Dark Throne

Against the twixt of time,

I stand ready and prepared.

Ghost of ages past.

In my hand a blade of fury,

in my fist a shield of purity,

by my hip a flask of sobriety,

and upon my brow, a look of wrathful thoughts.

The cold mountain stood lone among the peaks of the range, it sat so high, high above the world, some thought it home to the gods, some to hellish nightmares, but not a single man had ever clung to the peak, ever survived to drag themselves to that blistering cold summit, where a throne sat, made of an old stone. It had existed for a thousand years before man had been a glimmer of a thought in the creation of the world around them, but that throne was black as hell. The man upon it, he had once lived a life of beauty, the hero of his people.

He stood against the Hordes of the Nine Depravities, fought them back, alone, as his people had fled, seeking safety in the footholds of the world. They waited in the dark, afraid of every shadow, and then of every light, till a thousand years had passed, in their dismal hole deep within the bowels of the earth that had given birth unto them, and then the dark was shattered, torn apart by a man who strode in, holding a flaming torch by his head, no fear in him. None.

The ragged man stood before them, the remnants of what his people had been, and he spoke.

The first creation came from a word, and it echoed throughout all reality, and in the dismal dark, it's blade of fury was rekindled, as the man recreated his people, and brought them back into themselves.

That first spell brought about the whole recreation of reality, the resonance of that first word, and so man was born, to the one who sat upon the throne.

He hadn't meant to.

He had stood against the Nine Depravities themselves, and struck them down.

By the wastelands of Selos, he had fought the one called Ilu, the darkness in mortal hearts belongs to him, and through his own power, his own corruption of the soul of that man, had he been struck down and destroyed forever.

It was there, as Ilu lay dying, that he called forth a power against the man, another word of power, created from the essence of the first word, and taught the man that power lies within everything. A summoning strength, and Ilu cursed the man, to be forever blind. The name of the Depravity, was the curse he laid.

Ilutu.

And the darkness was upon him.

He staggered amongst the remnants of the army of Ilu, and slowly and painfully, learned to fight again, blind as he was, to strike down with fearful vengeance upon those who graced his presence.

That man stood in the dark, with his people and reforged them. He was corrupted, but they would not need be.

For he was the man who stood by the Falls of Klep, facing the Depravity called Kas. And there, whilst they fought amongst the torrents, the man called forth the curse he had learned, and as Kas struck out wildly, he brought him down, and broke him to pieces on the stones.

The man stood, and quietly, broke the curse upon himself, and his blindness was removed, but the dark in his heart festered quietly.

The man traveled the world, fighting and killing the armies of the Nine, until he came to the Isles of Kai, and there, for a brief moment in time, he found solitude, for nothing lives there.

Then the Depravity called Perg rose from the depths and attacked his very soul, relentlessly pushing and forcing the man backwards, but when Perg attempted to curse him, there, he found nothing. The man in front of him had no fear, and never would be afraid. Perg was powerless in that moment, and he was struck down violently.