Tyrander fell to his knees, not through exhaustion, but through pain, and not through pain of the body, but pain of the soul. He let his bloodied sword slip through his fingers, the heavy hilt embedding itself slightly into the soft dirt at his feet. The blood trailing down the blade was not the blood of one, but of many. Five bodies lay in the dirt around him, and four of them had fallen to his sword. But his eyes stared, fixated completely, on the fifth. Tears flowed from within him, echoing a sadness that he could not otherwise express. For the fifth body was that of his father, with four separate sword wounds sliced deep into his chest. Tyrander glanced around at the other four men, in too much anguish to even hate them. He had avenged his father, but had come far, far too late to save him. ~ Written by a fellow RPGer friend of mine for inspiration to draw! Thanks Chrono!