And when the lightning cracks across the sky, they shall meet, blades in hand, for the last time. Tired, cold, hungry and sick from putrid water, willpower and faith will drive them onward. With rusting weapons they will clash, these nameless champions of the battlefield. They will pay no mind to their aches and their pains, and the pouring rain will mean less to them than the bloodied mud beneath their feet. Visions of home are all they see, of a bright world with familiar smells and colors that exists somewhere, a distant and yet vivid memory. Every strike is delivered for that simple ideal, for the defense of that sacred place. Always remember this.
 
Pity not the martyrs of this war. As they collapse together, from exhaustion and blood loss, know that as they close their eyes they are enemies no longer, but friends, who are merely returning home.
 
Always know this, Seer. Never interfere with matters of war and strife; you will watch, and observe the results, and only if you fear a tear in that reality you may step forward. Never lessen the pain of warriors, let them embrace it; never try to bring peace to those that would make war, because they will find it in death. For some, it is the only peace worth having.