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C H A P T E R I
D h á l v ó r í

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“There it was, doomed to wait, with eyes of fire and hands of hate.”

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T h e H u m a n L a n d s

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The sun had only lurched above the horizon for an hour or so, bathing the calm Human Lands in a soft morning light. It was days like this that the golden sunrise would shimmer across the lakes and the seas, giving the land a curious yet hauntingly beautiful quality - it was a land that seemed to be untouched by the darkness and madness of its parallels. It was different to the Outer Planes, and its resident Humans had always considered that a blessing, rather than the curse it truly was. Every conflux saw the hungering Demon Lords draw closer, each with a different intent in their eyes; be it conquest, deliverance, or destruction. It was a land beset from all sides by madness and chaos, veiled behind a mask of calm and beauty, the envy of the masters of other worlds.
Unbeknownst to the poor denizens of this most utopian plane, the world behind the veil was shifting, and the end of all things was to come to fruition. Whether this would be averted or welcomed was the calling of those who claimed to preside over this creation that was wracked with conflict and chaos.
It was this morning of perfect light that a stranger emerged from the wilds, to the simple town of Thiliden-Mor, and with him he brought a storm that would shake the very world.

“Greetings, outsider,” the militiaman greeted the man who had shuffled into the town from the wilderness. “We don’t see many o’ ya’ outside folk ‘round these parts,” he continued, tipping his crude iron skullcap in the direction of the newcomer who seemed to care little for the hospitality. The most he did to even acknowledge the militiaman was bob his head slightly as he passed the checkpoint and into the mud-trodden streets. The guardsman shrugged and returned to his duties, not giving the man a second thought. The stranger certainly was unusual, especially for the wandering type. How strange it was that he chose to hide his face, when such a thing breeds mistrust and contempt among those on the road; still, there was nothing in the town worthy of stealing.

The Wandering man could have only been a thief at worst. And even then, the guardsman doubted it. He was probably just one of those hermits who needed to stock up on supplies for the coming winter. The decline of magic in the past centuries did leave such hedge wizards at a disadvantage, no longer able to fully support themselves through their magical talents alone, they were forced to attempt to reintegrate with society at some level just to survive. Yes, that must have been it. The guardsman was sure that this was just another nostalgic hermit.
But the silken and masterful weave of his robe spoke of other origins, ones much more sinister than an ailing hedge wizard. Into the hem was woven an impossibly intricate script of a language long since forgotten, the hue of the fabric growing darker as the sun rose higher into the sky — as if it were drinking the light, and consuming the day.
The town’s tailor was first to notice the exotic material while on his mid-morning stroll across the square; something about it piqued his intrigue, and he was compelled to approach with questions. Where had it come from? and how much for the robe? were prominent among his flurry of queries, all of which were ignored by the stranger, who stood emotionless, staring into the sky and watching the slow motion of the sun above. The Tailor had given up within the half of the hour, returning to his place of work in a huff, feeling more than a little irate at the blatant rudeness of the stranger. He was not the only one, however, and as the day slowly crawled to its prime, the stranger became somewhat of a town spectacle, with men, women, and children of all ages crowding around the Wanderer for reasons they did not understand, simply to get a single look at this mysterious man that had appeared in their cosy little slice of the world. The entire day had become somewhat of a farce, with everybody in the town making a vain attempt at trying to guess what the Wanderer had come to do, and why he was there; nobody could entice a word from him.

Night fell upon the town, sending many disappointed children back to the comfort of their homes, leaving only the truly curious few behind to decipher the mystery. The tailor was among their ranks, and he was left bitter from being ignored that morning. His response was to approach the Wanderer, and rather arrogantly asking why he had treated him as such this morning, demanding that he tell him the origin of the robe’s fabric. His rash words were accompanied by a forceful grab of the robe, which he pulled clean off of the stranger.

The poor tailor’s heart must have skipped several beats when he realised his mistake.

-

The following morning, the world awoke to the news that the town of Thiliden-Mor had been the site of a savage Koragar attack, as all residents had been found slaughtered and eviscerated, utterly torn to shreds by some wild animal pack. It was the best explanation that human scouts could muster. The bulletins that had been posted across the continent of The New World failed, however, to mention the one unaccounted for corpse — whose body was strapped to a terrified horse and sent across the wilderness to the Golden River Valley. The Tailor’s body played canvas to a message, carved into his skin by some unknown power.

‘Dear Absalom,’ it read. ‘Your world is in danger. The Outer Planes march against you. There are others like you, those that you must bring to the cause of your world. I am not your enemy. I wish to see your kind prosper.’

‘-K’

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T h e A s h e n A b y s s

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Shadows were dark in the ineffable umbra. They were inky and impregnable, a true veil of obscurity that hid all from sight. Those that called this place home had to rely on other senses to perceive the world: sound and smell, touch and taste. But sight was forbidden in the abyss; it was a luxury granted only to those with the fortune to be born to other Planes.
There are stories in circulation in the ramshackle settlements of this place that the light was taken from the land so that the people would not have to endure the sight of The Moonlit Beast. All renditions of this tale are different, some claim it is a bird with a thousand eyes, the only creature capable of seeing through the shadows of Aárdú Lyásí, some claim that it is the most powerful shadow dragon ever to live. Some storytellers suggest that it is, in fact, a more humanoid monstrosity. Squabbling alike, though, none will ever know.

It stalked the deepest reaches of the Abyss, moving silently through the night, hungering always for its throne of darkness. This was a seat of power taken by an outsider, an imposter — an intruder. Mother Night, the false Demon Lord of the Abyss, resisted the lull of the Beast for longer than it could remember, its primal power and cunning being beaten back at every turn. But it did not wallow in sadness; it persisted with frightening tenacity, lending itself to a conflict of back and forth attrition for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.
The last months in the darkness had been quiet, though. Conflict was nonexistant, and the Grand Hunter did not prowl the shadowed plains for the flesh of unsuspecting shades. Wandering souls were no longer fearful of crossing the darkness, and it seemed as though the beast had absconded for good.
The silence, some said, was terrifying. The obscurity of not knowing was more fearful than the screeching echoes of the Moonlit Beast through the Abyss.

But those very same souls would later regret that assertion. All of those in Aárdú Lyásí would agree that the bellowing war cries of an assembled warband were much more frightening. Especially when they carried from the far reaches of the Abyss from all sides, forming the words:

‘Hail to the Beast”

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T h e F r i g i d S c a r

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The howling wind used to be the only sound that reached across the tundras of the Scar, in a much simpler time for the native beasts that called this frozen wasteland home. Never before had their land been in the grasp of a Demon Lord; they had always retained their independence through ferocity and strength, with few being able to subdue them. The hostile nature of the Scar itself was often more deadly than any Lord could be, so it took a truly fearsome individual to finally bring low the proud Behemoths of the Winter Lands.

The Ice Wraith Eredun was the first to achieve such a thing. With his foul ‘Pendant of Winter’ he had enslaved the Behemoths for his own, perverse ends. Rimeheart was the only one who had resisted such sacrilegious entrapment, and as a result had been cast out by his brainwashed brothers. He was set to wander the wastes for the rest of his natural life, which would have been a kind release, had the corrupting power of the pendant not made him much more than he once was. He was twisted and malformed, yet powerful and proud. He had taken up the mantle of the Ice Crown under the vein of being the last of his kind, and, assuming he would be capable of existing alone, left for the blizzard-locked horizon.

The howling wind used to be the only sound that reached across the tundras of the Scar, in a much simpler time for the native beasts that called this frozen wasteland home. Now, the wind was accompanied by the anguished cries of Rimeheart, the Lonely Behemoth, searching for others like him. His lips are twisted and frozen together in places as a result of the Pendant, but he manages occasionally to call the words ‘please,’ and ‘brothers,’ to the mountains, hoping every time that his booming voice will bring salvation in the form of company, but it never does.
It was only by chance that one day the endless wandering brought the Behemoth to a clearing in the storm, a gargantuan marking in the snow was laid out before him, forming the unquestionable shape of the foul Pendant. It was no doubt that Eredun had been here before him, invoking his foul powers and enslaving yet more of his kind.

He cast his eyes down to the snow, making out the undeniable shape of two Behemoths, dusted in a day’s snowfall, breathing. It was slow and light, but discernible. Rimeheart would often stumble across scenes like this — they were the sites of the Pendant’s effect; there would always be a behemoth within that was recently taken by the Ice Wraith. But these two… their eyes did not glow with the faint blue that was so common of the Lost.

They were free.

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T h e G a r d e n s o f F i l t h

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“I seek an audience with the King of Decay,” the rotting jester stated. He had made it to the heart of the city of decay with a message for his liege. His eyes were black with the very essence of rot, like many of this sickening world. He had wandered for hours through a foul squalor of pus and putrid bile just to find his way to the residence of Karuz Thrak, the Plague Lord.
A trio of Kul Rak zombies stared the jester dead in the empty eyes, their foul minds calculating the correct response for one wishing to gain an audience with their lord. One of the vile triumvirate began to moan a strangely melodic wail, one that echoed upwards through the crumbling excuse of a city.

“Youuu,” it groaned through a jaw so rotted that its original shape was barely even recognisable. “Seek the Decaying King?”

“Yes! Yes! I seek master! I bring with me news of an opportunity most fruitful! Our lord has an opportunity to corrupt more than this world! Things are beginning to change!” He quivered in response to the second guard suddenly brandishing his spear, pointing the piercing edge at exposed throat of the jester. “I- I- I only wish to serve master!” He yelped. “Master demands lives to poison!”

The Zombie lowered his weapon, casting his gaze directly into the empty sockets of the jester, who unleashed a menacing grin momentarily, revealing a tattered row of blackened stumps of teeth, lined with a newer set of long, needle like spikes that were more reminiscent of a flesh-devouring snake. His face returned to a frightened composure following the guard’s words.
“King does not talk with dead clowns, King talk with those loyal to plague.”

“And I am loyal to the plague! You Must believe me! Master will wish to know!” he snivelled in retort.

The first guard turned to the second, and the second turned to the third who vacantly started into the first. Their empty expressions spoke droves of their consideration of the jester’s proposal, who keeled over into the dirt, awaiting the judgement of the Plague Lord’s guardians.
A minute or two seemed to pass, the two conflicting parties at an awkward stalemate where nothing was said, leaving only thoughts to be considered.
Finally, the first guard snapped his head to the left with a sickening crunch of bones grinding and flesh tearing, and opened its mouth, allowing a sick concoction of black and yellow fluids to pour forth following its judgement.

“Liar. You are liar. You shall not purify the master with lies!”

It flourished its weapon with uncharacteristic grace, raising it high above its bare and exposed skull, and slashing down at the jester. The weapon struck the filth below, the small and queer frame of a creature had disappeared in a way which should have been impossible.

“Foolish creaturesss,” a very different voice hissed from below the sludge of the earth. “Thisss is not your conflict to decide.”

The guards had tried to fight back against the strangely beautiful, yet horrific beast that then rose from the bile, its scales glinting in the dull bubonic light of the Gardens of Filth. The three were torn to shreds in seconds by a serpent that moved as fast as lightning, striking from all sides with a fury to match. Within seconds, the three apparently powerful guardian Kul Rak were nothing more than a chaotic pile of shattered bone, torn flesh, and tended armour plates.

A jester, small and feeble, was then seem making his way to the throne of the Plague Lord. He was not questioned by any of the Lord of Decay’s guards thereafter. He prostrated himself before the Grand Defiler and spoke his message:

“Master, master. The path to the Mortal Lands are open once more. The Humans do not know. A strike could ensure you become the new master of the Young World! They are not expecting you. Now is your chance! Master Master!”

40,000 Years Ago…
The Mortal Realm…
Deep Beneath the Earth…

The cavernous room where the gathering was held overflowed with pitch; torchlight wielded by the Arbitrator’s men the only source of light. Just beyond the penumbra they cast, a darkened figure knelt before a vast well, delving even deeper into the Earth; further than had ever been ventured by mortal creatures. The Arbitrator, adorned in dull gray robes that foretold his impartial temperament, spoke to the darkened figure with a stern voice and eyes that were harder than glaciers.

“…have spoken. The gods themselves condemn you for your hubris, Andromache. You have been marked accordingly with the symbol of Sathanas, and you shall shortly be cast to remain forevermore into the deepest pit of the Earth, where you shall remain for all time. There is no story or plea you might utter that we might suffer. Only for the sake of my own dignity, not of mercy, do I deign to ask of you your final words. Speak, and then fall.”

