Sample #4: Prose Fragment

A fragment of prose.

Such can be said of the ancient times

With eyes full of sadness, standing on the great colonnaded porch of the Temple, the great general held forth his hand as if to capture the sun. "Today," he began, "today, my men, we march towards war. If the promise of our prophets holds, then this battle may be the most terrible that the sorry earth has yet to behold. My heart weeps for us all; it wounds my soul to rip you brave young warriors from the arms of your beloveds. Yet we cannot kneel and present the victory to our audacious enemy. Not now. They will accept no surrender, brook not the beseeching of our wives, children, and elders. Rather, I fear that were we to surrender, or if we are to fail, they will fall upon us all the same, as carrion crows to deadening fodder. Black feathers swarm around us, and it is hard to remember that the daylight yet shines. Yet shine forth it does, my brothers," and here the general held forward his longsword, slowly bringing it into the rays sent out by the falling sun. It was as if liquid fire ran up the blade until he held not mere steel, but the divine weapon of a fiery god. His brand held aloft, he raised his booming voice, "and with the setting sun streaming our shadows like a vanguard before us we will stride onwards, clad in the armor of our guardian ancestors, wrought in captured silver and valiant gold, our souls blazing through the dark feathers of our foe until flaming we burn through this siege and free our noble homeland! Do not fear my brothers. Those who walk in the rays of the sun have nothing to fear. For victory!" And he pierced the sky with his final cry, his men cloaked in shadow echoing his magnificent call. Turning from the host, the great general marched, sword in hand, into the darkness of the Temple, disappearing from sight. His armored hand moved to his visor as if he wanted to hold his head in his hands and massage his eyes, but, being yet clad, he could only stare at his gauntleted fist. A sigh could be heard to escape from his lips as he stood there in the darkness of Temple’s hallowed entry hall, listening to the continuing clamor of the host and the shouting of his exulted men. Then his free hand dropped to his side; still holding his sword he walked forward, yelling for the lamps to be lit.

Such can be said of the ancient times.