Quest The Black Mass

[Markus Glorphain]

Smoke rose over the horizon.

They'd ridden into Dawndale fifty horses strong that morning. All of those villagers were just beginning their day when the first blade fell. Their defenses were meager. No doubt the local Lord had little time to prepare a proper defense for what was to come. The Warlord had sent the bulk of his force to tie up the good Lord Ranken and his loyal knights. They were known to be fearsome, those men. Lord Ranken was a martial man if nothing else and his knights were some of the finest in the region. Catching them unawares had been no simple feat. It involved a great deal of slow movement through mountain passes and a bit of dark magic to obscure his force, but it had been done. The screams that filled the air were like music to him. The perfect symphony. He'd heard it said that everything that existed was music and vibration. That every man, woman, child, and beast played their own tune to create the whole. If that was the case, Markus considered himself to be a conductor. Every blade driven into the gut of a strong man and every liberty taken from strong and weak women alike came as the result of his vision. There was no finer music in all the cosmos than the suffering of those too weak, few, or foolish to defend themselves. It was how the strong, the truly strong shaped the world in their image.

The warlord sat beneath a blood red canopy, the smell of smoke filling his lungs as he salivated at the sight before him. Drool dripped down his smooth chin before he raised a gloved hand to wipe it away. The fiery scene reflected against pitch black beady eyes. His great mass was covered in thick metal and his bald head was beaded with sweat. The warhammer that sat next to his makeshift throne was bloody with the lifeforce of a mother attempting to protect her child as well as the child. Frustration had gotten the better of him.

Where is she? How long must I wait before I'm allowed to have what I desire?

"Ain't found nothin' yet, m'lord. We sure she's 'ere?" inquired Steppenwolf, one of Markus' chief lieutenants. "Y'know I'm all for a raid and takin' wha' we want. Bu' is what we're lookin' for even 'ere... All the boys are dead and none of the girls match what we set ou' for."

"How many times must I stress to you the importance of patience, Steppenwolf?" The Glorph responded as he rose slowly from his feet. "Scour every inch of that village until she is found. Tear their homes apart and wherever she isn't, burn it! I-... This is precious to me, Steppenwolf. With her in our custody, you will grow richer than a god and I-..."

He began to breathe heavy as he stared into one of the pyres that had once been a hut. The thought of the power that she could provide him had excited him.

"M'lord?"

"Find her."

The worm within him wriggled and sent shivers down his long spine. Blood. He needed her blood.​

 

[Helena]

Umber fingers sifted through ash-laden earth. Desolate. Corrupt. As if not just life itself had been stripped away from the once fertile ground, but the very spirits that resided in it too. Turned to something else. Made baleful. How it stuck to her fingers. How it reeked. Not just of death, not just of rot, but of perversion. The smell itself twisted the mind. Severed the senses from their ancestral roots, from the legacy of existence itself. It was the smell of a yawning maw. The smell of an endless hunger. The smell of their enemy.

Helena wiped her fingers against earth still rich with color. Still fertile, if only in patches that dotted the trail. She rose up, and her hands clenched into tight fists as she looked out across the ravaged field.

Dead lay strewn about. Knights of Lord Ranken, allies to their order. She knew some of the faces. Had trained with them in her youth. Farnuk, Gwenara, Tarkus. All twisted and mangled amongst the innocent they surely defended. Beyond the gruesome carnage that came with raids and battles.

It was a massacre. And she could see the shadows of those who had dealt it, dancing in her memory, with such sickening delight. The way some bodies had been torn open, end to end, with wounds that looked like wicked smiles. She had seen it before, and knew now who they hunted.

Who hunted the child.

"We must make haste," she said to those Knights about her, and strode back to her steed, hooked her foot into her stirrup and pulled herself up with the horn of her saddle, she turned her horse about, the beast made flighty by the wretched scent that permeated in the air, but Helena willed it to calm, to steady, at least in this. "We are in the wake of wicked foe!" she called out hot. "One our Order has faced before, and one we must not fail in besting now," she looked to the horizon, and saw the trails of smoke rising there upon it. "Forward! We ride against the Glorphain!"

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra was cantering near the front of the formation near her Captain, the snapping capes of her fellow Knights surrounding them as they rode along the road to Dawndale. The turbulent breath of her black mare in tandem with each strike of the earth with its hooves. The steamy coils of equine breath whipped past Petra, like fog on the wind. The mare had obviously sensed her rider’s urgency and eagerly committed herself to the task of haste. Her rider reveled in the strength she could feel in each stride beneath her, the passing thrill a welcome reprieve from the seriousness of the Knight's task.

The forest was but a blurring green kaleidoscope as they rode past miles and miles of trees. The woods had grown eerily quiet from any birdsong as they progressed along their journey. Soon, only the sound of a steady staccato of war horses kept their stoic silence company.

Norvyk had taken to the clouds above at the start of their journey. For although the dragon was a mighty contender on many a battlefield, it was best to not expose themselves so early to whatever rancid foe awaited them. The intention was for him to drop from the sky as a tactic to break whatever defenses they faced.

When their stampede finally approached the fork in the road, they could see that the sign that bisected the crossroads was destroyed and in pieces on the ground. The slab of wood that once boasted the name of Dawndale, now lay shattered into weathered pieces of tinder in the surrounding grass. Helena raised her hand in a silent cue to those behind her to slow up and prepare to stop. The order was followed immediately, with the rumble of hooves dying to a soft echo as they all pulled back on their reins and sat deep in their saddles, murmuring quiet praise to their mounts. The hot breath of their working steeds creating a steamy cloud around them while they waited.

As Captain, Helena had taken the initiative and swung down from her mount. A mindless pat to her mare’s neck as she stepped forward. Petra noted the familiar gesture and deduced that it spoke more of their bond than the need for comfort at the Knights' rising trepidations. They had hoped that the reports were wrong and that the culprits were just a simple troop of bandits trying to steal easy goods from the villagers.

But as they had rode closer, the miasma of dark magic was plain as the crawling of her own skin in response. Her body rebelled against the proximity of dark magic; all songweavers reacted the same, their own magic in direct opposition to whatever evil sorcery was born from the veins of this parasitic bastard. She looked off down the right pathway, her instincts rebelling against the pulsation of wrongness that came from the fields beyond.

"The air thickens with the reeking smoke of the dead and conquered." Came the perturbed baritone of her dragon through her mind. He was right, the smoke columns they had been following had multiplied and darkened as the day grew longer. With grim wisdom, she readied herself to bear the screams they would soon hear.

Helena Markus Glorphain

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Lilac eyes remained unblinking to the horror. It was acknowledged. It would be processed emotionally for what it meant later, when Abalon had the luxury to indulge in sensitivity. For now, duty to his field, to his comrades, ruled the framework of thoughts he was caged by. A cage of necessary discipline and focus. A cage fashioned for knowledge of the liability of emotions when it came to the domain of Death. A cage that protected him and fashioned useful response from his intellect and power to serve the Order. Such were the demands of one who walked within the fields of death, who were determined not to be corrupted by the tremoring of a heart disturbed by such depictions as this.

The Pursuant of Death floated inches above the gory detail, his pure white robes a defiance to the crimson that smeared in stories of bitter ends. He floated upon an arcane disc the same lilac tone as his eyes that shimmered now in low throbs in time with his calm heartbeat. He remained unfettered from the bloody ground. He remained a pillar of elven composure as he considered how his comrades must be feeling at the prospect of such gory details to be transversed, such grim portents of lives snuffed out in outrageous detail. His amber necklace had dim light about it as it fed necrotic information unto him, the spiraling life energy and decaying forces that lingered to their departed frames tried to communicate to him their pain and suffering.

