It was a dark, quiet night. Cool fog was seeping in through the open windows only to dissipate, unwitnessed, like crabs scurrying to find cover as their shelter is disturbed without so much as a thought by the hoof of a deer, then the paw of a wolf, in the desperate race for life. A race, which, if lost, may be the last. No, despite the silent cries of the mist, the cold, unblinking gaze never flickered from the display. To do so would be a betrayal, for the display was a portal to a world in which a metal clad warrior fought for the blood-lust of his god. The warrior, if left unguided, would be susceptible to the whims of other gods. He would resist their efforts at subjugation, of course, even if it meant death. Death. Sometimes the warrior wished for death. In death, the warrior's spirit was free. Freedom, however, did not last. The gods, never satisfied, seeking more destruction, would casually bind the fleeing soul to a new body identical to the last. Thus forced to rejoin the battle, again and again, unable to escape the slaughter for more than a few seconds at a time. Such was the life of the metal clad warriors. But a life it was.
The god, having finished toying with the lives of mortals, was beset by sadness. What have I done? Who am I, to so carelessly throw away lives? To destroy hopes and dreams with a flick of the finger? To leave nothing behind of my brave worshipers but memories of pain? And so, by sheer will, the god reached into the world of the warriors and pulled at the very fabric of time itself, in search of a moment that depicted the spirit of the mortals. A moment of courage, and honour.
A moment of life.
When I grow up to be a Waterfall, I'm gonna wear a helmet.