The carrion lay in small mounds and little divots
Across the creeks and dangling in bushes waving in the wind as eerie puppets with open mouthed grins controlled by devils and and evil Lords
The King sits astride his steed
Silent
He stares across the open grave
It remains silent, as only a graveyard can
The breeze, the dead, the King and his steed
His steed reads his mind and gently, carefully picks his way across the field knowing where to go fully aware of the gravity of the moment
The King simply sits and allows himself to view every body before him. He allows the gravity of the decisions he made to sink deeply into his sinew and bones. He learns by his mistakes. He accepts wisdom with gratitude if it means even one could be saved.
The Steed lifts each hoof delicately, he checks where to step, being sure it is clear of death, disease and sorrow.
Little Wren 