When Calvartem was in sight of the town he stopped and surveyed the scene. There was the blue ocean, tinted red in the tainted sunlight, with several ships of various sizes in it. Pebbles and gravel lined most of the beach in this section of the coast. As for all towns, farms had been made around it. More importantly to Calvartem, the town was well fortified, but it seemed more equipped to defend for the sea rather than land. Regardless, it would not be easy. Cannons, watchmen and even those red-robed fire mages were present on the walls. Unlike the last fortified town this one did not have a keep, but it was larger which suggested a greater potential defence force.

Before Calvartem could hope to assail this town he would need a sizeable force, and for that he would need to either find or create a sizeable number of corpses. Calvartem himself was too conspicuous to get close enough to spy out any graveyards without having to either fight through or alerting the town's defences, so he summoned a group of imps. These small, shadowy, ghostly forms have the element of stealth, and do not raise immediate alarm on sight, making them acceptable for scouting and spying, although Calvartem realised that he would need to devise a more effective method of espionage for future.

"Split up and find and locate any crypts or graveyards in or around this town. Do not get caught. Report back to me," Calvartem ordered. The imps silently drifted off to obey.

Conquest, with his ability to levitate above the ground, would soon catch up to Calvartem, and see him standing next to Shadowmane with a small hill between him and the town. When Conquest arrived, there was a few moments' pause before Calvartem briefed him on the plan so far. "I have sent out imps to scout the town, identify where they keep their dead. Once I know those locations, we charge to them. You deal with guards and soldiers that stop us. I raise a horde from the graves, and we charge to the next crypt. It will only be a matter of time before my horde is large enough to overwhelm the whole town."

After a further wait, the group of imps returned in ones or twos. To each Calvartem granted speech, and they gave their reports, going to the top of the hill and pointing to the town to provide locations. Along with the location of a graveyard outside the walls and a crypt inside the walls, the imps also reported of a Paterdoman church, busy water-front marketplace, law enforcement, and a small naval/army base. Once the reports were done Calvartem waved them back to the Void. "The way to the graveyard should be mostly clear. This is good."

He then swung up on to Shadowmane and, without need for any words, they galloped towards the town. He quickly joined a road and raced down it towards the graveyard. However, his presence did not go unnoticed. The men on the walls saw the skeleton riding the horse of shadows at unnatural speeds, and they had heard reports of a Necromancer relayed out of Paterdomus, so they were swift to respond. A couple went off to raise an alarm, while the rest who were on the walls (not that there was a huge number) readied their arms to fire upon the Necromancer. Muskets, crossbows and fireballs whizzed past Calvartem, who was quite difficult to hit due to Shadowmane's speed and agility, but in the first few moments a musket ball did sink in to Shadowmane's thigh, with little effect. Calvartem would be at the graveyard soon, but cover there from the walls was negligible and he would be stationary there. The defenders would even be able to aim one of the cannons on the wall at him and his soon-to-be hoard once he stops.

The mountain of Er, great and holy to the people of Erimos, stood proudly in the middle of the flat desert landscape as a pillar to the glory of the Gods. It's peak, touching the clouds above, was said to be the source of the oasis that lay in the shadow of the mountain. The water in this sacred pool was said to be miraculous; it could cure the diseased, heal the wounded, and turn bad luck into good. The mountain gave freely of its gifts, never asking for anything in return. It had always been there, and would remain forever. Or, well, that was what the preachers used to say. But other people had other plans for it. Great plans. Terrible plans.

Ulmag opened his eyes. All around him was blackness. A cold, hard blackness. The inside of the mountain contained him, confined him, its awesome weight bearing down on him as the yoke of ages. Slowly, ever so slowly, his body began to tremble and move, and with it, the surrounding rock. It began to glow with heat, then crack. A forced smile spread on Ulmags lips as he struggled to raise the heat higher and higher. The rock melted, then bubbled, then boiled. It was then that he started to climb. Clawing his way ever upwards, the heat began to spread through the mountain. He was forming a core of molten stone and ash and smoke, and he would unleash it from the very same top that the people of Erimos held so sacred. He already delighted in the prospect of their horrified faces. He longed even more for the smell of their burnt flesh. As he came to the peak, he slowed his progress and began once again to heat the stone around him with his red-hot body. Once it reached critical mass he would release it, and then...

A small caravan och pilgrims were situated by the oasis at the base of the mountain. Caravans like this one was not an uncommon sight around Er, since all the people of the desert wanted to drink the holy water. It was a journey most families did every or every other year. The people here today had already been here for some time and would leave in the morning of the following day. But first they would feast on the food they had brought, and say praise to the Gods that had treated them so good. The first one to feel it was a young girl, perhaps at the age of seven. There ground was trembling. Only slightly, yes, but it was there. She told her brother about it, who then felt it too, and was the first to hear it. The rumbling from the mountainside. He in turn alerted his mother, who by then had already felt and heard it, and she was the first to see it. The smoke rising from the holy pool, and from the sacred peak way up high. She tugged at the robes of her husband, who by then had both felt, heard and seen it, and as he turned his gaze to the skies and saw what was happeing there, he was the first to speak of it. His voice, however, was lost in the explosion as Ulmag released his built up heat and caused the top of Er to erupt in fire and destruction. The caravan was swept away by burning rocks, ash, molten lava and fire. The oasis, thousands of years old, evaporated in the blink of an eye. A great cloud of smoke and ash blew out of the newly formed crater and spread over the landscape, blocking out the light of the Source and blackening the white sands beneath it.

Ulmag stood at the crest of his creation and laughed, his terrifying visage finally exposed. The Keeper resembled a man, but with great ram horns, glowing yellow eyes, fangs and claws and crimson skin. He shaped a handful of imps from the molten rock about him, and set to building his burning Dungeon on the slopes of the mountain. The crater would continue to spew smoke and ash, expanding his domain further and further. He dove into the burning inside of the mountain to retrieve the Heart of the Mountain, which he would use for a Heart himself. His Dungeon Heart.

Finally, after having achieved a haven and a Heart, he set himself to meditate on the peak of the mountain, building in his mind the essance of his first minions, the fiends.

"Long, long ago, there was peace all throughout the tundra. While those below made war, the extensive natural resources around allowed us to prosper. Though smaller towns squabbled over land from time to time, it was never anything big. However, we soon faced true war. A group of savages, men with no laws or morals attacked. They killed us. Slaughtered hundreds. That was when we realized that we needed a home. Somewhere we can defend from the Northern Giants, as we called them.

So, the minds of our best architects conspired, to bring us Altearx. The fortress walls surrounding us are so sound, that our only weakness is an attack from inside. This is why, for so long, we shut out the world. We made enemies- many we're jealous of our protection, and wished for entry. It crushed those who were denied, forced to take their chances with the outside. This caused problems. When a group of radicals gained entry, and killed off a great portion of the city before containment, our current leader took drastic action.

Lord Kimbel. He was new to the throne, and raised to be paranoid. He brought us into the Century of Isolation, which was exactly what you might think it was. Our gates were locked. Anyone unfortunate to venture within range of our cannons was dispatched of without a second thought. Even our sister city, once our closest friend, was destroyed in this period of paranoia. It was hardly our brightest hour.

After we came to our senses, we established the Chamber of Incintricity. A group of our wisest political leaders... Not to brag. We revoked the isolation, and have since, been opening up more. Despite my best efforts, members are still hesitant to change, even the slightest bits.

