The Darkest Journey [IC]

[Ashgan]

An ancient moon hatefully glared upon the windswept countryside where witching gales howled eerily with no answer. Only few stars twinkled at its side in the deep black sky these days, burning out like candles in an abandoned chapel. Soon, all of them will have died and vanished and only dark will remain. The suffering land below was defined by barrenness and vacancy; leafless, gnarled trees poked out of the blanket of brown grass that lay over the uneven, hill-stricken landscape. No nocturnal predators roamed the midnight world, be they ground- or airborne, and it seemed that only Morwenth’s plants were too stubborn to go extinct without a fight. Here and there, great slabs of rock lay around without purpose, overgrown by dark mosses and poisonous fungi. There was even a particular rock chunk against which the cracked remains of a great beast’s bones had been put to rest, them too partially covered by parasitic vines. Everything was perfectly still and silent, save for the wind that bellowed and swept the grass, and it was perfectly clear that Morwenth was sickly and dying. It needed healing. It needed salvation. It needed someone to deliver it from darkness.

Obscured by the dark of night, and hidden by the tall leaves of rotten grass, a solemn wanderer forged onwards without a change of pace. His deathly frame was entirely covered by black rags, remains of a robe from a time before his. His skeletal hands, whose bony fingers were blackened by the grime and dirt of centuries, halfway poked out of his shredded sleeves. His right hand dangled purposelessly at his side, always near the hilt of his weapon that was fastened to a cracked, brown leather sash that was tied around his slender waist. In his left dangled a timeless lantern whose very appearance suggested the Occult. It looked as if crafted from wood, because the texture was furrowed like that of tree bark, but the color suggested that it was made of iron or some kind of metal, for it was vaguely reflecting of the moonlight. Only the wanderer knew that it felt like stone to the touch, defying both of the visual perceptions. Within the lantern’s hexagonal chamber there glowed a ghostly light that penetrated far into the dark reaches ahead and behind the undead journeyman. It was not a flame that burned within; a more arcane, a more refined kind of glow permeated from the lantern that seemed at the same time more natural than even the primordial flame and as alien as something from a different world. He held the lantern in front of himself, to see beyond the veil of blackness that seemed intent on halting his advance. Undeterred by the forces of nature he pressed on, driven by a purpose greater than him. All for her, and for the whole world.

---

The brave knight was perched on the remains of an old tower’s rooftop. From up there, he could see across all of Velerath, as well as into the burning Depths to the east, where the great ashen tree still fought with the demon’s fire. Seen from this distance, Velerath appeared like a sea of gray, comprised of broken ruins that spoke volumes of the violence that had occurred here so, so long ago. Some of the alleys and roads were blocked by large iron grates rusted with age, that looked as if they had been added to the city much later than when its buildings were originally constructed. He could only guess what sort of paranoia and madness must have reigned in Velerath during its last days. Towards the north of the city, he spied the damaged towers of the grand castle that was bathed in what little light the southern sun could offer. Most of the windows had been shattered, but a handful of them remained intact. Glasses of various colored were arranged in mosaics depicting brave knights or a tree, the artfulness of which was unmatched by any contemporary works. Everything pointed towards that the castle had been under siege back then when Morwenth fell, for the damage inflicted by catapults and ballistae marked the entire structure, and some of the rotten siege equipment still stood outside of the city walls and in the broad alley leading up to the citadel where they have largely fallen to pieces and become overgrown by dying weeds. It was quiet now, but he knew that the battle was not over, no, for he had come to bring war back to those hollow halls.

“He is waiting for me, isn’t he?” he apparently spoke to himself while gazing into the spectral light of his lantern. His voice was rough and raspy, befitting of an Undead such as him. After a short while, as if hearing an imaginary reply, he lowered his head to avert his eyes from the broken city.

“I am not afraid, my lady. For you, I will gladly brave any horror that this Elizier could inflict upon me. I was merely thinking of the tragedy that must have unfolded here back then. You were there, were you not?”

