Serendipitous, it may be, that the mercenary finds herself to be rather spotless previous to the discourse proffered —- so there is little complaint as she willfully lays her form upon the floor, cotton garb drinking up the crimson hue like a thirsty animal. There were no other means by which to clean the blood from the floor, and having been asked, it were only proper that she fulfill the task by any means necessary. It was rather simple solution to the problem at hand, as she now stands, clothes drenched in the sickly hue (though it were no stranger to be found splattered upon her personage.)
A dutiful incline of the head, before she walks away to clean her clothing and bathe in the stream (dying the waters red like blood; after all, she was an instrument of death, and it were wholesomely appropriate for her to dye the currents with sanguine hue.)
A markedly forlorn look descends upon features fettered by years of endless toil and strife therewithal. The gentle crease of umber brows begets roseate lips to turn into a frown, afore quirking ever-so-slightly to form a most bitter smile.
No, never was she allowed to forget ; to endure appalling nightmares —-
( ‘Nay,’ her mind whispers, ‘memories.’ )
of death and decay and all manner of the brutalized victims of W A R and their savage ends was her burden alone to bear. NONE but her had to bear the weight that was placed precariously ‘pon her shoulders, and none but her had to endure to lay witness to the death of a comrade again and again and again, knowing that there were naught to be done but continue on with mission she was so charged with. Delicate fingers dance along the sharpened edge of a knife, sigh brimming forth a billow of sorrow.
So is the fate of the s-o-l-d-i-e-r.
