Across the Graveyard

Long fingers of ivory ran across blemished, dark stone. With every stroke across the engraving of his family name, more of the past returned to Volkimir. He remembered the final battle, the sword struck in the heart of the ancient evil of this place. He remembered the storm, and he remembered the dawn. How much time had passed since Volkimir had made his final sacrifice. Indeed, he now remembered that he had died on the battlefield. By what power had he been resurrected to a world unfamiliar to him? And for what reason? Questions filled his mind in a torrent, very nearly blinding him to the danger at hand.

As the first ghoul approached, Volkimir was slow on his draw; he only managed to take off one of its arms with his sword. The blade sang in the air, its edge as sharp as winter. Volkimir swung the blade back around, dancing the bastard sword through his fingers as though it were no heavier than a reed. The second strike swept straight through the animated corpse, its bisected halves collapsing in a disgusting heap a moment after. As the rest of its kind approached, Volkimir gripped his sword, breathed slowly through his nose, and began the dance of death. Man and blade became one, an inseparable whirlwind of destruction. Volkimir had lost nothing from his unknown ages of blessed sleep, the very same saint of swordsmen that had been feared so very long ago.

When the killing stopped, the world fell silent once more, save for the final, deathly note hanging on the Bound Blade. Volkimir breathed as calmly as a man asleep, his unnatural body not warm enough to breathe clouds into the frigid air. Powder snow, stained with blood, drifted through the air like rose petals, carried by the steel breeze. Volkimir stepped out of his combat posture, standing straight. With a swift motion, he flicked the blood from his midnight blade, spattering it against the stone "Sturmkirk." It seemed that his homeland, and his very name, were still unclean.

Volkimir followed the lingering scent of death through the quiet, wintry wood. These undead monsters left queer tracks, difficult to follow, but the dread they carried was strong enough. The vampire happened across one or two more, quickly dispatched by his blade, but their trail was consistent with that of those that had attacked him. This forest was full of the horrors, which must have been attracted to Volkimir as he moved through the glen. Soon the forest thinned and Volkimir approached what he knew to be the lakefront. There was a settlement here, larger than a village but smaller than a city. Yet another sign of the world having grown unfamiliar to the vampire. Either millers or fishers, likely both, from what Volkimir could tell. Though he would be surprised if there were any left.

The graveyard, strangely placed outside the western walls rather than the east, had been utterly exhumed. The living dead roamed freely about the keep, with scarcely any sign of life detectable to Volkimir. There were signs of struggle, but not of conflict. Barn doors were torn down, wagons overturned and a few huts and cottages burned down. This had not been a battle, this had been a slaughter. Even so, the blood spilled was still fresh, and there were still embers burning. Whatever had brought this nightmare to pass could not be far. It could even lurk within the keep.

While it was within Volkimir's power to purge the town of ghouls, this would be counterproductive. He did not wish to scare away whatever force had raised them. He was unsure of what he would do upon discovering the source of this darkness, but he supposed he would know when he found it. With arts of stealth both unnatural to men and learned in foreign lands, Volkimir infiltrated the midnight streets. He was invisible to the owl, and silent to the bat; well below the notice of these dumb and brutish creatures. Drifting gently over the snowdrifts, he crept through the town like the shadow of a ghost. Whatever had wrought this massacre had no chance of detecting Volkimir if it still lurked, and it could not hide from the hunter of men for long.

Jaralia slowly made her way out of the Yimosha’s gloomy stone halls, and into the searing light of the sprawling desert which lay ahead. The heat was beyond sweltering, and the sands beneath her feet boiled under the twin suns.

The Night Thirtser’s vision began to clear up as she adjusted to the intrusive brightness, and it was then that she noticed the not-so-distant squawking in a language she did not understand.

Two dark-skinned men, dressed from head-to-toe in loose white robes and silken scarves, stood by the entrance of the Yimosha, a small grey elephant with a great stoney trunk and glistening ivory tusks standing between them.

“Yataba justamon kimrocknette!” One of the two men barked at Jaralia , shooting her a seething look from beneath his white headpiece.

Jaralia’s bodily functions were still flickering back to life, but the gift of the tongues was one of the first spells her tutor had taught her, so she had little trouble casting a quick charm to dissolve any language barriers which may have created further obstacles for her.

Now to try something a bit more complex…

It had been countless centuries since she had last dined on the flesh of another, and she had no way of knowing how potent her Taberyat magic would be. Hopefully whatever being had resurrected her had possessed enough sense to replenish some of her power.

“What business do you have here?” She asked in perfect Vashelee. Her arcane magic began to crackle through the air, seeping into the minds of the two men who stood before her. Her spells burned through their very persons, washing away any hint of resistance, and replacing the spark of will with an unwavering desire to answer their new mistress.

“We are servants of Magistrate Vaqnaaris,” one of the men replied almost instantly “hailing from the city of Ahak. Our master sent us to tend to his grandfather’s tomb.”

“You have no master other than me.” Jaralia said calmly, and the two men nodded in agreement.

“How far from here stands Ahak?”

“Five miles westward.”