He paused once again, listening to his unseen lady, before raising his regard once again, this time with fierce determination written on his features.
“Indeed,” he grimly affirmed and rose from his position. The time to act had come.

---

“Make haste,” urged his hollow voice. Elizier’s Vanguard was a tall and imposing character; though entirely skeletal, he was clad from top to bottom in an exquisite, golden plate mail, and even his bones had a golden hue to them. In his left hand he bore a great golden tower shield with an elegant carving of a grand, winged angel on the front which thrust its sword downwards. Although the carving had once been colorized, the paint has significantly dulled over the centuries, and only faint traces of white remained on its wings and robes. Held high in his right hand, he carried a masterful halberd with long spearhead on top of it, allowing him to either impale his enemies or cut them in half with the sharp axe head. With long, decisive steps he hurried onwards through the dark interiors of the Necropolis, closely tailed by a horrid creature borne from the very earth itself and a handful of graves, including their dead bodies. Though it followed the golden Guardian without question, doubt may well reign within its mind; it was altogether impossible for outsiders to read something into its nonexistent features, and neither did the tyrant’s right hand care.

The Necropolis was a labyrinth of dark corridors that, above ground were illuminated through the numerous windows or remains thereof, as well as breaches in the walls where the sun could shine through, while underground in the crypts below the castle, torches and candles created disparate islands of light in an otherwise black web of tunnels. Bodily remains littered virtually every hallway; seeing bones or even pieces of flesh lying about has lost its novelty long ago here. Interestingly, however, there were no skulls to be found. Even the odd, dead knight sitting in the corner had been robbed of his head. Here in the upper halls, close to the main gate, there were few actual Undead; most dwelled underground, and thus, the advance of the Guardian and his pet Golem went relatively unhindered.

The citadel’s front gate was heavily damaged; the arch had all but collapsed, and the grand, wooden draw bridge had disappeared in the ravine below in the form of wooden splinters. It was through Elizier’s efforts that a new bridge constructed from massive, wooden planks had been put in place so that the gate could be used once again. A pair of stone statues depicting proud knights once stood their duty to the left and right of the gate, but the one on the left no longer existed, and the right one was a disfigured slab of rock. When Elizier’s Harbinger crossed the bridge with the terrible Grave Golem in tow, the battle had already been in full motion; a lonesome warrior had taken the fight to the Ashen Guard, and just like Elizier had predicted, he was winning. The stranger in black tatters swung about a long, white glowing sword which cut through the skeletal defenders with ease, rending their bones and cleaving their bodies. His rotten, fleshless face showed no trace of emotion, but the golden warrior could see beyond the deathless mask, and what he saw was fearless, but blind zeal. Instinctively, his eyes were drawn to the curious lantern hanging from the wanderer’s waist. Though a ray of hope in places where all other lights go out, it irked him to look at it; something felt terribly off about this veritable artifact. Could it be the relic that his master had warned him about? There was no time to contemplate such things now. This unknown, foolish warrior had come to dispute Lord Elizier’s rule, and he would be stopped here and now.

“Thou seest that warrior, dost thou not?” he asked his elemental companion, “He must die. Kill him f’ore I do.”

The defender in gold ordered the Golem forwards while pointing at the black robed warrior who had just felled the last of his skeletal oppressors and who now looked towards the pair with steadfast determination.

[Aydan Tenaebra]

The pale light from the dying stars and the harsh moon scarcely touched the darkened crevice of the ruins found not far from the gate into Velerath, the world around showing shades of grey. The harsh, howling wind touched what the light did not and entered every crack that made itself available. It disturbed what the light would not and the movement of shadow within shadow was the result. The soft sound of fluttering fabric accompanied the movement within the darkness of the ruined building. The fabric belonged to a raven-clasped traveler's cloak around the shoulders of an undead rogue.

Long dark eyelashes brushed deathly white, almost ashen grey cheek bones as the female "slept." It was a meditative practice she had taken up while traveling with a human nearly a quarter century before. She would, though it was utterly unnecessary, go through the motions of breathing to calm her self and close her eyes to focus. Ears were attuned to the world around her, though only the howl of the wind could be heard that night. The wind didn't seem to bother the female though, nor did the harsh moon or dying stars- her almost entirely motionless form hiding her heightened state of awareness.

