His thoughts were clouded with screams and the howling of people getting massacred. But by who? Morgan knew the answer, but he would never tell a soul about what had happened there, fifty years ago. "STOP!" Morgan yelled, tears running down his face, "Why....why me? What did I do to deserve this!?!?" He could never escape his past, or this damnable curse. He was sure that who ever found him would cut his neck for being "demonic". But as of this moment in time, Morgan wouldn't exactly have cared about dying. In fact, the proposition of relief from this hellish routine was pretty welcoming. But as many times as he had tried, his curse wouldn't let him commit the self ending deed. 

[i]THUMP[/i]

The elven man didn't even make a noise when something hit the ground not too far from his location, the sound of a body hitting the ground, but not a limp, lifeless one. He heard the movements, and no one would come for him...if it wasn't him. It had to be him. That paladin from the village. He couldn't move, but he was shaking with fervor and his teeth were clenched so hard that his gums and lips were dripping with blood. It felt like someone was taking a small blade, and jabbing it into every single little nerve in his entire body all the while twisting it deeper and deeper, slicing and hacking through muscle and sinew, down to the very bones. He screamed and kept screaming, as that was the only thing that he could do. "Hng!" He coughed out as he broke out into another spasm which caused his muscles and limbs to cramp up. He rolled over, and out of his coat, and his bandaging same undone, falling to the ground below him. What was revealed...would be sure to surprise whoever saw it. An intricate design of runes and ancient elven words were etched into his back in the form of thin and thick scars. In the middle of his back, was an image of a raven...with its eyes open and flying towards the moon. An ancient sign for the summoning of a being not of this realm; an incubus. Morgan was the Ouija Board for someone's sick twisted grasp for power. 

He felt the little sprinkles of a powder or pollen drape over his now bareback and torso, and almost immediately his violent shaking stopped and his sharp breaths returned to normal, silent ones. His eyes opened and the bright purple glow changed to one of a white, almost golden hue, and then quickly receded back to the dull pink that normal scars were. He couldn't stand, but somehow he managed to catch a glimpse of what, or who rather, that just saved him from this pain, temporarily. He attempted to speak, but before he tried, Morgan began to think about what he would say and if what he relayed out would even matter. 

"....Why save me?" He wheezed out, his accent thick, "I'm...cursed...with no soul, cursed never to perish...." He said, as his eyes involuntarily closed and his pattern of speech ended with his drifting into unconsciousness with every passing second.