He stood upon the battlefield, surrounded, alone. On his right arm, his great shield, layered with skulls. in his left hand, a great blade, itself half the width of his shield and nearly as tall as he. He wore the robes of the brotherhood, and a steel mask painted off white, the colour of bones discoloured by years outside. He walked, and bones cracked beneath his weight. His enemies made way, as they could not harm him, and any attacker was met with a brutal counter. This is how he spent his days, wandering from battle, to battle. He never once found a battle worth staying to the end.