You see, our culture is very traditional, keeping to our roots. We have been very slow to accept magic into our lives, even though the ancient runes on which our city was built were from an old society of mages. After we accepted magic, we enhanced our military, making them far stronger than the average man. Not something you'd want to mess with, eh? Though even now, our people are lax to rely on magic, it runs deep within our walls, ancient power that protects us.

Ah forgive me. Enough rambling from an old man, about old things. You wanted to hear the story of the Champions, didn't you? Alright.

Once, long before you and I, this land was ruled by eight legendary titans, each with enough power to level an army at a single whim. A deep slumber overcame the giants one night long ago, and their reign was brought to a sudden end. It was during this calm that the savages moved in, and our great fortress was raised. The titans were gone. Our people were safe. But that was just the calm before the storm.

The City of Giants. The ancient ruins in which the titans once resided. Deep within the dirt and debris, a cult devoted to the mighty warriors was working to bring back their reign. Unfortunately for everyone else, they were able to succeed before we found out about them. They only raised one of the titans, but it was enough. The savages were almost entirely wiped out, and we knew the Titan was moving towards us, and eventually the rest of Elysium. The Titan had betrayed those who woke him, killing them all, possibly to ensure his brothers were left asleep.

To stop this threat, five great heroes rose to the occasion. These were our champions. Each bearing magical prowess like no others, and each bearing a weapon of awe inspiring power. Arhim the Small- Faster than any others on the battlefield. A single slice of his spear renders an enemy twice as heavy, pinning them to the ground with their own weight. Darhok the Bulwark- He was able to take a thousand arrows to the chest and keep walking. Astride his pet boar, he smashed enemy skulls with a fiery morningstar. Alishe the Marksman has unparallelled accuracy, with any weapon given to her. She is armed with one of the earliest gunpowder weapons, a musket shooting pellets of iron that explode on impact as well. They were- are led by Verac the Kingslayer. He earned that name by no easy virtue. Any who have seen him on the battlefield know why he lead them. Though powerful, he was possessed by a need for justice. It consumes him, drives him. But he gets the job done.

Then, there was... the fifth Champion. Arkisae the Doomed... An appropriate name. He was even more powerful than Verac, but had less ambition. He was humble, and forgiving. Nothing like his... son, Verac. The two fought side by side for years before training the other champions. By the time they were needed, they were more than ready. The titan who had so cruelly cut down armies and civilizations was overwhelmed by the Champions, but just barely. The fight went on and on. Days, almost weeks, the Champions fought. Great losses were suffered. Darhok lost his praised mount, villages fell, and... Arkisae was lost.

After the dust settled, and the air cleared once more, our Champions retired. They now reside in a smaller fortress, far off in the tundra, just waiting for a challenge worthy of them- some reason to go out and defend their land. Let's hope we don't have to give 'em one, huh?"

--=--

The Patchwork Man stared up at the five statues, head cocked to the side. He had stood there staring for almost an hour after the story had been finished. Would these champions save the brave people of Altearx from the coming invasion? Surely they wouldn't get there in time. Still, he couldn't count on that if he waited for too much longer. So, it was time to execute the plan. It would be all too simple to just release the beasts from within himself, and wreak havoc, but that would be too unpredictable- the odds wouldn't be in his favor with that. The plan had been carefully laid out beforehand, it was simply his job to carry it out.

He directed himself back to the room in which he had been previously stationed. It was a nice private place to carry out the assault. Unzipping his chest, the Patchwork man allowed fifty of the Broken Beasts to spill out, each instantly burrowing down through the hard stone. They knew their jobs, where to go, and what to kill. They split up, groups of two burrowing from room to room. The work was long, and time consuming, but stealthy enough to not attract unwanted attention. To spare the lengthy and gory details, it was successful, until the very end, when a small group of soldiers managed to escape. The other soldiers had all been weary from a long night shift, and unaware, but the twenty five survivors were about to head out for their day shift.

By the time the Broken Beasts had regrouped, alarms were sounding across the city. Citizens were boarding up their doors, as the army began to withdraw from the walls. Though some stayed to keep watch over the perimeter, the situation was dire enough to attract it's fair share of attention. As troops marched to the central bunker, the Broken Beasts gathered beneath the threshold of the building. Just past the door was the Patchwork man, cloak on the floor. He stood proud, a wicked spear in his hands, a single minotaur beside him. It had been difficult getting the troops within himself, yet more still clawed out.

By the time he had finished, there were seventy-five Broken Beasts waiting beneath the floor, and three minotaurs accompanying him, each gripping a crude iron axe. The soldiers of Altearx shouted angrily, but the words fell on deaf ears. The Patchwork Man didn't really care. He knew that this would be the end of his life, and it would be damn well worth it. The soldiers would bang down the doors, and face a slaughter, be it of one side or the other. All that was left was for him to wait.

When the door splintered and fell to the floor, it was Tulo in front, a look of sadness and betrayal in his eyes. Remorseless, The Patchwork Man thrust out with his spear, the wicked tip finding its mark. The spear sank deep into the neck, just in between the plates of gold. The spear was quickly withdrawn, pulling Tulo back with a spurt of red. Not hesitating, The Patchwork Man stared at the soldiers with his magical eyes, stunning them. As the poor men clutched their eyes, The Broken Beasts burst forth, flailing their caustic limbs, wailing as loudly as they could. The army was in chaos, unable to hold together a good formation and beat back the monstrous invaders. Many retreated, creating a wall of tower shields at the gate of the civilian sector. It didn't matter, however. About twelve of the Broken Beasts were left, and one of the Minotaurs was alive, and their target certainly wasn't the civilians.

The sparse group of monsters ran away from the wall of soldiers, making it look as though they were retreating. But, rather than attempt to exit through the massive gate, they began scaling the fortress wall. Now, they were to disable as many of their outer defenses as they could. There wasn't much they could do. After wrecking two of the ballistae and killing one of the guards, the monsters were all dead, including the Patchwork Man.

--=--

Stamrad received his signal. It was time to march on the enemy. Drawing his sword, he vaulted the small railing of the outpost, sliding his way down the rocks that supported it. He stumbled a bit as he reached solid ground, but regained his balance before he tumbled. Raising his sword, Stamrad let out a fierce battle cry. With that, the army charged at the fortress, waving weapons in the air. The army of Altearx was crippled, split up, and weak, but when the warning horn sounded, alerting them of an outside attack, the soldiers did not hesitate to move to battle positions. The once powerful army of Altearx was a fraction of it's original size, but it was still larger than the army that fought for Viktor, and they were no normal soldiers. Rather than having spellcasters within their ranks, the army of Altearx was comprised entirely of supercharged elites, the kind who can, when prepared, kill a normal man with a flick of the wrist. That, along with their defenses, would make this no easy endeavor for Stamrad.

The army was lucky enough to make it nearly to the walls before the defenses were ready, but some of the slower ogres were impaled by massive ballistae shots, or crushed by cannonballs. That was new to Stamrad. He had never seen the likes of the cannons that rained fiery death down upon his army, and he liked it. The skeletons were the first to reach the walls, and small groups began to throw themselves at the wall, bashing their skulls on the hard rock. Each cluster made a small dent, and soon enough, there was a sizable hole in the wall. Not enough to get through, but enough to make progress a bit easier. Two of the Minotaurs brought up a battering ram of sorts, and began bashing it against the weak point with all of their might. Slowly but surely, rock began to crumble, before the Minotaurs were stopped. This close, the only weapons the defenders could use was hot oil, and they made sure to use it well.