Ryver's eyes remained closed as she listened to the sound of a fight in the distance. It sounded as though the Ashen Guard had their hands full, and she could only smile at the thought. The sounds were faint though, so she began to tune them out once more- opting to focus on the area closer to her. When she heard clearly discernible voices or sounds, then she would begin to show concern. Thus far she had kept her head down and done a few simple jobs without attracting unwanted, unwarranted, or dangerous attention from Elizier. It certainly wouldn't do her any good to go sticking her nose anywhere a fight with his Guard was concerned- not without cause. The raven-haired undead had just regained her focus when a gravelly voice broke through to her thoughts along with the clank of armor and the scent of a grave-yard dirt and death. That was when deep violet eyes shot open, and the female rolled quickly to her feet. Peeking from her place in the ruin, she saw the Vanguard and Golem passing below.

"That does not bode very well at all," She muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing. Pondering what on earth could have drawn them outside, the small woman silently slipped down to the street below. Sticking to shadows and alleys between ruined buildings, Ryver stalked the pair quietly. The sounds of the fight she had tuned out before grew louder as she followed. When the scene was in view she stopped, hanging back out of sight. She studied the single figure standing, robed in black, with a lantern at his waist, as the Golem was ordered to charge.

[Old Hero]

War may be hell, but when you've actually been to hell, that changes drastically.

Grynn 'awoke' to fire. His vision had become a place of flame and shadow. An endless maze of broken walls, fallen roofs, jutting rafters. A nightmare of disembodied cries, ghostly shapes flitting through the darkness. Crisis loomed. Gutted shells, the eyeless gaps in the ground, fire spurting out, licking through, tickling at the darkness. Charred branches stabbed at the flames and they stabbed back. Showers of white sparks climbed toward no particular direction, and a black snow of ash fell softly on the dirt.

Following his Head's gaze downward, Grynn's Body walked down from his corpse pile and toward Shaed. He was snorting and bellowing, eager to be ridden. Grynn obliged him.

They were soaring majestically through the air, Undead mount skimming beneath the azure ceiling of the world. Grynn's cape flowed fluidly behind him. With a raised sword pointing, he had charged down the hill and toward his adversary. He was not one to simply help a stranger; far from it, but something about the lantern compelled him. Almost as if it was what he had been looking for his whole Unlife. He would not let this man die. If ever an Undead showed determination, Grynn did such.

The air smacked across his face as he dashed forward, bursting through the gray fog as if they were nothing other than pockets of dust gathered in the sky with particles of water - waiting to reach a weight where they would be so heavy they rained down upon the Undead.

Grynn had taken all the time he needed to make certain of the situation. The lantern man could hold his own, for a bit. It was the Golem that was the trouble.

No...not the Golem. He was of little intelligence - just a package of corpses. He could not act of his own volition, and most likely had no will of his own. If no one ordered him, he could not fight.

So the Vanguard was his target. He was surely a foe that would crush Grynn with a simple swing of his halberd, so all Grynn could was rely on his logic. If he was right, then the Vanguard had not expected resistance. Gold armor is inefficient in a real fight, and so it was most likely to scare other Undead away. To make them cower in their corners.

Grynn made a gesture with his hand. Fierce determination.

He reared up close.

[majikseb]

The vanguard was bright, far too bright. Golem followed the Vanguard as if he was a torch lighting the hall. Golem's form rolled across the floor like a billowing wall of sludge. The occasional tombstone would surface and scrape along the floor or walls, creating a loud screeching noise before it was engulfed again in the dirt and grime.

At first, Golem had walked a few paces behind Vanguard shaped like the humans or the dead that still lived, but the Vanguard had not slowed. Instead of falling behind, Golem fell apart. His form turned into little more than a sloshy brown wave of mud and grime, convulsing and rushing behind the Vanguard. His form picked up bones and debris from the hall and internalized them, only to spit out other pieces of stone or bone later along. Like a slug, Golem left behind a trail of sludge and debris, as if he could only hold so much at once. He was constantly taking up new material and depositing the old.

