[IC] Starless

[Blackbeard]

Norco listened to Arvids words carefully. Delunio the great. A name Norco would never have heard, for obvious reasons, but one he was sure to forget.
"I am not the man who challenges a champion, Arvid, I am the man to be challenged. If he wishes it, it is his duty to find me." He spoke the words in a low tone as one of the older men dropped a bag to his feet beside Norco.
"We had better spend this gold fast, we don't want any nomads getting wind of our new found wealth." Norco looked to the chieftain with a slight crook in his stare, did he plan this?
"To the border villages." Arvid waited till his khan passed before letting a sly grin cross his face.
"We can make it there and back by nightfall great Khan!" he exclaimed, happy that his plan had inadvertently come together.
The group got underway as soon as the possibly could. Traveling back to their homes before setting off the border villages, laying their brethren down in the care of the women. All five of the survivors traveled with Norco as well as a couple of the towns women folk, the ones whom knew what essentials the town needed. The weather had improved since their morning journey, the wind had let up and the snow had not fallen for hours. It was a welcome change.

- - - -

Three, maybe four hours later the group arrived at the collection of villages that seemed to bridge the cold eastern steppe to the lush greenery to the west. Much larger and with a population hailing from across Ansus almost anything could be found here, almost a rarity in itself. Norco stood at its edge, returning the many stares that came his way. It didn't seem any of them actually knew who he was, but that didn't seem to matter as they were in awe anyway. Arvid snook off into the loose dirt streets, no doubt in search of Delunio. The rest of the men and women began to peruse the stalls and market, happy that they may gain some respite from the mornings struggles.

[ravenDivinity]

Altim

T H E L I G H T O F L I G H T S E M A N A T E S F R O M W I S D O M
________________

The dread roar rang through Kolantis with a wicked echo. Louder. Louder, louder, and louder still. The controlled hectic of the city underwent an unsettling transformation; the living city became the funeral hearse in the procession of life. An ominous cloud of black smoked across the capital of Ansus, and the prospitious people who offered their hearts to the pride of their land took cover in the face of the dying of the light. The gods had fallen, darkness had won. The fate that Ansur fought to avert had followed mankind away from its ancestral home; that breed of anathema had consumed the gods and now thirsted for man's blood. The dark holocaust marched through the streets from the darkest nooks and crannies of the great city, and the demonic wrecked their havoc upon the innocent.

As Ansur and Altim were arriving in the city, the light was quickly succumbing to the great chaos. Neither anticipated the immediacy of the fate that befell humanity in that moment. Disconcerted and distraught by the sight, the son of Faerthus paused on the edge of the city, just beyond its gate, and he halted Ansur. The stench of blood reeked even outside Kolantis. The musician, who united the West with his bare hands, had yet to witness anything, any evil of this caliber. "Ansur, I am frightened. This land, which you and I and many others struggled to create, is threatened," Altim stated. "But in this time of darkness, we create our own light. What great source of power may I draw from to restore my power to its former glory and create that light, Forefather?"

[Dead Cruiser]

The Impenitent Thieves

Shuffling noises were all Volkimir's sharp ears could detect from the other side of the heavy, wooden door, and so he continued to stand about impatiently. He tapped what was left of his ragged boot against the soggy brickwork, and winced at the wet sound that it made. Volkimir had been in worse squalor than this in his travels, but the key difference was the overriding feeling of despair that this city held. In the streets of Prajatantra, half a world away, beggars sat shoulder to shoulder, and holy men prostrated and immolated themselves publicly. Human corpses and waste choked their sacred river, and even so pilgrims bathed and drank from it piously. Those people were destitute, but they were gloriously alive, as opposed to the stagnant half-life that the urban filth of this city seemed to occupy.

Volkimir's reminiscence was broken by the door to "Mister Locke's" chambers opening loudly. From within emerged the man which Volkimir could only assume was the leader of this band of thieves. An old man, leaning heavily on a crutch, looked Volkimir over with coolly intelligent eyes. In most ways he looked no different from a simple, elderly commoner. However, inscribed upon the man's flesh were tattoos of incredible intricacy. Runes and scriptures of a text from ages past were etched into every inch of his aged, pallid flesh, covering even his bald scalp. These were not mere prisoner tattoos, Volkimir knew. He recognized these symbols, but he could not lower his guard to sink into the depths of his impossibly long memory to search for their meaning.

"So," the old man said, "It is you. I knew I felt a cold wind pass through here."

Volkimir raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The mustachioed doorman spoke for him, "Boss, you know this creep?"

Locke furrowed his thin brows, his mood clearly conflicted. "I don't know his face." A gnarled finger pointed at the Bound Blade, still wedged into the slick floor. "I know that weapon. It was stolen from the Basilica of Saint Traft in the fifty-third century." The same finger then pointed to Volkimir himself, his gold eyes glinting with curiosity. "I know his eyes. I know his curse." A whisper rose up among the gathered criminals, apparently emboldened by the presence of their venerated leader. "Am I wrong, son of Sturmkirk?" The old man asked, his eyes clouded with age and confusion.

Volkimir laughed, a sound like a coffin being pulled open by a hasty graverobber. "I'm surprised that the Empyrial Cult survives to this day. Just as surprising, that a holy man should keep a den of thieves." He knew he recognized those symbols. The traditional religion of the Shadowlands had all but gone extinct after the Fall of House Sturmkirk, but this man bore the markings of one of its monks.

The old man nodded. "After the Shadowlands were reclaimed, the Old Faith returned. We took back the old chapels and monasteries. You have been gone for a long time, Mortifier. Though it seems you never truly left."

"My name is still spoken in this age? With that pathetic epitet?" Volkimir inquired. Finally, answers at last.

"Not by daylight. The vampires that survived the purges still scorn your name. They lurk down here, among the rats and thieves. Some of my former brothers leave unspoken offerings for the Dark Angel with their daily tributes. Not canonized, but not heresy."

Volkimir laughed again, this time only a dark thundering in his chest. A demon like himself called an angel by monks. The irony was sharp and bitter. "Former brothers, you say?"

This time it was Locke that laughed bitterly. "Excommunication is a small price to pay, compared to gambling debts. Holy relics fetch a fair price to certain collectors."

Now the pieces were coming together. A rogue monk. A band of thieves. And a "Dark Angel" dropped into the midst of it all. The ordinary scum that filled the common area seemed thoroughly confused by the cryptic conversation that had been held between their leader and this ominous stranger. Some stayed silent, watching on in confusion and fear, while others muttered nervously among themselves. Locke invited Volkimir into his humble quarters to continue their discussion more privately. Volkimir seated himself in a wooden chair that was slightly less decrepit than those in the common area, while the old monk sat on his small, dry cot.

It seemed that their small band had fallen on difficult times as of late, and were planning to move their operations into the capital city. This tidbit of information spawned a host of questions from Volkimir, which Locke answered amiably. The nation of Ansus had apparently grown to dominate the majority of the continent, bringing its faith to all corners of the land. This interested Volkimir greatly, spawning more queries for the old man to satisfy. Once Volkimir felt decently satisfied with the amount of information he had gleaned from Locke regarding the history that he had missed, the two continued their discussion of Locke's plans. The capital of Kolantis was home to the Royal Treasury, the greatest vault of wealth in the entirety of the empire. Locke planned for nothing less than to plunder the treasury itself. For his plan, however, he required a diversionary force, which was what he had sent his underlings out into the streets in search of. Essentially marks that would take most the fall for the heist. However, they had not found some idiotic beggar to condemn to the dungeons. They had found Volkimir.

The ancient vampire was offered a place in their endeavor, which he accepted after some deliberation. He would assist in their scheme, as repayment for Locke's hospitality, as well as the condition that he be allowed first pick of the treasures hidden away by the royal family. Locke planned to waste no time, and they would leave the following day. In the meantime, Volkimir requisitioned a few creature comforts. A hot bath was able to be arranged, as well as a fresh set of mostly-intact clothes. A decent pair of boots were also found, and a belt and sheath from which to hang Elbrus had also been scrounged up. Volkimir found it odd that thieves would be so generous to a man they had just met, but he reconciled the thought as he remembered that their leader was a man of faith. A man who had put his faith in Volkimir.

Much to Volkimir's relief, the plans had already been made to travel by night, and to avoid major roads. This had been done naturally to avoid the attention of patrolling guards. Locke had invested the last of the band's capital into decent horses and wagons with which to move those among their number that would carry out the heist. Volkimir himself shared a wagon with Locke and his few lieutenants, and over their few days of travel, they discussed their revised plans. The scheme had become far simpler: Locke's men would crack the vault, while Volkimir killed anyone that got in their way. After that, a simple retreat to the sewer systems (to which they had acquired schematics) would be sufficient for their escape. Far from subtle, but Volkimir assured the thieves that his prowess in killing would be so overwhelming that the surviving treasury guards would not dare chase after them.

However, by the time their caravan had arrived at the gates of Kolandis, their plans already needed revision. They had come prepared with falsified paperwork and considerable bribes to smuggle their equipment into the city, but it seemed that those were wasted efforts. The gates had been broken through, and the standing guards had been slaughtered. The thieves cautiously ventured into the city, finding more of the same. Corpses filled the streets in droves, swarming with flies and vermin. Rot had not yet taken them; they had been dead for scarcely days. The sight of the carnage was too much for many of the supposedly hardened criminals of their band, and Locke himself found his strength leaving him by the minute.

Volkimir, however, hardened his heart as he had done many times before. His thoughts were not of, "why," but of, "who," and, "how." What was supposed to be the most densely-populated city in Ansus (according to Locke) now seemed to merely be a capital for crows. Plague had not taken them, this much was obvious. Too many dead, too quickly. Signs of violence were also readily apparent: broken and burned buildings, homes turned to husks. The bodies that had not yet been devoured told of their bloody demise. As he prowled the putrid streets, Volkimir happened occasionally upon corpses that had been rent completely in half. He scoured his memories for any idea of what could have caused destruction on this scale, and with this level of brutality.

He found his answers deeper in the city, alongside the survivors. He watched them from the shadows, as they were too wary and battle-worn to allow him close. Black-robed corpses replaced those of the civilians in these reaches, armed with weapons that piqued his curiosity greatly. They were of superb quality, holding razor edges even after days of exposure and disuse. However, their quantity and construction confused him. They were of strange and disturbing make, and there were far too many of them for such a seemingly small and disorganized force. He wondered what could possibly have made such weapons, and armed these apparent fanatics.

"You know very well, vampire." The demon of the blade mocked him, and it was right. He did know what could have made these weapons. He did not find this revelation comforting.

Volkimir returned to the thieves, who seemed yet still stunned by the carnage. It was not to say that the vampire had not been affected by what they had discovered; he was merely more experienced at distancing himself from such tragedies. Even so, he still had a debt to repay, and a fortune to claim. The fat Heartland kings had grown wealthy by conquering the continent. This could not have been done if the Shadowlands were still a pit of damnation, meaning that Volkimir had contributed to whatever riches the treasury held. Finding this reasoning sufficient, Volkimir was determined to withdraw what he was owed.

The Royal Palace had been abandoned, it seemed. Only a token force of guards had been left to dissuade looters. They were easily dispatched, as they were unprepared for a looter such as Volkimir. The palace halls were devoid of life, but also bore no traces of struggle. It seemed that the royal family had been spirited away at some point. It seemed logical, as the location was ill-suited to defend against an invasive force of this magnitude and ferocity. Did they escape the slaughter? Or did they anticipate it? Questions for another day. Volkimir lead Locke's hand-picked team of brigands through the empty palace, as they directed him to the treasury vault with their stolen maps.

The vault itself was inconspicuous, which surprised Volkimir. He half expected the absentee royals to flaunt their wealth more openly. But it was of little consequence, as the safecrackers went about their task with quiet efficiency. The vault was of superb construction, and was taking longer than hey had anticipated to open. Volkimir grew bored, and exerted his dark power over the base metal. Steel mottled away to brown rust before the very eyes of the thieves, and lead melted to dark, cold pools on the floor. The vault was opened not long after that. Within, the treasury resembled a mausoleum more than, say, a dragon's horde. Riches were carefully categorized and stored away, and it spoke to the professionalism of Locke's elite that they searched the treasury for only the treasures that were worth the most for their weight, size and ease of fencing.

In the meantime, Volkimir perused the treasury at his leisure. Ever a connoisseur of ancient treasures and artifacts, Volkimir had a keen eye for items of interest and value to him personally. A ruby to replace the bloodstone that he had lost with his last suit of armor. A gilded sheath suitable for his legendary sword. A lion skin cloak, already carefully preserved, but blackened by Volkimir's touch. In the treasury's deepest reaches, he found the most sacred relics to the royalty of Ansus. Particularly, the ancient armors of the warrior-kings of ages past. Volkimir studied them as though he was choosing a new pair of breeches. At last, he found a suit that matched his proportions. A bit of contortion with strength and sangromancy made it a perfect fit, and a touch of induced entropy stripped the royal colors from the steel, enamel and dragonscale.

Once armored in his stolen regalia, Volkimir felt himself again. It wasn't perfect, but it was far better than the pathetic vestments that he had been parading around in since his resurrection. He clenched a steely fist, enjoying the weight of the armor on his body. He felt more real, more alive like this. This would be the end of his hiding and stalking. No longer was Volkimir Sturmkirk a ghost, but was now truly alive again. The Dark Prince had returned.

