The dread roar rang through Kolantis with a wicked echo. Louder. Louder, louder, and louder still. The controlled hectic of the city underwent an unsettling transformation; the living city became the funeral hearse in the procession of life. An ominous cloud of black smoked across the capital of Ansus, and the prospitious people who offered their hearts to the pride of their land took cover in the face of the dying of the light. The gods had fallen, darkness had won. The fate that Ansur fought to avert had followed mankind away from its ancestral home; that breed of anathema had consumed the gods and now thirsted for man's blood. The dark holocaust marched through the streets from the darkest nooks and crannies of the great city, and the demonic wrecked their havoc upon the innocent.

As Ansur and Altim were arriving in the city, the light was quickly succumbing to the great chaos. Neither anticipated the immediacy of the fate that befell humanity in that moment. Disconcerted and distraught by the sight, the son of Faerthus paused on the edge of the city, just beyond its gate, and he halted Ansur. The stench of blood reeked even outside Kolantis. The musician, who united the West with his bare hands, had yet to witness anything, any evil of this caliber. "Ansur, I am frightened. This land, which you and I and many others struggled to create, is threatened," Altim stated. "But in this time of darkness, we create our own light. What great source of power may I draw from to restore my power to its former glory and create that light, Forefather?"

Shuffling noises were all Volkimir's sharp ears could detect from the other side of the heavy, wooden door, and so he continued to stand about impatiently. He tapped what was left of his ragged boot against the soggy brickwork, and winced at the wet sound that it made. Volkimir had been in worse squalor than this in his travels, but the key difference was the overriding feeling of despair that this city held. In the streets of Prajatantra, half a world away, beggars sat shoulder to shoulder, and holy men prostrated and immolated themselves publicly. Human corpses and waste choked their sacred river, and even so pilgrims bathed and drank from it piously. Those people were destitute, but they were gloriously alive, as opposed to the stagnant half-life that the urban filth of this city seemed to occupy.

Volkimir's reminiscence was broken by the door to "Mister Locke's" chambers opening loudly. From within emerged the man which Volkimir could only assume was the leader of this band of thieves. An old man, leaning heavily on a crutch, looked Volkimir over with coolly intelligent eyes. In most ways he looked no different from a simple, elderly commoner. However, inscribed upon the man's flesh were tattoos of incredible intricacy. Runes and scriptures of a text from ages past were etched into every inch of his aged, pallid flesh, covering even his bald scalp. These were not mere prisoner tattoos, Volkimir knew. He recognized these symbols, but he could not lower his guard to sink into the depths of his impossibly long memory to search for their meaning.

"So," the old man said, "It is you. I knew I felt a cold wind pass through here."

Volkimir raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The mustachioed doorman spoke for him, "Boss, you know this creep?"

Locke furrowed his thin brows, his mood clearly conflicted. "I don't know his face." A gnarled finger pointed at the Bound Blade, still wedged into the slick floor. "I know that weapon. It was stolen from the Basilica of Saint Traft in the fifty-third century." The same finger then pointed to Volkimir himself, his gold eyes glinting with curiosity. "I know his eyes. I know his curse." A whisper rose up among the gathered criminals, apparently emboldened by the presence of their venerated leader. "Am I wrong, son of Sturmkirk?" The old man asked, his eyes clouded with age and confusion.

Volkimir laughed, a sound like a coffin being pulled open by a hasty graverobber. "I'm surprised that the Empyrial Cult survives to this day. Just as surprising, that a holy man should keep a den of thieves." He knew he recognized those symbols. The traditional religion of the Shadowlands had all but gone extinct after the Fall of House Sturmkirk, but this man bore the markings of one of its monks.

The old man nodded. "After the Shadowlands were reclaimed, the Old Faith returned. We took back the old chapels and monasteries. You have been gone for a long time, Mortifier. Though it seems you never truly left."

"My name is still spoken in this age? With that pathetic epitet?" Volkimir inquired. Finally, answers at last.

"Not by daylight. The vampires that survived the purges still scorn your name. They lurk down here, among the rats and thieves. Some of my former brothers leave unspoken offerings for the Dark Angel with their daily tributes. Not canonized, but not heresy."

Volkimir laughed again, this time only a dark thundering in his chest. A demon like himself called an angel by monks. The irony was sharp and bitter. "Former brothers, you say?"

This time it was Locke that laughed bitterly. "Excommunication is a small price to pay, compared to gambling debts. Holy relics fetch a fair price to certain collectors."

Now the pieces were coming together. A rogue monk. A band of thieves. And a "Dark Angel" dropped into the midst of it all. The ordinary scum that filled the common area seemed thoroughly confused by the cryptic conversation that had been held between their leader and this ominous stranger. Some stayed silent, watching on in confusion and fear, while others muttered nervously among themselves. Locke invited Volkimir into his humble quarters to continue their discussion more privately. Volkimir seated himself in a wooden chair that was slightly less decrepit than those in the common area, while the old monk sat on his small, dry cot.

It seemed that their small band had fallen on difficult times as of late, and were planning to move their operations into the capital city. This tidbit of information spawned a host of questions from Volkimir, which Locke answered amiably. The nation of Ansus had apparently grown to dominate the majority of the continent, bringing its faith to all corners of the land. This interested Volkimir greatly, spawning more queries for the old man to satisfy. Once Volkimir felt decently satisfied with the amount of information he had gleaned from Locke regarding the history that he had missed, the two continued their discussion of Locke's plans. The capital of Kolantis was home to the Royal Treasury, the greatest vault of wealth in the entirety of the empire. Locke planned for nothing less than to plunder the treasury itself. For his plan, however, he required a diversionary force, which was what he had sent his underlings out into the streets in search of. Essentially marks that would take most the fall for the heist. However, they had not found some idiotic beggar to condemn to the dungeons. They had found Volkimir.

The ancient vampire was offered a place in their endeavor, which he accepted after some deliberation. He would assist in their scheme, as repayment for Locke's hospitality, as well as the condition that he be allowed first pick of the treasures hidden away by the royal family. Locke planned to waste no time, and they would leave the following day. In the meantime, Volkimir requisitioned a few creature comforts. A hot bath was able to be arranged, as well as a fresh set of mostly-intact clothes. A decent pair of boots were also found, and a belt and sheath from which to hang Elbrus had also been scrounged up. Volkimir found it odd that thieves would be so generous to a man they had just met, but he reconciled the thought as he remembered that their leader was a man of faith. A man who had put his faith in Volkimir.

Much to Volkimir's relief, the plans had already been made to travel by night, and to avoid major roads. This had been done naturally to avoid the attention of patrolling guards. Locke had invested the last of the band's capital into decent horses and wagons with which to move those among their number that would carry out the heist. Volkimir himself shared a wagon with Locke and his few lieutenants, and over their few days of travel, they discussed their revised plans. The scheme had become far simpler: Locke's men would crack the vault, while Volkimir killed anyone that got in their way. After that, a simple retreat to the sewer systems (to which they had acquired schematics) would be sufficient for their escape. Far from subtle, but Volkimir assured the thieves that his prowess in killing would be so overwhelming that the surviving treasury guards would not dare chase after them.

However, by the time their caravan had arrived at the gates of Kolandis, their plans already needed revision. They had come prepared with falsified paperwork and considerable bribes to smuggle their equipment into the city, but it seemed that those were wasted efforts. The gates had been broken through, and the standing guards had been slaughtered. The thieves cautiously ventured into the city, finding more of the same. Corpses filled the streets in droves, swarming with flies and vermin. Rot had not yet taken them; they had been dead for scarcely days. The sight of the carnage was too much for many of the supposedly hardened criminals of their band, and Locke himself found his strength leaving him by the minute.

Volkimir, however, hardened his heart as he had done many times before. His thoughts were not of, "why," but of, "who," and, "how." What was supposed to be the most densely-populated city in Ansus (according to Locke) now seemed to merely be a capital for crows. Plague had not taken them, this much was obvious. Too many dead, too quickly. Signs of violence were also readily apparent: broken and burned buildings, homes turned to husks. The bodies that had not yet been devoured told of their bloody demise. As he prowled the putrid streets, Volkimir happened occasionally upon corpses that had been rent completely in half. He scoured his memories for any idea of what could have caused destruction on this scale, and with this level of brutality.

