I think we’re supposed to write our own short passages based on battles.
The torrent kept on coming. He was battered and bruised, but he had found some shelter. The rest of his tired group were scattered across the field, hoping and praying for an end. Praying wasn’t enough. Hoping barely made a difference. Instead, the enemies came closer and closer, scanning for a sign of their prey. The sound of marching footsteps came closer and closer until he could take it no more, so he ran. He could hear them behind him, but he was gaining speed. Taking a quick look behind him he could see a small figure run off to get help, he could only hope that it would come fast enough.
Soon enough, he was on the ground. The enemy was above him, weapon raised high. He could feel hot tears running down his cheeks as he realised that this was the end. He looked across the field and saw a woman running towards him, blurred by the water in his eyes. He closed his eyes and waited for it to come…
“SMITH! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING! PUT THAT STICK DOWN!”
She came closer as she shouted, “I DON’T CARE THAT HE STARTED IT, PUT THAT STICK DOWN RIGHT NOW OR I’LL PHONE YOUR PARENTS!”
“What was that?”
A silence descended across the field.
“Sorry Mrs Winterburn.”
The bell rang.