《Malevolence: Fool's Dogma》


 Prologue: The Harrow

    He is a child following a strange man.


    His body moved when it no longer should, his mind demanding that he beg for food and water from the man. For his body was malnourished and dying. Yet he did not, no he couldn¡¯t. For he never learned how to speak. Instead he looked to the man as a source of hope, a possibility of not dying. Though he couldn¡¯t walk anymore, and fell with a silent thud.


    The man stopped, looking to him with a face of cracked silver like a god, and with a whisper he asked.


    ¡®Do you have faith?¡¯


    He is a child being branded by gods.


    He sits in silence, his lips sealed shut as his bruised and battered form is marked by his gods. ¡®Endure¡¯ the silvered one says, as arcs of pain coursed through his very body, with their source being sharp heated needles that scarred his form. The pain is bearable, for it is a gift from his gods who had saved him, and he smiles at them.


    But they do not.


    He is a teenage boy, hands clutching chains over a sobbing man.


    ¡®Spare me Ser, please spare me¡­¡¯ The sobbing man said, hands clutching chains that slowly wrapped around his neck. ¡®My family, they be without food a-and warmth¡­ F-Forgive me Ser, please spare me!¡¯ He kept speaking, but the boy did not heed them. His gods taught him of faith, dogma and most of all, law. Yet none taught him of true pity, most of all for heretics such as this man. Without a word he pulled the chains taught with great force, resulting in a wet snap reaching his ears, and the sobbing to have abruptly ended.


    ¡®You¡¯ve done well aspirant.¡¯ A voice soon rang behind him, he made to promptly let go and to attempt to kneel. But he was stopped by silver and golden hands, forcing him to stand. No words escaped his lips, only that of silent obeisance to them, to his gods. Then they gave him a mask, a new face.


    He is a teenage boy, wearing the face of his gods.


    He stands besides the silver gods, his own face covered by a dull mask showing a god¡¯s face. His face. But he was not his gods, he could never be, that he knew. Yet he stands among their company now, assembled before kneeling prisoners of a heretical faith. They speak and yell, claiming that they were in the right, and that their magics were not dark.


    But they were wrong, as his gods soon said. ¡®Nary a hint of repentance nor that of acceptance,¡¯ one said, a god of bronze and bloodstained steel. ¡®Truly thou kin are naught of men, but of daemons and sinner. Yer kith and yer kin, be that of same quality, then only in death mayhaps you be quelled.¡¯ In that instance he acted in accordance to their teachings, and he moved with the gods. Ten blades raised aloft, sanctified by hallowed oil, then wetted by heretical blood in mere seconds.


    He is a young man, once more kneeling and being branded by his gods.


    He is branded once more, but this time he kneels as his arms are marked by the honor and kill markings of his gods. The pain is not there, his mind long since having forgotten that the act now was of torturous pain, instead associating it with the norm of his gods. He does not smile, he merely waits. With every second bearing the sound of hissing flames, searing flesh, or the mere laboured breathings of others being branded with him in this chamber.


    Women are at the side of others, healers and mages, at the ready to tend to the wounds or failings of the other younger worshippers. One falls in exhaustion, another passes out in sheer pain, yet all he feels is disgust towards them. Without meaning to, his face breaks into that of a frown. One of the women approaches in response, raising her hand to bring soothing relief to his form, halting the searing lances of markings from his gods.


    He stops her with a look, and spoke for the first time without permission from his gods. ¡®No.¡¯


    He is a young man, staring at the silver mask of his god.


    He is crying, tears falling from his eyes without restraint, yet he stands firm and resolute. But tremors of sorrow course through his body, making his hands tremble with his chest. The other gods stand behind him, not speaking, as his god look to him with gentle and unfamiliar eyes. With the silver mask being removed from his face.


    ¡®My son.¡¯ The silver god says, his face old and worn, wracked by creases and scars from a thousand hallowed crusades of their sacrosanct order. Yet it did not detract from the kindness expressed in this moment, even when the silver god was dying. In response, all he did was kneel, taking off his own mask as he still cried.


