The forest was ablaze with the light of Ki’ira’s fury. The trees withered under the intensity of her fire which had spread from a single infernal dome to a ravenous wildfire that sat upon the canopy, consuming all in its path. The darkened night skies filled with thick, black smoke. The air became poisoned with the smog; choking the once verdant expanse beyond Kolantis.

From the fire, life fled. The animals that lurked in the brush scurried from their holes, the bandits prowling the forest depths screamed and took flight from the growing flames encroaching upon their hidden camps built amongst the trees and the shadows. The last of the men and women and children fleeing the slaughter at the city devolved from orderly lines of refugees to panicked groups jaunting through the trees to escape the fire.

And yet, amidst the chaos, there was one who seemed unfazed by the fire. She ran like a wild animal, but not because of fear, but because of anger. Her screams and her cries could have been heard for miles around; a haunting chorus of true dejection and defeat. Ki’ira had set the forest aflame with good reason, for only she could really know what she had seen in the depths. What creature had she seen in the deepest of night? What had she truly seen? Did she really see the body of a goddess trampled and desecrated like any wild animal?

She moved toward the coast of the sea that rested upon Kolantis’ dock, and she moved fast. Within minutes she had cleared the main blaze, and within only minutes more she would have noticed the trees begin to change, their density thinning, and calm returning once more. The nightbirds chirped carefree once more, and the creatures in the brush slept as though the flames were not approaching them at speed. Strangely, it seemed nearly silent; a moment of serenity amidst the chaos of the night in which a city had died, and Ki’ira’s world had been shattered.

She crested the final hill before the sea, emerging from the thinning trees to look out upon the sea stretching to the horizon and further. The moonlight glistened from its rippling surface, and the forest fire from the distance seemed to sprinkle it with ruby-red flecks of light, like a sunset-coloured gem catching the morning light. The waves crashed gently upon the shoreline, and a sea breeze brushed softly across Ki’ira’s face. But there was more to the shore than the simple pleasures of nature, for a small camp had been set upon upon the sand: a few tents, a small, extinguished campfire, several crates sealed tight, and a few planks of driftwood floating on the water, leading to a small, anchored galley that was swaying on the waves. There were two men and a younger lady, all a strange mix of looking extremely impoverished, yet undeniably suave. Swashbucklers, no doubt.

They seemed to call to each other in an undecipherable language as they shifted crates to the galley, laughing periodically and occasionally making gruff noises as they each lifted their cargo into their ship. They were armed, too, with scimitars and crossbows. perhaps they knew how to use them. Perhaps not.

It did not take long for them to notice Ki’ira upon the crest of the shoreline hill. Such a realisation was met with a startled cry from the lady, and the entire crew dropping the task at hand to raise their scimitars and approach, all whispering to one another in their strange, exotic language.

Pirates.

Perhaps one with a delicate and attuned sense of hearing could have heard the young lady whisper to one of the men to not tell her about the temple.

”You! Girl!” the other man cried. ”Who is you? Answer!”



The son of Sturmkirk wandered long into the depths of the night, passing through the forest in hours. The moons shone like ghostly fire behind a thin covering of clouds. The night was cold, far colder than it had been in the prime days of his house. This was a bitter chill, despite the dull orange glow rising from the horizon behind. Despite the thick black smoke that seemed to be crawling upwards to join to clouds in their glory, the night was only getting colder. Yet there was no frost, no ice, no dew, no snow. It was just empty and silent. It was a cold afford only by the sheer emptiness of the place. It had once been so full of life, but, like Ansus, now grew inexplicably dark and lonely. There was naught but even the sound of birds here, and as Volkimir looked to the sky, there were so few stars that it seemed as though a sheet had been pulled over the world. It had once been alight with an endless cascade of starlight; one could cast their eyes skyward and see so much, so many wonderful, incredible, wholesome things. One could see every individual star twinkling in the darkness surrounding it; one could see the clouds of purple, twinkling smoke that stretched in the void, all across the sky. And now it was black, save for the occasional reprieve of a solitary star scintillating through the patchwork of holes in the cloud cover.

A starless night was nearly upon them.

Yet despite the harrowing truth of the world, he continued onward in search of one who could decipher the rune. If there was a human within a hundred miles of Kolantis who could provide appropriate answers to Volkimir’s questions, that person almost certainly had died in the slaughter. He would have to search in more obscure ways and places to find one capable of imparting the knowledge he sought.

The forest came to an end some hours into his journey. The treeline gave way to the mountains north of Kolantis; they stood tall and immobile, looming over the city in the distance. Snow capped them at their peaks, and a thin layer of dusty vegetation struggled to grow at their base. Rock never served as nutritional to the plants of Ansus, but the hardy flora still tried to climb the mountain just like men had done thousands of years prior. It was documented as near impossible to scale the Koltic mountains from their southern face, but over the course of many millennia, pioneering individuals had carved out a footpath that wound along the lowest incline and into the high reaches of the mountains. It was a path in which blizzards raged near constantly, and many pilgrims had met their end along its holy path. The wayshrines built along it were older than many dared to remember, yet they had survived the elements with surprising tenacity; their gleaming, marble surfaces depicting the legend of the Great Journey with incredible detail.
The pilgrims of times past called it the Second Journey, and it was said that any who could complete the journey and leave an offering at each of the one hundred and four way shrines would receive the blessing of Andurias and be glorified forevermore.

Volkimir stood before the beginning of the path, the night still strong and the moons still high in the darkened skies. It was even colder upon the mountain trail than it had been in the forest, but it bothered not the Dark Prince, whose spirit was stronger than near any mortal man’s. He waded through the mountainous wind, pushing against the force that seemed to be so desperate to veer him from the path, but he did not falter. He seemed determined… resolute.
It was upon the mountain that the ice had formed under the cold of the world where nothing could grow. It was there that the true extent of the darkness swallowing Ansus had become apparent. From the cliffside one could see far; one could see the forest of twisted, dying trees. One could see Kolantis with all the lights extinguished. One could see the Sea stretching far, glinting with firelight. One could see the valleys stretching far and wide in every other direction and be overcome with the overriding sense that the land was a skeleton of its former self. Winds howled, stars went dark, and humanity faltered, just like the Great Flames within the Bastion of Light, which, as seen from the mountains, was also dark and cold, almost indistinguishable from the shaded range that it, too, rose from.

Things lurked on the path. Things that feasted upon the frozen remains of devout pilgrims. Creatures not of Ansus. Creatures of the Merkstave. They stalked the remaining night, silently traversing the path. They gibbered from the night, making hollow noises from the shadows. Hungry eyes followed the only truly alive man walking the path; their tastes preferring instead those whose blood still pumped to the rock-hard flesh of ages-old men who succumbed to the ferocity of the mountain.

Yet Volkimir showed no signs of fear. It was almost as if such creatures were his own prey. He knew that the beasts of the Starless Void made their home amongst the desecrated remains of once-holy places. Perhaps the minions of the adversary itself would know more about the strange rune than any man would be able to say.



They travelled for hours in a grave state of mind. The tree of Kamish spoke of ill news. It spoke of terrible days ahead, and the horror that had befallen both the world and the Gods. All around, they would notice the exact things that had been warned of: the death of the world; the dying forest, the lost people, the lack of the Gods. The trees had turned from majestic totems of nature, complete with bountiful bushes of leaves, to withered, dead, rotting, lifeless skeletons that looked as though they sought to reach up and claw at the sky with fingers of grey and white. The forest that The Green Knight and Harald wandered through was no longer a forest, but a boney graveyard for things once alive. It was no longer recognisable as a place of respite.
The ground was solid, as though frozen. It seemed to push upwards the roots of the dead trees, creating a tangle of spiny limbs breaking free from the dirt in morbid loops and twists. They seemed to resemble actual limbs reaching from the ground, always trying to grasp and grip the two men who sauntered cautiously through its depths. Harald struggled to work his way through the tangle, stepping cautiously over fallen branches and risen roots, trying not to catch himself on one of the sinister limbs that would undoubtedly bring him to the ground. The Green Knight struggled less with moving through the morbid imitation of what the forest once was, stepping through the roots without hinderance. They snapped and turned to dust as he moved through them, as though they were giving way to a superior force. There was no hint of green left save for him and his ferocious armour.

