As it is with every Fae creature, the coming of age also comes with a right of passage. Typically associated with the nature of one's own specific type of Fae creature. For those with a close affinity for nature's life, the plants and animals, are the Druidic Fae. Their rituals and ceremonies closely centering around their bond with nature, usually done out in the wilderness on a full moon. The right of passage for a Druidic Fae is in fact, quite simple. Without crossing any of the other elemental territories, that is to only be associated with nature and it's flora and fauna, the child coming of age will wander off into their affinitive domain. For an unmeasured period of time the child will wander, finding their way and learning to become more in tune with themselves, a pilgrimage of sorts. For the Druidic Fae the exchange is low risk, the only real danger comes from the wildlife and even they tend not to stray to closely to the strange and mystical beings unless compelled to do so.

The coming of age for the Aquaticus Fae is quite the contrary. So to the point that they are arguably one of the rarest form of Fae. The child of the Aquaticus must journey out into the water, until they come onto the land. Though they are not to stray into the domain out of their affinity, such as a forest or field. The water's domain lies in the ocean, and all that it touches including sandy shores and partially submerged caverns. There is always the threat of storm, predator, and fatigue. Unlike the Druidic Fae who feast and rejoice up until their journey. It should be noted that only for the time of the pilgrimage are the Fae restricted to their affinitive domains, though not by any known law. Merely by tradition and legend alone. The most common danger for a child of the Aquaticus Fae, are when they wander into the territory of man. Often the less experience fae, unskilled at moving unseen or manipulating their magical abilities, are mistaken for some form of edible sea life.
Conchae wiggles her toes in excitement, feeling them squish into the soft damp sand beneath her. Her heart hammers in her chest, letting the adrenaline course freely through her body. All her life has led up to this moment, this one particular night and each night beyond this until she returns once more. She grins at her mother and father, her four brothers and three sisters. She had heard all about the journey from her older siblings. Though their return varied greatly from each other. Virilem, her older sister and the one she trusted most, had been the shortest at five days. She wove great tales of her journey,her favorite was when Virilem went through a storm, riding the waves as if she were part of the water itself. She had spoken much of her five day journey, but she never told Conchae of that moment. The moment where your soul frees itself, and you can feel the magic flowing through you like the very blood in your veins. The moment of adulthood.

---

Conchae winced in pain as the woman next to her stuck her again with her long sharpened quill, before dipping it back into the ink bottle. Their clan always passed on the family markings before a journey, so that if one were to find death, they would still be able to find each other in the afterlife. She kept herself from glancing at the unfinished markings that were being drawn on her pale blue skin, though usually nearly white with an off tint of blue, being so close to the water was making the blue pigmentation more vibrant, and it would as she drew closer until she was as blue as the ocean. An intricate pattern of water lilies, connected by long twisting lines, weaving through each other and at every point they crossed a lily was drawn. Conchae winced again and tried not to make a noise, trying to act brave for her little brothers and sisters. Her mother smiled warmly, a stark contrast next to her father who seemed to be a mix of content and indifference. The woman clapped her hands and Conchae looked at her new markings, encircling her left bicep fully, and spanning maybe the width of three fingers.

There were to be no more goodbyes at this point. Her family hollered and cheered, all except her father, as she turned and slowly walked towards the water. She took a deep breath "This is it ..." she thought to herself. The moments of transition from a child of fifteen, to an adult. She reached the waters edge and felt her toes dip into the cold water as she shed off her ceremonial garments. One deep breath, no hesitation, as she sprinted forward and dove into the water. The noise of her family replaced by the rush of water, and the air bubbles as they rushed past her towards the surface. Her skin mottled before becoming wholly blue, though her hair remained the normal sky blue. She took a powerful stroke forward and swam across the ocean floor. She felt the additional clear membrane stretch out across her eyes, knowing they would be filled edge to edge black, the color of a dark abyss. This gave her the ability to see better than any land walker could underwater, almost as easy as seeing through day. Far clearer than her normal eyesight. She smiled as a torrent of feelings coursed through her. Her long lithe arms bring her parallel to a school of fish, who swam alongside her for a time before breaking off.

Any experience Aquaticus Fae would have been able to sense the approaching hurricane just a day away... and the tropical cyclone cell moving with its center..

---

Seven years later...

De'mari stands at the road leading up to a large banana plantation she had called home since she was brought back from the brink of death. The owns had found her lying face down on the sandy shores just a few miles away as they took a moonlit stroll, such as many older couples do. Despite mankind's superstition revolving around her particular species of Fae the couple took her in, and nursed her back to health. It was fairly obvious, from the blue tint near large bodies of water, to the occasion when De'mari would sleep weave and cause the water to float from her glass into the air. In fact, even De'mari had her suspicions, but with a lack of memory and her knowledge growing up as an Aquaticus Fae, she had nothing to base her classification of herself on, so it remained a mystery. Until now.

She bit her lower lip, holding back a string of profanities as the guard searched her for weapons, perhaps a little too thoroughly. Her adopted father was face down in the dirt after assaulting one of the guardsmen, and her adopted mother along with the field hands she had come to call family, were being held back by a group of heavily armored men. The guard seemed satisfied with his search, and with a grunt, kicked in the back of her knee sending her sprawling into the dirt. Her adopted family screamed with their outrage as the guard put his boot on the small of her back, preventing her from raising up. He takes a handful of her hair and yanks it back, forcing her head up with a cry of pain.

"De'mari Lamperouge, you are hereby being sentenced to trial by a lawful court, effective immediately. You are being accused of unlawful sorcery, assault, endangering the lives of thirty-seven people, and multiple counts of treason, including but not limited to; Gathering of secret of information, Selling of said information, Harboring and Aiding and Abetting other spies for the Nomadic Provinces of The Dunes, plotting against his Highness, sabotage, and murder of government officials. Regardless of what you say now, you are to face each of your accused crimes at trial where a ruling will be determined by an official judge from the school of law."

De'mari looks up to see a woman dressed in long flowing red robes, adorned with gold thread work. The parchment she holds out in front of her is quickly rolled up as the scholar turns on her heel with a huff and seeks refuge in an elaborate carriage, polished and painted in vibrant colors of blue and white. The guard with his boot on her lets our a shrill whistle, "Some record there, think they'll hang you?" He asked nonchalantly as he hauled her to her feet. Distantly De'mari could see her adopted father screaming at the guards, on his feet once more as they withdrew. She couldn't hear him though as her ears had gone deaf as she mulled over the accusations. The only thing she was guilty of was sorcery without a proper license, and maybe an assault of two. But none of that had any official business, especially not treason. Vaguely some part of her mind wondered if this was the doing of a work hand nicknamed Rat, a scrawny scheming man she had punched in the nose. That thought crossed nearly unnoticed in the back of her mind as she was led, trance-like, into a wagon. She was laid out spread eagle, with each of her limbs secured to a shackle attached to the wagon by very short chains.

She brushed a strand of light blue hair out of her eyes and looked at the sky. Sighing and feeling the pain on her eye where the guard had hit her with a stiff wooden baton wrapped with metal bands. And where he had hit her on the right shoulder, and probably fractured a rib. And to think she had only called him scum. She felt as if she were dreaming something awful, this couldn't really be happening... could it? Reigns cracked and the wagon began rumbling, De'mari would have been tossed to the side if not for her bindings. For the next two days she would get to watch the endless sea of blue above, with the added bonus of being spoon fed slop. It was sometime later that first day she had been arrested that she thought back to Rat, vowing to get vengeance on him regardless of his involvement in this. Though she was almost positive he had come up with it somehow.

The cart jostled again as they hit what felt like a particularly large rock. It also felt as if the driver didn't even attempt to avoid it. He let out a soft chuckle as the chains to her shacks shook as she was momentarily bounced up just enough to cause burning agony to her shoulder. She had never heard of so many crimes piled up on one person, she grit her teeth half in pain, and half in anger. The sadness welled up inside her of being torn from her family. She knew where she was headed, to the dungeons of the capital, Providence. With a list like her accusations, there was no avoiding a hanging. She could cry when she was alone, but she would not give into these guards.

Another bump in the road, probably a ditch this time and she cried out as she bounced up, the burning agony flared up into a raging inferno of pain in her shoulder. She would have to decide later if it was dislocated or broken.

Vaerun drifted through the slums on the outskirts of Providence, looking every inch the beggar that he was pretending to be. In the slums, you never made it very far without an "accident" unless you looked like an accident had already befallen you. Fortunately, this wasn't his first visit to the tiny trash pile that so many of Providence's poor called home, and he had chosen his outfit appropriately. His shirt had originally been a natural white color, but a day spent rubbing it in mud and dust had changed that, including purposefully tearing holes in the sleeves in areas where he never bothered to conceal anything useful anyways. The shredded remains of his pants were more akin to shorts, their longest part stopping just below his knees and caked in mud. Vaerun deeply wished he could have worn his boots today, but most beggars lacked even the most basic of sandals, and he was not going to stand out as an exception.

Vaerun ran a dirty hand through his dusty, ebon colored hair, groaning inwardly at how much further he had to travel to reach the agreed upon rendezvous point. He didn't know why, but one of his oldest acquaintances had sent him a message he couldn't ignore, and Vaerun was determined to find out why. And so he continued to walk through the streets, eager to see this meeting over and done with, but at the same time trying not to draw attention to himself.

After another hour of walking, Vaerun finally pushed open the door to the Rich Joke, a tavern located even further on the outskirts of Providence. For some reason, the first owner of what was now one of the roughest taverns in the city thought that so long as he watered down the drinks and paid his workers in that same mead, he would make a handy profit from even the poor here in the slums. That owner was long gone now, his body buried somewhere in the basement after a card game gone wrong. The current proprieter was a bald, sickly looking man who smelled of things Vaerun tried his hardest not to contemplate as he approached him.

"I'm here for a meeting," Vaerun said.

"What do I look like, a skin merchant?," the man grunted back in reply, pretending to clean a filthy looking tankard.

"No, you look like a dog got drunk and mated with one of the ugliest crabs in existence," Vaerun retorted, slapping a gold coin down on the table. "I'm looking for Geoffrey."

" Well you should have just said so," the man replied, taking the coin and biting it to test its authenticity. Seemingly satisfied, he answered "Room eight. Upstairs."

With that finished, Vaerun turned and walked up the slowly rotting wooden planks that had been nailed together in a crude imitation of stairs. Continuing until he found the appropriate room, Vaerun checked once more to make sure the knife he had pressed against his side was still safely in place and concealed before knocking once and entering.

