The mountains. Known for their many dangers and deadly nature in wintertime, they were the complete opposite in summer. The sun was shining from a clear blue sky on the green pines and grey rocks of the landscape. A quiet breeze caressed the travelers as they made their separate ways along the paths going up towards the small plateau where the cabin was. There was a nice smell in the air, of blossoms and woods, and the birds were singing delightfully from the trees. In the background was the constant but gentle roar of faraway rivers and waterfalls. Today was a good day.

---

By evening, most of you are close to the cabin. When the first of you arrive you're met by an inviting sight: the pale light of the evening sky is mixed with the warm light of a freshly stoked fire coming from the windows of the little house. Smoke is rising lazily from the chimney, drifting away on the gentle breeze. A horse is tethered outside the cabin, along with an empty cart. As you enter the cabin, you find it recently swept for dust but empty of people. In a corner sits two barrels and a large chest. Upon further inspection you find that they are filled with beer and food. Judging from the scene, one of the other adventurers must have come here before you. Might be he or she is just out on an errand, and will soon be returned.

You footsteps outside, and turn to see who it is...

Desalith had set out a couple days prior to the location agreed upon a decade ago, bringing little but his gear, some food and his trusty staff.

The simple nature of the village and lack of interesting activity made it easy to remember the reunion in good time. He lived on the border of the village and left during the early morning, so few people noticed him begin his trek into the mountains. One man did notice, however.

“Off on a trip, are ya?” asked the old man who lived in a house nearby, along the road leading out of the village. Old he was, but only half the age that Desalith. Regardless, he held great respect for the old man, who was an adventurer himself in his time.

“Indeed. It is time to meet some old friends.” he smiled and told him.

“Farewell! I’ll see ya back someday, eh?” the old man waved goodbye and continued back home.

---

The weather stayed clear as he travelled, and he encountered no issues along the way - no doubt due to the season. Even the lingering haunts in his mind made little appearance, even at night.

He found his destination during the evening of the third day. He assumed he was early; there was no lingering of the Vanguard’s aura nor the hard to miss footsteps of Cewri. He corrected his assumption when he noticed a reddish light in the house and smoke from the chimney, with a horse and an empty cart on the side. He was most likely beaten by Celeste, which wasn’t too surprising.

Entering the house, he noticed it as well kept up. Free of dust, with a couple barrels that appeared, when he looked, to be filled with drink and a decent assortment of food.

He heard the creaking of branches outside and turned to the doorway. He saw a face that he had not seen in years.

"I swore I sensed you around here you old bastard," Oryx greeted as he stepped into the cabin, his boney feet clicking against the wooden floors. "Nice place you've got here Desalith. Do you bring all of your fair maidens up here for a fortnight of debauchery?"

The skeleton dropped his old gear by the door and strolled further into the cabin as he found himself a cozy chair and sat himself down. Dozens of barrels of drink and food littered the corner of the cabin, enough to live through another war without ever having to leave the place.

The journey to the old cabin was a long one, taking him from some of the southern most human towns all the way back to this place. He had passed through several towns, some welcoming and giving him an easy nights stay in the local church or inn. Some villages wanted nothing to do with him. He never needed the rest being in his current form of existence, but he felt like an ass for not obliging the good country-folk. Many of the young children were amazing by his very being, either born after the war or too young to have ever seen one of his kind. An Undead Vanguard.

Oryx glowed a content blue as he sat in his chair, a lazy throne for a reanimated fool. His bones where as white as the day he dug himself out of the mass graves of Ghyth, and his ancient brown cloak still sat upon his shoulders like proxy skin. He still looked like a risen corpse walking amongst the living, but he didn't look too bad.

"It has been far too long you old goat," Oryx continued with a smirk as he dug himself deeper into the chair, "how have the last ten years treated you?"

Oryx had a face that would make most men, or indeed, people of many races squirm, but it was a face that Desalith welcomed after their travels and battles together and ten years.

He chuckled at the comment about the maidens. “In truth, I haven't indulged in that side of life for nearly a century. How are you, my old bony friend?”

He too took a chair by the fireplace, the robes of his Order draping over him and half the chair. He placed the staff across his lap. “I’ve managed well… no particular excitement. And you?”

"Undead," Oryx joked, "if that wasn't still clear. No, no I'm doing fine. Spent some time near Ghyth soul searching, I guess. No real reason, just curious if I could find anything about the past. Nothing but old legends and horse crap."

Oryx had spent nearly five years searching around the old war zone, meeting up with other Vanguards from his birthplace and tried to peace together some kind of past. Nothing ever worthwhile ever came up.

