He presses into the crunch, wholly committing himself into the mash of flesh and steel. Arrows rain from the battlements, irritating pinpricks that rattle against armour and shower the men in pain.
It waits for him with greedy teeth, the pain. He grins back at it. Hungry. Drooling. His muscles ache for it. His eyes bulge at the nearness of it. Giving it. Taking it. There is no nectar sweeter, no meat more succulent, than the delicious anguish of pain.
He heaves through the bellowing masses, clawing and helmets and pauldrons in his desperation to get to the front. To be first inside. To start cutting and mashing and biting. His blood is charged with lightning. His mouth froths. This is taking too long.
He starts chopping. Slicing at the writing flesh and steel around him. Not knowing if it is friend or foe. Not caring. Butchering his way through the masses to get to the greater violence beyond. Ripping. Tearing. Grinning.
Paddy Dobson
12th October 2022