Among the snow-capped mountains there is a monastery of reapers. Having arisen in an instant, for half a century now it is a symbol of the power of that which is called Death. There are brave souls who come here for knowledge and strength, there are desperate people who are looking for justice, there are those who came to die. But the present guest is special: he is a Chronicler-monk, whose mission is to leave to his descendants a true story.
All day he passed from one Reaper to another and quietly questioned everyone, writing down the truth. And so, coming out onto the balcony, pierced by all winds, the monk stood next to the warrior and once again glanced at his powerful figure, completely enclosed in armor with many marks of past battles. Only the living eyes, glowing with the inner light of a fanatical faith in their Lady, and heavy breathing, spoke of the fact that before him a living person.
The Chronicler bowed and quietly whispered the question. He knew that he was talking to a representative of the first Reapers. For many fifty years only a few have been honored to speak with one of the Fingers of Death - the commander of the army of reapers.
Hearing the question, the tall warrior turned his head slightly. A few seconds of silence clearly demonstrated that the person is thinking something over. But then, coming to a decision, he began to talk. It seemed that every word was nourished by his icy fury and contempt.
-Do you want to know the truth, Chronicler? Your dedication deserves encouragement, - the mighty warrior gave a barely audible chuckle. Once upon a time I was a simple farmer. Growing bread is hard but honorable work. It is a pity that all the honor begins and ends with these words. Our Fatebinder treated us like cattle. For him, only money and magical experiments were important. Every fall, we were left just enough so that we did not die of hunger. This went on until the time when the sea came to our lands. My village has become extinct almost completely. Do you know what it means to bury your family? I found out.
The Reaper interrupted for a while, waiting for the Chronicler to write down after him. Noticing that the monk froze in anticipation, he continued.
-It was a truly damn year. The plague did not leave us a chance either. But this did not lead me to serve Her. It was done by the tax collectors of the Fatebinder that they came to the village in the autumn. They were not touched by our grief. That's when I killed for the first time. Further all as in a fog. Attacks on the Sovereign’s servants, raids on warehouses, blood ... a lot of blood!
A sudden chill ran through the Chronicler's body, which did not hide from the tenacious look of the first reaper.
-I tried to kill only those who serve the Sovereign. Revenge moved me, but I did not lose my head. Soon I had associates. We really got a lot of problems. So much that we sent a large squad.
A cloud of steam escaping from under the horned helmet with a sigh forced the Chronicler to raise his eyes. It was evident that the Reaper was once again experiencing long-past events.
-We were blocked in old ruins.No chance to escape or win. We understood that this was the end and, saying goodbye to each other, prepared for the attack, - after a few seconds, the Reaper uttered the following words in a different tone. He could hear the elevation and spirituality, - It was at this moment that She appeared to us. For a few moments I understood everything. I understood how miserable and insignificant I was. I understood how pathetic the sovereigns are in their desire to subjugate their divine power. I changed. There was no longer a farmer. There was only the Reaper who came for the souls of the enemies!
A minute passed in a minute, but the warrior kept silent, thinking about something far away. The monk did not dare to interrupt the meditation of one of the Fingers of Death. The Chronicler had plenty of patience. It is necessary only to wait a little, and the descendants will learn the true history of the Reapers.