War
Forde set the brush to his canvass again, then threw it to the ground angrily.
War throws men and women into a chaos of emotions.
Forde stood up, and walked over to the window. He set his head against it, and sighed.
War is an artist's dream.
Forde walked into the hall, and looked at the different paintings he had made over the last year since the war.
Inspiration all around.
Forde saw a picture of his wife, Vanessa, that he had painted last week. He shook his head. That painting was such a sharp contrast from what he was doing now, it almost made him sick to think about his current work.
Yet all of it reeks of death.
Forde walked back to his painting, and picked up his brush.
Despair.
Forde painted another fiend into the portrait, and felt the tears rolling down his cheeks.
Sorrow.
Another stroke, another knight fighting for his life.
The epitome of humanity.
Forde set his painting in the hall, and closed his eyes. Vanessa came in behind him to see it, and hugged him quickly.
Is War the best humanity can do?
Forde wrapped him arms around Vanessa, and cried into her hair.
War just plain stinks.
For centuries Forde's painting hung in Castle Frelia. Duplicates of it were made by lesser artists all over the world. Because of this one painting, the War of the Stones would never be forgotten. But, just because it wasn't forgotten, doesn't mean War never came again.
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Prince Innes Renais Frelia the Third gripped the ancient bow, Nidhogg. It had been tempered with steel and iron multiple times, but it still held. The Prince of Frelia looked up at the paitning that had inspired his ancestors. He needed it now, to inspire him onto victory against the Amalgam and his horde. The painting depicted a paladin of Renais, his horse rising to dodge a wicked blow from a large Maelduin. The paladin stabbed out with his spear, not noticing the Deathgoyle aimed at his back. A Warrior was on the ground, his axe laid out beside him, as a Hero stood over him and roared at the endless hordes. A Wyvern Lord fell in midair, his wyvern turned to stone. Countless knights lay slain, while a small number held their own against them. In the background, a monstrous being let out a dirge-like call. And there, on his knees, was a king, his crown on the ground, and a deep blade in his chest. A trusted advisor stood by the monster, looking away to his left. Innes fell to his knees as it hit him. This was the exact scene that had happened the day before in Renais. Right before the Amalgam and his hordes had ruined Renais. Was it a prophecy? A vision? Innes stood up, and gripped his bow. His friend, Ephraim, was dead. Prince Innes the Third strapped on his quiver, then ran out the door. War. War would always rise up again.
And it always will.