The blowing snow and the sharp cold it brings at tow reminds of the unending war. At first nobody had detested it, the long hours spent away from their homes, the rolling miles after miles of march, the wounds and always aching bones – the fire, the blood the ashes of other civilizations that they left behind. It was cold heartedly thrilling at first, a brutal sort of joy, a heartless thrall – the weariness its own brand of satisfaction, the spilled blood no less intoxicating than the wine they had not tasted in years.
But then somewhere between one conquest and another, the public opinion had shifted. It was no longer called a hunt for glory, but a wretched and greedy search for power, the blood no longer celebrated but strung up to keep a tally of sins.