“The gods shall abandon you.” The woman’s voice was deathly calm and acrid, scathing through the air like steel. “The gods shall abandon your people. The gods shall abandon your world. When the last of the gods no longer looks upon the world, I shall ascend.”

“Your hubris in foretelling the acts of the gods is not unsurprising at this stage.” The arbitrator replied, reproachful in stance. “Enough of this folly. By my authority as Arbitrator under the gods, I cast you down.” He gestured with his hand, and the darkened figure was pushed by an unseen force, back, into the finality of the abyss below. The arbitrator gestured once more, and the cavern trembled as rock, soil, and dust tumbled from all directions to fill in Andromache’s tomb.

“That’s the end of this grand mess.” One of the guardsmen said with relief as the three of them began to climb upwards, back towards the surface. “Arbitrator, this castigation has illustrated now, more than ever, the need for piety in these times. Might you have a suggestion for how I should pray to the gods this evening?”

“Indeed.” The Arbitrator said evenly. “Pray for them to forever watch over this world, least the scorned and rancorous beast that is Andromache be unleashed upon it. Though it might be heresy to say, I have seen the essence of Truth in man enough to know that her final promise was prophetic in its telling.”

Dawn of the Age of Incursion
The Mortal Realm
The New World
The Crescent Savannah
Dawn

The Crescent Savannah, the massive rolling plain of fertile soil and sporadic tropical flora and fauna, was the jewel of the New World. Hundreds of kilometers in diameter, hundreds of nomadic tribes and small villages occupied its expanse. Five large metropolis built by the indigenous Archaics. Tens of millions of souls lived off the fruits and under the haven the Savannah provided in the otherwise harsh territory of the New World. Though there was often war between the many diverse people of the Archaics, the Savannah itself was a haven of peace - considered by most to be sacred ground, upon which blood should never be spilt.

As dawn came, the Earth began to tremble as, unseen, the many planes of the cosmos began to unite in Conflux. Many omens began to manifest - the many mothers in the world bore still births. Tears of tar began to dribble from the eyes of statues. The stars in the sky seemed to move aflutter in ways that were scarcely possible. The most malign of the omens had yet to arrive, however - and the moment the crown of the sun ascended the East horizon and its light touched upon the Crescent Savannah. The trembling of the Earth increased, progressing to a shudder, then a throe, and finally a quake.

Shockwaves flashed across the breadth of the land. Those upon the epicenter of the event were thrown meters into the air as their homes and crops were literally shaken to pieces. With a long, overdrawn bellow of rock grinding against rock and unseen humors emitting from the depths below, a great rift tore itself across the plains. A massive chasm, deeper than any other in the Mortal Realm, began to yawn open like the Abyss itself. The quake lasted for well over an hour, the Fissure ever widening and harrowing the earth, until at last the Earth stilled and the terrible wound in the world ceased its advance, covering more than twelve miles from end to end.

Even once the Earth had ceased trembling however, somewhere in the deepest part of the Fissure, the earth became uninterred as a writhing, flailing mass tore its way out from a secluded hollow. Seemingly the earth itself come to life, the thing slowly took shape into a vague, barely humanoid form that then unsteadily knelt upon the ground on all fours, having torn free from its tomb. The sounds of its ragged and hoarse breaths joined those of the earth shifting and rocks clinking as they fell from on high upon the sides of the newly revealed layers of crust.

Blind and horrid, the creature scrabbled about the bottom of the Fissure for several hours ineffectually, until finally, the sun reached the apex of the sky - and blind though it was, the creature could still feel the heat of its light - and began to ascend.

888888888888
Many hours later, as dusk began to fall upon the riven lands, a group of Archaics had gathered at its edge - most of them wore thick layers of cotton padding and bore large clubs, fanned out and watchful. Two more, standing upon the edge of the Fissure itself, wore ceremonial raiment - one carried a spear adorned with several totems and emblems - more ceremonial than functional.

"I do not understand the nature of this wound." The younger of the two said, the sewn emblems on his garb displaying his standing as a junior shaman. "Is it an omen, or the injury the world itself has sustained the other omens warn us of?"

The elder, clearly the leading shaman, looked pensively across the ravine to where a whole river of water had been cut off, now running directly into the maw of the Fissure itself seemingly without end. Below, several pools of ground and river-water were beginning to fill. "This was no natural occurrence." He replied. "Though it is said that quakes of this sort have happened before, nowhere on all of Ati is there a crevice equal to this here. I do not believe this to be an omen however."

"So it must be a wound. That must be what the omens have warned us of. Something has come to Ati and has made this cleft in the world." The junior shaman muttered in response. "But what could wield such power? We saw nothing undue on our way here. No Mortal could have done this."

"Surely not." The elder agreed. "From what I know, not even the Iwadwacki could not have done this."

"The Iwadwacki?" The junior blurted, turning to face the elder with surprise. "I was certain they were just a superstition. Why have you never told me of this before?"

"Calm yourself, boy." The elder admonished, tilting the spear somewhat downwards in annoyance. "They do exist, though none have come to Ati since before the outlander colonies were first made. It would be known if they were here."

"We will speak of this again later." The younger man said, anger plain in his face. He turned to face the Fissure again, frustration creeping into his features. "It simply makes no sense. There's...no..." His voice drifted off as his eyes alighted on a strange, undulating column of loose earth that appeared to be pulling itself over the lip of the Fissure and onto the plain.

"Elder, beware!" He cried, pointing to the strange aberration. His shout drew the attention of the armed natives, who turned and startled at the alien sight. The Elder's eyes bulged as the strange creature rose, coalescing into a treelike shape as its appendages flung out.

"It is a demon!" The elder declared, recovering quickly and leveling his spear. "Slay the creature! It is surely a minion of whatever caused this wound upon the world!" Two of the natives advanced cautiously, brandishing their clubs - and if they trembled, their intentions were firm and their faces stern. The young shaman backed away quickly, being closest to the creature and unarmed - but there was something strange about its form that drew his eye and made him focus. He stopped, despite the danger, and looked. Now that he was paying attention, he could see that the strange mass of earth had a vaguely humanoid shape - including a small arch just above the ground where it's otherwise solid form broke apart. Though its mass was blocky and stuck out in every direction, there were a few strange places were its body curved in a familiar way. Though it was hard to see in the darkening light, he could also swear there was a reddish tint to the creature's mass - some kind of fibrous substance? No, they were hairs -

All the pieces clicked in to place then. "Wait, I do not think..." He began to call out, but was too late. Both of the advancing warriors had broken into a charge and began to bludgeon the kneeling human woman - carrying and caked in so much dirt and filth, she was not even recognizable as living.

She seemed to recoil only faintly when the clubs first hit her, but with the successive blow, she moved, one of her arms coiling, reaching up to grasp the length of the club - and the woman pulled. There was a faint rush of air as the man wielding it was plucked off his feet and sent hurtling through the air as though launched by some unseen wind carrying him aloft, screaming as he ascended - having let go of the club both out of shock and because of the sheer amount of force the woman had pulled on it with. Holding the club aloft in the air, the filth-covered woman paused as her other attacker continued to beat her, seemingly only driven on by the abrupt departure of their ally. The woman did not even appear to register the blows as they rained down about her head and chest. Then, with a single jerking swing, she swung the grip of the club at her attacker. A popping noise was heard as the club connected with the warrior, splintering to pieces in the woman's hand even as her assailant was tossed cleanly off their feet to land on the ground with a thud, their cotton cuirass soaked through with blood. They did not move again.

The first warrior finally began to descend, down, down, into the Fissure, still shouting in surprise rather than in terror.

"Strengthen your spirits, do not allow this demon to shatter your will!" The elder cried out. "Onwards! Slay the creature, we cannot suffer it to live!" He then grasped his spear in both hands, determined to fight himself as all the warriors began to shout battle-cries and charge the woman, to overwhelm her with their numbers.

The younger shaman, in an uncharacteristic showing of good sense, continued to back away from the ensuing mayhem.

The ensuing chaos lasted perhaps a minute and a half. When the warriors had surrounded the woman and lain hands on her to hold her still while the others clubbed her, she had shook and flailed like a bull and sent them flying, then would strike those nearest to her and inevitably kill them outright, sending fragments of bone and viscera scattering through the air. Those who had merely been flung to the ground would get back up and make another attempt, and so it continued until finally only the Elder was left, keeping the seemingly indestructible, harrowed woman at bay with his spear.

"Foul creature from the earth, go back to where it is you were made! This world shall never be yours!" The elder bellowed, his voice cracking as he shouted. The woman did not seem deterred, reaching out and gripping the blade of the spear with her bare hands, now free of dirt clumps after having used them with such force. She tugged, and the elder stumbled forward and fell. In an instant she climbed atop his body and began to beat him about the head. The younger shaman simply stood, stunned, watching in shocked silence as blood was splattered all over the ground. The woman did not stop, her fists rising and falling again and again, reducing the elder's body to a grisly mess of pulp and charnel.

The young shaman turned and began to run into the darkness, in the direction of his desolated village - when he turned to look over his shoulder, he saw the woman crowned by the setting sun rising and turning towards him, the elder's ceremonial spear in her hands. He didn't look back again. He did not need to see the horrid woman to hear her heavy footfall crushing the ground beneath her as she followed him. When darkness fell, he stopped to catch his breath, sure he had lost her - but from the darkness, her footsteps sounded, and he fled once more.

The journey back to the village was a long one - they had set out from it at dawn and arrived at the Fissure by dusk. Each time the young man stopped to rest, he would soon hear the sound of the woman storming through brush and cracked earth - but strangely, always from a different direction, and never facing him. Almost as though she was not sure of where he was, though there was nowhere to hide in the plains, which stretched out for miles - the starlight from above illuminated the expanse fairly, and so even in the night one could see approaching figures from miles away. It was almost as though the woman were blind.

Eventually, the young man decided to test the notion - he sat perfectly still on the ground as she approached, holding his breath. She swept past him, the stench of gore, death, and rotten plant matter flowing off of her as she passed. She did not notice him, but she stopped before going too far, standing still for several moments. She then turned back around and marched back, this time passing nearly within a foot behind him without noticing - and yet again, she stopped, paused for several moments, and turned.

Blind. But not without perception. The man did not wait for her to eventually walk straight into him, instead springing up into a run once more. Her footfalls increased in pace.

'Can she hear me?' The shaman thought as he ran, his heart racing and sweat dripping from his brow - more out of fear than exhaustion. '...No, she could not have heard me, sitting perfectly still and with still breath. How...?'

No answer came to him as he ran.

He made better time on the way back to the village, running as he had been. When the shockwaves from the quake had hit, it had destroyed what few standing shelters they had - though they had been largely nomadic, and so the loss was not so great. Those who had stayed behind had even erected a replacement for one of the yurts, facing the oasis. The shaman cried out, calling for somebody - anybody - to help. Most of the oasis' temporary residents were sleeping, with some still working on garments or with shredding gourd husks, but many people awoke while those who were already up came running.

"Tien'dia, where are the elder and the others?" One of the village men asked, looking out behind the shaman into the darkness beyond. "...And who is that approaching?"

Tien'dia blanched and broke into a dead run again, heading straight for the primitive yurt where those who had left for the Fissure had been permitted to leave their possessions for safe keeping. The inquiring man looked after his retreating form, puzzled, and then turned back to see the mud, dirt, and blood encrusted woman less than three feet away. He drew a startled breath, and the woman passed him without pause. The man blinked as his eyes followed her, finally fixating on the elder's staff, the haft soaked in blood but the blade clean and gleaming in the starlight.

"Wait, stop!" He said, turning and walking after her. "That is the elder's spear! Why is it that you have it? What are you doing here?" In the distance, he saw Tien'dia babbling wildly to a small group of villagers who had met him at the yurt entrance. In the glow of the faint torchlight from within, he could see the looks of confusion and fear on their faces, and for a moment he stopped - which saved his life, as the tip of the elder's spear swung about to slice through the space he would have stepped into had he continued walking after the filthy woman. Surprised, he stuttered and backed up, nearly losing his balance but catching himself after a moment.

"-Lostwoman, do you hear me?" Three women from the group that had been with Tien'dia had drawn near - keeping a safe distance away from the woman and the tip of her stolen weapon. She turned her mud-obscured face in the direction of the new voice. "Do not be angry - I am not going to attack you..."