    ¡®Cry not for this one, for I hath served our order with grand distinction. It is folly to cry for I, for I am but one of our many warriors.¡¯ The silver god spoke, his smile never leaving his face, even when he cried, even when the other gods watched on in damning silence. It was here that he would speak for the second time without the permission of his gods.


    ¡®You are the greatest of us all¡­¡¯ He began, tears pouring out unrelenting and renewed with his words. ¡®If I hadn¡¯t failed upon stopping that blow¡­ Then mayhaps there is aught we can do with your condition¡­¡¯ But his god just laughed, without the veneer of his silver mask, his god looked just like a father. His father. It only compounded more to his sadness than ever before.


    ¡®Nay, to consider I to be great, is to be blind to yourself my son. It has been decades since I first walked with the mask of our kith, and nearly a two decades since I have come across you.¡¯ The sadness he felt, the kindness shown to him by the silver god, all of it was truly alien to him. An anathema that for some reason, felt both just as right as it was wrong. Lending him a humanity he once had forgotten.


    ¡®You are Grigori, the Harrow, take pride in it my son, as I have ever since you were given your mask. Your faith and will eclipses that of mine¡­ And I pray to our Maker, that he be kind to your path.¡¯


    He could not understand it, nor did he ever wish to. But he had to, and his god laughed and spoke for the last time in that very day. All giving praise unto him and his achievements, yet most significant of all, giving him a name.


    But it was all so hollow to him.


    He is a young man, undying, immortal yet most of all gilded in his god¡¯s armor and steel.


    He stands atop  fallen rubble, all around him his gods stand at the ready. But it is different now, they aren¡¯t his gods, nor is he their squire or youngling. They are his brothers and sisters now, as with the passing of his silver god, he had replaced him. Yet it still felt hollow, with anger bellowing where the emptiness took root. For the concept of being equal to his gods, was a thing he did not wish to comprehend.


    Around him the other gods stand with their squires and chosen, but he stands alone. He above all bore the grey mask of the Harrow, his station, his purpose and most of all, the title bestowed upon his god. It compelled him to raise his weapon, a mace topped by a strange a caged crown-like brazier, lit up to cast light upon the lazy afternoon environment they were in. With a mere thought, before them, a several miles away, a score of men died from an eruption of flames that came from beneath them.


    ¡®Glory to the Order.¡¯ He simply said, before moving downward from his perch, only to be met by the sound of charging and warcries from his comrades, with their very cohort rushing forward to meet their heretical foes. Just like how he was trained, they slaughtered every single one that stood before them with fire, magic and steel. Yet now was different, his mask was that of a frowning god, one of judgement and utter contempt for all that stood against him.


    Though he was doing this out of loneliness, out of sadness and emptiness, for they were part of the order that took his god away from him. So he killed with ferocity, with such hate and madness that it awed the other gods, yet most of all it struck a deep fear upon their foes. For none but him tore, burned and slaughtered without a care if his opponent was surrendering.


    Only death could quell his rage, and only their damnation would he ever find peace.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    He is a young man covered in the blood of humans.


    They beg him to stop, they begged with all their breath but he paid not heed to them. His mace moving in frenzied swings that crushed or burned all that it hit, be they man, woman or even child. For they were foes, they were heretics and they deserved death, for they took his god away from him so long ago. Not even their screams and sobbing stopped him, as his once silvered and grey form was colored a sanguine red for this act.


    Soon a blade stopped his mace, halting his strike as it was mere inches away from crushing the head of a sobbing woman shielding a younger child. He looked up to see the face of another god, one that was of polished marble depicting a smiling goddess. It was one of his sisters, younger than him by mere decades.


    ¡®Have you gone mad Ser Harrow?!¡¯ She asked him in anger and confusion, but he moved to regain his mace and swing it once more to the heretics she protected. But the goddess stopped him, again and again, forcing him then to answer her as each time he tried to kill, she stopped him. Halting his very rampage against their rightful foes.


