"Write a story about a highly-strung character learning to slow down, or someone pursuing a quieter way of life."

There was a coolness in the air and an unnatural cold breeze for this time of year. A great deal of commotion was heard, the shouts and the shattering of pots heard from the very creek where Konrad waded. It wasn't a new sight, for armed guards from the Iron City to come through the farmsteads, interrogating the common folk and raising a ruckus.They scared the children, and brought fear to the elderly. Even their horses had the farm animals on edge, as though there was an unseen force riding with them. Konrad did not concern himself with investigating, for he knew what they were searching for. For the thing that they wound never find. They searched for him.

Three years had passed since he lived as a prince in that forsaken city, which had changed greatly since he was a boy. It was unrecognizable now. Even those that searched for him, the riders were so far gone from the path that they once followed. There was no Dragon upon their banners, the symbol of the Ancient red beast that offered a mutual protection during their earliest years. He was still a fervent believer in their cause when this happened. There was great debate on the matter, and he was by far not the only one that questioned it. However, these arguments soon turned into shouting matches. Some argued adamantly that the Dragon simply slumbered, and others said that the Dragon was long dead, and that they were forced to fend for themselves. A third group rose, and claimed that the Dragon could never had existed, and that it was nothing more than propaganda from the founders of the city. Eventually it was resolved that the Dragon was too archaic, and that the very concept of it was not acceptable for the youths to look up to.

With the Dragon removed from the banners, the Iron City began to change greatly. Magicians of untold power came from the lands beyond the mountains, who bore strange tattoos which covered their backs with intricate designs. They wore no covering, nor armor. Konrad was told that they were summoned to improve his peoples own understanding of the mystic arts. He struggled, once again, to believe that this was right. Again, his concerns fell onto deaf ears. For the sake of safety, the all books containing spells, and every artifact used in the arcane was taken by their new teachers. As the books and tools burned in the massive fires all mages were gifted a new book. Only spells deemed worthy were approved and remained in these books. All wizards, they said, would specialized in all aspects of magic.

Those that tried to hide their books and the heirlooms passed through the generations were deemed traitors and a threat to the people. The massive trees, once adorned with many ribbons and glowing orbs during religious ceremonies were now adorned with the enemies of hte state. Then the purge began.

Seven allied, smaller cities surrounded the Iron City. It was said that they were bound by the same Blood Oaths, champions of the Dragon and her descendants. No one knew why they were made to fight against those that were their allies since the olden time. They were deemed traitors to the truth, and the enemies of the great cause in which all must follow. Cloaked figures walked the streets of the Iron City, whipping the people into a fervor. Their cries of a coming damnation was heard in every street corner and echoed back. For it was discussed within the houses of learning, and whispered by officials in their small offices. Soon the cloaked figures were silent, for the people themselves called for blood, and for justice. For vengeance. No one could truly say why. Konrad, much to his shame, was taken in by this as well.

The Iron City was a proud military powerhouse, and with the wealth that came from trade and mining allowed for a great deal of spending in arms and training. Two hundred warriors were mustered and brought before the mages. Tattoos, said to grant power were administered to the arms of those that gathered. The leaders, princes, and rulers were given wooden masks to show off their newfound identity, and the strength from within. The masks had strange faces on them, otherworldly. The mask fit perfectly onto Konrad, and he felt as though the world seemed a little brighter with it on.

With blazing lances they rode out, the sound of iron chains like the sound of a ceaseless thunder. In every city, in every field they came across those that wished to destroy them. Konrad slew countless enemies, emboldened by the tattoos that covered his arms, and the mask which drove fear into the hearts of the cowards. His blade drunk deeply, and no wall could withstand his approach. Blades pierced his skin, and arrows hit true, but he felt no pain from these. With every victory he felt his heart race faster, and he was driven to more. His hands moved on their own, balling into fists as he waited, waiting for a chance to strike deeper into enemy lines. They took no prisoners, for none had offered surrender. Konrad had never felt so alive.

Yet, as the seventh city was being razed, and their enemies formed a last defiant line against his own, Konrad removed the mask that he wore, to feel the warm air as fires burned around him. Yet, as he did so his eyes were opened. Before him was not a line of soldiers, of cursing barbaric dogs, but farmers and frightened people. The screams of the damned road in the air, and cries to a divine that did not see fit to help them. Konrad looked down, towards his companions, hunched and gripping their spears, walking with an unnatural limp, as though they were pulling their bodies along through willpower alone. Arrows were lodged into their flesh, which was pulsing and oozing out puss. Stricken by terror he threw down the mask, and pulled the reigns of his horse. His companions turned, and raised their spears towards him, and thrust towards him as he fled.

