It’s the Viking age 912 A.D Scandinavia. There they waited, standing on each side of the valley silently waiting for their opponents to make the first move. The sideways rain pounded like mallets against the feet of man. The sun rose over the hazy sky, emitting a yellowish light upon the white scenery. Roscoe, only 15 stood beside his father. It was war.

The fire of the enemy arrow signalled the start of the war. Each tribe equal in numbers rushed down the valley. War horns blared in the distance as dark clouds rolled in from the heavens. It was war. Rushing down the hill - Roscoe's father charged into the chaos of war. Both tribes fighting it out. Blood, guts, organs splattered across the pure snow - staining it red. It was chaos, it was hell but it was war. Roscoe saw as his father valiantly fought in the war, trying his best to stay alive - trying his very best to survive. “I shall protect my son’s future” a figure screamed as it plunged its axe into another figures chest, spinning it as the figure exploded into a million pieces.

Within minutes - the once pure snow changed into a pool of blood. Roscoe stood atop of all the chaos, his pupils dilated, as tears streamed down his face as the largest figure fell. Roscoe blurted out “ FATHER NO”. Tears streamed down Roscoe's eyes once again. This was war. Roscoe wanted to live a life peace, tranquillity amongst the lovely land of Scandinavia. The Jutes had to fight on. They could not lose to the Danes. They couldn’t.

Roscoe charge down the hill, his face tensed, his brows up, his blonde hair blown back in the gale. The grey clouds rolled back, and the sun shone as hard as it could. Roscoe without losing momentum, pulled an axe out of his father’s corpse and slashed whoever he could see.

Blood stained his once blonde hair, just like the snow as he kept fighting on and on. He could not lose. He needed to protect his tribe, his mother, his friends, his crush and his father's pride. He bounced back. It was war.


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