Finally, they reached the outside. Golem could see the men of the city being attacked by a figure garbed in black. He was directed to attack the figure. He knew better than to ignore Vanguard's orders.

The amorphous blob of grime condensed into a thicker pool, then began to grow in height. Soon, limbs began to form and what seemed like a sort of primitive spinal column made of tombstones. At Golem's apex rose a large, cross-shaped tombstone. The mud at his sides congealed and formed four huge arms, also covered in tombstones.

How could any simple fighter hope to best Golem? Stone plates lined his arms, shutting out all but the most intense physical attacks. Those attacks that did bypass the stones would only cut through dirt and mud, causing no real damage. In all his time of thinking about death, even Golem had never thought about its own. And the thought certainly wasn't about to cross his primitive mind.

He took two steps forward, the ground quaking slightly from the weight of his now condensed form. Golem rose two of his arms overhead, clasping his hands together high in the air, then drove them down toward the tattered warrior. As his limbs descended, they seemed to lose consistency, until they were nothing more than a mass of mud, bone, and stone tumbling toward the warrior like an avalanche.

[KrimpetyCatcher]

Yellow eyes flashed beneath a frayed hood. Though the rest of the face was shrouded in shadow to the point that not a detail could be determined, these eyes shone out like beacons, observing the chaos below. There was something feline about them, something that suggested a cunning, calculated nature. All of a sudden, the eyes snapped shut, and the image shattered. The cowl could have been empty, so undefined were the contours that lay within. A quiet voice, akin to the whispering of wind-ruffled leaves, emanated from within.

“’Twas bound to happen eventually, I suppose. Strong thou may be, Elizier, but power is always challenged. Whencesoever this warrior came from, he has power – but dost thou have strength which exceeds this? Battle wages alow. We shall see soon enough the result.”

---

Cas had not intended to return to Velerath. However, there were times in his life in which he felt like nothing more than one of Fate’s pawns – and this was indeed one of those times. A month prior to the current battle, he had spotted vicious flames writhing in the distance, the object of the burning itself being just over the horizon. It had taken him two days and two nights of travel, but eventually discovered the source of those evil flames. The Depths, a place he had once visited many years ago, was no more. It sent a current through his body, the only feeling that made him truly believe he was alive. Not happiness. Not sorrow.

Nay, it was curiosity which led him to Velerath that day.

Over the course of the next two weeks, Cas gathered as much information as he could about the new ‘Arch Necromancer’, Elizier. He learned of the dictator’s cruelty, his destruction of the Depths. Though this knowledge answered his initial question, it led to another: the source of Elizier’s power. He learned of Elizier’s Ashen warriors, and their defeat of the original Obsidian Guard. He heard of the incomprehensible magical power of the Necromancer, the supplier of which was a mystery to all. And the more he learned, the greater his thirst for further knowledge became.

However, he was quickly becoming an object of attention himself. His questions may not have fallen upon deaf ears, but nor had they been asked of those with tight lips. It did not take long for the Ashen Guard to become aware of this newcomer, this meddler, and the city grew more dangerous than it already was. The first time they came looking for him, he was lucky to escape. He had been staying on the second floor of a ruined cathedral – a location much less secret than he had realized. They had come for him in the night: footsteps had roused him from his resting state, and it was with no small amount of alarm he had discovered several Undead, dressed in the garb of the Ashen Guard, entering the cathedral below him. He did not know what to do – being inexperienced with the mace he carried, he knew he fared no chance against the soldiers. However, there were no means of escape either, with the only exit being the window leading to the street below, where one of the soldiers was standing guard. With no way to avoid the conflict, Cas followed the only possible path left: he hid.

