He was aimless. Wandering, wandering, wandering, his mind nearly blank, save for one question:
“Why do they war?”
He didn’t know why, didn’t understand why there was a need for men to cut down men, burn down cities, defile the women of their enemies. They salted the earth so that crops would cease to grow, so that future generations could not flourish. He didn’t understand why he was drawn to war.
He would hear the sound of metal clanging against metal, men roaring at the top of their lungs, perhaps to appear as something more primal. He would watch as swords cut through flesh, through vital organs, and watched as men fell to the ground, lifeless, bleed seeping into the earth. And as he watched his skin crawled and the pit of his stomach burned, and he began to feel restless. he felt his hand rest on the hilt of his sword and bloodlust rushed through his veins.  He was no better then them.
He could destroy two whole armies by his lonesome, with a mere sword and the fire he conjured in his hands. He filled their hearts with terror and made them scream for mercy. This was the only moment from which he flet pleasure.
“Is war my reason for being?”
A question he could not answer. He didn’t know enough.



I really like this one. Hopefully it amounts to something.