Where blood has been shed and lives lost, there is a calmness, a peace that pervades the air. But there is a pulsing energy, that gives the grass a springy touch; the trees an unearthly glow; marble columns, their crumbling pieces and dust dancing like fairies.

Souls, ghosts, people, haunt this peace. They lay in the electrified grass. They crouch behind the tress, eyes alert, wary; there are still enemies. They rush past you, as you walk, but you’re alone, save for the reminiscing of the whippoorwill.

An oak stands guard on an empty field, its bark touched and scarred by all it has seen. Wounded men lie beneath its leafy branches, their spirits fleeing in a single breath; but you are all alone.


Dark woods net the last rays in their gnarled claws, the sounds of tombs and mystery sounding, echoing from their depths untouched. You feel your own soul reaching towards an unseen power, gripped fast in pain and longing for sunlight. As you struggle to comprehend, their souls struggle to liberate themselves: once of a king, now of the chains that bind them to this earth. As the moon rises to sanctify this hallowed ground, the remaining shards of sun escape the forest, rushing away from the long deep sigh of the land, which threatens never to release them. As the smoke clears, a pair of headlights pierces it.
You are all alone. A peace pervades the air.