Forsaken Worshipers= IC

[Vlexia]

There is always a desire to show a sense of pride when one enters a foreign city; the head is held high, the shoulders are back, and the spine is straight. But even the most disciplined of royals can falter at a weak moment. It may be the sight of an enemy flag waving above the land that you were born to, or sound of an opponent’s taunting jeers at the helplessness of the situation.


The White Queen had received a letter that blatantly commanded her to come to the capital city of Eldamar so she could be watched more closely. Rumors had spread throughout the empire that animosity towards Jafeth and his armies had grown to considerable heights, and the man wasn’t about to have the Queen become a beacon of light for the people. The snow covered lands of Temurah were untouched by outsider’s hands, and stories were beginning to form behind the gossiping palms of tavern wenches, or whispered from the thin lips of a wandering vagabond over a single candle of things to come.

Lady Divijah had received the letter less than a fortnight ago, the scrawled words of her Pvethian ruler demanding her immediate departure from her home and to head towards the cold capital city of stone and mortar. Upon the dismal exodus, the entire royal entourage followed her like in the old days, as if she were truly a woman of importance and not simply the new King’s puppet to keep pacified peace. The frost elves followed her, trailing behind her in silence on foot as their Queen rode in the center on a beautiful stallion the color of milk. The woman’s hair was unbound, the soft white waves of her hair trailing across her face and behind her every time the chilly wind took a breath. There was no laughter; the minstrels did not sing nor did the musicians play. No children ran up ahead to play games before the associates. Even the nature around them seemed to be affected with the depressed passing of the defeated Lady and her ever faithful subjects behind her. The creatures in the forest did not jump or skip around them, and the trees seemed to hang over as if fatigued from the burden of their own branches.

The trail through the pass had been cleared by the armies, leaving the trails trampled and thus more visible in their wake. The journey only took about a week before the foreboding gray of Eldamar came into the frost elves’ keen eyesight through the thick fog that seemed to be a constant companion to the country of Pveth. The walls were so straight, their rock foundations thick and ready for war. The flag of the country, the gold strip down a center field of black, was proudly flapping in the cold wind. The watchtowers had lanterns, each with numerous guards standing at the ready with their spears, swords, and bows, their cold eyes boring into the advancing group of Temurians. There was no trumpet that sounded to announce their arrival, only the simple heavy groaning of the front iron gates lifting to allow them entry.

There is always a desire to show a sense of pride when one enters a foreign city; the head is held high, the shoulders are back, and the spine is straight. But even the most disciplined of royals can falter at a weak moment. For Lady Divijah, it was this moment that almost broke her neutral expression. A haze engulfed the city, shrouding it within the clutches of the thick mist. The building’s silhouettes took shape in the distance before finally emerging as the group past them to continue traveling down the cobblestone streets. A soft rain drop fell on the Queen’s nose and the woman looked up towards the sky as if to beseech the heavens to stay dry. But her prayers were answered with more rain droplets falling on her upturned face. Even the weather had turned on them, mirroring the feelings within them all.

Divijah’s hands clutched the reins as they continued to walk down the slippery streets, the water making the cobblestones treacherous, and they finally reached the haunted looking castle that housed the main man of importance himself. The elves were ushered into the courtyard, now thoroughly soaked from the steady rain. Divijah dismounted without any help from those around her, and she slowly turned her head to look at her surroundings in all directions.

Stilled guards surrounded the courtyard at every turn, their positions stiff yet their attentions ready. There was a thick stone stairway that led up to the massive double doors of the protected fortress, but no one made a move to go up to the door. Instead, she merely stood there with her followers; her white blonde hair plastered to her head and around her face as the water flowed freely around her dark brown eyes and fine cheekbones. The silk traveling gown she wore was ruined from the downpour, but none of them shook from the cold, they were frost elves, they could handle much harsher temperatures.

Her eyes fluttered as her long lashes dripped with water from the rain, but she spoke clearly and fluently, her voice soothing and elegant despite her disheartening situation.

“Tell whomever it concerns that we have arrived, please!” She spoke to the nearest guard, and watched as the man left without a respectful bow and turned to run up the steps and report the arrival.

[RacoonJones]

He did so hate such theatrics. Far too melodramatic for his tastes. But the surest way to ensure his own safety was to play off of the Pvethian's superstitions and myths that veiled his identity. If they believed him to be a demon then so be it, their fear would be his shield. He only hoped that the Pvethian would believe all that curse bullshit.

Kaelus trod over the worn road with the heavy the footfalls of a man laden with the hardships of a long journey. The small rocks and bits of gravel on the path crunched under his feet as he passed over them. Far away in the distance his tired eyes could barely make out clouds forming over the city through the fog of Pveth. Marvelous. Now i'll have to deal with walking through this stinking country in the rain. There was still some time left before his weary legs could carry him to the city. His lungs burned, how long had he been walking? The sun had already set once on him since he last broke for camp, Kaelus planned to make sure he would not see another while travelling the grim landscape. He pulled up the hood of his cloak in preparation for the imminant rainfall. Talia, the last remnant of his service with the resistance, bounced against his leg with every step. The old sword had served him and her previous wielder well, despite the latter's grisly end.

