He walks along the corridors, the huge, cavernous halls of the Siegeworks, glancing left to right quickly as he notices shadows dart around and above him. The ground shakes violently and he is knocked off balance, he flails as he stumbles and slices his hand on a jagged piece of wrought iron metalwork. Incapacitated by the pain he lays on the floor, listening to the guttural growls and eerie groaning of the scourge masses.
Blinding flashes of light surge in through the door he came through earlier, he is blinded, the mass of undead recoil in horror and pain and turn to flee. Bolts of light fire out of the cloud of light and shear through the flesh of the fleeing scourge and ricochet off the walls and columns dotted around the massive hulk of the colossal building.
The fallen man is picked up by strand of golden light and carried out of the now empty factory, save for smouldering piles of ash that were once the rabid attackers. As the man is carried out he hears a voice, it is not a voice that uses vocal chords, it is a voice that never needed to be said, it was always there, but never need to arise until this time.
It was the voice of the High Prophet Mo’iro. Mo’iro speaks to the wounded crusader in a soothing tone, as it does so, the soldiers wounds heal, his spirit lifts and his strength returns. Mo’iro has blessed him with the sacred light. Once again the man seizes his weapon and charges, bolstered and blessed into the citadel.
Unholy masses await him inside.
He stands his ground.
They advance, flailing and screeching.
Still the man stands.
Ghouls leap from scaffolds and handholds, spectres appear as if from nowhere, patchwork golems of phenomenal power and size decimate the walls and lurch with astonishing speed towards the lone warrior.
The circle closes on the man.
He stands and readies his weapon, shifts his position, braces himself for the inevitable impact.
The scourge mass converges and buries the small body.
They scramble and drool and claw and scratch and bite.
A silence descends over the hall.
The ghouls and golems and spectres stand silent.
Thin beams of light splay from open gaps in the massive pile of rotting flesh and phantasmal rags.
Suddenly the soldier thrusts himself upwards with godly strength and is surrounded by a searing white light.
He is a warrior of the Light.
A protector of the people.
A destroyer of evil.
He is a paladin.
A Beacon Of Light.