Vragas the imp continued the angry chatter that he had kept up his entire journey. His muscles ached, as he neared his masters kingdom, with his prize in tow. The massive hairy beast had not been easy to drag across the tundra, but he knew that his work would be rewarded. So, he proudly presented his work to the ogre standing guard at the front gate, who easily hefted the dead beast over his shoulder, and trudged slowly towards the masters dungeon heart, Vragas slouching alongside.

As they neared the room, they expected to be stopped by Stamrad, but instead were met with something they had not expected in the least. Stamrad was present, but stood far behind, sorting through a pile of rotting corpses. Stamrad looked up for a moment, before going back to his work, allowing Viktor to deal with the dead beast.

However, it was not Viktor that confronted Vragas in the hall. Instead, the imp was met by a creature seeming to have sprung from some form of drug fueled nightmare. The skeleton shivered, creating a chattering noise. The stiff bones clanged against the metal sleeve that encased his right arm. The bones no longer retained the ivory sheen that they once had, now a deep black. The black did not reflect, instead it seemed to absorb all nearby light, giving it an eerie feeling.

Atop the creatures shoulders sat no skull, in its place was a simple helmet of metal, slightly masking the magical glow emanating from deep inside. It tilted it's head as it gazed upon the ogre and imp, confused by the creatures. In its metal sheathed arm it held a spear, which it raised as if to strike. As it raised the crude spike of metal, the thin arm shook uncontrollably.

Before he could bring down his arm to strike, an iron hand reached out, snagging the skeletons hand. Viktor sighed deeply, before speaking in a rather disappointed tone. [i]"No, my child. These are your friends."[/b] He said, forcing the skeleton to lower his spear. Viktor, not letting go of the monsters hand, led him to the summoning room, where Stamrad had moved the other 30 bodies.

Viktor was soon standing proudly before a squad of 30 skeletons, with one by his side. These were a deadly force, capable of striking out with terrifying speed. Though the warriors were weak, with bones easily shattered, they had been coated with an enchanted mix of the black powder, making them even more lethal in death.

Vragas looked curiously at these creations, talking in his strange chatter. One of the skeletons looked down at him, responding in what wasn't as much of a voice as it was a hollow whispering. The skeleton was a bit confused. At this point, he knew nothing but following orders, so was confused when Vragas asked him his name. "Naaaame...?" Asked the skeleton, searching his scarce amount of memories. "I... am... Hydl..." He said, a slight hiss in his voice, as the name came to him.

"Vragas... I am Vragas." Said the imp, a gleeful tone in his voice. Hydl reached down to the imp, gently patting the gray creatures head. "Frieeeend?" Asked the echoed voice, slowly lifting Vragas to eye level. Vragas nodded, a giggle slipping out through his mask. The Hydl quickly put Vragas down when Viktor shot them a confused look.

Viktor, ignoring the strange happenings, looked down upon Vragas. "I have been told that you brought me good news, young one. What have you found?" He asked, having already sent the ogre to leave the dead animal in the Dungeon heart. Vragas looked up at his master, having almost forgot how imposing he was in person. With a bit of hesitation, Vragas began to speak up, before going with Viktor to look at the fresh kill.

"The beasts travel in pack. Big pack... not far north. Moving at us. Very strong, tough skin. Not smart. Big scary leader-thing, bloody horns." Stuttered Vragas, speaking in a manner that his master could understand. "Perfect. You have earned your place in our ranks, and you shall receive rewards beyond your imagination, all in due time. Now go, enjoy peace and rest, for you have earned it." Viktor said to the imp, dismissing him. He then turned to the matter at hand, namely the animal on his desk. A vision ran through his head, one of the perfect soldier. So, Viktor went to work, knowing that his top priority was expanding his army.

Calvartem basked in the deep darkness of the mines. With the torches extinguished, it felt a lot like a tomb, only bigger, and a bit wetter. The cold stone walls felt inviting to him, and the claustrophobic tightness of many of the tunnels did not worry him. The distant faint noise of water dripping was soothing, and he lost track of the hours. He was suddenly greeted by one of his imps, who gestured for Calvartem to come outside. So he did, and once he had navigated his way out of the mine he saw the completed Death Spire in the middle of the main street. Calvartem walked up to the tower and inspected the masonry and foundations. It was so incredibly useful that imps had innate skills for construction, for they could be called fresh out of the void and be set to work on a major project, and said project will be finished to the highest quality manageable in a very efficient time-frame.

Satisfied with the quality of the tower, Calvartem climbed to its peak where a lump of quartz had been embedded into a pedestal. Calvartem had chosen quartz for his Spires because it was easy to find in large amounts, and it is still capable of retaining magic. The Necromancer took his staff and fed the crystal his energy, giving it a very dark glow. He descended from the tower and dismissed the imps before him into the void. Then he began the long walk back to his Dungeon.

Richter flew through the air on his magnificent wings, a big smile on his face at his new freedom and energy that he felt coursing through him. His wings moved elegantly keeping him afloat his chest muscles tightening and relaxing along with his back ones to make the movements needed for flight. He was as of yet unarmed but no less dangerous for he felt that he could lift a man with ease into the air and then throw him to his death.

He focused once again on the task at hand, finding a source of metals for his saint, so he soared above the forest seeking out hills and caves for any sign of mining activity when he spotted a small village on the edge of the forest and the edge of the mountains. He flew closer to the village and circled around it for a while observing the activity, it had a small population but it looked like a mining town as a road led into the mountain with a large amount of tow animals resting nearby. He forewent the village and followed the road up into the mountain and found several shafts in a dug out quarry in the side of one of the mountains, a large number of people were at work there which explained the sparse population of the village.

Happy with what he discovered he turned and started on his journey back to his Father with the news of his discovery flying as fast as his quicksilver wings would carry him.

Below a hundred feet of earth, a small chamber in the underground city was privy to an elegiac gathering of a few men. The archdruid stayed long after the others left, studying maps and scout reports. A noble effort, to be sure, but a futile one. There could be no great tricks or strokes of luck to spare these people from the war's toll; half the foraging parties they sent out were ambushed and killed. It would only be a matter of time before they either starved cowering in the darkness or were found and massacred, like the kinsmen in their village.

Shaige had found their village after some searching. He had only needed to follow the dreary wisps of smoke; what buildings the crusaders hadn't spared were still smoldering and sizzling. The wooden beams and supports within the building were nigh instantly seared to charcoal by fire magic, and as the sad mounds of ashes scattered to the wind, the coals beneath could breathe and give birth to new flames. The cycle had continued for weeks, in some of the larger buildings. What buildings weren't burned were crowded with soldiers. The Knights of the Flame, as the crusaders called themselves, shined their gilded armor. The fire priests sent from their cathedral in Paterdomus to lead the crusade gave sermon after sermon. Every knight was blessed in the name of Caldor, their patron god of warmth and purity. The dead crusaders were honored and sent to Caldor in great pyres, while the impious denizens of this village were left by their conquerors to decompose in great mounds of rotting corpses.

To the surviving tribesmen, the ones who fled underground with the druids, Shaige was their only hope. So when he came to Fangir, the solemn archdruid and chieftain, after some time the men accepted the Keeper's offer of help.

Late into the night, though the cave looked no different, Fangir was beginning to fall asleep. He did not extinguish the magical orb of light in the corner of his room. To dispel it would be to invite complete darkness. Insanity, cold, and death. Nonetheless, the orb's light began to sputter. It grew and warped, its light flickering, until there stood a black silhouette of a humanoid creature, the deep violet glow of its eyes the only thing illuminating the room. For a moment, the thing stood silent and unmoving, and then a voice rasped from deep within the shade, "What do your people call themssselves?" The being's serpentine, lisping voice was hypnotic in a way, but cold and foreboding in all others.

Shaige expected the archdruid to be mortified and stammer something incomprehensible. However, the chieftain's chestnut hair, bright eyes, tanned skin, an brawny form concealed his age and experience well. The man boomed, "We are the Mutig, and we possess no fear of your kind, snake! Begone now, lest I banish you back to the demonic realm from whence you were spawned."

With a patient and unfazed tone, the Keeper replied, "Sssoon enough you would be the dead, your namesss and tribesss and facesss long forgotten after the mere blink of an eye. I know that you do not fear me or the shadowsss that are my home, and that is why I shall aid your lossst tribe. I am no sssnake demon; only a shadow. You see the shapes of a shadow and envision whatever you want to see; I utter some words and you hear them in the voice that you expect to hear."

