~Earlier The Night Before~
It was warm here, warmer than Marcus cared for. While the people were nice enough, he really couldn’t wait to get back to nicer climates. They had been here already for weeks, sent by the Ministry to investigate possible incursions from their Aretan neighbors. Together, Magus Corellian and Marcus were able to subdue an Aretan Knight who wandered too close to the border and return him to Muon Pond, where they spent several days interrogating him. For all their effort, they found very little. Except that Aretan Knights are just as foul and violent as the Magus had always claimed. Though, Marcus could respect the man’s will and courage to resolutely tell them nothing, despite the Magus’ sometimes barbaric interrogation methods. It had meant more times than one, Marcus was mending the wounds of a man who'd sooner run him through than spit of him were he free of his bindings.

Marcus didn’t know if he would ever be able to torture another man as easily as his Master seemed to, but he was an accomplice. Perhaps that was just as bad. He shook those thoughts from his mind as he finished mending the worst of what Corellian had done to their captor just minutes ago. Though, he didn’t know whether or not this would be helping the man, or simply prolonging what might be his eventual death in this depressing place.

Marcus slowly ascended the stairs from the cell the Knight had been kept in. As he approached the Magus, he voiced his concern on the treatment of their prisoner. “Master Corellian, I’ve seen to his greater wounds, but nothing I can do will help him if he simply succumbs to starvation…” The older Magus, still racking his brain over what little he had been given, finally spat out, “If you’re so intent on seeing him live so he might one day run you through, find him food then… As it is, he hasn’t given us anything. I’m not even sure he has anything to give us…” Corellius taps his finger against the desk as the other hand massages his temple in frustration, “Hell, he might even be searching for the same answers we seek. But it’s a fool’s errand to try to break this man. If we had perhaps found a squire or some messenger of their kingdom. But this Knight, his resolve is not so easily broken…” After a moment, he sighs and leans back into the chair he was resting on. “I’m getting far too old for this…” Right now, he looked old. As if all his life had just suddenly pilled itself onto his shoulders at this moment.

~Early Morning~

The guards sounded an alarm. Yelling in the distance. Screams. Magus Corellian snapped out of his daze and stood. The two were frozen for a moment, glancing at each other before the Magus pointed to the door, “Go, find out what’s happening out there. Protect the villagers if need be. I’ll make my way to you shortly.” Corellius turned and started down the stairs before turning back to Marcus one last time, casting a weary smile his way, “I know you can handle yourself out there, just make sure not to hurt yourself. Don’t get caught up in the moment and forget your head." And with that, the Magus disappeared into the depths of the prison, possibly for one last attempt at finding out what, if anything, the Knight knew of this attack. Marcus could only trust that his Master knew what he was doing, turning himself and pushing out into the street and what had already descended into chaos.

The air was already becoming thick with acrid smoke. It burnt Marcus’ eyes and set his lungs on fire. It seemed like the chaos was coming from every direction. A piercing scream drew his attention and he began running towards it. As he reached its location, he could see a couple of villagers attempting to defend their home from an attacker. There was one lone attacker against three villagers, but it was apparent that the assailant was far more skilled and prepared than they. One of the villagers already lay crumpled in a heap against his shack while the other two were failing to reach his body as the attacker had been trying to push them away. As he did, he threw his torch up onto their thatched roof and it instantly started ablaze. The attacker was clearly running out of patience with the two desperately trying to return to the fallen third and their home, parrying their makeshift broom weapon more forcefully each time the villager struck. If Marcus didn’t act fast, they’d all be dead.

It was times like this he cursed the rules of Viceni Magi only giving staves to fully realize Magus. If he had one, he’d have been able to channel his magic at a greater distance. No matter, he mused, he’d just have to use his hands. Still running at the scene full speed, he smashed into the attacked with all his force. The two went crashing to the ground and before the miscreant had any chance to respond, a fiery hand was being plunged through his chest. The man let out a terrible wail for an instant before simply lying there, gurgling and smoldering. The stench of burning flesh and clothing made Marcus gag. Perhaps it was the cruelty of his death. It took all his strength to free his hand and not heave up the contents of his stomach, but somehow he managed to calm himself. He looked down at the body he had pinned down. It was elven. Not Aretan. He refocused his attention on the villagers.

They were huddled around the villager who had been cut down by the elf. The man was still and not responding to the two pleading with him to wake up and get up. Marcus approached the two and pushed between them, placing a pair of fingers against his neck. He felt no pulse. The two, now apparent a wife and daughter, pleaded with Marcus to heal the man. He was a mage, couldn’t he just revive the man, return him from the dead? The nausea only spread through his gut further as he tried to explain that it wasn’t possible. The two begged and begged for him to pity them and bring their husband, their father, back. Marcus was trembling, how could he possibly explain to them the permanence of death at a time like this.

His eyes burned as tear welled up and ran down his face. He felt completely powerless between these two grieving for their lost family. With every last ounce of resolve he had left in him, he turned to the mother, “He’s dead. Dead. That elf killed him. I can’t bring people back from the dead. It’s not within my power. I can get you two out of here before more of these bandits show up to finish what they started. I’m sure that’s what he would have wanted; to see that the two of you were safe. I’m sorry.” The look in her eyes said everything. He could feel the suffering. The whole town was suffering. How many more people were being cut down so needlessly as the elves burnt everything to the ground? As he helped the mother to her feet, he tried his best to put the thoughts out of his mind. But this would haunt his mind for a long time to come.

~Now~

He watched as Muon Pond slowly smoldered. He stood amongst some villagers who had fled. His eyes still burned. His lungs still ached. His hands were trembling. He was tired. He was numb. The wails and cries of the villages only stirred his trembling more. He slowly turned back and looked at those who had escaped. While many seemed to have made it out, he was sure he noticed at least a few who were missing from the group. Many guardsmen. The barkeep. The woman who ran the bakery. He hoped that perhaps they would find their way to this group of refugees or find some other safety. His Master was still missing as well. He decided that, now that the bulk of the villagers had been escorted from the violence, it was perhaps time to find out what he could about the elven raiders. He approached one of the remaining town guards, “Make sure these people make it safely to the next village over. Warn them of roaming elven raiding parties. I need to investigate this further.” The guard protested for a moment Marcus leaving on his own, but Marcus quickly reminds the guard that his place is protecting these people. Matters of war are best left to the Magi. Marcus wonders himself how sound of a plan this is, trying to scout these elves alone. But if he doesn’t find out something, they’ll disappear faster than clouds over the desert they’re raiding through.

As he marched back to the village, he was left wondering what all of this meant. It was obvious now that the Aretans weren’t the ones ransacking villages. At the same time, what did these elves have to gain by raising tensions between the two governments. None of this boded well for them. And if the Magus and the Aretan Knight were gone or captured, there would be very little evidence beyond Marcus that these elves were responsible. He could only hope that perhaps that blasted Knight might see reason and ally against the common enemy: whoever these elves were plaguing the lands.

The fact that they made this raid so early meant that, aside from the thick smoke that now belched from the town, there was very little in the way of cover as he reapproached. He hoped a ward might assist him, which would appear very much like the already dreadful heat emanating off the desert sands. He took extra care to tread as carefully as possible and watch for any signs of them leaving. It was not his desire to be caught out in the open.

Cut off.

“Ah!” Alonso clung to his saddle and a handful of mane as he pitched violently forward. With a bray of alarm, his horse had locked its legs and skidded to a stop, burying its hooves in sand up to its bony ankles. The mare tossed its head, flashing the whites of its eyes in a furious panic.

The King hadn’t come to a stop as easily as the horse did, and ended up sliding off of the saddle by a few inches. His saving grace was a foot tangled in one stirrup, and for a few embarrassing moments he fought to right himself as he hung partially off to one side. While the dust settled and the Knight watched, the standard fluttering slowly in the soft wind, Alonso grunted and pulled himself properly upright. When that was accomplished at last, he twisted to look over his shoulder.

Having taken the direct route, Captain Serona was closing the distance on his own horse, now trotting at an easier pace now that Kolbe had put a stop to this inane chase. Though his means had been questionable.

Feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his brow, Alonso turned forward again, begrudgingly accepting his defeat with a growl.

“Alright, yes!” The King threw up his arms, then wiped his brow. “Saints alive, you have me! I surrender! Did Harking send you all the way out here?” He scoffed. “Man thinks he’s still regent. I’m bloody grown!”

He had, Alonso realized with a sudden stroke of guilt. The standard was stained with dirt and slightly frayed. It wouldn’t have left the castle in anything but pristine condition. The Knight himself looked worse for the wear as well. A man had been taken from whatever life he led to track down an errant manchild.

Growing uncomfortable in the saddle, especially after his rough stop, the King leaned to the side, swung his leg over, and hopped from the tired mare. He landed on the dry earth in a bit of a stumble, where he bent over and nursed his aching thighs for a moment. Sniffing, Alonso finally straightened, smoothed back his hair, and squared his shoulders.

Captain Serona’s horse trotted into view, stopping at an angle complementary to his fellow Knight.

“Your Highness,” he greeted thinly, bowing from his steed. An aside was hissed in the other Knight’s direction, accompanied by a swipe of his hand. “Kolbe, are you mad? He was nearly thrown.”

Alonso felt himself pale. Linus Kolbe? So he was still alive. Alonso had only met him face to gruesome face a handful of times, but the first memory of Kolbe his treacherous mind called up was from a nightmare he once had.

“Leave him be,” the King intervened. “I am no novice rider. And I am forced to respect his,” he pushed a breath through his nose, god that saddle had been unkind to him, “effectiveness.” Even if respect sometimes came a bit too close to ‘fear’.

Alonso gathered himself so he could recite one of his many rehearsed excuses for situations like this one, which had been sure to arise eventually.

“I thank you for coming all this way, Sir Knight, but this is not necessary.” Alonso held his arms behind his back, attempting some measure of regality though his body ached and his voice scraped through his dry throat. “I know I must seem very impudent, as the High Magistrate so enjoys painting me, but I have left the castle with good reason this time.”

Alonso closed his eyes in a wince, immediately regretting adding the phrase ‘this time’ and ruining his own credibility.

“Sire—” Serona swallowed his protest when his King silenced him with a gesture.

“I cannot return yet.” Alonso tucked his hand behind his back again. “I haven’t…” A frustrated breath escaped him. “I have not found what I needed yet. There is something happening outside my borders that I need to better understand, and no one can tell me anything. I became sick of waiting on my padded throne and hearing nothing.”

Preparing himself for an imminent round of exasperated sighs, Alonso swallowed and looked at his feet.

“I know this will not make sense to you, but I believe this might have something to do with my father’s death. He was murdered.” Alonso’s hands closed into fists. Serona’s head sagged when he thought his ruler couldn’t see. “And I do not know who I can trust. If I can even trust either of you.”

