MagiStream

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound drove him further insane, bouncing off the walls of the vast cave that became his lair over the years. It took all of his remaining willpower to not lash out at the source of the noise, but he did angrily kick out at the helmet in his way. The metal object banged against the wall and bounced into a pile of various magic bits and pieces, much to his displeasure. Grumbling under his breath, the man strode over and picked the helmet up. He turned it over in his hands and simply stared at his reflection in the shiny black metal. After staring at the unfamiliar face for a few seconds, something in him broke, and he hurled the armor outside of his cave. 
"When did I become this… monster?" he questioned, looking around his cave. Trinkets collected from his journey, valuables taken from here or there, treasures won in his conquests… they all piled up towards the high ceiling, tossed around without rhyme or reason. It used to fill his empty heart with a vague sense of self-satisfaction, but now the sight sickened him. His eyes lingered on a scroll, too far away to read. Still, he could recite the contents word by word, as he had many times in an attempt to figure out exactly what happened to turn his life into solitude and self-hate.
In his mind, he can see himself, years ago, reciting from that same scroll. His young face is staring out at the crowd of his graduating class and their families, his own long since gone at that point.
"It is an honor to be named Head Mage by the Academy for the Magical Arts," a younger him begins, face a beacon of hope, "and I promise to continue to uphold the special code of conducts that being a mage of such high caliber requires. It is my goal to travel the world and help those is need. I would give a special thanks to my family and my peers, but the truth of the matter is that there is only one thing to thank them for: outcasting and abandoning me. Thanks to their lack of a presence in my life, I am independent, successful, hardworking, and not burdened by society." He sees the Head Mage trying to subtly force him away from the podium, to stop the speech before it completely ran away from them, but he wasn't done. "Thanks to my family's cowardice, I have grown strong. Thanks to my peers' stupidity, I have grown smart. Thanks to their selfishness, I have grown independent. You are all stupid, brainless sheep wandering the pasture of life without any second thought to what you'll do, and I pity you. I pity every one of you sitting out there, but my hatred outweighs my pity. I will leave you with a warning: the wolf will always eat the sheep in the end," a younger him finishes, his eyes glinting with an all too familiar hatred. He can remember the silence of the moments, the wind in his then blond hair, the vaguely frightened stares of his peers.
He can remember the cheers of his name when he brought down the monster terrorizing his old town, as though everyone suddenly loved him and always had. "Cyrantix," they called, their voices bouncing around in his head. His nails dug deep into his palms, drawing tiny heads of black blood. Tears stained black dripped down his face, and rage as hot as dragon's fire built up and up.
"They deserved the fate they got," Cyrantix hissed under his breath. Images flashed through his mind, memories of his time of darkness. He could feel the Corruption boiling under his skin, writhing like snakes, but the feeling was so familiar that he didn't even glance down. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and ran his fingers, stained black, over his most beloved possession.
"Cyrantix the Black Mage's Sword" he recalled, from a naming session long ago. He had stood in front of the High Council after his victory at his final battle, their glares piercing into the shred of soul left, and watched as they officially named his weapon. When he died, his sword would go up in the High Museum, where everyone could wonder at its beauty.
Displayed under it would be a small summary of his descent into Corruption, and he'd forever be remembered as the Cyrantix the Corrupt Deceptor. Cyrantix the Black Mage. Cyrantix the Killer. Cyrantix the Villain. Oddly enough, the name remembered didn't sicken him as much as the names not remembered, everyone who died in the course of… however long he had lived in the clutches of Corruption. Had it been two hundred years? 
"The years blur together," Cyrantix sighed and allowed himself slide down the wall to the floor. He gazed at his fingers, at the black marks standing out from his usually snowy skin, with a hypnotic wonder, evidence of his Corruption. Decades were spent in that dark world, surrounded by shadows and mysterious beasts. Sometimes his heart ached for the simplistic savagery of that world, but more often than not he admired it with a heart full of hatred. It had destroyed his life, yet he couldn't bring himself to break the connection he felt. 
After all, Corruption had given him something to believe in and strive for, a way to achieve his goals. In any case, it wasn't completely the Corruption's fault for his psychotic, rage-induced attack on the High Kingdom. All the Corruption did was give him the power; it was the knowledge of his parents' origins that tossed him over the edge. The memories stirred in the back of his mind, along with vague images of lifeless bodies and ritual sacrifices.
Cyrantix had to close his eyes and focus on his breathing for a few minutes before his stomach completely revolted. As of late, it was getting harder and harder to keep food down, not that all the reminiscing helped, but how could he help remembering when he was surrounded by relics of the past? Everywhere he looked, there was something from his Corrupt period. The sword, the helmet, although that was gone now, the piles of treasure, the magical trinkets, even the cave itself was a reminder of his old life, yet he wasn't allowed to go anywhere else.
After all, he was as Corrupt as the Dark itself, and Corruption, like a plague, had a tendency to spread. A grimace spread across his face as his pitch black eyes stared forward blankly, seeing not the cave but the him from when he joined the Corrupt, blue eyes fiery pits of cold hatred and blonde hair overgrown and messy.