In the last battle at the South Coast Saen and Talia cut down more than a dozen of Pveth's warriors. Along with Kaelus and a handful of the best soldiers in the resistance Saen managed to hold the line just long enough to buy time for the rest of the freedom fighters to escape to the sea. Kaelus stumbled, kicking up dust and breaking his chain of thought. He fell to one knee as a man coming from the city had come into view. The stranger started at Kaelus' sudden, uncontrolled movement and rushed over to help him. Reaching down to help Kaelus up, the man spoke. "Are you alright? This fog can have quite the effect on your vision eh?" Kaelus waved away the man's offer for help and rose on his own. Kaelus avoided eye contact, instead looking off at the city and stepping forward slightly, keeping the man to the back of his left side. All he wanted to do was glare at the man, to let his resentment and hatred towards Pveth and the man's kind be felt through the burning gaze of his 'soulless' eyes. Instead he let the passion he felt manifest in his words. The urge for vengeance dripped off his tongue like a viper's venom. Rage, anger, sadness, regret. All of these emotions were tangled into the complex tapestry of his voice. ”Exhaustion. Your ghastly fog had nothing to do with it dog.” The man seemed shocked at the vile tone from Kaelus. ”Who pissed in your ale? Gods, you colonials are nothing but ungrateful pigs.”

Kaelus nearly whipped around and ripped out his heart with the steel claws of his demonic arm but managed to maintain his composure. ”Lucky for you I find myself otherwise occupied. If we had met in different circumstances your Pvethian arrogance would have resulted in a more... satisfying end.” This really seemed to irritate the man. He fired back with a litany of indignant insults. ”You... Self righteous animal! Our king unified your impudent little nations. You owe king Jafeth everything! Kaelus spit at the cursed name. The man seemed momentarily insulted, then smiled and spoke with a spiteful tone. ”Where are you from? Fjorland? A friend of mine was with the garrison that broke your little resistance. He took one of the woman fighting at South Coast as a trophy. Every now and then he tells me that she still weeps when he enters the room at night.” Kaelus' blood boiled at the mention of the abuses his people had suffered at the hands of Pveth. His right hand clenched into a fist, nearly punching holes through the glove that masked his claws. The physical reaction seemed to urge the man forward.

”Ooooh, that one hurt didn't it? Were you there coward? One of the weaklings who fled to the sea while your comrades were butchered like animals. All of them killed or captured. All but the accursed demon your backwards people chose as their champion. I heard that in the end he ran like a rat from a hawk. I only hope that I find him myself so I can claim the rewa-” Kaelus broke his composure. Whipping around with blinding speed he caught the man around the throat with his right hand. Gasping for air, the pedestrian grabbed Kaelus' hand with both of his, trying desperately to pry the pointed fingers from his compressed neck. Kaelus hissed his words, like a pipe leaking steam. ”Claim the what, dog? Were you going to say reward? I'll give you the chance right now.” Kaelus turned his head to face the Pvethian and stared into his eyes. Terrible realization dawned in the expressions of the Pvethian. His eyes softened in sudden terror and his mouth drifted open. He stammered for words but only managed a broken, disjointed response. ”It's.. you're...... Kaelus tightened his hold, causing the man to choke.

He took in a deep breath as he calmed himself, speaking in a relaxed and casual tone he continued, much to the Pvethian's horror. ”Go ahead. Strike me down. Kill me in the name of your glorious leader.... No? What a shame. In that case it seems you have two choices. You can die here and now, watch the still beating heart torn from your chest, or you can leave with your life. I will mark you with the symbol of my God. A terrible curse that will inform me of any treachery you commit and allow me find you wherever you hide. Know that if you betray my mercy I will hunt you down and submit you and everyone you hold dear to torture so vile and wretched that you would trade the soul of your own son to instead spend the rest of your days in one of the Pretender's torture chambers..... Kaelus' tone lightened and he smiled seeming entertained by the morbid threats. Savvy?” The man's eyes were wide with terror, and he merely nodded wildly. Kaelus pulled the man up and spoke through his wicked smile.”That's a good dog.” Kaelus took the man's palm in his hand and carved the ornate crescent into it, shoving the Pvethian away before he could muster a response. The man merely stood there, palm bleeding, as Kaelus walked away. He did so hate such theatrics. Far too melodramatic for his tastes. But the surest way to ensure his own safety was to play off of the Pvethian's superstitions and myths that veiled his identity. If they believed him to be a demon then so be it, their fear would be his shield. He only hoped that the Pvethian would believe all that curse bullshit. Odds were about 80/20 on that line. Every now and then he actually found a Pvethian loyal or pragmatic enough to risk calling the bluff. The smell of rain filled the air and small droplets began to hit the top of Kaelus' cloak. He pulled the cloak tight around him and bent his head down as the heavens opened above him. Still so much time. Such a long walk before he could finally rest.

[Deamonbane]

The wet field was covered in blood, being washed away by the torrential rain. The day before had been the first fights of the tournament. The first fights meaning the ones that decided who would fight the current king. The even had been closed when a giant of a man, larger and taller than Jafeth, wielding two hammers, had beaten every other man into submission. Their blood, guts, and skulls littered the field, as it was traditional never to clear a field of battle before the battle was finished. Many times, Jafeth remembered, he had commanded his men, during a siege, to bring any and all prisoners forward, and slowly kill them before sending his men to the walls. That would cause their men to be horrified to fight such monsters. Two cities had been sacked in the beginning of his campaign. The fields had been sown with salt, every creatures larger than a rat was killed, and every structure higher than a Pvethian's knee had been razed and burned. The women of comely age had been captured, and given to his men during the celebratory feast. And one man was selected to watch all this, and once all of it was done, his eyes would be put out, and he would be sent to the next city. This had happened twice. Such wanton slaughter would be seen as barbaric and cruel by some of the finer cultures, but not to the ones that knew their warfare. He was, in reality, saving more lives than he took, as no city ruler would want such a thing to happen to his city, and would immediately plead for terms. And the cities that surrendered early were treated well, allowed trade, food, to keep their regency.

