Fable - Ask From The Ashes

[Sol'aufain]

Chaos raw and pure spilled across the city like a cut throat and at it’s center was The Usurper, his future queen, Vyx’aira. Sol’aufain’s fingers moved. His men drew weapons. The sound of black iron on leather was lost to the symphony of the battle as their chorus of deadly whispers sang of impending violence.

The Priestesses who’d welcomed House Uthreal into their midst fell into their chosen role. Prayer clusters had appeared, each of his men posted at one, and the sound of their beseeching wails began their empowerment ritual.

The eldritch horror Vyx’aira rode would begin to glow a malevolent red.

Fain drew his blade. The glint of crimson light up his rapier’s blade matched his intent as he shoved the point into a Priestess next to him. The point of his blade punched through her back, and out of her clavicle with surgical precision.

His was the signal and his men set to their bloody work.

“Sol?” Fain looked over his shoulder at Auanmari. Her hands were clasped in prayer, her eyes wide with shock, “H-house Ulthrel… You’re—” her words were cut off by a sharp inhale. Fain was there in front of her, their bodies close, her breath caught as she looked down to see blood— her blood— leaking over his hand.

“I-I loved you…” she whispered, eyes watering as her body began to slide back on his blade.

Sol’aufain watched the light in her eyes dim then withdrew his blade. He flourished his weapon, striking the blood from it, then turned toward the monster. It’s glow was gone, the ritual had been sufficiently disrupted.

In a voice augmented by magic, Fain said, “House Uthrel stands with The New Valsharess of Zar’Ahal, any who stand in her way will bend the knee or bleed!”

With that proclamation, he and his men entered the frey.

Fain split off from his force, he kept his two closest warriors with him, and bade the others reinforce Beksesha Suulet’jabar. He and his strongest made for the summon directly and as he moved, Fain, drew in cold manifesting a growing icicle as they closed in on the beast.

Vyx'aria Beksesha Suulet’jabar

 

[Vyx'aria]

The demon shuddered beneath her. Its hide now bore the signature of her wrath: deep, glowing gouges where emril blades had carved molten trails into flesh. The air rippled with sulfur and magic, thick with smoke and the stench of scorched ichor.

Vyx’aria felt the shift from the weakening of the beast, her commands to those present executed and reaping immediate impacts.

The wretched thing faltered in its charge, one massive limb seizing down around Matron Beksesha Suulet’jabar in a desperate, dying lurch.

But the Queen of Shadows was already in motion.

She spun, fluid and lithe, and brought both swords screaming across the clamping limb in a flashing arc. With a wet, thunderous crack, the limb tore free, tendon, bone, and sinew screaming in protest. It crashed to the earth in a gout of black gore, still clutching Beksesha, but no longer connected to its master.

The demon reeled, half-falling from the sudden loss of balance, its hulking frame dipping low and Vyx’aria rose with it.

In one final, merciless surge, she vaulted from a broken vertebra, reversed her grip on both blades, and drove them deep into the creature’s skull, through horn, hide, and bone, piercing the mindless furnace of its will.

A thunderous cry tore from the beast’s throat, part scream, part curse, part prophecy shattered. Its body convulsed in death, collapsing in a ruin of limbs and smoke that sent a shockwave pulsing through the city.

When the haze cleared, Vyx’aria stood atop the carcass, breathing raggedly.

Her armor was cracked. Her flesh bruised and bleeding. Sweat carved rivers through the grime and blood that slicked her skin. But her eyes still burned like twin stars forged in the abyss.

She raised her voice.

“ENOUGH.”​

The word exploded across the battlefield like a divine command, echoing through shattered spires and blood-slick alleys, carried on wind and magic alike.

“This spectacle ends now. The tides have turned. Maelzafan has spoken. Her will is clear.”

Her voice thundered on, unwavering, cutting through every chant and clash like a scythe through silk.

“You stand at the dawn of the Tor’Rahel regime. The reign of broken tyrants ends with this hour. Any who persist in defiance, know you do so against your Kin, the City, and the Goddess who watches.”

Her gaze swept the surviving priestesses, those bloodied, those silent, those still weighing choices in the folds of power.

“Those who incited civil war today will be stripped of their Houses. You are Nau Qu’Ellar. But your fate need not end here. Redemption is offered through the path of the Hounds. Take it, or be executed.”

Her voice softened, not in mercy, but in steel-wrapped certainty.

“For the rest, stand ready. A new kingdom dawns on the bones of Dalrithia’s house. A throne not seized by treachery, but forged by strength, sacrifice, and the blood of those too weak to uphold our great legacy.”

The corpse of the demon smoldered behind her like a monument to the old world’s end.

And before her, the city of Zar’Ahal stood on the edge of something new.

Zathria At'Arel Nimruil Slaine Aylwin Sol'aufain Azrakar Tyrnael Myrlochar Xunari Auceus Theceran

 

[Nimruil]

Nimruil's feet were spread in a stance of battle; his hands curled, placed in starting positions of intricate, arcane diagrams about to cut reality into a desirable shape; eyes searching for his opponent.

But when the dust settled, he found its giant form prone. Dying. And Vyx'aria's voice cut through the chaos:

“ENOUGH.”

Spoiler: Music

Arms relaxed and fell down by his sides. His frown of concentration lifted before an arch of curiosity. The folds of his robe and cloak enveloped him like a promise of civility, layers of thick silk settling, covering erstwhile evoking hands.

This spectacle ends now. The tides have turned. Maelzafan has spoken. Her will is clear.”