The King huffed a laugh in spite of himself and looked up across the valley.

“Grandfather always swore that assassins hid everywhere, especially among the most loyal.” He faced forward, suddenly resolute. “Go home. I will not be coming with you.”

---

The village was empty. The Ytharien had accomplished their ends.

Lothren gazed out at the burning ruins of a local church. The facade had collapsed into a smoking black heap, glowing red with ruin and embers. Charred beams fell crisscrossed over fractured pews and colored banners, once emblazoned with symbols of their faith. Its roof had once offered shelter to the pious and needy. Oversaw nuptials, funerary rituals. Welcomed children and aging old widows.

And now it was nothing but crumbled hunks of char, just like the dozens of homes and shops around it. Another village saved, Lothren thought bitterly.

The Ytharien were gathering in force around the jailhouse, prepared to set out. Some stragglers will still coming in from the street, their saddlebags filled with the spoils of war. Lothren did not approve of the practice of actual pillaging, but he seldom did anything to stop it. Claiming to be noble while taking lives and driving innocents from their homes was a dangerous inconsistency in a leader.

And he could not deny its practicality. The village might well be swallowed up in a matter of days, or hours, so why not take what one could carry?

“Nalendiel is dead, Lothren.” A darked haired elf led two riderless horses into Lothren’s midst, breaking his thoughtful trance. One sniffed the hide of another mount, one of two flanking Lothren patiently, as it approached. “He was killed viciously, with no mortal weapon. Galemnon suspects another mage lurks here. We must leave.”

“We will.” Lothren assured, staring off down a smoke clouded street. He thought he saw, for a moment, a silhouette? A villager the Ytharien had missed? Or a shadowy mirage of doubt? “We have a prisoner, an Aretan knight. Give me Thundrat.” He indicated the largest stallion. “We must move swiftly, so Sir Knight shall be riding with me.”

As the remaining Ytharien emerged from the jail, Lothren turned to greet them. Empty horses stood in a row, awaiting their riders. Gawain was given an indulgently smug look from the Ytharien leader, watching him silently as he was led between two women smaller than he was. If their desire to kill him did not keep him docile, nineteen Ytharien with weapons ready might offer him further motivation.

“The Knight is not to be harmed!” Lothren announced to his brethren. “Unless a life is threatened. Then make it clean. Juna, Annara, let us quit this place. Aust?”

His elven friend was the last to arrive from the stairs below. The solemn look on his old features told the story of what he had done.

“You and Galemnon gather the Knight’s belongings from the chest inside. If they’re not useful to us, they will be to the merchants in the next village.” He bid them with a final nod.

While both of them went inside to complete their task, Lothren walked to his horse. On the way, he grabbed Gawain by the arm, shoving him ahead toward the animal. Despite the elf’s calm, he possessed his own seed of resentment, detectable by the needle-like grip of his fingers.

“I trust I need not instruct you on mounting a horse. You’ll ride in front of me.” Lothren waited for compliance. “My name is Lothren e Solis, by the way. Pleasure. Might I know yours, noble Knight?”

While the Ytharien gathered themselves to leave, the prison cell below had grown quiet. The body of Almeri Corellian, Magus of the Viceni Ministry, would begin its decay before the sun reached its highest point.

Gawain clumsily stepped forwards, body battered still from the beating he had received. He had followed the Eretol lady, and proceeded to the church, which was nothing more than a heap of smoldering ruins at this point. By God, how could the elves sustain being in the smoke so long? Some elven magic, surely. Gawain himself was trying his best not to cough his damn lungs up..

As he approached the church the elf, whom seemed to be the leader, approached him and rudely dragged him by the arm. A shove further and Gawain was standing next to the large steed. It was a fine steed, making Gawain wonder how the elves could even afford such beasts. He'd seen many horses in the royal stables that would appear inferior to this steed. The elf instructed him to take seat, or rather, take saddle. “Why not give me my own horse? Surely you have had casualties. Their horses must be around here.” he asked, rebelliously looking back at the man. Or elf, rather. “I mean, my hands are bound, I have no armor and you have my weapons. If I survive your warriors chasing me down, I won't survive the desert. Surely, my own horse would be benefici-”

He interrupted himself, taking a moment of silence before looking at the horse again. It seemed he reached the conclusion of futility in asking the man for his own horse. “Right.. I didn't think so..” he silently mumbled as he grabbed the horses reins and slung himself on top. It was a timely process, since his hands were bound. If the elf had been so stupid as to let him sit on the back of the horse, Gawain could've tried to strangle him and take him hostage - force the elves to give him weapons, and armor, and then take a horse and make an escape. But no, the elf seemed smarter than that.

Must've taken slaves before.

As soon as he was seated he looked at the elf, viciously. “I'll have you know that if we happen to get ambushed by angry mages, I'll be hopping off of this horse. I'd rather not serve as your meat-shield, and I'm sure you'd rather fight without me on your horse. No disrespect, elf.” The word 'elf' came out even more vicious than Gawain's face was at this moment. Before he came to this area, to investigate the border region, he had hated the elves and the mages. When the mage captured him, he had hated mages more than elves. But now that the elves had captured him without even as much as a chance at defending himself, he really, really hated the elves. And he was sure that they knew as much.

When the elf asked for his name he intended, with every inch of his body, to simply meet the elf with silence. But Gawain's arrogance and self esteem prohibited him from doing as much. He wished to die with at least his name known - so that perhaps he could go down as a hero, fighting an elven warband who tried to harm civilians. It would be a painful death, probably, but it'd be better than dying a nameless knight. “My name is Gawain Castagher.. of Keep Sudval. You'd do well to remember it.” The mans words were aimed to be a threat - indirectly so, anyway. It cost Gawain a lot of patience to keep himself from simply taking the horse and attempting to ride off with it, or to jump at the elf and tear his throat out. His bound hands might have stopped him from doing the latter, but a skilled knight needed no hands to ride a horse. “I'd rather band up with the mages than the elves, right about now..” he softly mumbled as he looked forwards, out into the desert, waiting for the elf to mount the horse and do whatever he wanted to do.

It was so humiliating, being captured like this.

Sunlight, smoke and the rest of the warband greeted her as Annara stepped outside, knowing the knight and Juna behind her. One of the Ytharien announced that Nalendiel was that and, even though Annara was disgusted with herself for it, the message filled her with grim satisfaction.
From her interactions with him, she had found Nalendiel to be short-tempered and cruel, a man who would pick fights over petty things and held more contempt for the humans in their group than just about any other elf present. He had killed most of the cattle in the last town and was responsible for more than half the deaths of villagers on their last three raids, yet Lothren did little more than take him aside and reprimand him for it.

After the last raid, she had had a 'disagreement' with him over witnessing one of his killings 'in self-defence' that quickly developed into a screaming contest and it took Alonso on her side and Aust and Dagolan - the dark-haired elf - on Nalendiel's to keep them from attacking each other. Alonso had told her that Nalendiel's transgression were ignored because most of his family had been killed by humans, though it wasn't clear whether they had been Viceni or Aretans, and he had displayed fierce loyalty towards his elven brothers and sisters, defending them with little regard for his own life and, over the course of the last years, saving many of theirs on more than one occasion.
The elves and most of the humans in the group respected him and therefore most turned a blind eye to his actions.

But not Annara. If anything, she had become even more hateful towards him after she had killed that girl, projecting her own guilt on the elf. And now that he was dead, she allowed herself to feel avenged, in a way, but the feeling lasted only a few seconds.
As soon as Lothren ordered that they return to camp, her thoughts shifted to Alonso, then quickly to the house with the young boy and her conscience left nothing but guilt, enough to make her feel sick to the stomach.

She swung herself up on her stallion's back, watching impassively as the knight struggled with getting upon Lothren's steed and made his name known. He was boastful even now, the marks of her fists fresh on his face, and yet what had transpired on the stairs seemed strange and surreal. The blood on her hair and face was dry and itching now, her head heavy and tired, and she dreaded their return to he waggons. But at the same time, she longed for it, longed for the opportunity to confess to Alonso what she had done because the more time she spent among the Ytharien, the more she felt like wasn't herself anymore. Perhaps that was why her hatred for Gawain wasn't burning as hot out here in the sun: He was a monster in her eyes but, if she was being honest with herself, she was beginning to turn into a monster herself aswell.

Thoughts like these occupied her mind as she gently nudged her boots into her horse's sides, the loyal creature following her wordless order and making its way back towards the camp.

Juna followed the Knight along with Annara, and together the pair of them kept a close eye on him as they led him to Lothren. Juna kept up her perpetual smile, which seemed to always to be apparent on her face. The Knight said that if mages were to attack them, he would jump off the horse rather than serve as a meat-shield.

“I’m sure, even if such an event were to happen, that you’d be doing no such thing,” Juna said.

Then Juna walked away from him. Juna felt that all his words were but hot air, which the Knight couldn’t help but utter. He surely missed the feeling of having a blade in his hand, and being allowed to slay heathens and miscreants without hesitation. Currently he was but a smug and arrogant coward, who did not frighten any of them at all.

Juna leaped back on her own horse. It had been announced that Nalendiel had been killed. It was always a shame when one of their own was killed, and Juna, in her own way, gave him a moment of silence. It may have been true that he had been overzealous, actually really only greedy, but that was not enough reason for Juna to simply dismiss him. However, any mourning would likely wait for now. Now she would wait for any orders Lothren had, and follow them through. She rather hated raiding, and considered it merely a task that she was bound to, and she was eager to get out of her.

The horses of the Ytharien began to peel away from the scene, one by one, following one another until they began to move like a flock of songbirds in flight. Lothren and his compatriots closest the jail were the last to feel the call to leave, but once Aust and Galemnon returned with their prizes, the burning ruin was happily abandoned. Muon Pond was left behind them, nothing more than an orange glow on the low hanging clouds above, warming their backs as they rode home.

Lothren kicked haste into his horse until he rode at the front of his men, the Knight on display for all to see. Elven slurs were laughed and hissed in their own language, without any shortage of jeers yelled in Common so Sir Gawain could better appreciate their affection for him.

One empty horse was led back along with them. Nalendiel’s body was carried by one his closest friends. Funerary rites would have to be performed for him when they returned back. Lothren never felt exceptionally close to the man, more than a little repulsed by his violent tendencies, but he was still Ytharien. Their tenacity as as a family of exiles was at times the only thing that ever gave their lives meaning.

Barely audible over the jingling of tack and the pounding of hooves over the hard, sandy earth was a low roll of natural thunder. Lothren tilted his head to the noise, his sensitive ears more capable of distinguishing sounds than the common human’s.

“Juna, do you hear that?” he asked of a nearby rider. Annara was close by as well, eager to return to the caravan, but he’d had to ask another elf. If he could barely make out the sound, no human would be able to pick it out over the horses running. “Hold on tight, my noble friend.”

