It was a high summer day, the sun reaching its zenith over the rolling plains of Itraniel. Sweltering heat pressed down upon whatever unfortunates weren't lucky enough to save themselves into the nearest shade, the nearby township of Klagain nonetheless continuing its hustle and bustle. The people of Itraniel were a hardy bunch, former nomads of the Vuibrivalon tribes until just a few years ago, and the rigours of their new lives would not impede their daily efforts, imperative as they were to maintain their fledgling nation.

The road to Klagain, winding its way through the simple verdant fields, was less busied than the town itself, featuring only the occasional peddling wayfarer steadily making their way across the half-cobbled path. Some might have successfully concluded that a commotion was afoot near the city and done well to avoid it. 

Off the beaten path an overlookable sight could be bared to the curious viewer. In view of the road, a figure rested in the saving-shade against a tree, plated from head to toe, visored helm dipped downwards, one leg pulled whilst the other lay relaxed, the arms splayed to the sides without care. A few feet from him rested a rusted sword, withered and corroded. From afar, it seemed just like an ordinary tired knight, simply taking a break from what was likely a long travel. And so, none of the travellers saw fit to bother such a humble wayfarer.

However, should one have approached, the curious approacher would have been hit with an alarming sight. The figure's plates were encrusted with wasted life-fluid, what would once have been a sticky, crimson fluid now reduced to dry, flaking brown, pieces and bits of the desiccated stuff clinging all over the metal-frame. Some of it might have once emanated from tears and nicks in the plates, fueling the theory that the knight had been wounded, but most of it, simply for the sheer volume, likely wasn't his own. The earth around the figure beneath the tree was drenched, muddied, leaving the foolhardy onlooker only to guess just how much of the stuff had been wasted here. A trail leading towards the tree indicated that the plated figure had not spilled the matter anywhere close to this tree.

Next to register in the close observer's senses would have been the stench. Metallic. Sickly-sweet. Cloying. Then, the buzzing of flies, fat and eager, insectoid wings braving the sweltering heat to partake in the putrid meal, small throngs of the things filling the air in their relentless buffeting of the seemingly-insensate knight. Had the brave onlooker continued to suffer the sight, they might have concluded that this decrepit thing had been 'resting' beneath this tree for at least a number of days, if not weeks.


[@Syrenrei]