The Warmonger's Lot

Hollow skulls break upon the ground beneath his feet, crushed like fall leaves in the prime of that dying season.

Long it seems since the time he last visited the place of his peace and joy.

His steed paws the ground, not from nervousness, but in anticipation for what is to come. 

He too must admit to the elation that washes over him, brought on by the sounds of some sad soul being pierced by vicious barbs. 

Cry to heaven fool, naught but the crows will hear your voice, for your end signals the beginning of an everlasting feast for all manner of carrion fowl.

The wind carries with it now the sound of horn and drum.

Mounting steed and drawing blade the time for his reaping has come.

The ears of his foes bleed from his piercing laughter as he rides through their ranks, now drunk with the endorphins of battle. 

Should he have missed this as he does? As a man misses a lost lover so he has missed this field of  woe.

His foes soon turn to flee, only to be consumed by the fire of his insatiable appetite for death and war.

The crimson sun begins its decent below the horizon, as the final cries of the fallen sound throughout.

Once green, the field now is stained with bile, and will soon flourish from the decaying essence of his enemies.

The wind carries with it now the smell of death and rot.
Fools they were to place their souls within reach of the Warmonger's lot.