Headless Legend

The accursed dunes of Rominakk are known across the east. The final resting place of all sorts of warriors who were enamored by tales of endless duels, rotting bones claimed by the red bloody sands. The clash of swords must continue, even after death...

Yet, amongst the forgotten husks of armours, lied an ancient warrior with no name. Headless, with two scimitars eaten by rust. His outlandish armour shined brightly under the blistering sun.

Strangely enough, He did not fight. The headless warrior merely spectated an onslaught after another. Many have tried to duel with him, none succeeded. Those who resorted to treachery (or cowardly magic) would mysteriously turn into a mangled mess a second later, their blood nurturing the sands.

From the frigid north, came a young warrior. Yograsir was his name, He didn't raise his axe or utter filthy words of magic. No, He simply settled down in the most inhospitable desert there was. The headless warrior didn't seem to mind his newfound company. He only responded to hostility. Yograsir showed none.

Surviving in a desert cursed by an angry god of war wasn't an easy feat. There was nothing to hunt but fierce scavengers either sulking in the skies or burrowing deep inside the earth. Their flesh was stingy and tasteless, their blood boiled in one's throat. Yograsir persisted throughout thirst and hunger, heat and cold.

Days were turning into weeks, Those who couldn't stomach dueling the legendary headless warrior (or the slightly less impressive warriors of the crimson sand) chose to duel Yograsir. He initially refused out of disinterest, however, Some sought his blood. He had no choice but to fend himself.

Yograsir had his share of bloodshed; He was born into constant wars between several warring clans. When his clan emerged as the sole victor, the young warrior yearned for more bloodshed elsewhere. It was an old tavern under the shadow of a lonesome mountain where he learned of this mysterious warrior who obliterated anyone without raising his scimitars. At first, he too sought unquenched violence against this mighty foe but the journey he took has changed his mind to a more delicate approach.

Months later, Yograsir had buried his forefather's axe deep into his foe's head. The body was limp, a fountain of blood sprouted after his demise; too reckless, Thought Yograsir. The headless warrior of legend remained idle, unphased by the result.

In time, Yograsir has gained himself a new name: Terrnda-anin or the blood-star of the North. He wasn't the strongest or the most nimble but he always found a way to outwit his opponent, the man had seen hundreds of duels alongside his silent resident of the dunes. All the known tricks of swordplay was engraved inside his mind.

His victories gave birth to a dangerous serpent of lust coiling inside his soul....Yograsir wanted to revert to his original plan...to best the headless legend. Everyday, he attempted to muster some courage to ask the headless warrior for a duel. His words remained clogged in his throat. Yograsir would always lie to himself always promising himself to say the words after the umpteenth duel. Nothing.


Years has passed by, Yograsir became known as the headless shadow to warriors old and new. This greatly angered the man from the north. His victories became more and more savage and brutal. A simple triumph was not enough, to break away from his newfound title, Yograsir had to be creative in the only thing he knew. He became so twisted and vile that even the wandering bones of the dead started to avoid his ire.

Yograsir honed various tactics to win, most were cheap and underhanded. The honour instilled in his ancestor's fighting style was discarded alongside his axe. He must win with style at all costs.

It was during a rare eclipse when Yograsir has finally raised two ornate scimitars (Looted from an exiled prince) against the headless warrior. Yograsir had no fear of death for he had faced it for decades. He must win this duel, he spent most of his life for this particular moment.

Perhaps it was the effect of the eclipse, perhaps it was some form of an ethereal bond between the dyad...whatever it was, Yograsir could finally see the true form of the Headless warrior...

A shimmering spectre possessed the legendary husk. Flames so bitter and cold engulfing the spirit bound by the accursed sands. His back sprouted limbs and limbs armed with every colour of steel there was.

Yograsir did not hesitate, in fact, he was grateful for the spirit to see him worthy of this glorious visage. He charged onwards, clashing against dozens of spectral weapons.

It felt...unnatural, not the fact that he was fighting a spirit with unenchanted weapons. No...he anticipated every single move of the headless warrior. Something didn't feel like right.

Yograsir fought valiantly against the wall of limbs. He began to dismember them to even the odds a little, an arduous task but a doable one.

Only two arms had remained, the corporeal ones with the rusty scimitars. The clash continued until Yograsir has found an opening; three slashes across the chest followed by a beautiful decapitation.

The spirit was banished. Yograsir was beyond jubilation, IT IS DONE! HE IS A LEGEND! ALL SHALL BOW BEFORE HIS MIGHT! EVE...every...

A sharp pain had consumed his hands, they had a mind of their own gripping the two scimitars with such inhuman force. What is happening?

Yograsir's eyes widened in horror as his weapons became rusted in a matter of seconds. His stone-like hand sheathing them forever and ever. It didn't stop there; three slashes were born on his chest, sweet blood trickling freely without pesky flesh to contain it.

The bloating pain came to an end when his head was embraced by the vermilion sands. His was vision was of his body, walking headless....

The accursed dunes of Rominakk are known across the east. The final resting place of all sorts of warriors who were enamored by tales of endless duels, rotting bones claimed by....