AN: Nothing much to say yet. But you'll get a *cough* warning *cough* if something happens *glint in eye*. Note: Some characters may seem familiar. *grin*

The battered standard fluttered in the breeze. Its tenuous grip on the muddied grounds would not have supported it, were not for the limp hand grasping the pole. The ground around had been tortured by the many feet which had violated it for the past few days. The once lush grass was crushed and broken, and many had taken an unhealthy tinge of red.

The battlefield was heavy with silence, broken occasionally by the creaking of the standard. Nothing stirred. The battle had been lost and won for today, and both sides had returned to their respective camps, their generals pouring frantically over maps and going over troop placements.

Nothing stirred. Nothing, physical, stirred. If one had the Eye, the battlefield would have been a hive of activity. Lithe figures clad in black stalked purposely through the field, black leather wings folded neatly behind their backs. Occasionally, one would wave his scythe, and a hazy blue form would float up, only to be caught by pale hands, folded, and placed carefully into a black satchel.

The field was not only filled with black clad figures though. White winged, feathered figures, resplendent in their white robes, were similarly moving through the field, gliding effortlessly through the crushed grass and sparing an occasional harrumph at their black counterparts. In place of the deadly scythes, they carried little pouches, whose contents they sprinkled on the occasional soldier. The soldier would then, with much consternation from the black figures, groan and stagger out of the battlefield.

A soldier lay on his back, groaning. Blood and froth flecked his lips. His gut had been split open. A nearby feathered form flittered to the distressed soldier's side and was reaching for his pouch when the cool metal of a scythe touched his hand.

"He's mine." The black angel coolly intoned. A slight touch of insistence coloured his voice. The scythe pressed harder.

The white angel stared at his counterpart in disgust and shook off the scythe. "The melody of Life still sings within him."

Both angels glared daggers at each other. Neither willing to relinquish the prize. Just then, the stricken soldier gave a death rattle. It was melodious to the black angel's slightly pointed ears. The dark angel cocked an eyebrow. "I told you he's mine."  He smirked. He pulled back his scythe and gave the dead man a vicious slash. "I'll be seeing you," he said as he glided away, folding the soul and placing it in his bag in one fluid motion.