The cold is bone chilling. So very cold. I can't work up enough moisture to clean the blood off my sword and parts of my armor. Moisture is freezing in seconds. We were decimated. My band of soldiers could not match the fierceness of our enemy. The danger is over for me. The horses were killed or taken by the French.  I am moving aimlessly away from the battlefield, with only the company dog taking any interest in my leaving. He's been following me since the battle ended. I am thinking he should have stayed close to plentiful food, but maybe he is sensing my need and feeling my warmth. I am glad for his companionship, and hoping he does not view me a warm meal. He is a strange looking character. Long whip like legs, square chest, and an aquiline face. Definitely a hunter. He constantly keeps his nose to the ground  and sniffs the air. I wonder what is so interesting. I imagine the smells of battle are still caked in his nose and that he is relieved that there are new scents in the quiet air as we move farther from the disastrous battle. As the stunned feeling of the fog of war retreats from my mind, a new panic sets in. Survival.