Discord
Changelog
01-26-2014, 08:26 AM
Nightal 10th, 1359
Small village sacked. Our jagun eliminated every berserker that tried to stop us, and set fire to the local lodge. The Tuigan are learning to hate the spirits even more than they hate the witches - they make a special point of defiling the small offering shrines.
It's not the only thing they defile. They take what they want. Food, water, wealth, women. Batu Min Ho dropped a lovely, beaten Rashemi woman on my lap. "Have your share", he said.
I let her go in the night. She wasn't grateful. Spat on my face and cursed me all the same.
I haven't touched a woman in months, but I will not stoop to raping.
It won't help her come the morning. It won't help any of them, when the Tuigan wake up tomorrow morning.
The face of war. Master Shiunsai had warned me. The face of war.
How could I ever think it comely.
Nightal 21rst, 1359
Third major engagement with combined forces of fangs and Witches. Sudden attack of our encampments in the night. Chaos of spell-fire and rune-branded berserkers, making bodies of grown men, piling them up around them before being slain by mounted barbarians. Telthor tearing men apart like they were nothing.
I tried to think I was doing this for Thay, for glory, for fame. I'll be going home a war hero, I thought. I read back on my first entries, and I feel like going sick.
In battle, all flags disappear. Doesn't matter who you were when you step into it, or why you're there. You're an enemy. You must be killed. You either fight back, or cower and flee, but you can't even make the decision. A man screaming at the top of his lungs charges at you, you meet him or run away.
Stance perfected by years of sword-mastery. One stroke. Clean as a pricy whore. Spilled his guts on the grass.
The first of many.
There are some who'd call that bravery. Plenty of young ones are reduced to snarling or cowering beasts in war, when they see their first corpse or charge into their first melee. I remember my first real fights well, damn near close to shitting myself. I still feel damn near close to shitting myself, although one thing's changed.
One stroke. Clean as a pricy whore. One less soul in the world, and I couldn't care less.
I've grown used to blood in my hands.
Makes me wonder who the real animal is.
Small village sacked. Our jagun eliminated every berserker that tried to stop us, and set fire to the local lodge. The Tuigan are learning to hate the spirits even more than they hate the witches - they make a special point of defiling the small offering shrines.
It's not the only thing they defile. They take what they want. Food, water, wealth, women. Batu Min Ho dropped a lovely, beaten Rashemi woman on my lap. "Have your share", he said.
I let her go in the night. She wasn't grateful. Spat on my face and cursed me all the same.
I haven't touched a woman in months, but I will not stoop to raping.
It won't help her come the morning. It won't help any of them, when the Tuigan wake up tomorrow morning.
The face of war. Master Shiunsai had warned me. The face of war.
How could I ever think it comely.
Nightal 21rst, 1359
Third major engagement with combined forces of fangs and Witches. Sudden attack of our encampments in the night. Chaos of spell-fire and rune-branded berserkers, making bodies of grown men, piling them up around them before being slain by mounted barbarians. Telthor tearing men apart like they were nothing.
I tried to think I was doing this for Thay, for glory, for fame. I'll be going home a war hero, I thought. I read back on my first entries, and I feel like going sick.
In battle, all flags disappear. Doesn't matter who you were when you step into it, or why you're there. You're an enemy. You must be killed. You either fight back, or cower and flee, but you can't even make the decision. A man screaming at the top of his lungs charges at you, you meet him or run away.
Stance perfected by years of sword-mastery. One stroke. Clean as a pricy whore. Spilled his guts on the grass.
The first of many.
There are some who'd call that bravery. Plenty of young ones are reduced to snarling or cowering beasts in war, when they see their first corpse or charge into their first melee. I remember my first real fights well, damn near close to shitting myself. I still feel damn near close to shitting myself, although one thing's changed.
One stroke. Clean as a pricy whore. One less soul in the world, and I couldn't care less.
I've grown used to blood in my hands.
Makes me wonder who the real animal is.