The sun rose over the battle field, and not a live soul laid in the meadow. Didn’t matter that their losses were ten times what ours were. No one had won in this battle, just one side had not lost.

Every last living soul of the enemy had been put to the blade. We would gain an advantage, then they’d send just as many troops in as was our number. We would then fight with a berserkers passion and intensity until we were even in number, then we’d start getting an advantage slowly but surely, we’d gain the advantage. Just as it looked like we would win they would send in another wave of warriors, and the cycle would start all over again.

This time, however, everybody didn’t rise to see The Mystic of Cascadia in the flesh. Once again he’d led his army to victory, but this time it didn’t feel like victory. That fact led The Mystic to send home all souls who desired it. No one in his company had chosen to go home, such was their fealty to him. He rewarded their love with a week off except for those hands needed to keep an army camp alive.

This day would be known as the Battle of the Meadow of Death, and none who survived would ever talk of it again.