The two Minotaurs fell, fur burnt and skin charred beneath the oil. More threw themselves to the task, determined to kill their enemies. Each pair fell, but not before one or two good swings. Eventually, the wall crumbled, bricks falling to the floor as the ogres shoved through. Bowmen were waiting, but quickly fell to the surge of one armed warriors. More and more guards poured down from the walls, some not willingly. The Wall of Flesh, having been unable to enter the village, rammed into the weakened wall, shaking it. Some arms were able to reach over the wall, and grab soldiers, providing him with a needed meal.

Stamrad watched over the battle, not attempting to assist, simply watching, shouting out commands where needed. A swift movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The metal man whipped around, sword in hand, to see what it was. A man in leather armor was sprinting away. A messenger perhaps? Either way, that would not be tolerable. Stamrad charged the man, hoping to overrun him. When it was clear that would not happen, Stamrad, knew what to do. A swift movement sent his ornate blade flying, going straight for the neck of the man. Just as the sword was about to make a clean slice, the messenger stumbled, falling just beneath the flying death. In frustration, Stamrad stamped his foot, much like a child would. At this point, it was far too late to catch the man. All Stamrad could do was hope that the man didn't reach his destination before the battle ended.

Hope that the Champions didn't make it.

There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. The gems might have been beautiful, were they not glazed with a layer of frost. A glacial, deathly chill would radiate through every part of Emily's body. It was unnatural, magical, sedative. The sheer cold would blind her eyes, creep into her lungs and stifle her frantic breathing, pierce her chest and slow her heart. Its savage bite tightened the muscles and rendered one barely able to move.

After a mere instant of that sharp pain upon being pulled through the portal, Emily would be in bliss. All her woes, all her pain, gone in a moment. A most welcome change would occur, starting on her extremities and exposed skin but rapidly spreading. It was a heavenly warmth, the feel of a hearth inside a warm cottage, sweet as molasses. The ice demon's magical cold was so powerful that Emily's body was nearly frozen. Her damaged nerves conveyed a feeling of robustness, when the cold was already nibbling at her flesh. Her algific flesh would feel a warmth from outside. Her own body was shutting down, already colder than the air around, so she perceived it as cozily warm.

There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. As the magically induced cold began to overtake Emily, forcing her into a deep sleep, the last thing she would see were the gems. They were strangely beautiful to a sleepy mind, though alien in a way. Emily would no doubt be saddened that her eyes would too foggy to see anything around the gems. That was all just a blur, though the gems appeared strangely clear in her vision. They were serene, deep, azure, like the ocean. Rolling waves, lapping on a sandy shore. The rogue being would fall into a deep slumber with thoughts of that picturesque scene filling her mind.

There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. The flesh around them was a pallid blue, the color distorted by a layer of rime. Yet even hidden beneath the skin of ice, the demon's visage was heinous. Its face, long pallid from lack of blood and blue from cold, was perpetually locked in an eery expression of contentment and glowing warmth, warped and made sinister by the coating of hoarfrost. That look was the stuff of nightmares; sadistic in the happiness that it displayed as the demon chilled its victims until their blood froze. It mockingly mirrored the looks of those that fell victim to its ice magic, lulled into a sleep and left to thaw in a slave pen, or simply chilled until their blood froze.

The demon, clad in armor of crystalline ice frozen harder than steel, reached down towards Emily's slumbering form. Though it might have once had humanoid hands, the demon's fingers had blackened as its blood had flown to such extremities before freezing for good. The lifeless, frostbit things had then began slowly falling off. What stubby fingers remained had sharp, jagged edges like broken glass. The claw-like hands snatched up the rogue being. Hefting her over his shoulder, the ice wraith trudged away. They were in the courtyard of a great castle, though the bleak redoubt was erected of ghastly ice rather than stone. Kokytos' winds screamed through gaps in the fortress's outer walls, the bricks of ice packed beneath no mortar save loose snow.

The demon carried the girl through the courtyard. The esplanade was desolate, for no plants could ever grow in this frigid hell where the oceans were imprisoned beneath miles of ice and the flensing winds stripped the flesh could strip the flesh off bones. The ice wraith walked with a lurching gait through a doorway, and then navigated the labyrinth of identical, glacial passageways. At long last, they came to a throne room where a demon of massive proportions presided over his domain.

The ice devil and its master spoke for a brief time. Their tongue was harsh and quick. The sounds that reverberated from deep within their chests were akin to the booming cracking of ice, the shrill howling of blizzards, and the deep rumble of an avalanche. The floor shuddered as the great warlord stood. Unlike his servant, the warlord did not take the resemblance of a frozen humanoid. He was a giant, covered in wooly fur, with two great curled horns coming from his head. His arms were great and brawny while his legs were disproportionately short. Jagged, dagger-like teeth stuck out from his maw, giving the warlord a dim and utterly savage appearance. Yet beneath that facade the yeti-demon possessed a low cunning. It was not through sheer strength, but by wicked treachery and careful planning that he had become a warlord and come to control a small swathe of land in the vast realm that was Kokytos.

The ice devil was dismissed with a wave of a hand. The lesser demon skulked away, back to its post outside the fortress. With a few heavy steps, the warlord closed the distance between himself and the sacrifice that had been carelessly strewn on the floor. The warlord's brawny fingers wrapped around Emily's torso, that one hand easily able to lift her off the ground. He dangled the girl in front of his face to examine. He stared down the girl long and hard, wondering what use she would be. Her frail body was battered and weak, and the warlord already had thousands of slaves. He began to contemplate whether Emily would make a good meal, or be an amusing plaything. It was then that the ice devil's magic began to wane. Emily's slumber began to end, though the cold hadn't left her. When she opened her eyes, she would find herself held in front of the gigantic warlord's eye. There floated one prismatic sapphire, amidst a sea of milk.

===---_---===

The Carver heard Zadok. How had Its nemesis been able to devise and set into motion such an elaborate plan, while evading the notice of an equally omnipotent being in the vicinity? It was in the anti-keeper's memories that the guardian found the answer; the empyrean meteorite that Carver had summoned and hurled at the Ripper must have been corrupted. The Ripper was devious, and through Its wretched plotting It might grow powerful enough to win. That could not be allowed.

The Carver redoubled Its effort, gaining a second wind as the realization sunk in that this battle was far from decided. "I sense it now. The monster's mind is preoccupied, it responds sluggishly and has went on the defensive. I will press the advantage that I still have while the Ripper is distracted. You must do whatever is necessary to cripple Its efforts. Your memories reveal that the meteorite has splintered into many pieces. You must locate the largest chunks, for those will undoubtedly have been sent to the most promising sources of power.

Ensure that the Ripper receives no aid. Exterminate or convert any that would align with Its vile goals. If at all possible, it would be prudent to channel energy of creation and holy magic into the unholy artifacts. I suspect that attempting to assimilate such magic will harm the Ripper."

