In the morning, the man had woken up, and immediately found it strange that none of the other men had awaken yet, and that it was midday as well. He wrote it off as nothing and drank from the ale he had next to him. It was warm and a little stale, but it seemed to do the job, it made him feel better, lighter. He then walked out of the tent, and was immediately struck with the horrible strange silence around him, not even the chirp of a bird could be heard. The man, deciding that his duty was to wake up his commander, walked over to the large tent with the shield next to the flap, and lifted up the coarse cloth, and saw what had at first looked like nothing out of the ordinary. He then walked up to his commander and noticed the red blood spread out around his neck, staining the ground. The man then started to panic, and rushed from tent to tent, only to find all the men, dead, looking more like they had been sleeping, but now not a single snore would ever be issued from them ever again. It was then that the man had realized that he was all alone, and that he had alone been spared from death. What the man did not realize was that he was slowly becoming less and less coherent in both thought and speech, and that he was carrying what would be a death sentence with him in his pocket, and the nearest civilization was the allies he was apparently going to backstab according to the paper in his pocket. And even if he had the guile and silver tongue necessary to talk himself out of a hanging, it had been dulled and distorted beyond all recognition and help by the a strange drug that he had drunk with the ale he hadn’t even thought twice about.