Soldiers charging forward. Some wearing the sword of the Templars on their breast, to be sure, but others with the Seeker symbol emblazoned on theirs. Their faces unkind, single-minded determination fervently marked on their features. Fire follows at their heels. They storm through any orders or please to halt, stop, wait, please. Bodies trampled beneath steel boots.

--abruptly, the images disappear, faded, so to speak, back into the fade. A weary groan, from nearby. Malcolm sits up, rubs at his eyes to try and banish the images. And the memories that come with.

Despair nearly touches him, so close the demon leans, to whisper of guilt, while Hope is quieter and farther away, chanting about a new life and new beginnings and a better world. He allows himself to drift between sleeping and waking fully, to take a moment and hear, before banishing them from his sight and senses with a shake of his head and an attempt to focus.