A New Beginning

[SinVraal]

The wind murmured through the cold mountain passes. Overhead, a heavily clouded sky obscured what warmth might soften the bitter chill of clinging, stubborn winter. The gray passes, narrow and choked bore witness to a silent pilgrim. Occasionally, the memory of once-mortal slain marked his passage as well. But for these, who had lain there for years, there were none left to remember, none left to speak for it, no trace of the war waged between the living and the undying.

There was no trace of the final battle waged against the Ashfiend.

Another wind stirred through the pass. It tousled the heavy cloak that rested over the pilgrim's narrow shoulder and battered around a slender waist and booted calves. The length of obsidian-hued hair, dark as midnight on a starless night, stirred across pallid, sharply angled features. His lips parted in grim recollection, twisting into a private smile, private from all the world and his enemies in particular. Enemies of one who knew of times before time, when there was neither life nor death.

Enemies of Vraal.

The defenders had been quite thorough in their cleansing of the battlefield. There were no dead left behind. There were no abandoned weapons or shattered fragments of armor. There were also few who spoke of it amongst those who had been there and seen the Ashfiend undone. Times had grown quiet, simple, and safe.

Safe. Safe also for the Ashfiend's enemies.

The barren path was broken only by a wider section, constricted yet by the looming precipic,es whose wind-torn visages were shattered by protruding roots. They curled back upon themselves, wan and lifeless, like the hands of a paralytic. They marked where the Ashfiend had fallen amidst a great battle within and without. He left behind a Myrken much calmer, much more quiet and still.

It was a stillness he echoed beneath the simple white shirt he wore, the breeze tugging nagging at a parted collar that framed the center most point of his collarbone. The unmarked grave was a place of victory for Myrken Wood's defenders. For his part, Vraal bowed his head and whispered a soft farewell to his once slave. He lingered amidst the howling winds, content to listen to his own words as they were born aloft and away.

There would no longer be a need to look back. With the murdering of the Violet Dawn children at the orphanage months ago, his missives had gone out to the remnant faithful in a seeming miracle. The monster that murdered him was gone and, lo', their guru had returned to the flock. Now was a time to repopulate, to grow once more.

The Violet Dawn had been known for its fruits and vegetables which grew healthy and strong in such short amounts of time. This was the morning following the fertilization of the field, only this year's yield would be a different crop entirely.

"It is a fitting tombstone for you," he murmured to the wind and stone. "You always were nothing apart from me."

The pilgrim turned and began to retrace his way towards the mountain's base.