Emily could feel the cold from the very moment she was dragged into the realm of Ice. Which, was rather surprising to Emily. While she possessed organic material in her body, it did her no good. She did not bleed like others, but rather oozed a thick, blue substance that was blood long starved of oxygen. Her earlier vomiting was actually a tiny spark of her magic acting subconsciously to what Emily thought would happen, rather than any organic process. Her eyes, arms and legs operated on and where maintained by a natural, separate pool of magic that would not be threatened by Emily's magical exhaustion, but could not be controlled in any way. This was why she was confused, when the cold seeped into her every orifice, making her muscles feel as if they would barely move, if she hadn't already exhausted herself physically with the massive magical outburst. For a moment there was pain and then she felt, happy, warm, as she had before the conversion. Emily never felt warm any more, her natural magic deemed it a luxury, and did not simulate it. Warm was different, and confusing.

Her body and mind began to shut down while in the scope to perceive two sapphires, many different colours shining though, or from, them. It was as if staring into the face of The Creator - may his face melt for letting the Keepers terrorize her world - but she did not get much time to behold it, since the ice took her away into the land of dreams. Or, would be the land of dreams. her natural magic could make her walk and talk, but advanced simulation like dreaming was beyond it's ability, so when the Ice Demon picked her up, and carted her to the master Ice Demon, nary a second had passed in her mind. So when the magical slumber left her, and she could see a massive eye in front of her, she flinched back, trying to work out what had happened in the gap. But then she calmed herself down, she would work that out later. The cold still sat in her bones, but something else was there as well, a Flare of magical power sat within her, small in comparison to what she could have, but still decent. It occurred to her that she hadn't burnt out earlier, but rather winded herself with such a sudden, extreme usage of magic, similar to intense working out without warming up first. She debated warming herself magically, but discarded it as a waste, and looked to address the the thing, holding her.
"So, I guess your the big boss here then?" She asked, rhetorically. "If you are wondering what to do with me, might I suggest putting me down? I am, without trying to boast, quite a skilled Rune-Smith. If you don't er...eat me....I could probably summon a Lesser Spirit of Ice, and fuse it with your body. It won't make you invincible, but it will certainly make you many times stronger than you are currently" She offered, the soft madness of Death seeping into her eyes and smile as she dangled, giving her a distinct, distance from the situation.

Before a great roaring fire, The Champions sat, all laughing and drinking. Thoughts of war and battle were far off, weapons in sheaths, left locked away. They were laughing about something. Politics, an old battle? It didn't matter, as long as the ale kept flowing, and the spirits stayed merry. Soon enough the laughter died down, and they were left staring at their cups, hoping someone would break the silence soon. Arhim looked up, speaking. "So, Darhok! How is Hilga?" He piped up, deep voice echoing through the stony chamber. All, save for Darhok and Arhim silenced quickly. Hilga was a touchy subject for Darhok. But still Darhok smiled and chuckled a bit, before whistling. Out from a hallway, the clattering of hooves on stone could be heard, until the small boar showed up, nuzzling up to The Champion.

"Ah, she is doing wonderful! Growing so fast, and so strong, just like her mother! You know, I'm surprised that none of you had asked earlier. It's like you all forgot that she's here." He said, as the boar tugged at his glove. "You'll excuse me?" He said, leaving the room to fill the pigs food dish. Alishe shot a pointed look at Arhim, but it went unnoticed. Without a word, the large-bellied man waddled off, to grab his spear, returning just moments after Darhok did, rubbing a blood-stained cloth across the ornate point. He smiled, double chin bouncing as he walked. Before he could reach his seat, Verac spoke up, stroking his rough beard.

"While you're up, Arhim, we're running dangerously low on ale. Show us that speed that you're so well known for." He spoke. His little joke sparked an uproar of drunken laughter that ushered The Champion out to where they stored the kegs of ale. Arhim struggled to grab another of the barrels of ale while still keeping a hold of his spear. 'I couldn't have put the bloody spear down. Arhim buddy, maybe we should hold back on that ale. We're not exactly thinking straight...' He thought to himself, making his way back through the snow.

He returned, to see he was just late for yet another hilarious joke. He attempted to join in on the mirth, but was met with only strange looks when he erupted laughing. He sighed, falling back down into his chair. Everyone passed their mugs down to him, which he filled up. He spilt more than he poured, but none noticed, or cared enough to point it out.

Alishe looked at the spear Arhim was still sharpening, before she nudged Verac on the arm. "Hey. Let's get your old butter-knife. Show us some of your old tricks?" She said, standing up. Unlike the others she was unfazed by the alcohol, able to hold her drink much better than the others. Though Verac was still rather tipsy, in comparison to Darhok and Alishe, he was sober as a nun.

Down the hall, and up the stairs, the two made their way to his quarters, leaving the brothers alone. "How are your magical practices coming along, brother?" Arhim said, breaking the silence. Darhok was staring off, a grim look on his face. Arhim sighed. "Alright. I shouldn't have brought up Hilga. Sore subject. I understand." He said, putting a hand on the shoulder of his younger brother. Darhok snapped back to reality, smiling at his brother.

"Don't worry. It wasn't that, certainly not. I'm just surprised by Verac and Alishe. They looked at me as if they expected me to cry! How are we to keep working together if they think of me as some... Some big softie?" He said, usually light voice now angry. Arhim looked at him, a look of pity in his eyes. He stood up, looking down the hall.

"Listen brother. We would all do the same if I spoke to Verac of... Arkisae. Darhok, you're not perfect. None of us are! Can we not expect you to feel? Grief, sadness? We might be a bit more than your everyday farmer, but we're still mortal! Let yourself go just once in awhile." Arhim said, patting his own large belly. "And not in the way that I did." He chuckled a bit at that, before sitting back down. He reached for his mug, before thinking better of it, and pushing the alcohol away. Darhok opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off when Alishe and Verac stormed in, armed for battle. No words were spoken, a simple nod told them what they needed to know.

The messenger almost reached the doors when they opened forcefully. Out came The Champions, heroes of Elysium, glowing in all of their glory. They did not linger on details, they had no time to waste. An attack on Altearx? Surely the fortress city could handle that on their own, though the champions. It wasn't their place to question. If the defenders of the tundra came to The Champions, it was truly a dire situation. "You can get us there quickly, yes?" Alishe said, speaking to Darhok. The Bulwark smiled, raising his Morningstar high. Runes appeared in the air before him, before the group vanished, travelling miles instantly.

--=--

Vragas the imp dashed through the raging battle between man and monster, his lithe form jerking from side to side as he dodged in between the crossfire. His eyes shifted faster than one might think possible, searching for that gleaming armor worn by Stamrad. That was his mission. Vengeance. The imp knew he had to hurry. The soldiers of Altearx would see him as an enemy, and he couldn't keep dodging swings forever.

After he had skirted all around the battlefield, he realized that his target hadn't been within the fray at all. 'Just like the coward, to be hiding away from the fight while others do the work.' Sharpened claws scrabbled across the bloodied flagstones, as he attempted to find some higher ground. He had not spent days tracking the army to fail now. It was here that one would die- and Vragas would make sure that he himself didn't end up in the grave.

Glee filled the eyes of the imp, when he saw the suit of armor, running from the fray. The mask hid the imps feral smile as it charged, arms flailing. Vragas was glad to see the mans back was turned, making his job that much easier. With a furious leap, the imp flew through the air, latching onto the helmet of his adversary, dragging Stamrad to the ground, face-first. Vragas skidded to a halt, crouched about a foot in front of Stamrad.

