The crimson banner of Spïra wavered and fell. This would be the doom of the Republic, fallen to the imperial hordes of Tithäs. Separated from his army and his home, Spîros leapt with the strength only desperation could instill, through the thickening crowd of enemies. His heart raced, his mind ran as fast as his feet. With every step he made another impossible move, dodging, catching, overcoming every blow in his path. He never stumbled, never failed. He ducked, stabbing a captain in the gut before spinning around to block the next attack. He was the epitome tenacity, force and vigor. His unpredictable finesse and power flowed as if a river through the hordes of men that opposed him. Blood flowed free and dust rose up around the battle. Spîros jumped up, kicking an enemy in the chest to knock him down before impaling him with his own sword. Almost as if in a dream, Spîros fluidly ended all his foes. Spîros spun around, expecting to meet the enemy general face to face. But in his wake he saw only destruction - mauled bodies, open wounds, dark blood. He stood in his battle-poise for what seemed like an eternity. He could no longer hear his breath. The desolation of the scene took him. A chill ran down his spine. As he looked down, he saw the point of a spear protruding through his chest. His knees hit the ground as he looked closer at the blade.
Imprinted nobly on the tip was the Solaris Sparatæ. Vanquished by one of his own kind, he fell backwards, waiting for the end.
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