The three all slowly crept up to the woman, the foremost speaking soft promises and requests for her to be calm. One of them reached out to touch her shoulder, gently tugging, and the woman slowly began to move with them in the direction of the oasis itself. Another attempted to carefully extricate the spear from her hands, but simply fell over when the woman's grip proved to be far firmer than it had any natural right to be.

Tien'dia watched the spectacle, relief flooding through him as the relentless, monstrous, invulnerable woman was led away. He shooed away the people crowding him, and sat against the back of the yurt, his mind going blissfully blank as he simply stared at nothing. Once he had finally gathered his mind back together, his thoughts turned to the elder with his rare, rolling laugh and his endless stories, the knowledge he had - the warriors, always rough and harsh, always encouraging others to be stronger in order to cope with hardship. Not all of them kind, or benevolent - but none of them had deserved death. The elder least of all. He would never see them again.

As quietly as he could, Tien'dia began to cry and wipe at his eyes - out of sorrow, but also greatly out of frustration.

'What am I supposed to do about her?' He thought, turning his head down, away from those who might look. 'Even if she gives the spear up, or refuses to gives it up, we cannot leave so soon after coming here, and she cannot be slain...It's not fair...'

With a grim certainty, Tien'dia distantly recalled the omens that he and the elder had seen, and saw them in a new light.

They had been warnings to leave, to go far away from the Fissure and the rancorous demon of a woman that had crawled out from it.

Then, perhaps, blood might not have been spilled upon the sacred plains. Having tasted of it, the land would undoubtedly thirst for more.

Toruz Mak seemed to more dead than usual. Illuminated by the green bioluminescent growths that hung from the cavern ceiling high above the city. Its mindless denizens wandered through its rotten streets, only their movement kept them from blending in with the decaying landscape.

Karuz Thrak slouched in his Throne, resting his head on a loosely gripped fist. His glowing yellow eyes stared blankly out of the blackness of his cowl, looking upon his visitor with little regard. Thrak had been of late depressed, as the last of his captives from the mortal realm had finally succumbed to her ailment and become no more than a another Kul Rak in his host. His lastes attempt at a plague on the world of man had ended in failure, and for the past century he'd been moping.

As the small creature spoke he nodded his head slowly up and down, up and down. The words filtered through his mind and slowly they began to register with him.

“How is this possible?” he grumbled without so much as a minor movement.

“And if this is possible what does that mean to me? This coming from some minor denizen, some jester? What would you have me do? Eh? Would you have me call forth my legions and march them into the heart of the mortal realm? Concoct more disease and plague to reap the souls of humanity and unite the decaying corpses of man’s factions under my realm? What would you have me....” He trailed in the middle of his sentence. His hand was raised now, as he had been speaking quite emphatically and using hand gestures to emphasize what he had originally thought to be a nonsensical notion. He rose from his throne, slowly and using both hands, as if the thought he was having sapped some portion of his demonic strength. He moved towards the wretch, slowly down the cracked steps of his throne.

“What would I do?” He pondered out loud with raspy, and ear-tingling voice. “If what you say is true, stranger. Then I could seize this opportunity. If the way to the mortal realm has been opened, then what is stopping me?”

He towered over the small creature, and looked down upon him with delight, and the smallest bit of suspicion. “But what if you lie? What if this is a ruse by some other demonic lord? What enemies have I made over the centuries?” He looked at his large maw of a hand and clenched it into a fist.

“Too many to count.”

He turned from the weak little jester, and retook his slouched position upon his throne. “What evidence have you that this is true? For if this is true, then… by all that is dead and gone I will reign a pestilence upon the mortal realm like that of none seen before.”

Thrak tapped his fingers upon the throne’s armrests, “Well?”

Smoke and screams filled the air in equal measure, and despite the darkness of the night, a blinding light was emited from the inferno below. At first the Oracle believed himself to be in one of the hells that barbarians believed sinners were condemned to. After a moment, however, he saw the Spire, shinning bright from Eyrn's light. Around it stood Menderyn, the Lady's City, which had stood for ten thousand years, yet now burned. The cries he heard were of the townsfolk, being hunted down and killed, or worse yet, taken alive. The great bells of the Cathedral rang out desperately, as if to cry for aid from any who would hear.

He could also see the Knights of the Tower. He watched as they were overwhelmed on the walls, how they still fought a retreat and cut their way to the Spire, where they made one last stand. They fought bravely, they fought valiantly, they fought like men possessed, yet they were only men, and one by one they died, until their order was wiped away. The Iron Gates halted the advance of the Enemy for a moment, but they brought forth in short order mages who tore the barrier apart, and then they swarmed into the holy tower, defiling it with their presence and slaying any who were within. He watched in horror and agony as Eyrn's light was extinguished, and all hope within him was lost.
The Spire, which had stood since before time was recorded, began to sway, and the base cracked and collapsed, causing a thunder which could be heard half a continent away. The Spire fell, slowly at first, yet gaining momentum, it crashed into the flaming ruins of Mendeyrn. The resulting shock wave smashed the rest of the city, and he knew that none inside the city, his people or not, had survived.

With a start, the Oracle awoke, screaming, his heart beating faster than it had in years. After a moment he composed himself, his head in agony as it always was when he felt the Lady's touch. He knew that this was no ordinary dream. His connection to Eyrn allowed him to see what visions she received concerning the past, present and future, and there was no doubt in him concerning this: she had foreseen her own death... and the end of the world.

When the pain ceased, he rose from his bed and dressed, despite the early hour- though his blindness prevented him from looking out the window, he knew by the silence that it was still dark. He didn't worry of having caused a commotion by his rude awakening. Those servants within the Spire were used to these kinds of disturbances, and in any case the entire floor was reserved for his use, as befitted his post. Descending the stairs at his inhuman age was a lesson in agony, but one he was quite familiar with, and he had no time for the weakness of the body. When he reached the floor below, he opened the door weakly, barely able to move.

"Summon the Knight-Commander", he managed to gasp out at the stunned Knights standing guard at the library. He heard one of them hurry down the stairs to fetch Sir Rillian, while the other carried him to a comfortable chair. He knew exactly which chair he was sitting on, as he had come here so often when he still had sight that he had memorized every corner of it. It was the greatest library of its kind in the world, apart from those of the great magocracies of the Diadochi. He often came here for this very reason, after having received a vision from Eyrn, trying to determine whether whatever ill fate he had perceived could be prevented. Perhaps there is still hope, he thought. Perhaps the Lady showed me this to prevent this cataclysm from occuring.

"What is it?" he heard the voice of the Knight Commander ask, audibly tired, "have you had a vision from the Lady?"

"Alas," he murmured, and told Sir Rillian of what he had seen.

"Is this certain? Can it prevented?" the commander asked. Though he was a good man and loyal, his relatively young age- Only thirty-eight- meant that he had little experience in matters beyond warfare. The Oracle missed the old Knight-Commander, a friend of his and a wiser man than most other men of war, yet the Lady had chosen Sir Rillian as the Knight most capable of leading her armies, and so it was not his place to judge.

"It may," the Oracle answered, raising his head. "We must try."

The Mortal Realm
The New World
Ururyon Mountain Chain
The Golden River Valley

Absalom sat the highest perch atop Mount Ila gazing down onto the green stretch of land before him and he was happy. He had not drawn his sword… no one in the valley had drawn their sword in anger for over two years now. Raiding has ceased and the mountain creatures remained in their caves. For a very long time, he and the valley were at complete peace and the people around him happy. This ended that long dark day.

In the weeks leading up to the day the Planar Conflux were rife with ill omens. Mens dreams were haunted by strange beings, beasts and alien lands, the stars of the night skies became foreign and strange and the Golden River's waters mysteriously flowed crimson with blood as they had during the bloody wars of the valleys past. These omens however, were but small indicators of the grave event occurring across the mortal plane, invisible to lesser beings. The sign which forced the people to see that something was terribly, morbidly wrong was the tremor. Absalom's nightly visions were unlike the others, true he dreamt of the same unimaginable horrors as the rest of the valley did but he saw other things equally unimaginable. Absalom dreamt of stars. Often sweeping in at the end of a nightmare the fiery light of the suns would drive away whatever ethereal scourge was tormenting his dreams. Most importantly, he saw a world ablaze, above the destruction he saw Mount Ila and all the mountain people stretched out beneath it with faces both weary and staunch, finally in turn hovering above the valley was a Great Orb of light, glowing with solidarity to his people.

At midday, when the Sun reached the top of the sky and banished the shadows from the land, at first the people felt a peculiar rolling sensation, an eerie sense of unfamiliar motion they felt in their legs and gut. Then, the shockwaves intensified, and people began to be thrown from their feet. Market stalls collapsed outright, the mortar between bricks tore and shredded and the steeples of several temples collapsed outright. Rock and mudslides poured down from the peaks of the mountains, and even at the peak of Mount Ila, the stones of the nameless fortress momentarily shivered in their setting. The valley was in chaos, men’s minds drifted back to the last war before turning their gaze towards Mount Ila and their protector. It was obvious to all, a great event had begun.

The protectors of the Golden Vale did not sit idly in the wake of these signs - they sent runners to the outlying villages, the other valleys and gatherings of the nomadic peoples who lived outside the Ururyon Mountains to see what they said of the signs, and again and again, the answer was the same - in the Crescent Savannah, a great Fissure had split Earth, miles deep and wide, such that not even the sun could fully illuminate its depths. It was decided that an expedition be mounted against this great scar on the earth, its connections to the ill omens obvious and its threat to the Valley- great. The journey would be long and difficult, whatsoever task befell them on their arrival could potentially decide the fate of the valley. Only the best warriors and scouts would be sent, among them one of the great mountain warlords of the past, Rhesus, directly chosen by Absalom for his skill and wisdom.

They met in the evening atop Mt. Ila, within Absalom's council room in the central keep. Rhesus and the others arrived and sat around the central table, awaiting the presence of Absalom - Champion and Protector of the Golden Valley, who was without equal amongst Mortal Men. Despite his reputation, a hunched and concerned looking Absalom entered. His gathered followers looked at him expectantly. With hushed tones Absalom began, the sadness obvious in his face, "Our land, homes are imperilled. We cannot fight our troubles directly as we have before. My friends I do not know the cause nor reason of these unknown terrors that befall us but we must endeavour against them. The outsiders claim a great cleft has opened in the plains to the distant south. I fear the repercussions of this catastrophe are linked to the entire world and if not fought against, we and the world shall tumble into ruin. I have decided that against our traditions, for the very survival of those traditions we must venture beyond our mountains'. Absalom paused. 'I must leave you for I have walked the breath of this world and have, for reasons beyond my comprehension... perhaps, the means to act against the oncoming storm'.

Rhesus stood abruptly, a certain wariness visiting his features. "Absalom, you must not leave the Golden Valley. The people here see you as their saviour, and it is you alone who unites and guides the many warriors and soldiers amongst us. Some might fear your departure would herald the return of old days. I do not think there would be panic, but the people would grow doubtful, fearful of their guardsmen and of us."

'Have you been having different dreams than me or any other, old Friend?' interjected Absalom. 'There seem to be darker things lurking in the night to be afraid of than guardsmen. But I fear you are right once again. You understand the burden will be upon you, you will lead our men out and beyond, further than any of your people have travelled before. You will set out immediately, with our best warriors and scouts and source the harbinger of our current misfortunes. If it is within your power, destroy it.'

"This I shall do, though I must ask what all of us must be thinking. It would seem to me that these omens might either be those of the world itself warning us, or as you have now said, cast by some maligned intelligence for darker purposes. What if the rumours are true, Absalom? What if these omens, this Fissure, are the work of the Diadochi?"

"I see the rumours of my old life remain as ever popular with the people. I doubt the involvement of those lecherous mages, they have not worked against me since you were a boy though have felt a similar chill in the air as of late, even our mountain feels different. if our malcontent is part of some great portent then all we can attempt is prayer. I shall remain here in defence of our home, may the Mountain never fall" Absalom said rising from his seat. "Quickly now Rhesus, time is fleeting, you make take the fortress guards and the best scouts in the valley, may luck be in your favour."

