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The fight was going well, or at least J'hosken hadn't lost their partner in the blood lust yet, but who knows this battle was far from over. Millions of his people were already dead to this pointless war. Only a few thousand remained, from the original 50 million of them living in the holy trees now only seven thousand of them resided in the ashes. But now was not the time to wish the dead still were, now was the time to fight - fight for the few left, the few who might just be able to save the culture. The few who were steadily murdered at the hands of the Olsten. J'hosken looked around for his partner, J'sloka, in the chaos as he removed a head from a body. He saw her die as he stabbed an Olsten through the heart. As he ran towards her slowing falling body he killed at least three more. By the time he knelt down by her he had killed at least seven Olsten. J'sloka became another to die in a needless war, just another lost to the Olsten. One in 50 million, a faceless girl in this war of 15 years. She was 16 - so was J'hosken, the children were all who remained to fight this bloody war. The adults had died in the first years, millions with their guts removed and heads crushed. Then as the small military realized they were on an inevitable train of death they trained the children. The once peaceful people were now heartless killers, those who would have been priests, or berry pickers were now swordsmen and archers. All to protect what was left of their home. The glorious trees, resplendent, life giving, holy, and the only home for these people were now ashes, dead and gone. J'hosken knew nothing of his culture, of his people, he only knew how to use a weapon. He had been trained since three to use the weapons of his people, he knew every technique, every stance, but nothing of the ceremonies for his gods. He barely knew his gods, religion was useless on a battlefield. As J'hosken stood back up he saw so many of his comrades dead, but at last the Olsten of this fight had been killed. Had he not looked behind him he would have been filled with relief for he knew they could not win another fight in this state, with over half of what remained of his people dead on this battle field. But he had turned, he saw the marching of the Olsten reinforcements, he saw the hundreds of thousands brought to finish his people off and he knew terror. There were only three thousand of his kind left and they were tired, but they all got up hid away their grief, loss, and horror. They all stood up to fight again. As the army came closer they waited, they did not want to start this fight, the fight that would surely end them. So they waited as the Olsten army charged, they waited until they were upon them to swing their swords. And as they swung they killed. J'hosken alone killed at least a hundred for that is the skill you have for growing up in a war. He removed legs, arms, and heads, he gutted and stabbed; he killed. He saw his friends die, he saw his people die, until he was the last one standing. J'hosken in his circle of death killed and killed. He fought and swung his sword, he removed one head and gutted another, but he could not keep up. One finally hit him, one blow to the stomach, one sword through the gut. At the that moment all he knew was pain. He did not know the sacred words of his people, his love for his friends and family. He only knew the pain of his wounds before he died. As he died his people died with him, the last of the Meeramos finally dead.