Jaralia’s eyes fell upon the grey beast which stood between the men.

“Which of you does your master value more highly?”

The first man pointed to his companion, before speaking in a flat monotone “Magistrate Vaqnaaris has taken Lonatis as his lover.”

“It is true.” the man called Lonatis replied in the same dull voice.

Jaralia could feel her mind being stretched to its limits as the manacles of her Taberyat ensnared the two men, which meant it was very unlikely she’d be able to cast such a spell on this Magistrate, without nourishment. She had no idea how sincere Vaqnaaris’ feelings were for Lonatis, but she suspected that he wouldn’t want word of their affair sweeping through the streets, so one way or another she had a hold over him.

“Help me up on to the beast.” She commanded her new puppets.

Taking hold of her tree-trunk-like legs, the two men heaved Jaralia’s massive bulk up onto the Elephant, pushing their strength to its limits.

“I need only one of you,” She called down to them, as she sat atop the creatures grey hide “Lonatis; you will guide me to Ahak.”

She placed one finger on her full-lips.

“You. Servant. What is your name?” She asked of the second man.

“Shaventis, mistress.”

“Bury your head in the sand, Shaventis.”

Lonatis guided the Elephant through the sandy dunes of the Plains of Dust, with Jaralia sat comfortably atop it. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the gates of Ahak, with its vast sandstone walls and towering silver spires.

Two guardsman in pale shawls and metal hardhats came striding out from behind a bronze portcullis, scimitars glistening in the sunlight.

“What business have you in Ahak?” One of them called out in a voice like coarse gravel.

“Business which concerns the Magistrate Vaqnaaris.” Lonatis declared, as Jaralia fed him the words through a hushed voice in the corner of his mind. He reached inside his white robe, and pulled out a disk-like silver medallion, which he presented to the guardsman. The Seal of Vaqnaaris.

Lonatis was permitted to enter Ahak, with Jaralia swaggering in behind him on her elephant.

The cobbled streets were awash with bustling parades of bright colour and flamboyant silks. Beggars lined the gutters, whilst noblemen and women sauntered past on veiled litters, carried on the shoulders of scantily clad slaves. Authentic stone arches adorned the great sandy towers which sprang up from the ground, and great palace-like houses with vast silver domes swept across the upper-echelons of the city.

Guiding the elephant forwards, Loantis cut a path through the tightly-packed crowds, and brought Jaralia to the villa of Magistrate Vaqnaaris.

“We are pleased to see you return, Master Lonatis,” A guardsman called out as the robe-clad servant helped Jaralia clamber down from the elephant.

“Who is this?” The guardsman regarded Jaralia with a look of confusions “and where is Master Shaventis?”

“Shaventis had personal matters to attend to.” Lonatis said plainly, as he lead Jaralia up the bronze steps to the villa.

“The Magistrate will be most displeased-”

“That is for the Magistrate to say. Return to your post.”

A marble floor lay beneath a vast silver dome, and Magistrate Vaqnaaris was taking his dinner in at the far end of the hall when the pair approached him. He sat on a raised dais, enthroned upon a chair of ornately carved jade twisted together with bands of gold.

“Ah, Lonatis!” Vaqnaaris’ face lit up when he caught sight of his favorite servant, but dropped as his eyes fell upon Jaralia’s doughy form “I didn’t realize we were having guests.”

The magistrate was a slender man, with wispy brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had olive skin, and deep brown eyes the colour of rich chocolate.

Jaralia extended one hand to the vast dining table, gesturing to a slender silver knife.

“Pick it up.” She commanded Lonatis, whilst the Magistrate looked on in shock.

“My lady, this is a private villa, I’m afraid I must ask-”

“Press it against your throat.” She commanded the servant.

Lonatis scooped the knife up off of the table, before pressing the blade against his skin, so firmly that a thin band of bright red began to tumble down his neck.

“What in Orthus’ name are you doing?!” The magistrate barked, his eyes wide with horror.

“Do I have your attention, Lord Magistrate?” Jaralia asked plainly, as Vaqnaaris’ let his spoon plop down into the soup bowl below.

“I suppose you do.” He said quietly.

“I’m well aware of the relationship between you and this...lowborn,” she began, the distaste evident in her honeyed voice “and I can’t imagine you’d want the rest of Ahak to be aware of it as well…”

“You told her…?” the Magistrate’s voice quivered as he cast a glance over to Lonatis.

“It's amazing how quickly love is forgotten in the face of power and wealth.” Jaralia sneered. She felt no obligation to divulge the existence of her manipulation magic to Vaqnaaris.

“I wouldn’t have made something of you…” Tears began to pearl beneath the Magistrate’s eyes, dripping slowly down his olive cheeks.

“You took too long.” Lonatis replied in his dry monotone, as Jaralia toyed with the strings of his mind, blood still dripping down his neck.

“By the makers!” Vaqnaaris wailed “Drop the damn knife, my love!”

“You will surrender this villa, and all of your assets to me.” Jaralia declared “Or Lonatis will slit his own throat.”

“D’you have such little regard for your own life?!” the magistrate sobbed “Such little regard for my love?!” but whilst Lonatis screamed from within the confines of his mind, the magistrate’s pleas fell upon deaf ears.

