He looked down upon the corpse,
bloodied and bruised,
yet not beyond recognition.
'Twas another fallen soldier
from fields afar,
come pay tribute of flesh
to the Master in the West.
A frightfully fitting offer,
this body of broken
flesh and bone.
Tenderly did he lift it up,
this fractured vessel from
which the light had already fled.
With purpose did he lay it
across the stone stained red,
the shrine of his Master.
A word and a gesture,
a sudden rising of the fog
to swirl eagerly about the altar.
An offering given in earnest,
well received by the servant.
It was neither the first,
nor will it be the last
life this crusade claims.
Rather, a simple reminder:
The more things change,
the more they stay the same.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Lupar, in the year 671 AF.