[Invisible]

The Great Journey and a Promise

Khavo the Grey, you’ve done as Goethia has wished. You have brought me a weapon which shall aid me in the battles which are sure to come.

Pricia stood in still as she pulled the staff from its resting place. With a single movement, Pricia twirled the staff’s core around her hand. The twirl quickly became a swing as a powerful gust of wind blew all signs of dust, ash, and leaves back outside. The inner hall seemed much brighter now that it was gone and Pricia could almost remember a time when the hall looked brand new and full of life….



“Welcome to your new home young one! This is the Great Temple to Goethia and you, as one of her blessed, are more than welcome here.” said the Head Priest who was silhouetted by the fire burning in the center of the Main Hall. It was a tremendous thing for one so young to see when all that had been known by her before was the rough stones of a castle. The clean, crisp cuts of the marble stone floors and the pillars seemingly made from trees which had grown into the Monastery itself. “Ah, I see you are amazed by how clean it is in here. You thought it would be a simple little wooden structure with dirt floors did you not? Don’t deny it, Goethia hates liars above all else and loves the beauty that is nature. But even she agrees that there are things humans can do better than Nature has.” responded the Head Priest to the look of amazement and disbelief on Pricia’s face.



The hallways were empty except for the remains of candles which had long ago gone out. Cobwebs covered many of the corners of the hallways and many of the closed doorways. Only a few beds had been used in the living quarters but it was obvious that nobody but Khavo had lived there in a while. But, Pricia couldn’t mope about how the Monastery has degraded over the year. It was obvious that something was wrong in the world if such vile creatures such as skeletons had invaded the lands. She must get to the Great Bastion even if it meant flying for a day to get there. It wasn’t long before the young woman known as Pricia was flying through the skies over the forest, her destination was northeast and she had plenty of time to dwell on her thoughts.

Home of mine and many others, I swear upon the Goddess who once guarded your grounds that I will come back. I will return you to your glory. Pricia said to herself as she flew quickly out of the forests, her staff between her eagle talons.

[EnterTheHero]

T H E C R O W N L E S S S H A L L A G A I N B E K I N G

Far to the northwest of the country of Altus, at the very edge of the known world, there lies a great mountain range known as the Dragon's Spine. It has been named such for as long as any can remember, since the elder days of antiquity. The mountains consistently crackle with storms and lightnings, smitten by the capricious will of nature. No one dares venture too high, or worse, too deep into the caves that run beneath the mountains, where the sparks of light and lightning are at their fiercest.

What few people understand, and even fewer truly know, is the truth of why these mountains are named such. In fact, many have questioned why the peaks are named for a dragon, rather than for the storms that strike them. But the truth is that, while the mountains have always been there, the storms have not. In the grand history of Altus, they are a relatively new addition- only five thousand winters or so.

For the Dragon's Spine, unbeknownst to most, is the last resting place of Erebus Thane, the Uncrowned King.

It was here, in a city beneath the earth, that the Dragon-Blooded made his final stand, against a fearsome foe who had slain many of his descendants. It was here, in his outrage, that Erebus commanded the thunders, and collapsed his foe's dead city upon their heads, leaving the great Spine as the only monument to his triumph, as well as his demise. It was here that his rage has touched the earth forevermore, as a reminder of the wrath of he who owned the earth without claiming it.

A fitting tombstone for the Uncrowned King of all the world...



Some miles southeast of the Spine lay the village of Thorn, a hardy community, used to the storms that frequently blew down from the Dragon's Spine. It was relatively peaceful in the village that day, a fitting calm before the storm that was to follow. It started simply- a whisper more of wind than was considered usual. And then that whisper started to grow. From whisper to sigh, to breath, to gust then gale, until the wind screamed across the village. The skies blackened with storm clouds, and thunder began to rumble in the skies. The storm came suddenly- too suddenly, according to the village's memory. Something was different. Not precisely wrong- they were used to stronger storms. Simply different.

Unbeknownst to them, in the caves beneath the Spine, in the Necropolis that Erebus had buried, the sparks of electricity had grown fiercer than they had ever been, lightning dancing between the stones of the earth, gathering at a single point in the center of what had been the city square.

The very place the Dragon-Blooded had breathed his last. And over the roar of lightning beneath the earth was another sound- the sound of a great beast, growling, snarling.

Waking.

If the storm had failed to garner the proper attention from the village folk, what followed certainly would not. Without warning, a blinding shaft of lightning erupted from one of the tallest peaks on the Dragon's Spine- a blue-white bar of light, more than a jagged bolt, piercing the skies like the spear of an angry god. And over the howling wind and the rumbling thunders, rose a sound that seemed to dwarf them all.

A roar, both human, and inhuman, both man and beast. The roar of the dragon as he returned from death into his domain once again.

The people of Thorn gaped at the bar of lightning until it faded, and with it, the storm, vanishing just as suddenly as it came upon them. There was silence for many heartbeats, before the village people turned to one another...

...and grinned. They then proceeded onward, busying themselves, preparing. For the village must be in proper order to receive their King...

[Corvidae]

T H E S T O R M C A L L E R R I S E S

The darkness cradled Crow securely with all the maternal tenderness of a loving mother. Tendrils of sweet, sweet nothingness enveloped her like a warm, plush blanket. It was nice, she figured, because this - whatever this was - meant she didn't have to think. Not thinking was not dwelling was forgetting, and so long as she didn't forgive, wasn't letting a few irrelevant details elude her okay?

(it stung it hurt it fucking hurt godsdamnit why couldn't she just fucking forget why wouldn't it just s t o p )

Besides, there was something awfully liberating about shedding the shackles of the waking world. She didn't have obligations, nor was she obligated to make accommodations, and perhaps her faulty upbringing was to blame, but she really wasn't seeing the appeal of that whole 'survival instinct' shtick.

This was fine. This was positively fantastic! Everything was fine, this was great, and she, Crow, bullshitter extraordinaire, was perfectly okay with this outcome.

what a fucking liar. what a useless, piece of shit liar. it hurt. it still hurt. it hurt, it hurt, it HURT.

Maybe, if she could continue to drift away, descend into this darkness just a smidge further, she'd start to mean it.

Consciousness abruptly slammed into Crow with all the cheerful, persistent indifference of a rabid bear, and the wind, over which she thought she'd held such absolute dominion, rushed out of her lungs in a sharp, whimpered gasp.

The legends always claimed resurrection was easy, that one slipped back into one's body delicately and smoothly, that one wouldn't flinch, stumble back, and crack one's head on a pier as soon as their battered, exhausted eyes met gentle sunlight. Apparently, what felt like an eternity marinating in the void wrought absolute havoc on one's eyesight. Who'd have thought?

The legends, she was rapidly beginning to believe, were flighty, vindictive whores.

A sore arm clumsily darted up in a vain attempt to shield bleary eyes from the sun's harsh, unforgiving glare, and as those eyes muddled their way through a cautious, tentative blink, she became immediately cognizant of two things.

Firstly, the bruises blossoming on her legs were beginning to sprout bruises of their own, and secondly, she was - she was alive. She was alive, she was whole, she hadn't met her watery demise at the teeth of some ravenous sea beast, she - she could breathe.

Her hands rose, fingers quivering, cupping her throat almost reverently. A gentle breeze whisked past, caressing her cheek with all the enthusiastic glee of a long-lost lover. The wind tugged at her braid, tousled the loose, errant strands framing her face, and rustled her attire, those soft fabrics and boiled leathers tinted those particular shades of blue and black to which she'd always been partial.

The skies were alive, wind churning at the ocean in a fashion so eager it bordered on celebratory.

"Holy shit," she rasped, the words stumbling on parched lips, voice hoarse and rough from disuse. A cough bubbled up in her throat, smothered only by the wave of manic, incredulous laughter.

(Her fellow pier-walkers, skittish fellows that they were, gave her a wide berth, clutching their ramshackle assortment of fishing accoutrements almost warily.)

They probably thought her mad, embroiled in some sort of grandiose delusions. Under normal circumstances, this sentiment most likely would have rang true.

Also under normal circumstances, she probably wouldn't have cared. But that was okay.

(liar, liar, liar, it's not okay, it's never okay, she hates this. she hates all of this.)

That was beyond okay.

(she hates this. she hates her, hates that damned king and that damned spy. but most of all, she hates herself.)

She was alive, damn it!

[VoiD]

C I N N E A D

It was quiet in the forest, an unusual occurrence. At least, that is what his long hunting experience told Cinnead, for he could not clearly remember a time when this forest was not devoid of sound. He knew that this was not right, that something was clearly wrong, but the full realization and its implications danced away from him every time he reached out to grasp them. In the deepest, darkest depths of his subconsciousness he realized that he was no longer amongst the living, but like a name you could not quite recall this fact eluded his conscious self. Memories of times before seemed to float away, mirages of vivid images that seemed simply too good to be true. For the forest Cinnead found himself in was a dark place where only moonlight guided him; an eternal night that no sun ever rose to chase away.

But now was not the time to concern himself with such things. He was on the hunt. A hunt, for a boar of such size and splendour that Goethia would surely curse his name for robbing her of such a fine creature. No matter. This would not be the first time, after all. Cinnead allowed himself a small grin, before he picked up his spear and rose from the brush which he had been hiding in. With careful, measured steps he moved across the forest floor. He knew, in a way he could hardly articulate, that the boar was nearby. The knowledge was of such a tantalizing nature to him that he had to forcibly suppress his desire to run ahead with reckless abandon; though in a moment of surprising insight he suspected that the boar would not hear him coming. Carefully, Cinnead parted the foliage ahead of him to reveal an open clearing. The moon shone dimly above, casting what little light it could upon the boar that was but ten paces away. If Cinnead had been breathing, it would have caught in his throat.

It was a truly enormous beast. He doubted that if two men stood atop each other's shoulders they would reach the boar's full height. Its smooth, brown pelt seemed to shimmer ethereally, and its gigantic tusks were of the most perfect white. It seemed, somehow, to exude a confidence with its every movement; as if the boar knew it was king of this forest and that no being could ever challenge it. Cinnead steadied himself, shaking his head futily to clear it of the awe he felt. He raised his spear, measuring the distance for the throw, sighting the angle required for an instant kill. And then, leaning backwards, he took a hop forward and threw with all his might, watching the spear as it flew true towards the boar, shouting in triumph as it struck home and the boar squealed once in surprise and then was quiet, raising his fists towards the sky as the great beast fell onto its side and lay still-

Except he didn't. None of that happened. The boar, his spear, the forest, the moon - all of it was gone, replaced by an utter and absolute darkness that threatened to consume him. He realized, belatedly, that he was floating in this great nothingness, except that he could not move, could not even open his mouth. And in a rush, as if a dam had been broken, a torrent of memory streamed into his consciousness. The hill, the tree, his last stand, the stench of blood and the feeling of horrible pain, Adolar furious and afraid in equal measure, him great and terrible but dying, dying, and his spear flashing in and out, leaving only death in its wake - all of it returned to him. He tried to cry out, but could not, for nothing existed in this place and nothing could ever exist, his very presence an anomaly, the breaking of what had been an eternal law. And then...and then there was a voice, except it seemed to come from inside his head, and not out.

I have not forgotten you, Spear of the West...
The time has come...
The need is great...
You shall return...

His vision suddenly warped, as if he was traveling a great distance at an equally great speed. And then, inexplicably, he was on his back. His chest heaved, gasping for air. He sat up, coughing violently, and looked around in wonder. Cinnead knew this place. It was where he had died, atop a hill graced by a solitary tree. Instinctively he reached out to his right and grasped a spear, though it was not his spear, it was not Brionac. Cinnead did not mind, however, for he knew, in a way he could hardly articulate, that the boar was near. And he was on a hunt.

[Transience]

K i ’ i r a

The robed cultists did not scream as they burned. They simply smiled at Ki'ira with teeth like daggers as their flesh singed and melted from their bones. The robes themselves did not catch fire; they simply smoked and sizzled whilst the wearers burned to death. Perhaps they did not feel pain in the way that Humans did. Perhaps they were not even human at all.
The first row of cultists advancing upon Ki'ira slumped the ground as their life faded and their legs gave way; their weapons dissipating into the ether as their wielders died an unusually calm death. But the killing the first row of them was not enough, and every space created in the advancing black tide was filled almost immediately by equally furious cultists.

"HAIL THE KING IN BLACK!" they screamed, unabated by the momentary setback that was the death of a few of their kin. Their lament was like that of a chorus of demons, otherworldly and unnerving. Their voices sounded as though they had been warped and misshapen by powers not of Ansus; not even of the Gods.

"HAIL THE KING IN BLACK! HAIL THE KING IN BLACK! HAIL THE KING IN BLACK!" they repeated with no respite, advancing on Ki'ira slowly and ominously, despite her deadly flames lashing out in all directions. Buildings caught aflame, and the ground bubbled under the heat, but still they came. They did not fear fire, for they were the pions of something much worse than a cleansing flame.

From the crowd, one cultist lunged further than would have been expected. Like a tiger, he pounced from the crowd of his kin, wicked axe raised above his head as he sprung through the air. He landed just feet from Ki'ira, and brought his axe wildly down upon her. There was a speed unmatched and unholy within the strike, and despite even the fastest reactions of the chosen of the Fox Goddess, the wild blow struck true. Cutting into Ki'ira's arm as a glancing blow, the cultist followed up his assault by slamming the flat of his axe into her temple; concussing her badly and knocking her from consciousness...