Towards the mountains, far from the Iron City he rode. The ground was treacherous, and the sound of wild animals were apparent. Yet, he rode on. He would escape this life, flee into a far off land to try again. Yet, when he looked over a ridge, he was taken aback. The seven ruined cities burned still, like stars in the night sky, surrounding a major star, yet there was a flaming line, along the roads, and along paths which connected them, forming the sign of Syr, an ancient malevolent creature. Konrad knew that he could not run, for his actions would haunt him. So he turned, and returned to the people.

Four months of painstaking work awaited him. He built, stealing what useful items he could in the rubble of what he had destroyed. He found a wife, and settled down. The gold that he carried with him allowed for an investment of crops. It was a quiet life, but it was a worthy one.

"Set your story over the course of a few minutes; no flashbacks, no flashforwards."

Three minutes. Three minutes was all that the cultists could offer Damian. It was all he would need. A twin headed crow watched him from the windowsill and the sign of the Thirteen Spiders crept through the nearby rooms, blood pooling around the circle of ashes and runes. Three robed cultists, each bound by a determination to free their ancestor from the terror of the beast, knelt within their own circles; one of salt, one of chalk, and one of his own blood. Each chanted the words needed for their unholy ritual.  'Iescta. Rotha. Karrathan.'  The words that would allow them to dip into the spirit realms burned into his mind. It was something that he had heard his master and his peers many times, though he had never been able to perform it himself.

'Iesctata. Riothan. Karrathac.'

The beast drew ever closer. The scent of rotting flesh filled the air, thickening it and assaulting Damian's senses. His eyes burned. The circle of ashes began to smoulder, smoke rising from the three corners where the cultists sat. They were still chanting, a good omen, though their eyes seemed lifeless as they spoke. They had entered the spirit realms, and were trying to lure the prize. Their words were respectful, and inquisitorial, the power of the magic growing. A wise man would have fled from the ritual. A righteous man would have slain these cultists. Damian was neither wise, nor holy. He was a blade which had failed his master. A single minded devotion would be what would allow him to fulfill his vengeance pact. Oh, how he longed for this. It filled every every waking moment.

'Iskarat. Riotak. Karrakt.'

With these words the ritual had reached it's final stage. The beast was 'caught'. Now it was only a matter of bringing it to this reality. The ashen circle was fully alight, burning with an unholy fire. Screams filled the air and mirrors shattered under the weight of the evil that was at their door. Damian felt the ghastly hands of the damned grab at him with their icy cold hands, and watched as they tried the same with the cultists. The heralds of death itself. It was only a matter of seconds left. The realization hit Damian, making his stomach knot and his knees feel weak.

'Yuriskrat. Rartaak. Yukkarat.'

A purple smoke filled the room as the cultists chanted these last words. From this smoke did the fiendish being known as 'Yugrim' take form. It crafted it's own flesh from the smoke, fingers forming from nothingness. From every corner which the smoke touched voices began pouring out, the voices that made and kept this beast alive. An elderly woman's voice, tearful and in great mourning spoke, trying in vain to warn them of her new masters lies. A young man, who's voice couldn't hide shame and regret spoke too, echoing the first. Damian scowled at this. A child, confused and lonely almost took form in the smoke beside Damian. It's face, and essence were lost in the smoke with a sense of loneliness. Lastly, a young woman was heard. Laughter and song filled her words, though they quickly turned to violent outbursts as she spoke. She said much, but nothing of worth, throwing herself into screaming frenzies before being overtaken by uncontrollable laughter.

Damian knew what these voices were. Echoes of those foolish enough to entrust this creature with their very souls. The shadows of the figure fed on their desperation. It was, for lack of a better term, the metaphysical embodiment of their own flaws and evil done under good intent. Even in the hell that they made for themselves, they are convinced that they can escape. Only when they felt true despair would this creature abandon them. Damian would, however, offer this beast no bargain, nor deal as his master had.

Only once it had finished forming, and opened it's eyes did he strike. With all his might he plunged his masters sword, Gráinne, into the beasts chest. Damian twisted the blade as he pushed, feeling his own life began to fade. The blade, capable of slaying an outsider, would do the same to the wielder. Harmony. It would not upset the balance between the realms, one life for another. The smoke began to dissipate as his own life was ending. The souls bound to this beast broke free.