Authors Note: Hello. this is my new story; hope you like it. I have made a few changes to Moon Knights origin, so that he fits in well with the world.

Chapter 1: The ferryman

The desert sun beats down on my brow as a fist collides with my jaw. Half real lights dance across my vision. My head violently rocks to the side. A tooth, trailed by blood, flies out of my opened mouth. A fist, nearly hard as stone, continues its path; barreling across my face. When the fist completes its path I feel vertigo. I vaguely feel sand conforming to the shape of my back as I land on the ground.

I hear wind brushing sand into dunes. I hear excited and entertained hoots and hollers from my former comrades. I smell and taste my own blood. The merciless sun beats my face, and blinds my one open eye.

A shadow looms in front me. My former employer, simply known as Bushman begins to pummel my skull. My head starts to submerge under the sand from the force of fists. The sun fades.

Cool moonlight drenches my cracked face. The light reflected off the murky splotches of dried blood. Sand rubbed against my back as I was being dragged through the desert. Consciousness fades in a lucid ebb and flow. The moon stares down on my broken, spotlighted body. The unforgiving wind peels at my face as it rearranges the dunes.

I glance at my saviors or captors in my lucid spells. There ragged white garb shone in the moonlight. Tarnished with age, disrepair, and active assault. The people were scared, wounded, and bloody. They limped along the way.

My wheezing breath produce a cough. Blood caked phlegm erupts out of my mouth. My one good eye opens as I wake. The wounded people stop, turn around, and rush to my side. They pour water into my mouth, and recite comforting words with a desperate tone in a language that I half understood. My eyes closed as I swiftly returned to unconsciousness.

I continue to drift in and out of consciousness. The wind is gone. Voices echo in the chamber. The floor is cold and hard. I shiver regardless of the blanket. My wheezing breath slows to a strangled stop. My labored heart slows and stops. I am dead.

A light grows in my vision; like light through my eyelids. Suddenly I hear a s- No! No! I refuse to tell you this. That was meant for me, and me alone!

My heart beats and I awaken. The temple is quite as it's occupants rest. The moon is high in the sky. I stand up off the stone floor. The room is constructed of hewn sandstone blocks bricked into walls. Simple pillars hold the flat roof above my head. There is a statue on an alter directly facing me. The ceiling had holes constructed into it to allow moonlight to shine into the chamber. The moon was full; light shined directly onto the statue. The light reflected silver from the cloak upon the idol.

I approach the idol of my god Khonshu. My shoeless feet make no sound as I walk. The room is silent save for the scraping sound of sand on the wind colliding with the outside walls. My hand grasps the cloak upon Khonshu. I quickly remove the cloak and don it in a fluid motion. Dust bursts from the old cloak. The particles sparkle in the light. My god speaks to me. I nod and turn to leave.

I see one of them, my saviors, standing in the doorway. His face wears the expression of shock. I stare into his eyes as he stares at where he guessed mine was. He mumbles out a shaky phrase "But you died!" He fingers at his sword hilt nervously.

I walk towards him with a silent stride. The man starts to walk backwards as he stumbles to draw his curved sword. I stop and say "thank you" then walk past him. The man relaxes as I pass, then realizes something. Then he asks "Where are you going? There is a sandstorm on its way."

"I know." I reply as I stride into the desert, and into the storm

"Arseholes" grumbled Jarick as he stood watch over the camps western flank. Everyone else gets to whore and drink there blood money away, but no Jarick has to be the unlucky son of a bitch who keeps watch.

Jarick covers his face with a damp rag and checks the rope around his waist. The sand storm approaches like a black wall. The ominous wall has a strange pace; the sheer magnitude gives off the illusion of it being slow, but that feeling fades as it gets closer, and the sense of proportions kick in.

The wall envelopes Jarick and the camp in blasts of sand. The mercenary braces himself against the post he is tied to; no sense in getting lost in the storm. He squints as sand pelts his face. Sound out of a few yards becomes impossible to hear. Still every once and a while Jarick will here some hearty laugh from one of his "colleges", or a moan from one of the entertainers they had. Jarick grumbled some more. Something about staying in Westeros.

Visibility became chaotic streaks of sand and the blackness of night. Tiny strips of silver moonlight pierce the haze from time to time. Jarick grumbles are drowned out by the blasting sand. Maybe he said something about the futility of his watch; maybe he muttered some more obscenities concerning his comrades; I don't care.

