The ruins scattered around the dusk lit landscape did not belong to that time. It was a battle eve, an age ago. stars are reflected in stringent pools of blood. Mere inches from his outstretched hand they are, those clusters of stars. He flexed his fingers, numbness giving way to feeling, weariness to life. From the edge of his sight the star of battle rises in the eve sky, foretelling bloodshed of 'morrow. A battle without him. His eyes flutter, dwelling between sleep and wakefulness, pain and dullness.
In his mind he goes through the events of the day. Relives the moments branded behind his eyelids.
"Master of wolves, lord that brings winter..." the prayer shudders and dies in a splatter of blood as the praying man collapses, an ax buried in his spine. His last burst of pain flares through him, burning a sure path along his veins.
He was sent here to die.