"Then what do you want?" Fangir hissed, still suspicious.

"For now? I require nothing from you. I am not a demon, so I do not require any promises or pacts or riches from you. I will rid your land of the egregious 'crusaders' that burned your village and slew your clansmen, and make sure that they do not return. You will have nothing to fear from the other tribes, either. They are cowards and scavengers, trying to seize land that they have no claim over and didn't even bleed to take. They are not worthy of this land, and so I will not allow them to have it," the shadow spoke, his form growing and shrinking as the magical light flickered like a candle. After a pregnant pause he went on, "I would hope that once I have saved you, I will have your trust and you will support me as your tribe's salvation and divine-"

"So there it is- you too would have us as slaves, and force us to abandon our ancient guardian spirits! I see that you are a de-" Fangir interrupted, until he looked closely and saw the figure of a kindly old man rather than the menacing silhouette of a monster. He also realized that in his anger, he hadn't even noticed the snake-like lisp gradually transition into a deep, calming one. Fangir calmed himself, and thought for some time. Shaige was as silent as when he first appeared, waiting for what he knew Fangir would respond with.

"What must I do?"

Go with your druids to the hidden entrance of this cavern, up in the cliffs above, and wait. The red priests and their knights already know that you are here; I witnessed them preparing for battle. Tomorrow night they will come by the hundreds. With my warning you will be prepared, but you and your druids would be slain quickly and mercilessly, once the charge begins. So I will come at about midnight, and bring death's cold clasp unto every priest garbed in red. I shall summon my servants as well. They shall fall upon the fleeing ranks of knights, and cut down every last crusader. The ground shall be stained crimson, the color of their false god of fire."

The Death Spire was the first indicator to appear over the horizon that Calvartem was almost home. As he approached the town, the grass seemed to be slightly withered under the effect of the Spire. In the town the bodies still lay, slowly rotting and drying up, although even the flies, maggots and mould were scarcer than expected due to the draining effects of the Spire. If Calvartem had a functional nose he would smell the stench of decay and death, and he would be pleased with such a stench. Standing in the streets was the dark shadow of an imp, which swiftly glided over to Calvartem once the imp saw him. Recognising that it was one of the scouts, with a wave of his hand Calvartem flicked a dark mote into the imp's incorporeal form to grant it the privilege of speech.

"Master, to the west and slightly to the south I have found a town on the coast," said the imp in its faint, ghostly voice, "A fishing town. Ships pass by there."

Calvartem nodded. "Is that all?"

"Yes," the imp answered. It squeaked faintly as Calvartem waved it into the void. While the town would be similarly easy to conquer, it would also be a high-profile conquest. Ships would pass by, notice the dark, magical tower and the town full of corpses and report back to the major city. He was not ready for that yet. First he needed a more rounded army.

Calvartem walked around the town and found a particular corpse. For his next Construct, he needed a steed which would allow him to traverse at enormous speeds. While he could mould this from human corpses, it would be far better to use the corpse of a steed. He entered a stable where two horses were slumped, massacred along with the townsfolk by the walkers. Choosing one which seemed stronger, the Necromancer tapped its forehead with the top of his staff and brought it to life as a Walker, its eyes burning black. He opened the stable doors and lead the shambling quadruped down the street and into the darkness of the crypt. He sealed the door behind them and, once he was satisfied with where the horse was standing, Calvartem revoked the spirit making it animate. The Necromancer then stepped over the body and settled down in his throne, where he extended his consciousness so he could work on making this horse a worthy steed.

0/5

The leaf litter of the jungle after a ferocious downpour proved to be a loathsome thing for a band of men, however fueled they were by rage and a thirst for revenge. Damp, smelly, and clinging at the best of times, the litter had been transformed by the incredible rain into an intolerable waste, full of perilous hazards from leeches to pits. These gaps, masked by the mud that covered them, had already nearly killed one of the members of the vindictive troop. One innocent mistake left him wallowing in the mire, where he sank with frightening speed and would have asphyxiated beneath the choking muck had a watchful biomancer not stretched out a nearby root for him to grab a hold of. Though all of the magicians present presented a carefully restrained face to their guardsmen comrades, their impatience and burning anger could easily be sensed below the tranquil veil. Biomancer and soldier alike were in pursuit of a thief and murderer, described only by the haunting gasps of the dying crone.

With only cursory details surrounding the stolen amulet and the savage death inflicted upon those who had attempted to requisition it, there were seemingly no clues to be had. Luckily, even without the emerald amber that had been the guiding star of the biomancers' enterprise, they retained much of their own magic capabilities. One such spell was persequere vitae, Trace Life. Normally used to find certain species of animal or plant among the wild hubbub of the jungle, this the frenzied, panicking biomancers quickly discovered that this enchantment could track down the specific life force present in the leader's amber. Barely had the revelation been made than an expedition chartered and two dozen volunteers, from magician to Virens guardsman to cook to pathfinder.

Several hours later, after a tiresome trek through the sucking mud and sweltering humidity of the jungle, the posse spotted the King Tree, coated with some beige substance, looming above the canopy. With the feeling of the predator closing in on its prey, the band approached the colossal, despoiled plant, preparing for battle as it did so.

-=-=-

Scutra vented spittle as he clambered up the tree as fast as his four legs could carry him. He dimly heard the roar of fire from below, and sprinted all the faster. Weaving his way through branches, leaves, and hive material, the construct eventually ripped his way through the floor of the Dungeon Heart, evoking a death glare from the Swarm Keeper who rested there. Though instantly possessed of a foul mood due to her slumber being interrupted, Clotho managed to belay any outrage. Clawing her way from the soothing confines of her cocoon, she looked down upon Scutra from her full height, with a suppressed sneer of disdain. Scutra, however, seemed both terrified and nervous, and sputtered constantly, as if he couldn't find the right words. Or as if he was waiting for her go-ahead. Sighing, Clotho obliged him.“Well, spit it out already.”

“Mistress! You...we...we're under attack!”

Paterdomus... a place of wonder, a sight to be seen for anyone who didn't live there. Rich with history an culture, the ancient architecture was something of splendor. A light mist rolled over the city, cooling down the flagstones that paved their streets. The sun shone down upon them, cutting through the almost icy mist. Small groups of people walked through the wide white streets, laughter and chatter ringing through the air. It was a good day for all. The city of Paterdomus had been blessed with a wonderful victory against the Barbarian tribes.

However, not all was well. In the center of the town laid the extravagant cathedral, an anchor steadying the town from all foes. The light crept through the stained glass windows, creating elegant patterns on the tiles. A sweet scent filled the air, coming from the blossoms that crept up the walls via intertwining roads of emerald ivy. Beneath the light guise of peace created by the place, dark plans brewed under candlelight, as taboo topics were discussed.

Around a rich mahogany table sat a counsel of elder mages and priests, a gloomy topic drifting across the table. An elderly man spoke up, a beard intertwined with magical thread and designs. "By now we all must've felt the disturbance. Brother Ike is dead." He said simply, his raspy voice scratching to the surface of the conversation. "I'm sure that a few have even felt the presence of the creature- something with power beyond reasoning. Brother Ike was kind enough to mark him for us before his life was so wrongly extinguished. I fear that this beast may be something beyond even our powers.

"Nonsense! Even the 'Beast of Balor' was naught but a roadblock in our way! Through faith shall we find our victory!" Spoke a younger man, identified as a priest by his robes. The older magician shook his head, raising his voice. "No, fool. This war will not end so simply. Or have you not heard tales of The Infernal King?" He asked, as gasps filled the small room. Everyone had heard the fairly tales, but surely that was all that they were? "You can't seriously believe that a century old wizard intends to rise again and enslave the lands?" Asked the priest. Nervous murmurs scuttled about like frightened mice.

A clap of thunder rolled through the room, the elderly wizard now standing up, his chair laying awkwardly on the earthen floor. An image stood tall in the air, projected in place by a trace of magic. The image showed a beast of fire and smoke, raging through the forest, inscribed on a rotting piece of parchment. "Today we are plagued by none other than Ifrit, The Infernal Kings Last Scion. This is no fairly tale, nor a joke of any sort. We must strike quickly, lest he regain his full power." Said the wizard, before a full out uproar kicked up, noise echoing out into the streets.