“Why are you doing this?!” He shrieked through tears, as Lonatis continued to press the knife into his flesh.

“Life with you has no meaning,” Jaralia spoke through Lonatis “I’d rather die than live on as your salve.”

“S-slave…?” She could practically see Vaqnaaris’ heart split in two as he mirrored his lover's words. She had broken him.

“I think it's time you left, former magistrate.”

Casting Lonatis one last mournful glance, Vaqnaaris padded slowly from the room, his shoulders slumped. Jaralia knew she could rely on the magistrate to transfer everything over to her. His weakness was that his love for Lonatis was genuine, and his desire to keep his loved one safe transcended all sense of reason. Lonatis must have understood the politics of Ahak, so it couldn’t be too hard for him to draft up some form of excuse as to why Jaralia had replaced Vaqnaaris as magistrate.

The Night Thirster plopped heavily down in the Magistrates' throne, her vast girth spilling over its jade seat.

“Now,” she grinned “I do believe I have an empire to rebuild.”

The first thought that crossed Dormeria's mind was, surprisingly, based on what Atroa must have thought of her legacy to address her as he did. She was no stranger to individuals quaking in her presence, or to sycophants hanging upon her every syllable, but she had expected another reaction entirely from a member of the Order of the Skyward Eye. She had elevated them in the Atronanian empire, she had forced the Imperial Court to give them enough land to continue their work for as long as truth needed to be found, and she had defended them from attack as their order came into its own so long ago. How long could it have been that her efforts to preserve the Order had been lost from even historians? Ten thousand years? Twenty? Thirty?

"How long has passed since the height of the Atronanian empire? How long has it been since I died...?" Dormeria asked, slowly still, but with much less rasping than her previous attempts at articulate speech.

"Just over forty-eight thousand years, Herald."

The number was staggering. It hit the Herald hard, and she almost physically recoiled from the length of time that she had missed. It was a good sign that the Order had survived at all, and it brought the first smile she had had in a very, very long time to her face to think that such a worthy cause had survived for so long. Before, she might have thought that it was their time to move on from this world, their debt to Orthus paid, but then she had another thought that had never really occurred to her until that crystallising moment - Orthus was dead. The void had consumed him, and now he had no sway over the mortal world. If he had not wanted her to save its embers from dwindling to ashes, why had she been brought back from her rest?

She realised then that she could not answer Atroa's question. She did not know why she had been brought back, and she could not simply ask a dead god for his opinion on the matter. It made her uncomfortable, being so unsure of her purpose, as her resurrection had displaced all of her firmly held beliefs on what life was about - she had known with such certainty that she had had a single purpose, and once that purpose had been fulfilled her life no longer had value. If she had been returned, that was not the case, and she once again had a purpose to fulfil - but unlike her previous life, she did not have her god's guidance to assist her. This time, her purpose was something she had to find, to earn - not to simply know.

"I... I think I was brought back to ensure that worthy lives continue to be lived." Dormeria replied, not having the heart to tell Atroa what had happened to Orthus, if he did not already know. In time, she could bear to tell him, but even without the aid of Silaxes she knew that the man had a truly worthy soul. She had seen true worth before, and to one practiced in noticing it it was impossible to escape - she knew unquestioningly that he deserved to be the Grand Exemplar, even if by his own admission the Order was dying. Whatever had taken Orthus and killed him would undoubtedly come for Ansus at some point in the future - it could be tomorrow, or in a year, or in ten thousand years, but it would come. She felt a renewed vigor and purpose in stopping whatever it was that had killed the Gods from consuming the life of Ansus and breaking the great cycle, and even if only wishful thinking, that knowledge empowered her.

"The Order of the Skyward Eye has always been worthy - always - and that is why it has survived for almost fifty thousand years. I may not know why I have returned, Atroa, but I will not stand by and allow such nobility to be quashed. We will take back the Ivory Towers, and we will restore order to a dying world. Perhaps you can dispel any myths lingering in your mind as we do so."

"We?" Atroa asked, a little taken aback at Dormeria's request. It was an honour, to be sure, but he was a scholar - not a fighter. Still, he had heard the tales of Ukenagasu's power and he could feel the waves of arcane energy emanating from it even as one not attuned to magic. If Dormeria lent her power, he would assist her - if only for the fact she was the greatest historial find anyone in the Order had ever come across.



It did not take Dormeria long to regain her physical bearings when her sense of purpose returned to her. With Atroa's assistance, the pair climbed to the top of the ravine in which her graveyard had rested and looked out across Ansus proper. Dormeria's face was one of confusion, of faded longing, and Atroa's one of fierce determination that the land needed to be saved from the ills that plagued it. With a wave of her hand, Dormeria dug her potent magic through the earth and brought the skeletons and putrid flesh of two horses up from the ground. Living horses had the unfortunate capacity of requiring sustenance and feeling fear - take their minds away and reanimate only the flesh, and obedience is all but hardwired into them.

