Macaroth stood outside the chapel and cringed as he felt a shock of magical energy enter this world, and then another and then it left almost as abruptly. What was that? He thought to himself, this world seems to be a beacon for trouble it would seem, that made a dent in his plans somewhat but on the other hand his performance will be that much more enhanced when he saves the humans from their nightmares only to impose his own will in their blind spots.

He walked over to the now working forges and inspected the swords being made, they were not as handsomely crafted as his own blade but that didn't matter, they were fine strong steel and they would be the instrument of his enemies demise. The swords were made to be wielded both one handed and two handed with two sharp edges and a keen point. His sons were armed now, though only wearing rough clothes as of yet the swords were their only means of defense other than their ability to fly.

Once they were armed Macaroth had his sons fly up and start patroling the woods, all this activity has made him wary. He is not yet at his full strength, he needs many more followers for that to be the case.

The brigand followers came to him gravely concerned about the changing in the sun, their leader Sabel, a woman warrior came up to her patron with a worried but still stern expression "what is the meaning of this Lord? Is this your doing?" Macaroth gazed up at the foreboding sun and sighed "It is not of my doing my children, but it is a sign that great changes are looming over us. These will be times that will test our strength and our resolve but we will stand strong and survive" The woman smiled and saluted her in some pagan abstract symbolism and returned the people to work bolstered by his words. He gazed up at the sun and gripped his blade tightly, he really didn't know what to expect but he had a feeling it is hardly anything good.

On the back of Shadowmane, Calvartem crested a hill and stopped on top of it. From there he could see the town of interest. The town itself was walled, with walls about 4 metres tall, with several guards watching the gates for the flow of traffic. Inside the walls houses were crowded together, which formed many tight alleyways. There was also an open section amidst the houses, which was likely a plaza where market was held. Roughly in the middle stood the castle, with more walls, this time 8 metres high, and parapets. Outside the town were numerous farm houses, complete with farms. Calvartem considered his strategy. The first walls would be a problem to get past. One option would be to dash through the gates before they can be closed and then summon walkers from with-in. This surprise attack may give him an advantage, but it ran the risk of trapping him in with an unknown enemy force. Another option would be to slaughter the people of the farms, raise their dead, then merge them into Breaker to get through the gates, but this would take time and they could arrange a defence. A third option would be to raise a smaller hoard outside, jump over the walls and open the gates from with-in himself.

He was still weighing up his options when the light changed. The pure white light, which Calvartem found sickly, which bathed the land suddenly became blood red. Looking to the sky, he saw that the sun had also turned red, tinting the sky that colour too. Keeper and human alike would recognise such an event as an apocalyptic omen, although only one group would be pleased with such a sign. Spurred on by this event, Calvartem brandished his staff and Shadowmane galloped towards the farmhouses. Circling around one house, Calvartem waved his staff over the ground, releasing tendrils of black fire which snaked their way over the ground until they found buried bodies. A couple of humans rose from two graves and a dead dog came to life as well. Calvartem left the walkers to do what they did to the inhabitants of the house as he quickly made his way to the next house, and the next one. Meanwhile the guards, who had also seen the sun turn red, saw a skeletal wizard riding on a horse of shadows raising corpses from the ground, so they rose the alarm and closed the gates. In just a couple of minutes Calvartem had visited four houses and gone back to each of them to raise the slain occupants as walkers and amass them towards the gate.

In this time the town guard had been alerted to the crisis and they too were amassing. Two musketeers stood on the wall above the gate, and a line of soldiers stood ready to defend behind the gate. As the hoard approached the musketeers fired, one shot striking a walker and one striking Shadowmane. Neither shot seemed to slow down either target, so the musketeers were left to quickly reload. Calvartem drew near to the gate well ahead of the hoard, and as he did he blasted one of the musketeers off the wall with a black fireball. Without breaking pace, Shadowmane then leaped up, landed with amazing precision on top of the wall and turned towards the other musketeer. This soldier, surprised and terrified at the tall horse and the skeleton riding on it which was now standing right in front of him, abandoned his attempt to reload and drew his sabre. He was not able to use it as Shadowmane trotted forwards and nudged him off the wall, causing him to tumble head-first into the cobbles below.

As Calvartem looked down at the ex-musketeer a crossbow bolt ricocheted off one of his ribs, shattering it inside his robe, and a fireball narrowly missed Shadowmane. This injury annoyed Calvartem more than it inconvenienced him, so he spurred Shadowmane to jump down in front of the gatehouse, which was a bit down an alley to the main road where the soldiers were waiting. Calvartem swiftly dismounted and entered through the door of the guardhouse. He laid a hand on a surprised guard with-in and cast his dark magic directly into the guard. The guard's skin rapidly wrinkled and greyed as he was rapidly aged to death. Two seconds later, once the guard had died, Calvartem converted him into a walker and withdrew his hand, in time to throw up a brief shield of shadow to block the second guard's sword. The first guard, who was still armed despite being a zombie, threw himself at the second guard and ran him through. At a wave of his staff, Calvartem possessed the second guard and sent both of them out the door to slow down the soldiers who were now closing in on his position.

Have bought himself a couple of spare moments, Calvartem approached the large wooden wheel which, by means of pulleys, opened and closed the gate. Calvartem grabbed hold of the wheel and turned it, and after several revolutions of the large wheel it jerked to a halt, indicating that the door was fully open. Outside he heard the soldiers stop as they heard the gate open and the uneven footsteps of his walker hoard enter the town.

Walking outside, Calvartem saw the soldiers assembled in the alleyway, with their rear end fighting back the newly arrived walkers and the front end advancing towards him and Shadowmane over the dismembered bodies of the two walker-guards. The nearest soldier, protected by a shield, raised his sword to strike Calvartem but was too slow as Calvartem fired a ball of black fire at the guard under his sword. The fireball exploded, knocking back and dazing the soldiers and giving Calvartem time to mount up upon Shadowmane. With a wave of his staff, tendrils of black fire threaded their way through the air to the two slain walkers on the ground. The black fire quickly knitted the limbs together and replaced missing muscle with magic, restoring the walkers to fighting condition in the middle of the group of soldiers. In the chaos that ensured, Shadowmane leaped over the soldiers on his front, landed behind the soldiers on the opposite front and charged through, pushing down the soldiers and parting the walkers. As soon as Shadowmane had passed the walkers dived upon the fallen soldiers. The alleyway was now a melee of blades, fire, hands and teeth, the red lighting making it seem even more bloody. After a quick glance, Calvartem cast his summoning magic again, restoring three walkers and raising two slain soldiers.

Calvartem looked up the main road. The civilians were nowhere to be seen- they must be either holed up inside their houses or evacuated deeper into the town- but another unit of soldiers was assembling at the far end. Calvartem would have laughed if his fleshless physiology had made that a natural action. There would be much more of this battle ahead, and a gloriously bloody battle it would be.

An hour and a liter of mutagen later, Clotho's new security system was complete. Resting candidly on the floor of her Heart was a large insect, approximately a foot across and wide, with traits of both tick and cicada. It sported a thin carapace, murky brown-green in color, that would help to camouflage it, but its dominant feature was the huge eye in its abdomen, facing upward. This startling oculus resembled a human's, but its sickly yellow in hue and orange iris served as stark distinctions. Clotho called the new species Macula, but they were hardly creatures worthy of fighting in a Keeper's horde. Instead, she envisioned the Macula functioning as a living security system for her Dungeon. The Macula would quickly adjust to their habitat, accepting the current creatures as members of the ecosystem. Anything else would be picked up by their bulging abdominal eyes and registered as a threat, instigating an alarm response. Using their loud, grating song, they would alert other Macula throughout the tree, who would in turn take up the cry.

Of course, when Clotho created actual creatures later, they would need to be inducted into the Macula's catalog of accepted entities, but that was a problem for later. For now, Clotho had a security system. Though not perfect, the little Macula were quick, and if targeted by intruders they could run or close their eyes with shell membranes for defense. The real potential in the Macula came with an open end Clotho purposefully left in their design; once sufficiently developed, the bugs would be able to translate their visual images into signals that could be received and viewed from great distance. Though the future plans were hazy, Clotho guessed that -after the construction of some sort of observation chamber- she would be able to use the Macula to peer into other lands from the safety of her own Dungeon. It was a brave new world that had such creatures in it.

Just as Clotho was forming these plans, the light streaming in through the hole in her Heart's ceiling shivered and discolored, like two liquids poured into one another. A deep red light replaced the white, and in that instant everything changed. Suddenly Clotho wasn't so safe after all in her paper nest in the sky, and mind raced with questions. Was some sort of great event taking place? Was she under attack? The single Macula lolled open its bulging eye before skittering into the comfortable shadows. Conversely, Clotho stretched her cooped-up wings and shot through the hole into the open air.

It didn't take long to discover the source of the disturbance. Elysium's sun, once so vibrant and holy, was stained crimson. As if all life stood still in fear or reverence, an intense quiet had settled over the jungle, despite the high-altitude winds howling at Clotho's ears. Though beautiful, the sight was also immensely foreboding. She couldn't imagine why this had happened to the source (it had always seemed to her too remote, too permanent, for alteration), but if it was the work of some being, incredibly powerful...

The thought made Clotho feel small, vulnerable, and insignificant. Out of these feelings arose rage. “I must grow stronger,” she whispered into the thin, chilly air. The work on a receiving station for the Macula visions would begin immediately, and in the meantime she'd begin work on a second creature. Though she had only just emerged from the cocoon, it was time to enter it again. Clotho descended into her dungeon to seek out Scutra and relay her orders and create blueprints for the new facility, which he in turn would convey to all the imps.

Much progress was being made, even without Shaige's direction. The imps were abandoning the tiny cave that had been their dungeon up until now. The makeshift altar they built was destroyed, the chalk glyphs along the walls and floor were wiped off, and everything of value, including the vial that was the dungeon heart, was transported to the Mutig tribe's redoubt. Their underground city was more defensible, more isolated, and far larger. With empty and unexplored sections of the cavern, expansion would also be easy because there would be no need to excavate more space.

