There was little more than a blinding light and a searing pain as Ansur gave himself to the central pyre. This is where his journey would come to an end, after a hundred years leading the last people through the trecherous Northern Passages and fending off all manner of horrors: a construct of wood and tinder. It seemed poetically fitting that the world could not bring him to his knees so he gave himself willingly to the embrace of death. He dared not look back upon the faces that had gathered to bear witness to his final moments, as he could not stand to see them shed tears on his behalf. He knew they would be happy in this new land; happy and safe, and under the guidance of all the Gods that had promised him safety for his kin.
The flame was roaring, burning hot, crackling in its intensity, yet somehow lacking. It was an empty fire at the centre of a grand hall of polished marble and columns of pearl, an empty fire that hungered for the soul of a hero to be complete. The presence of the fire would ensure that this new land would not suffer the same fate as the last, a warding light to fend off the end.
Ansur smiled as he often did. He had done his part. Mankind was safe, and no longer had to flee. He looked down at his hands as they began to flay and bubble. His furs had already turned to ash around him. Despite the violently bright flame engulfing Ansur, his vision grew dark and narrow, before he could see nothing at all, and could only faintly feel the burning anymore. He dropped to the ground, his legs unable to support his weight; he just lay there for a moment in silence... waiting for the pain to end.

Ansur did not notice the transition from life to death. To him, it seemed as though it were simply an extension of his rest. One moment he could feel his body crumbling, and the next he felt whole once more. All he could do was lay there, engulfed in shadows, unable to move. His eyes cracked open after some struggle, and he could just make out the night sky, framed by the great rings that hung in the heavens. He watched for some time, not knowing what this realm beyond life would bring. He watched for years or for hours –he could not tell which– counting the stars that shone in the otherwordly void. He could see some shine brightly, but some simply faded into obscurity, and, curiously, some simply vanished. It was as though something were extinguishing the stars themselves. And then he felt cold, as though somebody had extinguished a nearby campfire, leaving him to shiver in the darkness. Then there was a voice... a presence. A whispering. An endless lament that felt like fire in his mind, madness given form. It was speaking to him. Speaking. Speaking without hesistation or end. It was such an empty and hollow voice that he knew despair now reigned in whatever realm he had come to. It spoke with such anguish and despair and fury and anger all mixed together that Ansur knew this place was now Godless.

His eyes snapped open, only to sting as if sand had been rubbed into them. He gasped for air but only got a lungful of ash. He jolted upwards, coughing violently, splashing up clouds of ghostly white powder. He rubbed his burning eyes and took a moment to catch his breath. He squinted. What was this place? A great hall of crumbled marble and columns of faded pearl? Vines grew over the dilapidated ceiling, and mould and moss crept up the walls to meet it. It was vast and empty, but somewhat familiar to him. He looked at his legs and hands to find them buried in a great mound of ash, as though a fire had been raging in his very place for thousands of years if not longer.
Asnur forced himself upright, dusting off the ash and stepping onto the uneven tile surface. He looked up and he looked around, the familiarity with this place burrowing deep into his head, bugging him like a relentless insect.

There was a window on the far side of the chamber, not a decorative one by any means, but an apeture through which a thin sunlight filtered through. Without it, the chamber would have surely been pitch black. The place could have definitely used a fire or two, he thought to himself.
He hurried over to the window to catch a glimpse of the outside world to get his bearings. It took him a good few minutes to reach the far side of the hall. As he stepped up to the window he could not disregard the inscriptions lining it, though they were faded and difficult to read, he could make out the words:

'This chamber, dedicated to Asnur, the founder of Ansus, stands eternal in his memory. May we all strive to be like he.'

Ansur frowned. Surely this could not be?
He leaned to glipse out of the window. From his vantage point high above the surrounding plains, he could see two suns beggining to set, and great rings of light stretching across the zenith of the sky.

He was back?

"Halt!" Shouted a stern figure from the other side of the room. The voice was strong enough to shake the foundations of the chamber and surely stop any lesser man in their tracks. "You are in violation of the highest law of Ansus, in the name of our father Ansur, you have trespassed upon holy ground. You will submit or you will be killed!" it screamed.

Ansur turned to see a string of heavily clad soldiers filter in through doorways on the far side of the hall, all adorned in gold and silver, encrusted with jewels of the most beautiful incarnadine red. Each soldier bore a cloak gilded with goldleaf thread and a blade forged to the highest quality. But admire them as he may, it was only a mere moment before they surrounded Ansur, blades pointed in his direction, all stern and poised to kill at a moment's notice.

"Ansur?" he asked.

"Do not speak the name of our forefather in vain, you rat. Tell us how you got in here past the guards." one demanded.

"Tell us or we are authorised to use lethal force upon you," another added.

"Tresspassing upon the Bastion of Light is a crime punishable by death!" yet another noted.

The Bastion of Light. His own design. The place he created for his sons and daughters to guide them through the darkest of nights. He was in Ansus, and had awoken in the specific place he had given himself to death. But the fire was... out? It did not even glow with embers or show the afterglow of a flame. It was stone cold and dry, out for some time. Ansur had awoken in a mound of his own ashes to an end he did not understand. Why was he back? How was he back?

"Speak!" demanded one of the soldiers, thrusting his blade forward, coming dangerously close to Asnur.

"I died here," he said softly.

There was a brief reprieve from the scrutiny as Ansur's answer took them off guard. They lowered their weapons for a second before raising them back.

"He's fuckin' with us," said one of the guards as he lunged forward with his blade, raising it overhead in an attempt to bring it down on Asnur's skull. Ansur sidestepped away with grace and elegance, leaving the blade to clash with the crumbled floor tiles, sending a mightly resounding echo through the hall.

"My name is Ansur, and I died here." he repeated again and again, each time becoming more frustrated with the ignorance of the soldiers. Every time he said so it seemed to strengthen their resolve to kill him, though try as they might, they just could not lay their blades upon him.

"My name is Ansur!" he shouted one last time after dodging another stroke of steel. "I am the Forefather!"

He latched onto the blade of one of the assailants, gripping the sharp of the weapon with bare hands, and yanked it from the grasp of the soldier. There was no blood, no scratch, nor any visible marks on his skin from disarming the soldier. He masterfully weaved the blade above his head, using it to slap away the incoming strikes before stabbing it into the hard floor tiles with such force that the blade would stand on its own, trapped there between the rock. A mighty shockwave followed the peircing of the tiles, sending each soldier's blade spiralling to the walls of the chamber and knocking each man to their knees.
It looked like they were bowing to him, and no man dared to stand up once more. So they knelt.
From their vantage, the soldiers could clearly see the artwork on the chamber ceiling through the thick overgrowth: an illustration of Ansur in his glory, furs adorned, hair as wild as ever; a spitting image of the man who had just brought them low. Could it be...?

"Ansur...?" One of the soldiers asked, tears brewing in this eyes.

"Stand, you are not in danger here." Ansur replied.

And the soldiers did, one by one, raise themselves to their feet. They kept their heads bowed and did not say a word.

He looked back, and then once more at the soldiers.

"Why is the Great Fire extinguished?"

“Man... that was a nice journey...” Ki'ira thought as her final moments came. She tried to pat the child who offered her water and asked if she needed help, but her mind has already started to be engulfed by darkness.” The sun is so beautiful again...” Was her last thought before her mind was completely devoured by darkness. Like that the woman known as a calamity came to her end. Dead on a battlefield, she always knew she will die from a battle, but now among the people she saved, it didn't felt quite bad... She welcomed death as she was content with the way she lived her live, now was her rightful time for a well deserved eternal rest...

Or at least that's how it should have been. Ki'ira's body suddenly rocked heavily in her coffin as she awoke. Her mind was in state of panic, she was not sure what was happening and being in the close space of the coffin wasn't helping. She screamed wildly and her body was getting used to being alive again, her arms began bashing against the coffin as she was trying to see something aside the complete darkness. In the end her abilities exploded and the coffin was turned into pieces of charred wood and ash.” Haaaaaaaaaaaaa... haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa....haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...” She began breathing heavily as she trembled on the stone floor... Where the hell was she?

She don't know how much time it took her to calm down from her panicked state, but eventually she finally relaxed, her eyes focused on the ceiling. Slowly raising up from the ground, she took a look at herself. She looked like a mess, her clothes looked so old that she thought they might turn to dust any moment, luckily they didn't. For her greatest shock was that most of her belongings were missing. Her weapon, her armor, her artifacts! She quickly began searching through the remains of the coffin she was in and actually found one thing... her ears. The headpiece was one of the 3 things she valued more than anything on this world, her greatest treasure. It looked entirely metal in her hands, but that was the beauty of it. She quickly put it on and the two metal fox ears, quickly shifted and turned into a pair of real looking fluffy ones. Only now she took a good look at the place she was in, it seemed like some kind of old tomb or something. It were so ran down, that probably no one had visited or taken care of it for hundred of years at the very least...

