Birth

[Kybshe]

A cascade of opening doors reveals the land to him. Before him lies a wasteland of brown and bone, a battlefield with streams of blood, and screams of men. Behind him is a metal box, dropped onto the battlefield to carry him into the fray. The man waltzes forward bringing a large axe to bear, slowly turning it as he approaches an enemy soldier. In this battle there are no allies, a slaughter is to happen. There they are, fighting desperately. Clashing, dying, pathetic. The man cleaves one in half with a quick horizontal swipe. Running rats. Now begins the hunt.

[Kybshe]

A dying soldier. Peasant. Fear. Sweat. Blood. Mud. He holds his feeble cracked club. Foot to the head, push. Push. Crack. The man tosses his axe to the side instead choosing to solve his problems from a distance. Spraying bolts into the backs of fleeing foes. Explosions rip apart those who were not fast enough. Not lucky enough. Time for more rapid movements, more swift acts of murder.

The banner, raise the banner. Movement towards the center. To the church. Rain, mud, grime, corpses. The battle breaks up as men flee the new threat. A warrior stands his ground. Fool? Or hero? The monster lifts him. The torso is thrown one way, the legs another. Intestines and dinner fall into the middle. None challenge the monster to reaching the church. The goal. The symbol of Cyric is raised above the church.

[Kybshe]

Whispering. Constant whispering. Dark promises, bargaining. Secrets. The ruinous powers to be gained. Instructions, eager instructions. Long nights under a blood red sky between sleep and dreams. Instructions on incantations. Means. Magics. Sacrifices. Material components. Murmuring, constant murmuring. Shouting.

I proceed.