Abalon did not silence them. He breathed calmly, undisturbed by their declarations. He would be sympathetic when the day was won, when the rituals of cleansing and calming of the dead could be administered. For now, his frame was still, his hand upon his staff, the floating disc carrying him as he took his place in the formation of the riders of Anathaeum.

Many a valiant effort was brought down low by all too sympathetic senses, he thought. The stench of death, the miasma that robbed determination, and the diorama of brutal putrid death. Such were the hallmarks of his domain, hallmarks to defy in his own practice.

But Abalon did not fear that he needed to deny his comrades the touch of trepidation by such close proximity to the viscera and decay on display here. No, he thought, they needed to appreciate that things were to get worse the closer they got closer to Glorphain's host. Abalon knew he could settle his people's stomachs, to channel a zone of clean air for them to breathe easy, to soften the scene and render it more hospitable to all too raw senses.

But such would be a disservice. An energy spent to coddle, instead of truly protect. Had they civilians, he might have indulged in such compassions. But their cause was to fight and cleanse.

Abalon's remained disciplined in his consignment of compassion to his comrades. They were hardened to such things, they would understand why he did not lift his ossified hands to render this scene less outrageous to the condition of being all too alive. Even if the squires protested when he denied them such comforts, the more experienced had an understanding that life was hard.

And death had no comforts.

Abalon had been educated by ruinous minds who ripped humanity from corpses with a wide bloody brush, so this current display was a confirmation of the all too common dereliction to morality when it came to his pursuit. His thoughts went to the nature of the opponent they all shared here. A typical glutton to the travesty of humanity when beset by the allures of putrescence. Abalon walked a different path than the common necromancer. He knew the purity of discipline, the refusal to enslave the domain of death to serve necrotic ends. His role was to protect, to channel, to rebuff, and to deny the dominion of unlife it's voracious and all too often, gory, appetite.

He rehearsed all the possible and common avenues of destruction his colleagues in specialty might summon to bring them down low. Desecration of the flesh, necrotic waves of energy that might crash upon them. Hosts that might be summoned. Abalon knew them all from his time learning from the greatest and most depraved necromancers in the land. And how he had rejected their intent, replacing it with noble purpose amongst his comrades, he was one of the few well armed to redirect that black advance of magic.

His lips moved silently as he prepared counter spell after counterspell, to redirect necrotic energy, his elven mind working on multiple spells preparations at once even as he concentrated upon the floating disc that did propel him closer to that disgusting mass of flesh and ambition. Such was his power. Such was his to command and provide service. No talent with blade. But fully submerged in the theory, practices, traditions and defiance of death was his virtue to render into deeds this dark day.

Abalon heard the declaration of the Captain.

He blinked but once and heavily, holding the blackness for a moment which was adorned with spiralling text of death magic he would command to preserve the all too mortal flesh of his comrades. Petra offered her observation.

Abalon Shallows opened his eyes and looked at his white hands, bone like, preserved from the ruination of the flesh, and siezed the air with leashes of arcane will and power. His staff became a writhing sheen of white and silver, as he assumed the role of guardian for his comrades, for his sworn brothers and sisters. His white robes were pure and deathly pale.

“I am prepared,” his voice as water on glass, overtones of deathly magic enriching his voice, as he followed the formation and bid ready to battle his competitors in that most grave of magic families that did not forgive the slightest mistake of the flesh or mind.

Today he would betray the solidarity of death magic practitioners and drive away all foulness from the field so that a clear blow would be delivered to that most disgusting of things, the flesh turned aberration, the enslavement and denial of life, the curdling of hope, the braying laughter of humanity rendered a mockery of all nobility.

Helena Markus Glorphain Petra Darthinian

 

[Damien DeMontieaux]

Ever-growing desolation was left to the wayside as the host of the Knights of Anathaeum made their grim way in pursuit of the Glorphain. The midday sky grew dark as the dusk with plumes of foul smoke; the earth that fled beneath their hastened steps was scorched and stained with the blood of the innocent. And yet, on they went, indefatigable in their hunt for the rotten scourge that so defiled the land and those who dwelt there. Nothing would stand in their way and the way of justice.

... or perhaps almost nothing. For, as the host turned about the curve at the base of a particularly sheer hillside shortly past the crossroads, whose uneven slope was dotted with misshapen crags of stone that a passing fancy might take to form the rough shape of an old woman's gnarled face, a clear, piercing voice rang out, in tones of grandiosity that almost bordered upon the absurd.

"Interlopers! Halt, and identify thyselves; art thou foes or friends of the Glorphain menace?"

Amidst the crags on the hill above—where any past glance would have sworn naught was there before—a figure clad in studded dark leather stood tall and proud, a jaunty feathered cap set atop his curiously feline head and shadowing his gleaming amber eyes. In his gloved hand (paw?), a fine épée with an ornate basket hilt inlaid with silver filigree was held casually extended in a loose "en garde" form, the tip pointing slightly down to the Knights below.

 

[Faramund]

Faramund swept his dispassionate eyes across the scene and grunted. It had been quite some time since the knight of dawn had been fazed by this sort of thing. Years. Decades. Even so, he could tell by the way the Captain reacted that today's tidings were particularly grim. Indeed, if the bodies of the slain were anything to go by, the future was beginning to look rather bleak for the warriors gathering by the roadside.

Limbless, charred corpses littered the field over which the Knights of Anathaeum did gaze. Having rode point for much of their journey, the dawnling had been one of the first to see the the smoke on the horizon. Signs of devastation had followed swiftly. Overturned carts, slaughtered cattle... the usual for a warband as sizable as the one they hunted.

Reining up, his destrier's barding jingling in the wind, Faramund had proceeded to take a true accounting of the horror as he waited for the rest of the band to arrive. Among their number rode the Dawn Captain, Helena, alongside a few more familiar faces.

Here was Petra, striking as ever, though looking somewhat out of place atop her warhorse. Did she miss her dragon? Probably not. Connected as they were, neither was ever truly alone.

Then came Abalon, brave, scary Syr Abalon of the Dusk. Faramund didn't really like the elf all that much. Too serious, too in touch with death to ever really take the time to live. But he was a trusted comrade, and a skilled spell-weaver. Invaluable. An expert in his field.

Given the slaughter that had unfolded here, the dusker was probably feeling right at home. That's unfair, Faramund thought, breathing in the death-stink like a man grown accustomed to it. He cares for all those who died here, but caring won't do them much good now. Better off tending to the living, and to avenging those that do so no longer. As if sharing his thoughts, the dawn captain rose from her place amongst the ashes to address her warriors.

Watching, listening with rapt attention, the dawnling nodded in reply.

"Onwards, then," he said, bringing his horse about to face the distant enemy. "Victory or death!"

Helena Damien DeMontieaux Petra Darthinian Abalon Shallows Markus Glorphain

 

[Helena]

Horses a-canter, for the terrain was rough, and the winding roads left them vulnerable. At their van, Helena motioned for them to halt, her steed churning up the earth with the work of its hooves as its mass settled to halt, and the thunder of their formation stilled as the grand and mysterious voice cut through the din and echoed off the craggy stones amidst those sheer hills.

