you ask the man in the green-moss cloak, a black-and metal-headband tied around his arm, why did you do it?
he answers, tired and heavy, i had to.
you ask the victor, lights of red dancing around his lacerated face, and he answers, it was the right thing to do.
you ask the wizard, clever fingers dancing across obsidian and amethyst, and he replies, i had nothing else left.
you ask the undead, her eyes red with tears and lost lives, broken by betrayal, and she tells you, it was my revenge.
you ask the widow and backstabber with the strange voices in his head, and he replies, it was grief.
you ask the loyal soldier who lost home and then kin and then trust, and he answers, i wanted to stay alive.
you ask the man scorned, the sickly red-life who died too soon from his own mistakes, the pacifist in a violent world, and he says, i never wanted to.
you ask the inventor, the redstoner, and he replies, it was fun.
you ask the first red lifer, the hermit and outcast til the very bitter end, and he mutters, i was cursed.
you ask the fairy queen of no kingdom, and she says, i wanted them to suffer too.
you ask the target, the fabled warrior, and he clutches the torn green cloak tighter in his hands and tells you, for him.
you ask, and you ask, and you hear their grief. you hear their joy. you hear their stories and their motivations. you fear them and you love them, and you still wonder why.
you turn to the blood-soaked admin, red in soul from the very start, and ask him, why did you do it?
and he smiles and asks you in turn,