Fangir reluctantly oversaw the erection of a shrine to his tribe's new patron spirit. The room that had been chosen was the deepest one, within the bowels of the earth. A stone altar was etched into the wall of the chamber. The space dripped with water in the two back corners, forming tiny waterfalls that rushed down some ways before flowing into an subterranean river. The altar, situated between the two largest waterfalls, was adorned with a figurine chiseled into the shape of a cloaked stranger. The idol's bleak, featureless face of stone was enameled with twin amethysts. How the sculptor managed to create such a disturbingly accurate depiction of the shadow was beyond the archdruid's understanding.

Fangir stood in the room with apprehension, watching it slowly take shape. A dozen of his tribesmen worked on it at any given time, smoothing the walls, creating pillars, conjuring magical lighting, installing great wooden doors, and such. Too late had Fangir realized that the moment he told his kin of their debt to the spirit that had offered its aid for nothing in return, he had surrendered all his authority to the shadowy apparition. The spirits that the Mutig tribe had revered before were no more than tales told to children; they didn't care about the fate of the tribe, if they even existed. This spirit, however, was both real and powerful. So the desperate people had instantly transformed into fanatical worshipers of this guardian that they knew nothing about, just as Shaige had known they would. Could Fangir even blame them? He had to admit to himself that they would all have been slaughtered if it were not for the Shadow, but that did little to comfort the archdruid.

He had been chieftain, respected by his people and responsible for all their decisions. Now, he hardly felt like a person. Nobody, not even his fellow druids and closest friends, would speak to him about anything aside from the Shadow. Had their guardian spirit returned yet? What exactly did it look like? What did it want the tribe to do? The last question was always the hardest. Fangir did not know what to tell them, since there had been no sign of the spirit in days and it hadn't exactly left an agenda to complete, anyways. So, Fangir had simply given out orders that made sense: continue gathering food while there were no signs of the rival tribes' warbands, expand the storage rooms and hallways, loot the bodies of the crusaders above and bring all the armor and weapons into the armory to be cleaned and repaired later.

The archdruid was still standing in the shrine room, thinking to himself, when Soran walked in. Garbed in a hooded robe of ebony, Fangir mistook the imp for the spirit, at least until it turned its head and spoke. The construct's smoldering eyes dimly illuminated the features of his face, even with the hood up. With flesh the color of blisters, several pairs of curling horns visible on his head, and an infernal visage, Fangir knew immediately that this was a demon. This demon had an air of power and authority about it, but it was nothing like the hypnotic, calming effect that heralded the Shadow's presence. The archdruid stared at the thing before him, slightly scared but not at all surprised. The others in the room continued their drudgery, too foolish or too zealous to be concerned that they worshiped a spirit with demonic servants.

A deep scowl appeared on the demon's face after a few moments. Soran rasped, his voice a diabolic rumble, "Well? Are you their master?" A yellow haze drifted out of the demon's mouth as it talked, filling the poorly ventilated chamber with the reek of sulfur and burned flesh. Fangir stopped gawking at the demon and opened his mouth, only to be interrupted. "There is little that I loath more than your ilk. Your pungent stench fills these halls. Alas, we must coexist. Our overlord demands it. My subordinates will soon arrive, along with fifty bound ghosts. The ghosts will be content to meander in the dark recesses of this cavern, out of the way. My kind, however, will make our quarters near this room. Our master will be content to live in this room."

The demon's sneering tone and attempt to take control had Fangir seething in anger. The archdruid hissed, "I am chieftain over these halls and woods and people, not you."

"You are no lord and you own nothing. We are all servants to our dark lord, and this entire world is his."

Rightfully concerned for his own well being, Fangir held his tongue. The demon scowled at him once more before pulling a small vial from the folds of his black robe. Soran leered at the archdruid as he placed the tiny container on the shrine, below the figurine, and filled it with his own blood. The archdruid's shock upon seeing the glowing blood was droll in a way, but Soran did not laugh. There was much work to be done, and it would be in his best interest not to push the poxy human much further.

_______________

Meanwhile, leagues away, Shaige silently drifted amongst the bleak buildings of granite slabs that made up most of Paterdomus. The center of the city was dominated by a mighty citadel that dwarfed everything in sight, and many a mountain as well. Two twin spires rose from the granite fortress, one tower white and one black: the homes of the water and fire priests, respectively. Something about the citadel was disconcerting; the whole place radiated a strange power of some sort. Sensitive to magic, Shaige knew that there had to be an object of great power within the cathedral's heart, but whatever it was had a holy aura. Its power repelled the Keeper and weakened him, even from miles away its effect could be felt to one sensitive to magic. So Shaige avoided the citadel for now, privy to the mumblings of guardsmen and hushed conversations of peasants, rather than the plans of the priests and high inquisitors within the fortress.

Still, Shaige was able to learn much even without entering the citadel. Just as the fire priests had launched a crusade against the tribes to the west that occasionally raided the hinterlands, the water priests were locked in a struggle of some sort against Paterdomus's ancient and worst enemies to the north, whoever they were. Shaige had felt it: the entire river to the north of Paterdomus had been cursed, or blessed, depending on one's perspective. At first he hadn't understood what the enchantment did, but it wasn't hard to deduce. With some awesome feat of magic centuries ago, the city had enchanted the river Suri. From the moment the river began enchanted, to the end of time, no man from the north would ever be able to cross the river without being smitten by the power of Paterdomus' gods of water. But now, the enchantment was beginning to fail, and the water priests were desperately trying to maintain the enchantment.

The Temple tried to hide such matters from the public, and so details were sparse. Shaige was still trying to learn more, days later, when the city's alarm was raised. Guards and priests were rushing out to the walls and sallying out to the fields just outside the city, ready to fight something. Upon flying into the air, Shaige saw plumes of smoke in the distance. The Keeper went out to investigate.

Shaige's Stuff:

Minions: Soran the imp construct, 9 imps, 50 pain elementals, Fangir the archdruid, 27 druids, ~300 Mutig Tribesmen
Resources: Several hundred corpses out in the woods above. Plenty of different tools and weapons, though they are generally of poor quality.
Infrastructure: Shaige's dungeon is a sprawling, subterranean city. The entrance is in the side of a rocky hill, in the form of a narrow cave concealed with magic. Down below are many twisting corridors and chambers or varying size. Magical lighting is used, so as to not suffocate everyone inside the poorly ventilated cavern. The cave system is massive, and much of it is unused and unexplored. Shaige's dungeon heart is in a shrine room, deep below the surface and all the other rooms.

Fear.
Could that be what tainted Viktors thoughts as he stared skyward, red light flooding his mind? 'Nay. I am Viktor. I am strength. I am power. I am a Keeper.' He thought to himself, doubting even himself. Still, he turned to his troops, the fire beneath his helmet raging up. The braindead beasts all stared skyward, a mix of horror and confusion flickering through their small minds. Slowly, a few turned to the Keeper, their master. Surely, he would have an explanation, some words of hope and wisdom to offer. Viktor looked back at the men, red light glistening off of his steely skin. His usual aura of confidence was gone, his fear plain to see for all. Without a word, he turned on his heel, hoping to find some form of good news somewhere.

Luckily enough, Viktor was met with one of his human husks, who had been working tirelessly for quite some time now. Viktor crossed his arms, waiting for the report from the builder. "M-m-master. We have run out of your blueprints, and have completed the room as specified. What more need we do for you?" He asked, throwing a few glances at the crimson sky, like a cornered animal. Viktor let out a grunt, simply trying to mask the unknown emotions that plagued him, as they walked to where the construction had been taking place.

For a moment, the distractions were dispelled from his mind, as he saw the fruits of his labors... or his minions labors. The stone room was a large circular one, with a domed roof. In the center of the room was a large stone table, decorated with an array of tools. Adorning the table was a complicated looking machine, designed by Viktor during spare time. Wires and tubes ran off of it, connected to scaffolding that lined a hole in the roof. Red light flooded through this skylight, a grim reminder of the omens from above. Still, Viktor averted his eyes, preferring to look at the silver linings.

On the far walls were a line of glass tubes, each covered with a steel lattice. The first three contained a creature, the blueprints kept there for safety. Without waiting to dismiss his human minion, he gleefully strode to the table, where multiple supplies laid, for the creation of new minions. Like a child on Christmas morning, he could not wait to work with the tools.

---

Blood.

That was what filled Hydl's eyes, as he stared upwards, confused. He was the last to look towards Viktor, perhaps because of sheer coincidence, but perhaps it was something else. He had spent much time with Vragas, and that time had taught him a lot. Much of the army revered Viktor as more than just a leader- they thought of him as a god- their father. But Vragas was close to Viktor, and knew that he was less than he appeared. Still, he kept these rumors to himself. He didn't understand his fellow skeletons. They seemed lifeless, and they likely were, and it was unsettling. He shared no traits with his brethren. He felt... out of place. Many nights he stared out at the gates, imagining what would happen if he simply ran. Would they care enough to stop him? Where would he go? But for now, he quelled those thoughts. Viktors visage of grandeur had some substance behind it, and the army was growing quickly. For now, Hydl would stay along for the ride.

---

Guilt.
As Stamrad continiued his trek though the tundra, closing in on the castle, he jumped, frightened by the rather sudden change. It took him a moment to register what had happened, as he slowly turned about with his sword drawn. Looking up at the sky, he felt a sudden pang of... What could this feeling deep inside of him be? He wasn't used to emotions, as with most of Viktors creations. Viktor considered this to be good, though most others would see it as faulty design.

Still, this emotion stunned Stamrad. 'Are the gods punishing me for my crimes? Have I broken some ancient law with this murder? He was naught but an imp, he couldn't have been worth sparing!' He shouted mentally, trying to justify his actions as the guilt ripped him apart. He clawed at his armored head, trying to dull this terrifying emotion. Stamrad knew that he would take back his actions preformed in jealously instantly, were he given the chance.

