Her cloak was heavy from the rain that had soaked it, but she didn't mind neither the weight nor chill. What she needed was some cold fresh air in her lungs.
It was not her work itself that made her feel nauseous, but what brought her that work. The brutality of mankind against each other sickened her soul. Beheaded children, raped women, slaughtered men, she had seen them all. Everyone's misfortune had been to be at the wrong place at the wrong time; being born and raised and drawn into battles that were not about them.
Nobody had held a personal hate against any of the murdered, yet they had been killed anyway. The lived in the village that was passed by blood-thirsty men, had the obligation to fight for one Lord or another, had their throats cut after having been violated, just because they were women.
She remembered a time when she had considered battles romantic and honorable. How naïve she had been. All men are killers, she thought bitterly.