This sword shall no longer cut. The rancid smell of dried blood has stained the blade, no matter how much I wash, no matter how hard a scrub, it’s unyielding. It serves as a constant reminder of the brethren I’ve lost and the tears not cried. For they have lived a hero’s life and died a hero’s death; why should I cry?

This sword shall not leave its sheath. Those who seek to wield it shall be faced with a fate rivaling that of Pandora. This weapon is the incarnation of chaos, a blade precise enough to cut through sanity itself. I’ve seen it done.

I have done it.

Why should I cry? They’ve lived a villain’s life and shall die a villain’s death. But perhaps in their own way they lived and died hero’s and someone back home is holding back tears as their throat swells in agony. Another lost love.

This sword shall not leave my side. It shall be buried and rest alongside me remaining in my hand until the fiery rage of the sun calms and fades.