“Wait... I died... why am I alive again?” She suddenly asked herself, as she slowly walked towards the exit.” Something is wrong here... very wrong! Dead shouldn't normally walk the world of the living!” She said to herself as she pushed the big stone door of the tomb, but it didn't move in the slightest. The entrance must have been buried also. She took a piece of rock from the ground and hit the big doors, her hearing immediately following every bit of sound it made. The tomb was indeed buried underground, but not as deep as she thought it was initially. Someone must have pillaged it, and taken most of her belongings, though frankly many of them were near useless in the hands of others.” Ahhh, there it is!” She said with a huge grin as she finally located the place where the fresh air was entering this place. It was a small crack in the wall of the tomb, that led outside, but it was nowhere near big enough for a human to enter. Her body still felt sluggish from her death and she knew not for how long she was out, but she needed to get out from here. She put her hands together and started gathering her powers in them, quickly creating a concentrated fire sphere between them. She condensed and condensed it, as the heat increased her rotten old clothes began to fall apart and the air current around her started going up. When she sensed she reached the peek of the fire condensation, she pointed it at the crack in the wall. A cone of fire shot from between her hands and right into the crack, making it's way through it. Her power was lacking at the moment as she felt weak and... hungry, but the incredibly heated flames quickly widened the crack enough for her to sleep through it. Her body had long ago stopped being receptive to heat and fire, but her equipment wasn't! Aside from her fox ears that now stood on her head, the rags she wore had all but turned into ashes on the ground. Not minding the fact clothes had burned away, she quickly began making her way through the headed rock. It burned her, but she bore no wounds from heat, only pain as her body was already transformed to withstand the flames she can conjure.

Finally outside the ground, a fresh gust of air hit her face, as she felt a chill all across her body since it was quickly being cooled down.” … I have no idea where I am.” She muttered to herself and looked around. She needed to find out what was going on, why was she alive and where she was, but everything at it's time. She needed something to wear. Ki'ira quickly used her hearing to locate the nearest village, but it seemed there were no in a hearing range even with her incredible hearing. This was a little bit troublesome... As she had no other choice, she went with a very old and tribal action. She just located the nearest small water source and covered herself with mud. To most it was stupid, but in case of no clothing avaible, this was the better course of action, rather than walking around naked. Mud was actually heat resistant so it kept warmth of the body to it, it also worked wonder to keep insects away! She learned this from a very strange forest tribe people she once found.

“Hmm... let's head that way...” She muttered to herself and started walking in a random direction, now that she had some... coverage.

In the vast expanse of the void, a single figure sat silently, drifting aimlessly through the emptiness. His legs were crossed and his hands formed a gentle cup, as if holding something delicate within the palms. If one was not thorough in examining him, the figure could have passed off as a statue, his body unmoving, but upon closer inspection, they would find some minor details. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the gentle flowing motion of his beard betrayed his humanity. Occassionally, his face would twitch, the scar tissue puckering with the movement. This was the final resting place of Ellarian, and there was no place he would rather be. Tranquil, quiet and devoid of worries, the hero was content with this turn of events. A soft, insistent whispering awoke him from his meditative trance. Snapping his eyes open he glanced around, looking for its source. Nothing. He narrowed his eyes. It was odd that he thought this, but he believed that it seemed...darker in here than when he had last closed his eyes, however long that was ago. Ellarian looked below him, searching for that particularly bright star that had shines upon him when he first entered oblivion.

It was missing...While he was not the most observant of lost souls, Ellarian had noticed several of such disappearances of late. No sooner had he thought this that the star he had sought suddenly burst back to life in a grand nova, temporarily blinding him. His vocal chords had not been used in nigh on centuries, but yet they retained his characteristic gruff grunt as he shielded his eyes. For the first time in what seemed to be forever, he felt another force acting on him. And it was pulling him. Cracking open a single eye, he saw that the nova had started to recede, and left in its place a gaping maelstrom of blackness. And it was pulling him in. Although he made a paltry effort to escape, the whirlpool of darkness continued to pull him in. Ellarion scoffed. He was already dead. What could possibly be worse than this? He had already existed, or perhaps not existed, within this blank space for what seemed to be millenia. Perhaps a change of pace would be nice. As he drew nearer to the turbulent vortex, he could feel a sudden grip of something on his leg. The whispering grew clearer.



He strained his ears to hear the quieter whispers that accompanied it.


Ellarian wrinkled his nose. Who was calling him? Who was giving him such glorified titles which he did not deserve? And yet, as he got closer, the whispering grew even louder, eventually becoming a grandiose voice,

"Ellarian, Shieldbearer of the Empire, return to the land of the living, for it has need of you once more," it declared. Ellarion's eyes widened. "No..." he whispered quietly. He did not want to go back. He did not want to return to that age of turmoil and misery, where ever step he took was in the wake of destruction and homicide. Before he could contemplate this any further, the tugging grew stronger and he was suddenly pulled into complete darkness. An agonising burning sensation seared through his muscles, accompanied by the feeling of hooks ripping into his flesh and being pulled about. It was all he could do to not release a scream of pain as he was tugged along the current. Eventually, the pain grew so intense that he passed out.

As he awoke again, Ellarian reached up, attempting to stretch until his calloused fingertips met cold, solid stone. Flicking his eyes open, he could see nothing but darkness...but he could smell something...the must of age, accompanied by the stench of decay and corpses, smells he was all to familiar with. Applying some pressure to the ceiling, he felt it give under his strength. It seemed to be a lid of some sort. Gritting his teeth, the man shoved upwards with more strength than he had intended to, sending the stone tablet flying off into a marble pillar, where it shattered in a shower of debris and dust. With that sudden movement, light flooded in; but it was not natural light, no, it was the harsh yellow glare of burning braziers. With a grunt of effort, Ellarian pushed himself upwards, his head clearing the walls as he sat up to look around. This...this was a coffin...a grave...Moss and lichen had accumulated all over the dressed stone and ornate writings were scrawled over it. Brushing a hand over it to clear the foliage away, Ellarian squinted to read the message. "Here lies Ellarian Ironheart, The Rampart of the North, who sacrificed himself to save the remains of the 12th Imperial Army..." he read quietly to himself. He...didn't know what to say? Was this some odd dream he was having? Or had he truly returned to the world of the living? What cruel joke of fate was this? That he should be deprived of his eternal rest? His grip tightened on the sides of his coffin, causing the stone to crack under the pressure.

"Wh-who goes there?" shouted a timid voice, drawing Ellarian's attention. Casting his sharp gaze in the direction of the voice, he saw a young soldier timidly enter the room, a spear clutched nervously in his hands. The firelight played over his face, revealing pox scars and wispy thin blonde hair. He did not look a day over his manhood ritual. Groaning as he hoisted himself to his feet, Ellarian rolled his shoulder. No matter if he had been brought back to life...He thought pragmatically. The gods had done this for a purpose...perhaps they needed every available soldier they had to hold the line or some nonsense like that. Either way...if the Empire was in peril, then he was not one to shy away from his duty.

Stepping out of his stone grave, he caught the eye of the young soldier, who froze in place. "You..." Ellarian said, his voice akin to two granite bounders grinding together, "what is the year?" The young man's knees buckled in on each other and his lower lip quivered. "E-E-E-Ellarian!" he screamed as he dropped his spear, scuttling backwards like some odd hybrid of man and crab, "he walks Ansus again!" he scrambled to his feet, pelting away at full speed, screaming obscenities and doomsday warnings. Ellarian looked down. Perhaps...he should have put on some sort of coverings before addressing him, though as a soldier, that lad had probably seen worse than a millenia old man's staff of life. Ellarian sighed. Well...what was he to do now?

"Ahh! Dofni!" the shout echoed throughout the mountain pass. Having stopped in a relatively open area, the man tried his best to scrape a branch of the many spines that dotted its length. Unable to avoid the pricks his fingers took so begrudgingly, he continued to swear in a language only heard in the far east. He quickly gave up, throwing the branch with all the might he could muster, he watched it spin through the air and down the path that brought him here. With one last mumble of abuse he stepped down from the snowy embankment that lined the roughly outlined track, and dusted down his fur coat. Pure snow trickled down all around him on the thin mountain air. He exhaled what warmth he could into his palms, rubbing his gloved hands together before bending at the knees to pick up a much thicker stick shaped into a rough walking stick. Noticeably cracked and splintered two-thirds of the way down, he tested it one last time only to fall forward as it separated completely. Anger turned to sorrow as he held his arms out in a plea of mercy. His sigh was as visible as it was audible, a puff of steam as if lifting the lid on a boiling pot. Shuffling his fur rucksack into a comfortable position he prepared to leave, but something stopped him. It was faint, carried by the wind, but it was loud enough to make him turn and listen for it again. Is it....a baby?

The man thick with layers of fur, followed his ears through the juvenile pine trees. He followed intently to an area he had not seen before. Everything seemed more...tranquil. The wind's whine couldn't be heard, the trees did not creak and shudder in the cold. It was a small, remote reprieve. At its center sat a pile of stone, purposefully built as if to cover something. He could hear the cries of a baby no more, and as he stared at the stones he gained a feeling of nervousness he was not used to.
Dropping his bag to the floor he slowly drew a small knife. He approached, intent on uncovering the secrets the stones held but he would not get there in time. A hand burst from the rocks, shattering several. The mans grip loosened, dropping the knife he looked on through a sudden paralysis. Muscle, sinew and tendons snapped together and started to form around the exposed bone of a hand he thought too big to be human. Whatever he had found, he wasn't sure he would live to tell another soul.

