The Campaign's Tale

And quiet flows the river, and quickly flies the bullet.

O golden hue, no longer a gift from the Sun, nor a symbol of the harvest.

The currents converge here.

A newly emerging darkness covers the land.

Soldiers. Heads lowered. Lips sealed with orders.

Accept changing times, as farmers accept the coming of winter.

They weep for the grain trampled under the boots of friend and foe alike.

It is simple to denounce the evildoer, and far more difficult to understand them.

Comrades may be united in loyalty or by other means—hatred will do.

A worm frozen in resin, its body encased for hundreds of millions of years.
Is it the prisoner within this silent amber or a creation of eternity?

An ancient proclamation arrives at a foreign city's gate, clad in blood and dust.

Reforge scythe and plow into sword's edge. Let iron learn to leave its sheath. Let our enemy know the taste of hunger.

Mounting their horses and clenching the reins, young men bid farewell and head to war—a story as old as time.

The fires of war burn ever nearer. Children of the Don, it's time to unite!

Feel the moment. Feel your feelings. That's what matters most.

She understood what the word means.

These horseshoes aren't yet rusty, lads!

The warhorse is bridled, waiting for the coming tempest.

An eagle pierces through the thick black clouds of gunsmoke.

They take to the saddle because this land raised them.

They once traveled down the same road.

The tattered banner still billows in the wind as the first snow falls.

The hammer of history strikes the anvil, yet the marks it makes will soon be smoothed away.

After the dust settles, he makes the decision.

Another bullet bearing another name falls into a tumbling brass bag.