The following morning, Rhesus descended from the peak of Mt. Ila with a sizeable group of warriors and skirmishers, who would bid farewell to their families in the valley below before heading out into a world alien to them, possibly to never return. Upon reaching the outlying mountains Rhesus’ band was met by a deathly pale rider atop a withered horse mad with fear and starvation. Rhesus saw their worst fears had been confirmed, the black blooded message, now half decayed scrawled into the back of the mounted corpse might of well signalled the apocalypse. None the less he had to endeavour southward, he ordered the men with the strongest stomachs to ferry the necrotic warning across the mountains to Absalom, and after all it was addressed to him.

The corpse posed more questions than answers. Who was the message from? How do they know of the planar threat? How did they know his name? There were others like him? What did they mean by your kind? All Absalom knew was that he had to protect his people, their homes and whatever immense power buried away within Mount Ila, he would not be listening to instructions chiselled into a rotting man’s back.

.

---

T h e D e s o l a t e L a b y r i n t h

---

Empty. Empty was the only way to describe the infinite maze of the labyrinth. The walls towered higher than a dream of vertigo, and the stars would have all but been obscured by their majesty; if stars were at all present in this desolate, lonely realm. High above, hanging in the pale auburn clouds was an inexplicable source of light, unmoving and locked in place, casting eternally static shadows that seemed to be painted across the surfaces of the place.
To any normal mortal, it would have seemed as though the labyrinth was more akin to a prison than a construct that was escapable, as the walls would shift and turn in ways that defied logic and reason. In fact, it would not take much searching for one to find a plethora of souls that were literally lost in the maze, and had been for generations. Withered shades from all Planes who had arrived in search of mythical power at the centre of the maze would forever be locked within the embrace of the Desolate Plane.
There were beings of power that resided within, however. Creatures who could see through the veil presented by the maze: there was Emyra, the Demon Lord who seemed to preside over the warren of lost souls, and a much more… curious creature — small and shuffling through the empty hallways. He was apparently Human; with two legs and two arms, two eyes and one mouth. There was nothing outwardly alarming about him, his gait and his sorrowful gaze soothing those who looked upon him as some kind of figure of authority or knowledge, as if he had the answers of escape and freedom. He did not.

Instead of endlessly scraping against the walls, hoping that logic would assume control and guide him from the maze, this man instead seemed to be intent on wandering deeper into the uncertainty, further into the shadowy depths of the labyrinth. The only apparent respite from his inexplicable sorrow was his occasional bouts of poetry; verses and stanzas that were both haunting and beautiful simultaneously, often causing the dulled, lost shades around him to stop and look in wonder. Sometimes they would cry when subjected to the beauty of his words, but others would simply fall to the featureless ground and lay there for days at a time.
He seemed untouchable by the fear and corrupting power of the labyrinth. He thrived from the fear it invoked, becoming empowered by the loneliness within.

It was often he could be heard calling to the Lord of the Plane, the Demon Lord Emyra, asking for her audience. His words were filled with affection and love, longing and desire. Only sometimes did she answer, and only sometimes did he attempt to enact his influence upon her. But now… his intent and resolve seemed to be strengthened by some unknown factor. So he called to her with more evocative promise than he had ever done so before.

“To the beauty of the Plane, my Lady, pale in white,” he spoke to the empty, echoing halls. “Come to me, show me your infinite light,” he continued.

He stopped his shuffling, instead preferring to stand still so that she may find him between the shifting passageways.

“Together, we can be something. We can fight back the night,”

Maybe she had heard him. None could say.

“To my Lady of the Pale Dawn, there is much you must know, I love you so deeply, let me help you do what is right.”

The Frigid Scar
The Uridian Hall

Eredun sat motionless, as if frozen, upon his great throne of rock and ice. The Cold Ones, as they had been dubbed by his fellow Ice Wraiths, stood still beneath his throne awaiting his commands. It was almost as if the once feral, ever cringing, demons at his command had been chiseled of some jet black crystal. They had formed a ring surrounding two of Eredun's lesser wraiths whom sat in the center of the great throne room of Uridian Hall locked in combat. It was the Ice Lord's way of seeing which of his men were the strongest, not that it effected them in any way. Truth be told it may have been more of a pass-time, however Eredun had been imposing it upon his men for so long that it had become a simple tradition. The two combatants were the only figures in the icy, blue hall that were not frozen solid.

One of the wraiths, shirtless and gray with a black material covering his legs and wielding a spear tipped with ethereal ice, had been getting the better of his opponent, an ice-armored soldier with a sword and shield. It seemed that the speed of the former had gotten the better of the strength possessed by the latter. The wraith twirled and kicked and stabbed, however the soldiers were not permitted to mortally wound eachother. It only took a couple of minutes before the larger wraith fell to the ground, an icicle shaped spearhead pointed mere inches from his eye.

"Enough." Eredun said in a hushed tone, though it was loud enough that it could be heard through the dead silence of the throne room; the winning Wraith looked up grinning a nasty smile at his master. The losing wraith, however, struck the spear to the side and grabbed his opponents arm; yanking him to the ground and rolling on top of him. He sent a fist spiraling into the smaller wraith's face, then another, then another. It was likely that his intent was to prove himself the strongest and gain his lord's favor, however he had failed. "ENOUGH!" Eredun shouted, his booming voice echoing off of the smooth walls of the huge chamber. The defiant wraith stopped mid-punch and looked up at his lord, descending the ice-forged steps in front of his throne. He dropped the fallen wraith and stood solemnly, staring without word at Eredun. "Part." commanded Eredun, the amulet shimmering under his armor as the mindless demons in front of him parted to allow him through.

"Your greatness. I did-..." The wraith began, but Eredun cut him off. The Ice Lord phased, seemingly vanishing from existence and re-forming from dust directly in front of the defiant subordinate, his hand shoved directly onto his throat. The wraith grasped Eredun's forearm hoping to budge him and make him let go but the Ice Lord's strength was too great and the wraith soon found himself on his knees.

"It does not matter." Said Eredun. He clutched the wraith's neck quite firmly and then lifted him, armor and all, from the ground until his feet swayed with inches to spare from the cold floor beneath them. The Ice Lord drew his blade and jammed it through the wraith's stomach; shattering his armor without trouble. The once-strong wraith then fell from his hand and dissipated upon the ground. He was not truly alive and had no body to leave behind. His previous incarnation simply being a manifestation of cold. He had moved on to become a less physical and yet more primal incarnation of the ice that formed Vórós Khástar. "You." He said when he was done dispatching the useless wraith. "Congratulations, you've killed your opponent."

Later that evening Eredun stood atop the peak of Uridian Hall. A massive spire that crept up toward the sky, visible from miles away even over the mountain peaks surrounding it. It was an open terrace with the top of the tower extending a good twenty feet overhead still, though it came to a direct point which nothing could stand upon, therefor making the terrace the tallest reachable location in the Frigid Scar. From here Eredun looked out bitterly over his own domain as he had done for the past thirty years, waiting patiently for a sign from the portal. This night came the sign. From the distance, across the Solid Sea an effervescent light erupted silently into the sky. It seemed to disperse the fog for a moment, and even the always overcast sky appeared clear enough to reveal stars above. Though the light formed a spire that seemed to reach even higher than they. After a moment it would change from blue to green to red, all the colors of the spectrum were exhibited individually and at once. A conflux. They had grown stronger as of late.

Eredun had known of the use of the portal, however he had never utilized it himself. He didn't know of any who actually had. It was just something that seemed to exist and be recognized. He knew of the other lords as well. Perhaps not their names, but what and who they were. He knew they would take notice of the conflux just as he had. Perhaps their goals might even run parallel.

It is time I saw the plague lord. Eredun thought, leaving his terrace and descending toward the bottom of his frozen spire once more. The next morning he departed for the portal with a contingent of four Elites at his sides.

The Ashen Abyss
Ebony Citadel

As Xoidea and Kikmeine strolled through the cool dark air, fresher than that pent up in Ebony Citadel, the latter looked about Quse Breche, realized he hadn't bothered to set foot outside in days, and rather wondered why, for the view was as spectacular as ever. Quse Breche, home to the main base of operations for the reth-dekala since that institution's founding, was a large cavern where the labor of countless spell casters, artisans, and slaves had turned enormous stalagmites and other masses of rocks into three extraordinary citadels. To the east rose pyramidal Malarin-Magthere, where Kikmeine and others like him turned callow young demons into warriors. By the western wall stood the many-spired tower of Sorcere, where Xoidea and her colleagues taught wizardry, while to the north crouched the largest and most imposing school of all, Arach-Tinilith, a temple built in the great sphere like shape much like a small moon. Inside, the priestesses of Mother Dark, Demon Lord of hedonism, chaos, assassins, perfection, lust, excess, and greed, trained succubi maidens to serve their mistress in their turn. And yet, magnificent as was Quse Breche, considered in the proper context, it was only a detail in a scene of far greater splendor. The Ebony Citadel sat in a side cavern, a mere nook opening partway up the wall of a truly prodigious vault. The primary chamber was two miles wide and a thousand feet high, and filling all that space was Erelhei-Cinlu.

On the cavern floor, castles, hewn like Quse Breche from natural protrusions of calcite, shone blue, green, and violet amid the darkness. The phosphorescent mansions served to delineate the plateau of Qu'ellarz'orl, where the nightshades and those creatures nearly as powerful made their homes; the West Wall district, where lesser but still well-established factions schemed how to supplant the dwellers on Qu'ellarz'orl; and Narbondellyn, where parvenus plotted to replace the inhabitants of West Wall. Still other palaces, cut from stalactites, hung from the lofty ceiling. The powerful and favored of Mother Dark within Erelhei-Cinlu had set their homes glowing to display their immensity, their graceful lines, and the ornamentation sculpted about their walls. Most of the carvings featured carnal acts, scarcely surprising, Kikmeine supposed, in a realm where Mother Dark was the only thing close to a deity anyone worshiped, and her clergy ruled in the temporal sense as well as the spiritual one.

For some reason, Kikmeine found the persistence of such motifs vaguely oppressive, so he shifted his attention to other details. If a night fiend had good eyes, he could make out the frigid depths of the lake called Donigarten at the narrow eastern end of the vault. Cattle-like beasts called al'vur and the human slaves who herded them lived on an island in the center of the lake. And there was Narbondel itself, of course. It was the only piece of un-worked stone remaining on the cavern floor, a thick, irregular column extending all the way to the ceiling. At the start of every day, the First Daughter Night of Erelhei-Cinlu cast a spell into the base of it, heating it until the rock glowed. Since the radiance rose through the stone at a constant rate, its progress enabled the residents of the city to tell the time. In their way, the Master of Malarin-Magthere supposed, he and Xoidea were, if nowhere near as grand a sight as the vista before them, at least a peculiar one by virtue of the contrasts between them. With her slender build, graceful manner, seductive, voluptuous, elegant attire, and intricate coiffure, the nightshade mage epitomized what a sophisticated- and of course alluring- demoness and sorceress should be. Kikmeine, on the other hand was an oddity. He was huge for a member of his sex, bigger than many females, with a burly, broad-shouldered frame better suited to a brutish ogre than a demon of lust. He compounded his strangeness by wearing an ebony breastplate and vambraces in preference to light, supple mail used by most incubi. He also did not have one set of wings, but two, and two sets of horns, the front pair jutting almost seven inches forward with the back pair curled over his scalp. By contrast, Xoidea was unique among Erinyes's in her shorter then average stature for their kind, standing no taller then a human female, with dark furthered wings with crimson edges. She also sported horns, but they were short nubs easily hidden in the long locks of her hair, and unlike many of those who lived within the abyss, possessed ivory colored skin. If not for the wings, talons, and fangs, Xoidea might have passed for a human mortal, maybe even a Velusian.

Kikmeine and Xoidea walked to the edge of Quse Breche and sat down with their legs dangling over the sheer drop-off. They were only a few yards from the head of the staircase that connected the Ebony Citadel with the city below, and at the top of those steps, beside the twin pillars, a pair of sentries—last-year initiates of Malarin-Magthere—stood watch. Kikmeine thought that he and Xoidea were distant enough for privacy if they kept their voices low.

Low, but not silent, curse it. Ever the sensualist, the sorceress sat savoring the panorama below him, obviously prolonging his contemplation well past the point where Kikmeine's mouth had begun to tighten with impatience, and never mind that on the walk up, he'd admired the view himself.

"We fiends don't love one another, except in the carnal sense," Xoidea remarked at last, "but I think one could almost love Erelhei-Cinlu itself, don't you? Or at least take a profound pride in it."