- - - -

Stride by stride he trod a painful path. His arms twisted, cracking into place. Nerves grew like roots into his newly formed flesh, forcing slight cries of release. His exposed ribs were wrapped in the reddish-grey of taut muscle weaving together like a wicker basket. With each step his form returned, with each step his footprints deepened.
The village fixed in the mountains shadow was near. At its edge a small girl bashed a frozen bucket of water, trying to release the fish stuck at its base. Hearing steps she could only stare at the monstrous being that passed her by. In utter silence she was glared at by a single naked eyeball endeavoring to stay in it's socket. Skin quickly gripped the cheek bone and clawed its way across his face. His features began to take shape.

Laughter and cheers rang out from the largest hut in the village. Smoke rose from it's single chimney and a sweet smell of honey ale hung in the air. The doors, bared with a thin piece of wood, exploded open. Men stood quickly, watching the hulking mass enter the chiefs hut. Silhouetted from sight it approached the hearth at its center, catching the last shred of skin to fall into place in its light. Whomever this man was no-one was willing to challenge his interruption, crouching under the thatch roof they could only stare in hope he was not here for a fight.
An aged man at the back of the hut dropped his simple horn-carved cup.
"The wolf..." he mumbled, the swords spilling over his aged, trembling lips.
"The wolf returns!" he exclaimed. Widening the eyes of anyone who heard. The man, the myth, the legend. Norco Khan stood in the village of his childhood. A dazed look in his eyes.
"Where's my Axe?"

The release of death was less like a sudden, climactic end.

Nay, life's end was more a sweet, subtle sort, a graceful fall into bliss—not unlike falling asleep.

The last thing Altim remembered was the sight of ocean-like, blue eyes and the feeling of warm, calloused hands. Those beautiful eyes and those diligent hands burned love one final time into the man as he passed from that world into the one that transcended it. In the company of his lover and his closest friends, Altim died a happy man in normal circumstances, for gone were the adventures and heroics of his past. His companions buried him respectfully at his request near the Holy Temple of Wisdom, where the man so saintly and wise took his eternal repose, and there the gods accepted the legend into the afterlife.

Clothed in white robes, he appeared in the infinite expanses of heaven and became a mere observer of time's passage. For a while, that felt right, but as the years drew longer and longer, Altim struggled to stay content with his posthumous disappointment. Not for he was impatient or entitled, but on merit of something... peculiar. There was truly something, something amiss, and after each century had ran its course, that fact became more and more apparent. The scholarly fellow came to his conclusion one night, when he gazed upon the stars that had danced in celestial splendor. The world around him grew gradually darker and colder, and Altim watched powerlessly as one by one, the burning lights in the godly sky were slowly doused. That malign entity wrought its sinful holocaust throughout the stars and brought each to its knees.

A mighty pang in the hero's heart signaled the fall of even Faerthus, the Wise, and tears stained Altim's sainted cheeks as he wept. Not even he whose wisdom was infinite could escape murder at the hands of the wretched creature. Yet the slaughter brutally continued.

Until the last god fell. Then there was nothing. All hope was lost.

A short moment of silence followed, and suddenly the world around him was damp. His eyes remained shut, but he did not need sight to know that his clothes were dripping wet and that the cosmic sensations of the heavens had been replaced by cold, timeworn masonry. His brown eyes flew open and made contact with a ceiling that seemed familiar to him to meet a relief carving, made by the hands of a famous sculptor whose name was lost to time. It depicted a scene of what were several men stricken in fear before a great light from within the forest. Vines had since grown over the carving, and although they partially obscured the text etched into the gold edges, one could still read what it had said:

Behold! That mighty light which illuminates the world is Wisdom.
All Virtue, Love, Peace, and Knowledge is enriched by it,
and from His sacred forest, the mighty light of Wisdom emanates.

Altim jolted upright in alarm and consternation. What was this? He sat in the middle of a clean pool of water. Behind him was what appeared to be stone double doors, but they must not have been doors since the space between the two slabs was very obviously closed. Outside the alcove in which the fountain lay, the room extended into a long hallway, at the end of which was a similar set of stone slabs, which comprised the true exit to the room. In the middle of the corridor, the ceiling raised to a glass dome, partially covered in overgrowth, from which light illuminated the building. The stone of the dilapidated structure had numerous cracks in it that moss and grasses sprung forth from, and the roots of a tree, in one place, broke through the ceiling in a hole that was packed tightly with dirt.

This, Altim understood, was the temple of his god, the Holy Temple of Wisdom. But how? He thought that he had died, but mysteriously enough, he felt whole. He was alive, with all of the needs and wills of the flesh. A quick look around himself gave him the answer. The state of the building was evidence enough that a whole era had passed since his last memories. Nothing was the same. At the time of his death, the temple was maintained ardently by Faerthus' disciples and Altim's students, but clearly it had fallen into disrepair.

The legend himself stood and walked across the cold, dusty floor, and he approached the door at the end of the hallway. He placed his hands upon the threshold and struggled to push the doors, but eventually the heavy slabs of marble and concrete gave way, dirt and pebbles falling onto Altim as the doors parted the soil that had blocked them. The forest outside was more or less lively as it was when he died. The birds still sang to the others, the leaves still swayed in the breeze. The temple itself was buried underneath a hill, atop which a large oak tree stood. Below the boughs of the tree, an elderly man sat. Altim's emergence from the temple stirred the new High Priest from his meditation beneath the oak, and with one eye open, the Priest asked, "What are you doing, young man?"

Altim raised a brow and pointed at himself questioningly.

"Yes, you."

The man seemed more confused by the Priest's affirmation. He was not young. In fact, he was certain that he was 137 years old if memory served right. But his body begged to differ. A quick glance down revealed that Altim wore not white but the same clothes he wore when he was a young man uniting the lands of Cynderia. "What happened to the temple?" asked the now young Altim from the foot of the small hill.

"Nothing. What ever are you talking about?"

"Nothing? The temple looks old and neglected. Its masonry is cracked. And its flame! Its flame is extinguished!"

"Of course it is old, young one. It was built in the years after Ansur established Ansus, and it is sixty-one thousand, twenty-three years since then."

That made Altim's eyes widen. He thought on it. "But is it not only fifty-eight thousand years since then?"

"What nonsense do you speak of? Surely, you are not two thousand years old!" The Priest spoke as if he were speaking to a blasphemer or a heretic. "Else you would have known the face of Altim, who saved this land from peril!"

"I am Altim!"

The Priest had a mixed look of disbelief and amusement. "You? Altim? You look nothing like the man! The true Altim was blond and had blue eyes. You have neither!"

Altim stomped his foot indignantly and scaled the hill. "Show me to Altim's violin," he demanded, a determined and fiery look in his eyes.

"And why should I do that? Your fingers are hardly deft enough to handle such a delicate instrument," the elder snappily replied.

"I need it," Altim emphasized. "And if you take me to it, I will best you with the truth of His Wisdom."

Hands ran through dark hair, making it even messier than before as it stuck out in all sorts of directions. Sikes sat by a large river with a map in front of him, his hunting knife stuck through it and into a stump to prevent the wind from taking it. He himself sat on his hands and knees, his mind racing as he tried to discern which direction he should be heading.

He pulled a stone out of his pocket, anxiously turning the dark gem over and over before holding it with his fingertips and staring into it. His own dark eyes stared back before he closed them. Centering himself, Sikes took a deep breath and opened them. The flat surface of the stone swirled as his reflection disappeared and an image of the Bastion graced the surface. He started to smile, anxious to see himself traveling or even just arriving, hoping he was on the right track.

Darkness leaked into the image, making it blurry and then completely disrupting the view, something covering the Bastion completely. Another Fire was going out, it must be… why else would his visions be so dark again. It was as if Novissah was fading all over again, the terror of where the world was headed and of this thing he couldn’t quite grasp almost overwhelming him. He threw the stone aside, afraid to see more, knowing no answers were open to him.

The sun was low in the sky… Sikes would have to set up camp on the river bank. He stared into the water for a moment, seeing it rush past in a dark blur, the sun hardly touching it. The dark shape of something rushed past him and he looked away. He couldn’t stand to look at water for too long; recent visions of it left him drained, the dark shape that haunted him almost taunting him whenever he looked at water. It almost made Novissah’s blessing seem a curse, though he’d never give it up for anything.

Heroes weren’t often made, not when Sikes was born. Not that he thought himself a hero; he was more interested in books and helping people than he was weapons and conquering. Sure, he could hunt and he had basic survival skills down, but he could maybe defend himself from another person. It was quite fortunate for Sikes that he lived in this time of peace or he’d probably have been lost to bandits long ago.

Ah, yes, heroes… They didn’t come along often anymore. He had made a name for himself through his devotion to a dead Goddess, through an ability she had blessed him with as a small child. He was unsure why she chose him, why the five year old praying to her and offering her the hunting knife he’d forged the day before with his father had caught her attention. They’d returned a week later to pray again and the knife was still there, but now engraved with Novissah’s name. When he’d picked it up, he’d had his first vision, in which she spoke to him. ”You’ve been given a gift,” she’d told him, flashes of events that had happened or were happening or would happen flying by him to quickly to process.