All were silenced as a massive roar shook the building, a grim reminder of the storm to come. Those roars had been heard almost consistently for what seemed to be hours, periodically getting closer. It wouldn't be long until fire rained down upon their gates, and they needed to prepare. Already, horns sounded, and citizens scattered, running to get indoors, behind magical wards, and protection from higher powers. Already, the plumes of of fire could be seen ringing out over the hills. The chilled mist dissipated around the town, replaced by a magical smoke, the first of many wards being placed by the entourage of wizards, standing out in the pristine white town square.

In the gloom of the cavernous dungeon, Shaige's imps made preparations. They honed their carving knives and felling axes, and called the wandering pain elementals. Soran chanted to the vial atop the altar in the middle of the room, working some sort of dark ritual with his master's heart. After some time, the blood within the vile began to boil and congeal. Foul vapors of green, black, and purple seeped through the cork. They filled the chamber with a noxious smell and the foreboding feelings that always came alongside black magic.

At last, Soran uncorked the vial. He walked to the center of the chamber, muttered a final dark word, and upturned the flask. The enchanted gems that had floated in the blood remained suspended in the empty bottle; without such foci the heart's magic would be depleted, and with it all of the black lord's powers. Slowly, like molasses, the thickened sludge that had once been blood poured down onto the floor. Where the fluid spilled, the stone writhed and trembled. At last the floor gave way to a great gaping pit that appeared, a strange light emanating from not far below.

Standing behind the construct there were nine other imps, backed by fifty pain elementals at most. They would be facing nearly half a thousand seasoned knights and fire wizards, men who fought with a crazed fervor for their deity Caldor. Shaige, however, was unconcerned. What were a few hundred flies before his power? His minions were ready, and they would have the element of surprise. The crusaders no doubt thought that this battle would be done in an hour, but they were wrong. It would be over the moment it began. Soran stepped through the portal, followed by the rest of Shaige's devotees.

Fangir stood in hiding, his muscles rigid with anticipation and his brow covered with sweat. He was as vigilant now as he had been four hours ago, when he and the other druids had walked out onto the trail leading up to the secret entrance. Though the remaining druids were all experienced, they guarded a treacherous uphill path, and they had concealed themselves with more illusion magic, it was hard to remain confident. The army of knights and sorcerers outnumbered the thirty or so druids by more than ten to one. When Fangir told them of the spirit that had visited in the night, many were incredulous. Most of the doubters thought that he was only desperate to improve morale, but there were a few who thought their chieftain had gone mad.

Hours passed by. Scouts returned from the forest to warn the defenders that the fire god's army approached. The land was silent as a grave; there was no wind to whisper into your ear, no birds or insects chirped, and no animals were in sight. Dusk fell, and the air quickly chilled until the druids were shivering. Fangir saw dark clouds roll in, silently killing what little light there had been in the night sky. The rocky hill was now cloaked by a mantle of darkness as oppressing as the dim caves below. Every druid standing watch thought they saw something. For some it was a dark silhouette moving in the forest below, whilst others caught glimpses of strange, fiery lights. Fangir at one point thought he heard an agonized wailing from within the woods, but he dismissed it as his mind playing tricks.

At last, the time came. Every druid knew it would; they had spent hours waiting for it, but they were still startled. A dozen torches, crowned by orange blazes, broke through the treeline. Close behind were robed priests and rank after rank of knights. They waved their proud banners of gold and carmine above their heads and advanced at a quick pace, seeing no enemies but wary of ambush nonetheless. It would seem that the shadow had been a dream, the workings of Fangir's tired mind. Still, the stubborn chieftain remained unbroken. He would never balk from this final battle. The crusaders would bleed for every step they advanced.

A priest garbed in silk robes ten times as ornate as any of the others led the way atop a black horse. He resembled a great inferno feasting on the last remnants of life within a blackening log, or perhaps feasting on what would remain of the Mutig tribe. Fangir scowled at the thought. He jumped forward, breaking the spell that had hidden him, and barked out an order to attack. The mounted priest below answered, "Slay them in Caldor's name!"

The druids and the fire priests both began flailing their arms like drowning men as they conjured their lethal projectiles. The knights let out war cries, raised their shields, and surged forward. Then, there was a thunderous boom from the clouds above. Men fell down as the earth. From everywhere at once there was an incessant, inhuman cackling. Monstrous roars erupted from amidst the Crusaders' ranks. The torches, now fallen onto the ground, illuminated massive beasts of shadow and smoke. Great claws of swirling smoke grabbed at one fire priest and tore the screaming man in twain. A horrifying creature with a gaping maw of teeth pounced upon another priest and swallowed him whole. Then, a gale of frigid wind extinguished the torches. The druids no longer saw what was happening, but the shadow beasts' inhuman noises and the screams of the priests seemed only realer.

The mounted priest managed to cast a protective ward around himself in time, but the turmoil around him was terrifying. The leader of the army now sought only to slay the druids up on the ledges, the wretched filth that had summoned these horrifying demonic creatures into the world. For a brief moment the mounted priest was visible as he conjured a fireball the size of a bear. Then, he hurled the thing at the druids. The fireball soared above its target, smashing into the cliff face above Fangir and melting stone. For the briefest of moments the fire cast a shadow beneath Fangir, but that was long enough. The chieftain watched as the mysterious shade that had appeared the night before now stood by his shoulder. "I stood at your side from the moment dusk fell and I was able to manifest myself. You only had to look and open your eyes to the truth," Shaige whispered, his soft but cutting voice audible even over the sounds of battle.

The mounted priest came into sight again as he prepared another fireball, his steed panicking from the flames and the shadow beasts that they revealed. The shadow standing before Fangir pointed at the sorcerer, and cursed him with the burden of time. The man's fiery red hair turned white and fell off, his skin grew pale and wrinkled, his flesh vanished, and his skeleton crumbled to dust within the span of a few moments. Shaige's manifestation began to dissipate. He left Fangir with the parting words, "Do not doubt me again."

With the death of that final priest, the shadow beasts abruptly vanished. As soon as they did, the air seemed to brighten a hundred times. Though it was still dark, there was now enough light to vaguely see by. The druids began bombarding the knights using telekinesis, summoning roots and thorns to bind and kill their enemies, and generally wreaking havoc to their broken enemy. Though their priests and leaders had all been brutally slain and they themselves were now sustaining heavy losses, their resolve was so absolute that they continued to charge forward with crazed zeal. Then, the entire side of the cliff was lit by an eery glow.

From below piles of leafs and inside squirrel holes there poured of dozens of orange balls of light. The pain elementals, out of their hiding spots, transformed into their wailing, humanoid forms and attacked the crusaders. Dozens succumbed to the pain wrought by the ghosts before the mass of knights even began to retaliate. Two or three pain elementals were surrounded and hacked at until they began to fade out of existence, but before that happened they exploded in great novas of anguish and fire, each one taking down half a dozen crusaders with them. The pain elementals' very presence in the area being enough to inflict pain, their ruthless attacks killing knights everywhere, combined with the druids' projectiles raining down from the cliff was enough to break the crusaders. All at once, the semi-organized charge degraded into a frenzied retreat. The routing men were killed by the dozens, pain elementals amidst them and magical bolts striking them in the backs.

By the time the knights even made it back a few hundred yards into the relative safety of the trees, their army now numbered only a quarter of what it had minutes ago, and all their leadership was gone. Wailing spirits darted between the trees, preying upon the helpless knights. Most were now dropping their weapons and shields, already encumbered enough by their heavy armor. Out of the trees burst forth Soran. Three ragged knights, amongst the last of the survivors, charged at him. One pulled out a knife from his belt, no doubt planning to plunge it into the creature before him and then continue running. Soran waved his staff, and one of the men was suddenly drenched. Seeping through the pores of his skin was not sweat, but red droplets. Blood cascaded out of the knight's nose, eyes, and cuts, the spell causing him to rapidly bleed until he fell unconscious and eventually died.

The one with the knife prepared to force it into the construct's body, but fell to the ground a foot short. The robed imp had swung a sword made out of pure, writhing shadows. It was so dark that the knight didn't even see the blade coming. The imp stooped down to snatch up the decapitated head and hold it up for the remaining man to see. The last knight came to a stop, dumbstruck. He looked around and saw that he was the last survivor, corpses strewn behind him. He didn't see the other imps until they knocked him to the ground and tore at his exposed throat with their demonic claws.

