"A man's morals should be worth their weight in gold!"

- Unknown

"The hearts of men are simple brutes. Satisfy a single desire of theirs, and they'll just come crawling back for more."

- Mada Le Vivues, first mistress of King Argrous, the last king of the Empire of Man before the Great War

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His name was Horxus. A bastardly man whose thought only bore of wenches, drink, and whores, in that 'esteemed' order. He was a shit mercenary, with shitty armor and an even shittier excuse for a 'blade'. The only quality that could be considered 'redeeming' was his barely mediocre ability to swing a blade like a child would a stick when fantasizing about combat upon the battlefields.

He was blind in his left eye, gashed out by a beast years passed. He only didn't retire due to the fact he'd just be another smelly, homeless, raving, and damnable drunkard by his life's almost pitiable end.

He had greasy dirt-colored hair, that almost looked like camouflage if he were to hide low, and he had an irritatingly raspy voice, from when an arrow sliced passed his lower neck.

Yes, he was truly a deplorable example of a human and his kind as a whole. The utter trash of existence to a degree of which the scholar, Stultum, looked like a god descended saint of virtue, in pure comparison.

He sat on a makeshift chair of the rubble of the keep the armies of men had captured for the final assault against the Black Lord of the West himself, Axus Dur Gonavez. At his sides, were his squadmate and captain. Sharing the rationed mead for their group before the battle. They hollered and carried on, courtesans who followed the army for work in some of the laps, the captain alone had three of them. Pretty words and seduction played out like a tune as the night grew long.

Horxus spat out exaggerated tales, making his general uselessness and very much unappealing features something to be pitied. The tale of how he lost his eye was spoken like from a very practiced script, it was the only tale he truly had to offer anyone unfortunate enough to have to listen.

Of course in the group, and the army in general, he was an outcast. He came from a poor family, in a poor neighborhood, from a poor town. The wretchedly rusted armor the first 'clothing' he had besides moth-eaten rags. His life was nothing but a series of unfortunate occurrences stemming from his birth to the beast that took his eye, to the arrow that damaged his throat, and to even the cursed whore that gave him the disease that would take him if the battle didn't.

Horxus eventually feeling like he was looking in from the outside, got up to 'piss', which was really just an excuse to go somewhere and take a few moments of silence from himself. He reached a small little clearing on the outside of the large camp of men and sat against a large egg shaped rock. He sighed a bit, his bones flaring in pain as he tried to lower himself onto the ground. Eventually, he managed, albeit rather awkwardly. He looked at his surroundings and from inside his armor, he pulled out a well-worn book. Inside were countless drawings of fauna and flora.

After pulling out the book, he pulled out a tiny piece of charcoal and began to draw on one of the very few blank pages remaining. As dark as it was, he had no trouble. Line for line he sliced onto the papyrus. Time ticked on, no one came to look for him. He knew no one would, why would they care after all? By morning come he had finished his drawing. It was simple and basic. A figure sitting down holding an invisible glass in a toast in its right hand. One leg was upon its chest, its left arm draped across it like on a clothing line. The figure was a pure white skeleton.

Horxus stuffed the book and remaining charcoal in his armor and returned to his assigned group. No one greeted him, he knew they wouldn't, thus he silently entered his tent as he knew today was a day of rest for the army and went to sleep.

Yes, he was a detestable man, with a trash attitude, and the looks to match. A man who came from the worst of places and used the worst of gear. However, even a man such as him held dreams. As it is the right of him to bear such.

When Horxus would awaken, the battle horns were ringing.