The biting wind howled like a wounded beast, whipping the ashen snow that covered the iron spine mountains into a frenzy. The sky was a perpetual mixture of violet and black, and completely devoid of the sun and stars.

The world of Mag Ársa was dead and had been rotting for close to four hundred years. And Aldritch of clan Blackshield knew it better than anyone.

The half giant dwarf had been there for it all - he was present when the first dungeon opened. He was one of the first to kill a demon. He was the first to kill the boss of the dungeon, closing the portal to hell off from their world. For 632 years, Aldritch fought against the never ending tide of demons, sacrificing what little chance he ever had at having a normal life.

As a high priest, his healing ability was second only to the Saintess of legend. But he still lost comrades. No matter how deep his mana pool ran, eventually, even he would run out. And when he did, casualties followed.

Aldritch had only survived because of the grace given to him by his patron deity - Oakairo; Dragon God of Pride… However, it was because of that grace that he had to watch helplessly as people grew sick from the poisonous water supplies, developed diseases from the miasma polluted atmosphere, and starved after the food ran out.

His people died because he was too weak to save them, even with God’s divine protection. He was a failure…

Aldritch was sitting by a small campfire, his only source of warmth and light in this wasteland. He stared at the dwindling fire through incandescent golden eyes, made even more ominous by the slitted pupils that openly pronounced his service to the Dragon God. After centuries of wandering in search of other survivors, Aldritch was left with very little to remind him of how things used to be. His only possessions were the old cleric’s robe that covered his massive frame, a golden wrist brace with the image of a kite shield emblazoned on top, an old stone amulet he’d had since he was a child, and finally the custom poleaxe he’d forged from the bones and claws of a lesser Dragon.

The poleaxe was truly a thing of beauty - a wide Axe blade on the right, a deadly hammerhead on the left, and just because he could, Aldritch forged the very tip of the handle into a wicked spike that could be used as a thrusting weapon.

Aldritch wasn’t ashamed to admit that the weapon had saved his life more times than he could remember. It had bathed in more demon blood than Aldritch dared to remember, and Aldritch was truly thankful to the Dragon who sacrificed his spine so Aldritch could forge the handle of such a weapon. Were it not so tough, who knows how many times his beloved weapon would’ve shattered.

“Even if your weapon did somehow break, we both know you would’ve taken out your anger on the cause and then used it to forge a replacement. And knowing your penchant for creativity when you’re angry, I’m almost sad it never happened. Who knows what kind of demon slaying weapon would’ve been born out of your malice.” A disembodied voice said from deep within the recesses of Aldritch’s mind. The voice was regal, powerful, godlike… And getting on Aldritch’s last nerve.

Aldritch rolled his eyes at the disembodied voice. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes, Oakairo. Besides, the demons are dead and so is their devil master. The time for demon slaying weapons has long since passed.”

“Oh, lighten up a bit, will you? It’s your birthday. Do you know how many mortals live to be a thousand and seventeen years old?”

“Counting elves or -”

“No, not counting the tree huggers. They haven’t counted since that nasty goddess gifted them with immortality. I’m talking about normal mortals, like you.”

“Right, because a seven-foot-tall dwarf who can’t grow a beard is ‘normal’ by your standards?” As if to emphasize his point, Aldritch pulled down the hood of his robe and ran his thick fingers through his mane of dark red hair. His face was rugged, and his large nose was clearly of Dwarven make - but the absence of a beard made him look much younger than he actually was. For despite being a thousand years old, Aldritch could technically pass for a large human in his late thirties… So long as you didn’t look too closely at the shape of his body.

“By ‘normal’, I meant mortals who weren’t blessed by a god or goddess. And before you say anything, my blessing did not grant you immortality. You have your genetics to thank for your longevity. To my knowledge, no one like you had ever been born. It’s why I knew I had to have you from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“You mean as a piece of your hoard,” Aldritch said blandly.

“Of course. I was a Dragon before I was a God. And as a dragon, my hoard drew envy and hatred from man and God alike. To be part of such a hoard is a blessing in and of itself. You should be proud.”

“Oh, I’m proud alri -” The ground beneath Aldritch’s feet shook violently as the sound of an explosion reached his ears. The shockwave that followed threw hundreds of pounds of ice, snow, and ash against Aldritch’s body. Despite the weight crashing into him, Aldritch appeared to not have noticed, as his eyes remained transfixed on the horizon.

“That was divine magic.” Aldritch muttered, more out of shock than any attempts to tell Oakairo. The latter was a God, a literal source of divine magic. Of course, he had sensed it too.

“Someone tried to cast sanctuary and failed. The explosion was caused by a backwash of arcane magic interrupting the spell.”

Aldritch took one final glance down at his now extinguished fire. He should be disappointed - like the many people he'd lost, he’d failed to protect this meager flame. But he wasn’t. No, he was excited, and growing more so by the second. Spells meant survivors. Survivors meant people. And people meant -

“Someone new to talk to!” Oakairo said Aldritch’s thought aloud.

“Exactly.” Aldritch’s smile was vicious, but his eyes were alight with child-like excitement. He grabbed his beloved weapon and slung it over his shoulder before taking off towards the source of the explosion. In between one step and the next, Aldritch bent his knees slightly - he shoved off the mountain with enough force to cause his own sonic boom. Within a matter of seconds, he’d pierced the clouds high above the mountain and disappeared from sight.