But in the far distance, deep within the obscuring fog that had collected upon the horizon loomed something which both Harald and The Green Knight had not recalled being present. A castle lay there, pushing its way through the tangle of roots. It was tall and sturdy looking, as though built by the finest of artisans and designed by the greatest of engineers. Even peering at it through the colourless fog it was evident that this was no construct of men: the stones were gleaming and polished, and the great arches and parapets showed no signs of decay from ages of standing. All logical signs pointed to the castle being newly built, but Harald could not recall any new castle projects in Ansus for many years. Since the unification of the land, he was unsure if a single one had even been built.

He made sure to tell his monstrous companion of such a fact.

The castle felt unsettling. The pair approached the opened gates with a fair degree of caution and saw confirmation that the fortress was either built in secret, or not of Ansus entirely. The stones were a material that neither present could identify; a metallic, iron-like smell emanated from beyond the gate and dried out mote. Silence seemed to reach from the great maw of the castle like a hungering tongue: lapping and searching for something to consume.

Harald looked to the giant of a man who had dragged him so far into the wilderness to such a place. he said nothing but his eyes begged to turn back and find the world comforts of a tavern or city, so that he might live out his last days on Ansus with worldly comforts around him.

”We shouldn’t go inside,” he said softly, hoping the tenderness would urge The Green knight to heed his distress and turn back.



The tomb was tall and empty. It seemed to reach forever into the blackness that feigned to be the ceiling. It was as if the place was almost hollow; lacking in some way. The walls were cold and crumbling, and the floor was no different. Pieces of the ancient brick would break off at the touch and turn to dust with such little effort that a determined individual could have caved themselves in without a struggle.
Daen stood at the center of the room, unsure what to make of his current predicament. He was shocked to have been alive once more. The measure of his rapid breathing was proof of that, and his previous scream that still seemed to be echoing through the antechamber was an even greater testament to the shock of pumping blood and flickering eyes.

Upon further investigation, it was not a simple, sealed off room that Daen had found himself in. It was rather a smaller tomb connected to a much larger mausoleum. His own chamber was connected via a small, very obscure passageway that was undoubtedly once showered with light from the rotted, burned out torches lining the walls. It seemed that this place had been looted years ago. All the worldly treasures that would have rested here were gone, replaced with spiderwebs and dust; there was no visible entrance to the tomb that Daen could see: no breeze rolling in through hidden doors, but there was a single shaft of blueish moonlight dissipating through the place. He could see it come down from a small circular hole upon the roof of the main chamber. Beyond the hole was simple darkness punctuated with glinting hints of the silvery moons overhead. But there were no stars to speak of in the world above. It was a sky of black and moons, nothing more.

The main chamber was little different to the smaller one he had awoken in. It took barely a minute to walk the passageway between the two, though the walk was in nearly complete darkness save for the dim moonlight that illuminated simple turns and walls with a faint silver lining.

There seemed to be no way out.

The main chamber was even taller than the smaller antechamber Daen had awoken in. There was no structure to climb to reach the small moon door that let in the light from above. It was a place of the dead that none should trespass within. He waited for some time in quiet contemplation, looking around him and exploring this strange place he had awoken in. What dark purpose could have substantiated his return? What task lay ahead? Why had Saevus disappeared? Was it true that the Gods were gone? That the Starless Night was nigh? Daen had no answers, and there seemed to be nobody to provide them. Not a single soul.

It seemed lonely there. Perhaps a mistake that he awoke in a place in which he could not escape? Was he doomed to die a second time from the pangs of mortality gone unanswered?

The God of Truth, however, seemed not to be a liar. The truth that his chosen would once more walk the land of Ansus was indeed a truth, and not a farce. Daen could hear voices in the distance, followed by three men poking their heads over the moon door, their crania blocking the moonlight tmporarily, plunging the greater chamber in and out of darkness as they swayed and surveyed what was below. The shadow of their heads played a great spectral dance through the beam of light: every light motion translating into a mystical, arcane display of transient shadows performing pirouettes through the air.

”Hey!” shouted one of the voices. ”I totally think that we can loot this place!” his voice echoed. There was a momentary silence before a second and third voice agreed with the first. They retracted their heads and a rope ladder fell from above in their place. The three men climbed down slowly, lighting torches as they landed on the crumbling stone floor.

The light would have hurt Daen’s eye at first, but in seconds he would have gotten used to unexpected brightness. With this new source of light he could make out the party before him: a trio of adventurers, one clad in a few old pieces of plate and chainmail with a dull iron sword, one in leather and wielding a bow, and the last in a simple cloak with no visible weapons.

But it was not only Daen who saw them. Almost immediately after lighting their torches they saw him and turned immediately to face him, drawing their various weapons as they went.

’Who the ‘ell are you?” the Swordsman demanded, shaking his blade angrily at Daen.

”He’s missin’ an eye. What the ‘eck?” the bowman exclaimed rather heartily; though he was visibly shocked by the physical abnormality of the man that stood before them.

”How much do ya’ reckon we can get for his clothes?” the last man spoke softly, smiling ominously and standing some distance behind the other two men. ”Plus, we can’t have anyone knowin’ we were ‘ere, eh boys?”



Novissah’s libraries were a wonder to speak of; scholars from all across Ansus and perhaps beyond had all dreamt of touring its hallowed halls in search of whatever knowledge they desired. It had been a marvel to behold from within and without in its prime, but now it was little more than a seemingly dilapidated temple of no particular value. Only those knowing of its true purpose would have found such a reverence for it; its true location being lost in the annals of time and the entropy of stories told from father to son.
Elowen arrived in the dead of night, walking along the humble beaten pathway to the ajar stone doors that once protected a veritable wealth of knowledge. It was even said once that the Libraries of Novissah were a repository of every single piece of information ever recorded by Humanity, and that any answer could be found amidst its winding passages should one put in enough time to find the answers they sought. Such was never proven, nor was it disproven, but if it had at all been true in the past, then that truth had surely been a memory: as she slipped through the temple doors, it was obvious to Elowen that the temple had been pillaged and plundered, just like everywhere else in the dying realm of Ansus.

It was not immediately obvious whom had saw it fit to ruin the great archives of the Omniscient God, for all was quiet within. The faint moonlight filtering through the crack in the temple doors was the only source of light to speak of; the fires of Novissah had been quenched long ago and his great library had been plunged into perpetual darkness. Elowen set down a straight path, stepping over broken shelves and treading on trodden and sodden pages that were filed with nonsensical scrawlings in a faded ink that had since bled into the parchment from untold years of stillness in the inexplicable damp of the temple floor. Her footsteps were loud like thunder and echoed from the high stone structures, the sound of every footfall bouncing from wall to wall, surrounding her like a torrent of wind reaching high into the sky.

Perhaps she would have pondered where to begin on her search for answers. She already deciphered that the gods had been felled by some force that was evidently insurmountable, and she knew that the world grew cold and dark as a result of their defeat and destruction, but she knew not the specifics of the foe she was to face, nor how she would face it. The library had always contained mundane knowledge at the entrance and esoteric and forbidden knowledge deeper within the labyrinth. Knowing this, she pressed on without hesitation.
The simple stone faded to dull marble after a time, yet Elowen continued to walk unabated through the apparently endless hallway, searching for something, anything that could provide answers to her endless questions. The hallway seemed to stretch and lengthen in impossible, frightening ways; it was unnatural yet strangely beautiful. The darkness seemed to recede, and the archives were illuminated by a sourceless light that seemed ambient and all encompassing. The true extent of the ruthless pillaging of the temple had become apparent with the onset of the strange ambient light: shelves had been torn to pieces, some burned. Books were strewn across the floor in great piles, piles that contained more books than any single person could read in a lifetime. The walls were ravaged and marred by claw marks and the unmistakable markings of swords being flung against the stone. But there were no bodies in sight - not a single one. It was empty. Had there been fighting previously? If so, was it so long prior that the remains had all decomposed? It seemed unlikely, but it was apparent that whatever had happened was more than simple pillaging.

As Elowen delved further down the hallway and the destruction became more prominent, it became somewhat apparent that perhaps there was no fighting here at all; perhaps somebody, too, was searching for something. It was a grave thought indeed, and one that Elowen would have undoubtedly wanted to shift from her mind. For if she was not the first, then who was…?