    ¡®Not mad, merely doing my duty against these heretics.¡¯ Was what he told her, but it did not let him continue, instead the goddess raised her bastard sword towards him, levelling her shield too against him. This brought confusion upon him, for the gods never fought against one another, never. This gave him pause, only for a snarl to soon leave his lips.


    ¡®I shan''t let you slaughter the innocent Ser! Mayhaps they are of the heretical faith, yet they have done no wrong and have surrendered!¡¯ Her words were ashes to him, their taste indigestible and furthermore heresy. They were enemies, they needed to be killed and put to the flame in every waking moment. His will demanded that, his sorrow and emptiness.


    Yet the gods could not fight with one another, not here, not now. There was time for that later and he bit back his pride and fury, lowering his face but levelling his gaze to her. ¡®Madness.¡¯ Was what he soon said, but turning around and leaving the goddess to the people she had saved, to one of the few that were spared upon that day.


    He is a young man, surrounded by his brethren, yet judged by their eyes.


    ¡®Your rage is unreasonable brother,¡¯ One said to him, eyes of deep blue with his mask off, a younger god, far younger than he was. It galled him for the younger ones to think they were capable of dispensing judgement or suggestion to him, they were misguided, for they did not know how the order truly worked. He did not speak, instead he looked upon them with his defiant eyes, blood red eyes that spoke of a deep madness they were well aware of.


    ¡®It needn¡¯t be this bloody Grigori, heretics they are, but they can be converted to our faith. Salvation lies before them, and they can be absolved from their heretical ways.¡¯ Another spoke, a goddess, the same goddess that stopped his rampage. This drew a clenching of hands from Grigori, as he soon tensed up, anger boiling within him. That was not the way the gods had raised him nor taught him, and these younger ones were far more lenient in their belief.


    ¡®Only in death may they be absolved of their sin.¡¯ He says finally, eliciting a look of utter shock and disgust from the younger gods. From that he clearly deduced they were different, oh so different that it made him angry. Were their mentors so lenient upon their teachings, that they would give mercy to heir hated foes? Indeed, they were, that was what he thought.


    ¡®You are mad Grigori, truly so.¡¯ The goddess spoke, reaching a hand out to hold his, but he slapped it away with a snarl. ¡®Touch me not you curr, I am not mad, merely true and honest to our hallowed creed.¡¯ This shocked her, having not thought that this would be his reaction, which furthermore reinforced his belief of their disgusting lack of faith.


    ¡®Why are you like this Grigori? Our order is not merely that of blood and death, but of healing and peace, why do you dedicate yourself to this very path?¡¯ She asked, but no answer came as he stood up. Slamming his armored hands upon the table of stone, cracking its surface with his strength, a show of his displeasure and most of all refusal to give them his own thoughts. For there was no need to. If the heretics did not exist, he wouldn¡¯t have been upon this path.


    If his silver god never died, he wouldn¡¯t be this empty.


    If his father was still alive, then mayhaps he would have found a means to turn his anger to something else.


    He is a young man, watching his order change.


    He is a young man, mourning the gods he once knew that fell.


    He is a young man, turned god, summoned to another world, another time, to be a savior.


    He is a god, a god that hates.


    -


    He woke from his dream, a dream that recounted every single significant thing that occurred within his century of living. They were muddy and barely whole, but he knew the gist of many of them by heart, for he had pondered upon them so many times in the past. His dream was one unnatural, that he remembered, for he needed not sleep, for he was a god of his order. This sleep was one brought about by foul magic, by those claiming to be Gods, true Gods akin to the maker of his religion.


    ¡°Your past is one of great delusion and sorrow, I pray to thee that you save us o Warrior-Lord, save us from the coming evil of the abyss that seeks to damn a million souls!¡± A voice like silk spoke to him, breaking him out of his pondering. Its source was a woman, a lovely woman of a goddess-like quality, flanked by six wings and a dress that left nothing to the imagination. But sexuality was something he forgot, or rather paid no heed to. He did not need it.


