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How's this for how Spamish went?
Is it too over-heroicised? I don't want to steal the glory 
Spamish surveyed the landscape of the battlefield. A formerly nice plain had already been ripped apart by the continuous wear of horses and the whole Earth, it seemed, had a naseous smell of body parts to it. His men, all young and not yet completely tainted by the horrors of war, waited anxiously for orders.
Across the field, just in eyesight, Spamish saw an Ansar gut his spear into a nurse who was attempting to at least give the surviving wounded a blanket so that they would not be cold. A woman, running into the field of battle to help soldiers! Spamish did not know whether to be shocked at that or the fact that the Neu Demogyptican soldier didn't care if she was a combatant or just a citizen wanting to help. While the revulsion was still coursing through Spamish's mind, an arrow landed in the Ansar's eye slot, upon which his blood spilled out upon the field and then he fell off his horse to lay helpless--there were no more people helping the wounded. A shriek of agony roared across the field.
Spamish looked at the sun. It was about noon. The Ansar Hordes had started to become tired already, and it was showing. They did not strike their spears with vigor; their arrows were more guessed than aimed. However, the Arabian commanders did not pause their assault; instead, they scaled it up. More Ansar units were brought into play.
Spamish saw his fellow Spaniards desperately trying to hold back the Arab fiends. It was not an easy task. Although archers sniping men out from pre-built hills were supporting the Spanish defence, it was not enough to counter the massive assault. Spamish had to bring the Order of the Sacred Name into battle. "Men," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "We're going to have to fight. However, know that you are fighting the good fight. We are not only defending Spain, but we are defending Christianity. The salvation of the world might very possibly depend on how we fight today." With that, a strong rallying cry was heard.
The Order of the Sacred Name immediately had an enemy to fight. A strong formation of Ansars was galloping along; the men held their maces and assorted killing devices and then, on Spamish's word, rushed towards the attackers with a cry that had not been heard in the world before.
The Ansars, at first, stood in dumb fear, unable to move. Then, as their senses slowly kicked in, they all attempted to turn 'round their horses and run like hell. However, their horses would just sit there and angrily snort at them. So, they started jumping off them and running, for our own infantry were charging them like the dickens. Finally, as the first Arabs were slaughtered, all hell broke loose. Infidels were running about everywhere, screaming, wetting their trousers--their horses clogged the field and occasionally ran a few of them over. However, God protected the Crusaders from any harm. Not a single man from the Order of the Sacred Name was wounded. Eventually, as things settled down, prisoners were taken and the bodies of the dead Arabs were picked up. Spamish ordered that they be returned to the Demogyptican generals through a neutral party so that they may be buried by their own customs.
However, this was not the last of the fighting the day would see. Less than two hours before the sun would set, a heavily equipped division of Ansars came at us. This was nothing like the last unit we faced. They all had the look in their eyes as though the Devil himself were in each and every one of them, and they all let out a bloodcurdling, Ungodly roar. (Hey! They ripped a page out of our book!)
The Order of the Sacred Name quickly mobilised and prayed for the best. At the front was Spamish himself, disregarding his age and getting ready to kick some Arab ass. The Order charged at the Ansars, with such a fury fiftyfold as had been witnessed earlier today. However, this group had been warned about the psychological warfare and held their ground. Eventually they started a full run toward us, and we toward them; the two sides met and the ground immediately became littered with bodies, both Arab and Spanish. Spamish plummeted my mace into the faceplate of an Arab; the mere force of the blow crushed in his helmet. Spamish may have disabled as many as five hundred heathens in this way--we can not know for sure, as his tale has already made him a hero of local folklore only years after, and conservative versions are always at least 100. We can only know that he was chopping through them like a fine, tender Squid.
Then, as the Ansar formation finally started to retreat, a young Arab laid low on his horse, designing that an arrow land on Spamish. He carefully took aim, and, with a quick release, the weapon pierced into Spamish's chest. He fell from the battlefield, and immediately several Spanish men dropped their weapons and ran forward to him. Spamish had not but at most a minute left in his life; his shirt slowly soaked in blood. He told the first person to come to him to continue fighting for God, and then let his family know that he loved them...then, with his last remaining breaths, he carefully picked up a sword, took every ounce of strength that had been left in his body, and threw it into his slayer's heart. "Goodbye," he said to the small group of men that had been protecting him from more wounding. As his eyes closed, he smiled, and looked as though at an inner peace. His head slowly lowered to the ground, and all the surrounding soldiers started crying as they took his body up and brought it back to an army tent. They walked through the battle, but no one dare attacked them. Slowly word started to pass around the Arab infidels that Spamish Mitchell had been slain. The oldest man in the world, the last surviving citizen of the Ancients, was gone. The whole battlefield was silent for a second. Then, with a new gloom upon the day, sluggish fighting resumed. No one could say they hadn't seen the atrocities of war take place.
Eventually, the day's battle concluded. Both sides suffered heavier losses than recent history recalled. The plain upon which the battle took place was astrewn with body parts, and the ground had a red tint from all the blood shed on that day.