Atroa immediately gagged at the scent, but with another burst of energy from Dormeria immediately felt better about the situation. She had hoped to avoid the inevitable wretching and profuse vomiting that usually occured when those not attuned to necromancy first smelled the rot, but as the awful sound and then rush of liquid escaped Atroa's mouth, she knew she had been too late.

"Recover quickly - we are riding for Callixus."

"... We tried to stand our ground, you know? The brazier had been fed for years, since the very beginning, but one day in the middle of a ceremony it just..." Atroa began, trailing off somewhere into the recesses of his mind as he thought about it. Perhaps he felt guilty, or perhaps he did not have the strength to tell her of the massacre that had no-doubt transpired. Whatever it was he felt, she left him in peace. Her resurrection had been a lot for her to believe - never mind a historian that had no-doubt studied her life and and her purpose.

Zhan had been walking for three days, and he was thirsty. Much of the city had been buried by the ravages of time, and much of the landscape was different. The mountains to the north were familiar, but that was about it. He hadn't, in those days, found a single other person in what had once been one of the world's largest and most prosperous cities. He moved on, southwards.
For another four days he walked south along the river, foraging for food and wishing that he had the materials to brew a proper drink.
As the river began to turn west, he finally came across a settlement. In the bend of the river was a large city, not near as great as what had once been the seat of his brother's empire, but still reasonably impressive. It had been centuries since he had spoken to another actual person. This would be interesting.

He walked up to the open gates of the city, and followed the flow of traffic inwards. It took him to the city center. He continued searching, and eventually came across what looked like an inn. Entering, he made his way to the bar, and looked to the man serving others, taking him to be the innkeeper.

"Ah, excuse me kind sir, but do you happen to have any room for an old man who finds himself a stranger in a new town? If you need any staff, I will gladly work for my keep. I can cook, I can perform, I can clean the floors. Whatever it is you need me to do, I can."

"Hrmph, a vagabond. Well. You're in luck, our cook quit a week back, said he 'couldn't work in these hostile conditions' or some other tripe. I've been doing the cooking. A room for the night is one silver, food is five coppers for a meal. I'll pay you fourteen silvers a week, subtracting your fees... three silver and five coppers a week."

"Ah, you are very generous, I see! Very well, agreed. What do you need done first?"

"Get in back, find an apron and grow the stew. I'll be in and out whenever there're orders, and if I catch you slacking you're be out on your ass, old man!"

And so, the great General Zhan went into the kitchen with a smile on his face, happy that he'd found himself a stable source of income so easily.

“I will meet you there elder, but first I ask one request of the people. Never bow or kneel to me. You are my kin and descendants of my dear friends. The only one you should ever bow to Alnox. I am just a man.” Mark spoke with an old wisdom one that walking the world for four hundred years could give a man.

Markiel and the elder headed for the central lodge as the crowds dissipated into the city. Though the building wasn’t original Mark was pleasantly surprised that the style had been maintained for the most important building in the town. The building was a four story log lodge that took up three sides of the hexagonal town center. The foundation was stone and mortar, using gourd sized black and dark gray rocks likely collected from the volcano’s base, and the mortar made using the ash to be strong enough. The building had a front porch area that extended along the three sides giving able room for celebrations that needed more than the central platform. After all wildkin weren’t known to have tame celebrations. The strangest addition was glass windows. Mark had only seen them commonly in southern nations in lord’s houses. He had taken a mirror pane once as a trophy he recalled.

The first floor went from a somewhat small room to divide the cold outside from the main room, to a grand hall for indoor celebration. Huge logs were saw in half and placed back down as tables with benches lined along them. In the right wing was a kitchen with a few people getting back to work on food for tonight, and the left wing had an open area for all sorts of things that one might do during a holiday. The second floor was mostly rooms for the elder and the other leaders in the city. All the major groups were represented here: farmers, hunters, artisans, soldiers, and then the elder acted as the guiding wisdom overall. The third floor was a sanctuary to Alnox a specific place for the keeping of his fire, lit from the great fire itself. The room was eerily cold despite the rest of the building being very cozy. Mark was quick to notice why. In a black brazier before an idol of Alnox were a pile of cold ashes.

Mark felt the emptiness pulling at him again. What had happened to Alnox? How would anything happen to Alnox? Certainly when there was no faith in him his powers were restrained, but here the world was forty thousand years of praising the god, and his flame gone. Mark tried to refocus grabbing the hilt of Omega and feeling its vast energy.

“Elder how long have the ashes been cold?” Mark asked the faintest hint of despair in his voice.

“Some time now. Without Alnox the wilds have been an unsteady place. Though the bounty is still great here we have noticed the crops weakening and the animals are thin. I have been in debate over calling a feast for your return.” The elder explained.

“Call for it, but not for me. Tonight we honor Alnox with our courage to carry on. I need to meet with the best smith in town. I shall bring the bounty for the feast. Tonight we dine as children of Alnox. All other matters can wait for our god.” Mark affirmed.

“Before you seek him. You left something here long ago.” Agreth told the Arbiter.

The old man pointed to a carved chest with an owl designed into the wood. Mark opened it to find a number of dull colored metal plates.

