The Angels of Oxford

She walked up to them, down the stately hall in the dim light of dawn. The arching roof was supported by pillars. Monstrous things grooved and carved intricately all the way into the murky shadows of the roof. It was shadowed yet still she knew it was beautiful. Arching high above her aloof to the trouble of mortal men it peered down at them and their insignificant lives. She knew without being able to see anything but shadow that it would be painted, and painted gloriously. Baby angels dancing through clouds and goddesses lounging with goblets of gold. Heroes fighting villains, graceful strokes, elegant colours all entwined to produce a marvel.
She did not look up though. Her eyes were fixed on the three figures at the end of the hall. To her right stairs descended to a square ornamented with a fountain. It splashed cool water, trinking in the hush of the weak grey light. It seemed odd - this little square without the hustle of people that graced its paved stones. She adjusted her robes nervously as she approached them. And still they stood still - watching her - steely eyes behind still-faced masks following her every movement.
They were tall, she noticed. They seemed to be a part of the hall. The folds of their subdued robes an echo of the pillars around them, their height exaggerated in the flowing cloth. She took step after step; driving her feet forward with sheer power of will. Outward however she showed no sign of fear. Her face was calm, cool. Her movements controlled and calculated. Finally she was close enough to stop. They relaxed their gaze and smiled, one was bearded, one clean shaven and the last had only a moustache but they were all white haired. The smiles reached their eyes and warmed her despite the predawn chill. "Congratulations," said the foremost of the tree. "You have been accepted into Oxford University."
He held out a sheaf of papers to her and she accepted them. Suddenly from the distance a cry rose. A thim whine above the sleepy city it rose louder and louder."We're under attack!" Yelled the foremost dean. Immediately any compassion he had shown was gone. She noticed that he had wings. Powerful limbs with clean strong feathers. He spread them - they were nearly six meters long. He ran the length of the platform they were on and jumped just before reaching the steps. He took flight, the sure strokes of his wings carrying him high above the university and over the walls that separated it from the city. The other two did the same each taking flight with white wings spread wide. She looked behind her and noticed that she too had wings. She stretched them and looked in wonder.
Suddenly from behind her came running the winged people. They all took flight. Somebody grabbed her arm and carried her to the edge of the steps before letting go. She had two choices - fly or fall. She beat her wings unsteadily rising higher with each stroke. Soon she caught a current and sailed cleanly above the ground. She gasped in exhilaration. Looking around her as the city came to life with her flying above it. Brown buildings and red roofs. Towers, huts, fountains, palaces everything was so vivid, so bright. All around her winged people were flying, solemn and focused. Their attention was only for one thing - all eyes turned towards it. She looked down and saw an army. Painted red armor glared angrily up from the ground as the wearers attacked. Setting fire to homes, ravaging, looting, killing.
A deep hatred blared within her. Not the hatred you feel for innocents being killed; a deeper hate, something strong and vile. It brought bile into her throat. She dove lower, her raven hair whipping in the wind and her white robes flowing around her- undulating in the wind. There were thoughts in her head, thoughts she had not formed. "We have not had war for one hundred years! How will we get through this?" And then just as surely as she knew the sky was above her she knew they would make it. In her left hand appeared a longbow and in her right an arrow. It seemed as though they had always been there. They were beautifully carved and she knew exactly what to do with them.
From high above the mortal army rained arrows. Beautiful arrows shot from beautiful bows to do an ugly deed. To kill. And kill they did, for there was not an arrow that missed its mark. And soon the streets of the city flowed red with blood. The blood of the red army.

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Just a dream I had...
I guess this is what happens when you're worring about homework, fretting about universities and reading fantsay all at the same time.
Yes - I know the soviet army was called the red army - no relation - they were called that in the dream so BAH!