It is the waning hours of the evening. The sky is streaked at its horizon with lazy gray clouds atop a dark orange sky that clashes with the oncoming night that is not yet fully black, but more-so a grayish-green that fades into a blue so dark that it is only just distinguishable as such a color. The moon, so far away, so present and clear in the evening, looks down upon the sprawling hills of dark green grass and its splotches of tall yellow stalks. The landscape rises and falls, rises and falls, lower, and lower, and lower as if to focus on the area that once was a town.
A hideous dot of gray and black sits there, at the bottom of the valley. You can still tell what most of the buildings were. A house here, a state building there, a bank, a home, a market, a stable, an outhouse, a nursery. None of it is inhabitable, not anymore. The tops of the walls that still stand are charred black, that fades into the gray and eventually the original brown and whites of the architecture. Bodies are strewn about the streets, covered in ash, disfigured, dismembered, mutilated, but left after mere moments after the slaughter. Children still cling to their parents, spouses to spouses, animals to their owners, families to one another: now they are all just flesh.
Amidst the ruins walks a man, his chain-mail armor is torn at the left sleeve, his arm is bent in ungodly ways, yet it snaps and churns monstrously, forcing itself back into shape. Only tatters of his tunic remain, the white torso is burnt, yet the symbol at its center, a bird with its wings spread and talons bared, clings to its place- untouched. The man is riddled with scars, most of which are evidently from long before this night, including the ring around his neck, the single dot on his forehead, and the line that runs from the top left of his forehead down to the bottom of his right ear. He holds tight to a sword as long as his arm.
He is looking for something, but it finds him first. From the darkness bounds another man, his eyes are glazed over and he is mortally wounded, missing his left arm and much of his face. In his right hand the assailant wields an axe that cuts deep into his hunters neck and gets stuck.
The assailant continues onward, stumbling and releasing the axe as the hunter falls to the ground, his body igniting immediately and dissolving into ashes and blowing away into the wind. in a matter of seconds, a swarm of ash appears behind the assailant and begins to form the figure of the hunter. Before he is even half materialized, his left hand shoots forward, grasping the assailant by the back of the head and plunging his face down and into the ground over and over again before pulling him back up. The hunter, who has now completely re-materialized, holds the assailants head with both hands and effortlessly crushes it. The hunter screams, victorious, plumes of black smoke and flame escape his lungs and shoot out from his mouth. He calms down, breathes deeply, attempting to gather himself in the shadows.
Then, crying draws his attention. He snaps around, and in the darkness it becomes apparent that his eyes are a glowing orange and black that dances like a living flame. He walks slowly towards the sobbing and stops at the sword he dropped when he died. He stares at it blankly for a moment as the crying continues, then he looks up to the moon in the sky. There is something in his eyes, anger? Sadness? Regret? It is something old and more complicated than a single emotion. He bends and picks up the sword and continues towards the crying.
The waling is emanating from a pile of rubble that the hunter effortlessly tosses aside. There, burnt and broken, he sees the body of a woman. She is tall and strong, likely a half giant. He turns her over, she had thrown herself over a crib, where now there laid a babe with deep dark brown skin and white hair. It stops crying when it sees him. The man is speechless, gently, he lowers the woman to the ground and closes her long dead eyes. He whispers a prayer in her ear, kisses her forehead, then promises the gods that if she does not sleep well then he will tear them down himself. He curses all those deities that don't listen, all that let this happen, all that turn a blind eye now to this torment, and damns them all before damning himself.
He stands and takes the babe from the crib, it is covered in suit and lightly singed, its lungs are weak, but as far as he can tell, it will live. They lock eyes and the man's expression is clear: sympathy. He brings the babe's forehead to his own, and sets off to leave the ruined city.
The war is not over, no one is victorious, and no one ever will be. The world is cruel and unkind, and mad men have sewn evil and hatred into it. The hunter leans into the babe's ear and whispers.
"This is your first lesson, this is our people, but it is not us. The universe will not listen when we talk, but when we act, the world has no choice but to change. So do not despair, for if I fail, then it is your chance to make things right. Take sorrow only in the fact that we are not alone, and our pain is known by many. Take pride that the joy and justice we spread shall also be known the same."

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Been a while since I've posted any sort of writing here, but I felt like getting some out there tonight. should I do more of this?