As tradition called, after the champion of the tourney had won, he would be allowed one night of rest, where he would be tended by the finest that could be found. Women, food, wine, physicians for any wounds that he had been dealt. A night of pleasure before the last test. He had to fight King Jafeth. The man was in the field now, the rain wetting his dark hair, his clear eyes across the field, staring at his opponent with hatred.

Jafeth himself was loosening his muscles, going through a series of dance-like moves, his blades still in their sheaths, as he moved easily, getting used to the terrain. He was approached by one of his guard, a hideous man, covered in scars from head to toe. He had been captured once, and tortured, and left for dead by an opposing army. But he had survived, and Jafeth, impressed with this, had appointed the man a place in his closest guard.

"My lord," The man said," The embassy from the white knife-ears are here. Jafeth didn't stop his movements, but he had heard, and a small smile adorned his handsome face," They are waiting outside, in the rain as befits the beggars they are. Should we make them wait?"

Jafeth stopped now, eying his opponent across the battlefield," Come now, they are frost elves. Treat them with respect," His face remained firmly sober, but a twinkle of amusement in his eye told volumes of how much respect he really had for the frost elves," Bring them here. Seat them in my pavilion, give them my wine, food, and other refreshments. Let them watch the duel of this year."

The scarred man bowed," As you wish, my lord."

Jafeth waved over to the referee of the fights and told him to delay the fight a little, until the frost elves were in their place to watch it. The man nodded, and the news was brought to the other fighter, who reacted violently, yelling from across the sodden battlefield that it would be the last command that the king would ever make. Jafeth bowed grimly to his opponent. He respected the man, and entreated him not to compete. The man had laughed, and signed up with almost more vigor. The man was a good fighter, with prestigious strength, but was rather slow.

Jafeth drew his blades, and began practicing them, twirling them, catching the few rays of sunlight in the land. They seemed to glow eerily, without reflecting light. He relaxed, and ran his forearm over his brow, clearing the rain from it. He took his shirt off, and and spun the blades in a lightning fast 8-figure, and he watched with an emotion akin to pride as a small seed of doubt entered his opponent's eyes.

[tirgesfu]

Jariath

Of course it was raining. Of course the first place the proud but beaten royal entourage from Temurah would be escorted to was the arena. Let the delicate peaceful artists view the blood guts and gore they pretended to avoid. In your face, Queen Lady Divijah. Jariath gritted his teeth. Unlike his Queen he did not hide under a frost covered face. That was another way Jariath stood out from the sea of white that trialed behind their Lady. He was darker. He was angrier.

That had always been the case. Jariath knew he was different and held that chip high on his shoulder. Where as he imagined Lady Divijah had to lift her chin for the image, he lifted his because he could. He always had. He knew about being in someone’s face. He knew about being different. Even though he somehow managed a place in this escort trading goods from Temurah to Eldamar he never fit into the line of frost elves that followed her.

Whether he was embraced as their brother or not did not matter much to him or to the scum Pveth. He traveled behind the Queen and knew what side of this conflict he would stand. In all the days behind the Queen he had yet to speak to her. He was just one of the many who followed. He kept to the side knowing she had more to deal with than a dark trading elf.

But as they were prodded into the battled grounds with displays of past gruesome fights still visible, Jariath found himself closer to Lady Divijah. He didn’t fight the placement. He knew he could better draw his blade if needed than any of her other guards. They had little practice. They did not have the history of caring the weight he did. And although Jariath could not explain why, he would defend her. It was that old feeling. The one that says even though I fight among my family do not for one minute believe that I would not strike you dead were you to do so. It was the only the Pveth that made Jariath feel like a frost elf.

So he moved to the seat on the Queens right just a seat between them for one of her older aids, Yarman. He was one of the thinker talker kinds, that believed Jafeth would listen to reason. Jariath was sure this battle would question that point.

Yarman was talking, not anything new about that. He was rattling on about culture differences and need to understand. Jariath snorted and for the first time looked directly to his Queen. “Brute force has nothing to do with culture.” He spat, “It is fear and power that rules here. He will show you just that, Lady Divijah.”

Jariath realized he had spoken out but he did not regret it. Instead he bowed deeply and then took the empty seat close to her. Her cold face would have to endure a bloody scene. So be it. It was time for all of them to see.

[Lord Azazel]

Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate; good is always the product of an art.

Lord Glavrolon sipped his wine as he entered the Capital of the Empire with his Shadow horses and fine Dark Carriage that he loved to ride in because it kept all the light out But he was not alone in the carriage this time. With him sitting next to him was his apprentice. His apprentice was a young man of about 50 years. His face was covered by a hood that he wore and his hands where covered by black leather hide. His apprentice said nothing as they rode though the gates of the city. A guard came to the carriage and knocked on it. Glavrolon sighed and told his driver to keep on going and to ignore all the guards in the city. He was short for time as it was and he was in no mood to speak to guards who he could kill without thinking about it if he wanted too. But he knew the risks of doing that so he choose to ignore them. Some minutes later he turned to his apprentice. " You have come a long way since you embraced the Shadows my young apprentice and you are making me very proud. But now its time for your final test for if you succeed you will pave the way for a war that will destory families and leave people angry at their King and his puppet Queen. For your task is to make this war happen. I will give you the money you need.. But the rest is up to you and then you will be ready to become what you always wanted to become.. Which is a master. "He said the last words in a dark voice.. Many have tried to become a master of the shadows.. They all failed and he did not expect his apprentice to succeed in his task. But then again.. His apprentice has thus far prove to be very good at what he does Maybe he will succeed after all.

