I watch my crows peck the eyes out of corpses. I watch my men, once dead and lost, drag the farmers out of the house. I watch them drag the soldiers defending the fief to the trees. I watch a cavalry man, elderly priest tied to his saddle, drag the bastard across the road. I watch the blood turn the grass a damp black, lit by moonlight.
I feel the weight of gold in my hands. My secretaries each give out their payment to my men. The smiles of the damned as they feel the weight of their pay. As they lick blood off their pale lips, as they rejoice in their violence.
I watch this one, head covered in a jousting helm, all armored like a funeral effigy, cloak blood stained, sword recently stolen off a Palskei knight, not partake in the celebrations of our kill. It merely looks sad.
Perhaps this one still loves life too much. How will I whip it out of them?