Quest Note for rivaan

Snap.

Myself = one vengeful bastard. Ki'ira is going to have to wake up during the aftermath (Volkimir's post timeframe) with a very bad headache and a very nasty cut on her shoulder. When she does wake up, however, you will find the city sacked and the sunshines gone. You will need to find out just what has happened...

E l l a r i a n

Whatever illusionist that stood before Ellarian recoiled from the searing pain of being punched at full force by the giant of a man. The tavern began to waver in and out of sight; a conjured mirage by some manner of vengeful hunter, as the illusionist struggled to maintain its focus after being stricken by such a blow. Ellarian would have been able to see this creature clutching its face, blood pouring from a completely shattered nose, screaming in some incomprehensible language with a voice more shrill than anything he would have previously heard.

"Aieeeeee!" it screeched. "Whyyyyyyy!"

It took a moment to compose itself, though its face was still clutched behind two hands that ended in long, spindly digits with unkempt fingernails that were sickly and long to match. The creature sniffled a few times, before blinking its large, bulbous, black eyes one at a time. Perhaps the nature of such a creature would have confused Ellarian, or maybe not. But it was hideous, yet so pathetic that it was simultaneously tragic to watch. "Why did you do thaaaaaat!" it cried again in its shrill, piercing shriek that was supposed to be its voice.

It finally gathered the courage to lower its hands from its face slowly, dragging long strings of mucus and blood from its now horrendously disfigured nose as they went. The creature was... bizarre, to say the least. With a long, thin head over which was stretched a pale sheet of translucent skin, and a hunched stature that was indicative of something less than Human, it had become immediately clear to Ellarian that this trickster was Ghedrin; an ancient race from times long past. Though many had their doubts about the existence of these subterranean dwellers, the proof of their extant nature at one point in history was irrefutable.

And what masters of the illusionary arts they were! The creature cricked its neck, and gently touched the tender mess of flesh that was now its nose. It looked Ellarian right in his eyes, this time not blinking in its rather disturbing pattern, but its mouth was wide open, gawping.

"The Bastion!" it cried. "I know you I know you I know you!" it gibbered with unusual excitement. It was almost as if the disgusting, misshapen fallacy of a man was starstricken by the legendary soldier who had nearly killed him with a single punch.

"You seek the King, do you not? The King! Yes, yes! The King! I sense the anticipation of Royalty! Yes. Yes!" it continued on. "They need you! Yes! Yes! Master Ansur needs you! The city will fall! Your shield is needed!"

Ellarian surely did not have a chance to get a word in edgeways. The thing spoke too fast; too loudly; too annoyingly to interrupt. But it seemed to mean no harm: perhaps its deception was simply a misunderstood attempt at true hospitality. Or perhaps, more likely, this creature had been sent by a much more understanding master to find Ellarian on his way.

"I can take you, yes? it started once more. "We Ghedrin 'very good at moving fast! Very good! Yes yes! Tay take you? Yes?"

Quest Note for harbinger

Disgusting little creature, yep. But it seems to know of Ellarian and his quest, but Tay speaks ill of what you may find at Kolantis. He is offering to use his talents as a racially adept illusionist to speed Ellarian along on his way to the capital. Should you choose to accept such an offer, Tay can grant any enchantment upon Ellarian that would conceivably bolster Ellarian's speed en route. Hell, he could even teleport you.

But maybe it is worth finding out more. NPC control is yours. Go wild, baby.

T h e W i n d w i t c h

A woman carried a child upon her back in a rough sling harness hastily put together from strips of leather and cloth. She held a bundle of preserved food in her arms, but soon found herself so stunned that she dropped it to the ground with a dissatisfying thud.
She stood, speechless, for a few moments. She blinked hard, and then rubbed her eyes to ensure she was not succumbing to madness.

She was almost sure that she just saw the woman materialise from nothing from a sudden dust devil. And that did not make any sense. Still, the events of the last few hours made little sense in any regard. She had only just managed to flee Kolantis with her child, to get as far away as possible from the unannounced slaughter. She had left behind everything save for what valuables she could fit in the small pouches in the harness.

She watched for a few moments. The child upon her back also could not help but stare.

"Holy shit!" she heard the near lifeless body cry at last, gasping into action. The woman flinched a little upon the sudden burst of life, despite being over fifty feet from the anomalous (and frankly, foulmouthed) woman. But she could not ignore the silent plea of somebody in need, so she waddled over slowly, scooping up some of her dropped food as she approached.

In less than a minute, The Windwitch would have had her sight of the sky blocked by a passing woman of the simple folk. Her head fully in her field of vision.

"Um. E-excuse me, miss. Are you... are you okay?"

Quest Note for Corvidae

What a wonderful entrance. Feel free to take NPC control of this passing refugee; perhaps you can begin your reemergence into Ansus by gleaning some information about the current happenings (mainly the sacking of the City).

C i n n e a d

As the morning light filled the Great Hunter's eyes once more, for the first time in over thirty thousand cycles past, it would have been immediately obvious that the world was not as it was before. Gone were the days of vengeful mortal lords who sought simple killing in the name of their own pride. The world had been ushered into an age of darkness.

Cinnead was surrounded by the dead husks of leaves that had fallen from the solitary tree too early. The summer was not over, yet all around, the highlands looked cold and faded; as though somebody had washed the colour from the world very subtly. The bark of the legendary tree had sustained itself for thousands of years after Cinnead's death, drinking the blood of the slain hero himself and that of his fallen foes. But now the eternal tree was empty and hollow. Rotten from within, roots dead and withering, clutching to nothing but the loose, dusty excuse for earth. Yet there was still a simple beauty about the place. A certain hollow beauty had attached itself to the solitary tree and its vista; empowered by thousands of years of being regaled in stories and song.

The chains that Cinnead had used to shackle himself to the tree had long since rusted and broken away, remaining as little more than scraps of indistinguishable material lining the base of the tree. As the hero slowly rose and grasped the spear that rested to his side, a heavenly, yet transient, chorus resounded through the highlands. It lasted for a mere moment, but the echo lingered for a few moments more. Before Cinnead stood an apparitional boar: ghostly white, composed not of flesh but of a sourceless mist. It whistled a tune familiar to only the Spear of the West, and immediately charged into the distance. It left behind a trail of lingering fog as it danced and pranced and galloped through the highland like a whimsical child. Perhaps this apparition was leading the great Hero to a place in which he could find his purpose...

Quest Note for VoiD

Welcome to Ansus! I've left this pretty open for you so that you may get your bearings. The ghostly Boar could be leading you to anywhere of your choosing: you can either create somewhere new (potentially to find your spear), or you could be lead to somewhere already established, like the capital!

Feel free to create NPCs and situations as you see fit, and I will adapt to the direction you take.

E r e b u s T h a n e

There had not been a storm of such magnitude in hundreds of years, or perhaps thousands, according to the village elders. The village had come alive with rumours and murmurings of a change in the balance of Ansus. A crescendo of tales grew quickly in the tight-knit community who had long lived with stories of a great, Uncrowned Dragon King who had long before walked the land. The storm spoke in magnitudes of the veracity of the villager's suspicions, and the shaft of thunder erupting from the mountain like an eldritch volcano of mystical origin served only to confirm such.

They had known what to do. There was no reason for the villagers to squabble, for they had dreamt of this for longer than any of them could recall. The bonfire at the village heart was cleared, and the hovels were decorated with long unused ornaments from years gone by: bone fragments from creatures that surely no longer existed, and intricate constructs of string, beads, and feathers from birds that were supposedly the forerunners of even the Dragons. It took only an hour or two for the village to transform from a sleepy settlement on the reaches of Ansus, to a vibrant festival prepared with electrifying colours and exotic foods prepared hastily.

The storm grew fearsome, and the people of Thorn gaped at the bar of lightning until it faded, and with it, the storm, vanishing just as suddenly as it came upon them. There was silence for many heartbeats...

And an even more terrifying flash of lightning, coupled with deafening thunder, struck the outskirts of the village. Such explosive power left all the gawping villagers blinded for a moment or two, but the return of their sight was worth little celebration compared to the presence of a scaled man, standing in the ember-filled strike crater, smoking heavily, but very much alive.

One elder stepped forward from the visibly stunned crowd:

"Erebus Thane, my liege. We have awaited your return for thousands of years. We are humbled by your presence," he bowed low, and the entire village followed suit. "You walk the land once more. Will you bring this chaotic world once more to order?"

Quest Note for EnterTheHero

Nice choice of entrance!

As i'm sure you will know about the RP from reading other IC posts and the OOC OP, you are free to control any and all NPCs present, and improvise quite literally any situation or place on the fly. Using such a method of roleplaying, your character could likely find out about the world's current woes and make a descision on where to go from there. The world is quite literally your oyster, and I will constantly adapt the environment and NPCs to suit what you are doing. Make your way into Ansus, and be the Dragon that this land deserves. Just don't piss off Norco Khan, he likes killing dragons.

N o r c o K h a n

Some time had passed since the Hunters had arrived in the village. Some of whom had slipped off into the bustle no doubt the find themselves the company of a woman or two, whilst others were visibly more inclined to find themselves the company of a good ale and a hearty meal. Rations were, after all, not unlimited. And the spoils of the hunt always included lavish celebration.
In fact, the only man not accounted for was the chief: the slippery man who had the look of jealousy in his eyes. Most of the hunters paid no mind to the absence of the chief, preferring instead to be led by the Wolf King, anyway.

The very presence of Norco in the village caused quite the stir, and much unrest to boot. Children stared for longer than their mothers' would have wanted, and jealous men looked on in envy. Many women gave him passing looks, some disgusted by his titanic proportions, and some giving him suggestive eyes that perhaps indicated that they looked upon a real man. But nobody dared approach the legendary warrior who now bore his legendary axe. It surely was a sight to behold.

After some time, a curious man worked up the guile to finally engage Norco in conversation.

"Um. Hello," he started. The man had to wave a little to catch Norco's attention. The Wolf King was significantly taller than he. But then again, the Wolf King was significantly taller than everyone. "I was just wondering... I was talking to some of the hunters and... well... Are you... They... They say that you are Norco Khan reborn? How is that... you know, possible?"

Khan's resting face frightened the man so that he did not have the nerve to stand the moment of silence, so he filled it with more idle talk. "Did you hear about the capital? Terrible news. Lots dead. Are you on your way now?"

The man realised that Norco, if it really was the legend himself, probably did not know that Kolantis was even the capital of Ansus. He was just trying to fill the silence without getting cleaved in half. "I'm... I'm going to go," he glumly stated, gesturing behind him with his thumb. "I have a, uhh, a thing. That I need to do. A thing." With that, he turned on his heel and quickly walked in the opposite direction, clearly not having a goal, and definitely not having a 'thing' to do.

But just as Norco Khan would have thought himself free of the rather annoying fellow, he turned back again and hastily made his way back to the Wolf King's side. Perhaps such a manoeuvre was foolhardy, because the bellowing of wind underneath his obscuring cloak blew it upward just enough for Norco to catch a glimpse of a pouch of silver: the leather familiar, and the silver too. Such a coinpurse could have only been made by the Eastern Peoples. Somebody of the East had recently given this man a sizeable sum of silver...

"Sorry! he shouted, a nervous smile creeping across his face. "I forgot to ask you something!" he half shouted as he began a speedy walk towards the Wolf King. "I just wanted to know if..."

The man got closer and closer. He never finished his question, but punctuated his meeting with the man of legend by pulling a knife from his cloak and making a clumsy lunge for Norco's belly.

Quest Note for Blackbeard

You probably don't need a quest note. I want to see you brutalise this guy. Extra points for extra savagery. Though he did reveal that something is amiss in the capital.

Also, I would assume ol' chief'y has done a runner. I don't think Delunio is real...

P r i c i a

As the forest crawled away beneath her, Pricia would have seen the Bastion of Light grow from between the trees; emerge from the solid base of the mountains of the Heartlands. Rivers would speed by, and clearings in the forests dotted the otherwise constant green scrub like small gems encrusting a verdant crown. Though the world was changing for the worse. The greens were fading to blackened decay, and the vitality of the forest was waning like the fire had done in the monastery of Goethia. The extent of the demise Ansus was suffering had become so real, and so saddening.

But not even the Bastion was a safe haven any more. As she flew closer and closer she could see no guards. There were always guards stationed there. There was not a time in history in which the doors were unguarded; a frightening notion indeed, then, that the Bastion was unwatched and left to the mercy of whatever kleptomaniacal rabble lurked in the forest.
Landing at the foot of the Bastion, Pricia would be greeted with no reasoning to soothe the twang of dread that surely found its way into her heart, and was instead met by a grisly sight: the guards slaughtered, their bodies mutilated and humiliated. There was no sign of any invasive force, or even any struggle. Just death, no mercy.

Inside was more of the same. Holy men crucified upon structures constructed of the bones of their comrades, streams of blood dragged on five filthy fingertips. The holy inscriptions upon the walls smeared with some unusual black substance and written over by a single, repeating lament:

H A I L T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

The Chamber of Light at the very top of the tower was absent from the horrifying scenes in the lower levels. It seemed almost untouched, save for the Great Pyre which had seemed to have been torn apart by hand. In the dust lay a grisly book bound in leather and sealed tight...