His apprentice looked at him and smiled. " Of course master your will will be done. But a war is risky you know how the King will react if he ever found out that you where behind the war. Besides our goal is to get rid of the Queen not the King. But I have my orders.. I will not fail you Master " Glavrolon smiled as the carriage stopped and his apprentice got out. The man knew how to use words to his advantage.. He knew how to use the shadows to get what he wanted. Yes his apprentice might after all succeed in starting the war. But he pushed those thoughts behind him as he ordered his driver to take him to the local bar. Their he will meet a contact of his and hopefully the man had good news for him.

No longer than five minutes later Lord Glavrolon arrived at the bar. The place was not the best nor was it the best looking. But then again he was not coming here to pick up one of his girls. No he was coming here to get information and to set in motion his goals. He stepped out of his carriage and cringed as he felt the cold drops of rain on his body. He hated the rain.. He wished that it never rained but yet it always did for some reason. He shook those thoughts away from his head as he entered the bar and sat down in the far corner of it. He did not have to wait long before his contact arrived and sat down across from him. His contact was a young man who had a rough life in the city. The man was in fact lucky that Glavrolon found him when he did as he saved his life and now the man as a way of paying back that debt was working for him. The man did not waste time as he placed his head low.

" I have found some information out My lord. For one thing.. The Queen has arrived in the city and has been invited to some sort of fighting match the King his hosting. And also.. That minor Noble you wanted me to take out.. The Job has been done and he wont be a problem to you any longer. " Glavrolon smiled at the man. The information was helpful and he will reward the man with some coin. Now that his little problem was taken care of.. it was time to move on to bigger things. He dismissed the man as he closed his eyes and focused on the shadows and the power that it gives him. He allowed it to flow though his body as he prepared himself for things to come.

[Vlexia]

Lady Divijah

The Queen and her loyalists continued to wait patiently as the rain poured relentlessly down upon their group. They all took their cue from her, their former ruler, and if she stayed stoic and still under the harsh elements then they would too. But before long, a man of an unusually thick stature came towards the group. A few shrank back from his imposing size and physique, along with the threadwork of scares that had been woven about his face, but Lady Divijah gave him a polite inclination of her head as he came forward and instructed them brusquely to follow him as an invitation from the King.

Turning her head over her shoulder, the Queen slowly nodded her head towards the ones behind her and obediently followed him. The path he took was curved to the right and around the fortifying castle towards the back. Down a steep path of stone steps there lay an open field for, what she guessed, tournaments. But these weren’t the tournaments of knights fighting for a Lady’s favor, or tests of strength by stout gladiators; these were the tournaments for the Pvethian Throne itself. She had indeed heard of such events but had never really given them much thought, merely shrugging them off to add to the long list of acts of barbarism by this country. But the sight of the shredded ground of the field, the dried dirt that pulsed with the blood from the still remaining remains of the victim’s from the previous days, and the thick odor of metallic blood and sweat still pungent despite the rain…it all sank in at that particular moment, forcing the White Woman to raise her right hand and cover her lips in a simple display of suppressed shock.

She followed the large man that had greeted them rudely, and he eventually led them to a covered pavilion that was built at the center of the field. Any spectators who sat there were high above the so-called entertainment and could easily see everything that occurred on either side of the vast arena.

Divijah took her seat, the one usually set aside for ambassador’s, and calmly folded her hands in her lap as the men who acted as her guards stood alert on either side of her. Everyone else took their modest seats under the pavilion and waited for the events to begin, no one partook of the offered food or wine, far too nervous and wary of their surroundings to relax. A High Elf by the name of Yarman who served as one of her advisors sat near her and began to prattle off his views and ideas about the entire affair. The Queen had a hard time listening and concentrating on his words; her eyes were fixated on the scene below them on the ground itself.

One side to the left held a large fighter with hands that could probably crush an entire skull if it were his desire to do so. He was pacing back and forth along the field in a probable mixture of anxiousness and nervousness, and he had good reason to. Turning her striking head to the right, she saw the man whom she could possibly never forget: Jafeth, the High King himself. The last time she had seen him he had been astride an immense black stallion cloaked in a dark robe with his long hair flying behind him in an extremely barbaric fashion telling her it had been wise to surrender to him, and she should expect instructions from him soon. But now he was naked down to the waist, his thick shoulders flexing with the artistic swing he exhibited with the blades he carried. Divijah eyed her own supposed guards warily, knowing full well that they had zero experience with hand-to-hand combat, and were solely picked for the simple image of having large elves with weapons accompany her. But as she watched Jafeth dance with his weapons, she knew they didn’t stand a chance to someone such as him.

“Brute force has nothing to do with culture,” An elf nearby suddenly spoke up. “It is fear and power that rules here. He will show you just that, Lady Divijah.” Yarman had moved away, seeking polite ears that would listen to him, so for now, she was alone with the other male.

