His calling came upon the north wind as arrows hissed through the stagnant air. His men cried out as this black rain cascaded down upon them. Their blood stained the barren soil as the survivors marched forward shields raise high. His battle cry echoed as he lead his men to the crest of hill were the enemy waited. Flickers of memories crossed his mind as he blocked an apposing sword. The memories of his family slain, his farmland burned, gave him power. His smiling wife heavy child, his young son playing with the hounds, his daughter racing to him with arms spread wide. Their memory, their lives, their deaths shall haunt him forevermore, but never will he banish his sword. For a man of war can’t not rest until all have been slay, or he perishes by another’s blade.