[h3][center][i]-Between the Valley Walls-[/i][/center][/h3]

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For a brief moment, he could feel his last memory come alive before his very eyes. The touch of the cool winter breeze; the smell of the winter flora blooming in the highlands. [i]The flash of gold and jewels.[/i] For that moment of relief, he was not trapped in that land of empty Hell, and he was with Her. Whoever she was. 
Was this the end for him? The Nameless Turncloak who remembered not the side he left nor the side he turned to? The fickle dispute of nameless leaders over power that only resided in the minds of those who fought. 

The breeze was cool and soothing. 

And then, the empty heat of the Land Betwixt. A voice. Familiar? From a memory now lost? 

“M-m-maaaarching without stop…” The voice seemed to blur and elongate with the nonsensical patterns of the sand as the world came back into focus. Black armour, the eyes of a killer. The Turncloak wearily turned his head to the newcomer. The man had the eyes of a murderer; as did he. 
The next words out of the stranger’s mouth were lost to the Turncloak, drifting away on the nonexistent winds of the land. But he was offering him something: berries, or so it seemed. Juicy and succulent they looked, no matter how small and relatively feeble they truly were. They would keep him alive for now, long enough for him to regain his footing. He nodded his head to the man who donned black, and hastily grabbed the small handful of berries from him. He slammed the mouth visor of his helm upwards, stuffed the berries into his mouth and slammed it shut once again. With every fatigued chew of those seemingly succulent droplets of sweet life-giving juice he could feel his body rejuvenate somewhat, his mouth flushed of the deathly dryness. It filled him with just enough strength to hoist himself upon his pole arm and drag himself to his feet. His body was still numb and weak, but somewhat less so than he had been. There was indeed hope for this life – a little. 

There was a connection between the two. Maybe it was delirium of near-death, or maybe it was true. Something unlike that of this chthonic world. He dared not divert his gaze from the man who had offered him temporary salvation, his focus entirely upon him: his saviour. 

“Who are you? Did you once stand ‘front of a throne? I offer you thanks, life-giver and life taker. Do you feel nothing in this land, or are you a weapon of unparalleled lethality?” he asked, slowly.

He raised once more to his full height, the movement of his muscles restoring his strength and his resolve, once again shrugging off the pain of so many miles of empty wandering. He brandished his halberd, slowly becoming aware of those who had also shown themselves in the filthy crag within which he had nearly passed for the last time: his saviour in black, the axe-wielding woman whose confidence was enshrined by the weight of her weapon, the wearer of the bells who presented himself as a misbegotten yet dangerous fool, and a figure almost unseen upon the mound to the distance, shuffling amongst burned shrubbery, no doubt watching and waiting. 

Who were these [i]people[/i]? Tricks of the mind no doubt? Empty? Tricksters. 

“Stand behind me, Lifegiver,” he sternly commanded the black-clad rogue, swerving between he and the Axe-Wielder and the Bell-Wearer, halberd at the ready, prepared for anything. He was weak, but capable. Capable of defending himself should it come to that. But maybe these people… were truly people. He could not know for sure — not yet. 

“Tell me, Children of the Empty Land,” his voice rung out between the walls of the canyon valley. “Which King do you serve?” 

[h3][center]༒[/center][/h3]