"Other then that, just been going nomad for a while. Helping wherever I can honestly, but it's hard to find work now ah days. More and more towns seem to be aggressive to the Vanguards. Ignorance most likely, but some places seem to be ready to outright kill. Luckily, I never have a problem in more religious towns. People look at me like I'm a god myself. Gets annoying after a while."

Martox wiped the sweat off of his face and quickly put out the fire in front of him. He let out a deep sigh and turned to the next enemy rushing towards him. With his staff in his right hand he pointed at the undead skeleton quickly making his way to him, and shot out a fire ball. The skeleton took the hit to its shoulder and it's left arm fell off. It looked at its dismembered arm for a second then back at Martox, he rose his sword in the air and charged once again and Martox shot another blast of fire, this time striking it in the leg. It fell over without the support of its right leg below the knee. Martox laughed while he made his way to the mess of bones still trying to crawl towards Martox, "Looks like you don't have a..." He chuckled to himself, "Leg to stand on!" He let out a good hard laugh while he smashed the end of his staff into the skeleton's skull, smashing it into pieces. Martox, wiping a tear away from from his eye, turned towards the mage who was cowering against the wall. "Hey, hey," Martox spoke, "Don't worry. I'm not gonna kill you." He walked to and stopped in front of the the mage while putting his hand on his shoulder, "You'll probably get killed by someone or something though if you don't start training harder though. I suggest going to a town and practice your necromancy in secret basement." He turned and started to walk towards the exit of the cave while saying, "A lot of people aren't okay with it."
Martox stepped outside into a wooded area, where the sun came through the trees. He shielded his eyes briefly and started to make his way down to a town that settled at the bottom of the hill. After a few minutes of walking, he reached the outskirts of the town and went to the local town leader. Martox bowed, "Sir. Your necromancy problem has... Mostly been taken care of." The leader shifted in his chair and with a stern look and a deep voice exclaimed, "What do you mean mostly, mage?" He almost spit out the last word. Martox replied, "Well, I did leave him alive, but the fear of the Gods has been stricken into him. I assure you, he will either leave or try to come join your community. It's up to you from there what you wish to do." The man scowled and threw a bag of coins at Martox, which he swiftly caught and said, "You're only getting part of the reward because the necromancer does not lay dead. Now get out of village." Martox bowed again and put the coins in his pouch. Before leaving the massive manor though, a thought crossed his mind and his facial expression obviously held something of worry. He turned quickly and shouted to the leader, "What day is it!?" The leader, still with the scornful look, shouted back, "The 22nd." Martox's look went from worried, to a mixutre of worry and surprise, and he ran out of the village faster than he had practically ever ran before.
At he base of a large mountain, he stood, out of breath and sweaty. He took a seat on a near-by tree stump and looked up the path. Do I really have to climb this damn thing just to get to the reunion? There'd better be food. He stood up and took a deep breath beginning his trek up the hill. And a lot of drink. The sky was cloudy now and the sun was beginning to set when he first saw the cabin, it was only about a mile away now. Martox wiped his forhead of sweat and pulled his staff out. He touched the tip of his staff to his mouth, and some water dripped out before he swallowed. He did that three more times and put Ignes et Ice back on his back while he started to make his way to the cabin again. He finally reached the front door and heard a few voices inside. Hm... Looks like I'm a little late to the party. He grabbed the cabins door handle and flung the door open while yelling, "THE PARTY IS HERE FELLAS!" He made his way over to one of the barrels and poured himself a mug of ale. He took one long swig of the drink and smiled at his two old companions, "How has the flesh been hanging on?" He looked at Oryx and chuckled to himself, "Or.. Uh.. Not hanging on I suppose."

For the past ten years, Cewri had been a wanderer. He was able to catch his own food—it would have been embarrassing to have gone against the Necromancer and not been able to bring down a few beasts. He wasn’t exactly a hunter, but being able to more-or-less skin a hide made him able to supplement his diet with whatever he bought in villages or cities he happened to be travelling through.

Said locales were also where he got most of his person-to-person interaction for the past decade—he met people on the road as often as could be expected, but they were rarely travelling to the same place. And of course whenever he entered a city, the legends about The Mountain invariably followed him. It wasn’t particularly surprising; his enormous height made him one of the most visually distinct members of the old part, Oryx being the only one to actually surpass him in that regard, and he knew from personal experience that minding the fields gave you a lot of time to think, if you chose to. Nevertheless, it got annoying. For every person who correctly guessed he was part Giant, ten thought he was the child of an actual mountain. And some even called him a fraud—an imposter—when he tried to disabuse them of that notion.

