Prologue: Before and After
1128 Titans’ Rest
30th Year of the Undying’s Reign
Centurion Keep, Avless
24 Hours After the Taking of Aveless
Smoke from the still burning Hollow Quarter lazily climbed the battlements that lead to the keep. A corrosive mixture of burning flesh, tar, and salt carried from the sea. The breeze took the 2nd’s standard by the hand and danced with it a slow waltz, heavy fabric cutting through the air with a resounding snap like the taskmaster's whip. Not too long ago a different flag flew over what was extensively the heart of Avless, a banner of dark oranges and azure blues which now lay trampled stained by blood and dirt.
The city that lay stretched blow the keep was all too similar to the flag that once represented it: broken and torn. The sky above filled with clouds heavy with ashen soot from the dozens of unchecked fires that raged below. A keen ear picking up the distant sounds of conflict as fighting continued reduced to common brawls and slaughter as the last of the defiant fought being pushed back street by street, building by building. The somber scene was periodically broken by a sudden eruption of flame from somewhere within the city as another oil cache detonated leveling another few buildings with it.
Verse stood at the edge of the battlements draped in hardened leathers dyed in the muted tones customary of the Legion. Gold emblem of the Seeing Hand held fast a tattered and bloodstained cloak of burgundy that marked her as a Fossor within the Legion. The entire ensemble reeked of blood and gore like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. An air of tension surrounded her invisible strands vibrated and twitched threatening to snap at any moment. The soft clatter of footsteps sounding against the stone as she paced back and forth back and forth. Waiting. She hated the waiting.
Eventually a boy maybe twelve or so years of age, short cropped black hair, and soil toned skin emerged from the keep. Feet slowly as the gingerly stepped over the iron doors that lay as a twisted and contorted shard on the courtyard floor. The pitter-patter slowed to a halt, just out of reach of the woman’s hands. World traveled fast around the workers and this boy didn’t want to end up like the last one, could still hear the screams in his head. Rolling her eyes Verse stretched out her hand and a small slip was placed gingerly and in the blank of an eye the boy had vanished back into the crowd.
She rolled the parchment between two fingers stopping at the wax seal that held it closed: the same Seeing Hand as above but with a blade plunged through the iris, that sign of the Voice of War. The seal broke easily and she held it down carefully against the battlements least to not let it go in the wind. To the untrained eye the runes which appeared on the page would seem possessed with unseen life flickering and blurring, reshaping and restructuring themselves mid-sentence. The Red Tongue, a language of barbarism and death dating long before even the Old Gods themselves. A language almost entirely lost save for the high courts of the Endless.
The orders were typical of those received from the Voice of War, blunt. Her and her new ‘team’ would be heading into the Hollow Quarter to help the Anthem drive out the last of the rebels. Team of course being a rough definition for the ramshackled band that had somehow come together. It was certainly a more agre-
Somewhere above and behind her she heard a faint whistle followed quickly by a thunderous explosion as part of the mountain erupted in a magical cataclysm. It was better than dealing with that. The sorcerers that claimed Dominion over Aveless had been pushed from the city proper but they still held a fortified position within the twisting halls of the Mountain. The teams sent in to root them out found that the sorcerers seemed to really enjoy their traps. The progress through clearing room to room having now slowed to an almost unbearable crawl. At least in the city she could swing a sword at something even if it meant having to deal with her former brethren and their opinions on bloodtraitors like her.
She tossed the orders aside, the parchment catching flame as soon as it left her hands, and made her way back towards the Keep. Stepping inside of the entrance hall the smell of smoke was soon overpowered by the smell of death. Cots and beds lined the walls as physicians moved about shouting back and forth to one another over the sounds of dying soldiers. The combination was almost intoxicating. It was one of the things that Verse never truly understood these creatures insistence upon burial, a waste of valuable resources, and trying to save those who without them would obvious of die, a different kind of waste but a waste none the same, civility they called it.
The sounds of the dying began to fade away as she made her way through the hallways of the keep; walls stained with blood and floor covered in scattered remnant splinters of destroyed barricades being the only sign of the former occupants. She came to another less crowded hallway as soldiers mostly flowed outward from a pair of open doors. What had once been the great hall had been transformed into the sleeping, eating, and whatever else was needed for the general mass of the Legion. It was easy enough to find the ones she was looking for given that most of the functioning body of the Legion was already on their appointed tasks, the general lack of manpower being rest was something few and far between. They were gathered around one of the many small fires built on the stone floor, some talking, others preparing, others still off by themselves.