With the assistance of his magic, which had turned him into nothing more than a pile of ragged cotton – at least in the eyes of the Guard – he had evaded detection, and escaped with his life. This close escape did not deter him from his questions, however. In fact it did the exact opposite. ‘Exactly what is so important that he sends men after any who even ask questions?’ he wondered. And so for he had continued to question, continued to ponder, albeit more carefully. He changed location daily, and more than once had been forced to evade the Ashen Guard. Unfortunately, no one seemed to have the answers he was looking for – no matter who he asked, none knew the source of Elizier’s great power. It seemed that there was no way to make a breakthrough.


Until today.

A Cheshire-like grin spread across the face, near unnoticeable due to the shadows concealing it. Today could very well be the day that Elizier would have to showcase his power to all who watched. If the warrior below could fell the great beast which came at him now, the Necromancer himself would be forced to make an appearance; else his hold over the city would crumble. Until then, Cas would simply wait and watch.

[Dark Jack]

He sat hunched over atop the city wall, the crumbling or already destroyed rooftops of the ruins behind him while his front was bathed in ominous light from the hellish blaze that ravaged the valley before him. Staring as always, incapable of blinking as he were because of the lack of eyelids, the decaying Undead rested motionlessly on the rotten balls of his naked feet, his hands resting on his knees, though these were turned in awkward directions from his body to allow for the presence of the weapons stuck in his body. Even rusted as it was, the iron platemail he wore still seemed to gleam slightly in the firelight, even as his part-skeletal and part-decomposing face was cast in orange light and black shadows.
Like a grotesque gargoyle, the Undead sat at the very edge of the wall, less than an inch between his toes and a fall into the fiery abyss, his upper body leaning out so that he could look down. He had been sitting like this for so long that he was not even sure that he remembered how to move anymore, but the flames down there were so hypnotizing. So tempting...
All it would take is for me to shift my weight just a little bit, and I plummet down there. That is all it would take. I would drop into oblivion and let the beautiful flames devour my body, turn it into ash and add it to all the other burned things down there. I would just be another pinch of ash amidst all the rest, one amongst many to burn in that inferno. I would not be alone anymore. I would not be the stranger in a world I don't fit into.
But through it all, he did not budge even a fraction of an inch. He had been sitting there for almost three years, though the passing of time had little meaning to an Undead, and ever since the day he had found this place, his mind had kept wandering down that train of thought, only to always arrive at the same conclusion: I want to exist. This, in turn, always propelled his thoughts down the path of the question: why? Why did he want to exist? Why was he there? Why?
Who am I? he asked himself over and over again, and each time his only answer was: I am Bleeder. He would then ask: Who is Bleeder? and answer: I am. This loop was endless, serving no suitable answers, but just the same questions over and over again infinitely. Occasionally, his mind would wander to such dangerous questions as Why am I Bleeder? But these made his head hurt and made him angry, because he incapable of finding any answers at all, sufficient and insufficient alike. He desperately wanted an answer for that question, a reason for his existence, a purpose to his unlife. But he had none.
What do I do? I kill. Why do I kill? Because they are different. They are not like me. Why are they not like me? They are not dead. I kill them. Make them like me. But I move. They don't. They are still not like me. I am all alone.

Today, however, for the first time in almost three years, Bleeder turned his head and averted his gaze from the enticing all-consuming blaze which had beckoned to him since his first arrival to this city. Years of accumulated dirt, and even traces of moss, ground between his vertebrae as he broke his prolonged stillness and let his eyes fall upon a single moving light source out there in the dark landscape, approaching the city. Bleeder's body remained inanimate, even as his head turned to follow this distant otherworldly light. What is that, he wondered? Did one of the flickering stars plummet from the black sky at last to come and purge this world of its abominable inhabitants? But the way the light moved was the way of a sentient creature, not a disembodied fickle light in the heavens. It moved through the gloom and into the city, where Bleeder could no longer see it. He kept staring at where the light had disappeared, though, lost in thought.
What was that light? Who was carrying it? Was anyone carrying it? Where did it come from? Why is it here? Again, questions swarmed the mind of the Undead, and he felt the anger building within him again. Especially the last question drove him to the brink of madness, or would have, had he not already plunged into the depths of this. Why? Another thing in this world he did not know the purpose of, a thing with no direction, with no identity - like him. It was infuriating. He wanted to kill.
But instead, he turned his attention back to the everlasting conflagration before him, taking solace in its wonderful simplicity. What is it? It is fire. Why is it fire? To burn. He liked fire. Not only was it beautiful like nothing else in this world, but it was also one of the few things in existence that Bleeder felt had a fully fledged identity, a singular purpose, a mission and a reason to be. Fire burns, and that is all it does - that is what it is, nothing more and nothing less.
Was it wrong, he wondered, to hope that he was the same as the fire? Could he not just say: Who am I? I am Bleeder. Why am I Bleeder? To kill. Why could fire be so simple when finding a purpose for himself was so hard? Why did he feel such need to find a better explanation than simply "That is just the way it is."

