I stepped out of the portal and stood before the entry of my classes main base. Birds chirped and the sunlight streamed through the boughs of tall oaks that stretched across the sky. Rocks and fallen leaves lay heavy on the forest floor. With my eyes closed I could hear a stream babbling in the distance and the rustle of branches as wildlife rushed about. Before me sat a small mausoleum, no bigger than a shack itself but ringed by pillars bleached white by time and coated in green moss. Paving stones made up a courtyard beneath the pillars and the remains of ancient statues dotted the area. Nearest the mausoleum I spied a great deal of mushrooms, the only sign of death I could see.

Ironic I know. A class founded on death, blood and ice has its home in a temperate forest lush with life. I loved the duality, from death springs life. It brought to my mind an ideal I have long held dear: without the dark light lacks meaning, without suffering joy would be less special. It is the promise of death that gives our lives such fleeting sweetness…

I shook my head to purge the distracting ruminations. I had a purpose here, a purpose that would not fulfill itself. I took one last longing look at the vibrant forest, savoring the life that surrounded me and briefly considering the peace I might find if I chose to hide. I cannot give up on my family, with a sigh a crossed the courtyard and entered the mausoleum. Descending the ancient stairway I found within, I was immediately struck by the contrast. Within this tomb no sound existed save for my breathing. No light pierced the stone around me and were it not for my ability to see in the dark I would be entirely blind. Not even moss grew within this monument of silence, no life could exist in such suffocation.

I descended the stairs and felt the oppression of the dark, lonely silence weighing heavy on my mood. The emptiness within was made manifest around me, the losses I have suffered filled my thoughts from the first person I killed, Pyria the fox to the last, that nameless priest. Each was a chain around my heart dragging it down, each beat a labour to continue moving forward. Each kill had been mandated by necessity but… I regret each, that it was my hand that ended their lives.

Monster they call me. Butcher, abomination. I have only killed in defense of myself or others or to end the suffering of another at their behest and yet, to their eyes I am the thing that goes bump in the night. I am the reason to travel in pairs. Not that would save them. If I am their monster in story, then so be it. The Butcher of the Northern Plains? For saving Eire's village? That one hurt to hear but I will bear the title for the prize of having saved those children.

The stairs finally ended their long, winding descent and opened into a large room. Circular and filled with a multitude of people all with the same glowing effect as mine but not purple. Various shades of blue and white where in abundance speaking of death. No other purple eye was in sight. There was no uniform appearance between them, some were head to toe in plate mail looking more like golems than people. Others were in their bare underwear and some… ugh. Even though I saw no one who had designed an out of shape avatar I still did not wish to see a naked individual flopping around. Blech. I moved my attention to the decor, very catacombs art deco. Literally just empty slats or coffins decorated the walls, at least I was able to see weapon racks interspersed in the area to shake things up a bit. But I didn't see what I needed yet. I made my way down the nearest hall and continued my search.

As I sought my target I found rooms of ruined corpses, bone amalgamation being crafted in violation of probably every code of ethics you could find. A smithy that used a dark, thick, red liquid to cool the metal, blood I should assume, stables of undead mounts and a fairly standard sleeping barracks complete with bunks. Finally, I found it. In the last place I looked, the last place I could look as a matter of fact. The training room. Within I found the walls lines with weapons that looked to be 100's of years old but glowed with power within. The room was a clusterfuck of people and frankly I've never been fond of crowds even before they all wanted to kill me.

There must have been 200 people milling about, near as I could guess. Some were dueling with blunted weapons, many just watched with bored and vacant expressions others stood in line waiting to speak to an unassuming man dressed all in black, his white hair in a military style cut. He was why I was here, the NPC leader of the class, second only to the player character in quests. Extremely generic structuring for questing immersion on a large scale but I was hoping for a more personalized touch in this current rendition and it looks like I'm not the only one. Rothmire is his name if I recall correctly and a group of people were gathered around him. For this I had neither time nor patience. I glided through the crowd much like a train glides through a herd of cattle. The angry shouts and threats must have drawn attention as the room fell quiet, all sounds of sparring and conversation ceased. Rothmire turned his attention towards me and raised a single expectant eyebrow.

I stared back, trying to project an air of confidence and mastery as I gathered my thoughts. I heard the occasional creak of leather or muffled cough as all eyes watched and waited. When I broke the silence my voice rang clear, "I have come to declare myself the Herald of Death, leader of the undead forces and champion of Xinthos."

The air seemed still around me as I waited for my title and all it entailed to be granted to me. Rothmire turned his gaze from me and with that dismissal, the room rang out in laughter. "Back of the line bitch."

