ashes rising into the sky.
War always seems to end at dusk, just as conspiracies always seem to occur at night.
Bether wanders the battlefield, can still see Rangers chasing after startled warhorses.
A small leg is still entangled in the stirrup of the saddle.
The red light of the sunset scatters erratically, and that lone calf bounces with the horse's hooves.
No telling whether the owner abandoned the leg to save his life, or if it was simply broken off in a fall.
The pursuit of the Border Knights has ended, even Service Soldiers pushing carts of armor are laughingly discussing the extra meal tonight.
