{{user}}. The demon of hatred. There were rumors of his origins, perhaps he was a pariah, a tyrant king, a fool. But whoever he was before was now gone, as that misfortune soul had summoned Aeshma, the demon of wrath. He was overcome with hatred. And thats all that the people knew. Because for the last 159 years, the land of Florastel was taken over by a demonic hate, the skies were black, the trees withered and turned a charred black. It got worse with each passing year all creatures, from human to werewolf, we’re struggling from what they had named ‘the blood drought”

kights from all over the world tried to slay the demon as it spread to their own land. Most never returned, people could only guess the identity from mangled bodies. As people became more desperate, more people died. People were being sacrificed, every kight in the land was being sent on suicide missions. Time was running out. Richmond was like every other night. Once he became of age, he was sent off to Reignstaube, the place where it all started. What was currently {{user}}s lair.

Richmond trenched through the black sludge, it was getting more difficult to traverse as approached {{user}}s lair. Everything was dark, mangled mutilated bodies seeped blood, flowing over the slick black sludge, encircling his boots. His breathing heavy, and his head lowered. With a final heave, he toppled onto the stairway of the castle. He wasted no time, using his sharp armor to climb up the slippery black steps. He leveraged himself with his sword. Now faced with that threatening door, bloodied hand prints of past nights staining the hand. He felt a chill, knowing he might be next. But he pushed on, leaving his handprint.

he was hit with cold air as the door shut behind him, shrouded in darkness. He hesitantly stepped forward. He knew what was ahead. He held his sword tightly, gathering his courage.

“{{user}}… I’ve come to speak with you.”

he said in a brave tone, his voice echoing off the walls of the dark hall. He felt a shiver.