• The town's populace led a small procession to the cliff overlooking the ocean. Today there was to be an execution, and few understood the conditions.

    A single man stands in shackles before the edge, looking down into the waves that would soon steal his last breath. He did not fear what was in store for him, he could only regret that people were so blind. For his actions to protect them, he was to be executed. Too many political authorities for his taste.

    This was the only surviving soldier of the war these people seemed so desperate to avoid. He had fought for many years in the campaign, taken many lives beyond counting, and lost just as many friends and comrades. And now, returning home with what he had left, he was abhorred for doing as he was asked.

    These folk were peace-loving to the extremes, and feared that war would follow this man where ever he may go. He thought they were probably right, but still couldn't find the justice in their sentencing. They would execute him for fear of what he had done, and what he could do now, though he never would fight again.


    The shackles weighed heavily on his arms as the Sherriff read the verdict and terms of his trial. He had already known they would never risk exiling him. Politicians tend to like staying in power too much to risk losing it. The creed was made that he would die here in the waters beneath this cliff, and this gave rise to a cheer from the crowd. It wasn't as if they wanted him dead, they were only convinced that killing him would ensure the peace to last.

    He smiled as stones were chained to the already heavy shackles. At least for him, there was certainty. He would undoubtedly die this day, and the sense of finality was comforting. He wouldn't have to sleep in fear of not waking in the morning again.

    The execution began, but instead of being forced off the cliff's face, he stepped outward on his own. Here he would die, and his death would be on his own terms. Such is the forgotten way of the Warrior, and many thought him mad to follow such traditions. It mattered little now if he indeed was mad, or simply the keeper of lost honor.

    His head broke the water's surface, and he could already hear the Sea Nymphs approaching to investigate. He had seen them before, and they may just remember him. After a few seconds, the soldier exhaled all the air he had held, and took the sea's water deeply into his lungs. His body began convulsions immediately in an attempt to force air into the space the water now occupied in the lungs, but had no air to function with.

    His smile returned as the convulsions slowed and the world began to fade. Creatures invaded his vision of the quickly fading surface of the waves, but they were too late to forestall the death he had sought for so long. A mournful song filled his failing ears as darkness overtook him.

    Finally, the soldier died in the ocean's powerful embrace, just as he had always hoped for. What it did with his remains was beyond his control. If the townsfolk ever happened to find his corpse, he would be buried in an unmarked grave to simply be forgotten. This they would much regret when war rested on their doorstep in the following weeks.