My sword glinted in the sunlight. A deep color of blood was painted on its tip. A dagger waited in my belt. Waited for it’s turn to break and enter and steal a life that had dropped its guard. My rifle, my bow, my ruthless dagger, my sword... they all wanted a taste of fresh blood. A pulse shot through the air. The scream of a mother and her child echoed through the depressing terrain. I looked back. Men fell to the ground all around me. My pupils flickered. Blood splattered here and there. It was a war between the faces of life and death, yet mankind fought it for them....

A bullet sunk into a repulsive but innocent body. Some undeserving warrior now had a patch of crimson blood dripping from his wound. The snow underneath him seeped through his bloodstained, claustrophobic, dull clothes. His last heavy breath came out in cloud of regret. His body turned cold and white. It’s funny, white is told as the color of life, yet seems to be also the valiant color of death.