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Figures ghost through the darkness. There is no peace, no silence, but quiet that sets the nerves on edge with the soft falls of carefully set feet. It is the ghost dance, the manuever that leads to blood in the night. I know it well, I have danced this dance and know that a dancer will step and step, secret and silent, but then the next step will bring the battle's noise and the silence that hides the coming battle will be shattered irreparably.
There are two armies, maybe more. Who can say what forces are arrayed in the darkness, not even the armies themselves may know their own force. Could there have been defections? Who can say? Might error or cowardice have thinned their forces in that dark field? It must be said that it is possible. But in the moonless night a fighter and his foe must meet.
The heavy tread of the thick necked battlers, anger burning through torpor. These are quick to anger and fierce in their pride. There heads are crowned with death and their feet are hard enough to break another's bones. Oh, they are fierce and like to charge a friend as to kill an enemy, but who can stand against such as he? It is death to face his thick muscled body, trampling to stand against him to his face. There is a scent upon the air that makes the battlers rage. A scent that calls their blood to fight, they move, swinging sharp tipped weapons side to side as they seek what they may kill or failing that to vent their rage upon their own kind if that is what they find to do.
Within the darkest shadows moves a pack of darker shadows. If light betrayed there might be gleam of sharpened tooth, but these drift near the earth. Weapons for the ravaging of those who come to grief in the night of the stealth hunters. These know the meaning of the scents, the heady scents of fearful fighters, food if they should flee. It is their way to hound their prey, to fight a skirmish, and perhaps to run away only to turn back to tear their foe to pieces.
Hunger is their goad, they seek the meat of the slain, not like the carrion crow, not like the raven that will feast upon the fallen in the light, no, these are not patient for their food. They will make a kill and feed upon the dying while its blood is hot.
And then the clouds are torn away. The wind upon the fields falls with the light of moon and stars above the clouds that wind has torn to gibbious threads that glow and their the battle down below. A bellow and a growl as two armies set to. Two armies that will fight until the feathered black birds that love the battles leavings will descend. This is war, and this is death. The death of bulls and wolves and too, the death of silence as the thunk of horn and ripping sound of fang are but the least of sounds that shatter all quietness that once held sway upon this field.
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