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A Testament of Wildflowers

Battle weary and ripe with the bloodlust of conquest the war party collapsed in the dust of the road. One figure, armor faded and chipped, strode placidly into the nearby field’s verdant embrace. Only when he was a stone’s throw away did he too let his legs give way.

Gauntlets set aside, scarred fingers plucked and examined wildflowers, first a brilliant orange, then a delicate purple. The sun, unencumbered by even a wisp of cloud, illuminated every vein and swath of color. Despite the beauty before him, no smile curved his chapped lips.

The approach of heavy trod preceded, “Roses, tulips, carnations: every flower fades, old friend.”

Without looking up, he queried back, “Does that somehow justify our trampling them underfoot?”

After a pause as weighty as their steel and leather armor, the captain declared, “Come, come, Count Nichtsthun, we march on to Acre…to redemption and glory.”

Unheard and unheeded the old count muttered, “We march to destruction and death, a fine testament to our Lord indeed.”

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