Misery was something Irdel did not like, even when his memories seem out of his grasp, he understood that a part of him had experienced it. That part of him hated it, yet could not control it nor staunch it with enough anger, leading him to wonder why he felt lonely and angry at himself. If it was towards the obvious destruction of the Irdel, then it was futile. For he could not have had awoken if they did not die, the desecration was what brought him from the endless sleep of death.

Though he did not know what gave him the ability to resist death, to come back to life in mere seconds after being cutdown. Even in his current state, his mind understood that the wailing and restless souls of the Irdel could not have done that, something else, something ancient. Something he did not wish to understand.

To such an extent that to distract himself, he had began the long yet worthy process of respectfully burying many of the Irdel dead. Such a thing in a normal circumstance would be quite hard to do, considering that the Irdelmor was the site of more than nine thousand casualties of combat, with six thousand of those being caused by his own two hands. However, the Irdel wore equipment that was familiar to him. Unlike the strange full-body metal armor the cowards had. This was further made easy when the Irdel bore a strange aura about them.

If he could describe it, it was as if he was feeling a fire around their corpse when there was none. It felt malignant and peaceful at the same time, which quickly faded when he buried them. Even their weaponry and equipment held the same feeling, though having a different ‘pitch’ to it that matched it to their owners. The peculiarity of such a thing was lost to Irdel, it made it easier for him to bury them.

Soon he found himself burying the Irdels, losing himself to the motions as time passed. Burying them with his very hands, for there were no tools to aid him in burying them, yet that did not bother him.

-

There is a thing which the mortals and elves alike refer to as the Weave of Fate. Most commonly it is called the tapestry of fate, the very thing that foretells and dictates the actions of beings of a world. Where no god or mortal could ever not be found within it, as it is made from fate itself, where ancient daughters of elven gods tend to it and weave it to destinies and futures. Forming a grand and beautiful work of art, which spans millennia into the past and future, all of which was composed of grand and monstrous events.

For the Weave of Fate could not care, and the daughters of elven gods did not dare weave selfishly for the notion of giving the world more chances, to stop grand calamities before they happened. However, they did weave a possibility of changing these horrific events, giving the mortals and gods the means to change the weave, but at a grand cost that demanded great sacrifice.

Which was the only selfish thing they did, for they saw that the Weave of Fate was one that did not care, so in turn it would not care if they changed the weave just enough to aid all living things.

But the Irdelmor’s desecration, the death of the Irdel people and the traces of their pagan faith fading, was not foretold by the Weave. None of the Irdel where ever a part of it. So when the Irdelmor was burned, its worshippers destroyed and desecrated, the weave merely showed the burning of monsters and demons, beings that concerted with the greatest enemies of mortal men.

To the elven daughters that weaved it so, they did not give it much thought. For the Elven Gods and their beloved worshippers did not think much of humanity, they gave man an apathetic gaze that only changed when their concerns and fate intertwined.

Though when the daughters finished their weave, and marveled at the tapestry that depicted holy and pious humans fighting against monstrous foes, they were compelled to weave another tapestry. Each one of them the daughters of fate, compelled by the Weave to work once more even if the latest tapestry was only recently finished.

This was not truly a surprise for them, as they were the Daughters, given by their parents to the weave to serve a greater purpose. So no man, elf or beast may ever truly have the means to dictate the lives of others, save for the Weave itself.

But what they weaved then was surprising, one that throughout all their centuries had never truly seen. Such a thing baffled them, as they have weaved the rise of a demonic prince, the birth of an empress of sands, the shattering of the human empire and the birth of the beastfolk. Surely such fates would have had harden their hearts and minds.

Sadly it did not.

As the tapestry depicted the Irdelmor in all of its glory. Primal, withered, blackened by fire and decorated by dozens of corpses hanging from its branches, their eyes and mouths wide open that led to a dark abyss as they screamed in silence. Even in its current form, the daughters could hear their scream, ending and in suffering, begging for an end that would never come.

Then upon the foot of the Irdelmor was a thousand dead, the previous holy and pious warriors laid broken on the bloodsoaked earth around the Irdelmor, their forms savaged beyond reason. Many bearing looks of regret and fear, while others bore clear signs of their bodies being eaten or pulled apart by some monster.

Finally there was a figure that stood out below all of this, a naked and gaunt figure. A being that was pale as the moon, skin as dry as parchment and emaciated to the point he was nearly bones. It vaguely was human, long and ashy hair obscured its face, but there they saw a ghoulish smile, with hollow eyes that showed nothing but utter malice.

Strangely this ghoulish thing was holding on to its neck, large and unnaturally clawed hands attempting to choke himself as blood dripped from it. While on his face was the smallest trace of tears, as he seemed to stare at whomever viewed the tapestry with the desire to inflict pain.

As naturally as how gods could react, the daughters tried their best to look away, but they as weavers could not do so, as they were forced to continue weaving the tapestry. Which led to more additions, depicting more and more death, first in the desert lands where an Empress ruled, next at the heart of the human kingdoms, followed by many dead beastmen on the frozen heartlands, going on and on.

