Name: Vardann Argeinon.

Title: Former Captain of the Silver Hand.

Age: 37.

Race: Human.

Class: Paladin.

Relatives: Nyela Argeinon (wife, deceased), Alexandra Argeinon (daughter, deceased).

Affiliation: Alliance, Silver Hand, Argent Dawn.

Current Location: Ironforge.


- Height: 6'2".
- Weight: 245lbs.
- Hair Color: Black.
- Hair Style: Mid-length.
- Eye Color: Gray.


- Promising Commander.
- Promising Attacker.
- Confident Defender.
- Proovenly Loyal.
- Intelligent.
- Promising Cavalry General.
- Faithful.
- Sobriety.
- Energetic.
- Strategic.
- Promising Sieger.
- Upright.


"Let ourselves not be shaken by shadows of the past, lest we fall into darkness.
I am your Captain no longer, stand by me as fallen sons and daughters of Lordaeron.

Stand by me and we will make amends for what we failed to do so many years ago.

For our fallen comrades! FOR LORDAERON AND THE ALLIANCE!!!"

- Vardann Argeinon.

Below is a brief, alright maybe not brief but condensed believe it or not, recount of Vardann's history from childhood through to adulthood.

First War.

The beginning of the First War found Vardannn only a boy. At age 12 he was nearing manhood and had already begun his military training under the careful ministrations of his father, Bartol Argeinon.
Whispers of war and a new, uspeakable enemy crept up from the southern nations. People spoke in hushed tones on the streets of Stratholme and young Vardann took notice of his father's demeanor becoming much more grim.

Time passed, and the invasion of the Orcish forces in the south became common talk amongst the people of the city. Would the southern nations prevail? Too little was known about the goings on to give an accurate assessment, and so their lives continued.

Vardann stood tall on his 17th birthday, flanked by his comrade cadets-in-arms as they received their rank insignias and induction into the military. His rank pinned on, a salute given to his father, and the rest of his life planned.

A day came, many months later, when a silence blanketed his fair city and the remains of Stormwind marched through their streets led by Anduin Lothar. Vardann watched from the steps of his home as the troupe disappeared into the distance, awestricken and confused at the same time.

He recalled his father leaving, his mother crying, and his siblings shivvering in fear. Had he missed the news?

Second War.

The Alliance of Lordaeron.

Vardann, age 17, stood at the head of a small group of soldiers. The square was full of many such groups though the youngest soldiers seemed to all be congregated in the same area.

The leaders of the seven human nations met and agreed to unite in what would become known as the Alliance of Lordaeron. For the first time in nearly three thousand years, the disparate nations of Arathor were once again united under a common banner.

Appointed as Supreme Commander of the Alliance forces, Lord Lothar was preparing his armies for the coming of the Horde.

Vardann listened intently as superior officers issues orders, his group and many others would be remaining on the home front to offer support and defense as needed. He could not help but be slightly disappointed by this fact but took his orders as given.

Some hours after the troops were dismissed, Vardann witnessed something that would change his life forever.

Walking past Alonsus Chapel on his way home, he happened across a group gathered within, several of them high ranking officers. He watched as Lord Uther knelt before Archbishop Faol, he watched the swirlings of divine magics, and heard as they announced the founding of a new order of holy warriors, the Knights of the Silver Hand.

Stricken with awe, young Vardann quickly snapped back to attention as they each began to exit, quickly saluting as High Lord Lothar exited with the others. He found himself a bit curious as he was offered a knowing smile by Uther, but did not have the chance to think much more.

Plans had changed and Vardann's group were being sent off with the frontline soldiers.

In his mid-twenties, while battles still raged, Vardann had come home on leave to spend time with his family. While home, he met Nyela, and it was not long after that they were married. Their union was bittersweet however, as he still lived the life of a soldier and was called back to the front lines.

Nearly a year had passed when one evening, a mage found his way into Vardann's command tent where he sat hunched over maps and bottle of scotch.

The mage brought news to him that Nyela was giving birth to their daughter, which caught Vardann by immense surprise. You see, mail to the front lines was seldom if at all, but even more strange was to be sent the news by mage. Nyela had studied the arcane, but was by no means at a level that warranted this.

Vardann however, did not think of this at the time and quickly gathered what he could, leaving his second in command orders to carry on. Not much time later found Vardann magically wisped to the side of his wife as she lay in labor.