The Captain of Dawn smirked, wicked and fighty. "You impede the Knights of Anathaeum, brave one," she replied, her voice as clear and bright and unforgiving as the sun's light. "We ride against the Glorphain, and if it is his ruin you seek, then you would do well to join us." she drew her own blade from its sheeth, Zenith, a runed sword that was made of gold hued willowsteel, and etched in the delicate runes of Life, Wyld, and Flame. "Now stand aside, or count yourself our ally! I shall not tarry any longer!" her eyes dared challenge, and gave welcome in equal measure.

 

[Damien DeMontieaux]

Amber eyes met umber, unflinching.

Silence, for a tense second ...

... and then, the stranger relaxed his stance, the tip of his épée rising in salute before dropping to an "at ease" pose at his side. "Allies, then! 'Tis no harm, methinks, in abiding awhile amidst ye fine Syrs, for verily we share a quarry most foul!" Putting his free hand to his cap, the feline bowed, twirling his blade with an elaborate flourish. "Damien DeMontieaux, at your service!"

Straightening, Damien sheathed his blade, before turning to look up at Helena and—wait. Looking up? Yes; he stood not upon the hillside, but rather at the Captain's side in the shadow of her steed. Had ... had he always been there?

But before it could be questioned, the stranger was already speaking again. "Our sworn foe treads but a short march yonder; ye shall come upon them anon. Perchance the host's steps are slowed 'neath the ponderous bulk of their despicable head, aye?" His golden eyes flash with an almost zealous light. "Fortuitous indeed, our meeting; the Glorphain host numbers a score at least to one of thine. Had I alone faced the blackguards, they might have stood nigh upon a fair chance!"

 

[Markus Glorphain]

Steppenwolf grabbed a hold of the child's mother. As she cried and begged, he reached into his belt buckle and pulled out a long dirk. The Glorph stood there, tall and silent. Over his bald head, he wore a helmet in the style of a boar's head. The good mother stared into the pits of the helm, seeing naught but the abyss as Steppenwolf slid sharpened steel across her throat. The second maw he created leaked with her life force. She was attempting to speak. He imagined she was pleading for the life of her child, but one could never be quite sure about these things. The only thing he knew was that her death felt like something new to him. No matter how many people he'd killed over the course of his long life, ever one felt new. All of them were his first kill or his first order all over again. For a time, he wondered what it was she was saying. Did she curse his name or did she praise him as a god of death that might have saved her if only she prayed the right words. The light left her eyes and so he would never get the chance to ask her for himself. In any case, he stepped forward when her body slumped to the cold, hard ground. Two gloved fingers moved to shut her eyelids. There was something almost intimate about the action in itself. He did it to show his appreciation to her. She'd given her life for his pleasure, just as everyone else in this petty village had... And she had looked him in the eyes.

There was no experience quite like looking them in the eyes...

When he rose to full height, his heavy boots made a thud across the floor boards. The child shivered in the corner of the room where her family once gathered. Her mother lay dead with a bloody smile across her throat. Her father had been pinned to the wall and disembowled by the Glorph's men. A lone hound feasted on what had spilled out onto the floor. Markus stood over her and lifted the visor of his boar-head helmet to reveal and bloody face and black, beady eyes. A sausage-like gloved finger moved to his lips and he shushed her to stop her from whimpering. The scarf she wore around her head was bothering him. He couldn't see her true nature with that wretched thing covering her head. Gently, he reached down and removed it. He licked his lips and almost cried when he saw the third eye between her brows. Silently, he nodded to himself and smile wide, his smile more gums than teeth.

"Steppenwolf," he began as he closed his eyes. He imagined all that was to come. The bath that he would take in her blood after he removed that eye from her forehead. The power that he would find in the realm of the collective psyche of all that existed and drew breath. He was so close.

"Lord?"

"Take her to our mountain camp. Inform the Ghost Eater that he is to watch over her an-"

"My Lord!"

One of the men wearing the signature blood red sash of Markus Glorphain's host had barged into the home.

"One of our scouts have reported seeing a party of what appears to be knights heading toward this very village. They fly no banners."

Markus paused for a moment and allowed himself to feel the world outside of his own desires and wants. His eyes closed and he sort of rocked backwards while standing. The men present watched him intently. He seemed to sniff the air slowly. A hand unconsciously moved to stroke his belly that was covered in that thick armor. It was Helena, he knew. He could smell her sweet scent on the wind even from here. And... The presence of something else.The worm coiled around his heart wriggled violently and his hand moved to his chest to calm it. He opened his eyes and gave his men a toothless smile.

"Mount up. We ride to meet them. Steppenwolf, take Baurus and Glaucan. Your orders are the same. Come now... I've a few old friends to greet."

 

[Helena]

Helena smiled at the man's acceptance. As he bowed, she bade salute, a solemn raise of her sword so that its sun-struck blade come kiss the crown of her bowed head as she shut her eyes in a most ancient show of trust and respect. "Allies in cause, bound by steel," she said in quiet verse, and let her eyes come open again, with a whirl, her blade came easy again to the mouth of its scabbard, and slid in till its golden-colored hilt clicked shut.

The winds changed. Whispered through the grass and the leaves of all shrub and life that still clung green to this place, home to their order and all who resided within the Valen. However dark the night, the stars still burned. So too did life sprout from ravaged earth. So too did the spirit return to the broken vessel.

She held down her memories. Held down her rage. If only to feed the growth of her determination.

The Captain's smile turned up with wolf's hunger as she listened to the brave Damien's report, and she felt the golden eyes of her great companion, who stalked in the distant shadows behind them, Prince of the Greystones, the Ur-Wolf, Sin Cerulan, and she was gladder for it.


"Nay, brave vagabond, the Glorphain knows we approach. Like all hearty prey, his senses are sharp against those who hunt him," she showed teeth, her look most Wyld. "Ride into battle with me, Damien DeMontieaux, and let us quell what wickedness this bloated worm wriggles in!" She shout and bade her horse forward. Her mare trumpeted proud, and her hooves set to thunder, quick as the captain's white cape snapped behind her.

Unto all that road towards them, and all that awaited beyond.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

What waited. What lurked. What lingered in the air, the touch of destruction. The promise of violence upon violence. Abalon considered it and breathed deep. The disc began to pulse a little quicker.

Abalon tapped the disc with his staff and urged it to match the speed of his Captain. This was the moment of rising doubt within the elf, small and flickering in his heart. Would they be able to cut their path? Would steel provide their passage? Or would he have to rely on blasts of foul death magic, a most loathe practice to one who retained value to their integrity. Necromancers had many skills at their disposal to render life a mockery in vicious reprieves of power. But Abalon was determined to not rely on such foulness. His role was to protect, to guide, to shield.

And a shield did flicker into life as Abalon worked his will into the air, small flickers of white sparks that spiralled and weathed the space around the group as they did make their advance. A mesh of possibility that was harnessed from the purity of purpose the arch mage possessed, unfettered by the lures of unlife. He knew his life would end. Perhaps today. But his comrades? They would be spared a sudden shuffling off the coil, Abalon thought as he considered the thrice woven shield that he focused upon took hold on the fabric of reality.

The shield would not spark into response without his attentions. His purple eyes looked onwards, his senses extended by virtue of essential arcane perception, and he offered a small prayer to the sky that his comrades, his friends, his family, would avoid the fate of those they passaged by. He waited for the first volley so he might use his power to save them from total dissolution before a single sword stroke might be made.

"By the power of Death do I preserve these lives, by the power of life does Death be denied another day,” Abalon whispered, and then focused upon words of the arcane so that he might cause immediate deflection of a hostile magic, volley, or whatever might come untoward.

