The wind whistled past the young warrior’s ears, whispering to him. Comforting him. He liked the wind. It was peaceful. Sacred. Natural.
        Looking up into the heavens as they parted to reveal the blessed sun, he embraced its warm light standing in its divine path like a monolith, basking in its glorious essence. Taking a moment to remember his friends and allies who had given up their lives for the great cause this day. The very skies seemed to welcome him.
         He wondered if it might one day be over, if it would ever end, but he knew that it would not, the war would never stop. Not until every beautiful thing had been destroyed. Yet it had to be, he and his allies were fighting for the greater good, for Nosgoth.

         He heard the language of what could be his death as a sword was unsheathed from it’s scabbard- behind him.  Spinning around to face his most recent attacker the young warrior gritted his teeth as he saw what it was. The cause of this war, and the death of his regiment - A Defector, and quite a large one at that. The warrior would have spat if he had had the time, because of these unloyal, traitorous monsters the rightful king of the greatest kingdom to bless Nosgoth, Galahad, was dead. Killed by foul poisonous magiks, not even given the honour of a death in battle. Well this Defector would learn the error of his ways. His soul would be cleansed.
         The young warrior carefully waited for his opponent to make the first move. He didn’t. The two just stood, waiting for a sign to begin. They had both been trained in the same manner. Perhaps even by the same teacher with most of the Defectors being made up by renegade soldiers.
         The young warrior betrayed his instincts and lunged out first, attempting to gorge out his enemy’s intestines. Unfortunately for him his enemy was quite dexterous for his size and he ducked the lunge and cut upwards himself.
         The warrior felt the steel edge of the blade enter and pass through him. Then the merciful blackness of unconsciousness overwhelmed him.

         The warrior awoke. Stabs of pain arched through his stomach and up to his chest. He took a look around. He was in a tent, the smell of the dead and wounded clung to it relentlessly and the young warrior soon realized that he was in some sort of hospital. Different types of medicines and antitoxins littered the floors around him. He then turned his attention to the people sharing the large tent with him. Defectors - all of them. He almost passed out again, here he was, almost fatally wounded and at the mercy of his enemies, he would be tortured for information for sure. He doubted things could get any worse. They did. Into the tent, followed by who the warrior assumed to be the leader’s of the Defector resistance, strode a huge monster of a man, with an air of authority and arrogance and strangely enough… wisdom. The man was a vampire and a very old and powerful one at that, his clawed hands occasionally moving to stroke the large and twisted blade that he carried, chuckling at past memories as he did so. Even the warrior felt the power that this blade omitted, almost as if it was alive. The skull that graced the hilt of the blade was missing a lower jaw and had the unnatural fangs of a vampire. 

One of the leaders spoke, “Take your pick of any of them my lordship.” He was frightened, and rightfully so. It amused the young warrior to see the Defectors cowardness, despite his predicament.
         “I give you the abilitiy and power required to kill Galahad and conquer Nosgoth for your own and you feed me scraps?” The vampire was almost bemused. 
         “My lord we don’t mean to…” The Defactor was cut off,
         “I would make sure that you don’t.” The vampire turned to leave. The young warrior was amazed by the authority this one creature had over the supposedly ‘fearless’ leaders of the unholy resistance. If he ever got back to the great city then he would have important news to report-The Defectors were backed by a vampire lord.
         His attention was once again drawn to the unnatural blade in the vampire’s possession and against his common sense the warrior spoke, “What is the name of that blade?” 
         The vampire turned to face him and gave a dark laugh, “This, my human sheep, is the Soul Reaver.”
         The Defector leader’s shuffled nervously, all three of them worried for their safety every second they remained in the proximity of the vampire. 
         The blade mesmerized the young warrior, his very essence was entrapped, like a fly in the web of a spider. He reached out to touch it. He ignored the pain that rushed through him. He had to feel that weapon’s metal, it’s skin. His left hand had almost touched the blade when…
         “Remove you’re hand from his lordship!” One of the Defectors demanded more out of fear than respect.
          As the young warrior retracted his arm however something seemed to grab the vampire’s eye and shock him almost beyond belief.
         “That tattoo… could it be…?” The vampire readjusted himself, “What is your name boy?”
         “Vorador.” The warrior replied.