His long hair was heavy as he pulled his head out from the shallow stream water that snaked past his camp. His eyes closed and his feet planted in the rocks below for support against the water's weak current and strong winds that swept down from the mountains above. His head thrown back as if life was pulling him down violently from the back of his hair. His brown matted hair swooshed back like a whip to a horse. This was happening in real time of course, but to him, the last few minutes felt like slow motion, including the mist from his heavy breathing meeting the cold air outside as it swirled around his face only to disappear seconds later. His hair now fell straight down behind him, besides the few hair locks he had tied with tree bark gathered over the years. The end of the locks held teeth from the people he had once killed. There were handfuls of teeth woven in his hair that fell from his forehead chattering amongst each other every time this quiet warrior moved. Black eyes and chapped lips. Skin burnt from the once hot sun, now replaced by a cold foggy day that felt cold upon his wet face. The small gusts of wind made him cover his face with both hands, but not from the cold, but from the actions that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. He knew what was awaiting him in the mountains above, and what the outcome would most likely be for both prideful camps. The sound of children playing tag around the tents that were held up by rope and tree branches made him lower his hands and squint his eyes in concentration. A true warrior must have control over his emotions, or else his emotions will be the death of him.
The Catapult camp was located on the sandy beach at the bottom of the tall green hill that twisted and turned beyond the lingering fog and past the chanting warriors hanging from the large broccoli trees. Ooowwaa! Oooowwaaa! The echoes rang loud as if King Kong was climbing the hills. Birds scattered fast all throughout the tall grass, while mothers scurried their children into the tents. Bear coats dragged upon the ground as the warriors grabbed their daggers from the muddy ground below them. Chatter rang, not from the men talking, but from the medal blades that were being past around from one man's hands to the next as if they were passing bread before supper. The man's teeth were chanting loudly from the wind picking up. His body was facing toward the tent where his family laid safely, while his head was still facing the broccoli trees high in the hills that awaited his arrival. The handle of his dagger smashed against the ground, as he sharpened the other side where his arrow head was tied tightly, all without ever breaking concentration on the high pull dagger camp that has been on top for too long. "Fight for what you believe in, or die trying," his good friend said right before drinking a cup of dirty water. The man's beard was long and red, braided and half burnt off from battle. His body was shaking from the cold, but his long beard and reluctant eyes stayed motionless, a friend he has been in battle with for decades now. How they are still living has amazed even their deepest enemies. Little words were ever spoken between the men that stood a hundred plus lined up in a single line one behind the other. Only actions could determine the outcome of this ongoing battle between the triple extension and the catapult. Both sturdy in their beliefs, both have seen success in battle, both will die with pride as they both stab one another with daggers until the blood runs dry and their hearts stop beating. Big pull towards greatness.
His hair was still wet as water ran down his dry back and into his tightly laced up boots that ran almost up to his knees. The morning fog started to break as he had a better view of the high hill before him. He could of swore he made eye contact with one of the triple extensions looking down in almost the same stance he was in. Both with blood stains around their thumbs, both with dreams to achieve. Both with pride in their heavy hearts. The black eyed viking thought to himself what the other camps at this exact time must have been thinking. Were their families hidden away in tents as well. Were they at peace before battle as well. Were they ready to die as well. So different, but so much alike, he thought to himself. A different path of the sword, but the same deadly result. The same deadly goal. If either camp laid down their sword, then all in the world wouldn't be right, and days of sun and family wouldn't feel as sweet. Each camp was an enemy much needed to push the other camp to become better at their craft. Enemies that fuel motivation and constant progress. Worlds apart on their methods, but as close as brothers on their goals. Passion and love is what he and the others on the hill fight for, love that ends in death. Love that starts with cold water and sounds of children being echoed for all of eternity.
Small strings of rain fell from the now dark sky as the warriors from camp Catapult gathered their weapons and kissed their loved ones goodbye. The man with teeth in his hair started to hike up the long windy hill.
The Battle Continues 2016