Five set out to ride again. When asked where our home lies, we answer nowhere, we answer everywhere. Others have journeyed by our side, yet they ride no longer. These poor souls lie in unmarked graves leaving no legacy. But it is the fate that they choose. Cold bodies have nothing left to lose. Those who remain stand to lose much more. Continued onward to foreign lands, sometimes we go hungry. Sometimes we become stranded. Forever we remain filthy and poor. Who would want this. We need this. How shall we be remembered, if remembered at all. I’d rather die with my axe in my hand than go to my grave as less of a man.