He found his answers deeper in the city, alongside the survivors. He watched them from the shadows, as they were too wary and battle-worn to allow him close. Black-robed corpses replaced those of the civilians in these reaches, armed with weapons that piqued his curiosity greatly. They were of superb quality, holding razor edges even after days of exposure and disuse. However, their quantity and construction confused him. They were of strange and disturbing make, and there were far too many of them for such a seemingly small and disorganized force. He wondered what could possibly have made such weapons, and armed these apparent fanatics.

"You know very well, vampire." The demon of the blade mocked him, and it was right. He did know what could have made these weapons. He did not find this revelation comforting.

Volkimir returned to the thieves, who seemed yet still stunned by the carnage. It was not to say that the vampire had not been affected by what they had discovered; he was merely more experienced at distancing himself from such tragedies. Even so, he still had a debt to repay, and a fortune to claim. The fat Heartland kings had grown wealthy by conquering the continent. This could not have been done if the Shadowlands were still a pit of damnation, meaning that Volkimir had contributed to whatever riches the treasury held. Finding this reasoning sufficient, Volkimir was determined to withdraw what he was owed.

The Royal Palace had been abandoned, it seemed. Only a token force of guards had been left to dissuade looters. They were easily dispatched, as they were unprepared for a looter such as Volkimir. The palace halls were devoid of life, but also bore no traces of struggle. It seemed that the royal family had been spirited away at some point. It seemed logical, as the location was ill-suited to defend against an invasive force of this magnitude and ferocity. Did they escape the slaughter? Or did they anticipate it? Questions for another day. Volkimir lead Locke's hand-picked team of brigands through the empty palace, as they directed him to the treasury vault with their stolen maps.

The vault itself was inconspicuous, which surprised Volkimir. He half expected the absentee royals to flaunt their wealth more openly. But it was of little consequence, as the safecrackers went about their task with quiet efficiency. The vault was of superb construction, and was taking longer than hey had anticipated to open. Volkimir grew bored, and exerted his dark power over the base metal. Steel mottled away to brown rust before the very eyes of the thieves, and lead melted to dark, cold pools on the floor. The vault was opened not long after that. Within, the treasury resembled a mausoleum more than, say, a dragon's horde. Riches were carefully categorized and stored away, and it spoke to the professionalism of Locke's elite that they searched the treasury for only the treasures that were worth the most for their weight, size and ease of fencing.

In the meantime, Volkimir perused the treasury at his leisure. Ever a connoisseur of ancient treasures and artifacts, Volkimir had a keen eye for items of interest and value to him personally. A ruby to replace the bloodstone that he had lost with his last suit of armor. A gilded sheath suitable for his legendary sword. A lion skin cloak, already carefully preserved, but blackened by Volkimir's touch. In the treasury's deepest reaches, he found the most sacred relics to the royalty of Ansus. Particularly, the ancient armors of the warrior-kings of ages past. Volkimir studied them as though he was choosing a new pair of breeches. At last, he found a suit that matched his proportions. A bit of contortion with strength and sangromancy made it a perfect fit, and a touch of induced entropy stripped the royal colors from the steel, enamel and dragonscale.

Once armored in his stolen regalia, Volkimir felt himself again. It wasn't perfect, but it was far better than the pathetic vestments that he had been parading around in since his resurrection. He clenched a steely fist, enjoying the weight of the armor on his body. He felt more real, more alive like this. This would be the end of his hiding and stalking. No longer was Volkimir Sturmkirk a ghost, but was now truly alive again. The Dark Prince had returned.

The Great Journey and a Promise

Khavo the Grey, you’ve done as Goethia has wished. You have brought me a weapon which shall aid me in the battles which are sure to come.

Pricia stood in still as she pulled the staff from its resting place. With a single movement, Pricia twirled the staff’s core around her hand. The twirl quickly became a swing as a powerful gust of wind blew all signs of dust, ash, and leaves back outside. The inner hall seemed much brighter now that it was gone and Pricia could almost remember a time when the hall looked brand new and full of life….



“Welcome to your new home young one! This is the Great Temple to Goethia and you, as one of her blessed, are more than welcome here.” said the Head Priest who was silhouetted by the fire burning in the center of the Main Hall. It was a tremendous thing for one so young to see when all that had been known by her before was the rough stones of a castle. The clean, crisp cuts of the marble stone floors and the pillars seemingly made from trees which had grown into the Monastery itself. “Ah, I see you are amazed by how clean it is in here. You thought it would be a simple little wooden structure with dirt floors did you not? Don’t deny it, Goethia hates liars above all else and loves the beauty that is nature. But even she agrees that there are things humans can do better than Nature has.” responded the Head Priest to the look of amazement and disbelief on Pricia’s face.



The hallways were empty except for the remains of candles which had long ago gone out. Cobwebs covered many of the corners of the hallways and many of the closed doorways. Only a few beds had been used in the living quarters but it was obvious that nobody but Khavo had lived there in a while. But, Pricia couldn’t mope about how the Monastery has degraded over the year. It was obvious that something was wrong in the world if such vile creatures such as skeletons had invaded the lands. She must get to the Great Bastion even if it meant flying for a day to get there. It wasn’t long before the young woman known as Pricia was flying through the skies over the forest, her destination was northeast and she had plenty of time to dwell on her thoughts.

Home of mine and many others, I swear upon the Goddess who once guarded your grounds that I will come back. I will return you to your glory. Pricia said to herself as she flew quickly out of the forests, her staff between her eagle talons.

“Aghh... my head... to oblivion with those bastards...” Ki'ira muttered when she began to regain consciousness. She felt like she tried to beat a mountain with a headbut... bloody hell, being hit by that axe, made her feel like her skull was split apart... In fact she was quite sure it almost was. At least the deep cut on her shoulder didn't bleed, a nice side effect of her flaming attacks that tended to consume the area she fought in. The wounds usually burned up, which at least stopped the bleeding. She took her a few moments to focus her eyes, but eventually she realized the darkness was just the night... It was so silent in here now... how long was she out? The fires around her had burned out some time ago, so she must have been out for a day or so at least.” Sheesh... I nearly bled out, good thing I caused a fire in here...” She said to herself, slowly standing up, using her right arm that bore no wounds to lean on the nearby ruin of a building.

“Ohhh...” A tired, confused gasp escaped her lips as she nearly fell back to the ground as everything was spinning... Placing a hand on her head, she looked at herself, she was dirty and the clothes she just tricked out of that brothel, were already falling into pieces of ashes. For which time in the matter of few days since her resurrection, she found herself naked again?” Need clothes... aghhh...no, first I need to tend to the wound... along with clothes!” She muttered to herself, moving along the wall. She slowly, dizzily and painfully walked towards the nearest intact building. The door wasn't really locked and she quickly found her way inside. She ran through the things in the kitchen, finally finding herself the much needed alcohol. Opening the bottle, she quickly took a few gulps from it and then poured the rest over the nasty cut on her left arm. Pain ran through her nerves and she dropped the empty bottle, it fell on the stone floor and shattered, ringing in her ears. Following that, she moved to the other rooms, locating the bedroom and helping herself to the clothes there. She cared not that it must have belong to someone before, the city seemed empty now. She found a decent sized skirt and a clean white shirt and everything else such as undergarments. She was still too dirty to wear those though. After some more search through the room, she found a set of sewing tools. With painful expression she took a needle and thread and began stitching the cut. More blood began steeping from the wound, but she eventually finished stitching it up. She then returned to the clothes, taking one of the dresses from the wardrobe, she tore it to long pieces so she can bandage her wound. After pouring some more alcohol on the wound, she quickly wrapped it in a few layers of bandages, before starting to dress up.

“If nothing else this time I'm properly dressed... even the high boots are nice~” She managed to find a very good pair of those in the house. Her stay in it continued for about an hour or two, before she was ready. Her head was still spinning a little and her ears were ringing, but she was finally in state to at least move about. That was it, she was done taking on such fights with no equipment, had she had a sword, she could have stopped that blow...” Aghh... Someone is at the palace...Aghh...”She finally noticed through the ringing in her ears. The palace... there were bound to be at least a decent sword there and since there were people, they probably knew what happened to everyone in the city. She put a hand on her mouth as she suddenly felt she wanted to throw up, but managed to contain it and the desire passed. Still the ringing in her ears was too big with the enchanced hearing, so she reached and took off the fox ears, putting them inside her shirt for safekeeping.

