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Homura slept for many hundred years; his curse was cast by the very creators
themselves, a part of the fabric of reality. His tomb could be found by no
man. He awoke on a bed of flowers, right where he fell. A woman knelt by him; tall, pale, thin as a whip-cord and strict as steel. There was no mistaking those features. She stared in stiff-necked horror as her team of archaeologists and diggers perished by blade and flame. "Bestow immortality." He sealed it with a kiss upon her forehead. "I remember now ... Lord Homura." And the Warprince smiled.
They found him 150 years later, sitting under a weeping willow; antique AK-47 by his side, cigarette in mouth, fishing pole in hand. "Excuse me--" Homura started. "Yeah, yeah, I'm ready. Sheesh. Can't a guy fish in peace anymore?" Surprise. "You know us?" "Hell yeah. The cloak and the shackles? Dead give-away, mate. Ten points for style, zilch for subtlety." "How?" The other got up and shouldered his gun. "My daughter's rotten taste in anime, followed by a some reiki regression bullshit. Nice breasts, Shien." "Hmph." Zenon smirked. "I guess we'd better get going." "And your family?" Homura asked. "Dead."
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