Desolate. The village. The hero's return to the village after a glorious defeat. Bloodshed, tears, sweat, and the feeling of human hair underneath his fingernails. Yes, it is a return to what he once knew. Warm stews and the squealing of pigs under the impression that their lives have been wasted, a sacrifice to the hero's failed quest. But there is no stew, no porcine screams, no rejoice in an empty village. The village he called home. The concept of it all, the burnt flesh of his brothers soaked into his knuckles, their tongues keeping his neck from chilling winds.

And so he strides into his village, shattered windows and splintered doors strewn underfoot. He takes a seat at the table, props his feet up, and awaits the arrival of the peach sun.

For dull swords still a dinner make.