When good men go to war

They stood in fields that were once used for farming, now polluted with the footprints of soldiers. Wheat, and corn both stripped, and plucked from the earth until there was nothing left only to be replaced by hungry men seeking more than just a full belly. They sought blood. Some men stood for revenge, and some men stood just for the hell of it. Amidst the lawful warriors, and the freedom fighters who stood for their country, there stood a man as a pillar of hope who’s only ambition was to protect. He was a nobody, a bastard. He was the son a man who had long past. Bandages covered his arms, and he was quite small in relation to his taller brothers-in-arms but when he stepped into a room, or stood in a crowd, he brought the most attention, and grew higher than anyone else. He quickly crawled up the ranks of the armed forces until he stood face to face with the King of his country.

The man hat roughed-up brown hair which was collected in a pony-tail. He did not have the conventional beards of a warrior, and had no knots on his hair. He stood naked, in that sense. He was a muscular man that stood six feet tall, and though he stood so high, he was still towered over by his brothers, but none were stronger, or faster. He was spotted from a very long distance due to his clean, white-wolf pelt that hugged his shoulders, and concealed his weapons. At the time he had a heart so pure, so bold, and so ready to defend the people he loved so much. There was one unsettling problem with him; he had been pushed to war, and when good men go to war, demons flee.

Now, this man had his own inner-darkness, ever growing, with each push-up he struggled through, and every sit-up he muscled, with every inch of strength he gained, and with each perfected muscle-response, that monster grew. A darkness that pulls everyone in. When a man stands in a stance of chaotic neutral, but remains true to his name, takes just in his own hands, he is a dangerous man. He prepared for this war, and that was not just his body, but his mind, and soul. He opened doors in his mind that no one else dared go. The runic tattoos that slithered down his arms like a venomous reptile was enough to figure out that this was a man who was becoming a weapon.

The King of the army sought this opportunity, and knighted him for all to see. He was the first of his name. “Trinson Vargr, the white wolf”. Perhaps humans could not see his soul, or feel the power of his presence, but the spirits did, the ghosts, and the ones who lived in shadows cowered. He found the peace quite unusual, but as he was knighted, in that field, surrounded by his men, and committed to the cause, he spotted something so peculiar in the distance it made the pits of his stomach churn; he saw a white wolf stare at him, and he stared right back. A hallucination? Perhaps, but later, after the groups retired for the following day, he went where the wolf stood. He could have sworn he saw it dissipate into nothing, but the footprints in the ground were proof that he was not imagining it.

Little did he know that this was the beginning of the bloodied white wolf. Trinson, was to rise higher than any of his peers, and fall further than anyone. The great protector, the first bastard peasant to be knighted. The first to master his body so much that he shattered human boundary. He broke swords with his own, and caught them just as easy. Little did he know that by the end of the war, he would become a monster.


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