The sun's warming gaze crosses the emerald glade as it lowers its heavy belly to the horizon. The trees sway in a gentle gust, whispers of war carrying themselves over the peace of nature, as a knight in shining armor stands. He raises his worn blade, as tired and unkempt as his own weary heart, and it catches the setting sun's golden light—its cross-guard bathing itself in gold. As he drops it back down to his side, the branches above seem to keep themselves in the form of his holy cross, the remnants of sunlight blazing his holiness into the glade. He walks away, leaving a fresh grave in the soft soil, a sprig of berries upon its breast, as night falls with a dusky embrace