How long time had passed, Bleeder had no idea, but after a while the sounds of battle reached him on his perch. Slowly, he turned his head again, looking not in the direction of the sounds but in the direction of where the enigmatic light had disappeared to. Who is fighting? Why are they fighting?
And as if that was not enough, he soon saw a rider rush past - a headless rider, a dead man that moved, someone like me - on a skeletal horse, and heard a rumble of something big moving around at the site of the battle.
Undead. He was Undead. Like me. I am not alone. There are others. Dead that move. Like me. Like me!
Leaning backwards and away from the ledge, the gruesome gargoyle of the wall broke its long motionlessness and, with its every joint creaking and crunching as crusted dirt and moss was grinded between bones and drizzled from them as dust, stood up. For the first time in years, Bleeder stood up as straight as his warped body would allow him, his arms hanging limply from his twisted shoulders as he turned to face in the direction of the tumult.
With creaking bones and rattling armor, Bleeder began walking towards the sounds of battle.

[Sakuya Izayoi]

Legion was patient. It was as natural a state to him as he imagined breathing was to the living. He was good at waiting. He liked waiting. Especially when there was a purpose to the act. He was sitting against the wall of a back alley, just one of many unseen individuals, who through either indifference, madness, neglect or simple ill fortune had fallen into such a existence. A gathering place for what society deemed its detritus. With an old tattered brown robe wrapped around his form, a large hood covering his head that bowed forlornly, he was as invisible as they came, just one among many. No one cared about the fallen. No one ever looked at their faces. Legion was very good at waiting. But he was even better at hiding. And in front was his target. His head was bent low but his eyes looked up. There was a fire deep within them, low but burning none the less. All he had to do was wait.

It had all came about a few hours before, the unnoticed and mostly ignored Legion sitting alone and without concern in another back alley some distance from the one he was in now. There was little out of the ordinary in the air. The occasional whimper of those falling into despair, the low guttural moaning of those already beyond reason and hope, the desperate wailing of those soon to succumb. The sounds of movement on ancient stone, the low persistent murmur of conversation. Even a city as dead as this one was alive, it only you knew what to listen for. It was almost timeless here, night and day passed with comment or incident and in the lower parts of the city one could scarcely tell the difference. Time passed quickly here. It made waiting easy. No one paid attention to anyone else down here, everyone too concerned with preserving whatever shred of humanity or comfort that they could hold onto. Except for Legion that is. Legion never slept, never tired. He was always watching, and waiting.

Which is why he heard the sound almost at once. The hiss of a blade, the scrapping of metal on scabbard and stone, the pounding of feet, the clatter of a stumble. A scream, short, cut off. Silence. The sound of water dripping bringing thought to the obvious conclusion. Legion had moved at the sound of the blade but experience had told him that he was already too late. Too late for the victim. Not for the assailant. Legion's tall form blocked out what little light found it way into these depths as he round the corner into the alley. It was a dead end. And there was no one alive here. Not anymore. But there were bodies. One laying on the ground, clutching its chest, blood pooling in the gaps between the stone slabs. Lifeless eyes looking at Legion. Legion's eyes in turn burned with a dull fire. He advanced with broad, confident strides into the alley, towards the second body. This was one was upright still. It had not expected anyone to come. It had not expected anyone to care. It had a knife in its hand still, an old, rusted and heavily nicked blade.