There across the room, was an old man clad in thick traveler clothing sitting behind an oaken desk covered in parchment. Leaning back in the chair, Geoffrey did not even acknowledge Vaerun's existence, leaving him to break the silence himself.

"What do you want Geoffrey?," Vaerun said, leaning against the wallnext to the door. When still he received no answer, Vaerun began to grow impatient.

"Do I look like I have time for your games old man,," Vaerun growled, and was answered once more by silence.

What was going on here, he wondered, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He pushed off the wall, approaching Geoffrey cautiously, his instincts screaming at him from some unknown danger. As he approach, he noticed that not only was Geoffrey silent, the man wasn't even breathing.

Vaerun ran, pulling open the door in time for the first city guardsman to come barreling through. They slammed into each other, and instincts honed by years on the streets sprang into action. As the guardsman raised his cudgel, Vaerun jammed his fingers into the gap between the man's helmet and breastplate, smashing the man's Adam's apple. As the other man gasped, Vaerun rolled away from him, starting to sprint towards the door but drawing up short as the rest of the guard's patrol entered the room.

Vaerun began to step backwards as he came face to face with half a dozen guardsmen. One, a cleaner looking fellow with a long mustache and gold filigree on his helmet smirked and cast a glance at his fallen companion. "I suppose we'll add attempted murder of a guardsman to the charges then. Citizen Vaerun of Providence, you are under arrest for murder, assault, treason of he highest order, and conspiracy t assassinate highly placed members of this city's lawfully elected council. Please, resist if you dare."

Angir Tarquith jolted suddenly awake from his troubled dreams, a cold sweat covered his body and his hands were clenched tightly into fists. He blinked several times as his eyes readjusted to the murky darkness that surrounded him like an unwelcome smell, the memories of the dream already disappearing from his grasp. He ran his fingers through his short brown hair, as always it was a slightly tangled mess. He was breathing heavily and for a brief moment wonder if he had truly awakened, but soon had his question answered as he heard the sounds of shouting and fighting coming from the courtyard below his window. Scrambling out of bed and rushing to the window he cursed violently as he stubbed his toe on the bedpost and almost crashed into the wall beside his bed. Continuing to curse his misfortune he rubbed his deep green eyes as he quickly glanced down at the scene below, almost not being able to believe what he was seeing. The King’s royal guard were swarming through the open gate into his father’s castle, attacking and slaughtering all who stood in their way. As he watched one of his father’s most loyal guardsmen, Sir Howell emerged from the keep and charged forwards into the fray bellowing like a berserker wearing only his sleeping gown and wielding a huge ornate hammer. Sir Howell caved in the skull of the nearest men to him just as the cowardly man sunk his sword into one of the poor serving girls as she begged to be spared - she had lived at the castle her entire life and tried in vain to flee. He watched as Sir Howell rounded on the next guard and with a colossal swing he caved the man’s breastplate and chest inwards, causing a sickly crunching noise to echo throughout the courtyard as blood and assorted gore gushed from the man. Several of his father’s other guardsmen rushed forwards to join the battle, emerging from a side door into the keep.

Finally tearing his eyes away from the melee the sickening realisation of what was happening hit Angir. ‘It’s me they are here for…’ he said in his own mind, suddenly feeling queasy as he realised the men outside were dying because of him. He rushed to the large wardrobe that stored his clothes and frantically dressed himself, throwing on his highest quality traveling clothes over his tall slim frame, and his most sturdy leather boots onto his feet before finally strapping on a large dark cloak. Moving back over to his bedside he grabbed his satchel and began stuffing it with numerous small books and pieces of parchment that littered his desk as quickly as he could. Throwing it over his should he took one moment to look out of the window once more, gasping in dismay as he saw that most of his father’s guards now lay dead or dying, Sir Howell being the only man left standing. Several cuts were apparent almost instantly, his blood running down staining his white nightgown in several places. As three men rushed the knight attacking him simultaneously another man rushed to attack him from behind. Sir Howell swung his hammer in a large arc at the three men, its sharpened head smashing the first man cleanly in the jaw, teeth and even what looked like a severed eye went flying as the strike continued through and crunched into the second man’s shoulder. The third man was too quick and managed to lunge in before the hammer stuck him, and managed to land a blow into Sir Howells side with his sword sticking fast.

The heavily wounded Knight roared and dropping his hammer he grabbed the man who was beginning to try and withdraw his sword frantically, with one hand he grabbed the man’s throat and in an instant had crushed the man’s larynx, his other hand pulling the sword from his own side before he drove it through the heart of the man with the wounded shoulder.

“Sir Howell! Behind you!” screamed Angir futilely from the window as the fourth man lunged forwards with his blade. The sword sunk deep into the Knight’s back and as blood began to ooze from his mouth he slowly turned and tried to stab the man with the sword. However at this point his strength had obviously left him and the man easily knocked it from his hand before he grinned savagely and kicked Sir Howell to the ground before taking a step over him and plunging his blade into the Knights body several more times. Once he was finished he looked up at the window, his eyes meeting with Angir’s for a few moments before he shouted “He is up there! Men, storm the castle and bring him to me.”

Fighting back his tears and building rage Angir turned and sprinted into the castle as quickly as he could, determined to make sure that his father’s men had not been killed in vain. Any servants or guardsmen that he passed he warned to flee as he rushed up towards his father’s room. As he reached the staircase that lead upwards he was confronted by several king’s guards who were in the process of rushing up, one of them spotted him immediately and shouted to the others. Turning to run he was blocked from the way he had come by another guardsman with a fierce snarl on his face. Angir backed away slowly, now cornered with no way to go other than into the solid wall behind him.

As the men approached he raised both of his hands and began to do the only thing that he could. He began to weave a spell together that would with any luck kill all of the men before him, targeting their hearts and the fragile system of arteries and other internal organs that would be most vulnerable – dark magic that he had been heavily studying for some time now, but had never been brave enough to attempt. Already he felt the strain of weaving, feeling his energy sapping directly from him and into the spell he was now creating with all of his concentration. As several of the men lunged forwards he released the built up power within himself and poured himself fully into it. As several of the men suddenly screamed out and crumpled to the ground he realised that he was nowhere nearly as strong to sustain the deadly magic and as it drained the last of his will and he felt his legs turn to jelly as he collapsed backwards, his vision slowly darkening as the remaining men rushed towards him.

---

Extremely disoriented and weak, the next time Angir’s eyes opened he realised that he was now in shackles and several guards were stood closely by him, his body covered in several small cuts and bruises and his cloak torn away, his left eye also felt painfully swollen. He was now in the courtyard of the castle, the bodies from the earlier fight had been moved and thrown unceremoniously into one of the far corners. His head pounded and he tried to concentrate on what he was seeing. Several guardsmen were stood around all watching the scene before him, his beaten and bruised father kneeling before the guardsman who had killed Sir Howell. He faded in and out of consciousness as he realised that the man was reading a list of charges to his father as rain fell freely from the sky.

“…furthermore, you are charged with harbouring spies, traitors and other enemies of the state, including your own son. As his father all responsibility for his crimes fall upon yourself as Lord of this castle and its surrounding lands, which include but are not limited to: unsanctioned use of forbidden sorcery, use of sorcery without appropriate licences, mass murder of lawful subjects of the kingdom, the spying and gathering of secret information, selling of said information, harbouring aiding and abetting other spies for the Nomadic Provinces of The Dunes, plotting against his Highness, sabotage and finally the brutal murder of several government officials. The only punishment for such treason for a man of your position is execution, to be carried out immediately.”

As Angir’s vision began to fade once more he watched as the man drew the same sword which was still stained with Sir Howells blood and raised it above his father’s head. He wanted to scream and cry out that the charges were false, that he hadn’t done any of those things, that the forbidden magic was his fault and not his fathers, but one of the guards nearby smashed his head savagely with a cudgel as soon as he began to move. As his sight faded the last sound he heard was the sound of his father’s head being removed from his body followed by a sickening thudding sound.

De'mari closes her eyes, feeling the tingles of pain from such a small movement. Her once pale blue, nearly white skin is now a bright red from her hours in the sun. Her body screams in protest at every bump the wagon makes, to the point where every jostle brings a whimper from her. How long had it been? After the second day she had starting dozing, or rather, losing consciousness. They had traveled through the night, rotating the horses and those few men tasked with watching her. They were traveling slow enough that the guards off shift could sleep and catch up to them easily enough. Slow didn't mean comfortable, a reminder as the wagon bounced across a rut in the road. De'mari gave another weak whimper, no longer having the strength or resolve to defy her captors. A diet consisting of just barely enough to keep her alive, and the constant painful travel keeping her from proper rest had worn her spirit down. She felt like a hollow shell, travelling through a tortuous nightmare. And all the while the guards glared at her, obviously offended through her treasonous crimes. Most soldiers were very patriotic. A few particularly nasty guards laughed at her, taking joy in her suffering.

De'mari looked up at the sky, her tired eye, as the other was still swollen shut, straining against its brightness. She silently willed the clouds on the edge of her vision closer, just to block the sun out for a little bit. She was so tired... so very tired. Off in the distance she heard the thundering of hooves, the noon shift was arriving. It was only noon? It had felt much longer than that, every second of her torment taking an eternity to pass by. The guards changed at irregular intervals to keep her unaware, but she had heard one of the younger ones earlier talking about how he would be back a noon. The young one, so careless, and the way he leered at her. She shuddered at the thought of being left alone around him. Voices.. they were talking, laughing again. At her most likely, yes, they were always laughing at her. The wagon creaked to a halt, and even that hurt, as the horses were changed out. A crack of the reigns a moment later, or was it longer than that? And the wagon lurched forward, creating spots in her vision as her dislocated shoulder, she had decided it wasn't broken at some earlier point, radiated pure agony. Her nerves lit up like small fires, causing tears to well up in her eyes. She took a ragged breath and felt her fracture rib ache, and all of her wounds were coming back to her as if she had forgotten them somehow.

"Having fun harlot?" The young guard asked sarcastically, sneering as he rode up to look at her from the side her good eye was on. She hated him the most, the way he sneered at her. The way his eyes wandered over her body, the way he laughed at her. The way he degraded her, made her feel filthy. She tried to look defiant but he just laughed again. De'mari imaged it would be difficult to look imposing from her position shackled spread eagle to the wagon, bruised and sun burnt. Still, she gave him the most menacing her blue eye could give. He paused for a moment, as if considering something, and then smiled a lecherous grin. "I know what you're thinking about tramp, a real slut aren't you? Pathetic."