Calvartem left the walkers on their own and galloped off down the paved road. The squadron of soldiers coming from the opposite direction did not concern him, as he simply stunned them with a wave of shadow and by the time they were able to see again Shadowmane had gone over their heads and was running off down the streets. Encased in the alleyways bathed in red, Calvartem wove through the town, with Shadowmane able to take the corners even at speed. Twice he ran into a person who had been foolish enough to stay outside, and he zombified them, but they were just small change compared to what he was after. Calvartem's goal was the town's crypt. Even if the crypt contained nothing but piles of bones he would be able to form a hoard of walkers from it which would allow him to tip the balance in his favour.

Eventually he came across a church, standing proud and adorned in white, almost defying the blood light of the Source, although Calvartem would likely later learn that it was quite modest compared to some cathedrals in this section of Elysium. He dismounted and entered through the double doors, with Shadowmane trotting in behind him, and was immediately confronted by three priests garbed in blue robes. Calvartem outstretched his staff and shot a bolt of black fire at one priest, but it was absorbed by a floating glowing sigil cast by the priests.

"Your terror ends here, dark beast!" shouted one of the priests. He threw forth a spray of enchanted water conjured from his hands, which Calvartem deflected with a shield of shadow.

"You mortals can not stop me," Calvartem retorted, throwing a dark fireball at the group. The priests countered with an arm of water, which scattered on hitting and extinguishing the fireball.

"You can not stand against our gods," another priest asserted. They cast another sigil and pushed the runic pattern towards Calvartem, who dissolved it with dark magic from a tap of his staff.

"Have you looked at the sky? Your gods have abandoned you," Calvartem taunted. He then struck the ground with his staff, unleashing a wave of black fire which overwhelmed the watery defences the priests attempted to conjure and struck them down. The Necromancer then finished them off with three black bolts. Passing them, he tapped the ground with his staff and the priests rose as zombies, who ambled outside in search of prey.

Calvartem found the crypt down a side staircase. Tapping the ground black tendrils slithered across the room and entered the jars and coffins crammed onto shelves. The entire room, previously deathly still, stirred to life as corpses broke out of their boxes and bones assembled into complete skeletons. The room was quickly overflowing with walkers, which poured out onto the streets followed by Calvartem and Shadowmane. Mounting up, the Necromancer raised his staff into the air, signalling the walkers to assemble around him. He pointed his hoard forwards into the alleys, and Calvartem followed behind, letting the walkers clear the way and the houses.

Macaroth retreated to his dungeon heart to ponder the situation more, in peace away from the hustle and bustle above. He sat in a comfortable chair and started pondering on his progress, on the progress of other keepers that must be present here as well as the meaning of the red sun. He sat there eyes closed almost as if sleeping, still as stone but his mind raced furiously going over the information and coming up with a multitude of possible reasons and answers.

A few hours went by in though before he was interrupted by his firstborn, kneeling 5 feet from him and looking at him with silvery eyes gleaming with pride. He stood up and stretched out a bit "what have you discovered?" He asked gently. His son spoke without hesitation, fluently and calmly "i have found a quarry in the nearby mountains, abundant with resources. With the appearance of the red sun i also imagine that the previously working miners would have abandoned the site to go seek shelter in nearer cities"

Macaroth nodded in agreement and stood up his son who towered over him but still felt dwarfed by his creator, his father. He nodded again and sent him away "go and find arms, join your brothers in the patrols. These are strange times so keep the utmost vigilance" His son bowed and left the comfy little chamber, the walls lined in stone blocks adorned with dark blue and red tapestries along with a fireplace and a thick soft carpet stretched out in front of a single chair by the fireplace, carved with the utmost skill and varnished making the dark wood glisten as the fire threw its light over it, at least here everything seemed to still be..natural

Anyone familiar with the riverfront of Anicetus could attest that it completely contrasted the city proper. While the rest of the desert city was dry, dreary awash with drab browns and whites and already indicative of a ghost town, the riverfront was a bustling hive of transportation and commerce rivaling some of the greatest wharfs of Moltuspons. The shops, inns, and other various buildings clustered against the piers at the brown water's edge like books in a shelf, forming a lively but cultured shantytown. Made rich by foreign goods and heavy taxes alike, this distract witnessed an eternal stream of people, coming or going or conducting business. Among fishmongers, antiques, weatherbeaten hunters from Altearx, and red-robed Paterdoman fire mages, three mysterious beings could move comfortably an anonymously.

Currently, the old man and the pit duchess sat together in a booth in the Amber Tide, a beer-hall situated on the pier itself renowned for its abundant liquor. While Eris was only too happy to partake heavily in the drinking, courteously extending part of the contents of her ample purse to her companion so that he could enjoy a small meal, the old man imbibed only water to keep a clear head. After some time, Moros appeared, newly clad in a lightweight puce cloak paid for by Eris. When he had requested the loan, she had marveled that someone of his alleged stature could want for something as basic as clothing. He seated himself at their table, comber and gaunt as ever despite the jovial atmosphere. “'Nam,” he began in a low voice, addressing the old man, ”she's got her aura suppressed, yeah?” Aeternam nodded his wrinkled head stiffly and picked at a greasy sausage on his plate. Once he had chewed it slowly, working it with infirm teeth, he replied. “This place hardly needs a malignant aura to start a brawl. It's full of sailors, salesman, rogues...most uncouth of men. And that is saying something. What have you found out?”
Moros took a deep draft of Eris's mug before he cupped his chin, resting the hand on the table. Eris became wrathful and attempted a right hook that might have dislocated Moros's jaw had she not drunkenly crumpled onto the table. “There is much warlike talk among those from Paterdomus. Be it fire or water, they've got trouble all around. Might be one of us, stirring mage and barbarian alike to conflict. Then again, we've got you and Fury here, so options are limited. Might be a Keeper.” His splotchy yellow eyes glanced left and right, trying to spot anyone who might be listening in. Over the collective roar of the floating tavern's patrons, however, little could be discerned. Aeternam cut in. “We're in no position to tackle a Keeper yet. First we must be united.”

At that moment, the doors slammed open, and in strode a man who looked every inch a seafaring captain in his regalia. Those in the building familiar with the area guessed he was fresh off the boat, stopped on his path through the Elysium interior. Judging by his obvious ill temper, he had just been taxed by the Anicetus officials, and was seeking to drown his discontent. Flanking the captain were three of his underlings, among them perhaps the first mate, and the bosun. This late in the day there was nothing the crew could do but depart on shore leave while customs searched the ship. While the noisy entrance of the captain and his entourage created a momentary disturbance, it took less than a minute for the bard to resume his song and the patrons their various activities. After waving over a barmaid and relaying their orders, the new arrivals found a table not far from Eris's and sat down without comment. Soon their drinks arrived and they began a private discussion that definitively set them apart from the tavern's general mood.

Instinctively, Moros -the closest- shifted to better hear what the mariners had to say. His cloak helped to disguise his movement and make him seem unimportant, so the seafarers did not cease their conversation. “Looks like ye had the right idea, bosun,” the mate was saying in a congested drawl, “A liddle storm damage mighda been far bedder den dievin' bureaucrads. An' dere's da deadlands t'worry about too. We shoulda gone by sea.' In reply, the bosun -a beefy, sideburned man with a squashed nose- spat onto the floor. “The deadland's just a myth, Snotty. The eastern forest's too sunk in to just keel over like that. You've been obsessin' over that rumor ever since we got outta Ruhig Basin, prattin' on about black grass and will o' wisps. All that's happened is some damned fool come up after a forest fire and run off flappin' his mouth. Ya hear me?”

The conversation didn't end there, but Moros scooted discretely away, having heard all he needed. He roughly tapped Eris on the shoulder to get her attention before declaring with a skeletal smile, “I think we ought to hitch a little ride with the captain there on his way down Myra. First convenience we've gotten in a while. Seems like little Escre might be trying to set up shop again, Keeper-style.”

Cold. Dreary. Lonely. Monotonous. Maddening. None of those words came close to described the Carver's work, yet words meant little to the Carver. For a being quite literally as old as this universe itself, toiling without pause for millennium was nothing unusual. No living thing could do this work. Mortals, fragile and temporary as they were, couldn't even comprehend the celestial being, much less understand what its powers and holy duties were. That, combined with its business and an apathy to the plights of life, meant that none of the millions of Elysium's denizens even knew of the Carver's existence.

The Carver did much to deserve their praise. Sophist had sewn the ground with seeds and cultivated the crop, creating this plane of existence and shaping Elysium. However, without constant vigilance, the crop never could have existed for this long; some opportunistic creature would have found and eaten it, or it would have eventually yielded to entropy and died of its own accord. The Carver was to thank for neither of those two things happening, for since the moment it sprung into existence the being had been tasked with ensuring that the universe continue to exist. Any gratitude or acknowledgement from the meaningless mortals was both unnecessary and unwanted; duty was the only thing that the Carver knew, and distractions could induce a rage in the otherwise peaceful and solitary servant.

An unimaginable distance away from Elysium, far, far beyond even the most distant of stars, there was a light. It was a single orb of cackling, vernal light. This was the Carver, a celestial being whose body was nothing more substantial than a cloud of magical energy. Though its form would be huge by human standards, perhaps the size of a building, it was nothing compared to the vast emptiness. Here, on the very edge of the universe, empty space and utter darkness were the guardian's only companions. The Carver saw, worked, and even existed in a dimension higher than other beings could grasp. Trying to explain what the Carver was doing would be like trying to explain depth or volume to something that could only see or think in terms of two-dimensional objects. To put it simply, the Carver was carving, polishing, and filling in the cracks of a wall. This 'wall' was the sole thing that separated Elysium and its entire universe from the infinite, desolate, and strange Void that was beyond, ever eager to swallow up an entire plane of existence.

Using magic to strengthen and maintain this wall through various means was what the Carver was created to do. In the dawn of time, when Elysium was still freshly created, the Carver had met the Creator-God of this dimension. Sophist, as he was called, had warned the Carver of demons from the Void and other parts of the Multiverse. Sophist had implied that such monstrosities might somehow breach their way into the Universe and attempt to destroy it from within. However, that was a long time ago, even by the reckoning of a timeless being. The Carver had encountered neither Sophist or any other extra dimensional beings since then, and had of late been wondering if there was any merit to the Creator-God's warning. Demons skulking about and interfering with the Carver's divine duty was not a pleasant thing to think about, and the ever questioning guardian had to wonder if it was worth worrying about.

