Twenty-Three million souls.  It takes twenty-three million souls to feed the horrors of the Great Beyond for a soul to cross over and land amongst the living. And even then, it would only be a husk of its true self after the whimsical gods of the void got their claws on it.  Still, after eons untold, its final crossing shall take place in blood-soaked lands, driving fear into the hearts of its inhabitants.  Alistair finds little wrong with himself, that's not considering he somehow was the last living being to have taken part in a battle to decide the fate of the Human world.  He remembers walking shoulder to shoulder with his brothers in arms, being showered in the viscera of his closest friends.  He also remembers being stabbed by a twelve foot monstrosity as it picked him up with its sharpened blade of a hand, relishing his stunned expression and the soon to be blossoming of pain as it brought him closer to its putrid mouth.  And yet, here he stood in a silent battlefield littered with bodies for acres of land.  What the hell was he supposed to do now? And equally important, what the hell was he supposed to do with this orb of golden light?!