Ethmoid Mucosal Retention Cyst

Hephaestus - Chapter 1 "First Blood"

when I will not even talk about what I write without showing a little bit. Here is the beginning of the last draft.

Theos wiping rain from his eyes with the back of the hand. His hair dripped down his face. The hot taste tickled his skin and he licked his lips almost expecting to feel the taste of tears. He tightened his grip on his gun, the leather glove scraping on the handle. He had come a long way to get there. The moment his attention was focused on the fog and the wet grass, the enemy could be heard breathing near, ahan and hit the ground feet. They came. All this was too much like a bad dream, except that his bad dreams to him were worse. He adjusted well to shield the line up against his neighbor, mindful that his elbow and his side are well protected. The final moments went by slowly, pretending the earth lulled into a gentle breeze before chaos breaks loose do.

He saw a fleeting shadow moving in the fumaroles a mouthful of soil moisture. Two thousand men were standing beside or behind him. The flower of the army of Hephaestus, the city of a thousand fires. He shivered as if he had toyed with the spine but the only love he knew gentle yet was of his blade. When an arm emerges from the nothingness he moved to block the sharp steel that fell. All took a step forward, round shields raised. A crash was heard, the line twitched, grunted, but held out ebbed.
Voices were raised but he did not listen. He remembered the last moments of his family and anger fills his veins. A second shot
side emerges with facies grinning, bearded and with a terrifying enemy. The man was sweating and elated, angry. His shoulder-length hair sent waltzing around droplets of sweat and open grin on decayed teeth made him look fierce. The ax stuck in the wooden shield, splitting the divine symbol orange and green that it was portrayed. The shock reverberated in the arm of Theos, who felt it give way, the shield being suddenly too heavy for him. He knew that it mattered little. It was only a negligible amount. Of flesh placed in expendable frontline slow down the enemy. The veterans waited calmly behind a line that even he could not cross it was sinking. It should not therefore fall. Shaking his shoulder to break free of the strap that held the heavy piece of wood, he swung his right arm in a backhand short and scathing. In close combat, fine and short bronze sword was largely an advantage over the long ax. He drew a line through the scarlet face astonished at his opponent. Blood mingled with sweat and rain, a few drops landed on his lips and he finally tasted the salt of the fight.

The body sank leaving room to another, younger, less hairy, more vivid, just as dead.
Theos planted his sword into his belly and welcomes the gentle gurgling of a man choking in his own blood. The thirst of the battle won. The line progressed. Crazy! These ignorant unable
had thought they could defeat the army of Hephaestus in the morning, out of all the fights that Theos had never attended it had breached its duty and its training. Relentless discipline reigned in the camp and it took only a few tens of minutes to align the two thousand soldiers in close order on the battlefield. Unless it was necessary so that the enemy comes into contact. And there, they tasted the fruit from contact with steel in their guts.

This noise, unmistakable, that crackled and tore the flesh. He shuddered at the memory of these sounds the first time he had heard. He had a lot less happy.
It refocus on fighting and hatred of the past resurfaces and blood mingled with tears.
He felt like crying and shouting and singing in heaven when her pain shot down his sword through the shoulder of a muscular and shirtless barbarian. The man looked surprised and distraught, he attempted to raise his arm while the blood gushed from blows to the deep gash that had been kneeling. Theos gently placed his feet on the broad chest of the man's feet and pushed him gently, looking slouch when life left the dark eyes that stared and imploring. Whatever the force that leads us in life, only the face of death account.
One foot on the chest of the dying man, the other firmly planted in the grass, he felt the shields of his companions in his back, always pushing forward. The day would be long. How long would it take for the enemy to understand that his efforts were in vain. What a man alone in the dark ahead acknowledges that he is lost?
He advanced several paces, and suddenly found himself alone. Lost in the mist and the grass, the metallic sound of combat echoing around lulled by the groans of the dying. It turned on itself without knowing which direction to turn. A brushed
launches accompanied by his servant who plunged headlong. The man pushed, kicked, threw him to the ground and remained lying there Theos, looking at the sky and the clouds dispersed gradually. The man was heavy on him but did not move, the sword of Theos planted between two ribs. But Theos not worried about it more, his eyes blurred by tears contemplating the thin piece of blue sky as the sun silhouetted in the fog and tried to expand strongly. He saw a seagull pass and smiled. He accompanied his flight into its memory, and blessed or cursed day he hid alone in the bushes covering the hill north of the village. From there he could see the sea and the place where some were slumped thin fishing boats. Unusual sight at this time they had to find the open sea to fill their bellies glistening fish. The village was in turmoil and he was amused. It was hidden and they were standing. Dorian. If he had known. His views fell out when he forgot the present and plunged into the nightmares of the past.