/REWRITTEN: I am not a native English speaker, but I still want to tried my best in mimics Lovecraftian writing style, with some of my own favors. The result may not be the best, but I hope that by reading your comment, I could improve it further. Thank you for just reading this alone though- much appreciated./
On the lonely hill overlooking the gloomy sea, the young woman sits quietly near a waning campfire, hand scribing furiously incomprehensible marking onto the ground with a wooden stick, giving her utmost attention to the crude drawing littering on the forest floor. So captivated, so mesmerize by these drawings that she pays no mind to the sound of the forest, the sound of the hamlet bellow, and the sound of the shadow moving closer and closer to the lonely campfire…
-Only to be jolt back to awareness when sound of a large slab of metal being throwed to the ground: a sword, so crude and broken that it can barely can be called one. Then came the man carrying it- giant, old and just as broken- to find respite after a long journey through the worse of nightmares, and this bonfire is the only place where outsider like him are welcomed, or at least, tolerated…
The young woman is taken aback by the abrupt arrival of the old man, but waste no time in erasing her curious scribbles by the most crude and simple way possible: a sweep from her giant glaive. But it was a vain effort, since if the old man pays any it any attention to them at all, he gives no indication of it. Instead he contents himself with just looking down the hill, to the hamlet afar, where just a few moment ago, a stage coach full of broken man such as him just arrives.
The pair spend a few uneasy minutes together, as the old man sit silently while the young woman took nervous peek to check the old man reaction. Such effort is futile however, as his face is hidden behind layers of bandages, his feature masked by the old armor strapped tightly onto his body. She notices the futility of her action eventually, and now is looking at the same direction as him instead- looking at the busy crowd that gathered near the stage coach.
The old man speaks first in his rasp and tired voice; maybe to her, maybe to himself, or perhaps to no one at all:
"Poor souls, all of them. Casted away, used and broken…"
"…"
"Lost and confused, moths to the flame, sheep to the slaughter …"
"…"
"Were we such fools once? It been so long ago, and yet-"
"Stop it old man! I didn't come here to look for redemption, much less a purpose. Just a good fight. I got nothing to regret about, so you should spare me your rambling."
"Don't tell me such lies-"
The old man seems like he wants to say something, but stopped abruptly, head deep in thoughts. Finally, he just nods:
"…Of course. A good fight."
As much as he wants to point out the pain that is oblivious in her eyes, he knew better. After all, she walks the road of a warrior. Even after all those war he waged, those battle he fought, those duels he won, the man is only as much of a warrior as she is- perhaps even less. He shudders to think of the price she must pay for it all, a price so terrible that she must hit it away…
So he points to other, merrier thoughts:
"These recruit looks promising- they might just have some really guts in them yet!"
"Hmph, we will see."