Ah, yes, why not contribute to this fandom? I've got time to waste and talentless poesia to share.
Crimson. My blade rips through skin, I can feel it run through the thin material, Leeching poison into the enemy's blood. I whip around to slash my sword through something else, And blood paints the ground we stand upon. I've become accustomed to this feeling And to the warm redness splattering my face. I cannot be saved. I cannot be redeemed.