• Dawn breaks over a shattered and desolate field strewn with the bodies of men and woman, some dying, most dead. Those who are unfortunate enough to still be alive are trampled underfoot as the next wave of soldiers charge forward and clash from both sides. Both factions took heavy damage during the battle that raged all through the night, and still they fight.

    Though many are dead, the battle shows no indication of letting up. All the signs point to this being a desperate last stand for both sides. The generals have ordered to not give an inch, and the soldiers intend to honor that order to the death. The outlook is bleak for everyone now.

    However, as the sun is just coming over the horizon, a single form in seen on a rise in the land. It has a certain brightness to it that rises on its own as the sun rises. A strong voice comes from it now, confidently stringing together words of some foreign tongue. The words resound with power, rising in volume with the sun's own rise. A few men take notice, and soon, pockets of fighting within the fray stop are entranced by the figure. Slowly, everyone on the field stops to listen and watch this man. He sings from a ragged and torn book, but his posture is assurances itself, the sun at his back glinting off his glasses. Not a single soldier is fighting anymore; just looking at this man. He holds a kind of whip, not as one would hold a weapon, but casually at his side as one might hold a walking stick or staff. It is resonating and beating with light in time with the man's voice. The rays of the sun fold around him in wings as his voice beats louder, reverberating through the air and washing over every person present. Then, just when the sun at his back cast his silhouette most obscure, he is gone. Not in a flash of light or a thunderclap--just gone.

    Everyone on the field is still. Then a confused gasp is heard, followed by a joyous sob. Men and women look around to see those slain--friend and foe alike--standing up again, completely healed of their wounds. Those risen stare incredulously down at the tears in their armor, through which whole flesh is seen. No one thinks to continue fighting; how could they? A miracle has happened this day.