I at first appeared as a speck of silver in that nights maelstrom of brown and black. As I walked closer he began to notice me. At first he is surprised by my appearance as I walk forward. He doesn't know how to react. Perhaps he thought that he was hallucinating, or perhaps he had somehow fallen asleep. These rationalizations began to die as I break into a sprint towards him.

Jarick then reacts as any watchman should. He starts to holler for help. He tries to inform the rest of the camp of my appearance, but he can't. The storm is so loud; it's winds nearly knock him over as he stands grasping onto a wooden post.

After his cries for help end he turns around to check on me, and my fist collides with the left side of his jaw. His head whips back as he nearly loses consciousness. Jaricks grip loosens around the post. The strong winds topple the stumbling mercenary.

Before Jarick can think I swiftly grab him and drag him to the post. I then begin to slam his head into the post repeatedly. This continues for a small while; I only stop after he stops moving.

I let Jarick's body crumple to the ground where the storm quickly starts to bury him in sand. I then move towards the tents of the camp.

The mercenaries of this camp are little more than brigands at this point. Wave some treasure in front of their noses and all pretense leaves. They take any job as long as there is a payday. I'm glad that I'm no longer a part of the group, but the act of leaving could have been a little less violent; although I can't complain because they made me discover god.

There are about fifty or so of then ; give or take depending on the success of their last raid. Some of the "entertainers" are from a nearby oasis town brothel. Others are peasant prisoners judging by the occasional sob and cries of agony.

I walk into the first tent and see that someone is being "entertained". The man has her over a table. His armor is scattered about, and his sword is on the opposite side the room from him. I walk over to them at a brisk pace. They are to preoccupied to notice me.

I put both my hands on the back of his head and stand to the right of him. Then I bear down. The prostitutes head is caught between the table and the mercenaries skull. The wood table crackles slightly and with a loud crack and she goes limp.

The man is mostly fine; his forehead taking the impact, but he is surprised. With the man's surprise I hit him with an uppercut to the tip of his jaw. The man's mouth slams shut and he slices half of his tongue off with a loud crunch. The man starts to scream before I jab him in the throat; then land a haymaker to his left temple. The man goes down, but he is not entirely unconscious yet so I kick his teeth in with a stomp. Finally, he passes out from the pain.

I look to the woman; she will live, a concussion and a broken nose, but she'll live. I grab the man's sword and leave. The mercenary dies a minute later; he drowned in his own blood.

I watched the sun rise and the night end. The storm was clearing and the sun was blinding. I thought back on all we did recently. All I did with the mercenary group. The murder, the rape, the slavery, the thievery. We all deserved this. To die. I was just the first one to realize this, and I tried to change. To save someone. She died anyway. Her violated corpse is out there still; swallowed by the sand. She is right next to her father; who was forced to watch. We all need to die, and I already did. I left one for this morning.

He should be awake by now. They are all dead. The corpses in the tents are given cool protection from the sun. The others are bloating under the suns rays. The bodies are half buried by the sand.

This person has a strange ritual before he fights. He covers his face with white make-up to give him the visage of a skull. He wears a symbol of death.

I notice that the blood on my sword is covered in sand, the grit seems darker in it. "Who are you" says Bushman. I notice a sliver of nervousness in his voice. He is standing twenty paces behind me. His knuckles are pale as he grips his greatsword tightly.

The ancient cloak I'm wearing is tattered, dirt and bloodstains accompany the holes. "Answer me gods damn it!" bushman barks. I turn around and begin to walk towards him.

"Specter? What the fuck!" says bushman in surprise. I ready my sword. Bushman snarls "Why can't you stay dead" then he charges forward.

Bushman meets me with a downwards diagonal slash from his right side. I respond with a counter slash. Our swords meet with a clang. Small chips are cut into both of our blades. Bushman transitions into a drop thrust; using his larger hand guard and reach to his advantage.

I dodge to my left. Then I rotate my sword into a half-sword grip, and hook his hand guard with my own while he is still extended from his thrust. While doing this I go to kick his knee out, but my angle is off. Bushman pivots while gripping his sword blade with his left hand.

I jump back to avoid falling over. Seeing me jump back Bushman charges forward again to deliver a slash. Me seeing this hop and step forward in a lunge with a counter-swing. Only this time Bushman has overextended and I have lunged forward. I am still unable to hit a killing blow on him due to his greatswords reach compared to my longswords, but my swing is aimed at a different target.