She did not notice how much time it took her to reach the palace, but it seemed like forever to her. Finally she reached the front gate of the place... there were people out in the front. She still had problems focusing her eyes, but she managed to distinct the different people... some were wearing big sacks that were ringing of metals she could hear it with her normal ears... robbers?” Before all of you fools start fighting for some petty jewelry, can some of you tell me how long time I was out since that attack?” She said, leaning on a pillar.” What happened to all those cultist idiots with their annoying chant?” Ki'ira asked, finally beginning to regain her ability to see properly without the need to try really hard to focus on things.” Also I need a sword... anyone have one I can take and leave before whatever that petty squabble that's forming begins?...Aghghhh...” She asked, but the desire to throw up appeared once again and she quickly put a hand on her mouth again. It was going to take a while to recover from that concussion. It made her feel dizzy...

Youth was a gift to treasure. The blood rushed through Altim's veins with new life, and his mind was awake under a spell of constant, excited activity. Altim felt truly young again, now both in spirit and in body, as the duties of a hero befell him once more. Ansur had faith in the Hero of Cynderia, the young, energetic fellow that Altim once was. It was time for Altim to become that great Hero again for the sake of mankind. "Aye, Ansur. I vow that, through me, the light will prevail," Altim bowed and then held his hand in the air to swear on his word. He made his pact with the gods, and Altim accepted his responsibility: to become the light. He would fight ferociously against the dark while he fanned the flames.

Altim drew no sword for lack of weapon. He was the sword, and his violin was the grinding stone. He could feel the magic within it, and its power had not faded since he was last alive. If he was truly wise, he could purify his light with it. And he did. Altim played an epic hymn on the violin that cried to the light, and he cast a reflection of his light in the air around him. Energy from his violin purged the dark spots in his light, and when the song was done, his soul was clean. Altim's spine tingled with new life, and the youth felt full with awakened power. "Let us bring light to the city."

He slipped through the gate, and he hastily pushed for the castle in the alleyways where there were but skeleton crews of the Black King's cronies. Altim's path carved through the Cult of the Black King like a knife through butter, and he, with his violin, sung tunes that shot fire. The demonic who had dared try and touch him were incinerated where they stood as Altim revealed some of his more practical capabilities. Along the way, Altim had a few close calls—a hellish blade had grazed his shoulder, a wicked woman nearly yanked him into the crowd with her crooked, muddy fingers—but against all of them, he triumphed and overcame their threats. He not once looked behind him, save one time when he stood and saw a beam of light from the sky, Ansur doing the same work that Altim was.

Altim did not stop to knock at the castle doors. He was in, and he was out. In a time of great alarm, Altim had to protect the sovereign of the land, and he did not let the king and his family protest. He barked at the king his demands, "We must escape this place immediately! You take your queen and follow me, and I will carry your youngest children. Do not stop for anything whatsoever!" The king and the queen nodded, now subservient to Altim's command and choked by fear and dread. Altim heaved the king's youngest daughter on his shoulders, and he ran in step with the eldest prince and princess, the king and queen close behind. If they stayed any longer or waited on anything, the cultists would have murdered them all in their indolence.

Altim made haste through the underground crypts of the city, and their group amassed a few guards and citizens who had made it underground when the fray erupted on the surface. This party was the only one that would survive the madness, the only one that would persevere through the sacking of Kolantis. Anyone who failed to keep up or halted or stalled was left behind. Altim had no room for dissent. Not when an infernal army followed the group close behind on the path to the city's exit. The end of their long trek saw them jumping out of the tunnel in the last moments before Ansur's light purged Kolantis of all, living and dead. Pointing at the explosion of light, Altim said, "Only one blessed by a god could survive that." He promptly collapsed the catacombs behind the group, anyone following them crushed under the earth regardless of identity, and the group huddled together in a panicked throng.

"May Faerthus bless you all. If you have lived thus far, you have my favor, for you have defied the odds." Altim walked toward the group. "Be silent." The group's frightened whispers dissipated into a silence that heard the dust settle.

"I am Altim, the Hero of Cynderia. Who so among you dissents to traveling in a pack with those of a different class, I repudiate him. An evil has fallen upon Ansus, an evil that has killed the gods. There exist divisions among men no longer. We are now one people, scratching and screaming to the grinding of teeth and bone as we strive to escape the grip of demons. I know not where our destiny is now, but I know that until I have further plans, we must await Ansur's return. Follow me into the forests. As we walk, I will answer questions." With that final word, Altim started their exodus into the woods north of Kolantis.

Finding their path blocked by a strange individual, most of the ransacking thieves stopped in their tracks. It was only one man, but his presence had an unmistakable quality of power to it. Vermin among men, the common criminals could recognize a predator of their kind when they saw it. Most dropped their pilfered goods and ran, retreating to their agreed-upon rendevous location. Others did likewise, but kept their goods; they were getting paid, interruptions or no.

Volkimir, who had been directing the final efforts in Locke's stead, also felt the overwhelming presence. Far more sensitive to magic than the mundane criminals with which he had been ensconced, Volkimir knew that this was not a common foolhardy idiot. This man radiated power; he was power. And now he stood in Volkimir's way. Normaly a circuitous retreat would be the vampire's preferred tactic for such occassions, but these were quite extraordinary circumstances.

"My name is not important," Volkimir called out to the stranger, "Who are you that so boldly blocks my path?" The paranoia that had set into him following his resurrection still gripped him, but he felt emboldened by his recent robbery. At once too brave to flee, too cautious to proclaim himself.

Ansur looked Volkimir dead in his inhuman eyes, scanning his face for any clue that might reveal the identity of this bold thief before him. Ansur knew that this was no ordinary thief, and that perhaps it was a man of much higher birth and power, stooping to common burglary as a means for a much more sinister purpose.

"My name, too, is unimportant. I must, however, insist on knowing whose path I block," he said, his voice maintaining his signature calm at all times. But Ansur's collectedness was cut short by the manic shouting of a woman that had only just made her presence known. She looked hurt, a little mischevious, and completely out of her mind.

"How long was I out since the attack?" she asked, completely independent of the conversation between the Mortifier and the Forefather. "What happened to all those cultist idiots with their annoying chant? Also I need a sword... anyone have one I can take and leave before whatever that petty squabble that's forming begins?" she asked.

Ansur turned his head abruptly to meet the gaze of the newcomer. He furrowed his brow and his eyes shone with a minor hint of confusion.

"Were you here when the cultists attacked the city?" he asked hesitantly, not knowing what to make of this chance meeting. He shifted his gaze quickly between Volkimir and Ki'ira.

"Yes, I was... I got into a fight with them and took a broad side of an axe to the forehead." she replied, still leaning on a pillar."Still to reply a question with a question is bad manners...

"Then you survived the blast?” Ansur interrupted wildly.

"Blast? What blast do you mean?... Wait... ouch... my head still hurts so much~" She said, trying to whistle at the end, but the pain and dizziness didn't really allow her to do it properly."Nevermind, can someone just explain why the city is dead?"

"That is a story for another day. But you... you are important. If you survived then you truly are touched by a God. You must look past whatever confusion that may cloud your vision and tell me: have you recently returned from death to walk the land once more?" he asked hastily, wanting an answer from her as quickly as possible so he could continue his stand-off with the Vampire Lord.

As Ansur looked away to talk to a madwoman that had appeared, Volkimir took this opportunity to leave. Not even bothing to disguise his presence with invisibility to illusions, he simply turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. However, he caught a stray comment, a question, that piqued his interest. Had she returned from the dead, as Volkimir had? The ancient vampire stopped and returned his attention to the two, himself curious as well. He had put little thought into the matter, more concered with fulfilling the demands of his curiosity and vanity. Did this stranger hold the answers he sought?

