《Eternal Harvest》 Prologue: Son of Harvest It was called the Irdelmor, a collection of great and ancient wooden pillars surrounding an even ancient yet withered husk of a tree. It is a grand and somber sight, surrounded by plains and what seems to be wilting flowers. From here many of those who are magically attuned could feel great power from merely standing within it, and even greater for those who meditate upon the base of the pillars. Yet to those of particularly strong faith, one may know the malevolence this site of power truly holds. For it is said by those of the dying old faith that Irdelmor was once the grave of warriors, in which ancient and honorable warriors of the Irdel people where buried. To be returned to the earth just as their old ways dictated them to be, which to those not of the old faith, results in a deep feeling of bloodlust to seep out of the very soils. It is for this very reason, that aside from the Irdel and godless magical practitioners, Irdelmor is considered a heretical site by many religions. For they in their faith in their gods, could feel that the malevolence Irdelmor emanated, was one that was ancient and cold. Yet still the Irdel held it in sacred reverence, even when their numbers dwindled thanks to the conquest of other races. As they were a people of great stubborn faith, that would see to it that they would be no more. As in the eighth day of the sixth month of 793, Irdelmor would be the last sight of the Irdel in one final war. A war called the ¡®Dirge of Irdel¡¯, for in this time the last of the Irdel tribes that clung to the old ways and their faith, gathered to protect Irdelmor. Their final holy site, for the rest were burned and pillaged decades ago by foreign hands. It is what could be considered to be the largest, and perhaps most final of pagan resistances in the history of Lukenzel, where the old faith finally succumbed to the might and organized nature of the newer faiths. Which saw disparate cultures of humanity itself banding together, to squash the ¡®godless¡¯ heathens that consorted with demons and end their barbaric ways. In truth it was less of a war and more of a massacre. As the Irdel could not muster up no more than two thousand five hundred warriors, all of which were those willing to fight regardless of age or gender. While their enemies was the combined might of several rising kingdoms and duchies, totalling to ten thousand of what they could spare from their own petty wars and rivalries. For the Dirge of Irdel, was not a war waged for pious or truthful reasons, rather it was one waged with the intent to steal the lands of the Irdel. So it may be populated and turned to large farming lands for the ever growing nations of humanity, as surely after this very war they would turn against one another months later. What followed then was a desperate attempt at defence by the Irdel people, as the well trained levies of their enemies engaged them in meticulous and merciless combat. Shattering every attempt they ever did with great and daring charges with armored columns, barrages of arrows, or merciless use of magic. Almost as if their enemies merely sought distinction in this ¡®war¡¯, so they themselves may elevate themselves in the petty politics they were so fondly intertwined with. Barely an hour had passed, and the Irdel were defeated in inglorious manner. Unable to even reap a bloody bounty against the enemies that sought their extinction, nor could they even honor their gods as one by one, they were executed. Worse still their very deaths were made a mockery, for those that did not die in battle were made an example. Not allowed to be given an honored death, and instead taken as prisoners, slaves, or concubines even, with others executed. Those who were to be executed were merciless hanged upon the sacred branches of their tree, with some nailed to the pillars before being set ablaze. Which saw to it that the Irdel died with their sacred site, as it was defiled beyond recognition. Which set those few that survived to weep and wail, praying for forgiveness from their old gods. The Irdel were effectively dead now. Both as a culture and a religion, with their very sacred tree soon set ablaze when the last of the pillars were defiled. It was here that the wrath of the old gods started, it was here a son of gentle harvest reaped a bloody offering. - Of what words he could describe what occurred when he set ablazed the ancient, gnarled and ugly tree, Count Likus could not find them. For when he set the very tree ablaze the dozen or so hanging bodies all came to life, fueled by what he could only assume as the most foulest of magics. Followed by the now living corpses to wail in utter sorrow, their eyes and mouths being mere pools of blackness as they weeped and spat black ichor. In an instant he backed away, his hands trembling in some strange fear as he stared mouth agape at what was happening, with the wailing growing louder and more dissonant as each second passed. It was nothing like had experienced, and he was here for glory and a means to prove himself to the patriarch of his house. He did not expect this, or did he want it, forcing him to turn around and try to run from the very tree he set ablaze. