In a dark, dank chamber, far from civilised society, a entourage of men and women all wearing similar dark robes and all chanting in a tongue long dead. They stand in a square around a circle with odd markings, perhaps the written form of the dead language, and in the centre, lay the remains of an unknown individual, for which in life they had cared nothing, but found a use for his corpse. The men and women slowly increase the tempo of their chant, as trails of ominous light begin to slowly emerge from the boundaries of the circle, enveloping the corpse like silken ribbons until it was covered from head to toe, at which point there was a blinding flash, which told everyone in the room know, that they had succeeded in their shadowed goal.
“It is done! Now, let us inquire our guest’s name!” Proclaimed one man, who’s robes were slightly different in that it had a silver lining the edges of it’s hood. He, and two others with similar robes approached what had been the corpse, which had undergone a radical transformation, it had changed from the slightly decayed body into what appeared to be a young man of no older then twenty, with pale skin and blood red hair, upon hearing their foot steps, he looked up at them, which revealed his left iris was the same as his hair, and his right eye, his devilish right eye which had a grey sclera, a venomous green iris and an eerie white pupil. He looked as if he was identifying the man, as if he knew all about him with but a single glance.” Tell us, Child of Vilios, what is thy name?” Asked the man, while extending a hand in friendship, the “Child of Vilios” looked around the room, some of whom his gaze descended upon felt a chill run down their spine, others were visibly afraid of him. He looked back at the man extending his hand
“My...name?” He asked, expecting an answer to come from nowhere and surprisingly, images he couldn’t understand flashed through his mind, but their meaning seemed to have been clear.” My...name is Ruva Morte, the Right Eye of Vilios.” He said in a apathetic tone, before taking the man’s hand.
Years later, Ruva was roaming the halls of the dark underground complex these people - or ‘the Order of Vilios’ as they referred to themselves as - called home, and which in the years since his calling, had been his as well. He could tell where he was quite easily, though he commonly found newer members being completely lost when he found them. The Order had also given him new attire, which they said had belonged to a ‘Archdemon’ summoned many, many years ago. It consisted of two detached dark blue sleeves, a dark red vest that had a faint outlining of what seemed to be an eye on it’s front, black leggings and brown boots, which most visibly showed signs of being old, with the odd tear here and there. He had himself asked a craftsman in the Order to fashion a grey quarter mask he wore, covering the upper right of his face and most importantly, his right eye, his monstrous right eye, which was kept on his head by a thin silver chain that went around his head tightly.
As he wandered, he thought he heard a voice, but when it went away, he ignored it. However, as he turned a corner, he felt a sudden and sharp pain in his head, and heard a horrible, distorted voice speaking in the same tongue used during his calling, but the words were completely alien to him in their meaning. At which point, he could no longer feel anything, not his hands pressed to his forehead, not the feeling of small stones lightly poking at his legs, though he could see, he could think and was surprised when he could see that he was on the move, but it wasn’t he who was in control. He entered the room used for the daily meals the order had, where he found two members discussing matters which he had no interest in, especially not in his situation. One saw him as he approached and got up to greet him.
“Good day to you, Ru…” He had started in a cheery tone, when he felt a pain in his stomach, heard the scream of his friend he had been speaking to, and saw Ruva’s left eye staring at him, filled with hate, and at that point, saw that Ruva had impaled him with his arm. He tried to speak, but the words came silent, and he was tossed aside like a ragdoll, left to wonder “Why?.” The other man had been frozen in fear, and so had no chance as Ruva kicked him in the chest, sending him across the room and smacking into a wall with enough force to dent it with a considerable indent, and to cause his spine to snap. In his mind, Ruva kept asking “What is going on?” and “Why am I doing this?”, perhaps seeking answers from the horrible voice, but found only silence. This cycle of killing continued, until Ruva’s conscious slipped away, leaving to see only black, unaware his body decided to wander out of his underground home, and into a world he knew nothing about.
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