"You... despite the magnitute of which my head hurts, I still somehow recognize you from somewhere... Hmmm... doesn't matter and yes, I got rudely torn away from my good slumber a couple of days ago." she replied, nearly dropping to the ground as her legs lost stregth, but managed to steady herself. "Now I remember who you are! You look just like the depictions from the old stories~ So even the forefather himself has risen from the grave? What about you there, that tried to leave so rudely while we were talking? I seem a hell of a lot like the bed story my sisters used to tell me when I was little at the forest of Atma, a vampire?"

Ansur smiled. He didn't smile a paltry smirk, but rather a lavish grin that crept cross his whole face in delight. Then he nodded. Then he looked towards Volkimir, shot him a look of understanding, and looked back once more at Ki'ira.

"You are observant indeed. Truly you must be blessed by Vinsha, rest her soul. Now, you must listen to me. If you are truly returned, and you wish to see the world not suffer the same fate as Kolantis, you must find your way into the forest. Another of us is taking the Royal family to saftey. His name is Altim, and he will guide you further,"

Ansur looked to the ground, and around him just for a moment, but did not find what he was looking for. Instead, he drew his mighty blade taken from the God Guard upon his own return.

"Here," he said to Ki'ira. "Take this, use it wisely," as he offered her the hilt.

The woman raised an eyebrow at the gesture, before taking a shaky step back. She reached into her shirt, pulled her ears from it and put them on. Her senses changed and increased straight away as she made a few more steps back from the forefather." I will have to decline that request of yours." she stated, finally begining to move back faster."The only person that can command me is dead and you as much as your glory is great are not equal. I will wander. For if it's bound that I will fight whatever evil caused it, then it shall happen naturally on it's own!" she exclaimed, finally turnning and legging it! She was not going to be a tool for anyone, be it the forefather himself. " 'Be free and do whatever you want', were mother's words. I plan to stick to them!"

Ansur, surprised by the actions of the Fox Goddesses disciple, looked on at her sprinting into the distance with sadness. he shook his head very gently, and whispered something to himself about the end of the world. He resheathed his blade.

"The Forefather himself, is it?" Volkimir laughed bitterly, "I should count myself lucky to have returned from my grave with such esteemed company. Do not mistake me for one of your fanatical underlings. Your faith and country are not mine. I'm quite busy robbing the latter, actually, and to that task I will now return." Volkimir did not immediately turn away; this was more a taunt than it was a statement of fact. He was highly doubtful that this person was who the madwoman claimed the he was; the insane had a distinct habit of hallucinating figures of religious importance.

Ansur looked back to Volkimir, whom he could now direct his full attention. His smile faded, and instead turned to an expression of stone.
"I have no fanatical underlings, vampire lord, I have merely a line of kin who respect the land in which they call home," he stated with fearsome sterness as he began a slow march towards the Vampire. "The world itself is coming to an end, and all you can think is to pillage!"

His eyes became alight with fury and rage.

"And plunder!"

The skies began to stir and churn, the clouds that had previously been still started to roll under the power being exerted.

"You are a disgrace to this land, beast of the night,"

Within moments Ansur was within spitting distance of Volkimir, and the former's eyes had turned from orbs of cerulean blue to blazing points of furious starlight directed almost exclusively into Volkimir's own heart.

"Tell me, do you trust your own instincts enough to save you?" he said, once more in his unsettlingly calm tone, only inches from the Vampire's face.

Volkimir held his ground, his expression merely cold indifference. This man, who he now admitted was possibly the Forefather, was clearly trying his hardest to put the fear of the Gods in him. It would not work. Even if he were a legend, he was just a man. The world's most legendary man meant as much to him as its most legendary cow.

"I have saved this land of yours, did you know that? I was its bulwark against a darkness that you never knew in your time. Your kin," Volkimir spat, "Failed to protect themselves, and rewarded their savior with betrayal. Call me what you will, but I only take what I am owed. This nation has grown fat on the sacrifices of those it does not deem worthy to recognize. It is well that the sickly herd should be thinned. However..."

Volkimir did not take kindly to threats, unspoken or otherwise. He cracked his neck, and his eyes as shined with unspeakable power. Like hunter's moons in a starless sky, his true aura emerged. He was the hunter of men, the true apex predator of this world. He would not be spoken down to by his prey.

"Call me a beast once more, and I shall call you to heel." Volkimir spoke, his voice like the echo of a catacomb. His hand moved to rest on Elbrus, the demon cackling in anticipation of the coming bloodshed. This was a feint, though. Volkimir concentrated his focus on Ansur's neck. Thick and muscular, but vulnerable and ripe all the same.

"Kin of my kin, what a disgrace you have revealed yourself to be. Tell me if you think you know darkness simply because you are a man cursed," he retorted. He did not bother to rest his own hand upon his blade, for such tools were not always necessary.

"I have no champions. I merely led your ancestors to a place in which they would not be prey to a force much more than you ever could be. Do you think you are fearsome? Do you think your party tricks and thirst for blood scare me?" he asked. "My kin. How you truly have descended into savagery. You are little more than a man with a shadow and an attitude of an adolescent. You are no more than..."

Ansur did not even hesitate. He did not need to size up his opponent. He did not need to make himself seem fearsome. Even the greatest of apex predators could not overcome the primal forces of nature itself.

"A beast."

Volkimir sighed. He was not angered, as he was by Ansur's initial insult. Now he was only disappointed. To be forced to bring the mightiest champion of this land to his knees. He was almost glad that there were none around to see. Volkimir did not move; not a single muscle even twitched, but his mind worked furiously. He called upon dark powers from corners of the world lost to men, and empowered his arcane might with the overwhelming aura of death in this place.

Ansur's own flesh betrayed him. A force unseen and unfelt choked the Forefather, as the many vital passages in his neck tightened until shut. The larynx, arteries, veins, even capillaries blackened and closes, decapitating him without even cutting his flesh. This magic predated Ansur, it was older than his gods

The Forefather felt the magical attack, and in that moment felt his victory assured. This was the best the vampire could muster? A paltry show of dark magic that Ansur had bested countless times before? However, has he tried to draw breath, his eyes shot wide and his hand instinctively moved to his throat. As though a vice was crushing his windpipe, he could not force air through his throat. His face reddened, but he did not panic. As though ripping away invisible bonds, the Forefather dispelled the sangromantic attack, breathing sharply as his breath was returned to him. With newfound fury at the ferocity and lethality of the Vampire Lord, he stepped forward himself, and in a single motion that was faster than lightning, faster even than the eyes of a Vampire Lord, he drew his blade from its sheath and plunged it through Volkimir's gut.

Or so the Forefather thought. Skewered at the end of his sword was not the vampire that had stood there a moment before, but a fly-ridden corpse like any of the others that were scattered about. When had he moved? Ansur had not so much as felt the breeze from his motion. The vampire was poised behind him, muscles coiled and prepared to strike like a serpent at the apparently unprepared Ansur.

Worried not, Ansur turned gracefully behind him, weary of the legendary speed of Vampires. it was not his first fight with one such as this, and he assured himself it would not be the last. He had pulled the mundane blade from the decoy corpse, and dropped it to his side, discarding the weapon entirely. In a single, fluid motion he scooped up an old bow that once belonged to one of the eviscerated corpses in the courtyard while sliding himself backwards.
There was a single arrow knocked, as though the dead man had been killed just before he had a chance to loose his shot. Ansur pulled back on the bowstring, and his eyes flared with the intensity of the sun. But he did not point the weapon at Volkimir who was coiled and ready to strike just inches behind him, rather he loosed the arrow into the sky.

Volkimir, who had recoiled from the sudden withdrawal, poised his stanced to defend against the arrow. He was not sure why Ansur would turn to a bow in such a close battle, but he was wary. However, as the Forefather shot into the sky rather than at Volkimir, the vampire advanced on him faster than the snap of a bowstring. Volkimir did not move to kill, however. His role as a hunter, he felt, had already been resolved. With his foe left so open, he had now become a butcher. Four quick cuts, to each underarm and to each knee, and Ansur fell to the his knees, his tendons cut like a wild animal.

The arrow, ignored by Volkimir, travelled fast and true, faster than any arrow could normally travel. As it sped, the projectile began to glow. Faintly at first, but it grew in intensity every moment it spiralled into the clouds. In seconds it was brighter than a bonfire, and only seconds later it was brighter still, matching a thousand lighthouses blazing strong on a misty shoreline.

