As the Ghost of Ottawa entered Libra-Ursa, the sight before him made his blood boil with an anger born of pure disgust. "Such repugnance..." The Ghost growled through his mask as he clenched the handles of his two fire axes hard enough that the blood could no longer flow into them. His eyes had fallen upon a deathly ill elven woman, sobbing silent tears as she cradled the corpse of her dead young daughter.
Within the Ghost's soul, he could sense a mere fraction of her pain. He knelt to her and locked eyes with her. "For countless nights, I have been plagued with visions or dreams that our places are reversed, and I am the one holding the child, one whose future was robbed by the cruelty of tyrants..." The elven woman raised her gaze to meet his, only to find nothing but an anger that would paralyze the strongest of this world's gods. "...and every single night... I slaughter them, but now... in dreams no longer." As the Ghost stood back up, several guards stumbled out of the bar, drunk on liquor and power. One of them threw a bottle at the Ghost, whose back was turned to them. As he slowly turned to them, he allowed the memories of his past to overwhelm his mind. Without warning, the dual fire axes had their blades sunk through two of the guards' skulls, splitting them wide open. Grabbing the twin sledgehammers off his back, the Ghost of Ottawa lived up to his name. He was the untouchable spectre that left nothing but bodies lying in pools of their blood.
Once the area was clear, he returned to the woman. "Go. Head due North, and you come upon my people. The chains that held you here have been broken, now go!" As she and several others made their way to the gates, she turned around to hear the Ghost letting out a laugh that could only be described as the pinnacle of insanity. Guards rushed towards him, all of whom had been deemed unworthy in the perspective of the illuminated, copper-eyed Ghost. The elven woman watched him, eyes trembling not out of fear, but from a stir deep within the depths of her soul... "Hope..." The word fell from her lips like a quiet and gentle snowfall. She clutched her chest as she and a growing group of formerly enslaved people watched him, dual fire axes aimed at the guards fully surrounding him. His eyes were a blaze with pure, seething confidence as his enemy's numbers continued to swell.
"Surrender now! Lay down your axes and come quietly!" Commanded the Head Guard. The Ghost watched as a repugnant smile crept across the Head Guard's face. The Ghost growled a twisted breath. "Disgusting words from lesser men." Called out the Ghost. With a swift motion, only the axe in his right hand remained upright, pointing directly at the Head Guard. "I am the Ghost of Ottawa, Hero of Greater Ottawa, and Murderer of Tyrants! I will not ask for your surrender..." The Ghost stopped speaking for a moment as eyes darkened as the sun became hidden behind a wall of clouds: "For today, you shall reap the consequences of your degenerate actions." The Ghost's eyes narrowed as a hefty dose of adrenaline dust entered his body. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the Guards rushed forward, swords drawn and raised at him. "All who stand before me now... are corpses yet to rot."
With axe handles gripped, the Ghost of Ottawa cleaves the charging guards as if splitting butter with a scalding hot knife. The Head Guard backed up, succumbing to the horrific realization... "He... He made no demands. He told us he's not asking for surrender..." The Head Guard's eyes widened, trembling with terror as he was the only one of the one hundred guards standing against this monster. "MY GOD! GIVE ME STRENGTH!" The Head Guard cried out as he gripped the hilt of his sword, with the Ghost of Ottawa marching directly at him. The dual fire axes were stained by and dripping with the crimson blood of the Head Guard's comrades. The Ghost was going to allow him to live... but that's when he saw it. The Elven woman he'd spoken to earlier had a sterling silver butterfly pin on a necklace around her neck... and hanging from the Head Guard's belt... was a smaller version of it... covered in dried blood. Something inside the Ghost snapped, a rage that only a father could feel. His body visibly shook from the intensity of his rage; his vitiligo-stricken hands were a ghastly shade of white, as his grip tightened down on the axe handles.
"GOD SAVE ME!" Cried out the Head Guard. However, the Ghost answered him with words that engraved a fear into the souls of even the most wicked and cruel spirits listening to him. "God may choose to grant you mercy generously... but I am not God..." The two fire axes thudded to the ground with a weight felt across the world. The Head Guard dropped his sword as the Ghost loomed over him with an angel of death-like presence and commanded, "Wicked Soul... in the names of Patricia May and Craig Arthur... I hereby damn your soul to a fate even deities and death avert their gaze." The Ghost of Ottawa grabbed the Head Guard by the face and began to amplify the force behind his grip. The Head Guard screamed, threw punches, kicks, and any motion he could, trying to free himself in desperation. The Ghost's eyes were stricken with bloodshot rage as he placed both of his hands on the Head Guard's temples, thumbs plunged through his eyes, and exerted a pressure like no other.
The Elven Woman and the other onlooking escapees watched as the Ghost's hands crushed the Head Guard's skull with an audible, crisp crunch like that of autumn leaves underfoot. As the Ghost dropped the corpse to the ground with a heavy thud of armor hitting cobbled-stone streets, he drew the two sledgehammers from his back. "Now for the Tyrant, that this retched creature served." Muttered the Ghost. There wasn't a hint of remorse within his eyes, all the way into his soul... for murdering the murderer of a child... was about to be the least criminal thing he was to do.