I returned to the battleground long after the fight had ceased. The grounds had been cleared of dead and wounded. At that was left was whispers and stains upon the ground.

The armies trampled everything in their path. Fields were burnt and blackend by me and my men. There was nothing left. Nothing here of any value. It would be a long time and a lot of work before anything useful can be done with it.

When I returned to the headquarters, I knew what had to be done. Murphy was given explicit written instruction to take over my accounts for the reconstruction and supplies....

We all reach this point in our lives. At what point does faith sustain us? At what point does it fail us?

I remember the story of a salior. His ship had sunk and he managed to survive, fashioning a raft out of the debris. He then turned his eyes towards the heavens and read the stars to determine his course and direction. But after that first night, clouds covered the skies and blocked his view. For days this went on as he lay on his raft until he was left with nothing but doubt and wonder if he had read correctly.

I do not know how this story ends and yet it is my life...

There comes a time in a man's life when he has to take stalk. We all look back and see where we came from, where we are. That time has come for me.

I have spent far too much of my life away, in the heat of the desert, in the heat of battle. But I was good at it. My brotherhood called, and I went. They called while I made a new home for myself and went. I have lost much but gained much with them.

As I sit here and write this, I am forced to wonder my reasons. Do I do this to clear my head? Or is it for a more vain reason than that? Perhaps I fear that I shall not have anyone...