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Almost as if he wasn¡¯t the one that ordered his men to spill oil all over the tree, and even on the sacred pillars of the Irdel pillars. Running away like pitiful craven from the very sin he had committed, in the name of no religion, but rather his own selfish desires. He was the first to die the moment he turned his back, his head lopped off cleanly as the chorus of wailing continued to boom. For a moment he did not understand what was happening, only seeing his body run before him and tripping, headless, lifeless. Then blackness took him. Dying a painless death, where he could not have felt the pain of his very life smothered. He was lucky. For at the base of the now burning holy tree, a figure had dug itself out of the very ground. Standing just behind the decapitated head of Likus, staring at the very sight of Irdelmor desecrated and burning to the ground. It was male of a large height, towering than most average males with what seemed to be a beautiful and almost effeminate look, as if he was the embodiment of what the Irdel considered as the ¡®beautiful warrior¡¯, bearing qualities that made his gender almost indiscernible. If weren¡¯t for the fact that he was naked, and clearly masculine with his lithe and toned physique, followed by ghastly glowing eyes and long grey hair. The figure only stood for a few seconds, his beautiful face staring then at the invaders of Irdelmor with an expression of what could have been confusion, which quickly turned to a horrific look of utter anger and malice. To the point his very face turned gaunt, his beauty shattered and replaced by a mockery of what it was once, followed by a grand and murderous rampage. Where not even the knights and well trained levies could stand against him, for he picked up ax and rotund-shield, the signature weapons of the Irdel Raiders which he used with deft and manic efficiency. Engaging each and every one of them with suicidal and insane actions, that saw doing the most damage against all of them as Irdelmor continued to burn. At this Duke Mathias pulled his horse back, shouting orders of retreat as the strange Irdel waged a one man war that he was winning in, an unnatural being that he knew he could not best. Choosing instead to live and leave the very holy site he was reluctant in destroying. ¡°We must go!¡± He exclaimed, motioning for his loyal retinue and levies to swiftly disengage and quickly leave. Alas he could not get the chance, as he turned his gaze back to the Irdel, an ax greeted his face, and he died limp upon his horse. Still a single individual shouldn¡¯t have had such an impact against many well trained soldiers, surely they could have killed him already. That was what many nobility thought, and one Count Merelth thought too, as he ran his blade down the man¡¯s shoulder. Cleanly cleaving through taut flesh that was not protected at all. This drew an excited smile from him as he yelled his victory, only for him to find his throat grabbed by the man and promptly snapped. Followed by the most impossible sight they have ever seen, where the very cleaved flesh of the man was merely attached back by hand and healed. Over and over, one would seemingly kill him, and he would rise, it did not matter what way they did so, as he rose back no sooner than a few seconds. Each time far more angrier, far more murderous, as with all the weapons scattered around him he engaged to merely kill. Intent at hunting all of them down. This repeated, zealous or craven, pious or sinner, each and every one was hunted by this monstrous man. From ten thousand they were whittled down to eight thousand, then to seven, six, five until four thousand escaped. Yet a bloody toll was reaped from them, and many of the nobility that came to the sacking of Irdelmor was dead, or captured. With those not fortunate enough to die, finding themselves desecrated. Their very forms mutilated and then set ablaze, all in offering to the tree that they burned. Those that survived ran with all their might, and they escaped with half of their sanity intact. With those familiar of Irdel myth and heresies, claiming that man was the Son of Harvest. Once gentle soul of the Irdel faith, now turned to a vengeful spirit, woken from his sleepless death. Now hellbound to harvest in the name of a dead faith. Chapter One: Great Blot of Irdel Within Lukenzal and its many cultures, there is a common tradition where they celebrate a grand feast. Be it at the start or end of winter, the start of a harvest, or every once in a year for the sake of celebration. Many of these are