The Carver's thoughts abruptly stopped. There was some sort of ripple passing through the Universe, a wave of eldritch and destructive magic the likes of which the being had never before sensed. Instantly the Carver's mind was sent scrambling. Being a creature of habit and instinct, not knowing what to do was a daunting and new prospect. Still, the being's mind was far quicker and superior to that of any physical lifeform, so within the span of a moment the Carver had decided what to do.

The Universe was one great block of wood, full of crevices, rough spots, smooth spots, knots, and holes. The Carver knew and felt every one of those quirks, because it had seen or carved or polished every single one of them at some point in time. The Carver reached out, sensing the ebb and flow of the energies in the background, feeling the grains of the wood, so to speak. The Carver found only tiny crevice that ran throughout the entire sculpture that comprised the fabric of this plane. And then, the guardian followed it. Comprised of pure energy, it was possible to move at the speed of light with next to no effort. The entity poured out its essence, abandoning the spherical mass of energy that it normally manifested itself as. Now, it would be even easier. One moment, the Carver was on the very edge of the Universe attending to the Barrier. That same moment, the Carver reappeared in orbit around the Source.

The Carver's first sight was horrifying: the Source had been the heart that created and pumped the magic that was the Universe's lifeblood. Now, the gas giant was no more than a fountain that spewed out entropy and destructive magic. Somehow, something had corrupted it. The once majestic, beautiful gas giant now resembled a crimson sea of fire and blood. The Carver did not have to look far to find the demon responsible; being so closely attuned to magic and the signature given off by this Universe, it wasn't hard to sense an extradimensional being. The Carver quickly manifested behind Zadok. The wretch's otherwordly appearance and aura, combined with how it stared at the corrupted Source marveling at what it had done was enough to instantly mark it as a demon.

The Carver created, reshaped, repaired. Never before had the guardian been forced to destroy, to fight. However, it did not take long for the being to devise a strategy. The Carver coalesced back into the form of a great orb of green light. Then, without hesitation it began to mercilessly bombard Zadok with blast after blast of pure magical energy, meant to bend and reshape the demon's body into a cloud of dust.

Zadok would likely be taken off guard once the Carver appeared behind him and attacked, but the Carver made no attempt to hide its frantic thoughts. They were broadcast telepathically, for any who knew how to listen and interpret them. Since Zadok had telepathically communicated with the Weaver many times in the past, perhaps he would be able to do the same with the Carver, and make the frenzied guardian see reason.

Zadok was drifting above the Source, far enough away so as to see the whole giant ball of red, chaotic gases. While he was lost as to what to do, a green light emerged behind him, and angry thoughts flooded into his mind. He turned and was confronted by a large orb of green energy, which then blasted him with magic. Reflexively, Zadok blocked the magic with rapid movements of his arms, deflecting the energy around him. As he did the same for the following blasts, Zadok was able to hear the orb's thoughts, broadcast freely without any care. The thoughts were not linear, like most beings', but scrambled and multidimensional, like one particular being which Zadok had known personally for many Ages- the Weaver. The Weaver had been around since the beginning, and was one of the original Anti-Keepers. The Weaver had no aim other than the protection of the universe, which to him manifested as a vast array of threads of pure energy. The Weaver was outstandingly powerful, even compared to Zadok in his prime, as he was capable of manipulating matter itself. The Weaver was also a giant ball of energy, exactly like the one before him which was trying to turn him to dust.

Zadok relaxed his mind and received the Carver's thoughts as feelings and images rather than words, as he had done often with the Weaver. The picture was clear- a terrible act of entropy and destruction had been committed, and this alien being floating in front of the corrupted Source watching it must be the demon who did this. While Zadok was durable, and he could heal himself, the Carver's attacks were starting to wear him down. Zadok moved aside, avoiding the next blast, and said telepathically, I am not the one who did this.

Zadok dodged another blast, and continued, Just listen to me for a moment.

The Carver would not be easily placated with words alone, but Zadok had more than just words. In all the time which the Weaver had spent communicating by pictures and feelings, Zadok had learned to do the same in return. So Zadok delivered to the Carver his own version of events. If the cosmic guardian could see through its rage it would see the Source turning red of its own accord. It would see the malevolent red cloud of the Ripper emerge in the desert, consuming everything it touched, then flying off. It would feel Zadok's worry and fear over the situation with the Ripper and the Source. These thoughts and memories would rush through the Carver's mind, and Zadok prayed that they would be seen.

Macaroth came from his chapel and relaid new orders to the brigands amassed at his doorstep, he started speaking loud and clear but not threatening in any way "all men able to bear arms equip yourself with our newly made swords and armors, you will be my Man-at-Arms now, my soldiers as valuable as my Sons" The brigands didn't give it a second thought and the smiths begun working harder than ever. One third of the people moved to the mining town that was abandoned to resume mining for themselves. By now his forces were numbering in the several hundreds, the appearance of the red sun made the story of the reborn saint very appealing indeed so by now not only brigands were at his side but villagers and townsfolk as well. Yet they didn't squabble or fight, they were now as one in His eyes, one people united by fear, it made Macaroth tremble with excitement to sense it all, a maelstrom of emotion swirling ever more around him and a sea of souls slowly feeding his power.

The woman that had addressed him before, a young woman with bright red hair and sharp green eyes clad in fur and leather armor and bearing a sword approached him again when he was done speaking. He took one look into her eyes and saw all that he needed to see to make his next decision. He took her into his sanctum, into his heart and begun working on her to reshape her into what will become his voice and his vengeance in the field of battle.

The cocoon hung, perfectly still and quiet but for the whistling of the wind through the holes in the chamber walls. It had hung this way for several hours, but at this moment its stupor was broken. From within, its resident pushed against the thick, warm weave. Each shove extended farther than the last, until finally the fibers began to tear. After the first few threads snapped, the rest was easy, and with a gasp Clotho erupted from the swaddling cocoon. The intake of clear, cold air helped clear her muggy head, and after a few breaths she tore the remaining way out of the cocoon, leaving its smothering embrace behind. She thought of the trial of exiting her Heart as symbolic of the hatching of any creature, bringing something new and great to the world. In this case, Clotho held tucked beneath her arm an egg the size of a melon, a limestone slate in color and with pitted surface. Now able to move and think freely again, the Swarm keeper wasted no time by prepping her wings with a flurry of beats before taking off. Her burden limited her ability to fly, but she was downward-bound anyway.

If the Myrmidons lived in a cavity at the King Tree's base, the Antlions would dwell in underground burrows amongst its roots. The Antlions were built like tanks, just taller than a horse and as wide as a hippopotamus. They were thick, bulbous insects, not terribly unlike termites, but far more evocative of larvae in general. The outstanding feature of the Antlion was its head; four huge mandibles dominates the creature's front side, capable of striking with impressive force, crushing nearly anything before them, or grinding obstacles to dust. Stone, wood, even metal would fall before the voracious pincers. This, combined with thick legs and ultra high-traction feet -courtesy of a vast amount of barbs and hairs on each- made them very effective diggers. In turn, this meant that they'd also be outstanding siege engines, able to burrow through wall and building alike. Mental acuity and magical ability had not been considerations of Clotho; the Antlions were built for sheer physical prowess. A charge by these creatures could overwhelm the enemy defensive line, while an ambush from underground could decimate an unwary foe. This versatility meant that the Antlions, while straightforward in their capabilities, could always be useful.

Scutra met her on the leaf litter, bearing good news and a vial made from a hollowed-out branch. “The observation station is complete, mistress,” he clicked, covering his sensitive bulging left eye with a sickle, “I've tentatively called it the Compound of Eyes, as the structures that display the Macula's vision resemble ommatidia.” Clotho's own eyes, a brilliant yellow with layered pupils, narrowed as if to say 'how clever of you'. Realizing that his master could care less, the imp construct continued. “And, as requested, I have created a growth hormonal serum.” He explained as Clotho seized the vial with her free hand. “All the necessary constituents were in you already; all that I did was reorganize them.”

Clotho set the egg down on the ground uncharacteristically gingerly, as if it were an unstable explosive. Instinctively, Scutra took a few steps back. Without hesitation Clotho put the vial to her lipless mouth and drank. The aim was to incorporate the new concoction into her own repertoire, for use with the Stinger, but there was no easy way to do it. While her internal systems instantly got to work reworking the ingested liquid into a usable toxin, the serum also exhibited some effect on her own form. Spikes all over Clotho's carapace lengthened, and a few new ones formed, particularly on her head, where they stretched sideways into sharp substitutes for eyebrows. A hairlike material that more closely resembled scales emerged from Clotho's cranium in a linear pattern, forming a ridge about two inches tall that would have been a mohawk in a human, stretching from the base of Clotho's skull to the top of her forehead. Additionally, Clotho's pointed feet split in two, becoming both more elevated and more clawlike.

“Everything...satisfactory, mistress?” Scutra ventured to ask. Clotho looked at him as if noticing him for the first time, the blood-red sunlight illuminating her from behind. Her inner pupils were now fiery orange. “The body is an amazing thing,” she sighed, extending the Stinger and examining the new pink liquid seeping from the injector's tip. “Always evolving. This process is going to hurt quite a bit when you eventually craft me a neurotoxin.” She reared back before plunging the Stinger into the egg in front of her. Barely seconds past before the egg burst, the creature inside quickly swelling to huge proportion. In a matter of moments, a fully-grown Antlion stood where the egg had rested a moment before. It was a beautiful thing; against the leaf litter in the poor light it was notably hard to spot despite its size, and its gruesome mandibles gleamed wickedly like metal weapons. “Dig deep, my child,” the Swarm Keeper crooned, running a clawed hand over the edge of one of the Antlion's mandibles as it stood stock-still. “Make a colony. I'll need more of you for what's to come.”

