went fiore upon these hoes. pulled a meyer on the opps. hit em with the six forbidden cuts n some more. this shit aint nothing to me man
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went fiore upon these hoes. pulled a meyer on the opps. hit em with the six forbidden cuts n some more. this shit aint nothing to me man
serving noble houses is fun. They have no idea as to what happens in the field. Princes, all posh and languid and bored. i can imagine 'em choking underneath me and begging for their lives while they talk about their anger at some other house and I pretend to listen. like gilded porcelain cups! precious things. Alas, it is of no good to duel them- they get all pissy about losing to a ''lesser man''. but it's fun seeing them panic! and also, they're walking money bags. Kidnapping them for ransom is sooooooo fun! Then I can really make 'em cry!
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?
battlefield. battlefield smell. that scent of iron, from armor, from blood. all those running soldiers. the piercing of flesh. butchering of men. the smell. the smell of iron. mud made from blood. gunpowder in the air. take me back. take me back now. sword in hand. take me back. i'll win this time.
no one can hide against the mighty no one can protect from my hunger my eyes are not my own my beak is consecrated to rotting flesh my being belongs to seers and carrion this is a caw rising from my guts
the taste of iron is stuck to the back of my throat like a knife. I wanna spit it out and stain the world red with war. I want to be coated red and black with smoke and blood and gold with the riches of every noble fucker and the tears of collateral damage. I want to feel again! I want to feel! I need more violence! I need more gold! I need more corpses littering the plains! I want it ALL!
I pay my men extra if they find me a littol treat after we have completely looted a town
arquebuses, halberds, rodelas, spears, cavalry, footmen- fodder. fodder. the weak and the useful. calculations made for what amount of men you can lose safely. war. war is the game of princes. i wanna play forever, and ever, and ever, and ever