The grizzled warrior sat down, his two shortswords resting in his lap. He looked down, his mind flashing through his life, memories rushing and flowing through him as he slowly, quietly traced the inscriptions on one of them. "Never Forget." They said, in Daen. The last remnants of an old life he'd had, his times at Turall... Nearly sixty years back. Sobs wracked his body as he began to cry once more, remembering his life, everything he'd done, and everything he'd had yet to accomplish. He'd ascended to become a champion, wielding his weapons in fights, one by one. First, he was a sellsword, and then a mercenary leader. Then, he'd left for Regalia, and become a house guard among the Winsloughs. He remembered his time there, him being an impulsive youth, a tad too quick to anger and to fight, until he'd eventually stormed off in a rage and joined another guard force. He remembered them with mixed emotions. Anna Caladwen, the warrior who had brought him there, and their similar, fiery hearts. Julius Cormac, the Viridian who had tried to instill within him the rules of honor and chivalry, but in the end was sadly unsuccessful.
His time after that, his conflict with the young woman Raquel coming to a head... And her eventual fate, not at his hand but at the hand of another. His fury that another man had stolen his vengeance, and his transformation into something else... A monster. He'd become what he'd felt at the time to be a monster, forsaken by Death, brought back to fight more. His memories went past that again, seeing him now having started a family of his own, but not in the traditional sense, a gathering of similar people and supporters of his affliction, which he'd by then thought of with apathy. To him, by then, it was simply another state of being, not better or worse than what he already was. Old muscles went to work once more as his memories went through that, happy times with them, the kindness of the family he'd built, until he eventually took up work again as a pit fighter. In the arena, he descended upon his foes with quick, efficient cuts, in Turall sequences that his body had placed deep into his memory.
He remembered his times there, his laughter of joy as he had reminisced over fights won and injuries taken, battles fought to a near draw, and the enemies he had spared from their fate to join him and his group again. Later, they'd become a mercenary group, hiring out their skills to the highest bidder, taking down rogue mages as one, cohesive unit.
Throughout that, he remembered more the times spent partying and even just talking with his new family, and the times Carter, his brother by blood rather than by bond, had come to visit. Nights of revelry and joy, where how much you could eat and drink were the two greatest objectives. He remembered it all, with sadness... And yet, a feeling of contentment.
The aging Turall kept his head bowed, remembering fondly his many years, and even his one foray into vampirism--And his subsequent curing. Tears wracked his aging body as he remembered these times with a mixture of sadness and contentment. He'd done so much in his life, but he wanted to do more. In the pit, he'd risen to be a champion, a warrior of unprecedented skill, rising through the ranks.
But his body was weak now, frail and old. He didn't have the amazing capabilities of elves, to fight year in and year old. His old friend Anna hadn't grown a day, in fact, since he'd first met her, nearly fifty years ago. And yet, his body was failing him. He could already feel it fading away, day by day, as he forgot things more and more. And finally, he sat down at his desk... And began to write. A story of his adventures, his travels, and his shortcomings through life. A way to continue his legacy, throughout the ages.
His time after that, his conflict with the young woman Raquel coming to a head... And her eventual fate, not at his hand but at the hand of another. His fury that another man had stolen his vengeance, and his transformation into something else... A monster. He'd become what he'd felt at the time to be a monster, forsaken by Death, brought back to fight more. His memories went past that again, seeing him now having started a family of his own, but not in the traditional sense, a gathering of similar people and supporters of his affliction, which he'd by then thought of with apathy. To him, by then, it was simply another state of being, not better or worse than what he already was. Old muscles went to work once more as his memories went through that, happy times with them, the kindness of the family he'd built, until he eventually took up work again as a pit fighter. In the arena, he descended upon his foes with quick, efficient cuts, in Turall sequences that his body had placed deep into his memory.
He remembered his times there, his laughter of joy as he had reminisced over fights won and injuries taken, battles fought to a near draw, and the enemies he had spared from their fate to join him and his group again. Later, they'd become a mercenary group, hiring out their skills to the highest bidder, taking down rogue mages as one, cohesive unit.
Throughout that, he remembered more the times spent partying and even just talking with his new family, and the times Carter, his brother by blood rather than by bond, had come to visit. Nights of revelry and joy, where how much you could eat and drink were the two greatest objectives. He remembered it all, with sadness... And yet, a feeling of contentment.
The aging Turall kept his head bowed, remembering fondly his many years, and even his one foray into vampirism--And his subsequent curing. Tears wracked his aging body as he remembered these times with a mixture of sadness and contentment. He'd done so much in his life, but he wanted to do more. In the pit, he'd risen to be a champion, a warrior of unprecedented skill, rising through the ranks.
But his body was weak now, frail and old. He didn't have the amazing capabilities of elves, to fight year in and year old. His old friend Anna hadn't grown a day, in fact, since he'd first met her, nearly fifty years ago. And yet, his body was failing him. He could already feel it fading away, day by day, as he forgot things more and more. And finally, he sat down at his desk... And began to write. A story of his adventures, his travels, and his shortcomings through life. A way to continue his legacy, throughout the ages.