 

[Osuin]

He gazed over the land surrounding the town, or what had once been a town. The aura was chilling, telling of suffering beyond suffering, but there was no further sign of those that had inflicted it. Osuin had never seen a scene of such death and destruction. The bodies of the slain were strewn about everyone, some wounded, and some burnt. One he found one face down in the mud, with the mortal wound that killed him still fresh upon his back.

There were only corpses among the muck, without a single survivor stirring among them. Absent from the scene were the cries of horror that so often chilled the air in accompaniment, But here there was no commotion in response to the slaughter that had unfolded. None remained to mourn, when all had been taken or slain. There was not a single one left to make as sound, and somehow, the still quiet made the scene of grisly death even more disturbing.

Osuin’s horse slowed to a trot as he entered the town, the density of slain bodies reaching a maximum within the settlement. Even the horse he rode shared the same sense of unease. The horse stalled to a stop with a disturbed whinny and moved to turn around, prompting protest from Osuin.

“Hey, settle down now. C'mon, walk on, you know we can't turn back.” He coaxed his horse on, proceeding forward into the town at a slow pace. He couldn't fault his steed for feeling spook, the environment was extremely disquieting. Up ahead, Faramund too seemed to be in a state of shock at the sight – quite justifiably so. Whatever or whomever had committed these acts was a force of horrible evil.

Yet one among the knights was entirely new, and upon hearing the brief conversation with Helena it was clear he was an ally arriving out of desire to help deal with those responsible. He further held information they themselves were lacking, reporting that the threat they faced to be a short distance ahead. The knowledge was both encouraging, and discomforting. However terrible whatever had blazed such a trail of death was, it must be eradicated.

“You have the direction they've went?” Osuin inquired to Damien as the steed he rode walked up to the group. Hopefully, they could put an end to this menace before more death was brought upon the land.

 

[Damien DeMontieaux]

At Osuin's query, the feline fellow gave an exaggerated nod, doffing his cap lightly with a roguish twinkle in his eyes. "Verily as dawn is to the east, good Syr! On my word, I tell thee—yon bloated rampallion marches upon this very road, his trail bereft of even the most meager thread of subtlety." There is a note of derision in the cultured tones of Damien's voice as he speaks of their mutual foe. "Say what ye like, but none can dispute the Glorphain 'tis no cringing cur; indeed, methinks the clodpoll lacks the wit for caution!"

 

[Faramund]

Spurring ahead of his warrior brethren, Syr Faramund of the Dawn set the pace as they rode forth from the ruins, into pastures new. The smoke-and-death stink clung to the land they passed through. Evil hung in the air, dogged their horses' hooves as they thundered across brooks and streams in search of the enemy. Fields of wheat and barley, ripe and ready for harvesting, lined the roads along which they road.

The people of this land had suffered, and endured much suffering in their time. But never anything as raw and vile as what Faramund saw as he broke free from a stand of alder trees marking their route.

'Sweet, unholy...' he began, the words he sought dying in his throat as he looked upon the village laid to waste before him. Plumes of smoke rose from the skeletal remains of houses reduced to ash. Bodies lay there, nestled amongst the ruined buildings they had once called home. Savaged. Mutilated by blade and blunt force. The bodies resembled things more than they did people.

Riders carrying weapons and mottled in insidious armour stirred from their feast to address the arrival of the stranger in their midst. From his vantage point amongst the alders, Faramund felt his skin crawl as a dozen sets of eyes turned to regard him from afar. Alone, forlorn, he looked like easy prey to the Glorphain's men. They did not yet know of the party shadowing him.

A lone rider wearing red circled into the village from the East. He disappeared amongst the husks of the once-homes. A few minutes later, he reappeared. This time with warriors. 'It seems the Glorphain has finally decided to turn and face us,' Faramund spoke to Helena as the knights of the Order rode up to join him. The stranger -Damien, was it?- accompanied them.

Shifting in his saddle, the dawnling tightened his grip on the haft of his winged spear. Anger filled his soul as he turned to his captain. Fire smouldered behind his eyes; all he saw in hers was righteous fury. 'Rather foolish of him, wouldn't you say?'

Helena Damien DeMontieaux Abalon Shallows Petra Darthinian Osuin Markus Glorphain

 

[Markus Glorphain]

As his men prepared themselves for battle, the Warlord watched as Steppenwolf forced the child to her feet and dragged her to his horse. When they rode into the mountains, he watched them go with a tear forming at the corner of his eye. In her, he saw more than just the child of some hidden and powerful race. She was a tool. The final piece of the puzzle he would need to do what it was he was placed in this wretched reality to do. Men knew well the decay and ruinous powers that flowed through the world. Did it not press on with blood as it's fuel? Oh, how the worm wriggled against his heart. How it squeezed and filled his bald cranium with black desires and the taste of flesh. It wasn't just him that needed to venture into the Loch, but that vile thing that coiled about his very soul. In his mind, he could see his companion growing fat from the sorrows and wills of countless. And so too would he.

He would eat as the worm did and the worm was eternally hungry.

The clouds became darker as the the time for bloodshed grew nearer. The Glorphain rode on the back of a heavily armored horse that appeared larger and more unruly than any of the other's around it. In fact, the other horses neighed and made room for both it and it's master as he took the reins and led it to the dark line that had formed against the Knights of Anathaeum. Ahead of him sat a lone rider and soon, the others rode up to accompany him. Saliva oozed out of his mouth under the helm and a quick inhale through his lips made crawl back up into his maw. A dark energy pulsed through him as he placed a hand over his heart, almost as though he were caressing it through the thick sheet of steel and leather he wore over it. Voices filled his head and he closed his eyes to listen to them. The rate at which the heavens twisted and blackened had quickened. He could hear the heartbeats of his men begin to pick up. In them was a murderous rage that seemed to be carried by the wind itself.

As the warlord breathed each breath, malice and rage carried farther and farther. Perhaps the Knights themselves would breathe it in. Perhaps it would cause them to grip their blades tighter. Perhaps it would fill them with the same hatred that led to the deaths of the villagers of Dawndale. Let them imagine their foes' flesh rended the same way that the warlord had. Let their minds be filled with a cacophony of their own inner voices commanding them to kill. Let them feast as the Worm did if they dared. It had been one of the Glorphain's more subtle magicks. One that turned his allies as well as his enemies ravenous. Fear and loyalty is what kept his own men from riding into battle without his leave, however. He kept a tight leash on his hounds of war. His beady black eyes peered through the boar's helm as all of his men sat on the backs of their horses like a wall of twisted steel.

"Helena," he called out. There was a sweetness in his voice for her. The sound of a loving father or mother. A voice that she may very well hear over all others if his magic worked the way he wanted it to. Though he was far away, his voice carried across black winds. "Sweet, sweet... Captain Helena. It has been some time since we spoke! I have terms to offer you... My blood against your's. Meet me in single combat with whatever weapon or magic you so desire and you needn't worry about any of your comrades dying as your old ones did. We'll settle it the old way... If you win, I will be dead and my men will never plague these lands ever again. A force scattered to the wind. If I win, your entire party will be taken prisoner and the rogue who rides with you will be executed, his feline parts to be fed to my hounds."

Yes, he knew who it was she rode with. The one that had harried his forces and killed his scouts for years. A thorn in his side that one way or another, he would find a way to remove.

"Should it come to battle and you lose, I promise you that I will bring my entire might to bare upon your forces... And then I will move on to kill the dragon as he sleeps. What say you?!"​

 

[Helena]

"Foolish," Helena said with a wicked line across her lips. "But sense has little to do with power,"

Hate. It had a smell. A sensation. As she stared out across the field, across the ruin brought down upon so many innocent by their vile foe, Helena felt it. Wriggling inside her stomach. Twisting, turning. It ached. She could smell it too. Dank and putrid. Like spoiled milk mixed with iron dust.

