The army charged the old gray castle. No scouts looked out over the battlements. No archers patrolled the walls. The ancient fortress stood alone, a defiant giant whose sole purpose was to deny access to its sacred grounds. Even the plants withered away from its oppressive aura. The once healthy grass had long since suffocated under the shadow of the monolith, leaving a sea of gray strands that only fluttered with the occasional depressed breeze flowing across the bottom of the valley. Ghostly husks of pines stood sentinel like limbless spires of death standing as proof of the dark nature of the secret castle.
However, this also was no ordinary army. This is the combined might of the Varx tribes of the north, a people whose whole culture and civilization is centered on war and battle. Individually the tribes are deadly. Now that they have joined forces, they spell Armageddon for the world. The tidal wave of muscle and rage smashed into the front gate and began to scale the wall with acrobatic litheness like tongues of ivy crawling up a jungle cliff.
The flood spills over the portcullis. The secret castle is breached. Yet still, no opposition confronts them. Not a single soul inhabits the courtyard. Howling with bloodlust so terrifying it would make a lion jealous, the barbarians wantonly jump and tumble 30 feet into the space below, their animal skin shirts billowing. Cobblestones crunch under their bare calloused feet, and kicked rocks ping off of leaning buildings.
The invaders make it to the granite keep, a tower so tall that it looks to those on the ground as if it were rising even above the peaks of the surrounding crags. A battering ram is brought in to smash open the thick oak doors. Bang! Bang! Bang! The crashing of the heavy ram echoes against the walls of the castle. After several minutes, the anticipation is vibrating in the air and Boom! The door splinters open. Immediately a fierce growl emits from within the keep of some otherworldly beast. It even stopped the Varx in their tracks, perhaps initiating some slight twinge of fear, a rare occurrence among the warriors. Suddenly, the 500 pound bricks of the tower wall burst open, and a terrifying beast leaps out. It is a mix between a lion and a rhino. Tough gray skin covers its entire body, except for the ring on its neck where a mane of golden hairs places the monster’s horned head in a majestic portrait. Thirty feet long with a tail like a club, it whips at the surprised men and swipes at them with foot long, razor sharp claws, scattering them with no effort.
“What is that?” Evidence of faltering confidence escape the mouth of one young warrior. A man inexperienced enough to still cling on to instinct and reason, he represents the thoughts of more than a few of his comrades. Now released, his thoughts tumble out like a powerful river from a broken dam.  I’ve never seen anything like it!  There’s no way we can beat that! No wonder the castle was abandoned and unheard of; because there were no survivors to tell of it! I knew this place looked like trouble. Did you see how that thing ripped a hole through the wall? It tore right through it like nothing, as if it were paper.
Staring up at the precariously standing tower, this one particular man leans against a wall, distancing himself as much as possible from the monster. The rest of the army is charging it, leaving him alone as a member of a very isolated group. He is also included in an even smaller group. Hundreds of years of suppressed genes culminating in the very depiction of weakness, at least by Varx standards. He is a coward among cowards. Others may have doubts, but he is the only one daring enough to act on them. All alone, he is the only one who didn’t attack the beast. He is also the only smart one.
The man sprints away from the battle and certain death, out the burning gate, over the empty pit of a moat, and out into the forest.
As he crests the southern ridge, a sight unlike any he has seen before meets his eyes. A vast meadow spread out before him for miles. Herds of bison wander lazily among the waving grass. The rising sun, which was hidden in the forest, reflects off a curving river. Occasional trees offer shade to the animals below and a home for singing birds in its branches. The Varx man doesn’t know how to describe it. He feels a peace.
Looking back at the old castle, the cries of battle and death begin to fade. Eventually, a bloodcurdling roar marks the end of the melee. Victory goes to the defender.
The lone survivor of the Varx army swivels with a resigned sigh. With his back turned on destruction, he drops his sword in the dirt and begins the trek down to happiness.