Wind and air blew over the lands of Calishan, the stones of the great city unsettled. To the solitary figure on one of the twin cliffs of the mountains known as the Teeth, named for the great gap between them that some quirk of nature had left filled with great stalactites that protruded from the ground, the wind was extremely unpleasant.

Davrag Joris didn't care.

The wind blew his cloak out behind him, billowing out like great wings of shadow, tossing his shorn mane back and brought stinging tears to his amber eyes.

Davrag Joris didn't care.

Now he gazed upon great Calishan, city of his birth, city that dominated his life. He had been feared around this region for most his entire life. Davrag Joris, dread leader of the Five, with a blade that sliced through his many foes at the behest of his employers.

He was a shade of that former glory now. His once statuesque face was twisted and hideous, mark of his defeat at the paws of Aleran Nightblade's bastard brat Eroket.

How could he show his face-unrecognizable as it was- in Calishan again? How Hallic Thargo and Arredon Toroth would laugh and scorn him! How Geras Iridanis would condemn him! He may even be given to Arithia for her sadistic pleasure; a fate that would have been undoubtedly worse than a swift death.

"Will that be my fate?" His cool voice whispered bitterly. "No...I will never let that come to pass. I will take my own life before that ever happens."

He had left his small force of soldiers that had once served under the Living Darkness Vandashira several days behind with orders to catch up when he sent the word. Silter was an extremely able lieutenant and she followed his instructions through to the letter.

Millions of scenarios and thoughts formed in Davrag's mind as he descended the cliff slowly and cautiously. He could not stay away from Calishan, this he knew. He had to return, as stupid as it sounded. This was his home and he'd be damned if he'd let anybeast but himself tell him when the time came for him to step down.

If his old team refused to follow him once more, Davrag was certain he could finish them off one by one. He was the best of fighters on the team, a possible match for Jald Nightson. It was due to his carelessness and ego that he had lost to young Eroket.

Eroket...how that cursed name reared up to bring anguish to Davrag! For months now he had thought obsessively of the young ermine, of his defeat.

Eroket Nightblade would die...this he knew he would have to make a reality. There would be no hiding his defeat. His mutilated face would be proof enough of it. But he could leave the promise of vengeance lingering: On Eroket, on Jald, on Morik Ferin, Boneflower Windlass, on all of them!

That he had killed Eroket's best friend was a small comfort of sorts to him indeed. It left one more name to his ample repertoire of souls he had given to Vulpuz of Hell's Gates and it gave him a great deal of satisfaction to him that the death of his dear friend caused Eroket anguish.

Davrag made a light spring, sliding down the cliff face, footpaws scraping against the rocks, opening small wounds on his sensitive footpads.

Davrag Joris didn't care.

'If you're strong you live. If you are weak, you die.' The code he had fashioned in a blade, the walls he had built around his heart stemmed from these two sentences. He had never lost a fight, whether by foul or fair. He rarely even needed to cheat.

His entire young life had been spent training, killing and training more. He had been taught to never have regrets, never show mercy and never had he been guilty of that crime.

But now he had lost for the first time when it had counted. Was he counted among the weak? Was he weak? Did he deserve to live now?
Was being weak really that bad?

A face sprang to his mind, though he had not bidden it. It was a youthful face, that of a stoat who could not have been more than seven or eight with bright, eager eyes and a smile that was all too innocent for the harsh world he would soon enter. Soft paws that would be forced to take lives clasped a sheathed dagger to a chest and heart that would soon become a heart of stone and iron.

Arredon Toroth, Davrag's apprentice, prodigy and...adopted son. Why was his face appearing in his mind now? Davrag wanted to scream and curse the fates with all his being. How could he show his mutilated face to Arredon again and admit his defeat? It would shatter Arredon's perception of the world; it would make him weak in his pupil's eyes...

Why did that trouble him so much?

Davrag took a look back at the Teeth and with a slow swallow- cursing the heart that seemed to be pounding in his ears- he started a slow trek to Calishan in the distance. He couldn't run from this more than he had already. It was time to go home.

"I reckon y'stop right there, stoat!"

Davrag cursed himself for a fool as he ground to a halt, suddenly aware of a group of ragged looking beasts that had emerged from the apparent foliage. Damn him for a fool, he hadn't seen them! His head had become mixed with his heart, hurling his focus and control to the four winds.

"I have no money." He replied softly, amber eyes narrowing on the apparent leader of the group, a gangly weasel, "Just leave me alone, I don't want this."

They must have mistaken his kindness for a plea. All at once his words came back to him: 'I don't want this.' He...didn't want to kill them? Just a month ago, he'd have sprung at them, cut them to pieces and maybe torture them just for the hell of it. But now...?

"Those're mighty pretty swords y'be a-carryin', ugly." The weasel replied, leaning forward to prod Davrag with his spear, causing Davrag's fangs to grit, more from the word 'ugly' than from any injury. They didn't recognize him, go figure. He doubted anyone would recognize him now. He'd prefer they didn't.

"Aye, they are, aren't they? They're mine, however. I suggest you turn back if you want to live." Davrag's voice was emotionless, carrying no hint of malice or joy.

"Yer threatenin' us? Crek, you check out that there stoat, show 'im 'is place! Maybe we can see if'n 'e can get uglier!"

The group guffawed and Davrag decided, most blatantly and clearly: 'Fuck it.'

As the stoat, Crek walked forward, Davrag's swords snapped from their sheaths-he had purchased new ones with help from Silter in a previous village they had stopped by in- as took the startled Crek through the throat.

The shock of the vermin lasted seconds and that was all Davrag needed. The swords flashed in their silver dance and two more bandits died before they could recover from their shock.

His defeat must have dulled his senses along with ruining his face. Davrag felt a blade pierce his back, fiery pain at his lower right side. One of them was a knife thrower. Perfect.

Davrag spun, one sword flung like a spear, piercing the throat of the rat who had slung the knife at him. The move was violent and vicious as it was fatal and rat collapsed, a shower of blood drenching Davrag and his companion.

He had no time to pull the dagger out of his own back as he moved again, employing his amazing speed, arm encircling the weasel leader's throat from behind and remaining sword edge pressed to his neck.

"W-wait!" The weasel cried, suddenly terrified and uncomprehending that a robbery could have gone so wrong, "L-lemme live! I-I got kids at home! Lotsa kids, fourtee-"

He was cut off as Davrag's sword sliced across his throat. A second motion pushed the weasel face down. If the weasel was telling the truth, Davrag had just done his family a great service. "Then you should have chosen a safer profession." Davrag replied icily, reaching to the dagger in his back and gasping in agony.

He couldn't take it out. Sudden fear washed over him as he realized the situation he was in. He sheathed his sword, not bothering to retrieve the other from the dead bandit as he stagger forward to the distant Calishan. Maybe, if he could reach it...

That was ludicrous of course. Even if he made it there, nobeast would trouble themselves over Davrag Joris's health, whether they recognized him or not.

As if his previous wounds were aiding the current wounds, Davrag felt the strength drain out of his legs and he fell forward, ground rushing up to meet him. Time ceased to have meaning and in what could have been a minute or a month he was dimly aware of a figure standing over him, and a voice, a young voice whispering. "Lord Davrag...?"
Davrag's amber eyes rolled to the familiar face as he managed to whisper a name: "Arredon...Toroth..."

And his world became blackness.