Her thought process would have come to a complete halt, as the silence was broken by the gentle tolling of ethereal, heavenly ringing. It seemed sourceless for a few moments just like the ambient light that pervaded the hallway, until the source of the sound came melting into view from the obscure distance. A pedestal of tarnished gold sat atop a small raised platform with stairs on all sides, and atop the pedestal was a book that was like no other: It seemed to be the source of the sound, and as it glowed faintly with the hue of rusted amber, the light glinting from its embossed metallic surface, it immediately marked itself as an item of importance.

As Elowen approached, words upon the pedestal faded into view, though they were obscure and hard to read through the distracting glow that seemed to be growing in intensity. With some struggle and a tight squint, they blame legible to some degree:

N o v i s s a h g u i d e s a n d a i d s t h o s e w h o r e q u i r e i t

A n d c u r s e s t h e u n w o r t h y w i t h i g n o r a n c e

Elowen approached the book, and placed a hand upon its unusually warm cover…





The grasslands were no different the the Northern Deserts; there was only a withered expanse of dried grass to differentiate the two. The cold winds of the South were just like the freezing nights upon the desert sands, and the sky was empty all throughout the lands. Hills rose on either side of the horizon in gentle rolling waves, rocks jutting from their flattest faces like spikes protruding from soft flesh. Zahara had left the desert, but for what purpose? The rumours of others like her were undeniably true, but in what capacity was she to find them and find the truth of the end of times? Questions plagued her mind like a swarm of locusts, but her advance was unhindered by the unsettling storm within her mind. Minutes turned to hours, and hours to days as she travelled; the grassy expanse moving underfoot to give way to simply more withered grass. As days passed and nights fell upon the land she could count fewer and fewer stars in the sky with each cycle of the suns, and with each one extinguishing the land around her began to fade. By the end of her first lonely week upon the southbound road, the grass had all died, leaving the plains an endless field of grey and ashen waste that stretched from one horizon to the next. The only respite from such a bleak, fearful reality was the hills that had begun to appear on her path. The plains were giving way to rougher terrain, to mountainous areas and hopefully lush marshlands and fertile fields.

By Zahara’s second week on the southbound road, she could count only a single star in the night sky. It twinkled defiantly against the swallowing darkness of the void around it, but it would surely not last forever. She crested a hill the following day and found herself upon the end of the plains; before her instead were the heartlands which one would remember as a verdant county of life and plenty. It was not entirely ashen grey and dead like the plains that came before, but the colour had seemed to wash from the scene, as though a thick fog covered the heartlands like a blanket that sapped the saturate from the scene. Everything was quiet. There were no birds, and since her encounter with the Lion some weeks before, she had not seen a single animal roaming free. Maybe they had all fled, or decided to hide. That would have been the wise move. Perhaps they had all died alongside the rapidly diminishing land. Maybe they had just given up.

Three days into the second week of her journey on the southbound road, Zahara had stopped for the night within a small cave carved from the foot of a peculiar hill by ferocious winds of prehistoric Ansus. It faced away from the ravaging, freezing wind now, which made it the perfect spot to set up camp for yet another lonely night. It took her little time to start a fire and warm the bitter cave and fill it with fiery light, but it took her a long while to warm up once more. She was used to the blazing heat of the desert, but the Heartlands felt more like they had been plunged into the depths of the Far Eastern mountains now. If there would have been any clouds in the sky, it would have certainly snowed, and it likely would not have stopped for days. The air was thin and deathly cold; enough to end a man in his tracks should he not seek fire and shelter by nightfall.

Once Zahara had warmed herself as much as she could, she stepped from the mouth of the cave and once more in to the biting winds that raged just beyond her respite. She cast her eyes skyward to look upon her final star. But she could not find it. Perhaps her bearing were off? She turned and stretched her neck to see into the sky beyond the hill. She could not see her final star. It was nowhere to be seen. She turned and turned and searched but could not find it. It had been extinguished, just like all the others. It was a small star in comparison to some of its brothers and sisters, far less luminous and prominent, but it endured until the last night, the end of days.

A starless night was upon Ansus.

And upon that frightening realisation, as her stomach dropped and her heart skipped a beat, her roaring fire went out. The winds all but stopped. Silence pervaded the world. She could hear her own heartbeat. She could feel the world constricting, pushing, squeezing. Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

Panic set in, her heart began to race despite there being no reason for such a fear. She could not work out why, but she was sweating, her heart pumped harder and faster, her hairs stood on end. She felt fear for a brief moment as she felt the soul of the world slip from its loose resting place and fall into the abyss. What was happening? And why?

Her frightful trance was broken by a voice coming from behind, coming from the depths of the cave. A man stepped out from the shadows, but there was nobody there before? Could she have missed someone being there all that time? Was it possible?

The man paid no regard to her inevitable confusion and worry. He walked slowly forward with open arms, as though moving into an embrace. ”Zahara,” he said.

”Fear not that I know you by name. I have been watching you for some time. I have followed you for a long time. Perhaps longer than I care to admit. I am sure you have noticed the sky, how the stars are now lacking, and how the darkness has swallowed all. You have many questions, I am sure.”

The man lowered his arms, and swiftly came to stand in front of Zahara; faster than he should have been capable of. ”There is a certain beauty in the prospect of a starless night, is there not? We are free from the Gods. Free from obligation and worship. Maybe this a new dawn for us? A world without stars.”

The man looked at Zahara. He was hooded, his entire face obscured beside a fiendish smile that peeked out from the shadow cast by his cowl. ”You seek answers. You seek to lead your people to freedom. I must ask that you accompany me to the capital and I will provide all the answers you desire. There is something you need to see.” [/center]

Daen stared at the men before him. They were ill equipped, but without his pendant he would be helpless against a sword-wielding opponent. He'd learned basic sword forms in his youth, as well as basic disarming maneuvers, but he doubted he could pull any of them off with two other opponents standing so near. Perhaps one, but certainly not while the others had weapons as well. He'd be cut down before he could so much as swing the newly acquired weapon. All he had was the mark, and his brain. He looked tattered, trapped, they'd underestimate him for sure. He may not be the best swordsman, or the best fighter. But he was fast, and he'd have to use that if he wanted to survive.

Words were still falling out of the swordsman's mouth. Time slowed to a crawl as Daen began the strategic inspection of his opponents.

The Swordsman
Dented iron plate, rusted mail, doesn't take care of his equipment. Watch as he moves his arm..there, the joint of his pauldron catches on the hauberk underneath, restraining his motion. Can't swing well to the left. Watch out for the other more mobile arm with a torch.

The Archer
Keen eyes, taken away if I put that torch out. Slightly frayed bowstring and eight arrows in his quiver. Drawing one arrow now as the swordsman still speaks. Chewing..something, red lips, some sort of drug.

The Robed one
A mage for certain, I can see the strings spinning around him as he readies himself for battle. No sorcerer, a simple conjurer that throws lackluster sparkbombs and other paltry spells. Fidgety, ready to spread some flame, looks prone to accidents from the singed edges of his apparently flammable sleeves and hood. He's holding the other torch in his hand, presumably to draw easy fire from it for pyromancy.

Time wound back to normal as Daen formulated his plan. First the helpless.

"-o the ‘ell are you?” the Swordsman demanded, shaking his blade angrily at Daen.

Daen Put his hands up at his sides, looking terrified and slightly relieved.

"Oh thank the gods," A knot formed in his stomach. the gods. "I've been down here for days! I thought nobody would ever come." Daen feigned a shake and tried to look more sallow than he was. He turned his face down slightly to make his cheeks look drawn in the torchlight.

”He’s missin’ an eye. What the ‘eck?” The archer took a small step forward, seeming less threatened than before, but still wary. Daen supposed he would be wary as well if he'd found a strange man with a missing eye and a glowing mark on his face.

”How much do ya’ reckon we can get for his clothes?” Said the mage quietly. ”Plus, we can’t have anyone knowin’ we were ‘ere, eh boys?” Daen could hear the anticipation in the Mage's voice, and watched his foot tap as adrenaline kicked in. These were men used to killing the unarmed and helpless to get what they wanted.

Daen widened his eye in fake surprise, fake fear. "What? No, please! Take whatever you want, just get me out of here!"

The Swordsman in front laughed, his pity as fake as Daen's fear. Bloodlust hid behind those greedy eyes. "oh-ho boys. Looks like we's got us a begga'." The other two men laughed dryly. The archer stepped forward and knocked an arrow but kept the bow down. Rookie mistake. "'Ows about you give us 'at fancy shirt o' yoh's then? Show us some compassion fo' savin' yeh." The archer and the mage laughed more at this, their nostrils flaring with uncontained laughter.

