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Description
I am not a god of war.

Not exactly. Really, I never was. And I don't ever plan to be. I was a warrior in a past life, long before man recorded history. Before the world was changed to the feeble thing it is now. I was unmatched in every martial discipline, rivaled by few in the crafting of arms, and singular in many achievements.

I was the spirit of battle.

Then I let myself die. I was not killed, as some may try to say, nor did old age overcome me. For those like me, age was irrelevant. Rather, I decided that there was nothing more for me in that life. Letting my spirit move on was a relief, the end of an overlong campaign against everything I could oppose.

Now, I'm reborn. A young man, dropped into strife. No one in here knows exactly why, but we're in a war, of sorts. Raised from a young age to fight, the battle-field is the only playground most of those in the Camp have ever known. Some of us got here as old as twelve. Most don't remember anything before the Camp's walls closed over them. I am of the younger variety, and haven't seen anything of the world outside the Camp since my--as I reckon it--rebirth except the stretch of sky above the Field.

Here, we're taught the ways of war, plain and simple, then pit against one another singly or in groups. We fight, we kill, we die, with no explanation as to why we do so or for what reason. When we're young, an Elder instructs us on the methods of combat. The uses of guns, knives, hands, the benefits of terrain. He teaches us pain, hunger, fear, and shame. We are taught to kill without mercy, to trust only so long as you have a knife at a throat or a gun in an ear, to love only so long as the body requires.

I remember a time without guns. I remember sword and spear, axe and arrow.

Very few of my age-group is left alive. Perhaps two others beside myself have reached their tenth season of battle out of the four hundred from my year. Most of the enemies I fight now are of the second variety, the new-bloods. The Outsiders. Those that have memories of the outside world. That have hope for something other than this blood-soaked existence. Most of them die early. But those who live past five fights have started to learn the hard way. And their pasts give them advantages we more veteran soldiers don't have.

In the Camp, when we're old enough to be called by name, we're given a name and a number by our Elder. We're given named ranks as we progress, and sometimes earn new names due to our actions. Outsiders begin with their outside names and gain names in the same way afterward. They seem to have trouble adapting to this growth, but Campers have less trouble. Most of us relate best to our short number than we do our first names for the first blooded year or more. After all, the Elders gave us our names, but rarely used them. So it goes with the first party.

I'm the spirit of battle, and have a name I've never told anyone. I wasn't given it in this life, and I only think of myself by that name. I introduce myself as I was named here, in Camp. I have many names.

Description
I am not a god of war.

Not exactly. Really, I never was. And I don't ever plan to be. I was a warrior in a past life, long before man recorded history. Before the world was changed to the feeble thing it is now. I was unmatched in every martial discipline, rivaled by few in the crafting of arms, and singular in many achievements.

I was the spirit of battle.

Then I let myself die. I was not killed, as some may try to say, nor did old age overcome me. For those like me, age was irrelevant. Rather, I decided that there was nothing more for me in that life. Letting my spirit move on was a relief, the end of an overlong campaign against everything I could oppose.

Now, I'm reborn. A young man, dropped into strife. No one in here knows exactly why, but we're in a war, of sorts. Raised from a young age to fight, the battle-field is the only playground most of those in the Camp have ever known. Some of us got here as old as twelve. Most don't remember anything before the Camp's walls closed over them. I am of the younger variety, and haven't seen anything of the world outside the Camp since my--as I reckon it--rebirth except the stretch of sky above the Field.

Here, we're taught the ways of war, plain and simple, then pit against one another singly or in groups. We fight, we kill, we die, with no explanation as to why we do so or for what reason. When we're young, an Elder instructs us on the methods of combat. The uses of guns, knives, hands, the benefits of terrain. He teaches us pain, hunger, fear, and shame. We are taught to kill without mercy, to trust only so long as you have a knife at a throat or a gun in an ear, to love only so long as the body requires.

I remember a time without guns. I remember sword and spear, axe and arrow.

Very few of my age-group is left alive. Perhaps two others beside myself have reached their tenth season of battle out of the four hundred from my year. Most of the enemies I fight now are of the second variety, the new-bloods. The Outsiders. Those that have memories of the outside world. That have hope for something other than this blood-soaked existence. Most of them die early. But those who live past five fights have started to learn the hard way. And their pasts give them advantages we more veteran soldiers don't have.

In the Camp, when we're old enough to be called by name, we're given a name and a number by our Elder. We're given named ranks as we progress, and sometimes earn new names due to our actions. Outsiders begin with their outside names and gain names in the same way afterward. They seem to have trouble adapting to this growth, but Campers have less trouble. Most of us relate best to our short number than we do our first names for the first blooded year or more. After all, the Elders gave us our names, but rarely used them. So it goes with the first party.

I'm the spirit of battle, and have a name I've never told anyone. I wasn't given it in this life, and I only think of myself by that name. I introduce myself as I was named here, in Camp. I have many names.