I break the hollow grief with war and war waits on me, war is holy. It doesn't matter what unconsecrated horde marches toward this melancholy and quiet field among my yellow dust and red slate roof of a humble stone-castle, it will die here, nothing lives here, save the dying horses bloated with pinworm, milky foam for eyes and rotten, brittle teeth, skin the color of pink blush.
The unorganized rows of lamps and torches dance in the eternal dark like the breath of small dragons. Know this, the heretic makes the fires here, she doesn't burn in it.