...a story written by a little boy, a long time ago...

And when the long battle ended, the sun came up early in Vendor Valley. Pennants, spears with attached banners and brigade flags pierced the ground and the bodies of fallen warriors, while flags snapped and waved lazily across the silent battlefield. But the air was still. No sounds. Just the occasional movement of a flag or pennant or swaying plumes that accented a knight’s helmet. Crushed helmets marked the places where brave knights fell. All the gallant warriors fought the battle they were destined to fight and now lay silent, unmoving in the morning chill, victims of a failed dream. Sir Courage said a final goodbye to the still body of his favorite knight, Sir Brave, who fought so bravely in a losing cause. He touched the still and bloodied face and knew he would never touch it again. The gallant victor led his wounded steed away from the knight’s body, stopped and listened to the mournful flute play a last salute to the valliant dead. He quickly mounted his battle stallion, and rode away, without looking back, hurrying to the distant castle to rescue his lady. And so the last flute of death played, the last trumpet of victory had blared. . . and the sound of death and victory would be heard no more. . .in Vendor Valley.