The forest burned under the blazing sun, smoke rising high. Craters were formed, and what had once been a lush ecosystem was consumed by the devastation of war.
Screams and the clashing of steel, accompanied by the whizzing of magical attacks through the air, were drowned only by the sonic booms of the deadly spells that followed.
How much more morbid could war be, when a small conflict that could have been nothing more than children having a scuffle in a forest had produced such devastation?
Dismembered bodies littered the ground. Some were charred remains, some were cut to pieces, others were crushed by immense force. It was as if a sick and deranged child with a vividly visceral imagination had created a picture of death, each demise more grotesquely unique than the last.
More than the screams and devastation was the stench. Death smelled like human waste. It smelled like an abattoir where lives were butchered, only many times worse.