"Do you swear upon your own magic that you will forever serve the rest of your unnatural life in the Corrupt forces? Do you accept that your soul will be most likely reduced to almost nothing? Do you accept immortality? Do you accept inhumanity?" a dry, hollow voice bounced through the halls of remembrance, and he mouthed the words "I do" with a sad finality. The Corrupter, job done, had turned away from quickly and vanished. Never again had he seen the person he would have sworn was the only one who understood him, and it didn't take long for him to recognize that he had been used. His rage had spiked.
The Corrupt forces liked their soldiers angry. They played with his emotions until he turned into the best puppet anyone could ever ask for, but no one could have anticipated his eventual revolt. Cyrantix felt the brief sting of an old wound once again as he remembered his hard battle for freedom. While the Corruption remained, he was his own person, following his own commands, accomplishing his own goals, and respecting only himself.
That was when he re-entered the world after many years of being hidden away. Had he been welcomed with arms wide open? His memory was foggy the first decade of his homecoming, only flashes of people and places and hatred.
Cyrantix definitely remembered the hatred. His stomach turned at the memory of such burning hatred, so heavy he could physically feel it, and he muttered a quick settling spell. There he sat, propped against the stony wall, for hours in peaceful contemplation of what to do with his life. Death was an option, an alluring, seductive, merciful option that he denied himself purely for the fact that he had yet to truly even begin to repent for his actions. 
If a man is so full of sin that it can physically be seen, is there anyway he can redeem himself? Cyrantix pondered the answers for days, months even, in such a complete solitude that it drove him insane. Two years, now, he had gone without seeing any other living being. Was he really expected to live the rest of his unnatural life like this?
The answer was yes. Cyrantix knew that he was being punished as severely and as safely as possible, but he wished there was something he could do to gain some sense of progress. Sitting here, wallowing in hatred and insanity, felt too much like his time in the Corrupt forces. For months, he'd be shoved into a place and locked in, forced to endure every one of his nightmares coming true on top of starvation, dehydration, and isolation. It was still a rarity to sleep without dreaming that he was back in some random corner, the walls digging into his skin while his darkest, most secret fears became a reality. He couldn't stop the violent shaking and had to merely ride out his fit, clenching his eyes tightly shut as blinding pain raced through each and every one of his scars. Such experiences had become common place, as is typically seen in the Corrupt, but he still had to stop himself from screaming aloud. He was sick and tired of this life, Cyrantix realized, and he would resort to the one measure he never though he would have to do in order to at least lessen this endless pain.
When the agony ended and he regained control of his body, Cyrantix slowly stood and hobbled towards his cave's entrance, murmuring the one spell he thought he'd never use: a retrieval spell dedicated specially to his "helper" creature. It was, in essence, a summoning spell for a High Kingdom-approved companion beast for his kind, only not called that because summoners would be offended.
"Hello! I am your helpful companion beast! I'm specially tailored to suit your needs! In order to fit you, I am a cross between a rakira and an orole, creating a creature with soothing effects and requiring little to no training. What will my name be?" a voice came from out of nowhere, part of the spell. Cyrantix willed himself to not jump and instead stared thoughtfully at the egg, carefully situated in a basket full of feathers, straw, and scraps of cloth.
"Bikairi," Cyrantix answered. A collar, specially suited for the specific cross and with the creature's name inscribed into the shiny metal surface, fell into open space, and his hand darted out to catch it. The sun glinted off of the metallic surface, and something sparked within him, a memory of his first sword and the rush he got the first time his blade tasted blood. He shoved it down and instead cradled the basket close to his chest, carefully reading the instructions provided. Bikairi wouldn't require much, thankfully, so he carefully moved the best from the basket to a cradle he had near his bed, from when… his heart ached too much to continue the memory. 
Some memories were too painful to remember. Sadly, he trailed his hand along the wooden surface and turned away. The next few weeks were spent caring for the egg and preparing for a little hatchling. On his hourly check-up, Cyrantix noticed cracks in the egg and carefully watched over his little creature as it slowly poked its way out of the hard shell separating it from the world. Something about seeing the hybrid, newly hatched, and knowing that was because of him resonated within his core, and an idea began to hatch within his mind. After spending time with Bikairi, which only ended when the little one fell asleep, Cyrantix hurriedly scribbled out a note to the High Council.
"Dear Councilmen, I am writing in the hopes that you will grant me one wish: I wish for any uncared for egg to be sent to me. I wish to do my duties as a citizen and repent for my actions, although they are so severe I know that I can never hope to balance out the evil I brought into this world, not even if I spent a thousand years doing nothing but great things. Please, grant my one wish.
From Cyrantix."
Although he had a feeling no one would read his letter, he sent it anyways. As expected, he received no response, but Bikairi was occupying so much of his time that he didn't notice anyways. The little hatchling was a handful, especially since it loved physical contact and would do anything to get it. Many wounds were gained from being tackled to the floor. 
However, a few months after he sent his request, an odd egg appeared at the cave entrance. Cyrantix's heart stopped at the sight, but he smiled a rarely genuine smile and carefully read the notecard attached. Over the years, he cared for many creatures, a majority being sent to the High Kingdom for adoption or training once they were old enough. He became known as Cyrantix the Creature Hatcher, although all of his old relics were still shown in the High Museum for all to see. 
Sometimes a Corrupted person doesn't need to be shoved away but rather welcomed, given something to do in order to make up for their grievances. It is only then that they can truly repent for their deeds and their soul may rest in peace, incomplete and shattered and malformed but peaceful.