“Ah my old armor. Left these behind so I could sneak into Ghorian’s keep. Nice to have them back.” Mark chuckled.

“We’ve kept them here all this time unsure of their properties. The legends were never very clear as to what they could do.”

“They’re steel… just well made steel. I never had magic armor. Never knew an enchanter who could make some.” Mark explained starting to put on the armor over his leather gear.

Mark held a metal mask in his hands the eye slits in the shape of a dive-bombing bird. He put it in his satchel for now. It was made to intimidate his foes not his kin. He turned back to the elder now far more like the legends depicted.

“Now about your smith. I’m in need of a new crossbow and some bolts if I’m going hunting. Maybe even some other things.” Mark explained.

“Right. You can meet with Bairn. He’s the best one we have. Maybe not a legendary craftsmen, but best in a few hundred years.” Agreth said.

The Elder directed Mark to a large smithy that had a number of craftsmen working in it, but all were taking orders from a big man with a sledgehammer in his hands. When Mark called to him everyone froze seeing the legendary hero.

“I didn’t tell you to stop working. You have jobs to tend.” Mark ordered.

The workers went back to work still looking over their shoulders at Mark. Mark crossed to the man with the sledge.

“I’m looking for Bairn.” Mark said simply.

“What can I do for you Arbiter? I doubt I could do anything for your blade.” Bairn explained his voice gruff from years of breathing the forge’s smoke.

“I’m not looking for something with my sword. I’m thinking more about ranged options. I need a crossbow and bolts. I’m going hunting.”

Bairn thought for a moment before bringing Markiel to an armory of sorts that had a number of tools and weapons that had been finished. A couple of crossbows were ready, but all seemed too small for Mark’s needs. Mark picked up the largest of them and held it in one hand pulling it back with the other without any problem.

“Sorry, but I don’t think any of these will do for my prey. Perhaps it’s time to share some old Harrir knowledge.” Mark explained releasing and putting down the crossbow.

“Oh? What’s so special about a Harrir crossbow?” Bairn asked

“Largely? the size.” Mark explained, “The crossbows I grew up with were for hunting big heavy prey. Come on lend me the tools and I’ll trade you the technique.” Mark said taking a few tools and one of the normal crossbows.

Mark dismantled the weapon and started to teach Bairn how to build a heavy hunter’s crossbow. The weapon was nearly doubled in size and the mechanism enhanced here and there. Mark had maintained his crossbow enough to know how each and every piece worked and remake it from memory. Between the two men they produced a new heavy crossbow within a couple hours and new bolts for it were prepared by the lower workers. It came time for a test, and Mark asked for them to set up a metal chest plate in front of a target and a log behind that. Mark pulled back the crossbow which now required actual effort for him. He aimed for the briefest moment and put the bolt through the chestplate’s “heart”, through the target, and half way into the log.

“Now that’s my kind of crossbow.” Mark laughed as he heard it crash into the log, “A grand weapon for the arbiter. Use the knowledge well.”

The workers cheered briefly, but Bairn got them back to work before talking to Mark again.

“So about that hunt of yours. Do you intend to go alone?” Bairn asked.

“I think it would be best if I spent some time alone. Well with Boreas of course. Most of my hunts were just me and him. It’d be best if it was still that way for now.” Mark explained, “I need to experience this new world for myself.”

The owl had been circling the town taking in everything new, but now was perched atop the obelisk. The hunters met up there before heading out of town. Boreas lifted Mark grabbing two special latches on the back of his armor before they took off to search for a good hunting grounds. They picked a tall coniferous forest as their target. There were a number of possible targets. Mark didn’t really have time for anything too exotic though. Probably have to keep bear off the menu. Perhaps just a few nice deer. Boreas was large enough to carry deer, and so the duo could hunt a number of them over a couple hours.

Boreas hopped from branch to branch silent as ever his soft feathers muffling the wind itself. A normal man of Mark’s size with the equipment he carried should have made a terrible noise, but while he wasn’t silent like his owl Mark was astoundingly quiet. The duo happened upon a grazing buck, and made their move. Mark pulled back the crossbow locking it’s string in place before loading it. The buck only just looked up as the bolt shot in and through it. The crossbow was more for extremely dangerous animals like the occasional dire boar or worse so bear. With the right bolts and set up it could even handle monsters. Probably be fun for killing vampires, launch whole stakes need be.

Mark tended to the kill a bit before Boreas swept in and carried it off. Mark returned to searching. He never felt quite right alone, but he had hunted in this area for years he was hardly afraid. The greatest hunter of his era, why should he be. But not even he was not a target for the beasts here. The lumbering creature was easy to hear, but the speed impressed Mark. The arbiter scrambled up a tree as eight hundred pounds of apex predator charged towards him. A grizzly big and likely very hungry. Also the danger of hunting in the wilds is the other hunters. Blood will draw them like men to gold. Mark wasn’t stupid enough to fight it without an advantage. The grizzly was up on its hind legs claws sunk into the tree.

“You have two options. Leave now, or I will take you as the next in a long list of prizes.” Mark roared down to the bear his beast tongue translating.

