[ WP ] The last surviving member of a once prestigious warrior clan is getting ready to die .

The mountain loomed ahead as the flood of humanity that was the endless army filled the valley. Created by a lake long dry in some ancient age and surrounded by towering peaks on three sides, it was the gateway to the north for the Great Empire, the last line of natural defence for the barbarian tribes. Snow capped their peaks and many jutting crags held trees, clinging to the cliff faces and standing tall in proud defiance. Tents began to grow from the ground, bursting forth like flowers in spring, splitting the lush grass, filling the valley with brown and beige, with trampled ground and the destruction caused by the disease of mass humanity. 
 
 The war, if it could be called that, burned brightly and quickly. Even though the tribes had formed an uneasy alliance, they were disorganized with far inferior weaponry. They would have been killed even faster if it was n't for their absolute lack of fear. They died in droves, fighting like rabid animals to the last. Even with mortal wounds, they fought on, long after death should have consumed them. Consume them it did though as the slaughter consumed the land, step by step, mile by mile, until finally it arrived at the last defence. 
 
 The mountain range was well named Deus Fingers, as five of the tallest peaks stood in a row, the tallest in the middle. It was on this mountain that the last warrior stood. On the top, silently watching, unmoving, watching death fill the valley. His death, his people's death. The end of days. An imposing figure once, the last warrior was now a mere shadow of his former self. Wrinkles covered his face, some hidden by an impressive white beard. Scars criss-crossed all visible skin, carved into what had clearly been toned muscle in younger days. His tattered dark green and black kilt hung down over his knees, supported by a leather belt that had seen more winters than most people get to. A single strap crossed his chest, holding the massive sword at his back, its chipped and broken blade telling the story of a thousand battles. Dark eyes studied the valley, a calmness in them, earned in battle, forged by fire. Leaning a single hand on the massive boulder behind him, he breathed in. A lifetime lived too long brought him to this place at this time. He turned his eyes to the sun, and closed them, summoning up the strength on which he had always relied. One final time. 
 
 At first there was a noise, a roar of defiance, a cry of pain and sorrow and hatred that obliterated the silence of the hills, echoing across the encampment. All movement, all work ceased as soldiers stared at the mountain top from which the cry had come. Then, as the echoes faded into the distance, gone forever, a rock fell, dropping for a few seconds through open space. The impact shook the mountain as it destroyed the mighty trees, crashed over cliff and crag, a landslide starting in its wake. 
 
 In the landslide was the body of a man. The last warrior of an extinct tribe. Allowed at last to give his life for his people. One final act in defiance of the inevitable. Many died in the valley that day, but no death brought such peace to the one who experienced it as the last act of a warrior, finally freed.
