[Tale] The Battlefield

This land in the middle, this green has been plagued by battle for hundreds of years.
This expanse of grass looks serene, but has been soaked in ten-score thousand men's blood, if not more.
Between the lands of all Calrad nations are the hamlets and great fields surrounding Dhirim.
Blood has been spilled here countless times, and today it shall be done once more.
Aligned upon either side of the boundless, unblemished field of green are hundreds of Nords and Rhodoks.
Long since Swadia had given up even trying to hold the contested east of their kingdom.
Dhirim and the surrounding castles have been held by every other known kingdom and principality, and the Swadians would damn themselves if they were to try and do so at the expense of their waning men-at-arms' numbers.
No, the Northerners and Southerners had decided to march straight at eachother for the most raided and traded in city on the continent.
But what have I, a poor levy militia to do with these men of war, who would throw so carelessly their lives and mine away into this forsaken fray.
I am innocent of ambition! I am free of all crime! Take me home!
It is a lie. I have slain other men, even if they were dirty bandits.
I am reduced to a nameless footman in a struggle I am bound to die in.
Yet, even as I wish to scream this truth out, I feel the call of battle as much as these men next to me in the spearwall.
Surely the lords can make an agreement that would spare us?
Surely one of them has the sense to give another 'precious' metal in exchange for human lives?
Of course not. That gold will pay for the next armies and more that they will bring here to die.
No negotiations have been made, and no quarter will be given, however much asked.

Men bash their weapons on their shields, screaming profanities at their foes who mirror the action.
They do this and approach eachother at a slow march.
Masses of men move forward with intent to slay eachother.
They're getting closer!
There is no running now.
If I do that, I betray my brothers, may they live.
I have awoken, there is no running for this young man.
And now I open my eyes, I see that I must hate the man across from me to not suffer guilt.
Yes... the Nords are disgusting pigs and rapists... they're worthless sacks of evil...
I must kill them for what they are!
No, I'd rather take the guilt of killing a man than lose my sanity.
Is that sanity?
​

Here do I stand, all manner of bolts, javelins, darts and arrows slice through the air.
I wish I was an archer, and didn't need to be close like this, sticking my blade into a man's eye.
The melee thrashes all around. Ten shall fall on my right, a hundred on my left, I am surely next.
Blood streams from my growing wounds as the noon sun beats upon the armoured men at arms who wearyingly perspirate, decapitate, and coagulate.
Steel sings through flesh while men sing in taverns near and far of battle and war as though glorious.
I lose my weapon in a fresh corpse, I pick up a new one and hammer my next foe to death with it.
My muscles burn, my bones fracture, and my blood leaks into the ground with piss.
I am lost in battle.

Still no rest is in sight when the sun wishes to take his.
Brothers, sons, fathers found crying above theirs as iron clashes into the eve.
Murderous atrocities fill the night with horrible screams that will be sung of in the bloodthirsty bard's poem.
The green is tainted remorselessly as earth accepts it's sons into it.
A few men continue the struggle atop the legion of casualties;
They are blinded with hate, greed, and lust as they bellow battle-cries.
"We claim this land for him! God bless the land of our Lord!"

War and anger still reign.
The clash of iron is still heard.
By blood lust they're driven insane.
Others in anguish and grief.
Sorrow won't wane till we die.
My battered body is surely crushed.
Darkness has swallowed the bright.
It shall never return.​