The beast growled back shaking the tree trying to get Mark to fall.

“So be it.” Mark hissed.

Mark pushed himself jumping away from the tree and over the bear. He drew omega, and stood his ground as the bear began to turn. Mark willed the roots to rise and they began to pull at the bear slowly creeping up. The grizzly ripped away charging at Mark, but it was still staggered by the roots even as it ran. Mark raised a hand and threw a sigil of fire into the beasts eyes. It cried in agony and rage still charging blind. Jumping aside and with both hands firmly on the magical blade the arbiter slashed a wide arc that connected with the back of the bear’s neck. The blade continued through without heed as did the carcass of the bear tumbling and falling into a great fir.

“Nature follows my will. Sometimes by force.” Mark said cleaning the blade and sheathing it.

He whistled a piercing and eerie note that echoed for some distance. Boreas called back soon landing near his friend. Mark took out a vellum parchment and wrote for the village to send a cart and some hands to collect a prize of the hunt. For now Mark began to haul the carcass dragging it behind him while he kept a steady march. After some time Mark made it to a main road where Boreas would be able to lead the men. He rested here tending the kill removing all the was unneeded. The cart eventually arrived drawn by a sturdy stout horse and with three men in it. The kill was loaded as best as it could be into the cart and the rest was split up to be carried by the men, Boreas, and Mark. After the long walk back the food was delivered to the lodge for cooking.

Mark cleaned up his armor and weapons stowing them in the sanctuary before joining those in the kitchen. His primary job may have been to fight kingdoms that overstepped their rights, but one of his favorite tasks was to cook. The surprise on the villagers faces was quite hilarious when Mark stepped in beginning to skin the bear and select meat for serving. He rattled off cuts and soon had a whole platter of meat ready for cooking. While most groups would scoff at eating something like bear the wilds were different when it came to food. Short of a few organs almost everything was eaten. The head would be mounted certainly, but the rest was good food. Mark quickly learned his way around the kitchen and was putting together a big roast and preparing the hunk of meat for the spit. He cut into it at the sides and stuffed vegetables and herbs into it before plugging the holes with the spit spikes. The rest largely went to stew and longer preservation.

When the time came for the festivities all the villagers gathered in the hall and found seats at the tables. Mark was seated in the elders’ chair at a head table for all to see. With all of the people gathered Mark rose and raised a tankard of ale.

“Alnox has given us much. Forty thousand years of blessings. He gives us not only sustenance, but our strength and courage. He gave me my gifts, and through me gave us the wilds.”

All the wilkdkin cheered rising mugs as well.

“For shame that you have squandered it.” Mark roared his tone changing rapidly, “Three hundred and eighty years of war to build up this nation, to protect it from the southern kingdoms, and you all simply join them? The Wilds need no one but Alnox. I see why I have been returned. The Wilds will be their own again. So says Nature’s Arbiter.”

He would freeze to death. Even with the cloak he'd found in the bags. If he didn't find shelter soon, he'd be part of the ice before daybreak tomorrow. The world had begun to turn dark not long ago, and as the light drained from the world so too did Daen's hopes of survival. He had no food, nor water or firewood. Even if he were to stop now, there would be nowhere for him to take shelter. The irony did not escape him. He'd been brought back to life as the sister moons has owned the sky, and now, upon their return, he would die once more. A whole day of life. He couldn't help but feel that it had been wasted on him.

