The cold hard stone of this ruined house's floor makes for a poor bedding choice. The smell of dry blood for poor aroma, the sound of the windy desert for poor ambiance. The decrepit interior a poor sight. However, even in such a place, there was art to be found. The magic of a battle's aftermath, the destruction left in it's wake, the death that followed the telling blow, the last words of the one falling, full of sincerity and despair, the satisfaction of victory... The song of battle replaced by the song of the victor. My song. I always had trouble understanding art, yet as the days go by I find more and more pleasure in exploring it's various forms. This man before me, dead, fighting in the name of a leader he probably never met in person, for an ideology he barely understands, is more than just a dead warrior to the eyes of an artist. I aspire to be one. Thus, I see this dead warrior's blood as color to paint with, his body as a canvas, his tears as ink to write lyrics of songs to be sang, his passing as a reason to recite a poem that I wrote out of the blood he drew from me. What a fool I was to ignore art all my life.
It has been quite some time since I left the people of the city behind, the bodies of those trying to kill me for them to clean up off the ground. I have felt the taste of sweet victory against my foes as the morning dew of nature, the side I chose being my side no longer. In truth, it never was. Now, the path lay clear before me, as I remember how to live. There is a certain task I have left unfinished and I need to get back to it. I was never a very good talker, but as fortune would have it, I am fluent in 'headbutt'.