My blade finds purchase, and chops through Bushmans left mid-forearm. Then I shift my grip and deliver an upward slash at his other arm. The blade hacked into Bushman's right arm just below the elbow. This however did not cut deep enough to sever the arm, although it did disable it

Bushman screams as he backpedals away from me. He holds a death grip on his sword, but is unable to lift it. He can only drag it with him. Blood gushes in a rhythm from his stump, and flows from the gash in his right arm.

Again Bushman tries to lift his sword, but his shaky grip fails to do so. I knock him over with a quick kick. He tries to stand up from his position and I reply with a vicious kick to his jaw. I notice as he is lying there that bushman is not wearing his makeup. Perhaps he forgot to put it on when he woke up and discovered my handy work.

I said "It appears that you are without your face paint. That's a problem isn't it? Paint will eventually wash or rub off." I pause here to peer at his face. I then continue "you have always wanted the face of death... Now I will give you what you wanted."

Then I move myself on top of him. Bushman then says " wait... What are you" he sees my sword get closer to his face and an expression of horror contorts his face. " Yo- you don't have to do this! Please gods no! Sto-". I tune him out as I make the first cut. Not that I'm really missing anything; only pleas for mercy and screams of agony. A longsword was not made for this type of precision work; a knife would have been better suited. A few times bushman nearly bucks me off of him, but I make sure to keep him properly pinned. I make a few improper cuts here and there, but through focus, perseverance, and the blessing of Khonshu I succeed in my macabre task.

After I am done, I leave, taking my trophy with me.

The temple was very well hidden. I realize this now as I find it. Only a select few know where it is and rightfully so. The rumored treasures there attract all kinds of people. Some curious pilgrims in search of enlightenment; others are brigands looking for the score of their lives. Neither cases ever see them.

With the pilgrims only those chosen may ever see the temple. No one ever dares tell where the temple is; regardless of whatever tortures are done on them. "What is a man's wrath to that of a god." they would say in there last painful moments. I've regrettably seen it firsthand.

The temple is designed like a pyramid except with steps leading to the top, where an alter stands. Very different from the traditional grave of kings. The surface of the pyramid is a smooth milky white stone which covers the sandstone frame. The altar in contrast is a solid black.

Near the temple there is a monastery where the followers of Khonshu live. Near the monastery there is a stable where the horses live. The monks will go about and collect food donations from the nearby villages'. Every monk on collection duty is trained in evasion too avoid anyone finding the monastery.

This monastery through evasion, bribery, and many battles has remained a secret location, and it will remain so for thousands of years. This is not my place. I approach like a beacon of holy light gliding on the sand. I was not brought here while unconscious, but I remember exactly were it is, and what it is. I remember the small details of it's architecture; every nook and cranny. I remember every story that has happened with the monastery; like a watermelon incident between Father Caius and some initiates from two hundred years ago. These memories float in my skull as the return trip continues.

When I arrive there is an old man waiting for me. His white robe is ragged and stained with sand. His beard is wispy and white. His balding hair lies flat against his skull. He waits for me at the foot of the pyramid.

I stop my march in front of the old man. We stare into each other's eyes for a moment. No Words were needed. I would not have been there if I did not succeed. I toss Bushmans severed face onto the ground. The desert sun had dried the blood from the flesh, so it landed with a dry plop on the sand. I left Bushmans corpse in the desert. His white, exposed skull is tanning in the sun.

With the threat over I take my leave; I'm no longer needed; the threat is dealt with. I take one of the horses with a speckled gray, coat and leave for the nearest oasis town. From there I travel on a caravan to the nearest port city. Then book passage to Westeros. By Khonshu's will I return to my homeland. I took whatever ill gotten gains the now defunct warband had. I will need them.

There is much to be done.

Authors note: And that's a wrap. I made this story because there is a criminal lack of any Moon Knight stories on this site. So I have decided to fix this problem. Plus I've always wanted to do a Game of Thrones story so this fills both needs at the same time. While I am taking a lot of my inspiration from the current Marvel Now series I'm definitely not forgetting what came before it. Sure as I said the story will be different that 616 marvel but it will have similar beats. Also this is moon knight from the perspective of a Westerosi Marc Spector, so expect him to have similar values to a person from Westeros; not someone from modern America.

Have a great day.

Neutral-Man