She turned, the dark chocolate pools of her endless eyes gazed at the dark skinned elf and she smiled sadly before turning her regard back to the field. “I find myself at a loss as to who I wish to be the successor.” She chuckled somberly. “Isn’t that the point of these tournaments? To pick your favorite and pray he triumphs?”

She turned back towards the one next to her, her face not even able to pretend to smile at him but she did place a gentle hand on the male’s forearm. “I have never witnessed such an event such as this, but I am glad I have you nearby.” Her eyes glowed as her damp hair still clung to her face. “Jariath.”

The Queen never forgot a name, and even if he did not think she knew him, it mattered naught. The Lady knew who everyone was who had chosen to follow her on this humiliating trek to Eldamar, and the dark elf stood out in the crowd. She had inquired of him from one of her knowledgeable scribes, asking who he was and what he did for a living, and had found out his name and that he was a trader of goods. But feeling the strength under his forearm, she knew if anything hostile broke out, that he was probably the only one among them who knew how to wield a sword.

Taking her hand away from him, she turned her attention back towards the field, narrowed her eyes, and gave the King a small nod of greeting, respect, and permission to proceed with his vile show. Her next words were soft and whispered, and very unlike her usual nature, but she said them anyway:

“I hope they both get themselves killed.”

Sabeck

“Here, Kitty kitty kitty…..oh shit!”

The man jumped back just in time to avoid Sabeck’s claws that had just arched through the air directly where he had been standing a moment before. He gazed wide eyed the feline female through the bars, his eyes cold and his breathing heavy as his heart beat increased to an alarming degree. That had been close; too close.

He was simply a guard, stationed down below in the Prisons to simply keep order among the prisoners. There were a few Pvethians accused of treason (a charge that could literally be anything the accuser wanted it to be), there were also a few that hailed from Fjorland, but Sabeck, the Sakrait from Daslistar, was by far the most exotic and interesting creature hidden in the moist catacombs of the underground prisons of the castle. Every guard spent most of their shift right before the iron bars of her cell, taunting her, teasing her, trying to evoke a reaction. Many now walked around with half shredded faces from getting too close, but that only increased their provoking actions.

Sabeck was now pressed against the bars, the full front portion of her body molded between the harsh metal as she stared at the guard, her smouldering amber eyes daring him to come near to her. Her right hand was outstretched towards him through the bars; her long clawed fingers curled and flexed looking dangerous in the flickering torches of the dark caverns in the cut out rock prisons.

“Come any closer,” she purred softly, her heavy accent smooth as she slid through the foreign Pvethian language. “And I will lay your face open.”

It wasn’t an open threat, many already walked around with Sabeck’s handiwork on their bodies. Many of the guards simply wondered why Jafeth kept her alive, and it was never boring to discuss the prospect of killing the Sakrait.

The guard jabbed a finger in her direction, but he was already backing away, “Watch yourself, you animalistic bitch. One of these days I will get my hands on you….one of these days…”

Sabeck chuckled darkly as he then retreated slowly away from her cell and back down the rough walls of the dungeon. It had been built quickly, each cell cut into the thick rock deep belowground and the pathways winded and were especially treacherous when wet from the dripping water.

Growling, the female stalked back to her straw mat and dropped to her knees before curling up into a ball, her long patterned tail wrapped around her as well. She closed her eyes, but there was no sense in trying to go back to sleep, there was too much noise aboveground from the tournament that was going on high above her head. It had caused quite a stir amidst the population the last couple of weeks and now it was almost over; Sabeck hoped the news of Jafeth’s very timely death would reach her ears by the end of the day. Perhaps then she would be put to death, since it was Jafeth who seemed to be the only one to stand between her and the blessed release of this world. She smirked humorlessly, shifting on the cold stone floor in an effort to get comfortable, and prayed to an unnamed God for the killing blow by whoever his opponent was to strike true.

[RacoonJones]

Kaelus

The rain pelted the top of his cloak. His hood and shoulders were drenched with rainwater. The dirt and grime on the road quickly became a mire of mud and groundwater, clinging to his boots and turning the road into a nightmare of slick stones and shallow puddles. The city approached in the distance, drawing ever closer to his destination Kaelus moved with renewed vigor. The words of his God echoing in his mind. “You want a task more suited to your... Morality? So be it. I suppose you'd like something that doesn't require the death of the so called 'innocent'?” “For an 'omniscient' God you ask a lot of questions.” “You would do well to learn your place Kaelus. You survive only because of the power i've given you. Remember that. I want you to take a minor detour on your path to vengeance. Just a small thing, one tiny task. I've told you before that you are not the only one who has uncovered my legacy. My followers are few and scattered but very dear to me.”

“What are you getting at?” “Patience! You young races are far too shortsighted. One of my priests was taken prisoner by Jafeth for speaking out against his rule. The man was a fool to think I would stop him from being arrested for such a blatant lapse of judgment. However, I feel that he has served his punishment and I want him to be released. I know that you have long planned to release on of your 'agents' from imprisonment there. Act as the embodiment of my will and free my priest from the chains that bind his body to Eldamar. Do this for me, and perhaps I will consider imbuing you with another gift of power.” That was it. The Dead God wanted him to infiltrate one of the most highly secured prisons in the known world. Kaelus smiled as he approached the gates. The plan he concocted to complete this task was.... complex to say the least, at it's core it relied upon the city's attention being inexorably drawn to the arena with the title of the king at stake. Kaelus passed under the gate, the rain relenting for a moment while he walked through the grand stone archway. The city was less than bustling. Most of the population was crammed into or around the arena. Barbarians, their arrogance and bloodlust would lead to their downfall. Kaelus slid through the sparsely populated marketplace. A merchant hidden in the shadows between a tall stall and a low awning glanced at Kaelus with shaded eyes. As Kaelus passed the man palmed an envelope to him.

