After every battle, I take what I want from the most worthy men, the ones who catch my eye the most. Those who are handsome, tall and muscular spend their last hours of life as my playthings before I destroy them. But amidst the ocean of dead I leave in my wake there are always a handful of pitiful, unfortunate boys who received neither the gift of a quick death or the privilege of being the toys I use for my pleasure. Those wretches can do nothing but writhe in agony, watching better men enjoy what I do to them and what I allow them to do to me. These poor onlookers can do nothing but cry out in equal parts shame and pain. Pain from the wounds I've inflicted on them, shame at having failed in being found worthy of my touch, of being allowed to taste my lips and breasts. They trained almost every day of their lives to become men worthy of my momentary affections, only to find themselves cut down and cast aside like the human chaff they are.

But when the next morning comes and I move on to find fresh victims, some of those failures have managed to survive through the night and follow me. They trail a safe distance behind, some out of fear and others because their wounds have crippled them. These poor, broken men are always quite the spectacle. Some crawl after me, dragging spilled entrails or the bloody stumps that had once been their legs. Others limp along, bleeding from severed arms or gory wounds to their chest or head. They try to remain quiet, with only the occasional  moan or howl of pain escaping their mouths. 

When I find fresh men to kill,the failures watch from afar. They once again watch me indulge in horrific slaughter, just as they had seen what I inflicted on them and their comrades. And once again, they must watch superior men become my toys before the end of the day. When I move on again, they are joined by even more damned souls who are too wrapped up in their lust for me to accept their death.

In a way, they are admirable in their pathetic journeys. They refuse to die, wanting nothing more than to get as long a look at my beauty as possible. The wounds they suffer from should have long since been fatal, but somehow they persevere, their desire keeping them alive. It's quite flattering, really. I butchered their friends, their brothers, every other man who took up arms alongside them. I rejected them for better, stronger men and then made them live through the horror again as they watch me obliterate every male that crosses my path. But they don't care, the faintest glimpse of me, the mere hint of my gorgeous self washes away all the pain, all the torment. Of course they eventually succumb to the elements or to the failings of their own bodies, but there are always more to take their place. In many ways they're a microcosm of mankind: completely devoted to suffering for my pleasure, my amusement. And that's why despite it all, I cherish them just as much as the ones I kill cleanly or choose as my toys. In their own way, they have fulfilled their duties as men. They have lived and died for me and that is perhaps the greatest accomplishment a man can hope for.