Our death knell tools, with flashes like lightning; each time one of us falls, a light goes out. How much longer until it becomes pitch black? Nobody knows. And still the armored demons march, mowing us down with shards of red. But worse still is the hooded phantom, with the face of a hero; who now destroys, destroying us with a blade of shimmering blue, once a blade so pure but now...now its stained, defiled, with the blood of innocents. What happened, we ask in our final moments; where did this monster rise from? He rose from the corpse of a nine year old boy, who dreamed of saving everyone, he rose from a unsure young man who didn't know what he wanted from life; he rose from the ashes of the Hero with no Fear. He rose from the ashes of us all. What happened to the age of heroes? Are they dead and desolate? Are they broken inside, and alone, are they strewn dead upon the floor, unmourned by the multitudes.
Our death knell tolls, fading away as the smoke that spewed from our home's spire's did in the growing twilight. Our death knell tolls, and we are all gone.