“You’ve quite the thirst for blood. Don’t you?”
“If you’re recruiting for that dwarf with the scythe I’m not interested.
Do I know you? ”
“I’ve no intention of recruiting anyone for anything. Murder belongs to the past for myself. I am merely a curious stranger, partaking in the art of conversation. I am sorry to have bothered you.”
“You sure we ‘aven’t met? You look rather suspicious yourself, when you say murder belongs in the past wot do you mean by that.”
“I have walked a very similar path to your own. Killing to progress in life. But I have left that all behind now.”
“You never really leave it behind, even if you can stop it for a time. You seem to know an awful lot about me. He nods at the Forrosan black axe resting beside him. “That give me away?”
"I hear many rumours in this dead land. At any rate, it is not my place to judge the path of any one person.”
“That’s a first. So wot brings you to this dead land then? Running or hunting? ”
“I came to this land long ago as a hired hand for the kingdom. The cost of such mindless bloodshed was my body. My reason for my stay is one of a lack of choice; however, I have found peace.”
“A hired hand for a king in Drangleic? I take it this is before the undead curse got ‘im. You must ‘ave been quite the warrior.”
Creighton takes a seat near the rubble Vengarl’s head is so precariously placed on and stares out into the patch of sky he is so intent on watching.
“Would you go back if you could? To Forrossa?"
The man shuts his eyes. “No,” he says finally. “All I knew in that land, since my very birth, was death and pain. Here, I have calm. Peace.”
The man smiles, but the gesture is hidden beneath his lion mask. “I battled for what felt like centuries,” he explains, voice soft and grainy. “I had long since grown weary of it, but had never noticed in my murderous rampage.”