benign, involving peaceful acts of revelry, competition or some manner of romantic event for the young peasantry. But the Irdel has something radically different. They have what they called the Great Blot of Irdel, a clearly pagan ritual which occurs once every two years. It is by tradition to them, that it starts during or after the sixth month of the year. In it, a grand preparation is done to prepare a feast within the great halls of the Irdel, where statues of their old gods are cleaned and prepared. Which is followed by the gathering of select sacrificial animals, chosen by an individual referred to as Herdsman, commonly assisted by local members of their tribe¡¯s priesthood. For these animals, numbering any amount depending on the tribe, would be ritualistically eviscerated. First from the neck, then the belly and finally the back. As a means to spread blood and organs to large cauldrons, prepared beforehand by the the priesthood. Once done the tribe gathers around a large tree, which is often where they place the statues of their gods. Here the cauldrons are brought forth to have its contents applied to the tree and statues, whilst some blood is sprinkled to the gathered tribe members. Resulting in a rather bloody affair. The remnants of the sacrificial animals are cooked, as the final step of the Great Blot begins. Here the Irdel choose from four to an upwards of twenty individuals, either slaves or prisoners from their common raiding, which are then sacrificed to their gods. The manner in which these individuals are sacrificed is usually through hanging, with their bodies allowed to hang by the large trees common to their settlements, where a murder of crows is waiting to feast upon their remains. Then a grand feast can begin, with many Irdel celebrating with great joy within their large halls and longhouses. This Great Blot of theirs is said to be done for the sole reason of gaining favor from their gods, a contrast to the more benign and loving gods of the greater races, as Irdel believe that their gods can only be appeased truly by the sacrifice of flesh, and celebration in that order. Rarely however, during or after a war, captured enemies are treated to a far more barbaric variation of the Great Blot. Here the Irdel commit cannibalism, as instead of animals being ritualistically eviscerated, it is humans or other intelligent beings. With many set ablaze and torn up to several pieces. This version of the Great Blot, is referred to as ¡®Irdel¡¯s Harvest¡¯, presumably referring to a god which their name came from. It was a practice that truly reeked of barbarism, a proof some would use to declare the Irdel to be monsters, their pagan faith being daemonic and be deemed necessary for extermination. The Irdel couldn¡¯t have had cared less, and several now knew why. For their gods were real, and their gods demanded blood. - The wailing had not stopped ever since it began an hour ago, the wailing that woke him from an endless and dreamless sleep. It was a sorrowful and angry wail, their meaning spoken to him through mouths that will never speak again. For the ones that held them were dead, hanging or impaled to the once holy site that he knew to have had been home. Once he recalled, that there was a home here, its details lost to his newly awakened mind, but he felt warm for a moment. Whatever that memory of a home was, it was filled with humanoid figures that set him at ease, but the memory faded. Replaced by the endless wailing of the dead, reminding him of his current task. A task which the wailing of the dead demanded. He did not understand how, or why, but the meaning of their wail was clear to him. They demanded vengeance, salvation and above all, a means to damn the souls of those that desecrated the Irdelmor. Which was what drove him in his mad frenzy, when he woke and was filled by the rage of a dead people. His people. It made him frown as memories not his own bubbled up in his mind briefly, fading quickly as it appeared, leaving only some understanding of what it was. But he knew what happened, these people had attacked the last of the Irdel. The last people that worshipped his kin. Which drew his mind to memories that he owned, or so he believed. He knew himself to be Irdel, a son of harvest, what that meant was lost to him. But he understood that the people of Irdel venerated him, or at least Irdelmor. For in the tongue that he knew, Irdelmor translated directly to ¡®Irdel¡¯s Grave¡¯, which was his. Alas that didn¡¯t matter too much, as his own past eluded him. What mattered was the demands of the wailing and restless souls of the dead Irdel. So he moved, his face now serene and calm, beautiful once more. Unlike the mad and monstrous scowl that overtook him, he looked much more ethereal now. Walking with a grace and poised that seemed natural, gentle, loving, even his own face expressed such a thing. It was even perverse in a way, for he was still