Lothren grabbed Thundrat’s reins and pulled, until the beast reared and cried out in fury. Gawain was held in place until the horse met the earth again. The animal tossed its maned head and pawed a divot into the dry soil. Lothren raised one arm to signal the rest of the Ytharien to stop. Gradually they did, grouping around him in confusion, throwing a cloud of kicked up dust about them.

“Hold!” The elf placed a steadying hand on Gawain’s shoulder. “Listen, all of you! Do you hear it?!”

Though it took some time for the horses to stop moving altogether, the murmur of thunder broke above the din of nickering and rising chatter. Even the few humans among them could hear it now. Aside from the rarity of storms in the desert out of season, at first there was nothing very unusual about the sound. Still, there were no rainclouds in sight, nothing that would explain the source of the sound.

Most distinctly, when Lothren tried to give a single direction to the thunder, to discern from where the storm was coming, he could not. It seemed to come from all around them. Individual threads of thunder seemed to occur just in front of them, and then behind, and again on every side of them.

It was beneath them. Already? The Ytharien had nearly come too late for the village.

“They’re here!” Startled, Lothren’s horse brayed in response. “We must return to the caravan! We must leave! The ant lions have come!” He pulled his horse hard to turn it around. “Ride! Ride as hard as you can! We must move the caravan before it’s devoured!”

The only one who’d ever claimed to see an ant lion was Lothren himself, who’d encountered them in the salt wastes far to the south. The monsters usually avoided human settlements and had no business in the Aretan desert, but their signature was undeniable. Though up until now he had managed to stay ahead of them, it was inevitable that he would slip up. The ant lions were insatiable and difficult to track.

King Alonso was still at the caravan, along with some very dear friends and all of their supplies on the wagons. If anything happened to the Aretan monarch or their stores of food and water, the rest of the Ytharien would either be put to death or waste away here in the desert.



The sun was high by the time the stampede of Ytharien horses could be seen from the caravan. The colorful wagons sitting out in the sun, shielded on one side by a short cascade of rocky cliffs, were presently horseless and sitting helpless. The smell of breakfast cooking over a fire would have been enticing if the circumstances were any less dire.

Having resumed his watch, the dwarven poet spotted the Ytharien from a distance and waved a greeting, unaware of the danger he was in.

“Find Alan!” Lothren ordered frantically at his men once the horses drew near, disrupting the peaceful quietude of the caravan. “Get the caravans up and ready to leave. We make for the Aretan border, now!”

Losing his focus on his prisoner, Lothren remained atop his horse and began scanning the area, but neither Alonso, nor his horse could be seen.

“Where is he?! Where is the King?!”

He watched the elven party mount their horses from a safe distance. It seems his ward was doing the trick. That, or they simply weren’t expecting and looking for anyone to come back. The Knight was among them, still bound as a captive. He could at least assume the elves weren’t working for the Aretans. Though, Marcus himself would have thought twice on untying such a belligerent man even if they were allies, with how vile and racist the Knight was. He continued scanning their party. The Magus didn’t appear to be amongst them. He held out hope that perhaps he did escape. Maybe he was somewhere in the village, too, observing these brigands just like Marcus. Corellian was a master Magus, surely he wouldn’t have been put under by this band of hellchasers. When they finally began marching their horses off, Marcus made sure to note their direction before entering the prison. Perhaps they left some of the Knight’s equipment or some clues left behind, he surely might need it if he were to head after the elves.

Marcus entered with caution, wearing of anyone the elves might have left behind. But there was nobody there. Just smoke. The Knight’s gear had been taken as well. If nothing, the bandits were thorough. Before he left, something caught his eye under the desk when Corellian had been working. His Master’s staff. Corellian surely wouldn’t have left that behind, it was a great source of power and protection. His stomach turned and worry struck him again. He grabbed the staff and rushed down the stairs to the holding cells. Perhaps, in his haste, Corellian just forgot it. That had to be it.

But he was too late. Marcus could already tell from the stairwell seeing him, lying battered on the ground. Marcus approached his Master and rolled him onto his back, dropping to his knees next to him. He could feel his body trembling with the pain of loss and rage. He had been like a father to Marcus. He grew up under his wing for the greater part of his life. He tried to speak, but no words came. Nothing but a weak groan. His throat was tight and his head was pounding. His head was swimming; he couldn’t think straight.

Corellian’s body was already cold. Eyes fully devoid of life. The wound was terrible. It might have been a quick death, but it was so… Barbaric. A killing blow under his chin like that would have required them to have gotten so close. The thought of someone killing his Master and watching the life drain from him made his stomach twist and his body quake even harder. His eyes were pressed firmly shut as he tried to hold back the stream of tears that just kept flowing. It made his eyes burn worse from the smoke. His chest ached from his heavy, pained breaths. The smoke was finally taking its toll on Marcus, but he couldn’t leave, yet.

He sat there on his knees before his fallen master for a while, unable to process everything that had happened this morning, head swirling and heart ringing in his ears. He bent over, pressing his forehead to his master’s. First the village and now Magus Corellian. He didn’t even have time to mourn. Those elves were surely already getting a head start on Marcus. And they had the Knight. They had everything. They took everything. Except the Magus’ staff.

It would be their downfall. Marcus would assure them of that. If they wanted to spill blood, he would eagerly oblige now. His hands tightened around the staff, turning his knuckles white. After saying one last prayer for his Master, he shakily rose to his feet and wiped the moisture from his face. As he ascended the stairs, he began contemplating how he would even track and keep up with these elves. They were on horse and probably a good stretch ahead of him by now. He had no supplies. Surely they must have a camp nearby they intended on returning to before they departed. That would be his only hope. Now if only he knew what he would do when he found them. His master’s last warning still echoed in his mind. If he got too caught up in the moment, he might end up losing his head.

He was soon out of the oppressive confines of that prison and back out in the street. The already rising heat felt just as oppressive as the jail. It made the still lingering smoke cling to his skin, only making him dirtier and more uncomfortable. After a brief fit of coughing, overpowered from the thick haze as the fires finally began dying down, leaving smoldering wreckage everywhere, he pondered how exactly he would catch up with the brigand elves. A noise pierced the quiet crackling of the village. A whiney. Could there still be any of those elves left? Surely they wouldn’t have reason to leave one of their members behind. As if in response to his musings, a single, stubborn horse trotted around a corner before him.

She was small horse, just large enough to accommodate a rider of his size. Her coat was a deep chestnut color with white rings at its ankles, though the smoke had turned them a dirty shade of grey. He recognized this horse, she had belonged to the former stables. In the time he spent at Muon Pond with his master, most of their time had been dedicated to finding and interrogating the Knight. But what free time he found himself with, he often spent it at the stables. It had been quite peaceful there. The stable hands were friendly and allowed him to ride their horses. He had even spent some time riding this horse. She was friendly, well-tempered and experienced, easily making up for his failings as a rider. If he recalled correctly, this horse’s name was Mischief. Must have been quite the trouble maker when she was younger.

For whatever reason, she seemed to have returned to this wasteland. Marcus slowly approached the horse. It watched him wearily with its hazel eyes, but remained stubbornly before him. He placed a hand gently on the side of its neck. Its eyes softened, relieved not to be being chased off with swords or fire anymore. Marcus mused to himself. He now had the means to pursue. Perhaps this horse, too, sought revenge. As he lifted himself awkwardly on the unsaddled horse he spoke to it, “Don’t know why you stayed in this damned hell, but I’m glad you did all the same.” He doubted the creature understood what he was saying, but it was comforting talking to it all the same.

As he spoke to the horse, he felt the slightest rumble beneath his feet. Or had he imagined it? No, there it was again, fainter, as if the tremor from a distant earthquake. This area didn’t get seismic activity as far as he could recall. It was strange and unsettling. He couldn’t think what it could be. A third, even weaker vibration only served to reinforce his confusion. He didn’t have time to worry about it, not when the elves were putting even more distance between them with each passing moment.

He steadied himself with a hand in Mischief’s mane before gently spurring her on with his heels. “Come on, Mischief, let’s get out of the dreadful smoke and find those bastard elves that did this.” The mare heeded his command and took off, following in the tracks of the elven party. It wasn’t particularly difficult to track them, 19 horses left quite the noticeable trail behind them. And they didn’t seem to be making any effort to hide their tracks. Either they didn’t believe they would be followed, or they weren’t afraid of being followed. He hoped that he wasn’t going to be stumbling onto a much larger group than he anticipated. He already didn’t know how he could possibly stop nineteen bandits. While he still had the staff, clutched tightly in his right hand, it could only make so much of a difference. And he was no master mage, yet. He had practiced with staved for years now, but truly mastering them could take decades. If only Corellian had his staff, he would have been able to destroy every single one of those elves with hardly a thought.

Perhaps he could wait until the cover of night. And while the elves drank and slept, he would free the Knight. It was desperate, he saw the contempt the Knight had given him while he healed the man. He might very well attempt to kill Marcus even as he undid his bindings. He could only hope that the man would see the clear and present danger the elves represented to both their nations and any hope for a peaceful future between them. And that, if they did manage something, he didn’t just kill him afterward.

Finally out of the smoke, his lungs began clearing up and he could breathe easier. It seemed Muon was breathing easier, too, as she picked up her pace. Riding bareback was its own challenge. It wasn’t something he often found himself doing. He could feel his thighs already beginning to burn from his efforts to maintain a comfortable balance on the mare’s back. He was out of practice riding horses like this, but as Mischief steadied her pace, he began finding his center on her. Mischief was well trained, and very forgiving of what was probably very terrible riding form. Even that death grip he had within her mane didn’t seem to overly trouble her. A little more confident now riding Mischief, he finally released his grip on her mane, smoothing the ruffled hair that had been in his hand.

All this time, he had tried desperately to keep his mind off of what he had done not even an hour ago. Before this day, he had never really seen combat. His time was spent training and learning how to fight and develop strategies. Never before had he taken another man’s life, and never thought he’d do it with his bare hands. He knew the day would have eventually come, as the Mage’s were Vicenna’s primary military force. They had physical soldiers as well, but they often served little more as guards or supplementary to the primary, albeit rather small, force of powerful mages.

Mages were what made Vicenna so powerful, and they were what made Vicenna so feared. A handful of master Magus wielding magic could decimate an entire army without it ever getting in range to threaten them. Before the formation of Vicenna, battles between territories were brutal and horrific. Much of the fear of mages comes from that time. A time where mages would leave swaths of lands burning for miles unending; creating rifts in the earth that swallowed cities whole and closing up, sealing it in a hellish tomb. A time where life seemed to have no value and thousands could be snuffed out in an instant at the whims of those powerful mages. Horrors that make modern mages recoil in disgust. It was a dark time in Vicennan history.