He sighed, and craning his neck to stretch it, saw smoke rising on the horizon. Checking his map again—the one where he had marked the locations of the Giant settlements he had found—and his compass. Well, Cewri thought, it looks like someone beat me there. Means I won’t have to wait that much longer to see one off them again. Cewri let loose a deep, rumbling chuckle, Come to think of it, I was probably the furthest afield out near Kallagrim, they probably all beat me there.

---

Motivated by the presence of his comrades, Cewri picked up his pace. The sun had all but sunk below the horizon when he saw the cabin; the smoke that showed led him on the last leg of his journey dutifully rising from the chimney. Cewri smiled, Hope they have a bed big enough for me. Been too damn long since I slept on a proper bed.

The stars were out and the moon had risen by the time he reached the door. It was a wonderful sight, and he recognized the constellations—both human and Giant—in the skies above. He could hear several voices within, so he quickly rapped twice on the door and pulled it open. He didn’t have to duck down quite as low as he usually did to enter, and the roof was tall enough that he didn’t have to stoop at all once inside.

Cewri threw back the hood of his travelling cloak, his eyes sparkled as they travelled across Desalith, Oryx and Martox, and he smiled widely. “At long last. It’s good to see all of you again.”

Desalith nodded at Oryx’s words. He heard footsteps approaching. It was likely Celeste, he guessed.

He knew he guessed incorrectly when he saw the face of another old friend; that of Martox, in the doorway. “Welcome, friend,” he said in greeting. “Have some beer.” He went to the closest wine barrel with a set of jugs; others would be arriving soon, no doubt.

Not a minute after he left his chair did he hear unmistakable footsteps; ones that he had not heard for a long time as well. Appearing in the doorway was a man taller than anyone else in the house. A part-giant. No, not a part-giant… the part-giant.

“Welcome Cewri! Just in time for the beer…” He added another jug for the benefit of Oryx, even though the beer would obviously be undrinkable, and a larger one that he found to the side for Cewri. She thought of everything. He kept one more jug to the side.

Oryx got up from his chair and looked at the two with joy in his eyes. Well, his eyes were always just glowing blue withe ethereal energy, but he's be damned if they didn't show how happy he was to see them.

"Martox! Cewri!" Oryx greeted as he stood up from his chair, "What took you two so long? I was about to talk the old man's head clean off. Food and drink for the greatest hero's the realm have ever seen!"

The Vanguard walked over and patted the big half-giant on the back and shook Martox hand. They looked well, barely aged from their time slicing through the hordes of the Mecromancer.

"You alright brother," Oryx asked as he wiped away some sweat from Martox's hand. "You look like The Misses kicked you out and made you run all the way here."

Is that thunder I hear? Or.. No. I know who that is! He took another large swig from his mug just as Cewri walked in. "Thar he blows! The largest hero to ever walk the lands." Martox let out a hard chuckle before he walked to the part-giant and shook his hand. Martox's hand felt like the hilt of a sword in the mans massive hands, "How have things been my friend? Stomping any villages lately?" He took a step back and quickly added, "Of bad people of course." He tilted his mug and clanked it against Desalith's, raising it slightly towards him, and took another drink.

Food and drink for the greatest hero's the realm have ever seen! Martox's expression changed for a brief moment, remembering the other heroes, especially Concara, lost on the field and how some of those lost may had been his wrong doing. But he shook it off quickly and took Oryx's hand back and laughed at what he said and replied, "Oh, I'm just fine. I was in a town earlier today, just doing an odd job." He took a quick swig from his cup, coughed slightly and continued, "Just as I had finished, the thought of what day it was just came over me." He pointed in the direction he came in from, "Well, sure enough, I figured out what day it was and had to practically sprint my whole way here. It was quite the trek." He looked at Oryx's body, "Now, you look like you could use a drink my friend." He smiled and tried to hold in a laugh, "You look dry as a bone." Martox tilted his head down and let out a hardy chuckle. Oh man. I'm killing it today.

"Geez, anymore like that and I think a mob of jesters will be out for your blood friend," Oryx replied as he moved back to Cewri.

"The Mountain" himself was just as big as he remembered, along with his over-sized blade. He could make a jest towards the not so subtle over-compensating nature of Cewri's sword, but at the same time he also enjoyed not being turning to dust from a single punch. He remembered one battle during there early days were the big bastard had found the biggest Undead beast The Necromancer could raise and beat it to a powdery pulp. The living army behind them cowered in their armor-plating for days.

