The chair creaks, groans and pops beneath his weight as he shimmies into a comforatable position. The sharp, hawk like, eyes are dull and seemingly faded. The thick, calloused hands fold atop his belly and a slow inaudible breath is released. Krull's head slumps a bit in unison with his shoulders as the ghosts of his past settle in and take hold.
Gradually his lids grow heavy and cover the emerald orbs. With each passing moment the wall of darkness created by the lids begins to take shape. In the beginning the scene before him is unreadable and out of focus. Krull continues taking long, cleansing breaths, allowing more clarity to take hold of the movements played out on the canvas before him. The air catches in his throat as he comes to the awful realization of what he looks at. In front of him stands a youngster, no more than a teenager, a short sword clutched tightly in his feeble hands. The ground is littered with bodies, some dismembered, some simply run through but none clinging to life. As the large man watches the boy's eyes flash and he charges. Krull knows what comes next and tries his best to open his eyes but is entrapped by the vision. The closer the boy comes to more clearly Krull sees himself, a long double edged blade dangling loosely from his right hand. He screams at the youth to slow his progess to no avail and at the last moment he swings the blade, tearing expertly through the tender flesh of the boy's abdomen. Both in the scene before him and in the chair, the large man shakes his head slowly, utterly ashamed.
The following image is no less disturbing and threatens to swallow the warrior's sanity whole. Krull stands amidst a village, turning slowly to survey the destruction. Everything around him has been burned to the ground and once again the ground is littered with bodies. As he walks sullenly and with careful attention payed to each step, he skirts the severed limbs, slain pets and various other tragedies of war. The area seems relatively familiar though he cannot place it exactly. With a single glance to his left the horrendous scene before him makes perfect sense and his eyes squeeze tightly, his enormous frame shivering. With the inability to wipe the memory from his banks Krull is forced to relive this moment, waves of nausea coursing through his body. He feels as if he is moving in slow motion as he rushes toward the woman. Three paces away he falls to his knees as the sharpened tip of the arrow pierces her chest, sending a spray of blood over his chest. Krull reels forward, elbows digging into the softened ground, face buried in his hands.
The sobs emitting from the beast of a man in the image are mimicked as he sits in the chair. In the vision Krull falls flat on his face, the mud filling his orifices. As he does so, the warrior seated in the chair falls forward, knees connecting with a resounding "thud" as they strike the pavement. The impact is enough to pull Krull from this torturous string of memories and he looks about warily, taking his feet and dusting off the tunic. His steps are unsteady as though he is drunk as he weaves toward the exit. Just before reaching the door he doubles over and coughs violently, a spray of blood flinging from his lips. He wipes the residue with the back of his hand and steadies himself against the stones, pushing himself out the door and into the night.