Kikmeine shrugged. "If you say so."

"You sound less than rhapsodic. Feeling morose again today?"

"I'm all right. Better, at least, now that I see you still alive."

"You assumed Sister had executed me? Does my offence seem so grievous, then? Have you never annihilated a single specimen of our tender young candidates?"

"That depends on how you look at it," Kikmeine replied. "Combat training is inherently dangerous. Accidents happen, but no one has ever questioned that they were accidents occurring during the course Malarin-Magthere's legitimate business. The Dark Mother knows, I never lost seven in a single hour, two of them from favoured pets of nightshades with seats on the Council. How does such a thing happen?"

"I needed seven assistants with a degree of magical expertise to help me perform the Gate summoning ritual. Had I called upon full-fledged wizards, they would have joined the experiment as equal partners. They would have emerged from the ritual possessed of the same newly discovered secrets as myself, equally able to conjure and control a Rift gate. Naturally I wished to avoid such a sharing, so I opted to use apprentices instead."

Xoidea grinned and continued, "In retrospect, I must admit that it may not have been a good idea. The backlash of magic ended up killing them all, the strain proving to much." An updraft wafted past Kikmeine's face, carrying the constant murmur of the metropolis below. He caught its scent as well, a complex odor made of cooking smoke, incense, perfume, the stink of unwashed thralls, and a thousand other things.

"Why perform such a dangerous ritual in the first place?" he asked.

Xoidea smiled as if it was a silly question. Perhaps it was.

“A way around the use of the nexus to offer maximum opportunity to exploit the disjunction on the mortal plane? Could you not imagine the favor I might have gained from Mother Dark?” Xoidea sighed. “I might have avoided the necessity in even setting foot on the mortal plane, thus endangering my own person, alas, it would seem my punishment will force me into possible danger all the same.”

“I see.”

Ambition was an essential part of the abyss demon character, and Kikmeine sometimes envied Xoidea her still-passionate investment in the struggle for status. The warrior supposed that he himself had achieved the pinnacle of his ambitions when he became one of the lesser masters of Malarin-Magthere, for certainly he, born of the seed of a none Demon Lord, could never climb any higher. From that day forward, he'd stopped peering hungrily upward and concentrated on looking down, to guard against all those who wished to kill him in hopes of ascending to his position.

Xoidea was a Mistress of Sorcere as Kikmeine was a Master of Malarin-Magthere but perhaps, being of full Demon lord blood, Xoidea really did aspire to assassinate the formidable Zhofaer, their eldest sister, and seize her position. Even if she didn't, wizards and their ilk, by the nature of their intricate and clandestine art, maintained a rivalry that encompassed more than who was a master, who was chief wizard or Sorceress in the Children of Night, and who was neither. They also cared about such things as who could know the most esoteric secrets, could conjure the deadliest specter, or see most clearly into the future. In fact, they cared so deeply that they occasionally sought to murder each other and plunder one anther’s spell books even when such hostilities ran counter to the interests of their allies, severing said alliance or disrupting a negotiation.

"Now," Xoidea said, reaching inside the elegant folds of her robes and producing a silver flask, "I'll have to turn my back on the mortals for a while. I hope the poor lambs won't be lonely without me."

She unscrewed the bottle, took a sip, and passed the container to Kikmeine.

Kikmeine hoped the flask didn't contain wine or an exotic liqueur, or worse a aphrodisiac. Xoidea was forever pressing such libations on him and insisting that he try to recognize all the elements that allegedly blended together to create the taste, even though Kikmeine had demonstrated time and again that his palate was incapable of such a dissection. He drank and was pleased to find that for a change, the flask contained simple brandy, probably imported at some expense from the inhospitable planes such as Fél Válásí or Iíoá Kháldór that lay beyond the nexus, baking in the excruciating sunlight. The liquor burned his mouth and kindled a warm glow in his stomach.

He handed the brandy back to Xoidea and said, "I assume Zhofaer told you to leave the project be."

"In effect. She assigned me another task to occupy my time. Should I succeed, The First Daughter of Night will forgive me my transgressions. Should I fail . . . well, I'll hope for a nice beheading or garroting, but I'm not so unrealistic as to expect anything that quick."

"What task?"

"I am to leave the Abyss, on an errand to Fél Várást. To act as an envoy to Tyranthos the Exalted One himself."

Xoidea took another sip, then offered the flask again.

"When are you to leave" asked Kikmeine, waving off the drink.

Xoidea smiled and said. “Why, by the next lighting of the spire, I fear it would be a taxing, and of course, boring affair. I can only hope Tyranthos does not gut me the moment I show up at his door, assuming I get that far of course.”

Kikmeine raised and eyebrow slightly as he turned his gaze back on Erelhei-Cinlu. “I can now guess why you wanted to meet today.”

"Of course you have. Whatever awaits on such a journey, my chances of survival improve if I have a comrade to watch my back."

Kikmeine scowled. "You mean, a comrade willing to defy the express will of First Daughter Zhofaer and risk running afoul of some outerplane fiend."

"Quite, and by a happy coincidence you have the look of a demon in need of a break from his daily routine. You know you're bored to death. It's painful to watch you grouch your way through the day."

Kikmeine pondered for a moment, then said, "All right. Maybe we can find something alone the way we can turn to our advantage."

"Thank you, my brother. I owe you." Xoidea took a drink and held out the flask again. "Have the rest. There's only a swallow left. We seem to have guzzled the whole pint in just a few minutes, though that scarcely seems possible, refined, specimens we are."

Kikmeine shrugged and took the flask, upending it. A moment latter he felt heat spread through himself, and the blood rushed to his groin. He sighed, realizing to late that his devious sister had spiked the drink with aphrodisiacs after all.

The labyrinth was vast and desolate but over the long windy passages and dusty corridors the poet's voice travelled a long way. The sweet words travelled all the way to the central chamber where the largest piece of Emyra writhed in the tormented agony of waiting. She had often heard this voice before drifting hauntingly through the maze that made up her home. But she had never found the one who spoke these words and called to her with such devotion. Something was different this time and the words did not echo from all directions like they normally did. She could find the one who spoke this time. Maybe he would be the one she sought? There had been one before, but he had turned on her after their embrace and Emyra did not know if he was truly the one.

Coils of flesh heaved and shifted as the lonely one detached a piece of herself. She had a humanoid torso and upper body above a writhing mass of coiling and molten flesh. The tiny piece of Emyra, still massive compared to a human, slowly began to slide towards the one corridor that led into the center of the Labyrinth. Her humanoid mouth opened and she began to sing a wordless song of loneliness, loss, and desire, the bewitching song that drew so many of the lost in the Labyrinth ever deeper in search of her.

She could still hear the words and it was not hard for her to decide where they came from. The piece of her reached the corner and disappeared as she transported herself away from the hidden room at the center of the maze.

Emyra appeared in a large room where many different paths collided and then split apart again like a wheel. Her body oozed forward on long tentacles and appendages of flesh while the human part of her kept up the haunting song. She saw the one who had called out to her and moved that way. Her humanoid part lowered and the rest of her fanned out in waves to encircle the man who did not run.

"Brave soul who fears not, join me in my embrace." Emyra's human portion's arms reached out to enfold the man even as the rest of her began to close as if to engulf him.

“...Release me, witch!

“Ah? WITCH?” Magnus responded, albeit in an aggrieved tone of voice. “Demonic comrade and oh-so-tasty-morsel, Xea was indeed gifted with a formal title when her dearest parents were abruptly greeted with her beloved screeching, infant cries! You lack tact! You're not polite! You offend Xea! Your best friend Xea!”

As the seconds waned onward, the woman's twin golem-like grip tightened around the creatures' windpipe. She gazed down at the bulkier and taller specimen kneed below her with frigid eyes of crimson and distaste, the audible choking of the dying demon being the only noise within the shadowy room for a cursory instant. Feeling death drawing near, the beast flailed chaotically, bludgeoning his aggressor with fist and claw in a frantic attempt to liberate himself from his attacker. But the woman seemed unmarred by her prey's ongoing assault, her biting words absolutely persistent in spilling forth from her fanged maw even as her own inhuman ichor dribbled, pooled and pattered at her feet.

“Xea speculates that you find her name revolting! Is that why you won't say it?” the haunter cried out. “Are you judging her, you addle-minded fuck?” A blur of blood-spattered, gray-colored scales flashed before the demon's eyes. A deafening crunch pursued by his own pained grunt pierced the low-lit atmosphere of the sanctuary.

“Are you labeling her because of what she's done and what she's like? It's all your doing! Your entire species! You bastards! All of you! It isn't Xea's fault your souls and essences and whatever-it-is-you-all-have are so delicious! Become nasty! Become gross! That's the solution you should have been pursuing---but you didn't do it, did you? Idiots!”

She struck him again. His jaw now hung suspended by a tattered strip of leather-like skin and muscle. The raging surge of retaliation the demon had been exerting upon Xea ceased immediately.

"You moronic hell-spawn!”

A third blow sent more cracked fangs, black blood and the remains of the being's lower face streaking across the stonework floor.

“You damnable hell-spawn! Die!”

The agonized pain finally registered less than a second later, and the demon's aching scream, like that of a dying swine, only enraged Magnus more. “Who told you to bleed? Who told you to scream? No--wait, who even told you to exist?”

Silence.

“Answer Xea!” An increase in her body's mass and durability made Xea's fourth blow—the killing blow—impact with even greater force. A wet snap, a torrent of dark fluid and an explosion of spine and skull fragments were Magnus' reward. The headless body slumped downward to the right with a morbid wump.

The demon's lifeless physical form was no longer capable of supporting his life essence, and, like the thousands before it, it eventually presented itself to Xea both as an alluring aroma and as an ever-shifting cloud of energy. It attempted to pass through the masonry above her, but Xea's arcane gaze kept it restrained. She inhaled and held her mouth agape, forcibly urging the cloud to enter her petite shell.

Whatever pitiful resistance the demon presented to Xea was rejected effortlessly. She threw her head back and shut her eyes, and then shivered in bliss.

“Xea? Xea, It was worse this time,” she muttered to herself. Her hands were drawn close to her face, turned over two times for her own personal inspection and then wrapped around her rib-cage in a tight self-embrace. “The weaker ones aren't enough Xea. Xea, they aren't enough.”

.

---

T h e G a r d e n s O f F i l t h

---

"Master master!" the jester cried pathetically, squealing to the cavernous roof of the Gardens of Filth. "Master does not believe me?"
The small, keeling creature retreated from the mighty Demon Lord of Plagues as he moved, recoiling from his every word that seemed to install rot and decay into the hearts of all who cast their ears to him. He demanded proof, questioning the consequences of trust or mistrust - a clever creature indeed.
The Jester's tone changed swiftly, and he stood to his full height, his slouch becoming non-existent, and his squealing tone retreating to a more confident, rumbling timbre, though it was nothing in comparison to that of the Demon lord which he stood up to.
"Oh, master," he sneered through his now visible set of needle-like teeth. "I do not need to prove anything to you. You either take the chance to bring your decay to the Human world, or you can sit here upon your throne of maggots and..." The Jester chuckled menacingly.

"Rot."

He immediately retracted back into his hunched, pitiful form. He stumbled backwards, away from the every approaching Demon Lord; unleashing a flurry of distressed calls for redemption.

"Master! I am as much of this world as you! Master you must believe me!"

And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the Jester was simply gone. He had vanished behind a cloud of noxious gas so suddenly and with such sleight that even the Lord of Decay would have been momentarily taken aback by the grace of it, leaving the Demon Lord and his subjects silent once more to consider their options. Was the world in Conflux once more?

.

---

T h e D e s o l a t e L a b y r i n t h

---

“My lady of the Stars, we cannot be together.”

The Poet, who was so tiny in comparison to Emyra, the Demon Lord, looked upon her with remarkable fearlessness; even with a hint of desire and endearment. But he did not seem to act as a deceiver, it was as if something really was keeping him from accepting her embrace and being a part of her from then onwards, to the end of time.
As Emyra approached, the Poet was no longer where he once stood. Some force had pulled him from her, and a simple turn had relocated him to some other random point within the inexplicable conundrum of a world. But this was by no choice of the Poet’s, and from then she would have been able to hear his own distressed cries across the bleakness of the Labyrinth, calling her name over and over.

