The screaming was unbearable. It rose and rose as more joined in. There was nothing that could be done. Too many to fight. Ash circled high into the air. Smoke blackened the sky above. Clouds rolled and rumbled but rain would never come. Blood ran freely over the dusty ground. The falling ash turned it black. By the time it was over, nothing was left. Empty, charred husks of homes. Slowly the wind destroyed what was left standing. Posts and beams eroded around its gentle touch. Ahead the sun was setting. Behind was a black land. Nothing could ever stand once it had passed. That was the way of the world. Nothing could survive the touch of death.
A lone figure walked through the area. Its black cloak barely moved with the wind. Ash and dust caked the dull, black boots. A grey half mask covered the figure's nose and mouth. Hazel eyes sparkled under a black hood. With a groan, a blackened post crumbled. A hidden arm pulled the cloak up, blocking the billowing ash. Embers, faint and weak, floated past. By their light, black pants and a black vest could be seen. The cloak fell back into place. Calmly the figure continued onward. There was nothing here to fear. There was nothing left here. Reaching a former home, the figure spotted something in the ash and blood. A black gloved hand reached for it. Black metal glinting from the top of the hand. The metal claws, one overlapping each finger, easily pierced the pile. A doll was pulled out, the ash flying away. Rising, the figure studied it. Then those hazel eyes looked at the former home. A child once lived here but now was gone. That hand and doll vanished into the cloak. The figure moved onward. At the end of the village, the figure took a solid post and imbedded it into the ground. To it, those black hands nailed another piece of wood, a plank with writing. The words were an incantation, calling for the release of the souls left behind:
Ash gov sern yu regn
The figure laid the doll at the base of post. Job done, the figure moved onward. There was still much work that had to be done. Many more made homes ahead. The force would destroy them as well. That was how things were done. In those same footprints the figure would walk. That was its job.
Behind the figure was the darkening world. With every destroyed village, home, and life the world would get darker. Each step guaranteed it. The wind raced past, as if trying to outrun the army ahead. With it came the whispers. With it were the voices of those left behind. They were free but they would never rest. Fate had been cruel. Retribution was what they wanted. Now all they could do was whisper and hope. The figure never seemed to respond. Those boots just kept moving, kept walking. Ears never twitched in response to a louder plead. The figure's skin never crawled with shock or fear. What was there to fear from voices? There was nothing they could do. This figure had heard much worse over the years. They were nothing but a nuisance.
The wind changed direction from behind to ahead. It hit the figure full force. Those steps never faltered. Hazel eyes narrowed to block out the flying dust. The cloak, however, did move. It parted, revealing the pattern carved into the black leather vest. A crouching cat, claws and fangs bared. The whispers stopped as the cloak fell back into place. That was enough for them. For only one could strike fear into the heart of a god. Their revenge would truly come.
What do you think? Another attempt at fantasy/magic from me. I know its short but it's the best start I could develop.
Only Will is planned to appear in this. Maybe Halt…I don't know about him…