naked. But what ethereal quality he could have had emanated, was made null by how bloody he was. His own hands gripping one individual each, both humans having had their limbs broken or hacked of. They could only managed sobs or whimpers, and that did not concern him. For there were dozens more, and maybe hundreds if some survived his mad attacks, buried beneath the bodies he had tossed aside. If, he reminded himself. He hauled the two individuals to the center of the Irdelmor, where the pillars had formed a circle around what was a sort of large rectangular stone. It was a sacrificial altar, that he recognized based off of the carvings upon it. It was written in old Irdel, the words were prayers and various demands to both his kin and the Irdel. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. One of the humans he carried recognized it, and squirmed, starting to yell in terror and sobbing loudly now. This irritated him, for the human was dressed in metal armor he didn¡¯t recognized, surely such an individual was a warrior with no fear? Why else would he have the honor of bearing such a grand thing? His displeasure only intensified when the man looked to him, speaking in a tongue he didn¡¯t know, but clearly begging for his life. This was supposed to be a warrior, not a coward. For such an action, the man was the first to be sacrificed. Forcefully placed on top of the altar, then followed by his armor torn apart, and his body mutilated. First it was his remaining limbs, then his chest, and finally the head. He screamed as Irdel did this, dying pitifully and cowardly as he did so in life. But a sacrifice was a sacrifice, and for a moment Irdel heard the wailing die down. Only for a moment. So he continued, bringing another man to the altar and doing the same thing he did. It was a bloody and messy affair, made worse by the lack of proper tools on hand. So he resorted to the ax of the Irdel people, which did the job well, though with less finesse. But it was good enough, for he continued on. Steadily killing off the remaining survivors, and causing the wailing to subside just a bit more. This went on for what seemed to be another hour, with the harvested parts and organs neatly stacked upon a large cauldron, one that was once full of food used by the Irdel. This act stopped when he went to acquire more individuals, this time it was a female. Young and fairly beautiful, clearly different from the Irdel, for she bore red hair, darker skin and gentle green eyes. For a few seconds the girl looked to him with what was hope, and then turning to fear and revulsion as she viewed his gore caked form. Then the wailing came in his ears, and he grabbed her, his gaze looking all around Irdelmor as he dragged her, kicking and screaming while most likely cursing in whatever tongue she spoke. Unlike the others, she would not be dismembered upon the altar, instead she gained the dubious honor of having herself hanged. When she realized this, she shed tears as she broke down to pitiful sobbing, just when Irdel was looking for a rope to hang her alongside the others on the ancient tree. It annoyed him just like the first man, they were weak and pitiful, seemingly having not expected this when they desecrated Irdelmor. A warrior was one that had long forfeited his life, those that go to battle go knowingly that it may be their last. So it was so that his kin and people smiled in battle, or at least did not weep and wail when blades took them. These people were different, and it made him all the more willing to hang her. But it was proving hard to find a long rope, forcing him to instead attempt to find ones within the packs of the cowardly people. Though as he did so, the world suddenly turned black. Pain coursed through his body for a moment before the blackness gave way to light, and he found himself standing once more as he had fallen for a few seconds. He turned around and saw the girl, being pulled away by a man, saying soothing things to her as he held a strange glowing sword. It was akin to the tales that he heard as a child, a warrior saving a maiden in distress, saving her from some monster or abusive family. But he was neither, for he was the vengeance of the Irdel, and they were the ones that were the monsters. He thought this as he charged at them, hands gripping ax¡¯s he took from the ground, with his beautiful face once more shattering back to that ghoulish and monstrous visage. The heroic man stood his ground, motioning for the girl to run which she did. He yelled something as his face became defiant, but it did not matter to Irdel. None of these cowards and cretins mattered. They were weak, and it showed as he clashed against the man¡¯s blade. As the blade, magical as it was, could not defend quickly enough against the barrage of strikes directed to the man. Irdel held the advantage, and he used it well to overwhelm him, where the practiced and well enhanced