The air was bitingly cold, piercing through the soldiers' uniforms like shards of ice. The deafening roar of cannon fire echoed through the night, illuminating the sky with bursts of fiery light. The haunting sight of men lying motionless on the hill sent shivers down the spine; their agonized screams lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of blood that stained the once vibrant brown dirt and lush green grass, now transformed into a macabre canvas of crimson red.
General Horatio Gates, a towering figure at five feet eight inches, seemed untouched by time, despite the strands of white hair that adorned his head. His face held an air of timeless wisdom, etched with the experiences of countless battles. His piercing brown eyes, inherited from his mother, gave him an intense gaze, while his aristocratic nose added an air of authority to his visage.
As he wearily kicked off the mud from his boots, the sensation of damp earth clung to his skin, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that lingered in the air. Unbuttoning his navy-blue waistcoat, adorned with gold plated buttons that glimmered in the dim light, General Gates revealed the insignia of his rank, proudly displayed on his collar. Using two flat rocks he found, he wiped away the grime that had accumulated on them, the rough texture scraping against his calloused hands. Placing the cleaned rocks on his sturdy pine desktop, a gift from his wife Elizabeth Phillips, the wood emitted a faint scent of pine needles, reminding him of the simple joys and comfort of home. The desk had weathered overtime, just as General Gates himself had, since he had become a General and married Elizabeth last October.
He smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting as he reminisced about her soft, rich face and the deep blue of her eyes that shimmered in the moonlight during their last kiss. The memory played in his mind, each detail vivid and clear. Reaching down, he gently lifted the locket containing a lock of her honey-colored hair, tied with a vibrant red ribbon, to his nose. Inhaling deeply, the delicate scent of her jasmine perfume, a sweet and intoxicating aroma enveloped him. The image of her lingered in his thoughts, and a sigh escaped his lips, filled with longing.
With steady hands, Gates picked up rocks he had collected from the creek below, just north, about a mile down the hillside. The stones felt cool and smooth against his skin as he held them, grounding him in the present moment. Leaning forward on their swords, his six captains listened attentively, the creaking of their black boots adding a subtle rhythm to the air. They gathered around the map, its worn surface illuminated by the soft glow of a lantern.
A sudden burst of sound pierced the tranquility as a brilliant, blazing ball of fire tore through the dense foliage of towering trees. The flames cast flickering shadows on the ground, dancing and swaying in a mesmerizing display. The air filled with deafening shouts, a cacophony of voices charging forward with an overwhelming force that seemed to reverberate through the earth itself. Gates felt his heart pounding in his chest, its steady rhythm a constant reminder of the intensity of the moment. Kneeling down, he pressed his hands firmly against his head, feeling the rough texture of his fingers against his scalp, a grounding sensation amidst the chaos.
The scent of smoke and sweat hung heavily in the air, mingling with the anticipation and tension that permeated the surroundings. The group found themselves surrounded; their every move watched from all directions. General George, Augustus, and Eliot stood tall amidst the chaos, their faces etched with determination, their eyes reflecting a mix of blue and hazel, filled with wisdom and resolve.
Taking a brief pause, Eliot surveyed the scene, his gaze sweeping across the chaotic landscape. He wiped his blood-stained sword clean and re-holstered it, a quick motion that conveyed efficiency and purpose. Remembering his father's words, "Better to look sharp unhurried than be always in a rush, boy," he straightened his red coat, its gold-plated buttons gleaming in the sunlight. The silver thread etched down the front and around his pockets added an elegant touch to his attire. As he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging from a cord, his face chiseled with age, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and confidence.
Taking his right hand, General Eliot carefully adjusted his gray powder wig, feeling the softness of the powdered strands between his fingertips. From his left, he eyed his men and the map, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across their determined faces. The sound of their heavy boots filled the air, mingling with the rustling of the worn map as it lay spread out on the table before them.
Eliot's hand instinctively reached for his sword at his side, the metal gleaming in the dim light as he drew it from its scabbard. The sound of the blade slicing through the air rang true, echoing with a sharpness that matched the hardened look in his eyes. Hatred burned within him, but beneath the surface, there was a twinge of remorse, knowing that the battle had finally come to an end after two grueling years of harsh winters and a long, treacherous journey.
With a quick nod, Eliot signaled to his men, their footsteps fading into a hushed silence as they made way for him. Time itself seemed to freeze, like a strange shimmering blur, leaving him momentarily dizzy. He tightened his grip on the sword, its cold metal now glistening with droplets of blood, pointed menacingly at Gates' throat.
