[IP] A beautiful execution on the field of battle.

...

Three months time: That was roughly how long Julius had survived within the blackened keep. Several months longer by far than he'd ever hoped or expected, it was only recently that the feelings of dread were churning towards other states of mind. Slowly but surely, he was making efforts to obtain what knowledge would be needed to prolong his survival.

The way of things came quickly and desperately, and his questions found answers with no break from that genre. Where to find food served that might not curdle his stomach, how to avoid the hungering eyes of the beasts which lurked under the Dark Lord's commands, and where Julius could run when those efforts of avoidance failed. More importantly though, Julius learned to be of true value in his duties- falling heavily on his diligent training among the village he had once hailed from.

On several occasions already his services had been rendered, and his skills put to the test.

Between his summons before the Undead Knight of unholy Ghost, right hand of the Dark Lord, Julius had taken to wandering the upper floors of the Spire. For granted and service- no one was foolish enough to pass along beyond the twentieth level: The place in which the legendary Keep branched off into the four compass directions. North, South, East, and West. It was said that the Great Lord resided often in the West, so high in the sky that the clouds might often be pierced.

Julius had only ever gone above that level for service of the Eastern. It was a horrid place there, of bloodied stains and discolored, jellied masses that were more than likely the results of experiments gone awry. Under the shrouded gaze of the Blackened Knight, he would work his hands and rags raw to scrub the strange material of the great spire clean once more, not pausing for rest until the job was done. Then he would be released, and forced back down to the humbler levels of the Keep to await further instruction.

It was never regular, never predictable. Waiting for a summoning was akin to waiting for an axe to drop upon Julius's exposed neck on a block of red-wood. It was well known that the more contact one has with the powerful, the more risk one receives. Julius needed not exaggerate the circumstances: Life in the shadows of the powerful who ruled the Blackened Spire was nothing but survival.

Of those brought to service: Humans of ordinary means stations within the rising tower of pitched obelisk were rare to live longer than a few years. Often they were brought to staff for the simple whim of a single request, then quickly forgotten until one of the Dark Lord's moods might strike, and their corpse became an immortal's plaything. The threat of such impending doom was a terrible life for certain, but when Julius closed his eyes to imagine the village of his youth, he knew his chances were still better within the Keep than beyond it.

As the Orcish tribes rallied for yet another conflict along Doterra's borders, it was common knowledge some would soon run feral. The Great Lord cared little for finer details of war, and the Small settlements near the borders of East and West would stand no chance, regardless of their loyalties. Those who raised him, sunken eyes and hopeless gazes teaching him the forms and knowledge of the Cleaner doctrine, might soon rest in cook-pots heated to boil over roasting flames and ravaged bones. Julius often wondered if the acceptance of such things, that he was here, and they were there- made him a coward.

He hoped not, but knew that even if he was, many might agree that it was preferable to be alive and a coward, than be brave and dead.

Julius much liked being alive, and he tried not to feel guilty over such considerations. After all, there were worst things than ordinary death in this place, especially for the brave foolish enough to cause trouble. What history remembered of rebellions here, was very bloody. There was a reason that his own Cleaner's profession came to exist, after all.

Today though, Julius pushed such thoughts aside, instead quietly wandering the nineteenth floor in the deepest recesses of shadow on very careful steps. It was in this place that Julius had found to spend most of his time, despite the quarters provided to him several levels below. This was a place of beauty, however cold and frozen it was: All along the walls of the Nineteenth floor were paintings, and nothing but. He had stumbled upon it only by circumstance, yet returned time and time again as if a moth drawn to flame.

There were hundreds of pieces, each more impressive than the last to the eyes that passed them by, following along the rounded halls and corridors of the abandoned floor. No creatures or servants dared to enter the place it seemed, but strangely neither were their guards or suggestions indicating why. No runes of command forced the residents away, but away they stayed regardless. Instead, it was as if Julius had come upon a massive gallery all for himself: Snapshots of history long forgotten by almost everyone.

One painting in particular, never failed to hold his eyes- long after the point in which any servant should gaze. A painting of two figures, strange and elegant in their features beyond that of any normal man or woman, pale colors sharp in contrast to the pitched stone that lofted it from the cold floor. One figure raised a single blade, readying for the final execution of the one beneath them.

Despite the brutality of the scene, Julius couldn't held but start at the woman. Exhausted, defeated, about to be slain as the rest of those around her- but not fearful. If anything, the longer he started, the more Julius could find the most simple expression of acceptance: There was no anger for the figure holding the blade, it was just the way of things.

Moments passed and hours followed, as Julius stared.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

A deep voice broken him into a sudden fright, his eyes turning in panic to the looming figure of Black armor within the hall. Beside him, The Great Rodrick had found his way to stand not so much as a single pace away, armor having been somehow silent in its approach.

"It is a final portrait of the last Free Elves in this land. Those that came after were driven out or subjugated, pressed to pay the debts of their ancestors." The man spoke like thunder in the distance, voice disembodied from the suit of armor that seemed to house its source. "Gillian ordered the leaders of the clan beneath his power to slay the Royal house, only to reward them with death. Their Children were stripped of their legacy, and sent to work as Gravekeepers. Of those, I believe even the last has now left us."

Julius simply bowed, knees and forehead alike touching the cold surface of the floor beside the Knight's weathered cloak of rags as he awaited judgement. The oppressive gaze fell upon him like iron weights, as the Blackened Warrior spoke once more.

"But such of distant history is none of your concern. It is not wise to linger in this place, young Julius. There are others who come here, at times..." The cold voice held the faintest glimmer of warmth hidden between the words, like a single ember hidden among the ashes of a bonfire's pit, days since the former blaze of glory. A cold gauntlet settled on Julius's shoulder, impossible weight holding like a feather above his fragile flesh. "One other in particular..."

Under it's suggestion, Julius once again rose to his feet as his eyes held the terrifying stare from beneath the pitch black helm. It transfixed him like a viper, holding him hostage in its gaze until the massive undead spoke again.

"Now, young Julius... I have an assignment for you."