A fire is rising on the horizon, through the thick fog shine rays of light, so pure that they hurt the eye, they deepen the shade and lengthen the dark. Between the trees move soundless shadows, ever evading the sun, never meeting the glare threatening to outshinine them. They march towards their final battle, their black armor dented and scratched from wear, from use; they march clad in their own doom.
     Murderers, everyone of them a ruthless killer, murderers in the making, murderers in their blackened hearts. They need no battle drums to feel that the end is coming; and onto it they march with spring in their steps.
     A final act of despise, they walk with their back to the enemy, so that they will not know him; they fight unseeing, they fall alone, unknown.
     On the dark metal the mist is condensing into fine drops of water. They fall to the ground, weeping for their masters.
     They cry for you.