2Soul of a Proud Paladin
Author's Note
This story was inspired by Soul of a Nameless Soldier by Freezee. Go and check it out, it is amazing.
He grimaced as the blood flowed from his open wound, like a spigot turned to release.
His feet left imprints upon the mud below him, and the water of the nearby still pond only quickly flooded to replace what was lost.
Behind him, the shuffling feet of many-a-hollow shambled onwards, trailing him.
Their weapons bloodied, and soulless eye sockets staring into his back.
Overpowered, losing blood, and full of fear, the man fled for his life.
Each step was agony and futile.
He rounded a corner, and glanced around with frantic breathing for an avenue of escape but saw only more gravestones.
He ran anyways, knowing he was dependent upon chance.
He passed another hollow, who stared up at him and rose from its near death-like state.
It drew its broken blade and pursued, joining the soul-hungry horde behind the man.
He stumbled, an unnoticed gravestone falling in his path.
He released the firm grasp he had on his gut, and his weapon fell from his grip as gravity brought him to the ground.
The metal of his armor sounded off, and he screamed as the full force of the fall weighed in.
Blood began to soak the dirt around him, and he tried picking himself back up.
But the pain he was in was too great, and the weight of his armor only worsened the fact.
He reached for his weapon, but could not find the hilt.
The noise of bony feet scraping upon dirt grew louder, and the panic within the man drained into an ambiguous acceptance.
Yet he still found the strength to drag himself to the dirt wall, and rested himself upon the barrier next to the gravestone of a long dead man.
Through the visor of his helmet, he saw only gray.
The color began fading from his eyes.
The hollows were not in sight yet, and perhaps had even lost his trail.
However he could hear them still, shambling for him yet unknowing of his current position.
He cried silently and thought of home.
Thought of the wife he left behind.
Of the child he would never see.
His pride was a destructive thing indeed, yet he never realized it until it became too late.
His friends scolded his perceived crusade, and his wife begged him to stay.
He refused.
"I'm sorry." He whimpered.
He was not Undead.
He was doomed to die here, and there was no going back.
He knew this, and accepted the risks long ago.
He felt a tangible nerve of regret pang every fiber of his being.
He cried even louder now, the tears mixing with the stains of blood upon his sallet.
He brought his trembling hands to view, and shook violently as the red took hold of everything he held.
The blood drained from his gut, and he ended his attempts to stop the bleeding.
"I'm so sorry…." He whimpered once more.
The man believed he could achieve what no one else thought was possible; his crusade to become what he wasn't.
An Unkindled.
The ash of which was destined to save the world from the encroaching dark.
But he was no Unkindled.
He was human.
He was dying.
He knew this.
He accepted this with an unwilling veil of tears, for all he could think of at this very moment was what he would lose.
His pride made him shun everything he held dear, but in the end it was what he shunned he wanted most.
His wife.
His child.
His friends.
His home.
"I'm so sorry…" He cried. "I'm sorry…."
Quickly, all feeling left him.
His frantic and frightened breathing ended with a shallow escape of cold gray mist from between his lips.
Even the gray filler was replacing itself with a dark veil of mournful fear, and even in death he felt scared.
It was the only feeling that lingered within himself.
It manifested into his soul, and would remain so for all eternity.
For what pride had wrought into himself, it had wrought into a doomed soul in a weary world.
No one would remember him.
He was lost and alone, forever and ever.
His family moving on, his friends long now a memory.
He was only a Proud Paladin on a self-perceived crusade to become what was an impossibility.