The royal seal pinned the envelope closed, a single minute detail that took nearly four months and a dozen greased palms to acquire. As Kaelus walked away the merchant faded into the interwoven roads of the city, abandoning the half loaded stall he had been tending to. The prison stood ahead, Kaelus pulled his hood down, the shadow covering his eyes easily in the foggy, overcast climate. He stepped up to the door of the prison, guarded by a single Pvethian warrior. As Kael tried to cross the threshold the man stopped him with one arm. “Where do you think you're going?” Kael slowly turned his head and glared at the guard from under his hood, speaking in a flawless Pvethian accent. “You dare stop a member of King Jafeth's Inquisition?” The guard seemed confused. “I haven't heard anything about any 'Inquisition'.” Kael shook his head and spoke scornfully. “I wouldn't have been performing my duties appropriately if you had.” Kael pulled the letter from inside his cloak. “The orders are here. I am to investigate this prison for individuals that could provide valuable information towards the elimination of resistance cells in the territories.” The guard scoffed at Kaelus. “Ha! Resistance, that's a good one. We wiped out any sort of resistance during the war of conquest.” Kaelus took a deep breath and spoke with condescension akin to that of a professor scolding an arrogant student.

“Which proves that we have been successful in our suppression of information regarding the territories, there are still splinter groups that prove... irritating to the king. Now let me pass, or will I need to bring Jafeth himself to deal with your insubordination?” The guard seemed terrified at the concept of angering the king personally. He snapped to attention and spoke as if he had agreed with the 'Inquisitor' all along. “Yes sir, you may pass. A word of advice? Watch out for the Sakrait down there. The damn thing's already slashed up a good number of our guards.” Kaelus nodded . “Thank you for the warning soldier.” He then took his first step into the dank prison that held his targets. A couple of guards passed him on his way down, but payed little attention. Upon reaching his destination he made a quick comment as he passed one of his targets. “From the waves we were born.” A sharp response, spoken under the breath. “So to the sea we return.” That's when the Sakrait caught his eye. A lithe creature laying at the back of it's cell. During the early days of the invasion of Fjorland the Sakrait gave covert aid and tactical information to the resistance. Perhaps it was time to pay them back. Besides, from the guard's description she wouldn't last much longer here.... He waited for the guard to pass and stole over to the cell, speaking in a hushed tone in his native Fjorlandian accent. “You there! Sakrait. How would you like to get out of here? I owe Daslistar a favor, and I'd do just about anything to put a dent in the Pretender's day.”

[Deamonbane]

He saw them seated in his pavillion, their proud faces horrified at the carnage before them. Jafeth smiled softly to himself, and finished his warm-up exercises. His blades were in his hands, and he nodded at the referee. The man nodded, and sounded the horn, the signal for both men to approach each other. They did, the giant with near-uncontrolled fury in his eyes, while a severe calm in Jafeth's as he stared deep into the man's eyes.

"Last chance, my friend," He said in a low, rumbling voice," Back away, and there will be no need for further bloodshed." The response was crude, unpolite, and violent. Jafeth smiled," So be it."

The judge puffed up his chest, and stepped forward," This is the bout to decide the fate of the kingdom, and the taker of the Throne of Pveth," He turned to the challenger," Do you wish to forfeit your chance?"

Not even a pause," No."

The judge turned to Jafeth," Do you wish to forfeit your throne to this man?"

Jafeth smiled," No," He had gone through this a hundred times.

"Then the taker of the crown can be decided only one way: Mortal combat. Both men shall choose the weapons, and fight to the death. No rules, no mercy. The loser of the bout must die, and the winner will hold the throne of Pveth for one year, until the next fights. The both of you understand this?"

The fighters nodded.

"Very well. Make our nation proud. You may begin."

As was customary, both took up postition at opposite ends of the field, and waited for the judge to retreat. This was only between the two of them, no holds, no rules, no limits. One of them would die today.

The bell tolled, and Jafeth raised one of his blades in salute to the frost elves. In most cultures, this was seen as respectful, as sign honor. For the Pvethians, some too disciplined to show emotion, while some grinned and laughed sardonically, this was the gravest of insults. It meant that one wielding the blade was defending the honor of the person to whom he was saluting, meaning that the person was uncapable of defending him or herself.

The hammer-wielding giant attacked, charging across the field, a war cry on his lips, hatred in his eyes. He swung powerfully, aiming his first strike at Jafeth's head. The king ducked, and attcked, one of his blades flashing for the unguarded stomach of the challenger. A hammer blocked it, and the giant slammed his head into the king's nose. Jafeth fell back. He was on his feet in an instant, however, and the fight continued.

The challenger roared again, swinging his hammers in a complex combination of blows. An awed gasp rose up from the crowd as Jafeth, without lifting his blades in defense, used his amazing speed and agility to weave through the strikes, not one landing, although all came withing inches of yielding flesh. Applauses for the challenger as well, as he never lost his balance.