When Vicenna was first founded, they had gone through great lengths to stem these power hungry mages who clashed amongst one another like warlords. It was known in the Vicenan histories as The Great Purge and was the last truly brutal clash of magic inside its borders. The mightiest mages, powerful though they may have been, were too focused on what ultimate power they sought to attain and clashing amongst one another to stand up to the growing ranks of Vicenna’s magus order. Few were willing to relinquish what they already had attained, claiming to be masters of their lands and its people. They were content with binding their lands in slavery, its people little more than cattle to them. These magic dictators were eventually toppled, though, and Vicenna rose from the ashes of those mage fires like a phoenix, setting forth doctrines for which mages must abide by to ensure that the land never again was made to bear witness to such horror again. It allowed the area to prosper and finally see a peace it’s people had desperately sought amongst the devastation of civil war.

But this unification riled their neighbors, well aware of the power mages wielded. Fear that this hellish magic that had for a long time been used against each other, now in unity could be used against them. To the Aretans, the threat probably felt real and tangible. Many outside saw most mages as demons in human clothing, wielding powers far greater than any man should have control over. But once unified, Vicenna had saw to it that no mage, at least within its borders, would ever amass such a power again. Their lands had payed dearly time and again for those few who lusted after that kind of strength, and Vicenna was resolute in ensuring past mistakes would not be committed again.

As he thought on the elf he had killed, how he desperately and feebly tried to cling to life as Marcus had yanked away his mortal coil, Marcus’ hands trembled. The sensation of that elf’s heart coming to its permanent rest stayed sharply in his mind. His voice screaming out in a combination of surprise, rage and fear until fading into silence. He never wished to feel that again. Perhaps that is why apprentices rarely saw combat and master mages wielded staves. It made it more impersonal, easier to distance oneself from the brutality of war. He was glad he had a staff with him, though the thought of more killing turned his stomach.

He was left to his thoughts as Mischief galloped onward after the elves. He didn’t have a constitution for fighting. A single life taken, a brigand elf no less, left him sick and unsure of his own actions. He had always been a supporter of the peace movement with Areta. But the act of aggression from these elves were threatening to throw all of it out the window. Vicenan officials had worried that Aretan soldiers had been pushing into Vicenan lands, perhaps using the peace talks as a ruse to launch a surprise attack. If these bandits had been doing the same across the border, they no doubt thought similarly. He didn’t know for what reason the elves would have for inciting war between the two great human nations, only that stopping them and perhaps saving that Knight could be decisive to claiming peace from what could be the onset of a bloody war. The road to peace felt like it would be paved in elven blood. And he needed to see that the murders of his Master were properly brought to justice, even if that meant more blood on his hands.

Muon Pond was now just a column of smoke slowly shrinking behind him. The sands seemed to stretch out forever in every direction. If he hadn’t a trail of hooveprints to follow, he might get lost in the sands forever. He could already feel his lips chapping from the heat and desert winds. He wished he had water. His throat had already been dry from all the smoke, it felt magnitudes of order worse now. He was quickly regretting going after these brigands without any supplies, not that there had been anything left in the village. He couldn’t tell how long he had been following these tracks, but it felt like an eternity. He prayed that soon he’d catch sight of them. They had to stop eventually.

It felt like later rather than sooner, his prayers were answered. Off in the distance, he could make out the elves and their camp. It was tucked loosely under a cliff face for some protection against the harsh desert sun and winds. It was perfect. Marcus quickly shrouded himself and Mischief and began for the cliff. It wasn’t terribly tall, but would provide an excellent vantage point. He could at least hope for an upper hand if he did choose to engage them here. It didn’t take long for Mischief to climb the hill. He slowed her to a trot and then a stop well before they reached its edge.

He slid off with a stumble, his legs stiff and sore from the pressing ride. Mischief seemed fine resting here, herself, sniffing at a small outcropping of desert grass. Marcus slowly approached the cliff’s edge and peered over. They seemed frantic… Too frantic for just having drove a town off with virtually no resistance. What was going on? What King were they talking about? He could only think of one King in the area, Aretan’s. Nothing was making any sense, why did they keep the Knight prisoner if the King was with them? Was he a prisoner as well? Was that why they were so frantic? No, no, that is not why they were so frantic.

As if an answer to his confusion, the ground trembled beneath him once more, accompanied by a deep sound akin to thunder. This time it was strong, throwing his balance and dropping him to his hands and knees before he almost tumbled over the cliff. What the hell was happening?! He turned to Mischief, to make sure he wasn’t just going insane. It was apparent she had felt it to, coming back down from rearing, a panicked look in her eyes. He had never experienced anything quite like this, even in all his time travelling with Corellius. He tried desperately to pin some explanation to this phenomenon. It couldn’t be those elves, they seemed just as panicked as he was. No, it was someone, or something else. Suddenly, his eyes widened as the notion struck him. No, it can’t be that. Don’t let it be that. He froze as another tremor shook the earth.

It was that.

'There's no rest for the wicked', or so the saying went. Annara was inclined to believe it as her head began to throb from the smoke as Lothren stopped them. How he had heard something, anything, over the horses and curses thrown at their prisoner was beyond her. In a more humorous mood, she had laughed with the other humans when somebody mused that, surely, sleeping by a mosquito-infested pond was to elves what sleeping in the middle of a lively street was for humans. It was a double-edged sword to be sure but perhaps it made the difference between life and death now... or maybe not, for now that they stopped, Annara could hear it aswell: Thunder, distant yet eerily close, a soft, oh so soft tremble that rolled through her from below.

Just like elves had a hearing that couldn't be matched by human ears, the Eretol were particularly sensitive to vibration, an acquired skill that was nurtured and refined in young years until the child could wake itself over even one footstep out of place, one of the main reasons - all racism aside - why Eretol rarely camped inside the city walls when they visited settlements like Marion Bay. As difficult as it had made it for Annara to adjust to foreign footsteps and noises at night with a group like this, she knew that sensing shifts in the sand was what allowed her people to travel through the desert as easily as they did, with no tribe lost to the dunes in human memory while Aretan caravans occasionally disappeared in the White Seas.

Lothren might have been the first to identify what it might be but Annara was certainly the first to feel that it was not coming from above ground, even though she had no idea what, other than an earthquake, could be responsible for it here. Their leader, however, seemed to be terrified by whatever it was he thought of and urged them on like never before. Could this be the threat he had warned them about, the reason they descended upon villages like Muon Pond week after week? Her stallion Skye whinnied, clearly as agitated as the other horses, and they pressed on.

They arrived at the camp to find Bolgar - the dwarf - and his fellow 'guards' mostly sleeping or eating, completely unconcerned by noise... or the absence of Alan. It didn't bode well that his horse was gone too. He couldn't have abandoned them, could he? Surely he wasn't that kind of man. Then again - what kind of king left his nation without ruler to chase skirts and join a band of mummers? Annara shook of the thought, it didn't matter now if he was king or not, even though the Lothren cried out in rage gave her the distinct feeling he cared quite a bit about Alan's title. The only thing that mattered now was to find the man who belonged to their group, who was... something to her, a friend perhaps, and to leave this godsforsaken place as quickly as possible.

But before anybody could say or do anything of note, the ground jumped up violently, so much so that Annara was almost thrown out of the saddle and Skye himself was struggling to stay upright, mortified by the ground's unnatural movement. The riders around her weren't faring much better, some horses scared to the point where they reared up or started running. The wagons shook and swayed, wood groaned, metal clanged, clay and pewterware shattered. No hand was idle now, hurrying to quench the remaining fires and pack their gear.

Not Annara, though. She turned to look at Aust and Juna, just as a few pebbles trickled down from the cliff above, surely just shaken loose by the quake. The earth's tremble was more noticeable now and doubly so to her, faint but constant between the waves, and her voice was all the more urgent for it.
"One of you can track, right?"

Juna had been riding alongside Lothren, riding upon her steed named Kevala. Upon Kevala, Juna rode up on her steed, and felt the wind comb through her, her hair flying gently through the wind. She had done so an innumerable number of times. As usual, she tended to focus more on riding than what Lothren had been saying, yet she could tell that there was something serious in his voice. She could tell in it’s tone.

“It sounds quite like thunder,” Juna said. “Yet it’s sound is far too low, isn’t it?”

Lothren pulled the reins of his suddenly, his horse crying out and stopping in its track. He put up its hand as a signal to the rest of the Ytharien. Juna pulled on Kevala’s reins, and he cried out before his hooves smashed against the ground and stopped further movement. She could definitely her the murmuring “thunder” uttered from beneath the ground. It sounded no different thunder, and most would not have given it any special thought if they did not realize that the sound surely came from below.

Lothren was startled. He seemed to be worried about something for sure, although Juna had no way of knowing of what. She knew better than to doubt him. He told her to ride, so she did. Kevala rode alongside Lothren’s steed, both of them riding as fast and as hard as their horses could take them. Juna could still here the sound of thunder, but nothing spectacularly noteworthy happened to them on their trek back. All that was there was the anticipation.

They eventually returned to their caravan, and it was clear to Juna that nothing had happened. At least, nothing had happened yet. Bolgar, the dwarven poet, was there along with the others, and nothing had happened to them. Juna uttered a small sigh of relief just a moment before she felt a sudden quake from the ground that nearly threw her out of her saddle.

“One of you can track, right?” Annara said, turning to her and Aust.

Juna turned her head towards Aust.

"Where is the King?"

If only the Elven leader could know how recently those words had been repeated by others. In Areta, when even the royal bedchamber was discovered empty. In the Captain's quarters, whispered with an edge of bitter futility as their quest had pressed on. How they echoed, accused, demanded beneath the inscrutable blank helm of the rider now hunched atop its steed, mounted in silence as the young monarch himself gave his speech. Like the ghosts of his fallen brothers, flanking him loyally, even in death. One hand kept a firm grip on the reins as the traumatized mount twisted its head, whinnying plaintively with fear and adrenaline, starting back and forth and pawing at the sand with shaking legs. Thin breaths hissed in and out of the perforated helm in a low, metallic wheeze. Where is the king?

The act reached its conclusion, but there was no applause. No apology No protest or clearing of throats. Only when it seemed the desert could hold its breath no longer did that dry, broken voice shudder from beneath its iron shell.

"You think this a game?" it rasped.

The figure dismounted heavily, advanced. The standard of Areta, dusty and ill-used, that had not left Linus Kolbe's hand since the previous night, was thrown down to the glittering desert sand.

"An Elfish pantomime? You think yourself a hero, to sing upon a stage, beyond which lies nothing?"

The inscrutable helm was torn off, thrown to the baking sand as the standard had been, the abhorrent visage of death exposed to the blinding sun. Kolbe's hands took the front of the King's tunic in a hard, merciless grip, neither of the other two men immediately able to believe what was happening.