form of the man could not seem to keep up. With desperate parries, feints and blocking doing him no good, as more and more Irdel hacked at the man¡¯s armor. The ax¡¯s initially did not bite deep, but it dented and soon shattered the armor as he put more force in it. He was beyond human, and this man was simply one. It could not be called a proper challenge as the man soon had himself cut down, one ax digging deep into his waist, and the other on his neck. It killed him instantly, and Irdel was left with the purpose of chasing after the girl. But he did not feel like it, so he continued with the others. This time thankfully without anyone to disturb him, and actually finding ropes to hang the prisoners. Which he did, managing to hang them along the tree, there they began to wail too, but in their wailing the previous corpses slowly stopped their screams. Which drew a happy smile from him. All that was left was the feast, and he walked to the cauldron where he took it and began a tedious process of cooking human flesh and organ. But he managed, and soon began to bloodily eat everything in a ravenous hunger. Yet as he did this, a deep sense of misery came within him, making him gaze all around to the sight of the Irdelmor. His grave. No, the grave of the people that worshipped his kin and him. A twisted grave with pillars and a tree on fire, yet never affected by the flames, with the corpses upon them bearing the same quality. Truly it was twisted, a place that did not deserve to become like this. Which soon caused his misery to turn into anger, for something deep within his mind egged him on to take revenge, and it made him agree. Even when most of his memories were not there, he understood that vengeance needed to be taken, and Irdelmor was justification enough. However his zeal and choice in deciding to take an extreme action, did not stop the misery. For a reason he could not truly understand, one unrelated to the desecration of Irdelmor, he could not help but begin to cry. As his misery was accompanied by a distinct feeling of loneliness and self-loathing. Chapter Two: Ghost of Old Misery was something Irdel did not like, even when his memories seem out of his grasp, he understood that a part of him had experienced it. That part of him hated it, yet could not control it nor staunch it with enough anger, leading him to wonder why he felt lonely and angry at himself. If it was towards the obvious destruction of the Irdel, then it was futile. For he could not have had awoken if they did not die, the desecration was what brought him from the endless sleep of death. Though he did not know what gave him the ability to resist death, to come back to life in mere seconds after being cutdown. Even in his current state, his mind understood that the wailing and restless souls of the Irdel could not have done that, something else, something ancient. Something he did not wish to understand. To such an extent that to distract himself, he had began the long yet worthy process of respectfully burying many of the Irdel dead. Such a thing in a normal circumstance would be quite hard to do, considering that the Irdelmor was the site of more than nine thousand casualties of combat, with six thousand of those being caused by his own two hands. However, the Irdel wore equipment that was familiar to him. Unlike the strange full-body metal armor the cowards had. This was further made easy when the Irdel bore a strange aura about them. If he could describe it, it was as if he was feeling a fire around their corpse when there was none. It felt malignant and peaceful at the same time, which quickly faded when he buried them. Even their weaponry and equipment held the same feeling, though having a different ¡®pitch¡¯ to it that matched it to their owners. The peculiarity of such a thing was lost to Irdel, it made it easier for him to bury them. Soon he found himself burying the Irdels, losing himself to the motions as time passed. Burying them with his very hands, for there were no tools to aid him in burying them, yet that did not bother him. - There is a thing which the mortals and elves alike refer to as the Weave of Fate. Most commonly it is called the tapestry of fate, the very thing that foretells and dictates the actions of beings of a world. Where no god or mortal could ever not be found within it, as it is made from fate itself, where ancient daughters of elven gods tend to it and weave it to destinies and futures. Forming a grand and beautiful work of art, which spans millennia into the past and future, all of which was composed of grand and monstrous events. For the Weave of Fate could not care, and the daughters of elven gods did not dare weave selfishly for the notion of giving the world more chances, to stop grand calamities before they happened. However, they did weave a possibility of changing these horrific events, giving the mortals and gods the means to change the