The ‘Aheral sat in a decrepit keep, his burning gaze set upon the ravine – The darkened sky that sought none. The call was granted, henceforth he emerged; A knight bore of blackened plate, a crimson cloak that bathed him well. A hollow rasping followed his voice, were little was spoken. He heeded the call, making haste to rally in defense.
”Prophecies are naught more than folk-tale, a fable to fear – A future to avoid; We, the descendants, chose our own fate.”
The Knight bore out, his voice croaking and hoarse. Steel-clad digits moving to grasp upon his blade, unsheathing it once more – The ethereal wisps curling upon the fuller, a low chuckling held.
”May his flames grant us redemption, May his words grant command, May his light shine upon the brilliance of humanity. We are waiting.”