The piercing thrust sliced into the man's midsection
and the sword's tip emerged from his leather-clad back.
Coughing out sinuous strands of crimson blood and
clutching at the length of forged steel protruding
from his gut, the man fell to the ground, dead.
The warrior god wrenched his sword from the twitching
corpse and swung it quickly in a precise arc, cleaving
another man neatly in two. The carnage about the frenzied
god grew: bodies lie mutilated in crimson heaps of war-torn
flesh all about the battlefield. With a vicious roar of
sickening laughter aimed at the very heavens, the warrior
god strode forth, his armies feeding upon the bloodshed
left in his wake.
He was tall, thin with war and hungry for death. His
hair was coal black, long past his shoulders, matted
with blood. His eyes were chaotic and insane, all colors
having faded to a sinister gray. He wore no proper armor,
yet no sword could be said to have ever bitten into his
flesh. He wielded a mighty claymore, long and dark with
licks of obsidian flame dancing upon its blade.
The warrior spotted the keep on the horizon, past rolling
hills and an enormously deep valley no doubt filled with
scores of defenders armed to the fullest. Amongst the
protectors the heroes of Aloria would surely stand,
each one famous in his or her own right throughout the
land. The warrior god faced uncountable forces, but he
still held the upper hand: he could not die.
He had been a warrior-king ever since he could ride
upon a saddled horse, slaying his father while out on
his first hunting lesson. He had raised an army at an
early age and struck out against the many kingdoms,
trampling each under his heavy boot. After years of
violent war, the remaining lords of the realm cried
out to their gods as the warrior's force grew
unstoppable. Something had to be done before
everyone perished.
The assembled gods, believing the warrior to desire
power and immortality, granted him such. The gifts
they bestowed upon him only succeeded in driving
him further into the war-madness that corrupted
his soul, for the warrior lived solely for battle,
only for the death that he could administer.
And now the warrior god led his horde into the
only battle yet to be waged, the final battle of
Aloria.
When the last word fell heavily from the stranger's lips, Skull
stood and strode from the room. Impossible.... Violence. War.
Bloodshed. These were not words used to describe the cleric, or so
he had believed up until this moment. A fable, a story from
another land - another world - that's what the scroll was. But no...
somehow the words had been true.
Skull sought comfort and solace in the great forest of Alanthia
in which stood the brotherhood's monastery. He struck off by
himself, his feet falling where they may. In his aimless wandering,
Skull eventually happened upon a clearing in the forest, the clearing
where he had been found, the clearing that had since never been
seen again despite long hours of searching.
The matters of the day rested like a heavy backpack upon the
cleric's shoulders. Much had been revealed to the man, and he
needed time to muddle it all out. Appropriately enough, Skull found
the tree against which he was discovered, and sat in the same
spot in which he awoke years ago.
Sitting in reverie, Skull let his eyes close and drifted back to his
first memories.
Waking with a start, Skull's first action was to confirm the
presence of a sword by his side, but what slight movements he
could muster sent wracking pains through his body. He moaned in
shocking pain, half-delirious to the point that he had not felt the
gentle touch to his face until the woman spoke.
"Rest, rest. Do not try to move." Her hand drifted to his chest and
Skull felt the healing powers within her fingertips. But suddenly
the hand was gone and Skull was left alone against the tree,
recovering from some ailment or wound unseen by his eyes.
Of how much time past, Skull was unsure. He sat watching the
treetops, the clearing, the sky. After what seemed an eternity,
he heard a voice hail him. Out of the woods and into the clearing
came a tall man dressed in the simple gray robes of a cleric. Skull
could not speak, his every attempt seizing him in agony.
The man, seeing Skull's predicament, dashed off through the trees
and soon returned with a few more clerics who set about easing
the pain-filled man. When he had recovered sufficiently to walk
half-dazed, the clerics carried him to their monastery, offering aid
and shelter to the hapless man.
During the weeks of recuperation, Skull learned much of the order
and asked to join them for he had no recollection of who he was
or where he had come from. The only thing he had remembered
was that his name was Skull, an odd name for a man. With the
brothers' help, Skull tried in vain to recover his lost memories, but
they proved too elusive.
She had returned. Dressed in a simple white gown with lace
flowers interwoven into the hem and bodice, the woman was as
elegant as any Skull had ever seen. Her long auburn hair flowed
past her shoulders and her face reflected nothing but happiness
and love. Somehow Skull knew this woman... yes it was she who
had brought him to this world somehow. If only he could
remember.
She bent down next to him, and sat alongside him. "You wonder
who I am, do you not?" she asked rhetorically. "Yes, Skull, I have
brought you into this world, a second chance at life if you will.
It was I who penned the scroll and I who read it. I am the one who
lead you back here, to my home in the wood."
Skull thought nothing as he listened, save for the fact that she was
the key to his past.
"Skull, you were once a great and evil man, tainted by a lust few
dare possess. You and your legions ravaged Aloria and destroyed
it, forever removing it from Life. And yet I was called to save
you from your own diseased fate, to bring you into a new world...
a new life to pay penance for the last."
"You are destined to wander these lands, aiding those in peril,
comforting those in need. You yet have the mark of the warrior
upon you, yet you are a cleric in this lifetime, a holy man, good
and pure."
"But...who are you, milady?" Skull ventured.
"It is of no consequence who I am. You should worry yourself with
your life. In times of need, I shall look after you, watching to
see if you stay the path upon which you have been set. I must
now take my leave, Skull. Go forth into the land of Alanthia
and prosper, forgetting not what the brothers have taught you.
Be true, Skull." With those words, the woman faded swiftly into
nothingness, leaving Skull alone...again.
"Hail brother Skull," the cleric smiled, the name