"Wh-what?" Daen stammered, "oh, yes of course.. I suppose I could-" Daen pulled the shirt over his head, and took his opening. He tossed the shirt onto the archer's head. Who in a panic, dropped his arrow onto the floor. The Swordsman turned back in surprise, unsure what had just happened. Daen jumped onto the surprised swordsman, knocking the torch from his left hand to the floor and hopping around the swordsman's left to avoid the sword-wielding right arm. The Swordsman grunted and swung without hesitation. Not a rookie then, just careless.

The Swordsman's right pauldron caught on the mail hauberk, a stray piece of plate hooking through one of the mail's loops and hiking the hauberk upward, interfering with his swing. Daen used the hesitation and darted out with his right hand. He grabbed the swordsman's wrist and turned it up, forcing him to drop the sword into Daen's hand. The Archer had unraveled himself from the shirt and made another rookie mistake of going to pick the arrow up off the floor instead of pulling a new one from his quiver. He was feeling around the floor in the murky torchlight behind the now advancing mage.

Daen Quickly smashed the swordsman over the back of the head with the pommel of his newly acquired sword and jumped forward just in time to avoid a fireball that streaked past where his head had been before. he hit the ground gracelessly just as the unconscious body of the swordsman slammed into the ground next to him.

The archer had found his arrow and was knocking it again. Daen scrambled to his feet and broke into a sprint forward. He dived forward as an arrow streaked past where he'd be if he'd been standing. The archer cursed and began to pull another arrow from his quiver as Daen turned to face the two of them. His dive had been intentional, but not for the purpose of avoiding the arrow, which he'd not anticipated the archer could draw so quickly. The real reason had been to position the archer nearly between himself and the mage, who was readying another fireball to chuck at him. As the archer pawed for another arrow, the mage let fly the fireball. Daen widened his eye and the mark pulsed slightly as he reached out to the magic entwined in the fire streaking toward him. He found the string easily and tugged on it.

The fireball popped, showering the archer in flecks of flame, one of which caught fire to his hair. The archer flinched and loosed his arrow slightly to the right. The arrow skimmed Daen's shoulder and smacked into the stone wall behind him, turing it into kindling. The archer yelped as the magefire began to engulf his hair. He dropped his bow and began furiously patting out the fire upon his head. Daen stood frantically and made a dash for the ladder at the other end of the room. He'd made it two rungs up when he turned and had to unravel another fireball, which again popped into directionless flecks of flame that sputtered out into the air. He took a few more rungs and then waited as the mage roared in anger and consumed the last of the fire from his torch for a massive fireball. It was obvious from his widened, enraged eyes, that the mage was having trouble controlling that much flame. Daen barely had to touch the string and the magic fell apart.

The large fireball exploded in the mage's hand with a concussive whoosh that drenched his robes in fire. He screamed and tumbled sideways, rolling along the stone floor with panic that seemed practiced, presumaly from lighting himself up before. Daen climbed the remaining rungs and pulled the rope ladder up after him. Pausing to duck quickly as the archer, whose head was now only smoking but with far less hair than before, loosed another arrow far to Daen's right. As the arrow whizzed out into the night, Daen pulled up the rest of the ladder and tossed it onto the stone roof beside him. Then he fell backwards onto the roof and panted momentarily before catching his breath. He could hear the moans of the swordsman as he awoke from unconsciousness, and the lessening screams from the mage as he managed to put out the flames that had consumed a good portion of his robes.

Daen smiled up at the starless, moonlit sky. Feeling not quite as defenseless as before. The feeling of success was somewhat dampened by the fact that it was freezing cold, which wasn't helped by the fact that he was now missing his shirt.

Volkimir was no stranger to death. For untold years he had dealt in it, granting oblivion to his thousands of foes, victims, mistakes. He had studied its anomalies; those such as himself that danced on the boundary of the living and the dead, at once both but truly neither. It had happened that even he had wandered into the worlds beyond and returned unscathed. It was this experience that brought Volkimir the realization that the world was dying. The very land withered and revolted in its death throes as the void of the starless sky covered it as a burial shroud.

This was a new experience for Volkimir. Never in his long memory had the world ever faced as grave a threat as this. When the suns were blackened by the insatiable hordes of the Shadowlands, even that darkness had not been as cold and absolute. This was not the dark of night, home and ally to Volkimir and his kind. This was the void itself, the end of life and light, never to return. What should have been a land alight with fire and faith seemed stark and empty, as vast and hollow as the darkened sky itself. Though he knew it would, Volkimir wondered if the sun could even rise over such a cold and wasted world.

He continued down the shadowed path, quickening his pace. If the day came that the sun did not rise over Ansus, it meant only that he had been too late, done too little. That day would not come to pass. Volkimir did not often compare himself to mankind, but he knew that he still carried their mortal fire within him. Even if the pyres of their temples burned out, men carried in them a desperate, burning will to survive. They were stubborn, annoying, admirable creatures in this way.

However, it seemed his spark of life and determination had drawn moths. Chthonic aberrations crept in the edges of Volkimir’s vision, chattering madly. They circled like dogs, dropping their previous meals of frozen travelers and pilgrims, and turning from their tasks of crudely defacing the various sacred edifices and way shrines that lined the path. One such jittering malignity dared approach Volkimir, its foul teeth and claws drawn. A single strike of his blade was enough to dispatch the eager imp, splattering its dark blood across the frozen ground. As its kin fearfully retreated (not for long, most likely), inspiration struck Volkimir. Out of one of his pockets he retrieved the brilliant ruby that he had requisitioned from the royal treasury the night before. Delicately grasping it with the tips of his clawed gauntlet, Volkimir willed unnatural power into the gemstone. The ichor of the small demon drifted up toward the ruby, encircling it at first, but them clinging to it. The blood coagulated, hardened, and then crystallized, staining the ruby with its unholy essence. Blood was life, and life was power; Volkimir drew his magic and vitality from his fundamental concept. The blood of demons was particularly potent, he knew; it was not human blood that flowed through his immortal veins.

Volkimir journeyed through the mountain passage, continuing this gruesome harvest. The shrill cry of the wind was broken only by the whipping of the vampire's cloak and the death-cries of any demons brave or stupid enough to come within reach of his sword. Mere opportunists, gathering around a greater power. They had nothing of value to Volkimir, other than their profane essence. As more fell to his blade, the blood-ruby grew and darkened, swelling into a locus of demonic power. The vampire knew that to face whatever lurked at the mountain's peak, he would need all of the strength that he could afford. He looked up to the end of the path, perhaps only another hour's journey from where he stood. In a world gone dark, the sacred summit blazed with hellfire.

By the time Volkimir reached the peak, spidery fingers of frost had grown on his armor, and snow had settled into the fur of his cloak. However, the markings of cold vanished from him almost instantaneously as he discovered what lurked atop the mountain. Shrines burned in torrents of blackish flame, and ancient statues glowed steady orange as their stone bodies melted. The centerpiece of the mountaintop temple, a tremendous stonework depicting Andurias seated in the throne of heaven, suffered the greatest indignity of all. The sacred throne oozed with molten rock as an unholy behemoth took the place of the desecrated god. The archdemon resembled a great mockery of a man, titanic in size and stature. Chitinous spines grew out along its hulking limbs, culminating in huge, thorned claws that took the place of hands. A wreath of horns grew about its menacing visage, framing the hellfire it wore as a crown as its leathery wings framed its unnatural, pallid body.

Only as Volkimir approached, his armor gleaming in the baleful fires, did the terrible demon take notice of him. Its attention broke away from toying with the stone head of Andurias to look upon Volkimir with eyes that burned with devilish delight. "IT IS A RARE MORTAL THAT APPROACHES MY THRONE SO BRAZENLY, OFFERING NEITHER SACRIFICE NOR SERVITUDE."

Volkimir spoke plainly, "I kneel to neither gods nor kings. A demon is hardly my choice of master."

The demon grinned, its inner flames shining out from between its fangs. "I AM A MASTER UNLIKE ANY OTHER. A RARER MORTAL YET THAT DOES NOT KNOW OF MY POWER AND MAGNIFICENCE."

Good, it was vain and talkative. This Volkimir could work with. "To whom do I owe the privilege of witnessing such power and magnificence?" Volkimir asked, striking the perfect balance between inquisitiveness and sarcasm. The demon had to hate him just enough to like him, and then Volkimir could get what he wanted.

