The blades echoed in the small room, the bodies holding the blades were pressed, back-to-back in an intricate dance of clashing at each other. The fighters were covered in the grime of war and treason, the room was stale with blood odor and parrying magic blasts. No one, in the midst of the New War, noticed the small girl escape through the blasted door and into the hallway, where a male was waiting for her, his eyes were on the entrance-way behind her and his hand was idle near the hilt of his own blade.
The eyes of the walls watched the two move smoothly through the dungeon hallways, the light was entirely cut off by the blood-red velvet sheets placed accordingly. Their footsteps were muffled by the equally velvet carpeting beneath their feet. In all respect, it looked more costly than it really was, and far more trouble installing it than one would want to admit of such a harmless carpet.
Along the way, the girl and her companion ran into several nobles whose own swords were used to lodge the sword both inside their owners and the wall in which they stood in front of; the pretense of fighting for their country, but in all the grizzly reality, had been fighting to get out of the god-forsaken castle.
Her companion felt a compel to cover the innocent girl's eyes with his superiorly larger hand, to create a veil between the world and her fantasy, but his mind was too harried with the Gods tricks on their home to much care about his companion and the soiling of her innocence. But he figured that feeling would pass once they were past the encroaching walls of the castle look-a-like.
The girl followed in contempt silence. The only thing keeping her legs moving was the magnetic pull of fresh air and the cleansing of her blood soaked fabrics that stuck to her like her own sweat and flesh. She repeatedly swiped at her brown brows, wiping away the sweat that felt like tears. She did not – would not – cry in front of him.
The breached through the castle doors and stumbled onto the wood platform beneath their padded feet. The air smelt of manure and fear; blood and dry ice; horse and human sweat, along with the smells of fight, was the body count of those slain in battle. They carefully treaded through the maze of blood and fallen swords. Horses atop their owners and knives protruding from their thick biceps, the men were misshapen ugly, their mouths in a last parting shout of agony. Some rested more peacefully than others, their mouth's closed in a last grimace of failure and disappointment. Foes of foreign colour were fallen with the home fighters. Their bloods mixing together like wine and black and white. The ground and the hems of the female companion were soiled with the thick redness, and the male companion made no move to stop and wait as the younger girl tripped over the body of a small dog.
"If you don't hurry up, you'll be sharing a grave with your friend."