Armha ran through up the hill, ridiculously steep. Not as fast as he could, but at a fair pace. The Darkspawn behind him could easily outrun him, but they did not. They mearly jogged after him, weapons shealthed, but clearly shown. It was a chase, that much was clear, but Armha couldn't be sure why he wasn't being attacked, captured like the rest. He swallowed hard. He'd thought of the rest. Memories of family and friends flooded back to him, but he kept running. Memories of what happened three days ago came to him, forcing their way into his skull, ignoring his need for focus. Three days ago he was forced into this forest by the same Darkspawn. Three days ago everything had changed. Three days ago, he'd started running.

                                                                                                                                       Armha had made a mistake; he didn't look where he was going. He tripped over something hard and fell.  He looked back at what had tripped him. There, sparkling in the moonlight, were what remained of a tripwire. A sprung trap. The sound of breaking twigs was heard above, and Armha's head shot upward. His eyes widened as he saw a giant war axe, slowly breaking the nest of twigs and tiny branches that it was rested upon. Armha suddenly understood; the Darkspawn were running him up until this exact moment, where he would trip over and break the tripwhire that succured the axe from breaking through it's nest and slicing those below. The only flaw in this plan seemed to be that Arma knew of it. And in a few moments that flaw would be fixed. As Armha would be broken. Armha scrambled backward, over the hills peek as the axe began to free itself. He was still scrambling as the axe broke free. It's handle was still secured, and so it would swing like death's sythe. Armha made one last backward leap/stumble away from the axe, and found his back pressed against cold stone.

                                                                                                                                        Armha, inspite of the axe about to swing toward him, turned his head to see what was stopping him from continuing to flee from his impending death. It made him jump a little to see that it was a gravestone. he thought, " To Be Slaughtered In A Grave". Then, something happened. The gravestone crumbled. He fell into a lying position, and a sharp pain in his head made him cry out. He clutched his head, and found a foreigne contaminent. Something sharp, and cold. A metal shard. He clutched it and pulled it out, scrambling backward over the grave as he did. All of a sudden a horrible stench overpowered his senses. Black smoke billowed feircly from the grave undeneath him and swarmed before his eyes, spiralling into a gasous tornado. It started to form, and solid feet appeared under the coud. Slowly, the shins, knees, thighs, and waist began to solidify. "Reverent" Armha spat. The cheast and arms began to form as the final twig snapped. The head had just formed as the axe struck the Reverent's back, and the it's feet left the air. And as the Reverent swooped over Armha, it grabbed his shirt.