He'd lost track of how long he'd been lying still. Had they won, or had they lost? It was difficult to tell. Always a single moving piece in the larger picture, once the boy enters the fray of battle, he falls back on that nascent urge to kill that had kept him alive so many times before.

Upon opening his eyes, the first thing that he registers is the circling of buzzards over a strangely beautiful sky. The creaking of the wagon's wheels comes next, accompanied by the sound of footsteps close enough to his body to make his limbs tense up like springs. If his side had lost, that means he was a prisoner for the taking. He tilts his head to look, but doesn't spot any soldiers he could recognize. Regardless of who they were, he had to get to his feet before he was found.

Stubborn as ever, his hand had remained wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. He was tired, and a radiating pain wracked his shoulder, but it wasnt enough to hinder him completely. Disturbing the birds around him, he starts to rise up, emerging from the carnage like a blood-soaked, reanimated corpse. An arrow had struck the gap between pauldron and breastplate near his left shoulder. In his right hand was the great sword that looked far too big for a boy his age.