She grimaced as the wagon hit another bump in the road, barely hearing his derogatory comments. "Hey rookie, you ever roll in the hay with a Fae? I mean, there's a reason they call the Nymphs right?" They both laughed, and De'mari could feel her hate boiling up inside of her. A resentful wave of anger battled against her helplessness. She wanted to strike back at them, to make them feel how she felt. But there was nothing she could do. Her fingertips tingled slightly, perhaps she was losing circulation from lying still so long. But that didn't matter, her blood boiled fueled by her hatred. She wanted to watch them suffer as she did. Wanted to see them wallow in their own despair. She wanted to feel the warmth of their blood coursing down her arms..

Wait.. What?

De'mari grinned, something inside her head switching over. Perhaps it was her breaking point, the point where every gentle creature becomes something else, like a savage counterpart. The wagon jostled again and De'mari twisted slightly, without a sound, feeling her arm slide back into the socket as she twisted sideways. Then she pulled as the shackles binding her wrists. She was already a lithe, small woman, standing at maybe 5'1. She felt a pop in her hand, her thumb dislocating. She wiggled her hands fiercely, determination driving her blindly through what would normally be an excruciating process. She was still weak, but anger gave her strength. Hatred gave her purpose. She felt her heart hammering in her chest, felt the shackles sliding ever slow slowly. Her face split into a smile, something reaching out from the pit of her soul and clawing its way out, taking control.

"Stop all that racket back there! Rattling your chains won't help you wench!" The young guard spat, turning his head to look at her.

But she was standing now. Her fingers already weaving their second spell. The first had immediately shattered the will of the rear guard, unable to resist her as she pulled the moisture, his blood, from his body and used it to weigh down the pins inside the locks binding her ankles. He had slumped in his saddle, looking like a piece of dried fruit. his face colorless and stuck in a perpetual silent scream. The young guard stared at her silently, her dirty form standing menacing in the wagon, even with her short height the wagon made her taller so her had to look up. The sun behind her, casting a menacing shadow across her face as her bangs drooped around the edges of her face. Her eyes, now solid red, glared back at him. She felt the magic strong within her, like never before. She could never control it this well, having never completed her pilgrimage. And yet, it felt as if something else were there, guiding her, helping her.

"Oh shi-" The young guard started.

De'mari finished her second weave, again the force of her will colliding and shattering that of her enemy's. She could nearly hear his heart burst as she ripped a stream of crimson ribbons form his chest. He choked on his words, falling off of his horse, his body twitching. The wagon lurched to a halt and the driver screamed as she lunged onto him. Ignoring the frailness of her body, finding strength from somewhere inside her, from a boiling pit of rage. She tore at his face, part of her reveling in the spray of blood, the driver screamed again, trying unsuccessfully to protect himself. Her hand came down again, tearing at an artery in his neck. A fountain of blood sprayed out and she laughed at him. Staring at his terrified, slowly dying eyes.

---

The horse snorted as Estabond rode hard towards the screams. It had only been a few moments since they had left and his mind was in a panic for his brethren. Bandits weren't common this close to Providence, they were maybe a day away from the mighty city walls. The animal population was low, no, it was too quiet for that. He felt his blood rushing through him as he rode with two others. Sir Frier, and Sir Griswald, both his superiors. They had all heard the blood curdling screams, but it didn't make any sense. Perhaps the Fae had some friends who had organized some sort of rescue mission. He grimaced at the thought, there was no way he was going to let that treasonous witch go.

"There's the wagon," Sir Frier said, in his eerie focused calm. He was like the calm before a storm, the way he calculated and thought everything out.

Estabond's heart caught in his throat as he caught the whole thing in a sickening sequence. The guard on the ground, shriveled, mouth open, with what remained of his steed a few feet away from him. He urged his horse forward but it whinnied in protest, it took a few sharp kicks from his heels to coax it into a slow trot. Estabond felt his stomach turn as he saw the rookie. His chest flayed open, blood covered the front of his body, and he looked just as shriveled as Perwill, the rear guard. He clenched his jaw, what kind of sorcery could do this? He barely had time to finish that thought as he rounded the wagon, coming across the driver and the team of beasts meant to pull the wagon.

Or rather, what was left of them. Estabond flew off his horse and fell to his knees, his stomach clenching as he retched on the side of the road. The image of the maimed driver stuck in his mind, the team of horses dead, their bodies severed in multiple places, creating a heap of horse pieces all covered in blood and gore. He looked down, the pit of his stomach sinking as he saw the red of blood. It took him a moment to realize it wasn't his, he looked at his hands in horror, covered in the sticky red life force of his companions. His stomach turned again but he was too busy scuttling backwards, seeing the blood sprayed out before him. There was so much of it. Impossible, but it seemed arranged somehow. He squinted at it, it read "HaHaHa". What kind of sorcery was this?

"Estabond, over here." Sir Griswald said roughly.

Estabond rose to his feet, his knees shaking. He came around to the other side of the wagon where Sir Frier and Sir Griswald stood, looking down at something. Estabond blinked, rubbing his eyes. It was the woman.. covered in blood. And she seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a smile played across her lips. He felt anger well up in the pit of his stomach. He looked up at his two companions, his eyes saying "How?". They both shook their heads solemnly, the three of them highly disturbed by the situation. Eastbond frowned, they had orders to deliver this woman, and orders were orders.. but.

He looked at his brothers silently, drawing the heavy wooden cudgel wrapped in studded iron bands from his waist.

Angir was walking slowly down a large stone corridor, the stones themselves that surrounded him appeared to be ancient, once covered in what looked like intricate carvings which had now mostly been worn away by the sands of time. Piles of sand rested against the edges of the tunnels and a slight breeze caused grains to shift from pile to pile in an eerie and ghostlike fashion. He called out to see if anyone was there, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice, only the sounds of the wind as it whistled up the corridor. As he came towards the end where the corridor opened out into a surprisingly huge room that went as far as he could see into the darkness and beyond, he realised that he was not alone in the strange complex. Some strange and alien presence was watching over him silently, its intentions all but unknown to him. He started running through the large room until suddenly he reached the other end of the room. On the wall before him there was a large ornate seal that was broken, a dark hole behind it which made him shiver just to look at. There were five symbols all around the seal, each of them complex and seemingly infinite to his eyes, at least all of them were aside for the fifth seal. That seal somehow drew his eyes towards it and he hesitated briefly for a moment before he reached out with his hand and brushed the surface of it lightly. The instant that he did so a surreal voice whispered within his head a single word “Animus”.

---

Suddenly Angir jolted awaked painfully, again covered in a cold sweat with the memories of the dream rushing away from him as he did. He quickly remembered everything that had happened and where he was, the numerous aches and pains in his body reminding him of that. His wrists hurt terribly, the manacles digging into his flesh and rubbing whenever he moved. He was surrounded by darkness and had no idea where he was or how long he had slept for, let alone what was happening. His head still throbbed painfully and he found it very hard to concentrate, otherwise he would have attempted some type of magic to free himself or at the very least illuminate his surroundings. The fact that he wasn’t moving or being jostled around at all indicated to him that he wasn’t still be moved in the wagon, so providing the guards were taking him to providence as he’d guessed they would then he must have been unconscious for at least two days if not more – based on the location of his father’s estates which lay just to the west of Duskwood – that or they weren’t entirely there yet.

How long he lay uncomfortably in the pitch black dark he didn’t know, but suddenly and without warning light surrounded him and blinded him, pouring in from what he could now tell was a wooden trapdoor above him. Unfortunately for him the next thing he saw was the sneering face of a kingsguard before a mailed fist smashed into his face and caused his vision to blur away once more.

---

Groaning as he came to again Angir tensed in case he was struck once more, but as nothing happened he slowly opened his eyes and looked around. He was again in the wagon that he had been thrown in when he had first been captured and it was again moving down a painfully bumpy road. He could clearly see the capital on the road ahead, sprawling out over the countryside as far as he could see. He was hungry and thirsty, his mouth dry as a desert and his head still pounding like he was dying.

“Water…” he begged faintly, the lack of moisture in his mouth casing the words to come out as little more than a raspy noise. Trying to clear his throat he repeated the plea several more times, the only guards who heard him did little more than chuckle at him and ignore him, some even poking fun at him amongst themselves. He soon lost interest in asking the men for anything and instead stared at the dirty road behind them, wishing that somehow he could be free and in the kitchen back home before this whole thing happened.

Exhausted and disheartened Angir resisted the urge to cry, not that he would have been able to even if he wanted he was so dehydrated. Instead he focused upon his anger and his hate for what had happened, his mind focusing on the King and his personal guard, vowing over and over in his mind that if he could he would kill each and every one of them before he died. Suddenly his attention was brought forwards as several of the men around his cage started shouting and talking loudly amongst themselves. The road ahead of them was slick with gore and blood, several dead men and horses laid aside the road next to an abandoned wagon.

One of the city’s guard was stood beside it, and the commander who had killed his father strode out to speak with him. From his position Angir couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was clear the guardsman wasn’t happy at having to stand guard over the mess before it was cleaned away. As his own captors continued through the mess he stared at what was left, curiosity overpowering his exhaustion. The horses that had drawn the carriage were horrifically mutilated and disfigured, their bodies cut into several pieces and strewn across the road and surrounding area. The men he could see were no better, catching the sight of one who appeared to have had his chest ripped into, another who seemed to have been sucked dry of any moisture at all. It took Angir only a moment to realise this was powerful magic, the kind of powerful magic that he had been interested in. The kind of magic that was forbidden to men, and as far as he knew the kind that had not been seen in the kingdom of man for countless years. As the wagon moved away from the macabre scene he squinted at the road behind, sure for a moment that the various blood and gore was arranged in such a fashion so that it read ‘HaHaHa’, but he dismissed the thought realising that he was likely just delirious from the lack of sustenance.

Not for the first time in his life, Vaerun was dragged out into the street by a heavy and crudely wrought set of manacles that bound his wrists together. This time though, he had the added displeasure of an additional chain linking the manacles to a thick collar that had been secured around his neck that was just a few hand lenghts short, forcing him to either keep his head down or hold his arms up. Evidently the guardsmen believed he was either a major threat, or they just enjoyed the sight of him struggling underneath the weight of so much metal.

"You know gentlemen, the rumors about my massive size and great strength really only apply to one part-"

A gauntleted fist slammed into the side of his face, practically knocking Vaerun to the ground. He coughed and spat blood from his mouth, turning a cold, bloody smile on the man who had hit him.

"Oh this is going to be such a fun adventure, isn't it friend?," Vaerun said, standing back up. "Was it your sister or your wife who told you those stories?"

The man raised his fist again, but a harsh bark from the sergeant stayed his hand. "Don't be an idiot, he's just baiting you into killing him so he won't be tortured to death like the scum he is," the sergeant chided, then turned to beckon over another guardsman, "Thomas, you're on prisoner watch. Damon, go take point and cool off."