The birth went without complication, and they were blessed with a healthy baby girl whom they named Alexandra.

It was some days later that a knock came to the door, and Vardann was greeted with the sight of Lord Turaylon and Archbishop Faol, it was then that Vardann knew why he had been sent the mage. He was inducted into the Silver Hand.

Third War.

Forged on the field of battle, Vardann's prowess and turning away his foes had become apparent. Now at the age of 35, Vardann had become a distinguished soldier, and Knight of the Silver Hand.
A year had passed since he had been on the front line of battle, having returned home to command the defense forces of his home, Stratholme. Though he still itched to be with his comrades, it was good to be home with his family.

And it came like a whisper in the night.

A plague in the countryside was taking over, Andorhol, Hearthglen, consumed by some unknown evil. Stratholme strengthened its defenses, but it was too late...

It Has Begun.

"Captain Argeinon?"

Vardann looked up from the corpse at his feet to a young man walking toward him. He made note of the young features of the boy turned man, silken blonde hair straggled out from beneath a tattered and beaten helm; was it so long since we were all like him?

He brushed the thought away and removed his sword from the grotesque body at his feet, pausing to wipe the thick, sticky ichor from its blade on the remnants of clothing the corpse wore before returning it to its sheath, turning to the approaching man, "Yes Corporal?"

"Uther sends word, Arthas is returning to aid us aga--" the younger man broke into a bit of a coughing fit that hindered his speech and caused Vardann to raise a brow in concern, reaching out to clasp the man's shoulder, "Corporal?"

"I'm fine, it's nothing sir," the Corporal chuckled in an attempt to make light of the situation, standing straight, Vardann noticed him wiping a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. Vardann nodded uneasily and removed his hand from his companion and looked back down to the corpse at his feet.

"It's about damned time someone gets back here, the people are going insane with this plague business," he said with a bit of a grumbled aftertone. The Corporal looked to the body on the floor and shook his head, "Another sir? Who was he?" Vardann sighed softly, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes as he spoke, "Fras Siabi." The Corporal knelt down with a sad look upon his face, muttering a prayer over the fallen body before standing once more, turning to Vardann and saying in a bit of a frantic tone, "That makes twenty now sir, what are we going to do?"

"Twenty-three," Vardann corrected, looking out from where he stood to the city square where his people waded through the atmosphere of despair that had overtaken the once glorious Stratholme. He turned back to the young man, "We will protect our people Corporal, that is our purpose. Help will come and until then we must remain vigilant, else we take hope from our people. Do you understand?"

The Corporal seemed to snap out of his brief moment emotional duress, popping to attention and saluting Vardann, "My apologies Captain, I know not what came over me." Vardann clapped him on the shoulder with a chuckle as he began to move down the ramp, "It's alright Corporal, just don't make a habit of it. Get the Priests up here to give Fras a proper burial then I want you to gather a few men and go see about those grain shipments."

He didn't look back as the Corporal saluted and quickly made off with his orders, Vardann closed let lids fall over steel gray eyes and a whispered sigh escape his lips. He knew he would never see the boy alive again.

Help did not come in the form that was expected.
Vardann was wakened in the dead of night, a demonic voice resounding in his ears. He heard Arthas' battle cry, and the song of battle.

The Culling.

Screams pierced the city streets, sounds of pain that sent shivvers across the spine, withdrew Vardann from his bed with a start followed shortly after by Nyela. He spun to face her as he hefted his sword, not taking time to worry about his armor, "Get Alexandra and get to the cellars, now!"

Vardann hurtled through his home, springing to the door which he promply threw open to be showered in blood. The scene before him was a picture of crimson attrocities as he watched his beloved city burn, its people scrambling for protection as they fell under the weight of heavy blades. An armored figure fell upon him, in his shock instinct took over and he quickly downed his foe only to see that the beastly scourge he had thought it had been was actually a man.

He looked up through his door to see now that it was not the Scourge rampaging through his city but rather, soldiers of his people. He leapt out of his doorway into the mass confusion trying to assess what was going on and found a most peculiar thing, Arthas stood across the square.

Vardann waded through soldiers and citizens wildly scattering, "Arthas! What the hell are you doing!?" The prince gave no explanation other than raising his hammer to strike Vardann down. In surprise, Vardann raised his blade to deflect the blow and retreat back into the crowd, frantically attempting to fend off the attackers that slaughtered his people.

