He crossed the narrow street rushing as he could, vaulting piles of junk and loose pieces of stone that once were fixed to the ground. Parts of arrows were pierced into his flesh and its broken ends were difficulting his godlike movements. He looked behind, and could see the shadowed forms of two humans enlarging at the walls as they got closer. He turned his body around to the left and dashed, stepping on a tip of ceramic vase and jumping into a small, glassless window highly above without thinking. As he fell on the cold wooden floor he gave a little cry of pain, feeling his flesh being pierced even more with those thin pieces of copper. Their voices were beginning to become louder as they got closer, and closer to where he was. “Where is he?” said one of the voices, a loud and clear voice.
“Where did he got into?” Asked another voice. A greedy, strong voice “I want him dead!”
He smiled seeing those strange and distorted shadows and the tip of their lances passing by the window. Coughing blood and feeling terrible exhausted for the almost unending chase, he gathered the remaining of strength and willpower that was running into his blood and got up to his feet. The room was smaller than a little horse cubicle in a poor stable. A little child bed was in the extreme left of the room, the homemade mattress was cut open and his rotten straw content was spilled through the floor, as an overthrow wardrobe which its doors where wide open and filthy poor man clothes where scattered around. As he thought, that house has already been turned upside down and looted. He sitted on the wardrobe, gathered a little piece of cloth and wrapped around a piece of wood, biting it hard as he could as he tore those remaining arrows from his flesh. Slowly and painfully, he took it off almost every arrows that have been pierced through his chest and back, crying so quietly that remembered the crys of little wolf cubs when they are away from the mother. He was tired, his wounds that usually heal faster, as his regeneration were different to any living being, were not showing any kind of healing. Only dripping more and more blood.
He listened their steps as they passed the fallen door outside, crossing the room and killing those survivors that the last . They were crying out his name, Ranfield. He saw as their boots crushed down the wooden door as it fell ahead, the gush of wind that made the straw and light pieces of cloth fly form the ground and spin around. Their lances and swords being held up to his face, their ugly, bloodsoaked faces filled with hate, anger, and their eyes seduced by bloodlust. War make this, make humans become animals, make rationality become only achieved by spilling blood and killing innocents. Make minds be controlled and personal needs be forgotten. All by the Cause.
And the blade fell.

Just another sword cutting the innocent flesh.