Field of Madness

We retreated into the forests, conserving our powder. We fell back on familiar trails, careful to strike at the Corrupted and then retreat before more came to its aid. When one of us fell, a soldier would stab a blade through the victim so that they might re-awaken faster and rejoin us at the front. The grudges among the soldiers grow, but in others, it becomes a curious competition, to stave off the most deaths – and for others, to quickly spill the blood of the fallen so they feel as little pain as possible and awaken, still ready to fight. It is a field of madness. We fight the Corrupted who have our corrupted brothers and sisters among their number, who, too, seem reborn to fight – we slaughter them as we slaughter our own, all for gaining a few feet of ground, to briefly hold a slice of the Ancients road – to anoint this land and claim its Azoth with our blood. When I stare at the Corrupted – the ones who bear tattered shreds of an age of a hundred years ago, or wear a rusted mask of a Conquisitador, I wonder if settlers ages past went through this cycle as well – and the only victory was in the corruption that spreads like the blood upon the snows.