"It Must End Somewhere."

Dozens of demons, humans, and elves lay dead around him while the screams from the dying echo in his ears.  Blood from many wounds pool near his feet as a clawed hand weakly reaches out.  His sword comes down once, silencing the demon.  But then it comes down again, and again.  The hunter doesn't remember screaming,  but he's certain that he is.  Some time later, a voice pierces through the red fog of rage;

"Dameon."

He stops.  The Demon Hunter, the Wandering Black, Dameon. He forces his eyes to focus.  The red haze finally recedes.  He is holding his sword, the only gift his mother provided to him that he did not want.  The ring imbued with ancient magic dangles loosely on the handle.  He can barely remember her face.

"It's over, Dameon.  It's finally,"  Syl is interrupted when the sword comes within an inch of his face, embedding itself deeply in a rock behind the mage.

"NO!" Dameon screams, smearing blook-soaked hands across his face, "it's NEVER over!  This hate lives inside me," the broken hunter stumbles as he tries to walk, landing on his knees.  Tears from his own eyes, stained with dirt and gore, fall over the top of a human face staring up at him with lifelessly.

"It's never over, not for me," he sobs.  For a moment longer than he would like to admit, Syl feels pity for the creature in front of him.  His inner turmoil, rage, and confusion would eventually consume him, and it would make every waking moment agony an eternal agony.  With a heavy sigh, Syl turns and grabs the hilt of the sword.

"There might be a way," Syl says, pain in his voice as he pulls against the rock.  It seems to split itself open with a small wave of the mage's hand, "for you to tame this hatred.  But the cost would be steep, and your soul may not survive."  He turns and holds the sword out to his battle partner and friend.

"I'll do anything," Dameon coughs, pulling himself up and taking his sword.  Suddenly noticing the pain in his side, he glances down to see his trenchcoat covered in his own blood, "anything to make this pain ebb, if only for a day.  It must end somewhere, old friend."  The last word was almost pleading to Syl's ears.

"Then we must travel north, to the Ancient Council," Syl says, staring at his own hands,  "I need to see an old friend myself."