by Tainted One
A fire blazed brightly amid the forboding, looming trees of Brill. The embers caught on the thermals rose into the deep darkness to wink into nothingness amongst the moss choked canopy. The fire had not been created to fend off the vileness of the air, which was thick with the pungent odor of death and decay. Or to push back the seemingly alive darkness that infected this cursed land. No, the flame was kindled for the single purpose of tending to gears of war, murder, and slaughter.
Tainted One, the moniker of the undead warrior who did not even know his once mortal name. Which, in truth meant nothing to him, he cared little what he was called. Sat before the roaring fire, his battered armor stripped from his frame as his bleached bone fingers deftly repaired weak links of armor.
It seemed actually so long ago that he had risen from the foul earth with a belly fully of maggots and the tattered remains of flesh clinging to his bones. Now he was bleached white from the blazing sun of foreign lands and stripped clean by countless wicked sand storms. As if he was bleached and polished into a being of unholy glory. But, still so much was needed before he could truly be amongst the Grim Legions.
Nothing mattered to him anymore, the taste of women and wine mere ash in his mouth. Power and slaughter were the reason the undead flame burned in his eyes and drove his frame. He had not fought amongst his new brethren, too weak and pathetic to even be more than a liability than a fellow sword. So, he had fought amongst other's of the Horde. Killing the alliance with strangers and gathering as much horde and loot as possible and leaving the weaklings of his parties once he had gotten what he wanted.
So, it was in the midst of this slaughter race to gain enough experience and skill to fight amongst his new brethren that he learned of his promotion. He was struck silent when he heard the news and more than likely would have been scoffed at by his fellows. For he was now a Hatemonger, cannon fodder of the Grim. But, none the less he was proud of it, proud now to be able to wear the Tabard of the Grim.
He let slip his newly acquired plate helmet and gathered to him one of his many pouches and pulled out a blood stained Tabard. With talon like claws he held the tabard out before him letting the fire light dance devilish shadows over the emblazed image. The mark of the Grim. Burning undead orbs stared at it silent as his mount whined and shift the undead hooves of it's feet. It felt and feed off the growing excitement of it's master and gnawed on it's bit awaiting the call to war.
Tainted did not lift his head but placed the battered tabard in his lap and grasped some twine made of gut and began patching up some of the ruin holes of his tabard making it presentable to wear. The blood he left upon it, dried and grizzly they were markings of pride to the Undead Warrior. He prayed that soon it would be drenched with the blood of the enemy. Into the night he worked, the newly promoted Hatemonger aching to kill for his Grim.