    This only reminded him of how he was whisked away from his world, when he kneeled, when he prayed to the Maker, the Void Father, the God of All. Where fell powers ripped him from the sacred soil of his temple, and into this strange, yet wondrous land of ancient stone and hallowed air. A false land.


    ¡°No.¡± He simply replied, for this woman, and all the other so called Gods that watched him, were false Gods. They were not the Maker, for the Maker could only be one. This however would not have made him refuse such a thing, but rather it was because of them asking for him to accept them, to let them boost his strength to aid him in his journey.


    His creed, his very dogma demanded that he only accept the Void Father. Most of all, his long dead silvered god taught him of faith, a deep and true faith which allowed his silver god to have faced death with his smile. The very act of accepting their proposition was one that spat upon all that he had believed in, one that he had lived by for nearly one hundred and eighty five centuries in holy Urth. Such a thought sent his hearts beating in fury, hands gripping his mace¡¯s length tightly as his face broke into that of wrathful fury.


    All of it however was hidden by his grey mask, with the Goddess having continued speaking, even with his reply.


    ¡°Please Warrior-Lord, do this not for us, not for the Gods of this world, but for those innocents threatened by monsters and the grand evil of the abyss! Find it within yourself to have mercy, and do this for the righteous cause of good!¡± She said so with great conviction and pleading, her beautiful and angelic face breaking to that of great sorrow and desperation as tears fell from her eyes.


    A lesser man would have accepted, a tactful man would have at least agreed partially. But a god of his Order did not only refuse, but acted. In a mere handful of heartbeats, he unclasped his mace from his waist and swung it towards the Goddess, with only the sound of its brazier catching on fire being a warning to his attack.


    It was in that moment that he, Grigori found his faith upon his order and religion, solidified greatly. For he was faced by false gods, gods that bore upon him thoughts that his own faith was false. Which was enough for him to act.


    For he was a god that hated.

 CHAPTER ONE: Heresy begets Hate

    ¡°Once there was a Crusader, he bore no religion but one from his world not of ours. He preached not peace, he spoke not of their creed or belief, but he showed contempt to all that dare gainsay his own belief, more so to those that tried to convert him.¡±


    - Tale of the Knight and the Sorceress, verse one.


    The first lesson he had ever learned from his silver god, was that when one strikes, there must never be a single iota of strength wasted or witheld. The first strike must always be capable of sundering the countenance of an individual, able to shatter through the defenses of a foe in one mere swift blow. That was the first lesson that he bore when he all but wielded a simple blade. A lesson which he stayed true to now.


    For his mace was swung with great and insane inhuman strength, which its speed being so swift that in just four heartbeats, the false Goddess before him would be struck by it upon her face. Yet much to his shock, the sound of metal impacting flesh did not resound, but instead that of metal bearing the brunt of his attack. Followed by the clear and crisp sound of something breaking into many pieces, or crumpling inwards.


    In mere seconds he took in what happened. His mace swung true, almost nearing the Goddess by the fifth beating of his twin hearts, yet in that instance an individual came from behind and pushed her aside with great speed. Bearing forward a shield and sword, both of which held clear designs of holy likeness, with runic letters reeking of magic and enchantments. The individual, armored in resplendent silver and gold armor, brought aloft by four angelic wings, grunted heavily as his mace impacted the shield they carried. The shield crumpled inwards, its magic doing no good.


    The individual was a handsome man, an angel of sorts, his face bearing a strange feminine quality that made him cute. With his eyes glowing gold, skin smooth and fair, and hair glowing white. All of which was soon dyed red, as Grigori in just two heart beats, drew back his mace and swung it towards the angel¡¯s left leg. The speed surprised the angel, prompting him to try and back away, but he was far too slow than Grigori. For in an instant, Grigori¡¯s mace hit his leg, crumpling the armor and soon burning the flesh beneath, but all met with the angel¡¯s leg breaking into a mangled piece.


    He did not even get the chance to scream, as Grigori moved forward, bearing forth his free hand into sudden grab. Clutching at the angel¡¯s face and suddenly moving to slam him to his back, which he did so with minimal attempt in a counter to his actions. Letting him slam the angel down to his back, cracking the polished and tiled floor they stood upon, letting a crater form with the great force Grigori completed his actions.


