We rode some nags into a seamy forest. I’ve just nabbed some old friends and a dead body of our city. This is what we have called home during the whole war, but it’s full of coarse people. We may be too sophisticated for them; do not mention my new habit of travelling with dead people in bags.
We certainly need some rest and a few hours to understand what happened last night. Helped by the smell of bear sausages cooked behind me, I can summarize all these ideas in a single phrase: we’ve been missed for decades and it took us less than two hours to be barely burnt alive by our relatives.
Well done.
We all shared the same story, but mine is a little bit better. My own son has committed suicide in front of me. Making sure that everyone thinks I’ve killed him. In a spiritual angle, I did. But we are only farmers and soldiers; this philosophical bullshit does not mean a thing right here. So I can honestly blame the gods for being cursed.
Oh no…some native peoples singing and praying. Is it the worst day ever lived by someone?
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