//Supplimental blog post
'The remote village
of Pole had no knowledge
of the wars raging in the heart of the kingdom. For them, the quiet of spear
fishing, and a family meal were all that a full life required. Yet war came for
them nonetheless. Joining the able-bodied conscripts as they filed past their
homes, the humble lancer Azwraith vowed to bring peace to his kingdom, and in
so doing, his people. Placed with his kin in the vanguard of the final assault
against the Dread Magus Vorn, the cost to his fellows was absolute. As the charging
force battled toward the fortress, Azwraith alone among his kind remained
standing, and he alone was able to infiltrate the keep. Focused and infuriated
by the slaughter of his brothers, Azwraith bested each of the wizard's deadly
traps and conjured guardians. Soon the simple fisherman arrived at Vorn's tower
sanctum. The pair dueled through the night, pike to staff, as chaos raged
below, and with a deafening cry Azwraith pierced his enemy. But the wizard did
not simply expire; he exploded into uncountable shards of light, penetrating
his killer with power. As the dust settled and the smoke of combat began to
clear, Azwraith found himself standing among a throng of his kin. Each seemed
to be dressed as he was, each seemed armed as he was, and he could sense that
each thought as he did. Aware that his allies were approaching, he willed these
phantoms to hide themselves, and one by one they began to vanish into
nothingness. As the soldiers came upon the sanctum, they found the warrior that
had bested the wizard. When they approached their champion, the lancer
vanished. The pikeman who had stood before them was no more than another
phantom.'
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