With a guttural shriek the Antlion turned its head toward the ground and began to dig, shifting earth and plant alike in a whirlwind of activity. Seconds later it was gone, burrowing underground, and the dust settled. Clotho turned to face the general direction of Virens, red light now shining on her altered face. To Scutra she declared. “I'm going to visit the city again. Some Macula will follow me; I want eyes in Virens, even after my mission tonight is done. Tell the imps they have a few hours off.”


Compendium:
Antlion – second creature. Living siege engines. Six feet tall, six feet wide, and sixteen feet long, these huge bugs are sturdily built, with multicolored splotchy shells. They have four huge mandibles on their heads; these mandibles are incredibly dense and possess extraordinary strength, and are used for digging through the earth or tearing apart structures and enemies. The feet have high traction due their barbs and hairs. Physically powerful, but has negligible mental or magical capability. Though big and intimidating, Antlions' slowness and stupidity make them relatively poor fighters in sustained combat (though they can charge fairly quickly). The head, all muscle and no shell, is the weak spot—if you can get past the mandibles.

Clotho (changes italicized) - A low-born human girl called Nona was stung by an insect carrying the soul of a Keeper from an age long past, and the fusion of the two minds made her. A tall, lithe physical fighter that prefers speed to brute strength and is a master of bugs and parasites of all kinds. She is a foot taller than most men, with long arms and legs, and has a rather spiny, chitinous exoskeleton that is a dull brown-maroon in color. Two gossamer rounded wings form into a cloak when not in use. A mohawk of sorts adorns her head, made of a rough, leathery material that resembles scales. Her favoured weapon is a barbed sabre, which goes in cleanly but is very messy coming out. Using the power from the Biomancers' Guild's amulet, she has improved armour and a needle-like protrusion from her arm called the Stinger. The Stinger is full of corrupted life magic, capable of delivering devious toxins once developed as well as being a potent tool for exerting her will.

The dungeon’s heart was black. No light disturbed its darkness, no motion its stillness. And then a golden spark broke both as Xir’ain gasped back to life. What was that? Confusion. He had been in pain, from what? Magic. Enly’air! The black keeper spun around, but he was alone in the chamber. Where had she gone? His thoughts were a jumbled mess of pain, confusion, and something else he could not name. He needed to find her.

The center of the chamber began to whirl and boil, and the dark rock walls were illuminated by the sudden storm of golden lightening that blossomed to life in the heart’s core. A black wall of water pressure cut off the heart from the dungeon main as Xir’ain began to search. It took but moments for him to find her.
--
The runner ripped into the intruder’s flesh, unmindful of the burning that filled its mouth and throat. It was thrown back suddenly, pushed by the giant’s shield, which matched its wielder for size. As strong as the giant was, the runner’s speed was greater. The giant seemed to be in slow motion as the runner planted its four feet against the surface of the shield and pushed off. Faster than the eye could follow, it darted to the tunnel’s ceiling, flipping to push off again. And then it was crouched against the far wall. And then it struck again, suddenly on the intruder’s broad back.

Whip-like tail wrapping around its thick, muscled neck, blade-like tail slashing at its huge face, jaws unhinged to stretch over the top of its head, to let needle-like teeth pierce the intruder’s deathly eyes. Its movements were so fast through the black water that it was already poised to strike again before the giant shield even his the tunnel’s rocky wall. It was the sound of that impact that shook the dungeon and brought the keeper’s attention to where it needed to be.

Kill the intruder. Protect the heart. For the master. The runner’s thoughts were unclouded by reservation or self-preservation. It would fight until either it or the intruder was dead.
--
Enly’air brought up her arms to protect herself from the creature’s gaze, and her arms bore burn marks from where the eye’s curse struck. Only when the burning lessened did she lower her arms and open her eyes. Barely in time to see a spear, huge like its owner, about to end her recently renewed life. The tip was wider than her entire body. It came closer, inches from her chest. The force behind it was incredible. It hadn’t touched her yet and already she could feel the force of it pushing her back. There would be nothing left. There wasn’t even time enough to attempt magic.

The spear was smashed against the side of the tunnel so hard it was embedded in the solid bedrock. Enly’air stood in shock, uncomprehending that she was not dead. A great black hand filled the tunnel before her, made of black water solidified like thread, just like her dress. He had saved her life. Again.

Are you all right?

Xir’ain’s smooth voice slid through her head. She knew that he was nowhere near, but she still looked behind her. He wasn’t there. When she closed her eyes and looked all the way to the end of the tunnel and into the dungeon’s heart, she could see him there. A light filled the chamber, and Enly’air had to force herself to open her eyes or risk blindness so bright was the light of a keeper at work.

“Yes, I am. Thanks to you.”

What is this being? Do you know it? It feels old.

“No,” Enly’air said, “but it started killing the creatures of your domain. I assumed that it would attempt the same should it find you, so I left to try to drive it away.” Xir’ain was quiet for a moment, and Enly’air could feel in her head that he was thinking about something else.

Yes, the runner’s memories and the amount of blood in the waters supports that.

He was distracted by something again.

The water is tainted. The runner is dying from it. Tell me, how did the creature kill the eels? There are no bodies I see.

“It killed them with its eye. Whatever is looks at dies and decays.”

Xir’ain seemed to accept that at face value. A creature with an eye that killed was no more strange than anything else to the keeper. He wanted to do experiments on it, see how it worked. Make it better.

Enly’air thought she heard Xir’ain’s slithering voice say something. “What was that?”

I will protect you from its eye. I will give you strength to fight. You will defeat it. You will bring it to me.

Though the keeper said each as a statement, he also seemed to be asking for her permission. So she replied, “Yes master.”

The black hand of solid water unraveled, and for the first time she saw that all of its watery threads ran back to herself, coming from the black scar over her heart. The black threads retreated into the gash, and then that flowed back out of it, this time flowing outward across her body. It pressed against her skin, covering her front first, down her arms and legs and then over her face. She had just enough time to close her mouth and eyes. She was surprised to find that she could breathe through the material as easy as normally. Though it appeared dense, it was truly just water, and with each breath the black water flowed through. Her eyes being covered and shut was no hindrance, for she saw more with her eyes closed than any other saw with theirs open. The black material flowed around her sides, merging with her dress in the back and strengthening it, working its way up her back and neck, weaving throughout her hair, turning it black as the waters surrounding it.

Strange gold-rimmed gray eyes closed tight, Enly’air saw her transformation from the outside. Her entire body was covered from head to toe in solid black. The features of her face were visible, even her eyes and mouth. It was as if she was wearing a mask of her own face. On the front of her body the black material pressed against her skin tightly, ignoring all thought of modesty, but on the back it retained much of the appearance of her black flowing dress. Her hair floated freely and darkly in the water.

Her appearance was such that she would have been mortified to be seen by another, but the creature before her and the creatures of Xir’ain’s domain where not human. For the same reason one did not feel ashamed to be seen naked by an animal, she did not feel ashamed of her appearance. It didn’t cross her mind that she wasn’t thinking of Xir’ain as being human.

Enly’air stepped forward in the black water. She, who had never fought for anything in her life, was certain that she could kill if she was like this. She reached out one black-clad arm, surprised that her motions weren’t constricted in the least, and pulled the giant’s spear from where it was embedded in the stone wall. Enly’air felt invincible. The slight pressure that was Xir’ain faded from the back of her mind. The last impression she felt was that he was troubled by something.

How long had he been stuck in this room? Not that he was a prisoner, but he was trying to hide from the men looking for him. It was Neru's goal to get out of the city at night through the one part of the wall that had yet to have its gate filled in, as per his father's orders before he was taken away. The young man readjusted his rather unique weapon set, a pair of clawed gloves with a miniature crossbow on top of each forearm, before leaning out the window to check the street, it was clear. He climbed out onto the roof and made a split-second decision, taking off back towards the square via the rooftops. He could make his escape later, now he had to at least attempt to free his father from his semi-public execution. The thought of what happened brought anger to the forefront of his mind, the noble they served had seen fit to accuse his father of treachery on the grounds that he had killed another noble. In truth, their lord had simply ordered a man to be assassinated and framed his father because of his rise in rank and popularity. Neru shook these memories away, as they would simply cloud his mind when he needed it.
-
A hundred feet above Neru's rooftop soared a dark form that also had death in mind. Though the dragonfly wings kept up a steady droning beat, the hour was not yet so late that the city below wouldn't drown out any errant noise with its hubbub. People still walked the streets, heading from work to home or out to various establishments for a late bite to eat or early intoxicant. The silhouetted flier was not, at the moment, pursuing her goals. Instead, she stalked the man simply because she took pleasure in hunting the hunter. For a few minutes now both she and the Macula that clung to her right foot had been watching him closely. Clotho wondered what exactly he was up to.. Initially, she assumed he was a thief, particularly when the radiance of a streetlamp illuminated pointed metal in the vicinity of his hands. Judging by his movement, there was definitely purpose to his antics; in his journey he displayed a certain determination and eagerness that set him apart from the common criminal. The real thieves and evildoers of Virens, as she foggily remembered from her days as Nona, were not out prowling the streets or cavorting across roofs but reclining in their office chairs and looking out from their high glinting windows across the city they ruled. Seeing as the night was still young, the Swarm Keeper decided that she could spare a little time to find out where this man was heading. Normally she wouldn't have paid the worm any mind -the concerns of people were beneath her now- but some urge at the back of her mind pushed her to follow him. Thus, the faintly buzzing black shadow descended from the open air to only a few hundred feet above and behind the vagabond called Neru.
-
He was almost there, just a few more roofs and he'd be at the square. A chill ran down his neck that caused him to pause and spin around, feeling as though he was being watched. After confirming that there was no one there, and unconsciously swiping at a bug he thought near his ear, he continued on his way over the last few roofs. Unfortunately, he was too late, as he arrived to see his father's body on the ground in a pool of blood, with a couple others lying near him. He had managed to get free, it seemed, and fought instead of just rolling over and dying. A couple men had just started disposing of the extra bodies, and nearby there stood several men in robes or other high quality clothes. Most of them were what he called 'untouchables', crime lords with enough power in the city to easily avoid the laws, but his eyes fixated on one alone. That one man had earned his father's loyalty since before Neru was born, subsequently gaining his own loyalty as well. They served as soldiers for the city, the father rising in ranks while Neru had planned to join them in the near future. Then this. Once he had separated from the group, escorted by four of his own guards, Neru stalked the men he would kill for their betrayal through the alleys until they were at a quiet location before getting down to street level. He wasn't quiet, as he was too angered to be so, and the rear guard spun and uttered a few words, only for the others to turn and see blood splatter from the man's torn throat. It was uncharacteristic of him to not think of a strategy before engaging a group, but this was a rare occasion. The lord, a fairly pudgy man with medium black hair, full beard, and usually kind look, had a twisted grin on his face as two more guards stepped out behind him, likely thinking it was just another would-be assassin. The grin turned into a scowl and the guards noticeably flinched in both surprise and shock as Neru stepped over the body and into the lamplight, revealing his light-brown hair, fit figure, and green eyes, which had a strange glow about them in the lighting. "Neru..." One of them murmured, to which he responded bluntly, "That name is already no more." They understood what this meant and drew their weapons, knowing that despite the advantage in numbers, he could still kill them all if they weren't careful enough.
-
The gathering of men in the square elicited hatred from the flying watcher as well. In years prior, those crime lords had formed the top rungs of a long, insidious chain that reached down to an urchin girl living in the streets of Virens. A pretty face backed by a quick wit and in desperate want of basic material needs was an inviting prospect for the underlings of the crime lords, and so for several years Nona had been an off-and-on finger of their great, invisible hand. Minor theft and facilitation, however infrequent, bothered the girl. Despite her low upbringing, she had drawn some pride out of her self-sufficiency to keep her going, but serving as a lowly minion for the mafia-esque criminal organization eroded that. For a time, she had dreamed of rising through the ranks to become a ringleader in her own right, but naturally there was zero chance for self-improvement in this underground economy. She had sought release by leaving the criminal life behind, for which the higher-ups could honestly care less, and seeking aid from Theo instead. The memory of the bosses, though, identifiable only by intimidating nicknames and their appearances as whispered top her by various toughs over the years, stuck with her. The murder of these masterminds was the objective of the Swarm Keeper tonight, and by sheer luck the man on the rooftops had led her straight to them.