Quest Note for Invisible

Not good. Not good, at all. You can explore the Bastion a little more, if you would like, and examine the scene at hand (it is pretty obvious what has happened here) or you can, as the kids say, GTFO there. if it were me, my basic instinct would have been to get my ass to the Capital, but... well, yeah. (DO bear in mind, should you make a hasty exit for the capital, you will arrive after the timeskip that has happened through Dead Cruiser's post and my response to him below, so you will arrive on the night of the aftermath, at the same time as the Band of Thieves sacking the royal treasury.

Also, that book. You can't open it. But it would give Pricia bad vibes. Take it with you or leave it and come for it later???

A l t i m A n d A n s u r

"Altim..." Ansur began, knowing not what to really say to the man blessed by the God of Wisdom himself. "You cannot be afraid. We have returned for a reason, and the people of this world will look up to you to be the one free from the grip of fear," Ansur looked upon the the city walls, his heart filling with despair and anger upon the sound of the slaughter within. "And there is no source of power can draw upon besides our own. Take what you can from me, and I shall do the same," he nodded, a knowing look in his eyes as he addressed Altim, the Hero of Cynderia. "Altim, you must save the King. He knows that you walk once more. You must find your way to the palace and lead he and his family through the hidden passageways and out from the city. I will find you again when the time is right. But, Blessed of Faerthus, nobody but you would know what to do from there. On my honour, I will find you again."

And with that, Ansur urged Altim to hurry through the wartorn streets of Kolantis on perhaps the most important task a man could be bestowed. He watched Altim skillfully slip through the gates unnoticed, and into the streets...

Dismounting, Ansur strode meaningfully through the gates, brandishing his sword and cutting down a pair of raging cultists who rushed in an attempt to strike him with their demonic weaponry. They died without a sound, and their slumping to the ground was inaudible over the cacophonous chaos raging deeper into the city. The night was alight with unchecked fires and the sound of steel on flesh.

Ansur took a knee when he was inside the city limits. As though he were praying, his blade's hilt rested against his forehead. But he prayed not to the Gods, for their silence was assured; he relied not on the intervention of divinity to cleanse the world of darkness, for that was his charge. Drawing upon powers long forgotten in Ansus, Ansur was to demonstrate why it was he who led Mankind through the Northern passages and once more into prosperity.

The blackened night shattered as though it was little more than a veil of silk. A blinding light erupted from the shadow hanging upon the capital and a mighty shaft of holy fire exploded into existence, showering Ansur with brilliant, white light. The cultists who were approaching were utterly incinerated, and those not immediately purged from the world shielded themselves from the furious, heavenly light.
The light remained for just a moment longer, and the world stood still for a brief moment.

Kolantis was then engulfed in an explosion of white light, and the demonic excursion was cleansed.

But at a cost. For the Gods could no longer involve themselves in the affairs of man, and all those untouched by the favour of a God were incinerated too: men, women. Children.

All gone. All burned in holy fire.

Quest Note for ravenDivinity

This is a weird one, I admit. Due to a timeskip, your next post will likely have to include a retrospetive or flashback scenario to discuss the tribulations of Altim saving the royals. Sorry to dump it on you like that, but it's what happens sometimes, right? :P

If you want, we can collaborate and i'll help you structure it all together so it makes sense. PM me.

V o l k i m i r
TIMESKIP
O n e N i g h t A f t e r T h e S a c k i n g O f K o l a n t i s

The treasury was silent save for the clamour of thieves. They sacked and pillaged and stole in the most calculated manner possible, but even despite the lack of the royals, and the lack of the guards, and the lack of everybody in general, it was still a terrible crime: to steal from Ansus itself. One that would have been punishable by death should they have been caught, or should it have happened under less favourable circumstances.

They pillaged for quite some time, loading sack upon sack with the most valuable goods: chalices, medallions, gold coins, gold blocks, ancient relics and royal family heirlooms. It was a feast for the greedy, perhaps more so for the Thieves than for Volkimir, who simply wished to find himself a suitable suit of armour, and perhaps a relic or two. His motives remained unclear.
It had been perhaps two hours, maybe three past the deepest of the night that they had arrived and plundered to their heart's content. With full loads of treasure and the hunger for theft satiated, they left through the same doors they had arrived.

But their exit was not as simple an affair, for they were not met with an empty, open street leading straight to the city gates, but Ansur standing alone on the flat, polished stone walkway.

He did not move upon seeing the thieves, as if he knew of their presence.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Quest Note for Dead Cruiser

FIGHT ME, BRO.

Following up this section of the arc may require a collab between you and I. Please PM me so we can arrange a time / document to work on

[rivaan]

“Aghh... my head... to oblivion with those bastards...” Ki'ira muttered when she began to regain consciousness. She felt like she tried to beat a mountain with a headbut... bloody hell, being hit by that axe, made her feel like her skull was split apart... In fact she was quite sure it almost was. At least the deep cut on her shoulder didn't bleed, a nice side effect of her flaming attacks that tended to consume the area she fought in. The wounds usually burned up, which at least stopped the bleeding. She took her a few moments to focus her eyes, but eventually she realized the darkness was just the night... It was so silent in here now... how long was she out? The fires around her had burned out some time ago, so she must have been out for a day or so at least.” Sheesh... I nearly bled out, good thing I caused a fire in here...” She said to herself, slowly standing up, using her right arm that bore no wounds to lean on the nearby ruin of a building.

“Ohhh...” A tired, confused gasp escaped her lips as she nearly fell back to the ground as everything was spinning... Placing a hand on her head, she looked at herself, she was dirty and the clothes she just tricked out of that brothel, were already falling into pieces of ashes. For which time in the matter of few days since her resurrection, she found herself naked again?” Need clothes... aghhh...no, first I need to tend to the wound... along with clothes!” She muttered to herself, moving along the wall. She slowly, dizzily and painfully walked towards the nearest intact building. The door wasn't really locked and she quickly found her way inside. She ran through the things in the kitchen, finally finding herself the much needed alcohol. Opening the bottle, she quickly took a few gulps from it and then poured the rest over the nasty cut on her left arm. Pain ran through her nerves and she dropped the empty bottle, it fell on the stone floor and shattered, ringing in her ears. Following that, she moved to the other rooms, locating the bedroom and helping herself to the clothes there. She cared not that it must have belong to someone before, the city seemed empty now. She found a decent sized skirt and a clean white shirt and everything else such as undergarments. She was still too dirty to wear those though. After some more search through the room, she found a set of sewing tools. With painful expression she took a needle and thread and began stitching the cut. More blood began steeping from the wound, but she eventually finished stitching it up. She then returned to the clothes, taking one of the dresses from the wardrobe, she tore it to long pieces so she can bandage her wound. After pouring some more alcohol on the wound, she quickly wrapped it in a few layers of bandages, before starting to dress up.

“If nothing else this time I'm properly dressed... even the high boots are nice~” She managed to find a very good pair of those in the house. Her stay in it continued for about an hour or two, before she was ready. Her head was still spinning a little and her ears were ringing, but she was finally in state to at least move about. That was it, she was done taking on such fights with no equipment, had she had a sword, she could have stopped that blow...” Aghh... Someone is at the palace...Aghh...”She finally noticed through the ringing in her ears. The palace... there were bound to be at least a decent sword there and since there were people, they probably knew what happened to everyone in the city. She put a hand on her mouth as she suddenly felt she wanted to throw up, but managed to contain it and the desire passed. Still the ringing in her ears was too big with the enchanced hearing, so she reached and took off the fox ears, putting them inside her shirt for safekeeping.

She did not notice how much time it took her to reach the palace, but it seemed like forever to her. Finally she reached the front gate of the place... there were people out in the front. She still had problems focusing her eyes, but she managed to distinct the different people... some were wearing big sacks that were ringing of metals she could hear it with her normal ears... robbers?” Before all of you fools start fighting for some petty jewelry, can some of you tell me how long time I was out since that attack?” She said, leaning on a pillar.” What happened to all those cultist idiots with their annoying chant?” Ki'ira asked, finally beginning to regain her ability to see properly without the need to try really hard to focus on things.” Also I need a sword... anyone have one I can take and leave before whatever that petty squabble that's forming begins?...Aghghhh...” She asked, but the desire to throw up appeared once again and she quickly put a hand on her mouth again. It was going to take a while to recover from that concussion. It made her feel dizzy...

[ravenDivinity]

Altim

P R O T E C T T H E P E O P L E ; R E T R E A T I N T O T H E F O R E S T
________________

Youth was a gift to treasure. The blood rushed through Altim's veins with new life, and his mind was awake under a spell of constant, excited activity. Altim felt truly young again, now both in spirit and in body, as the duties of a hero befell him once more. Ansur had faith in the Hero of Cynderia, the young, energetic fellow that Altim once was. It was time for Altim to become that great Hero again for the sake of mankind. "Aye, Ansur. I vow that, through me, the light will prevail," Altim bowed and then held his hand in the air to swear on his word. He made his pact with the gods, and Altim accepted his responsibility: to become the light. He would fight ferociously against the dark while he fanned the flames.

Altim drew no sword for lack of weapon. He was the sword, and his violin was the grinding stone. He could feel the magic within it, and its power had not faded since he was last alive. If he was truly wise, he could purify his light with it. And he did. Altim played an epic hymn on the violin that cried to the light, and he cast a reflection of his light in the air around him. Energy from his violin purged the dark spots in his light, and when the song was done, his soul was clean. Altim's spine tingled with new life, and the youth felt full with awakened power. "Let us bring light to the city."

He slipped through the gate, and he hastily pushed for the castle in the alleyways where there were but skeleton crews of the Black King's cronies. Altim's path carved through the Cult of the Black King like a knife through butter, and he, with his violin, sung tunes that shot fire. The demonic who had dared try and touch him were incinerated where they stood as Altim revealed some of his more practical capabilities. Along the way, Altim had a few close calls—a hellish blade had grazed his shoulder, a wicked woman nearly yanked him into the crowd with her crooked, muddy fingers—but against all of them, he triumphed and overcame their threats. He not once looked behind him, save one time when he stood and saw a beam of light from the sky, Ansur doing the same work that Altim was.

Altim did not stop to knock at the castle doors. He was in, and he was out. In a time of great alarm, Altim had to protect the sovereign of the land, and he did not let the king and his family protest. He barked at the king his demands, "We must escape this place immediately! You take your queen and follow me, and I will carry your youngest children. Do not stop for anything whatsoever!" The king and the queen nodded, now subservient to Altim's command and choked by fear and dread. Altim heaved the king's youngest daughter on his shoulders, and he ran in step with the eldest prince and princess, the king and queen close behind. If they stayed any longer or waited on anything, the cultists would have murdered them all in their indolence.

Altim made haste through the underground crypts of the city, and their group amassed a few guards and citizens who had made it underground when the fray erupted on the surface. This party was the only one that would survive the madness, the only one that would persevere through the sacking of Kolantis. Anyone who failed to keep up or halted or stalled was left behind. Altim had no room for dissent. Not when an infernal army followed the group close behind on the path to the city's exit. The end of their long trek saw them jumping out of the tunnel in the last moments before Ansur's light purged Kolantis of all, living and dead. Pointing at the explosion of light, Altim said, "Only one blessed by a god could survive that." He promptly collapsed the catacombs behind the group, anyone following them crushed under the earth regardless of identity, and the group huddled together in a panicked throng.

"May Faerthus bless you all. If you have lived thus far, you have my favor, for you have defied the odds." Altim walked toward the group. "Be silent." The group's frightened whispers dissipated into a silence that heard the dust settle.

"I am Altim, the Hero of Cynderia. Who so among you dissents to traveling in a pack with those of a different class, I repudiate him. An evil has fallen upon Ansus, an evil that has killed the gods. There exist divisions among men no longer. We are now one people, scratching and screaming to the grinding of teeth and bone as we strive to escape the grip of demons. I know not where our destiny is now, but I know that until I have further plans, we must await Ansur's return. Follow me into the forests. As we walk, I will answer questions." With that final word, Altim started their exodus into the woods north of Kolantis.

[EnterTheHero]

T A K E U P Y O U R T H R O N E

Erebus stood, stunned, twitching slightly, as he took in his surroundings. A village. He was... in front of a village. Maybe. He wasn't entirely sure, to be honest. One moment, he'd been wandering the now-starless plains of the after life, and the next... light. Lightning. A storm clashing about him, even in that dead realm, and then... he was here. Dramatically.

Then again, this could still be the land of the dead- some sort of illusion, perhaps, afforded by death's embrace. He raised a hand to the level of his eyes, turning it, scrutinizing it. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, feeling his draconic blood surge in response, the storms burning in his blood. He felt... alive. So therefore... yes, he was. He was alive again. Somehow. The thought distressed him for some reason. The boundary of death was supposed to be absolute- even a mighty dragon such as he could not cross back of his own volition. So... who sent him back, or called him? And why?

Such thoughts would have to wait for now, however. An older man was emerging from the village, heading a group of excited, somewhat scared or nervous villagers. The man walked with confidence up to him, and the village bowed before him, calling him "liege." In spite of himself, Erebus chuckled. That old lark again? People truly would give respect to anything, given something powerful enough. Even a beast. He then frowned, both at the man's words of chaos, but mostly at something he'd noted before the man bowed.

"Your eyes, sir," said Erebus, his voice surprisingly smooth and calm for someone of his reputation.

"My liege?"

"Your eyes. Meet them to mine." The man kneeling before him looked confused for a moment, before following the instructions of his king. The elder's eyes were a startling blue- almost luminescent. Erebus raised an eyebrow, before casting a gaze across the congregated villagers. Over half of them shared the same eyes. Some also possessed of deep black hair, usually coinciding with the strangely-colored eyes. Understanding came upon Erebus gradually.

