How to Interpret Blood Spatters
1) Angular - If the victim was on the move, drops hit at an angle. The more oblique the impact, the longer the drop’s tail. The head points in the direction the person was traveling.
2) High Velocity - Misty, diffuse spatter is created by external force greater than 100 feet per second — which usually means a gunshot, an explosion, or (seriously) a sneeze.
3) Hair Impact - A traumatic impact between head and surface tends to leave a stain with feathered edges, like someone squished a loaded paintbrush against the wall.
4) Hair Swipe - If the smear fades out in one direction, the head was likely bloody before contact. The lightest edge of the swipe points in the direction the head was traveling.
5) Fabric Swipe - More fluid than hair swipes, these stains sometimes display the imprint of the bloodied clothing. T-shirt weaves are often the easiest patterns to decipher.
The battlehorn screamed across the stone walls of the millenia old Castle Hargraven. A young man, who may as well have been faceless and featureless in every way stood as a replica of the ten thousand others along side him. Screams of pain and fear resounded through the halls, up the towers, and over the courtyard which the young man now guarded. Arrows screamed past him, some coming within inches of his face, but he did not notice. His mind was in one place, and nothing could take that from him.
He had no family, no spouse or child. He was tall, unshaven and scuffy. He had a face like a farmer, dark and worn down. However for now, he had no face, as his visor obscured all but the faintest glimmer from his eyes. An arrow took the young man beside him, and his thoughts came back from the home he once had before the marauders murdered the countryside. In an instant the screams and yells, the cries and horns rushed back at him and nearly make him nauseous. A pat on him shoulder, and the words, “Give them piercing hell!” brought the bow he held up in reflex. Pulling an arrow from the quiver on his side, and picking an area of the crowd before him, he drew, and released a deadly iron wrought arrow. He didn’t care to follow it, simply trusting it would find a target.
As he drew another arrow, a sickening crunch caught his attention, and behind him metal clunked against metal, as the horde smashed through the line and gate. A commander gave the order for the men to turn and fire upon the invaders now feet away. The young man knocked his arrow and let it fly , following it this time as it penetrated the neck of an invader. Almost as if in sympathetic response, the young man fell to his knees, clutching at his chest.
He looked around him and for the first time, noticed the piles of bodies littering the castle. The thick smell of blood, pooling with the acrid odor of smoke. His hearing left him, and his sight began to blur. He turned his head to see around him, if anybody had noticed him fall. Moving lips, but no sound reached him, shuffling of armor, swords and arrows flying through the air. But not a single eye turned to the young man.
He felt tired now, more tired than he had ever felt. He knew now was not the time to sleep, but it was overpowering, he simply had to. Slumping forward, hard, onto the sold, wet stone, he closed his eyes and took a final breath. As his heart beat for the last time, a cold boot went over the young man’s spine. Trampled underfoot as others collided and pushed, his armor dented here and there, the world moved on. He was not the only departure tonight, and he would certainly not be the last. The invaders would see to that with terrible effort. But for now, it was good enough to rest. A long and dreamless night, from which no sun will rise.