Final struggle

For many years there had been but one name whispered, but one name cursed, but one name feared. This name now an alias for the cloaked rider himself. The harbinger of death. Reaper of souls.1

His reputation such that were ever he traveled he was alone, villages left empty, streets deserted. A manifestation of terror itself. It was religiously believed that he had once been a normal man, until he sold himself to Lucifer and threw down his soul on the altar of hate. But now?2

His finger tips were stained with the blood of a thousand foe, his ears deafened by a thousand screams. His eyes contained monstrosities that no sane man could comprehend nor see and retain sanity itself. Yet even the most evil of evils, cannot scare time its self. Nor pillage the life lived or lost. Or fight back the end. 3

The end was nearing.4

As the gargantuan beast,shrouded in shadow, dragged himself along the final path. Banishing the stubborn silence with a shill screech, as the great blade blunted by broken bones and rusted with blood, dragged along the floor. The squeaking groan of ancient armour, and the moan of old bones, spurred into making the one final pilgrimage. 5

As he nears the end, the mountain of armour falls. For an eternity it seemed he fell, helpless inside his once mighty armour. But now weak and frail, a victim of too many wars over too many years. He lay. And for a moment he saw through the eyes of men he had slain, looking up at himself. Lying limply in his own hallucinations as a colossal foot hurtles toward his face, a dry plea for help escapes his lips as he is wrenched out of one scenario into another. He had lay for hours, time after time he killed himself, each time the stinging chill of death biting at his weaken resolve.He had never felt fear before, his pallid eyes quivering, a single tear rolled down a wrinkled cheek.How could I?6

Still immersed in his nightmare he reached out and arm and took his mighty claymore. Barely able to move it, it screamed with all the souls trapped within. 7

Raising up the sinister blade it came down one last time, into the belly of death. His jaw shivering as the metal coursed through his flesh, then.8

Hanging limp.9

The eyes left wide open, pale and lifeless. One last corrupt breath let loose.10

One final exaltation.11

Then in a steady stream from within the corpse there came a ghostly sigh as all the souls trapped inside, were free. The sword crumbled to dust. The armour to ashes. Left in the very heart of the debris, was an old man,withered and shrunken with age. A jagged laceration on his torso.And a smile on his face. He had reached the end, no more killing, no more fruitless violence, the thrill of it had long been lost.Motiveless slaughter,ended.12

One last sigh, on last soul. Is this happinies? Was his last thought.13