Desperation

Falstad knew he could do more. He always did. But he knew about the price that would be paid. So he helped in different ways. When Wren, the east’s greatest burglar, couldn’t find the trap, he set it off, tumbling before it hurt him. When Draga, the southern amazon princess, couldn’t handle the stress of leadership, he would tell her a joke, and help her relax. Whenever Krizto the Magnificent’s arcane knowledge came short, he would tell a story that hid the clues. After all, he had the appearance of a ridiculous old man, with a bad limp and the faded motley of a jester. He knew that they would be able to save the world, and he would help where he could, in penance.

This changed in front of this threat. An orc king, with a pact with a demonic dragon, had overwhelmed them. Wren was pierced by multiple arrows, his body convulsing with venom. As Falstad ran to the downed thief, he pulled out an antivenom and realized it was too late. His face was already turning blue, his chest desperately heaving as he tried to breathe. Turning his eyes upward, he witnessed Krizto attempt to magically duel the dragon mount while Draga answered the orc’s archery with her own. Anyone could see that they were being overwhelmed. Falstad looked down at Wren, closing his eyes. The thief was barely out of boyhood, and now he would never laugh again. Falstad felt something he had not felt in a long time: Rage.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to the downed rogue, and pulled a knife out from his satchel. The ornate blade easily sliced into the body, broke the ribs, and allowed him to grasp the heart. Falstad could feel that the heart was still beating, so he grabbed it until it stopped. Lifting his tear stained gaze up, he focussed his hatred at the orc. He began uttering the dark words that he swore to never speak again, and the orc soon exploded into viscera.

The Dragon stared down, and about began to vomit out a plume of flame. Falstad focused and raised his blood soaked hands, and twisted the flames around him. Everything around him shriveled and died, but he stood in malevolent fury. He focused his rage and flew up, releasing waves of dark energies to push the creature away. He kept his back to Krizto, and averted his eyes from Draga’s horror filled eyes. The blood on his hands twisted and turned into dark iron claws, and he carved into the dragon’s scales. Soon, Dragon blood joined Wren’s, and it created heavy plate mail around his motley.

Falstad tore through the dragon, and emerged out the other end. They both fell, and Falstad stood in the wrecked body of the beast. He stood, the blood armor crystallizing. He turned, witnessing his party’s horror. Draga’s eyes were wide, remembering all the times she trusted him, and let the old man prepare the camp meals. Krizto looked at Falstad, realizing that the alleged fool was far more capable than he seemed, and recalled the excuses of serving wizards in their towers. Falstad closed his eyes, and Nephilim opened them. Nephilim, the previous Dark Lord that tried to conquer the world. His limp faded as he approached, growing with strength and confidence. When they recoiled, he stopped, and the blood armor collapsed on him. His motley was now soaked in a mix of dragon’s blood and the innocent he had to kill, and he slouched with despair.

Nephilim lifted his hand, and tried to hide his sorrow at the pair recoiling from his sudden motion. It was a simple matter to use his power to reshape the earth under the child Wren, forming a proper cairn. He turned and knelt before the grave. Nephilim closed his eyes in supplication. He only knew prayers to dark gods, and refused to leave Wren to their mercies. His eyes released tears that he didn’t know he still had. As he did, he heard the whisper of a blade being drawn. He refused to turn, to defend, to do anything. He knew this is what he deserved.

“I’m sorry you had to find out.”