The year was 1099; a tall and broad shouldered man walked blissfully in the valley of Kidron, a  20 mile stretch of land just East of Jerusalem. With him was a squadron of elite Templar Knights and holy men, all of which were under his command. This man was Randy Mansand, and his job was to protect the holy men and ensure their safe pilgrimage to the holy city of Jerusalem. It was mid summer, and the blistering heat of the sun was scorching the soldiers and the priests. Sweat dripped from Randy’s cheeks and forehead into his mouth. The salty tang of his sweat only strengthened his desire for water. The group had been traveling for many weeks and were in the final stretch of their venture, but they were out of supplies. They only needed to make it a short distance more until they reached their safe haven.
As Randy continued forth with his men closely behind, he began to feel uneasy. The entire trip had been too quiet, too easy. The only reason he had been commanded to lead these holy men was because of potential threats that lurked across the kingdom. Something was not right.
“Stay alert,” Randy shouted to his men, all of which were extremely fatigued and in dire need of water and new clothes. The holy men were in even worse physical condition, many had open wounds on their feet which would ooze and become infected. In the event of an emergency situation none of them would be capable of running. The squadron continued to move at a steady pace.
Suddenly Randy noticed a blurb moving on the horizon. At first he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him, after all he was extremely tired and dehydrated. But the shape began to grow in size. All of the men saw it but said nothing, believing that the moving image was only a product of their delusional minds. The approaching shape was finally within reasonable view and it was evident that the cause of the blurring was the kicking up of sand by the horses. Men with masks approached rapidly towards Randy and his men, and before any of them could gain their senses they were ambushed by a group of bloodthirsty highwaymen. Randy was the first to be struck, the scimitar of the rider pierced his armor and left his shoulder hanging on only by thin strands of muscle and tissue. He screamed in pain and the holy men watched in horror.  
The Knights were fighting back, but their lack of energy was a strong disadvantage. One by one the skilled highwaymen slaughtered Randy’s troops and the holy men. Randy lit up with rage and managed to slice the leg off of a horse of one of the riders. As the rider lay injured on the ground, Randy showed no mercy and pierced the highwayman’s  skull with his claymore.
Another rider approached Randy but Randy dodged the swing of his sword and gripped firmly on to the tail of the horse. Using all of the upper body strength he could muster, Randy climbed atop the horse and swiftly killed the rider. The horse was now in possession of Randy.
From this point onward it was a massacre; Randy single handedly beheaded each of the highwaymen with swift strikes of his claymore until only one remained. The last highwayman climbed atop his horse and fled in terror until he finally disappeared across the horizon. Randy and the remainder of his squadron cheered and relished their victory.
All of a sudden another, much larger blurb began to approach Randy. It was another group of highwaymen, except at least five times as many this time. The templars began to retreat but Randy stayed behind and charged at the mob with all of his mite. Using his one good arm, he sliced open the leader of the bandits revealing all of his innards. The highwaymen were not scared, but rather seemed to be proud of their leader for dying an honorable death on the battlefield. Randy did not even have time to retreat before the scimitars of the riders were shredding the flesh of his body from all directions. Randy lay bleeding, but in the eyes of death he showed no fear. The holy men were killed and the mission was a horrific failure; Randy lay dying in the sand.