The countries of Spirodan and Kyber went to war in the year 1023 upon the Land of the Karrass. Spirodan was ruled by Nermes the Dragon Emperor, a man quick to temper and fast to retaliate when believed to be slighted. Kyber was ruled by King Brachen of the House Scorpius, a young ruler who just usurped the throne from House Batroc. He needed to solidify his rule and unify the people against an enemy.

And so it came that Nermes was sent a message from King Brachen asking the emperor to recognize his claim to the throne. Nermes denied. He claimed that he recognized no power in Karass other than his own now that the rightful rulers of Kyber were no more. Brachen was furious. He demanded that Nermes recognize his throne as he had recognized the House of Batroc. Nermes took great offense and declared immediate war. Brachen did the same.

They rallied soldiers and allies from all over the continent. I was drawn immediately to what was to become known as the greatest war the world had ever seen. I was a warrior. Not a mere soldier, but a warrior. I took battle to an artform. Strategy was ingrained into my skull. I was bred and raised for war. My name is Marcus Glaber. I lead the warriors of Skira, one of the strongest military forces in the continent. I arrived part way into their war. Neither side was making much of a development. Just minor skirmishes.

This was going to be different. The first battle was brewing and everyone knew it. My Skiran troops readied atop a great hill alongside the other allies for the Dragon Empire as the kingdom of Kyber’s army rallied upon the hill opposite us. Below lay the great valley that would serve as our battlefield. I drew my sword, the sword of my fathers, forged by the master sword makers. It had been used by my family for generations, always leading them to victory.

The quiet was deafening. No one made a sound. The troops quivered with anticipation. Our swords were drawn and the the sky began to turn red. No one seemed to notice. The clouds blackened to smoke and the sky to a deep blood red. The birds flying overhead made the noise of carrions, waiting to pick the flesh from the fallen soldiers until all that would be left would be bone. The once green grass darkening into grey decay. Only I saw the change.

I looked to my men and saw a madness in their eyes. The other soldiers had it too. Even Nermes and Brachen had it. They had all gone mad. Something had taken them. Perhaps it had been with them all along.

A loud clap of thunder sounded, black lightning striking the center of the valley. At that moment, as though on cue, both armies raced forward, yelling screams of the deranged. Blades and bodies clashed. Limbs flew out across the ground. For the first time in battle, I did not fight to win, I fought to survive.

As I looked on, I saw that the soldiers had lost every aspect of themselves. Their only purpose was to kill, and not just to kill, but to mutilate. They ripped and tore at whatever flesh they could find, whether they were the enemy, or their friend. They had turned into wild animals. No, worse than wild animals. Monsters. There was no enemy. There was no friend. There was only death.

My sword flew through the air, crashing through man after man. I began to slay any who would approach me. I could feel the madness begin to take me, but I fought it back. I concentrated on my actions. Told myself it was the only way to stay alive. Even as I slit the throat of my brother, watched him fall lifeless to the floor, I kept telling myself that I had to. That I needed too. And I killed and killed and killed, death surrounding me and emanating from me. It was a bloody mess of flesh and blood and bones.

Finally, the killing stopped.
Almost.
I looked around me, the bodies covering the ground, blood soaking into the ground and bowels scattered over the earth. As I looked, I saw Nermes and Brachen grappling with each other. Their armour had been torn off, scratches and wounds covering them. I looked at them and saw that they fought on the only clean part of the field. The battle had completely avoided them, allowing the two kings who were responsible for this carnage to fight only each other.

As I limped over to them, they continued wrestling and fighting. I looked down at them, disgust and hatred burning in my soul. I raised my father’s sword, smeared and covered with the blood of the men it had slain, and forced it down their throats. They laid upon the barren ground, their blood pooling and filtering into the earth, turning the grass to a sick black.

I suddenly hear a clapping. I turn to see a robed man, his face covered by his hood, his hands covered with black leather gloves. There is not a trace of color on him. Just blackness. He speaks to me, in a deep resonating voice, “Well done. You’ve won.”

“I’ve won what?” I ask, drawing my sword, readying to slay again at the inclination.

“The war.” He said, and his voice smiled, “Last one standing. It’s all yours. Look. Look upon your riches. Your wealth.” He spread his arms wide and spun, encompassing the gore that surrounded him. “This is what you have earned. Be happy. You have earned to true spoils of war.”

I looked and saw the truth in his words. I saw the truth in the blank faces and scattered limbs. I saw the truth in the bugs and birds now feasting on what were once walking, talking, fighting men. And last, I saw truth in my sword, the instrument of their demise. I saw it’s truth plunge through my chest as I threw myself down upon it.

And thus, the robed man had won. Taking us all into his grace and shepherding us all to the place where all of those who seek fame from the senseless killing and bloodshed of war shall go. It is not paradise. Nor is it hell. It is to the Bloodlust. And then to the void.