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34 Amit Bobrov
I am never certain as to the cause of my anger during my
teenage years. Perhaps it was the injustice that had sent my real

parents and I on the voyage that would later be their ending,
making me an orphan in a foreign land. Perhaps it was the
continued injustice and misery I saw every day of my life. The
wretchedness of the common man, the cruelty in which men
of higher positions treat their lesser. I could never find closure
or solace with my parents; they’re gone... Every time I had to
cope with the world, I was filled with wrath, and sometimes
this wrath, like an overflowing volcano, spilled and lashed out
at all who were near me. I was mighty fortunate to be cared

for by noble Ivar who as if I was his own, for whatever altruistic
reason he held in his heart. I had never properly thanked him,
the first, foremost and greatest of my regrets.

Meanwhile, not far away a lone figure made his way to the
fortress of Wist Hill which ruled over the whole of the land.
His pacing hastened as his eyes gazed upon the Fortress under
the light of the full moon. In his grim and determined mind he
heard the whispers — voices who echoed the betrayal he had
suffered at the hands of those closest to him. It was a chilly,

star-filled night, yet the lone figure suffered not from cold or
fatigue. The undead rarely suffer from these things which may
cripple the living. Edmund Ironside would have his revenge.
Edmund was of an unrecognizable age, his features once