L'Renouille, the capital of the Kingdom of Highland. It was an elaborate city, drowning in the depravity and social corruption that infested the very bowels of this nation. Of course, moral implications were determined by the leaders of ones nation and such blasphemy in the very face of the righteous were but an indication of the true nature of mankind.

Thus, when the lone figure, riding her powerful black steed entered the city gates, she all but retched at the sterilizing depravation of morals and stagnating ideology of the archaic system of government. For everyone knew, the Priestdom of Harmonia was by far the most efficient and socially satisfied nation on the continent. With the guiding wisdom of High Priest Sasalai, the military force of the Temple of the Silver Moon, and the purpose to defend the lives and freedoms of the citizens guaranteed through the Howling Voice Guild, Harmonia was a virtual utopia of ideas and liberties. So thus it greatly disturbed Krista that the High Priest Sasalai would even agree to a pact with the backwater people of Highland. Even King Argres was not worthy to be in the presence of even the most retched peasant of Harmonia.

Yet she understood that it was not her place to dictate foreign policy. For all she knew, she may very well be the most retched peasant. Thus would prove her point. However, had her horse not needed rest, she would have continued on to Jowston, and complete her mission. It was simple enough, find, and kill Pesmerga. She had been instructed to only use deadly force in the event that Pesmerga would resist. Who would know if he didnt?'

Krista deposited her horse, Stormrunner, at the nearest stable, paid three days keep for the horse, and walked to the local tavern. She entered the dimly lit pub, and drank in the atmosphere of vagrants and social degenerates. Shrugging off the shrewd stares and lusting glances, she walked to the bar, and waited for the notice of the barkeep. Though, he seemed preoccupied by his more noticeable customers, Krista hardly had the patience to wait for his company.

"Hey, lard-ass, can I get served sometime today?"

The bartender, noticeably shocked by his failure to recognize a new patron, quickly headed to attend the frail looking, blond haired girl. "I'm terribly sorry miss, but with the war and all, I suppose I've been a tad distracted. What will you be drinking today? Of course I hope you know we don't serve Jowsweister here. Those dirty bastards are the reason we're going to war again."

"Spare your bleeding heart opinions for someone who really gives a damn. All I want is a bottle of Harmonian Dry Sake. Now!"

The bartender was a slight bit confused by the harshness of this girl, who seemed no older than 18 summers, and her demands for such a volatile intoxicant. But he wasn't at all really concerned. As long as she paid her bill, more power to her.

Krista, however, threw back the bottle and drank in hungrily, as if the liquor was but a life source for her own existence. In a way, it was, for she hoped it would bury the pain within her, the longing to feel needed or to belong. Yet, sadly, she knew it would not. Alcohol was but a means to diminish her rapidly depleting funds and nothing more. She had a great deal of tolerance for such tripe, and though she had never had much practice, she could drink any man under the table and never feel the effects of the drink. She wasn't sure why this was, she only knew it was as this way for as long as she could remember. Though, if she were asked, she would not even recall how long that was.

Pesmerga stalked through the underbrush and thicket of the forest region surrounding the small town of Ryube. It had not been two days since he learned of his past, his non-existent memories, yet he was positive now, that he was, for the first time in his life, free to determine his own path. It seemed to him, that destiny itself was but a fabrication of mans' own inability to explain the events of the world. The same underlining premises that everything happens for a reason. Bullshit. Things happen in this world, with no discernable pattern or ideology. The concept that fate directed everyone's course was but a fantasy; wishing, no, hoping that some great force out there cared for each person. If that were the case, then why would Pesmerga learn, everything he believed about himself, everything he ever loved, was for nothing. Because of this, he learned he was not cared for, but a lost child; a piece of the puzzle that did not fit or seemed to belong, and as such, was ultimately discarded for being so.

Yet Pesmerga knew, the illusion that was his past and the memories he dreamed of were but a prelude to what his life held. He was now aware, that as he knew the past to be a lie, the future existed for that very reason. An illusion cannot exist if one greatly understands that the concept is faced before them. In the past, the illusions of reality cannot easily exist in his mind now, as the truth is discovered once one learns it is a lie.

Continuing his forward march, Pesmerga was lost by his own thoughts. In truth, he knew not why he ventured to the town of Ryube, nor did he understand what he would find there. He was only interested in recovering his lost life. His past was stolen from him, he would make certain his future was his own.

And yet, in his march toward the village, he could smell the stench of death and hear the screams of agony filter through the air. Yet he disregarded such assaults to his senses as mere memories of a thousand lifetimes of lies. The cries could very well be his own, if he so remembered what it was to feel. Perhaps emotion itself was but a false ideology.

However, an ungraceful collision to his right leg snapped his mind to the present. He looked down to see a small child, perhaps four, maybe five summers old, staring frantically into his darkened eyes. She was terrified of something, yet it wasn't the dark warrior towering over her, it was something coming from the undergrowth of the forest.

Persmerga redirected his attention to the forest, as a solder emerged from the foliage to confront the child he was obviously chasing. The solder was large, strongly built as was encased in a brilliant silver armor. Adorned on his shield was the snarling image of a wolf, a white wolf. Had the graft not been forged of steel, it would have been sworn by those to study it that it was a living, breathing predator. In a way, it was.

Though the solder in his glistening armor was hardened by combat and war, he was brought up short when stumbling upon the dark warrior, protecting the girl whom he was hunting. "By decree of Lord Ruka, all citizens of the City-State must die." The solder bolstered, regaining his composure from his initial shock.

