This might be the third final part, but its also an independent poem...have a look... Freed from the shackles of the world, and chained to misery, The wanderer stood the test of time, to win over his life of slavery. He took some time to reclaim, his past glory, and omens of desire, of men and women, mattered nought to him. Storms could'nt wear a body annealed by pain, a heart of steel, a face covered by bloody stain. But life was not too harsh, after all he suffered, he thought. Men bear only to claim more, stagnated mortals suffer to rot. The man stood tall again, one day to rule all of land. With new strength, that life gave him, he had been rewarded. "Thine sufferings help thou move" Words of fate he hated, soon to relish the battles, life had for him created. The man wore a helm of gold, and a robe of silver creases; Hundreds to serve to his command, and thousands under his fiery reign. That man who was once a wanderer, now fought battles, Perfected to a supreme warrior.