Engulfed by the scars of their own many battles, the 64 squares, abstinent by nature from violence, are constantly exposed to carnage. Each piece bears the ineffable destiny that is seared into their lives. Damned for time to always raise their swords against the same foe. And so the cacophony of sounds begins. The incessant screeching of swords, encased in the thick red fluid that is devoid of innocence, was drowning in the merciless turmoil of shouts. The steady metronome beside the board honoured the loss with each tick. But then came the deafening silence. It always does. The desperate warriors that were longing for the finish line were swiftly poised for the start. Standing in solemn solitude, they now yearn for their next attempt.