"BEFORE YOU IS NONE OTHER THAN THE MIGHTY BELZENLOK, IMMOLATOR OF GODS AND EXTINGUISHER OF NATIONS." The demon barked happily, basking in the glow of its own pride.

"It is you that has darkened the temple fires, and wrung the stars from the sky?" Volkimir probed further. He doubted that this boastful demon was responsible for the dire state of the world, despite its apparent power.

The demon sneered at Volkimir, gnashing its teeth. Had he misstepped? It seemed wary of him now. "A MORTAL PRESUMES MUCH, AND KNOWS LITTLE. WHAT RIGHT HAVE YOU TO SPEAK SO DEMANDINGLY TO THE KING OF HELLFIRE?"

"To a king? A prince, of course." Volkimir took on a more powerful posture, seeming to look down on the monster that towered above him. It was time for a change in his approach. "Prince of the Shadowland, the Last Son of Sturmkirk, the Betrayer and the Mortifier."

Recognition seemed to slowly draw across the demon's twisted features. "I MAY HAVE HEARD OF SUCH A MORTAL, THOUGH LONG DEAD. VANQUISHED BY HIS OWN FOOLISH ARROGANCE."

"A demon presumes much." Volkimir turned Belzenlok's words back onto it, taking another confident stride closer.

The burning devil snorted, its eyes wary but unsure. "VOLKIMIR THEN, IS IT? MY HATED RIVAL, SHILGENGAR, BLASPHEMES YOUR NAME TO THIS DAY."

"Not rare enough a demon that does not know of my arrogance and infamy." Volkimir smiled, his fangs glinting in the firelight.

Belzenlok barked out a cacophonous, choking laugh. "COME TO BARTER AWAY YET MORE OF YOUR DAMNED SOUL, SON OF STURMKIRK?" The demon mocked him in its horrific, unearthly voice.

Volkimir laughed as well, though it was forced and hollow. "If I should, would I wear your banner as well?" Volkimir pricked his own thumb, and with his blood drew the mysterious rune out in the air. The symbol of blood floated ominously, and the fires seemed to burn more coldly in its presence.

"THAT IS NOT MY MARKING, BUT THAT OF MY MASTER." The demon seemed to sober at the sight of the symbol, perhaps in reverence, perhaps in fear.

"A demon submits to a master? Strange days are these." Volkimir pressed the topic.

"NOT MERELY STRANGE DAYS, VAMPIRE. THE LAST DAYS. THE VOID SWALLOWS THE STARS, HOLY MEN WORSHIP THE UNHOLY, AND DEAD HEROES WALK THE EARTH. NOT MUCH LONGER NOW UNTIL THE TRUE KING RETURNS."

"You speak of your master? What is this king called?"

"THERE IS NO NAME FOR THE KING IN BLACK, JUST AS THERE IS NO NAME FOR THE VOID BETWEEN THE STARS, OR THE LOOMING PROMISE OF THE END OF ALL THINGS." The demon seemed introspective, now. Volkimir's skin crawled, as though he were being watched by something unbeknownst to him.

"This king sacked Kolandis? He darkened the Great Bastion?" Volkimir questioned the demon more directly, now that it seemed more pliable.

"IT IS HE THAT BRINGS ON THE STARLESS NIGHT, BUT KOLANDIS IS MY PRIZE." The demon began to smile again, and Volkimir felt like he had made another misstep.

"Kolandis died by the hands of men, not your talons." A feint, luring the demon closer to the truth.

"MEN UNDER MY THRALL. THEY SERVE THE KING IN BLACK BUT I AM HIS ARBITER; THEY OBEY HIM THROUGH ME." Belzenlok's pride seemed to be flaring yet again, and the flames burned hotter around Volkimir.

"You have the power to chain so many men to your will? How could the King of Hellfire enthrall so many?" Bluntly, Volkimir asked the question that immediately stuck out to him.

"IN SUCH TIMES WHEN ANGELS DIE IN DROVES, AND GODS FADE TO NOTHING, MEN OF FAITH WILL TURN TO ANYTHING THAT THEY CAN BELIEVE IN. ESPECIALLY A KING."

Volkimir silently cursed, his blood starting to boil. The mention of angels inflamed his suspicions; the cultists had likely been part of the Empyreal Cult. In the absence of gods and their patron angels, they had turned to demons in desperation. Damned fools. Did men learn nothing from the mistakes of their ancestors?

"IN SUCH TIMES, EVEN A DEFIANT PRINCE MAY FIND A WORTHY MASTER." The demon broke Volkimir away from his infuriated thoughts. "WHAT SAY YOU, MORTIFIER? THE PRINCE OF THE DAMNED WOULD MAKE A MIGHTY AND HONORED CHAMPION FOR THE KING IN BLACK."

Volkimir's brow furrowed. His disgust was instinctive. The very thought of serving such a despicable creature, the very monstrosity that had damned his entire bloodline, made his stomach turn. "I say, 'Bugger your King in Black.' I serve no master, even come the end of days."

The demon crushed the severed head of Andurias in the vicegrip of its claws. "IT WAS NOT A REQUEST. EVEN IF YOUR BODY BURNS, YOUR SOUL WILL SERVE!" With that, the demon flew from its molten throne, seeking to slay the Dark Prince.

Volkimir evaded the initial charge easily enough; it was the demon's volley that followed that posed a greater threat. With great sweeps of its terrible claws, Belzenlok cast down a rain of unearthly flame. Each gout of flame erupted into a greater inferno upon striking the ground, giving Volkimir scarcely any room to maneuver. A mortal man would have been incinerated in seconds, but Volkimir was far from mortal. With inhuman speed and precision, he swirled and ducked around the hail of hellfire, navigating the ruined mountaintop as though performing an elaborate dance. Having gradually found his way to one of the sturdier rock-faces, Volkimir bounded up the craggy surface. Each edifice of the stone shrine was a springboard to the agile vampire, who sailed through the air, sword drawn, toward where the demon hovered overhead. It was great in size and its flames were terrible, but Volkimir had the advantage in speed. Only too late did the demon fly back to avoid Volkimir's attack, and Elbrus struck true.

To avoid falling into a gout of hellfire, Volkimir drifted on shadowed wings to the rock face on the opposite end of the summit, and perched there as he regained his bearings. The demon's hide was tough, and he had only struck a glancing blow, but that was enough. The monster's foul blood glistened on Elbrus, and Volkimir could feel the stolen essence renew his strength and vitality. If need be, Volkimir could keep up this game of dodging and striking almost indefinately. However, for once, time was not his ally. Dawn was not far off, and this demon likely possessed enough strength to battle Volkimir for days on end. This battle needed to end quickly and decisively.

Belzenlok had turned back around by now to face Volkimir once again, it did not seem particularly hurt by the thin line of black blood that ran across its chest, but its eyes burned with humiliated fury. It screamed in inhuman fury and closed in on Volkimir, wings beating frantically. In hurled dark fire as it charged, making this charge almost impossible to evade. For that reason, Volkimir approached the demon head-on. With all of the grace of the sword-dancers of the Dust, Volkimir weaved between and around the fiery onslaught. As Belzenlok approached close enough to strike Volkimir with his claws, the vampire ducked under its burgeoning body, and struck from underneath. This was a deeper blow, slashed across the monster's chest once more to form a cross with the previous wound.

The demon shrieked in surprise, its massive body sailing directly into a molten shrine. The monument crumbled in a shower of ash and sparks, but Belzenlok quickly rose again, ever more enraged. However, its rage left it blind to the advance of Volkimir, who was now pressing his attack. Its body was too girthy and unwieldy to catch the nimble vampire at such a close range, and it cast its flames always a second too late as they sailed away harmlessly. Volkimir slashed wildly with both Elbrus and his newly-forged gauntlet, seeking to draw blood wherever he could. All were minor flesh wounds, which meant almost nothing to the inhuman monstrosity that was an archdemon.

Tiring of these many, small cuts, Belzenlok retreated, flying back and away to perch on an only mostly-destroyed monument. It growled, bleeding oily ichor from a score of sword and claw wounds. "IS THIS YOUR BEST, VAMPIRE? DAWN APPROACHES, AND WHEN IT COMES I WILL GNAW ON YOUR BLACKENED BONES."