"Gerald of Antour--" Alonso's feet left the ground. The world heaved to one side as the caked earth of the canyon slope thumped hard against his back. "--Konrad Falkenberg. Good brothers! Loyal to the crown! Husbands! Fathers! GONE! Do you understand?" Kolbe screamed it up at him, voice ragged, "THESE MEN ARE DEAD FOR YOU!"

It was even more horrifying up close. Barely human. Tortured flesh and incurable lacerations, glistening with desert sweat. One white eye staring from a ragged, red pit, the other burning with a hot, unspeakable fire that was not sanity, that was not madness. The knight's shoulders heaved with raw, labored breaths as the words were torn from his throat, almost as if unbidden.

"Areta rots while you dally with harlots," Alonso was pitched backward, the hot earth thumping against his back once more a moment later. "Frolic with Elfen scum! Crows circle the empty throne. Barons and foreign sorcerers sharpen their knives. Your people are fatherless 'neath the shadow of carrion birds! Forgotten! Abandoned to chaos, to dogs like Harking! On a whim!" He rasped, "A boy's whim!"

"Kolbe, that's enough!" The Captain barked sharply, snapping out of the nightmare, "Stand down, that's an order! Kolbe! LINUS! You swore an oath! This is your KING, damn it!"

"Where?" Kolbe turned, pointing an accusing finger, leaving the apostate monarch to slide to the baking sand. Mister Hooves stamped, nostrils flaring, still turning tight circles behind him. "Where is my king?" he croaked, "Where the sapphire and the gold? Where the jackal, and the scale?"

He bent, snatching up the beaten standard. Red-tinged sand hissed from the dusty blue fabric as he held it palm-up in shaking mailed hands, horizontal to the earth.

"Duty, is a heavy burden. All my brothers knew this. Knew fear. Pain. Stared into darkness. But we gave no ground!" he turned back to Alanso, "Do you understand? Did as we must! Paid a price, greater than a golden ring, and a woman's bed!

"You seek traitors? Look to a mirror, and search thine own heart! And if still you would run, trade the crown for a vagabond's cloak and the kingdom for a ditch, then go! But this--" He paced closer, pointed; the grim visage with its canvas of unspeakable wounds as horrible now as ever. "THIS is the face you're spitting in!

"Thus I ask you. Because I must know." Kolbe's voice was strangled, now, winded, as though the flood of words had worn red what was left of his throat.

"Are you my king?"

In the hard shadow of Sir Linus Kolbe, the King of Areta had crumpled to the ground.

The coarse earth pressed into his knees and palms, and his shallow breaths tasted of sand. Although the Knight had released him, Alonso could still feel gauntlets squeezing his tunic, pinning him painfully against the cliff face. His snarling voice, which combined with the gnashing of his teeth had possessed an almost animalistic quality, lingered in his ears and echoed in his skull. For an instant the King had feared for his life at the hands of his own subject, and even now he was uncertain he was out of danger.

Where is my king?

GONE!

“They’re dead…?” Alonso gasped. Two of his knights. Two well known names. Faces he couldn’t recall, not at the moment. “But how…? I only… I never…”

Serona landed on the ground beside his horse, unable to bear seeing his King in such a pathetic state. Though he was smaller than Kolbe, the Captain shoved him aside and knelt down to his ruler. Alonso felt strong hands grasp his arm, and then suddenly pull him upright. The young King stumbled to his feet, leaning on his Captain and feeling the cliff wall to find his balance.

A knot had found itself in his throat. Alonso had had his doubts before, but Kolbe’s lecture had torn open new wounds. Things he had never considered. Even if the King’s suspicions were well founded, it was his duty to inspire and lead his people, not hide from them. Perhaps there had been better ways to go about this.

“Sire.” Amon put a hand on Alonso’s breast to push him upright. “Your Highness is short of breath, did Kolbe—”

“I’m fine!” Alonso roughly elbowed the Captain off of him. His blond hair was swept back as he attempted to search for his shattered thoughts on the ground in front of him. He pulled at his tunic, attempting to adjust the fit pulled out of place by his rough handling. The image of Kolbe’s scarred visage and that white eye was all he could see whenever he closed his.

Two Knights dead? Dead? Over this?

Drawing on what precarious bravery he could muster, the King lifted his head to acknowledge the embittered soldier.

“If Sir Kolbe has so little faith in me, then it must be deserved. If men have died because I’ve gone out alone, I must… I must answer for it. I confess that I have… dallied.” Who wouldn’t, when given the opportunity? He had been so constrained at the castle. “But the disturbances, the traitors in my own halls—I’ve not lost focus. Only the elves understand what has been happening out here. My magistrates can barely see beyond their own noses.”

A distant whinny, carried on the dry wind, pulled the King’s attention westward in the direction of the caravan. Alonso had to decide what to do next. He couldn’t simply abandon the Ytharien, but he couldn’t bring the Knights among who they considered the enemy either.

“I can explain all of this to both of you.” Sniffing, Alonso stepped away from his armored protectors and stopped at the helm that Kolbe had torn from his head. It was picked up by its faceplate, and for half a moment he stopped to consider its dull gleam in the sunlight. “You deserve at least that much. You need but hear me out, and then you can decide where your king is.” Hopefully not on the end of a sword, at this rate.

The King turned to hand Linus the helm.

“We should find shelter, then—”

The land itself cut him short with a savage roar, and then quake suddenly beneath their feet. Already too familiar with this anomaly, the Knight’s horses reared and brayed. Serona tried to run to his to claim control over the beast, but it jerked out of reach and galloped off before he could grasp the reins.

“Damn it all!” Serona closed his hands around the white mare’s tack instead, pulling it under his command. “Protect the King!”

Just as before, wide cracks began to rip open in the ground beneath them as if it had been made of glass. In the open sunlight, the fragility of the earth was plain to see, until these crevices belched up a spout of dust from unseen depths. Alonso covered his mouth with his arm as he began to choke on the sandy clouds. He demands to know what was happening were swallowed by the deafening thunder beneath their feet. It shattered the sky so intensely that the King cried out in pain and held his ears.

Through the swirling dust clouds, the distant peaks of Vicenna could be seen on the murky horizon. Before the sky became golden and opaque, they almost appeared to be melting away, as if they were made of cream. Alonso didn’t believe his eyes. It couldn’t be happening. Had to be some illusion, a mirage of the desert. The ground shook so that Alonso found himself on one knee again, and Serona fought to calm the mare enough to provide himself and his king with a fast escape.

And then from one of the cracks in the earth, a black scythe rose and stabbed into the ground. A flurry of gleaming, monstrous legs appeared next in a horrific cascade, resembling a set of fingers drumming a table. These were the appendages of spiders and scarabs, clad in an iridescing black carapace, ridged with spines and tipped with dagger-like claws.

A slender, arachnid monstrosity hoisted itself from the underground, made half-silhouette by the sandy clouds. It stood on four stalky legs, taller than any horse, with half of its body upright and the other horizontal to the ground. Round, golden eyes stared unblinking at the assembled humans, seeming to give off a light of their own. Two scythe-like appendages hung on either side of its upright half, now idle, sheltering four smaller arms enclosed within its black shell. In its clawed hands it held a jeweled scepter, apparently crafted of the same infernal material of its holder.

Two more of the creatures, significantly huskier but much shorter than their apparent leader, crawled from the crevice behind it. Although they looked dangerous, none of them made a move on the King or his Knights. They simply watched and chittered among themselves like a chorus of cicadas.

The ground continued to quake and howl, bothering these monsters hardly at all.

“We run!” Serona cried.

This prompted both of the smaller creatures, roughly the size of cattle, to surge forward at the Captain, scythe-arms outstretched.





Aust began to answer, but was interrupted as a jutting shard of earth knocked him from his feet. The entire caravan had become the epicentre of one of the land’s new fractures, spreading in the fashion of a spiderweb in all directions. The dust thrown up from all of the violence below the ground choked and filled the air, stinging eyes and lining throats.

Lothren’s own horse reared in a panic, and then fell to the side as it lost its balance on the shaking earth. The elf cried out in pain as he landed on his side, immediately shattering his arm. The prisoner was given a safer landing on top of his captor, who was momentarily incapacitated.

Another plane of shifting earth shook every being that stood on top of it. Some of Gawain’s equipment fell from Aust’s steed, including a white, shining sword.

The caravan would not be moving. The earth had split open in half a dozen places, until one of the wagons was half submerged in the sand and the other’s wheels were immovably stuck. No one heard Lothren’s orders anymore. Alan’s whereabouts became completely unimportant as every elf scrambled to save himself, finding a horse calm enough to mount and ride hard to safety.

Digging its way out from its subterranean tunnel, a beastly insectoid creature emerged from the earth, roughly ten feet from clawed foot to chitinous crown. It looked something like a demonic spider, its fanged mandibles dripping with what appeared to be yellow venom, and bladed appendaged looming on either side. Like the creature that had appeared near the King and his Knights, this one held a scepter. Any mage could sense that it hummed with an unnatural, arcane energy.

As the earth continued to break apart and shake, three of its fellows emerged on the surface, pulling their gleaming abdomens free and planting their four feet in the rocky ground. An elven pistolier discharged her weapon near one of them, opening a gaping yellow hole in its shell. While it cried out in a screaming hiss, another creature skewered the elf into the ground with one of its limbs.

Provoked by this initial attack, the spider beasts moved on the scattered Ytharien, their bladed limbs seeking flesh—elven and horse alike—to prevent any further escapes.

The tallest beast remained still, observing the chaos warily, while its three minions began to tear the elves apart.

Lothren watched one of the beasts rush toward Juna, its spined limbs opened like jaws of death. Though he was half blinded and paralyzed by pain, he could make one horrifying distinction about these creatures.

They weren’t antlions. He didn’t know what they were.

The hairs on his neck stood on end. What was happening? Marcus’ eyes widened as the three new foes presented themselves. These weren’t antlions. Antlions were more hulking beasts, monsters of the sand. These were much more man statured, though still completely alien in their looks. Who, what, were these creatures? What were they doing here? Who were they after? A thousand similar questions ran through Marcus’ head as he watched the creatures rise from the earth. In all his research, in all his studies, he had never seen or heard of creatures remotely bearing this resemblance.

His attention was immediately drawn to the first one that rose from within the desert. It carried with it a scepter very similar to the staff Vicenian Mages carried. It was powerful, so powerful it made Marcus’ skin prickle. This whole situation had just begun spiraling from bad worse. Whatever these things were understood how to properly wield magic. He had to assume that bug-mage would be dangerous. It certainly carried itself with a presence and calm confidence that suggested it was fearsome. Though, perhaps less immediately fearsome than its compatriots, presently bearing down on the group of elves.

