Godhand sat in the back of the wagon, the gentle rocking lulling him into a sort of exhaustion-death as he blew a beautiful plume of smoke out of his mouth. He sucked on his cigarette like it was an oxygen tank underwater, letting the delicious haze crawl up into his nostrils and sinuses and massage his brain. He was tired. Damn tired. This wasn't even his war, but he was still forced to chase the Necrosition, vile bastards that they were, up and down the continent. And he'd seen things during the chase. Awful things. He wasn't squeamish; this wasn't his first time in a battlefield. But the wrath and sadism of Xem'Zund's hordes was beyond anything he'd ever seen. Towns, razed in an instant. Children dying only to spring right back up and shamble along with the procession of undead. Blood and bile haging in the air, so thick you practically drowned in it.

And the rot. The essence of the Necromancer that festered and writhed within anything it touched. It was starting to drive him a little crazy. The smell never went away, and he could only barely mask it with his cigarettes, which were quickly running out. But yet it remained, like a devil on his shoulder, poisoning everything he touched. He hissed out another stream of smoke and dug around in his jacket for his flask. Godhand took a deep swig, and considered his circumstances. He didn't like what this place was turning him into. The things he saw were bothering him less and less, and it worried him that he might be turning into just another Goddamn animal. He'd seen what this war did to people. Turned honest men into savage swine. And he wasn't even that honest to begin with.

He capped his flask and put it back into his front coat pocket, near and dear to his heart. The mercenary leaned back and tried to let the gentle gallop of his horses lull him to sleep. It was Drusilia's turn at the reins, and he knew a good opportunity to rest when he saw one. Sometimes when he woke up he honestly thought he was having a nightmare. That this all just couldn't be real; that nature and life couldn't be this impossibly cruel. But then he just took another drink and convinced himself that he was just being too sensitive and maudlin. That he had a job to do; people were counting on him. Not the elves, obviously. They couldn't care less. But people back home; the closest thing he had to a family. They had confidence that he was the best, that he could handle it.

And he'd be damned if he let the rotten bastards down.