Wilfre was going to come back a hero; one that a child would scream giddily about to hear for the fourth time in a row before going to sleep.
He was a lone soldier, guided by only his wits, his antimagic, and the trustworthy blade that he has never gotten rid of after almost a full decade of use. He had no friends to aid him, nor did he have any escorts to slow him down. On this night, he would chug to life and never back down on a quest truly legendary. This Magivore was going to hunt down those with the Mark of the Beast and exorcise them, or make them face their fate for what they had done to the populace of Regalia. Every apple and morsel they destroyed in the food raids would be another hour they would spend in the belly of the Spire. Tonight was the night they would pay.
After shuffling through debris of gravel and bone among the upper layers of the sewers, he finally found himself upon the surface at the edge of the sea. Through a bit of effort and useful timing, he chambered up to the streets and let the oncoming darkness of the night bring him safety from the eyes of any prying stalkers. As soon as he escaped the city walls, he was off to the countryside. It took him an awful long time just to get to the dense wooden orchards, but still, he was hellbent on his goal. There was no stopping the Magivore, after all! He was a man of his word and his code, determined to stop the scourge of the Vices that haunted both surface and sewage. Long and hard he thought of what might come out of it. Would he truly win? What if he did? What if he didn't? Is he ever going to come back? These questions gave him a rush and a chill at the same time, but moreso a chill when he suddenly heard the whimpering of a mutt in a low, distant volume. In a panic, he casted his passive antimagic distortion and fervently searched.
With the moon high in the sky, he was greeted by his opponent after a full hour of traveling through the night. It was one whom would yield the Mark of the Beast; an abomination of a man with a long snout, sharp teeth, sharper claws, and only the sharpest eyes. As soon as Wilfre caught sight of him, he threw forward his direct distortion, only to find to his dismay that his antimagic did nothing but confuse it. The hound stood up to its hind legs, wielding a war axe and a wound with a ballista bolt clean through its left side, revealing a hole in its lung. As the Magivore withdrew his blade, he'd charge the beast down, and the two would engage in a battle of hunter against predator.
For ten seconds.
Wilfre found the fight too easy. All he did was cleave the man in the shoulder, and he went down with no more left in his lungs to help him fight back. It... it couldn't be that easy. After all, this was a servant to a god, right? After a full ten minutes of debate with himself, the Magivore took a coin of regals, a war axe, and a golden locket with a drawn portrait of what he could assume to have once been him with his daughter from the body. Out of respect, he would pray over then body, then spent the rest of the night gathering kindling and logs to burn the man so he would be remembered in memory, but not in sinister skin. The whole time the Ulfman was burnt, the pathetic hero sat by himself in the frosted grass. Alone, in hopes to be a lone legend, he only came to be a lonely layman. He saved no one from a terrifyingly painful fate. He saved no food for the starving to feast upon. He saved no man from the Markology curse. He didn't even save himself. There was no struggle nor tale to come from this.
As the sun would rise and the embers would choke, Wilfre could only sigh and wish he lost, rather than come 'home' with no tale. What's a hero without his story? Nobody, that's what. Depressive in mood, he removed the crisped skull from the charred remains as a small trophy (along with his other goodies), carrying himself back and his loot into the sewers with his head low and his morale lower. When he returned to go back to his daily grind, no one noticed he had even left in the first place. Even when he returned to his small living quarters to drop off his newfound possessions, he could only loathe his past for once being so much better than an old man who was a laughing stock among heathens. Just like on his quest the night before, the great Wilfre Vaendit was alone, but instead of hunting, he would be weeping. He didn't came back a hero.
Wilfre came back as a disappointment.
He was a lone soldier, guided by only his wits, his antimagic, and the trustworthy blade that he has never gotten rid of after almost a full decade of use. He had no friends to aid him, nor did he have any escorts to slow him down. On this night, he would chug to life and never back down on a quest truly legendary. This Magivore was going to hunt down those with the Mark of the Beast and exorcise them, or make them face their fate for what they had done to the populace of Regalia. Every apple and morsel they destroyed in the food raids would be another hour they would spend in the belly of the Spire. Tonight was the night they would pay.
After shuffling through debris of gravel and bone among the upper layers of the sewers, he finally found himself upon the surface at the edge of the sea. Through a bit of effort and useful timing, he chambered up to the streets and let the oncoming darkness of the night bring him safety from the eyes of any prying stalkers. As soon as he escaped the city walls, he was off to the countryside. It took him an awful long time just to get to the dense wooden orchards, but still, he was hellbent on his goal. There was no stopping the Magivore, after all! He was a man of his word and his code, determined to stop the scourge of the Vices that haunted both surface and sewage. Long and hard he thought of what might come out of it. Would he truly win? What if he did? What if he didn't? Is he ever going to come back? These questions gave him a rush and a chill at the same time, but moreso a chill when he suddenly heard the whimpering of a mutt in a low, distant volume. In a panic, he casted his passive antimagic distortion and fervently searched.
With the moon high in the sky, he was greeted by his opponent after a full hour of traveling through the night. It was one whom would yield the Mark of the Beast; an abomination of a man with a long snout, sharp teeth, sharper claws, and only the sharpest eyes. As soon as Wilfre caught sight of him, he threw forward his direct distortion, only to find to his dismay that his antimagic did nothing but confuse it. The hound stood up to its hind legs, wielding a war axe and a wound with a ballista bolt clean through its left side, revealing a hole in its lung. As the Magivore withdrew his blade, he'd charge the beast down, and the two would engage in a battle of hunter against predator.
For ten seconds.
Wilfre found the fight too easy. All he did was cleave the man in the shoulder, and he went down with no more left in his lungs to help him fight back. It... it couldn't be that easy. After all, this was a servant to a god, right? After a full ten minutes of debate with himself, the Magivore took a coin of regals, a war axe, and a golden locket with a drawn portrait of what he could assume to have once been him with his daughter from the body. Out of respect, he would pray over then body, then spent the rest of the night gathering kindling and logs to burn the man so he would be remembered in memory, but not in sinister skin. The whole time the Ulfman was burnt, the pathetic hero sat by himself in the frosted grass. Alone, in hopes to be a lone legend, he only came to be a lonely layman. He saved no one from a terrifyingly painful fate. He saved no food for the starving to feast upon. He saved no man from the Markology curse. He didn't even save himself. There was no struggle nor tale to come from this.
As the sun would rise and the embers would choke, Wilfre could only sigh and wish he lost, rather than come 'home' with no tale. What's a hero without his story? Nobody, that's what. Depressive in mood, he removed the crisped skull from the charred remains as a small trophy (along with his other goodies), carrying himself back and his loot into the sewers with his head low and his morale lower. When he returned to go back to his daily grind, no one noticed he had even left in the first place. Even when he returned to his small living quarters to drop off his newfound possessions, he could only loathe his past for once being so much better than an old man who was a laughing stock among heathens. Just like on his quest the night before, the great Wilfre Vaendit was alone, but instead of hunting, he would be weeping. He didn't came back a hero.
Wilfre came back as a disappointment.
Hilariously, all the marked were attacking Rothburg, and they were all captured as poor Anii decided to chase them down a day before the great fight, but a day late to engage in battle. There would be no marked to hunt. But! As he hunted in the woods for any stray marked, he -did- find a wounded one fleeing. So badly wounded it took him little effort to slay the thing all on his own, and loot the heavy war axe, golden necklace, and sack of coin it had on its corpse.
He burnt the body for good measure.
He burnt the body for good measure.