Jafeth attacked now, his blades weaving, flowing, never stopping in motion, aiming each time for the heart, throat or head of his opponent. He missed as well, as the giant was no babe in the woods, but he fell back, defending himself desparately. Finally, a break in the king's attacks, and the challenger jumped forward, aiming a thrust with the spiked top of his hammer. Jafeth swayed, and the large weapon missed, impossibly. This time, the man did lose his balance, and he charged past the king, who aimed a careful thrust into his back.

It landed, not too deeply, but the watchers cheered anyway. First blood had been spilled. The challenger growled his anger, and spun around to attack the king, who had inexplicably lowered his guard, and had his back to his opponent. A hammer was raised, and a sickening crack echoed across the field.

And the challenger fell to his knees, amazement and incomprehension in his features. Jafeth smiled. The seemingly incosequential thrust had hammered the spinal cord. While very litte pain was involved in the actual strike, the next exertion that the victim made would snap his back in two, making his legs useless. Pain mixed with the other emotions flowing through the man's face, as he tried to move his legs, but they didn't respond. Jafeth had used the same move, 60 years ago, on his father. He felt the same exhilaration as he had then, and he strode over to the soon-to-be dead warrior, one blade dripping blood at the tip.

"Fool," He hissed," You could have backed down, and I would have rewarded you. You are my finest fighter."

The ruined soldier looked up, hatred no longer reflected there, only pain," I would have been seen as a coward," He argued through clenched teeth.

A good point, and Jafeth placed one blade on his neck," I have no use for brave idiots," He said, his voice calm. The other blade flashed up, opening the man's stomach fron hip to ribs. With a cry of horrendous pain, the fighter fell back, his hands trying to stop the flow of his entrails onto the muddy ground. With a sneer, Jafeth flicked his wrist, spraying the blood from the blade on his opponent's face. A final dishonor. Fools, even brave ones, had none as they died.

He made his way back to his pavillion, a set of servants taking his blades and cleaning them, placing them in an oiled sheath afterwards, as other poured scented water over him, giving him a shirt and a covered from the drizzle. He grabbed a cloth, and clean his face, as he stepped into the presence of the frost elves.

" I hope you enjoyed the fight?" He said, his face hospitable," Feel free to refresh yourselves, you had a long, and tiring journey." He eyed the men that the queen had brought with her. They were armed, and armored, and were large, but when he looked into their eyes, none could stand his gaze for more than a few moments. These weren't fighters: They were farmers, woodsmen, or blacksmiths, or whatever it was that large elves did. Only one, a darker elf, had the look of the eagles to him, and he was obviously no match for any of the Pvethians here.

He smiled, sipping from a goblet of spiced wine," You refuse to meet my men on the battlefield, and yet your servants come bearing arms? Should I be amused, or insulted?" He turned to his guards, disdain dripping from his voice,"Disarm them. Before they hurt themselves."

[Kushna Mufeed]

Coward. I am a coward.

Such thoughts had been plaguing the orc's mind the past few days. He had decided not to accompany the White Queen to Eldamar, fearing what may happen to him if he entered a land where his people were considered slaves. He soon came to regret that decision, and his conscience began chastising him for his cowardice. Sure, he was no warrior, but he was better suited to protect the queen than the Frost Elves who had accompanied her south. At least he had been in a few fights as a child. These self-critical thoughts became more intense when he reflected upon the suffering his entire race was being subjected to.

"Book-Sniffer?" Pegrus broke the silence that had ensued as Gramrok stared into the space before him, consumed by his thoughts. He adressed the orc with the name he had been teased with as an adolescent but now he wore with pride. Pegrus was a scribe of Temurah who had been assigned to Gramrok to transcribe the Daslistarian and Fjorlandish texts he would dictate from memory, since the orc's handwriting was barely legible by anyone but himself. It was a service Gramrok had offered to Lady Divijah and the lands of Temurah in return for providing him with safe refuge and enough of a salary to suffice his basic necessities. When the Pvethians began occupying the country, instead of forcing Gramrok into labour like the rest of his people, Jafeth permitted him to continue his work in the library, recognizing that his knowledge may be of great use. This came as a surprise to Gramrok, given his perceived barbarity of Jafeth and the Pvethians, but he wasn't about to argue.

"Oh, yes! My apologies," Gramrok said, shaking his head a little to snap himself out of the train of thought. He then resumed dictating the book they were working on, which happened to be a large text on alchemy from Daslistar, encyclopedic in its scope and with an extensive collection of recipes. They had completed the first section a few weeks ago, which detailed all the known plants in Daslistar, and even a few from foreign regions even though they were only required in one or two recipes. They were now deep into the various recipes that those plants were used in. Gramrok completed his dictation of recipe for a non-lethal poison in which blades were coated which would cause anyone even so much as knicked by the blade to suffer a fire-hot burning sensation at the sight of the wound which would last for days. He then proceeded to the next the recipe.

"Title: The Metal Man's Plight. The Metal Man's Plight is the most acidic substance known to the Sakrait," he recited, easily translating from Daslistarian to Temurian, "It gained its namesake after being used against plate armoured Fjorlandish cavalry when the two nations still warred centuries ago. It will eat through almost anything. The only known substance that it does not react with is glass." As he began reciting the materials and apparati required to produce the acid, he put a finger under his metal collar around his neck and tugged at it, wishing he had some Metal Man's Plight of his own to remove the wretched thing. He didn't like that he was less aware of it's presence than the first day he had been fitted with it. He desperately didn't want to become accustomed to the collar and the slavery it symbolized. So he would tug on it hard several times a day, sometimes allowing it to dig painfully into his neck.