She nodded to them, arms crossed. A woman of short words and a shorter patience the command came thusly.
“Let’s move.”
The city that lay stretched blow the keep was all too similar to the flag that once represented it: broken and torn. The sky above filled with clouds heavy with ashen soot from the dozens of unchecked fires that raged below. A keen ear picking up the distant sounds of conflict as fighting continued reduced to common brawls and slaughter as the last of the defiant fought being pushed back street by street, building by building. The somber scene was periodically broken by a sudden eruption of flame from somewhere within the city as another oil cache detonated leveling another few buildings with it.
Verse stood at the edge of the battlements draped in hardened leathers dyed in the muted tones customary of the Legion. Gold emblem of the Seeing Hand held fast a tattered and bloodstained cloak of burgundy that marked her as a Fossor within the Legion. The entire ensemble reeked of blood and gore like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. An air of tension surrounded her invisible strands vibrated and twitched threatening to snap at any moment. The soft clatter of footsteps sounding against the stone as she paced back and forth back and forth. Waiting. She hated the waiting.
Eventually a boy maybe twelve or so years of age, short cropped black hair, and soil toned skin emerged from the keep. Feet slowly as the gingerly stepped over the iron doors that lay as a twisted and contorted shard on the courtyard floor. The pitter-patter slowed to a halt, just out of reach of the woman’s hands. World traveled fast around the workers and this boy didn’t want to end up like the last one, could still hear the screams in his head. Rolling her eyes Verse stretched out her hand and a small slip was placed gingerly and in the blank of an eye the boy had vanished back into the crowd.
She rolled the parchment between two fingers stopping at the wax seal that held it closed: the same Seeing Hand as above but with a blade plunged through the iris, that sign of the Voice of War. The seal broke easily and she held it down carefully against the battlements least to not let it go in the wind. To the untrained eye the runes which appeared on the page would seem possessed with unseen life flickering and blurring, reshaping and restructuring themselves mid-sentence. The Red Tongue, a language of barbarism and death dating long before even the Old Gods themselves. A language almost entirely lost save for the high courts of the Endless.
The orders were typical of those received from the Voice of War, blunt. Her and her new ‘team’ would be heading into the Hollow Quarter to help the Anthem drive out the last of the rebels. Team of course being a rough definition for the ramshackled band that had somehow come together. It was certainly a more agre-
Somewhere above and behind her she heard a faint whistle followed quickly by a thunderous explosion as part of the mountain erupted in a magical cataclysm. It was better than dealing with that. The sorcerers that claimed Dominion over Aveless had been pushed from the city proper but they still held a fortified position within the twisting halls of the Mountain. The teams sent in to root them out found that the sorcerers seemed to really enjoy their traps. The progress through clearing room to room having now slowed to an almost unbearable crawl. At least in the city she could swing a sword at something even if it meant having to deal with her former brethren and their opinions on bloodtraitors like her.
She tossed the orders aside, the parchment catching flame as soon as it left her hands, and made her way back towards the Keep. Stepping inside of the entrance hall the smell of smoke was soon overpowered by the smell of death. Cots and beds lined the walls as physicians moved about shouting back and forth to one another over the sounds of dying soldiers. The combination was almost intoxicating. It was one of the things that Verse never truly understood these creatures insistence upon burial, a waste of valuable resources, and trying to save those who without them would obvious of die, a different kind of waste but a waste none the same, civility they called it.
The sounds of the dying began to fade away as she made her way through the hallways of the keep; walls stained with blood and floor covered in scattered remnant splinters of destroyed barricades being the only sign of the former occupants. She came to another less crowded hallway as soldiers mostly flowed outward from a pair of open doors. What had once been the great hall had been transformed into the sleeping, eating, and whatever else was needed for the general mass of the Legion. It was easy enough to find the ones she was looking for given that most of the functioning body of the Legion was already on their appointed tasks, the general lack of manpower being rest was something few and far between. They were gathered around one of the many small fires built on the stone floor, some talking, others preparing, others still off by themselves.
