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[A tale from The Dark Ages, written from the point of view of Iron Lord Felwinter. It depicts him and Iron Lord Saladin offering Lord status to an unnamed Risen.]
The Risen was large, a dark, looming shadow against the small tent. He was already old - the last of his brown hair fading to white and silver - but with the sharpness of Saladin’s wolves. He was calm, quiet, working the delicate cups and heated pot to make... tea.
“You drink?” He rumbled, though it was more of an order than a question. He turned, looking at the Warlock and Titan stood before him. He looked… oddly adorable, for one that had killed so many, judging by the state of the huge armour on the stand behind them. The cups were dwarfed by his hands, and his ghost - which had glared at them as they approached - peeked inside.
“No poison? They’re not here to be nice, you know.” It said. The Risen growled - a low rumble in the bottom of his chest.
“And we did not bring them here to kill them. That would have happened in the snow and dirt, where the blood is easily cleaned.” Felwinter doesn’t miss the veiled threat - or absence of one. The Risen sighs at Saladin’s shift. “You do not need to fear me,” He murmurs, placing down the cups on his makeshift table. “You are here to ask of me a question, yes? Ask it.”
He seats himself in the single chair near the table, looking at them expectantly. His Ghost floats above his head, single eye trained on Felwinter - glaring, angry, but saying nothing. It was rare to see a Ghost so hostile, so ready to kill, and Felwinter wondered what had made it like this. Was it the same reason The Risen’s hammer - five and a half feet long and a head the size of his entire skull - caked in blood and bone. Saladin coughed.
“You’ve done a good job here,” He spoke, deep and calm. Felwinter still said nothing, only looked around and took it all in. “How many people have lived in this village, under your protection. For how long?”
The Risen chuckled. “Fifty years so far. I lost count at two hundred. Elisia Farwind is much better at the numbers than I am. She runs this place.” His Ghost chirped angrily as The Risen spoke the name. He gave it a look, and it huffed, before vanishing into nothingness.
Saladin spoke again. “The Iron Lords would be able to aid you in protecting this place. You wouldn’t have to kill so many, and we would name you Lord. No Fallen would ever cross you again.”
He growled at the offer, leaning forwards in his chair. He thinks it over, mulling unfathomable thoughts in those dark eyes. Finally, he speaks. "You have a code. One that I am unable to keep."
Saladin frowned. "We protect humanity, just as you protect this village."
“And if what humanity needs is protection from us? Where is your creed then?" The Risen hums, and his eyes are tired, old, worn. Felwinter looks at The Risen's hammer. At the blood and bone on it. Not all of the blood was blue.
"Excuse me?"
The Risen stands up, and finally Felwinter can see just how tall he really is. The Risen towers above him, above Saladin, and is wider than both of them combined. He lays a hand on the hammer, and Felwinter's glides to his shotgun.
The Risen sighs.
"Risen do not cross this place often,” He rumbled, “But in the last month, I have slain three other Risen, attempting to raid this village," He growled. Somehow, his voice was deeper than before, his eyes sad. The shadows in the room grew deeper, darker, and The Risen's Ghost appeared, floating up to The Risen's head. "They weren't starving, weren't begging for salvation,"
The Risen looked at them both. "They just wanted death. So I gave it to them."
Saladin said nothing. Felwinter didn't move. This man would be considered an Oathbreaker, in their culture. A Risen-Slayer, a Ghost-Shatterer.
"I respect you Ironlords," The Risen spoke, moving from the hammer. They stood between him and the door, and the light outside seemed much more inviting than the darkness in front of them, "But you protect humanity from only half of the problem. I protect these people from all of it. My answer, to your offer, is no."