The soft, fragile streaks of sunlight shone in through the large glass bay windows, drenching the floor in warmth.

His gaze runs back and forth over the bright, blinding horizon. He'd been a soldier for a long time. Very long time.

Most men of his age were retiring from military service, or acting as armchair generals. He, on the other hand, was still fit and in perfect condition, all at the sagely age of 50. He didn't dislike it. He knew what he was, and what he had been. He knew he could still beat the crap out of any other Kislev soldier in a hand to hand fight, no matter how old he got. Simply because he refused to let himself be anything less than that level of fighter.

No, it was not a sense of weakness or age that caused the man to wake from his slumber with pain in his limbs and a scowl on his face. It was bitterness and anger about many things. His foolishness. His mistakes. His lack of significance. The impossibility of salvation.

He kneels against the floor, soaking up the warmth and closing his eyes slightly.

Time to make things happen...