Sikes wasn’t even sure he’d been worth it. He couldn’t save her in the end, couldn’t even figure out what demonic being had killed her… and it was happening again. He glanced at his feet at the thought, shame flowing through him at his failures.

He spent the time the sun spent sinking below the horizon setting up his camp. It was warm out and he wasn’t overly concerned about predators; there wasn’t much to fear in the area in which he was located, the small forest through which he traveled. He was just getting ready to sleep when he felt it, the strong pull of a waking vision.

Another God was dying. Sikes knew, in that moment, that Novissah would not be the only one to fall. He could see the Bastion of light, the doors sealed shut tightly against all visitors, as it had been since Novissah’s fire had faltered. He could see the High Priests frantically working, attempting to save this small flame, the Great Fire flaring a bit lower than usual in sympathy. He felt himself stumble with the weight of this knowledge, knees scraping against the ground. He blindly threw out his hands to catch himself, falling against his earlier table, knife still sunk into it.

He could hear the water roaring past, startlingly loud, as he watched the priests fight for the fire, bringing out books and scrolls and anything they thought might have an answer. Offerings were made to the God in question, attempts to strengthen them against whatever was attacking them. Sikes was suddenly aware that he’d been holding his breath, that he was wet and cold… fear struck at him as he tried to breathe and found water rushing into his lungs.

The vision was consuming him, killing him even. He attempted to swim, Sikes’ arms like lead as he fought panic and exhaustion and…

This damn power will be my death. What was Novissah thinking…?

It was his last thought as the vision faded along with his life and Sikes could feel nothing but despair in his last moments, having failed every God that would fall to this beast.



Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

What…?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

What is that…?

Drip. Drip.

That sounds like water. I think there’s a stream nearby...

Drip.

Sikes awoke with a start, bolting upright in what would have been a comical fashion had anyone been around to see it. He was cold, a light breeze causing him to shiver… water was pooled around him, trickling down some rocks and dripping off of them as if it had recently rained. He sat in the path of the stream; upon standing it all continued downhill, on its merry way.

I must have washed ashore, he thought to himself, astonished that he hadn’t drowned. A glance at the water offered nothing; the urgency he’d felt before, when he’d been sure he was dying, had diminished greatly. Almost as if the threat had passed, though Sikes didn’t think he had been unconscious for that long.

He tried to get his bearings, looking at his surroundings and the sun in an attempt to judge where he was from his camp. Sikes brushed his hair out of his eyes as it plastered itself to his face, small rivulets of water dripping from him. Shivering at the slightest breeze, he began walking, hoping to find something familiar soon. Traveling upstream left him no closer to finding his things, though he didn’t think he could have been washed away too far.

As he walked, Sikes noticed his clothes seemed… rough. Not aged, exactly, but there was something odd about how the simple clothes (a brown tunic and pants, nothing exciting, really) hung on him. He thought nothing of it, continuing his trek upstream.

The Bastion of Light stood before him, tall and proud and… disparaged. The doors opened to reveal Ansur - the Ansur! - standing before soldiers with not a single flame to be found around him… even the Great Fire had been put out. There was no sound to be heard, which almost seemed a sound itself, as if Sikes was in a void or something was actively absorbing the sound… like a dark creature, lurking, waiting, biding its time…

He pulled himself out of it, trying to demand the vision be over. Something was wrong, horribly wrong… That had to be the future, Sikes thought, though he knew it wasn’t. Somehow, right at that moment, not a single God remained in the realm. The sense of urgency returned to Sikes now, the clairvoyant suddenly feeling very much like all of Ansus was in danger from that which had brought low the great beings of the universe.

The year didn’t matter, nor did any of Sikes worldly belongings. He sat, cross-legged, then began to breathe deeply, falling into a meditative state, willing a vision or feeling or anything to come to him, to reveal where he must go. To leave his knife in this forest would be a waste, yes, along with his mortal belongings, but nothing was more important than talking to the High Priests, learning anything they’d discovered since his last visit, and helping stop the creature.

There was a faint pull on his mind and Sikes opened his eyes and stood, beginning his trek to the Bastion of Light, where hopefully he would find the answers he so desperately searched for.

Two men lay in wait, silent as the night, watching. They had first heard a mighty crack following a formless, intense heat that they were incapable of discerning the origin of. And then they had seen a female –or girl, they could not tell which– with strange, otherworldly ears like that of a wild beast, sprint from the brush. She was entirely in the nude, but bounding as though her mind was like that of a feral beast.

"What the-?" one man whispered to the other.

"I don't... I don't know," the other hastily replied.

Both men resumed watching intently. They watched this woman effortlessly move through the forest, though she continued to get further and further from them. They tried their best to remain out of sight and downwind from the woman (god knows, bandits really were an unkempt bunch. Even the most anosmic of people would have detected their scent otherwise).

"Is she... covering herself in mud?" the first man asked the second with a hint of confusion hanging in his voice.

"She's covering herself in mud," the other affirmed.

"Oh," the first man said. "Shall we?"

The second man, and clearly the leader amongst them, nodded, not wishing to make any more noise. He, after all, did not want this strange, animal-like woman to hear them or their plans. The pair of aspiring bandits had sauntered into the forest with hopes of ambushing and robbing a few unprepared travellers and adventures. They had found their target after hours of searching...
It took a few minutes of waiting for their target to finish pasting her naked body in a thick coat of mud, and a few minutes more for her to begin to head in their direction, getting closer and closer. It was then they could just see the whites of her eyes that they revealed themselves from the shrubbery, screaming all hell at the woman to hand over all her money.

"Stop!" the first man screamed.

"Give us all of your money! We know you're hiding it on your... uh... body somewhere!"

"Yeah! Hand it over or we'll gut you like a pig!" they continued. The second man had produced a small knife and was pointing it ominously at her belly.



"It can't be!" came echoes from far away. A clamour of voices shouted and exclaimed and celebrated. Surely it could not be? The cacophony of excited voices grew louder and nearer as a crowd gathered beyond the crypt, eagerly making their way down to see for themselves what the new recruit had told them.

But how could it be that Ellarian had returned? The great Rampart of Hope had been long dead, rotting in his grave for thousands of years. The captain originally brushed off the conscript's claims as heresy as he had first bolted from the tomb, screaming bloody murder at the top of his voice that their champion had somehow risen from the grave. However, his insistence suggested that there was some maddening validity to his claims. As the captain hurried to the tomb, others followed suit, the rumour spreading fast. Soon there was a small crowd of soldiers, all learned in the history of their champion, making their way to the crypt.

The captain's eyes grew wide upon turning the final corner at the end of the winding, narrow, stone stairs that led into the cold earth below the fortress. There, in full, torchlit glory, sat a giant of a man inside the stoneforged casket that was the final resting place of Ellarian. Beside for the very alive man sitting there, the grave was empty. The man was bulky and was marred with scars, and adorning a thick, grizzly beard that few men had the stones to grow. This... man. He was a spitting image of the Ellarian that the soldiers had come to know.

"Gods, you are kind," the captain whispered to himself.

A murmur of astounded voices grew in a slow crescendo behind him. Joy and confusion reigned for those few moments as nobody knew what to make of the situation, though this awakening was entirely beneficial for the soldiers garrisoned at the fort.
The captain allowed the restless men behind him to express themselves to one another for a moment longer, before the men were silenced by the captain's approach to the legend. He promptly took to his knee to address Ellarian.

"My lord, we know not how you have returned, but we welcome you back. Perhaps the Gods themselves sent you to aid us, for we are in grave danger," the captain spoke. he dared not look Ellarian in the eye for some irrational fear of making him mad. Nobody had any idea what this man they so revered was really like. "Foul sub-men come from the Far North, beyond the realm of Ansus, and they bring to bear a force greater than our garrison. We have been under siege for weeks with no means of breaking the assault. We have equipment and a shield that we would be honoured to grant you. Will you aid us once more?"



"The wolf!" the aged chief shouted over and over. "The wolf! The wolf!"

He had stood from his simple wooden stool with such force that the chair itself had been sent spiralling into the wall. The chief was a large man, but he paled in comparison to the man who had just revealed himself unto them.

"You..." he struggled with his words. "You. Wolf."

The chief set down the two sticks of mutton that he had been simultaneously devouring and slammed down his flagon of Eastern ale. With a single hand command he demanded that the rest of his retinue observe silence in honour of the return of the King in the East. The chief was entirely sure of whom he gazed upon; the eyes like great pearls of pure white were a dead giveaway, but no man but Norco Khan himself could behold such stature and size; he was a giant of a man, standing at least two heads taller than the chief.

"Anosh dafini," he spoke in the old Eastern tongue, approaching the Wolf slowly. "Brother. King. Beast," his lips trembled. "You have returned. To what end I wonder."

He looked the newcomer in his celestial eyes, and did not even attempt to greet him with a hearty handshake. He immediately fell to his knee, offering the Wolf his hand as a sign of respect, before offering him his weapon: an old Eastern custom to show fealty to another.

