He kept the sight of the flower always in the corner of his eye, but could not afford to fully view its beauty. Working his swords with the skill only known to a blademaster, he dispatched his enemies with effiency and speed, though his duty to protect the last growing flower burned in the back of his mind like a posion thorn. Blood covered his hands, and his once shiny chestplate of silver was dulled by several blotches of red from a slash perfected all too well it seemed. One by one, his foes fell before him; always clutching a mortal wound as they collapsed to the dark soil of the Lesiania Plains. Coming to straddle to flower in defence, the black army only intenseified its rain into the valley of death. For every one that was slain, three hungrily took their place.
He forced crude spears and vile swords away, but in his heart, the defender began to understand; he would not leave this place. Fighting on with abandon and gritted teeth, the black army's numbers dwindled that day, but as the sun passed from the ridge of the valley, the defender lay alone and dying, with the flower long gone from its sacred birthplace. Having too many wounds to consider, the man who gave his life for a thing of beauty, let the blood fill his lungs, and closed his eyes. The darkness he knew at that moment, was nearly as black as the soil beneath him.