And then Darkness overcame him.

Stratholme was in shambles, Arthas' attack coupled with Mal'Ganis creating his own havoc through the city left nothing but devastation. In the wake of it all, through the following weeks, those that were left banded together in an effort to survive as the scourge moved in.
Arthas and his soldiers had left and the undead began to roam free, several more were lost to the plague, and the all knew that their once fair city would never be the same again. In this time, another evil fell upon them.

Some escaped notice as the powerful Lich, Kel'Thuzad, swept his forced across Stratholme with his dread citadel hovering overhead. Others were not as lucky as they were rounded up like cattle in the city square, Vardann and his family among them.

And Darkness Comes.

A familiar darkness took Vardann one day whilst he moved through the city in search of food stores, when he awoke he knew something had happened.

He found himself bound and shackled tightly, surrounded by undead, kneeling at the feet of an unfamiliar being.

"Do you know who I am?" It spoke.

Vardann only struggled at his bonds.

The being laughed, "You have heart. I will enjoy watching it crumble to dust."

Vardann was hefted up by two large creatures and turned to face the smoldering town square, all of the survivors had been gathered here. Vardann raged against his bonds, the cool metal tearing into his flesh whilst he struggled to it free, as he was forced to watch the undead lay waste to the survivors.

He lay panting through tears once it was over, " monster! Free me and I shall show you the true power of the Light!"

The being laughed once again, "Not yet, I have one more thing to show you."

Vardann's eyes widened in horror his his wife and daughter were brought before him, wildly he struggled to get free, "No! You cannot! Please!"


Their torture was slow, Vardann screamed and howled of a thousand pains; desperately trying to free himself as he watched them be flayed, their agony echoing within his ears. The louder he howled and more the being laughed, the more he cryed out for the Light to help him the more the being smiled.

Flesh tore from his wrist as he abled himself to free an arm, he wasted no time in leaping arop one of his captors tearing its throat out with his bare hand, he reached for its blade and spun on the being only to be held in place by some dark magic.

He watched as they shred his family to pieces, and thought their screams had long since ceased he could still vividly hear them within his mind.

Before darkness took him, he was brought face to face with the being, the last words echoing within his mind, "Remember this day Paladin, remember it well. This is the end of your pitiful people."

When Vardann awoke, his first note was the smell of the salty sea air and the feeling of warm linen sheets beneath him. He realized he was no longer in Stratholme, but just where he was he did not know.
Later he found that he was in in Theramore, Jaina Proudmoore had organized the few survivors of the plagues and brought them here to forge some new hope. Hope, however, was not a feeling Vardann could feel any longer.

Against the will of the priests and Jaina herself, Vardann set out across the sea back to his homeland in search of vengeance leaving behind him the very Light he once fought for.

World of Warcraft.

Upon returning Stratholme, Vardann found exactly what he had expected, undead legions now prowled his city streets. Spectral images of the once proud people now wandered aimlessly, seemingly unaware of the carnage around them.
But something else as well, apart from the Scourge that plagues his city there were those bent upon destroying the Scourge, Scarlets they called themselves. He recognized many of them as his former comrades, it would seem that they blamed themselves for Arthas' betrayal and now sought to end the evil that plagues this land.

By killing living and undead alike.

No better than Arthas.

Vardann too, was no better, for he killed these Scarlets without remorse. Killed them to prevent more like Arthas being unleased upon the world, killed them to release them of their insanity, killed them... release them.

He was a wraith in the night, a chilled horror that roamed the streets of the mangled city taking life and unlife from all that crossed his path.

He did not leave, when the dragonflights attacked.

He did not leave, when danger apart from the scourge threatened this world.

It was not his world. This, was his world.

The Burning Crusade.

When the Heroes of his world led the charge through the newly re-opened Dark Portal, Vardann paid no mind. Months went by as he continued the unrelenting task of purging the undead from his beloved city.
Then one day, as he knelt over the wash basin, he looked into the dim water and saw a reflection there that he had not expected.

He saw Arthas.

Realizing that he was becoming exactly that which he despised, Vardann reluctantly left Stratholme to learn of what had transpired in the world. What he found, was nothing more than much of the same.


Ask yourself something, why are you here?

