The skies are darkened, the clouds tainted by smoke. The smoke rises from flames that roam a battleground; the ancient remains of a dead kingdom. Bodies of humans and humanoids lay mixed with demons on the streets of the city; their blood turns the streets to mixed shades of crimson colliding with some blue fluids. The corpses share a variety of wounds, from lacerations to arrows, burns to corrosion. The bloody scene covers the entire city, its purity long-since tainted.
At the center of the death and destruction stands Runeshot, looking at a ruined palace that dominates over the landscape which, years ago, had been his home. He wipes the blood off of Gwynt, his blade. Its Celestium fang gleams in the firelight, before being slid back into its sheath. With a slow, steady gait, Rune makes his way to the massive structure.
A long time ago, he was prince here, supposed to become king of a beautiful kingdom that was renowned for its power. The reminiscence grinds sparks of in his heart as he realizes how it has changed. The demons had came from their dark realms and taken away his home, his father, his whole life. The change he never wanted.
Now, he is but a swordsman, invading the former invaders to leave none alive. Is it revenge that guides his blade? No. It is retribution. These monsters must pay for their sins. They must pay for every drop of blood that they spilt, and most certainly pay for every tear that they had made Rune shed in grief. Now, it is time for the ringleader of these demons to suffer. Today, Rune will end their conquest, or die trying.
As he walks down the ruined street, each step fueled by his determined drive, a pair of demons bursts out from an alleyway, their ink-black scales contrasting against the light of the inferno. They brandish their crude blades that are made of some impure metal, blood running all the way down to the hilt. The demons waste no time to attack Rune, their bloodlust unsated by their previous kills.
Rune slides Gwynt back out of its sheath and draws back into a defensive stance. As the demons approach, he parries their pitiful swords with ease, causing one of the demons to stumble forward, losing its balance. Taking advantage of the display of weakness, the swordsman stomps his boot into the creature’s chest.
The demon crashes into its partner and they both tumble down, their weapons cascading down. Despite the shattered ribs the boot has broken, the demon scrambles to its feet, but its efforts are in vain; Rune’s blade slices cleanly through its skull, sending everything from its toothy maw and up into the air, its slate-blue blood spewing out in its wake.
Rune brings Gwynt down onto the other demon before it can recover, concluding its life with a single stroke, the corpse split cleanly in two with the slice. He does not bother to wipe the blood off the blade, as even more demons rush through the alleyways towards him. Rune's fear is snuffed out by his rage, engaging the immense numbers of incoming foes. As he carves through the ranks, he slips in the blood, sending himself off balance as one of the demons sends its wicked weapon towards his heart, to end the life that began many years ago...

***

Standing out in the starry skies, the moon gives light to the world below, brighter than usual. The illumination sends the lurking shadows of trees and plants to dwell hidden underneath their homes. It claims every and any space it can, fiercely repelling the darkness. The only sound is the rustling of the shades of green leaves colliding together only to disperse, caused by the passing of the wind.
This wind passes through the trees, over the dirt paths veined all throughout the forest and the stones that bordered them. The wind presses further through the forest, even past the colossal oaks that have endured the test of time for centuries. These trees are held in high regard by those who live within the forest, and by the hunters, regardless of race or creed. They find it traditional to pay respects to nature in hopes of a bountiful hunt.
Eventually, the wind travels by the majestic mountains, their peaks dragging across the clouds, the formations of these stone titans surrounding a valley, filled with plant life, grass and trees growing freely.
However, parting this sea of plant-life, is a road made of stone. The wind follows the road deeper into the valley, and tucked away lays a city, the buildings that inhabit the city of huge proportions. Tarlmisac; the heart of a powerful kingdom that spans over the valley’s grassed lands, the mountains, and beyond.
Everywhere in the city, people speak highly of their king. They talk of how a king rules such a large kingdom, but is no tyrant. How he is a wise, charismatic and honorable being. Rarely do complaints of him being ignorant arise, not even from the lower class.
However, this evening, the king of such capability and experience has a much more pressing matter on his hands. The city streets are flooded with people, leaving little free room anywhere. The market of such a city is usually like this, but the not a word is said by masses. Everyone stands in anticipation, watching the palace that lay at the heart of their homeland.

***

The moonlight shines into the chambers of the palace, high above the streets, where an elderly priest donning white robes slowly steps into the chambers with a bundle of rags in his arms. Behind him are his acolytes, who start to hum softly in a soothing melody, however the bundle in the priest’s arms was not letting out such a soothing tone. The elder moves the bundle’s covers so that an infant’s face is lit up by moonlight.
The priest’s face softens, looking at the newborn’s light blue eyes, and birthmark resembling a scar on his cheek.
“It’s a boy, as the prophecy foretold, the eldest child is a prince,” he says, now smiling at the infant, tears streaming from his eyes over his dry, aged face. Whispers now carry through the chambers, his acolytes repeating the news with one another.
“What will he be named, Father Grey Water?,” one of his acolytes asks hesitantly. Without pausing in his gaze at the calming youngling, he speaks softly.
“Runeshot. Runeshot will be his name.”
Suddenly, the chamber doors swing open, and a bulky, grizzly- looking dwarf steps out, calling out the priest’s name frantically, sounding out of breath, “Come quickly, we have more!”
“What?”
“There are more children being born!”
“And what of this one?”
“I’ll tend to him, Father, go!”
The priest and his acolytes quickly leave the chamber, leaving the dwarf with the infant.
The dwarf scoops up the quiet child, who starts crying again as he does. After a few minutes of failed attempts to console it, he sighs, “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

