How long have I walked this path?
Steel clashing against steel, screams overlapping screams.
Pleading, shouting, vengeful curses. All melding into one.
To stand against the rising tide of Eclipse cultists… To carve a road of blood through them with my hands.
Hands…
My hands, bloodied hands. Soaked, nay, bathed in the corpses of countless.
Can I still even remember… The gentle touch of my son's hand against my palms…
No…
I know only the weight of the sword. The sword that hacks against bone.
How long have I butchered my way through hordes of people without break?
How many faces must I split open, how many guts must I spill?
How many more eyes will stare back at me in hatred, fear and loathing.
How long have I bloodied these hands I wish to hold my son…
Am I even qualified to hold my son? To taint him with these hands?
Am I even qualified to hold my wife? To pollute our house with the smell of blood?
"Is your son even still alive?"
