Hylda danced amongst the war, her two curved swords spinning to create silver smudges in the air. It hypnotized the men, making it easy for her to spill their blood. She loved the dance; the splatters of red against her swords were a pleasure that could never be replaced. Unfortunately, as the last of the men fell, she ended up alone once more. Bored, she beseeched the world for a stronger army to spur. When nothing but the stirring of wind replied to her begging, she turned around and walked through the mess of bodies. Her red boots splashed in pools of blood, soaking up the spilled, wasted life of youth with each step. The field was endless, mismatched, and broken bodies as far as her eyes could see. It made her smile, the sight satisfying a primal part of her. Hylda's war ended with enough chaos to satisfy her soul… For the time being. Death would have a very busy day, the god of war laughed, excited to see his daughter plan another, daring escape. With a last smile, Hylda left, disappearing into a mist of metal.
As Death entered, he made a face; the smell of death was much too strong. The field stank of blood and sweat, the afternoon heat roasting the corpses to a gagging stench. Grass stood diligently, soaking up the spilled blood of youth; its strands now addicted to the taste. The haunting noise of swords clashing still echoed faintly, the metallic thrill permeating the space. A battlefield, littered with young men in stoic resting places. Their bodies still trembling with—
"Oh for goodness sake, these were my best shoes!" shouted an extremely overworked Death, his thighs squelching in a pool of a rather dark, lumpy substance. His thoughts quickly moved off the integrity of the pool, however, not least of all because he was starting to gag, but mainly as he had yet to stop sinking. Huffing, Death put his bundle down in a rather frustrated manner, and with a firm talking to, was finally granted release from the ground. After a busy week, he had hoped for a peaceful day, but no, of course not, no break for the gods. Hoisting himself out, he left the sticky area of the field to find a more… respectable surface for himself.
"Ahhhhhh!" One of the battle-fallen warriors screamed as his newly dead disposition became apparent, his hysterical voice echoed ominously. Now, Death was not someone to be startled. In fact, one may say Death prided himself in his cool and down-to-earth demeanor. However, due to the previously unnerving silence and the squelching of his shoes onto the blood-soaked ground, he had been… a little on edge. So, when this loud and obnoxious noise came out from said creepy silence, he was startled. So startled, in fact, that he made a tiny noise. Of course, to those not present, this event would be entirely overwritten. But, the dead resting closest to him on the battlefield would call this sound a—
"What was that!" the warrior questioned while picking his tangled limbs up from the ground.
"I believe that should be my response," Death said.
How rude, he thought. An apology for the man's previous unnerving yelp would have been nice, but no, of course not.
"It sounded like a small girl screaming! Is she okay?" Thoroughly embarrassed and in a state of confusion, Death backed away from the accusation.
"What is this! Where am I?" Another one of the warriors screamed, pulling his body—which was a mismatch of broken and severed limbs—from the ground.
Tutting, Death assembled his desk. Then, sitting down he began—
"Dear god my arm, has anyone seen my arm?"
Death ignored him and brought out his pencil—
"John, is this yours? Sorry about that… War and all," grunted a man in brown armor, covered with spikes.
"That's okay, I think I was the one that squashed your foot into pulp anyway!" laughed another man, who wore—in what Death thought was the entirely wrong shade of blue armor.
When going to war, soldiers should always look their best, and that lilac hue was just the wrong color for its muscular bearer.
"Ahhhhhhhhh! Where am I? Who am I?"—
"For goodness sake! Can everyone just give me one minute to get this sorted?" Death screamed.
He was frustrated. There he was, trying to do his best for these people, and all he got in return was wailing… So much wailing. It was as if the dead didn't have anything better to do. Putting his pencil to the paper, he mustered up as much self-restraint as possible.
"John Cobblestone!" he belted.
Silence greeted him. His patience running thin, he repeated himself, looking out towards the scrambling herds of men.
"M-me?" a lone voice whispered.
Peering above his paper, Death leered at the man who had begun a very unattractive hobbling towards him. His appearance suggested that of a small boy, probably some sort of teen, who now stood before Death avoiding eye contact.
"Don't worry about your arm," Death said.
"But won't I need it?" the boy moaned, clutching a decapitated right arm desperately to his chest.
Although Death wanted to laugh, or perhaps cry at the mortal's stupidity, he had begun a New Year's resolution of being kinder. Or at least… trying to.
"Well, no one has ever said one arm is better than two… However, the arm you're holding does not belong to you."
"What! Gross!" the boy screeched, dropping whoever's arm he'd been lovingly cradling.
Ticking John Cobblestone off his list, Death sighed again. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the boy down to the Underworld. His eyes drearily stared at the now forming crowd of rowdy dead soldiers, and with reluctance, began individually sorting out their paperwork thinking that it would be a very long day indeed.