I wait for death, but he is nowhere to be found.

My body regains consciousness. My back is pressed against a stone floor, nothing but a shirt to protect me from its cold. I should be hurting right now, but I feel fine. In fact, I feel more well rested and pain free then I ever have during that damnable campaign.

I open my eyes, surprised to find myself greeted with the flickering of multiple fires. A roof of smooth stone hangs above me. I appear to be in a cave judging by my decor. Surprisingly I don’t smell any smoke, or even see any smoke, but that could just mean that the face opens somewhere nearby.

I push off with both hands. Yes, I do now appear to have both hands, and yes, my legs are working fine.

Rising to my full height, I stretch my arms above my head, joints popping and cracking. I reach my hands to my face to rub away the last vestiges of sleep only to find a new fuzzy companion on my face. A beard. I can’t grow a beard, too young.

The cave is smooth stone throughout, and the only exit is a set of ornate doors of heavy oak. Oddly enough one of the walls is flat, just a sheer perpendicular to the unnaturally even floor. Said perpendicular wall is where two large braziers are located, no wood within them, but still they burn with the intensity of a well-maintained flame.

Well this is the oddest prison cell I’ve ever been in. Not that I’ve ever been in a cell before, but just using common knowledge they aren’t generally a perfect one-hundred-yard cube. Much too large.

A strange red glow come from the strange perpendicular wall. Line of ominous red are carved into its surface. Where do I recognize this stone?

I approach the glowing rock face only to be surprised at what I found.

'The words of a prophet, only heard within the air a voice carries.'

Every fiber of my being trembles reading the words written for me by the Wordsmith. So many of them too!

"My Lord I implore you! Tell me what to do!"

I await the as more of the stone turns red and is written upon by the glorious lord of humanities magics. Captivating, the only word to describe it, utterly captivating. The length of the sentence...no, it’s a paragraph! Sends a shiver down my spine. Such an incomparable being is wasting such words on an insignificant man such as myself. Glory to the Wordsmith!

'The messengers body was sundered. To save one from death, some must accept the ministrations of others. The flesh of the demon, fed well and grew on the wrath of the courier. Strength of arms and swiftness of feet, a blessing granted by such a thing. It now stands for its labor.'

To my right is a mass of metal, barely am I able to make out a wing from the beast. This must be one of the three remaining demon’s greed. Guess I really saw some sort of dragon creature. Greed had to have saved me then, but how did it get me back here without me bleeding out? How did I not see it earlier? The demon flesh must be Greedy.

'SLATE'

'Take six cylindered death, Revolver. Forget all worldly possessions, a satchel to carry a true burden.'

THE WORDSMITH SAID MY NAME! In front of me falls from somewhere unseen, a satchel and holster. Not rising from my bowed form, I crawl towards them. Revolver is like nothing I have ever seen. Her body is metal, runes of indescribable beauty are etched into her surface with an artist’s precision. On her handle lays a large blue crystal which is warm to the touch. Six cylinders which holds ammunition to deliver the Wordsmith's wrath.

I know not how to use it, but for some reason my body acts on instinct reaching into the never-ending satchel and loading the cylinder with rounds. Another blessing of the Wordsmith. He gives gifts, so I know to use his tools.

The Satchel is indeed almost unending food, blood crystals, more of these strange cylinder bullets which lack priming powder, and any survival gear a man could dream of.

'The journey of the messenger will find himself in the lands of the Abominations. Give the Beast King my message, only when the messenger has seen two times when the sun has dipped lowest in the land of the Abomination. The messenger will not be idle though in this time, ingratiated he will be to the Abominations '

I must spend two winter solstices in the lands of the Beastman and deliver the Wordsmith's message, which I assume to be in the bag. I hide revolver within my waist band.

Reaching into the satchel, I pull free a clean uniform of a city postman. Its shorts and button down white short sleeved shirt is a staple in the city.

I reach the oaken doors, briefly admiring the carving on its frame before turning the handle and stepping through. A brief spell of nausea hits me. Looking behind me, only loose rocks of a tall mountain can be seen, no door. Directly ahead of me is Wordsmith's Paradise, A valley city of a million souls which reside in the shadow of his very mountain. Endless rows of houses puff black smoke into the smoky air. No place like home.

