>>5973219Ahriman then steps forward and pushes you to the side with one hand, sending you sprawling away, and with a grunt of effort he brings his heavy sword down hard, ending the horror with a clang of metal on metal. As the boy’s head rolls from the deck, the captain turns toward you, mouth wrinkled in disgust, “...What a mess.”
He kicks hard and sends the rest of the corpse from the skimmer, sending it sliding out into the sand with the others. There is a dent in the skimmer’s plating where the sword struck so powerfully - you do not have the strength to kill so cleanly, or to wield such a weapon.
“Clean yourself, and change into his armor.” Ahriman commands you, but you cannot muster a response, staring at the blood on your sword, on your hands - everywhere. A heavy hand rests on your shoulder, “It is rarely clean. …The worst of it will pass.”
Still kneeling, eyes locked on the crimson stain that was a life, thinking of the boy’s cries for his mother - thinking of Casimir - time passes. How long, you could not rightly say. Eventually you find a shaking strength and rise to your feet, taking up the uniform and armor set aside from the boy. Heading below, you change from your blooded white robe and into clothes and armor which were <span class="mu-i">someone else’s</span> when the sun rose this morning. A different life carried them then, but no longer. Using the dead boy's knife - a bayonet - you cut your long hair; the locks drift off in the desert wind, lost.