The ice in his bones did not abate. Warm words had no effect on his body. He watched, helpless, as his precious heat escaped out into the storm with every breath.
"Hey!"
This was it. Saevus, wherever he had gone, would have looked at his champion in disgust. Wasting this treasured gift by dying in something as paltry as a storm. At least when he had died before he had done so on the path Saevus had paved for him.
"Hey!"
Daen pulled his face up, his face numb enough that he didn't feel the stinging snow. His left eye scanned across the white, he'd sworn he'd heard a voice. Perhaps it was the call of whatever laid beyond the warmth of the God of Truth.
"Hey!"
Yes that was certainly a voice, and it was certainly human. No otherworldly adventures then. He found himself somewhat disappointed at that. He would've reveled in the opportunity to unravel just once more before he laid down into his frozen tomb.
"Hey!" A man came stumbling out of the storm. He was holding an arm up to keep the snow from his eyes, and wore a large burly coat, along with heavy breaches and boots. He looked very warm. For only a moment, Daen considered running him over with his horse and taking the clothes for himself. But he thought better of it after a moment. Then berated himself for such shortsighted thinking. Saevus would again be disappointed in his behavior.
He sure was disappointing Saevus a lot now that it didn't matter.
The man stumbled closer and squinted up at Daen. The Unraveller pulled back on the mare's reigns and the horse came to a reluctant stop. The beast seemed to know that stopping meant stopping for good. Perhaps this wasn't the first time it had been out on the ice.
"Sir! Excuse me Sir!" The man waved a hand, as if he wasn't sure he'd gotten Daen's attention just yet. Daen furrowed his brow at the man. More to keep the snow out of his eyes than to intimidate.
"Could you spare a ride atop your steed?" The man looked slightly worried, but not frantic. Not desperate, just inconvenienced. Daen raised a quizzical brow.
"What are you doing out in a blizzard without a steed?"
The man gave a hearty laugh and gestured up at Daen "Well I suppose I could ask you a similar question of why you're out in a blizzard without proper clothing. But I'm sure we'd both be dead before either of us could finish our stories. So, spare a ride?"
Daen liked this man. He chuckled and tried not to look as frozen as he felt as he pulled the man up onto his horse.
"Thanks stranger. Let's head north. The town where I live is the closest place to here." The man pointed off somewhere to Daen's left. Apparently he'd been heading east. If he could remember correctly, that would have lead him out into the southern bay. He would've frozen for sure if this man hadn't come along.
If he hadn't wandered out of the frozen world and asked a complete stranger for a ride.
Suddenly Daen felt very wary. Or as wary as he could feel with his mind numb.
They rode in silence for some time before the man spoke.
"I'm Hedrid." The man said, having to speak loudly against the wind. "What's your name stranger?"
Daen tightened his grip on the reigns and shivered. At least the man was friendly.
"I'm Daen."
"Daen eh? Old name, that. Eastern name?" Daen turned and looked Hedrid, who's long brown hair flailed wildly in the stormwinds. Two emerald green eyes looked out from under a heavy brow. His face was mostly obscured by a thick beard.
"Aye. Eastern name." Daen said as he turned back forward and stared into the whiteness.
"So I know I said i wud'nt ask, but what's an easterner doing out in the middle of the everstorm without even a study pair of boots?"
Daen chuckled again. He wouldn't have considered himself an easterner. He was a man of all lands. His clothes would've said that for him, but the coat he'd found was more functional than stylistic, and his pants and shoes were caked in thick layers of ice and snow. So they weren't exactly good indicators. He'd always tried to wear at least one article from each major region of Ansus. You ended up offending less people that way when you were travelling all over. Of course, then there were the people that were offended even more by the mixing of traditional tendencies. Daen liked to avoid those kinds of people.

In fact, when it came to people, Daen tried to avoid as many of them as possible. He'd make conversation where necessary. But he'd always found himself too eccentric for the regular folk. On top of that, most towns had a seer or shaman of some kind, and they never seemed to like him much. Gave off a 'bad aura' or something like that. Maybe it was that they could tell he knew all about their phony practices and fake tonics. Most seers were just eucalyptus and strongwine. The occasional charm was enough to keep people from questioning they're 'divinely granted powers'. But Daen saw them for what they were, petty conjurers and cheapskates.
"Not much for talk'n are ye' stranger? Well, I don't blame you. Tough times, these."
It wasn't until Hedrid had spoken again that Daen remembered he'd been asked a question. Perhaps his brain actually was freezing. What could he even say to this man? 'oh I died but I'm back now, could hold the knowledge of the gods but I've no god to give it to me'. Daen chuckled again.
"Been a long day, and real cold. Last time I was here it was much warmer. Didn't dress the part I suppose."
Hedrid hmmmmed.
"Aye, used to be much warmer. Used to be fishers, me an' my wife. Then this storm whipped in and froze even the sea itself. Ha'nt let up since. And that were a couple o' years back. Only been gettin' worse since then," Hedrid shook his head. "Oh, here. Aint much, but it'll keep you a bit warmer." He pulled a heavy hat out from one of his coat pockets and handed it around to Daen, who grabbed it with frozen fingers. The flaps that came down over his ears were like a lovers' kisses. "Don't got much need for it anyway, as you might've been able to tell. Got enough o' my own fur to keep me warm"
The two rode in silence for a while as the light continued to drain from the world. The whiteness began to turn the pink of a snowy night. They must've road for nearly an hour before Hedrid tugged on Daen's sleeve.
"Oy, let's set here. We can finish the ride up in the morning." Daen scoffed and looked around, all he saw was snow. There was nowhere to make camp. and no wood for a fire.
"Where are we going to camp? Well freeze to death during the night if we stop moving."
Hedrid, tssked "You easterners. Thinkin' you need land and wood for a camp," Hedrid laughed heartily again. "Over there, behind that drift, pull 'er over there."
Daen shook his head, but did so. When dismounted and hit the snow, he realized his feet felt like bricks. He pulled his mare up against the snow drift to get out of the wind, and watched as Hedrid expertly scooped a decent sized divot into the snow. He used the snow he'd displaced to build up walls on all sides. As the walls climbed higher and began to tilt inward, he began to shape the icier snow into makeshift bricks, and stacked them inward until they met in the middle. There was a small hole in the top. The whole process took the man less than half an hour. In the time, Daen had sat down in the snow, and was now covered up around his waist in new snow. The mare had huddled up against the snowdrift, and was now nearly burried. The horse actually looked quite warm. Hedrid called to Daen from a deeper hole he'd dug under his walls.
Daen stood, snow cascading off him, and crawled into the hole. When he emerged, he found himself in a quite cozy, and more importantly, quite warm little shelter. Hedrid up and rooted around in one of the pockets of his coat. Then he withdrew a blackened piece of treated leather and laid it in the space between himself and Daen. Then, from another pocket of his apparently bottomless coat, he pulled a small cloth bag, tied with twine at the top.
He untied the bag and poured its powdery contents onto the leather. Then a flintstone from yet another pocket. Hedrid struck the flintstone onto the powder, which ignited with fervor, a small fireball prickled the skin on Daen's face. Then Hedrid immediately slapped a hand down on the powder, and Daen instinctively put his hand up to protect from the embers that never came. When he looked back down, the leather itself was red hot, and the powder had scattered into the air without a trace. A pleasant warmth came off the leather. Daen squinted at it, and could faintly see the strings of magic flittering around in little circles, coiling up and springing outward to give off heat.
"What is that?" Daen asked, genuinely curious. Hedrid smiled.
"Old family heirloom. A relic really. Never had much use for it before this endless winter."
Daen squinted at Hedrid. Who gave him another smile. Daen huffed and let the man keep his secrets.
"What about my horse, she'll freeze out there."
Hedrid shook his head. "She's a southern beast. Frozen steeds, we call 'em. Imported down from the cold north. Know how to stay alive out here, she'll be fine. Probably already burrowed nice and deep. The trick is findin' them in the mornin'." Hedrid laughed again. Merry man for being out in the middle of a storm. Now that he'd thawed out a bit, Daen realized he'd never asked why the man was out here.
"So, you asked me, so now I'll ask you. What are you doing out here? If you knew this storm was here why would you come out into it?"

