BATTLECRY

I've had my share of Falls

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Dawn was rising above the horizon, stretching it’s pale fingers across the landscaped earth. The lowliest of stars flickered and went out like sins snuffed by the coming of Truth. Only the strongest shards of light remained, beckons of evil that willed to be strong. But they to, met their end. The moon had since disappeared from the navy dome, journeying onward in the vast expanse of space toward the next night, leaving the helpless stars to be slaughtered in the fray of battle for the sky. The Sun began to rise above the tall stalks of emerald grass, illuminating the small droplets of dew with an army of ruddy rays. Her mellow light fended off the darkness and blotted out the stars– the Dawn was coming.

At first the thin fingers of light were shy, blending into the murky black of early morning and lighting up only a small portion of the valley. Crickets blinked and turned away as the giant Dome of Dawn reached above the leaves and came eye to eye with them. Now swiftly it rose higher, its army taking control of the world. The sky alighted with vibrant hues of red and the ocean became ablaze with that blood of stars, reflecting the battle as an unseen witness to the crime of Morning.

The fingers of light grew stronger with each passing moment, the remnants of apprehension disappearing with the night. What grief had overcome the dappled dame, who seemed to only have but small fight left? Battlecry felt an awkwardness inside him that told him he was viewing too much. Either that or as though he were bearing witness of a chain of events he ought not be privy to. Like embarking on a treasure hunt although already knowing where the prize was hidden, he did not know how to react. Should he shy away, mumble a vague excuse and then retreat again to give the mare some space to collect her composure again? Battlecry, in a way, could be said to not be a big fan of display and fanfare. He liked smaller occasions of simplicity and minimalism, where fuss didn’t overpower the intentions of a celebration. Such idealistic portrayals of life could rarely be seen these days, however.

Well join in the club. Love is but that of heartache. This valley that Battlecry clearly prided has fallen short of that emotion. There were no numerous numbers of dwellers here and sadly no children of his loins. Never was and probably never will be. And currently the ladies were not a knocking on his door. Most individuals would presume that the male gender pursues the ladies. Yet, Battlecry could not bring himself to waste idle hours day after day in that forsaken place called the Meadow. Now here he stood in a regal stature which was his state. He was of a mixed lineage, a breed of heighten mass yet light of foot. A stunning, noble line that empowered them to hold the world in the palm of a hand.