The Artist

[frozen mahotaur]

The wind shrieked like a child in pain. There were so very many of these undead things. Bodies mummified, bits of clothing on their bony frames. In the night’s embrace quiet shapes flitted beyond rooms, wandered throughout the workshop. There was other movement in the fortress.  One hand lifted, a hammer grasped by its fingers. It was beautifully fashioned. Runes glowed along its length. Mana wafted from it. At times this stranger missed the past, realizing that he was holding a completely different tool than the simple blade he enjoyed so much.


His body was filled with scarifications, scars as testament to the battles he had endured.

"To bring judgement upon the damned."

He whispered, a humorless smile curvng over the lips.  A fresh thrum of power and a knock to the heated blade.

"Sooner or later, it was bound to happen, but I wonder."

The noise ceased, a fresh work of steel carved, impurities taken away. A new shimmering essence, radiant beyond the metal. Perhaps Runeblades were not uncommon, but this set was rare, created for Champions and adorned by a sudden certainty: the prospect of Carnage.

"Will we meet again, monk?"

No more of the noise. The figure lifted, leaving the hammer at table while staring upon a cage. Simple people, farmers by their homespun clothing. A woman cradling the child in her arms, both ghastly pale and soaked in sweat.

"...I hope so. Yours would be a beautiful one."

The last piece, silent steps and then, the closing of a door.