The wind sent waves of dust over the melancholic plains. The once green fields were now lands of corruption and death. Green had faded away and grey had taken its place. Instead of water, dark liquid flowed through the land, poisoning the very earth below. It was a wound, created thousands of years ago when darkness still hovered over the lands. This was a forgotten land, filled with death and misery. But even in this lightless land, people lived and fought. The eastern Warlords, powerful warriors and brutal people, who once lost their connection with the Gods, thus, they remained here, forgotten…
Ukramon filled his hands with the dark ash-like sand and watched as it flowed through his fingers. His cloaks were made of leather, black in colors. His face was covered with a dark mask, draining his eyes from life and casting a shadow on his face. He had long dark hair and chest of a God; powerful and unwavering. His cloak covered his left side but allowed his side to get touched by the faint beams of the sun. As his hand ran empty, he grunted and stood up. He gazed upon the plains, searching for moments, but the land was silent as a graveyard; he was safe, for now. “There is no one here,” he spoke as he turned around to a man who waited for him nearby, “ride back to our fortress. Tell everyone to pack their things. We are leaving tonight,” The man nodded and jumped on his horse, before vanishing behind the hills. Even though there was no sound, Ukramon gained no peace. He felt something; like a freezing blade was brushing his back. His body was tensed to its fullest and his breaths were deep. Something was wrong.
Suddenly, an arrow whistled as it flew near his face, barely missing him. He turned to the fields, drawing his blade and waiting for any movements. The grass was steady, only moved by the wind, but other than that, it seemed like there was no one there. But then again, an arrow flew, this time hitting his hand. Ukramon growled as he watched how blood began to pour out from the wound. He pulled the arrow out of his body and began running to the field. Grass moved and a barely dressed man rose from the dirt, holding a bow in his hands. He panicked and began to flee, but Ukramon was quicker and strong. As he ran, he pulled out one of his many throwing knives and threw it at his foe, hitting his target perfectly. The man shouted out in pain as he collapsed on the ground. He gasped and coughed blood, attempting to pull out one of his knives, but he was too late. Ukramon got to him.
For a moment, Ukramon stared down at his foe, burning through his skin with his gaze. He cursed in a tongue only the fallen ones knew before he pulled the man from his hair. He screamed and begged for mercy.
“Please… please I’m sorry… please,” he cried. Ukramon stepped on his back while pulling his head up, making the man scream louder. He took his knife off his body, before reaching for his WarBlade. He moved closer to him and whispered:
“Okraf Ak yktor fo sok,”
He then readied his blade, before cutting the man’s neck like it was butter. As blood began to pour and flow like in a river, he raised his victim’s head, gazing at his now dead eyes, before throwing it far away to the fields. He took a look at his hand and wrapped it with the leather he got from his prey. After he spat on the body, he began running back.
It is not safe. They are already here, he thought as he ran. The sky began to pour rain over him and the wind grew stronger, but even when the world was against him, Ukramon didn’t falter. He never had and he never will. That was the way of his legion.
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