The Warden of the Wastes, Part 2
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I am standing at the top of a spire, the countryside spread out before me.
Everything, from the rivers to the forests to the itself, is colored sickly shades of gray and brown.
Before me, a faceless army bangs on their shields with their blades in time with my hearbeat. Their cries invigorate me.
I can feel their pride, their anger, their bloodlust coursing through my veins.
In the distance, I can make out the thick plumes of dark smoke from cities that have burned at my command.
For the first time in forever, I feel complete.
My gaze drifts down to the figure before me. He is dressed in rags, head hung low.
I cannot make out his features, but I know that he is my enemy.
My grip tightens on the mace that hangs ready at my side.
I know what I must do.
I raise the weapon into the air, and swiftly bring it down upon my prisoner's head.
It is my destiny.