It seemed to be without end, and it ended at what seemed to be the Irdelmor once more, showing the ghoulish figure sitting beneath the tree, surrounded by more bodies again. Then suddenly the still depiction of the ghoul turned its head impossibly, screaming a dirge that sent the daughters to their knees, as they saw a vision of senseless death.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

-

When he had buried them all, Irdel felt himself at peace, the wailing of the dead was gone for now, and all that was left in Irdelmor was himself and his thoughts. It felt surreal at first, as Irdelmor was a sight of a grand battle, desecration and grand sacrifice, but here he felt peace. His mind wandering to the fuzzy memories of his home, where in it the land was lush and green, a home stood, and the vague figures of what he thinks was his family accompanied him.

It was simple, a life that he felt strange considering what he had done. He killed, mutilated and sacrificed many, but they were deserving and he felt no guilt. But it did not coincide with what memory he had, for his actions were that of a masterful warrior, berserk and unerring in his dedication. Even he knew of concepts of war and the religion the Irdel practiced, which truly was peculiar when his memories of his own past was muddled and cracked.

Alas he could do little about it, for he only had came back from his grave on this day, and his own heart was heavy with strange grief and self-loathing. Both of which he did not like, so he steeled himself and gathered what he could from the Irdelmor that did not have an aura. Letting him find equipment that belonged to an Irdel warrior, which was merely simple leather pants, rough leather boots, and then a chainmail which he paired with a linen shirt.

Though he also found two ax’s, both practical and simple but bearing clear qualities that made it far deadlier and sturdier. As the wood was different than others, bearing the same quality as the withered tree of Irdelmor itself, while the ax head gleamed eerily as he held it, its sharpness letting it glint under the moonlight.

Then finally a simple round wooden shield, bearing little special quality other than the painting on its front. Which depicted the withered tree of Irdelmor, and three runes surrounding it. He did not recognize the runes, but he felt that it most likely was related to war.

With these in hand, Irdel brought them along as best as he could without resorting to wearing them first. For he was dirty, and even if he did not care for that, he did not wish to dirty the equipment of a once living honored warrior. So through what memories he had of the site of Irdelmor and its surrounding, he searched for what he remembered to be a small pond to the east of the Irdelmor.

He sought this out, for he was caked in gore and dirt. The unreal amount of people he killed in his waking, the wounds he himself had suffered, and the fact he mutilated many more and devoured them had resulted in this. Where his body was covered from head to toe in it, his beautiful face bearing a mask of dried blood, making much of his long hair stick to it and to his neck.

While his very hands was covered in thick layer of viscera and dirt, with much of his torso being in the same state. Which oddly mimicked the state of Irdelmor’s soil, where the dreary grass was now an eerie red, the earth and what vegetation left taking on the same hue, while the altar itself remained freshly bloodied. Even if Irdel committed the Great Blot hours ago.

So he searched for the pond, finding nothing at first while walking seemingly without direction. Though soon stumbled upon a camp next to a stream, and found that it led south to what presumably was a lake. He followed the stream, walking with unhurried steps as he felt the wind batter his gore covered form, where it carried the poignant smell of his slaughter. Proof of the thousands of dead that had their blood upon him like a war scar, a mark of what he had done so casually.

The more he grew aware of this fact, the more uncomfortable it was. Warm blood upon his skin felt comfortable, thrilling, a sort of fuel to his bloodlust. But when it was dried and mixed with the blood of thousands and their viscera, it became nearly unbearable and truly uncomfortable. A true reminder of the ramifications of his actions.

Warm blood of the living now cold and dry, just like the corpses he left in his wake. So when he found a lake near what seemed to be an entrance to a large swathe of forests, he felt relief.

There upon the lake he would bathe, carefully washing off every nook and cranny of his body, so he may

wash off the blood and dirt on his form. Here he realized that he had no greater plan, no true motivation save for the desire to slaughter the cowards, to bring vengeance upon the realms that the cowardly warriors came from.

But how could he find them? How would he, a son of harvest from a dead culture from a dead past would ever find them? Surely to find a means to gain information, he would need to learn the strange language of these cowards, and not only that parley or even cooperate with them. Such a notion that he would ever stand as equals to this people, was a concept that strangely felt offensive to him.

The very idea was anathema, and he found himself unintentionally growing angry which he reigned in as it was unreasonable. He was the last of the Irdel yes, but it did not mean he would be foolish in his desire for vengeance.

A blade was only as useful as the warrior that wielded it, a mindless and misguided combatant would be useless and a liability, this he knew through his muddled memories, and with that reasoning he sought to understand. For if the Irdel sought for him to avenge them in their dirge, then he would at least need to understand the cultures that brought ruin to his people.

So he may hate them as the Irdel did, strangely he felt as if he already knew the answer. Though with the state of his memories, he could not understand why. The more he tried to remember, anger rose up and he found himself once more in a desire to slaughter.

Then he spoke, letting a whisper out as he gazed down on his reflection on the lake, staring at his beautiful and noble face, which turned ghoulish as he growled.

“Zinar Tel…”

A name he did not know, but a name he hated.