As the guards went to their new assignments, Vaerun chuckled, directing his attention at the sergeant. "Damn, and I had him right where I wanted him too. Guess I'll have to start all over again with this guy huh?"

Vaerun turned his head as much as he could to look at the guard beside him. The man was young, perhaps only two decades old, but was clearly used to following orders to the letter. He didnt even give Vaerun a single look as they continued to trudge on through the streets of Providence. As they passed from the slums of the city into the more middle class areas, the change was nothing short of dramatic. Poorly constructed and worse-maintained single story shacks were replaced by tall but narrow houses, many with chimneys that were already belching smoke as lunchtime rolled by. Vaeruns stomach growled, an odd sensation when mixed with the constant flares of pain from his jaw. He made a mental note to avoid being struck by metal clad fists in the future.

"Have you heard the good word about our lord and savior, the great flying invisible sea serpent?"

De'mari coughed, watching blood splatter on the flagstone beneath her. Her vision was hazy, the edges of which seemed rather dark, perhaps that was from her swollen eyes. Her shoulder ached, though less than before, but being dragged through the city wasn't exactly her idea of sight-seeing. Back at the plantation, she and others had always talked about travelling to the city. Though being two days outside of outpost, a seven day journey wasn't exactly in their budget. Though once a week her adopted parents would travel to the town, and De'mari would always go with them. Reveling in awe like a child at such a large gathering of people and buildings. Much different than the worker's shacks, and the tiny house her adopted parents had occupied.

If Outpost had been big, then Providence was endless. Everywhere her bleary eyes looked she saw an endless sea of people, who make sure to stay out of the guard's way as they hauled their bloody prisoner. The main road cut through town, straight up to the castle. Towards once side she could see thousands of rooftops, those farther on seemed to be in varying states of decay, mere shambles. She guessed those were the middle class and slums areas. They didn't look near as nice as those around the main road, with their polished windows and elegant gilding. Their bright shingled roofs, the flowers adorning the middle of the road, window sills, and second story balconies. It would have smelled pleasant, if not overpowered by the acrid stench of blood, dried and fresh.

Her seven day journey had been a nightmare. But for the last two days the three remaining guards had made sure to as savage to her as possible. She had been given no food, no water, and had been beaten until their cudgels had become stained red. She coughed again, more blood marring the walk. Her clothes, which had once been a loose white worker's shirt, the kind that tied up in the front, and her rough woven slacks no hung in bloodied tatters. Her shirt was no longer white but covered with the brown stains of dirt, and the darker streaks where the blood had soaked it. Her stomach turned, but all she got was a dry heave. Not all of that blood was hers, she shuddered at the memory, heaving again.

The two dragging her said nothing, the third was leading and parting the crowd. The wood of his cudgel dark red. He had hit her the hardest, she had probably killed someone important to him. The world seemed to pass in slow motion as they hauled her towards the castle. The people going about their daily business staring to gawk at her. The ladies and their hushed whispering, the men with their whoops and hollers. They crossed several patrolling soldiers, each saluted in turn before walking along. This kind of stuff must be pretty normal for them by now. Only the younger ones stared, their blurred faces unreadable. De'mari let her eyes close, just for a moment, a part of her terrified that she would wake up to the cudgels again, the angry faces of the guards flashing in her mind. Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes flew open out of fear. She coughed, her dry raspy throat turned it more into a helpless wheeze. There wasn't even any blood, though she didn't notice as her swollen, black eyes closed again out of pure exhaustion.

---

The creature stood atop a pile of bodies, all loaded into the back of a wagon. Streams of blood poured from each crack and crevice. But the creature liked it, it stood and howled from atop it's throne. A blood curdling sound, eerie in the pale night. De'mari looked on as the creature lashed down at the corpses, spraying blood, finding joy as it splattered on its clothes. It's eyes entirely red, from corner to corner, glowing brightly. The blood pooling on the ground moved towards her, becoming a wave of crimson. The creature's eyes looked at her, laughing haughtily. The wave rose off the ground, floating around her. Forming into words of laughter, she cringed back. The blood formed into "HaHaHa" , giving a visual to the cries of laughter from the demon.

The blood parted and the demon looked at her again. It's skin pale blue. It's body long and lithe, well built and supple. It's sky colored hair cascading around its head, damp with blood. She was looking at herself. De'mari screamed, falling to the pile of bodies beneath her, atop her throne on the wagon. It's skeletal horses whinnying, the cloaked driver turned and look at her. His eyes were fire, and he laughed, something deep and demonic. There wagon burst into flames and De'mari laughed, running her hand through her sticky, blood soaked hair.

---

De'mari took a ragged gasp of breath, waking up in a panic. Her aching, broken body screaming in protest as she flew off her cot and onto the ground. Her arms came out to catch her but they slipped along the cool, slick rock of the floor. She fell flat on her face, her broken ribs screaming in agony, her stiff body creaking with pain. She choked on the dryness of her mouth, laying with the side of her face on the floor, it's coolness feeling like a sort of comfort to her burned skin. "Here..." A man's voice said from above her gently. He gave her a hand as she bit her lip with the effort of rolling over. His arm snaked underneath her and helped her sit up as he pressed a cup to her lips.

The liquid was slightly bitter, but refreshing. He gave her a small sip before taking the cup away, she whimpered in protest, unable to help herself. "Ssh, just a little at a time or you'll make yourself sick, you're dehydrated." It went on like that for a few minutes, her would give her a sip and take it away, and she would anxiously await the next sip of the bitter liquid, her dry taste buds coming back to life to find out it was much worse than she first thought. But it was something. "I know it tastes like piss, but it's mostly herbal juice, the main ingredient is the Flower of Aine. Ever hear of it?"

She had in fact, it was quite rare, and obscenely expensive. The lore behind it was that the Goddess Aine had bestowed it upon one of her ancestral Fae, Lilith, who had nearly died in her battle against Ba'ale, a general knight of the demon armies. It had healed Lilith in a single night, and even the festering wounds from Ba'ale's sword Exxus had closed up into light pink scars. It was in fact, a very magical healing herb. And it was in high demand from those wealthier than the poor folk, some people thought it would let them live forever. It had a nickname...

"The flower of immortality," he said, chuckling. "Perhaps, but you are pretty lucky to wind up stuck in this cell with me. I have a friend, born of a blood nobler than I."

De'mari took another grateful sip, feeling her parched throat once more functioning properly. She gave a weak cough, feeling slightly nauseated. "Thank you..." she muttered as he helped her back onto her cot. She laid back on the thing, stiff mattress. Apparently they didn't give people like her a pillow, but she was just exhausted enough not to care. Even the floor felt comfortable. Though, oddly, the skin on the back of her neck felt stiff. Not the sunburned kind of stiff. She reached back and felt the raised flesh on the back of her neck. Her fingers traced the outline of a skull and crossbones branded into her skin. It didn't quite hurt, which meant she must have been out for an entire day.

"Marked for death.." She said, feeling a sadness well up inside her.

"Branded, nothing more. Like I said, you're in the wrong place, but at the right time. If you keep your wits about you, I'll take you with me when I leave," she heard him sit down on the cot opposite of hers. She turned and looked over at him. He was wearing a cloak, over shadowing his face, he waved at her as he leaned back against the wall. People say never trust a man who's face you can't see, but De'mari didn't care at this point. "What do you mean, take me with you?" She felt the exhaustion settling over her again.

"I'm not asking you to trust me, but that's a decision for you to make when the time comes," he replied, as if it were the most normal way to answer her question.

She wanted to ask more but she felt her eyes closing again. Felt her body go limp, the last shreds of her energy fading away. Her mind spinning over his offer, of her situation , of the last couple days, of Rat. She did not fall asleep with a peaceful smile, but a grimace. Her dreams filled with scenes of vengeance against Rat.

"Sleep now, because you're life is going to change when you wake up."

Angir had passed in and out of consciousness several times throughout the journey through Providence, the small crowds that gathered to watch barely even registering to him in his current state. Before he knew what was happening he had been dragged from the wagon and taken a short distance down some rough stone stairs and into a foul smelling and dark series of rooms. After only a few moments it was clear to him that this was the infamous dungeon under the Capital building, allegedly near on impossible to escape from and filled with the most skill guards and torturers from the entire kingdom. He was unceremoniously thrown into a cell, the men who had dragged him chuckling as they did – seeing that the cell was partially flooded and filthy water covered the majority of the floor.

He lay face down in the murky pool, his face tilted to the side so he was just able to breathe – unable to move any further as he felt truly exhausted. Already regretting the decision he took a gulp of the filthy water and almost immediately began to cough and splutter before a few moments later resisting the urge to vomit as his stomach cramped painfully. Deciding against repeating his desperate act Angir simply pulled himself up across the floor and away from the wetness, against the edge of the cell which was marginally dry, once there he closed his eyes and again within a few moments he drifted into an uneasy and dream-filled sleep. He once again dreamt of the great sandy room and the strange seal, once more the focus being on whatever the fifth symbol was and its obscured surface. Jumping awake again a single word resonated in his head, the word ‘Animus’. Upon awakening he instinctively shouted the word in his mind, determined to not simply forget it upon awakening as he always did, but a moment later his attention was drawn by the pair of hooded men who had approached his cage, the taller of the two pulling out a ring of keys and unlocking the door. He sat up quickly, his body screaming pain in protest to the swift movement. They both made their way into the cell quickly and without words, each of them seizing an arm and lifting him up and out of the cell. This time he didn’t cry out or resist, simply letting them drag him through the grungy hallways too weak to resist. As they did he noticed several other prisoners in the cells, some of them in a much worse condition than he was and for a brief moment he wondered if he should be thankful that he wasn’t in a much worse way.

As if the gods were mocking him and showing him the irony of his thoughts the two men rounded the next corner and Angir was confronted by the sight of what he quickly realised was a torture chamber of sorts, a heavy stone slab with several heavy leather straps attached to it awaiting him, a smoking brazier holding hot coals just beside it. At that moment he began weakly to struggle, but he had recovered little of his strength since the entire ordeal began for it to have much of an effect. The men’s grips were far too tight and he tried to resist in vain as they strapped him face first to the slab, the stains and smells of blood greeting him as they did. The next ten or so minutes felt like almost an eternity to him as the pair proceeded to taunt him mercilessly about disfigurement and all manner of hideous topics, before they finally proceeded to brand him with what he knew was fondly called the ‘mark of death’ on his left shoulder. His screams echoed throughout the dungeon, the immense searing pain almost overpowering him and making him wish for death and the smell of his own burning flesh caused him to feel the need to vomit. The pain grew so intense that he once more slipped away from the world of consciousness, only feeling the pain and exhaustion through his confused and addled mind.