Come the challenge. Dark words upon a darker wind. Come the heat of blood set to stir. Her teeth bared in wolf's delight, and she felt the weight of her sword in her hand as her mare reared up and trumpeted in challenge, legs kicked out, as if in warning of the violence to come.

Helena's eyes never broke away from the wretched figure she knew was The Glorphain. Her sword still down at her side, though its candescent blade shimmered and flowed with a near liquid light.

Death unto them, death unto them, death unto your foes. Bring them low. Bring them low. Deal them that same hand they dealt Farnuk and Tarkus. Bisect them as they did Gwenara. Violence. Violence! VENGEANCE!

The whispers growled, malicious and ravenous in the pool of her mind.

Her horses hooves came back to the earth, and her white cape settled down between her shoulders. She would waste not a word entertaining the worm and its puppet. She raised her sword high, its blade, milky and silver, caught the sun's light and looked to burn a golden white.

"Knights of Anathaeum!" she cried out. "Feel the dark magicks work in you now!" She looked to Abalon and gave the Pursuant a knowing nod. "But perversions of our own pursuits!" she looked to each in turn. Petra, Osuin, Faramund, and the rogue, Damien, as well as those other knights that road out from Astenvale.

"Feel the twist of this creatures craft! Know!" she said and brought her sword low as she turned her horse about once more so she pointed toward their enemy. "Our foe will play with our minds, twist our fury, for he knows us to be the greater force on this field, though he may outnumber us four to every one," she glared at the line of their enemies. At their great warbeasts, and the twisted hulks that road them. "Our strength comes in our discipline, our unity, our cause!" the wind rose and while their enemies whispers still plagued her mind she'd not waste her magicks so. Not yet.

She looked to Faramund, who she knew felt the pull of magicks far less than most. "Syr Faramund," she called out, crisp and to command. "Take your counterpart and two others, harry them from the flanks, try and pull them off their formation, so that you or others may slip through, we will draw their attention forward, to the crush and grind," she narrowed her eyes and looked back at their own ranks. At the kith and kin she risked now in this act as Captain. "Remember!" she said to them all. "Our objective is the child," she turned to Faramund one last. "If you can, you steal her away, no matter what else may come, Faramund, understood?"

A great howl on the wind. The bass baying of an ur-wolf.

"The time for blood is nigh," Helena had no words of glory for the task at hand. She had but the grim determination to do what was necessary, but dawnling that she was, she knew the strength that could be found in words. "Waste not your lives on the paltry machinations of this monster, dear kin! Lose not your heads in the roil of death and hate." Her sword pointed out toward their enemy.

"Those are his tools! That is his whisper in your ear! But you were trained better, you were taught in the ways of the Wyld and the Loch, in Life and in Death, and your hearts burn true with the Flame of day's sun and night's stars!" she spoke with dawn's fire. "Stay steadfast, stay true!" She raised her sword up again, a beam of life's light in her hand. "Know now, if we fall, we fall doing what must be done for the good of all!" Her horse walked forward. "If we die, let it be for the good of all life in our wylds and beyond!" she turned and faced their foe once more. "Forward now!" She cried and urged her horse forward. "On to the dawn that comes tomorrow!"

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon's heightened senses of the arcane picked up on the smog of attitude alteration that drifted across the field of impending battle. A decision was to be made. Expend energy to cool the thirst for violence that did tempt the fighting mettle of each soldier here, or forestall action to give salve to a graver blow to come.

This was a moment of dread he hated. He was all too aware in this moment that his decisions might affect the outcome of everyone here. This was the art of war. Were he alone, he'd only have to think of himself, of his own life and self determination of victory. But his comrades, the lives he was sworn to protect in such a strategic position, it all weighed upon him in this moment as he felt the pressure...

What if more people die if I do act against this?
Inaction is an action.
But what if-

Abalon fingertips gripped the staff he wielded in angry twitches as dread was replaced by hot anger that infected him. It was near overwhelming, the thought to simply charge was tantalising, the tension building within him to strike out, strike to devastating affect, to undo the enemy in swathes of foul unsophisticated blasts of magic. Visions of enabling his own greatness, his own command of death to undo the enemy elaborated in his mind's eye.

His disc began to lurch forward as eyes sealed and arcane wrath was summoned to his furrowed brow as anger compelled a weapon rip from it's sheath.

But, Helena's voice called out.

He blinked and felt the anger dissipate, and flow again even as he felt it cool at the sound of command.

Helena's words delivered so true broke the insubordination of his want to escape the pressure, to replace it with simple impulse to violence. The speech was a tether to his duty. He looked over to Helena with eyes that pleaded for direction, and found command in full display.

Helena had rescued him from such a suicidal action, but barely. Abalon looked around him at the sphere of countermagic that was begging him to be activated, each mote of power tingling as if agitated by the insidious mind alterations.

He looked in realisation as he found himself a few feet from the front line and compelled his disc back.

The speech was enough Abalon decided. Better to use countermagic against a true horror instead of the emotion we must conquer he thought.

If anyone defies orders, I'll soothe and restore them by my powers of Loch. Not as strong as my powers over Death, but adequate enough for this. But I must protect myself first so I remain useful.

Abalon swirled fingertip across his brow and etched a rune that sparked first in the display of burning coals, and then cooled to an ice blue as he regulated his emotions in a disciplined act of the domain of Loch. His tempers cooled to it's usual tranquil state, his mind felt focused and he picked up the mantle of responsibility once again. He felt divorced from his emotion, distant, numb.

A fair trade to be useful in this battle.

Now, now...now! Think! What is to be done!

He looked to Helena. How she rallied her own troops. Allowed them to find purpose in the thicket of emotion that with sharp barb would ensnare them should duty not be co-ordinated.

Morale. The will to fight! That's it!

Allow me this retort oh powers that be, undo the will to combat that will send men to flee!
Come to me oh dead, and harry thy murderers in this day of battle,
Replace their temper with fear to tremble,
Replace their charge with conscience wracked in guilt!

Abalon reached out with both hands to grasp at the cloud of white motes that hung like agitated snowflakes in the air that he had summoned to act as a potential counter magic. His lips carried with it the words that would deliver his will from the realm of possibility into the world of reality as he addressed the refined magic that begged him for function. Compelling the motes into his hands that clutched, as if pulling back a net, did Abalon cast his own melding of Death and Loch magic from the arcane motes he had summoned.

A curse.

His face contorted as the rune upon his forehead did burn white hot at the emotion that was being drawn from him, from the emotion he would compel within the troops mustered against the Order of Anathaeum, and his own rising confidence in the value of his work. His eyes remained open as they shone with purple energy, his hands outreached as he urged his magic onward, his lips crying out in arcane tongue the command he gave to the weave of magic he did order onward to the foe.

A lesser mage might have abandoned the spell for fear of losing their grip over the power.

But Abalon, Pursuant of Death, refuser of the temptations of undeath's art, was no stranger to the pain that came from reforging the majesty of the weave of magic. The terrifying power of Death. While of Death, and terrible in nature, it would serve the life in his comrades. And serve the cries of the dead he could hear now, all pleading with him for justice as he did bid them serve. Each one impressed upon him the death they had suffered.

From counterspell motes of possibility did he warp the intent into something else, as he borrowed from the memories of all those slain around them. Each voice of pain, each voice of the departed's unjust end did join the spell...

