He was an intrepid warrior. He’d seen many a weapon of bloodshed in his day; daggers, knives, and lancets… Make your list. He’d probably seen ten more than that. He’d followed in the gallant footfalls of his father ever since he was a young lad, and went on to bravely uphold peace and justice throughout all of Wynsumheord. He’d fought gruesome battles and waged wretched wars, leaving heaps of carnage in his wake. He’d defended his people from evildoers by sword and shield. With shining spears, he’d vanquished mighty opponents who stood threat his village of Dryhtenhaven. With a sharpened axe, he’d slashed the throats of dragons that terrorized kingdoms. With silver blades, he’d slain caliginous demons that threatened certain doom upon the world. But, here and now, he couldn’t stand the sight of blood anymore. Here and now, he hated war. Here and now, he despised the dagger, for it was pierced deep into the flesh of his lifeless brother. His tears flowed heavy as the crimson blood that spilled from the cursed wound. He roared into the heavens where his brother’s inert eyes were affixed-- where his brother’s soul now surely wandered free.