"My King, I do not have your axe. It was lost many years ago to the great Ice Dragon in the depths of the Cold Ridges. We have been unable to recover the artifact; the beast is too great. But perhaps now that you walk once more, our people may go on one last hunt... with you at our head once again."



"Wut' are you talkin' about?" one grave robber asked Pricia. "Wut' is she talkin' about?" he asked his accomplice. The grave robber looked back to Pricia. "Wut' are you actually talkin' about? Wut' do you mean the year?"

The second grave robber stunned, did not say a word. He simply stared at the woman, unable to take his eyes off of her. The first robber, unable to understand his companion's silence, quickly turned back and gave him a quick slap on the face in an attempt to bring him out of whatever daydream he was experiencing.

"Ow!" exclaimed the second grave robber. "Why'dya do dat'?"

"Because you's was bein' slow!"

"I weren't bein' slow!" he began. "I think she came outta that grave," he continued, raising a trembling finger to point at Pricia, particularly the way she was sitting upright in what was otherwise an empty grave.

The first robber took a moment and assessed the situation. He looked over the woman in the tomb, he looked over her tomb, he looked over her expression and her body language. She seemed tired and malnourished, as if she had just awoken from a very long sleep. He raised his eyebrows. How could somebody really come back from the dead?

"It has bin', uh, sixty one thousand and twenty three years since the foundin' of Ansus," he hesitantly replied to the woman's question. "Now tell me yer' name and how ya' got here. We ain't here to kill, just to plunder."



"Well then, young one," the Priest retorted snarkily. "You will have to journey to the Heartlands. They don't keep Altim's Violin here anymore. Not since the Fire went cold."

He stared this imposter down, assuming his claims of being Altim to be an alcohol fuelled vie for recognition and fame. He raised his walking cane and poked Altim a couple of times, before forcing himself to his feet. The ravages of time had not been kind to the priest, and even standing was a struggle nowadays.

"It is kept in the Bastion of Light. If you want to try your luck with the God Guard Legion then you are more than welcome to tell them your story. Maybe they will buy it. But You aren't Altim. Altim is long dead," the Priest asserted. "If Faerthus is gone, then Altim would be too. So take your stories to some other old fool and convince them of it, you heretic!" he shouted.

The Priest turned his back in such a rude fashion that he almost felt bad for doing it. Almost.



Something with eyes like the night lay in wait in the high trees, watching with a certain intent. A man was journeying through the forests, making significant headway inland. He did not seem to be afraid of what lay in wait in the forest, though stopping occasionally to apparently daydream, legs crossed, and heart rate slowing.

A fresh meal. Ripe for the harvest.

The creature waited for a few moments, waiting for the man to stand and resume his arduous journey by foot. It could take him days, if not weeks to reach the Bastion from his current location. He was alone in the wild, with naught but the gifts of a dead God to keep him company.
The creature bounded from one towering canopy to another, making little sound as it went. Only the snapping of a single branch would have given any hint to the predator following. It sauntered down the colossal tree trunk in complete silence, six powerful and sinuous legs carrying it slowly closer to its prey. It slithered into the tall undergrowth, making its way through thick growths of leaves and brushing aside flimsy twigs that held it all together. It got close, perhaps thirty feet away from Sikes. Its teeth were bared, its eyes narrowed, its heart rate increased. All signals for the beginning of a hunt.

With a horrifying shriek the creature emerged from the shadows with exceptional speed, lunging at its target. But the predator was not privvy to the idea that the one it had stalking was capable of seeing glimpses into the future. Perhaps that would be the downfall of that mighty beast of the forest.

“...” Ki'ira didn't know what to say when the two obviously moronic bandits jumped from their hiding places and ordered her to give her money away. She tilted her head and looked at her own beautiful body, now covered in mud. Afterwards she looked at them again.” * Sigh* I heard that you two bickering about something here, but I never thought you would go for this sort of thing...” She said her shoulders dropped in disappointment.” Seriously, you find a beautiful woman like me, walking around with no clothes and your first reaction is to demand my money? No slave market, no selling me to some exotic creature collector?...” She asked, her voice completely neutral at the moment.” Let me ask you two birdbrains, where would I keep that money you demand exactly, in my non existent pockets? At least be realistic about your demands.”

“Really, you are pointing that thing for cutting food at me?” She asked, looking at the small knife.” Listen here, if you plan to play bandits, at least get some swords or at least spears. Spears are easy, you get a long stick and tie a knife to it or just sharpen it... What will happen if you targets are better armed than you?” She laughed at them. The small knife was barely worthy of her attention, she died pierced by so many weapons, they could make an armory from those stuck in her.” Now then, while I would love to play around with you two, I'm feeling somewhat hungry right now...” She stated, licking her lips and eyeing the two bandits. She realized more than well it made it sound like she planned to eat them.

“Hmmm... the fact you two are here is indeed a blessing almost~” She whistled, raising her hands a little, as flames burst around her body. The mud she planned to use until she finds somewhere to get clothes from, quickly hardened and fell from her body as the flames 'baked' it. “ Now I need to ask you two a few questions~ and also, do please get undressed right now and leave all you things aside, I don't want to spill blood on my future clothes~ if you comply, I promise to let you two live~ if not... well let's just say, I won't be hungry anymore!” She told them with a huge grin.” What do you say, that's a fair deal?”

Stone shuddered and sediment rained down from above. The entire castle was shaking from the bombardment of catapults and the march of invaders. Volkimir Sturmkirk looked up as dust descended onto him from the low ceiling. Good, it seemed that his soldiers had taken the castle. Victory was assured. He sighed in relief, but with it came a cough of blood. He clutched the stake in his heart as blood seeped through his fingers, ensuring that it did not travel any deeper into his breast. Normally he would have yanked out the obstruction and sealed the wound with magic, but not now. The day was won, and he was so very tired.

With a grunt and more spilled blood, he opened one of the stone coffins that lined the walls of the crypt. His sword clattered to the stone floor, as he would no longer need it. This is where his ancestors laid, and now he would join them. His duty to his ancient bloodline was finished; the curse had been lifted, and all traces of it destroyed. Except for himself, that was. He crawled into his tomb, as heavy blows continued to rain down on his ancestral home above him. His armor, cracked. His body, broken. He was so very, very tired. Volkimir could not remember when he had last slept; some thousands of years ago, he suspected. Now he would join his family in slumber.

The dream lasted forever, but at the same time it ended in an instant. Stars burned away the shadows of time that had crept over his memories. Volkimir saw shades the future that was, and the past that never could be. His ancestors were there; dead, and yet had not abandoned him. They urged him to remember his purpose, as these were fallen times. He must return to fight. Sing the battle songs again.

Volkimir awoke to the sight of a stone coffin lid. The sight of it perplexed him, as did the feeling of raw metal edges against his bare chest. With a single, mighty shove, he threw the stone slab off of himself, and moved to crawl out of his tomb. He immediately became aware of the sharp edges of his broken armor digging into him. He threw away what remained of his breastplate, the rusted metal clattering on the dusty floor. Where was he? He felt as though he had just awoken from a lengthy dream, and like any dream he could not remember what it had been. His golden eyes quickly adjusted to the pitch darkness, and he saw the dusty crypt for all that it was worth. Dust and cobwebs hung thick in the air; this place had been undisturbed for centuries, at least.

Now he remembered. This place was his home. More accurately, it was his tomb. The ancient burial grounds of his Sturmkirk ancestors, which he had joined in his final moments. He looked to his hands, flexing them to feel his own strength. Had he not died? Merely slumbered and healed? For how long had he slept among the dead and forgotten? So many questions, and none of them were in this place. He moved closer to the chamber door, but accidentally kicked something that had been obscured by fallen rubble. The sound of it against stone was clear and sharp, as well as all too familiar to Volkimir. Pushing away the debris, he felt the familiar weight of Elbrus in his hands once more.

“Just when I thought I was rid of you,” the demon of the blade greeted him after untold years, “May you die a thousand more deaths, vampire.”

Volkimir smiled, his fangs pushing out over his bottom lip. Some things never changed, no matter how long he was away. The crypt’s stone door was not far away, and upon reaching it Volkimir was not surprised to find it obstructed. This explained the solitude of his reprieve, and Elbrus having waited in the exact spot that he had left it. With an exertion of unholy strength, the stones that had dropped before the door were pushed away, and Volkimir stepped out into the twilight of evening. The sun was in its final moments of life before the dark of night set in. Perfect timing. The vampire smiled again.

The caves that had once held the undercroft of Castle Sturmkirk were exposed to the outside world. A small village was nestled into the nearby glen where he had run and played as a boy, and killed and conquered as a man. This land had changed much since he last beheld it. Volkimir took note of how well he was currently equipped. Not well, by all appearances. His clothes had mostly rotted away to rags and threads, and his armor was broken and rusted. He no longer had a sheath to his sword, and his chest was bare save for a few stray strands of musty cloth. Volkimir breathed deeply, smelling fresh air for the first time in years innumerable. And on the air, of course, was the scent of prey. He slung his sword up onto his shoulders and set out to the nearby hamlet. There was much to learn of the world that he had awakened into. And he had a thirst of more than a thousand years to quench.