Her voice thundered on, unwavering, cutting through every chant and clash like a scythe through silk.

“You stand at the dawn of the Tor’Rahel regime. The reign of broken tyrants ends with this hour. Any who persist in defiance, know you do so against your Kin, the City, and the Goddess who watches.”

With his murky green foci drifting after him like ghostly attendants, Nimruil strode up next to the felled beast. His stride was marked by icy formality and lingering caution, each step measured against the risk of approaching both Vyx'aria and demon. Like a specter gliding into view, he arrived before Vyx'aria's pedestal of smouldering flesh.

“Those who incited civil war today will be stripped of their Houses. You are Nau Qu’Ellar. But your fate need not end here. Redemption is offered through the path of the Hounds. Take it, or be executed.”

As the returned queen's voice boomed, Nimruil fished out a long vial from his cloak. At the flick of a finger, one wisp sunk into the disentigrating demon. Bits of its unholy tissue returned, enveloped and preserved by his magic, slipping into his vial. The cloak soon covered said vial, and Nimruil arched his neck, looking up at Vyx'aria's battered but defiant form. She could near look like a statue of conquest herself; such as might be found deep within museums or galleries, depicting heroes of old slaying primordial titans.

"WHY . . . TOO SOON . . .
OBLIVION . . .
BORN TO DIE . . ."

Echoes of its dissipating consciousness trailed his ears like ash in the air. Nimruil frowned; and almost felt a faint stab of pity. This creature, like all creatures, had no choice in its own existence. How absurd it must have seemed to it -- to be brought into the world in a swirl of power and promise, only to be discarded like offal. In its essence, existence could be cruelly ridiculous, indeed.

“For the rest, stand ready. A new kingdom dawns on the bones of Dalrithia’s house. A throne not seized by treachery, but forged by strength, sacrifice, and the blood of those too weak to uphold our great legacy.”

Nimruil's eyes narrowed with academic calculation. This would certainly enter the annals of history as a worthy event; of that he held no doubt. Any circumstance scrawled with the blood of their own people seemed particularly prescient to Zar'Ahal's collective memory. But the Tor¨Rahel rule had fallen before. How long would it last this time? A century from now? Five centuries? For the remainder of his life?

Only time would tell. But perhaps it would afford him just enough time and stability to finish his work.

His eyes flickered, taking in his sister's presence. No doubt she would bring the rod as a token of loyalty. As ever, her mastery over the twin schools of necromancy and politics were formidable -- one manipulated the dead, while the latter shaped the living. He honestly couldn't decide which craft he dreaded more. Still, on this occasion, he should be thankful for it.

Studiously, Nimruil bent the knee. The folds of his layered clothing spread around him like waves of midnight-blue silk, his ash-coloured hair cresting it like sea foam.

"All hail Valsharess Vyx'aria Tor'Rahel. All hail the empire."

The volume of his voice, enough to take in those in his immediate vicinity, belied its mechanical delivery. He cared not who ruled. So long as he wouldn't have to divert more resources to frivolous spats of dominance like this one. And while Vyx'aria had garnered a reputation as ruthless and uncompromising, she had displayed great skill and power in defeating this entity, as well as quelling any further resistance.

Yes. This might prove a fruitful reign, after all.

 

[Beksesha Suulet’jabar]

Beksesha had barely had time to utter an elemental ward before being seized up. She wrapped her legs about the demon's wrist so it would at least be harder for it to snap her spine, then prepared her spirit to finally see Maelzafan's waiting web if she should fall. The die was cast.

To her good fortune, Vyx'aria's pursuit was swift and her onslaught momentous. The severed hand crumbled as it struck the floor. Beksesha lay still for a moment, the fall knocking her briefly unconscious. Then she pushed the finger-remnants off of her and rose, first up onto her arms, then slowly crawling into a hunching crouch. She finally gathered up the rod, flicking the gory Tuin'Znar finger joints burnt onto it off onto the floor. Her ceremonial gown fell off of her in embers, but she was unburnt, though badly bruised and her arms abrased. She murmured a healing spell, and the bruises faded.

Finally, she rose to her full height, uncaring of her near-nakedness, and she bowed deeply to Vyx'aria. The young battlemage who had staunched Slaine, then turned his spells on the Tuin'Znars, dutifully ran up and covered her with his cloak, earning the briefest of sideways glances, and an approving flicker of the venerable matron's appraising ruby eyes.

"All hail Valsharess Vyx'aria Tor'Rahel! All hail her Empire!"

Her second-daughter took up the refrain, echoed by the Suulet'jabar and the assorted loyalists behind her who had chosen her side. The battered, stunned handful of priestesses and temple guards who had survived the Suulet-jabar onslaught cowered together as the two surviving ghouls looked up from their sister-meals hungrily.

Beksesha gestured slowly in their direction, and awaited her queen's command.

 

[Xunari Auceus]

Thankfully Beksesha managed to grab the control rod and the demon was slowed enough that its last act of spite against her was able to be cut off by the Queen.

Having been thrown to the side by the grasping limb, Xunari pulled herself up to her feet with a grimace. Thankfully it was nothing too bad - especially as she diverted some of the life drain from one of the priestesses to herself instead of Beksesha.

The matron was mostly alright now after all.

Taking a deep breath, Xunari bowed her head low to Vyx'aria in deference before joining in the call started by Nimruil and Beksesha.

"All hail Valsharess Vyx'aria Tor'Rahel!"

She rose from her bow to place a hand over her heart.

"My life for the Queen - in service living and death."