Lo, doth the tides of nightfall stretch across the sky with foreboding.
The earthy loam packed hard beneath his warrior feet,
dyed red from the claret of the fallen.
Red, like his own Warrior's Mane.
For on this day did they drink deeply from his sword.
And though he doth stand here now,
at the maw of Hellwynd Keep,
He is resolute, and fears no man.
For no man has ever bested him, and so he marches with this burden.
Cursed for all time, to walk this fallen earth
Until he meets the blade of The One Who Will End His Suffering.
But the Red Warrior has walked upon this trodden path.
There will never be that peace.
By no mortal hand will he ever be given sanctuary
From his own cursed memories.
Not one will attest to having lain their steel
upon his cursed flesh.
Because that man,
The Man They Call Bonner,
Has left no man standing,
That has ever faced him.
And yet, even at these forked roads of Destiny,
Doth the prophecy speak loudest.
Echoing in the foreboding peace of nocturne,
That there will one day come a man who,
Can lay The Bonner down,
To that eternal rest for which he has quested.
Bonner has read this Prophecy.
He knows it line by line.
Each word dripping with the promise of the sweet,
Of a Warrior's Death most noble.
With great zeal doth The Bonner wait for this man,
The Man They Call Gist, To End His Pain
For though the blackness of death is unknown to Him,
The Warrior's heart yearns always for the fight.
It is his only true mistress.
It is his only salvation.
For Bonner, This Death,
La Bella Morte,
Is the only thing that can reunite him
With his fallen betrothed.
Taken from him on their wedding day.
The first night of the harvest, so long ago.
E così Egli Attendere
A braccia aperte
per il suo unico vero amore
il suo unico vero morte.