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Weekly Contest #363
Sir Aldus Gilroy lay slain in the muck out in the open field. The field stretched flat and broken under a low grey sky, the grass beaten down to mud, the mud beaten down to something darker, and the dead lay still and unmoving in that dark. Crows worked the far end of the field loudly, picking through the tendons and gore among the bodies, their beaks dripping with the innards of the dead. Nobility or not, knight or common mercenary, the crows ate. Closer in, the flies had already found their way. In death all were of the same worth, at leas...
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