As the crusaders were chased off, Fangir and the druids had stayed still for a few moments. Then, they had ran off in pursuit, eager to hunt down the monsters that had burned their village and slain their kinsmen. They followed the trails of blood and other tracks left behind, but each one only led to a few corpses, all of which were horribly mutilated in some fashion. There were no signs of the wailing spirits or whatever else had caused the knights' demise. The people that had stayed inside the caves now came to the surface as well, to look at the carnage. There was a great cheering and everyone praised the nameless spirit that had saved their tribe. The starving mob gathered food from the surrounding area now that it was finally safe to do so, and held a feast in celebration.

The other druids joined in and raucously celebrated their victory, but Fangir only walked through the woods to look at the dead. The grimaces and looks of agony that decorated every dead face were enough to drain the archdruid of his appetite and cheer. He retreated back to his chambers in the caves below. His belly grumbled as it had done for weeks, but his mind could only wonder what he had done. His tribe now worshiped their savior spirit, and there was already talk amongst the druids of erecting a shrine. Fangir had to wonder what would happen to his tribe if they followed the being that had only hours ago doomed five hundred crusaders to painful deaths. Still, the chieftain felt tired, and now he finally had time to rest. He fell asleep telling himself that he did what he had to do, and that his people were safe for now.

Shaige came late into the night, only to find Fangir asleep. It was no matter. The shade leaned over the sleeping man, disturbing the air ever so slightly. The archdruid shifted in his sleep, but didn't awake to see the glowing, purple eyes that hovered inches above his face. There was no need to wake up the chieftain, if he was too tired to do so on his own. Shaige whispered into the man's ear as he slept, and then vanished. When Fangir woke up a day or two later, he could remember that in the background of his dream, he heard the shade's all too familiar voice. The spirit had warned that he would disappear for a time, but would return soon enough. He knew better than to believe that his mind had simply been able to imagine that hypnotizing whisper, and recreate it in a dream.

Shaige's Stuff:

Minions: Soran the imp construct, 9 imps, 50 pain elementals, Fangir the archdruid, 27 druids, ~300 Mutig Tribesmen
Resources: Several hundred corpses out in the woods. A few bags of tools for the imps. Food is starting to run low, so the imps have resorted to trapping some small animals to help stretch their supplies. The Mutig cave has some weapons and supplies, and is starting to stockpile food now that the surface is safe.
Infrastructure: A dungeon heart, the imps' makeshift altar, some small animal traps outside. The inside of Shaige's dungeon is being expanded, and the outside is now fortified with wooden abatises and concealed with magic. Shaige also claims ownership of the Mutig tribe and their cave-city, although his domain has not yet expanded to cover it.

For a moment Clotho stood totally still, her chitinous face frozen between an expression of contempt and one of shock. Indignation seized hold of her; how dare the foolish humans attempt to hurt her, a Keeper, in her own Dungeon! A second later, though, she recovered from her rush of pride and turned away from Scutra, mind racing. Though by now the Living Foundry was definitely in production, it couldn't have possibly produced arms enough for her entire Myrmidon battalion. Still, an organized assault upon the invaders would still be effective. With no telepathic abilities, she'd have to lead the defense from the front lines. Despite the answers her quick mind accumulated, there remained several questions How many foes were there? What weapons were they employing? How closely were they grouped? She opened her mouth to interview Scutra, who attentively perked up to respond. He was disappointed when Clotho's wings stretched out instead and she shot through the roof into the chilly, thin air.

Spurred on by suppressed anger, Clotho made haste to the base of the King Tree. Long before she arrived, however, a deep orange glow evoked in her a feeling of dread. Arriving on the scene, around a hundred feet above the nearest tree, she confirmed the worst: the invaders were burning her Dungeon. Unhelpful ideas of how to prevent future scenarios like this flitted through her mind as she mentally cobbled together a plan. From her birds-eye view she got a good look at her enemies. Two distinct themes stood out to her: the somber, green-tinged robes of the Biomancers, and the dark armor and orange trimmings of the Virens city guard. A few other individuals completed the group, which she estimated to be a couple dozen. At the moment the magicians were at the forefront, summoning the easiest of elemental magics to set the hive material and wood ablaze. With no foes yet to fight, the others more or less stood idly by, though some (a goatee-sporting young man in particular) took up the task of encouraging the firebrands with vehement words. Clotho knew she would have to act immediately to momentarily stall the posse and halt the spread of the fire. At the moment the inferno was containable, limited to a few bunches of plants and hive support strands, but given just a few moments more it would proliferate itself across the entire southern side of the hive. Clotho drew her rapier and zipped forward.

She targeted the biomancers first. Flying overhead, she performed a sort of bombing run, raining down gooey liquid hive material from above to ensnare the magicians. Guessing that those she didn't drench would rush to free those she did, the Swarm Keeper then concentrated on the support strands. Darting from one to another, she severed the strands above where the fire had spread with powerful kicks and broad swathes with her blade. She made quick work of it—in less than fifteen seconds, the burning supports were cut and lying limp upon the soggy, mud-rich leaf litter that blanketed the ground beneath the King Tree's shady canopy. With the fire contained for the moment, Clotho sped toward the tree, buzzing at high pitch and remarkable volume. The imps were too spread apart to be of much use, but the Myrmidons' nest lay conveniently close. Upon reaching the nest, her alarm buzz alerted the Myrmidons, who fairly exploded from the burrow's entrance to reach her as quickly as possible. Clotho took momentary pride in the spectacle: the Myrmidons were a fearsome, splendid bunch, especially for a level-one creature. Roughly a third of them had shields and about half wielded spears, some with both and some with one or the other. Clotho barked out her orders. “Form a defensive line. Split up those of you with shields and spears. Shields in the front, row of spears behind to poke through. Watch the air for fire magic and the ground for any unusual plant growth. Those without equipment, divide into two groups. One will support the others, hiding behind the shield line to break out when in melee range. The rest of our, circle through the undergrowth to cut off our enemies' escape.” By this time, six imps had appeared. Clotho spared a moment to give them a broad command as well. “Imps, use your goo to quench any fires that begin. If faced by an enemy, retreat. Attempt to slow them down with goo if feasible.” The Swarm Keeper tapped her rapier upon her own carapace twice, making a loud clicking noise. “Now move.”

It didn't take long for the humans to recover from the gooey barrage. The failed to identify where their attacker came from or was or even who it was thanks to Clotho's speed, so instead of spending time hunting the new threat down they immediately resumed setting fire to nearby foliage and Dungeon supports. When the defensive line of Myrmidons appeared, however, they quickly ceased their arson to form a strategy of their own. They had hardly come here expecting to engage an enemy like this. As the Myrmidons approached, the magicians hurled volley after volley of fireballs at them, which for the most part splattered harmlessly against the monsters' huge shields. Some biomancers attempted to conjure up magic-infused plants, giant thorny tendrils and carnivorous maws, but the Myrmidons were quick to cut down any sudden growth before it could take root. Given extra minutes to prepare, the supernatural flora of the biomancers would have given them an advantage, but faced with a surprise counterattack the best they could manage were tripping roots and spiny burrs that failed to penetrate the Myrmidons' shells. Slowly and steadily, the ant soldiers, like the inexorable rising tide, closed in on the humans. Two adept crossbowmen succeeded in bringing down one shield-holding Myrmidon and the spear-wielder that had been behind it, but most of their bolts simply lodged in the chitin shields. As they realized their motley crew stood little chance against the organized defenses, they broke into a disorderly retreat.

Their flight came to an end when the Myrmidons sent by Clotho to flank the troop burst from the dense underbrush, tearing into the men with brutal claws and mandibles. What had once been a courageous endeavor to exact revenge for lost property and lost comrades deteriorated into a bloodbath in the matter of minutes. Only one biomancer stood his ground, a tall and dignified man who brazenly wore cornrows and a pointed goatee rather than the stereotypical baldness and beard of a learned sorcerer. The man had hitched up his robe and deftly climbed into the crook of a tree, where even the reach of the Myrmidon's spears proved ineffective. His last stand came to an end, however, when Clotho alighted on a branch next to him, rapier drawn. Seeing that he was cornered, the man threw up his hands and issued an almost comical sigh. “Damn, thought I mighta gotten away for a sec' there.” Clotho exposed her pointy teeth in a ghastly grin and leveled her rapier at her opponent's chest.

“No survivors.”