She nodded to them, arms crossed. A woman of short words and a shorter patience the command came thusly.
“Let’s move.”
1128 Titans’ Rest
30th Year of the Undying’s Reign
Legion Camp
24 Hours Prior to the Taking of Avless
Eyes cracked open from somewhere the waking world and the sleeping one. Small globs of dawn-bathed sun filtered in through the holes in her tent. Slowly she rose disentangled herself from cloth and the limbs of the naked forms that occupied the bed with her. She didn’t know names or faces, hell at this point even their smells had become intermixed but that didn’t matter. Not like it was for an emotional connection anyway, more to keep the Beast in control. Uniform was pulled from a pile in the corner where it gathered another layer of dust and dirt. If she could have it her way she would go into battle without anything but preference didn’t fly in the legion, you did it their way or you got the whip or worse. So she pulled the clothing on the pain as it rubbed against skin, a constant hum in the background .
As she finished lacing a boot her vision clouded red as she nearly doubled over in pain. The world seemed to pull away from her as a voice boomed in her head, echoing about the skull as a singular consuming thought. “You are to report in Fossor.”
And then it was gone, her head was clear again and the world slammed back into focus. She cursed in a guttural growl. She hated when they did that.
Figuring it was best to not keep them waiting she finished lacing her boot and stepped out of the threshold of her tent. Squinting in the light of the dawn, the Camp came into focus. Set atop a hill out of distance from a longer range assault of either magic or sorcery, the towering crimson walls of Avless still found a way to dominating the western horizon. Stretched out below them without fear of retribution from the city stretched the Anthem seemingly without end in either direction, smoke curling upward from cooking fires, the sounds of heavy drums and shouting cutting through the comparative silence of the Legion.
Her footsteps carried her towards the center of camp near the large black obelisk that had risen from the ground topped by a churning ball of fire the color of night. The ground around the obelisk already beginning to morph and distort as the Undying asserted their influence. She walked past the two fully armed guards planted on either side of the entrance without breaking stride and disappeared into the darkness.Inside she was met almost immediately by a small clustering of bodies as the rest of the Fossors had been gathered together as well. At the head of the crowd hands perched atop a large map was the man himself. Tarkus, The Voice of War.
If the stories from the few surviving Legionaries from Caesius’ time are to be believed Tarkus was once a man. Witnessing the man today that was something that was hard to believe. The gift of the Undying, that which handed him their power and the freedom from death had bound flesh to the armor that it had resided in. Heavy plate armor forged from handcrafted Dark Aurum plate. The voice which came outward from within the suite was impossibly deep and distorted filling whatever space it was in, as flames the same dark color that mounted the obelisk flickered outward from spaces were flesh was supposed to be exposed. He talked for some time about the plans for the coming assualt. Finally a heavy glove gestured to the map on the table.
“That being the case we’ve run into a setback. Avless bastards have forced our sappers from one of their tunnels. The cowards have already been executed, but if those walls are to come down on schedule, a team has to be sent in to clear the tunnel and escort a new team to insert the dragonfire cache. Any volunteers?”
You can sense the apprehension in the air. Over the course of the siege it was quickly learned the tunnel duty was usually a death sentence at the best of times. The ‘Tunnels’ were in fact more like streets and highways, researchers had found the map of the ruins that Avless was built atop of long ago which had collapsed in the Breaking long ago. As a more practical siegecraft was out of the questions using their knowledge of the tunnels, the Legion had devised a plan to plant caches of dragonfire beneath the great walls of Avless and blowing them causing the ground to crumble beneath them. The only problem was whatever information they had received had been outdated as when the Sapper Teams went underground they found Avless forces already entrenched and ready to face them. It was a brutal close-quarter slog through the dark and cramped spaces, claiming only a few meters could take days at a time. Yet they had managed to hold most of these underground battlefields up until now at the coast of basically everything they had.
A distinct snort of disgust and grumbling was heard as Verse pushed her way to the front of the group, alone. “I’ll do it.”
If the old man wasn’t encased in metal Verse could've sworn he was smiling. “And they said I should of crucified you on the spot.” He waved his hand. “Rest of you are dismissed. Orders will come soon.”
As the last of the Fossors exited the room Tarkus handed over a small collection of papers. “Hmh?”
