What is in a man that makes him a man? Is it the blood red with life? Is Manhood a blessing by god? Is it the strength in his back or the power in his loins? Is a man made in bed with a woman; or out on the field of battle, dying next to his brothers? Is a man the product of suffering or from a noble birth? Or, perhaps, a man is the iron will to hold on while everything else tells you otherwise, your very soul gripping on to the tattered remains of reality, fighting against the pain and torment. When the tears well in your eyes and your hands still wrapped tightly to your blade, nothing to hold on to except your will which tells you to hold on, ready, ready to face the weight on your own.

The man's dull emerald eye slowly opened as the grey light of day peeked through the morning clouds. He laid there motionless from the exhaustion of another sleepless night. His body curled up under a worn traveling poncho. His nerves never letting him relax, the anxiety that the fear of death brings is always too much to bear, even for someone as experienced as him. Begrudgingly pulling his ragged brown poncho off his tired body, he sat up, every joint creaking from countless raids and hard weather. His campsite was small and neat and his kit was in an orderly fashion; the same way it had been for many years. The long johns hanging off of his emaciated frame were almost rags, only there to cover up his leathery body. His skin was pale and taut across a stringy, sinew entwined musculature. As starved and deprived as he looked he was better off than most. The cool Autumn morning shook him to the bone. The man didn't start a fire the night before, weary of the creatures of the woods who would be drawn to it, like moths to the flame, making him easy prey while he slept.

With effort he stood up and took in his surroundings. There was no color in the sky and the birds didn't sing anymore, putting a somber almost purgatory-like state on the existence of the everyday people. The treetops were a matte shade of orange and brown, the leaves rushing about due to the morning breeze. Nothing moved among the brush line, nothing dared journey into the wilderness. The stiffness in the air made the surrounding woodlands stifling, it was absolutely oppressive to say the least.The man slowly and methodically began to dress the same way he had the past thousand nights. Padded long sleeve shirt, spoiled worn down leather jerkin over that, and padded trousers over the long johns. Fatigued leather boots were worn in by years of marching, but still holding strong; the church always supplied the best equipment for its executioners. Creaky old gauntlets and bracers were pulled over tired hands and shins. Shaking off the cold from the frosty morning he picked up his Cuirass, worn down from years of bloody service to the church and their war against the supernatural and demonic. The holy sigil on the front, almost removed by fire ever since the Sentinels excommunication from the church damming him to a life on the run, is now nothing but a charred smudge on the front of a blackened piece of armor. He put the plate on his torso, adjusting it so it sat properly on his body, and prepared for the hours of countless marching ahead of him. The man picked up the dirty old poncho off the ground, its woolen construct had kept the man dry and warm for many years. After brushing it off he draped it over his well armored frame, pulling it tight against his shoulders so it fit snuggly, it hung low, coming to his mid-thigh. Bending down to pick up his beaten half-kite shield he groaned before slinging it onto his back. He strapped his sword and scabbard to his waist, around the poncho, unfortunately having to poke a new hole into the belt again just to keep it tight. He reached into his small travelers sack and pulled out a bit of hardtack; a solid almost inedible piece of flour, water, and salt formed together and baked to create an unappetizing biscuit. He ate his breakfast with more effort than it was worth, straining with every motion of his jaw.

He took his first steps into the painted grey. Draping his hood over his matted mess of brown hair that had begun to turn charcoal, blocking the pestering presence of the wind. He ventured through the trees, meandering at a pace that was slow yet voluntary, he had no destination, yet he had to keep moving, had to keep his demons off his coat tails. He felt very morose this morning, it had been four months since he had seen civilization and over thirteen years since he had been to a major metropolitan area. He never dared travel east anymore for the presence of the supernatural was crushingly claustrophobic, and the last time he had he almost lost his life trying to get passed a great and terrible dragon known as Agony. The man knew he couldn't go south because it had been a war zone for half a century. The Four small sovereign kingdoms to the south; House Gwin, Kay, Länceleon, and Bäranes, had formed a confederacy to stop the theological invasion from the kingdom to the north, the Kingdom of Saad. The fight had been raging for almost eight decades and showed no sign of stopping. It would be foolish to travel south anyway, he would be pulled apart on the rack if he was caught, not only was he a northerner, but he was a deceiver and an enemy to them. So, He aimed his reprehensible scrutiny to the north, against the very clergy that damned him to a life of sorrow. The past thirteen years he had been living like a Hermit, traveling town to town and living in the wilderness, hunting the demonic for the few sheckles the people could spare. it wasn't much of a life, it barely fed him scraps of hard tack. But he would starve before he took his own life. A coward like him could never commit to the harshness of death, for his soul was already damned. After a few hours of marching, the man grew tired and decided to stop and rest against a tree and naw on another piece of hardtack.

Suddenly, the ground began to shift under him! Decrepit hands jutted from the dirt and six or so undead began to slither out of the earth. The warrior didn't hesitate, he drew his sword and attacked before they had a chance to stand. He stomped on the closest skull, crushing the frail decaying bone and spraying the black pudding that was inside. With a barbaric poise he hacked at the base of another's neck decapitating it with a single blow. The other four were already on their feet and running at him with an unnatural hunger. Slinging his shield off his back and into a readied position he charged them, ramming himself into the small group, toppling them over. He began to hack viciously at them, grunting and cursing with each swing of his sword. The wretched beasts squirmed after him, snapping their crooked mandibles on his armor. He began slamming his shield into their undead bodies, filled with rage and hate toward their kind, his arm burning from the assault. He savagely kept striking them till it was only a pile of chunks and muck. He kneeled in the mess trying to catch his breath nearly choking on the putrid stench. It doesn't matter how many times you've smelt the stink of the demonic, it's always sickening. It had been a decade since he first smelt the inhuman odor of demonic sulfur and rot. It is something otherworldly that cannot be comprehended, only experienced. All the squalor in the world, the piss, the shit, and trash all smell like cloves and cinnamon in comparison. He remembered the fright, the evil presence, the absolute horror. He knelt there, and was taken back to a time where he was proud of who he was, a time where he ate warm food and slept in warmer beds, a time when the Holy Sentinels killed for the good of mankind, where he served the church, where he thought he once belonged.