Marcus flinched at the sound of gunfire. As soon as the elf had fired, it seems his target had immediately cut him down. He couldn’t tell from his distance if the elf had hit his mark or if it simply hadn’t any effect on the creature. Like a fury, the two non-mage creatures began their assault. They tore through any elf that got near them like tissue paper with their sword like appendages. If he didn’t act fast, they’d all be dead. The elves, the knight and probably himself. There was no way to get down to knight to free him, Marcus could only hope what little distraction he could offer from the cliff and his own will for freedom would spur him on.

As one of the insect men loomed over the knight and fallen elf, Marcus made a move. Before it could reach and deliver a killing blow to either of them, he rose to his feet and launched a bolt of fire from his staff. It hurtled down to the enemy and struck it in what might be called a shoulder. The force was great enough that the creature tumbled back and away from the knight and elf. It was clear from the writhing mass that it was not a fatal blow, and the creature seemed far more agitated than before.

The second spider-like creature stopped as its partner-in-terror was thrown to the ground, trying to find the source of the attack. The insect mage, however, seemed keen as to where the shot came from. Marcus could feel it staring him down. Marcus unwaveringly stared back, a meager attempt to appear more confident than he really had been. He only stopped to turn his attention to the second of the physical assailants. He launched another arc from his staff. It hurtled to the ground and splashed in front of its target, hurling bits of flame and molten sand across its body like shrapnel.

He stoically glared back at the bug-mage, trying to keep the frantic race of his heart under control and the breaths he drew less ragged. He didn’t know if he was prepared for what this creature wielded, but he knew countering the mage would be his best bet for defeating it in combat. He held to his staff firmly and prepared for the enemy to make a move, then he would strike. He could only hope his distractions so far would buy those elves and that knight enough time to properly reseat their heads and mount an actually defense against these creatures.

Gawain was tossed from the horse, whom reared like an angry bull, yet it was not anger that took it's place in the horse but fear in it's stead. The elf took a hard fall, a cry of pain escaping the elf's mouth. Gawain was very, very unsure of what was going on - being seated on a horse with someone behind you, especially as a captive, wasn't the best place to be if you were trying to figure out what was going on. So when he was thrown - that was a big surprise to Gawain. Luckily he fell on top of the elf, likely hurting him even further.

Gawain's hands were still bound, but he managed to turn his body quickly using his hands in the sand to give himself some leverage. He mounted the elf, Lothren, and decided now was the perfect time for some payback. He raised his hands together in the sky and sent the fists pummeling into the man's face, before spitting at it to add insult to injury. Then, as quickly as everything had happened, Gawain rose to his feet and laid eyes upon those gigantic creatures. Gawain had seen a lot - Eretol whores, Elven whores, many whores, even a mage whore at one point. But this was not a whore - far from, it was a spider. A gigantic spider, and it wielded a staff as if it were some Viceni mage, the same that had captured him earlier.

For a moment he wavered, seeing elves choosing to flee rather than fight. If they were aware of the danger of these creatures then perhaps Gawain would be wise to, for once, heed elven knowledge and flee as well? Then again there were also some foolish elves who shot their guns at the creatures, which only seemed to anger them. For a moment Gawain was at a loss, but in the corner of his eye, he noticed the glimmering of a sword. And not just any sword, his sword!

He took off sprinting and stumbling through the confusion, even pushing aside an elf who was attempting to re-mount her horse after being tossed like Lothren had. The push sent her stumbling back, closer to the spider-like creatures. For a moment Gawain felt bad, but then he remembered her face as the one who had hurled a particularly venomous insult at him as Lothren had paraded him through the warband earlier. All guilt was immediately resolved. He kept running, and stumbled over a loose rock, tumbling through the sand and kicking up a small sandstorm. But finally he reached his sword and without wasting a moment, he began using it to cut loose the binds that held his hands together.

And finally the binds were removed. He quickly gathered what little had fallen off of the horse, namely his armored boots, gauntlets and his shoulder plates. The rest that hadn't fallen off, such as his belt and other items as well as his helmet, he'd have to replace later. The steed seemed to have taken off, and if need be he could always take some loot off of the dead elves once these.. these vile creatures had been dispersed. Once he'd gathered the stuff and put it in the linen sack that Aust had used to keep it all together, he slung it over his shoulder and made way for the nearby cliffside, hoping to climb it and escape the monsters.

Once again he took a quick pace through the sand, now being left with less and less elves to cover his retreat, making him a more viable target for the monsters by the minute. His steps took him quickly, but clumsily, through the sand, and finally helped him reach the cliffside. One of the spiders shuffled closer to him, and Gawain shook his head. He was tired, beaten by the elves and the mage, had barely had any food or drink at all for the last few weeks, and now there was bloody giant spiders upon him. MAGE SPIDERS NONE THE LESS! His eyes turned to the sky and for a moment he cursed his luck, and told God to stop testing him for he was not ready.

But as he was about to cry out a cry of anger, a bolt of fire crossed across his vision and landed onto the nearby spider, sending it screeching and furrowing back to where it had come from. Momentarily, at least. But Gawain was not delighted - magic was magic, and whether it was a Viceni mage or a spider mage, both were equally blasphemous to Gawain. Well.. at least you could talk with a Viceni.

Gawain took off again, attempting to quickly pass the spider, though it was much too slow. The spider seemed accustomed to traveling in the desert and Gawain was, by far, the most clumsy man to ever travel a desert. The spider hurled it's blade forwards, and Gawain dove underneath it, rolling underneath the spider.

It was more by chance and luck than real skill. Fighting men and eretol. Yes, Gawain was good at that, he could kill ten men before he even took a scratch of damage. But fighting spiders? SPIDER MAGES? No. That was beyond Gawain's capabilities.

It should come as no surprise then that Gawain immediately attempted to cut the spider, climbing and clambering to his feet and swinging his sword wildly at the beasts legs. For a moment he seemed to be missing every strike - he was afraid to come close. But the spider seemed unsure how to deal with the pesky human underneath him, and only toiled left and right. It gave Gawain enough time to finally hit it's leg, and while it did little damage, the spider screeched again and reared back once more. It seemed even spiders did not like a combination of magical fire and cold Aretian steel.

Gawain used this brief moment of respite to continue his way, reaching the sandy hill that lead up the cliffside. He climbed, and climbed as fast as he could. The spider seemed to give up chase, turning towards some elfs again.

Upon reaching the top of the cliffside, Gawain looked back for a moment and noticed a few familiar faces among the elves. Lothren was still there, as was the Eretol whore and her friend. It even seemed like one of the spiders was headed for that elven bitch. “Perfect.” Gawain said as he finally had a moment of rest. Finally free of those elves. Hungry and thirsty - but free.

Then it occurred to him that the mage, whomever it was, was still there. Not wanting to take the risk of leaving a mage alive, he immediately got up and ran towards the edge of the cliff. As soon as Marcus came into his vision, he dropped the heavy bag of equipment and pointed his blade at the mage. “Mage! You insult the gods with your magi- wait, I recognize you..” His rough voice was roughened up even more by the sand, that had spread into the air by all the shaking of the ground.

“You're that mages' apprentice, aren't you.. I remember more clearly now..” For a moment Gawain thought on the boys' fate. He was young, and possibly not aware of the critical situation surrounding Viceni and Aretian politics. And would a boy that young really be a threat to a man of noble birth like Gawain? On the other hand, he was an accomplice in kidnapping a royal knight of Aretia, and should pay a price for that. And he was a heretic in Gawain's eyes.

Making up his mind he lowered his blade and ran closer. “No time to explain! But you owe no allegiance to these treacherous elves! They murdered your master, I tell you. Saw it with me own eyes! Strangled him, until he turned blue and purple, and then brutally murdered him. Didn't even give him a chance to wake up.” To make the situation a bit easier he decided not to tell the mages' apprentice that Gawain had vouched for the mages' death, and that he'd told the elves to kill him. That'd make the entire situation more tiresome than it was already.

Gawain's large burly hands grabbed a hold of the mages shoulders, grabbing the tunic and pulling the buy as hard as he could. If the mage resisted, Gawain would let go and grab his sack of equipment before making his escape. But Gawain was a strong man and the mage seemed frail at best.

As Juna’s head had turned towards her companion Aust, she saw when it had begun. The intense rumblings from the sands of the earth had intensified its mighty vibrations, and Juna turned her head towards her front. She saw the ground break, the sand’s configuration shattering into a dozen pieces. Juna saw something break from the ground.

It resembled nothing other than a giant spider. Clawing its way up from the sand, it was ten feet tall and armed with legs that were scythe-like in its appearance. Their ends seemed as if they were blades themselves. From its mouth drip some type of yellow saliva, and Juna thought it likely that it would dissolve your skin at the very touch.

“Wow, would look at that!” Juna said, putting her hand above her eyes to block the sun from her vision and get a better look at it. “Can you imagine what it’d be like to ride one of those?”

Imagine the surprise, Juna thought, of those among the caravans. Perhaps they would not, as it seemed the caravans and those around them were the first to bit the dust. Some fought back before their inevitable demise to these very strange creatures came, but overall it was disastrous mess. For the most part, people ran when they could, taking to their horses and with rushing to escape. They may have been afraid, but Juna was not.

Juna had seen many things before. While it was true that she had never seen anything like this, could it have been said that they were any more fearsome than all else that she had faced? Certainly not, Juna thought. Yet while this would not have been sufficient reason for most people, Juna’s very experiences had forced her in the past to confront this. Countless times the unknown had appeared before her eyes, and she had but a moment to react. Well, she did react, and now she’d react yet again.

One of these terrible beasts had approached her. It seemed intent on making her its next prey. Juna found it all terribly funny. She had no fear of this thing, and was certain of her own victory. She looked towards her left, where Lothren laid down bloodied and thrown from his horse. There stood the prisoner, his hands free and apparently conspiring with a mage. He certainly looked like a mage She could tell what happened, but unfortunately for Lothren, she didn’t have much time to deal with that. She had a new friend that she needed to attend to, and he likely wouldn’t leave her alone any time soon without a good deal of convincing.

“Take this, you spiteful ignoramus!” Juna said.

Juna pulled her pistol from her jacket, and quickly aimed it at Gawain. She fired the trigger, and then quickly put it back where she had drew it from. Her horse was too excited and too afraid, and he ran off. Juna, however, wasn’t going to be running any time soon. She leapt off of her horse gracefully. She was in the air when she pulled forth her two weapons, her sword in her right hand a long knife in her left. She had no illusions that would this would be an easy fight, but she was the best the Ytharien had to offer. This monster would see, if it could even think, that they were not merely the prey. The hunted would become the hunter, and the hunter would become the hunted.

Juna was like an arrow as from the air she launched towards this vaguely demonic giant spider. Her body was lithe, her control of herself was firm, and her hands were ready. She held her blades in front of her, ready for whatever this monster thought it could do. She smiled.