    The angel could only react with puking out blood, his once fair face covered in blood, with his body unable to move due to the insane trauma Grigori dealt upon him. All of this occurred in just a few moments, lending the Gods that watched it unfold a shocked expression. Yet their expression of shock turned to that of horror, as Grigori placed a foot upon the angel¡¯s chest and used his free hand to pull at the nearest arm. Which was their left.


    ¡°N-No! Warrior-Lord stop please! Spare my champion, he is innocent of this! Lay your wrath upon me and not him! Spare him!¡± Just as he was pulling against the arm, intent at dismembering it from the angel, the Goddess spoke, fear and utter desperation laced her voice. It was akin to a mother¡¯s desperation, one that did not want their child hurt.


    Yet at the same time, it was akin to a lover¡¯s unwilling to let the one they hold dearest to suffer any more. Neither made him stop nor gave him pause, but both gave fuel to his anger that was merely smoldering. Now it was turning into a conflagration, as he stared upon the Goddess. His dour grey mask, one depicting a stylized face of utter contempt and judgement, was what the Goddess would see now. What she would remember upon this day, as he savagely pulled the angel¡¯s arm.


    One thug was not enough, but it drew a loud sickening snap, alongside that of chainmail and armor breaking. Followed by the angel screaming in utter agony, only for him to begin choking upon his blood.


    ¡°NO!¡± She screamed, tears falling now upon her face as she flew towards them, only stopped by even more angels who glared at Grigori. They could not risk her being attacked by him, not even when her champion was in deep pain. Though no satisfaction came to Grigori, no enjoyment, only that of hate. For these were heretics, false gods, demons and ill-spirits. They were worthy of nothing more than contempt.


    With another thug, Grigori tore the angel¡¯s arm free. Letting blood burst from the arm and the stump upon where the arm was formerly attached to. Without much thought he threw the arm away, and brought his foot stomping down upon the bleeding angel. This sundered his chestplate, caving it inwards and even drawing another scream from the angel, but now it was weak, barely audible. This despite all the training Grigori held, it made him smile, for it showed they were weak and without will.


    This level of pain was nothing, at least to that of a Warrior-Lord of his Order. This reinforced his belief that they were heretics, for only those that believed in false Gods were so weak. Though as he pondered that, an attack came from both of his sides, then behind this he knew for his senses told him of it. His own powers welling up as he reacted to it, bearing forth his mace and arm to meet the attacks head on.


    It was an attack that surely even he could not hope to defend against all. But they were wrong, as he met the first strike to his side by bearing his mace to strike against the weapon, which was a spear that soon had its blade broken. Then without missing a beat he swiftly spun around, bearing his mace to strike the attacker from behind him with his other hand moving to meet the other strike, showing his ability as he stopped a broadsword and another sword respectively.


    His attackers were not angels however, they were three different individuals. One of the false gods he mused. One was a warrior, a savage barbarian with bronze skin, bearing a grand spear, another was lithe and graceful elven warrior, with the last being a surprisingly smiling priestess. This did not matter, as he continued to act moments after blocking their strikes.


    With grand savagery and confidence, he struck out, lashing outwards with his mace in deft but weighty blows. Merged with that of the holy flame that burned eternally upon the brazier of his mace, fueled by his faith and will. Yet most of all he moved with the sacrosanct magic of his kith, manifesting wordlessly as bursts of flame around his body, or that of strange ghostly apparitions that synced with his relentless attack.


    The false gods that faced him found it relatively easy to avoid his attacks, for he needed to not only strike against them, but defend from three of them all at the same time. It left some holes upon his defense, but one he made up for with his seemingly unreasonable penchant for quickly shifting his attention to another of them.


    He was a true warrior, a true god of his Order. He fought in such a manner that drew pause even to his enemies, with each clash sundering either their weapons or their armor, with Grigori merely gaining rents upon his form that he paid little heed to. Death was a possibility he had long forgotten, a thing of the past he no longer cared for. But for them, the way they acted, they feared it with every waking breath.