Volkimir placed his blade at Ansur's throat, pressing just hard enough to break the skin and draw a thin line of blood. He was well practiced at this, having flayed countless men in his time. "Heel." Spoke the vampire, assured in his victory. The Forefather said nothing, looking down at his crippled limbs. His hair hung in his face, and for this reason Volkimir could not see the smile creep across it.

As the arrow reached its maximum height, it exploded with the intensity of both the Suns that circled the world, and night, in no more than a second, gave way to the light of day. The arrow lingered in the sky, floating through the sheer willpower of its shooter alone, acting as a temporary star and mystical daylight that pulled Ansus from the darkness, and thrust it into daylight.

The sudden burst of sunlight startled and alarmed Volkimir, who released an unearthly screech in his surprise. The sun stirred a dark, beastial instinct within his mind, one that cared only for survival. As his skin began to smoke and sear, he turned tail on Ansur, seeking to flee to whatever cover was closest. However, the Forefather had other thoughts. He rose to his feet with startling speed; his wounds likely feigned. He retrieved his nearby sword and gave chase to the panicked vampire. Blinded by pain and light, Volkimir took no notice of his persuer, only realizing the man was still a threat when he felt his blade pierce his back.

Ansur forced the sword through Volkimir's flesh, putting it through his lower back and off to the side. He did not wish to kill the vampire. Or rather, he didn't wish to kill him too quickly. He followed the blow through, forcing the blade out through Volkimir's gut, and used his stregnth and momentum to force the vampire to the ground. With a final push, he embedded the blade into the marble of the pathway, pinning Volkimir to the earth like a hunted animal.

Volkimir seized and writhed in agony, clawing desperately at the sword in his back. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his skin cracked and turned ashen in the oppressive light. If he wanted, Ansur could have left the vampire there to meet his end in daylight. But that was not his judgement to pass. The Gods had plans for this man, and had returned him from the grave so that they would come to pass. He would spare him, but only if he could be brought to see reason. Ansur stood over Volkimir, his mighty frame casting enough shadow over the man to shield him the most of the daylight. Volkimir's convulsion's ceased, but he continued to breathe frantically, craning his head to stare up at the Forefather hatefully.

"Is this what you came back for?" Ansur spoke, his voice commanding, but at once carrying a sorrowful tone. "To spread more death and destruction? To settle petty greivances, and lay low any who stand before you? I would think not. You are meant for more than that, vampire; you have proven this much to me." Ansur knelt, to speak more closely to the trapped Volkimir, but kept the merciful shadow cast over his face. "You saved this land once, you said so yourself. The world is in greater peril than mortal men can imagine. So what if the common masses think ill of you, or curse your existence? Do you live for their approval? You have been gifted with redemption by the gods themselves."

Volkimir interrupted, his voice pained and filled with black rage, "You call it... redemption!" He spat blood. "I call it... reparation!"

Ansur sighed, "Call it what you will, but it is an opportunity unlike any other. You are a cursed man indeed, but only you know what lies beyond the Whispering Beyond the Wall. Prove that you can overcome the darkness in your soul. Not to me, to yourself."

Volkimir laid silently, still twitching in pain and anger. Ansur gripped his blade once more, and wrenched it from the vampire's flesh, releasing him. Volkimir grunted in pain, but stayed still, quietly laying in the shadow of Ansur. Removing the cloak from his shoulders, Ansur cast it over the vampire to shield him as he stepped away.

"Transcend the shadows. It is in you to do so, even now."

The sunlight began to fade, changing from artifical day, and sinking into a natural dawn. The arrow dropped harmlessly from the sky as Ansur turned his back upon the Vampire Lord, a most fearsome man indeed. He looked back only once, and saw that Volkimir had already disappeared. Ansur breathed, half in relief and half in resignment, but thought on the matter no more. He had places to be, and the King to share counsel with; but he knew deep within him that Volkimir retained within him the heart of a man. Scorned, yet still beating with willpower and hope.

He only hoped it would be enough. Even the dawns were growing dark. And as the world became colder by the day, a legendary Vampire Lord of times past would surely be a boon in the final fight against whatever it was that was laying waste to the world.

The Green Knight was a part of the forest, and in turn it was a part of him. He felt the passage of years untold, he learned the wisdom of the ancient trees and he watched over the forest with what he would once have recognized as the very human emotion of contentment. It was a rest well-earned, yet, he did not forget his oath, he knew that this respite would last was for but a while, his duty did not permit a final and enduring slumber. However, the years grew longer, the silence greater, and the Green Knight began to feel himself fading. A wish, a desire, a quiet prayer for release from thousands of years of servitude began to beckon him onwards, speaking words of freedom and of new beginnings, promising new lands to explore and new adventures, offering peace and death at last.

"Forgive me."

Summoned at the last moment and pulled back from the jaws of death, the Green Knight heard a voice he knew, a voice he loved, he knew her so well, he had served her for so long, and he knew that she spoke the truth,"I cannot let you fade into memory just yet, my brave knight, there is one last task I must ask of you, one last deed for you to do."

with a soft caress, full of warmth and affection.

"Tavra," the Green Knight began, feeling a soft caress on his cheek, full of warmth and affection.

A thundering voice replaced that of Tavra, and a regal voice full of command and urgency echoed across the void, "Arise! Arise knight of green! Far too long have you slumbered! Arise! Arise once more, oh faithful servant of Tavra! A red day is upon us, a day of death and loss, a day of shattered shields and broken swords! Heroes once more must walk these lands, for Ansus is lost without you. Forget not your oath, oh knight of green, and remain faithful to your lost memories."

"I had…expected another, but I honor my oath," was all that the Green Knight could manage to say upon hearing the voice of the God King Andurias, before complete silence overwhelmed him with a sudden rush of force.

The Green Knight awoke in darkness, far from the warming rays of the sun, deep beneath the ground, and surrounded by the cold embrace of crumbling stone. A single torch burning weakly illuminated the shrine in front of which he found himself kneeling. Thick roots cut pathways through the stone reclaiming what had once been lost to the hands of men and colonies of moss had taken hold of what little space remained. There was no malice, no hatred, no bitter sense of betrayal, only a feeling of loss that gnawed at this heart. He could not sense Tavra, he could not see even the smallest hint of her presence, he could not hear even the quietest whisper of her voice, and he could not feel even the soft touch of her guiding hands. Emptiness, the Green Knight felt only emptiness, and the feeling filled even one like him with a new sense of dread. Something was wrong, something was horribly wrong, and the gods were no longer there to provide the answers.

For a long time the Green Knight remained unmoving in front of the collapsed shrine, lost in deep thought and seeking for any thread, any hint of divinity that he could have missed. Finally, satisfied that there was nothing more to discover, he rose to his feet, examining himself with modest curiosity. To his relief found that he was unchanged from his last memories, time had not touched him like it had the rest of the room. His armor unmarked by either time or the weapons of men still protected his person. The grim sword Foebane, in all its terrible beauty, rested in the grip of his strong hands and the fearsome bow of Swift Justice, lay beside him with a fresh quiver of arrows. Missing was only the banner of Tavra and the Heartwood spear, whose absence troubled the Green Knight greatly.

There was but one choice offered to the Green Knight, to struggle, to bleed, to move unceasingly forward, and to fight to his last breath, again. He had rested long enough, he reasoned as he raised an ironclad fist into the air and smashed through first layer of crumbling stone, drawn to the warmth of the sun and the smell of fresh air that called to him from the surface.






News of the doom of Kolantis had spread across the lands like wildfire and Harald had done what he did best in times of trouble, fled as fast and as far away as his legs could carry him. He was neither a hero nor a fool, although he generally considered the two things one and the same, and therefore trouble held little interest to him. Daylight found the old bard nursing a tankard of ale in a seedy tavern, a crumbling ruin of stone fit only for the common whores and criminals which plied their trade in the alleys of the village each night. Ever open to new sources of revenue, they were also perhaps the only inhabitants of the village still pleased at the arrival of a vast number of refugees. Yet, so full of fear and despair was Harald, that he had not even noted the name of the quaint seaside village in which he found himself. What did it matter? he thought, death was coming, and all that was left was to squander...no...enjoy his few fleeting moments on Ansus within the merciful embrace of complete and utter drunkenness.