“Chorus of Regret!” Abalon cried, his voice booming across the planes as power was cast out from his open hands.

The motes of white shone brilliant white as they coalesced within his hands, and span out as a wave of rushing mind altering energy that was a torrent of spiderweb like weave that crashed over the bodies of the slain. It rushed to meet the The First Son of Yakuub's forces, and would fill their ears and vision with those that had been slain here, the spirits given voices and power to drag down their foes in regret, fear, distraction of conscience and compulsion of mercy. The dead did speak again in a myriad of injustices, and clawed through their afterlife to strike one more time at their foe. The effect was of the domain of death to give rise to the dead's wishes, the domain of loch to affect their mind, and within the need for poetic justice for the arch mage Abalon Shallows.

It may just distract them, for the emotion of violence is strong, but it may distract them, forestall their horses, make them hesitate, make them...

Make them remember that they have a conscience, and the dead do not forgive them until they join them so!

Helena Damien DeMontieaux Petra Darthinian Osuin Markus Glorphain Faramund

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The songweaver snarled defiantly when she felt the dark tendrils reach into her mind and drip poison into her thoughts. Before she could react and muster a defense, it had sunk its claws into her spirit and wouldn't let go.

Now paralyzed in her saddle, she struggled and flinched inwardly at their corrosive touch. Felt that corruption and fear bleed into her veins, blackening her blood. Whispering dark and terrible things into her ear. To give in and surrender. To flee and submit. It was intimate with every one of her failings and as pervasive as a scorned lover. It felt intrusive and dirty. A suffocating weight settling into her skin. Petra even tried to look down at her hands in vain, searching for the black veins she was sure could be outwardly seen creeping up her forearm, racing towards her heart to consume it.

But there was a pulsation of light that emanated from the gilded Harmonic cord in her chest before that venom could reach her heart. That light felt like the righteous reckoning of a rageful dragon. A primal possessive lividity that burned through her and she grit her teeth at its intensity. It was ike a rabid dog given the scent of a bleeding hare, mindless in its bloodlust. Her drake's teeth tore through her as he searched for the stain left by the one known as Glorphain, the beast that they now rallied against.

"Your filth does not belong here. And this rider is MINE."

There was a sonorous roaring in her head that only she could hear; with its last echoes, a wall made of dragon hide fell into place around her mind. A bristling fortress made of storms and talons. And suddenly, she could feel her body again, could feel the frenetic prancing of her horse beneath her and the breath coming in bellows from her lungs with relief.

With the returned autonomy of her body, Petra realized she could hear once more and the call to arms of her Dawn Captain pierced through the remaining veil left by that failed attempt of black magic in her mind.

A vengeful snarl colored the elf's face, wild black curls framing her face as she turned her horse and came shoulder to shoulder next to Faramund's mount, a determined set to her shoulders.

"I will follow you into their lines and do all I can to separate their forces, anything you need. We shall find that girl. And when you have her safe in hand, Norvyk can excavate you both, especially if there is no other way out," Her smile turned sardonically predatory, "You've always wanted to fly anyways right, bud?"

Helena Faramund Markus Glorphain Abalon Shallows Damien DeMontieaux Osuin

 

[Faramund]

'I understand,' Faramund replied, expression grim in the face of his orders. He would have preferred to stay, to fight alongside his brethren through the thick and thin of it. Alas, that was not meant to be. Nor could he say no to his Captain when she called upon him to do his duty. She had given him a task. The most important task of all, it seemed. The one that truly mattered, come what may. Him, the talentless one. The null. The one the magicks of the universe seemed to avoid like a bad smell.

Faramund, son of Faramund, proud knight of Anathaeum. Devoted dawnling and all that other nonsense he wasn't sure he believed in. It was his job to save the girl, to undo the Glorphain's plans and so prove himself a true knight after all. Faramund doubted he could pull it off.

But doubt had never stopped him before. Why should it now?

Turning in his saddle, Faramund called out to two others as Petra joined him. 'Syrs Jarro and Lyra! To me!' Pushing their way through the throng of mounted knights, the two fair-haired elves -one of dusk and the other of dawn- reined in beside Faramund. Knowing them to be siblings, and talented spell-weavers of diverging Paths, Fara had chosen them because, like every other knight in the warband, he knew them to be capable of much more than their lithe frames suggested.

'Ready to put those blades of yours to use, Syr Two Knives?' Fara asked of Jarro, smiling as the elf swept aside his golden cape to reveal the hilts of his swords. 'Oh, Faramund, how I shall miss your silly questions when you're gone,' Jarro replied with a savage grin, palming his blades fondly as he turned his gaze to the enemy. 'In other words, yes, he's ready,' Lyra cut in, stringing her recurve bow with apparent ease. 'As am I.'

Nodding, Faramund turned to face the last of his companions.

I will follow you into their lines and do all I can to separate their forces, anything you need. We shall find that girl. And when you have her safe in hand, Norvyk can excavate you both, especially if there is no other way out, Her smile turned sardonically predatory, Youve always wanted to fly anyways right, bud?

'I don't know which fool it was that gave you that idea, but believe me when I tell you they couldn't be more wrong,' the dawnling swore, eyeing the dragon rider warily. 'If the Gods intended for Man to fly, they would have granted Him wings and built Him a nest from which to throw Himself,' Faramund continued. "Alas, they did not. So I s'pose we shall just have to make do." Smiling, the knight slapped his armoured thigh, calling his warriors to attention.

'Right! I s'pose it's time we took up our positions. The enemy grows restless.' He sniffed, scenting upon the wind the magicks tempting his comrade's to rash action. 'Twas a sweet smell, truly. He refused it all the same.

''Pon the Captain's order, we ride.'

Helena Abalon Shallows Petra Darthinian Damien DeMontieaux Osuin Markus Glorphain

 

[Osuin]

"Verily as dawn is to the east, good Syr! On my word, I tell thee—yon bloated rampallion marches upon this very road, his trail bereft of even the most meagre thread of subtlety." Replied Damian, and though the evil they faced was one of terror, it was a small blessing to be had in a foe who would move forward to fight rather than skulk and hide. They would not have to track down one willing to face them, at least.

Something stirred in the distance, and it was just as the feline rogue had described. A portly man clad in red, of hideous appearance even from the fair distance from which Osuin did view him. Having seen the aftermath of his cruelty, the thought of what this monster might do next elicited no fret in the Knight Pursuant, but anger. Damian's words had prepared him for confrontation, and the anger borne by ire over cruel injustice encouraged it. The urge to drive his broadsword through his gut was unlike any other he'd ever felt.

Yet, there would be no charge. It was the wisdom of Helena that caused his introspection, and gave him realization of the dark forces at work upon his psyche.

"Feel the twist of this creatures craft! Know!" She cried out in warning, and though Osuin had been set to senselessly charge their for, her words gave him beneficial pause. The threat was greater than imagined. Not only did they massacre flesh, but made attempt to twist their minds. Though rage remained coursing through him, the disciplined knight kept himself still, his grip on the handle of his sword remaining tight. Impulsive aggression could not be to their benefit, when he had tried to prompt it from them. Neither good to remain idle, for they could not attain victory through inaction.

“Form up into battle position! Focus not on their foul presence, but your Syrs beside you! Helena speaks wise truth! Together, we will purge this monster from Arethil. We shall advance as one!” Bellowed Osuin at the top of his lungs, as much to inspire his comrades as to empower himself for the battle to come. No doubt the anger instilled was shared. But anger could be focused into determination – a more effective weapon with which to wage the conflict before them.