    The first to fall to his onslaught was the barbarian, his weapon torn into two, with his bronze skin seared black by the flames of his mace. Though his death was not clean or short, for Grigori swiftly gripped upon his dying form, and used his form as a shield against a strike from the elf, whose eyes grew wide upon what he did.


    The next to fall was the priestess, whose comely face was shattered and bashed inwards by a swift strike, after breaking through her guard and soon immolated by his flame.


    The last was the elf, who fell not by blade or magic, but by strangulation. Done so when Grigori moved forward, mere seconds after having squashed the priestess¡¯s head, breaking through his guard with a jab with his mace, only for him to soon grip at the elf¡¯s neck with his hand. Which he then strangled and snapped with little care.


    All of these occurred in just mere minutes, a quick fight which seemed to have dragged on for Grigori. The effect of his fight however, of his seemingly overwhelming victory showed in the fearful expression of the other Gods. There were some that clearly were either warriors or mages, ones with the look and feel to do battle with him. Yet all they held now was hesitation and fear, most of all weighted down by regret of bringing him here upon their domain.


    This he did not care for, Grigori merely answered to the call for slaughter against them. In mere seconds after, he engaged another, intent at slaughtering every single one of them. For they were falsities that could only be corrected by blood and fire. Yet just as he reached his next target, a Goddess that bore resemblance to a beautiful siren, he felt the coming of a blade to his side.


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    He reacted near instantly, bringing his mace downwards to block before retaliating with an overhead swing, with the same intensity as his first strike. Yet he did not hit anything, merely shattering air and throwing a gust of air towards where he thought his opponent was.


    Instead it seems to have been a bid to gain his attention, and there he saw the Goddess again. Crying mournfully as she cradled the broken form of the angel he first engaged. The Goddess was wailing, cradling the angel lovingly and truly sorrowfully. It was a sight often spoken in legends and myths, that of a loving Goddess mourning her love, or greatest champion. One that moved poets and readers alike for its many meanings.


    But such a meaning was lost to Grigori, he did not care, he couldn¡¯t and wouldn¡¯t. For all he saw was targets, and he moved forward. Intent at lunging forward and bringing his face to shatter the Goddess¡¯s skull. For they were heretics, all of them, which deserved no consideration but that of death. Such single minded fury compelled him forward, only bolstered by his faith and zeal.


    In truth, there was little reason he did this. Little justification aside from his faith and mindless belief. For this was all he knew, all he shall ever do, and all he shall ever be. The Harrow, a god of his order¡¯s past. A Deus that he knew to be scorned by the many younger Deus of his order.


    Once more he didn¡¯t care, not even the sudden thought of such a thing stopping him from his move. Yet something was strange, different now, and soon it showed. In the way that the earth below him cracked and fell, swallowing him with it.


    This still did not stop him, as he moved and used every ounce of his magic to try and get back up, just as when his fall was truly happening. Though he couldn¡¯t, instead his body was pushed downwards by a sudden surge of angels, all of which were howling in utter fury.


    ¡°Monster!¡±  ¡°Murderer!¡± ¡°Daemon!¡± ¡°Fiend!¡± ¡°Kinslayer!¡±


    He heard them cry those words out unto him, making his descent downwards more annoying as he began to instead bear his rage against them. He swathed them with his mace, hitting and stabbing, intent at killing them just as surely as he was to die now when he hit what was below. Though as he was taken by his need to kill the manifold angels that rushed him downwards, the world around him changed.


    Previously it was akin to a dreamlike rotunda, a grand cathedral of marble and an amphitheater all the same. Now he was no longer there, as he fell through blue skies and white clouds, with the sight above bearing that of a grand portal-like whirlwind that swirled with golden light and clouds. With at its center uncannily showing the sobbing features of the Goddess, almost as if someone wanted to make him guilt for his actions.


