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Description
He was a soldier.

Burden. It was the only fitting word to describe each taunting memory. The images were vivid, a painful truth that emerged from the depth of a beautiful lie. His deminiour may appear arrogant, but it was merely a 'shield'. Roy would mask his emotion, fearing they would overpower the remnants of his mortality and cause unnecessary distractions.
No, he had set his sight on the top. Maybe he was simply deluding himself, desperate to excuse his sin, but he carried out his orders with no further dispute or character.

He was a soldier.

His fingers clicked and in a frenzy of alchemic static flames sprung, engulfing the land on which he stood. At one point, during his juvenile ignorance, the snap and sparks had brought satisfaction and he would relish in the pride of his ability. While those of violent nature would still have this affection of destruction, he could only feel damnation.
More fire. Bullets. Blood. Those who were victims hadn't the strength to stand. They were murdered before they could utter a scream.

He was a soldier.

The snipers rained, the alchemic charge tainted the air with panic and exhilaration, the flows skittering across the sand. There was no individuality at war, each participant was simply a pawn in the rotation. Those who lived and those who died, it made no difference. The masses were murdered in cold blood, there corpses decayed or incinerated. They didn't have the luxury of a grave.
The ratio of Ishvallens killed compared to Amestrians were astronomical. The red-eyed race were dropping like stones. The once thriving desert country had perished.

He was a soldier.
He had witnessed.
He had murdered.
He was a soldier
and that was what a soldier did.

Description
He was a soldier.

Burden. It was the only fitting word to describe each taunting memory. The images were vivid, a painful truth that emerged from the depth of a beautiful lie. His deminiour may appear arrogant, but it was merely a 'shield'. Roy would mask his emotion, fearing they would overpower the remnants of his mortality and cause unnecessary distractions.
No, he had set his sight on the top. Maybe he was simply deluding himself, desperate to excuse his sin, but he carried out his orders with no further dispute or character.

He was a soldier.

His fingers clicked and in a frenzy of alchemic static flames sprung, engulfing the land on which he stood. At one point, during his juvenile ignorance, the snap and sparks had brought satisfaction and he would relish in the pride of his ability. While those of violent nature would still have this affection of destruction, he could only feel damnation.
More fire. Bullets. Blood. Those who were victims hadn't the strength to stand. They were murdered before they could utter a scream.

He was a soldier.

The snipers rained, the alchemic charge tainted the air with panic and exhilaration, the flows skittering across the sand. There was no individuality at war, each participant was simply a pawn in the rotation. Those who lived and those who died, it made no difference. The masses were murdered in cold blood, there corpses decayed or incinerated. They didn't have the luxury of a grave.
The ratio of Ishvallens killed compared to Amestrians were astronomical. The red-eyed race were dropping like stones. The once thriving desert country had perished.

He was a soldier.
He had witnessed.
He had murdered.
He was a soldier
and that was what a soldier did.