The Suicidal Saviour

The tavern of champions, often rife with noise,
A subtle aura of sobriety hangs over us like the clouds themselves,
The sense of electricity and readiness.

For tomorrow we fight, the clatter of metal,
Against evil and wretchedness that is bore upon our souls,
This, the calm before the storm.

I mourn lost family, I mourn lost friends,
Now solemn and wondrous memory and the bonds of my ancestry,
If I forget, let me die.

Of this aching silence, I grow ever weary,
I return to my quarters to sleep another last night,
It will be another troubled slumber.

And now we stand, together in our arms,
A final battle for salvation, the body's endless fight of life versus death,
It's only a matter of time.

"Up on the hill! The enemy is here!"
Dark figures loom o'er the morning mist like a deathly swarm,
I steel myself, "now or never."

We charge as one, spirits lifted high above the massacre where they cannot be defiled. Torching arrows blaze through the blood-ridden sky, east and west. Swords and axes of steel or bone glint in crimson sunrise and stain red. We fight as one, each blow to protect a fellow man and relinquish a forgotten foe. I sound our battle cry, a piercing roar to strike terror in hearts of all. My comrades chime in like choirs of angels in Purgatory. The creatures retreat to over the hill, to tend to their sick, and allow us short time to do the same.

The sound is sickening, such painful woeful moans.
An ally lays fatally wounded not 5 feet from me and I long to replace him,
"Put me out of my misery."

I remove his breastplate, emit a sorrowful yawp,
As my blade pierces the heart of my comrade, his last words blood-red "Better this,
Than at the hands of demons."

I cannot take it. I've defiled our own. Disgraced human life! What is left of me now? A desolate shell, borne to kill and maim! Every death, every kill, every senseless murder weighs me down, a disgusting burden on my back. I'm nothing more than a pawn. A pawn for the deceitful war games of man and beast synonymous! My ancestors, my friends, their eyes, their staring eyes in life and in death, all boring through my like burning arrows strewn amongst the battlefield of my mortal soul. Better this than at the hands of demons? Am I not just a piteous demon now, stripped of a life of peace to reveal the slavering, disgusting wreck that such evil murders bring?

I remove my breastplate, and in sorrowful silence,
Draw my stain'd sword from the peace of it's scabbard, with a final resounding ring,
I do not deserve to live.