The Son- Prologue
Astora, great land of kings and lords; within the old kingdom many a hero is born, and many a battle is fought.
It is the end of a golden age; Astora, leading kingdom within the world, is following its predecessor, Lordran, into a state of disrepair and corruption. Long past are the days of great heroes and unconquerable armies, and this once untouchable land suffers attack from all sides; for finally it is time for another to come to power. Yet within this land there stands tall a single hope, a general old and wise, who no enemy has been able to strike down.
This old general, the final aegis for a dying kingdom, carries behind him many accomplishments; early in his youth he gained praise as a strongman, carrying a load more than half his weight miles with ease; this inhuman strength was used to develop a skill for the use of great swords, massive hunks of iron capable of completely crushing iron. He went on to rise through the military, and at the sack of Astora's capital, his general lying dead beside him, he took his final step to power and directed the tired forces of his land to victory. Yet in his mind these great feats were little compared to the potential within his son, so often forgotten within the shadow of his father's greatness.
The son was a strange lad, one who took no advantage of the riches his father had accumulated. He had a lust for recognition, a blind ambition to gain power so he might finally stand above his father's shadow. Early in his life he commanded a group of his peers as if they were soldiers, causing them to wage a child's vicious war upon those who lived in the village near his mansion; but he did not act as a simple leader; no, he fought more viciously than any who stood beside him. Even in these childhood fights he showed an unrivaled bloodlust, madness kept at bay by nothing more than his father's position and his noble blood. The day he became old enough he did not hesitate to begin his training as a knight; for stories of old knights and their bloody battles always brought a smile to his face.
The son's training went unimaginably well. His unrivaled ferocity and cunning mind caused him to advance far faster than any other squire who walked by his side, and he soon became the favorite of all those he was taught by. People looked upon him and had hope, for it seemed his father might have a successor equal to him, perhaps even surpassing him. Within just a few years it seemed as if he was ready to fight, and a barbarian strike on Eastern Astora served as the staging ground for his battle.
Nothing could possibly go wrong; this single thought rang throughout the heads of all those put under the prodigy as they rode towards battle. They were to fight nothing more than a group of bandits and thieves, organized beneath a single banner by some bloodthirsty chieftain who just happened to be stronger than his soldiers and held power for no other reason. They were soldiers of Astora, trained to defend their home; no loose coalition of bandits could possibly defeat them. Their faith, as it so often is within the lands bordering that ancient kingdom, would be their doom.
The prodigy ran straight into battle, no orders to those following, no warning to those behind. This was his chance; he would show his prowess in battle and finally rise from his father's shadow. Striking down every foe in his path, he wantonly fought without a thought for those he had been told to command. The blood of his enemies would mark his skill, their broken bodies a testament to his power- the fate of some lowly soldier did not matter compared to this ambition. His sword met the flesh of any who dared step his way; he would not be struck down by mere barbarians! Finally he stood before a monster of a man, undoubtedly the leader of this bloodthirsty group. Decorated in the skulls of fallen Astorans, carrying a hammer the size of a man's torso, and grinning madly as he was covered in the blood of his foes, this depraved beast seemed impossible to slay.
And the prodigy was the same. Two beasts standing across from each other, they prepared to strike. The sound of battle roaring about them, they charged, two wild, mad wolves, set loose both groveling in the dirt for the simple joy of it. The madman easily dodged the hammer, stepping to the side as fear fell into the eyes of the beast. He smiled. He laughed. The body of his foe fell to the ground, and he felt nothing but joy. Long forgotten were his hopes for glory, he was in battle, surrounded by blood and the stench of death! Nothing could compare!
Everyone was dead. He looked around and realized that everyone was dead. There was no one else for him to fight, no bandit for him to crush. What should have been an easy battle had turned into a bloodbath, and now he stood alone surrounded by the fallen. He kneeled on the ground as the last vestiges of his primal joy began to fade and those feelings which had chained it returned. The fool looked around as he realized his actions had brought about the death of his comrades. And then there was pain.
Even after death a wolves head can still bite. This old proverb from his home rang in the fools mind as he looked into the eye of the beast, and saw it fading with his own. Finally his foe succumbed to his wounds, and the fool was left to ponder his demise. The people would see no prodigy, they would find no hope. All that was left was a madman, a groaning wolf preparing to die. As the scene around him began to darken he let out a final cry; he had failed and was nothing more than a blood thirsty beast. He prayed his father might simply forget the folly of his son, and then he died.
The shame of the undead is felt by many, and now it falls upon the soul of a dying son.
Will he preserve a fading world, or usher in a new era?