Clotho landed softly across the square from Neru, confident that his fixation on the people on the ground would keep her out of his attention. Back to solid ground at last, the Macula attached to her released its grip and fell onto the roof beside her. After struggling to regain its feet briefly, the insect climbed onto a nearby chimney and was still, watching the square balefully with its grungy abdominal eye. The blood of the executed man below, dark and congealing on the cobblestones, heralded the end of the gathering, and the crime lords went their separate ways flanked by numerous bodyguards. Clotho identified three big fish she wanted dead, but one of them -the pudgy one- was apparently also on the hit list of Neru, since the man followed him. "Trace the leg-breaker," she whispered to the Macula, indicating the beefiest of the lords as he vacated the square. With a chirp of affirmation the Macula left to shadow him. Every few minutes it would sing a few notes to denote the man's location and allow Clotho to find him again. The Swarm Keeper herself took off to follow the third, a very average man garbed in large-brimmed hat and a tailored dark-blue coat. The shadow of death -of ironic justice, even- fell upon Virens.
-
Now that some of the anger had been burned away by his killing of the guard, Neru was able to think. They would not be able to surround him, too little space to effectively do that in the alley, and they were all armed with swords without shields. So these were more thugs than actual guards. He was brought out of his thought process by a sharp and sudden pain in his thigh, and he looked down to see the guard he thought already dead had used the last of his strength to drive a dagger into the side of his thigh. This distraction was the others moment to attack, and attack they did. Despite this, however, Neru was able to lean out of the way of the first clumsy swing and drove his clawed gloves into his neck and jaw, pushing upwards until there was a sudden and audible crack. He used the limp body to slack a stab from his left and dropped it, forcing the blade out of the attackers hands. Neru shot a bolt into the man's eye, killing him instantly as it reached his brain. Just three left, not including the lord.

The last three were smarter, coming at him all at once, but that was predictable and Neru ducked below their attacks. He grabbed the sword arm of one at the side and swung him into the others, ignoring the dagger in his leg, causing them to stumble and one to fall. He dispatched the fallen one with his other bolt and and raised his hand at the others, palm outward. Neru had potential for magic, as much as he thought it difficult to learn, but he had one spell memorized that he selfishly dubbed 'ignition'. As they went to attack him again, a tiny fireball formed in front of his palm before it exploded outwards in a small shower of fire and sparks. While it did not kill them, it burned their faces and eyes, blinding them and making them useless. Now all that was left was the lord, the man named Toalu, who'd somehow pulled out a sword from under his robe. A look of hatred was in his eyes as Neru approached, and he swung downwards, making it too easy for Neru to catch his wrist and dig his claws into his skin. In seemingly one motion, Neru grabbed the sword with his free hand and with a flourish spun around behind Toalu and sent the blade backwards through the man's chest. Swiping his claws through the back of his knees forced Koalu down on his knees in an upright position. Pulling the sword back out, Neru swung it once more to behead him, only for the blade to stop halfway through his neck when a dagger hidden in the folds of Koalu's clothes was drawn and sent into his left ribs. It wasn't fatal, but the potential blood loss would be. So, with the nearly decapitated corpse forming a pool of blood, the man once known as Neru made his way out of the city.

The Carver did not respond to Zadok in any conventional sense, with words or pictures or any other matter of telepathy. Rather, it accepted Zadok's story as truth, for deception was all but impossible when your mind was entwined and melded with that of another. The celestial being ceased its physical attacks at once, before forcing itself into Zadok's mind. The resulting experience would be intensely painful and uncomfortable; the Carver's vast and alien mind probing around probably felt akin to a parasite devouring Zadok's brain.

With blatant disregard for privacy the guardian rapidly sifted through Zadok's earliest memories, affirming that he was no demon. Memories of Sophist and other anti-keepers caught the Carver's attention. It sifted through them with even more rapidity, up until the events concerning Outremar's Apocalypse. Zadok would feel intense hatred radiating from his new friend at every mention of the Four Horsemen, beings of the sort that it referred to as 'demons'. With an almost insulting ambivalence, the being glossed over the memories of the other anti-keepers' downfalls, Helrac's horrible death in particular. Then, there was shock, disbelief, and perhaps even a twang of mourning upon seeing the murder of Sophist at the hands of the Horsemen. As the Carver had shared some small connection with Sophist, it was hard to maintain neutrality and calmness, the guardian's preferred state of thought.

However, whatever emotions were displayed upon the sight of Sophist's death were swept aside by an unimaginable surge of horror and disgust, upon seeing the transformation of the Weaver into the Ripper, the monstrous red creature that was currently corrupted the sun. Solemn determination filled the Carver, a determination to end the monstrosity that had once been a guardian like itself, now twisted into hatred and destruction incarnate. The being retreated from the depths of Zadok's mind, no linger crawling about inside. A flurry of images would race through Zadok's mind as the Carver began sharing information of some sort. At first they might seem strangely irrelevant for such a goal-oriented individual. There were long, rambling speeches from Sophist about his masterpieces, vague details the Carver had picked up from his rare visits down to Elysium, and finally firsthand information about what was below the swirling clouds of gas that made up the Source.

The Carver continued to shove thoughts into Zadok, though they were now mostly words. The being was capable of communicating with rapidity, although it did so awkwardly. "I know what it inside there. Now you know as well. We both know that the demon inside cannot be allowed to continue. Dire implications. The Gateway must not be breached. I sense we are in accord. You come with me. May be of some help."

Likely before Zadok was even back to his senses after having his mind invaded, he would feel a strange tingling as the Carver wrapped itself around Zadok. It was hard to see through the ball of green, cohesive energy, but if Zadok did he would discover that he was being carried inside the Carver, towards the Source at what would be an exhilarating speed. Sheltered from the overwhelmingly powerful convection currents of wind that churned around the gas giant's surface, then from the heat, then from the pressure, and then finally from the electrically charged plasmas within the bowels of the star, Zadok would at last find himself and the Carver before the Ripper. The Carver could do nothing to protect Zadok from the terror he might now feel. The gases here were laden with magic, yet they still hungered for more, and so the Carver quickly found itself struggling to maintain a cohesive state. Zadok would be best to remain inside the safety of the guardian's form, as he would no doubt fare even worse if exposed to the Source's raw power.

_______________

Within the depths of the Source, the magic was strong beyond words. In such a concentrated state it superheated, compressed, and did other strange things to the matter of the gas giant, the combination of which allowed for it to emit light and act as a star. The magic would tear apart any living things and then break them down to their most basic and primal elements, just as potent acids dissolved stone. The Ripper, however, was not harmed. Rather, it dissolved, disintegrated, even removed from existence the magic-saturated gases that touched its form. The magic, however, was not destroyed. It was sucked into the ball of red energy, cannibalized to feed the Ripper and increase its already tremendous powers, or ejected outwards in the form of red, corrupted magic.

Content to feast upon the magic for a few moments, it was not long before the Ripper sensed something. It was hard, for the sheer abundance of magic served to distort and dilute the comparatively subtle traces of anything else, but there was an unmistakeable throb of holy energy coming from deeper. The Ripper made its way to the center of the Source, where it found a great, solidified core of metal. Flying straight into the core, expecting to simply force its way through, the entity was surprised to find itself unable to destroy whatever this core was. It did not take long to discover why: this was no physical matter, at least not as most things were. There were no tiny threads or particles making up the core; it was pure, concentrated magic, literally a ward so powerful that it took the form of an impenetrable ball of matter. Whatever was inside must be incredibly important, and incredibly powerful for its holy aura to seep through the ward. The Ripper's colossal shape stretched and wrapped around the rather massive core, which was a few miles in diameter. Slowly but surely, the Ripper focused its destructive aura to corrupt and weaken the ward.