---

As Angir once more came to in the small cell he quickly wished that he hadn’t, the numerous aches and pains only being amplified in the squalid conditions and the new raw pain from his back making things almost unbearable, though it did now feel like the very first bruises and cuts were slowly starting to heal and the mental exhaustion caused by his magical exertion was passing. Suddenly he realised that he may be able to use what little magic he knew to help him survive and maybe even escape from this place. It was a faint hope, but he knew even though he had been marked for death he would have to try something. He wracked his mind for each and every fact that he had read and learnt, as well as focusing on exactly what he had felt in the castle when he had used magic to try and kill the Kings-guard. He had no reference to mark the passage of time and so had no idea about how long he was in the cell thinking and planning. He started small, using a simple spell to repeatedly drain only water from the floor of his cell and draw the moisture into himself little by little without any of the ‘impurities’ that were present in it. It was awkward and somewhat fiddlier than he would have imagined, the concentration he needed for even such a small spell demanding all of his attention and effort for long periods.

As difficult as it was, Angir continued as with each small burst of clean moisture that he received he felt that little bit more refreshed and like he had accomplished something against all odds. What felt to him like hours and hours later he finished and a small grin cracked on his face despite everything that had happened. He now felt for the first time in days that he wasn’t dehydrated in the least, the small act of defiance giving him a glint of hope in his dire situation and a burning passion to survive. He sat in the dry patch of the cell, leaning against the rough stone walls and wracked his brain as to what should come next. Ideally he wanted to heal himself, but he knew nothing of weaving healing spells or anything of the like – and to experiment randomly on himself would be nothing short of dangerous. Instead he decided to devote his time to regaining his strength through more natural means, through resting his body and mind as best as he could in whatever time that he may have before he was next moved. He also repeated in his mind each and everything he remembered from his studies about magic and the offensive spells that he was sure he would need.

He continued to satisfy his thirst in his new method when he needed, making sure that no guards or jailers noticed what he was doing whenever they walked past and tried to sleep as much as he could in the times in between. It wasn’t a very satisfying existence, but the fact he was keeping himself from dying of thirst without drinking the filthy water and plotting to escape if possible gave him hope – that and the thought that if he did get out he would kill each and every of these cruel bastards without a second thought, be it with his mind or whatever sharp implement he managed to get his hands on. With that in mind, he turned his thoughts towards a new little ‘project’ for himself and started to gaze around the cell and surrounding area looking for anything that could be used or fashioned into a weapon.

Vaerun was tossed unceremoniously into his cell, the guards evidently having had more than enough of his smart mouth from the long walk to the dungeon. He rolled as he hit the ground, taking the impact on his shoulder and distributing the damage across his shoulderblades. He bit his cheek to stop himself from giving the guardsmen any satisfaction from a cry of pain, and instead began to look around what was likely to be his new home for the rest of his life.

It was dank. Dreary. Cold...

Everything a cell below the capitol building of Providence should be. The bars were over two inches thick, and ran ceiling to floor and were covered in rust, blood, and other substances best left to the imagination. He knew these cells harbored only the worst kinds of prisoners, the kind that the kingdom simply didn't trust without a virtual army living over their heads. As his eyes scanned the dark shadows of his cell, he noted several things, each more disheartening than the last.

The first was that although the bars were quite filthy with rust, evidence of several attempts to pry them apart was also present, with no signs of success. The second was that the bucket he could only assume was meant to be his bathroom, looked as though it hadn't been changed in several days and Vaerun could swear there was a splinter of three poking upwards from the rim. His bedding was in a similar condition, the filthy straw scattered about the cell and practically soaked in grime. All of that could be managed, what really made Vaerun's hair stand on end was one simple fact.

He wasn't alone in the cell.

A massive and overly muscled man leaned against the back wall of the cell, grinning at Vaerun with a look that was halfway between hunger and amusement. To either side of him were two less burly men, but each still likely had a good twenty five pounds or so on Vaerun. As they stared each other down, the guards began to laugh.

"We'll be back in a few minutes for you, traitor," one of them said between chuckles, "you'll have to wait and introduce yourselves later boys, but do give our friend here the best of your hospitality."

Vaerun smirked, "oh I'm sure we'll be the best of friends. I'm very sociable."

The guards departed, leaving the four men to glare at each other in silence for a few minutes. Vaerun had yet to move from where the guards had thrown him, save to stand up and dust himself off. Deciding that this was getting him nowhere fast, Vaerun approached the other group and held out his mind, smiling at the biggest of the three men.

"Good evening friends," Vaerun said, "let me guess....,"

He pointed to the biggest man "Alpha male...,"

The biggest man grinned again.

Vaerun looked at his companions, pointing at each of them in turn, "and his two bitches. Am I right?"

Both men stiffened, a look of pure rage crossing their features yet neither made a move to attack him. Vaerun guessed they wouldn't, not unless big boy here told them too. That was good, he liked dealing with people who couldn't think for themselves. "And I assume I'm supposed to be the new prison service boy, eh?"

The big man grinned again, and now that he was closer he noted the peculiar burn marks around the edges of his mouth. Someone had placed hot coals in his mouth, a common punishment for those who had spoken ill of the ruling caste. Small wonder he hadn't spoken yet. Scars were a good sign though, it meant he was either too slow, or too stupid to avoid getting caught.

"Well see that's just not going to work I'm afraid," Vaerun began, walking back to the bars, "you see my friend, I've become accustomed to doing things a certain way." He ran a hand down one of the cleaner area of the bar. Pure wrought iron.

"And one of those ways is not taking orders from men who look like they pound their face with a meat tenderizer every morning," Vaerun said, and the man's smirk disappeared, "what's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

The man let out an unintelligible grunt of rage, likely attempting to threaten Vaerun with something nasty. He began to stomp forward, raising his fists when the guards returned. The man glanced sideways at the guardsmen then retreated to the back of his cell.

"That's right little doggie, the masters are here, time to tuck your tail and hide," Vaerun said, chuckling. The guardsmen entered the cell, tying Vaerun's hands together with rope and giving him a good bash in the stomach with a cudgel for good measure. Vaerun doubled over, coughing and trying to resist theurge to vomit as they hauled him down the corridors.

"Time to get your mark, scum," one of them said, "you'll bear it the rest of your miserable life. Don't worry though, that not like to be very long at all..."

"It begins..." the voice whispered, echoing out into the darkness of the world."

The wavelengths of its voice, so quiet, yet so demanding and powerful. Both a hiss and a whisper, a sigh like that of a blade parting flesh. Chilling and cold, freezing the gust of air it rode upon. Down from the World's Edge, tumbling over itself as it carried across the land. Through the leaves and shrubbery it whispered, slithering into the ears of sleeping wildlife. Slipping into the dreams of man, becoming something sinister inside their minds, something dark and terrible. Still it roiled on, picking up speed until it changed. No longer a lazy breath of air, but a stream, the whispered words speeding towards their purpose. Through the trees they hissed, tearing leaves from branches into a tornado of flora that followed behind. Churning the dead growth into a vortex. The words passed through a pair of travelers and they fell the ground, writhing in agony and fear, the chill of the air alone enough to paralyze them.

The words, the wind, stopped suddenly, and rather traveled in a slow circle above Providence. Clouds scattered across the land, puffy with moisture and lonely in their distance began to draw towards the nations capital. They gathered in a slow circle above, becoming black, boiling over each other. Lightning arced across the underbelly of the cloud formation, and the thunder roared with the power to make the planters shake off of windowsills, shop windows split and fell to pieces. In a single instant the entire city was awake.

"It Begins...."

---

De'mari's eyes shot open, a panic creeping into her chest. She laid perfectly still, her eyes straining to look around the room. She had just finished the poor excuse for a meal that guards had served her, and the cloaked man had even insisted she eat his, because she had expelled hers from not eating in such a long while, coupled with her overbearing exhaustion. Even know she just wanted to sleep, but there had been that sound. She was fretting over a scuttling noise, perhaps it was a just a rat, fat off of the bones of others like her. Buried in the earth and forgotten, waiting to die. She sat up in bed, there it was again, that scuttling sound, moving past her door.

The cloaked man stood up, startling her, "Are you coming?" He asked, holding out his hand to her, though it was not much more than a blurred, denser patch of darkness. She took his hand lightly and recoiled back, an electric shock traveled down her arm. He snickered, amused, "Pardon me miss, I seem to be unable to control myself in anticipation. Shall we?" He gestured this time to the door and she looked at him curiously, before standing. There was a small little fire inside her chest now, coming to life after the small spark. It worried her, the warm, tingling sensation prickling on the edges of the little magic she could perform. Beckoning her, calling her to grab hold of it, to wield it. Perhaps it was his magic that had awoken it, maybe the sensation had sensed it somehow.

"One more thing," he said, unclasping his cloak at the neck. It was too dark to see his face, but she could her the shifting of armor, chain links rattling together. "It's not much, but you'll need it, put it on and keep your face down." She did as commanded as he walked over to the door. Astonishment played across her face as light flooded in, he had just opened it, had it been left unlocked? He really did have someone on the inside. Then next two things hit her simultaneously. First he was dressed in a guards uniform, and that seriously confused her, but perhaps this is why he was being helped. Better to live in exile than death. Secondly, The Flower of Aine had nearly completely restored her, it couldn't fix scars unfortunately, she would be branded for the rest of her life. But her aches, her pains, muscles had all stopped hurting. Her bones had mended to the point of a dull, ache, but she could manage that. She smiled, looking at the pale blue-off white color of her arms, no more red.

They stepped out into the hallway and he motioned for her to stay put. He walked to the dead end of the hallway, producing a key ring from his pocket. Quietly he walked back towards her, unlocking each of the doors he came across, the only audible sound was him saying, "It Begins". All manner of prisoners stepped quietly out from the cells, in total there must have been twenty of them or so. One of them was covered in green scales, his yellow eyes looking around, calculating. A reptilian from The Dust, as rare a creature to see let alone capture. He caught her looking at him and his tongue slithered out and flicked at her, a meaning unknown to her.

The uncloaked man nodded his head to the other doors, giving her the keys. He motioned for the group to follow him, a quiet herd of freaks, the branded. "Excuse me," a voice hissed quietly, "Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to open my door too?" The voice startled De'mari and she flipped through the keys quickly, unlocking the door. She didn't look at the man as she hurried to the next door.. and the next.

