Blue paint on your face, a clouded banfรฉinnรญ and her war paint, militant alpha born for combat. The clots and dark red pulp tangle the hair, the cruel hatchets and makeshift swords, the frenzy of a swarm and screams of the slaughter, young or old, doesn't matter, chop them down, the torsos look like strange pale rocks made of meat and bone, a brute wearing the skin of another, the stomach of an old woman lay on the ground as she drunkenly walks toward nothing, a gallant horse with its head nearly cut off still galloping toward the abyss of madness, the loud crack of shin-bones being broken; the old language spoken, the smears of hot blood bathing the bodies from the barracks, a fancy Roman helmet, red feathers at the top, the soldiers stripped bare and lay silent and frozen like dormant sod before sun fall.
Morning awakes like a tree full of venomous snakes, neat piles of silvering sunlight on the naked brass, the heavy steel and new trinkets for our own, many ashen skeletons for the devouring flames.