Then the Ripper sensed something else, of equal interest: despite the incomprehensibly loud sounds of swirling gases and lightning in the plasma, the telepathic sound of Zadok's voice, and that of another, were sharply audible. When at last Zadok and the Carver arrived near the Source's core, they were addressed. The Ripper's splintered mind spoke telepathically, not as one, scrambling voice like that of the Carver, but as a thousand individual ones all clamoring to be heard. A dozen or so said clever remarks, though still more spat all sorts of vile insults at Zadok. One particular voice, seemingly oblivious to all that had happened, acknowledged Zadok in the familiar, ever-so-slightly friendly yet condescending way that the Weaver had always done. The vast majority of the voices, however, communicated only foreboding silence.

The Carver cut them all off. Its voice, loud and radiating confidence and unity, stood out from all the others. "Enough. I will end you, as your threads should have done!"

The Ripper's voices almost universally communicated a perverse and sickening glee at the prospect of destruction, regardless of the implication that it was they who would be destroyed. A huge tendril of red energy shot out from the Ripper, no doubt trying to encompass the much smaller Carver and corrupt its energies.

The runner's darting movements through the water annoyed the giant; normally, Balon moved far faster than one would expect for a thing of his size, but that was currently not the case due to centuries of rotting in the depths of the ocean combined with the injury that the runner had just inflicted upon his heel. Three eyes leered at the runner: one blackened by the plague, one that was blinded and cut in half in some ancient battle, and the final one that could kill. When the strange creature attempted to bite at an eye, it unfortunately picked the wrong one. The blackened eye had been petrified by the plague's noxious fumes, and was hard as stone. The runner would be lucky if half its dagger-like teeth didn't break upon biting down.

Regardless of whatever happened to the runner's teeth, what happened to its face wasn't pretty. By biting at Balon's eyes the creature had maneuvered itself right in front of the giant's face, scant inches from the eye that still saw and still killed. The runner's attempts to wrap around the giant's neck and to slash at his face with the barbed tale were both stymied by the massive bronze helm that crowned the old king's head.

Feeling the runner's life ebb away as it thrashed with more and more fatigue, Balon now ignored that worm and focused his attention on the girl that had narrowly dodged his spear, just in time to see her metamorphosis. Balon roared to the girl, who now more resembled the runner than a human, "Sea witch! One of your ilk once dared to fight me. She broke before me like tiny waves on the fjords, and I cast her defiled corpse and those of all her followers into the surf. Do you think that you will fare better?"

The old king hadn't even noticed that the girl was withstanding his gaze without any sign of harm. Balon hadn't killed anything purposefully that way; in all honesty the giant still hadn't grown used to that boon of sorts as this was the first time he had fought since being imprisoned and cursed. Enly'air, who was at this point touching the spear embedded in the wall, would find herself in a tug-of-war with Balon over the humungous weapon. Balon had maintained his grip on the weapon ever since it had buried itself into the bedrock, and so he was able to try ripping it away as soon as the girl approached. If Enly'air wanted to disarm the giant, she would have to either surpass his strength or somehow break his grip, both of which would be challenging even with her master's help.

General Danon B. Brie squinted up through the sweat and heat, his vision heavily blurred. Smoke filled his lungs, coaxing rough coughs out, shuddering his motionless body. He hadn't really understood how it had ended up like this- their army hadn't even suffered a dent from the last monster attack, and he had been told he need naught but sit back and let the spellcasters weaken the beast for them, before they could come in and sweep up the leftovers. But this- this did not happen like it should've. He could clearly remember the very moment it all went wrong.

His unit of troops had been exchanging idle conversation, spears hanging limp from relaxed arms. Though slightly more on guard, Brie still expected very little resistance from this 'monster'. He could go on for quite awhile listing off the fairy tale beasts that were supposed to be challenging, and ended up on someones mantlepiece. But when Ifrit's head rose up above the hillside, and smoke blotted out the sky, fear pierced his heart, as well as those of everyone else in the army. Happy spirits died down, as a solemn look passed over even the brave hearted spellcasters. As the smoke slowly rolled around the soldiers, chaos erupted.

Terrified, and unsure what to do, one lone soldier charged the beast, armed with naught more than a spear, and a seemingly massive amount of courage. This angry mosquito did naught but end his own life prematurely, and give the beast a reason to unleash it's full force. Within moments, no one could see through the smoke that rose from thin air, the smog alone bringing many to their knees. Cutting through the forest of blackness were long, flowing jets of flame, scalding the flesh of those unlucky enough to be caught in the blast of searing flame. As General Brie stumbled blindly around, he himself could feel the heat, as the bright blasts billowed before him, briefly brightening the blistered faces of his battered battalion.

Even through this chaos, though, the spellcasters fought valiantly, their magic soon cutting through the smoke, to shudder the bony hide of Ifrit. Though the shots managed to slow the assault of fire, many missed, to fizzle uselessly on the hard packed dirt, sometimes hitting the armored foot soldiers. As the enslaught of arcane bolts continued, Ifrit trudged forward, taking the shots as his body shuddered and swayed. Each time a spell hit its mark through the smoke, the massive bony tail swept around, wishing to inflict some pain in penance for this sacrilage. How dare they harm the mighty Ifrit, scion of the Infernal king.

A quick strike with the flaming tail was what floored Brie, and it didn't look like he would be getting up any time soon. Protruding from his chest was a splintered spear, impossible odds had thrown him onto this fateful spike, where he would surely take his last breaths. As the smoke began to clear around him, he could see more clealy those who had been rejected by fate as well. Scorched bodies littered the battlefield, others crushed beneath the massive bony toes of the creature. It seemed as though the spellcasters were not faring very well, not now that Ifrit was so close. Screams of pain echoed out from the smoke, some bodies being carelessly tossed aside, to crash on the ground with sickening thuds. Just before Brie slipped into the cold hands of death, he was able to through the now clearing smoke, that they had lost. The sun ran red with the blood shed tonight, another knife in their already dying dignity.

Ifrit let loose a mighty roar, proud of him having made short work of the army. However, beneath his blackened bones, the flames flickered, barely burning above an ember. He knew that he couldn't give up and show weakness now, a far larger part of the army lay in wait behind the city gates, watching. Though they were paralyzed with fear, Ifrit had very little energy to continue fighting. Indeed, Brother Ike had already weakened him with the magical mark- it was a miracle that he had survived this far. Yet before Ifrit could step to the gates of the city, he crashed to the ground, unable to stay up. Many of his bones splintered, as he looked up to the sky, hoping for some mercy, for his master to return and rejuvenate him, as he had done once, so long ago. Already he could see confused wizards popping their heads up, unsure of what to do, as fear still clouded their judgements, making them weak.

Though half an hour had passed and Neru had not died, the flies that were seemingly drawn to him heralded imminent death. Dimly satisfied and all-around numb, all the man could do was doggedly plod along, keeping to the shadows and alleyways with both hands clutching the dagger in his ribs to stem the bleeding. It was not enough, and already Neru's world was growing blurry thanks to some cruel poison on the weapon's tip. His premeditated escape route, meticulously planned, dissolved into a simple drive to keep moving and avoid any guards. Fat black flies now clustered on his body, since removing his hands from the blade to shoo them away might release a red tide and kill him in the matter of seconds.

"You look unwell," a husky, tremulous female voice remarked from his right. Neru whirled to face the unknown person as the flies departed his body en masse, but he saw only part of a shape leaning against a house and silhouetted against torchlight across the street. What rational thought remained in him had assumed the streets would be rather deserted, and if he met anyone it would be some guard only too willing to shove a spear between his ribs. This shadow looked like a woman, even to his blighted eyes, but it seemed too...big. After a moment the silhouette detached itself from the building's and sauntered toward Neru, who took an unstable, painful step back. While the poor lighting made examination of this new, befuddling being difficult, Neru quickly realized she wasn't human.

What she was, Neru didn't know. She looked vaguely human, or at like she once was, but his senses told him she was a dangerous being. He wasn't far from escape from the city, the next corner turned would put his exit in view, and that would only take him about thirty seconds to reach and only a few not-so-alert guards to get past. He took another hesitant and painful step back, before forcing himself to spin around and round the corner at a forced sprint, pulling the dagger still in his leg out and inaccurately throwing it behind him as he did so. The gate was too far, and the guards weren't looking, he only had to make it out and he would be free.

From around the corner behind him there came a supple thrap, like the whipping a large cloth to shake off its dust and dirt, as the long cloak of the monstrous woman flipped up and became four great dragonfly wings. Though Neru's frenzied rush had quickly distanced himself from her, the meters separating them quickly shrunk as she shot through the air after him. The sound of beating wings reached him, and despite his renewed hope of escaping the city he chanced a look over his shoulder. What he witness almost caused him to trip over his own feet and crumple into a limp mass on the cobblestone; spiny maroon shell, extended claws, razor fangs, and piercing yellow eyes with molten orange cores, only a few yards behind and ready to pounce.

With all of her weight Clotho threw herself upon Neru. He fell like a sack of potatoes, and lay sideways on the street, pinned by her knees. His hopes were crushed. "Why the hurry?" She murmured as he struggled, simultaneously trying to throw her off and keep the blade in his torso from causing any more agony. "I was only going to congratulate you on your kill. Normally I take out my own trash, but mongrels like these deserve a little something from everyone. It wasn't clean, though." One of Neru's hidden gauntlet crossbows went off suddenly, sending a bolt to ricochet off the nearest residence. Clotho reached down and yanked the dagger from between his ribs, prompting the man to gasp in torment. She probed the area of the wound with her hand, as he writhed, and suddenly he felt a new, biting pain followed by a wave of strangeness. Twisting his head, he saw a thin blade tipped with slightly luminescent pink-green liquid receding into his assailant's wrist. "If you survive this," the freak advised as she stood up, releasing Neru from the pin, "Follow your instincts."

Whatever she had done to him, Neru had to get away before she did anything else to him. So he pushed himself up and ran out the small gate, slitting the throat of a guard unfortunate enough to turn and see him come close. The strange feeling from before started to make its return once he was far enough into the forest that they wouldn't find him. He leaned back against a tree to inspect the disturbed wound before a sudden wave of intense pain caused him to double over and fall on hands and knees. He could only keep his eyes open long enough see his skin moving, stretching, and changing before they were screwed shut and a loud scream of pain tore its way out of his throat. He fell nearly limp onto the ground, convulsing and clawing at the dirt as his body changed.