"Who are you, elder? And where am I?"

The elder nodded, a proud smile stretching across his face as he prepared what was likely a speech he'd given before under different circumstances. "I am Ronan, my liege, one of the elders of Thorn, the village in which you now stand. We are the descendants of the Uncrowned, watching and waiting for the day of his- er, your return, my liege. And now... here you are. Yes."

Descendants? In spite of his troubling return to life, Erebus sighed in relief. So Sythan failed after all. My blood continues. That is... good news. Erebus smiled, and nodded.

"Clearly there is much that I have missed. But first things first." He looked down at his naked form, feeling somewhat awkward, given the adulation he was being treated with. He looked back up, and continued. "I shall require clothes. Food and drink, as well. And then, Ronan, you and I shall sit, and talk, and you will tell me of my absence, and how things have changed during such."

[VoiD]

C I N N E A D

The highlands were different from what he remembered. They had lost some of their former splendor, as if the perennial rainfall had finally succeeded in washing out the once-vibrant colors of the native flora. Perhaps it was his memory playing tricks on him, recalling imagery which had never existed in reality, or perhaps the slow march of time had indeed erased the bright hues of green, purple, and blue of his youth. He did not know how long he had been absent from the world, and so he could not say for sure. As it was wont to do, however, his heart was separate from the reasonings of his mind. Half a dozen emotions vied for dominance inside him, ranging from soul-wrenching sadness to white-hot fury at Adolar for denying him a long life, renewed after so long a time deceased. But he had gotten his vengeance long ago and so he suppressed his anger and turned his thoughts towards the present.

The boar still danced ahead of him, every bit as ethereal as it had been in that mystical land of death. Cinnead followed it slowly, unwilling to expend energy with no clear respite ahead; how pathetic would it be for him to starve immediately after being reborn? The thought drew a dry chuckle from him, as he once again wondered why he was alive. Was he the only one to have been returned to life, or were there others as well? There was no way of him to find out yet. What he should be wondering about, he thought wryly to himself, was where this boar was leading him towards. Cinnead had long since left the hill behind, and he suspected that he was in the southernmost area of the highlands. After two straight days of travel his hunger was fearsome indeed, though he had quenched his thirst in a murky pond an hour's travel back.

Suddenly the boar disappeared, and a high-pitched whistle rang out into the air. Men clothed in furs and wielding a wide assortment of weaponry appeared all around Cinnead. He was surrounded. Cinnead cursed himself for a fool; he had been so intent on the boar and his own musings that he had not given a thought towards his surroundings. He gripped his spear tightly and adopted his fighting stance. A slight grin appeared on his lips at the thought of a second last stand. Such thoughts were interrupted when a man on a rise to his left broke from the line of his fellows.

"Who are you and why are you trespassing on land belonging to the Alans?" The man said gruffly, eyeing Cinnead suspiciously.

"Poor manners to challenge a mere traveler without identifying yourself, friend." Cinnead called back. A gamble.

The man raised an eyebrow. "I was not aware I was a friend of yours." He paused, and conceded. "But you are right. My name is Galeran."

"Well met, Galeran. My name is Cinnead."

The man barked a laugh. "Your parents must have had high hopes for you, to have named you after the Spear himself."

Cinnead smiled humorlessly. How long had he been gone? "Perhaps so. Regardless, your hospitality would be much appreciated by this lonesome hunter. I have fared better, if you cannot tell by my lack of attire..." He gestured to his stark nakedness.

"I can tell!" The man responded, grinning. "Very well, you seem harmless enough." He called out a few commands, and slowly the bristling array of weaponry pointed at Cinnead was lowered. A boy, barely past his manhood ritual, appeared next to Cinnead and handed him a rough cloak of fur. Cinnead gratefully accepted it, swathing himself in it like a blanket. The boy also gave him some hard tack and a sip from a canteen of water, and then they were off over the hills again. Idly, Cinnead wondered what he had gotten himself into. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boar far ahead over the next rise. He smiled softly. Indeed, what had he gotten himself into?

[Transience]

V o l k i m i r
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K i ' i r a
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A n s u r

Finding their path blocked by a strange individual, most of the ransacking thieves stopped in their tracks. It was only one man, but his presence had an unmistakable quality of power to it. Vermin among men, the common criminals could recognize a predator of their kind when they saw it. Most dropped their pilfered goods and ran, retreating to their agreed-upon rendevous location. Others did likewise, but kept their goods; they were getting paid, interruptions or no.

Volkimir, who had been directing the final efforts in Locke's stead, also felt the overwhelming presence. Far more sensitive to magic than the mundane criminals with which he had been ensconced, Volkimir knew that this was not a common foolhardy idiot. This man radiated power; he was power. And now he stood in Volkimir's way. Normaly a circuitous retreat would be the vampire's preferred tactic for such occassions, but these were quite extraordinary circumstances.

"My name is not important," Volkimir called out to the stranger, "Who are you that so boldly blocks my path?" The paranoia that had set into him following his resurrection still gripped him, but he felt emboldened by his recent robbery. At once too brave to flee, too cautious to proclaim himself.

Ansur looked Volkimir dead in his inhuman eyes, scanning his face for any clue that might reveal the identity of this bold thief before him. Ansur knew that this was no ordinary thief, and that perhaps it was a man of much higher birth and power, stooping to common burglary as a means for a much more sinister purpose.

"My name, too, is unimportant. I must, however, insist on knowing whose path I block," he said, his voice maintaining his signature calm at all times. But Ansur's collectedness was cut short by the manic shouting of a woman that had only just made her presence known. She looked hurt, a little mischevious, and completely out of her mind.

"How long was I out since the attack?" she asked, completely independent of the conversation between the Mortifier and the Forefather. "What happened to all those cultist idiots with their annoying chant? Also I need a sword... anyone have one I can take and leave before whatever that petty squabble that's forming begins?" she asked.

Ansur turned his head abruptly to meet the gaze of the newcomer. He furrowed his brow and his eyes shone with a minor hint of confusion.

"Were you here when the cultists attacked the city?" he asked hesitantly, not knowing what to make of this chance meeting. He shifted his gaze quickly between Volkimir and Ki'ira.

"Yes, I was... I got into a fight with them and took a broad side of an axe to the forehead." she replied, still leaning on a pillar."Still to reply a question with a question is bad manners...

"Then you survived the blast?” Ansur interrupted wildly.

"Blast? What blast do you mean?... Wait... ouch... my head still hurts so much~" She said, trying to whistle at the end, but the pain and dizziness didn't really allow her to do it properly."Nevermind, can someone just explain why the city is dead?"

"That is a story for another day. But you... you are important. If you survived then you truly are touched by a God. You must look past whatever confusion that may cloud your vision and tell me: have you recently returned from death to walk the land once more?" he asked hastily, wanting an answer from her as quickly as possible so he could continue his stand-off with the Vampire Lord.

As Ansur looked away to talk to a madwoman that had appeared, Volkimir took this opportunity to leave. Not even bothing to disguise his presence with invisibility to illusions, he simply turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. However, he caught a stray comment, a question, that piqued his interest. Had she returned from the dead, as Volkimir had? The ancient vampire stopped and returned his attention to the two, himself curious as well. He had put little thought into the matter, more concered with fulfilling the demands of his curiosity and vanity. Did this stranger hold the answers he sought?

"You... despite the magnitute of which my head hurts, I still somehow recognize you from somewhere... Hmmm... doesn't matter and yes, I got rudely torn away from my good slumber a couple of days ago." she replied, nearly dropping to the ground as her legs lost stregth, but managed to steady herself. "Now I remember who you are! You look just like the depictions from the old stories~ So even the forefather himself has risen from the grave? What about you there, that tried to leave so rudely while we were talking? I seem a hell of a lot like the bed story my sisters used to tell me when I was little at the forest of Atma, a vampire?"

Ansur smiled. He didn't smile a paltry smirk, but rather a lavish grin that crept cross his whole face in delight. Then he nodded. Then he looked towards Volkimir, shot him a look of understanding, and looked back once more at Ki'ira.

"You are observant indeed. Truly you must be blessed by Vinsha, rest her soul. Now, you must listen to me. If you are truly returned, and you wish to see the world not suffer the same fate as Kolantis, you must find your way into the forest. Another of us is taking the Royal family to saftey. His name is Altim, and he will guide you further,"

Ansur looked to the ground, and around him just for a moment, but did not find what he was looking for. Instead, he drew his mighty blade taken from the God Guard upon his own return.

"Here," he said to Ki'ira. "Take this, use it wisely," as he offered her the hilt.

The woman raised an eyebrow at the gesture, before taking a shaky step back. She reached into her shirt, pulled her ears from it and put them on. Her senses changed and increased straight away as she made a few more steps back from the forefather." I will have to decline that request of yours." she stated, finally begining to move back faster."The only person that can command me is dead and you as much as your glory is great are not equal. I will wander. For if it's bound that I will fight whatever evil caused it, then it shall happen naturally on it's own!" she exclaimed, finally turnning and legging it! She was not going to be a tool for anyone, be it the forefather himself. " 'Be free and do whatever you want', were mother's words. I plan to stick to them!"

Ansur, surprised by the actions of the Fox Goddesses disciple, looked on at her sprinting into the distance with sadness. he shook his head very gently, and whispered something to himself about the end of the world. He resheathed his blade.

"The Forefather himself, is it?" Volkimir laughed bitterly, "I should count myself lucky to have returned from my grave with such esteemed company. Do not mistake me for one of your fanatical underlings. Your faith and country are not mine. I'm quite busy robbing the latter, actually, and to that task I will now return." Volkimir did not immediately turn away; this was more a taunt than it was a statement of fact. He was highly doubtful that this person was who the madwoman claimed the he was; the insane had a distinct habit of hallucinating figures of religious importance.

Ansur looked back to Volkimir, whom he could now direct his full attention. His smile faded, and instead turned to an expression of stone.
"I have no fanatical underlings, vampire lord, I have merely a line of kin who respect the land in which they call home," he stated with fearsome sterness as he began a slow march towards the Vampire. "The world itself is coming to an end, and all you can think is to pillage!"

His eyes became alight with fury and rage.

"And plunder!"

The skies began to stir and churn, the clouds that had previously been still started to roll under the power being exerted.

"You are a disgrace to this land, beast of the night,"

Within moments Ansur was within spitting distance of Volkimir, and the former's eyes had turned from orbs of cerulean blue to blazing points of furious starlight directed almost exclusively into Volkimir's own heart.

"Tell me, do you trust your own instincts enough to save you?" he said, once more in his unsettlingly calm tone, only inches from the Vampire's face.

Volkimir held his ground, his expression merely cold indifference. This man, who he now admitted was possibly the Forefather, was clearly trying his hardest to put the fear of the Gods in him. It would not work. Even if he were a legend, he was just a man. The world's most legendary man meant as much to him as its most legendary cow.

"I have saved this land of yours, did you know that? I was its bulwark against a darkness that you never knew in your time. Your kin," Volkimir spat, "Failed to protect themselves, and rewarded their savior with betrayal. Call me what you will, but I only take what I am owed. This nation has grown fat on the sacrifices of those it does not deem worthy to recognize. It is well that the sickly herd should be thinned. However..."

Volkimir did not take kindly to threats, unspoken or otherwise. He cracked his neck, and his eyes as shined with unspeakable power. Like hunter's moons in a starless sky, his true aura emerged. He was the hunter of men, the true apex predator of this world. He would not be spoken down to by his prey.

"Call me a beast once more, and I shall call you to heel." Volkimir spoke, his voice like the echo of a catacomb. His hand moved to rest on Elbrus, the demon cackling in anticipation of the coming bloodshed. This was a feint, though. Volkimir concentrated his focus on Ansur's neck. Thick and muscular, but vulnerable and ripe all the same.

"Kin of my kin, what a disgrace you have revealed yourself to be. Tell me if you think you know darkness simply because you are a man cursed," he retorted. He did not bother to rest his own hand upon his blade, for such tools were not always necessary.

"I have no champions. I merely led your ancestors to a place in which they would not be prey to a force much more than you ever could be. Do you think you are fearsome? Do you think your party tricks and thirst for blood scare me?" he asked. "My kin. How you truly have descended into savagery. You are little more than a man with a shadow and an attitude of an adolescent. You are no more than..."

Ansur did not even hesitate. He did not need to size up his opponent. He did not need to make himself seem fearsome. Even the greatest of apex predators could not overcome the primal forces of nature itself.

"A beast."

Volkimir sighed. He was not angered, as he was by Ansur's initial insult. Now he was only disappointed. To be forced to bring the mightiest champion of this land to his knees. He was almost glad that there were none around to see. Volkimir did not move; not a single muscle even twitched, but his mind worked furiously. He called upon dark powers from corners of the world lost to men, and empowered his arcane might with the overwhelming aura of death in this place.

Ansur's own flesh betrayed him. A force unseen and unfelt choked the Forefather, as the many vital passages in his neck tightened until shut. The larynx, arteries, veins, even capillaries blackened and closes, decapitating him without even cutting his flesh. This magic predated Ansur, it was older than his gods

The Forefather felt the magical attack, and in that moment felt his victory assured. This was the best the vampire could muster? A paltry show of dark magic that Ansur had bested countless times before? However, has he tried to draw breath, his eyes shot wide and his hand instinctively moved to his throat. As though a vice was crushing his windpipe, he could not force air through his throat. His face reddened, but he did not panic. As though ripping away invisible bonds, the Forefather dispelled the sangromantic attack, breathing sharply as his breath was returned to him. With newfound fury at the ferocity and lethality of the Vampire Lord, he stepped forward himself, and in a single motion that was faster than lightning, faster even than the eyes of a Vampire Lord, he drew his blade from its sheath and plunged it through Volkimir's gut.