The streets are busy, citizens rushing to and for dressed simply as to preserve material for the war effort. With how long this beard is though. I’m afraid the war is much over.

An urchin sells newspapers to passersby while shouting about some story about the protectorate. I pull a coin from the satchel.

"I'll take one boy."

Flipping him the coin.

"Thank your ash."

Pushing through the crowd I find a bench on the side of the cobble stone throughway. "Happy two years anniversary of claiming the Protectorate!" It shows an impressed image of a map. The forest of Exodus.

Also, the date on the paper is Spring 347, three whole years from when Oak betrayed me. I wonder where that snake bastard is now.

It seems like the boys pulled through and won the war. They did have to stop though when they reached the plains. The say that the area we conquered was only a duchy and now, we're running smack dab up against a large kingdom.

the other articles were gossip pieces of little import, whose fucking who and whose planning on running for what position. Not entirely interesting. What is interesting though is the recovery of my hand.

Its back now and while it doesn’t look very different, its night and day. The sensation of power I can feel in my entire arm is intense. Putting my hand on the metal bench, I squeeze the metal bends and contorts. Feeling it with my other hand I can barely make out the strange structure of my remade right arm. the muscles are no longer pliant, and this is true all the way up to the shoulder.

My legs also have been remade, as all my lower body feels odd, too sturdy and strong. I feel ready to break into a sprint at any moment, but I digress.

Standing from the now vandalized bench I look for a barber to remove this unruly mass of hair on my face. Thankfully I don’t have to look far. The place is simple, a small storefront under a few floors of apartments. I pay the man for a shave.

He makes some small talk, as barbers tend to do, and in our little conversation we just happened to get on the topic of the Protectorate. From what he can tell me, it’s a place where Beastmen and human's both live. As soon as the land was conquered, colonists were sent to alleviate some of the overcrowding.

From what he's heard, the Beastman nobility isn’t all too happy about the new arrangement, well they were stripped of title. The Beast peasants have accepted their new overlords with a surprising amount of acceptance. Apparently, food shortages were a real problem into we introduced our farming techniques. Turns out the Beast's choosing to serve those who feed them, fickle creatures.

Rubbing my smooth chin, I pace down the street. My sour mood has kept people away from me in the most part. I don’t mind it gives me plenty of space to think.

It’s been three years since the war began. I’m almost nineteen years old. Oak by now, I’m certain has gotten himself ingrained into Beastman society.

Oak said he would get me through 'this' when talking about the war. What the hell did he ever do but get me for all intents and purposes killed. The wordsmith saved me. I can’t wait and find that heathen and torture him until he admits folly.

Thinking about Oak does remind me though. I still have some pay I am entitled to from the war. Also, I might be listed as a deserter, so I'd rather not have my name being spread around.

I can hear the distant horn of a train. I have no reason to remain in the city. Jogging over to the train station, my body seemed to have suffered no fatigue from the three-year nap, I arrive just in time to see the thing leaving.

Ignoring the protests of the employees I sprint after the train. My new legs are filled with more power than I know what to do with and I easily catch up to the train. With a leap, I grab onto a ladder. and drag myself over to a door.

Straightening out my clothes and hair from the wind I enter the train.

Never would I think to see a civilian train heading to the east, but here it is. The train is loaded with individuals of all shapes in sizes, all human of course. It takes a lot of different kinds of people to modernize an area almost the same size as the Homeland and that’s what these folks are trying to do.

I continue walking through the rows of train cars until reaching a dining cart with a bar. I simply ask for hard liquor and the man pours me something that smells vaguely of burning coal. It burns on the way down so that’s good enough for me. I drink to the thoughts I’ve been holding off in my mind.

Why could I be such an idiot as to think I could trust anyone. It was obvious since the beginning that Oak was just grooming me to be his replacement Hickory. The extra training, the friendliness, even the fact he taught me to play the harmonica.

That man didn’t even view me as a person. Not that I mind that too much. What I do mind is that he convinced my stupid ass that he really cared and then used me. It was the pretending that got me, for a second there I almost felt like I was doing something important and had a friend.

How many of these have I drank?

The world begins to spin, I lay my head down on the booth table and go to sleep.