“Rest of your team."
“And here I thought you just wanted to get rid of me. They aware of that?”
He clapped his heavy gloves together and Verse could feel the spark of energy leave the room. “Now they are.”
And just like Verse had experienced earlier that morning, the members of her newly formed gaggle of walking corpses mind’s would suddenly be invaded by red. The command simple. Job to be done. Voice’s orders. Meet at the Weeping Gate within the Hour. Pack Light.
As she finished lacing a boot her vision clouded red as she nearly doubled over in pain. The world seemed to pull away from her as a voice boomed in her head, echoing about the skull as a singular consuming thought. “You are to report in Fossor.”
And then it was gone, her head was clear again and the world slammed back into focus. She cursed in a guttural growl. She hated when they did that.
Figuring it was best to not keep them waiting she finished lacing her boot and stepped out of the threshold of her tent. Squinting in the light of the dawn, the Camp came into focus. Set atop a hill out of distance from a longer range assault of either magic or sorcery, the towering crimson walls of Avless still found a way to dominating the western horizon. Stretched out below them without fear of retribution from the city stretched the Anthem seemingly without end in either direction, smoke curling upward from cooking fires, the sounds of heavy drums and shouting cutting through the comparative silence of the Legion.
Her footsteps carried her towards the center of camp near the large black obelisk that had risen from the ground topped by a churning ball of fire the color of night. The ground around the obelisk already beginning to morph and distort as the Undying asserted their influence. She walked past the two fully armed guards planted on either side of the entrance without breaking stride and disappeared into the darkness.Inside she was met almost immediately by a small clustering of bodies as the rest of the Fossors had been gathered together as well. At the head of the crowd hands perched atop a large map was the man himself. Tarkus, The Voice of War.
If the stories from the few surviving Legionaries from Caesius’ time are to be believed Tarkus was once a man. Witnessing the man today that was something that was hard to believe. The gift of the Undying, that which handed him their power and the freedom from death had bound flesh to the armor that it had resided in. Heavy plate armor forged from handcrafted Dark Aurum plate. The voice which came outward from within the suite was impossibly deep and distorted filling whatever space it was in, as flames the same dark color that mounted the obelisk flickered outward from spaces were flesh was supposed to be exposed. He talked for some time about the plans for the coming assualt. Finally a heavy glove gestured to the map on the table.
“That being the case we’ve run into a setback. Avless bastards have forced our sappers from one of their tunnels. The cowards have already been executed, but if those walls are to come down on schedule, a team has to be sent in to clear the tunnel and escort a new team to insert the dragonfire cache. Any volunteers?”
You can sense the apprehension in the air. Over the course of the siege it was quickly learned the tunnel duty was usually a death sentence at the best of times. The ‘Tunnels’ were in fact more like streets and highways, researchers had found the map of the ruins that Avless was built atop of long ago which had collapsed in the Breaking long ago. As a more practical siegecraft was out of the questions using their knowledge of the tunnels, the Legion had devised a plan to plant caches of dragonfire beneath the great walls of Avless and blowing them causing the ground to crumble beneath them. The only problem was whatever information they had received had been outdated as when the Sapper Teams went underground they found Avless forces already entrenched and ready to face them. It was a brutal close-quarter slog through the dark and cramped spaces, claiming only a few meters could take days at a time. Yet they had managed to hold most of these underground battlefields up until now at the coast of basically everything they had.
A distinct snort of disgust and grumbling was heard as Verse pushed her way to the front of the group, alone. “I’ll do it.”
If the old man wasn’t encased in metal Verse could've sworn he was smiling. “And they said I should of crucified you on the spot.” He waved his hand. “Rest of you are dismissed. Orders will come soon.”
As the last of the Fossors exited the room Tarkus handed over a small collection of papers. “Hmh?”
“Rest of your team."
“And here I thought you just wanted to get rid of me. They aware of that?”
He clapped his heavy gloves together and Verse could feel the spark of energy leave the room. “Now they are.”
And just like Verse had experienced earlier that morning, the members of her newly formed gaggle of walking corpses mind’s would suddenly be invaded by red. The command simple. Job to be done. Voice’s orders. Meet at the Weeping Gate within the Hour. Pack Light.
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