The man cupped his goatee in a callused hand, scrutinizing his soon-to-be-killer thoroughly. “Y'know, you look kinda familiar. The whole bug deal's new, but still...anyhow, wouldja hurry up and kill me already?” Clotho froze; something stirred inside her. A memory. She knew this man too. Silent seconds ticked by as yellow eyes bored into black, until Clotho chambered her rapier in preparation to strike. The man didn't flinch, but did smile as Clotho put the weapon away.

“Looks like it might be my lucky day after...ah!” His jubilation was cut short as Clotho delivered a shelled right hook to his jaw, knocking him out in one punch. She shoved him from the tree down to the Myrmidons with a foot.

“Don't rough him up too badly. He might have something I need.”

“Wake up! Xir’ain? Xir’ain, wake up!” Enly’air shook the keeper, but he wouldn’t respond. What had she done? Had she just killed the being that had saved her life? The girl closed her eyes to cry, but as soon as she did so she became aware of something in the black water of Xir’ain’s dungeon.

Her strange silver and gold eyes saw down the twists and turns of the dungeon’s tunnels, all the way to where a small group of black eels was just coming upon the intruder she had sensed. Before they even attacked, their black skin boiled and ruptured. The eels were killed without even touching the humanoid creature. It looked to be human, but it was far too large, and though the black waters his it, she could see that the creature’s skin would have appeared black even out of the dark water. Its most striking feature was its three eyes, two of which looked to be blind and infected. Whatever it was, it was not one of Xir’ain’s. And whatever it was, it was hostile.

“Don’t worry Xir’ain, I’ll protect you,” she said to the unconscious keeper. The next second she was flying through the black water, faster than any human could have swam but slower than an eel or a runner, through the winding tunnels towards the creature. With her eyes open she could see fine in the dark water, but with them closed she could see everything. That was how she saw the black runner speeding down the tunnel the creature was in, coming from the opposite direction she was. For some strange reason, she felt like she had seen that runner somewhere before.

The runner found the intruder first. The blood of the eels still filled the dark waters, making it somehow even darker. Rushing it from behind, the runner, the first runner and Xir’ain’s favorite, closed its needle-filled jaw around the giant’s ankle, trying to rip out the tendon. The runner’s bladed tail did the same, hacking at the other ankle like a cutting ax.

Enly’air watched with tightly-shut eyes as she weaved in and out of black tunnels. All she had to do was slow down the thing until Xir’ain woke. For some reason, despite this giant being by far the largest creature in the black waters of the dungeon, Enly’air knew that Xir’ain eclipsed it entirely.

A deep light twinkled behind the nonexistent eyes of Viktors helmet, as he stepped out of his Dungeons Heart, side by side with another soldier for his army. Standing outside his door was Vragas, the small imp who had been so loyal to him all this time. A worried glance passed underneath the creatures mask, but it quickly dissolved. This was becoming less and less odd as more creatures had been made.

The beast stood even taller than the preceding ogres, heavily muscled shoulders rising and falling as it let out massive breaths. The beast had deep brown leathery skin, patched together in a misshapen manner. The skin was coated with thick hair of brown, matted and tangled. The now bipedal animal searched around, snorting out a deep huff through his nose. His feet impatiently stamped up and down as he shook his horned head in disgust.

This beast had been blessed with augmented strength, but had been granted even less intelligence than that of the ogres, supposing that is even possible. Still with the primal instincts of its once animal form, it has simply been taught who to not kill. He grunted in a low voice, restraining himself from pounding the imp into a small gray splotch on the floor.

Viktor quickly escorted the blueprint down into the prison where he kept a copy of each new minion he made, as he did not have any more animals to use for replicating the beast. As Viktor left, muttering orders to the Minotaur, Vragas scampered away, to the barracks where the army lived. None of them needed to actually sleep, save the ogres and humans, so he knew that he would find his skeleton friend.

As Vragas scampered into the cold stone room where the skeletons were kept, he became a bit unnerved. The thirty skeletons stood side by side, shivering in their still stances, spears standing straight. Vragas took a moment to find his friend among the near-identical bones. Finding Hydl, Vragas slid over, across the cold stone.

Hydl looked down at the small imp, Confusion running across his face- that is, it would if he had a face. Usually they were not disturbed from their meditation-like trances, unless Stamrad requested their presence for training. A quick chatter was exchanged between the two before the doors were slammed open.

In the glare stood Stamrad, sword unsheathed. As he entered the room, the skeletons all snapped to attention, a loud clattering accompanying the synchronized motion. Stamrad waved at them, allowing them to relax. He looked down at the imp, sheathing his sword. "You. Vragas is it? We need to find more of them beauties that you found earlier. You remember where they were and where they were headed, right, laddie? Let's go hunting!" Stamrad said, light flickering from beneath his helmet.

High in the sky, somewhere over Erimos, a being materialised in a shimmer of light. As the being fell, it woke. As consciousness was granted the being had to take a few moments to reorient itself after the soul-wrenching trip through the portal between dimensions. First, it remembered that his name was Zadok. He saw the landscape stretch out beneath him getting closer and felt the air rushing past, so the second thing he remembered was that he could fly. Stretching out his brilliant white wings he slowed down his rapid fall, slowing down just enough so that when he reached the ground his bare feet landed gently on the hot sand.

Now firmly on the ground, Zadok was able to fully recollect his memories. He had been an Anti-Keeper of Outremar, a heavenly being tasked with defending that world from the Devouror's scourge. Needless to say, he failed, as now Outremar is in ruins as he stands on this strange new world. Zadok's body was that of an angel, standing tall, with strong muscles, tanned skin, feathery wings, clothed from the waist down in white and glowing with a holy aura. Zadok looked down at his hands, seeing the brown-pink skin, and was confused. Before his body had been made of shimmering neutronium with stars and space visible with-in. This body was new, but he rationalised that he could not possibly have enough power to maintain his old body after such an arduous journey.

With a swift burst of movement, Zadok took to the sky and hovered above the land, his keen eyesight allowing him to see the land for many, many kilometres around. The land was mostly desolate, with no people in sight. That was not to say it was lifeless- far from it. His eyes could see hardy plants and hardy creatures which eat such plants in the sand and rocks which filled this harsh desert landscape, but the desert ecosystem was not of concern to him. He was about to fly off when he spotted a disturbance.

-=-=-

Slowly but surely, the Ripper moved. Like a worm eating an eye, the being was boring his way through the very fabric of the universe itself, attempting to escape into a different one. The Apocalypse on Outremar had resulted in a wormhole of sorts. The tunnel had already been there, but traversing it was difficult. An entity comprised purely of destructive, magical energy, it was a struggle to maintain a cohesive form and not get torn asunder in this rift between worlds. The Ripper's own body and energy accelerated entropy by their very nature; and so the tunnel behind and all around the Ripper was collapsing.

At long last, after what would have seemed like an eternity to mortals, a light appeared at the end of the twisting tunnel. So fast was the Ripper moving that its mind had hardly processed that information before the end came. At last, it was free from the confines of that tunnel! The Ripper, appearing as a phantasmagorical ball of cackling, red energy, burst forth from the portal's exit. Air, dust, and soil alike were disintegrated and wiped from very existence upon being bathed by the being's malevolent aura. A mere moment after the Ripper clambered out of the tunnel, the wormhole collapsed behind it, releasing a great deal of raw magical energy in the form of an explosion. When the cloud of dust was gone, the Ripper was able to contemplate its surroundings. A vast, barren, and sandy expanse stretched for as far as the eye could see. Only the occasional cacti or sand dune existed to break up the monotonous terrain.

Despite having had plenty of time in the tunnel to decide upon what its first course of action would be, the being had no plans. It had been difficult trying to plan ahead while holding its very essence together against its own will, and crawling through a collapsing tunnel as fast it could. Also, it hardly helped that the Ripper's mind was a fragmented, chaotic, cacophony of voices bickering with each other and vying for control- the result of the once wise and divine Weaver being corrupted and transformed into the husk that was the Ripper. Regardless, it hardly took a minute for the being to decide what to do. The being sensed that this world was a haven; extremely rich in magic and life. However, it was like the light of a torch compared to that of the sun. There was more power than the Ripper had ever felt before, radiating from the grand gas giant that dominated this world's sky. The celestial being hurtled through space towards the Source.

Compendium Info:

The Ripper- An entity that takes the form of a great, writhing ball of crimson light. His form is composed purely of destructive magic, and being in its presence is enough for matter to crumble and fall apart. Things that touch the Ripper aren't broken down, but rather wiped from existence. It destroys things compulsively and naturally, with a brazen disregard for life.

