Mourn No More
There was once an ancient warrior that protected the innocent and warded off evil incarnate, slaying the forces of darkness before the outside world even knew they existed. He wielded not sword or shield, but stone and masonry as his soul set deep inside the heart of the veil between life and death, a wayward protector perched upon a throne of holy protection as he drew many a warrior to his very essence and hoped that one of them would one day take his place.
Yet as the years went on, his hope began to wane as they all seemed so…disappointing.
For every pure underdog and grizzled enforcer, there were a thousand shadows of greed and vengeance tearing apart the innocent and misguided as even the slightest twinges of good were overshadowed and washed away in the infernal rage. The heroes he believed in false, the asylum overwrought with malicious entities and his teachings falling on deaf ears as the schoolyard burnt to a cinder with a whimpering of righteous blood.
His armor began to crack.
Retreating back to his throne, he drew in every ounce of power he had to try and sway a single soul to his side but his voice could not penetrate the thick venom as dark as the night itself. It oozed through every crack and crevice, infected good and evil alike and threatened to strip away the warriors soul if left intact. His protection wearing thin as hell itself began to enact judgement upon humanity. And even through divine intervention giving him back the slightest sliver of hope, his reason began to slowly strip away the thin layers of hopeful light he had left.
As he pondered if the world was even worth protecting anymore.
The same old cycle began, as the reassurance divinity existed simply cultivated more darkness and treachery. Heroes became puppets, drenched in blood and villainy and even death itself was forced to give his judgement. This time there was no where to run, no where to hide as with piercing, endless rage, this warrior of light was broken into a million pieces.
And yet his soul remained, tethered to the very keys that once protected his home, as he sat helpless, alone, terrified and ashamed, hoping and waiting for someone, anyone to give him what he truly needed.
The Prince wasn’t worthy as he faltered underneath his own nightmares.
The Hero hung up his cape after a single victory went his way.
The Architect ran screaming home to daddy.
Because this warrior wasn’t crying out for a hero, he was crying out for absolution. For someone to end his suffering and lay rest his immortal soul.
I have never hated OSW for its origins but for what it has become, a stain on the universe that has caused far more damage then it ever protected.
Others may be out for blood, for vengeance, for humanity, to protect their own neck or risk the universe for selfish desires.
But as the snow turns blood red, I will unleash a legion of indescribable power to destroy this white fleet protection once and for all.
And a long suffering soul is no longer haunted by what could’ve been and mourns no more.