covered in mud and dust, shrapnel wounded, you trudge through the battle field, you manoeuvre your way through the bodies, the mist, the unholy stink of burning flesh. you come to the tent, it's untouched, not even a tear in the fabric, the red tent where the general planned his attacks. you walk inside, it's larger than you think, the vastness of it surprises you. there's a large oak table, candles burning, there's bottles of champagne open and filled glasses. a voice calls, 'help yourself, i won't be long.'
you pick up the glass and smell it as your parisian tastes have educated. you like the taste, but would prefer water, yes water would be better than this bourgeois poison. you look across for a decanter, throwing it's stopper away and drinking down in large gulps, your dehydration sated.
you march through into a second area, you have to take off your jacket, it's getting hot, and sweat starts to blur your vision, the colours of the velvets begin to change, the deeper you walk, from soft rich pulples and violets to darker shades, crimsons, reds and yellow streaks, the heat getting unbearable, the decor sparse and more minimal, you have dropped most of the accessories you carry, stripped down to your skin and shorts you carry only your sword, youir skin getting heat marks, a blister appears on your hand, you can feel your hair singe and as you walk your vision begins to blue, the colours blled, into, blood red.
and there in the depths of the the red, the generals general, the manipulator of all war, he smiles, you have done his work, you must be rewarded.