The frays of war shall warrant no pity in the justice of knights, and bloods of kinfolk spilled relentlessly before the flaring red sun. rivers of red shall run through against the thrift of mountains and tarnished blade, graced senselessly by pity from the welkin of yore. Let the gods ordain a moment of truce between Seredian and Connlaothians, and be rendered hushed by cruel winds brought fought by the just of warfare. Atrocious shall be the sin of humans who waged wars against their own, for the cause and means of matters hardly worth the legion of ichor within flesh and skin.
Hardly is he fond of such moment of despair, as one whose melancholy lies with the hearts of fell brethens and foregone kinfolks. No role does he play in the making of such cause, and none shall he honour in future that would soon come to pass, but if only, the men and women of Connlaoth may share his ideals in similar light pertaining to the coveting of peace. Sparingly will they judge the use of magic and sorcery and enforce of unjust law, yet, such task is unlikely to prove challenging, to sway the mind of an entire country by the strength of words alone; in fact, were a debacle to emerge a forgone conclusion, then, such conduct may only prove nigh to become a tedious ploy.
On hindsight, bloodshed, in reality, promotes a libretto past the dispute of sorrow. Already has blood been spilled this day, moreso a rider and its animal should offer its life in the spoils of war. Gently but kindly, with the pivot of the wrist, Nasrine lifts his sleeve past ankle, the back of his hand seeking repose to the living pulse of both knight and steed.