• the wind echoed through the waving
    trees, carrying the stench of death
    on its wings. a black smoke arose from
    the vale below, blotting out the
    sun.

    he stood, silent as the rock that
    surrounded him, watching the war
    rage from his platform in the cliff
    above the blackened, ash covered
    land.

    he pulled back the string of his bow,
    loading an arrow into it.
    he paused. looking around for a
    suitable target to hit and
    kill.

    a gust of air, yet he keeps still,
    only his scarf fluttering in
    the soft breeze. he sees a target.
    he releases his grip on the
    cord.

    the arrow moves as if carried
    by the wind itself, kept aloft
    by an invisible force. in
    the blink of an eye, it strikes it's
    mark.

    the sound of a thousand birds rings
    out over the battlefield as
    a wave of arrows pours down on
    the enemy. then there is si-
    lence.

    the archer stays as still as the
    rock encompases him. he stares
    down into the gulch below, feel-
    ing no pain for his dead oppo-
    nents.

    he only stares at a single
    living target in the valley,
    a snow white hare, uninjured by
    the hellstorm from the gates of hea-
    ven.

    he fires a last, single shot from
    his bow. it pierces the hare's neck,
    leaving a pool of blood from where
    the arrow hit the hare's jugu-
    lar.

    he lowers his bow, looking back
    into the clouds above his head.
    a drowsyness grips him, but he
    remains awake, ever watching
    on....