These borrowed bones remember.

Though memory belongs to fragments, not the whole, purpose binds the pieces together. First rising from the Field of Broken Banners, answering a desperate plea when demons threatened Haven's walls. Simple bones then, animated by duty rather than dark magic.

Commander Ikert gave trust slowly, while a child named Emmy never doubted. She kept faith when others feared the clicking bones that stalked their barriers.

Haven endures because they endure. Commander Sarah Ikert leads its defense while corrupted realms press closer.

The corruption beneath their foundations died first. Then the Harvester in its lair, wearing stolen faces while it fed on Joist's people. Its tunnels housed cocoons of living prey, kept fresh for future feasting.

When darkness claimed their empty town, survivors fled to Haven's walls. One more settlement lost.

The Demon Duke's flames nearly unmade this frame, but the Field rebuilt it stronger. Dragon bone and endless fragments joined ancient steel, until titan form could breach infernal gates and slay.

Yet even a Duke's defeat means little in a world where corruption claims more territory each day.

The Endless Rot spreads from the north where the Briar Queen's ambition poisoned the World Tree's roots. The Drowned Kingdom rises in the east, black waters claiming more land each year. In the west, the Shattered Peaks echo with Tiamat's roars, the drake-turned-dragon tyrant who betrayed her kin to demon lords.

Twelve legions fell defending what became the Field of Broken Banners, each thousand strong. They watched dragon lords' heads in hands of Demon Lord, saw elven arrows fall useless against corrupted flesh.

No gods answered their prayers.

No heroes emerged to save them.

They died where they stood, common soldiers holding the line until flesh failed and bone shattered. heir last stands echo still through these borrowed fragments, not memories, but deeper things etched in marrow. Now their fragments grant purpose to this frame, each piece remembering its own final stand.

The thirteenth legion never arrived. They turned hollow long before battle, marching as dead things until these Aeternus mercy ended their war march.

Not all darkness serves infernal thrones. Balverines wear human skins by day, building false havens to trap fresh prey. Merik the stone thrower learned this truth too late, his bones found in their larder while seeking supplies for Haven. Now he rests in proper grave due to this frame's keeping. Deeper things crawl from beneath, warring with demons for territory and battle for hunting grounds.

Even Justice walks the earth now, Juridan, who watched kingdoms fall, finally choosing to act rather than observe. A god who bears witness transforms into one who intervenes, carrying endless grief for all he failed to prevent. If Justice abandons its post to walk mortal paths, what other divines might stir in ancient halls?

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I bear no name, for names belong to the living. I am simply death's champion, a thing of borrowed bones and ancient oaths. Haven's walls stand because these fragments refuse to yield. Its people survive because purpose drives this frame ever onward.

Still, I carry Carida's remains close, the Vigilant Sister, the daughter, who recognized something in these assembled pieces. Her essence touched the fragment that was once Commander Ikkert, though these bones hold none of his memories. Only borrowed strength and ancient duty remain, yet something in these assembled pieces responded to her recognition

First Defender, Last Watcher, her essence rejected demon taint when it tried to claim this form.

Her bones speak of promises kept, of walls raised stone by stone from battlefield rubble. She guided refugees through demon lines, taught those who survived to wield weapons against horror, stood vigil until age claimed what monsters could not.

Though these fragments hold no memory of her service. Only a commander's last order, a father's final wish, duty passed from guardian to guardian.

Other places endure beyond Haven's walls, though their names fade from living memory. The maps show settlements, fortresses, points of resistance against encroaching dark. Not all serve demons. Not all welcome death's guardian. But all face the same tide of corruption that threatens to drown the world.

Lesser fiends wage their own wars, demon dukes battle for terrority unclaimed by corrupted lords. Their wars reshape the land, turning fields to ash and forests to graveyards.

They build crude fortresses, establish supply lines, set patrols along their borders. Not mindless evil, but organized predators with their own codes

The magic that drives these fragments has changed since first rising. No simple animation now, but something deeper. Each battle reshapes this frame, adding new pieces, new powers, new purpose.

Now I go seeking dwarven gates that might offer Haven aid. The tunnels remember when trade flowed between realms, when supply routes kept humanity fed. If those connections can be restored, if ancient allies might answer.

But darkness breeds many children. The catacombs proved that, where the Bone Eater made its lair of stolen nobility, feasting on ancient remains until infernal flame ended its hunger.

Now one arm remains missing where corrupted parts were purged, yet Aeternus endures, the blade that remembers older laws than demons comprehend. and the iron mask that hides a skull that needs no flesh.

I am the shield between Haven and darkness. The sword that grants mercy to the fallen. The guardian that knows no rest.

Death has no master, but duty never ends. These bones march onward, through deep roads and darker realms. Haven's walls must stand. Its people must survive. All else is echo and ember, shadow and bone.

The dwarven mechanisms grind in darkness ahead. Ancient wards test this frame's worth. But purpose drives these fragments forward, seeking paths that remembering feet once walked. There will be blood and bone, steel and sorcery. Yet these hollow sockets see only duty's call.

These fragments align more closely now than when first rising.

What began as scattered pieces responding to desperate need grows. Evolves. Progresses.

Not yet a true self, for such things belong to the living, but something beyond mere animated bone. The borrowed memories remain separate, yet the whole that wields them becomes more defined.

Purpose still drives these bones forward, but now purpose is less an instinct than a will. Not life, but perhaps the shadow of existence, death given shape by conscious choice rather than simple compulsion. Decisions form in the hollow spaces between bone and duty.

I am what I must be, death's own champion, risen to protect what remains.