When there was only dust in the world, he bore witness to it—

  When there beset fire, he was the first one to kindle it—

  When the first man fell, he was the first to mourn—

  When the first child arrived, he was there too see it born—

  When the first words were spoken, his voice was the first one heard—

  When the first walkways were constructed, his hands were the ones that toiled—

  When everything came to be and turn undone—he bears witness to it all—

  An oracle, a wanderer, a ronin, a being that passes by all and watches all, bearing the weight of civilization in his chest—

  The Oathskeeper, first man and the forever one.

  The love of humanity.

  Civilization personified.

  The one who always walks alone.

  The one who witnessed the dust take form and will soon witness the forms turn to dust.

  The Oathskeeper has wandered the earth for eons, his name passed down from mouth to mouth, head to head, generation to generation.

  His identity remaining hidden—a mystery forever kept to his fellowmen.

  A mortal in love with his society yet unable to spare it to only witness its dusk and dawn. The Oath he made, the Oath of love.

  He bears the sigil of the gods, given to him upon his immortality yet he despises each one of them—for their uncaring attitude to the lives of his people.

  He witnessed hundreds of Wars—all various reasons as to why they had occurred—conquest, glory, hatred, resources—each and every one. His hands dyed red from the crimson air that hung with every drop of blood spilled to the earth.

  He witnessed the tireless war against the Devils, the camaraderie of humanity—yet, also their depravity.

  Even through all the horrors he witnessed, there was always a light that shined amongst the shadows dealt by the world.

  Heroes born every coming age of man and each one made to suffer for the survival of every living being. Must such a burden be given to humans—to be the favored one amongst the gods—the hero meant to save the world?

  He bears no answer.

  He has met many men—many women—many people who traveled and wandered beside him. He ate food on a pot and shared a meal beside fire as stories spoken between men and women rang left to right.

  Ah yes—that was another moniker of his—The Storybearer—

  Through eons of wandering he had also met love for his own kin, and not the love he felt for humanity, but a deeper, more intimate retionship. He had loved men—women—and even other races. Yet, despite everything—he outlived all of them.

  His sons and daughters began molding into society, the blood to the first man diluting throughout their generations—so much so that he can't even tell who would be his descendants.

  Still—He must keep walking—many names he’s gone by and many names he has lost.

  “Even so,” The Oathskeeper made his way to the North of the Empire, a routine he has built for several centuries, “I must keep my Oath—every story—every matter—every person—I must remember them all.”

  His eyes gazed upward, his gnce settling among the clouds absorbing the light of the sun. “The forms of this era are soon to turn once more to dust,” His eyes nded on the castle, “A storm is coming.”