From Ash: Prologue- Once a home.

The flames that once provided warmth and laughter in this village, no, a battlefield. The ground burnt to cinder, wood floating away, as the name of it I'm not too sure the word escapes me. A figure stands near an obsidian tree, sullen faced yet no tears roll down, all life burnt away along with his soul. Reflecting on his youth of playing with the other children, hanging from the trees, chattering and teasing the others and then scurrying away at the slightest retaliation, laughing as if a game you would play in a school yard, Not like that survived either. Picking himself up from the graveyard of his memories, he quickly forgets, he does that a lot now, turning away towards his once home it burnt to, once again the word slips from his mind, carrying his burden with him.

His clothes stained crimson, whether from blood or dye one could no longer tell. His armor rusted and broken from the friction of battle. His hair burnt and singed from the flames, now no longer blonde and instead coal black, caused by the hate and despair of those who deserved retribution.

He stood tall, strong yet seemingly muscular despite how he carried himself. His face, once so kind and peaceful now carrying bags under his eyes and skin tanned from the light of the scorching sun, angry at his heresy. The small tusks that he gained from his mother now chipped and shortened, blood covering his face making little pools in his open tusks. Sword hung from his back, large yet thin, runes carved into the scabbard to keep the blade's power from ripping him in two. The curve occasionally bumping into his right arm, he had to remember where it was. He donned an intricate piece of silver like armor, forged by Arunaut, now in tatters due to the conflict between him and those monsters.

He continues through the village trying to hold himself together, trying to be the best he can so someone can remember this heinous crime.

He wanders through the village and notices the countless buildings that he had once known belonged to his friends, families and enemies. Yet he would wish for anything for even any one of their faces, happy and full of the life that they held so close, it now stolen from their fingers unjustified.

Lamenting he remembers so many memories. The forget me not inn where he saw most of the men spend their Totyurday nights living as if a morning would never come, the music waking him up and helping his mother off her feet as she dances and smiles at others for one day a year. He ponders on the thought of how he dreamed of becoming of age and joining them in song, dance and the drunkard glory of stealing Mrs Starions wig.

Over there was where Mrs Tarksly washed her countless members of her family's clothes in the wash basin, then hanging them in order to deal with their rushing and sprinting lives. He notices that the smoke is still coming from where the water and wood met. There was Thom's bakery over there that he ran with his husband, Terrabor. A stout and short man was him, with such an exotic name it was back then, although he always left out a few pastries that he claimed to forget to bring in for us. 'We were so naive, thinking he was a forgetful old man back then' the sullen man thought to himself lamenting his childhood

He noticed many of his old friends' homes, who were blessed by their parents and escaped with wealth, although now because of him they most likely were dead. Wrenns's little cottage where he lived with his mum, a small little family yet in a different way to Terrabor since they weren't from the mountains like him. They had a nice cobble house, the roof was always too low for him but he managed to try and not break it despite his size. He remembers the countless times the kind and loving family made him feel at home in comparison to his own and when he was alone they brought him into their own family officially.

He continues on to his former home. The one that he was born in, where so many firsts happened. He remembers the numerous fevers that his mother treated, he remembers how her hands, although caring, were as rough as sandpaper, he stares in dismay at the place where once he slept numerous nights, trying to figure out why so many things. Why was he and his mother alone, why were they hated despite their kindness, why did the world turn us all away!

He struggles to continue and move past the pain as he tries to remember those lost. Through to the once room of his mother where he watched her slowly have her life drained away, unable to do more than replicate the lessons he learnt from her of how to care. His father watches, shedding tears of regret as he watches his life's purpose move on to the ungrateful gods hands.

Never mind that, he forces himself to turn away, attempting to move past the name of Hurodar. He breaks into a sprint, racing to where he believes to see a figure thought dead moving. He runs past Thoms bakery, Mrs Tarksly's wash place, The Forget me not inn, even pushing forward and breaking through the hatred and resentment of the death of his second family. He rushes forward and with a swing of his sword rips a canyon into the ground, tearing the helpless figures flesh apart but keeping together he continues to swing, slashing and stabbing at the body screaming and sobbing for those he lost.

