Warring campaigns are grim places, that much is true. But, I do not wish to paint a poor picture of my comrades, or my battalion, for they were not viceful people. Many of them came from nameless small villages such as this one, and they were not naturally cruel or avaricious. I also do not mean to excuse our actions as soldiers in Icinerenth and the other cities we assaulted, but such was the corrupting nature of that war of greed and power: the wilds were not the only thing polluted and desecrated, for the souls of men were were also corrupted by the desolation of conflict.

Following the battle of Icinerenth I assigned additional men to my squadron. In particular I assigned two athletic veterans to my personal detail: Burinomin, and Harkinon, who were known within the third battalion as Bur and Hark. Both men had served four years prior in regiments to the north before reassignment to the Kalipaonin Regiment, and were skilled in a variety of weapons. Having learned the glaring weakness of my magickal craft, I equipped Bur and Hark with war hammers to use in the event I was once-more assaulted by an animate gargoyle or other creature of stone. I did not regret my decision.

In addition to being members of my squadron, I quickly became good friends with Bur and Hark. Bur, more than anything, loved to gamble, and nightly Bur, Hark, Marinon, and myself would play card or dice games to pass the time, if Marinon and I were not busy preparing for battle. Sometimes Nestyne would join us, but he preferred to spend his time among the officers. On rare and cherished nights Quatimonian would break out of his shell and throw a few threnits into the pot.

I never counted how many threnits I lost to Bur, but the loss of them was ultimately irrelevant, for it is difficult to spend silver during war. Iron is much more valuable metal in times where the greatest good is to draw blood from others.

Hark was not much of a gambler and put up with Bur’s obsession, but he enjoyed showcasing his strength. During breakfast Hark would challenge others to contests of strength such as sack tossing, or hammer throwing. If we stopped our march eastward for lunch he might challenge another soldier to arm wrestling or another silly game of strength. However, it is Hark’s evening obsession, the one that gave him his namesake, that I was most fond of; the burly man was an admirable singer and poet.

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Once a week, as sure as day turns to night, one could hear Hark perform for members of the battalion. His lines full of wit, and his songs full of heart, he was a plentiful source of morale. In later years, when I was low, desperate, and seeking my vengeance, I oftentimes found myself comforted by fleeting Memory of his lyrics and the drunken laughter that followed.

There was one night, early in the war, that I remember more clearly than most, a miracle considering it was one of the few nights I drank to excess during that war. I had just received my first of many letters from Ynguinian, and because I missed him dearly I held foul mood and was much in-need of cheering. Seeing me sullen and quiet (for I was much more hot-headed and outward in those days) Bur, Quatimonian, and Marinon dragged me from my tent into the middle of the regiment saying they had a surprise for me.

“Why take me from my tent? I am tired and wish it to be morning so I can be one day closer to my betrothed. I do not want to be among these drunkards!” I complained and tried to break free from their grasp and head back to my tent. They insisted I would like what was about to happen, which I sincerely doubted.

Then, from behind, I heard the beating of a drum and tambourine and short and jumpy melody on violin and flute. At first I tried to ignore the song and pull away from my friends’ merriment. Then, I saw Captain Bryndin emerge from the throng of the third battalion playing a pristine fiddle that had been colored almost as red as an apple, standing out against the dirty and muddy camp. The Captain had a large smile on his face, and took a brief pause from playing his fiddle to get the rest of the battalion to start clapping. At that moment I realized I recognized the melody: an old Harinian song about a girl whose betrothed goes off to war, and then returns drunk the next day. I tried desperately to hide my smile, and succeeded briefly until the next part of the surprise was revealed.

From the tallest tree in that camp, roughly thirty feet up, Hark released a thunderous, jolly, and incredibly drunken note over the merriment, and then, holding note for nearly 10 seconds, grabbed a rope and swung down off the tree, landing in from of me and my friends, and sang the entire ballad with the help of the battalion.

We sang far too late into the night, and I should have been punished for my drunken idiocy.

As I said, I am not telling this story to excuse the actions we took as soldiers. We took from the weak and the downtrodden. We killed and maimed many pointlessly, and many taken prisoner by the Kalipaonin Regiment died of illness that I could have easily cured. Us mages killed many without remorse, and for no purpose, I am certain many among you have heard of tale of the Battle of Ghorin’s Respite. However, let me make one thing clear: the men of this army were not naturally monstrous. We were not virtuous, no. We did not enjoy what we did for the sake of it, but our actions did please that ancient adversary who regales in woe and cruelty, and most of all Extirpation, for our actions were our choice, ignorant, corrupted, or otherwise.