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"The Tear" (Northwindow Castle) The winter chill began to settle over the plains of Harmonia, as a single, solitary figure, dressed in the silver cloak of the Howling Voice Guild raced madly across the barren land. The Crystal Valley itself, was a lush Greenland of vegetation, yet was barren in regard to towns, villages, or anything worth any real value. Only noted for its Great Library, the Crystal Valley was a desolation of life. Nothing lived here. And so, the lone horse rider, racing across this field of endless lifelessness, seemed oddly out of place. She was, after all, an enforcer of the Howling Voice Guild, well, at least she would be when she tracked and killed her mark. The man-demon named simply Pesmerga. Krista averted her eyes from her path, to reread her orders, it wasn’t as if she needed to see where she was going. She was to track, find, and apprehend the murderer named Pesmerga. If he resisted, her orders were to kill him. God how she hoped he would resist. Sure, he may be immortal, he may be quick, but no one is fast enough to dodge a bullet. Krista put the parchment scroll away, and returned to her course. When she found this man, she would make damn sure she sent his ass back to Hell. “Aarrgghh!!!!!!!” Pesmerga screamed in furious rage, the sound of flying debris slamming into the nearby wall elevating the bitterness of his frustration. He stationed himself in the middle of a large chamber, the walls and what was left of the ceiling, charred by the force of some powerful magic. Pesmerga stood in what had once been North Window Castle. The town was destroyed by the monster known as Neclord, and despite the knowledge that Neclord was a scourge upon this earth, Pesmerga never paid him a second thought. No, his reasons for coming here were simple. Neclord was an acquaintance of Yuber, and he had hoped, beyond reason, that there was some clue as to Yuber’s whereabouts. Much to his disliking, there was none. “YUBER!!!!!!” Pesmerga screamed, the fury ravaging his body as he walked to the remnants of Neclord’s Pipe Organ, thrashing the broken fragments of the once elegant instrument with his armored fist until nothing remained but the scrap material of destruction. “Yuber, you Son of a Bitch! When I find you, I will have you beg for your worthless life an instant before I crush your windpipe with my boot!” Pesmerga punched the thick brick walls of the castle, driving his fist through the granite barrier, allowing more sunlight and chilling wind to enter the already drafty chamber. Yet Pesmerga was not finished with his tirade. Walking to a large wooden table, covered with various beakers and other implements of experimentation, Pesmerga flipped the table onto its side, allowing the vials and chemicals to crash onto the stone floor. Grabbing the table by its end, Pesmerga lifted the heavy wooden plank above his head, smashing it into the floor. The table splintered and cracked before snapping in half, as Pesmerga flung the portion of the table he still held in his hands across the room. The table half slammed into the far wall, shattering into a shower of broken shards and splintered fragments. Pesmerga stepped over the remaining portion of the table, the glass beakers cracking under his armored boot. Walking to the mantle of the fireplace, Pesmerga stopped to gaze into a dusty mirror sitting upon a wooden hearth. It struck him as odd as to why a vampire would keep such a trinket, but his questions were quickly shoved to the back of his mind as he gazed into the mirror. The image that stared back at Pesmerga sent a chill of unrelenting recognition that drove an icy spike to the very core of his essence. It was not his own image, as he had expected, nor was it the image of Yuber, sneering at him as he had so many times seen in his dreams, rather, it was the albino, Sierra, who was his companion for the briefest of moments. She stood in the mirror, smiling at Pesmerga, grinning a welcoming, comforting grin, before fading away, replacing her image with that of Pesmerga’s own, embittered face. Pesmerga stood, shocked at the recognition of this woman, but no more so than the tugging ping of humanity that pulled at the very recesses of his soul. And yet, in the moment of reflection, Pesmerga felt the distant glimmer of hope, fade with the image of this woman. Spite took over Pesmerga’s being, as if by second nature or reflex born of the primal fury of survival, Pesmerga drove his armored fist through the reflection of his own image. Shards of broken glass tore from the frame of the mirror, as Pesmerga sunk to his knees. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, but most of all, he wanted a release from this Hell that was his life. He could never be a part of anything that mattered. All he would ever feel would be hate and rage. And as he sat, kneeling on the floor, holding the broken mirror frame in his hands, his head bowed in defeat, a single, tear shaped fragment of glass, reflected the sun through the broken ceiling of this castle.
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