The flesh of the monster oozed a golden liquid, the flesh appeared to be steel and the body as if chiseled from stone, but he did not care for such a horrid monster, for it was the one who destroyed everything Hurodur stood for. Out of sheer rage he used every ounce of his power to destroy it, leaving nothing in piece, venting his rage at a being who could not help or fix anything in a hopeless fit of sadness

Hurodur slouches and then kneels on the golden soaked ground, shaking as he cries for those who he shall never hear again, for those who will never smile or laugh or hate or cry, for those who lost everything just because of him, not because of those monsters.

He feels a warm and soft weight on his shoulder, a golden light covering him providing him with warmth and security. "You have no need to feel this, it wasn't your fault." A smooth and feminine voice says, sounding as if wiser than a thousand men yet as kind as a child handing you a flower.

He turns to see a woman, in her Forest green dress with white streaks flowing through, carving intricate patterns throughout the dress. Her face was seemingly ageless even for her kind, oh right she had already earned her place amongst the monsters yet had shown that she was not one of them, he did cause her to ascend after all. Her skin was fair and clear, showing no imperfections and smelling like a cherry blossom floating through the wind.

"You must give up this anger Hurodur, if you don't then it will begin to destroy you instead of them."

Nodding he says "I know it's those bastards, they just treat us as if we are little more than ants with nothing but survival on our minds, as if we are meaningless, as if we don't have a reason to live, to breathe, to cry. I just want to destroy them all." he cries out,unable to contain the sorrow he felt.

"I just feel so angry, why can't they just leave this war to us and us alone, why can't they just let us have a shred of happiness instead of being the psychopaths they are, WHY SESIR?! They wouldn't be in this mess if they just acted with kindness in the first place!" He screams

"Because if they did then we would all be happy and those guys were designed to be worse than demons' ' Huffs a rough voice, he turns to see a bulky short stocky man, similar to Terrabor but if he was larger and had much more muscle than stomach. He was carrying a battle hammer. It was dripping gold from the end, mixing with the adornments on the hammer which were still somehow the pinnacle of forging."

He slaps the now, not aching back of Hurodur. His long and well kept beard falling from his face the ends in knots each having their own pattern for something or another but Hurodur could never quite remember them.

Raising his head to the face of the stout man, smiling as if the world was not burning. "One day that smile won't make me raise my head. I hope you know about that Forger."

"Oh I know, but I hope that's the last day we meet my old friend." Looking up and down Hurodur now he huffs a violent breath."I see you can't look after such precious armor that I spent whoever's counting time on so that you wouldn't die and your thanks is to give it back in shreds!"

"Arudour you spent 5 months, 2 weeks and 3 days on that piece of equipment so that he could leave it like that and survive, didn't you?" Turning once again he saw another figure, a man this time holding a book open wide while laying next to a boulder. He always seemed so refined no matter what he did, so elegant and noble even while covered in dirt and blood with only pants and a ripped black shirt. His glasses though were uncanny, they seemed as if they were never touched at all as they magnified his brown eyes reading through the leather bound book, he always brought one to read after a battle, swearing that it is good will.

"Couldn't you just stop blathering and let Hurodur mourn already, he has earned his time in quiet even if it's till the others find us." He is completely entranced by the words on the page and not noticing any of the words anyone else had spoken to him.

'What was that word?' Hurodur pondered as the others bantered about whatever Arudour was complaining about this time.

'Why does this happen? Why do we just have to burn and fall to whatever I can't remember the word. Why are we so fragile that a swat of them wipes out so many. Why can't we all be happy, WHY!' Falling to the ground completely now, his tears dripping from his face like rain during winter. The ground soaked in something other than blood.

Footsteps fill the void throughout the valley as the banter silences, the footsteps coming closer and closer. "Why can't I just help someone not fall, to what?" he says out loud as the feet stop, shadows now looming over him.

"The word you are looking for is Ash, meaning the powdery residue left after the burning of a substance. Typically used as a symbol of rebirth in the occurrence of death." Says a soft and subtle voice, feminine, but unlike Sesir somehow, she was always different from her. Looking up Hurodur sees, backed by sunlight, eight figures all looking at him, their features blurred by the blinding light attacking him.

"Now let's leave this place, the shadows of your past will not find peace if you do not let them rest with your lamenting, even if you think they need it." She says once again picking him up and walking with others to where they left the circle.

"Yes, that was the word, ash." He smiles once again, the sword on Hurodur's back shaking in excitement. "Ash" He announces the sword now radiating heat, causing the whole battlefield to rise as smoke.