Volkimir breathed heavily, blackened and singed but far from beaten. With the little breath he had to spare, he merely said, "You will never see the dawn again."

As the demon tensed in anticipation of an attack, Volkimir produced the blood-ruby that he had ensorcelled along his climb of the mountain. One-hundred-and-four shrines had power in legend, but the blood of just as many slain demons held power that Volkimir could bring to wield. With a surge of sangromantic power, Volkimir activated the profane artifact, and from it emerged more than a dozen tendrils of black, oozing blood. Faster than even Volkimir could see, the bonds of the gemstone shot out and ensnared Belzenlok, digging into its body through the many wounds that Volkimir had opened. The blood of its fallen lessers invaded the monster through its unholy flesh, binding to its bones.

Belzenlok struggled against the bindings of blood, but found itself completely immobilized on its perch. The ruby held the archdemon in place, as though it were a puppet on strings. Even its flames failed it, as the bonds constricted its corrupt essence. Words and reason had left Belzenlok at this point, who was reduced to grunting, barking and other mad, animalistic utterances. With complete composure Volkimir approached the demon, drifting toward it on wings unseen. If there had ever been a spectre of fear or worry in the vampire's expression, it was replaced by one of subtle satisfaction. However, just as the demon no longer hurled threats and insults, Volkimir too had no taunts to offer his captive. Rather, under his breath he muttered ancient and forgotten words. Words of binding. Words of sealing.

Volkimir sheathed Elbrus, and with his now freed hand, gestured at the demon. The cross-shaped wound on its chest opened at Volkimir's magical command, the flesh peeling back like the skin of some obscene fruit. The dark and grisly bone and entrails of the demon exposed, Volkimir thrusted the blood-ruby into the monster's heart. Ribs and muscle gave way to the corrupting touch of the gauntlet that held the ruby, and so the gem crushed the black, burning heart of the King of Hellfire. With a final incantation of whatever secret tongue Volkimir chanted in, the demon was turned inside-out, vanishing into the depths of the dark gemstone embedded in its heart.

Now holding a stone where there had once been a demon, Volkimir inspected the gem curiously. It was warm to the touch. He could sense the impotent, incoherent rage of Belzenlok, trapped within the sanguine prison. Whatever sort of demon lurked within Volkimir's sword, he imagined it to be even more ancient and terrible than Belzenlok had been, given how many of its faculties it retained despite imprisonment. Volkimir pressed the gem to the back of his gauntlet, willing the sangromantic construct to bond to the unholy steel. The ruby stuck there, and the power of the trapped demon flowed through the gauntlet. With a flick of his wrist, dark flames burst from the weapon's armored palm. A moment's concentration, and small candle-flames danced on the tips of its claws. A worthy weapon such as this deserved a name, by Volkimir's reckoning. He pondered momentarily on something relating to Kolandis, having been forged and ensouled by its destructor. No, he was not that sentimental.

Volkimir pondered the triviality as he traveled down the western slope of the mountain, allowing the great summit to shield him from the encroaching dawn. He had his answers, and better yet, he now knew the path that spread before him. The corruption of the Empyreal Cult had to be rooted out and eliminated before it could wreak further havoc. Volkimir's homeland would not be a nesting ground for demons once more. Armed now with "Griselbrand," Volkimir began his quest to the lands of darkness, soaked in daylight.

“Huh…?” Ki’ira made a surprised sound as she saw the people on the beach and their ship. They seemed like a jolly bunch having fun around their small camp fire, most certainly after some criminal deeds they have been performing lately.

Watching them load those creates, picked the foxy lady’s curiosity, as her ears twitched. She now wanted to learn what was hiding inside those big wooden boxes… maybe there was some rum inside or maybe something valuable? Who could really tell without inspecting them. The breeze was gently brushing her face as just stood there watching them from afar, smiling as she was listening to their talks with her insane hearing.

Their language was curious and was quite amusing to watch them, wondering when they will finally notice her. Well eventually they did notice her, for her sheer slight joy. It was time to play, she still felt the emotional pain from earlier.

The crew of swashbucklers approached her with drawn scimitars. Her eye immediately got drawn to the curves exotic weapon. In the past she had rarely used another sword beside her flaming fang, because any other blade simply got destroyed by her own magic, but those swords seemed quite interesting!

When she was asked the question by the pirates, Ki’ira couldn’t help but smile, as she can hear the fire quickly spreading from the distance.” Me is Ki’ira.” She replied in a silly manner the way the man posed his question. “ Me is the one who set this forest ablaze~” She then whistled, making a casual gesture with her hand to draw their attention to the red glow that could be seen in the distance from the forest.

“Frankly I would say the entire forest will probably get turned to ashes and I don’t really regret doing so.” She said with a smile and a grin focusing her attention on the pirates once more.” Now I too have some questions for you guys and girl. First of all I do very much wonder if you have some alcohol and food to spare?” She asked them with a friendly playful smile." The stronger the better~"

“Additionally, I’m dying to learn what’s that about a temple that fine lady over there was saying. So what temple were you people talking about ehh?” She asked, as a small fireball appeared in her hand. A fireball she quickly threw at the now dead campfire. The campfire suddenly lit up from the magical fire.” Now why don’t we get a drink while you tell me about that temple of yours?” She asked as she casually began spinning a few small fire spheres above her hand. Obvious sign she can use her magic at will, so they don't try anything funny.

Elowen approached the glowing book, it's surface shining like a piece of amber-colored silver in the morning sun, making the words a tad difficult to read. However the words, "Novissah guides and aids those who require it, and curses the unworthy with ignorance," brought some measure of thoughtfulness to the knight's mind. At first, she simply stared and pondered upon it's existence, but eventually placed her hand on it's warm cover to see attempt turning it's pages. However before she knew it, her senses were overwhelmed by darkness that seemed to shift and move, like snakes in a pitch dark room. For a moment, it reminded her of her death and she tensed, wondering if she had made the wrong move and found it's embrace once more.

She didn't though and instead found herself back in the halls of Novissah, the book still sitting calmly beneath the palm of her hand, but everything was so different. The place was alive with light and flame from the recently dead deity was crackling in the distance, but not all was calm. Elowen found herself in the middle of a conflict, a battle, right here in the halls as priests in robes and paladins in armor created a human wall against some of the most terrifying things she had yet to see. They were as if some sort of demon, twisted spires upon their shoulders, and heads contorted into helmet looking visages, while their skin was like ash though it turned away even the most beautifully crafted blade. Neither did the demons nor the clergy or knights seem to notice her presence as she watched with narrowed and examining eyes.

Elowen was jarred from her focus as an apprentice ran into her with haste and past her, another following his steps, fear in their eyes. It was no wonder for one of the demon had managed to get past and was hunting them down for the liquid vial they held close to their chest. Quickly without hesitation, the White Knight pulled her dagger and jumped into the demon's way, surprising it as if she appeared from nowhere. She drew her dagger and stabbed it's tip against it's flesh, though the normal steel refused to pierce the creature's skin. It roared in anger, but Elowen wasted no time as she focused the energies of divine magic into the dagger, making it erupt with power. The dagger slipped into it's torso as she stared it right in the eyes with a fiery glare. Activating her 'Moon Flash,' she blew the beast apart with such a force that it cracked the stone beneath it's feet, making it dissipate like ash-colored smoke. Whatever it was, it had not expected her nor had it expected her able to focus magic in such a way.

That's when the rest of the room seemed to become aware of her, the two apprentices quickly slipping through a magical portal and disappearing, and some of the paladins staring at her like she was some sort of savior. Silently, one of the paladins that seemed dressed in armor that was etched with golden designs, tossed her his blade. She caught it with god-like reflexes and twirled it so the tip faced towards the sky, ready to show these creatures what it meant to face her Sword Rune's might. As if being called from a distance though, she felt a tug in her chest and then a flash of bright light, blinding her. Rubbing her eyes as they adjusted, she found herself once again in the present - the light was devoid, the flame cold, and the halls destroyed. One thing still remained though, her blade in hand which hummed unusually with an almost sing-song pitch to it.

She didn't have time to truly examine it though, to see if it was magic, or what sort of magic it held - not right now, and instead slipped it into an age-old sheath still on the temple's floor. Her eyes turned around towards where the apprentices had disappeared into to and briskly walked to the wall, placing her hand against it's surface. It was solid, unlike what she had seen, but she knew there was a room beyond it still. She blinked passed it and found herself staring at a small stone room, two skeletons, and a glowing iridescent liquid vial. 'Amazing,' she thought. 'It lasted all this time.' Wrapping her fingers around it, it even felt warm to the touch, she quickly stowed it away in a small pouch.

