Rose's thorns
"Bloody hell," a man muttered under his breath as he trudged through the aftermath of the battle, his armor catching the dull light of the morning sun despite the grime and blood that caked every surface. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing a streak of dirt across his brow. Dead bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls, limbs twisted at grotesque angles, their lifeless faces staring blankly at the sky or at the dirt below.
"This is more tiring than the battle itself," grumbled another soldier, not far behind. He kicked a body lying in his path, watching closely for any signs of movement. The corpse remained still, eyes wide open in a final frozen scream. "These poor bastards really had the balls to attack us while we were sleeping."