Writing practice. (Because I suck at it.)

The Battlefield.
Steel, blood and the gorey remnants of ravaged bodies were soaring through the tiny space left between one man and another. The air was thick with the bloody essence of battle to the extent where breathing was not unlike drinking it. All mens' roars, be they of victory or of pain, were woven into a perpetual cacophony of rage, bloodlust and fear as the battle continued. A herding feeling, a burning desire to crush the enemy flared in every man regardless of their side. To defend your home and beloved? To fight for what is just? There was no place for that in this bloodlit hell on earth. Morals stopped mattering. Bloodshed knew no allies, no enemies. It merely spread the scarlet steelsong to all corners of said hell.
The mind of a soldier is a simple, scared thing. Why am I doing this? Why was I brought here? I don't want to be here! These are questions every man unwilling to bleed and let bleed asks himself. But what does he become when the battle begins and the chaos of war erupts? Kill! Kill! I must butcher more!
There is no place for humanity on the battlefield. Humans awaken a primal chaotic evil instilled in us by the harsh universe and it's canons. It is a field of angry beasts swinging whatever they hold in their hands around, trying to catch something soft and pink on the edges of their heartless steel that knows nothing but the will, or rather the lack of it, of its master.
Steel has no morality. It has no loyalty or allegiance. Even the magical enchanted blades change masters once in another's hands. And this is the tool we use to kill. To fight for "justice" that evaporates the moment a battle begins. We made these tools, we are no better than them. On a grand scale there is no heart or morality in us. On a grand scale, morality was made up to hide the truth. To prevent chaos from being perpetual.


Power.
Seeping with blue energy of the arcane flows all around him, the mage roared as he gathered it all around and inside his body with greedy, almost abrupt and yet fluent, typical for a mage, movements of his hands. The exctasy one gets when he has the feeling of supreme power. Of the sovereign reality-bending might coursing through every inch of his body. Flowing through his veins and entering his mind, warping it and corrupting it as it will.
Even the dragon hesitated at this raw display of absolute universal dominance the wizard displayed. His wings faltered, his legs took an involuntary step back. Perhaps attacking this village was not the best of his impulsive inspirations. Perhaps he should have stayed home. Perhaps. Should have. That line of thought was brutally cut off.
The flashed blue. His mortal magical capacity was no longer able to hold the powers he tampered with. Magic began to seep out of his eyes, his ears. Even his mouth. Soon it began to radiate, burning the ground around him. Poluting the air he breathed with the rippling electronic energy. He was no longer able to contain it. Lightning began to flash out of him, striking the ground and leaving it seared of any life. This was the time. The mages hands shot forward and roared with his inverted voice, ubequetly echoing off of reality itself and nothing else. An awesome bright beam shot out of the mages hand, leaving nothing, not even the air it soared through, alive. It was much the same with the dragon.
This was his end. This was both their ends. The dragon would be slowly and crucifyingly evaporated into the air, there being no traces left of his existence in the world. No traces left of any other dragons. With this, they were extinct.
However, such a staggering display was not easy on the wizard either. He slumped down, breathing heavily and feeling the life flowing out of his body. He had lived for centuries, being the last bastion of magic in the world. Now he was dying. Magic and dragons are no more. The future generations would grow up without them. Whether this would bring good or bad, only time will tell as it does always.

Warrior.
I am the warrior. I was once a farmer. I was once a сarpenter. A builder. Perhaps I was never these things, and that's why I'm a warrior. I am the blade that rends your enemies. I am the shield that keeps your homes safe. I am the voice that rings in battles. Perhaps I am also the anguished screams of pain and the wet sound of men being torn to shreds. Others have reasons to fight. Others have causes and beliefs. Morals. I have none of those. I fight because that's what I am. I fight because that's all I know. Perhaps my life might have turned out differently, but it didn't. So I fight.
I can't write verses for I am no poet. I can't sing for I am no singer. I can't mend wounds for I am no healer. I can't write books for I am no writer. I can kill, and that is what I am. I kill for money, but money is only an excuse to kill. I kill for pleasure, but pleasure is only an excuse to kill. That's all I am. I murder people because that's all I know.
In times of piece, I will be waiting. Waiting for the next war. I will be drinking your ale and fucking your women. And when war comes, I'll smile and march off to protect you, but that is also only an excuse to kill.
I may die. I may be captured. It scares me. Dying is bad. Being captured means torture, and torture is even worse. Perhaps I fight because I wish to die with a blade in my hand, and not with gray hair on my head. Perhaps not. I can't help but take the risk. I can't help but go into the frey and hope for the best. It is because that is all I know.
When I die, I will not be remembered. There will be no songs in my name, no stories to be told over ale. There will be nothing left to mark my existence. Although I protect, it is because of me that wars start, and that means I do nothing. Although I kill, I am also killed, and that means I do nothing. I leave no marks upon the world and no one will remember me.
I still can't stop.

Before the storm.
Silence. There are different kinds of silence.
There is the empty silence created by things that are lacking. Words. Laughter. The sound of boots knocking a steady rythm on a wooden floor. Rain. Fire.
There is the silence created by having too many things. Too much laughter. Too many words. They all weave into a steady cacophony, a monotonous mumbling. After a while, you stop hearing it. Hence it is silence.
And finally, there is the silence that lies in between. The silence that is the border of having nothing, and having too much. It is silence as tense as a lute string, ready to snap at any moment. It is silence eery as darkness, when you see nothing ahead, and nothing behind of you, waiting for something to take you. It is the silence before the storm.
However such a silence would drive a man mad within instants, so it was not silent. There was breathing. The sound of someone moving from foot to foot. Someone grunted. Someone slid a metal object back into it's sheath. Someone checked if his was still there. Someone gulped. The wind howled, flailing the flag as it would.
The order to charge came.
The war began.