It had been many years since he'd been home. Since he'd sat down with his brother in the evenings.

But yet he walked.

So long ago was the past. So much pain it held.

And so he walked, and walked, and walked into the sunset.

He was a farmer at heart. He had loved his crops, more than he loved his brother, more than he loved his god. He loved his wheat, and his barley, and his orchard, they were all he cared for. Not anymore.

His brother was dead, and so were his crops, everything near and dear to him, gone in the blink of the eyes.

Now he roamed the paths of the world searching for a new home, or companions to aid him in his new calling, he was not sure.

He slowly became a living legend, a passing rumor. Of a man who survived a god's wrath. And now he was going to kill that god.

Nothing was ever in this tiny little town. At the very least not for a fallen nobles such as he. Nothing but his brother, and the farm, and they had been razed away by an unrelenting second sun, and plagues of insects and rats, and fires that rained down, and Lightning and rains that flooded the land drowning any remains of what lay living, and a rain of blood that turns to acid that made the land barren. Refusing to affect anything even twenty feet from his property, punishing just his brother and he, simple for forsaking the god that founded their nobility. And so now he walked down the path that smelled of only pain, and sorrow. The world is tinted in whatever the opposite of a jaunty whistle was. No sleight was worth this punishment, no man should ever be punished this way. And so, the gods shall soon be buried at his farm, so that maybe it might grow once more, maybe it might raise his brother from that agonizing death. Bring back the limbs the blacksmith helped him replace. A dreary trek begets only room for thought, and the room upon each mile was larger than the world beguiles. His heart weary let's out tears of blood to fill that room, and the iron in that cavernous vessel is forged by each step in time with the blacksmith who gave him his leg, forging the iron into daggers with which to stare down the gods, to stab each of them, and into trowels to dig their graves. A rhythm in step with only the most incredible blacksmith, which would earn him anything he could desire, but nothing left in this world could ease the burn of his forge until the last sparkle of the gods was under the tilled fruit of his farm, and under the feet of his living brother. And so he walked along the path of legend, unto the mire of Asynar, where deep in a poisoned lake, a forge capable of forging pure life, and pure death lays unlit, waiting to become the physical ire to his own.