With an unborn energy perpetuating the smallest space, the Liquid Knights sit atop their gallant steeds, which paw the surrounding droplets with seed-like hooves. Breathing is laboured, great chests heaving, the bones appearing behind their cover. A cover which encases dreams of freedom, a choice between moving, and standing still. They are all trained to act by the slightest brush, the smallest touch. For a moment, there is peace. Suddenly, above them, a schizophrenic eagle swoops down and rips off the head of one of the Knights. Filled with a sudden irrepressible anger, the Liquid Knights force their mounts on, in a formation of three rings, moving their boundaries further outwards. The energy spreads out in a thin layer across the troops. With their strength flagging they power on, despite themselves.
The Knights lie strewn across the battlefield, life's energy gone from within themselves. The eagles struts victorious among the dead. The Liquid Knights have not won a battle yet, but their tactics are unchangeable; for they are carved in stone pillars, written on their hearts, inscribed in ink in knowledgable books.
The eagle folds its leafy wings and turns back to the fallen fighters. They lie in the form of a ripple.