I STAND ON A SMALL hill overlooking the battlefield. The grass beneath my bare feet is soft and slick with the blood of the fallen. The moon is risen, and the bodies glisten beneath her in her light, and some are hidden in the shadows. The full extent of the c*****e is partially concealed by the stacking of the bodies in blood-filled midden ponds.
Some of my brethren are near, standing in vigilant poses in the midst of the devastation. The Rakshasha and the lower ghouls are here, and the eyes of Yama flame redly from where he stands beneath the Olive tree.
I know that many of these fallen fell to my hand, and to this staff that I carry, given me by He who sees all to the horizon, and who sees that which must be, be it tomorrow or five centuries hence. The song my staff sings is death, an