When he looked up, Stamrad was nothing short of shocked. "You... I killed you, you little bastard. What the... he stuttered, before being attacked again by the imp. The claws slid across his steel face, attempting to find a nook to grip. The claws caught on the eye-holes of the helmet, claws ripping through the magical body beneath. Stamrad shouted, before reaching up to his face. An iron grip closed around the neck of Vragas. The arm quickly flicked out, throwing the small beastie away. Vragas certainly hadn't been built for fighting, and he felt his bones break as he crashed to the ground. Perhaps this had been ill advised, after all.

Lying there, blood pooling beneath him, Vragas schemed. Perhaps he should go to Viktor, tell him of the deceit. Perhaps then, his vengeance would be dished out properly. Of course, this raised the problem of getting to the fortress in his battered state. Still, it would be manageable. Perhaps a soldier would take pity on him, and take him up on an offer to stem the cause the siege. No, they would be to cautious. Perhaps he could still get mercy from his own army, tell Stamrad that he thought it was an enemy. The poor imp's thought process was interrupted with a loud bang. He looked up to see Stamrad looming above him, hands clutching at his own chest, as if stabbed, but with no weapon. A quick look showed Vragas a small group- four men standing off in the distance, just approaching the fight. Before he could study the new arrivals, Stamrad was torn apart by a burst of magic, the shock wave knocking Vragas out.

Time had passed while the Keeper had been within his own mind, creating the first of his minions. When he opened his eyes, it was night, but not dark. The ever burning flames from the molten mountain kept the world around Ulmag illuminated with a red, almost organic, glow. It stood before him, in the center of the crater. The first of his minions, his fiend. The creature looked nothing short of amazing, absolutely terrifying, a vaguely humanesque body mixed up with fangs, talons, spikes, horns and red scaly skin. It breathed smoke, its insides glowing like the red-hot bowels of a smithy. It looked at its creator, uncertainty in its eyes. Suddenly, it coiled up, and moved to strike! Ulmag laughed in triumph as he struck the creature down, placing his clawed foot upon it as a sign of dominance, The creature squirmed beneath him, but soon realized it could not overcome this greater being. Ulmag released the fiend and kicked it from beneath him. It coiled up once more, but this time in defence. Ulmag, still smiling, adressed it. "Good! Good, my child! Anger becomes you, fiend, for it is in anger that I have created you. Anger at the tranquility of this World. Anger at the Beauty that is allowed to exist, uncontested and unmolested. And it is with anger that you will accept your place beneath me, fiend! You will do my bidding, and spread my rage throughout the world. That is your task. Your existance. Now begone, and multiply!" The creature hissed as Ulmag swatted at it, clawing its way into its new home in the mountainside. Ulmag, realizing he would need others to more directly control his newborn children, sat himself down once more in the crater, his Heart resting in his hands, and began meditating on his first adjutant: Gog.

Fire. Death. The foul mingle of the odors of burned flesh and the waxy smoke of wood. That was all that remained of the battling archdruid and champion once Soran's fire magic incinerated them in an instant. The demon advanced closer to see his handiwork. A few scattered, charred bones were all that remained of the champion, his skeleton splintered into a thousand pieces by the explosion's sheer force and his flesh turned to ash. Where has the damned archdruid scurried off to? the demon wondered to himself. Something rolled against his foot. The demon looked down in alarm to see a charred, wooden head.

He stooped down to pick it up, and examined the thing closely. Its dense, mossy hair had been mostly singed off. The back of the head was charred, but the face that was buried in the mud was unscathed. Still recognizable. The lips moved and twitched, perhaps in an attempt to say something, but no words came out of the detached head. Fangir stared into the construct's face, his dying gaze conveying an emotion that the general would never know for sure until his smoldering heart was naught but cold ash. Indignation? Hatred? Perhaps even peace, apathy?

After a few moments, the face's movements ceased. The spark in its eyes vanished. The great archdruid was no more. Soran dropped the head into the bog. Soran was wont to spit on the ground, but in death the human had finally earned a begrudged respect. The construct turned and resumed his wild charge towards the temple. Many more scattered defenders stood in his way. The first few he incinerated with fire magic, ending their miserable lives as easily he might that of a fly. Soon enough a few dozen pain elementals flew down to stamp out the last vestiges of opposition, sparing the general the effort of fighting his way through.

===---_---===

Shaige passed through the magical barrier he had created at the temple's entrance, the one thing between the thousands of vermin cowering inside and the ravenous spirits feasting on the life force kin outside. A great mound of rubble blocked the way deeper into the temple. The temple had suffered a fair bit of damage, both from the runic magic that had exploded with enough force to send Ifrit flying and from the false sun's violent explosion.

The wraith gestured towards the loose rocks and clenched a shadowy fist. The debris glowed with a sinister red light, and then it came alive. Pebbles and grains of sand flew; the whole thing shuddered and shook, animated by destructive magic. The Keeper felt a strange sensation creeping through his form. Anger? Disapproval? It took the wraith some time to comprehend: it was not his own emotions, as he was rarely moved outside of his cool, calculating manner, and when he was the result was a violent upheaval. Rage. An inferno of hatred. Not a small, smoldering fire creeping in from outside.

This disapproval was resonating from the flow of destructive magic into his body. No doubt the Ripper was less than pleased with his rather extravagant displays of power when there had hardly been imminent threat. The wraith was amused, if anything, by the Ripper's fury. It was not he that had come begging for power; the Ripper had gotten Its little deal, and now It was doing Its part. He intended to more than repay the debt, unless this new ally proved to be too much of a nuisance.

Shaige threw his clenched fist forward. Where there had been a been a few tons of fallen stones just a few moments ago, there was now only a pile of dust. The wraith waved a hand, and a deathly smoke bearing the reek of death surged forward, scattering the choking dust and inducing a hacking cough on any ambushers that might have been waiting on the other side. The keeper advanced, Soran and the zealots following in his wake now that they had caught up.

There were thousands of them, people filling every possible space inside the grand temple. They had all thought of honor and bravery and valor, determined that they would never be slaves or cravens, that they would honor their fallen by fighting to the end with their fists if nothing else. Those foolish notions vanished the instant that they beheld Shaige. The wraith was not large, little more than a dark silhouette in the now dimly lit temple. The mystery, the inability to even see the great enemy that had destroyed their tribe. That invoked a fear deeper than anything else beneath the stars.

There was an air of utter silence. Collective dread. Impending doom. Shaige had an aura of power, a way of breaking the weak of mind and effortlessly imposing his will upon them. Right now, the wraith willed them to be silent. Obedient. At last, the air itself reverberated the judgement of their conqueror. "Your warriors chose to fight. Noble of them. The strong will try, but in the end, the weak will suffer what they must."

They were utterly in his choking grasp, shrinking into the shadows in frenzied terror as they expected a death sentence to follow. That was not quite what came. "I have defeated you. By your own ways, that means that you are mine. I generously offer you a chance of salvation: life in exchange for mere death. Devote yourselves to my servitude. Give me the bodies of your slain. Then, I shall allow each of your lives to continue. Refuse, and your fate shall be much worse."

Looks of terror might have changed to outrage, for denying their fallen kin the burials that they deserved was beyond reproachful. But what was tradition, what were the dead, when compared to the needs of the living? Given the current situation, there was no question to be asked. They took the only choice that they had, and did so with no regrets.

