Scarred

The quiet autumn evening was broken by the movement of an animal in the woods. Its entry had demystified the sullen mood of the woods. The rider's grunt had raped the serenity of the woods. The horse's hoofs were covered with a mix of blood and mud. The drapes put on the horse to justify the regal position enjoyed by the rider was in tatters. The elegant beast, which had previously left the stable shining in the middle of the day, was left in the woods to recover from the wounds of the ensuing battle. The rider was in no better condition. His armour shattered. His morale battered. The horse had taken the path through the woods to distance itself from the mind-numbing battlecries and merciless killings. The drizzle had made the soil wet and the path ardous for the animal to cross. The rider lay motionless on the horse; trying to recovering from the shock of combat. The images of the sword piercing the metal armour and into the flesh of his troops still lay in his head. The pleas of the soldiers lying on the ground, stained by carnal remains, still rung in his head. Things had gone awry. This was not how the plan was supposed to work. This was not how his King wanted the campaign to move. The weather seemed to change for the better. The rain had receeded and the moonlight showing him the way through an otherwise dense woodland. The sun had set just before the arrow had pierced the rider's right leg. The rider did not seem to mind the pain as he had been through worse. The rider was beset with the implications of the battle on the campaign. The rider knew that the woods would lead him back to the safety of his lands soon.

But there was much left to do. Much left to plan. Much left to achieve. Much left to succeed. Much left to travel.