Half an hour passes, and they must have freed this entire wing of captives. All of them standing in the dark hallways, the torches long since been put out. She had caught a glimpse of the uncloaked man, but now she was lost somewhere in the throng of bodies, all of them just waiting for something. But what? It smelled putrid, and having higher sensory function than most normal creatures of mankind, it almost made her want to vomit. The heat in this wing of the Abyss, the name giving to the labyrinth that was the prison beneath the castle. He heart hammered painfully, the anxiety was killing her. How would they pull this off? They were all going to be slaughtered. There wasn't a single female she had seen. Why was she hiding beneath the cloak? Perhaps that was obvious, some of these guys looked haunted from their isolation. Her question was answered moments later as an archway of light appeared at the end of the corridor.

De'mari gasped as she saw the figure, paralyzed as the light cast shadows of the sea of bodies. That poor guard... she thought as the crowd erupted into a deafening battle cry. She was sure her ears were about to start bleeding. She was caught up in the current of bodies as they all surged out this singular door, the dust falling from the ceiling from their roar. The excitement of it all caught up with her, and she added her own voice to the throng of murderers, spies, political prisoners, the innocent: The branded. She was halfway to the door now and the sounds of battle echoed into the cramped hallway. The guards must be rushing down to fight back the tide. At first the wet sounds of slaughter, of blood slapping the floor, could be heard. Then swords began clashing as those lucky enough not to be cut down armed themselves. It didn't sound in their favor though as the make-shift militia fought against the more experience, better equipped, superior trained guardsmen.

Twenty Feet, panic, fifteen feet, panic, ten feet.. five feet. De'mari's mind reeled as she caught sight of the guards pushing them back. It was horrid on the other side, a pure bloodbath. The final few men turned and tried to come back into the hallway, and they were cut down. The door slammed shut, and the battle cry died. The sound of a heavy bar falling into place, and then something being pushed in front of the door. Around her they murmured curses, many sat and cried. "They're going to leave us here.. to starve," someone muttered brokenheartedly. "We need you," a voice whispered, she felt the gloved hand push against the middle of her chest, and she rather felt than saw the uncloaked man. She also felt his hand press into her, then through her, a small blue light appearing where his hand was, now elbow deep inside her chest. But where? Some kind of void? What magic was this? And then the little flame inside her released, spreading a familiar feeling through her body. "Oh god.." she whispered to herself.

---

Tagarun Malloch was sleeping peacefully inside his small hollowed out room. The walls of rock comforted him, the bed of rock layered in a few sheets was as soft as any bed to him. Watchmen of the Abyss led a hard life, never becoming to comfortable, too lax around the kingdom's prisoners. Learning from mistakes written in texts from long ago. They lived down here, selected for their anonymity from the rest of the world. Trained, beaten, shaped, into the kingdom's best guards. Never did they go to war, never did they see the light of day except from a distance as they prisoner took his last walk to the gallows. Even that bit hurt to look at. But he enjoyed his life, and especially his sleep.

The roar that flew up the hallways and slammed into her eardrums, used to the quiet, was in fact not peaceful at all. He flew from his bed, his blood boiling. Perhaps more upset that someone had decided to disturb his four hours of rest, he had at least another twenty minutes of sleep judging by the small nub of candle next to his bed. He was dressed and fully armored in less than two minutes, the sneer across his face plain and visible. Until he pulled the visor down, slotted in three places. Across the eyes, to see thy enemy, across the nose, to smell their fear, across the mouth, to taste their blood. The mantra played in his head as he marched down the hallway, joining his brothers, all of them marching as one unit, three wide, filling the hallway. Through the barracks was the only way out, and there would be no escape, not from the watchmen.

Out of the four wings, it was the south wing they marched, occasionally one of them wouldn't be able to handle the conditioning and would try to release the prisoners. For Watchmen, there was also no freedom. Reborn in the Abyss, To serve, and to Perish into. A small unarmed crowd of prisoners had flooded through the small doorway, and the bloodbath began. Tagarun's sword split flesh and splattered blood in the most beautiful of abstract displays across the wall. Bright red and glistening, and he smiled. He cut down another man, and the blood splattered across him and his brothers. And they marched forward, silently, pushing the tide back. Not a single watchmen had fallen as they shut the door, dropped the massive iron bar into place, and pushed the solid metal wedge into place across the opening. And together they stood, silently, watching, listening as the prisoners hurled themselves at the door, desperation. To die in the darkness, so the soul would remain a prisoner, even after they dragged the bodies to the void; a crevice so deep the bodies don't make a sound as they are pushed over the edge.

Tagarun shared a smile with his brothers, as the quiet thumps stopped. They began bashing their tower shields with the swords, creating the unspoken mantra of victory. The laughter of their weapons, perhaps. A soft vibration spread across the floor, the sound echoing and bouncing throughout the room. Tagarun quirked an eyebrow as the vibration built up steadily. They stopped the pounding of the weapons and braced their wall, shield edge touching shield edge. The impenetrable wall that had slaughtered so many. Now the iron wedge began to vibrate, to shake in place. Dust poured from the ceiling and small pebbles clanked across their armor. An enormous crack split along the rock above the door, running halfway to the ceiling. It was glowing faintly red. Tagarun sneered, "Let this pathetic fools taste our steel once more brothers! They dare to stand against us again in defiance. Send them to the Void Mother!" The roared in unison. Tagarun smiled, unworried at the magic. The armor of a watchmen had never been seen above ground, and it was fully magic proof. Enchanted by the highest echelon of magi.

There was a red light seeping around the iron weight, and it shifted half an inch. "Impossible.." he whispered, that weight took ten men to push across the floor, and was fitted into grooves that ran opposite of the entryway, the sides of the metal weight extending downwards to prevent it from being pushed Backwards as one would have to somehow break off its thick metal legs, buried beneath the floor. He felt his men take a step back. And suddenly he was standing all alone as their was a loud ping, a metal shard whizzed across the room and pierced clean through one of his men and stopping halfway through the throat of the man behind him. Both crumpled to the ground.

---

The fire raged through De'mari's veins, boiling in her stomach, anger welling up in her head. Her fingers twitched, wanting to rip the life force from each and every person around her, to cast away her ragged clothes and bathe in it. To laugh as they crumbled beneath her power, no longer feeble and weak, but strong. Her lips split open and she gave the uncloaked man a wide smile, her red eyes glowing in the darkness. "Move.." she seethed, and he did. The few men before her, throwing themselves at the door, stepped aside. She wanted blood, but it was unwise to kill those on your side, with the same desire as yourself. No, no, it was much better to kill those outside, those who would watch her die pathetically. Like some kind of weak miserable child, with the rest of these weaklings. But it was only now she sensed the others, she could smell the stench of the magic within them, feel it coursing through their veins just waiting to be used. So readily willing, the magic, to submit to the demands of their wielders.

It pissed her off. He placed her hands against the door and pushed, one leg extended and the other bent to give her leverage, and she pushed more. Harder, her arms trembling as she pushed. The fire raging through her, burning away all of her emotions but the rage, the unbridled anger. "Lock me away .. let me die ... lock me away ... abuse me ... beat me ..." she hissed to herself, and she pushed. Her magic spilled forth from her, lightning the corridor an luminescent red. And the ground beneath them shook once more, but silently. A small crack split above the doors, and she pushed. Her skin became red, and she pushed. Her fingernails dug into the door, her arms felt stronger, empowered. And she pushed. The door split from the force of it, of her, and her magic. She cast it aside into the crowd behind her, watching her, judging her. They didn't know her, why were they looking, what were they thinking?

She seethed hot air as she placed her hand on the cool metal and pushed against it. It wouldn't move, she reached out with her magic and found those akin to her in the crowd. Though they were purer, not tainted like her. The first man she touched screamed as she reached inside of him with her magic, never removing her hands from the iron wall before her, and sucked the magic from him. Forcing open a link between them, the fool tried to resist her and he collapsed to the ground. She siphoned the power from those around her, a few were strong enough to instantly blip out of her mental radar, hiding. Others offered freely, and other she took from. Channeling all of it into herself, the orgy of magic swirling around her. Becoming tainted by her own, becoming alike, the same, becoming her magic. And the wedge shifted, just a little, a metallic snap echoing into the hallway now fully illuminated by her.

With all the magic coursing through her, threatening to make her heart explode, or her mind break, or a host of other lethal problems when one took more than they should be able to contain: Like a skin for water, if you forced more water than it could hold it would burst. She trembled, her face sweating profusely with the effort of it. The fire in her veins becoming acid, searing its way through her as she used it. And the wedge shifted again, two more pings, another, and it was sliding freely now. She pushed with the magic, focused on it and let out a howl. Her hunger gnawed at her belly, she wanted their blood. She could smell them, their fresh, virgin fear. She howled again and her brothers joined her. She threw all of the excess, gifted magic against the weight manifesting it into a physical force. Blindingly red, which smashed into it and burst into a pure white.

It took a moment for the dust to fade, being in the front De'mari could see the wedge embedded in the wall behind the tasty morsels standing before her. Limbs stuck out around its edges, there was a large gap were men had stood, a slick trail of blood left in their place. The scent of it fill her nostrils. She was close to the ground now, crouching on all fours, she was enveloped in an armor of red, black bubbles occasionally drifting through it, the taint. She snarled, like the demon from her dream. No, she was, the demon. She leaped at the man in the front, standing a step forward farther than the other. An unearthly shriek screaming from her. The man turned and threw another in before her, but that was fine. She tore off his helmet, or attempted to, breaking his neck instead. She looked at the closest man and he screamed in horror, swinging down with his sword. The crevices of his armor explode with blood as De'mari's magic slipped through it, smiling with glee as his blood rained down.

"A Sombra da Noite!!" One of the men screamed, rushing forward to meet the wave of screaming prisoners, their battle cries clashing before swords met fist. De'mari looking all the part of a demon, come the depths of hell and up into the abyss. Leaping from man to man, the armor giving birth to the idea in her mind and taking the shape of a wolf with elongated ears, and a simple take. The pure red cloaking her, completely obscuring her Fae form as she became a whirlwind of blood and death, moving through the soldiers and leaving a trail of blood. And doing so with great joy.

---

Tagarun looked back at the castle, bathed in the cloak of night as he walked away. The absence of guards did not surprise him as he looked out over the city. Fires envloped the houses along the main road, spreading to nearby buildings. Others pockets of flame could be spotted, and not once did the dark clouds above give any rain. Only the angry flash of lightning, a slight pain to his eyes but he would get over it. He turned and instead of heading into the city, went to report to the one man who held authority over him, His Highness. Something was amiss here, a fowl smell filled his nostrils, acrid and smokey. A dark winged shadow raced across the ground in front of him. His eyes met the creature only after his sword did, his lethal instinct proving faster than his eyes. A winged creature screeched at him, it's beak filled with razor teeth, snapping at his face. He headbutt the creature, ending it's pathetic unholy life. The clouds above rumbled and he looked up just in time to see the center open, it was a small opening. Maybe five men standing abreast. Hundreds of the winged creatures spewed from its maw, other things dropping to the ground.