“Emyra, my love. Take me into your embrace forever,” his voice would echo through the halls, almost acting like a beacon for her to follow, so that she may find him again and make another attempt at bringing them together for eternity. His calls would then resonate through the emptiness, each more hopeful, yet desperate than the last.
He would return to his endless shuffling through the Labyrinth following the encounter with his beloved, this time the sound of sobbing following his every move. The Poet wept for his missed opportunity, feeling that he never again would have his chance to love and be loved in this realm of sadness and loss. His robes would drag on the floor, and his posture would slouch, the spring in his gait replaced by a sorrowful step.
The souls within the Labyrinth, always searching for an escape, no longer looked upon the Poet with admiration. They turned their gazes from him, focusing once more upon a siren song emanating from afar, drawing them close. But he did not seem to hear it, he could not find his way back to her — he would have to bring her to him.

Pages from the Poet’s folio fluttered to the dirt behind him every so often, each one with a different poem scrawled upon the parchment in a faded ink. Each a message to Emyra, hoping that she would follow the paper trail to him once more. He could not leave her like he had, and must have found a way to explain the predicament to her. He had placed one poem upon the ground carefully for his love, so that she might find it and understand.

Emyra, my beautiful treasure,
I am compelled to be apart
from your beauty as gentle as a feather,
so to you this message, I must impart.

Something keeps us at a distance
Something within the intermediate Plane
At the centre is a source of this resistance
And the cause of our shared, immeasurable pain.

The alignment has begun.
Seek the man who made you what you are. See what he has become.

Karuz Thrak stared at the cloud of gas as it dissipated into the cavern above. Despite his less than stellar intellect, the plague lord was not without caution. “Could it be true?”, he pondered. As he sat on his throne his mind began to spin. His past attempts at spreading disease and pestilence to the mortal realm had almost always ended with failure. Either some medicinal cure or wizard saved the day. But if the Conflux had returned, then this changed everything. A legion of his Kul Rak could decimate the world of men. His host would feed off of the life force of the mortal world and his numbers would grow with each human felled.

He stood once more and strode to the center of his throne room. He flexed his superior muscles as if showing off to his subjects. They did not take notice. He pointed to a plague valkyrie, Tyz Mok, a trusted servant, who had been by his side during the encounter with the jester.

“Mok, I don’t know if this is true, and I don’t pretend to comprehend all that this could mean, but I refuse to let indecision be my downfall once again.” He lowered his hand and began to pace throughout the open throne room. “Take a small band of Kul Rak and go through the portal. If you make through and find yourself in the human realm. Send a messenger back to me, then continue on, no doubt my counterparts from the other planes will have the same information, and for once I don’t want to be last. While you’re at it I’ll put those foolish humans who call themselves my servants to use.”

As he left the room his servants scattered off in different directions at varying levels of speed. Thrak made his way down the steps to the city, he brushed spores off his cloak as he was reminded of how much he hated living in such a “dreadful place”. The mortal world would definitely be a much more fitting place to rule from, with its open skies and absence of mucus lined cavern walls. He smiled as he made his way towards his workshop through the city’s streets. For the first time in over a century things seemed like to be looking up.

---

“COME ONE, COME ALL! TO THE FANTASTIC AND MAGNIFICENT EXTRAVAGANZA!”

The showman was standing on a stage outside his pitched tent within the town square. He had been attempting to lure anyone who would listen. “I have an incredible story for you! I come from the far east with tales of the bizarre and spectacular!” His words were hollow, and his crooked and yellow smile was repulsing, but none the less a crowd gathered.

“It’s right inside this tent I tell you! We have a woman with three legs, and a baby who can breath fire! Just like a dragon! MANY other spectacles awaite! JUST INSIDE!” he danced about in a peculiar manner, and motioned to the tent just behind the stage. “All you need do is enter and you shall be AMAZED!”

As the curious onlookers gathered around they became enthralled, some would say even spellbound. Soon enought the intrigued townspeople began to file into the tent, and were met with nothing but blackness.Out of the blackness shined a single green light, it swayed and sparkeled. The stench came next. An odour so foul that many of the townspeople began to cough and vomit. The green light flashed and began to move round them, disorienting and confusing them. They tripped over each other, and those getting sick were unable even to call for help. Fear gripped the group and they began to rush for the exits of the tent, as they made their way out they found themselves alone. The stage and showman were gone. When the last of them had finally exited the tent collapsed behind them. WIping the mucus from their faces and still terrified at what had just occurred, they spoke amongst themselves about what had occured. The majority of the group finally came to the conclusion that they must have been swindled by the showman. Feeling this to be a reasonable and likely conclusion they began to disperse off towards the rest of their daily lives. As they left, a few coughed and hacked their throats… it must just be a slight cold.

In the distance, Nemesthus burned.

Above the dark, broken band of its curtain wall, the metropolis' innumerable temples and minarets were silhouettes backlit by an inferno. A million of voices filled the air, audible for miles around the striken city, cries of the faithful inside their burning shrines, calling upon Mother Night to deliver them from the horrifying magicks unleashed upon them by their dread foes, the Diadochi, self-proclaimed Successors of the Gods.

Nemesthus burned, but her defenders were far from defeated. Legions of Reth Dekala poured from their doomed fortress like termites from a ruined hive, screaming prayers and tearing savagely at the phalanxes of Successor Guard closing in on Nemesthus from all sides. The two forces collided in the suburbs and outworks, their battles backlit by the incandescent city looming above them.

The air stank of spent magic and burnt flesh. Strange lightning swirled in the pall of smoke and ash overhanging the battle.

The Lord of the Diadochi stood atop a hill overlooking the killing fields, surveying the infernal scene before with him with an air of infinite boredom.

Two hundred years of war were coming to an end in this place of horror, the armies of his enemies trapped and shattered, their great capital set aflame by his will...but Dionysius the Golden felt little but cold disgust.

"It appears their attempt failed." said a low voice to his left, "We acted in time."

"Let us hope so, Knossos." he replied, his eyes not leaving Nemesthus. He sighed deeply, what might have been a look of mild disappointment crossing his gaunt features. "I am done here, you finish it."

The Lord of the Diadochi turned from the burning city and began to walk away.

Knossos' reply died in his throat, cut off by an earsplitting peal of laughter that drowned out the chanting of Nemesthus' doomed inhabitants and the roar of battle alike.

“You are far too late.”

“My…my lord?” Orpheus asked, his tremulous voice echoing in the high arcades of the audience chamber. Mosaics of ancient gods and saints stared down at the proceedings from the domed ceiling, sitting in silent judgment on their self-styled Successors, the Diadochi.

These stood in a semi-circle before the Throne, five tall, regal figures facing their lord and maker.

Dionysius the Golden.

He sat slightly slouched in his tremendous golden chair, draped in exquisite robes of crimson and silver. Gaunt, he had pale bluish skin and black hair, a short beard fringed with grey. Slender hands, their nails long and pointed, grasped the arms of his throne. His eyes were closed, and he moved not.

“Dionysius,” said another of Diadochi, a plain, middle-aged looking man standing slightly apart from his fellow mage-lords.

His master’s eyes opened slowly.

Dionysius sighed as he pushed the lingering images of an ancient memory from his mind.

“The stars do not lie,” he said, his voice a deep, ringing baritone that filled the huge chamber, “The time long foreseen and long awaited is nigh. And you, children…you are ill prepared.”

A murmur of consternation rumbled among Dionysius’ five underlings.

“I blame myself,” he said, “I have allowed you to amuse yourselves with vanity and politics, and devour each one, another. Now we are much reduced, and our enemies move against us.”

“What is to be done?” asked Orpheus, the youngest of the Six.

“I have pondered such a question for ten thousand life times,” replied Dionysius, “With prodigious skill I have peered into the twisting hells that now align and hope to consume us…We are not without resources and means in the coming struggle.”

“Our citie-” began Orpheus, but the plain-looking Diadochi lifted his hand and the younger mage fell silent.

“The cities cannot be defended, all of them. One who defends everything will lose it,” said the man, “You will bring your treasures here, and your chosen followers. Dis will never fall, but the outer cities must needs look to their own protection until we are ready.”

“Ready for what, Knossos?” Orpheus asked the plain man.

“Our counteroffensive,” said Dionysius, his thin lips curling with the slightest hint of a smile, “But that is tomorrow. Today’s work awaits you. Now go from me, returning with all your power assembled behind you.”

.

---

T h e E t e r n a l V e r d a n c e

---

‘-Is like a warm embrace,
Could only be one sweet place,
Home and the Heartland…’
A tender breeze tickled his nose as his lips uttered the words, void of melody.
The foliage emanated a rustling sound, swept lightly by the higher winds, moving and constantly spawning new sunrays; or at least, those few which managed to pierce the dense jungle that overlooked him. His nose wrinkled at a particularly strong inhibiting perfume, tightening the whole face in a bothered expression.
Something, with high possibilities a cumbrous event, was drawing closer.
He had questioned himself more and more times what was he doing, but found no apparent reason for having been playing the lute for the past three hours. Baffled of his own odd habits, Elea gently wound the instrument in a silken cloth, completely enfolding it, and placed it on the tea table.
He particularly enjoyed gazing upon the city from that lonely window, and for this reason sat comfortably on a couch, relaxing as he felt his limbs melt at the graceful warmth that wrapped his body.
-You are consciously aware about the upcoming celebration. Why are you not preparing yourself?-
‘I recall of having shared with you my reasons for being here, Jorrwarg; are you accusing me of indolence?’ snapped Elea, arching his left eyebrow.
-Most likely.-
-You shouldn’t behave like that, Jorrgy dear. Young Elea has his own problems going through his mind; we shouldn’t be meddling with him right now.-
‘I don’t even know whoever I may be. Little remains of myself…’
-But you still remember right, young cub? Even now, you keep most memories of your past self.-
He sighed. That was precisely something he loathed with his very being.
-And that, Flora, is forsooth the reason why I want him to hurry. He decided to act this way, now he is not allowed to stray from his path.-
-Oh shush! I prompted in numerous occasions not to allow this to happen; but have you heard me out? No! No, you didn’t. No.-
-Whether we are going to put the discussion on such terms I- -
‘Enough.’ Silenced the king. He had expected to be calm and prompt for the incoming meeting, but those two surely couldn’t, nor had intention, of helping him out.
-This shall be my last warning. Are you sure of activating this trigger?-
Elea raised himself from his position, and stretching his flesh upwards, yawned soundly, earnestly hoping of being back as soon as the day had not sunk. ‘It’s time.’ Was all he could respond, leaving his mouth slightly open, almost as she wanted to enquire something else on her own.
His steps reverberated on the marble tiles through the aisle, void of any presence.