Something in the men's eyes around him seemed strange, a flicker of uncertainty as they watched their captured leader. Their gazes crisscrossed the room of the canvas Map Tent, the air thick with a stale, musty scent that hung heavy. It was as if the very atmosphere had lost its vitality, an odd sensation that Eliot couldn't shake.
Both generals locked eyes, their steely gazes fixed on each other, as they listened intently to the battle unfolding outside. But the usual symphony of trumpets and regimental noises had ceased. All that remained was the stillness of the night, broken only by the distant echoes of death and destruction.
"It looks like, my General, we have won," Eliot said, his voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and triumph.
No sooner had General Eliot uttered those words than a black fog began to seep among the lifeless bodies strewn across the field. The few men standing outside the tent collapsed to the ground, their bodies convulsing and transforming. The sight of their hollow eyes and aged hair sent shivers down Eliot's spine, the air growing colder by the second. Droplets of sweat glistened on the rifles, as if mirroring the tension in the air, while their breath hung like frozen mist.
Gates' hands trembled with fear as he pushed the sword away from his throat, his finger trembling as he pointed towards a looming figure. The large figure, dressed in a ragged black robe, seemed to drain the colors from its surroundings, turning everything into an ashen gray. Its eerie yellow and green eyes narrowed, fixing upon the men in the map tent. As it smiled, the rotted yet sharp teeth emitted a soft clicking sound, a grotesque form of communication with the army that was once Gates and Eliot's, now under its control, standing ominously behind them, awaiting its orders.
The figure gained speed as it saw its intended victim. "I have found you at last, my dear brothers," the voice sounded as if it grated against sandpaper.
Gates and Eliot locked eyes, their gazes filled with terror as the monstrous being emerged before them. The sight alone was enough to send shivers down their spines. They stood frozen in fear, unable to move, as the creature extended its skeletal hand towards them. The bones protruded through its decaying flesh, creating an eerie and haunting image. Its eyes, a sickly shade of green and yellow, glowed with a horrifying intensity, piercing through the darkness. The sound of their own racing hearts echoed in their ears, drowning out any other noise in the vicinity. The creature's curved knife, stained with fresh blood, swung through the air, unleashing a metallic scent that mingled with the putrid stench of decay. The air itself seemed to carry a heavy weight, as if the very atmosphere had been tainted by the presence of this abomination. As the drops of crimson liquid fell upon the ground, they landed with a sickening thud, creating a macabre symphony in the silence. The tattered rags that clung to the creature's body fluttered in the breeze, moving like black ribbons floating on a cushion of air. The combination of the metallic smell of blood and the nauseating odor of decaying flesh hung in the chilled air, assaulting their senses and intensifying their fear.
Eliot, his body aching and sweat dripping down his face, desperately gasped for air. His eyes widened with a mixture of shock and terror, capturing the scene before him. The figure emerged from the black fog, its ominous presence adding an eerie element to the air. With a chilling strength, it reached out and wrapped its cold, bony fingers around Eliot's trembling neck.
Gates, his heart pounding in his chest, stood frozen in horror. The sound of his own heartbeat drowned out all the other noise as he witnessed the figure's inhuman grasp tightening. A sickening snap echoed through the silent dawn, the sound reverberating in Gates' ears, as Eliot's life was abruptly taken away.
The figure, shrouded in darkness, let out a haunting laughter that sent shivers down Gates' spine. Its voice, a blend of malevolence and triumph, filled the air, piercing through the quiet morning. A pungent scent of decay lingered, as if the figure itself was a harbinger of death and destruction. "Awake, my brothers!" The figure declared, its words carrying an otherworldly resonance. "The time has come for us to cleanse this land of the cursed disease known as mankind. Let us strike fear into the heart of every corner of Time, watching as the lands beneath us kneel before our master!"
Lifting its sword, the figure held it with a skeletal hand, its grip firm and chilling. With a swift motion, it swept the blade across the land, leaving a trail of darkness in its wake. The figure laughed again, a sound that blended with the approaching dawn, as the sun slowly rose above the rolling hills. As the figure faded away into what it deemed a "new time," the air seemed to shift, carrying a sense of foreboding. The dawn of a new age loomed on the horizon, leaving behind an unsettling feeling of uncertainty and impending darkness. The words echoed left behind "Welcome my brethren. Let the feast begin and take this world as ours." And just like that, Time changed, marking only the beginning. The question is who can STOP them? and who would even DARE? Hearing laughter in the air, yet in truth, there was only silence and the smell of decay.