Lost Hopes

Blood-stained patches of snow on the fringes of the battle. Bodies lying - trampled, unrecognisable, forgotten - in the streets. No-one cares about it any more. There's no time for burning the shrouds of the innumerable dead. Every nameless, faceless camper from the Hermes cabin. There are more important things to worry about; the goals of the living. The goals of the dead won't affect the world, not really. They only pollute the Styx.

Slowly, slowly, the metallic clang of swords colliding becomes more and more infrequent, finally ending. And all that's left is lost hopes and the blood-stained snow.