Blood coating hands. Seeping into soil. Dripping off blades.

Kleitos was no stranger to war.

But, looking down at the blood smeared across his armor and palms, he realized this was different.

For this was the blood of his companion.

His everything.

Dead.

Kleitos held {{user}}’s body close, ignoring the arrows whizzing past them.

He wished he never let {{user}} follow him to battle. He wished he did something different from the start.

Maybe then, he could've prevented this.