As focused as he was on his third tankard of ale, Harald could not help but notice the intricate carvings which lined the walls and pillars that supported the crumbling building in which he sat. Old bordering on ancient, the craftwork was far too good for a simple tavern. Some chapel or other Harald presumed with idle disgust, yet another failed prostration to some long dead god. Draining the filthy tankard of ale, Harald let out an angry shout, tossing coins in the direction of the nearest server and loudly demanding his fourth tankard of ale. There was much drinking to be done and little time to do, after all Harald Silvertongue, bard of legends, had no intention of facing his imminent death with so much as a hint of sobriety left in him.

The sound of stone smashing, followed by the fearful shouts of the other patrons, roused Harald from his drunken revelry and he looked up in time to see the heavy oaken door leading to the kitchen flying off of its hinges across the bar, before shattering into several smaller species against an innocent wall. Caught completely off-guard Harald tumbled to the floor, spilling the better part of his tankard of ale upon himself. A towering figure dressed in a most striking shade of green bent low to pass beneath the now bare archway idly brushing dust from its shoulders as it strode into the room. Some manner of demon Harald thought hopelessly, as a thousand terrible thoughts raced through his mind. The old bard had encountered ethereal beings before and he did not relish the thought of doing so once more, the experiences had rarely been enjoyable or good for his health.

Illuminated by the torchlight the creature stopped and cast a slow gaze across the room. Daring to cast a glance at where he guessed the eyes of the being resided, Harald shuddered as he took in the strange visage of the foul creature. Adorned with armor of metal and wood, the face of the figure was hidden beneath a great helm decorated with the antlers of a beast Harald was certain that he had never seen. Worse still, a fearsome sword, fit to cleave several men in two, rested menacingly on its hip and a massive bow, far larger than that of any man, was strung over a shoulder. It had come prepared for war, there was no question about it, and Harald felt certain that his doom was finally upon him. With a sudden purpose the unnatural figure began to advance towards him and the other patrons muttered fearful prayers as the strange figure looked down at Harald Silvertongue. The old bard risked a quick shout for help, which promptly went unanswered, before returning his attentions the creature. Once again, he knew, he was on his own, never count on the peasantry to risk their lives for an old man he reflected bitterly.

"Begone foul apparition!" The old bar roared summoning what little courage still remained in his heart as he he threw the now empty tankard at the armored figure, "I am Harald Silvertongue and the gods themselves give praise to my songs! Return to the abyss which spawned you, lest I smite you with all the power of my ancient magics!" Watching the heavy iron tankard bounce harmlessly off the armor of the silent figure the other patrons of the tavern cowering in a corner of the room let out a shared noise of despair. Harald for his part, was certain that the hour of his own death was upon and closed his eyes, unwilling to watch the movements of the demon's sword as it cleaved him in twine.

However, it was not cold steel that touched the bard, no, instead it was laughter that greeted the cowering old man. Opening his eyes, Harald studied the figure which remained standing above him. When recognition dawned on him, Harald let out a pitiful, mewling noise of despair and frustration. Blending his words into a string of curses, the old man began to scramble backwards on the floor, trying in vain to escape the ever-advancing figure that followed him each step of the way. For the first time in decades, fear completely overwhelmed the razor sharp edge of the bard's tongue and the normally sharp bite of his wit, "NO! No! No! You can’t, you can’t possibly be here! You're not real! You’re a story, a myth, a simpleton who got himself killed thousands upon thousands of years ago playing the hero for some fool of a goddess."

Harald could not say why, but the old bard knew that beneath his helm the Green Knight was smiling down at him as he answered, "Ah, and yet, here I am."





"The Green Knight returns! He walks amongst us again!" shouted an ancient looking beggar jumping to his feet, stories long forgotten from his childhood suddenly re-awakening in his mind as he madly began to wave his hands in the direction of the Green Knight. "Gods above, he's real!"

The other patrons of the tavern glanced fearfully in the direction of the legendary knight that now stood in their midst. For the stories had never been too clear as to how the Green Knight treated those of less than honorable nature and worse still those guilty of a great many crimes. Some even remembered the knight as a demon, called forth to punish the wicked, before dragging them off to the afterlife impaled on his sword. More than one mouth was formed into a shocked and gaping O. Yet, not all faces were so grim and some like that of the old beggar were lit up with the smiles of children, having just found out that their childhood stories had been true all along.

Harald Silvertongue however was having none of it, and instead held a hand defensively over the hilt of his rapier, "St- Stay back!"

Shaking his head the Green Knight raised the old man to his feet with a surprising gentleness and nodded in the direction of the oaken door leading out of the sordid tavern certain that the grizzled old bard would follow him, "Come, some fresh air would do us both a great deal of good."

Stepping outside into the daylight, the Green Knight heard the sound of waves striking the shore, he tasted the salt carried by the wind and he felt the warmth of the sun beneath his heavy armor. He had once known the village, a seaside hamlet with only a humble chapel dedicated to the gods. A site of remembrance and pilgrimage in ages long forgotten, where the immense power of nature met the unbridled might of the unforgiving ocean. Yet, no longer was this true. The Green Knight did not he know the lands he now looked upon. Long gone was the forest which had once claimed the lands, replaced by works of stone and wood, roads and even piers, reaching out into the ocean like fingers, the creations of countless generations of settlers that had tamed the wild lands and dared to venture into to ocean. For a brief moment, the Green Knight felt the weight of eons crash down on him, the world had changed, and left him far behind.

He heard the old bard shuffle next to him, betrayed by the now rather empty sack of coins at his waist.

Gesturing towards the village with a wide motion of his arm, the Green Knight addressed the silver-haired bard,"Harald Silvertongue, your finest hour is upon you, redemption is within your grasp, remember the man that you once were, and return to the path of righteousness."

Harald looked the knight with obvious disdain and spat irreverently on the ground, "Ha, death more likely, so I'll politely suggest that you shove that offer up your-- "

"Silvertongue," the Green Knight interrupted, his voice full of menace and steel,"Do not lightly test my patience, for we have much work to do, you and I, and little time with which to do it." Forestalling further argument, the knight turned towards the elderly bard and spoke of memories rather lost to the ravages of time,"Harald Valbrandrsson, your oath has not been forgotten and you have not yet been released from your duty."

The old bard recoiled as if struck, fear and shame playing across his normally controlled features. When the color returned to his face, the old bard let out a loud dejected sigh and shook his head slowly from side to side. Running a nimble hand through his hair before replacing his foppish hat Harald nodded quietly to himself, as if seeking assurance, "Fine, fine, let's go be heroes then, just remember that I expect proper rewards for my services, none of this martyr garbage for me."

"Onward then," the Green Knight said with a laugh, taking a stride forward into the street.

"Yes, onward to suffering...death...and in all likelihood even more death with the promise of a fancy casket...if we are lucky and the gods are generous," Harald quipped hurrying after the knight.

"I do not like to be lied to, beast," Ellarian declared gravely as he threw the blood-stained washcloth aside, grimacing with sheer disgust at the sound that emanated from its mouth, "now reveal to me your true form." The screeches were so horrible that he felt like his ears would cut themselves free just to spare him the agony of listening to it for a moment longer. As it began to tentatively move its hands away from its face, Ellarian began to stalk closer, each footfall purposely heavy to instill fear into the odd creature before him. Soldiers could not work with diplomacy, but often intimidation worked just as well. As he drew closer, a spark of recognition ignited his memory. A Ghedrin...here of all places? As it blinked its eyes again in that unsettlingly assymetric pattern, Ellarian struggled to suppress the urge to spit. He knew that not all Ghedrin were inherently evil, but after seeing the damage they caused during one of his campaigns, he knew that they had great potential as spies.

Leaning down to hoist the creature up he paused as it recognised him in turn, his gauntleted fist a mere inch away from its neck. Springing to his feet, Ellarian himself recoiled as well, bringing his shield around to guard his body, though it seemed unnecessary as instead it settled for gibbering wildly about its identification. Taking a quick step in, he grabbed the Ghedrin by its shirtfront and lifted him up so they were eye to eye. "How do you know this?" Ellarian hissed suspiciously as he brought him closer, "tell me!" It didn't even notice him speaking as it continued to holler and screech until Ellarian silenced it with a fierce shake. "Start making sense or I bury you," he said as he held the Ghedrin up to the blinding sun.