"Oblivion Gate.." He said to himself, thinking of that beast from the abyss. He would get vengeance for his brothers, and his king.

If it was the last thing... He ever did.

Angir sat silently in his cell, still sat in the darkness with his back leant against the wall and his eyes closed deep in thought as he had been for some considerable time now. Without realising it he slowly slipped away into a light sleep, the young man once again finding himself within the strange corridor of his dreams, old roughly hewn walls surrounding him and grains of sand blowing through the air and gathering at the edges of the walls. This time something felt strangely different, but he couldn’t tell why, just an ‘off’ feeling carried in the air with each tiny grain. Moving as he always did down the corridor he emerged into the huge open room and suddenly the gentle gust that he had always felt stopped, making things seem eerily still and unwelcoming. Moving forwards towards where the seal always was he began to feel colder and colder, suddenly realising that he was now freezing, and his breath condensing into a small cloud with each exhalation. As the seal came into his vision he could see that things were indeed very different, a tall dark figure standing with its hunched back to him. Without knowing why Angir continued to walk forwards towards this figure, despite something in his mind screaming for him to turn and flee whilst he still could. Reaching out with a hand he clasped the figures shoulder before turning it round, coming face to face with himself - or rather a twisted and corrupted version of himself, savage horns protruding from his forehead and row upon row of razor-sharp teeth grinning out at him. He suddenly realised that his figure was not him, but was in fact was simply something using his own face to torment him.

At that moment his head exploded with the sound of sound of a thousand dying screams and a torrent of agonising pain and misery, overwhelming him and causing him to grab at his head as he collapsed writhing to the ground. The figure continued to stare savagely at him before suddenly everything felt deathly silent and it whispered the words “It begins…”

Behind the figure the great seal burst open and from behind it all the terror and fear spilled out into the room engulfing everything it touched, as the dark wave hit Angir everything he ever knew was snuffed out in an instant.

---

Bolting upright from the floor in his cell Angir awoke suddenly, panting heavily and now wide awake. The dream still lingered in his mind, the memory of each and every detail still fresh and vivid. The fact that he could recall it still unnerved him considerably, having always forgotten moments after waking up. After a few more moments of searching his memories he could now also recall the previous dream, sharing many similarities with this new nightmarish version. Most interestingly he could also remember the word that had always taunted him by dancing at the edge of his recollection as if just in reach.

“Animus” he said out loud, the word remaining a curiosity to him. He was certain it was not something that he had heard before, however it seemed to carry some kind of meaning that he didn’t grasp. He repeated the word again feeling somehow that by speaking it he might start to understand it. At that moment the loudest crash of thunder that he had ever heard resonated through the foundations of the castle far above him, the underground series of rooms rumbling somewhat.
Standing he felt a strange sense of urgency gripping him, like he was on the edge of some great unknown event, the feel of change thick in the air. As he waited he listened as intently as he could, the sounds of a struggle echoing distantly down into the corridor that his cell was located in. He heard the shouts of guards, the clashes of swords and the sounds of death, all mingled together in some macabre chorus that was drifting down to him. He knew that now was the time that he had been waiting for, the time that he had hoped would come before he was taken to be executed.

He moved over to the thick iron bars of his cell and tried to recall what he had learnt about elemental weaving and how to control the very forces of nature themselves. He began to concentrate as intensely as he could, now ignoring the sounds that continued to get louder and more fierce. The strain that he felt was much less than the last time when he had tried to kill several men at the same time, the method he was using was also very different, the two coming from different ‘disciplines of the magi, as the book he had read explained. Some were able to only use and excel in one specific discipline, naturally being drawn to it, whilst some rarer individuals were able to master more than one of the many disciplines. As he felt the strange sensation of the magic flowing through him his hands began to glow with a dim red light and he realised that he was already casting the spell he was trying to weave, placing his hands on the iron bars heat immediately began to transfer into them and after only what felt like several moments they were practically glowing from the heat. Pulling on the bars in several places they began to bend as they entered a more molten state much quicker than he would have though. Soon he had widened the two bars significantly, the gap between them now large enough for him to easily step through. As he removed his hands the bars remained hot for a few moments before they began to cool and harden once more. Staring in disbelief at what he had done in relatively little time and with relatively little exertion he stepped through the gap and out into the corridor before glancing down at his hands which appeared no different whatsoever.

He prepared himself to cast the same spell if he needed to, wondering just how quickly he could in the heat of the moment if need be. His attention was drawn again to the sounds of combat that were reaching his ears, however now it sounded less like a fight and more like a slaughter, the sounds of screaming and death reaching his ears more than anything else. As he moved forwards towards the large heavy doorway that separated the wing he was in from the rest of the dungeon he listened more intently still as he heard what sounded like slicing, crunching and other horrific noises, all accompanied by agonising death throws and the sickening sounds of flesh and bones being what he could only assume was literally torn to pieces.

He continued to move to the door, only half sure that he wanted to know what was causing the terrible slaughter when he realised that the sounds were heading away from his location, obviously whatever it was following the source of the numerous guards that it was undoubtedly decimating. He prepared to use the same method he had on the bars to make his way through the sturdy doorway when he suddenly heard the sounds of a key being turned in the lock and heavy bolts being drawn back. Preparing himself in the split second before the door opened he held his breath, aware that his own doom may be waiting on the other side depending on what was going on.

As it opened he saw what was left of numerous prisoners and guardsmen strewn all around the room, blood, guts and all manner of gore spread not only thickly on the floor but also in large streaks over the walls and even the ceiling. One of the other heavy doors into a wing of the dungeon had been almost completely destroyed, part of it buried in the adjacent wall with the gruesome remains of the men who had been stood behind it protruding out. Directly before him stood was some kind of reptilian man, the kind he had only read about in books – from the lands far to the east of the kingdom, where the nomads allegedly dwelt. For a moment Angir wondered if this being was responsible for what was all around them, but he soon realised that if that was the case then he would be covered head to toe in blood and likely would have killed him the moment he saw him. The creatures deep yellow eyes lingered on him for a moment before the lizard-man darted past him and down towards the cells, a ring of keys clasped in his scaled reptilian hands. Angir took a brief moment to consider the implications of what he was watching, this foreign creature taking the time to free men from their cages despite the total lack of comradeship between any of them. He wondered if the lizard was perhaps an actual nomad spy, captured and now seizing the opportunity to cause as much damage to the kingdom as possible by releasing the prisoners, maybe he had even caused whatever was happening.

As the first few prisoners started to run past him he brought his mind back to the situation at hand, turning and running out into the gore soaked room before glancing around. Spotting what he was looking for he picked up a sword, the hand and arm of its previous owner still attached, however no sign of the rest of his body presenting itself. Prying the limb from the handle he gripped it and swung it around experimentally several times, the training that he had received during his younger years coming back to him somewhat. Satisfied with the blade he turned his attention the stairway upwards and towards his freedom, and as he ran upwards he was completely unaware what was happening to Providence and what could only be described as demonic maelstrom that gripped and battered the entire city.

---

Angir sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him through the streets, the sounds of chaos and death surrounding him completely as the rain battered him and the wind tore at his clothes. As another one of the malformed winged creatures swooped downwards at him he threw himself to the ground at just the right moment, the creature veering at the last second and snatching some unfortunate woman in its clawed talons before it lifted her clean into the air, her screams being lost in the sounds of the raging storm. He jumped back to his feet quickly, all too aware that in the current state of panic and disarray he could be easily trampled to death before he started sprinting again away from the centre of the city. He found himself caught amongst a throng of people all rushing together in what seemed to be a terror stricken herd of peasants, shopkeepers, nobles and others various citizens. The group was swarming into a market square, people pushing and shoving one another in their haste, determined to escape the numerous horrors that seemed to be hounding them. As Angir watched a young boy fall under the swarm of people and disappear into the mud under their numerous feet and legs, lost to his vision as more and more people flocked into the square. Suddenly there were screams of terror and panic from towards the head of the group, people that were leading the way suddenly fleeing back towards the others. Climbing onto a market stall and peering towards where the screams came from Angir saw what was causing the commotion, several monstrous creatures bounding towards them quickly, their fangs and claws glistening already thick with gore. Turning and looking at the rear of the group he spotted several more of the creatures herding the last of the people into the square as well before they entered the mass of bodies and started killing and slaughtering without discrimination, Angir suddenly realising that they were now mostly trapped, the only exit being a third and much smaller street. People already were rushing and fighting towards the opening, but so were the murderous beasts. Jumping from the table and landing roughly Angir managed to keep his balance as he rushed away from the bulk of the people and towards the nearest shop front that he could see. As he reached the shop and pulled at the doorway he cursed realising that it was locked, turning as one of the demonic creatures roared and sprinted towards him. The creature stood just a little taller than the average man, though its posture and proportions were different, having thinner and spindlier legs and arms, its torso looking more like some kind of skeletal fleshy husk. Its head had a pair of huge horns that mirrored those of a ram’s, but a fanged maw that resembled no creature he had ever seen. Its hands had four long thin claws that appeared to be razor sharp, him having witnessed them slicing with ease through many unfortunate people. His sword in one hand he braced himself as the beast leapt towards him clawing frantically at him. With a panicked but well-timed swing Angir put his entire strength behind the blow and just as the creature made to remove his head in one swift motion he instead sliced through its right arm at the elbow, black filth spewing from the wound and splashing generously onto his legs and body. The creature seemed not to notice the wound, and continued to press its relentless attack, lunging in now with its snapping maw. The force of the beast knocked Angir backwards and sent his sword sliding away in the mud, leaving him practically defenceless against its remaining claws and snapping maw. The creature left onto him and tried to savage his throat and face with its teeth, obviously eager to taste his blood after the initial struggle. A few times its teeth came within an inch of his flesh and only through pushing at it with all of his strength did he manage to keep it from tearing into him. Desperate now he did the one thing he could think of, reawakening the familiar feeling inside of him as he tried to use magic to kill the creature. Everything was happening so quickly, his body pumped with adrenaline that the next few things happened in what felt like only a split-second, the surge of magical energy leaving him like a bolt from a crossbow as what he could only describe as a small shard of silver magical energy shot from his hand and directly into the creatures face, huge chunks of grey matter shooting out as its skull exploded backwards and it’s body went limp as the shard passed through and out the other side. Pushing the body off of himself Angir panted heavily and felt the slight drain to his magical reserves, though still not fully aware of what happened.