"Fine, I shall show myself the way," Altim declared. He picked up a stone, held it in his palm, and faced north. After a deep, contemplative breath, he sang three notes, in order C, F, and B, and an incantation in Old Cyndarian, a language older than the new High Priest. Immediately, nothing occurred, and the Priest laughed in scorn. But nature had other plans. The trees nearby became completely still as the breeze in the forest stopped blowing. Suddenly, that breeze returned a full-force gale, startling the trees and wildlife violently. The stone in his hand levitated shakily too above his palm for a moment before it threw itself in the right direction. After the spell was complete and Altim knew what he needed to know, the winds calmed and the rock fell. Altim spoke again, "Alas, the way is revealed."

He left that place and picked up the rock as he departed, leaving the Priest behind him. Altim had no time to dispute the issue with the Priest further because he sought answers, and most importantly, he sought peace. His quest for those outweighed the need to prove himself, for in due time the Priest would know. All Altim required to bring the truth of his return to the people was his violin, but the truth of his return also lay in the disappearance of the gods. When he and that blessed instrument could sing together again, Altim would finally be able to understand his circumstances with more clarity. Altim's feet trod softly on the grass in the woods, and he began to reckon how far the Bastion really was from his location.

Ellarian considered the man before him. Grizzled in the way that only veterans were, he refused to make eye contact no matter how long the former stared. For a long, agonizing moment, Ellarian said nothing, simply gazing at the close cropped black hair of the Captain and then to the soldiers behind him who each averted their gaze as his stony brown eyes swept across them. He looked back down at the captain as he stood up to his full height. In the intervening time between the conscript running off and the gaggle of soldiers returning, he had managed to fashion himself a primitive loincloth from a burial shroud that had been under him so that at least he had some dignity as he left his stone capsule.

"Stand, Captain," he croaked as he stood before the man, his tone harsh with the grating of a partially atrophied larynx, "I am no-one's lord. I am but a mere soldier, like you." In response, the Captain stood, but still refused to meet his gaze, instead staring at the floor. "Meet my eyes, Captain," he demanded, leaving no room for argument. After a brief moment of hesitation, the man looked up and gazed into Ellarian's dark brown eyes. Where most people would be ambe to divine some sort of meaning from this, the Captain could not pierce far enough into his eyes. Those windows into the soul, usually so vulnerable, had become walls in their own right and yet they possessed a fierceness unmet by the most fiery of barbarians the Captain had met in battle. After a few seconds of intense eye contact, he broke away. At the same time, Ellarian closed his eyes and lightly shook his head. It wasn't that the captain was a bad man...he was a captain for a reason, but apparently they had lowered their standards. In that single moment, he had weighed, measured and analysed the captain. And he had been found wanting. Looking up, he examined the other soldiers that had gathered at the door, each of which refused to meet his gaze. He felt the bile rise in his throat. Had the empire grown this weak in the time he was gone? He looked back to the captain, who re-established eye contact.

"That I should be ripped from my eternal slumber," he said, his ire beginning to become palpable, thickening the air to the consistency of molasses, "and be cast back into the forge of war..." He stroked his beard, letting out a heavy sigh, "The empire must have dire need of me again." With that one single sentence, all the pressure in the room dropped. What was that old term that had haunted him for so long? There was no rest for the wicked? Either way, it seemed that he would not receive the peaceful end he had always hoped for. He disliked, nay despised being back in the realm of the living, the time of war, endless death and greed. But if he could alleviate some of that suffering by his mere presence...then let it be done. "Show me to the armory," he said as he began to walk towards the exit of the crypt.

At the doorway, he paused and looked behind him as a flash of red caught his eye. Draped over another grave was a tattered banner, its colour rapidly fading but the symbol unmistakable. Walking back towards it, he stopped at the foot of the grave. 'Here lies Dorian Crosser, banner bearer of the 12th Imperial Legion.'
"We meet again, old friend" Ellarian said fondly as he brushed the dust off of the engraving. There was a certain sadness about him as he ran his wizened fingers over the stone, but it was soon replaced by professionalism. With something akin to reverance Ellarian plucked the banner off of the grave, releasing a torrent of dust. "Allow me to bring our Legion glory," he said as he draped it over his arm, "one...one more time." Turning back to the door, he pointed out. "Lead the way, Captain." On their way up, a thought occured to him. "Captain...what year is it?" he asked as he continued up the stairs.
"Approximately 1023 seasonal cycles since the unification of Ansus," he replied. Ellarian's eyes widened momentarily. It...was done? It was finally united? A smile crept its way across his lips. People had finally come to their senses and realised that there was no point killing other people..."I see..." he mused as he took another step, a small bound appearing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pulling violently on the leather strap, Ellarian tightened the pauldron onto his shoulder as he geared up for war. He had to say, what these men lacked in discipline and grit, they made up for in metallurgy. They wore armour of polished silver, though they claimed it was something called 'Steel'. It mattered not though, if they did not have the power to back it up they might as well have just been walking containers of meat. After venturing deep into the armoury, despite the captain's protests, Ellarian had found what he had been looking for. The familiar weight of black iron was comforting in a way despite its obvious drawbacks. Brushing a bit of dust off of his breastplate, the stocky man lumbered out of the armory bedecked in full ancient black iron, surprising many of the other soldiers who resembled the metal barrels that the coopers had been churning out. A large black shield dominated his left side, its mere size making it look unwieldy. Unlike the Captain's armour he was usually depicted as wearing, this one was much more plain. But he liked it better this way. Apart from the red ranner draped across his shoulders, he was the spitting image of his murals.

"Men!" he shouted, as if he had become the new leader already, "Form ranks!" Turning to the captain beside him, he looked down. "NOw tell me captain, what do you mean by sub-men. Give me the details."

"Oh shit!" the first bandit exclaimed, taken aback by the sudden display of power.

"Oh, not good!" the second screamed, jumping away from the searing heat that emanated from their target. The mud upon Ki'ira's slender frame was baked with such intensity that it had immediately dried out, breaking away from her skin in great dusty clumps. She had even demanded their clothes as compensation for disrupting her so. One of the bandits looked to the other, both of them shielding their eyes to avoid being blinded by the heat and brightness of the magical flames, and they shared a mutual glance of understanding. They definitely didn't want to be eaten, and they were sure this wild woman was more than capable of making a meal of them.

"We was' just... just tryina' feed our families," the second bandit whimpered. "Please miss', you can 'ave ur clothes. I don't know what kinda' power that is but... just don't hurt me or 'im, okay?" he said, gesturing to his friend who was still in a state of shock about the events that had transpired. His eyes were flitting between an astounded wideness and a protective avoidance of the heat. Both men were slowly backing away slowly.

They had both managed to strip down faster than lightning after Ki'ira's insistence that they donate their clothes to her cause. They were left shivering, standing by the pathside, entirely exposed for the world to see. They did not understand why she wanted both sets of their apparel, but they gave them up in favour of living to see another day. It was not until several hours later, after a heavy rain had set in over the forest, that the first bandit, Dass, had realised the note he had left in one of the quilted pockets in his tan coat: a hand drawn map leading to a small village a days walk from where they had come, with very clear instructions on how to get there. Whether the village described in the note was a hideout or home for the bandits... Ki'ira would have no way of knowing. Not without following the map and seeing where it lead.





"Absolutely, My Lo-" the captain stopped himself mid sentence. "Um. Sir. Absolutely, sir,"

The captain nodded to Ellarian, and led him through the great wooden gates that led from the armoury. A small group of armed and armoured soldiers, all donning their polished steel plate, followed suit a few steps behind the Captain and the newly awakened Ellarian. Pushing through the gates brought the group into a dazzling sunlight, so intense that it momentarily blinded the captain and him men, who all shielded their eyes for a moment as the world came swimming back into focus. They were stood upon the lower fortress walls –certainly restored from when Ellarian was buried there– behind the parapets. Before them was the dizzying expanse of the Northern sands, with the Mountains of Dust looming on the horizon, and a vast scrawl of rocky outcroppings veering off into the distance. However the beautiful vista was marred and ruined by the presence of a barbaric host surrounding the perimeter of the fortress.

"Sub-men, my lord- I- I mean, sir," the captain began, pointing to the force below. "They come from the Deep North Wildlands, technically beyond Ansus' reach. They weren't around in your time, I don't think. They're a sort of... how do I put this? A lesser group of men. Ones who still feast upon flesh and find pleasure in killing innocents. They started pouring in from the wildlands about ten years back, but we've never had such a big problem with them before," he started. The captain waved his hands apart, signifying the entire force that was before them. "Then this came with no warning. Nobody saw it coming. Every night they attack anew, they fire catapults at the walls and they scale the heights like crazed madmen. They'll get atop right here and they will just kill and kill."

The captain lowered his head, before turning it behind him to catch a glimpse of a screaming man being carried across the span of the wall. He had a massive gash in his right shoulder, though it was not currently bleeding. They were taking him to an overworked doctor so that maybe his life could be saved.

"We lost thirty men last night. The number keeps rising," he said to Ellarian, desperately trying to convince him of their plight. "The King won't send reinforcements or... or even anything. He doesn't believe that this is really happening. And they are only getting stronger, as though empowered by some dark force. Maybe they have a leader now?"