Chapter 1

A decade later, a child stands on the window frame in that same chamber, the cool, gentle wind blowing through his short, chestnut- colored hair. The sun lays a gentle warmth onto his body. He can feel the breeze and the heat  through his extravagant clothing.
The child’s leather boots sit by the door, cleaned and polished. The small chamber holds on its marble floors, aside from a large, wooden wardrobe and an even larger bed.
Laughing, the child spreads his arms to either side of his body, imitating the birds that fly below. He lets out a small cry of surprise as an arm grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls away from the window.
A dwarf, his face cherry-red and wrinkled, carries him to the other side of the chamber, and sets him down. “Rune,” the dwarf huffs, out of breath. Sprinting up the stairs is a difficult task for one with such short legs. “How many times do I have to rip you away from there? You could fall out!”
Runeshot looks at him, and simply laughs. He says, “Dreg, I have before. You remember?”
“It’s Dregmund, prince, and when you did, your father nearly threw me out the window after you!”
“In that case, I’ll do it again. We can have a race to the bottom!”
“Ugh... just don’t do it today if anything, alright?”
Rune frowns, but nods.
Dregmund, the young prince’s guardian, sighs in relief. He knew that the child rarely lied or broke a promise. Impulsively, he says, “human children are too much, Rune. You’re gonna drive me to my grave at this rate-”
“Don’t say that, Dreg,” Rune says, interrupting the dwarf.
Dregmund gasps as the child hugs him tightly. Knowing why Rune is like this, the dwarf sighs; he has forgotten to not talk like that in front of him. “Rune, don’t worry, I had a long time on this world, and I was wrong. You’re only making me live longer, alright?”
“Okay,” Rune says in a choked voice, on the verge of tears. After a few more moments in the embrace, he lets go of Dregmund, looking at the floor.
The dwarf turns around, and opens the door of the chamber. With a gentle smile, he turns his head to look at Rune. “Prince, I have to go on an errand. Don’t stay up waiting for me. You need your sleep, so get to bed.”
Rune nods, and crawls into his bed, closing his eyes. “We’re gonna have that falling race tomorrow, Dreg, okay?” Rune murmurs.
Dregmund’s smile turns melancholic. “Okay, prince.” Turning around, he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. He starts making his way down the stone steps that spiral down the tower. The passageway is lit more by the gentle glow of crystal lanterns, and less from the descending sun. He sighs, looking down the stairwell, the familiar steps that he has spent the last ten years running up and down. He frowns. Going up and down them has gotten more difficult with each step.
Age is catching up to him, and he had came to peace with that a long time ago. What troubled him about that matter is thinking about how devastated Rune would be. He has been like a father to that child for his ten years on this planet.
The time for Trueshot to start taking responsibility as the child’s father is coming.  The prince would have nothing left if not a father, and have nothing at such a young age.... Dregmund grunts, pushing onward. The dwarf keeps moving down, step after step, the bottom of the spiral in sight.
Sacrificing his time in the world, Dregmund has helped build this city from the ground up, now soon came the time to rest in the city which he built with his own two hands.. The difficulty that age was burdening him with had made each step an increasing struggle. He pushes the pain as far away from his mind as possible, and exits the tower, crosses the courtyard, and walks into the throne room.
It was a large, bright-lit chamber, sunlight entering the room through the windows that checkered the high walls. Atop a throne, carved of veined marble, sits a human. The king.
He has a well trimmed beard, and a hair color that his eldest son along with the rest of his children had inherited. His hair, unlike that of Rune’s, is long, and combed back into a ponytail, except for a few locks of hair that dangle in front of his face.
The king turned his soft yet firm gaze to the dwarf. He smiled gently, and spoke in a warmful tone, “Ah, Dregmund, my faithful ally, and trusted friend. What brings you to the throne room?”
“My king and most honorable friend, we must talk about the boy-”
“What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into now?”
“The kind that a child gets into when they lack a real father.”
Trueshot falls silent, the smile leaving his face. “I see.”
“Trueshot, please... you’re his father. It’s time to accept responsibility for him as such. I don’t have much time left, I know that, so I want to rest in peace knowing that the child has someone who will care for him.”
“I.... I’ll focus on him.”
The dwarf eases, the worry that enveloped him now dissolved. “Thank you, Trueshot. You have no idea how much this means to me,” he starts, turning to walk out of the throne room, “and to the child.” Trueshot closes his eyes. He knew what this was.
“Dregmund, I give you permission to retire.”
“Thank you,” the dwarf simply replies as he walks out of the throne room, and to his own quarters. He lays on his bed, and closes his eyes for the last time as the sun sinks below the horizon.