Zadok saw the writhing ball of red energy emerge from an unseen rift and was horrified as it sucked up sand, stone and air alike, its raw destructive power making it seem unstoppable. Zadok had not forgotten the Ripper- in fact, he still vividly remembered the moments in which the Ripper was created. The contingency the Weaver had developed, and the violent retaliation by the threads he was supposed to guard, haunted him. The Weaver was gone, leaving only hatred and destruction. Zadok feared for his safety, so he stayed at a distance, but he also feared for the safety of this world. He knew not if it had any defence against the likes of the Ripper, or if any defence could possibly be made once it built up its power.

He was almost relieved when it streaked up into space, but as his eyes followed the red light Zadok realised the Ripper's destination. He's going to eat the sun! Maintaining his distance, Zadok ascended rapidly, following the Ripper and approaching space.

“Fight!”

The two men advanced toward one another across the densely-packed sand. Already, both were glossy with trace amounts of perspiration thanks to the merciless desert sun, but more sweat was to come—possibly blood, too. One of the brawlers was a veteran of the arena, six feet and three inches of brazen muscle, forty years old and a terrific pugilist. His hair, ratty and curly, hung down across his ears and stuck to his moist forehead. Beneath the toned skin was a mind possessed of utter confidence in victory, and for good reason; his opponent looked to be a total pushover. The challenger had the appearance of a northerner, with ragged red-brown hair loosely tied in a queue and wan, angular features. What totally discredited him, however, was his pitiable physique: though tall, he lacked any sort of body fat, instead displayed pale skin wrapped over very visible ribs like a drape. None of the onlookers expected the bout between the wimpy foreigner and the prized champion to last more than a few seconds.

The administrator of the pit, however, watched with some interest. The only woman amidst a throng of men, the administrator stood with an elderly, oriental, crimson-robed nobleman, in the VIP section of the spectators' stands. Though normally she would have never allowed such a match to take place, her aged companion had assured him that this seemingly worthless husk of man would make for a very intriguing fight. Naturally, she didn't believe him -not any more than she had when he and the northerner had shown up one day with outrageous claims, demanding that she join them on a quest- but for once she had decided to put up with a little nonsense. It was impressive enough that these men had approached her in the first place; she'd established herself as quite the authority in Anicetus. Before she'd arrived, there were no gladiatorial pits, just unused sections of ancient ruins not claimed by the city authority. No sooner had she come, however, than conflict erupted, and fighting became overnight Anicetus's most riveting sport. As things fell into place, this woman naturally emerged as the general manager. Stockily-built, quick of mind, and short of temper, she quickly proved herself both an admirable fighter and an able administrator. Any man who wanted to take control of the pits need only battle her and win, and despite a few challenges, she remained top dog still.

Down below, several seconds of circling and sizing up passed before the first blow was struck. One brawny fist crashed against the northerner's ear, and he teetered backward. The crowd's collective apathy transformed into excitement when the man they expected to fall in a single strike pivoted around, landing a ridgehand strike to the aggressor's temple, then following up with a double punch to the solar plexus. The spectators perked up. Maybe they'd have their match after all. Amazed and incensed that his anorexic enemy had actually hurt him, the veteran let loose a wrathful barrage of punches. Almost nonchalantly, the thin man dodged or blocked them all, letting the veteran exhaust himself in his attempt to end the fight early. After the outburst, the fight resumed, but with a marked change. Every time the veteran made contact with his opponent, his strikes grew feebler, while the northerner apparently got stronger. This continued for another minute, the duel devolving more and more into a comedic show on the part of the northerner, dancing around and mocking his foe to a surprised but thrilled crowd. At last, he sauntered up to the veteran and casually delivered an upper cut to his jaw, causing him to collapse into a heap. Pleased with the totally unexpected, unprecedented victory, the crowd went wild.

The administrator was also surprised. She beckoned to the old man beside her to follow and descended to the side of the sandy arena, where the northerner was toweling off. The old man took some time to appear, walking unsteadily with the aid of a cane; by the time he did, the next match was already starting. “Maybe you were right after all,” the administrator finally grunted.

“Of course.” Though the woman was taller, stronger, and overall far more intimidating than him, the old man addressed her with callousness. “All of our abilities are severely limited, but Moros retains the ability to drain the strength of others and add to his own.”
“Always hungry,” added Moros, brushing sand from his hair. “Now do you believe us?”
“I don't know,” replied the woman, a look of worry crossing her face. “You speak of a higher purpose. Of four brothers, of three sisters. Of angels and demons and the world ending. I don't remembering anything but being human. I don't remember any sisters. I'm Eris Contiello, Dutchess of the Sand Pits. I'm not who you think I am.”
Moros put his hand to his snowy, gaunt face, massaging his eyebrows. “Looks like Sophist must have wiped her memory. Clever old bastard.”
“Must be...” the old man murmured. A wrinkled hand descended to his side, touching a green crystal that protruded from his right hip. He winced. “Regardless, you must come with us.”

At that, Eris bristled. “I'll do no such thing. Though your words may have some grain of truth to them, there's a far greater chance they're still an old sod's delusions.” Frowning deeply, the old sod in question raised his cane and smacked Eris between the eyes before she could react. In the background, the crowd suddenly roared with hype over the current fight. The previously still crowd erupted into a frenzy of jumping, swinging arms, and hollering. Eris recoiled, and as she took aim at the old man to sock him squarely in the jaw, her eyes glowed deep red. Her left hook was caught by Moros before it could connect, which only heightened her rage. She turned on him, but he pointed out at the arena, shouting “Look!”

Though Eris wanted nothing more than to floor the red-haired beanpole, she sensed the urgency of his words and looked out onto the sand, and was taken aback. Dozens of civilians had leaped into the ring, and were beating each other savagely. The sand was already red with blood, and several bodies lay still in it. As she watched, entranced by the incredible violence, the old man whispered in her ear. “Your magic is at work, sister. I'll ask you again: are you ready to come with us and help us find our kin...Fury?”

Majestic, sleek, fearsome. That was what described the zombie horse standing before Calvartem. The horse stood as tall as the Necromancer, and its darkened eyes had an intelligence to them. The horse's body had been streamlined, augmented with what flesh Calvartem had lying around and repaired to make the hide unbroken. But most terrifying was not its size but its fur. Each hair glowed with darkness, making the horse appear as a slightly fuzzy and really solid shadow. This Construct would be Calvartem's steed, and is capable of travelling at enormous speeds, over 100 km/h, given space to accelerate. It could leap great distances and jump rather high. Being undead, it would not grow weary, and flesh wounds would do little to affect it. Despite being blisteringly fast, the horse would fare little better than any ordinary warhorse in combat, but fighting was not the purpose Calvartem had for it.

"Shadowmane, follow me," Calvartem gestured, as he walked outside. While he had the power to take Shadowmane's essence like Breaker, he had little reason to as he would need Shadowmane for travel. Summoning Shadowmane from essence would also require the body of a horse- the fresher the better- which may be harder to acquire than human corpses.

Outside, any light which struck Shadowmane simply vanished into the darkness, making his coat darker than the blackest black. An imp was waiting outside, which looked up at the horse with what seemed to be fear, although it was hard to tell in the featureless face. The comparison was apparent. Both Shadowmane and the imp had similar colouring, of fire so black it could be a sort of anti-light. However, Shadowmane was far more solid and real than the imp, while the imp was ghostly and transparent. Calvartem waved a mote of darkness to the imp- the gift of speech.

"To the south there is another town, far down the road. It is large. Markets, watchmen, farms, many houses. Even a castle. An invasion may be challenging, as they have trained soldiers. This town appears to be subservient. They may soon notice and send an army," the imp reported.

Calvartem looked around at the town he was in. The effects of the spire were beginning to take their toll on the land, with grass and crops showing signs of whithering. However, Calvartem had to admit that this town was small. There must be more people in this world, with greater settlements. He also saw that a spire would not hold off a dedicated invasion. He needed to move on the offensive before they did, for he was much more suited to offence than defence. Waving away the now-unnecessary imp, Calvartem swung onto the back of Shadowmane and, as if by unspoken command, the horse galloped out of the town, quickly gaining speed travelling south down the road.