"I can take you, yes? it started once more. "We Ghedrin 'very good at moving fast! Very good! Yes yes! Tay take you? Yes?"

Ellarian stared daggers so fiercely into it that it screamed and tried to struggle free from his grip. The Ghedrin were famed for their ability to be in two places at once, , but they were also famed for keeping this a secret. "And why would you do that...Tay?" Ellarian asked as he kept the creature danging off the ground, "what would you gain from this?"
"Black King return yes? No good for everyone, no! Tay want to help, yes yes!" it screeched, gesticulating wildly with its spindly limbs. In response, Ellarian narrowed his eyes. "Your kind is not known for your integrity," he said as he started back into the rotting hut, "what is you stop you leaving me stranded on an island?"
"No no! Tay never do that! No!" the Ghedrin insisted, shaking its head, "Tay is good Ghedrin! Want to help Bastion! Take him to Kolan-"
"Kolantis?" finished cautiously as he stooped under the parapet of the hole in the wall, "the imperial capital?"
"Is...is soon not to be Kolantis..." the Ghedrin said quietly, "Black King take over, civilians killed, bad things, bad things."
At the mention of civilians, Ellarian's eyes widened. "No, not in Kolantis!" he insisted as he dropped the Ghedrin who fell with a thud, "that city is under the guard of the shieldbearers! You dare lie to me!?"
"No! Tay no lie!" it said as it cowered away from Ellarian's almost visible wrath, "Tay telling truth! Tay want to help! City need Bastion!" Despite himself, Ellarian felt pity for such a creature. And yet he still could not bring himself to fully trust it. "Calm yourself, Ghedrin," Ellarian said as he took a deep breath, "I do not intend to harm you any further." At that, the creature blinked assymetrically again and stood up. "Thank you bastion! Tay is joyous!" it started, before being cut off by Ellarian again as he grabbed the back of its rags, "do not be too joyous, for you still have work to do," he replied, dragging it away.

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

Smoke rose from the tops of Kolantis' buildings as Ellarian crested the top of a hill. "No..." he mouthed as stopped his horse to take a good look at the city. It had changed greatly from what he remembered it as, but parts of it still bore old landmarks. "Tay told you, Kolantis in trouble trouble!" came the Ghedrin's voice from behind him. Bound to his shield with rope, Ellarian had essentially taken the creature hostage as a safety measure, after all, if it was to take him to somewhere far far away, it would have to suffer his wrath immediately. Ellarian remained silent as his horse whinnied uncomfortably. He knew how it felt. The Ghedrin certainly knew how to move places quickly, but it did not mean that it was a walk in the park. It had conducted some sort of spell to move them to this place quickly, but even now Ellarian still felt queasy and in pain. At the time, it was like someone had stuffed hellpowder into his throat before pulling on all available surfaces with fish hooks. He shuddered just remembering it.

"Avert eyes! Avery eyes!" Tay screamed in that shrill voice of his. "What do you-" A bright burst of light temporarily blinded the shieldbearer as his horse threw him to the ground before bolting away. He let out a small grunt of agony as he fell onto his side in an attempt to not crush the Ghedrin. "What in the name of Ansur was that!?" he shouted as he climbed back to his feet, only to find that stars remained in his eyes. "Ansur it was. Ansur!" Tay replied. Ellarian paid it no mind. The blast must have made it delerious. Looking around, the soldier could find no sign of it. He spat on the ground. Standing here would avail him nothing. Removing his shield from his back, Ellarian also undid the ropes and let Tay free. "You upheld your end of the bargain, Ghedrin," he said grudgingly as he removed a small pouch of coins from his belt, "now leave before a witch hunter finds you." Throwing the purse into the creature's hands, he started off in the direction of the city.

Ki'ira quickly ran away from the place where the forefather and that vampire were. Her head was still pounding and each step was shaky as she couldn't run in a straight line. The night's air was slightly cold, but she couldn't feel any of that. Tears started to roll down her cheeks as she finally was alone. She feared it and she prayed it was so... Vinsha was indeed no longer alive. Her goddess, her mother that gave her everything and taught her everything. The one who gave her a reason to exist and brought her to a real family among her sisters in the great forest, was gone. What the forefather said was the final piece of evidence she needed. An image ran through her mind, the image of the fox goddess smiling and laughing the very laws of the world with her - ' everything is final, even I will vanish one day'.

Ki'ira finally tripped on the body of dead knight and fell to the ground. Her cries didn't stop, she was obligated by her oaths to Vinsha to never follow anyone just like that. Thus she didn't follow Ansur, but it hurted so much. For a first time since her rebirth, she regretted not being alive sooner.” WHY!!!!!!!!!!!!!” She cried, she was a daughter of Vinsha, but the goddess was not around anymore.” DAMN IT!!!” She cried, as a great light appeared in the skies, but she paid it no heed. She was so consumed by her mourning. When the light finally faded, she noticed the sword of the dead knight next to her. She reached and grabbed it as a realization came to her.” THE KIGN IN BLACK!” She growled through her teeth. “One way or another I will kill him!” She shouted, tears still running down her face. She was near the exit of the capital now. She took the sword, ran it slightly through her hand, letting the blood to drip a little.” By my blood I swear he will be destroyed, mother!” She cried as she swung the sword, letting her fire magic run through it. The magic formed a huge pillar of fire that burned her arm, her wound and made the sword unusable. She then continued running forward, swallowing her cries. There was much to be done, she couldn't go with Ansur, but there were bound to be others out there. Not to follow, but to travel together, maybe a woman? Women were looked upon better in the cult of Vinsha. They weren't called her daughters just on a whim after all. For now though she wanted to run, to run until she drops... Her arm hurt quite a bit with every movement.” I need to find some proper medical aid first... maybe there is a town down the coast line? Some medical herbs... and supplies... yeah... I can sell this.” She said to herself, looking at another sword she picked from the ground.

The heavy clunking of unwieldy boots further encumbering an awkward, uneven gait announced the newcomer's approach, and the dock squealed its protest in a series of low, shrill creaks. Crow's fascination shone on her face, a wide, radiant beam lighting up her features, as, utterly enraptured, she watched her fingers, wholly ensnared in the hem of her shirt, give the fabric an experimental twist.

She could move. She hadn't come back all withered and rotted, nor chafed or infected - why, it was almost as if the skies had transcended most mortal planes of existence to pluck her from the very day she'd died! And she'd never been one for higher thought, because who needed solitude and hard, rigid boundaries when you could find companionship in the form of soft curves and softer words, but maybe, just maybe, she was onto something?

Really, she figured there was only one logical conclusion: she was so mighty and awe-inspiring that the universe itself had beheld her magnificence, cursed its own inadequacy, promptly shat itself in fright, having witnessed her power and grace, and then declared her a god. Wouldn't have been the first time someone had dropped to their knees to praise and worship, so wasn't she doing that whole process a favor by lending it some legitimacy?

...Wait.

The intensity of contemplation furrowed Crow's brow, slender slashes of brown cutting low across alabaster skin. ...Nice try, jackass. Gods aren't real, the heavens are a conspiracy, everything is dumb and pointless and whatever the hell else Arianna used to funnel down your throat, blah, blah, blah, so getting to the point: the hell does that make you? One hand darted up to cradle her chin between thumb and index finger. Unless the concept of godhood kind of fucked right into being just to cater to your whims?

Huh. Actually, that didn't seem too far off. In fact, that argument seemed pretty logical! Which was incredible, because she, death-defier extraordinaire, was pretty damn great, if she did say so herself!

Which she would.

Loudly.

Once her throat stopped stinging like she'd swallowed several buckets of sand, mind you. Shelving that not-so-nefarious scheme, because she reckoned any bold proclamations would have to be delayed until certain basic provisions were obtained - namely water, because sweet, merciful hell, her throat was fire - she decided to give standing up the most valiant effort she could. Her core tensed, strain searing at her abdomen, and she threw all her weight into her upper body with all the force she could muster.