I was shoved away from my spot and was unable to tell who gave me such a rude form of validation… My hands tightened as anger rose to meet the dismissive and disrespectful greeting I had received. I looked around at these pathetic whelps playing at soldier, these maggots standing before me in a line, one after another declaring themselves to be the Herald of Death. Hah! What a joke. I could break them with my pinky- My rage faltered and I looked down at my hands, with my pinky…

I looked around me again, seeking not arrogance or rivalry but rather to see those around me as they were. It was in the space between them as they stood in line, the halfhearted undisciplined strikes as they sparred. It was in the nearly indiscernible hitch in their voices as they spoke. Fear. And weakness. These were not a people who had the mettle for this world. They were not united but rather huddled here in a monument of death and stillness pretending to be strong as they hid from the terrors of our situation. My hands clenched as I saw this and I felt not anger but rather pity. I was given strength arbitrarily, strength unearned. Strength I have used to help others but only ever at my discretion. My mission was unchanged, I needed my army but I recognized that my army needed me just as much.

A small voice broke me from my reverie. "That weren't so nice of em. Even if ye did cut in line, which was quite shan."

I looked around but everyone seemed focused on something else, many eyes were clouded with internal searching. "Ach, fuck me. Ye tall folk are so ignorant sometimes of the world around ye."

I looked down for the tiny Scots woman and found little fox ears twitching in frustration. My mind immediately went to Pyria but no, this fox was different. Her fur was pitch black to an almost purple degree, her eyes blazed with red light and her army was black cloth in complete conflict with the excessive amount of plate mail around us.

"Um...hello there…"

She raised a furry eyebrow at me, "Aye, 'ello there. Ye got a name lassie? Ye were all bluster a moment ago and now ye gone quiet as me mum when I clotheslined an old wanker on the bus while stretching."

And how the fuck do I respond to that… "It's Zetsumei."

She nodded, "and I'm Samhara. Nice to meetcha Ye lookin to be the Herald then. Wantin a nice target on ye by e'ery bounty huntin playa then?"

I gave her my most serious stare, the one Marie would tell me is the opposite of what I intend, that she cannot take seriously. "Are you not in line for the same thing?"

"Aye."

"For the target on your back then? By 'every bounty huntin playa'?"

Her eyes narrowed at me. "Oy, first off I said e'ery, not every. Second, look at these sad sods. They're just waitin ta die, no hope of escape, no plans. Listen to the wankers in the front, stutterin and blusterin right along. They don't believe they're the 'erald. They just want to make show of it."

"On that we can agree. None of you are The Herald." I waited for her to contend my claim, an expectation this wee bitch decided to deny me.

"Obviously. A babe could see it were it willing ta look with open eyes. I reckon the Butcher would be the 'Erald. " I sighed, of course I'm recognized by this Fox. What is it with Foxes and talking your ear off? "But I'll tell ye what, I got yer back iffin ye got mine."

"Well, I think I've enough enemies, an ally would be due."

"Braw. We'll be nigh inseparable us two, you the 'Erald and I your 'erald and guard."

"No, wait-"

She was already scampering off, "Oy ye lot. Get tae fuck! The real 'Erald needs to speak to Mista Dreich ere."

I have no idea what any of that meant. And clearly no one else did judging by their blank stares. "I said move ye wee cunts! For I lose m'patience!"

That I understood. I've made friends with a psycho...the crowd moved away though not without looks of outrage and confusion. An effective psycho? Or maybe it's normal where she lives…? Well then, no need to waste this opportunity, I strode up to Rothmire and declared myself The Herald once more. And then something unexpected happened, the NPC sighed. Like I had annoyed him!

"Yes, you and everyone else in this room. A fact I am informed of every minute of every day for months now. And yet no one will accept the trial. No need to deny the attempt, just move so the next imbecile may inform me of their flaccid Heraldry."

He turned away as though I didn't exist any longer as I stared in a state of shock. Honestly I'd felt rather uncharacteristic since entering this place. Wrong somehow but maybe it's been my extended isolation, are people always so abrasive? "I accept the trial."

Rothmire let out a derisive snort, "You don't even know what it is mortal."

"Then state the Terms, computer."

His face twisted in rage for a moment, "Never call me that again." He straightened his vest and breathed slowly as though to calm himself, "the trial is simple. There is a Scrollbearer, human male and Leader of the Church that has been massacring your kind. He goes by the name Lux, a bit on the nose in my opinion. Bring me his head as proof you are worthy to lead this Army or die so I don't have to hear your insufferable voice again. You can go now."

Another Scrollbearer, great. "Where will I find this Lux so that I can bring you his head?"

"And why should I know that? It isn't my trial." He strode away and exited the hall leaving me with no answers.

"Oy, that was pure barry. Now what?" Samhara was wagging her tail as though I had offered her a raw steak.

"Samhara."

"Aye?"

"I have no fucking clue what you're saying to me. As for now what, now I question a certain somebody who should be rather familiar with Lux and then I'll bring his head to Dumpy Diapers so I can have my army."

Her tail stood still and her ears lay flat on her head. In a flash she leapt onto my chest and hooked a paw through my bra strap as she put her muzzle against my ear, "Dinnae disrespect me and my way o speaking again lassie or I'll go right radge on ye."

I turned my head to look her in the eye and deliver my own threat back when I noticed a twinkle in her eye. The bloody bitch was playing! "Lookie here Merida. If you don't have a book of translation for me then put the damned haggis down and let's go collect our bounty."

She bounced down and cracked a foxy smile, "Aye, let's go right radge on the cunt."