<strong>D4</strong><br/><br/>It had started as a good day. He had readied the scimitar, oiled it with the oil he could find - he knew of soldiers not caring enough for weapons and he had heard the sorry stories of blades breaking in the middle of the fight. Not him.<br/><br/>The enemy was still far away, too far to be seen. He was comforted by the presence of the powers beyond his shoulders, and he did not dare to turn - but he knew the hero was just beyond his shoulders, and was proud of it. The oldest of the pawns, he had this privilege. Perhaps the battle would wait for another day. Perhaps the enemy will surrender. Perhaps, and he fondly played with the thought, he will win the fight and come home. As he played with the thought, he resolved to leave the army. He was getting too old for that.<br/><br/>The sun was stirring, the fog still holding the field. He saw a movement and his fist clenched the scimitar's handle. The man on his right was gone. Bad sign, he thought. By any reason, now he would hear the horse beating the ground. Knights moving ahead. Instead, an order was shout.<br/><br/>He was a soldier and he did what was ordered. But how, how he cursed the generals. That move made no sense. He reached his fellow on the right and now none of them had any cover.<br/><br/>As he stepped in the middle of the field, the fog finally raised, and he saw the enemy. Too near and in the worst possible angle. His blood froze and he prayed to his gods. He prayed for a chance to move.<br/><br/>But it was not his turn.<br/>