Shattersteel

Death, Beginnings

Walking out into the brisk morning air, Draxus took a deep sigh, letting the smell of pine rush up through his nose and creep throughout his lungs. It was a gorgeous morning. The sun high above the peaks, it's rays reflecting blindingly off of the fresh virgin snow. The grave of his wife, covered in still living ivy, laid off to his left, a constant reminder of just how treacherous the Taxlo'an Mountains could be.

Six years ago, on this very day, Mach'el had fallen off the edge of the Cliffs of Haarken, cutting her life short. He could still see it clearly, the stone collapsing abruptly with a sharp crack, the dogsled careening over the edge, Mach'el's ear-splitting scream as she disappeared into that white-washed abyss.

Still the pain ripped at his heart, even his very soul. The pain. There was nothing else. No hint of laughter to escape his lips, no smile to set his face aglow, no pleasure to be had in this daily war. His war was to remain sane, to not be driven mad by the grief and solitude of his, now miserable, life.

Oh how he longed to see her smile one more time, to feel the warm touch of her hand as they walked beneath the tall spruces, to smell the lavender scent of her hair, to hear her laugh as they danced around in the snow, to eat one last meal with her before she could say goodbye.

Therein lies the main cause of his melancholy. But today, today was.....different. As he stood there, chilled by the sub-freezing temperature, something dawned on him.

To mourn for six years? Why? What was the point? Death was abundant all over the world. Even more so in the northern mountainous regions. Sure, it was his wife who had died, but he had wasted hours, even days, sitting broken on the oak floor. He could have moved on and made a name for himself in the time he had so abhorrently misused.

It had been long enough. He needed to leave. Leave this place behind him. Forget his past and begin anew. He needed to become something.......better. Stronger. Faster. Something that could push him to his limits and maybe even beyond. Something he could embrace and never grow tired of. He needed a life where everything around him would ring harmoniously with the fire he now felt in his limbs.

He needed his old life back. The raw throated screams of dying men scattered across the field. Their burgundy spray splattered gloriously on his armor, rivulets running down the fullers of his scimitars. The fear in the enemy's eyes, that look they gave. A horrified, repentant, powerless, gaze of disbelief and humiliation. How he craved such an environment. It was as if his soul, his mind, his body, and the basest of his instincts all wanted that one thing. Blood.

And not just some small skirmish on the outskirts of a territory. He wanted, no, he needed the adrenaline and strength of grueling combat. The brutality, the fear, the joy of the kill, the power of having another man's fate in his hands.

But first he needed his gear back.

Where is it?! He thought to himself. That lifetime was just over a hundred years ago. Where had he left all those supplies? Were they at Daegron? Must be. There wasn't anywhere else he had been stationed.

And with that thought, he turned around, went inside, and began to prepare for the journey. The journey back to the land from which he once came.