Red-Stained Night (Closed)

[Christoph]

Army battle. Closed to Nevermore. All NPCs agreed on in advance.

“You who fear the darkness will forever live in darkness!”

~Final words of the sorcerer Yuri Tilaninov, before his execution.

*

It was late. The sun had vanished behind the rocky hills, quickly draining the warm color from the sky like a sponge. Silence smothered the night, broken only by the irregular crunching of rocks and soil beneath clumsy feet. Jonathan’s raggedly dressed form half walked and half stumbled through the darkening forest. His tattered brown cloak swayed with each step while his tangled mop of filthy brown hair stuck to his head in a matted mess.

Under the veil of darkness, the landscape took on an unwholesome, almost nightmarish visage. Summer had reached its peak, yet the forest looked as though it had been ravaged by winter. The leafless skeletons of deciduous trees stretched upward like twisted, emaciated claws seeking to pluck the very stars from the heavens. They would find few to snatch, however, as most of the sparkling jewels were covered by a dark funeral veil of clouds. Even the mighty pines had an ominous look to them, towering above their sickly cousins like vicious slave masters.

The stillness unsettled him as he nervously navigated the columns of gnarled trees. The cool air carried the subtle, natural aromas of pine and dead leaves, but he couldn’t shake his certainty that something wasn’t right. He couldn’t see any evidence of a threat; no sounds could be heard or movement detected. That was perhaps the source of his irrational distress. It seemed as though he wasn’t walking through a real, living forest, but rather a mausoleum dedicated to one. Nothing stirred. He could only hope that it remained so.

As the sun sank completely, Jonathan wished that he’d just waited for morning to check his traps. He wouldn’t have needed to worry about walking back home in the dark. But alas, his family was hungry and he didn’t want to risk a wild animal coming across one of his snares before morning and making off with his potential meal. The weary man held up his catch; a fine brown hare. His wife and two daughters would be pleased to see it when he returned to their cottage. And after wandering through the ominous forest for an hour, he would be happy to see them.

He would never see them again. He died silently with not so much as a breath as he slumped to the ground, an arrow in his throat. The night began its reign.

* * * * *

It had been a clean kill – swift, silent, and lethally effective. Yet, it felt so… unsatisfying. Sir Ciaphas Volg slouched in his saddle atop Actaeon. The massive charcoal-colored wolf padded quietly through the forest, dragging its master’s most recent kill by the head. The noble sighed and ran a hand through his surprisingly well-groomed blonde hair; one was never too busy to keep up appearances.

He’d treated the filthy peasant as an opponent rather than prey. He typically reserved the dealing of swift and efficient death for those worthy of being considered real foes. This pathetic victim had been just that: a victim – an insignificant wretch to be terrified and toyed with at his pleasure. Such a waste. At least the peon would serve a more noble cause in death than he did in life: that of feeding his master’s small clutch of beasts.

The cottage he’d come across an hour before had been a far more enjoyable expedition. A woman and two girls were there by themselves. Ciaphas had ridden up to the home in broad daylight, taking delight as the three of them screamed and ran for the door at the sight of his weapons and murderous eyes. He let his wolf take down one of the girls and have its fun with her for a while. The noble listened to the remaining two hear the third’s screams of terror and pain while he pretended to struggle for an entrance into their ramshackle cottage. That part has just been for fun, of course, as breaking in for real proved as simple as breathing. He’d enjoyed it; it almost made up for how boring his fourth kill of the day had been. Almost.

He left their brutalized remains pinned to the dead trees with iron spikes as a warning to trespassers. This forest and everything in it belonged to his master.

He smiled in spite of himself. To think, instead of stalking the wilderness like a reaper of death, the twenty-five year-old noble could have remained home, waiting for his father to hurry up and die so that he could claim the estate. Besides, if things went as his master planned, Ciaphas could carve out his own slice of the new order. The schemes of carving out a new domain in the eastern edges of Salvar seemed far-fetched at first, but they grew on him. There was something about that chef, their leader and his master, that drew him in. What can I say? Megalomania sells.

A chorus of familiar reptilian snarls shook the noble from his reverie. He had reached his destination, and the small pack of ferocious horse-sized Ashkore lizards, as well as an assortment of other beasts, smelled the fresh blood of his victim.

Their current base of operations couldn't exactly be called impressive. Though it had once been a mighty castle atop the rugged hill, time had reduced the senescent structure to little more than a pile of ruins. It provided a dark, gothic atmosphere but offered little real protection save for the partially intact keep in the center. That was where their leader could be found. That was the command post of Elijah Belov – known as the butcher of souls, the caterer of the abyss, and many other titles, some more flattering than others.

Hopping off his mount and letting the feral canine fight it out with the reptiles over what little meat the peasant provided, Ciaphas started toward the keep. It didn't take long at all before three of the large scaly beasts pounced on the kill, their draconic jaws rending flesh and crushing bone. Spiked tails batted against leathery green flanks as they scuffled over the tiny morsel.

The crumbling castle swarmed with activity like a beehive. Hundreds of warriors and from hundreds of leagues in every direction scurried back and forth, patrolling or doing other duties. There were also a large number of unfamiliar faces; the new recruits, no doubt, though few of these appeared to be warriors.

