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Old 03-02-2016, 10:34 AM   #1
War Child
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Join Date: Apr 2015
Location: in a house in the trees
Posts: 519
Local Time: 01:51 PM

He drank from a broken jar that smelt of hope... and death. Every morning, over and over, he could read the fear in his borthers' eyes. Always the same outline; and their eyes were dark, but duskier than their polished ebony boots. He carried a shard of glass that shook in his hands, but the face he saw reflected in it made him feel worthy of the burden he faced.

He dismissed what might be his last concern and grabbed his rifle. The shock of cold steel and the smell of burnt gunpowder erased all trace of emotion, or fear. The soldier leapt onto the battle field with his eyes wide open, and my heart in his hands.
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