We lay in a field, our armour broken. Chainmail painted with rust and blood. The cloaked man goes round each one of us to bleed us back to health. Some speak of defeat and the impossibility of our kind surviving. I rub my brow with a clenched fist to try and clear my vision. We're in a large white tent. The flaps are pulled back revealing lush grass bathing in a fiery sun. The cloaked man approaches me with a dull grey dagger and soiled hands. I tell him I'm scarred enough and need to return to battle. He nods then moves on.
Listening to: Wrists Of Kings