"You my friend, are the envy of my people," the skeleton joked as he shook his old friend's hand. "Seriously, I met a guy outside of a village near Phyfneer, and I swear the crazy bastard would of skinned you like a bear and wore you by the way he spoke. Damn crazy. Sorry, more ramblings. How are you half-giant? Conquer a demon or a thirty wench lately?"

Ah, to be in the company of humor again. Cewri shook the hands offered to him. “No, mt friends, I haven’t done much stomping or conquering lately. A lot of finding, though.” Cryptic statement done, he removed his scabbard from where it rested on his back and laid it against the wall. His pack, with rations, maps, armor, and the assorted supplies a person needs to make camp, fell next to it with a loud *thud.*

“As for my own lateness, I’m glad to have made it here today all. The bridge across the Kagrimarr Gorge was out, so I had to take the long route out of Kallagrim.” As he spoke, Cewri swung his travelling cloak around and hung it on his sword. Of all the times for Dwarven engineering to actually fail… “And if you ever see him again, Oryx, tell him not to bother. Unless he was a Half-Giant himself, there’s no way my skin will fit him. Now what’s this I hear about drink?”

Oryx laughed and took his cup from the old elf and motioned close an out looking window in search of Celeste. He had not hear from her since their last meeting all those years ago, and he hoped the lass would get here safely. Too many damn fiends lost. He knew he had little to fear for Celeste, but just the thought of losing another on this day made his heart sink. If he and a heart.

As the others drank and made merriment, Oryx took him time to give rememberence. With cup in hand, the Vanguard poured the drink out onto the grass below. The smell of booze soaked into the green earth, a scent he could not pick up.

"Drink well, allies of old," Oryx muttered to himself to try and keep his personal ceremony out of the eyes of the others. "For the Archers Three, for the Great Wizard Concara, and for The Good Priest, Ozirys. For all that we have lost. May the Seven sing your names in eternal glory for the lives you lived. Drink well you beautiful bastards."

As it turned out, somebody had stocked the cabin with a tankard large enough for one of Cewri’s hands, and so he began to drink. Being so large, it took significantly more of anything to actually get him drunk. All the better, then, that they had enough to quench the thirst of an army. He was in the middle of his fourth when he saw Oryx pour out a libation. Cewri set his tankard down on the table, propped his elbows up beside it, and crossed all of his fingers so that his bottom knuckles were touching.

After a few moments of sitting in silence, he began to sing quietly. It wasn’t something that the others would understand the words of, but they would understand it from the tone—it was funeral dirge he had learned from the Giants. It began speaking generally of those great souls who were now long past. His deep voice began to crescendo as it moved into pieces that he had devised himself, detailing the feats and virtues of all of his lost friends—and of Athklotep, his fallen mentor. It closed on an exclamation of grief, and bidding rest to those long missed. A few seconds after finishing, Cewri grabbed his tankard and, knocking his head back, emptied it. Slowly, he placed it back down on the table.

Desalith first saw Oryx make tribute outside to the fallen, and then heard Cerwi’s song. Well, tribute is a whole part of this reunion. He remembered with fondness and sadness in particular his friend Concara; they had learned from each other’s differing roots.

He joined Oryx outside, raised his own cup, and poured it on the same spot. “Rest in peace, old friends.”

As he thought of his old friends, other thoughts intruded. Darker ones. Ones of what he saw in the Necromancer’s mind… images of... evil...

He shook his head to dispel the thoughts, but they still lingered, and it troubled him.

Martox watched for a bit and finished his drink while listening to the others converse. He smiled inside, seeing how, even though it had been ten years since they had all come together last, they were all still good friends. It was not like strangers meeting and asking benign questions, but instead kin coming together to celebrate life and accomplishments. He walked to the barrel of ale and poured himself another drink. While he was taking a long sip, he heard Oryx give tribute. Martox brought the cup away from his lips and started to head outside near Oryx when Cerwi began singing. The words were foreign to him, but it was still obviously what he was singing. Martox had remembered hearing it before, but he couldn't place where. He began to hum the tune as stood next to Oryx and Desalith.

This is for you, my friends of old. Those I fought next to in a battle forgotten in time. Those who were lost, and those who still remain. We remember you, though most may not. The Archers Three, whom tale tells could fire 30 arrows in a second. Ozirys, the priest who could banish any evil. And... Of course. To you Concara. The greatest wizard I have ever had the grace of knowing. Who I was too foolish to be able to save for my neglect in healing magic. Your final words, and your staff, will remain with me until the end of days. I will meet you in the Great Beyond someday and greet you as an old friend. Martox tipped his drink to the side with a solemn look on his face and let the vast majority of it spill into the dirt where the ground would soak it up, just as it did with blood on that faithful day.