There was no question as to what had happened here. And it was too late to worry about that anyway. Legion only wanted to know two things now, why and who, one important, one not so much. Why was not the important question. It didn't matter why and would change very little. Who was more important, it determined if what happened next was the end of it. Legion suspected it wouldn't. Legion decided to make sure.

Legion moved quickly, far more so then his tall form might otherwise suggest him capable of. A lack of weight mostly. The undead was fast, but Legion was accurate. He ignored the knife and was upon the man in a second. His broad fist hit the undead on the side of it's head, carrying it into the wall with a sickening crunch. A stunning blow to the living, if not fatal. To the dead, not so much. But it put the undead off balance and Legion slammed another fist into its chest, lifting it easily off the ground and into the wall at the back of the alley. Legion wrapped his left hand around the undead's neck while the other wrenched at the creatures wrist, smashing its knife hand into the wall until the blade fell harmlessly to the ground with a dull clatter of metal on stone.

The undead grappled and struggled with Legion's grip on his neck but it was futile. In life Legion's body had been a big one, not only tall in height but broad in shoulder, his arms long, his hands large. That strength had become his when he been awakened to this vessel. And for the average man it was too much to overcome. Legion was as dead as the man in his grasp, and felt just as much pain at his wild thrashing and struggling. Legion's right hand flexed its clawed fingers, traces of fire jumping between them. Legion wanted to know why, and who and he suspected that his new friend was going to be more then willing to tell him. After a little encouragement of course. He had left the blackened bones where they fell. Inert and lifeless.

Which had led him here, to another alley, another faceless creature sitting in the unnamed darkness. A man came out of the building and without a single glance passed him by. Legion placed a hand on his shoulder. He left his blackened bones where they fell as well.

[Ashgan]

“Your monsters will not stop me, blight, for the will of her ladyship must be fulfilled,” the dark warrior whispered to himself as he watched his elemental adversary lumbering towards him. He placed himself in a defensive posture, his feet perfectly balanced and his glowing white sword held diagonally in front of himself. The golden protector of the Necropolis remained in the distance, apparently content at observing the battle for now; good. If he could fight them one by one, he may stand a chance. He had to stand a chance. The graveyard golem raised its arms and then sent them flying down towards him in an avalanche of rock, dirt and dead bodies, threatening to fittingly bury also him. The messiah in black nimbly leaps backwards, but not entirely out of harm’s way. His sword, aglow with divine will, cut upwards through the air and at the impending landslide and, with a spectacle of awe-inspiring, glistening light, separated the avalanche of death entwine above his head. Masses of earth and a handful of tombstones crashed down to his left and right, smashing the tiled road beneath and whirling up thousand-year old dust. Meanwhile, a headless rider appeared on the scene, apparently ready to join the fight, though the warrior only vaguely noticed him, mostly because of the sound of hooves rather than by sight. At this point, he could not estimate if the rider was an affiliate of Elizier or not, but it hardly mattered. The golem was his sole priority; kill or be killed. He let out a ghastly war cry as only a skeleton could, and bravely dashed forwards while brandishing his luminescent blade anew. Because the golem appeared to need a moment to recuperate from its attack, the warrior saw an opening that he hoped to exploit. Should he be successful, he would attempt to cut at the Golem’s body and although his sword was infused with powerful Sorcery, it may be for naught considering that he is facing an enemy who knows no pain or fear.

“So... the haunter of Velerath finally didst decide to show his colors, doth he now?” the Vanguard commented to himself and began approaching the rider, keeping a certain distance from the monstrosity’s duel with the dark zealot; after all, he had no wishes to disturb them yet, certain that the golem could easily handle the interloper by itself. His steps were slow and considerate, and as he was using his halberd as a walking stick, it gave off a metallic, threatening clonk every time it hit the stone floor. When he finally arrived in earshot range of the dullahan, he firmly planted his halberd’s bottom tip in the ground with such force that it penetrated the stone in spite of being completely blunt. His tower shield, too, came to rest on the ground in front of him, planted there like a wall of gold over which only his head could peek, and even that was protected by a heavy helmet that looked as if it could shake off even a ballista’s bolt. A pair of threatening empty eye sockets glared at Grynn from behind the golden visor.

