The sellsword sells his soul for gold, his heart for the offal thrown to him.
His feigned ignorance of the higher road is his basest sin.
By no minister shriven, wept for by no women,
Because rulers loath to spend their gold the way they spend our lives, the sellsword fights to fill his purse and by that sum he is defined.
He leaves no legacy behind, no great thought to stand through time.
A destroyer, not a builder, he leaves his foes bewildered; desolate the hearth that knows his heel. It is the very warmth and life of the home he steals. To him, the truth is false and the lie is real, and the gold in his hand is the only thing that he can feel.
His mind is closed and his soul is sealed.
I felt the cold, I touched his hands, I spent long hours in enemy land. Only once did he understand, by so brief a flickering frame to light such shame: how quickly then he cursed my name. I tried so hard to know the man, left behind by the sellsword.
Emptyhanded, with a hopeless heart I journeyed homeward.
Sent along with a thousand others to an early grave, so a sellsword might save some trouble for his master, some small disaster, was averted by my pain.