Martox turned and reentered the cabin, taking a long pull of his drink and wiping his mouth clean afterwards. As he made his way back to the barrel again, he patted Cewri on his shoulder blade, seeing as that's as high as he could reach without tip-toeing. Then he refilled his mug and turned to the heroes and said, "This is not a day to mourn our fallen brethen, friends." He took a sip, "It is a day to remember them, and their achievements. To celebrate life, rather than recall their deaths." He extended his arm and put his cup in the air with a smile, gesturing for them all to clank together and drink.

"A positive way of looking at it." Desalith clanked his jug with the others.

He started to wonder about where Celeste was at - everyone else was here. Uninvited thoughts still brooded at the back of his mind, but he once again cleared them. He gazed at the setting sun in the sky.

Oryx looked to his empty mug, and then to Martox and shrugged. Motioning from the window, the Vanguard walked over to the Tundal and clanked his cup against his ceremoniously.

"No need to waste good drink on me," Oryx joked as he placed his cup down on the table. "Everything just goes through me. No need to make a mess."

The pile of bones made his way back to the armchair he had claimed before and gave everyone a smile and a thumbs-up. He felt better now, some of that weight lifted off his chest. It was still pressing against him with the force of a drunken Mountain Beast, but it felt lighter.

He remembered The Archers Three fondly. Triplet Royal Orcs, a more urbanized and intelligent breed of Orcs that had long made peace with Elves and man. All of them were in their late one-hundred nineties, with long grey breaded beards that made dwarves overtly jealous. The Three were masters of their craft, able to rip apart armies in minutes from the tree tops just using their bows and their wits.

Sadly, one's wit does not protect them from giant boulders. In their travels the group had to make the journey across The Deadstone Valleys of Reffio, a massive collection of valleys and mountain ranges that divided the Reffio Coasts far east. The most notable feature of the Deadstone Valleys was that a great battle between Golems had taken place their hundred and hundreds of years ago. Old broken bodies of pure stone were scattered across the landscape.

The Necromancer was there though, and corrupting the long-dead as soon as they arrived. Oryx did his best to cleanse and protect the bodies closest to them, but that still give the damned bastard half a dozen under his control. The Archers Three fought valliently, finding an obscure cliffside perch to fire arrow after arrow at the Undead Golems. Despite their skill and their intuition, all three of the Royal Orcs fell as soon as one of the Golems lifted an ancient boulder and chucked it at them. The result was...visceral. Just the thought of it made Oryx squirm.

Cewri sighed and nodded at Martox’s suggestion. “You’re right.” He reached over and scooped himself more drink for the toast. He clanked his oversized tankard against the others’, “To their memory. May the world remember that which shall never fade from our minds and hearts.” He downed half the tankard in one pull, and brought it down on to the table. He saw Oryx squirming. He must be thinking about the triplets. Only thing I’ve seen that made him that uncomfortable—not even the Rawheads got to him that bad.

So he decided to change the subject to something, which while still concerning, was not as disturbing. “Say, when do you guys think Celeste is going to show up?” Cewri said, “Can’t be a fight holding her up. It would take so many foes to keep her tied down that we’d hear it.” If anything, he bet that she stuck herself trouncing ne’er-do-wells on the way.

As if on cue, the sound of approaching footsteps reached the party at the cabin. Or rather, staggering footsteps. A lone figure dislosged itself from the shade beneath some pines and came hobbling towards the cabin. The occational clink and clank of steel revealed that the person was armored, and the pale light of the moon reflected off of a sword being dragged in the dirt behind the figure. As it came closer, signs of struggle or battle became apparent; the sword was stained with a splatter of dark red, and blood was dripping from the tangled mess that was the figures head. It stopped a good few feet away from the party, slowly swaying this way and that, before finally raising its gaze. There was no mistake, it was Celeste. And by the looks of it, she had recently been fighting. Hard. Her left hand hung limp and useless at her side. The only part of her with any kind of vigour left was her right hand, clenched so tight around the hilt of her sword that her knuckles were white.

As one of the heroes tried to move against her, she hissed audibly and added, whispered through gritted teeth, S-stay away! I... I don't... I can't...

A violent spasm went through her body and she shrieked with pain. Her head snapped forcefully backwards, and then to the side. From there her gaze was once again turned against the heroes, giving them a sideways glance. There was something off-putting about that glance. She was also smiling cruelly, as if she knew a secret the people in front of her didn't and she was mocking them for it. She spoke once more, this time with a calm, steady voice.

Ok boys. Let's see what this bitch goes for.

Without any warning Celeste lunged forward, no more staggering but seemingly in perfect health, and swung her sword at the one closest to her!