Pesmerga tilted his head curiously, studying the tainted ultimatum of this solder, this knight, this would be child killer. It struck Pesmerga as odd, that this man not fear him more, though, he was slightly more curious if this situation were but another testament to his shattered past. Perhaps he didn't exist, though, of course, Pesmerga understood, there was but one way to truly ease his troubled mind.

However, upon Pesmerga's approach of the seasoned veteran, the solder panicked and drew his blade. Pesmerga really couldn't blame the wolf knight, for Pesmerga knew he must look as a monster or phantasm, crawling from the recesses of a child's nightmare, expressing no other purpose than to torment his chosen victim. However, this moment of amused realism ceased as the solder brought his heavy sword down upon Pesmera's heavily armored shoulder. The blade, though finely crafted in the Highland forge, snapped as a dead branch, breaking and falling in half.

The solder, now panic stricken, was beyond words of apology as Pesmerga effortless reached his armored hand forward and clutched the man by the throat. With a gentle squeeze, Pesmerga chose to test his illusion. It wasn't soon after that blood began foaming from the solder's mouth, bubbling forth as he struggled in vain to break the vise grip of this black armored man. Pesmerga chose to believe this was a more resistant illusion and squeezed harder, assuming his understanding of the falsehood of the situation would prove his hypothesis as his hand would pass through the man, proving his theory. However, the desired results seemed far from anticipated as a sickening crunch echoed from the man's neck, his struggle ceasing save the slight jerking from his still active nerve endings.

Pesmerga was puzzled to learn this was not his mind's memory, but was the reality. For he understood now, that once he understood the nature of the illusion, it would no longer exist as real within his mind. Hence, he would know now, that everything to exist would do so in the current basis of his mind. Yet he quickly disregarded this understanding as he studied the screaming face of the corpse he still held in his hand. He was rather puzzled to the ramification of his actions. Here was a man he had killed with his own hands. Of course he had killed hundreds of men in his life, though he couldn't verify the truth of such accusations. And thus he pondered again, what he should feel. Was this then the first man whose life he had ever ended? If so, should he not mourn for the soul that he sent from this world? In the end, however, Pesmerga accepted the knowledge that he truly felt nothing towards this man. No animosity, no remorse. He simply didn't care.

"Excuse me Mis'er?" The young child pleaded, tugging on Pesmera's cape and drawing his mind from his self-analysis. "But…but, can you help my village. Something bad is happening."

Pesmerga turned back to the child, his eyes questioning her own existence. Though, he'd rather simply accept her at face value than to test his theory once again.

"Very well, stay." He said simply, walking toward the direction from whence she came. He had pondered had he not gone mad years ago. Often his own failure to succeed in killing his enemy was but a tribute to his own fleeting morality. So why then was it, this pleading child had so manipulated him?

Ignoring his own discomfort, Pesmerga trudged forward, seeking this village, not knowing what to expect or how his services would be of use, though it really didn't matter. The stench of death and burning flesh grew stronger, yet Pesmerga noticed the screams of agony no longer filtered through the surrounding area. Reaching the forest edge, Pesmerga peered into the scene of chaos and anarchy that assaulted his senses with the edge of senselessness. It was what once stood to be a village, now a smoldering ruin of death. A tomb of ruin; to be erected as a monument to the truth of human nature. For war was never as ugly as the true face of mankind.

Yet as shock of realization, exploding across his psyche, brought Pesmerga's mind to the tall, powerful figure standing in the midst of the devastation, drinking in the bloodshed as if it were a fine wine to be savored. He was a large man, of great power, with long, flowing black hair, and a dark blue cloak falling freely from his shoulders that complimented the glittering silver armor he wore. His face was twisted in an evil grin, admiring the death he had brought to so many, and he barked his orders eagerly, wanting nothing but destruction to remain of this once peaceful town. And it was upon this observation of this excessively disturbed man that Pesmerga's mind recalled the words of the sindarian bastard, Zohar. "In truth, the events of you past have happened, yet you are not ready to believe nor understand yet."

For the whole of his life, Pesmerga sought one thing above all others, the death of Yuber. That itself had been his meaning, his release of the pain of his life. And when he discovered he no longer knew what to believe, his life was but an empty dream, long since abandoned. It was now, upon seeing this madman standing in the middle of this decimated town, that Pesmerga understood what Zohar had meant. For Yuber did not exist in the fashion he had believed he had, but was a symbol, or perhaps a prelude of what this man before him was. It was here, in the witness of this charred, ruined town, that Pesmerga again felt the life climbing from the depths of his soul, that he understood his destiny. Yuber was not the quarry he had so long chased, the idea of his past confrontation, but was this man, standing in the heart of death, admiring his work of mass slaughter.

"So Yuber, you show me your true face." Pesmerga sneered, reaching instinctively toward his sword. "This time you bastard, I'll have your head."

"Mis'er, what's happening?" The young child inquired, staring wide-eyed, pleading with the black knight, seeking answers. "I'm scared, wha's happening?"

Pesmerga scowled internally as he stared back at the large, black haired monster, the man wolf snarling orders to further the destruction. "Damn you Yuber," Pesmerga sneered internally, "Ill' find you again and when I do may the gods protect you, for I'll crush the life from you. You've plagued me the whole of my non-existent past. Killing you will finally free me of that."