The sense of malicious dread did begin to ease, through the magics woven by Syr Abalon. His support was timely evidence of the wisdom Helena spoke, and Osuin echoed. Though battle to come may be brutal, but the Knights of Anathaeum could not cower before it. If anything, it made it all the more important that they be the ones to face it.

“By the burning light of us all, shall we purge the land of malevolence!” Osuin added, striding forth on his steed to stand with the others, steeling himself with renewed discipline for the battle to come.

Helena Abalon Shallows Faramund Petra Darthinian Markus Glorphain Damien DeMontieaux

 

[Damien DeMontieaux]

"If I win, your entire party will be taken prisoner and the rogue who rides with you will be executed, his feline parts to be fed to my hounds."

Damien's ear twitched idly as if dispelling a fly or some other such minor irritant. The slow, disquiet swishing of his tail to-and-fro was the feline fellow's only real outward reaction to the foul words and fouler magicks of the Glorphain that swept across the battlefield-to-be. As melodramatic and audacious as his actions might have seemed prior, it seemed that the rogue knew well the values of subtlety: rather than respond to the insult, he but waited patiently in silence somewhat near the edge of the Anathaeum host, one gloved hand resting on the basket hilt of his yet-sheathed blade as he studied his foe from afar with a predator's patience.

And so Damien looked on as Syr Abalon unleashed the full potency of the Chorus of Regret; so he stood by as Syrs Petra, Lyra, Jarro, and Faramund assembled themselves for their pursuit; so he waited as Helena gave her commands and as Syr Osuin and many more among the ranks of the Knights shook off the taint of the noisome bloodlust cast upon them and stepped forward in preparation to deliver a much more righteous (though no less violent) form of retribution. All the while, his narrow amber eyes never left the distant, crimson-swaddled form of his bloated prey and the army that surrounded him.

This cat was waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. And while he waited, nothing—absolutely nothing—would escape his keen gaze.

Outnumbered or not, the Knights of Anathaeum had both favorable terrain and a strong offensive position here, what with their placement on the high ground above an open field. It was practically a textbook setup for a brutally effective downhill cavalry charge. The Glorphain surely knew this; a warlord such as he did not win countless strategically unlikely victories through brute force alone. And yet he beckoned the Knights—and Helena in particular—to charge forth, from a position where even a single mounted rider could easily take down a dozen men in even the most thoughtless of rampaging gallops before being downed.

The strategy did not add up. It was brash and bombastic. It was ignorant of the basic principles of combat. And that meant that Markus Glorphain probably had something more up his sleeve.

It did not take the rogue long to spot what that something was.

Boar spears. Dozens of them, each held by a pair of infantrymen skulking behind the riders that formed the bulk of the front line of the Glorphain's forces. Bloody massive ones, too; long, ugly things of black iron with twisted spikes set along the crossbars. All it would take would be for the spear-bearers to run forward and set their weapons once a charge had already begun and it would be too late; momentum would carry the cavalry down onto those wickedly sharp points, coated in who knew what foul substances. There, mounts and riders alike would meet a gruesome, agonizing fate, pinned and impaled and quickly surrounded by countless merciless blades seeking to end their lives.

It was a brutally simple and frighteningly foolproof strategy. With a direct frontal charge from high ground out of the question, the Knights would be forced to either rely entirely on ranged attacks or go on the defensive, a frightening prospect for an outnumbered force; not to mention, this was assuming that they even saw the threat that Damien did in time to avert immediate disaster. Located at the edge of the group as he was, it was unlikely he would be able to alert someone with authority in time.

But, then again ... all of this relied on the ability of the spear-bearers to get into position in time once a charge had already begun ...

With a broad flourish, the rogue drew his épée, turning for a moment towards Helena and the other Knights and neatly tipping his cap in rakish salute. By the time any turned to look at him in either question or reciprocation, however, he was already gone, vanished into the shadow cast by the looming clouds of smoke and ash above as if he'd never been there to begin with.

Scarcely had another moment passed when the first of the spear-bearers fell, clutching spasmodically at his chest. His face was filled not so much with fear or rage or pain as with puzzlement; a sort of incredulous incomprehension at the needle-sharp point of the blade that had burst free from the front of his abdomen after passing through his heart with such surgical precision as to emerge unstained by blood.

By the time the fallen man's compatriot realized something was amiss, Damien had already moved on. No need to waste time and effort killing both; the ugly iron spears were far too heavy for one man along to wield. And so it went: from one to the next the Dancing Gloam made his silent way, striking from behind in the gathering darkness, there and gone again in the passing of the same breath.

By the time the alarm was raised, a score-and-seven of the Glorphain's spearmen lay gasping out their final breaths. The feline allowed himself a brief moment of internal self-congratulation at his preliminary efforts. It was only a dent in the number of spears that could be wielded against the Anathaeum, but it was a sizeable dent, nonetheless.

And now ... now for the fun part.

"Markus Glorphain!"

Standing tall upon a still-smoldering hillock to the rear of the enemy lines (okay, now really, how in Epressa had he gotten over there?) and practically radiating that particular infuriatingly smug arrogance that only a cat could hope to pull off, Damien set his arm and stance, holding his épée up in a vertical duelist's salute before him as he looked towards the vile warlord himself.

"Thinkest thou to throw me to the hounds? Then cease thy tarrying, ye prattling confluence of lard!"

Faster than the eye could follow, the épée slashed down into a sloping diagonal, the rogue pointing the blade down at his opponent in an unmistakable challenge.

"Come and get me!"

Osuin Helena Petra Darthinian Abalon Shallows Faramund Markus Glorphain

 

[Markus Glorphain]

Make them remember that they have a conscience, and the dead do not forgive them until they join them so!

Nay.
Allow me to teach you the truth of the world, Sorcerer.
​

The Glorphain could hear all of the voices. All of the same images that his men were seeing and hearing. He could smell their fear and hear how some of the greener boys' hearts began to flutter. They thought of laying their weapons down, he knew. How the worm did wriggle when hearing the voices though. The reminder that all of these spirits and lost souls suffered because of the strings it pulled merely excited it. The worm fed on it's suffering and it's power grew among the Glorphain's host. Yes. Let them remember all that they had done that day. Let them remember they had a conscience... Let them see it through the perspective of the warlord.

The Warlord shuttered and sighed.

"What a delightful taste."

Bloodlust had always been too simple of a word for him. It was all of the other things that excited him. Things that would now excite the ones serving him. They, like he became lustful at the thought of bringing about more death. Delighted at the idea that they might get to taste the flesh of the forces that rode against them. To consume sweat. To harvest their blood. To admire the texture of their entrails. To murder them before the eyes of their loved ones. All of the things that were vile and lurked within the hearts of men. And suddenly, his warriors began to howl like demons under dark clouds. The spirits of those who spoke to their conscience found themselves cooked in a stew of lust and destruction. Beneath their armor, they desired to burst forth and merely feel.

The only thing that held them back was a command.

The cat man's arrival had been unexpected. He cut a swathe through the Glorphain's spearmen in an impressive display. One that caught his attention and kept it. The Glorphain grinned, his thin lips spreading wide under his horned helmet. He grew up in the slums of Alliria. Fools chased after cats. He clicked his tongue a few times, a sound akin to that of clicking mandibles. From behind the Glorphain's ranks, three of them came. Born from a similar magick that birthed the two enemies, the creatures appeared to be an amalgamation of a number of poisonous insects. They had a thick, armor-like carapace with razor sharp claws and many eyes, some of them appearing human. They let out a wild shriek as they reached Damien, looking to tear them to shreds at the call of their master and creator.

