When a man dies his soul does not go to heaven nor hell it wears a worse fate. This is a story of a man nicknamed only by a duty
A battlefield of wretched condition or perhaps pristine due to the nature of war had corpses piled to the dozen strewn about. Unlike that of those beside him a man would rise not from the ground or beneath a pile of bodies but from a coffin inside a tomb, and he would look about and see something that caught his eyes a mirror and a sword. The man walked towards the mirror and saw a visage of despair not on his face but all over his body, it was as if he merged with a hundred corpses he stumbled back feeling the faces. Flesh and bone is all he felt as he touched the calcified faces horrors flooded his mind of a man shrieking and roaring about. The mirror shattered and the blades fell to the floor reflecting unto him stone people dripping down from it as if made of water reaching towards the tomb. The man shaking looked back at himself. Long red hair adorned his head and the pants tattered and ripped only served to unsettle him as he was bony and had nothing to hide it. Now if you were to ask him why he cared about the raggedness he was forced to dawn he wouldn't have a very forward answer because he does not know. But what he does know is there is a terrible stench hitting him and he walks outside his home for the past however knows long and sees a man wearing a silver crown and long robe hunched over a cane. He appears dead in late stages of rigor mortis but the man turns to Forlorn and says "oh my the great Forlorn has returned! This was not a wasted effort" then the man's eyes turn glossy and he falls over turning to dust before the Forlorn's eyes. He looks out hundreds of bodies not all injured but all clearly dead.