For this is Our Curse.

[Norman Osborn 247]

(Music to get you in the mood.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tl2NfsblnZs

Death, it was all Unholy Ser Richard Reimarch of Xion has ever known. From the day his pitiful existence  begin wit his rising  to most likely forever. For the undead have a tendency of not dying, for they are death itself. Though Richard became more close to death than he ever wanted to be that past day. From the time he was hung by the dwarves for their own arrogance to the time the Holy Ser of oren used his vile Fi' magic to kill the Graven. It had all proven that Richard wasn't ever a good Knight, Xionist, Undead. He was a mere pawn in GOD's cruel game. A graven, a lesser undead in the cast of all of the glorious Darkstalkers of Xion, the god-like wraiths of Mordring.

 

He was pathetic.

 

This dreary warrior re-manifested at a Cliffside, it was night. He knew he had died, but he could not even place a single thought on the circumstances, or whom even killed him. It made him feel even more pathetic than ever. He shed spectral tears. Not of the body, but of the soul. He dropped his body onto the ground and wept, He did not even have the comforts of his instruments of war, his sword and shield, for the Holy Ser took them before he could demanifest.

 

He grumbled hard questions, such as "Why am I bound to this curse, what did I ever do to GOD?" or "Why do the Gods trample over the Men of Axios and I, one off the righteous people whom seek to combat this great injustice, get smitten by this sense of worthlessness!" He beat his armored ectoplasm hands against the rocks, denting them slightly before letting out a cry of begging. Begging to whom? The Old Lords? Mordring? He was begging to anyone whom would heard his prayers of misery, like a moth clings to the light, this zealous knight clung to the Dark.

 

The Xionist Knight had fallen.

 

About 30 seconds had past, Richard was about ready to give up. Yet it was merely a whisper. Yet these few whispers kindled his soul like the few rocks that start an earthquake. It brought Richard with a sense of duty, meaning and worth. It highlighted what all undead, be them beings of ectoplasm or lifeforce, do. It was enlightenment in the form of a few words.

 

"Rise if you would. For that is our curse."

 

That whisper was sudden, yet soft and hushed, almost to the point where he could barely hear it. Though he knew he could hear it, he knew he could hear it. The tone and speed sounded petite and humble, yet comforting. And so Richard would rise, and he would go to continue his knightly adventures. To assist the mortal-kind, to assist Xionism. And so Richard would fail. He would fail, fail, and fail some more. Yet every time he experienced death, shortcoming, or any form of failure, he would Rise, and rise, and rise some more. He would rise until he met his goals.

 

For that was his curse.

 

(I finally decided to become more outgoing and active on the forums, specifically in creative writing about stories of my characters. I bet you probably don't really care about what happens to my characters, but it's still fun :p. I hope you liked the story!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Wendigo 786]

Moved to the Archive. If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.