Chapter 2

The dawn of the next day; the sky is blanketed with a sea of white clouds, the air cool and refreshing. Runeshot, the ten year old prince, sits in the large courtyard that surrounds the main palace and cuts his tower off from the structure.
A large quantity of vegetation grows here, despite nobody even watering them. The climate of Tarlmisac has always been optimal for farming, raining on a weekly basis, other days consisting of clear skies. However, today is the exception. Though clouds had enveloped the entire sky, not a drop of rain had fallen. Rune sits on a stone bench, the ground under his feet dotted with tears.
He’d heard the news that Dregmund had passed away. When he had heard, he felt a pang of guilt. He had made the dwarf work so hard that he died of exhaustion. Rune, unable to shake that self-accusation off, had come here to be alone.
But, it is not his time for solitude. He hears the gate open, and he turns his head, looking for the source of the noise, and sees a sight he’d only seen twice in his life otherwise. His biological father. The king of these lands, Trueshot.
Trueshot slowly steps over to him, and sits down next to the child. Rune looks up at him as he speaks in a soft tone, “Runeshot. Dregmund was more of a father to you than I have been, and I thank him for looking after you as much as I regret not doing what I should have been. Being a good father.” He pauses for a moment, his emerald eyes meeting the boy’s cobalt pair.
Rune says nothing, tears starting to well in his eyes at the name of his dwarven caretaker, the loss of him tearing at his heart.
“But,” his father continues, gently hugging Rune to comfort him, “I am going to be a real father to you from this point on. I’m going to teach you to be just like me.”
Rune looks up at him with widened eyes. He stutters out, “R-really?!”
“Yes, but know that it’s not going to be-!”
Rune cuts him off, squeezing his father tightly in a loving hug, most grateful. He is going to spend time with his actual father. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Can I call you dad? Please?” he asks in a tone that completely differed from his previously depressed mood.
“Well, sure. Now, it is time for you to start your training.”
“Training?” Rune looks at him questioningly. Trueshot nods, helping the child up off the bench as he got up himself. “It’s time that you learned how to fend for yourself.”
“Why? It’s safe here, right?”
“No matter how strong someone is, there is always a risk,” he says with a slight frown.
Rune nods in partial understanding. “Dad,” he addresses Trueshot, looking up at him, “I’m going to become so strong that I’ll handle the risk all by myself!”
“Sure you are, my son. But, that comes with training. And you’re going to need a lot of it if you’re gonna do that.”
“Okay! Let’s go!”
“Well, I can’t come with you. There are people waiting for me. But, you won’t be alone in training.”
“Who’s going with me, then?”
“Your brothers, Hellshot and Starshot.”
“What about Gold?”
“He’s getting a... a different kind of training, but you’ll see him soon enough.” Rune smiles. He hadn’t seen his twin in five years, before Father Grey Water started to tutor Rune himself. “How soon?”
“Well, soon enough.”
“Then I should see him now!” Trueshot grins. “You will in time. I promise.”
“Alright...”
“Now, head to the palace arena in an hour.” True walks out of the courtyard, and Rune runs in the other direction, climbing up the spiral stairs to his room, excited. He was going to actually see some of his other brothers! He picks out a leather vest, and put it on. If he was going to learn how to fend for himself, he needed to have something to help prevent him from suffering serious injury. He walked back out of his room, and down the tower, making his way to the arena.
Runeshot punctually arrives at the arena, not wanting to be late for his first day of training. He wanted to learn how to fight. How to fend for himself and others. He wanted to be a hero. He looks around the large, torchlit room, the floor made of smoothen stone, unimpeded by anything but the walls and the door. He walks around the room, and turns as he hears footsteps. He finds his eyes focus on a muscular, giant human. The man walks into the arena, followed by children that look nearly identical to Rune, but differ in eye color, and attitude.
One of the identicals walks with a look of seriousness on his face, his amber eyes meeting with Rune’s, making Rune immediately uncomfortable. Rune quickly changes his gaze to the other. This one seems rather apathetic. He casually follows the giant man, yawning. His blood- red eyes meet Rune’s, and he shrugs, saying, “Great, more weaklings to mold. Who’s this one?”
“I-I’m Runeshot, sir-”
The giant human cuts him off, his voice deep and booming. “Ah,” he starts, causing Rune to jump at the sound of his voice, “You’re the new blood. Welcome to my class.”
“Th-thank you,” Rune says, looking up at him in awe.
“Very well. I shall teach you the glory of battle. By the time I am done with you, you all will be the mightiest warriors to ever have set foot upon these lands! But first, to build you up, I must break you down.”
Rune gulps as he is handed a wooden sword by the mentor.
“Now, let me see where you are skill -wise.”
Rune nods, stepping into the ring.
As soon as he does, the hulking foe booms, “You shall call me Master Bloodmoon!” Then he lunges, swinging a purposefully slow fist at the child.
Rune tries to dodge, but gets struck atop the head. He doesn’t even let out a cry of pain as he falls to the floor with a thud, knocked out cold.