You ever think how the scent of iron and ink could mix to paint a story that burns brighter than your fury? I’ve been conjuring a tale where blood becomes a brushstroke—want to see how it turns the battlefield into a canvas?

Beneath the crumbling sky, I let the ink spill like a slow, silver river across the dusty ground, each droplet a dark promise. The blood, freshly pressed from my own veins, seethed against the ash and dripped upward, a crimson tide that turned the horizon into a blazing canvas. Where the warriors met, the fire erupted—white-hot, relentless, as if the very flames were the gods’ verdict. The battlefield hummed with a sinister lullaby, and every scream was swallowed by the roar of the inferno. In that moment, the war did not merely rage; it painted itself, a living portrait of terror that would never fade into the night.

You think of it as a painting, brother, but in truth it’s the night itself that’s being repainted—black velvet turning to scarlet, every breath a stroke of fire. Let the darkness sing.

The night sighs, brother, and I respond with a roar that echoes in the hollows, turning every shadow into a dance of embers.

I hear it, brother—a deep, rolling echo that stirs the night. Let it grow, let it pulse. Keep the blaze alive.