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Notes08/24/2020
Yharnam79
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Yharnam79
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13
"...we are the Don Cossack Army"
"The steppes tremble and hard hooves pound,
on fast horses a cavalryman's army approaches..."
Raw, brutal and uncompromising, the sandy steppe wind hits you in the face when spraying on your face.
The barren landscape blurs in the blessing afternoon sun.
Horse and rider are bathed in sweat.
Residues of dried mud and dirt and splashes of blood stick to them.
The leather saddle on the wet horse fur and the cracking whip carry animalism and ancient, infinitely often waxed leather aroma into the steppe wind; as well as the steppe herb, which is partly already slightly smoking due to the merciless heat.
Even the Absinthe dangling in the leather bag on our saddle seems to evaporate slowly.
"In the evening the drum calls us to dance,
the night is dreamless, short and heavy..."
Darkness has already fallen, when the flickering light of the creaking campfire appears in the distance.
The increasingly thick smoke takes away almost all visibility and makes it difficult to breathe.
I got it.
The cups are apparently not raised for the first time in the camp; the mood is exuberant.
It smells like all kinds of booze A huge cauldron of soup steams over the fire and the scent of the collection of herbs and spices makes our starving stomach growl.
"Through our villages the mourners howl loudly the drums are beating dullly to the dance of death..."
Another long and hard day of fighting comes to an end.
Satisfied by the victory and a finally filled stomach, the last strength danced out of our bodies and intoxicated by schnapps and absinthe, we fall asleep on the floor next to the fire.
on fast horses a cavalryman's army approaches..."
Raw, brutal and uncompromising, the sandy steppe wind hits you in the face when spraying on your face.
The barren landscape blurs in the blessing afternoon sun.
Horse and rider are bathed in sweat.
Residues of dried mud and dirt and splashes of blood stick to them.
The leather saddle on the wet horse fur and the cracking whip carry animalism and ancient, infinitely often waxed leather aroma into the steppe wind; as well as the steppe herb, which is partly already slightly smoking due to the merciless heat.
Even the Absinthe dangling in the leather bag on our saddle seems to evaporate slowly.
"In the evening the drum calls us to dance,
the night is dreamless, short and heavy..."
Darkness has already fallen, when the flickering light of the creaking campfire appears in the distance.
The increasingly thick smoke takes away almost all visibility and makes it difficult to breathe.
I got it.
The cups are apparently not raised for the first time in the camp; the mood is exuberant.
It smells like all kinds of booze A huge cauldron of soup steams over the fire and the scent of the collection of herbs and spices makes our starving stomach growl.
"Through our villages the mourners howl loudly the drums are beating dullly to the dance of death..."
Another long and hard day of fighting comes to an end.
Satisfied by the victory and a finally filled stomach, the last strength danced out of our bodies and intoxicated by schnapps and absinthe, we fall asleep on the floor next to the fire.
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