His eyes are red spheres of crimson: blood is a sweet aroma.
His scarlet cloak rides the desert breeze, the time is near.
The heat-rod nestled upon his back seethes with anticipation.
He does his best to calm its restless nature.
Empathy flows through him, he too feels uncomfortable.
Outside the realm of instinctual action; a grey area of instant decision cut off from regret's jurisdiction, Tervous feels uneasy and unnatural.
A creature of war cannot breathe the air of peace or live within its domain.