Or so the Forefather thought. Skewered at the end of his sword was not the vampire that had stood there a moment before, but a fly-ridden corpse like any of the others that were scattered about. When had he moved? Ansur had not so much as felt the breeze from his motion. The vampire was poised behind him, muscles coiled and prepared to strike like a serpent at the apparently unprepared Ansur.

Worried not, Ansur turned gracefully behind him, weary of the legendary speed of Vampires. it was not his first fight with one such as this, and he assured himself it would not be the last. He had pulled the mundane blade from the decoy corpse, and dropped it to his side, discarding the weapon entirely. In a single, fluid motion he scooped up an old bow that once belonged to one of the eviscerated corpses in the courtyard while sliding himself backwards.
There was a single arrow knocked, as though the dead man had been killed just before he had a chance to loose his shot. Ansur pulled back on the bowstring, and his eyes flared with the intensity of the sun. But he did not point the weapon at Volkimir who was coiled and ready to strike just inches behind him, rather he loosed the arrow into the sky.

Volkimir, who had recoiled from the sudden withdrawal, poised his stanced to defend against the arrow. He was not sure why Ansur would turn to a bow in such a close battle, but he was wary. However, as the Forefather shot into the sky rather than at Volkimir, the vampire advanced on him faster than the snap of a bowstring. Volkimir did not move to kill, however. His role as a hunter, he felt, had already been resolved. With his foe left so open, he had now become a butcher. Four quick cuts, to each underarm and to each knee, and Ansur fell to the his knees, his tendons cut like a wild animal.

The arrow, ignored by Volkimir, travelled fast and true, faster than any arrow could normally travel. As it sped, the projectile began to glow. Faintly at first, but it grew in intensity every moment it spiralled into the clouds. In seconds it was brighter than a bonfire, and only seconds later it was brighter still, matching a thousand lighthouses blazing strong on a misty shoreline.

Volkimir placed his blade at Ansur's throat, pressing just hard enough to break the skin and draw a thin line of blood. He was well practiced at this, having flayed countless men in his time. "Heel." Spoke the vampire, assured in his victory. The Forefather said nothing, looking down at his crippled limbs. His hair hung in his face, and for this reason Volkimir could not see the smile creep across it.

As the arrow reached its maximum height, it exploded with the intensity of both the Suns that circled the world, and night, in no more than a second, gave way to the light of day. The arrow lingered in the sky, floating through the sheer willpower of its shooter alone, acting as a temporary star and mystical daylight that pulled Ansus from the darkness, and thrust it into daylight.

The sudden burst of sunlight startled and alarmed Volkimir, who released an unearthly screech in his surprise. The sun stirred a dark, beastial instinct within his mind, one that cared only for survival. As his skin began to smoke and sear, he turned tail on Ansur, seeking to flee to whatever cover was closest. However, the Forefather had other thoughts. He rose to his feet with startling speed; his wounds likely feigned. He retrieved his nearby sword and gave chase to the panicked vampire. Blinded by pain and light, Volkimir took no notice of his persuer, only realizing the man was still a threat when he felt his blade pierce his back.

Ansur forced the sword through Volkimir's flesh, putting it through his lower back and off to the side. He did not wish to kill the vampire. Or rather, he didn't wish to kill him too quickly. He followed the blow through, forcing the blade out through Volkimir's gut, and used his stregnth and momentum to force the vampire to the ground. With a final push, he embedded the blade into the marble of the pathway, pinning Volkimir to the earth like a hunted animal.

Volkimir seized and writhed in agony, clawing desperately at the sword in his back. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his skin cracked and turned ashen in the oppressive light. If he wanted, Ansur could have left the vampire there to meet his end in daylight. But that was not his judgement to pass. The Gods had plans for this man, and had returned him from the grave so that they would come to pass. He would spare him, but only if he could be brought to see reason. Ansur stood over Volkimir, his mighty frame casting enough shadow over the man to shield him the most of the daylight. Volkimir's convulsion's ceased, but he continued to breathe frantically, craning his head to stare up at the Forefather hatefully.

"Is this what you came back for?" Ansur spoke, his voice commanding, but at once carrying a sorrowful tone. "To spread more death and destruction? To settle petty greivances, and lay low any who stand before you? I would think not. You are meant for more than that, vampire; you have proven this much to me." Ansur knelt, to speak more closely to the trapped Volkimir, but kept the merciful shadow cast over his face. "You saved this land once, you said so yourself. The world is in greater peril than mortal men can imagine. So what if the common masses think ill of you, or curse your existence? Do you live for their approval? You have been gifted with redemption by the gods themselves."

Volkimir interrupted, his voice pained and filled with black rage, "You call it... redemption!" He spat blood. "I call it... reparation!"

Ansur sighed, "Call it what you will, but it is an opportunity unlike any other. You are a cursed man indeed, but only you know what lies beyond the Whispering Beyond the Wall. Prove that you can overcome the darkness in your soul. Not to me, to yourself."

Volkimir laid silently, still twitching in pain and anger. Ansur gripped his blade once more, and wrenched it from the vampire's flesh, releasing him. Volkimir grunted in pain, but stayed still, quietly laying in the shadow of Ansur. Removing the cloak from his shoulders, Ansur cast it over the vampire to shield him as he stepped away.

"Transcend the shadows. It is in you to do so, even now."

The sunlight began to fade, changing from artifical day, and sinking into a natural dawn. The arrow dropped harmlessly from the sky as Ansur turned his back upon the Vampire Lord, a most fearsome man indeed. He looked back only once, and saw that Volkimir had already disappeared. Ansur breathed, half in relief and half in resignment, but thought on the matter no more. He had places to be, and the King to share counsel with; but he knew deep within him that Volkimir retained within him the heart of a man. Scorned, yet still beating with willpower and hope.

He only hoped it would be enough. Even the dawns were growing dark. And as the world became colder by the day, a legendary Vampire Lord of times past would surely be a boon in the final fight against whatever it was that was laying waste to the world.

[Vigfast]

The Green Knight

The Green Knight was a part of the forest, and in turn it was a part of him. He felt the passage of years untold, he learned the wisdom of the ancient trees and he watched over the forest with what he would once have recognized as the very human emotion of contentment. It was a rest well-earned, yet, he did not forget his oath, he knew that this respite would last was for but a while, his duty did not permit a final and enduring slumber. However, the years grew longer, the silence greater, and the Green Knight began to feel himself fading. A wish, a desire, a quiet prayer for release from thousands of years of servitude began to beckon him onwards, speaking words of freedom and of new beginnings, promising new lands to explore and new adventures, offering peace and death at last.

"Forgive me."

Summoned at the last moment and pulled back from the jaws of death, the Green Knight heard a voice he knew, a voice he loved, he knew her so well, he had served her for so long, and he knew that she spoke the truth,"I cannot let you fade into memory just yet, my brave knight, there is one last task I must ask of you, one last deed for you to do."

with a soft caress, full of warmth and affection.

"Tavra," the Green Knight began, feeling a soft caress on his cheek, full of warmth and affection.

A thundering voice replaced that of Tavra, and a regal voice full of command and urgency echoed across the void, "Arise! Arise knight of green! Far too long have you slumbered! Arise! Arise once more, oh faithful servant of Tavra! A red day is upon us, a day of death and loss, a day of shattered shields and broken swords! Heroes once more must walk these lands, for Ansus is lost without you. Forget not your oath, oh knight of green, and remain faithful to your lost memories."

"I had…expected another, but I honor my oath," was all that the Green Knight could manage to say upon hearing the voice of the God King Andurias, before complete silence overwhelmed him with a sudden rush of force.

The Green Knight awoke in darkness, far from the warming rays of the sun, deep beneath the ground, and surrounded by the cold embrace of crumbling stone. A single torch burning weakly illuminated the shrine in front of which he found himself kneeling. Thick roots cut pathways through the stone reclaiming what had once been lost to the hands of men and colonies of moss had taken hold of what little space remained. There was no malice, no hatred, no bitter sense of betrayal, only a feeling of loss that gnawed at this heart. He could not sense Tavra, he could not see even the smallest hint of her presence, he could not hear even the quietest whisper of her voice, and he could not feel even the soft touch of her guiding hands. Emptiness, the Green Knight felt only emptiness, and the feeling filled even one like him with a new sense of dread. Something was wrong, something was horribly wrong, and the gods were no longer there to provide the answers.

For a long time the Green Knight remained unmoving in front of the collapsed shrine, lost in deep thought and seeking for any thread, any hint of divinity that he could have missed. Finally, satisfied that there was nothing more to discover, he rose to his feet, examining himself with modest curiosity. To his relief found that he was unchanged from his last memories, time had not touched him like it had the rest of the room. His armor unmarked by either time or the weapons of men still protected his person. The grim sword Foebane, in all its terrible beauty, rested in the grip of his strong hands and the fearsome bow of Swift Justice, lay beside him with a fresh quiver of arrows. Missing was only the banner of Tavra and the Heartwood spear, whose absence troubled the Green Knight greatly.

There was but one choice offered to the Green Knight, to struggle, to bleed, to move unceasingly forward, and to fight to his last breath, again. He had rested long enough, he reasoned as he raised an ironclad fist into the air and smashed through first layer of crumbling stone, drawn to the warmth of the sun and the smell of fresh air that called to him from the surface.

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Harald Silvertongue

News of the doom of Kolantis had spread across the lands like wildfire and Harald had done what he did best in times of trouble, fled as fast and as far away as his legs could carry him. He was neither a hero nor a fool, although he generally considered the two things one and the same, and therefore trouble held little interest to him. Daylight found the old bard nursing a tankard of ale in a seedy tavern, a crumbling ruin of stone fit only for the common whores and criminals which plied their trade in the alleys of the village each night. Ever open to new sources of revenue, they were also perhaps the only inhabitants of the village still pleased at the arrival of a vast number of refugees. Yet, so full of fear and despair was Harald, that he had not even noted the name of the quaint seaside village in which he found himself. What did it matter? he thought, death was coming, and all that was left was to squander...no...enjoy his few fleeting moments on Ansus within the merciful embrace of complete and utter drunkenness.

As focused as he was on his third tankard of ale, Harald could not help but notice the intricate carvings which lined the walls and pillars that supported the crumbling building in which he sat. Old bordering on ancient, the craftwork was far too good for a simple tavern. Some chapel or other Harald presumed with idle disgust, yet another failed prostration to some long dead god. Draining the filthy tankard of ale, Harald let out an angry shout, tossing coins in the direction of the nearest server and loudly demanding his fourth tankard of ale. There was much drinking to be done and little time to do, after all Harald Silvertongue, bard of legends, had no intention of facing his imminent death with so much as a hint of sobriety left in him.

The sound of stone smashing, followed by the fearful shouts of the other patrons, roused Harald from his drunken revelry and he looked up in time to see the heavy oaken door leading to the kitchen flying off of its hinges across the bar, before shattering into several smaller species against an innocent wall. Caught completely off-guard Harald tumbled to the floor, spilling the better part of his tankard of ale upon himself. A towering figure dressed in a most striking shade of green bent low to pass beneath the now bare archway idly brushing dust from its shoulders as it strode into the room. Some manner of demon Harald thought hopelessly, as a thousand terrible thoughts raced through his mind. The old bard had encountered ethereal beings before and he did not relish the thought of doing so once more, the experiences had rarely been enjoyable or good for his health.

Illuminated by the torchlight the creature stopped and cast a slow gaze across the room. Daring to cast a glance at where he guessed the eyes of the being resided, Harald shuddered as he took in the strange visage of the foul creature. Adorned with armor of metal and wood, the face of the figure was hidden beneath a great helm decorated with the antlers of a beast Harald was certain that he had never seen. Worse still, a fearsome sword, fit to cleave several men in two, rested menacingly on its hip and a massive bow, far larger than that of any man, was strung over a shoulder. It had come prepared for war, there was no question about it, and Harald felt certain that his doom was finally upon him. With a sudden purpose the unnatural figure began to advance towards him and the other patrons muttered fearful prayers as the strange figure looked down at Harald Silvertongue. The old bard risked a quick shout for help, which promptly went unanswered, before returning his attentions the creature. Once again, he knew, he was on his own, never count on the peasantry to risk their lives for an old man he reflected bitterly.

"Begone foul apparition!" The old bar roared summoning what little courage still remained in his heart as he he threw the now empty tankard at the armored figure, "I am Harald Silvertongue and the gods themselves give praise to my songs! Return to the abyss which spawned you, lest I smite you with all the power of my ancient magics!" Watching the heavy iron tankard bounce harmlessly off the armor of the silent figure the other patrons of the tavern cowering in a corner of the room let out a shared noise of despair. Harald for his part, was certain that the hour of his own death was upon and closed his eyes, unwilling to watch the movements of the demon's sword as it cleaved him in twine.