No, I'm not talking about the great sum of all things, the wretched meaning of life, or anything so grandiose; I mean, why are you here, standing (or sitting) where you are at this very moment.

Easy question?

Then why the slight hesitation before answering?

I know why.

It is in your nature to question. 'Why is he asking me?' or 'Does the reason behind this question mean I did something wrong?'

You begin to question every detail, every turn, every decision you have made that leads to the here and now. But why are we contemplating the past? Now is no longer now, but rather, it is then. I suppose the question was moot from the moment that it was asked but no use contemplating the past now.

So how about now?

Nevermind, it is then.

You cannot change the past, or so they say. However, in converse to that, they portray the future as being all too easy to change with the actions of Now, which is the Future's past.

So, with that in mind, all things seem to fall back to the Now.

So if the Now is actually Then, Then is the Past, the actions of the Past change the Future, and the Future is all too easy to change.

Then shouldn't the Past also be all too easy to change?

We shall see, or, we have seen.


The heavens did swell and burst upon the world with tears of sadness at seeing its children bear such sorrow. The air was alive with the familiar sounds of the night, and the now familiar sound of soldiers trudging through the mud exhaustion hanging heavily upon bodies. The armor that adorned them bore no protection from the piercing sadness that invaded their being as looked to their distant home burning.
It was over. The Horde had won.

Watching the soldiers march, stood a lone man upon a hillside. His once gleaming armor now stained with the blood of many, friend and foe alike, he watched in quiet contemplation at the resignation that flowed through his people.

'My people,' he thought, 'are they really my people?'

A gentle shake of his head banished the thoughts from surfacing as he too now began to move solemnly across the tundra.


"Och! Lad, ye look like death warmed over," a stout Dwarven man observed as he entered the quaint tavern, taking a seat beside a human man brooding over a large mug. The human had obviously just seen battle, still clad in his dust and grime smeared armor he made quite the sight within the small abode but none attempted to say anything about it, only eyed the bloodstained sword resting against his table.
He did not look up as the Dwarf took a seat.

The Dwarf shook his head and motioned for the bartender who promptly began fixing a drink, before turning back to the human whom he obviously had some acquaintence with, "Var, ye mus'n let yer demons get the better o' ye," this said with a firm clap on the humans spaulder. Vardann looked up from the drink as if just now noticing the Dwarf, his expression remained blank as he gave forth a slight shrug and went back to take another swallow of the thick, viscous fluid that now only half filled his mug.

An exasperrated sigh exploded from the Dwarf who hopped off the barstool, "Ye'r 'opeless lad, one o' these days ahm gonna knock some clear thinkin' into ye!" No response came from the human and the Dwarf proceeded to roll his eyes, reaching up to the bar to grab the mug the bartender had left, quickly emptying it in one swallow before slamming it back down on the bar with a hollow thud. Turning to Vardann he gave him a pointed glare, "Ah came 'ere ta tell ye ah met someone who ah think ye nee' ta talk ta," saying as he began to gather his things, "a Mage of some regard ahm told. Some say he has tha power ta change the past."

The last part was said in a near whisper, a hopeful light in the Dwarf's eyes as he took his belongings and left. Vardann had paused mid-drink and now sat motionless, staring into his mug, a hundred thoughts simultaneously flowing through his mind.

A child's fantasy, he thought as he emptied his mug and stood up from the bar. Retrieving his blade he quietly made his exit.

Sometimes, our fantasies are all we have.


The sickening crack of bone followed by a liquid grunt came from outside.
The ogre fell through the door, splintering its wooden frame across the floor. From inside an older gentleman shot up from his chair beside the fire, the glass once held in his hand clattering to the floor spilling its ichorous contents upon an all too lavish rug.

The gentleman looked down to the ogre in horror as blood leaked from its mouth, mingling upon the floor with strong smelling brew. Tearing his eyes away from the ogre that had once been his door man, the older gentleman looked up to the door way where he now saw the assailent casually walking in the door, careful to step over one of the meaty legs of the ogre.

The man entering the anything but humble establishment carried a stoney visage to his features that made emotion near impossible to discern, but if one had to guess they could say it was a frightening mix of amusement and annoyance that carried across his glare.

Crossing the room the man began to help himself to the caraff of liquor that rested upon a truesilver tray, his voice dismissive as he spoke, "I'm not entirely sure what kind of fool you take me for Behrendt, but I can assure you that you are misguided in your assumptions." His steel gray eyes, reflected the fickle flames of the hearth as though dancing upon a blade, now fell upon the gentleman questioningly.