As he continued reciting recipe after recipe of weaponized alchemy (it was a sizable section of the book), the thought occurred to him that he had become an agent of the pain and suffering that was being propogated across the world right now. For surely this knowledge was to be used for the evil Jafeth had planned, and not the good he thought Lady Devijah would put it to. This new train of thought and the guilt it hit him with caused him to fall into another period of silence.

"Book-Sniffer?" Pegrus inquired once again after a moment of silence had ellapsed.

"I grow weary. I think that will be all for today." Although Gramrok was a foreign slave in the native Pegrus's homeland, Gramrok still had an informal position of superiority over the Frost Elf who looked up to Gramrok's encyclopedic knowledge with admiration and was baffled by how a creature of so few years could know so much more than most Elves who were more than a few centuries old.

"Shouldn't we at least finish this recipe?" he said in reference to the Liquid Fire recipe they had been working on; a fearsome liquid that when exposed to air would erupt in flames.

"No, that's all right. I'll remember exactly where we left off," Gramrok replied, managing a smile, "I have a perfect memory. Remember?"

"Very well," Pegrus stood up, packed up his ink and quill and threw on his cloak while Gramrok remained seated in his wooden stool that had been specially crafted to support his large stature and weight. "Shall we not leave together?"

"I have some troubling thoughts I must reconcile with. I'll be out in a bit. Please don't feel obligated to wait for me," Gramrok responded, before returning his gaze to blankly stare at the space before him. Pegrus gave him a concerned look before heading out of the library with a customary farewell.

"May the snows blow in your favour."

"And reveal the ice before your feet," Gramrok gave the customary response.

He gave a sigh as the door shut behind Pegrus. He then began roaming the aisles of shelves, running the tips of the fingers along the spines of books as he passed. If only the Temurians had engaged in more warfare in the past, they might have books on their battles and he could read up on warfare strategies and tactics and be of some use in strategizing against Jafeth. He immediately berated himself for thinking such thoughts. Not only was it folly to wish the past was different, it was disgraceful to wish suffering on its people so that he might be granted some respite. He had his chance to read up on such topics when he was in the libraries of Daslistar and Fjorland, but he forwent those books in favour of those on more peaceful topics. Yes, he had read of the many wars history had to offer, but never bothered to look into the battles in depth. He only had himself to blame.

Ultimately, he came to the decision that he could no longer provide his services of his knowledge while Jafeth was king lest it result in the suffering of others. Secondly he decided that he would seek out Lady Divijah because, while he felt she was unworthy of the throne, he still felt indebted to her for providing him refuge and felt that, as odd as it was, he was better suited to protect her over the Frost Elves she had taken with her to Eldamar. Besides, if he wasn't in the library, he didn't see any other purpose to continue living his life for. Having made the decision to leave for Eldamar, Gramrok left the library for his home in order to pack, not forgetting to take with him the tome that contained the unfinished alchemy text. For it certainly contained some of the most terrifying knowledge he possessed and it should not fall into the wrong hands.

[Vlexia]

“You there! Sakrait. How would you like to get out of here? I owe Daslistar a favor, and I'd do just about anything to put a dent in the Pretender's day.”

The words shook Sabeck from her very light dozing, and she slowly rose her head up to see a dark shadow lingering just on the other side of her cell’s bars. Her initial inclination was to prowl up to the bars and tear to shreds whoever dared to stand there. The feline got up and was very much about to act on this impulse before two things registered: the man’s accent, and his words.

His lilt was Fjorlander, without question. There were a few prisoners from that country down here in the prisons, one in particular a priest who had been raining down threats and curses from some strange God they believed in. A few days before the man had been taken out of his cell to be marched down a long corridor. Sabeck had only heard the occasional scream from below before, hours later, he had been carried and dumped unceremoniously back into his hole. The man had been silent ever since.

Sabeck often missed his rants. She enjoyed having another who was bold and brave enough in the prisons to fight fire with fire with the guards as she did. Whatever he had gone through in the mysterious corridor had broken something. The Sakrait had guessed it had been his will.

This Fjorlander, however, was not being brought down below for questioning or in chains, but was offering her freedom. Gazing up under his dark hood, Sabeck saw his clear eyes and fiery expression. She pressed herself up against the metal bars and hissed. “How the hell did you get down here?”

She immediately grew silent as a random guard passed. He seemed to pay them no attention. News of the ending tournament was sweeping quickly throughout the city, and everyone’s excitement was clouding away the importance of their given duties. The female lowered her voice as her eyes darted towards the cell of the priest. “Are you down here for him?” Her own Daslistarian accent was thick, yet she was easily understandable. The idea of possible freedom was intoxicating to her senses. She had long given up hope of running free and had embraced the idea of death. But now this man, this mysterious male draped in black, was offering her an opportunity to see the sky once more. Would she take it? Hell yeah.

Reaching through the bars, Sabeck went to grab a handful of his clothing to yank him closer. Rising up to her full height, which wasn’t much compared to him, but still, her amber eyes burned into his stark white ones. Some strange ornate symbol looked like it had been carved around his left eye, hidden under the hood of the cloak he wore. Sabeck swore softly, her words soft and smooth but vibrant, the threat unmistakenly clear:

“If you can get me out of here alive, I will be indebted to you forever, Fjorlander. But, if I die, I swear to the Dead God you foreigner’s worship I will come back…to haunt you.