Under dark gloomy skies, dribbled heavy rain, rain that seemed to wash away the sin that had been committed beneath it. Heaps of bodies mangled and torn, of men and women and even some children lay on the wet ground ridding the hard soil of the bright colors it held.
Many would say that they were brave–but the man who took their lives–the man whose spear pierced through their stretchy, thin skins–the great uniter didn't share those romantic ascriptions.
All they were to him were obstacles he had to jump across, and pitiful serfs and peasants that were thrown his way.
Perhaps in another world, he would have spared them, they were after all under the will of their masters, but not this world, no one, nothing was going to stand in his way–except maybe death, and even death wasn't always the end, for there are exceptions to every rule.
Amanai would have given them a better future–for their children, their grandchildren, for the land itself, but people typically never listen until a major inconvenience surfaces, or till they get whipped as their masters did to them.
He looked at the dark hazy clouds, the sun had been hidden, swallowed under their willowy numbers. Streaks of water dripped from his face, and at where he stood, on the stony hill that rose him above an innumerable number of corpses, his lips curved into a weak smile, then jutted forward as blood spurted from his mouth.
He had little time left. He bore the wounds of the battle, heavy wounds to his body and mind, and it seemed soon that he would join them.
He had on a black gambeson on pale blue trousers–trousers that swayed with the wind, trousers now soaked with the blood of people, his people were his plan to come into fruition.
On one of his large hands was an imposing dense spear, about the thickness of an arm, it was rusty and reeked of blood; fleshy bits still strewn around it and its silver had turned to a rusty red.
Amanai hadn't asked for the names that were given to him, but they held meanings. The reaper, the edgeshine, the spear, the great uniter. All these told stories, spoke of a character.
He spurted blood once more, this time arching his back and looking more grimaced. He let out a weak sigh, and looked at the long spear that jutted from his chest, it had gone through his sternum.
It was a little ironic that a master of the spear would be killed by one when he wasn't looking, but life was always that way, even death in these parts, unexpected.
He fell to his knees, stabbing the foot of the spear into the hard ground for support; it was futile to resist the cold grip of death now, that he knew.
'Should I close my eyes? Would it make the process quicker?' He questioned himself despite clinging strongly to life.
He coughed another mouthful of blood and his hold on his spear weakened, he leaned forward. The ground was calling to him.
Join us, Join us, he heard. He had begun hallucinating, his vision cloudy, his eyes were heavy, very heavy, like a Farij cow had been placed under them both, and it took almost all of his will to keep them open.
Only a little path of blood remained below him. The spear, despite going through him, sealed his wound with its presence.
His last sight was those he had reaped clean of their lives, and for that, the gods would not accept him.
Then, his vision disappeared to the all encompassing hands of darkness, and he was gone.
It was the end to the great uniter.