Scrambling to his feet he snatched up his sword before turning back towards what was happening. The remaining creatures had moved passed him, effectively cutting him off form the large group of helpless people and giving him a clear path away and towards the outskirts of the city. He hesitated for a moment before turning and bolting away from market square, leaving the people to their unfortunate fate as he realised that helping them would be futile and likely lead to his own death – even if he could repeat the feat and shoot another of the magical missiles he already felt as if it had significantly drained his reserves, leaving him with what he estimated only enough to repeat it once or twice at the most before he fully exhausted himself again.

Vaerun had been beaten before, but few such incidents compared to the vicious thrashing the guardsmen were seeing fit to inflict on him as he knelt, chained to a heavy table that had been bolted to the floor. They had told him that it was a long standing tradition here in the dungeons that the guards would beat him until the iron that would mark his flesh glowed red hot and was ready. They had told him this as they had laughed, and placed the iron amongst some of the darkest, and therefore coolest coals in the small furnace. And so he knelt in a small pool of coagulated blood, most of it not his own as the iron finally began to glow a dull orange. The guardsmen backed off, one of the two men charged with his branding heading to the furnace and moving the brand over to the hotter coals to ensure it stayed hot enough to leave a mark.

"Well, its been fun so far scum, but I'm afraid its time for the main event," the man said, grinning as he picked up the brand once more, the symbol now cherry red with heat.

"Already?," Vaerun said, turning a look of rage on his captors, "I guess its true what they say, no guardsman ever lasts as long as a real man."

Now it was the other mans turn to look enraged. The guard nodded to his companion, who grabbed Vaerun, jabbing a fist into his shoulder and holding him with and iron grip. The guard with the brand approached, raising the instrument dramatically as he lined up exactly where he wanted of to go. The brand descended slowly, as though mocking Vaerun's weak struggles to escape.

A sound like an explosion echoed throughout the dungeon, causing both guards to look upwards with stunned expressions on their faces. Vaerun seized his advantage, his muscles surging with renewed strength as he sensed a real chance to escape. He reached up and grabbed the middle of the brand with his hands, the flesh protesting at the burning temperature but maintaining the grip for all he was worth. He hauled on the brand, driving it into the face of the guard restraining him.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air of the room as the guard screamed in pain, falling back on the floor and thrashing around on the ground. Vaerun lashed out with a foot, slamming his heel into the other guardsmans solar plexus. While the mans armor protected him from the damaging force of the blow, he could not maintain his grip on the brand, caught off guard by burning his friend and Vaerun's attack. The guard recovered quickly however, and surged back in, fists rising to beat Vaerun into submission or death. Neither of them ever found out which as Vaerun nimbly flipped the brand over in his hands and stabbed him in the throat, pressing the brand deeper as the man's scream became a choked gurgle.

Vaerun dragged the body closer, keeping an eye on the other guard who seemed to have passed out from the pain. As he rifled through the man's pockets he came up with the keys he was looking for, swiftly shifting over and unclasping the chains that bound him to the table. He stood slowly, rolling his joints in an effort to ease the pain before searching the rest of the room for any suitable weapon. He finally settled on a pair of nasty looking daggers caked with the blood of others. He considered taking their armor as well but decided it would inhibit him more than it would protect him. He did, however, steal the rings and coins from both men, reasoning that he should get some form of payment in exchange for their abuse.

Now, to go see what all the ruckus upstairs is about.

~~~~~~~

It was like walking through a butcher's shop, only all the meat was from humans. As Vaerun stepped through the shattered remains of the doorway, he let his cold gaze drift over the myriad pieces of what had once been men. It was as though a tornado of sharpened teeth and raging animal fury had burst through them, spreading blood, bone, and flesh everywhere. He might have felt pity for the men, had he not been more concerned with avoiding the same fate himself.

He staled carefully through the remains, scanning for the source of all the death with his eyes. Surely simple prisoners could not have done this... but if not them, then who?

That was when he looked up and saw it. The rent in the sky, perhaps ten or fifteen feet across, like a gaping wound in reality that oozed blood out into the city below. As Vaerun looked closer he realized that what he thought was blood was in fact hundreds of individual forms, most falling towards the city as the rest peeled off, seeming to take flight of their own accord.

What in all the hells was happening?

The sky above, far above the abyss, rumbled something mighty. A roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the castle, or was that just the sound of war? The sounds of death. De'mari looked around the room, her mind striken with a haze of anger and bloodlust. The firey tingles of the unknown power within in her tingled all across her body. It had enveloped her very spirit, locking her away, helpless to do anything but succumb to its sweet seduction. She shivered as a chill raced up her spine, the chilling grip of the magic. The thick, intoxicating substance sliding across her skin, masking her, letting her become something else. Something less pathetic, no more weakness. Only the iron grip of power. It terrified her, that she could do nothing to stop its hold on her.

Mainly, because she didn't want to stop it.

A sword arced down above her and she moved, faster than she thought she was capable of. The hollow sound of metal on stone rang out as the blade struck the floor. The man hadn't of even turned to look at her before she was on him, tearing through him in a frenzy of claws, formed from her magical metamorphasis. She was no longer pushed aside by the growing flame of power, but rather it had consumed her. She was not weilding the power, it was weilding her, she was the beast. The man crumbled underneath her, his blood spurting out, covering her real form, seeping through her etheral armor.

She looked at her blood stained hand curiously, the opaque red magic was still swirling around her, but it didn't seem like a real magical shell. The thought played across her mind only for a second before the scent of blood wafted across her senses and her head snapped up. With a primal instict she flew back into the fray. Unrealizing that the pirsoners she and the uncloaked man had worked so desperately to free were attatcking her out of fear. That was fine, she wasn't afraid of any of them. Swords missed, and she tore them open and bathed in their blood. Magical manifestations dispelled before her, or missed entirely. She could feel the magic users crawling across her spirit with their magic, trying to break through her. She laughed in their face as she rended them open from gut to throat.

---

It had taken eight minutes for her to butcher the soldiers. Each kill more delightful than the last. She was now entirely soaked in blood, her magical shell seeming less opaque in the likeness of colors between real and metaphysical. She smiled as she stalked her way out of the abyss, leaving behind a room of humanoid peices and gore. The fire of her magic had spread into her bones, her very veins. It hurt, but it was so good, the world slowed as her body moved faster. Magic infused her, making her stronger, hurting her, but bringing her joy. Because now she had the power she had always dreamed of, and an insatiable hunger to match.

---

It had been some time, De'mari didn't quite recall how long. It didn't matter, she had killed many people between then and now. Her teeth had found many exposed necks, but her thirst never went away. Her magical shell had appeared eyeless, but she could see so clearly. Her body trembled from the infusion happening, the burning fire spreading out across her body. But she did not feel the pain, did not feel it destroying her. There was only the prey below her.

She had smelled him. He was powerful. She wanted to eat his magic, to open his flesh and consume him. The others weren't near as mouth watering as he was. She watched him as he fought one like herself, but much weaker, laughed as the beast was bested by the male magi. She smiled as he turned and walked away from the other prey, good, they would only get in the way. Her claws clicked across the shingled roofs as she raced across them. Practically drooling as she stalked him from above the rooftops.

~~~

Vaerun stalked through the narrow back alleys of Providence, laughing like a madman as the world he knew slowly turned into a nightmarish hell. It seemed like every street he turned down, his eyes were greeted by new images of butchery and slaughter as the demons... what else couod they be?... rained down around him. He had been lucky so far, the demons had swarmed to areas that they seemed most likely to encounter other prey, but with each new body that Vaerun stumbled across, his anger grew.

The sounds of nearby fighting caused him to turn his head in that direction. The increasingly familiar screams of demons and death cries of his fellow humans tore at his mind, and he steeled himself for yet another grisly scene of death and disaster. He ran around the corner of a building in time to see a man engaged with some nightmarish mockery of life... and watched as that same nIghtmares head simply... exploded. For a moment he was stunned by the sheer impossibleness of the moment, and then another demon cried out for blood, snapping him back to reality.

The other man at least appeared to be human, which for now meant he was not a target. Vaerun grinned at him savagely and flipped his daggers over in his hands. There would be other monster to slay, but it was always good to know he wasnt the only one fighting back.

~~~

Angir continued to pick his way through the narrow streets in the city having just moved away from the market square which by now would be filled with the dead. Until now he hadn’t considered the bigger implications of what was happening, what this all of this meant, but now he couldn’t help but keep the thought from his mind. It was over four hundred and fifty years ago, but this was not the first time that oblivion had invaded the realm of man. The tale itself was almost general knowledge, however it had become little more than a bedtime story that was starting to fade from the minds of men, it become less accurate and less repeated over each generation. Angir wracked his mind to recall what he had read from the books within his father’s study all of those nights ago, wishing now that he had focused more on the Repelling and a little less fanatically on the field of magic. He couldn’t recall how the races of the world had defeated the hellish armies and prevented them for binding the two realms permanently, but at least it had been done before, somehow.

Interrupting his thoughts suddenly he jumped as something from above fell and smashed a few steps away from him. Looking down quickly he saw that a shingle had fallen from the rooftops above him and with a sinking feeling he gazed upwards to where it would have come from. Perched on the crest of the rooftop above him was a menacing red creature that was looking back at him, its deep red eyes seeming to cut right into him as they sized him up. The beast itself seemed to be made of a kind of magical shimmer, a red opaque substance obscuring the truer form beneath the layers of magic. It's long, stretched back ears quivered as it silently changed its stance, its eyes still boring into him. With a swish of its tail and a snarl from the creature's wolf-like maw and it was on the ground before him. Its humanoid limbs were spread low and flat to the ground and its body was coiling up, preparing for the attack as it continued to stalk him.


Stumbling backwards in his panic Angir raised his sword and pointed it at the monstrosity, considering for a moment that it hadn’t just outright attacked him like each of the other hellish creatures he had fought, he had a sinking feeling that this was something else, something… more.

---

De'mari smiled at the man before her. Tasting the sweet, yet odd, magical air about him, the residue of his last spell weave still lingering. Her silently screaming muscles flexed as she lowered herself to the ground, staring at the terrified prey before her. Smiling inwardly as she took a step forward, and he stepped back raising his pathetic weapon towards her. Such magic inside of him, and he would try to best her in hands on combat? She laughed, her magic shell twisting it into a snarl, which was all the same anyways. She now knew what true fear looked like...

But how would one taste?