    But he only cared for the slaughter of the angels that rushed him. The cleansing of the heretics, the falsities and the abominations. Even when he was falling from such a grand height. His hate occupied him like a poison, and he wouldn¡¯t have cared either way


    -


    It was not wrong to assume that a large portal-like opening in the sky would be noticed by many, more so when it was that of golden light and clouds. With a horde of angels flowing downwards unto a single armored man, akin to a parable of ancient old. Where one who sinned greatly was to be punished to fall, to fall without grace and honor, beset by his kindred of old. One that many poets and philosophers would cite for generations to come.


    Though this sudden opening came into existence directly above the Sedisian Badlands, one predominantly ruled by Dragons and their draconian ilk, with both subspecies of trolls and orcs living within its varied settings. It was a very diverse place, with a very tenuous balance between all that lived there, as none could truly fight with the Dragons, save the greatest of champions, or the Gods themselves.


    That balance however was to be broken now, as directly below the epicenter of the large holy opening upon the heavens, fell a gilded man. A gilded man who tore at the angels that come upon him, causing many to fall and impact the ground with grand speeds. Whilst he himself fought and fought, nary a care upon falling.


    This many saw, from the Dragons that flew, to even the fell shamans of the trolls and orcs. They saw it unfold, and many felt a deep burning chill caress their spines, as the gilded man slaughtered without end. With even the fall of his creating a crater, it did not stop him. He stood once more and engaged all that would fight him, lashing out with such a berserk fury that the angels had little hope.


    Scores upon scores of them were snuffed out, torn asunder by blunt trauma or strange magics. Yet their perpetrator, whose face was that of a grey mask of dour judgement, expressed little noise. Silent like a reaper tending to his quarry. He was inhuman and unrelenting, wrought in both berserker and righteous fury that brought fear to those that saw him.


    For the Angels were no ordinary foes, they were the tools of the Mother Goddess, the saviors, the avenging kin, those who slew Dragons to save the innocent, those who aided mortals in their righteous paths. Yet they died easily against this masked individual, falling like mortals against a demigod. Which was enough of a cautionary warning that many Dragons, and the trolls and orcs that saw this to shy away. To warn their kindred of this, to speak of a single being that slaughtered angels without pause.


    Though there was one individual, an effeminate orc scorned for his capabilities in magic. He did not see the masked one, but he could hear his thoughts, he could feel his being and it drew him to this individual. His petite and barely muscled form moved without thought, as his own mind was beset by the voice of this god as he fought.


    He was a god slaughtering heretics.


    He was a god that saw no end to his purpose.


    He was a god that was lonely, forced on only by madness.


    He was a god, and he would damn the Gods of this world for their falsities.


    He was a god, a god that hated.


    But those thoughts were not spoken openly, the god did not speak their language, and those thoughts were not of the mind, but of the soul. The magus felt it, the loneliness and the encroaching darkness within this individual, and he was drawn to it, for he felt something similar within himself. Compelled by the sudden desire to help this man, this warrior he did not even know nor see.


    Though he heard it clearly, the death screams of the angels, the sound of magic and the sundering of armor, it resounded clearly inwards into the forest, coming from one of the plains of his home. This didn''t stop him, as it only forced him to move forward. Even when a part of him knew why he moved forward, why he chose to answer this sudden whim within himself.


    It was because he was scorned by his people, scorned for being different, scorned for being half of their kind. This was a chance of salvation, a chance of difference and a new life, even if it would lead to death. Yet he followed, moved and began to run, to the god to the god  that hated, to the one that saw all others that worshipped another religion as heretical.


    He ran to Grigori, and upon passing by the last scores of trees, he came upon the large plains, only to see Grigori himself standing and strangling an angel, doing so with red eyes that burned with the hatred of a thousand souls.


    ¡°Denounce your Goddess, denounce her and you will live.¡± He said, with the magus understanding the words even when it was the first time had heard it.


    ¡°Never.¡± The angel replied, to which Grigori replied by immolating the being without a thought. Only for him to throw away the burning body, and drawing his sight to the Magus that had just arrived.