Blood Letter

Your blood. Your breath. Both are cold. Your skin aches and your bones creak as you stand, you slip as your foot slides across the blood soaked mud. The wind blows warm against your icy flesh, the humid air reeks of rot and decay, all you taste is iron, all you hear is the constant buzzing of flys. You know that you should have died. You feel how wrong every breath is, how unnatural your very thoughts are, it’s as if the universe itself is scratching its head in confusion of your existence. You recall it clearly now, you were slain. Cut down in battle like the rest of your ilk. Yet here you stand, a lone figure towering above the rotting fields of bodies left in the wake of war… how are you alive? This scenario was made in like an hour or two so expect it to be very unpolished.