However, it was not cold steel that touched the bard, no, instead it was laughter that greeted the cowering old man. Opening his eyes, Harald studied the figure which remained standing above him. When recognition dawned on him, Harald let out a pitiful, mewling noise of despair and frustration. Blending his words into a string of curses, the old man began to scramble backwards on the floor, trying in vain to escape the ever-advancing figure that followed him each step of the way. For the first time in decades, fear completely overwhelmed the razor sharp edge of the bard's tongue and the normally sharp bite of his wit, "NO! No! No! You can’t, you can’t possibly be here! You're not real! You’re a story, a myth, a simpleton who got himself killed thousands upon thousands of years ago playing the hero for some fool of a goddess."

Harald could not say why, but the old bard knew that beneath his helm the Green Knight was smiling down at him as he answered, "Ah, and yet, here I am."

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The Green Knight

"The Green Knight returns! He walks amongst us again!" shouted an ancient looking beggar jumping to his feet, stories long forgotten from his childhood suddenly re-awakening in his mind as he madly began to wave his hands in the direction of the Green Knight. "Gods above, he's real!"

The other patrons of the tavern glanced fearfully in the direction of the legendary knight that now stood in their midst. For the stories had never been too clear as to how the Green Knight treated those of less than honorable nature and worse still those guilty of a great many crimes. Some even remembered the knight as a demon, called forth to punish the wicked, before dragging them off to the afterlife impaled on his sword. More than one mouth was formed into a shocked and gaping O. Yet, not all faces were so grim and some like that of the old beggar were lit up with the smiles of children, having just found out that their childhood stories had been true all along.

Harald Silvertongue however was having none of it, and instead held a hand defensively over the hilt of his rapier, "St- Stay back!"

Shaking his head the Green Knight raised the old man to his feet with a surprising gentleness and nodded in the direction of the oaken door leading out of the sordid tavern certain that the grizzled old bard would follow him, "Come, some fresh air would do us both a great deal of good."

Stepping outside into the daylight, the Green Knight heard the sound of waves striking the shore, he tasted the salt carried by the wind and he felt the warmth of the sun beneath his heavy armor. He had once known the village, a seaside hamlet with only a humble chapel dedicated to the gods. A site of remembrance and pilgrimage in ages long forgotten, where the immense power of nature met the unbridled might of the unforgiving ocean. Yet, no longer was this true. The Green Knight did not he know the lands he now looked upon. Long gone was the forest which had once claimed the lands, replaced by works of stone and wood, roads and even piers, reaching out into the ocean like fingers, the creations of countless generations of settlers that had tamed the wild lands and dared to venture into to ocean. For a brief moment, the Green Knight felt the weight of eons crash down on him, the world had changed, and left him far behind.

He heard the old bard shuffle next to him, betrayed by the now rather empty sack of coins at his waist.

Gesturing towards the village with a wide motion of his arm, the Green Knight addressed the silver-haired bard,"Harald Silvertongue, your finest hour is upon you, redemption is within your grasp, remember the man that you once were, and return to the path of righteousness."

Harald looked the knight with obvious disdain and spat irreverently on the ground, "Ha, death more likely, so I'll politely suggest that you shove that offer up your-- "

"Silvertongue," the Green Knight interrupted, his voice full of menace and steel,"Do not lightly test my patience, for we have much work to do, you and I, and little time with which to do it." Forestalling further argument, the knight turned towards the elderly bard and spoke of memories rather lost to the ravages of time,"Harald Valbrandrsson, your oath has not been forgotten and you have not yet been released from your duty."

The old bard recoiled as if struck, fear and shame playing across his normally controlled features. When the color returned to his face, the old bard let out a loud dejected sigh and shook his head slowly from side to side. Running a nimble hand through his hair before replacing his foppish hat Harald nodded quietly to himself, as if seeking assurance, "Fine, fine, let's go be heroes then, just remember that I expect proper rewards for my services, none of this martyr garbage for me."

"Onward then," the Green Knight said with a laugh, taking a stride forward into the street.

"Yes, onward to suffering...death...and in all likelihood even more death with the promise of a fancy casket...if we are lucky and the gods are generous," Harald quipped hurrying after the knight.

[Harbringer]

"I do not like to be lied to, beast," Ellarian declared gravely as he threw the blood-stained washcloth aside, grimacing with sheer disgust at the sound that emanated from its mouth, "now reveal to me your true form." The screeches were so horrible that he felt like his ears would cut themselves free just to spare him the agony of listening to it for a moment longer. As it began to tentatively move its hands away from its face, Ellarian began to stalk closer, each footfall purposely heavy to instill fear into the odd creature before him. Soldiers could not work with diplomacy, but often intimidation worked just as well. As he drew closer, a spark of recognition ignited his memory. A Ghedrin...here of all places? As it blinked its eyes again in that unsettlingly assymetric pattern, Ellarian struggled to suppress the urge to spit. He knew that not all Ghedrin were inherently evil, but after seeing the damage they caused during one of his campaigns, he knew that they had great potential as spies.

Leaning down to hoist the creature up he paused as it recognised him in turn, his gauntleted fist a mere inch away from its neck. Springing to his feet, Ellarian himself recoiled as well, bringing his shield around to guard his body, though it seemed unnecessary as instead it settled for gibbering wildly about its identification. Taking a quick step in, he grabbed the Ghedrin by its shirtfront and lifted him up so they were eye to eye. "How do you know this?" Ellarian hissed suspiciously as he brought him closer, "tell me!" It didn't even notice him speaking as it continued to holler and screech until Ellarian silenced it with a fierce shake. "Start making sense or I bury you," he said as he held the Ghedrin up to the blinding sun.

"I can take you, yes? it started once more. "We Ghedrin 'very good at moving fast! Very good! Yes yes! Tay take you? Yes?"

Ellarian stared daggers so fiercely into it that it screamed and tried to struggle free from his grip. The Ghedrin were famed for their ability to be in two places at once, , but they were also famed for keeping this a secret. "And why would you do that...Tay?" Ellarian asked as he kept the creature danging off the ground, "what would you gain from this?"
"Black King return yes? No good for everyone, no! Tay want to help, yes yes!" it screeched, gesticulating wildly with its spindly limbs. In response, Ellarian narrowed his eyes. "Your kind is not known for your integrity," he said as he started back into the rotting hut, "what is you stop you leaving me stranded on an island?"
"No no! Tay never do that! No!" the Ghedrin insisted, shaking its head, "Tay is good Ghedrin! Want to help Bastion! Take him to Kolan-"
"Kolantis?" finished cautiously as he stooped under the parapet of the hole in the wall, "the imperial capital?"
"Is...is soon not to be Kolantis..." the Ghedrin said quietly, "Black King take over, civilians killed, bad things, bad things."
At the mention of civilians, Ellarian's eyes widened. "No, not in Kolantis!" he insisted as he dropped the Ghedrin who fell with a thud, "that city is under the guard of the shieldbearers! You dare lie to me!?"
"No! Tay no lie!" it said as it cowered away from Ellarian's almost visible wrath, "Tay telling truth! Tay want to help! City need Bastion!" Despite himself, Ellarian felt pity for such a creature. And yet he still could not bring himself to fully trust it. "Calm yourself, Ghedrin," Ellarian said as he took a deep breath, "I do not intend to harm you any further." At that, the creature blinked assymetrically again and stood up. "Thank you bastion! Tay is joyous!" it started, before being cut off by Ellarian again as he grabbed the back of its rags, "do not be too joyous, for you still have work to do," he replied, dragging it away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Smoke rose from the tops of Kolantis' buildings as Ellarian crested the top of a hill. "No..." he mouthed as stopped his horse to take a good look at the city. It had changed greatly from what he remembered it as, but parts of it still bore old landmarks. "Tay told you, Kolantis in trouble trouble!" came the Ghedrin's voice from behind him. Bound to his shield with rope, Ellarian had essentially taken the creature hostage as a safety measure, after all, if it was to take him to somewhere far far away, it would have to suffer his wrath immediately. Ellarian remained silent as his horse whinnied uncomfortably. He knew how it felt. The Ghedrin certainly knew how to move places quickly, but it did not mean that it was a walk in the park. It had conducted some sort of spell to move them to this place quickly, but even now Ellarian still felt queasy and in pain. At the time, it was like someone had stuffed hellpowder into his throat before pulling on all available surfaces with fish hooks. He shuddered just remembering it.

"Avert eyes! Avery eyes!" Tay screamed in that shrill voice of his. "What do you-" A bright burst of light temporarily blinded the shieldbearer as his horse threw him to the ground before bolting away. He let out a small grunt of agony as he fell onto his side in an attempt to not crush the Ghedrin. "What in the name of Ansur was that!?" he shouted as he climbed back to his feet, only to find that stars remained in his eyes. "Ansur it was. Ansur!" Tay replied. Ellarian paid it no mind. The blast must have made it delerious. Looking around, the soldier could find no sign of it. He spat on the ground. Standing here would avail him nothing. Removing his shield from his back, Ellarian also undid the ropes and let Tay free. "You upheld your end of the bargain, Ghedrin," he said grudgingly as he removed a small pouch of coins from his belt, "now leave before a witch hunter finds you." Throwing the purse into the creature's hands, he started off in the direction of the city.

[Blackbeard]

The man thrust the small dagger into his belly, sinking nearly two inches deep. With a grunt of dissatisfaction Norco slowly grasped the mans hand. Pulling it out, he stared into the petrified mans eyes. A moment of stillness. Norco forced the mans hand backwards snapping his wrist with a discernible crack. A blood curdling howl followed, bringing everyone's attention as the assailant buckled at the knees. With his other hand he gripped his throat, squeezing it like a vice. He slowly began to lift him into the air, his face reddened and eyes bulged. Forcing the small knife from the mans newly folded stump, Norco took the blade and placed it between the mans legs. Without so much as a blink he watched pain fill his eyes. He could not scream, so was Norcos grip, but everyone watching shuddered with an unwanted empathy.

Norco let the limp body fell to the floor in a bloody pile, the pouch of silver pouring out underneath his fresh corpse. If the people were wary before, they were terrified now. Some began to scatter, others didn't want to move lest they bring attention to themselves. Silence fell as Norco brushed the wound in his abdomen, he fingered the slight hole and brought the blood covered fingers into his sight. A flesh wound. Turning to leave a number of people flinched like gazelle spotting an approaching lion. He walked away unimpeded as people fell over themselves to get out of his way. Another man, scrawny and dirty rushed the still warm body and scrapped up all the silver he could before running off through the crowd.

- - - -

It took a couple of hours for the Kulgan descendants to take their fill of women, ale and song. A couple had heard of the disturbance before not knowing Norco was involved, but in the eastern steppe such things were customary.
"Great Khan! We are ready for the return!" announced a man, still drunk with an equally intoxicated woman under his arm. They gathered around hoping they had not left is so late as to walk back home in the failing light, never a good idea.

"The Capital. How far is it? with blank faces the men needed a few seconds to collect their thoughts before answering.
"Two, maybe three leagues from here?...As the crow flies." Norco considered the answer.
"This is where I leave you." Blank faces turned to ones of confusion, the men looked at each other.
"Leaving? Why great Khan? are you not here to raise your kingdom once more? are we not the remnants of that kingdom?" asked the only one comfortable enough to speak to Norco directly.
"In truth I do not know why I am hear. I think I might find out in the capital." Norco remembered what the small man had said, 'Did you hear about the capital? terrible news, lots dead'. The words echoed in Norco as if sent to him as a message. It almost felt like fate that the small man would divulge this news. News that would put Norco on a path treacherous and deadly, his kind of path.
"We will meet again. I will return, some day. For now you look after your own, your young and old." Without saying anymore Norco left the stunned band of warriors, they were in disbelief. To have something so great happen for it to only be taken away later that day. It seemed, cruel.

- - - -

Covering himself in grey shawl he had bought from the village, Norco walked from the outskirts down a dirt road difficult to follow. Rarely used it traveled directly to a major trade route that would eventually reach the capital, Kolantis. As he traveled the road he would have nothing to do but think on his reason for being here. Who brought him? Why? And why had he not been sent messages, signs anything that would give him some notion of purpose. For all his questions the tight grip he held on his infamous axe gave him peace, something familiar in a very estranged time.

[rivaan]

Ki'ira quickly ran away from the place where the forefather and that vampire were. Her head was still pounding and each step was shaky as she couldn't run in a straight line. The night's air was slightly cold, but she couldn't feel any of that. Tears started to roll down her cheeks as she finally was alone. She feared it and she prayed it was so... Vinsha was indeed no longer alive. Her goddess, her mother that gave her everything and taught her everything. The one who gave her a reason to exist and brought her to a real family among her sisters in the great forest, was gone. What the forefather said was the final piece of evidence she needed. An image ran through her mind, the image of the fox goddess smiling and laughing the very laws of the world with her - ' everything is final, even I will vanish one day'.

