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[Thomas DeRock]

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At first, it was about adventure.

The band of humans threw themselves at the mighty Flesh Renderers, sending arrows and dragons and spells and swords to bear on the iron skin of the Flesh Renderer. Thomas worked with his sword, its cold brilliance flashing bright blue in the darkness.

Later, it was about survival

The Virtues meant nothing here. For a virtuous man was just as likely to find himself decorating the claws of a Dark Father as a wicked man might. Or more so, if he looked away to bandage a comrade, or stopped to say a prayer.

Months of fighting in Doom had taken their toll. Thomas DeRock, once a proud and honorable man, had changed. Casting a necromancer spell or two scarcely bothered him anymore.

Warmth was all but gone from his eyes. Compassion and Love forgotten. The madness of Doom had inoculated him to the many faces of suffering, pain, and death.

Now, it was about power.

His heart was cold, and somewhat disdainful of others, the mortals who fell in this place. They were weak, while he himself felt more powerful, quicker and stronger and more indestructible than ever. Underneath his grisly exterior several artifacts hung from Thomas’ body, lending their power to him. Some made him faster in battle. Others closed the wounds he suffered. Still others shielded him from the crushing blows of the undead champions. The rewards of the months in Doom. Or perhaps the consequences of it. For what was the price he had paid to obtain them, the cost to his soul?

His body was still caked in the aftermath of battle, arms bathed in the blood of several creatures, different colors blended and dried. His graying hair matted with the innards of human and undead victims. He no longer smelled the stench clinging to his body, or the filth of that place.

Screams filled the cavern, one after another as humans died trying to find a soft spot in the Flesh Renderer’s armor.

Flesh Renderers tore through their ranks. Giant pinchers jabbed here and there, and wherever they landed shields were halved, legs severed, and lungs pierced. Even Dragons fell to the monster. Pausing, a Flesh Renderer paused to lay its eggs in the torso of a dying man. I flick of a pincher opened the ribs of the man, and a dozen grey gelatinous spheres were inserted into his screaming victim.

Stepping over the dying man Thomas continued the attack. He never hesitated, never dropped sword or shield, but from the corner of his eye he saw it: a uniform of gold and of black adorning the man now incubating Flesh Renderer eggs. Stained in blood, and above his left breast, Thomas saw a badge he had not gazed upon in months.

Thomas fought on. Distraction meant death. But a tear began to build in the corner of one eye. It rolled down the side of his face, making a deep ravine in the dried blood upon his cheeks.

The man in the uniform of Sanctus finally stopped groaning and breathed his last.

Still, Thomas fought on.

Still, people died.