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Field.

A field of white flowers stands before you. Orchids, they are. One is dripping blood that once flowed upon it from a hand cast away from a now limp body. Still warm, it almost steams in the chill air. Eyes are watching you, disapproving of your compassion towards the fallen one. You've lost all that mattered, your own flesh and blood, your son. Sent off to battle with the rest of the men that hit the age of 14. "He's ready to fight," they said. "He's ready for battle now, he can handle it," they pleaded. But they were wrong, in your eyes.

Shedding one, solitary tear, you try to turn, but cannot tear yourself away. A wind rushes past you from the west, eager to make its way home for supper. Wrapping your cloak tighter around your body, you wish to feel more than the evening chill. But alas, the sun is setting fast.

Will you turn away from the limp bundle of white and return to your people, keeping up appearances that you're not sure even exist, ir will you pick the flower marked by your child and exile yourself? 

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