Diplomat, a crafty word for someone so sinister. To politely abandon all excuses to the hierarchy you assume. I find it staunchly irritating, the meandering of false testimonies and carrying ons of poetic liabilities and self presumed realities. You only attain the senses you fortify, as all of mine have gone seeking to mush. A fearful tactic is only as benign as it's followers, it's refugees, and it's swordsmen. Should it be such a discrepancy? That the human mind wills itself to the force that brings upon man a detrimental fall? Your heart is but another to own, another to will, another to ring the callous and fetching ghouls amongst it's bearing. With every clench of your fist you deteriorate a colony at its feet, for your sake, just for the bereavement of such an emotion you so hauntingly grasp.
Kind swordsman, you are but another. Another to own, another to seek and find and fetch and kill.