Ki'ira finally tripped on the body of dead knight and fell to the ground. Her cries didn't stop, she was obligated by her oaths to Vinsha to never follow anyone just like that. Thus she didn't follow Ansur, but it hurted so much. For a first time since her rebirth, she regretted not being alive sooner.” WHY!!!!!!!!!!!!!” She cried, she was a daughter of Vinsha, but the goddess was not around anymore.” DAMN IT!!!” She cried, as a great light appeared in the skies, but she paid it no heed. She was so consumed by her mourning. When the light finally faded, she noticed the sword of the dead knight next to her. She reached and grabbed it as a realization came to her.” THE KIGN IN BLACK!” She growled through her teeth. “One way or another I will kill him!” She shouted, tears still running down her face. She was near the exit of the capital now. She took the sword, ran it slightly through her hand, letting the blood to drip a little.” By my blood I swear he will be destroyed, mother!” She cried as she swung the sword, letting her fire magic run through it. The magic formed a huge pillar of fire that burned her arm, her wound and made the sword unusable. She then continued running forward, swallowing her cries. There was much to be done, she couldn't go with Ansur, but there were bound to be others out there. Not to follow, but to travel together, maybe a woman? Women were looked upon better in the cult of Vinsha. They weren't called her daughters just on a whim after all. For now though she wanted to run, to run until she drops... Her arm hurt quite a bit with every movement.” I need to find some proper medical aid first... maybe there is a town down the coast line? Some medical herbs... and supplies... yeah... I can sell this.” She said to herself, looking at another sword she picked from the ground.

[Transience]

6 0 , 0 0 0 Y e a r s A g o

R a i d a T h e S o u t h e r n C o n t i n e n t

"There used to be so many stars in the sky. You used to be able to look up at night and see them in their millions. They would all dance from the Rings of the World like tiny fireflies. But it seems so empty now, and Raida feels so cold. I've already forgotten what trees look like in full bloom, for none have blossomed here in years. The sound of running water, too, grows distant; all the rivers dried up long, long ago. I can't shake the feeling that the world is coming to an end, that the darkness is creeping up on us like something very much alive. I fear that my home will soon be unrecognisable at all, and that my own children will grow up in a world void of light, if even that.

To this journal, I commend my greatest secrets, and my deepest of fears. He came to me in a dream on the eve of the morning. I saw only eyes amidst the blackness. Eyes of utter, incomparable madness. Eyes that chilled me like the winter. Eyes that were nothing less than the culmination of everything wrong with the world. They were like a void, looking deep into them was like looking deep into myself, and seeing all that I regret, and all that I have lost. He demanded that I kneel, and I did. My eyes became like his, empty and hollow. My soul shattered into a million pieces, never to be recovered. My humanity was stripped from my heart like skin stripped from flesh. He told me, in tones of anguish and hate, that our next meeting would be our last.

I am afraid.

For the first time in my life I must admit that I am truly scared. He cannot be defeated. He simply cannot. He will rampage across the heavens and from the ashes of our life, he will forge his own starless paradise. The King in Black comes for us, and will crush Raida with the terrible falling of his feet. His breath will set the land aflame; his hands will tear the mountains apart; his voice will end the world.

He comes for us. I dare not to picture those eyes staring back at me in the blackness. For if I meet him once more, he will fulfil his promise to me, and my own life will be at an end.

We must leave. We must abandon everything. We must set sail across the Northern Sea and into whatever may lie beyond. We must take the fire of the remaining Gods with us. I pray that he does not follow, and I pray he never finds us. We must leave not for glory, nor must we leave for prosperity. We must leave, because if we do not, then I am sure we will see those eyes open upon the horizon, and every single one of us will die."

- From the Journal of Ansur

[Corvidae]

A F A I R T R A D E

The heavy clunking of unwieldy boots further encumbering an awkward, uneven gait announced the newcomer's approach, and the dock squealed its protest in a series of low, shrill creaks. Crow's fascination shone on her face, a wide, radiant beam lighting up her features, as, utterly enraptured, she watched her fingers, wholly ensnared in the hem of her shirt, give the fabric an experimental twist.

She could move. She hadn't come back all withered and rotted, nor chafed or infected - why, it was almost as if the skies had transcended most mortal planes of existence to pluck her from the very day she'd died! And she'd never been one for higher thought, because who needed solitude and hard, rigid boundaries when you could find companionship in the form of soft curves and softer words, but maybe, just maybe, she was onto something?

Really, she figured there was only one logical conclusion: she was so mighty and awe-inspiring that the universe itself had beheld her magnificence, cursed its own inadequacy, promptly shat itself in fright, having witnessed her power and grace, and then declared her a god. Wouldn't have been the first time someone had dropped to their knees to praise and worship, so wasn't she doing that whole process a favor by lending it some legitimacy?

...Wait.

The intensity of contemplation furrowed Crow's brow, slender slashes of brown cutting low across alabaster skin. ...Nice try, jackass. Gods aren't real, the heavens are a conspiracy, everything is dumb and pointless and whatever the hell else Arianna used to funnel down your throat, blah, blah, blah, so getting to the point: the hell does that make you? One hand darted up to cradle her chin between thumb and index finger. Unless the concept of godhood kind of fucked right into being just to cater to your whims?

Huh. Actually, that didn't seem too far off. In fact, that argument seemed pretty logical! Which was incredible, because she, death-defier extraordinaire, was pretty damn great, if she did say so herself!

Which she would.

Loudly.

Once her throat stopped stinging like she'd swallowed several buckets of sand, mind you. Shelving that not-so-nefarious scheme, because she reckoned any bold proclamations would have to be delayed until certain basic provisions were obtained - namely water, because sweet, merciful hell, her throat was fire - she decided to give standing up the most valiant effort she could. Her core tensed, strain searing at her abdomen, and she threw all her weight into her upper body with all the force she could muster.

Her shoulders twitched almost pitifully, her head lurched forward, bobbing dangerously close to the dock, and then she fell still.

...Ha. Haha. Shit. A beat passed. Several subsequent successors soon followed. A sudden swell of heat crawled up her neck, and, funnily enough, she was beginning to suspect it wasn't a symptom of the dehydration. Frustration scrunched at her features, face contorting into a truly impressive grimace, and her eyes screwed shut as she came to terms with precisely how pathetic this entire shitpile situation was.

"Um. E-excuse me, miss. Are you... are you okay?"

Crow's eyes snapped open, and eyes as murky as the open seas peered steadily back, gaze equal parts concerned and perturbed. A narrow, gaunt face - pretty, she noted, in an almost incidental sort of way - darkened by what must have been years' toil under a merciless, unrelenting sun. A stocky frame, corded with lean, functional muscle - probably earned from fish-hauling, or slave labor, or even (and she shuddered to think it) honest work - reasonably sturdy, practical garb, and some cloth-swaddled bundle tied to her back that Crow sincerely hoped wasn't a baby.

(Babies were, after all, pointless and evil. The corrupt little bastards - imp-spawn, she used to call them - were just plain unnatural.)

The woman's brow furrowed, and, looking both cautious and a bit miffed, she waved her unoccupied hand in front of Crow's face. Evidently deciding Crow was either ignoring her or laboring under some sort of mental impairment, she sighed, and grumbled out a, "Not worth the gods-forsaken effort, I swear."

Crow's nose twitched. Something salty wafted through the open air, and it wasn't accompanied by the sea's distinct tang. Something hearty and meaty - pork, maybe? It was then the Windwitch's roving gaze settled on the package clutched in the peevish woman's adjacent hand. The key to her salvation was bundled in oily parchment and tied with some ratty old twine.

The twinkle of mischief alighting in Crow's eyes, her lips curved into what she desperately hoped was a dashing, roguish grin. "Not nearly as fine as you, I'd wager." Leaning back and propped up on her hands, the supine Stormcaller epitomized loose, airy insouciance. "Hey, speakin' of - wanna make a trade? You feed me, and then you can also tell me what the hell's been happening in this rotting hovel while I was gone. See? Fair, ain't it?"

Did she mean a single word of it? No. Would the ends justify the means? ...Okay, probably not. Would it keep her alive? Absolutely, and she was a scavenger, wasn't she? A survivor.

And that meant doing what she did best.

Punctuating this bargain - and really, it was kind of a steal, if she did say so herself - with the best half-lidded smolder she could muster, Crow offered the skeptical refugee a coquettish, hopefully winsome grin. If you do, it promised, as coy as it was earnest, it'll be damn well worth it.

[Free Faller]

زهرا - Zahra

برای تمام زمان قلبهای ما برای او تنگ شده است. او از دست داده است

The cacophony of battle was all around her, deafening in its presence yet fading in uneven rhythms. The sharp clash of weapon upon weapon, upon shield, upon armor, and upon flesh sang its song loudest in Zahra’s unhearing ears. Shouts and lamentations danced desperately among the desert air currents; dervishes swirling in a chaotic rush among the dead and dying, and seeking salvation from the gods as their lights were washed away with the rising of the suns. The sands of their forefathers shifted with the pounding of her people’s feet cascading around her; begging her body, unmoving, to rise and reclaim the honor of those that came before. The first rays of the harsh desert light pricked viciously at eyes already unseeing; beckoning them to gaze upon the fruition of all that her vengeance and strength had wrought. Blood burbled slowly into across her tongue and into the sands; her body offering itself to be consumed in the withering fire of her magic, but no longer did her life-blood possess any remnants of the empowering tang of her element. Finally, the stench of death forced its way into her nostrils; threatening her into action against her own impending demise, but she had already deadened herself to the pungent miasma of decaying life.

The world continued on unrelenting around her and all she could do was fade away. Her body had curled into itself as she had fallen, and now she lay wrapped around the core where her power laid. It was a vain attempt to protect the flickering, quivering flame of her magic from the raging tempest around her. She could only hope that her people would prevail without any further guidance from her, and that maybe after all of this war they’d finally be at peace. That finally she could be at peace as well.

The woman watched with her inner eye as her fire licked slowly and fleetingly at the last residue of power she possessed. It was so reminiscent. Like the countless times she’d held nightwatch over the camp as a young warrior, sitting near the light of the cooking fires and watching the flames wither away. Surrounded by her people, but utterly alone. It was a dissonance she’d always found comforting in life, and she couldn’t help but feel something akin to that as she slipped into death. Slowly she felt the emotions that had carried her through so much drain away with the rest of her.

There was no more anger. No more hatred. No more wrath. No sadness, or pain… Regret. Joy. Pride. Strength. Hope. Nothing.

Then, there was simply no more Zahra.

روی شنهای که در آن او خون ریخت، دوباره قهرمان خودش را پیدا میکند

POP!

GASP!

Pain exploded out from the center of her being, and a pulse with the heat of a thousand infernos shot through every sinew of her body with ruthless abandon, awaking sensations she could never remember feeling and wracking her body in convulsions of power both frighteningly alien and undeniably her own. She continued to seize for several minutes as the torrents of wanton energy ripped through her. Only when she feared that she would be torn asunder again did the energy finally ebb from her body. Her mind quieted as her body did, and rasping breaths was all she could seem to manage at the moment.

Only once in her life had she experienced such a thing, though this time it was compounded ten fold: her breaking. But that was impossible. Allomancers didn’t break more than once. No, it didn’t make sense. Except, wasn’t she dead? There was no way that she could have survived that final battle. Nobody of the tribes possessed any kind of magic that could stop her inevitable fall into nothingness. She certainly didn’t heal herself either, not with so grievous of wounds. She didn’t understand.

Zahra fluttered her eyes open once again to the world of the living, taking in the dusty light that filtered through the small openings in the confines in which she found herself, and the shaft of light that shone intensely at the end opposite of where she lay. The warrior turned her head slowly to the side where a skeletal corpse wrapped in the remains of a silken burial shroud had been gently placed on a slab beside her. She sat up with a start, her gaze sweeping across the room where more dead lay similarly in rows before and beside her.

A tomb... Her tomb? She blinked hard as if readjusting her sight might adjust her situation, but no such mercy was forthcoming. Her daughters. Tradition dictated that only the spouse and children could be laid to rest beside the one that was deemed worthy of a tomb. Her daughters lay beside her, and the next five generations of their kin lay before them all, as was appropriate. Zahra felt as though she should mourn the loss of her children, but found herself unable to with the realization that they had lived a life enough to have children, and those children had had children, and so on. And a line of warriors, if the array of weapons resting at the feet of many of the dead was any indication.

The Iron-Toothed pushed herself onto her bare feet to take tentative steps around the crypt to view those who have been her legacy. Her steps became more steady as her body found its equilibrium in world again, and the flame in her center tempered into a steady blaze. Why she was alive again she could not begin to fathom, but it was a gift of the Gods for sure.

Only after Zahra had made her rounds through the fourth generation of her kin did she notice the gaggle of silk-covered faces peering cautiously through the large opening she’d been slowing making her way towards. It was disconcerting to see other living souls after being among the dead after forefathers-knew-how-long, so for a long moment she didn’t speak and they interlopers seemed content to continue staring.

Finally she followed their eyes to her naked middle and found what had trapped their gazes. Zahra’s hands fluttered to her stomach to run fingers over the vicious scar that puckered and distorted the skin there; the blow that ended her. She felt no physical pain or hinderance from it, but couldn’t help but be a little discomforted. A reminder of her own mortality? Or of her self-sacrifice?

One brave soul threw Zahra out of her contemplation by approaching cautiously with a robe similar in which all the group wore, held open in and waiting for permission to wrap her within. Zahra nodded slightly in acquiescence, allowing the older -or she supposed younger, as it were- woman to engulf her in the silk and lead her with a gentle hand led her to the group that was making quick haste to create her a path in which to walk through them to the outside world. She stepped out into the full light of the desert suns in the midst of a small village of stone and metal building built in same architectural style as the one in which she emerged.

The people alternated between gaping at this unknown woman emerging from what had been the sealed tomb of one of their most famous heroes, to the twisted and warped metal chunk that may have once resembled a door.

“Welcome home, Zahra the Iron-Toothed Lioness,” the old woman said softly as Zahra’s bare feet sank into the desert sands bathed in crimson.

او بیدار شد