Amid the chaos churning around them, the tallest spider beast and Marcus, the Magus’ apprentice, gazed into each other. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to make the first move, having identified what appeared to be their most pressing threat, but both entities were still. Watching.

Stunned by a arcane assault of fire, one of its small minions had been unable to fend off an attack from a furious Aretan knight. A pass of steel tore open a greenish gash across one of its weight bearing legs, bringing the creature hurtling into the ground. The end of its limb had been cracked open enough to snap at what could be called its ‘ankle’.

A scythe-arm swung outward for the Knight, but missed in its panic. One of the Ytharien dashed forward to take advantage of this opening, driving a shortspear into a fleshy patch between chitin plates, but the shaking earth threw him off of his feet. Though a spear protruded from its thorax, the spider beast raised its bladed limb and ended its newest attacker.

The tallest creature slid away without a care as the Knight then accosted the mage, having no apparent interest in the conflict. Its bladed legs traversed the shaking earth easily, unbothered by the thunderous clamor as the very land around them seemed to fall apart.

Almost serene, it moved past the caravan, stepping over its crippled comrade and two elven corpses, and then unfolded all of its limbs to begin ascending the nearby cliff. Shafts of sunlight that pierced through the dustclouds illuminated portions of its carapace, revealing watery, jewel tones. Its aim seemed to be reaching the highest point in the area.

Defending itself against a spray of fire and glowing hot sand, one of the smaller beasts mustered little defense against the leaping elf. Feeling a weight upon its back, the creature reared up, bucked, and spun, its scythe arms swinging wildly in desperation. It was blind to whatever was happening on its back, and seemed unable to reach accurately to defend itself.

Annara had gone to Lothren in an attempt to pull him to safety, but an insectoid leg had knocked her into the cliff wall. She crumpled lifelessly on the ground. Having gotten back to his feet, Aust found himself forced to help either the wizened Ytharien leader or the younger, more fragile human. Cursing himself, he ducked the mayhem to retrieve Annara.

While the beasts decimated the elves and what remained of the elves focused on other threats, Aust found that all he could do with a human woman in his arms was to escape while he could.

The other creatures seemed to care little for their injured comrade, and continued to attack what elves had remained to face them. Most of the Ytharien had by now fled the caravan, including the poet dwarf. Only a handful bloodthirsty madmen remained, braving the collapsing earth and attacking either the beasts that had set upon them, or the prisoner they had once sought to preserve.

The leader of the monstrosities had reached the zenith of the cliff, separating itself from the violence. There it lifted the scepter high above its head, and then swing it downward and drove its pummel into the earth. A surge of power flowed into the ground, opening a series of new cracks in the cliff’s face. What had once been hard rock melted easily into sand. The cliff lost its form and turned soft, collapsing into itself. On its long, able legs, the beast moved on easily as the rockface fell away, opening the caravan to a greater view of plains.

All across the plains, the Viceni desert seemed to be tossing like the sea and sinking away. Through breaks in the sandy clouds, the mountainous horizon that should have been there could no longer be seen.

The air was electric as the two mages stared off at each other. A tense few moments passed, both unmoving, until Marcus felt a tug at his shoulder. It was the knight. He was fast, how had he scurried up to him so quickly. Marcus nearly tumbled as the knight pulled, but offered no further resistance. Perhaps it would be better for them to just try escaping. Could they even escape a hell like this? Could they even outrun hellspawn like that? Already, the elven band was in tatters, only a handful even left standing. Even fewer still seemed willing to fight.

“Perhaps you’re right, Sir Knight… It may be best to flee this fight. But didn’t I hear that one elf speaking of a King? Isn’t it concerning… Might he have been referring to your King? That’s the only King I’m aware of. If he’s nearby, he’s in great danger…” If they were talking earlier about the Aretan king, this was no place for the hope for peace between their two lands. Thankfully he wasn't among this chaos. He backed away from the cliff side and looked over to the Knight. Even in his weakened state, the man looked more than imposing with that blade in his hand. Marcus really hoped he wouldn’t end up tasting that steel. He decided that he would rather die later rather than soon and took another step away from the cliff but froze once again when the bug mage began skittering below.

The way it moved so quickly and ascended the cliff was unnatural and surreal. In no time, the creature had reached the top of the highest point of the cliff just up ahead of the mage and knight. Marcus took another step back and firmed his grip of his staff. When the spider hit the earth with its scepter, the ground immediately began shifting under Marcus’ feet. He tried to backpedal under more stable ground, but found none. This creature was going to swallow them all whole into a gaping maw of sand, there wasn’t any way to escape this! He looked around at the disintegrating landscape and back to the Knight. He was surely finding himself in a similar situation, rocks turning into a sea of sand beneath them. If he didn’t try something fast, he doubted there would be anything left for anyone to find.

Already sunken to his ankles, Marcus lifted his staff and focused all of his strength through it. The end began to glow. First a dull red as it brightened into a brilliant white. He finally released the ball of energy, more closely resembling plasma than a ball of fire. It sizzled and crackled through the air as it hurtled directly for the spider mage no more than fifteen feet away from the young mage. As Marcus watched the ball make its way to the creature, he awkwardly lifted his legs, trying to free himself from what felt like quicksand. It wasn’t very effective, any weight immediately sinking right back into the sloshing sands. It was maddening trying to fight both a mage and the whole of all the earth around him.

It reminded him of stories of Vicena’s past, none of them plesant.

A scarlet drop spattered onto the page, a sanguine punctuation mark, slowly soaking into the parchment. The knight frowned, brought the scarred back of his hand to what remained of his nose. It came away ruddy and wet.

He wiped it away, refreshing his quill.

---

The kite shield was on Kolbe's arm almost at once, a smaller, weighted mace lined with brutal ridges in his other hand. He kept himself between the creatures and the King, circling left and right.

"The horse!" he bellowed raggedly from beneath the returned helm, "Sire! Mount and fall back!"

He was running before he even looked back, shield held at the ready. But not toward the frantic Mr. Hooves. No. He was charging with burning purpose toward the indifferent creature with its dark rod. It stared blankly, clicking its indecipherable devil's tongue. It watched him impassively as more of the creatures heaved themselves from the shifting sands, lurching into his path. Black blades thunked against his shield, a sickening, skittering thud rattling the bones along his arm as he slammed into the creature, forced it back and over, driving it toppling hard into its fellow. One long appendage hooked over the rim as the thing tried to pull itself up, its lower body writhing with tiny limbs like a wriggling nightmare beneath an overturned rock. Kolbe's solleret came down heavy and hard, cracking through chitin and stomping twice into the thing's rancid underbelly, a fountain of gushing ichors staining steel and sand in thick, nauseating resin. The second creature slashed and shrieked, hammering shield and armor. Flailing. Gouging.

"Areta!" came the hoarse scream in response, "Areta and vas Aretaeus!"

The cry echoed for leagues, afire with conviction and zeal. The mace swung upward, connecting with clacking black mandibles, time slowing in his mind as the creature was knocked into a backward sommersault. A sickening arc of fluid gouted a semicircle from the impacted crater that once served as the beast's wretched face.

Kolbe felt a warm sensation along his right side that he knew could only be blood. He clutched at it. A chance blow. Chainmail fell ragged from his shoulder from where the thing's horrid hand had sheared it through.

"Careless." He hissed, pushing himself onward.

His quarry was withdrawing, indifferent to him, seeking what higher ground still remained. Kolbe smashed another of the creatures aside with the flat of his shield, forced his way through the thickening crush of gleaming black bodies pouring from the abyss -- seized the thing's lowest leg with his shieldarm and with a dry roar he heaved. The monster's limbs struggled for puchase in the hard earth, determined to make its way to the lip of the canyon.

There was a slow, cthonic groaning.

Plate and carapace fell in a hiss and roar as the ridge fell away and the beast was dragged from the wall in a full-fledged landslide, a heavy cascade of hot sand and rocky debris that crumbled down into the canyon and the open pit, half-burying Kolbe and the creature under a fist of earth and sending unnumbered arachnoid reinforcements scattering like acorns and tumbling back down into darkness.

The world spun. Kolbe's mace was lost, the kite shield torn from his arm and half buried in a swirl of red and gold dirt. Breath burned in his lungs, winded. Vision darkening. No. No surrender. No respite. No sleep. Fulfill the oath. Get up. Get up. Get up.

Sand poured from ichor-drenched mail, caking against the viscous fluid as he heaved himself to his feet, staggered, fell in a metallic heap atop the fallen thing, the leader. It flailed beneath him, half-trapped by the landslide. Oh, but you see me now, spawn of Sothis. Now you see me in truth--

"Gerald of Antour--"

Kolbe felt his fist go numb to the elbow as it pounded into the creature's eye like an iron hammer, crushing carapace and bursting flesh. The golden orb pulped, spattered against Kolbe's mailed knuckles as he struck again, again, again, one leaden punch after another slamming into the creature's onyx skull and ringing across the warped valley.

"Konrad Falkenberg--"

Blow after blow, slower, deeper each time, shoving the creature further down into the sandy mire.

His ears rang, muscles aching with shock and strain. It took him a moment to realize he was now landing blows upon muddy sand.

The monster's head was a gory stain in a deep hole. One dark appendage wavered slowly in the dirt, like the leg of a crushed roach.

Enough. Enough, now.

He felt himself drag the shield free, something clutched in his other hand. Something black and glistening. He loped back toward the horses as the horizon continued to warp and change, hurrying toward whatever aid he might still give Serona, and the man to whom he had sworn all loyalty, to death and beyond.

Alonso was shoved onto his mare before he could form a protest. As one of the monsters rushed forward at Serona, the Captain slapped the horse and sent it bolting. The King rocked in his saddle but held on, twisting to peer over his shoulder at the men he was leaving behind. God, what were those things? What was all of this?!

Yesterday he was wearing motley and singing rhymes.

Kolbe’s demonic red face flashed in his thoughts, and Alonso squeezed his eyes shut. Two knights dead, and two more about to be. Beneath their armor, and even beneath the scars, they were still men who needed to believe in their cause. It was their duty to preserve their King. Even if he felt like a coward, even if it sickened him to his very core, he had to run.

The caravan was still up ahead. Wiping at his eyes with the broad side of his arm, the King momentarily considered running to see to his friends, but a wicked silhouette appeared just over the ridge. A monster, a beast, just like the ones attacking him. Alonso pulled the mare in a wide semicircle, changing course so he could circle widely around the Knights at a distance, riding at a full gallop.

Serona had barely had the chance to draw his sword before he was knocked off his feet by the dull side of the creature’s scythe arm. As he slid across the ground on his back, his weapon knocked out of reach, he was able to contemplate the sensation of his ribs snapping as if they had been mere twigs. He stared at the dusty sky above him as he fought to breathe, his entire body feeling stiff and wooden.