weave, but at a grand cost that demanded great sacrifice. Which was the only selfish thing they did, for they saw that the Weave of Fate was one that did not care, so in turn it would not care if they changed the weave just enough to aid all living things. But the Irdelmor¡¯s desecration, the death of the Irdel people and the traces of their pagan faith fading, was not foretold by the Weave. None of the Irdel where ever a part of it. So when the Irdelmor was burned, its worshippers destroyed and desecrated, the weave merely showed the burning of monsters and demons, beings that concerted with the greatest enemies of mortal men. To the elven daughters that weaved it so, they did not give it much thought. For the Elven Gods and their beloved worshippers did not think much of humanity, they gave man an apathetic gaze that only changed when their concerns and fate intertwined. Though when the daughters finished their weave, and marveled at the tapestry that depicted holy and pious humans fighting against monstrous foes, they were compelled to weave another tapestry. Each one of them the daughters of fate, compelled by the Weave to work once more even if the latest tapestry was only recently finished. This was not truly a surprise for them, as they were the Daughters, given by their parents to the weave to serve a greater purpose. So no man, elf or beast may ever truly have the means to dictate the lives of others, save for the Weave itself. But what they weaved then was surprising, one that throughout all their centuries had never truly seen. Such a thing baffled them, as they have weaved the rise of a demonic prince, the birth of an empress of sands, the shattering of the human empire and the birth of the beastfolk. Surely such fates would have had harden their hearts and minds. Sadly it did not. As the tapestry depicted the Irdelmor in all of its glory. Primal, withered, blackened by fire and decorated by dozens of corpses hanging from its branches, their eyes and mouths wide open that led to a dark abyss as they screamed in silence. Even in its current form, the daughters could hear their scream, ending and in suffering, begging for an end that would never come. Then upon the foot of the Irdelmor was a thousand dead, the previous holy and pious warriors laid broken on the bloodsoaked earth around the Irdelmor, their forms savaged beyond reason. Many bearing looks of regret and fear, while others bore clear signs of their bodies being eaten or pulled apart by some monster. Finally there was a figure that stood out below all of this, a naked and gaunt figure. A being that was pale as the moon, skin as dry as parchment and emaciated to the point he was nearly bones. It vaguely was human, long and ashy hair obscured its face, but there they saw a ghoulish smile, with hollow eyes that showed nothing but utter malice. Strangely this ghoulish thing was holding on to its neck, large and unnaturally clawed hands attempting to choke himself as blood dripped from it. While on his face was the smallest trace of tears, as he seemed to stare at whomever viewed the tapestry with the desire to inflict pain. As naturally as how gods could react, the daughters tried their best to look away, but they as weavers could not do so, as they were forced to continue weaving the tapestry. Which led to more additions, depicting more and more death, first in the desert lands where an Empress ruled, next at the heart of the human kingdoms, followed by many dead beastmen on the frozen heartlands, going on and on. It seemed to be without end, and it ended at what seemed to be the Irdelmor once more, showing the ghoulish figure sitting beneath the tree, surrounded by more bodies again. Then suddenly the still depiction of the ghoul turned its head impossibly, screaming a dirge that sent the daughters to their knees, as they saw a vision of senseless death. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. - When he had buried them all, Irdel felt himself at peace, the wailing of the dead was gone for now, and all that was left in Irdelmor was himself and his thoughts. It felt surreal at first, as Irdelmor was a sight of a grand battle, desecration and grand sacrifice, but here he felt peace. His mind wandering to the fuzzy memories of his home, where in it the land was lush and green, a home stood, and the vague figures of what he thinks was his family accompanied him. It was simple, a life that he felt strange considering what he had done. He killed, mutilated and sacrificed many, but they were deserving and he felt no guilt. But it did not coincide with what memory he had, for his actions were that of a masterful warrior, berserk and unerring in his dedication. Even he knew of concepts of war and the religion the Irdel practiced, which truly was peculiar when his memories of his own past was muddled and cracked. Alas he could do little about it, for he only had came back from his grave