The thought of his bitter enemy screaming in agony, chocking for the last precious gulps of breath that would no longer feed his body; brought the slightest of smiles to his marble face. The smile itself was odd and distorted, almost out of place upon this man, as if a stone itself attempted to imitate a grin. But Pesmerga cared little for his own distorted expression. The death of Yuber would be his triumph, his legacy to this world, and the deed that would erase all the sins ever committed in his mad quest.

However, the memory of his last confrontation with the demon brought Pesmerga to a stationary pause. He thought his meeting with Yuber had been successful, for at least he hadn’t lost, but he didn’t win either. How did he expect to beat Yuber this time? The knowledge of his Sindarian heritage did little to arouse the suspicion he could prove better in battle, and his armor and sword were but facets of his own life. He had failed before, could he truly win against that which seemed unstoppable?

“Bah.” Pesmerga spat. He cared little for Yuber. Worse case scenario, Yuber would win and kill Pesmerga. In the remembrance of his life, would death really be so bad? No, Yuber was the answer. Yuber was the only thing that would give him release. For only Yuber held the proof to remedy his curse and allow him to finally grip the sweet release of death.

And the memory of Pesmerga’s tainted past returned. He recalled the horrifying murder of the High Priest. The crime committed by Yuber, for which he was blamed. The cries of his mother as he was led forcefully from his homeland of Harmonia; dismissed into exile. He was away when he learned of the deaths of his mother and father, forbidden from even attending their funeral. His very life, a meeting of those who would be his friend, only to watch them suffer to some violent end, or turn on him, with the desire to kill him. It was best that his former companions chose to abandon him lest they suffer at the hands of the curse or betray him, in which case, they would die. Few dared to tempt fate by declaring war on the dark knight, and none foolish enough to do so ever lived to regret the error of their ignorance. No, his was an existence of solitude, more through convenience than design.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he could not contain his loneliness. He was forced to resist the temptation of friendship, for the fear of the curse. And yet, he was punished for the crime never of his intent nor construction, but was a victim of its design. This was the realization that drove his quest to kill Yuber. He did not seek redemption for what the man-beast had done so many centuries ago, but rather, he sought release from the burden of his own involvement. The memory was clear, though, not as clear as it had been, he still vaguely remembered the event. He came, hearing the crash, and watching Yuber draw the knife and cut down their teacher, the High Priest in an act that bordered malicious obscenity. But Pesmerga had seen the act, he could have stopped it, but why hadn’t he? He had convinced himself it was shock of Yuber’s betrayal, but that didn’t seem accurate. Though, these centuries have long since erased the memory, and left him only with his questioning doubt.

Though, it was pointless to ponder the past. He had a thousand lifetimes to contemplate why anything happened in this world, yet could never discover a reason. Fate seemed to be a driving force of the flow of the world, yet Pesmerga dismissed such romantic ideas as man’s inability to explain their own existence. Life itself, had no meaning, no contingency of purpose in which the flow of the world revolved around a singular meaning. It was simply, in the course of existence, a mistake.

Though, these realizations discovered through Pesmerga’s near eternal existence, did not ease the dying hope that maybe there was purpose to the world. Perhaps things did happen for a reason, but if that were the case, Pesmerga wondered why such evils seemed to exist. Though, through necessity there was some degree of evil to be met in every man, for without evil, good would become stagnant and uninspired, and would have no counterbalance. Without a comparable counterweight, goodness would become a needless waste of idealism, lacking in definition or meaning.

Yet, in the 500 years of existence, Pesmerga noted the ever-tipping scale, leaning toward the abyss of darkness for which that the world teetered upon. If fate did exist, and if a purpose was to be met forever action upon the earth, Pesmerga did not care to fathom the purpose of the haunting darkness that came to rest upon the planet.

Growing weary from his soul-searching hunt for understanding, toppled with his inability to belong to the majority of mankind, Pesmerga continued his march. Walking into the city of South Window, Pesmerga watched as a young griffin flew into the distance, carrying what appeared to be a limp perch wearing a red tunic and green bandana. A strange spark of recognition surged across Pesmerga’s psyche as he pondered the strange scene, before turning back to his course and walking into the tavern. Many of the patrons seemed to study the new arrival, almost alarmed by the degree of which this man in black was adorned. He paid little notice of the stares of the alarmed citizens, and made his way to a corner table in the shadowed portion of the pub.

Sitting in the weathered chair, back against the wall, Pesmerga cared little to study these patrons, who were more likely than not, still interested in this shadowy figure in the dark armor.

“What will you be drinking today sir?” The bartender asked, making his way to the black knight.

“Dwarven Ale.” Pesmerga said simply, his eyes never rising to study his server, nor the few patrons who still seemed more interested in this new customer than their own drinks. Pesmerga was too busy contemplating his own course, his eyes burning holes into the table. It seemed he had no leads to his quarry, nor any direction, but he would keep moving. For Yuber would not come to him, he would find Yuber. And this next meeting would not be so easy, for one, if not both, would surely die.

Pesmerga was so locked into his own vision of the world; he hadn’t even noticed the drink set before him, swallowing the harsh intoxicant without thought, as if it were water. It wasn’t until a man, a guard of South Window tore into the tavern that Pesmerga’s mind was snapped to the here and now. The sudden entrance of this man into the silent pub caused many patrons to awaken from their drunken stupor, shocked into the reality of this man’s urgency.

“We…we…” The guard spoke, his voice broken by a mixture of fear and disbelief. “We just received word. Toto has been burned to the ground.”

The sudden news of the destruction of the small town brought the murmurs of shocked and horrified disbelief.

“No,” One man said, standing up at the news of the destruction, knocking over his table and spilling his drink. “Oh God, no. My brother.” The man was in a fit of shock as he ran from the tavern, followed closely by many other patrons, all of whom were fearful of relatives, friends, or the unknown cause and effect of such destruction.

The bartender himself, often more concerned with his profit than the usual ‘crisis’ that plagues whatever city is currently biting off more than there political function can chew, ran from the tavern as well.

Only Pesmerga remained in empty establishment, his eyes sparkled with the news. “An entire town burned down? It seems Yuber has been busy. This time, you bastard, you won’t escape me.”