12th day of the Second Umbral moon
I understand why the butterfly first flies after breaking out of its cocoon. I feel as though I have shed a second skin and metamorphed into something...stronger.
Time in the realm has seen my eyes open to things that the ideas of valiance had blinded me to. The misery of the refugees in Ul'dah. The sellswords overcharging for protection when all they guard are tankards in local bars. The cutpurses who would try to interrupt a quiet moment of reflection.
I still have not let that go. And my thoughts have turned to Garlemald, and the engines of war that have taken my husband and changed my fortunes. I made several incursions to the Castrums that still infest the land and have laid waste to the soldiery within. Man and machine all fell to my blade. I was like a feral beast, my soul removed from my body, floating just away from the melee and watching my form cleave through the Empire's ranks. My form was sloppy. Undisciplined. Disgusting. All sense of balance and propriety lost to venom and bloodlust.
I have felt the bitter, acid-bile of rage rise up in my throat and have become comfortable to its flavor. I have found people who use this as a tool. They do not attempt to color combat as a dance, but for what it is--brutality, swift and just and violent and righteous.
They favour the axe. So do I.
The heft of the weapon feels...proper. It requires all of my physical might and every onze of my emotion to be channeld through its haft and into my opponent. The clanging, dull thud of its strike reverberates through my entire body, shaking me to the very soul. Its momentum carries me on to my next swing. It's a slow waltz of violence, demanding more physical focus than anything the Sultansworn have shown me.
Most of all...it feels like vindication. I enjoy this turn. I spread my new wings and fly towards whatever horizon this leads.
I understand why the butterfly first flies after breaking out of its cocoon. I feel as though I have shed a second skin and metamorphed into something...stronger.
Time in the realm has seen my eyes open to things that the ideas of valiance had blinded me to. The misery of the refugees in Ul'dah. The sellswords overcharging for protection when all they guard are tankards in local bars. The cutpurses who would try to interrupt a quiet moment of reflection.
I still have not let that go. And my thoughts have turned to Garlemald, and the engines of war that have taken my husband and changed my fortunes. I made several incursions to the Castrums that still infest the land and have laid waste to the soldiery within. Man and machine all fell to my blade. I was like a feral beast, my soul removed from my body, floating just away from the melee and watching my form cleave through the Empire's ranks. My form was sloppy. Undisciplined. Disgusting. All sense of balance and propriety lost to venom and bloodlust.
I have felt the bitter, acid-bile of rage rise up in my throat and have become comfortable to its flavor. I have found people who use this as a tool. They do not attempt to color combat as a dance, but for what it is--brutality, swift and just and violent and righteous.
They favour the axe. So do I.
The heft of the weapon feels...proper. It requires all of my physical might and every onze of my emotion to be channeld through its haft and into my opponent. The clanging, dull thud of its strike reverberates through my entire body, shaking me to the very soul. Its momentum carries me on to my next swing. It's a slow waltz of violence, demanding more physical focus than anything the Sultansworn have shown me.
Most of all...it feels like vindication. I enjoy this turn. I spread my new wings and fly towards whatever horizon this leads.
