The Morning After

The sun poked its head up from the horizon, spilling light upon the blood soaked earth below. Sunlight glinted off discarded and broken swords. The morning rays fell upon the broken bodies left to rot in the new day. One figure, however, gasped and opened their eyes, trying in vain to sit up from where they lay. The figure was a middle-aged gentleman, wearing very thin armor and gripping the hilt of a shattered sword. He looked around and found himself pinned to the ground, laying beneath a bloody body. Shifting so that his arms were beneath the dead man's body, he gripped his shoulders and shoved him away. Sitting up, he felt pain course through his chest, making him double in upon himself. When he was able, he straightened and took stock of his injuries. Looking down, he saw a decently serious gash running from his shoulder to navel.

Moving sluggishly, he pushed himself up to his feet. The sun glared at him, though it barely breached the distant horizon. He dropped the stump of his sword and peeled out of his dented armor. Dropping it to the ground, he stepped away from the pile of dull metal, wearing a pair of cotton trousers and a thin cotton shirt. He'd kicked off his armor boots and stood barefooted on the blood-soaked ground.

Turning in a slow circle with his hand shielding his eyes. There, far in the distance, he saw a lone building. It was to the west, putting the sun at his back. Stepping over the carnage, he moved towards the building. He could only hope that whoever was in the structure - if indeed there was someone inside - they would not bring him harm. Just in case, he scooped down and drew up a sword, fitting it into his belt.

He prayed to whatever being was above that he would not need to use it.