“I have heard of thee before, horseman, but thou hast no authority here. Keep thy distance if thou dost not wish to face the same fate as that fool over there. Lord Elizier is king here, and none shalt dispute his rule. Not even legends,” he warned the rider with a clear, loud and articulate voice. From his tone and posture it was clear that, if Grynn did not concede, the guardian would waste no chance to take up the fight for his necromantic master.

[majikseb]

Golem watched as the defender leapt backwards. His arms were already moving at full momentum, so it was too late to pull them back. He felt them crash down on the strange black knight, and felt a base contentment surge through his body as his hands rammed the place for the knight had been. He hadn't even felt the blade as it cut through the muck of his body - pain was outside of the range of his sensations.

Golem began to right his body. Recovering from the massive blow he had unleashed took a moment, and as he brought himself to a fully erect position, he changed his focus to the Vanguard. Perhaps the Vanguard was happy, now? Golem had crushed the warrior. Was Vanguard happy? Could he return to his graveyard?

He began to turn toward the Vanguard, not even noticing the warrior dancing toward him with brandished sword. Sorcerous blade or not, all the black knight was cutting at was dirt, corpses, and stone. There was nothing anatomically significant that he could damage with what he was swinging at.

So puny and insignificant were the blows that Golem didn't even notice his presence. He took slow, sluggish steps toward Vanguard, still fully under the illusion that he had done what he had to. Trails of dirt and grime flowed out from the small cuts that the knight had made, only to be taken back up at Golem's feet.

It was then that Golem noticed the headless horseman challenging Vanguard, and stopped in his place. Uncertain of what to do, Golem simply stood there.

[Aydan Tenaebra]

From her hiding place in the alley, violet orbs observed the scene. A headless rider appeared to challenge the Vanguard and there was a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. Ryver chuckled under her breath, and muttered softly, "'What fools these mortals be' ought to be changed, I think. It seems the undead are no better."

The four undead before her held her normally fleeting attention span for such matters. She might have been young for an undead, only conscious for a quarter century in a vessel that held no prior memories and having to be told what she was, but in that quarter century she had quickly learned to ignore what didn't concern her. Even by watching from her hiding place, she found herself breaking that cardinal rule: Leave it alone if there's nothing to do with you. Certainly there was no bounty or reward in it for her, and the subject matter was clearly none of her business, but a strange curiosity seemed to root her to her place. What business did the warrior with the lantern have in Velerath that made the Ashen Guard attack him on sight and of what importance was he that the Vanguard and Golem be sent to meet him?

One thing seemed certain to her, the Vanguard certainly seemed to like to talk entirely too much to do battle. She watched the armored guardian call out to the rider, and shift stance to show that he would fight. It was laughable to her. Warnings were unnecessary to give to an enemy that has already brandished his sword at you, She thought to herself, with a wry smirk. A load of hot air and wasted chances are all that come of it. Then again, the rider had missed opportunities as well by rearing and issuing challenge, she knew. Knights and guardians, always so valiant and and honorable in the issuing and accepting of challenges... Such niceties could be forgone and the opponent already be down or wounded, a step closer to the goal of battle... tsktsk... Such a waste, such a waste. The roguish female nearly tsk'd her dismay aloud. Still, her eyes remained trained on the battle as the Golem turned back toward it's master and just stopped. The creature seemed almost confused or unsure in it's sudden stop, facing the Vanguard and rider. She wondered momentarily if the creature was sentient because of it's strange behavior, before retraining her eyes on Elizier's guard and the headless rider. It would be quite the sight to see, she was sure of it. She also kept the warrior who had started it all in her peripherals, waiting to see how he would step in.

It was then, on a whim, that she ignored her teachings and better instincts and straightened up. Ryver stepped out of the alley to the front of the dilapidated structure. Folding her arms beneath her chest, she leaned on the most solid section of wall as she watched.