More quietly, in a tone that was more commanding than declarative, he continued, "Accept my offer, serve in willingness, and your lives will not be so bad. You will march to my domain as free Mutari, for that is your new tribe. You are the Mutari. You are mine. The journey to your new home is wearisome, so you shall not bear the burden of shackles. You march as free Mutari. Those that betray my good will and attempt to escape will be excommunicated. No longer Mutari. Mere maggots, fit to be enslaved or executed."

The Warlord growled at Emily for a little longer, before nodding, and putting the girl down.
"So, can you talk?" Emily asked casually, walking over to a large patch in the castle and beginning to draw the rune. She was planning it big, enough to fit her a dozen times in, and three of the ugly Ice Bastard comfortably. The monster growled some more as Emily made the edges, but eventually let out a sound, like steel being twisted and bent.
"Yes" the Ice Demon drew out, the small word taking several seconds to finish being said.
"Ok. Sorry I asked. I can see why your not chatty" Emily replied, confident that she wouldn't be hurt as she drew the rune with her finger, hovering a few centimetres in the air so she didn't actually contact with the cold ground, even if her knees where turning slightly blue. Runes didn't need anything to draw them with, since they did not technically have a physical existence until finished. The Warlord gave a growl, and possibly a snort, or a sneeze, Emily wasn't sure. Then, she began to add the body of the rune, with it's size, it took Emily a good half an hour to make the highly intricate rune, even with her skill at it. By the end, she was shivering, but the rune was done, and the Warlord - who previously looked impatient - grinned. And Emily wished he hadn't. His teeth where black and horrible, where he had any, and the whole thing totally lacked mirth. He then stepped into the middle where the entire rune converged, and nodded to Emily.
"Ok. Rune set. Now,to call the spirit into the Rune, I will need to sing to it" She told the Warlord Demon, who frowned, as if not knowing what 'sing' meant. Emily saw the frown, and continued. "Make noise, nicely." The Warlord nodded, more for her to get a move on than in understanding, and so she started.

"Ich möchte stärker werden, weil unsere Welt sehr grausam ist Es ist ratsam, welke Blumen zu entfernen......." She sung, the words echoing through the castle as she sung, the words Eldritch and foreign to all who heard their strangely amplified radiance. The words seemed to emanate from the Rune as she got half way though it, a second behind, but in a much deeper voice than her own. And then it changed again, resonating her voice and throwing it back in perfect pitch, but with different words. The contrast was confusing, but beautiful. It was the kind of beauty that went beyond understanding, and touched the hearts of all that heard, even if they lacked hearts.

Then, as she finished, a massive raging inferno burst from the Rune, flying up and barely missing the roof before dispersing. The Warlord was reduced to naught but ash, as a flaming creature that looked female, but for her skin being molten lava, and parts of cooled magma making up her face and breasts.
"You call me to such a chilly place, but your words where sung well, and your sacrifice was worth it. So, do you wish to bind?" The Magma woman asked. Emily had done as she said and summoned a Lesser Spirit, but of Fire, not Ice. The voice was warm, as one would expect, but slightly impatient as well.
"I would love to, my lady. It would be an honour to allow your existence in the physical plane" Emily said, bowing deeply.
"Then come. Step into my Rune" The Spirit offered, an offer that Emily took with a smile, walking into the rune. The fire that the Spirit was made of should have frozen over by now in this atmosphere, but the Spirits did not care for the trivialities of physics. and so, the large Magma Woman bent over, embracing, encompassing, entering Emily. The process was strange, but it filled Emily with a feeling of peace she had not had in a long time. Peace, and warmth. Once the spirit had finished entering Emily, she could still feel it in her mind, in her body, in her magic. The doors then swung open, and several Ice Demons stepped though the threshold. Obviously a large gout of fire didn't go un-noticed, or maybe they where seeking the source of the Voice. Either way, Emily's hands spat sparks, as a big grin adorned her face.
"Let's clean house" She said, mostly to herself, as her eyes blazed with the Spirit's Crimson Fire.

Nona fell to her knees, whimpering. A blind, thoughtless fear consumed her. She was alone, helpless, without even the security of clothes. Simply being in the presence of Avak's manifestation was torture; when he spoke, spikes of suffering pierced her mind, causing agonizing pain.

The former Keeper took great pleasure in her torment. He approached, settling one colossal, pointed leg on the ivory-white ground of this plane one at a time. His leechlike mouth hung open, as if it were feasting on its victim's terror. After a few moments of this, the abominable being spoke again.

SEE HOW YOU COWER BEFORE ME? IT IS YOUR RIGHTFUL PLACE. YOU WERE NEVER MORE THAN A PAWN FOR ME, A MEANS OF RETURNING TO LIFE. YOU MIGHT HAVE FOOLISHLY THOUGHT YOURSELF IN CONTROL, BUT IT WAS I ALL ALONG. WHERE DID YOU THINK YOUR MAGIC CAME FROM?

Finally, the behemoth stood over the girl's body. It grabbed her with a single callous claw and lifted her up so that her last moments could be spent staring fixedly into his four cruel, vile green eyes. Up close Avak was even more hideous, and his telepathic influence all the more forceful, and Nona's mind was on the verge of shattering.

STUPID, TINY WORM. HOW DARE YOU THINK YOURSELF MY EQUAL—MY RIVAL. Each word was accentuated now, his reverberating, rattling voice dripping with contempt. YOU. DISGUST. ME.

The circle of fangs opened wide once more, and without any hesitation Avak's jaws snapped shut around Nona's upper body, severing it and swallowing it whole. He sneered and tossed the remainder of the corpse aside.

Avak then became aware that nothing was happening. The plane upon which he clung to life existed in the mind of the being called Clotho; with the death of her mind, he should have immediately awoken in control of her body. For the first time, an uneasiness came over the colossal insect, and after a brief bout of growling and hissing he settled down to ponder the situation. As he did so, he became aware of a slight noise. Further observation pinpointed the sound as a mad laugh—and coming from within him no less. As he irately considered the implications of this, the laughter grew steadily louder, until it was hard for the Swamp Keeper to think. A new ache began, but in his head now; as the laughter increased in intensity, the pain did as well. Finally it was so loud and so hurtful that he clasped his claws against his shelled head, wailing.

AAAAAAAAAAAAGH WHAT IS THIS MAGIC!? he shrieked, swaying back and forth on his crablike limbs.

A second voice came from within, barely audible through the mocking laughter. It was spiteful and terrifying, yet familiar. YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME.

The infinite whiteness in every direction began to collapse, and the bodies of the monster and the maiden swirled away into nothingness with them until all that remained was noise.

-=-=-

Wind whistled through the tears in the Heart Chamber's wall. Within, the Scorrow on the ground lay limp and still, yet alive. Next to her lay the body of a young woman, twenty years of age, wearing the clothes that had disappeared the day she had transformed.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she took her first breath. Her mouth twisted into a grim smile, and her eyes shone with yellow light. Clumsily but with determination the woman worked herself to her feet. She shambled toward her Heart, and fell into it. Around her the warm, soothing threads closed, wrapping around the human body more tightly than a clay mold.

