And as I ride into the battlefield, falchion sweeping through men like a sharpened plague, cutting through exposed necks, arms, stabbing through gaps that only appear when the footsoldier below me panics, all I do is feel nothing. This skirmish would've satisfied me when I was younger. And sometimes, I believe I enjoy killing too much. But right now, as I carry the banner of my house, as my loyal steed, my blade and I become a black gust of angry wind, as I make way through pikes and footmen to reach the cavalry of the villain's house I feel empty. Empty, empty. I know for sure I won't die in this field. But I almost wish I could feel the spears uselessly scratching my cuirass.