Prologue
"Run, run some more, I will tire not chassing after you, to the very end of the world, I will find you, your soul I shall collect." The soul collector's hoarse voice managed to make a chuckle sound like one instead of it sounding like a choke as it usually does.
He was running, what he was running from he knew not,
But all he knew was that, one after one his feet followed a path,
Perhaps he was trying to get away, or perhaps was he being pulled towards something, something more powerful than what was after him.
He was only a few moons away from adulthood,
In the battle he had helped so little,
Yet, he bore the name of a warrior, he did not stand in the front line to defend Troy against Atheneans, no, he was left in the camp to keep the fire burning.
He knew not how he sparked off the interest of the soul collector but somehow found himself running trying to find a refuge.
A beacon of hope, that's what the warrior thought he was running towards only if he knew.
If the young worrior knew what he was running towards, he could have silently waited for the soul collector to collect his soul and pray Zeus had mercy on him.
He abruptly stopped as he came face to face with a blazing fire, whose source was not known to him.
"I told you, there is no place on the land of the living that I shall not find you." The hoarse voice of the soul collector sounded like loud unpleasant music in his hears.
His head begged him to run, but his feet stayed glued to the ground.
"At last I find him, the one with the sight, the one that shall set me free." That hoarse voice now materialised into a man, whose ragged parchment colored robe and Cape aroused more fear than his unnecessarily smooth features.
One would have expect the soul collector to be ragged and rough , but his hand felt smooth around the warrior's face.
The soul collector roughly held the warrior's head, sending both of them falling on their knees in great agony and pain.
"Mors, thou name is, my servant thou art, upon me shalt thou loyalty lie, dare you betray me, upon thou soul, a curse shall I establish. " a voice came through the blizzard that surrounded them the voice was smooth and soothing it was not the voice of the soul collector and the warrior knew it.
The worrior moved not a muscle, when the blizzard fell, and disappeared.
He was left alone in the deserted land of the dead, with nothing but the parchment colored robe and Cape he remembered not wearing and that was a long time ago.
