Pesmerga stared at the crescent moon descending in the night sky, as his memory returned to the vision of the albino, Sierra. Why had his notice of her shocked his senses as it had. He was plagued with her image, and despite himself, he could not rid his mind of her image, nor abandon the sensation of peace he held when near her.

Pesmerga again turned his attention, away from the moon, the image that was beyond his reach, and studied his armor. The black, heavy steal clung to him as a second skin, securing him, protecting him from the outside world. The outside world was a pestilence, a blight to the ideas he held, he worshiped, for he did not belong. It had become obvious, the sudden departure of his recent companions, who seemed rather hurried to flee his company. Yet, Pesmerga, regrettably, enjoyed the company of his companions. For the simplest of moments, for the fleeting dream of the impossible, he truly belonged to something that was valuable, a friendship. Yet, as always, the dreams he held for a natural life, for a belonging of understanding by those around him, was often shattered by the reality.

“Such a fool I am.” Pesmerga heaved a weary sigh. “To think I could ever belong to anything of value. To ever think I could be of value. I belong no where.”

Pesmerga removed his black, heavy gauntlet from his right hand and studied the rune buried in his hand as punishment for his nonexistent crime; the damnable cursed Counter Rune. It was as it always was, a secondary effect to his curse. The Counter Rune worked in perfection in misunderstandings that often led to physical confrontations, rejecting others attacks and allowing Pesmerga to counter with extreme success. Though, the degree by which it effected his life, was that those who got close to him, would be rejected as well, propelled from the bearer. Those not dismissed by the rune’s power, would ultimately betray the wearer, or would suffer in some unexplainable fashion. Thus Pesmerga would be betrayed or rejected by those who he desired for, and he would never know what it meant to be loved. The end result was always the same however, Pesmerga would be left alone, abandoned or deserted by those who did not understand him.

A single tear streaked down his cheek, as Pesmerga dwelled upon this revelation. Reflex took his body as his hand dabbed away the salty drop. Pesmerga drew away his hand and studied the translucent tear of emotion, stunned and silenced that he was capable of producing any feeling other than rage. Where did such agony come from, surely not from him.

Pesmerga gripped his fist tightly, crushing the tear between his fingers. As agony had consumed his soul, so had rage. He stared again at his new equipment, gathered from the ruins of the Sindar. His father’s apparent gift to him, and he understood the meaning behind it all. His armor, glistening in the fading light of the moon, an empty blackness that reflected the life left within his soul. A blackness as still as death itself, and yet, in that bitterness, he felt comfort, for he knew, here he belonged. His armor was not but a shell to safeguard him from attack, but to keep him secure from the outside world. The world itself was his enemy. It was obvious, his cursed Rune would not allow others to walk with him, but as Pesmerga relinquished his desire to hold companionship to his withered heart, he felt that need for companionship wither with his spirit, for his was a path of loneliness, no one could understand, and he cared little for his own feelings.

Pesmerga then stood, stretching his powerful frame within the confining suit of black armor, and drew his glorious sword, King Crimson. It had been rebuilt in the temple of the Sindar, better than before. Another gift from his father, yet he observed the brilliant, blood red ruby shining in the hilt of the blade. The rage rune, a symbol for all that was evil, and hateful within this world, and it shined in reflection of Pesmerga’s own hated for Yuber. A smile tugged at the corner of Pesmerga’s lips, as he studied his sword, the rage rune glowing ever more brightly with his own distaste and hate for the demon he hunted.

Pesmerga sheathed his blade, his instrument of redemption, and reached for the bag of supplies left to him by the red haired woman and her albino companion. He did not wish to remember names. Names meant nothing to him, faces were a faded dream, all that mattered was his hate, the all-consuming rage that coursed through his body and drove his every action. For within that rage, within the company of misery, he truly belonged.

Reaching into the bag of goods left by his former allies, Pesmerga counted the many medicines left to him by the two travelers. It’s not as if Pesmerga required such equipment and the oddities left to him by the two women were but a trivial severance payment. More out of the sake of curiosity than need or desire, Pesmerga continued to hunt through the canvas bag, searching for something, though he could not determine what. Perhaps meaning to his misery? As if that would be delivered from a canvas satchel. Pesmerga withdrew the pair of glittering Silverlets, given to him by the red haired warrioress. He studied the equipment, the soft yet firm material of the powerful defensive accessories. Yet, in the rising sun, the Silverlets glowed a gentle white, reflecting a tinge of hope in the fleeing darkness.

Scowling at the recognition of this reflection of kindness, offered to him by two companions who readily discarded him as unwanted waste, Pesmerga threw the Silverlets aside. He would not burden himself with a gift of amenity from those he was not good enough to travel with. Though he knew, only one mission would grant him release from the depths of his misery, Yuber’s screaming head, piked upon his sword. Death would be too good for the monster.