Living Weapon

Stoneshade Keep - Ostiarium

The dungeon beneath Stoneshade Keep was a realm of perpetual darkness and despair, its walls steeped in the echoes of countless screams ever since The Purger arrived in Arcadia with his Silent Flock. Amid the damp and rot, a man sat chained to the cold stone, his mind a fractured mosaic of pain and obedience. The Red Eyed Man, had stripped him of his past and forged him anew in the fires of relentless torment. Now, he was Wraith, a vessel of death, moulded by the hands of his tormentor.

Wraith's body bore the marks of his transformation. Scars crisscrossed his skin, each one a testament to the hours of agony that had reshaped him. His mind, once sharp and defiant, was now a hollow echo, filled only with the commands of The Purger. He no longer remembered the face of the boy from the Kingdom of Torja, nor the friendships he had forged in Ostiarium. All that remained was a singular purpose: to serve, to obey, to kill.

As he sat in the suffocating darkness, Wraith's thoughts turned inward, contemplating his new existence. The whispers of Zinheim, the God of Death, filled his mind, a constant reminder of his sacred duty. He saw himself as a blade in the hand of The Purger, honed to perfection, ready to strike at the heart of heresy and unbelief.

"They betrayed me. They abandoned me," Wraith murmured to the shadows, his voice a raspy whisper. "Left me to die in mountains... But The Purger... he saved me. He gave me purpose."

In the depths of his broken psyche, Wraith felt a twisted sense of gratitude. The Purger had become his world, his god, his savior. The pain had been a baptism, washing away the filth of his former life and revealing his true nature. He was a weapon, nothing more, nothing less. And in that simplicity, he found solace.

The memories of his old life drifted through his mind like ghosts, but they held no power over him now. The laughter of friends, the thrill of adventure—these were the lies that had blinded him. The truth was in the pain, the blood, the unyielding hand of The Purger.

"I am Wraith," he whispered, feeling the name settle over him like a shroud. "A servant of Zinheim. A tool of the Inquisition."

The dungeon door creaked open, and a sliver of torchlight sliced through the darkness. The Purger entered, his red and black robes rustling softly as he approached. Wraith lifted his head, eyes wide with a fervent, twisted devotion.

"Master..." he breathed, his voice trembling with reverence. The Purger regarded him with a cold, calculating gaze. "You have embraced your true nature, Wraith. The time has come to wield you against our enemies."

Wraith felt a surge of pride at his master's words. The thought of serving The Purger, even at the cost of his own life, filled him with a perverse sense of joy. He was a vessel of death, a harbinger of Zinheim's will, and in that role, he would find his true self.

"I am ready, Master," Wraith said, his voice steady. "Command me, and I will obey."

The Purger's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Good. You will become the instrument of our holy mission. The heretics will tremble before you, and through you, Zinheim's justice will be delivered." he paused for effect. " And in doing so Our Lord will deliver those that wronged you to the end of your blade..."

As The Purger's hand touched his shoulder, Wraith felt an electric thrill course through him. The touch was both a reminder of his suffering and a promise of the power he now wielded. He closed his eyes, embracing the darkness within and without.

In the cold, unfeeling heart of Stoneshade Keep, a weapon had been forged, its edges honed by pain and devotion. The man he once had been was gone, and in his place stood Wraith, a mindless assassin dedicated to the Inquisition and the dark god who had now claimed his soul. The shadows welcomed him, and he, in turn, would embraced his new life with a twisted, fervent zeal.