A tide of red and yellow washed across the green landscape. From the sky, the legionaries were nothing but numerous blood drops splattering upon a bumpy, green floor. The yellow made the blood seem corrupted, slowly eating away at the leaves' vitality, draining them of life and turning them a sickly yellow. The wave parted through the forest's domain like woodmen eyeing the next furniture-quality tree.

Yet the target wasn't trees, but traces of battle. Like erosion and decay, the soldiers swept up and discarded the bodies, stripping them of all their possessions. They left no sign of any war or skirmish. A few mounds of dirt here. A downed tree over there. A few potholes. Several footsteps. All were part of nature, explained by it, incorporated into it. No outliers.

As the Sun ended its daily patrol, returning to its dwelling beneath the horizons, the blood tide ebbed back to its metal perimeter. Smudging away the imprints of their feet upon the dirt. A small group of fifteen separated from their brethren, continuing on their crusade to rid the world of the stain of their conflict.

Cyrus sucked in another breath of air, a herbal blend of trees, water and earth. He smiled. Nature always had a relaxing effect on him. Yet the Decanus knew it couldn't last. A new smell had descended upon them, etching into his nostrils. These tendrils reignited the old pathways. Rot. Death. Two elements of the life cycle so interconnected with Cyrus that even at a whiff, they made themselves known like old friends making their presence known. Alas, if it only wasn't so.

He put his fist in the air. A flurry of commotion. The hybrid, boot-sandals were removed from their feet, replaced by a soft, leather boot worn by the deceased, scouting squad.

Cyrus glanced back, eyes glancing over their feet. Nodding, his head returned to face the front.

He turned his head side to side, testing the strength of death's odour. Left. Right. The roman raised a hand into the air and directed his wrist to the left. Creaks and cracks followed. Red and yellow once again began their march.

Within a few minutes of navigating through the vegetation, the fifteen-man squad arrived at the reaper's paradise.

A place of silence, despair and death. Each blood trail was a story of death. Each footstep, the tale of a struggle. Many a historian could cipher through the pieces of evidence, extracting conclusions and timelines with their feather-ink-dipped inscribers and delicate scrolls. Each name, each death recorded and forever imprinted upon the history books. A memorial and a tribute.

But Cyrus wasn't one of those scholars, nor an artist who could capture the horror and despair through the gentle brushes of a paintbrush, he was a simple soldier. Nothing more, nothing less. His intent wasn't one of justice nor commemoration but a bid for survival born from careless actions.

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Kingdoms and empires have been shredded apart for less. But like the rulers and monarchs of those nations, their plan seemed perfect and flawless.

Cyrus knew better but that doesn't mean that knowledge can redirect, or change one's path.

Intelligence and wisdom are intertwined strings of fate yet opposites like a married couple. The roman had one but not the other.

Armed and shielded by the experiences of war, the Decanus delved headfirst into the fray.

The first step was to move the bodies into a horizontal line stretching from one end of the ruins to the other. With his detailed commands, the men of red and yellow dragged several, randomly selected dozens of corpses from the stationary procession of the dead. These chosen shells were scattered across the entire village. Some were on the border. Others in homes. The ones in armour or makeshift weapons were placed towards the northern end of the ghost town in a private sector.

Cyrus glanced across the empty, silent buildings. The corpses and blood dripping along the hardened dirt from constant use. It was a stream of red.

The man gave his next order. Gladiuses were drawn. The unified hissing of the beasts exiting from their rectangular lairs mimicked the triumphant cry of a serpent having found its meal.

Slashes and incisions were made across the walls and floors, imitating the enraged, bloodthirsty marks of a flesh-hungry monster. Walls were pushed over. Houses partially flattened.

The next step was enacted. Cyrus slipped a dusty, thick tome from the pouch slung across his shoulder. He flicked through the pages, eyes scanning the words briefly.

After a few minutes, his finger moved from guarding and turning pages to a spot somewhat in the centre of the left page. It jabbed down. A grim smile appeared on Cyrus's lips.

Without another word, the roman crouched, the book still open. His index finger traced thin lines through the dirt. A conjoined shape was formed. Three triangles, two facing forward, one back much like a bird's talons.

His face scrunched. A few beads of sweat dripped down his chin, splattering onto the dirt before rolling to join its red cousins in the party.

The legionaries spread across the village began inscribing and stamping these "footprints" into the dirt, fallen walls wherever the "beast" may have found purchase.

After half an hour of non-stop carving, the task was done. The false evidence had been planted.

Cyrus whistled. The soldiers trotted over to his location like dogs responding to their owner's call.

The next set of instructions was given. Jars were taken from satchels. Blood was collected from the ever growing stream.

The squad trudged out of the empty village in the direction opposite the dungeon. They ran through pushes and around trees, constantly creating the three-toed footprints in a walking fashion.

After a few minutes, Cyrus called for a stop. Blood and bones were pulled from their bags. The group jumped and dashed around, creating a jumbled mess of footprints. Blood was poured on the dirt. Bones scattered. Swords, shields and the leather armour, belongings of the former scout party were placed about. The scene of a desperate fight for survival was crafted.

Cyrus was no storyteller, but setting up false tracks and conclusions made up the majority of his brief time spent as a politician's son.

With the job completed, the group made a beeline for home, careful to remove any signs of their presence from the forest.

[You have gained the skill [Beginner Deception]!]

[You have gained [10] levels in [Beginner Deception]!]

[[Basic Deception] has upgraded to [Advanced Deception]!]