A few minutes later she tore free of the cocoon and stepped out into the room's chilly, fresh air. Her avatar was more or less like the one that came before, with the exception of slightly improved armor and some green coloration. At that same time, the Scorrow regained consciousness to study the Keeper standing above her with bleary eyes.

“Are you free?”

Clotho looked down as if noticing the woman for the first time. She knelt, and as she did her new wings -four long, radiant ones, shiny green with yellow membrane- flared out into position. “Yes,” she whispered, a trace of throatiness in her voice. “The monster in my head is gone, and some of his power has fallen to me. Now I am nobody but me.”

The Scorrow breathed a raspy sigh. “I am glad.”

Clotho laughed maniacally. “You shouldn't be, scorps. The beast took poor little Nona away, and all that's rattling around up in here,” she flicked the side of her horned head, and her yellow eyes gleamed like stars, “is Clotho.”

Compendium Update
Clotho the Swarm Keeper - 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 confrontation with the Keeper inhabiting her turned in her favor and has almost erased her human side. She is a tall, lithe physical fighter that prefers speed to brute strength and is a master of bugs. She is a foot taller than most men, with long arms and legs, and has a brown and green spiny, chitinous exoskeleton. Four 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 favored weapon is a barbed sabre. Using the power from the Biomancers' Guild's amulet, she has improved armor and a needle-like protrusion from her arm called the Stinger. Her armor, though still slim and compact, was improved again following her experience with Avak. The Stinger is full of corrupted life magic, capable of injecting toxins as well as being a potent tool for exerting her will.

A leaf fell from one of the great trees above, its sable silhouette shrouded by the night's gloom. The forest felt tranquil in its unnatural silence, utterly devoid of sound save for the soft rustling of branches in the wind. The sudden crack of a twig snapping underfoot broke the silence. In comparison to the bustling streets of Paterdomus, ever illuminated beneath the sun or the grand night-fires atop the temple, this dark wood was another world. Some no doubt would call it serene, but ever foreboding tree and shadow only served to spur the scout onwards by sheer terror.

After all that he had seen in these wilds, William was unable to rest. For no less than a day and a half he had relentlessly made his way back towards civilized lands. At last, to his joy, he came across a watchtower atop a deforested hill. The square tower was crudely built from the logs of nearby trees, and inside a garrison of two or three men kept watch. Several similar watchtowers were nearby, surrounding a moat-and-bailey castle that served as the forward outpost and base of operations for the invading crusaders. As the scout approached, he saw that the watchers were nowhere to be seen. Unsettled, he continued the trek towards the keep.

Viktor had all but won the battle. Chaos having torn the army of Altearx apart, it was a simple matter for the remaining monsters to clean up whatever leftover scraps. It was then that the Walking Ballistae moved into position, setting up to defend, until the fortress was rebuilt, and the army reinforced. There was still the matter of civilians, who had been boxed into their city section. No doubt escape or rebellion of some sort was being plotted, as the ogres patrolled streets.

But even as Viktor mused over the well fought battle, he realized that something was wrong. He could no longer see through the eyes of Stamrad, his most trusted of minions. This was unnerving, as this could only mean that he was dead. That shouldn't have happened, if all had gone according to plan. Still mistakes could be made, especially by lessers.

The Wall of Flesh was woken to action by a mental command from Viktor. The hulking beast slowly turned, eyes sweeping the area, to find Stamrad. It wasn't long before the eyes focused in on a spot of scorched earth, twisted shrapnel lying around. Long, winding arms reached down, lifting a helmet from the rubble. Viktor lowered his head, almost feeling a smidge of emotion. Was that sadness? He wiped that thought from his mind, before speaking again to the construct. The orders were cut short by a blinding flash, and the Wall of Flesh fading away.

Smoke still lingering in the air from the kill, The Champions moved forward, regaining a formation. Before them laid the Wall of Flesh, flames running up and down the flesh-ridden stone. Darhok leaned down, struggling to remove his mace from the charred surface. He chuckled, before quickly twisting to the side. A massive bolt had just narrowly missed him, thudding into the hard earth beside him. He snarled, turning to see the threat. The four Ballistae had aimed at the new threats, skeletons already loading more bolts.

Though formidable enemies, it was a rather quick skirmish between the two groups. Ahrims speed along with Alishe's range quickly devestated the minions, now in chaos without a commanding force. Viktor raged angrily from his base, unable to connect with any of the lesser minions. He was left blind, deaf, and dumb, unbeknownst to any threats that may approach.

Verac looked down at his blade, still unbloodied. He had not yet seen it fit to unleash his power yet. Best to save the ace, give glory to the others. Certainly, the other champions were able to hold their own, even against the monstrous army of Viktor. Though the troops thrived off of their enemies chaos, without an intelligent creature around, they were naught more than armed animals roaming about. It wasn't a glorious battle by any means, but it took them quite awhile to mop them all up.

When the last ogre fell, blood pouring from his chest, the smiled at their work, though a bit tired. When they were sure that the threat had been wiped away, Verac pulled out a spiraled horn, and blew deep int it. As the noise resounded through the city, he slowly walked deeper into the civilian district, where cautious citizens peered through ajar windows, the more daring stepping out into the cold. Verac put away the horn, before raising his arms.

"People of Altearx! Today, you have been cursed, a plague wrought upon your city. But you... Each and every one of you has survived this onslaught! Today, you have faced suffering and fear like no man should ever have to bear. But you have stood strong like these mighty fortress walls that surround you! So hide no longer! Remove the barricades from your doors, and enter once again your fine city. Though you surely deserve it, we haven't time to rest. One last ordeal stands before you brave, brave people." Spoke Verac, his voice ringing out loudly through the tight stone walls.

"The walls of your great city must be rebuilt- defenses put into place, soldiers trained. We ask only this of you, so that we, along with you, may rest easily. While you secure your future, we shall secure the present- It is now that we start a journey. We shall track down the source of your misery, and eliminate it once and for all. We swear to you, that you shall never face an ordeal so terrible again. Not without us standing by your side." He finished, turning away before the mass crowd could respond. Sure, many had missed the speech, but from the cheers, it was obvious that it would be passed on, one way or another.

Wordlessly, the other champions followed, proud smiles on their faces. They took long steps to avoid tripping over rubble and bodies. They felt a bit guilty, leaving this mess for them to clean up, but they knew it was best to get going as soon as possible. It would doubtlessly be a long journey, especially considering that Darhok couldn't teleport them there. The group would have to foot it, in order to track the armies roots down. As they stepped out into the tundra, they realized just how easy it would be. The army of monsters certainly hadn't had stealth in mind when approaching.

Though Conquest remained jealous of Shadowmane's incredible speed for a few moments, he had only to picture his previous awe-inspiring form rocketing across the sky like a blazing comet to quell his feelings of envy. Despite his comparative lugubriousness, Conquest arrived at his “master's” side before the sun had perceptibly moved and took in the nearby town. After listening to Calvartem's briefing, Conquest's jagged mouth twisted into a grin. His flames burned brighter as he declared, “I will light the way.”

In short order, the necromancer's minions had gathered the necessary intelligence and the assault was ready to begin. The two beings, one wreathed in darkness and the other in fire, hurtled into the town faster than the rain of projectiles could fall from the battlements. Though the crude bullets only chipped him and bolts simply melted upon hitting him and the fire only added to his energy thanks to his ability to absorb heat from his surroundings, Conquest paused a moment to levitate into an upright position and hurl a ball of condensed magma toward the bastions. As he passed through the gate in Shadowmane's wake, the burning bomb detonated, scattering lava over the walls. He didn't stop to relish the screams of those unfortunate enough to be hit by the liquid fire, and instead raced through the streets after Calvartem.