He shook his head. "Either way, our situation is dire. The suns will fall below the horizon soon and they will be upon us again. I estimate there are at least two thousand of them down there, so a pre-emptive attack has been out of the question for us so far. Maybe you can lend us your expertise? Maybe you can lead us to repel them for once and for all?"





The Chief found the Wolf King in his own private hut come the crisp, wintery morning. His fire had died down long before dawn, but the Chief hardly imagined such a thing would bother the fearsome warrior. At least he now had a proper set of clothes, produced with what could have only been love by the clan's sewing woman.
Walking into the hut was more than a surreal experience. The Chief had been raised on stories of the Wolf King, hearing tales of his exploits and valour over so many years was the sole reason he himself was able to become the man he was today. He was starstruck and still rather nervous. He knew not what to make of his return, and he hid a terrible embarrassment over the loss of the Wolf King's axe.

"My King," said the Chief in his characteristically low grumble. "Dawn is upon us. Shall we take the the mountains and slay this beast?"

He did not wait for Norco Khan's response.

"I have already planned our route to the Dragon's lair," he said with enthusiasm, laying down a quilt upon which a map had been scrawled in black Ice Fish blood. He took to his knee and traced his finger through a winding series of lines and crosshatches. "This is the simplest route, and the fastest. We will take to the basin of the old river and track it through to the caves. Once there, we can climb back to the surface," he poked a certain point on the map. "Once we are there, it is only a two hour trek through the outskirts of the forest and we will come upon the lair of the beast. We kill the creature, and we retrieve your weapon of legend,"

The Chief looked upon the Wolf King, hoping he had planned to the standard of the most legendary Kulgan. He wrapped the map into a roll, fastened it to his furs with a strip of leather and a rudimentary iron buckle, and gestured for Norco to follow suite.

"Let us leave before the snowfall becomes to heavy for us to make the journey,"





The winds howled high up in the castle tower. The forest seemed to span for miles upon miles, and perhaps on a brighter day, Pricia may have even been able to see the Bastion of Light. But alas, the world was growing dark and cold, and the sky grew more ashen by the day. Thick fog rolled in the distance, and the path she could see grew sodden with a continuous, light drizzle. Silence reigned for a few minutes following Pricia's contemplation. Far below, the door to the castle clanked and moaned, and the two grave robbers from earlier could be seen scurrying away, sacks full of old ornaments and trinkets. They had recovered such bounty that it almost spilled from their sacks. They had plundered the last of Pricia's family heirlooms for wealth and adventure.

When they had disappeared into the trees and they could no longer be heard from atop the castle, another curious sound took the place of their mumbling. It sounded like a slow scratching and light tapping, all contained within a deep, heavy breathing. Closer it came to the tower, it's sound echoing through the empty stone walls. Closer.

Closer.

From the shadows emerged a creature with bright orange eyes. A wolf, it seemed. It's fur ruffled and matted with mud, scars lining its otherwise beautiful face. And within its jaws it clutched a dead Goeing Bird, a long established symbol of Goethia. It was once said that they were an avatar of the goddess herself, and could never be found dead in the wild. Yet here one was, very much lifeless, and with no apparent cause of death.
The wolf timidly padded up to Pricia and placed the bird at her base. It immediately bolted back into the shadows.





The Priest had no words to say after this man, that had emerged from the crypt and claimed to be Altim, had performed a magical feat that none other than Altim himself could have done. The Priest immediately felt his stomach drop and he tried to chase after the man, but his youthful legs carried him too fast for the Priest to follow. He sat himself upon a rock and buried his head in his hands. He knew he had made a horrible mistake and alienated the man he had always looked up to in stories and tales.

"Ahh..." he sighed. "Fuck,"

It had been at least an hour past since Altim had left the ignorant priest behind, and a rain was beginning to set. The dirt turned to mud, and the beaten paths that intermittently criss-crossed through the forest like winding snakes had turned sodden and soft. Each step of the foot would have been met with a surprising slip in the grasp of the wet earth.
A young boy, no older than twelve, was sprinting through the brush and panting wildly as he went, as though he were crying and running all at the same time. His sniffles could be heard from all around, piercing through the blanket sound of rain hitting the canopy.

The boy could not have been paying attention to his surroundings, because one moment he was fleeting on his feet, and the next he caught his foot in a particularly stubborn root and stumbled and fell almost directly into Altim's path. He met the ground with a satisfying squelch and was coated in a thick layer of mud from his fall. The boy laid there for a minute, his head still pressed against the mud. He was sobbing.

For a minute or so he did not even realise he was in the presence of another. He was entirely too focused on being sad to pay any mind to who or what was watching him. He lifted his head slowly, still sniffling, though the majority of his tears must have already been spent.

"I- i'm sorry mister," he began, in an effort to be polite. "I just- i was- I just was..." he could not force out the words through the lump in his throat, borne off too much sadness. "I can't go back. My father says I have to be a soldier! I don't wan't to be a soldier!" he shouted, almost enticing a second wave of tears. "I want to be a bard!"





The farmers of the Western hamlets worked long, hard hours to supply the heartland cities with the food they needed to survive, but the coin they got in return was much more than they could expect in other regions of Ansus. This made the simple life for village-folk easy and comfortable, though occasionally they would have to suffer through the loss of livestock, and, very occasionally, people, through animal attacks and the very rare bandit raid. The people of the hamlets considered the trade off a fair one, and continued to live their lives in harmony as generations of farmers.
Things were good for them, whether Ansus was unified or not. There was always need for the Western farms. Yet upon this encroaching dusk, something stood upon the roadside, looking in at the simple folk. It was as though it could feel their heartbeats; their fears, and it thirsted for for their lifeblood.
The presence of such a creature would be cause for alarm for anything that would lay eyes upon it, yet in the darkness the men and women of the hamlet would not be looking for, nor would they be able to see an ancient vampire lord who had just risen anew.

Moooooo came a sound from the fields. The presence of such an unnatural and unholy creature had stirred the farm animals from their rest, though they did not know why they felt so suddenly uncomfortable. Even though Volkimir was far, they could sense him. MooooooooOOOO roared one of the beasts again, stirring up the other, more docile creatures. It was only a matter of minutes before the fields were alive with the sound of crying animals, all yelping and grunting at a presence they could not pinpoint.

The door to one of the hamlet houses creaked open, and a man carrying a dimly lit oil lamp slipped out.

"Shhh!" he said, trying to comfort the animals. "What has stirred ye' so?" he asked them, not expecting an answer. He shot his head up, looking into the bleak darkness beyond the dull lights of the hamlet. "Who's there?" he asked the night.

Ki'ira was whistling happily as the bandits quickly stripped and left her the clothing.” Listen here boys, hear this from someone who knows this... YOU BOTH ARE IDIOTS!!!!” She shouted loudly at the men and pointed at their belongings that were on the ground.” See that? All you have is that knife... what can you two rob with just the knife!? If you really have families, what will happen to them if you hadn't come across me who left you alive today, but let's say soldiers or real bandits?” She asked them, as she reached and took a set of clothing.” You'd be dead here and they wouldn't know what happened to you two... now think very well on what I told you just now, while you are going home like this. Also here, take these...” She said, and cut two tree branches that would work as good walking sticks.” I'm keeping the knife and the clothes, but those will do fine to protect yourself from wild animals better than a simple knife.” She said to them as she finished putting on one of the set of clothes. She quickly wrapped the other one up and threw it on her shoulder as a sack.

“Now there is a warm cozy cave in that direction, you'd better go there to hide from the storm that's coming in this direction, otherwise you would die from the cold...” She said, pointing them at the tomb she crawled away from. Then she started walking away from them, before stopping and turning towards them one last time.” And it's needless to say what will happen if I ever find you two out on the roads like this again right?” She smiled and started running.

She ran for a while, before stopped in place and looked around, listening to the surroundings. The air was humid, it was going to start raining pretty darn soon. The coat this guy had was going to serve alright enough, but all these clothes were baggy... well she did take them from men, so there was that. She had find something more fitting later or have these ones fixed for her. Going back to the problem at hand, she shook her head as she continued to walk, there was no suitable place to use for protection from the rain.

While walking, she decided to go through the pockets of the clothes, who knew what those kept in them. Most of them were empty, but one wasn't! It had some sort of map and she managed to actually see where to go from the things shown in that map. She wondered if that was a village or a bandit camp... She actually could have use for both right now, bandits usually had some decent enough loot in their camps. Clothes, weapons, food... “Damn... I'm hungry!” She almost shouted as she heard her stomach grumbling. No wonder really, who knew how long she was dead, it was impossible for her stomach to be full! She also had a little bit of time before the storm hits her. After listening around for a little bit, she heard a bird in one direction, so stealthy she quickly found the little birdie.' I'm sorry lil' bird, but predators eat pray!' She thought and shot it with a single high speed fire ball, a small one, about an arrow sized. Still that was enough to roast the poor thing outright. Using the knife she got, she quickly scrapped away what was left from the feathers and began walking in the direction of the town again. She couldn't really eat the entire bird because it's insides hadn't been removed, but she still managed to get a meal out of the rest. With a stomach full enough to not make noise, a smile on her face and a long stride, she walked towards her destination as the downpour finally hit her.