The Warlord's attention returned to battle as the Knights of Anathaeum pressed on. Archers loosed their arrows on them. There was a feeling that pulsed through the air itself. The ground began to shake as the Glorphain's forces could barely contain the fury that flowed through their veins. They began to chant. Mesmerizing and hellish.
​

"FOR THE WORM! FOR THE SPIRIT OF THE DESPOT! FOR OUR LORD, MARKUS GLORPHAIN!"​

"Spearmen advance!"






​

 

[Helena]

At the van of the charge, Helena saw as her foes fell to the glinting blade of a dancing shadow. Spears, stout and thick, dropping to the floor. But still there were more. Still the threat of their number was great.

And still she could sense that foul thing. The Glorphain.

Teeth bared in wolf's smile, the ruby gem upon her forehead gleamed bright, burned with the light of the blazing sun, and Zenith, that sword whose blade was made from willowsteel, with an eldyr wood wand at its core, drank in the bright light of the sun, more and more with each of her steady breaths, the blade held out like a wing that skate upon magick wind, seemed to gleam and glow brighter and brighter with each galloped beat of her horses gate.

The time for words was over. Now was the time of Wyld wolves. The time of Dawn's fire.

She struck the blade up. Still a hundred meters outs. Her legs grew strong with the flex of her powerful chords, running with the canter of her horse. They were one. Beast and rider. Their movements entwined and natural as steam billowed from each of their breaths and heat burned in their hearts.

Zenith glowed white hot.

She twist her frame, left arm crossed over the medial line of her balance, her core flexed and supple all the same as she stayed glued to her saddle and felt the heat of her magicked weapon burning beside her. Her magick, and all the magick the weapon drew in from the world around her. From the sun. From the earth. From the life that still clung to this place.

She rest the searing blade atop the orichalcum plate of her vambrace. The runic wells and enchanted lines of man-made ley drank in some of the white fire that burned along Zenith's whispering length. Helena's eye fixed on the profane master of the host. Trailed to the spear line her band would crash against.

From the far crags of the Spine's terrain, a wolf bayed hungry howl.

Zenith flashed. A white streak, like a ray of candescent sun's light caught along a bolt of silk, beamed forth, searing a haze of miraging steam in its wake. She traced a slicing line that flashed across the ranks of their foes, and the Captain of Dawn turned her sword to cutting angle and slashed it in flat arc, left to right.

The line of white stuck to the men, their shields. Their armor. A bubbling heat that sank in. Ate away. Grew hotter and hotter as it expanded. Flashed white. Detonated bright in chaining bursts that strated from where it had first landed, and trailed out with rippling pops and booms.

 

[Faramund]

When the time came to charge, Syr Faramund of the Dawn was not found wanting. Driving his heels back, the big dawnling slapped his visor down as he followed his Captain's example. First came the canter. The slow, rolling thunder of dozens of hooves. The rattle of drawn blades came after.

'With me!' Faramund barked, summoning his companions to his side. Lyra whispered a prayer as she closed in from the right, golden hair flowing in the wind like a silken banner. As beautiful as the dawn, she brandished her recurve bow, raised it reverentially to the sky. The quiver of arrows riding at her hip went untouched as the ornate bow began to glow, resonating a soft white light.

To her right, beyond the magicks of his sister, Syr Jarro rode, weapons held low by his horse's flanks. Black as midnight, the two curved blades hummed faintly as the warriors closed to battle. From Faramund's point of view, it looked like Jarro was praying, too. But where his sister's gaze was warm, picturesque, his was hard and unforgiving.

Static seemed to flit around the two blades in his hands. Blood-like lightning, it crackled with every jolt of his horse.

Clutching his winged spear tight, Faramund tried to suppress the sudden sense of inadequacy he felt. Massing against them, the Glorphain's spearmen looked much akin a barrier that could not be overcome. Not by mortals like him, at least.

'Good thing I've got you all with me,' Faramund smiled, shooting a quick glance to his left. To the Song-weaver who rode there. Though he would never admit it, Petra looked as beautiful as Lyra, as fierce as Jarro. No doubt she possessed the bone-headed bravery of Faramund, too.

Faramund? Since when did I start referring to myself in the third person?

'Close now, my friends!' Lyra called, having finished her preparations. Fingers nimble to the task drew an arrow from her quiver, laid it crossways to string. All along the line, the Glorphain's men began to ground their shields, angling spears upwards to disembowel horse or unseat rider.

There was a bright flash in Faramund's periphery. Light lashed the enemy line, smiting shields. A concussive ripple ensued, punching holes through the enemy's defensive wall. The soldiers in front of Faramund's lot reeled as one such detonation weakened their formation.

A harsh voice bellowed, sought to rally. Pulling back her bowstring, Lyra whispered one last prayer before loosing.

The wall came apart in a chorus of screams and burning light. 'At them!' Jarro yelled, galloping into the gap a moment ahead of his sister. Hewing left and right, the elf laughed as he slew. His blades, tasting blood, hummed louder, longer.

Faramund heard none of that. Voicing his anger, he drove his spear through the first face he saw. Impact jarred up his arm as his horse carried him beyond the line, into the village proper. Reining about, he made to return. Lyra waved him off. 'Get the girl!' She shouted to him, leaning back to avoid a spear-thrust. Her bowstring twanged. Another warrior sent to the Abyss. 'Go!' she called again.

Faramund went.

Petra Darthinian Helena Osuin Damien DeMontieaux Abalon Shallows Markus Glorphain

 

[Osuin]

The battle began, and Osuin moved forward alongside the others to meet it. Rows of enemy archers let loose a volley as they advanced, and he raised his shield to protect himself from the bombardment. Osuin steeled himself for the clash of battle that was to follow.

Damien, the cat warrior they’d encountered, pressed further ahead to meet the charge, and soon disappeared into the fray. Faramund too, charged forward on his horse, shouting out a rallying cry as he rode onward. Osuin rode beside him, spear at the ready as the knights advanced upon the enemy line. His steed took him closer and closer to the front, until the spears of the enemy came crashing against the round shield he held out for protection. With a swing of his weapon, he parried the spear away only for another of their foes to step forth to maintain the line. His steed took a few paces rearwards before advancing again in another attempt to break their formation. Yet, the line continued to hold strong, with more spear wielders arriving to concentrate upon the area Osuin assailed.

Helena empowered her blade with magick, building an increasing glow with each word she spoke. She finally unleashed the spell with a swing of the sword, bringing the bright ray of light crashing against the row of Glorphain’s soldiers standing ready to meet them. The magic she’d summoned forth bound to them on contact, a bright line that continued to glow and grow until it burst in a bright display. Numerous warriors were felled in a moment, and the chaos that resulted provided a fine opportunity to press forward.

He charged forth while Faramund went after the girl, announcing his intentions as he did. Once he'd come into contact again, Osuin chose to remain and hold fast, working to keeping the attention of the enemy upon him as Faramund pressed on. With his spear lowered, Osuin gave a tug on the reins to cause his horse to turn in place, backing up before bursting forward to thrust his spear. Though the attack was blocked, he followed it up with another strike to maintain the pressure of the attack. Glorphain's warriors continued to block each attack made, but causing casualties was a secondary concern compared to Faramund's efforts to rescue the girl.

He would remain and act as a distraction for as long as was needed, in effort to prevent the enemy from regrouping, and distract them from the actions of Faramund.

Petra Darthinian Damien DeMontieaux Markus Glorphain Helena Faramund Abalon Shallows