The Problem with Happy Times

The cafeteria was alive with the sound of plates scraping and people cheering, there was the usual amazement at both the sheer volume of food Igigi could eat and his fighting. The man was a marvel, but for a change Mahon was being praised. The only person to ever survive Igigi's sword. They continued training, studying all forms of combat and learning about every aspect of a warrior.

They were happy times indeed.

However, the problem with happy times is that they are times, and thus must end.

This time was full of firsts for Mahon, the warrior who had never touched a blade, the warrior who had never eaten a meal. However, this is the first he would remember until his death.

The men walked through the gates of Babylon, the golden deserts striking through the heat. A searing scorch laid upon their feet and heads, Banners flying by embroidered with ridiculous glory, the golden shine ringing through the armies. The glorious chariots holding the king and his generals, his familiar golden hair ringing across the seas of black. The bumping and rolling of wheels followed by a wave of chants and praise from his adoring army, and why not? It's not everyday you get to see a god. His well-built chest covered in leather armour the thin sheets were sewn and cut with gold, every inch of his body shining under the light of the sun. However, as night set and the fires were lit, there were more fires across the valley. And thus began the Battle of Nineveh.

The blazing charge of the foot soldiers as they raced across the dunes under the crimson of the setting sun were drowned out by the hundreds of shouts from troops. The high-pitched ringing of swords rubbing against scabbards,

The first shimmering blade, its cool metal shimmering with the patterns of steel as it pranced in the moonlight. Flaming arrows pulled over the night sky, the streams of red blazing across the battlefield, their beautiful arc ending with screams of terror. The spur of adrenalin, the fear of death… none came to Mahon, his eyes dull in the midst of so much pain and terror. A man charged at him, a sword hanging by his side, as he screamed. Mahon's hands slid down coolly to his belt, unsheathing the sword and dropping it to his feet, the tip just grazing the sand underneath. As the man opposite charged forward swinging wildly at his legs, Mahon effortlessly parried a loud clash of the steel as the swords bounced away from each other, then sliding his feet round the hilt swung into his opponent's chest, the cold steel flinging into the ribcage dropping the enemy to his knees. Then he pulled his arms back, the obsidian eyes of the dragon lying still as he carried out the moves he had practised for countless hours. His body lurching forward with both hands, thrusting the blade through the man's throat.