The White leapt over the first row of trenches, landing on a small wall separating the first and second row, and then jumped onto the next. It didn’t slow or stop once. Five rows and they were on the hand entered enemy territory. Swerving and swaying they weaved around the enemy and their bullets. No one could catch them though, they were a breeze. They were the wind, passing by invisibly before the alarm of an intruder could reach the tents.
Everything fell away then, no warning, the tents just stopped. They were free, on a mission of their own. A hawk, native to the region flew above them, the White raced it. Away they flew, leaving behind the war, but also running towards its end. With a whoop of thrilling adrenaline, the rider kicked the White faster, till they were barely touching the ground. Fallowing the grounds command they ran, over hills and through valleys, their destination would soon be arriving.