Vragas looked down at the scroll of parchment unfurled between his thick, dull, claws, an almost subconscious motion that he had been repeating for the entirety of his hike through the plains. Looking back up at the horizon, he jumped in a mix of glee and surprise, seeing the tiny black dots that were his prey. Through this journey, time had slipped away from him. There had been no day or night, only walking and resting. Still, he had kept his own morale high, knowing that great rewards were in store for him. Already, he was in good favor with his master, this arduous task would simply solidify his place in the rising empire.

So, it was with great glee that he shouted up to Stamrad, sitting atop a wagon, dragged by two ogres. Stamrad chuckled, congratulating the imp. "You are quite the imp. Viktor is sure to reward you greatly." Said the armored general, a slight tone of malice tainting his voice. The anger went unnoticed by Vragas, who was too busy running ahead to pay attention to the hollow suit of armor. A sigh slipped from Stamrad's helmet, as he dropped off of the wagon, taking long strides. As his boots crunched down on the light blanket of snow that laid across the tundra, he pulled out his sword, the sun glancing off of the decorative blade.

When the two neared the herd, a few idle creatures raised their heads, caring very little for the newcomers, so long as their grazing remained uninterrupted. They both stopped a few meters short of the greater mass of animals, taking a moment before attacking. Vragas turned to Stamrad. "What's the plan?" He asked tentatively. The first time, he had been able to take down one, but he was unsure of how he would take down so many of the horned beasts.

Stamrad would have let a grim smirk slide onto his face, if he had one. "Well, little one, this could be rather tricky. You see, with all of these animals, someone could get hurt if we spook them, and it would be a terrible shame if someone died before we got back." He said, no longer masking the sheer hate in his voice. Before Vragas could open his mouth, Stamrad kneeled down, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. In one swift motion, the imp was tossed into the midst of the herd, startling a few of the beasts slightly. Confusion flashed under the mask Vragas wore, before Stamrad stabbed the nearest ox with a shout, causing a stampede of the herd.

Without a second glance at the stampede, and obvious battered corpse of the imp, Stamrad turned to a smaller group of animals, a cluster that hadn't moved from their grazing. They had seen Stamrad's attack on the other group, and many started to slowly trot away, only to be met by the two ogres, who had moved the cart near. Slowly, the three boxed in the animals, before beginning the slaughter. Many crushed skulls and slit throats later, Stamrad finished piling the bloody pile of corpses in the cart, before beginning the slow march back to the castle. As he walked, he let out what would be classified as a whistle, having no remorse for the crime he committed, out of sheer jealousy.

---

Hydl stared in awe through the small entrance to the barracks, about to go train, per his schedule. In the courtyard of the village, and marching towards the barracks, was a large number of new troops, skeletons and ogres alike. It appeared that Viktor had been rather busy. Hydl was a bit confused, as thoughts ran through his rotting brain. What could Viktor possibly need all of these troops for? Where they going to attack someone? Were they under attack? Rather than expend any energy on harboring such foolish notions, the skeleton focused on Viktor, who had walked with the army of beasts. In order to create the troops, he had expended all of his remaining corpses, as well as much of his magical energy.

"Listen to me well, for we shall know peace no longer!" Viktor said, in a loud and commanding tone. "We must be trained and battle ready quickly, if we are to stand against the army of Altearx. These foolish mortals take residence in a stronghold necessary for our hostile attacks on those who would dare oppose us, and I fear they will soon catch scent of our presence. If we are to survive, we must strike first! FOR BLOOD! FOR GLORY! FOR VICTORY!"

Within the black tunnels that snaked below the plains, Balon pressed on. His massive body pushing the water created a current of his own, and the occasional sound of his bronze sabatons scraping the rock floor echoed through the reticent depths. Of course, as the giant followed the winding tunnel closer to where he sensed the source of the malevolent aura, he soon caught the attention of some guardians. They things shot through the dark water with both grace and deadly speed. Accustomed to the black depths of his underwater prison, Balon was able to see them clearly enough in the dark. They resembled the eels and tapeworms that had been his only companions for a few centuries, down in the trench that had been his kingdom. Then, the dead eye fell upon them. Their flesh festered and oozed, and soon enough any resemblance was gone.

Another creature, quicker and smarter than the last, managed to dart through the waters without catching the old king's glare. Its tail lashed at one of the giant's feet, only to be deflected by one of the thick slabs of bronze that armored the giant. It was a futile and altogether laughable attempt. However, at the same time, the creature's head found a small gap in the armor of Balon's other root. The runner's blade-like teeth dug into the giant's flesh, soft from years of degenerating in the dark depths of the sea. Virulent blood gushed out of the giant's body, still carrying some of the ancient plague that had been death incarnate. Balon let out a cry of pain that more resembled a deafening roar. Spinning around, the old king attempted to drive his shield, a huge slab of enameled bronze, into the pitiful creature that bit at his heels. The water might cushion the initial blow, but would do nothing to stop the runner being slammed into the side of the tunnel and crushed between the shield and the wall if the runner didn't move fast enough.

As he turned, Balon caught a fleeting glance of what appeared as a woman, suspended in the inky waters. That brief look would be enough to cause searing pain to course through the veins of any normal human, and perhaps even tighten the muscles or cause paralysis. Regardless, Balon thrust the spear he held in his other hand straight towards the abdomen of Enly'air. She too would have to move quickly or face certain death, and the gargantuan spear had a tip large enough to bisect a man, rather than impale him.

Space- cold, lifeless and unforgiving, yet also powerful, awe-inspiring and all-encompassing. This was where Zadok is at his prime, able to draw on the cosmic energy unfiltered by the atmosphere and channel it to perform mighty spells, both of restoration and destruction. The vacuum, the radiation and the extreme temperatures did not harm Zadok as he flew towards this world's sun. The Ripper had flashed off at what could possibly have been the speed of light, or at least a large fraction of it, as soon as Elysium's atmosphere had been left behind, so Zadok knew he had no chance of beating him there. What he might be able to do is interrupt whatever scheme the Ripper was doing, but first he would have to cross the vast distance at a somewhat more modest speed. In that time, he was able to think.

First, he took in the views. Looking back he saw the world of Elysium stretch out beneath him. The great continent, of various shades of green, yellow and white, dominated the globe amidst a sea of deep blue dotted with tiny islands and archipelagos. On the continent he could make out several cities, with their dark dense point of houses with farmlands radiating out from them for a great distance. Then he looked to the stars. The stars painted a beautiful tapestry across the sky, like a work of art by a master painter. However, Zadok sensed that these stars were little more than a cosmic tapestry. They lacked the seemingly infinite depth of the stars in Outremar's skies, of the sense of a whole universe out there, with these stars being just ornaments for the centrepiece of this universe. Finally, he turned the the sun he was approaching. Its glow was radiant, and he could feel the magic laced among its rays. He looked closer, and saw something odd. He hadn't seen it before, as the light made it difficult to tell, but he saw it now. This sun was not a star- it was a gas giant, or perhaps a brown dwarf. It should not produce light, yet it did. This sun is clearly a very magical object, and quite a novelty to Zadok.

So this was the universe Sophist had created. He sighed remorsefully at the memory of his old friend. On Outremar, between the ages of Keepers, Sophist would often leave to his own private world which seemed to be his pride and joy. And now he saw it- a world which had been brilliantly crafted and well designed. But now Sophist was gone, and his world was under threat. It struck Zadok that this time he stood alone against the emerging evil. Before There had always been the other Anti-Keepers, but they had all been killed in the battle of the Apocalypse. Sophist was defeated when fighting against the Horseman War, the Weaver was destroyed by the very threads of the universe he was supposed to protect, and the rest were variously slain in the fighting against the Keepers aligned with the Horsemen. While Zadok had always been prone to working alone, the idea that he would have to fight back this entire threat by himself was daunting. However, he was still determined to protect this world, to honour Sophist and to make up for where he had failed in Outremar.

Eventually he reached the Source. Up close he could easily see the billowing clouds of blue and green gases which formed this sun, with intense light and magic shining through the clouds in rays. From up close the magic saturated Zadok's body, giving him extra strength and vigour. What he would need if he were to have any chance of defending this world was strength, and as there was no sign of the Ripper yet Zadok approached the gasses which covered the Source, hoping to dive in and absorb some of its power. However, he was just about to reach the surface when he sensed a disturbance so he hesitated. The Source began to pulse and heave violently, so Zadok flew back with a high-speed dash. The Source still close enough to fill Zadok's field of view, the light began to change from its pure white to red. Suddenly, the majestic blues and greens of the Source gave way to a sinister crimson red, and the light changed likewise. The once-peaceful clouds now thrashed about chaotically, and the pattern of emerging rays became erratic. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse and even the mighty Corumag himself, the father of all Keepers, had not instilled any fear into Zadok, but now he was terrified for the Ripper had taken control of an entire sun.

