Would that I could cut away this flawed flesh, sculpt it into a more perfect skin. Would that I could make myself believe in what others find acceptable.
Yet I cannot, I will not. Though their cruelty fills me with sorrow, though their persecution makes me ill to the point of retching, I will not bow down to the status quo and deny who and what I am just to make others feel more comfortable.
So I will stand alone on this battlefield as always, knee-deep in the blood and gore of my enemies, my armor once again broken and battered, blades dull from my kills. I will give no sympathy, give no quarter: I will be as dead as dead can be to all save my allies, those of which are very few.
*sigh* I grow so weary of this- weary of the battle, weary of people expecting me to justify my every action and reaction. The shields grow heavier with each attack, my helm is cracked, and I don't know how much longer my mail will hold.
But I will go down fighting.
