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Antarctica, 1568.
267 Years After The Fact...
Magnus Gunderbrow rode on the back of Darla to the same spot he’d buried—encapsulated in ice, the crusader known as Faustus Kain hundreds of years ago. Both the dwarf and pig were a lot older now, but still far from looking death’s gaze within their path. Magnus’s only regret was that he had to keep the color within his hair far longer than what was expected of him. The sharp orange locks that curled in long strands and fell down to his beard above his stomach, was now unsurprisingly a greyish-white. Darla’s tough hide had as well, began to sag, while the coat of the creature herself was beginning to fade. But, if there was anything to be proud of, the dire-boar’s tusk were still as ridge and as jagged as the spiked edges of a mace. Time, though truly relevant to both of them, was truly kind to them. Best of all, there was no devil that was hanging onto their backs—telling them what to do or what to think of themselves. Being a servant of the Devil was long behind him now, and he was excited to live out the rest of his life as a nomad, if need be. At least, he would be free.