"I have no idea what you are talking about!" Behrendt protestes indignantly, his fear momentarily supressing itself.

"Tsk," Vardann hissed, casually crossing the room with his glass over to a comfortable looking armchair where he promptly took a seat, motioning for Behrendt to return to his chair. The gentleman seemed reluctant but did as he was bade, Vardann once more speaking as Behrendt took a seat.

"You told me that it was within your power to help me change the past," he held up a hand silencing Behrendt who had opened his mouth speak, while continuing, "I knew that I was a fool for even coming here, but I went with your schemes anyway. You have not given me hope, but you have shown me that you are more than capable of doing what it is that you have represented."

Behrendt had began to grow noticeably nervous, Vardann made no reactions and simply continued speaking.

"You have marketted your ability without actually selling the product, I am sure goblin profiteers would applaud you. You have been paid, your errands have been run, there will be no more excuses. You will show me exactly what I came here for, or you will not breathe another breath." The seriousness in Vardann's eyes was absolute.

"But--" Behrendt began to protest but his voice was cut off in a gurgling spout of blood from his lips, the thick fluid pouring over his lips and down his chin. His eyes rolled uncontrollably as the blood poured from his mouth and the newly formed puncture wound in his neck, trying tried desperately to focus on Vardann who now leaned over him, his hand firmly gripping the pen-knife that embedded itself in Behrendt's neck.

Vardann watched in silence as the last remnants of life drained away from the gentleman's eyes, leaving his body an empty lump of flesh upon the lounge chair. A few moments passed and Vardann took a breath, those once steel gray eyes took on a golden color and began to glow as did his hand which was brought up over Behrendt's corpse. Moments later, energy channeled, and waves of positive energy flowed through the corpse beckoning the spirit back to its host. A few gasped breaths and Behrendt wildly stared up at Vardann, stammering uncontrollably.

"Y-you d-don't understand! I c-cannot tamper with the fabric of time! It is delicate enough as it i--!" Once more he was cut off by Vardann reaching forward and clasping his chin, this time giving his neck a sharp jerk followed by a cracking sound. Again, the lifeless body slumped into the chair. A light chuckle escaped Vardann as the glow came forth once again, returning life to the corpse and thinking to himself of the fragileness of the human body. Behrendt was quiet this time upon ressurection, desperately attempting to catch his breath and for the most part successfully.

A few moments of silence passed before Behrendt spoke finally, his voice low and calm, "Kill me and ressurect me all you want, I will not--!" He looked down in surprise at the blade plunged into his abdomen, surprised at what he saw but did not feel, he looked back up to Vardann whose gaze now inspired within the gentleman a visage of pure terror. And then he felt the pain.

"You will find," Vardann began, "that I have other means by which I can convince you Mage. You see, there are more ways to apply Divine healing arts than you know." Behrendt screamed at the pain, his body felt as if it were aflame as the blade twisted within his belly causing him to lose control of containing his bodily fluids. Vardann paid no mind and continued, "Properly applied, you can be kept alive simply to feel the pain. A Scarlet Inquisitor taught me that, pity he had to die."

"You can't do this!" Behrendt screamed, "You're a Paladin!"

Vardann laughed, twisting the blade again, his bellowing laughter now mingling with Behrendt's screams, "My calling is the least of your concerns right now my good man!" This said as he channled more energy down the length of his blade, the healing flows working to mend the flesh and organs around the blade that peirced them.

Unable to take anymore, Behrendt gasped, "Alright! Alright! By the Light please stop! I will do as you ask!" The blade was removed with such force, Behrendt could not stop himself from vomitting, adding the contents of his stomach to the blood and viscera that covered him. Light pulsed once, and his wounds healed, the pain nor only a vivid memory. Vardann was walking out the door, sheathing his sword.

"I will return tomorrow Behrendt, have your spell prepared when I get here. We have wasted much time already. Oh, and clean yourself up." And he was gone, leaving Behrendt a weeping mass sitting within a pool of blood and waste.

The Fool.

What exactly are you trying to accomplish Vardann?

Vardann walked through ivory trimmed halls of the small mansion, his lip curled every so slightly in disgust as he passed the rooms flanked the hall.