The graveyard was just as indefensible a position as Conquest had guessed. He knew that the only way to keep the humans off Calvartem's back long enough for him to raise an army was to create his own defense. Rising into the air above the grim cemetery, he cast jets of fire from his hands, setting ablaze all nearby buildings. Within a small amount of time the burning wood would make all ways into the area very unpleasant; all but one, the main street. It was there that Conquest descended, crossing his arms as the first responders (those soldiers nearest to the current area) arrived. A blast of fire caused the ill-prepared men to scatter, but Conquest didn't move to pursue him. By remaining in the open and not moving, he would be able to draw the most attention to himself.

Another bolt of fire narrowly missed a capped head peering around the corner of an alley. Conquest sent his next skyward to explode like a flare. “Come on!”

The two Ice Demons standing guard outside where the first to arrive, since they where the closest. And it was with these that Emily first felt the Fire of the Spirit. It was a different flame to her own, not just smoke and ash but also warmth and light, as if Emily had been utilizing a lesser variant of what Fire was meant to be before this point. It was breath-taking to her, like a blind man suddenly seeing for the first time. Of course, the Ice Demons didn't seem to appreciate the artistry of it quite as much as Emily, but the reason for that could be that they where being burnt to death by it at the time. Of course, their screams drew more of the Warlord's Demons, who wasted no time charging the small girl, and being incinerated by gouts of fire from her palms.
"Seems you where not in a good condition when you summoned me. Your own energy is nearing spent completely. Soon you will be feeding off me entirely" The Spirit warned, in a caring tone.
"So long as I can extrude my authority over these Horfrosted bastards before I conk out, then I will have somewhere to rest" she replied, swiftly concentrating her fire into a small point on her finger, and blowing a hole in one of the demon's craniums with a laser-esque shot of fire. She was tiring quickly again, but the demons where also slowing. It seemed that while vicious and brutal if they had the upper-hand, they where cowardly if faced with a superior foe, putting their own existence before honour or dignity. And so Emily didn't need to kill more than half a dozen before the creatures stopped entirely, a aura of fear emitting from them. It was only then that Emily stopped.
"So, you recognize my power. Good. Leave this castle, and exist within the grounds only, or you shall feel my wrath" she exclaimed, before heading to the throne, and drawing one final rune around it. This was not a rune that activated immediately, but rather would be activated in the proximity of anyone that the caster deemed a threat - in this case, anything that moved - and so was, for now, just a mere drawing. With her early warning done, she climbed onto the throne, it's chill fighting with the Spirit's Natural Warmth, and closed her eyes, looking to rest and regain her power.

Calvartem and Shadowmane made it to the graveyard in a blur of speed and came to a stop in just a few paces. Calvartem glanced at the walls, eyeing the defenders moving to be able to shoot him and swivelling around a cannon, but they were quickly masked from view by a tall wall of fire conjured by Conquest. Not being able to see the defenders meant the defenders could not see him, and such a manoeuvre indicated that Conquest was quite intelligent. A valuable asset.

While the defenders could not see him now, they had seen him before, so he had Shadowmane trot over a few metres before he dismounted. As he did this a thud shook the ground beneath him and an explosion of dirt and gravel erupted from where he had been standing moments ago. Calvartem was quite unfazed by the cannonball, since it didn't hit him so it was of no concern to him. That shot was a guess, and any following shots would be no better.

Despite the shield of flame, Calvartem did not stretch his luck or Conquest's endurance. He struck the ground with his staff, and dozens of ethereal black tendrils leapt out and skittered across the ground, searching for a corpse. They sunk in at each grave, and in seconds dried, rotten and skeletal hands clawed their way out of their coffins and through the earth. The corpses lifted themselves out of their graves and stood in the cemetery, their eyes burning with darkness. The hoard numbered 200, with fifteen of them being Gremlins. More corpses were buried deeper and further out in the graveyard, for it had to service quite a large town, but Calvartem needed to keep some of his strength for the fighting.

The emergence of the 200 corpses, followed by their footfalls as they rallied along the ahead of Calvartem, would have alerted Conquest that Calvartem was finished. The hoard surged forwards, going around the man of flame, with the Gremlins jumping onto the rooftops as soon as they were past the wall of fire. The defending soldiers around the corner were not entirely prepared for the sudden surge of undead, but they were able to fall back into a more stable position to fight back the Walkers from. However, their formation set to defend from one side left their rear open to assault from the Gremlins, who jumped from the roofs and took advantage of their element of surprise to shatter the soldiers' formation. While they may have been able to fight the Gremlins on their own, the hoard of Walkers remained, and they were swiftly overwhelmed.

Astride his imposing steed, Calvartem trotted through the throng of undead. A casual wave of his staff reanimated the just-slain soldiers, adding a few Walkers and a couple of Gremlins, all armed and to an extent armoured, to his ranks.The sound of musket fire from the other direction caught his attention, and he turned to see a line of soldiers who had futilely attempted to disable oncoming Walkers with a few high-velocity lead pellets. A fire priest in their ranks threw up a shield of fire, and while that hurt the Walkers passing through it hardly deterred them. This squadron was larger, and reinforcements could be seen coming. A line of armoured warriors made the front lines and were managing to cut down the Walkers which approached. They had also learned from their fallen comrades across the street from them, and as such they were prepared to counter the ambush from above of the Gremlins. The first Gremlin jumping down met with the spear of one of the infantry, although a few hacks with a short-sword were required to fully disable it. The others on the roof were shot by arrows and fireballs, damaging them. A couple more Gremlins jumped down in an attempt to scatter the soldiers, and while they managed to kill one ranger and wound a spellcaster, they too were cut down. Calvartem signalled the rest of them to not jump off, for he could see the futility.

To shatter this band of stalwart defenders would require more force than his undead alone could deliver. He raised his staff and said, to no one in particular, "Ripper, I call on your power." After a slight delay the shadowy flame in Calvartem's eyes was replaced with a flaring crimson fire. A ball of crackling red energy formed at the head of his staff and he hurled the ball overhead at the wall of soldiers. It exploded in their midst, a violent blast of destruction, and those it didn't turn to dust it threw across the street, some broken and dead, others still alive, although they didn't last long now that they were vulnerable.

Calvartem's eyes remained red, though, for he still had one more spell to cast. The graveyard he had just visited lay outside the walls, but he needed to get him and his horde inside the walls. Advancing his hoard around a corner brought them within view of the gate. It slammed shut on seeing them, and a cannon was fired, blasting a few Walkers apart, although Calvartem hardly cared about a few Walkers. He pointed his staff towards the gate, and a jet of red energy leapt out of the end and dissolved a large hole in the steel and wood of the gate.

The undead began to pour into the hole to attack the soldiers on the other side, who were still mostly dazed from the blast. The red faded from Calvartem's eyes as they returned to their normal pure black. He spotted the defenders on the wall attempting to reload the cannon, so he killed them with a swift bolt of shadow. He then advanced behind the hoard towards the entrance to the town. He turned his head back to Conquest and said, "Ensure my hoard can advance to the crypt."