>A comrade of mine, years ago, asked how I could, at once, fight in ghost-silence and be so consumed by my frenzied trance. It was a perfectly reasonable question for him to ask of a man who had only moments ago charged through gunfire as though through stinging rain and bifurcated an armed mutant in stoic silence.
>He did not like the answer I gave, but I did.
>Battle is the most beautiful song.
>Intricate yet humble,
>Louder than any yet silencing to all.
>Gunfire hammers out a staccato drumbeat of furious passion,
>punctuated with premeditated care by explosions like cymbals' crash.
>The tight, crisp whining of warmachines' explosive hearts, propelling them across the stage,
>as a delicate bell chiming, blade upon blade, announces the mechanical titans' arrival.
>A cacophonous chorus of men, women, beasts and fiends,
>singing, screaming with passion such that they expend their very lives in the effort.
>They lay a reverent backdrop for the voice of my Queen.
>Mother of Warriors. Black Annaiys.
>Her voice, cold and unyielding as death, scathing and harsh as the struggle to live.
>It is sorrowful, a song of want and of love in one.
>She sings for her sons, no matter how distant, and we honor her affection.
>With this baton, its edge keener than any, I conduct the musicians for My Lady.
>I do not shout, I do not roar, I do not laugh. There will be silence for Her song.
>It's rude to interrupt.