Ethereal Vortex:
Blood Stained Fields

The grass was wet with due, causing the smell of blood to rise up off of the red grass. It had been dyed the color of red after countless battles that history had forgotten, and not even rain could cleanse the grass of the red color.

Ronan sat on the ground of his tent, looking at his battle armor that shone white with a cross painted across his breastplate and shield. His tent flap opened, and Siris the black smith stepped forward and handed a fine steel sword to Ronan. Engraved along the blade was the name of his family. With a nod of his head Siris turned and left. Ronan held up his blade and admired it. It was a finely crafted blade passed down through his family and almost light as a feather yet still extremely strong. Battle drew near and he dawned his white armor.

Ronan brushed the ten flap aside, letting it wave in the wind as he walked over to his white and tan mare. The horse was tall and a swift courier, it moved off to the front of the tents, the muscles in each shoulder shone perfectly through its glossy skin. His army began to form ranks, pike man the foremost in front, swordsman behind them, followed by three ranks of archers, then came siege units surrounded by Ronan and the few cavalry units.

“Move out,” barked Ronan. The army moved forward at a slow pace with a drum to keep them on beat. “Double time!” They picked up to a slow jog as they moved toward the “ocean of blood” where the battle was to be fought. The “ocean of blood” was a meadow that rolled in the wind creating the image of waves, the grass was red from years of fighting, and whenever it rained the smell of blood was always in the air.

The enemy had been waiting for Ronan and his troops to show up for the battle. Ronan stood facing them as his foe’s cavalry units came stampeding madly down the field. “Pikes up, pikes down!” was Ronan’s command as the helpless cavalry units impaled themselves upon the pikes; the few that managed to stop reared up and fell over on to of their riders.

Ronan quickly looked the field over as the enemy infantry began to charge the field. “First line archers, ready, fire,” the cries were music to Ronan’s ears as the first arrows flew true. Ronan repeated the command, and with another order the archers retreated from the battlefield.

“Swordsman, march forward,” Ronan, ordered. The swordsman moved forward, sweeping the field to do battle with the enemy. Where is he, I know he’s around here somewhere, there, hiding in the fringe of the trees, Ronan thought as he rode forward to take on his adversary.

The man dismounted his black stallion as Ronan rode up. He waited silently as Ronan slid from his horse. They strode up to each other and stared one another dead in the eyes as if they could see each other’s soul. It started then and there, each lashing out each other with their swords, stabbing, slashing, and parrying. It was almost an exhibition of swordsmanship.

They each moved with an agility that was almost in human. They lash out at each other, moving in a white and black blur as sparks flew all around. While they moved fast, a battle wrath had overtaken both warriors, slowing things in their eyesight down. Their swords locked as they both walked in close as possible, digging in to get a good footing and drive each other into the ground. Teeth barred they still gave each other an icy stare.

Umph. Ronan hadn’t seen it, only felt it as the cold metal gauntlet struck him across his jaw and his side. The two blows sent him sprawling down to the ground. Before he was able to move Ronan found himself staring into the face of his foe. A sword came hurtling down at Ronan’s head, cleaving through the air only to wedge itself in the ground.

Ronan kicked straight out, catching the ground he was able to slide from under his opponent and roll backwards onto his feet.

The battle had stopped as the two armies stood staring at the white and black blur of their leaders going at it. Ronan through his shield into his opponent in anger, and then ducked down and picked another blade. He hurled himself at his opponent. One good blow landed on the chest of the black clad warrior, nearly shattering his breastplate as Ronan continued to bare down upon him.

“Fear my name Marshank! I am Ronan Ryzel, the strongest and best swordsman of the land!” The battle cry rang out through the field. Though weary and worn out the two kept at it. Ronan dropped his extra, wrapping his other hand around the hilt of his family sword as he brought it in a sideways blow with a tremendous force that was matched by Marshank.

Clanggg. The two blades snapped into pieces from the sheer force of the impact. The eyes of the soldiers widened as they stared unbelievably at the sight they beheld. Thump! Thump! Ronan landed two well-placed blows upon the face of Marshank. Ronan’s arms lashed out, his hands locking into a death grip around his foe’s neck.

“My name was Marshank, all will never forget me, for I have died a true warrior’s death!” It was the last thing Ronan’s foe said with his last few breaths.