Even to those on Elysium below, who knew nothing about the Ripper and the power he now held, their very sun turning red, tinting the sky with its crimson light, would surely be a sign that doom was approaching.

When the biomancer at last regained his consciousness, he found himself sprawled out on the floor of a dank, musty room. On second thought, 'room' was a bit of an overstatement—the place far more closely resembled a giant paper tent stuck to what he guessed was a tree trunk. Despite being decently-sized, this chamber, dominated by alien structures and contraptions that groaned and hissed, felt intensely claustrophobic. In fact, if not for the biomancer's years amid a huge variety of nature's most extraordinary smells, he may have been nauseous. A quick look around confirmed that, for the time being, he was alone in this place. After brushing some muck from his robe, he rose to his feet and, thinking to distract himself from the stomach-churning stench, took a few steps to the nearest large object to examine it. Though the lighting was none too good, made even more so by a thick vapor in the air, he swiftly discovered that the printing press-sized object was no conventional contraption.

It appeared to be a large, sludge-colored gumdrop, anchored to the floor by a net of tendrils. From its upper hemisphere sprouted an array of prongs, like a spiked turtle's shell. When the biomancer ran a hand along its surface, the whole thing shuddered and groaned, prompting him to reel back in equal parts surprise and disgust. As he watched, one of the prongs grew from the main body outward, extending around six feet, making a pole. Stunned by the ordeal, the biomancer's mouth hung open. He was forced to retreat another step when Clotho descended from the foggy darkness near the chamber's ceiling and landed by the producer. As her wings folded into their standard cloak-and-hood position, the biomancer adopted an air of confidence and indifference to the incredible oddity of his surroundings. “Lady -if you don't mind me callin' you that- you gotta stop droppin' in like that. This whole mess already got me on my toes, but this creepy flying business ain't helpin'.”

In response, Clotho gripped the pole and yanked, revealing the outcropping to be an organic spear, ready-made for use. She turned it over in her clawed hands as she advanced forward slowly. The biomancer held his ground. “This is my Living Foundry,” she decreed, ignoring what her guest previously said. “In here we grow and harvest weapons. Just shields and spears so far, but the potential is nearly endless. One day, I envision production of specialized chitins that can be manually remodeled into armor without parallel.” Though the biomancer obviously wanted to chip in his own two cents, Clotho encouraged his silence by flourishing the spear before jamming it into the ground with some force. “Why did you and your comrades come to my home and try to destroy it?”
All the humor vanished from the biomancer's voice. “You snuffed some of ours. Or so we think. But you match Tharisse's description pretty well.”
Clotho shrugged. Her guest continued, emboldened by her lack of aggressive response. He knew she wanted information from him, which made him valuable...at least for now. “I'm also guessin' you know somethin' 'bout the Biosphere Stone.”

The Swarm Keeper tilted her head slightly and held up her left forearm, where the viridian amber she had plucked from the lead biomancer's talisman pulsed with green light. “Guilty. And I think I'll be keeping this one. Gives me a special edge.” To enunciate her point, the Stinger slid out of its hole with a low-pitched click. “Now, tell me things I don't know.”

For this, the biomancer was already mentally prepared. A mocking undertone crept into his voice as he rattled off, “Let's see, my name is Jase and I'm from Virens. 'Stead of winter and summer, Virens goes through wet and dry seasons. There's no way in hell you're messin' with it again...” At this, Clotho smirked, but didn't interrupt, “you're creepy, but hey, maybe you already knew that, and the Biomancer's Guild also does marriages. And divorces. Got everything?”
“What makes you think I won't be able to do what I please with Virens? You lot weren't exactly a challenge.”
Jase folded his arms, bedecked with a deep frown. “That was just a posse, with no popular support or financial backin' and only rumors of a single organization to go off of. You've poked the hornet's nest, sister. Virens has over 200,000 people in the city proper, not the picnic your ant men had with our posse. Take a step toward Virens as anything more than a cat burlar and you're goin' down like a roach under my boot.”

Clotho's brow furrowed in response. “You're a brave one,” she spat. “Confidence in the face of danger can be admired, but you just made a mistake. Hold still...!” Faster than Jase could move to protect himself, Clotho buried her stinger in his chest. “This hasn't been tested a lot. I'm anxious to see what the stuff can do when I'm not meddling with it.” Jase reeled back, in substantial pain, clawing at the gash in his pectoral. Apparently he surmised that he had simply been poisoned, so when his body began to visibly change shape, he was truly horrified. Any dignity he held melted at the sight of his own skin turning into a rigid, crimson, pimpled leather. As his torso swelled up into a shapeless mass, his back erupted into a mess of thorny tendrils that rooted him to the nearest surface, which turned out to be the exposed trunk of the King Tree. Three of his limbs became thick, sinewy tentacles, studded with teeth, that lashed around wildly. His last, the right arm, grew larger, and the fingers hardened and separated into short, insectoid digits. Jase's screaming ceased as his head disfigured into a vertical maw, lined with thorns. Lastly, the center of his torso erupted into a nasty yellow flower with a giant, bloodshot eye at its center.

If Clotho had still been human, she might have vomited. The scene was gruesome and disturbing -even from her own twisted perspective- though fascinating nonetheless. What intrigued her even more was the fact that this abomination was still alive, judging by its lolling eye. In a flash she drew her rapier and punctured the eye, quickly bringing death to the mutant. After turning away from the nightmare-inducing corpse, she carefully retracted her Stinger. Perhaps there were better ways to corrupt a living being than reconstitution at random. Still, more pressing matter existed. Securing the Dungeon for defense against future attacks was a must, and the grisly creature she had created inspired her somewhat. She flew from the Living Foundry to the Heart.

DOOM

DOOM

DOOM

The titanic thuds shook through the soil, sending shivers through the foliage. The thundering footsteps a timer, building up tension. Waiting for the guest of honor was a line of men, their armor glistening beneath the sun. Though the warriors were strong and proud, today the sweat cascaded down their faces, their legs quivering as though the armor was a thousand pounds heavier. Though some would suggest this be some magic cast upon the army, it was little more than pure fear.

Behind the mass of steel laden bodies lay a cluster of men, robed in brilliant white. These men stood beneath an aura of confidence, wizened by decades of learning in magical arts. These spell casters were the true force behind the army- they knew that the soldiers would serve as little more than cannon fodder, should this coming threat be half of what the tales told. Still, their faith made them stand tall. Strong and proud were the Paterdomans, and it would take more than a century old demon of death to dampen their spirits.

DOOM

DOOM

DOOM

All thoughts of hope were dashed from the ranks of Paterdomus' army, as the sun vanished. Over the hills, a wave of smoke leisurely rolled, blotting the sky from view. The soldiers coughed, choking on this dark red haze. As they recovered from the foreign contamination of their lungs, they looked up at what would be, for many, the last thing they would see. Deep sorrow filled the eyes of the elder spell casters, as they realized what a futile effort it would be, attempting to defend their homes. Still, they stood their ground as it loomed over the hill.

The flames licked over the hillside, their unearthly glow contrasting with the dull darkness of the smoke. Accompanied by a bloodcurdling roar was the serpentine skull of Ifrit, rearing over the now charred grass. The eyes burning deep beneath the bone swept over the army, sending a deep set thought of dread through each and every one. The flames halted their hasty approach, retreating back to hug the ankles of the mighty beast. Ifrit was perfectly still, his imposing figure looming over the men like a burning statue. Through the smoke, a few bright lights were seen, magic emanating off of the ancient mages.

Silence coated the war ground like a heavy blanket, as the opposing forces stared each other down. The emptiness was suddenly shattered, as the armored warriors charged the flaming monster, yelling a thousand different war cries. The mages wanted to scream at their incompetent brethren, but knew that they could do nothing now but open the gates of hell upon their unwanted visitor, in the hopes to distract the beast from the far easier prey. Within minutes, magical missiles filled the air, filling the sky with bursts of brilliant light, and booming thunder, met by streams of fire jetting out from behind a thick screen of smoke. From behind the questionable safety of thick stone walls watched the population of Paterdomus, intently watching the battle- their lives hanging by a thread.