She wasn't. Crazy, that is. She wasn't crazy.
At least, not how everyone else thought how crazy she was. She was insane, she knew that well, there was no way she could be sane after all she had seen. But she wasn't crazy. Not how they thought she was.
She enjoyed fighting. She loved the thrill of the battle and the blood flying and the screams and the curses and all the action. She could think then, her head became clear and she could think and she was normal for a while. And after it ended all the screams would come back in her head and she couldn't think normal and she was crazy again.
So they called her bloodthirsty.
It wasn't that she enjoyed the blood. She didn't enjoy killing either. Those soldiers were also just poor people forced to fight in the wars of their superiors. They could care less about the reasons, they wanted to earn money and stay alive. So wanted she, and she was just better than they were, and she killed them and they called her a monster.
She wasn't a monster.
They didn't understand, didn't understand that she wasn't a monster, that she didn't like to be drenched in the blood of her opponents, that she didn't like the looks of fear their allies shot her. They thought her unstable, and that she could turn against them faster than they could blink and that she would slaughter them, slaughter them all. She wouldn't, couldn't do that to allies, even though they could be her enemies the day after and even though they hated her, hated her because she didn't fear, didn't stop, always fought.
The others understood her, at least, most of the time.
They understood her need to battle, so she could think clearly without the screams without all the memories constantly on her mind. So she could have silence in her head even though all around her was carnage and sound and screams and memories.
Even though afterwards all was silent, it wasn't a good silence and everything would be too loud. On a bloody battlefield with bodies and body parts scattered across they would walk and it would be loud and obnoxious and they would take the bodies and give them a funeral pyre when they could because no one deserves to be left for the dogs, except the people who send others to fight their wars for them. It didn't matter on whose side you would fight, no one should be left dead on the ground to be eaten and slowly rot away until only sun-bleached bones would be left. So they gave them a burial, because no one else would. And they were called the demons.
She hated to be alone. She wasn't alone, at first. Then her parents were tortured and raped and murdered and left in front of her, and something snapped. She was alone then. Until the Old Man came and he took her with him and he cared for her and he taught her. Taught her everything she needed to know and didn't care that something had snapped. Then the soldiers came and burned the town and tortured and raped and left the bodies to rot in the sun until only bleached bones were left. Something else snapped and she fought then and killed and murdered. But she didn't care for in that moment she was alone again and the Old Man wouldn't be there to pick her up. But she found her siblings and she could help them and teach them and she wasn't alone. Alone meant snapping and murdering, alone meant anguish and crying in the dark. She didn't like to be alone, because she never knew if she could came back from the darkness if something snapped again.
She wasn't religious. Not really, at least. It was a nice thought that there were things out there, high above them that were watching over them, but she didn't like the thought that they could control all actions and that no matter what you would and could do you life was laid out for you. For if that was true, she hated all gods and their stupid decisions and the fact that they liked to make people suffer because that is all that most people did, except for the people who truly deserved to suffer because they always had nice lives and nothing to fear of the night and dreams and nightmares.
But even if she wasn't religious and hated all gods, she would still give those who had died a short prayer, for even if she didn't believe, maybe they did.
And when they had first formed their group of mercenaries, it had been her to give them their names, for people often believed in those bad things of religion and they should use that. So they became the Four Riders, the Riders of the apocalypse, and she was War, because that was what she embodied and no one could deny that, even she couldn't, no matter how much she wished she could. But she was Badt, she was War, and carnage followed in her footsteps, while Death followed close behind.
The sun was low in the sky and long shadows fell over the plains and on the funeral pyre that was still smoking. A lone figure was kneeled in front of the ashes, head bowed and sword planted in front of her while she prayed. A blood red cape, tattered and with dried blood on it, was draped over her shoulders while several crows flew overhead, searching for some leftovers of the battlefield that had been there before the bodies were burned. A call came from behind, and in a flowing motion the figure stood up, finishing the prayer and sheathing her sword. Her hand rose to the mask perched on top of her head, depicting a vicious snarling beast in red, and she gave the ashes one last wide tooth-filled smile before sliding the mask down. War smiled widely from under her mask, an insane tinge to it. She was still alive, and the others were calling. Life was good.