Atop the highest mountain overlooking the rest, the range reaching all the way to the coast, he stood vigil. As he had in his previous life, so he did now. The days were dedicated to helping those in need, gathering reports on the surrounding lands and the beings therein whether good or evil. He intervened when he was needed. Advised when asked. On days when there was nothing, he prayed and practiced his art, dedicated the cause of the Loyal Fury and the good of the world he'd made his home.   On this day, a report had made it's way to him that indicated the fiends had returned, summoned by cultists and now ravaging the countryside. The pristine armor took shape upon him with a mere word, the honed plates forming seamlessly over his flesh as precisely as a second skin. The humming blade appeared in his hand, its impossibly sharp edge glowing red from the raw power of the arcana infused within it. Radiant wings of pristine silver spread wide as he readied himself to take flight. One last look back to his daughter.   "We're needed in the valley. You coming?"   Zora smiled. "I'll beat you there, old man."   ----------------------------------------------   Blackened armor, darker than night itself, every edge serrated and barbed, the suit of maille digging into his flesh with every movement and only inciting greater fury. In both hands he clutched an equally barbarous weapon, the soul purpose of both was misery for the foes of the 9 Hells. Unleashed again, each time felt as the first to his mind of fury and destruction. His only goal was the death of all that Hell despised. Conquest for all that stood in Hell's way. Pain was his friend. His mentor. His only companion that he sought ceaselessly to bring to his foes. Ever onward he stalked the veils between the 9 Circles, his campaign taking him to the Abyss itself. From there, Celestia, and beyond.   "All in good time," he reiterated to himself, lost in the march of Infernal war machine.   -------------------------------------------------------------------------   A wandering knight with no banner and no sigil, but dedicated to his principles and his friends. That is what he'd become now, and for the first time in a long while, was something he could truly admit he was proud to be even if there was much more to be reached on the road of redemption. His weapons were the one's he carried in his hands and the faith that guided him. His armor was the suit gifted from a brother and improved through effort. And his resolve was the love he felt for his daughter and the family he was finding deeper connection with each day.   No longer did he see himself as Nomad. Callum had found himself again. The next steps he'd take one day at a time.