The beast was above him then, cutting into his vision as its spear-like feet struck the ground on either side of him. It was all Amon could do to stare up into its unfeeling, luminescent eyes, and know that he was staring at a messenger of death.

He’d failed his men. He failed his king. To die here would be merciful deliverance from his shame.

The creature leaned down over him, pinning him in place with both of its thick, bladed arms. Its viscous, yellow saliva fell in strings from the chaos of moving parts that composed its mouth, falling upon his neck and cheek. It was cold, surprisingly, but reeked of rotten meat. It was a poorly timed moment for his lungs to finally fill again.

Some of its mouth parts receded, revealing two finger-like appendages that ended in tufts of coarse bristles. They extended and felt over the contours of his face. The spider beast was almost tender. Amon twisted his head away and gritted his teeth.

Then the beast straightened, standing tall once more, and then turned to walk away.

Freed, Serona painstakingly lifted himself up so he could cough and gag into the sand below him. The pain from his ribs winded him again, and he fell face first into the sand, closing his arms around his midsection.

Apparently more concerned with Koble and defending its leader, the creature scuttled off in the direction of the other Knight. It brushed passed a still panicked Mr. Hooves with a furious shove, but the animal retaliated with a swift kick of its hind legs. The creature hissed and lurched sideways, its carapace split open in two new places.

Before it could recover, its scythe arm was seized and pulled back further, enough for Serona to slide his sword to its hilt into the creature’s hulking thorax. Its legs failed and slid from underneath it, bringing the entire beast onto its side. Serona fell as well, pulling his sword free again and plunging it into the creature’s underbelly. Its four smaller arms grabbed at him, snagging his clothing and reaching for his limbs, but they were too weak to cause any damage.

He kept his weight on one scythe arm, which swiveled uselessly in the sand. The other swung around in a desperate attack, but Amon managed to grasp the limb with both hands. While the creature’s limbs felt air, refusing to die while a blade was thrust halfway into its undercarriage, it was caught in a stalemate with Amon, halfway onto his back, doing all he could to prevent the bladed limb from severing his head.

In time, the human’s strength would wane.

From his distant watch, Alonso witnessed the shape of Linus Kolbe emerge from the sand. His relieved laugh was coughed in astonishment.

“He’s alive!” the King cried.

The man’s shape was also noticed by Serona, who widened his eyes. Kolbe had been victorious?

“You’re alive,” he croaked. “Brother…” Amon choked and faltered, his grip on the beast’s limb slipping. “Help—me.”

In contrast to its previous wielder, the scepter was warm to the touch in Kolbe's hand. Large citrine gems, set into the black chitinous material, in no small way resembled the creatures' hollow eyes. Most peculiar, when held the scepter almost seemed to feel intrinsically precious. Like gold, perhaps, but closer to the suggestion of an innocent living thing, completely subject to the mercy of whomever was holding it.

“Fool! You'll die without knowing it, just like your master! Do you see the king here? No! So let's move! We can't find my king even if he was here if we are dead!” Gawain yelled at the mage, before being interrupted by a familiar voice. Before even being given the chance to reply smugly and wittily with a smart comeback, about how Juna was an elven whore, or how her famed leader now laid dead because he fell off his horse like a moron, she had fired her weapon. Immediately Gawain ducked down low and heard the unsoothing, fear-inducing sound of a piece of lead swooping by his head. “Fucking ELVES! See now mage, they are firing upon us! Come! Come with m- WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, SHOOTING FIRE AT THAT THING? ARE YOU MAD?”

Yes. Mages are mad, Gawain. All of them. The voice in the back of his head seemed to be the only voice of reason within this debacle as it tried to explain that mages were indeed all mad. And if anyone looked at this moronic figure trying to fight a bloody spider mage of hell they would be inclined to agree. The spider was there in all it's might, and it was doing.. something! The earth warped around it, mountains disappeared in the direction of Vicenna, it was almost like Gawain's reckoning had finally arrived. Any moment now, the Monarch would come riding down on a glorious golden steed to take Gawain to the heavens, but alas, that did not happen. Gawain shook his head, attempting to get rid of the mad-talk he was entering in in his mind. Golden steeds? The Mountainrange of Vicenna? Gawain was sure he was going mad in this place, and the only escape.. was to get away from this place.

He stepped forward in the sand which seemed to be draining downwards as if all the earth in the world had disappeared and made way for more sand to appear. It seemed like a mistake to step forwards but he needed the mage - he needed him to explain what magic this weird spider was using, he needed him to possibly ride to Areta, to explain to the nobles what was going on, and to get permission to enter full on war with Vicenna. They were no doubt the creators of these beasts and who could better prove that than this mage boy?

He grabbed the boy in the neck, firmly, more firmly than he had grabbed his tunic earlier, and pulled him back. Perhaps he grabbed him too hard, but at least he pulled the boy out of the sand. It gave the boy a chance, perhaps, to feel some more solid sand under his feet. They would have to hurry though, or else they'd still be trapped in the sand, and perhaps in the company of more spiders.

“Sorry to manhandle you like this,” Gawain mumbled as he walked backwards, headed for the horse that had been standing there, attempting to keep it's calm. It was the horse that Marcus had used to follow the elves. “But I need you. God, never thought I'd say that about a heretic mage like you, but it's true, I need you. And you're no use to me dead.” It seemed like Gawain was finally regaining some of his usual composure, since the lack of food, water and sleep was getting to him.

And that fucking sand. The sand, that was always in your eyes and mouth, and creaked between your teeth no matter what you did.

He pushed the boy towards the horse with a quick hard shove, before quickly mounting the horse. Without waiting for the boy to reply - whether positive or negative - he'd pull the boy onto the horse without much effort. Gawain was strong, and the mage boy, well, less strong. Evidently, mages were inferior in physique. Therefore Vicenna was inferior to Areta. It made sense to Gawain. They needed heretical magic to survive the Aretan superiority. That must've been it.

And then, well, Gawain started riding, riding in a random direction with no sense for where Areta was and where Vicenna was. But Gawain sure as hell wasn't riding towards those mountains that suddenly vanished. That would be like riding your horse into the mouth of a lion. No, he headed the exact other way.

After a few minutes of confused traveling, Gawain spotted something in the distance. Is that.. a house? In the desert, alone, like this..? Gawain squinted and leaned forwards, pushing against Marcus, who he'd forgotten about by now. “That's not a fucking house!” he suddenly blurted out. His noble blood seemed to take a second priority now, with the vulgarities coming out of his mouth being more like that of a peasant. But even the King could excuse him for that if he saw what Gawain saw. “Those are giant ants! Oh, we best get the hell out of he- wait, that standard! Why is that standard there?!” Gawain stopped the horse on a hill that was still standing - barely. The movement in the sand far away meant that the sand here was also unstable. He took a minute to observe the standard.

“I must be mad. That standard is supposed to be in Areta. I must be going stark-raving insane. Mage, tell me, am I insane? What did your mage master do to me to make me like this? I swear.. mages.. you'll pay for this after I am done with you.” He was clearly rambling now, and it would be evident to Marcus that Gawain was slowly losing his mind. Understandable, since he had been kidnapped, mind games had been played with him by the mage, then he was kidnapped again by the elves, then he was attacked by a giant spider, now there was giant ants and to top it off the royal standard was in the middle of a desert. Yes, any man would lose his mind after that.

“Well, if God wants to meet me this badly that he'd place all this before me, who am I to deny him? Hya!” He pulled on the reins and instructed the horse to move forwards with a firm kick in it's sides. The horse whinnied as it moved forwards, possibly alerting the two knights struggling with the ants to the presence of Gawain, and his newfound companion, Marcus the Mage. Or Marcus the Heretic, depending on how uptight you were. Granted, at that point Gawain was not even sure if Marcus was with him anymore. Between the insanity and the intense drought he experienced, it was entirely possible that he'd managed to hallucinate the entire thing, and that he had never even managed to get Marcus on the horse after all. God, he'd have been talking to a hallucination all that time. That'd be embarrassing.

Marcus didn’t have time to observe his desperate attack on the bug mage as the knight yanked him out of the sands. He was secretly thankful the Knight was so insistent on Marcus joining him. He’d surely die out here if left to his own devices. Especially with whatever heretical magic was being cast by that bug. He had just began noticing the entirety of Vicena’s desertscape melting around them. He was awestruck at the sheer level of material manipulation the bug mage was projecting. How far did this beast’s power extend? Dealing with that creature would surely require the experience of a master Magus, perhaps more than one.

Marcus hardly had time to reflect as the Knight man handled him back to Mischief. Somehow, through all this, that damned stubborn horse had remained. The nerve of this animal was as steely as any creature he had seen. Marcus heeded the Knight’s instruction and climbed on, or was rather shoved on by the knight. Mischief didn’t protest the rough mounting, probably more pleased to be leaving whatever hell on earth this was becoming. Even here, the land was still becoming soft and liquidic, as if the whole of the desert was turning to a sandy sea.

As they rode, Marcus desperately tried to maintain his composure, to keep himself from quaking in his boots. He was covered in sand. It was hard to see. It was hard to breath. Everything ached. He could hardly thing straight. He had suddenly been thrust into what an apprentice had no business being in. He was horribly out of his depth. Surrounded by creatures he hardly comprehended and now perhaps a captive of an Aretan Knight, he felt more hopeless and powerless than he ever had. Even now, as they were escaping that bug mage, he could feel the residual magic from it thrumming around them as it resculpted the landscape at its whim. The mountains were gone… All of them. At least this level of magic wouldn’t go unnoticed. Surely the other Magi in the area were feeling this, too. Someone would know how to deal with this creature.

His attention was redrawn ahead of them as the Knight began shouting about something in the distance. It was had to make out in the thick fog of sand whirling in the air, but the closer they got, the clearer it got. It was soon apparent; it was the Aretan Standard. Even shrouded in all this damned dust, it was unmistakable. And those were more giant bugs. What on earth kind of invasion was this? Where did these creatures come from and why now were they choosing to rampage across Vicena?

Marcus turned his head to the Knight as he questioned his sanity. “Sir Knight, if you’re insane, we’ve both been drinking from the same chalice. I see it, too! That’s your standard. The Royal Standard, if I’m not mistaken. And… Giant… Ants…” He felt distinctly like they were no longer going to be finding safety any longer. In fact, things may be becoming much more dangerous for himself now, Marcus thought. “You’re going to ride us right into that mess, aren’t you?”

Perhaps the Knight was insane, just not for the reasons he claimed. He could feel the horse speed up as the Knight spurred it on. He was riding them right into that mess. Marcus could only hold on and hope the Knight wasn’t getting them killed. Or that the Aretan royal knights wouldn’t kill him once everything was said and done. He held his staff tightly, praying they wouldn’t meet another of those wicked bug mages. They were all surely doomed if it was another of those damned bug mages.