War has no winners. In war, both the loser and the victor lose immeasurable life. A generation's peace is snatched away from it by plotting officials of their own or another land.
Across the field, just in eyesight, Spamish saw an Ansar gut his spear into a nurse who was attempting to at least give the surviving wounded a blanket so that they would not be cold. A woman, running into the field of battle to help soldiers! Spamish did not know whether to be shocked at that or the fact that the Neu Demogyptican soldier didn't care if she was a combatant or just a citizen wanting to help. While the revulsion was still coursing through Spamish's mind, an arrow landed in the Ansar's eye slot, upon which his blood spilled out upon the field and then he fell off his horse to lay helpless--there were no more people helping the wounded. A shriek of agony roared across the field.
Spamish looked at the sun. It was about noon. The Ansar Hordes had started to become tired already, and it was showing. They did not strike their spears with vigor; their arrows were more guessed than aimed. However, the Arabian commanders did not pause their assault; instead, they scaled it up. More Ansar units were brought into play.
Spamish saw his fellow Spaniards desperately trying to hold back the Arab fiends. It was not an easy task. Although archers sniping men out from pre-built hills were supporting the Spanish defence, it was not enough to counter the massive assault. Spamish had to bring the Order of the Sacred Name into battle. "Men," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "We're going to have to fight. However, know that you are fighting the good fight. We are not only defending Spain, but we are defending Christianity. The salvation of the world might very possibly depend on how we fight today." With that, a strong rallying cry was heard.
The Order of the Sacred Name immediately had an enemy to fight. A strong formation of Ansars was galloping along; the men held their maces and assorted killing devices and then, on Spamish's word, rushed towards the attackers with a cry that had not been heard in the world before.
The Ansars, at first, stood in dumb fear, unable to move. Then, as their senses slowly kicked in, they all attempted to turn 'round their horses and run like hell. However, their horses would just sit there and angrily snort at them. So, they started jumping off them and running, for our own infantry were charging them like the dickens. Finally, as the first Arabs were slaughtered, all hell broke loose. Infidels were running about everywhere, screaming, wetting their trousers--their horses clogged the field and occasionally ran a few of them over. However, God protected the Crusaders from any harm. Not a single man from the Order of the Sacred Name was wounded. Eventually, as things settled down, prisoners were taken and the bodies of the dead Arabs were picked up. Spamish ordered that they be returned to the Demogyptican generals through a neutral party so that they may be buried by their own customs.
However, this was not the last of the fighting the day would see. Less than two hours before the sun would set, a heavily equipped division of Ansars came at us. This was nothing like the last unit we faced. They all had the look in their eyes as though the Devil himself were in each and every one of them, and they all let out a bloodcurdling, Ungodly roar. (Hey! They ripped a page out of our book!)
The Order of the Sacred Name quickly mobilised and prayed for the best. At the front was Spamish himself, disregarding his age and getting ready to kick some Arab ass. The Order charged at the Ansars, with such a fury fiftyfold as had been witnessed earlier today. However, this group had been warned about the psychological warfare and held their ground. Eventually they started a full run toward us, and we toward them; the two sides met and the ground immediately became littered with bodies, both Arab and Spanish. Spamish plummeted my mace into the faceplate of an Arab; the mere force of the blow crushed in his helmet. Spamish may have disabled as many as five hundred heathens in this way--we can not know for sure, as his tale has already made him a hero of local folklore only years after, and conservative versions are always at least 100. We can only know that he was chopping through them like a fine, tender Squid.
Then, as the Ansar formation finally started to retreat, a young Arab laid low on his horse, designing that an arrow land on Spamish. He carefully took aim, and, with a quick release, the weapon pierced into Spamish's chest. He fell from the battlefield, and immediately several Spanish men dropped their weapons and ran forward to him. Spamish had not but at most a minute left in his life; his shirt slowly soaked in blood. He told the first person to come to him to continue fighting for God, and then let his family know that he loved them...then, with his last remaining breaths, he carefully picked up a sword, took every ounce of strength that had been left in his body, and threw it into his slayer's heart. "Goodbye," he said to the small group of men that had been protecting him from more wounding. As his eyes closed, he smiled, and looked as though at an inner peace. His head slowly lowered to the ground, and all the surrounding soldiers started crying as they took his body up and brought it back to an army tent. They walked through the battle, but no one dare attacked them. Slowly word started to pass around the Arab infidels that Spamish Mitchell had been slain. The oldest man in the world, the last surviving citizen of the Ancients, was gone. The whole battlefield was silent for a second. Then, with a new gloom upon the day, sluggish fighting resumed. No one could say they hadn't seen the atrocities of war take place.
Eventually, the day's battle concluded. Both sides suffered heavier losses than recent history recalled. The plain upon which the battle took place was astrewn with body parts, and the ground had a red tint from all the blood shed on that day.
War has no winners. In war, both the loser and the victor lose immeasurable life. A generation's peace is snatched away from it by plotting officials of their own or another land.
or something before I post it; that way, I know for sure that it's not just me who is fine with it 
)
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