Each room filled with the stink of debauchery, each room holding a more despicable visage of depravity than the one before it.

He should have killed Behrendt last night, but damnit, he still needed him.

What do you expect to find?

His armor echoed against the stone floor as he descended the steps into the bowels of the mansion, the air taking on a dank, heavy atmosphere the deeper he found himself.

Finally leaving their stairs behind he was shocked to find that the where he expected to find stone ceiling, he found a vast sea of stars and swirling nebulae. How could it be possible when the mansion was above them?

Magic tricks and dweomer, give me a blade any day.

Behrendt stood in the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by strange glowing crystals that seemed to be taking their energy from the expanse that swirled above them. Vardann stepped to the outer ring of the circle and waited for Behrendt to acknowledge him.

It was not long before Behrendt ceased weaving his magics and turned his smile upon Vardann, "My dear Paladin, all that you seek and more lie in wait for you now. Just beyond the door." He extended a hand to a shimmering archway that materialized from the stars.

Vardann hesitated a moment as he looked upon the door.

You cannot change anything.

Determination etched his stone features and without another thought he strode forward and moved through the archway.

Behrendt smiled as the door disappeared.


You have nothing left, why do you fight?

His muscles were aflame, each movement caused his body to cry out in protest. Each breath, was like an eternity of pain.

Vardann struggled to get up, his vision still a blur from the light that had hit him the moment he stepped through the Archway. It has felt as if his whole being were going to be disintegrated when it touched him, and truth be told, he didn't feel much better about it now.

Finally managing to sit up he exhaled, his armor seemed to weigh more than it previously had, that or his muscles had taken more of a shock than he had initally thought. As his vision finally cleared he pulled himself to his feet, realizing that he was no longer in the basement of the mansion, but rather, in an open field that he recognized to be on the outskirts of Stratholme.

Once again, you will watch.

It was not the Stratholme that he fondly remembered, he wathed now as it burned still as it did to present day. From his vantage point he could see the city clearly, could see the people gathered in the square.

Could hear his own screams.

Rushing forward he slid to his knees helplessly as he watched in wide-eyed horror the torture of his wife and daughter once again. The events played out photographically to the hell he too vividly remembered. Tears once again streamed down his face and blind rage consumed him. Loosing the sword from his sheath he lost himself in the frenzy.

There was never any hope.

Vardann stood in a river of blood, his armored form covered from head to toe in the viscous fluid, rank with the stench of undeath. He looked back and saw that his rage had not only cut path through the undead scourge, but through those innocents he had once called his people as well. He sat upon his knees, cradling the flayed corpses of his wife and daughter as he desperately struggled to make sense of it all.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, not again.

"You bastard!" he was caught off guard and nearly impaled if not for the sturdy craftsmanship of his breastplate. He whirled to his feet taking up his sword in time to deflect another coming blow, it was not what he saw his assailant.

And now you face your true enemy.

Steel gray eyes caught each to other, one pair reflecting confusion whilst the other reflected only anger and hatred. Vardann parried blow after blow from his younger self. The pure rage behind the blows staggered him, leaving him no time to work on a counter attack. He did not understand why he would attack himself in such a manner, nor did he understand this place at all. Had Behrendt tricked him?

It it clear to you now, isn't it Vardann?

Blindness, hatred, Light-forsaken. Vardann smoothly brushed the blade of his younger self aside and in a single blow, left the corpse to lay at peace with the rest.

"Your greatest enemy, your greatest fault." A young elven boy stood before him now, ageless eyes staring upon the older man. Vardann looked to the boy with a smile devoid of happiness, "Andormu, why are you...?"

The boy waved a hand, "I am only investigating the rift your arrival caused, but having watched, I understand. I take it your trip was all that you expected?"

Vardann shook his head, "I still do not know exactly what happened but, I think I have an idea."

The boy nodded, "Good, we should be on our way then."

Your destiny is on the horizon, the Light be with you.

"The Light..." Vardann mused as he sat within his small dwelling in the frozen hillside of Dun Murogh, a glass of bourbon swirling in his hand. "Light..." a moment of clarity crossed his features, "...Uther..."

The door to the dwelling slammed shut, the sound of a horse galloping off in the distance.


He knelt at the base of Uther's shrine, a last testament to the Lightbringer. He did not know what he would find here, but something inside had pulled him.

He now roams the Eastern Kingdoms, with hope.