‘You majesty!’
An armored guard appeared just before he could put an hand on a side door’s handle. From behind the rusted straps that engulfed the wood, cheerful noises and giggles could be heard, and, in particular, a deep and hoarse disembodied voice, which loomed soundly all over the ballhall. Unleashing a spiritless sigh, he forced himself to look at the steel shell, as thoughtless as his face could fake.
‘Yes, page?’
‘Your majesty, sir!, Goffland the Great, tribe master of the Volianai has arrived since the fifth stroke; he has been waiting with the court assembly.’ Proffered the guard, taking the traditional salute position. However, showing a novice’s inexperience, his halberd hit the ground way too sharply, generating an obvious and tense silence in the adjacent room.
‘Don’t call him ‘great’ in my presence, you twit. He may wear an honorable title, but still remains nothing more than a pernicious savage in my eyes. Forsooth should be the same to all of you.’ Snapped the King, keeping a low tone.
Without further procrastination, Elea entered the hall, followed by the thick sprawling chaos of glances, which devoured him with all sorts of thoughts; he never turned himself, but kept progressing towards his throne, avoiding eyes and faces alike. He even occluded his eyes, with the purpose of stressing a dignified and abstract outlook, performing the same ceremony he by then knew already by heart. Frightened, fidgeting for the scolding, the young guard appeared before him, as the only attendant he required; however, before he could catch up with his master, the novice had to close the door which had been so mindlessly overlooked and left wide open by him. Under the subdued laughter of the whole assembly, Edwin offspring of Lolerei finally reached the ceremonial guard stand, and hit roughly the bare stone with his weapon. Before any bystander could return to a normal breathing rhythm, the noise had to be absorbed by the vain silence of the hall; then, the pallid characters obtained again the right to emit any form of flatulence.
‘Enters his royal highness Kráthin I, offspring of Eél, ruler of the Kargath and of its lands! Salute!’
Elea opened his eyes, overlooking the bowed crowd.
He had never expected to find strangers around that place. For which reason? Most likely due to the utter isolationism in which his people decided to self-confine. Those two men that stood blabbering before him – whose presence still went unnoticed – wore pelt straps much unlike those of his fellow mates, incredibly less refined and tanned; their aspect hinted they were highly uncivilized Velusians, clearly not of his clan. That, most of all, troubled his mind. In fact, the watchmen emanated a penetrating smell, like that of a long since dead animal, and their greasy and wild hairs were covered in mud, probably with the intent – without a doubt botched - of faking a camouflage.
All of a sudden, the two savages moved towards an undefined point, giving him the goose bumps for the shock; without hesitation, Elea continued towards his objective, hoping everything to be as it should.
Though not as processed as Hetrya ones, the tribe master had a fine pelt mantle, probably giant lynx, that covered almost entirely the big and pudgy mass he wore over his feet; the few spots that weren’t saved from the spectator’s judgment, aroused a strong contempt towards the pale and hairy skin. Elea wondered how could have that man provoked giggles in his court. That very court he now rewarded with a cold stare, that bowed mindlessly at the presence of his figure. All these were fine men and women, gentle, intelligent… what hoax or magic had he used to subdue their rationality?
After what seemed an interminable minute, the king granted the crowd to stand again. And then, was the moment he met him again.
Elea’s eyes took fire: twenty-seven years of sorrow and despair were conjured again in an infinitesimal instant, through which both soul and body were shook to the very ground. Distant remembrances were called back from the spirits of the dead, and traveled again to the kingdom of the living, as if they had never left it.
Smoke rose high into the sky, intertwined with dreary cries and laments of his people. The under wood had been annihilated, and blood stains were visible all over the massive trucks of the jungle. He ran. He stumbled; he cried. Few bulky tears dripped over his face, whilst he felt hot ambers burning his skin.
Fire.
‘Your majesty’ enquired the tribe master, hesitant. Elea had been, seemingly impassible, staring in the void for more than a minute; but now, he was very present, and still was burning for the scar that face recalled to life. Gulping, feeling his own throat hoarse for the shock, the king allowed him to speak further.
‘King Kráthin, I humbly thank you for having shown such a kind heart allowing us to rest in your lands.’ The tribe lord grinned softly, doing an another bow; an excessive ostentation of servility. What was his goal? For which reason drawing so mockingly closer to your enemy, idiotic bastard?
‘You indeed speak for your people, and wisely as well. Forsooth’ added after a brief pause ‘ you should prize this opportunity for a good future for yours, people.’ Elea raised his hands, moving his attention from the barbarian to a particularly detailed hunting scene carved on his ring, on a pearly cameo embedded in it.
‘I hope’ continued, this time raising his voice, over the undecipherable expression of the colleague ‘ you have not damaged our gardens and monoliths. Applying druidic runes for such large areas it’s not an easy task, not even for us of the Kargath.’
His head was twirling awfully hard.
That couldn’t possibly be her hand! Not of his Oleé- of his lovely sister…
He crouched, grabbed what little remained of his family, brought it to his head, and felt the burned flesh under tact; a scream of agony could not be repressed, and ended with jangling amidst the slaughter.
‘Of course, of course, honorable liege. This settlement bestows true honor to our race, and I could not image a Verdance spoiled of its eternal light, so seldom-‘
Elea saw something conjuring in those eyes. ‘Stop, now. Flattery won’t wind your request towards better hopes. Speak, and spare this assembly from avoidable futilities.’ He was seriously growing tired of this; his heart did not want to decelerate. How could it, after all?
‘Yes, yes, as you desire. Recently in the zones much afar from the Kargath a wild beast has been spotted. An incredibly savage and blood thirsty feline like creature attacked our tribe one month ago, and thus forced us out of the territory which we had claimed. You ought to help us! He has killed dozens- nay, tons of my men, scarred families, left orphans to die amidst the wild jungle! It is a demonic creature for sure, that has come to haunt us, huble, innocent servants of Fél!' finished in a pathetic cry, trying to move the crowd on the boundaries of human feelings. What he had in return were only cold stares of an indifferent set of grey statues. Bursting, exploding in sharp and vicious colors, Elea raised, unable to refrain himself anymore.
He was in front of his headsman, after all.
That microscopic feeling that binds all creatures together, that so easily forestalls death and pleasures alike, had advised Elea so clearly as soon as he saw the enemy tribe master, the one that above all was enjoying the sight of the burning timber, feeling with his hands the acid yells of the dead, of turning his back, and running, fast. But he could not.
Elea sprinted towards the wild monster, holding tightly his sword. Whatever rationality would have suggested, he knew the upcoming event was necessary for himself and everyone else. In few instants he had charged towards him, bursting in an hysterical scream.
The swords touched his skin, grazing against it, feeling the fear that flowed unrestrained through the veins. Elea could not refrain himself from smiling, sneering at his frightened expression.
'Poor, poor savage... don't tell me you have forgotten?'
'Wh-What?'
'You speak of innocence, of oughts... don't you feel any shame? You, who above all in this whole world should suffer the most scabrous punishments, burning to your very soul in the Feron-Khol, rot amidst the Rhul Thaar, torn to little pieces by the madmen of Indar Solasi; you... you man FORSAKEN BY THE SAME FE'L YOU SO HARDLY INVOKE AND SOIL WITH THOSE SLITHING WORDS, DON'T YOU HAVE ANY SHAME?!'
The scream echoed everywhere, carried by the winds.
Elea paused. Suddenly, bursting in a subtle laughter, continued 'Foolish man... you've buried that memory, haven't you? You have said it yourself, after all. Verdance is not a place for the weak, lad.'
'Of blood thirsty ' concluded in a solemn voice, raising in all his stature ', blood you shalt have!'
Before he could do anything, two men took him by behind his shoulders; the river was red of the blood of his people, frothy of his greasy tears, relentless of the broken hopes. And he, who could do nothing against the unjust fate that had been bestowed to them, was taken as well, hit to death, and left to the wild nature of the streams.
And right before his senses could abandon him, Elea heard few words that would have changed his life entirely.
Beheaded, the tribe lord's body slumped to the ground in a disgusting clatter, whilst his head rolled forth away from the pool of blood.
'Verdance is not a place for the weak, lad.' had uttered the corpse nine years before.

Dawn rose on Mendolos. A hundred and fifty kilometres north of the Spire, sitting on the Karell River which flowed in the direction of the Diadochi principalities, it was there that the Kings of Ingria ruled, who were the mightiest among the lords of the Galan League. Though publicly swearing fielty to the Tower and it's Lady, the kings of Ingria, as well as the other noblemen of the League, had for millenia ruled themselves, waging petty wars between each other. Ingria had been founded as a splinter of the greater Coldomoran Empire nearly seven hundred years ago, when its lands were split among the monarch's sons. Since then, the royal lands had waxed and waned, as king succeeded king.
Ludveck the Bald was the the latest scion of this line, a fat man who hated the mocking name some courtiers called him to his back. Leaning on the parapets of his castle, he could see a magnificent view of his lands, though that did little to ease his displeasure that morning.

"That damned tremor ruined a fine morning," he grumbled miserably.

"Not so bad as that," Count Berin interjected. "True, there were deaths and damage, but we should be able to put everything back into order shortly."

"I'm not talking about a few damned peasant huts or their dirt-farming occupants," the King replied glumly, "I'm referring to the inordinate our at which it woke me."

"We are all as distressed as you, sire," an approaching voice said amiably. "We live only for your pleasure, and your happiness and misery are ours as well."

"Pendrys!" the king exclaimed , turning around to see his good friend. "This is a blessed day, that you have returned. I thought the damned barons would keep you forever."

"They were friendly and servile, my lord. None of your subjects would dream risk your wrath."

Pendrys of Lagos was the King's steward, and the finest mind in the kingdom. They had been raised together since boyhood, and though he was of low birth, King Ludveck considered the man his brother. Since assuming the throne, he had showered Pendrys with titles- and his stewad had reciprocated. With his sereen, unthreatening demeanor, he was the perfect diplomat to take care of troublesome nobility or an agressive neighbour. It was in no small part due to him that the King was able to live the life of luxury he did.

"I assume that you returned early for good reason," Count Berin interrupted coldly. Ludveck gave the man a look of irritation. Berin was a loyal vassal and an excellent captain of war, but his thinly veiled hostility towards Pendrys often spent what little patience Ludveck had.

"Of course," Pendrys replied with his usual smile and air of nonchalance. "I have received word from some of my, ah, informants within the northern lands. They tell me that the Diadochi have abandoned their palaces and treasure hordes, and left for Dis, taking their hosts with them. This strikes me as an opportunity to increase the greatness of His Majesty's holdings."

"They've left their lands defenseless? Are you certain of this?" the King asked excitedly. He had been waiting for an opportunity such as this for years, a chance to seize some glory, and a great deal of wealth, from those magical fiends.

"Hold on," the Count said. "We need to verify this before doing anything. Much as Your Majesty might trust this... steward, many of your vassals will refuse to commit themselves to rash action at his word alone. And besides, we cannot act in this without consulting the Oracle."

"Your Grace, the Oracle is not the King of Ingria," Pendrys declared. "You are. These lands do not belong to the Spire, they belong to you and you alone. This is the perfect time to strike. We need not even wage a full campaign- send out the venerable Count here to pillage choice lands near the border. Solenia, Verif, Adollivar, these are wealthy towns that nevertheless are quite unprepared for any kind of hostilities. We need only sack them, and wait.

"If the Diadochi truly have retreated, they will do nothing, and we will be able to continue northwards seizing lands in your name. Otherwise, we can simply claim innocence regarding the deed, and when they strike back we can claim to be cruelly and unjustly attacked, thereby uniting then other Galan lands behind us."

Thus, Count Berin and two hundred horsemen depared from Mendelos marching along the Karell, with the orders to sack all Diadochi lands they found, and to burn what they could not take with them. After making the arrangements and dealing with the King's anxieties, Pendrys retreated to his chambers. Locking the door, he pushed aside a bookcase, revealing a tunnel into the walls. Within lied his shrine to his Mother, the Dark One.

"Mother," he gasped, falling to his knees before an icon in her likeness. "Mother, they do as I say, and I do as you say, so they do as you say. Mother, nobody will stop you, I won't let them. Oh, dear mother, I will ruin that wretched tower, and those foul Diadochi cities, and best of all, I'll have them tear each other apart. Isn't that magnificent, mother?

"Have faith in me, Mother. I'll have them kill each other, and then you can fill this land with beautiful darkness."

(Collaboration between me and Khan)

Fél Várást
Warshard Citadel
Exalted Sanctum

The Aárdu Lyásí Envoys, after days of traversing the wartorn landscape that was Fél Várást, had finaly reached their destination. They traveled upwards through the Citadel itself till they finally reached the long stairway leading up to Tyranthos' Exalted Sanctum and stepped upwards once more. They reached the end, and were met by members of the Golden Guard, demon warriors that had proven themselves worthy to be among the guardians of their God.

They stood at attention and cleared the way to let their guests through, pushing the doors open for them as they entered the Sanctum. Its very design was unbecoming of the Plane of Wafare, two rows of eight sleek pillars of marble and metal, several Statues of the Exalted One himelf decorating the hall, and two lines of more Golden Guard standing at attenion on both sides. At the very end of the room was a tall Marble Thone, and sitting atop it was none other than Tyranthos, the Exalted One.

The two demon envoys marched to a respectable distance to the marble throne of the Demon Lord Tyranthos. Xoidea took in their surroundings as she walked alongside Kikmeine, mildly surprised at the décor, she had not expected this level of ornamentation from a Fél Várást warlord. Still it seemed he possessed a vastly large ego unlike anything Xoidea had seen, then again one could not expect less from an individual who thought himself a god. She gave a curtsy when presented to Tyranthos, smiling briefly before saying, “Tyranthos the Exalted One, Lord of The Warshard Citadel, I thank your for hospitality. I come to you with warm greetings from Mother Dark, Demon Mistress of Erelhei-Cinlu and Greater Aárdu Lyásí. She wishes to extend an invitation for a meeting on the neutral ground of Éxáría, under the great eastern pillar. What is your answer?”