She phased again to stand in front of the book, pursing her lips curiously. How had the book survived all this time, she wondered, even against the onslaught of those demon knights. Powerful magic indeed must've been protecting it all this time and even more so to have escaped the vision of whatever slayed the gods. Elowen wondered though, what the liquid was for and where she should head next. She slide a finger across it's surface once more, hoping perhaps that it was guide her to where she was needed most... if not, her best bet was to find the largest beacon of civilization - the capital.

The mirror fell to the floor, shattering loudly. The old maid yelped at the noise, as her husband reflexively reeled back from the mysterious waif clutching his arm. The doctor and young man quickly found their way to the young lady's side and gently lowered her back into the cot they had assembled. Each of those present carried a pensive, worried expression as they looked to Arsanna. She was clearly unsettled in some way or another, and while they had not expected her to be totally coherent upon reawakening, they were clearly struggling with the possibility that they could be dealing with a madwoman.

"You're safe, my dear." The doctor spoke, taking a seat at the young woman's bedside. His white robes and bushy, grey moustache were a comforting sight to the ill and infirm, but it was not his expertise to deal with the mentally misaligned. Worry creased his brow, and he chewed on his clay pipe anxiously. "You are in the temple of Arsanna's Rest. You had nearly drowned in the oasis, until these people found you." He gestured to the small crowd behind him; an elderly farmer and his wife, and a surly young man with a sword at his hip. "Now, if you can, tell me your name. Where are you from? Where are you going? Speak slowly, there is no rush."





The inky cloak of night spread out over the land, casting the snow-covered landscape into a collage of black and grey. Mountains stood like shadowy phantoms against the backdrop of the clouded sky. Breaks in cloud cover showed only the murky void beyond, bereft of stars. Even if a storm had grown to cover the shame of the dying world, nothing could hide this painful truth from Daen for long. The Truthseeker looked out on a world in its final days of life; he had stepped out of one tomb and into a greater one.

This was one harsh, heartbreaking truth among many. This had always been the blessing of Saevus, a curse in equal measures. Daen had always stood open and vulnerable, exposed to knowledge as cold and cutting as the wintry winds that battered his naked flesh at that very moment. However, in the face of such dark and terrible truth, it was upon him to act. Just as it had always been. A trio of horses, presumably those of the plunderers, were tied but a few yards away, one with a small cart hitched to it. The few crates the horse pulled were most probably supplies for the brigands' journey, or storage for their loot. They stood complacently, shaking snow from their manes and tails. One noticed Daen, and stared at him with its big, watery eyes.

The men were still below Daen, screaming but alive. The fire was a short-term distraction; just as the mage had not been skilled enough to kill the Truthseeker, he most likely wasn't skilled enough to kill himself or his cohort. They would not be preoccupied for much longer, and would now be fueled by revenge, rather than mere greed. Once again, Daen remembered, it was upon him to act.





The pirates seemed unmoved by the demands and posturing of the pyromancer, standing shoulder to shoulder with their weapons at hand. One moved to fire his crossbow at Ki'ira, but a quick shout from the young lady among them halted him. Though she bore no signs of rank or other status among the pirates, the woman commanded some sort of authority over them. Still keeping an eye on the stranger in their midst, she moved closer to the crew and discussed the present matter in their strange tongue. Though the language was alien to Ki'ira, she could hear their frustration and anxiety in their rushed and chattering tone.

Their discussion seemed to end quickly. One of the larger men cursed in his native tongue and spat on the sand, before moving to one of the crates that lay scattered about. Prying it apart with only his bare hands and the strength of his bronzed, muscular body, he retrieved a dusty bottle of some manner of dark, pungent swill. With another disparaging utterance, he tossed the liquor to Ki'ira, and returned to barking orders at the crew. The gathered men returned to the task of loading the ship, though with quicker and more concentrated effort.

The young woman, barefoot on the sand and clad in a man's blouse and breeches, approached to sit cross-legged by Ki'ira. Though she was clearly on edge, she made her best effort to appear unfettered by the stranger's interruption of their operation. "It is a lovely forest. Wasteful to burn, no?" She fussed with the sleeve of her salt-stained blouse, rolling it up and then back down again indecisively. She was nervous about something, that was certain. "I am called Arue. What are you called?"





Ronan smiled, weary but envigored by victory. "Of course, my lord. The way to Kolantis is long, but there is no greater honor for a simple groundwalker to accompany our king on his journey."

Preparations were made quickly, and the two departed before nightfall. The jagged mountains of the Dragon's Spine gave way to the forests and riverlands as they journeyed southward. However, the curse that befell the mountain folk was far from theirs alone. Just as Ronan had said, Ansus itself was cursed. The land seemed starved and desolate, as though rotting from the inside. Rivers ran dry to dusty trenches, and many fields were naught but dirt and the yellowed bones of dead cattle. For every hamlet of peasants the king and his guide passed, they passed three more devoid of all life and habitation.

The nights were worse, though. Game for hunting and eating and clean water for drinking became quickly scarce on their journey, and despite many detours made to fulfill either need, there were many nights spent awake in tormenting hunger and thirst. Erebus was made weary and irritable by his mortal needs, but endured with steely will. Ronan, however, quickly grew haggard. Though as hearty as any of the dragonkin could be, he was still a man on in his years, and became withered and weakened. Even so, he pressed on. Each night Ronan wondered if he would awake the next morning, but he was determined that the damnable void of the starless sky would not be the last thing that he saw.

Some days into their harrowing journey, the duo of commoner and king found a passable stream from which to fill their waterskins. Ronan knelt at the riverbank, washing the dust from his face and hands between gulps of clean, cool water. Erebus waded a fair ways downstream, looking for any fish to impale upon his claws. However, his sharp vision caught onto a commotion half a mile away. A milling village down the river had a large gathering of some sort cropping up. While it was difficult to determine the finer details, Erebus could see enough. A man in robes, likely some sort of priest, waving a torch about. He stood next to a pile of timber, a human form atop it, and a crowd of farmers gathered around. From what Erebus knew of funeral pyres, though, the body was usually laid atop the kindling, not bound to it. This was not a funeral; it was an execution.

Curiosity gained the better of Erebus, and he wandered closer to the village to better discern the details of this public burning. What he discovered made his eyes shoot wide with shock and fury. This wasn't a criminal or heretic they were about to burn alive. It was a child. A girl, no older than eight or nine, was bound to a wooden pillar with a great pile of kindling gathered at her feet. Her green dress was dirtied and torn, and her bare feet were pricked and cut by the timber she was forced to stand on. Erebus looked even closer, and noticed that the child seemed greatly ill; her eyes were dark and withdrawn, she coughed and shivered incessantly, and great discolorations of purple and blue spread across her otherwise sickly-pale skin.

The torch-bearer shouted fanatically, the words of his speech Erebus could only make out as he drew closer. "And so we cast ye, foul demon, back to the infinite hells of Merkstave! With sword and scythe, fire and iron we scour ye from our home, damned by every man present a hundred times!" He seemed as gaunt and malnourished as the rest of the crowd, but with eyes alive with conviction. His face was covered in tattooed runes and scriptures, and in his free hand he wielded a staff whose crook was carved in the shape of a heron's head. "By the name of Sigarda Lifewarder, and in the name of Lotti Verdicloak, I sentence ye to fiery damnation!" With that, the priest began the ominous procession to the pyre, torch held aloft proudly. The girl about to be burned seemed delirious with fever, utterly unaware of what was happening around her. As the priest closed in, a woman in the crowd broke down onto her knees, sobbing wildly.

The priest was but five steps from setting the child ablaze, and Erebus was still a quarter-mile from the village. Even so, to clear such a distance in time to save the child would be a trivial matter to the Uncrowned. This was not his business, really; what arcane rites villages carried out in desperation were their own business. This was, however, a grim and disturbing act to witness, and it carried grave portent for villages that fared worse than this one.





