Once there was a warrior who was renowned for his passionate work. He slaughtered his foes with extreme ferocity.  The soil of the fields of his battles were well nourished with the blood of his enemies.  'Twas not merely that he won his battles, but that he won them with extreme zeal.  He built up quite the reputation for himself.

 Armies of goblins learned to fear his approach.  His passion for slaughter struck fear into the hearts of darkness across the land.  But there is a fine line between passion and rage.  A fine line that is easily crossed.

 One day the warrior came upon a small girl, horribly mutilated by the ravages of war.  Her skin was burnt and scarred.  Her hair had mostly fallen out. She wore but rags, smelly ones at that.  She stood by the roadside, selling flowers.  Her appearance tugged at his heartstrings.  When he asked of her fate, she offered to tell her tale of woe.  He listened to it with an open heart.

 The small child told him of the village she came from.  A village like most others, with one difference.  It was filled with wicked people.  She was once a happy child in the village orphanage, until the evil people of the town decided that the urchins were more trouble than they were worth.  The mob was merciless.  The Orphanage, she said, was razed to the ground, the poor orphan children mutilated and slaughtered.

 This sad story got the warrior quite upset, indeed.  He was clenching his teeth, red-faced.  His hands were white from the hard grip he had upon his blade.

 '..Where.. is.. this.. place?' he asked the child.

 The small girl pointed him towards the town, and he set off in a fury.  His rage consumed his mind, such vile and hideous people could not be let live in the same world as he!  His mighty blade would smite them all from this world, cleanse the lands in a bath of blood!

 The battle was short, indeed.  Before he knew it, the warrior stood atop a pile of villagers. His anger satiated, he began to calm down, and regain his sanity.  How much time had passed, he could not say.  Never before had he been so livid.  He surveyed his surroundings to get his bearings.

 What he saw was most perplexing.  No weapons were to been seen, not even pitchforks.  The villagers had not raised arms against him?  Even more strange, the bodies of the villagers were all in a defensive position, as if they had been pleading for their life.  The buildings of the village were all intact, too.  There was no sign of a ruined orphanage.  The child's wounds were too fresh for such wreckage to have been removed.

 'But.. What...?'  As the warrior tried to figure out what was going on, the small child entered his field of view, with her 'parents'.. A group of zombies.  The child was merely a fresh corpse, hardly decayed, yet.  They stood at the edge of town, mocking the once noble warrior.  He learned his lesson at a very dear cost, indeed:

Quaff too deeply of passion and it may override your judgment.