A short time later he was able to force his eyes open and stood up, his still blurry vision spotted what was once his clothes and equipment shredded, torn, and in scraps on the jungle floor. He couldn't see himself, but he now looked much like the thing that changed him. His bones were dissolved, his skin had hardened into a jointed and armored carapace of the same color with lines and streaks of green making it look a little like uniquely colored marble. He was as tall as her now due to his limbs growing in length, but a slight bit bulkier, though not clearly noticeable. His fingers had been morphed into claw-like digits and toes fused into three long ones in the same fashion as hers. Wings like the creature's had erupted from his back but currently refused to lower. The differences lie first in his horn, which was similar to a hercules beetle that grew from the top of his forehead and reached a couple inches in length. Next were his eyes, which still had the same molten orange cores but were a subtle yet piercing green. Lastly were his forearms, which looked to be not completely developed yet, as there were cracks in the carapace from which a light green fluid slowly seeped and dripped onto the ground, burning it and revealing itself to be an acidic venom.

He felt something, or someone, drawing him toward it. But he found himself unable to fully resist its draw as he slowly stumbled toward the source, hating what had happened to him.

Some time later, the early morning hours had arrived, and with them an impenetrable darkness. Any human wouldn't have been able to see their own hand in front of their face, much less navigate through the dense jungle, but Neru was no longer human. Those new green eyes of his endowed him with a degree of night vision, painting the world around him in emerald rather than ebony. His mind was thoroughly addled, only seeming to accept new developments as they came along. unable to sway himself from the nameless objective he shambled toward. In his wake he left a trail of destruction as the acid seeping from the cracks in his arms corroded leaves, soil, and wood alike. At last, though, something stirred him from his obsession: a high-pitched cicada song, intensifying by the second as more and more insects took up the alarm. Drawn to the noise, he could see badger-sized bugs with eyes on their abdomens watching him from the foliage nearby, particularly a gargantuan tree he hadn't noticed until now. They made him feel uneasy.

He hadn't long to examine the oversized bugs and their eerie peepers, however. His attention was suddenly draw to new shapes, about his own size and closing fast. As they approached, Neru identified them as antlike warriors wielding spear and shield. They quickly spread out to either side of him, leveling their spears and clicking in a threatening manner. It became obvious their intentions were not at all hospitable.

There were five of them, and it looked like there might be others coming soon, but it was just them and the oversized bugs that seemed to be the alarm. Upon feeling threatened his sense sharpened and he instinctively flexed his claws. They were dangerous, they were threatening him, a threat to him... One's spear came forward and the creature once known as the human Neru spun out of the way, catching it midway with his hand and watching the venom that had coated it melt that portion of the spear. He immediately brought his other hand up and the result of it making contact with the warriors head was not pretty. The next one was similar, but this time he had melted through the shield and into the second warrior's chest, he did not fair any better than the first. The others learned from the previous mistake and stood side by side between him the giant tree that must have been their home.

It was at this time he seen a recognizable figure flying toward him from the tree. Upon seeing it his, needle-like teeth were bared and he moved as though to attempt flight himself, only for it to turn into a grimace as his mind suddenly felt as though it was burning and tearing, causing him to let out a scream of surprise and pain and forcing him to double over onto his knees.

"Stand down, troops," The incoming being called, and immediately the Myrmidons took a step back and planted their spears in the ground. Clotho regarded the wretch before her, contorting with pain, with curiosity and interest. She quickly glanced at the two fallen Myrmidons, one practically liquefied by now and the other still twitching and making a horrific cackling noise. Drawing her rapier, Clotho hovered toward the dying warrior and put it out of its misery with a quick stab through the brain. "You'll be missed." Now with a grim semblance on her twisted features, she turned to face Neru and landed a few feet away from him, careful to avoid stray pools of bubbling acid. "All this considered, you look well, compared to the dying human I dosed a few hours ago. Still, I imagine you'll go cancerous in short order unless I stabilize you. Try not to spurt everywhere." The ground rumbled shortly before a fearsome Antlion exploded from the earth in a shower of loam. At Clotho's direction it gingerly picked up the near-comatose Neru between its mandibles. The Swarm Keeper took off for the Dungeon Heart, with the Antlion and its agonized burden in tow.

Though it was an arduous climb, the Antlion made good time thanks to the manifold barbs on its feet, and soon Neru was writhing on the floor of the Dungeon Heart. Clotho had been correct; the mutations were on the verge of going out of control. Quickly she bound a few strands of her cocoon about him before entering it herself. Once inside, her consciousness expanded into the living weave, and a link established between her and the mass on the floor. Having familiarized herself with the process during her alteration of Scutra, Clotho was able to halt the unchecked progress of Neru's metamorphosis only seconds before it would have been hopeless. Exhaling with relief, she began her work. Envisioning the armor of paladins she had once seen as as girl in Virens, Clotho fashioned Neru's carapace into sleek, contiguous plates rather than random outcrops and growths. His head and shoulders, particularly, reshape to form a chitinous gorget and armet. She took a liking to the huge rhinoceros beetle horn and preserved it; in fact, she began to take a personal interest as a whole in his form. The wings were like hers -a quartet, long and thin like a dragonfly's- and were nonfunctional, unable to support his weight. They were replaced by far stronger, decidedly beetle-esque wings, protected by hardened forewings that formed a shape very like a shield when not in use. On his forearms, she restricted the near-constant flow of acid with pores that could be opened at will. As a whole, his carapace became darker than hers, almost black, and spare life energy was used to make him larger as well. Now he would stand approximately 7'8" tall, burly and dangerous, an insect knight. The task was completed...all the new masterpiece needed was a name.

"Rise and shine, Baudrii." Clotho whispered, kneeling beside the huge, dark body. The hints of morning sunlight played into the chamber, though their red tint made them less cheerful than they would have otherwise been. She gently pushed on his shoulder, ready at a moment to spring back if he awakened suddenly. "I know you're not dead; if you'd perished, the feedback would have killed me too. Get up already."

The last stretch of transformation was painful, but nowhere near as bad as before and before long it had stopped. Moments later, he heard someone speaking. Baudrii, no, his name was... Wait, what was his name, perhaps it was actually Baudrii, it was. There was a push on his shoulder and more talking, then he finally opened his eyes to be looking our of openings in a helm shaped shell. At first his body twitched, then he slowly got up and hesitantly stood straight and looked to the source of the voice from before. Memories that he didn't know were his kept resurfacing, but he couldn't yet make sense of them.

His armet cracked horizontally and opened up to reveal his face and allow him to speak more clearly, "Wha-... What am I?" A pause as a memory managed to make itself clearer, "What did you do to me?" Clotho inclined her head, smiling without malice and taking in his mostly human features that had before that been masked by the shell armor. She rose to her full height and found herself a few inches shorter than her creation. "I saved you," she said simply. "And you are mine." At that, Baudrii only stared. Extending a hand for him to take, Clotho continued, "Come. Let me show you your new home." Still gawking at her blithely, he placed his gauntlet over her outstretched hand.

Thirty minutes later, Baudrii was familiarized with the Heart, the Eye Compound, and the Apothecary, and the carved passages, branch walkways, web bridges, and vine paths that connected them. From afar his new mistress had pointed out the general area where the Myrmidons and Antlions dwelt, though of course the Antlions were too far below the surface to be seen. He had also been accosted by several Macula, each raising an alarm upon seeing him, though after a few encounters the reactions had all but ceased. More importantly, he had grown familiar with himself...and with Clotho. Though neither Keeper nor Adjunct -as Clotho called him rather than a Construct- really thought about it, a sort of intimacy existed between the two. Despite this, Clotho was quick to assert her mastery. Their last stop was the Living Foundry, where they parted ways. "Tell the imps what weapons you'll be needing," Clotho implored as she stretched her wings to fly elsewhere, "Then find yourself a place to settle. It's a big tree." Then, with a flutter, she was gone, and Baudrii was alone in the moist, musty chamber with two grotesque drone imps.

Elny’air was jerked forward as the spear was pulled effortlessly from her. The giant had the strength to match its size, that was for sure. But it was still nothing compared to her master. She charged, pushing off black water that seemed to become solid beneath her feet. From her outstretched hand came snaking threads of black water, wrapping around the retreating spear and pulling her to it. Using its momentum, she flew at the giant, landing on its metal breastplate, her hand changed into the shape of its spear, though of a scale to fit her instead of the giant. The end of the spear had found its mark, embedded in the chest of the thrashing runner. The creature stilled.

Enly’air ripped the spear out of the creature, its tail numbly uncoiling from the poisoned creature’s neck as it began its slow descent to the bottom of the watery tunnel. She spun, the tip of the spear shifting from one end to the other as she turned. This time she aimed for the giant’s brain, if such a thing moved the creature. A current of black water was pulled behind the black spear’s miniature point, it cutting the water in anticipation if flesh and bone.

Enly’air, stop.

She froze mid-swing.

Macaroth carefully chanted and gestured over the pool of quicksilver as it rippled and swirled in its pool. His vision passed to the animate metal and it worked magically to bring that vision to life as the master demanded. A smile crossed his face as he imagined the untold destruction his construct would wreak upon everybody who opposed his will. She would be his masterpiece, his newest pride and newest terror.

Outside the people worked even harder than anticipated, spurred by their fears they made and armed two hundred sets of arms and armor and as many capable men were armed and being trained by the deserter soldiers and guards who flocked to Macaroths congregation. They too will make a formidable force in their own right, complimented by His Sons from above, they too received plate armors for their chest and back, they wore long metal vambraces and gauntlets, the women made sturdy long cloth skirts to allow them mobility if forced to the ground and they were given a new weapon as well, the Crossbow, now they were three times as dangerous as they were before, and in their polished armors they were fearsome to behold indeed.

So their preparations went on as their Saint advised, slowly however his sapping took a toll on those who were there longest as they begun dying in their sleep, the people blamed the red sun for that and were made even more zelaous as Macaroths power grew ever more.