Doom is guided by his own set of principles regarding right and wrong. Justice is in the eye of the beholder and sometimes one must be pragmatic to accomplish the greater good. He has an easy going demeanor to his friends but is relentless in pursuing his enemies. When the fight goes against him and his allies, he is quick to make sacrifices that may prevent the group from suffering greater losses. When beaten down, he sullenly plans the next attack. Pragmatism means that he's not above playing dirty to achieve his goals.
He wasn't always called Doom Cleaver. Time passes more slowly for those who've sold their souls in exchange for the powers of dark sorcery. In his past he was just another face in the crowd; just another soldier. In the dark corners of his mind, Doom remembers what it was like to return home after years of war. It was on his trip home that he began to suspect that the war was still following him. Movement in the corner of his eye during the day and shadows at night. Although he had tried to put his past behind him, the past would not forget. It would never relent. What's done is done never seems to be good enough for some. Revenge is often long in the making until the time is ripe for the taking. Although he saw these ghosts and silent followers, he put them in the back of his mind thinking them to be nothing more than battle fatigue. The years of fighting had worn at the senses. A man had to learn to calm himself if he were to adapt to being a civilian again. His sister and her young children waited for his return. Her husband had been killed in a battle for some nameless and forgotten hill a few years back and now he would return to her and see to her family's care. He had nowhere else to go. It would be good to be with family again, away from the cares of the world where a man could envelop himself in the simplicity of life. The smell of freshly turned soil and the harvest that would come of it was a delight in his mind.
"Away with you, ghosts." ,he said to himself as he walked.
It became his mantra.
The weeks he spent with his sister and her children after reaching the homestead were but a strange and blurred memory. A surreal experience that he could make neither heads nor tails of. He only remembered their pain. The screams. Fear. Blood. It was a sweet solace to him, watching their lifeblood flow from the wounds on their bodies. The faster it pooled upon the floor, the more quickly their pain would abate. Who were these devils? For only demons would delight in applying such terror and pain to their victims. The eye. It was his eye that caused recognition. The single swing of his blade had voided sight from that devil's eye. After almost four years, this devil had returned to exact his revenge. That life was supposed to have been forfeit, but a changing of coins had effected the release of a mad man. Gone though. He had been gone, most likely dead in a ditch somewhere near the eastern coast. But here he was with his small band of murderers. In the back of his mind, he knew that's all they were. Killers and madmen, bound by a pact of insanity. While Doom struggled to maintain his grasp upon precious sanity in a world gone mad, others freely allowed themselves to pass over the brink. And here was one of them. The man he had condemned to die for the rape and torture of eleven women who had worked in their camps. Now he had raped and murdered one more before torturing her into eternal darkness. The small bodies of the children lay cooling in their blood just beyond the doorway. His strength was failing. Blood loss began to take its toll and soon he would join those who had gone before him. The Cimmerians spoke of great halls and mighty battles waged on the other side of life. All he saw was blood. Blood and fire. Where was this light coming from? It burned most brightly when focusing on the smears of red that trailed the inside of the small home. All other sounds had ceased to register but the slow beat of his failing heart. Blood and fire...and a voice. So soft was the voice at first that he thought it was but a whisper from some place in his psyche. It grew louder. With each rasping breath he took, the voice carried louder until he could finally hear the malevolent discord as clearly as if it were spoken in his ear.
"Do you wish vengeance?" ,it asked.
"Vengeance? What is left but death?" ,was his reply.
"Power. The power to right the wrong. The ability to shield the weak. The force to raise even the dead. You wish them to walk again on the mortal plain? Or do you leave them to their fate? A fate that you have destined them to, whether you knew it or not. The gods will not hear you, but I am as a god. I have power beyond your grasp. For just a paltry promise, I will share with you my power. You will gain strength from weakness and know courage when others cower in fear. You will become the shield to stay the blade; the hand to swing the sword. All of this but for a promise in exchange. What will you do mortal? Choose quickly. Soon, you will no longer remain in this mortal plain and will be beyond my aid. What will you do?! Swear your allegiance to me and I will grant you power like that of which you have never imagined! You. Will. Have. Justice! SPEAK MORTAL! SAY THE WORDS!"
As he pulled air into his burning lungs, he cried out, "I give you my hand! Aid me!"
Years have past. The blood still runs in his veins, but the sway that the demon held over him is shattered. They hold an uneasy alliance. Bound together by blood but separated by will. The dust of the road always on his armor and the weary look of a man who will never sleep, he walks through the streets of his native land. Passing a small stand full of mysterious trinkets and baubles, the old hag invites him to see her wares but gives a sharp hiss after grabbing his hand.
"You! You don't even comprehend what you've done boy. You don't understand the path you will take. What was to be your doom has been clove in two. A deal made by blood and an oath separated by sheer force of will. They speak your name yet you haven't a clue as to what I'm speaking of. One day you will come to understand your destiny, but not a minute before you're ready. The will of the righteous made a pact with Doom himself through innocent blood. Be careful Doom Cleaver. You have no idea of the power you gather around you. Now be gone and never darken this street with your shadow again!"
He sighed. The sun was setting and he had yet to find a place to lay down his burden.