Long ago, when national sovereignty was threatened, men would rally together to drive back any invading force seeking to conquer their homeland; answering the call to protect their nation and people. This was true for all nations the world over - and for most, still is.

However, the men of the West have been become docile and weak - and now easily succumb to the effluvium cast upon them by hands of adversaries unseen in their midst.

And now history repeats itself once again: another invading force marching into the Westerner's sphere. This time, however, instead of fighting back the invaders, our people make the spectacle of laying themselves prostrate in-front of the incoming army, offering everything up to them.

The warrior has fought valiantly throughout the campaign, making progress towards his people's effort. Through extreme exertion, and costly, hard-won battles has he and his comrades tasted victory bittersweet. Having endured crushing defeats, seeing his brothers fall beside him and knowing that their sacrifice only bought the others time to fall back, and the objective was lost.

Time and time again has he fought and bled through this Hell, whilst enemies and allies sate the thirst of the sands underfoot. In the fray he now surveys the battlefield - taking in the sight of the brothers having been devoured by the mouth of the sword; the once magnificent buildings and commoners homes that now lie in ruin; the screams of death and cries of battle that fill the air.

Insurmountable devastation has cast its shadow upon this land. Utterly exhausted, the weary warrior collapses to his knees. Will he get up?

The night sky is still and cloudless. Countless stars shine down from the heavens, their cold light resembling that of the Alewife's silver scales. A gentle breeze caresses its fingers through the crowns of the trees. The only unnatural light is the warm amber that pours out of the window of the home nearby. Inside sits a figure - introspective and lost in thought - his features often muffled behind the ghostly veil of pipe smoke. Watching the ethereal wisps stretch their fingers across the silent canvas of the room, a reoccurring thought makes another visit:
                                                                                     "What happens after?"