Tyranthos stood up as he walked done the steps. "You've traveled far, going a great distance for my audience, it would surely be rude of me to not accept. Very well, I shall meet with your Mother Dark."
“Very good lord Tyranthos, the meeting shall be in six Fél Várást days. I and my brother Kikmeine can escort you there once we send word back of your agreement.”

---

Éxáría
The square antechamber of Saknodju, otherwise known as the great pillar, was impressive in size. While it was not the largest chamber within Éxáría, it held one of the largest structures, the great pillar itself. Time had seen most of the obelisk fall into disrepair over the eons, cracks scattered across it's surface. At the foot of the great pillar centered in heart of the chamber, was a circle of rock like formations, with a larger piece of stone fitted in the center cut from pure gneiss.

Tyranthos, the envoys and a small unit of Golden Guardsmen entered the grand chamber, the guardsmen at awe of it's ancient magnificence. "Guards, wait here and keep watch of our guests while I speak with Mother Dark."

"Yes, your grace." One of the guardsmen said. And with that, he turned towards the Circle of Stones, approaching it. Tyranthos stepped past the boundry, and simply waited.
The shadows of the standing stones began to flicker, some bending inward as the lighting suddenly darkened with the chamber. A heartbeat later, a figure walked from behind a pillar. It stood taller than any mortal man, and oily shadows seemed to dance around them. The obviously female individual drew closer and stopped well within hands reach of the stone slab centered in the circle of stones.

While shadows hid most of her features, a smile was evident on her lips as she spoke, “Lord Tyranthos, how gracious of you to come.” She stooped forward, hands on the stone table between them, her arms amplifying her cleavage in the process. Despite the flowing darkness around her, they seemed to do little to hid her womanly curves and voluptuous body. “Of course, dear me, you're referring to yourself as The Exalted One these days are you not?”

Tyranthos gave a light chuckle at the question. "Quite." He replied as he raised his arms up to remove the golden mask. Revealing a bald, aged man with ash-grey skin and a scar over his cheek, along with bright golen eyes illuminating the darkness. "A Deity deserves such a title, no?"

Uzthys cupped her chin in one clawed hand, her head tilted up as if in thought. “Yes, of course, a god needs much more than a mere title to his name.” Her otherworldly voice echoing with power. “He needs unlimited power, servants of unquestionable loyalty, and above all these he requires worshipers of undying love.” Her inky black eyes centered on Tyranthos. “It seems you have but one title to your claim.”

"Enough of these...pleasantries." He said. "What have you summoned me for?"
Tail lazily swaying behind her, Mother Dark gave the lightest of shrugs. “Of course, always to business.” She straightened somewhat. “As you are no doubt aware, Iìoà Khàldór has realigned with our respective planes of existence, and is now more accessible than it has been in centuries. A golden opportunity is open to us, and I intend for it not to be wasted.” A single clawed hand tapped on the stone table. “Soon every Demon Lord from Indár Sólásí to Féron Khól will be charging into the Mortal Plane in all their ignorance. We however, can better use this chaos to our advantage.”

"Yes, I am quite aware, my followers have had a many great...misfortunes when traveling to Iìoà Khàldór. Too often they must combat against others in order to escape the marshes." He paused a moment."What do you propose?"

“An alliance, of mutual gain.” Uzthys said, “The combined might of our host and powers would be advantageous to us both. In the lands of the far west, there is a realm the humans call the 'New World.' They are the most defenseless of the mortal holdings. My agents have already infiltrated their greater holdings, and with their aid your own raiders will be able to sow panic and chaos throughout the western holds. Any defenses the mortals attempt will be thwarted from within. Giving you all but free reign.”
Tyranthos crossed his arms as he was deep in thought, such an alliance could prove to be beneficial, he has long considered sending his army, and missionaries to the Mortal Realm, Iìoà Khàldór. The small, defenseless settlements of this New World may prove to serve him well as potential converts, and in effect, soldiers for his crusade. "Very well, If what you say is true, then this "New World" will easily fall within our grasps.

Uzthys smiled, “Excellent,” She unfurled her wings as she circled the stone slat, one claw running along the stones unmarred surface. “As it happens, I have the prefect target to test this new alliance of ours, if all goes as planned.” She stopped just a few feet away from Tyranthos. “You might obtain the power you seek yet.”

Swords clashed and the air sizzled from the heat, as the two legendary warriors clashed again and again.

They were surrounded by hundreds, no, thousands of spectators, cheering for one combatant or another. He was a large man who emanated an air of authority and majesty. She was beautiful and terrible in equal measure. They were the highest champions of their people. For those in the audience, it seemed like they were demigods. They were both bloody and tired, yet did not relent, nor soften their blows.

The Man was lying in a pool of his own blood, unable to move. She was kneeling over him, holding his head, crying tears of despair, and all around them the world seemed to disappear, fading out into a mesh of the mundane and the unimportant. He looked at her sadly.

"Was it worth it?" he asked softly.

---

Eyrn shook herself from the vision, devastated by it as she always was. I had to, she thought, trying to convince herself. He gave me no choice; I had to save our people.

She received many such visions, of the past, present, and future, yet only this one tortured her so. Over the millennia, it had all her willpower to prevent herself from going mad at the dream, the memory. She could not afford to wallow in self pity or regret. Her people needed her guidance; there was no undoing the past, no matter how strongly she willed it.

Her existence was what the gods must feel like, she supposed. She could feel every part of the Tower as if it were her physical body, see every human struggling along around her throughout the ages like a human sees ants, always frantically running from death, unable to see its inevitability. Everyone and everything died, from the lowest peasant to the greatest king, from the highest mountains to the oldest trees. Everything except for herself. She always remained, unmoving, unchanging, simply existing, doomed in her own fashion. And then came the visions.

---

She saw the same scene she had seen many times in the previous days: The burning city, the falling Tower, the darkness, and her own death.

She saw a land of red grass, stained from the blood of mortals in a far away land.

She saw a rot within her own heart, a darkness spreading under her watch, with war consuming the land as men clashed and died, with an unspeakable evil laughing throughout it all.

She saw her Oracle, lying dead in an ocean of corpses, surrounded by her fallen children.

---

All this she saw, and it occurred to her that time was no longer a luxury she possessed. Her life was now finite, and Doom crept ever closer. She reached out, and felt the mind of her Oracle. She touched his consciousness and spoke to him, feeling his agony as his mortal coil struggled to contain her presence. The End comes, she whispered to him. Millennia of our existence is threatened by the coming threat. You must seek out those who would stand against the Shadow.

An old man stood with great effort in face of a raging fire in the chamber at the very peak of the Spire. Garbed in tattered clothing and thin from a life of hunger and misery, he was surrounded by an excited crowd, chanting the same lines: "Burn, kindred, burn for our land, our people, our Lady. Burn to give us power!". He shiverred for a moment, reconsidering his decision to end his life with a Harrowing, as he imagined the agony of death in the inferno. He took a step back, but a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder.

"Do not fear, for there is no pain for the faithful. By this act, you join the Lady," spoke the Oracle, that ancient priest of Eyrn who had presided over this ceremony thousands of times before, and seen countless men, brave, craven, weak and strong, rich and poor, who all chose to step into the fire to wipe away their sins and give their life for the Lady. The old man hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, realizing that this was his destiny. By this act, he was placing himself among heroes past.

His heart now light and his mind unafraid, he walked calmly into the fire, which seemed to grow and dance at the rythm of the chanting. The heat was unbearable and it was only with great effort that he forced himself ever closer to the flames. He disapeared into the pit, hidden amidst the twirling fires. His screams were horrific, yet the crowd seemed to chant with redoubled enthusiasm, and soon no more noise was emmited from the center of the chamber save the crackling of the wood. Suddenly, the chanting stopped, and all was silent. The Oracle stepped forward, and all eyes were on him.

"On this day," he began slowly, "Gregor of Tiris, a man braver than most others, has given his life for the Lady."

"Truly, he is great!" the crowd answered in unison.

The oracle looked upon them, and after a moment, continued: "This sacrifice shall be remembered until the end of-"

A thunderous laugh erupted from the swirling flames, deep and full of venomous amusment. It drowned out the Oracle. A murmur of shocked dismay went up from the crowd.

"Old man," rippled a smooth, deep voice, echoing from everywhere and nowhere, "You've not given this one to the Tower...but to me." The Oracle turned back to the flames, and gasped. The fire twisted in on itself, like water circling above a drain. At the center of the maelstrom stood Gregor of Tiris, his skin cracked and blackend, his eyes burning like coals.

He smiled.

The flames around him burst into a mere shower of sparks. The corpse stepped down from the smouldering pyre, molten ichor dribbling from his lipless, grinning mouth and burning eyes. Those in the crowd turned and fled down the stairs of the Spire, and the knights present advanced, unsheating their swords as they approached the creature, shields held high. Raising his hand with effort, the Oracle signaled them to halt, and stepped closer to the... thing.

"Foul creature who inhabits the flesh of a pious man, how dare you violate this most hollowed ground!" he shouted with the vigor of a man a quarter of his age, feeling Eyrn's spirit filling him with righteous wrath. "Depart at once, or be smote by the power of the Lady!".

"You will have to suffice," said the corpse, the cracks in his skin shining with infernal light, "If you have the authority to speak for Her. I am Dionysius."

The Oracle was still for a moment, as he analyzed the situation. There was no doubt in his mind: He could feel the Lady herself confirming it. This was the great lord of the Diadochi. Force of arms would not avail here. "Knights of the Tower," he commanded more quietly, loosing his strength as his body remembered his unnatural age. "Leave me with this... monster." After a moment's hesitation, the Knight-Seargant gave his men the order to descend to the lower levels. The Oracle was now left alone with the Diadochi wearing the skin of a monster.

Suddenly, he felt curiously light. He no longer felt the ache in his bones or the exhaustion in his heart, and everything seemed to become a blur.

The Oracle- No, he was no longer the Oracle, he was now the Avatar- took a step forward, his eyes burning with holy light, seemingly shedding his skin of an old man and taking on the form of something greater. Great wings sprouted from his back, and he seemed taller than men could possibly be. The Avatar walked up to the walking corpse and looked into its eyes, seeing the soul of Dionysius within.

"So you are," he said at last. "I am Eyrn, and the Tower, and all who have given their lives for the survival of mankind. I am the Avatar. Diadochi, you have profaned a most sacred ritual, and disturbed even my slumber, I who am meant to sleep until the day of Reckoning. Speak then, if you have reason to."

"We have slept overlong, you and I," said the corpse, blackened skin slowly starting to lighten, his features twisting, "The Reckoning is upon us."

The Avatar looked up for a moment, and reached up, stretching his hand. "So it is," he observed slowly. "I can feel the forces from beyond our existence moving, and the Doom aproaches. Though it is not here yet, your appearance here is the first part of a chain of events that will unleash it."

He stepped towards one of the great windows of the chamber, shut with iron. He opened it with the strength of ten men, and looked out, staring west. "You wish to speak of the world beyond the sea, then?"

"Look to your own house first, woman," replied the Diadochi, "Your lords prepare to march on my cities. They no longer worship the Tower, and they no longer fear Me. Something else commands them and darkens their reason."

"The taint at the heart of the Tower," the Avatar mused quietly. "Yes, I have seen this, though I do not know who is responsible. These mortal lords are arrogant and greedy, and they no longer kneel to me." He walked back to Dionysius. "I have been negligent in my long watch over my children, I see now. They ride to burn and pillage, like the barbarians they once were. They have... Regressed. You are right, this must be adressed. Perhaps dragging their petty King to the Spire in chains would teach them humility again."

"Perhaps. But we have greater problems. We have lived in peace for millenia, us gods of the Old World." Dionysius said, "Whatever old enmities between us, they are nothing compared to the coming storm."

The Avatar paused, considering for a moment the situation. "I see. You desire an alliance against these foes that assail us."

"Indeed. The Old World and Ancient Powers must stand united against the chaos of the New and the vengeance of the Outer Planes."

For a long moment, the Avatar was silent, contemplating the many paths this could take. Finally, he let out two words, silent and fateful:

"Very well."

Several hours later, when the Knights finally decided to venture up to see if the situation was resolved, they found an empty chamber, with the dying fire burning low, and the Oracle sprawled on the ground, unconscious. There wasnt a trace of the possessed corpse, or the Diadochi who had taken over it.