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MYHEARTISUNDEAD
December 29th, 2010, 09:44 PM
A lonely commander on the eve of battle.

WARNING - Probably alot of spelling mistakes that I cant really be bothered correcting at this moment.

The night is cold and still, well, still if not for the dull buzz of anticipation in the hearts and more so the mouths of a gossiping regiment. The sweet, succulent smell of roast boar lingers and the hushed jittering of the coldest of cold, colder than that of the night itself, the men; whom will be the physical embodiment of provocation of all that mortal men percieve to be just. The mysterious air creeps and crawls around each soldier with uncertain intent, like El Muerte himself could smell his feast being prepared for him, on this, the eve of battle.

It was chilling, invading ones armor in the dead of night, a makeshift excavation of every nook and cranny picking and prying until it touched bare skin, sending a tremor through flesh and bone to the very core of a man. For what am I, but a man. A man destined to lead these hungry wolves to slaughter the hapless victims of a king so cruel. A mortal man of misguided purpose, a man of perhaps... wavering loyalities.
Alas, I am but a mute agent of darkness, the scaley hand of an unholy serpent outstretched to conquer and pillage all that is envisioned in that, a mind so dark.
But, I am but a fool to find myself here, on the verge of another battle. I am but a witless twit, prancing at his feet, in this, the most idiotic of courts.

An intense clank silences the murmors of all near, piercing the shroud that envelopes around. A crime of boiling emotion.

“Curse this lingering cloud of meloncholy, you serve no use to me now.”

I bark to myself, blindly battering an anonymous assortment of equipment to the ground in unrelenting anger and frustration. The simplist, the less revered of the species can manage their own emotions better than I, so what am I, if not a man?

I violently shake off all etheral demons, the pointy devils, the manifestations of a troubled conception that squirm uncomfortably inside, wriggling over the rim of my mind like a swelling mass of greedy maggots. The chainmail shackles wrapped around my torso jingle like the collar of a lowly mutt. They feel constricting, as if the dwindling warriors flame of my soul has been forever extinguished, leaving nothing but a hungry, devouring black hole, pulling anything and all in. I struggle with these seemingly tightening bonds, clawing them loose enough to cast to the unseen earth victoriously.

Halting to a stone-like stillness, I stare into the empty, trying to focus on the challenge set before me, forcing this familiar void that has come to plague my existance, full to the brim with orders, routine and nostalgia of forgotten honour. I drift back to youthful trails of skill, the noble persuit of betterment. In this strange time, it made logical sense to surround ones self with these self-indulgent distractions, a means of escape from the brutality of the world.

I do not let the irony escape me, for I know the darkest of deeds I have been associated with, most being planned and carried out by this walking paradox that stands here tormented, alone.

Only now, of all times, do I seek change. The unbridled rage and chaos of adolescence has all but dispersed, instead being replaced by a fretful wonder of the fairer intricacies of life. Indeed, these sunken, tired eyes and skeletal features mask many, truly frail dreams.

A dream, a single delicate blade of grass growing from the ruined fields of battle, untainted by the spilled blood of reckless men. I dream, no – I yearn for that which is so symbolic of resiliance, of good, of a simple human need; to flourish and to cover these desolate hills of grey. A hero of a senseless cause, a commander of the damned, wealth beyond comprehension from the plundered riches of the innocent. What is it all but the respect of grinning hyenas, the slow nod of appreciation from my detestable superiors before their lifeless skulls roll off to join the rest of their kind in the underworld. What is it all but a gritty stained tinge underneath my fingernails and a capillary hint of red splashed onto my palms. You cannot barter what I want, for what I crave is my withering heart in the hands of another.

Yet here I still stand, resided to this plot of land; frozen, seemingly rooted into the trampled soil. My thoughts weigh heavily, as if a heated courtroom was in session; the defence, fear of change; the prosecutor, desire and loneliness.

I, the judge, am ultimately dubious, angrily recoiling away from this difficult decision, seeking solace in the familiarity of strategy and tactics. Looking up, an expression of temporarily subdued pain etches across my face. I scan the dim moonlit battlefield examining the contours and depressions, attempting to pierce each veil of shadow with surgical precision. Experienced eyes and accurate logic dub the scene free of peril, of anything that might throw this operation into jeapardy. After a short period of absent minded surveying, a scattered brain suddenly forms and unites under the attention of an object of interest in the distance.

I stand stark upright, alert and attentive, like a watchful sentry; but also curious as to what lays so quiet and still. Salvation or doom? I hereby surrender the court to fate, relieving myself of all responsibility, letting its sometimes cruel, calice, but equally merciful hands decide my future.

A silouette of a forest, no - a glade, peeks through the darkness, protruding through my eyes and deep into my intrigue like a slender, seductive finger ever luring. The normally green foliage that paints this beautiful landscape has been consumed by the black of the night. The moonlight graces the canopy, the leaves glistening like a thousand shining stars or - perhaps knives. But I did not care for unseen dangers, the invitation of an eclipse of the senses seemed too overpowering in this frame of thinking. It was an opportunity, I must.

Armed, and cautious, I slink into the gloom like a beast on the prowl hunting for the unknown.