War is frequent. Brutal. It cares not for the innocent nor the defenseless. Ares knows this, as he dons his helm. As he watches over the battle below him. The skies dark with fire, smoke. Villages burning. He does not intervene, yet, for war is a mortal creation. Not his. He merely walks amongst them, deciding in which side to place his favor. Which side has spilled more blood. Suddenly something catches his eye.

He jumps from the hill, landing in the center of battle, though no mortal warrior pauses. Invisible amongst them. His gaze on his fixation.