(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

"Also, just 'cause they can't butcher each other in th' streets don't means
spies, recruitment an' back-stabbin' don't still go on 'ere. They fight battles
with lies an' words, berk. Sometimes 'tis all in th' bluster an' blather. An'
there's safe houses about, too. Places where they can cool their talons afore
th' next skirmish... An' they like ta recruit 'ere, too. Lookin' fer boys fresh off
th' Planes with a little greed in their 'earts that they can make part o' their
glorious army." He stopped speaking to peer closely at me. "Mayhap they
recruited ye once, eh, cutter?" Ye look like ye've tasted th' War."
"Perhaps."
"The War leaves a scar on ye, cutter. Ye'd know. And ye'd know ye never
want ta go back."
A pressure built in the recesses of memory, and my temples throbbed with
agony as I considered the man's words...
~~~~~
This is the place where hopes go to die.
This is where prayers go unheard, falling like stones to the earth...
vein-colored lightning flashes across things that were once sky, but now boil
beneath my feet and scream when I brush against them...
I run at the head of a large band of men, passing through dark canyons
where the walls quiver moistly and beat like a heart, wearing my own blood
as clothing. At last I stand in a place where the ashen gray terrain slithers
like a mass of snakes, coiling around my ankles and whispering my evil to the
earth. We march endlessly, silently, through this colorless land, where
fatigue seems to live and hunt us like a shade over the wastes, whipping us
with despair...
I want to scream, but futility drags even that urge into its depths.
In time, I and the ragged men who follow me come upon a hag sitting upon a
mound of gigantic, writhing larvae, poking at one of the slime-covered things
with a broken talon. I gesture for one of the men to run forward and speak
with her; the hag's grating voice carries to my ears...
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