------------------------------------

The journey towards the place marked on the drawn map was already quite close. She was going to reach it today, but it took her a few days to get from the place she met the novice bandits to here. Without the rest of her blessing, she was indeed incomplete. Normally this would have taken half the time, maybe even less.

Ahh finally it was in sight! The place marked on that map was just beyond that small hill.” I do hope they have something good to drink!” She said, making the last few steps to the top of the hill and finally she saw it...

When Altim found the boy at his feet, the legend himself was at first puzzled. That boy, who so indignantly rejected the paradigm of destiny laid by his elders, reminded the adventurer of a time long past, when Altim himself ran from home to avoid a fate not of his design. The boy nearly moved Altim to tears, but he remained resolute and cool-headed for the child's sake. He crouched to meet eyes with the boy, and he wiped the salty, stinging tears from the boy's eyes. He said, "Cry not, young one. You control your fate by virtue of your freedom, and your freedom is inviolable."

Sniffling, the youth nodded, and his crying lessened.

"Remember this. Altim's wisdom was not realized through subservience. He pursued his dream without putting enmity between himself and his elders." At this, Altim stood again and, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder, made his request. "Let us see your father. You should not be here in the forest alone." He looked down at the child and gave a warm smile, an oath of protection. It would not be proper for Altim to abandon the child in the forest, with whatever beast lurked in the shadows.

The boy smiled back and nodded, and he grabbed Altim's hand to lead the legend back to the village in the direction the boy came from. Altim knew that the detour would delay his reunion with the violin, but he paid no mind to helping those in need. The village itself was a little closer to the temple than it was when Altim lived, a change that Altim owed to the passage of time and the growth of civilization. Thank the gods as well, for in its previous location, the village would have caused much more delay to his travels. Along the path, Altim made small talk.

"Who are you, little one?"

"My name's Daither, what's your name, mister?"

Altim chuckled. An odd little name, but likely a popular one in the current era. "My name is Mitlamai," he replied after a short period of thought. The name was a pseudonym to protect Altim's true identity, and on this brief excursion, giving a fake name could do hardly any harm. They spoke more about simpler and more childish topics—the types of songs they liked, the instruments the boy favored, among them. The village came into view while they were speaking of animals and colors.

When they arrived at the boy and his family's humble abode, Altim gave the door three firm but unintrusive knocks.

Volkimir drifted through the dark of night with the same ease and mastery of the bat soared through the inky skies. The land was still and quiet, save for the vampire who stalked like a lone predator. Volkimir's eyes glimmered as he closed onto a bloodscent. Humans, at last. The smell of the livestock, pitiful bovines, appealed to him as much as a bale of fresh peat. Volkimir had one true prey, and that was his fellow man. In his mind, he had no idea for how long he had been entombed, but his body knew all too well. Volkimir's hunger roared in his mind, clawing at the back of his eyeballs, and trying to escape up through his throat. He slowly came ever closer to the bloodscent, and he felt his blood vessels constrict and his muscles burn as he anticipated his kill. It took much of his willpower to contain himself and not rush forth and maul his prey like a starving wolf.

Perhaps the farmer caught some stray sight of Volkimir as he wandered into the edge of the firelight. The vampire would sometimes vanish, only to reappear ten steps closer, as though he were drifting in an out of reality. His sword he carried heavily, as though it were some great, obtuse tool. The farmer tried to cry out, but he found himself suddenly having great difficulty drawing breath. He felt a vice-grip on his chest, and his blood ran cold as he felt the strange pressure sink deep within him. He stepped forward, but not of his own accord. His body moved against his will, as though pulled by invisible strings, wandering ever closer to the approaching vampire. Volkimir smiled, his fangs glittering against the torchlight.

Once he had drawn his prey far enough out of sight of the village, Volkimir dropped his pretense of subtlety and tore out the farmer's throat with his bare hands. As the peasant gurgled his dying breath, Volkimir clamped his mouth down over the gaping wound, sucking ferociously at the stream of dark, thick blood. Sweeter than sugar, more intoxicating than spirits; as the blood flowed into him once more, Volkimir felt ecstasy rip through him, equal parts orgasm and immolation. However, the climax of the hunt was quickly over, and the dead farmer had little left to offer Volkimir. The vampire lapped at the blood on his own hands and face, sure that there was more that had run down his bare chest that he could not reach. Such a hasty kill had wasted much blood, and Volkimir had not drank his fill. Even so, this would be enough. He preferred to never fully satisfy himself, rather than constantly gorge himself as his noble family was wont to do. Volkimir enjoyed the predatory sharpness that hunger gave him, not to mention that hunger carried its own masochistic pleasures.

Even so, he would have to continue along to his destination. He sought the nearest city, so that he could at least familiarize himself with the world he had awakened into. The density of population would make feeding easier as well. Given his current appearance, as well as the sudden disappearance of this farmer, he thought it wise to avoid the hamlet, and really any major roads, until he could better clothe himself. A bath would be nice, as well, considering that he was now sticky with peasant blood. He looked back to the corpse, pale and limp. If the Shadowlands were anything like they had been when he knew them, wolves would claim the rest of the body soon enough, and the villagers would be none the wiser to Volkimir's presence. Giving a final lick of his ruddy fingers, Volkimir set out through the nearest thicket of woods, drifting between the tree-trunks like a phantom of vengeance.

Running a gauntleted hand through his beard, Ellarian considered the Captain's words. These sub-men...if they were as savage and barbaric as he had said then they had no right to the lives they possessed. A different culture they may be, but to attempt to push onto Empire lands...that was unforgivable. "The king is a fool then," Ellarian stated plainly, taking the Captain by surprise. In all of his epics and legends, Ellarian was fiercely loyal to the king and would abide by his orders no matter what. The large man looked at the captain. "I am loyal only to the Kingdom, not the King himself," he stated plainly, as if guessing the captain's state of mind, "that means I am loyal to the people and their plight." With that, he returned to his strategic planning. "What do we have at our disposal?" he asked after a moment of silence as he began to climb the stairs to the parapet. The captain mentally calculated their forces. "Close to 800 fatigued men remaining in fighting condition, although they will most definitely be invigorated by your presence," he said with a small smile. A look from Ellarian wiped it straight off of his face. Clearing his throat, the captain continued. "Apart from that, we have two ballistae at our disposal and enough equipment to be sure we are not found unarmed."

Looking over the parapet, Ellarian spotted the enemy host. A warband of humanoids, they sneered up at him as he looked down the line. A small rock cracked against his pauldron, and he thought nothing of it until he felt a burning sensation on his skin. "My L- Sir! Are you alright!?" the captain asked as Ellarian's face twitched. Stooping down, the latter picked up the stone. "What is this?" he asked as his cheek continued to sting. It was a white stone which crumbled easily to powder in his gauntleted hand. "We know not sir," the captain admitted, sheepishly looking away, "we only know of its effects." Standing back up, Ellarian looked towards him expectantly. "Men touched by this cursed stone complain of burning sensations and being blinded and choked. They complain of their lungs being set aflame and noses being seared beyond use, as well as burns across their bodies...the subhumans have been bombarding us with these hellstones using their catapults..." Letting the odd white powder run through his hand, Ellarian narrowed his eyes. What was this mysterious substance... Nevertheless, he stood back up. He was a soldier, not an apothecary. The gods had brought him back to defend this outpost, not gawk at mysterious white powder. "Form the men up," Ellarian said as he began to descend the stairs, "I would have words with them.

Arrayed in front of him were 700 odd men, the rest being positioned as sentries on the walls. While they tried to maintain parade standards, he could tell that their bodies were aching with fatigue. Slowly pacing around, Ellarian stopped at the first rank. "First rank, second rank, drop spears," he said suddenly. Initially confused, the men lowered their spears to the ground. "third rank, fourth rank, drop spears," he continued. The second rank did the same. "Congratulations, you are now shieldbearers," he declared, pacing back to the front and adressing the soldiers, "you job now is not to kill, but to protect. Your man on your left is your brother, your father, your comrade, your favourite brewer," he explained, eliciting a few chuckles, "it matters not who they really are, for they are your brethren now. To let him fall is to let you yourself fall. Protect the men to your left and right, and they will do the same. The first and second ranks looked at each other nervously, not sure what to do with this information. "Am I clear?" Ellarian demanded. "Sir, yes Sir!" they unanimously replied. Satisfied, Ellarian paced behind them. "Every other rank, drop shields," he said commandingly, to which the other four ranks obeyed in a clatter of metal, gripping their remaining spears with both hands. "You are now the spearmen behind the shieldbearers. Trust in them to protect you and focus on killing the enemy. Am I clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" was the reply again. Ellarian nodded, returning to the front. "Remember your positions now. First and fith ranks will move together to defend the Northern wall. Second and sixth the east. Third and seventh the west, and fourth and eighth the south." Does everyone understand their new positions?" There was a great raucous noise as they confirmed. Ellarian nodded. "Dismissed." As one, they all collapsed to the ground, aiming to get as much rest as they possibly could. He didn't mind. He in fact wanted to join them, but he had other matters to attend to. "Captain," he called as he began to walk off, "Call the work details, equip them with gloves. I want them to collect EVERY one of those white stones..."