Hedrid sighed. "Didn't come out into it, got left out here. Y'see, I'm a trader. 'Exotic wares', I guess you could say. Some bandits found me out on the ice north of the storm. I made my way in here to try and lose 'em. They found me, took my cart and all my goods, and left me for dead." Hedrid tapped on his temple. "Little did they know ol' Hedrid's still got some tricks in 'im. Been out on the ice my fair share of times. Even been in the everstorm once, when I lost my way. Managed to get out then, even if I did lose one of my mules.."

"Wait, I thought you said you and your wife were fishers?"
"That I did, before the Everstorm set in. Aint much fishin' to be done with no water, as you might've guessed. So we turned to more.. lucrative pursuits."
Daen nodded his head.
"We should get some sleep. Still got more ridin' tomorrow."
Daen nodded again, and laid down on the packed snow. The warmth of the magical leather kept him comfortable from so close, but for some reason didn't melt any of the snow. He'd have to probe that more when he wasn't so exhausted. He was quite curious to find out how exactly it worked.
As he drifted off to sleep, Daen felt something pass over him. It dragged like the links of a great chain. He took a deep breath as the realization came to him. This storm was no feat of nature. It was magic. What he had felt was one of the strings keeping the Everstorm magically bound to this place. It was large, monumentally so, but its nature reminded him of the Miasma of Oaxum. He could unravel it. He could make life so much better for these people. He could give them their lives back.

If only he had the seed. He brought a hand up and brushed over his closed right eye, feeling his eyelid sag inward slightly, reminding him of the emptiness there. Without the Seed of Truth, it would take him decades to unravel something so massive. He took another deep breath as he felt the next of the great links of magic crawl over his mind.

Sleep took him then, and in his dreams, he was small.
If only that were just a dream.

“Hmmm…” Ki’ira made a puzzled expression as she eventually found herself among the ruined walls of a once present here city. She looked around a few times, wondering where exactly could she be, but she remembered no such forest or such ruins from back when she died… it was strange and confusing. She followed the stony ruined walls for a little while, as the wind made the trees sing their song. As she was getting almost hypnotized by the song of the wind and the trees, something drew her eye towards the ruins of a nearby house. Her eyes flung open as in a moment she jumped towards the house with the speed and agility of a wild animal. She reached with her arm and soft fingers ran across a deep slash within the stone itself. The way it was done… as if melted, but a very long time ago. A sudden realization hit her at that time – This was Kaleze! Now that she realized that, everywhere she looked, she saw flashbacks at how she saw it at her death’s bed.” In Vinsha’s name… how long was I dead?” Ki’ira asked herself as something else finally she realized. She was not alone! The laughs of women could be heard, the forest had also as if had become even livelier.

Ki’ira couldn’t help but smile as she realized what was darting among the treetops. She couldn’t see them, but sure enough she could hear them and how many times in the past it was her and the rest of her sisters that were among the trees, playing with the unsuspecting travelers.” Sisters…” Ki’ira said with a smile and turned proudly, facing the direction of the laughers.

“I see things had not changed that much since my death…” Ki’ira smiled, her hands reaching out as if ready to embrace an invisible partner.” The forest magic of illusion… the art of given to us by our mother… why are you directing it towards me, my sisters?” Ki’ira asked with friendly voice.” Why are the daughters of Vinsha turning onto one of their own? Is the mark of our mother on my head not enough to recognize me?”

"If you do not meet me properly... I shall be forced to reply in kind for the magic of the forest I know too..." Ki'ira stated, as a haze formed around her, partialy obscuring her form, she had not yet used the complete illusion magic of the forest, for she wanted to believe her sisters were not a danger to her.