Seeking guidance from the artifact left behind by her god, Elowen looked into Novissah's tome, and the tome looked back into her. The White Knight's mind was flooded with visions of a world quickly growing dark. A great maw, like a hole in reality, tore up and out from the earth. The purest darkness, the void made manifest, spilled forth from it. Demons crawled out of the hellish portal, their numbers innumerable, surging forth to reave and rape in the world of men. However, that was not the greatest evil of which this vision told. She could not see it, but Elowen knew it was there. A malevolence inconceivable by mortals, something not of this world, nor any world. Something not meant to exist, but brought to bear all the same. It was the death of all things; men, gods and worlds alike. Utterly inhuman, but intimately personal. It knows you're there, Elowen, watching. It knows what you're afraid of, and it knows you aren't strong enough to stop it.

The book snapped shut, breaking Elowen from her nightmarish vision. Whatever she had seen before paled in comparison to this. Now she understood what the tome was meant to show her; whatever had come before, it was nothing compared to what was to come. Worst of all, she alone, as she had been for as long as she could remember, would not be enough. She would need allies, and fast. Luckily for her, the Starsword was destined to gain comrades unlike those that the world had ever seen before. Well, truthfully, they had been seen before perhaps once. And with one final gift from her fallen god, she now she knew where to find them.

It really was very cold. Daen shivered as he sat up and turned back around to peek down at the stranded graverobbers. The archer had thrown his bow and was stalking around, looking aggravated. The mage was finally picking himself up off the ground. given a very sinister look by the tendrils of smoke rising up around him. And the Swordsman was sitting on his arse, rubbing his head and trying to figure out what had just happened. Daen shivered again, the cold settling into his bones. He'd never been one to pity the pitiless. Truth had always been his master, and the truth of it was that these men certainly did not deserve to live. They'd tried to rob him, and most definitely would have killed him had he not acted so quickly. And for what? The clothes off his back and perhaps a scrap of gold somewhere in the humungous mausoleum that had been Daen's place of rest for who knew how long? Well, at least they would have the time to find the latter. Although looking at the barren walls and plentiful cobwebs, he doubted they'd find anything.

He watched as the swordsman sat up and did a cursory inspection of his companions. He furrowed his brow at the archer, who was still stalking back and forth and spewing profanities, most of which were directed at Daen. The Mage sat dumbstruck, still trying to puzzle out why his magic had failed him so spectacularly. Then the swordsman pushed off the floor and reclaimed his dented iron blade from nearby. He walked over to the archer and placed a hand on the brooding man's shoulder. The archer stopped immediately, his adrenaline filtering out at the hint of companionship. When the swordsman spoke his words echoed off the high walls, making him sound ethereal.

"Bit more 'en we bargain'd for, 'ey boys?" The swordsman chuckled, but the archer didn't approve of his dark humor.
"Bit more eh? My fookin' hair's gone! Burnt off. Always tol'ya that fookin' mage'd be trouble!" the archer shook his fist at the still smoking mage, who shot him a dangerous look.
"Wa'nt my fault. That damn one eye'd freak was doin sumt'n crazy! Poppin' my fire like brine bubbles." He gestured back at the archer. "Never hit one of you boys before 'ave I?" The mage turned and spat blood onto the dark stone floor. "Nah, sumt'n odd with that'un. I mean, this place is spose'd be forbidden. What was he even doin way out 'ere?"
"Probly the same thing we're doin way out 'ere," the swordsman replied. "Probly has a family o' his own to look afta. Freezin' like the rest 'o us." The archer turned and spat gunky red spit onto the floor as well, but it wasn't blood, it was from whatever he was chewing.
"Spit that shite out Mulik, is Anne fine's out you's was chewin again she'll 'ave my head." The archer, Mulik, grunted and pulled the glob of whatever-it-was out of his mouth and threw it into the darkness.

Suddenly Daen felt something he'd not felt in a very long time. A pang of doubt. He couldn't recall the last time he'd misjudged an individual. That had been a quality that Saevus had so highly admired in him, his ability to see the truth in others. So how had he not known? He could only think that the lack of his lord was the cause. He'd been so in-tuned with Saevus that often times he didn't need to look to see. He furrowed his brow and looked over at the rope ladder that he'd pulled up. Then he looked back down at the graverobbers. He stood up and didnt have to look long before he found a bit of rubble nearby. He slowly inched the ladder back down into the moon door about a third of the way, then placed the cut stone rubble between two of the rungs that were laying flat on the stone roof. The men, who were bickering about something now, didn't seem to notice until Daen whistled to get their attention. At once, all three of them wheeled to look up at the moon door. The furious archer Mulik immediately went to grab an arrow from his quiver, screaming obscenities at Daen, but the Swordsman stopped him. He leaned over and whispered something that Daen didn't hear in Mulik's ear. Mulik then slid the arrow back into his quiver and lowered his bow.

"Look," Daen said, "I don't usually do this, especially to men who have threatened me. But here's your out. I intend to take one of your horses. And since you must've had a way to get out here, I also intend to take your boat. But I won't leave you to die down there." Daen stood and gestured to the precariously balanced ladder. "Of course that's assuming you can get yourselves out. Excuse my caution, but setting fire to people tends to make them slightly vengeful. Good luck lads." Daen turned to leave when he heard the swordsman call out. He turned to look back down at the men.
"Who are ya', one eye? Not many that can take down three arm'd men with only a shirt."
Daen smirked, trying not to seem as flabbergasted as the swordsman was by the fact that he had managed that.
"I'm Daen. The truthseeker. And if you'd excuse me, It's freezing out and i'd really like to get somewhere warmer."

As daen climbed down a pile of rubble from the stone roof, he heard the swordsman's dry laughter. He barely made out the words from this far.
"Warm? Ain't nowhere warm."

Luckily enough, he found a coat in the saddlebag of the speckled horse he chose to take. It didn't keep out the entirety of the bone-deep chill, but it was leagues better than being shirtless, so he couldn't complain. He rode out of the thicket of snow-laden trees that surrounded the mausoleum and rode down to the beach. The sea was covered in a thick white fog. But as Daen rode closer, he noticed that it wasn't a fog. Horse tracks stretched across a frozen strait of ocean, imprinted into the snow that laid atop the ice. Daen could remember when he'd come here to die, so long ago. It had been so hot he'd left most his clothing on the far shore before taking the crossing in his dinghy. Now it was as if ice had pumped through the veins of Ansus and frozen the skin of the world. Fog puffed after Daen's every breath and he begun his long trek across the frozen sea.
The words of the swordsman haunted him as he rode into what became a blizzard.

Warm? Ain't nowhere warm.

Ki’ira tilted her head in curiosity, observing the pirates and wondering what exactly they will do now. At first they were preparing to fight her and while she didn’t really think much of them, she also didn’t really want to deal with the bolts wounds so she was preparing to use her powers to defend herself. While she wasn’t exactly anywhere near as fragile as normal humans, wounds were still capable of killing her as her death in the past had proven before. These crossbow bolts were still danger, she wondered if she should just burn them right now, but stopped when the woman in the pirate crew proceeded with stopping the men. She seemed to have some kind of authority among them. Ki’ira like that~

As the discussion ended, Ki’ira’s ears twitched curiously as she wondered what kind of consensus had the pirates reached. She observed with interest as one of the men went to a crate and pulled out a bottle from it, he then proceeded with throwing it to Ki’ira who was still in distance from them. The fact he threw it that far actually meant he was quite strong. The fox eared woman quickly reached and took the bottle. She quickly pulled the cork and smelled the liquid… a huge happy grin appeared on her face as she quickly took a big gulp from it.

“Wasteful or not, I’ve already set the fire. That forest needs to be razed to the grounds, in it’s depths reside horrors that should not be allowed to exist.” Ki’ira replied after her first big gulp from the alcohol… it was rum if she wasn’t mistaken. She now took a good look at the woman that approached her, sizing her up. She wore clothing suitable for movement, Ki’ira herself was a follower of clothing that allowed mobility. As the woman sat by her, the fox eared woman proceeded with also sitting down.

“Ki’ira, nice to meet ya.” She replied to the woman’s question and took another big gulp from the bottle of alcohol. She frowned as felt a pain in her arm. She must have opened her wound, it was bleeding slightly again. She put the bottle in the sand and proceeded with pulling up her sleeve so she can check the bandage.“ So it’s obvious you are doing some sort of operation here. Going by the looks of it… some pillaging of a temple?” Ki’ira asked with a smile, taking another big gulp from the alcohol.” Personally doesn’t matter to me, what I’m more interested now is why are you so nervous? All I asked, was what was that temple you were talking about.”