A man stands amid the choas. Around him men are dying. They cry out in agony as limbs are hacked and flesh is ripped. The sound of bones snapping accompanies the metallic ding of axe on shield. Arrows fill the sky in swarms, soaring over head doing little to stem the surging tide that is swiftly beating the humans back. Blood runs through the valley like a giant scarlet serpent, but this man takes no notice of any this.
He simply stands, sword held loosely by his side, helmet discarded at his feet. His shoulders sag under the weight of his mighty armor, the polish smeared with blood and gore. His face shows his age. A large weathered scar along his chin and a wrinkled brow covered in graying hair testify to this.
His jaw slackens and his eyes widen as his face grows pale. His gaze locked, he watches as every fear and doubt that had crept it's way into his mind materialized upon the horizon. He now knows his fate for it rolls like an endless wave toward him. The earth shudders under the pounding of so many boots. The first sounds of the encroaching horde roll over him like the thundering hooves of the four horsemen.
He begins to weep, tears rolling down his cheeks as he sets his jaw and raises his sword to ward off the first blows. He weeps not for himself, nay, his fate was sealed long ago, but for the men he has lead into the valley of Death.