Her shoulders twitched almost pitifully, her head lurched forward, bobbing dangerously close to the dock, and then she fell still.

...Ha. Haha. Shit. A beat passed. Several subsequent successors soon followed. A sudden swell of heat crawled up her neck, and, funnily enough, she was beginning to suspect it wasn't a symptom of the dehydration. Frustration scrunched at her features, face contorting into a truly impressive grimace, and her eyes screwed shut as she came to terms with precisely how pathetic this entire shitpile situation was.

"Um. E-excuse me, miss. Are you... are you okay?"

Crow's eyes snapped open, and eyes as murky as the open seas peered steadily back, gaze equal parts concerned and perturbed. A narrow, gaunt face - pretty, she noted, in an almost incidental sort of way - darkened by what must have been years' toil under a merciless, unrelenting sun. A stocky frame, corded with lean, functional muscle - probably earned from fish-hauling, or slave labor, or even (and she shuddered to think it) honest work - reasonably sturdy, practical garb, and some cloth-swaddled bundle tied to her back that Crow sincerely hoped wasn't a baby.

(Babies were, after all, pointless and evil. The corrupt little bastards - imp-spawn, she used to call them - were just plain unnatural.)

The woman's brow furrowed, and, looking both cautious and a bit miffed, she waved her unoccupied hand in front of Crow's face. Evidently deciding Crow was either ignoring her or laboring under some sort of mental impairment, she sighed, and grumbled out a, "Not worth the gods-forsaken effort, I swear."

Crow's nose twitched. Something salty wafted through the open air, and it wasn't accompanied by the sea's distinct tang. Something hearty and meaty - pork, maybe? It was then the Windwitch's roving gaze settled on the package clutched in the peevish woman's adjacent hand. The key to her salvation was bundled in oily parchment and tied with some ratty old twine.

The twinkle of mischief alighting in Crow's eyes, her lips curved into what she desperately hoped was a dashing, roguish grin. "Not nearly as fine as you, I'd wager." Leaning back and propped up on her hands, the supine Stormcaller epitomized loose, airy insouciance. "Hey, speakin' of - wanna make a trade? You feed me, and then you can also tell me what the hell's been happening in this rotting hovel while I was gone. See? Fair, ain't it?"

Did she mean a single word of it? No. Would the ends justify the means? ...Okay, probably not. Would it keep her alive? Absolutely, and she was a scavenger, wasn't she? A survivor.

And that meant doing what she did best.

Punctuating this bargain - and really, it was kind of a steal, if she did say so herself - with the best half-lidded smolder she could muster, Crow offered the skeptical refugee a coquettish, hopefully winsome grin. If you do, it promised, as coy as it was earnest, it'll be damn well worth it.

The cacophony of battle was all around her, deafening in its presence yet fading in uneven rhythms. The sharp clash of weapon upon weapon, upon shield, upon armor, and upon flesh sang its song loudest in Zahra’s unhearing ears. Shouts and lamentations danced desperately among the desert air currents; dervishes swirling in a chaotic rush among the dead and dying, and seeking salvation from the gods as their lights were washed away with the rising of the suns. The sands of their forefathers shifted with the pounding of her people’s feet cascading around her; begging her body, unmoving, to rise and reclaim the honor of those that came before. The first rays of the harsh desert light pricked viciously at eyes already unseeing; beckoning them to gaze upon the fruition of all that her vengeance and strength had wrought. Blood burbled slowly into across her tongue and into the sands; her body offering itself to be consumed in the withering fire of her magic, but no longer did her life-blood possess any remnants of the empowering tang of her element. Finally, the stench of death forced its way into her nostrils; threatening her into action against her own impending demise, but she had already deadened herself to the pungent miasma of decaying life.

The world continued on unrelenting around her and all she could do was fade away. Her body had curled into itself as she had fallen, and now she lay wrapped around the core where her power laid. It was a vain attempt to protect the flickering, quivering flame of her magic from the raging tempest around her. She could only hope that her people would prevail without any further guidance from her, and that maybe after all of this war they’d finally be at peace. That finally she could be at peace as well.

The woman watched with her inner eye as her fire licked slowly and fleetingly at the last residue of power she possessed. It was so reminiscent. Like the countless times she’d held nightwatch over the camp as a young warrior, sitting near the light of the cooking fires and watching the flames wither away. Surrounded by her people, but utterly alone. It was a dissonance she’d always found comforting in life, and she couldn’t help but feel something akin to that as she slipped into death. Slowly she felt the emotions that had carried her through so much drain away with the rest of her.

There was no more anger. No more hatred. No more wrath. No sadness, or pain… Regret. Joy. Pride. Strength. Hope. Nothing.

Then, there was simply no more Zahra.




Pain exploded out from the center of her being, and a pulse with the heat of a thousand infernos shot through every sinew of her body with ruthless abandon, awaking sensations she could never remember feeling and wracking her body in convulsions of power both frighteningly alien and undeniably her own. She continued to seize for several minutes as the torrents of wanton energy ripped through her. Only when she feared that she would be torn asunder again did the energy finally ebb from her body. Her mind quieted as her body did, and rasping breaths was all she could seem to manage at the moment.

Only once in her life had she experienced such a thing, though this time it was compounded ten fold: her breaking. But that was impossible. Allomancers didn’t break more than once. No, it didn’t make sense. Except, wasn’t she dead? There was no way that she could have survived that final battle. Nobody of the tribes possessed any kind of magic that could stop her inevitable fall into nothingness. She certainly didn’t heal herself either, not with so grievous of wounds. She didn’t understand.

Zahra fluttered her eyes open once again to the world of the living, taking in the dusty light that filtered through the small openings in the confines in which she found herself, and the shaft of light that shone intensely at the end opposite of where she lay. The warrior turned her head slowly to the side where a skeletal corpse wrapped in the remains of a silken burial shroud had been gently placed on a slab beside her. She sat up with a start, her gaze sweeping across the room where more dead lay similarly in rows before and beside her.

A tomb... Her tomb? She blinked hard as if readjusting her sight might adjust her situation, but no such mercy was forthcoming. Her daughters. Tradition dictated that only the spouse and children could be laid to rest beside the one that was deemed worthy of a tomb. Her daughters lay beside her, and the next five generations of their kin lay before them all, as was appropriate. Zahra felt as though she should mourn the loss of her children, but found herself unable to with the realization that they had lived a life enough to have children, and those children had had children, and so on. And a line of warriors, if the array of weapons resting at the feet of many of the dead was any indication.

The Iron-Toothed pushed herself onto her bare feet to take tentative steps around the crypt to view those who have been her legacy. Her steps became more steady as her body found its equilibrium in world again, and the flame in her center tempered into a steady blaze. Why she was alive again she could not begin to fathom, but it was a gift of the Gods for sure.

Only after Zahra had made her rounds through the fourth generation of her kin did she notice the gaggle of silk-covered faces peering cautiously through the large opening she’d been slowing making her way towards. It was disconcerting to see other living souls after being among the dead after forefathers-knew-how-long, so for a long moment she didn’t speak and they interlopers seemed content to continue staring.

Finally she followed their eyes to her naked middle and found what had trapped their gazes. Zahra’s hands fluttered to her stomach to run fingers over the vicious scar that puckered and distorted the skin there; the blow that ended her. She felt no physical pain or hinderance from it, but couldn’t help but be a little discomforted. A reminder of her own mortality? Or of her self-sacrifice?

One brave soul threw Zahra out of her contemplation by approaching cautiously with a robe similar in which all the group wore, held open in and waiting for permission to wrap her within. Zahra nodded slightly in acquiescence, allowing the older -or she supposed younger, as it were- woman to engulf her in the silk and lead her with a gentle hand led her to the group that was making quick haste to create her a path in which to walk through them to the outside world. She stepped out into the full light of the desert suns in the midst of a small village of stone and metal building built in same architectural style as the one in which she emerged.

The people alternated between gaping at this unknown woman emerging from what had been the sealed tomb of one of their most famous heroes, to the twisted and warped metal chunk that may have once resembled a door.

“Welcome home, Zahra the Iron-Toothed Lioness,” the old woman said softly as Zahra’s bare feet sank into the desert sands bathed in crimson.