Return of the Dreaded Doom
Consciousness. A gasp and a shudder as the lungs strived to get air. Failure, rage, and searing pain coursed through the man’s wrecked and twisted body as he awoke, just barely alive, on the forest floor. He opened his eyes. Before his eyes the trees gave way to the sky like gates to the heavens; a starlit sky, and full moon glowing eerily. Where he was he couldn’t possibly fathom. How he had gotten here, when he was so sure he was in Death’s grasp, baffled him. His head pounded. Every fiber of his being ached, and yet, he was alive. For a second a smile came to his chapped lips and a sigh of content escaped him.
These happy thoughts vanished quickly, this was no victory. He knew he had failed. Worse. He knew His wrath would be great. He shuddered and winced at the pain such an action created. The Black One would not be pleased either. Indeed, who knows what awaited him when and if he ever returned. Now he was a mockery. He was great once. Now he lay, broken and wretched, like some vile creature. Perhaps he would die here. Perhaps fate had designed it thusly. That his final moments would be spent in such agony. Bits and pieces of his past began to find their way into his head. He remembered his first sacrifice to Him. He remembered His joy when he became one of His elite. Then, all the killing. At the time he relished it. Indeed, he lusted for it. All in His name. Women, children, young, poor, old it did not matter. He heard their screams, their pleas for mercy as his scythe came crashing down upon them. All the souls he had reaped. Now it seemed they were having their revenge. Filling his mind with thoughts beyond the insane. For the first time true fear coursed through his body. True fear at what awaited him in death. True fear of the judgment of the righteous. Then a scream escaped him. It was a horrible, blood curdling noise.
Then. Quite suddenly. He noticed a small scrap of paper in his hand. With great effort and pain he raised the paper to his face so he could read it. The moonlight offered just enough illumination to make it out. It read:
“Do not forget thy service Dreaded Doom or thy pact with Him. Return and amass his followers, and await my coming.”
There was no signature. No mark to distinguish the writer. Yet the words resonated with his very being. They brought him back. They reminded him of his service to Him. He had failed, but this would not stop him. He was an instrument of His will. He had pledged his very existence to Him. And He is who he served above all others. He would return. He would return and make up for his failures. He would return and amass legions of His faithful. He will bring death to the infidels and those who did not obey His will. He would make himself feared. He was determined to make himself the greatest being that ever lived. All would tremble before His wrath and His power through him!
These thoughts gave him strength, strength that surged through him like a lightning bolt. With a great effort he rose slowly and purposely. He rose like some dark form determined to not die. He rose, broken but not defeated. With a great groan and a sigh he was on his feet. With that, Vishnir Tirandez, The Dreaded Doom, Blackguard of Bane arose again to spread the will of his Master.