on this day, and his own heart was heavy with strange grief and self-loathing. Both of which he did not like, so he steeled himself and gathered what he could from the Irdelmor that did not have an aura. Letting him find equipment that belonged to an Irdel warrior, which was merely simple leather pants, rough leather boots, and then a chainmail which he paired with a linen shirt. Though he also found two ax¡¯s, both practical and simple but bearing clear qualities that made it far deadlier and sturdier. As the wood was different than others, bearing the same quality as the withered tree of Irdelmor itself, while the ax head gleamed eerily as he held it, its sharpness letting it glint under the moonlight. Then finally a simple round wooden shield, bearing little special quality other than the painting on its front. Which depicted the withered tree of Irdelmor, and three runes surrounding it. He did not recognize the runes, but he felt that it most likely was related to war. With these in hand, Irdel brought them along as best as he could without resorting to wearing them first. For he was dirty, and even if he did not care for that, he did not wish to dirty the equipment of a once living honored warrior. So through what memories he had of the site of Irdelmor and its surrounding, he searched for what he remembered to be a small pond to the east of the Irdelmor. He sought this out, for he was caked in gore and dirt. The unreal amount of people he killed in his waking, the wounds he himself had suffered, and the fact he mutilated many more and devoured them had resulted in this. Where his body was covered from head to toe in it, his beautiful face bearing a mask of dried blood, making much of his long hair stick to it and to his neck. While his very hands was covered in thick layer of viscera and dirt, with much of his torso being in the same state. Which oddly mimicked the state of Irdelmor¡¯s soil, where the dreary grass was now an eerie red, the earth and what vegetation left taking on the same hue, while the altar itself remained freshly bloodied. Even if Irdel committed the Great Blot hours ago. So he searched for the pond, finding nothing at first while walking seemingly without direction. Though soon stumbled upon a camp next to a stream, and found that it led south to what presumably was a lake. He followed the stream, walking with unhurried steps as he felt the wind batter his gore covered form, where it carried the poignant smell of his slaughter. Proof of the thousands of dead that had their blood upon him like a war scar, a mark of what he had done so casually. The more he grew aware of this fact, the more uncomfortable it was. Warm blood upon his skin felt comfortable, thrilling, a sort of fuel to his bloodlust. But when it was dried and mixed with the blood of thousands and their viscera, it became nearly unbearable and truly uncomfortable. A true reminder of the ramifications of his actions. Warm blood of the living now cold and dry, just like the corpses he left in his wake. So when he found a lake near what seemed to be an entrance to a large swathe of forests, he felt relief. There upon the lake he would bathe, carefully washing off every nook and cranny of his body, so he may wash off the blood and dirt on his form. Here he realized that he had no greater plan, no true motivation save for the desire to slaughter the cowards, to bring vengeance upon the realms that the cowardly warriors came from. But how could he find them? How would he, a son of harvest from a dead culture from a dead past would ever find them? Surely to find a means to gain information, he would need to learn the strange language of these cowards, and not only that parley or even cooperate with them. Such a notion that he would ever stand as equals to this people, was a concept that strangely felt offensive to him. The very idea was anathema, and he found himself unintentionally growing angry which he reigned in as it was unreasonable. He was the last of the Irdel yes, but it did not mean he would be foolish in his desire for vengeance. A blade was only as useful as the warrior that wielded it, a mindless and misguided combatant would be useless and a liability, this he knew through his muddled memories, and with that reasoning he sought to understand. For if the Irdel sought for him to avenge them in their dirge, then he would at least need to understand the cultures that brought ruin to his people. So he may hate them as the Irdel did, strangely he felt as if he already knew the answer. Though with the state of his memories, he could not understand why. The more he tried to remember, anger rose up and he found himself once more in a desire to slaughter. Then he spoke, letting a whisper out as he gazed down on his reflection on the lake, staring at his beautiful and noble face, which turned ghoulish as he growled. ¡°Zinar Tel¡­¡± A name he did not know, but a name he hated.