The ancient fortress had become a decaying, bloated corpse compared to whatever its former glory had been. Now, the crumbling grey walls were the color of dead flesh and large patches of green moss covered the masonry as rot covers a cadaver. Even the sturdy keep was little more than a small box of stone and mortar. He sincerely hoped that Belov included some serious repairs in his master plan. Perhaps that was the purpose of the new arrivals.

Ciaphas stepped through what used to be the front gate and made his way to the far right corner, to the only fully intact room in the entire broken castle. It wasn’t much, probably once a servant’s chamber. It seemed ironic that the man he, someone of noble blood, took orders from used such a place as his center of command. Many a great man had humble beginnings, he supposed.

Two massive winged figures flanked the room’s wooden door. Sets of glowing yellow eyes illuminated their dark granite skin as they glared at the approaching noble with unhidden suspicion. Gargoyles. Those were new. The noble had to hand it to his culinary overlord; he knew how to manage scary architecture properly. Their demonic heads turned to follow him as he made his way to the command room, scrutinizing his every step. One moved mechanically to block his path while the other knocked twice on the door. It opened and he heard the chef’s familiar voice call out.

“He’s safe, let him in,” Elijah said. His voice possessed a ring of youthful vigor and clarity, as well as subtly powerful commanding edge. The two winged beasts stepped aside instantly, allowing Ciaphas through. “Was your patrol productive?”

A large wooden table strewn with maps, schematics, and empty plates and surrounded by a small handful of other faces dominated the center of the small chamber, making the room seem even more cramped. A large oil lamp hung from the ceiling. Belov sat at the far end, glancing up from one of the many pieces of tan parchment. Even with the tattered chef coat under his cloak, Elijah managed a noble, forceful appearance. His strong chin and piercing brown eyes gave him a compelling, indomitable aura of presence.

“Yes, I would say that it was,” the noble replied with a grin. He took his seat in the empty chair by the door and folded his black-gloved hands on the table. “I took… measures to prevent trespassing.”

“Lovely, how many did you kill this time?” This time, it wasn’t his master speaking. Ciaphas glanced to the far corner with his lips curled into a sneer. There he found his younger sister, Alexandria Volg, leaning back with a steaming tin mug in her hand. She glared disapprovingly at her older sibling. “There is psychological warfare, and then there is senseless brutality.”

Ciaphas rolled his eyes. He and his sister had the same blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and well-trimmed noble bearing. Aside from their genders, both were very similar in appearance. Their similarities ended there, however. Ciaphas prided himself on his cunning and merciless nature, not caring what the means were so long as the desired ends were achieved. His sister, though, was valorous and honorable to a fault and sickeningly noble – an improper demeanor for a woman, he thought.

“I only killed four, dear sister,” the older replied snidely. During the past few months, Ciaphas had grown very weary of his sister’s hostile impugnation. “One to feed the war beasts and three left as a warning.”

“Or as invitation to every mercenary, witch hunter, and local militiaman within twenty leagues of here to come and investigate,” Alexandria shot back harshly, narrowing her eyes.

“Then let them,” replied Ciaphas defiantly, raising his voice.

“That is quite enough.” Belov barely raised his voice, but his cold command halted the argument with stunning efficiency. “Alexandria, this is not a place for the faint of heart or squeamish. You know that.” The Volg sister sank back into her chair, her eyes smoldering at both of them. Ciaphas allowed his smug grin to return, though it was instantly scrubbed away.

“Nor is it time for your pointless stupidity, Ciaphas,” their commander continued, a trace of venom tainting his voice. “Until we’re fully prepared, we can not afford attracting unnecessary attention to ourselves.” As if on cue, the sound of flapping wings and an inhuman screech came from outside the chamber. The chef tilted his head, uncertainty filling his eyes for the first time. “The harpies are back early.”

The door opened unceremoniously without so much as a knock and a winged, obviously feminine figure stepped through with the graceful steps of a dancer. She was the Matron of the harpy flock. Belov looked on as she approached the table and knelt down before him. From her mighty wings to her fangs and barbed talons, she was a deadly creature. Yet, at the same time, her dark-skinned figure possessed an undeniable feral beauty. She was an angel of death.

“We have information,” she hissed, her voiced possessing qualities both serpentine and birdlike. “My flock reported a large number of intruders approaching the edges of the forest.” Elijah raised an eyebrow.

“Who are they? How many?”

“Salvar has sent an entire war host, master. They crushed the uprising you sparked at Archen earlier today and have sent several detachments to scout our domain while they reorganize the remainder of their force.”

“They must still have at least three thousand fighting men,” he murmured with a cynical chuckle, clenching his fist tightly. “They arrived far more quickly than I anticipated… and they will have no trouble finding us.”

[Nevermore]

“Light is a fickle thing. While it defies the darkness and holds back the night, even the faintest light can cast the darkest shadow.”

- Faust, in his epic tragedy Mephistopheles

Volume I

A thick plume of smoke spiraled like a staircase into the heavens, a guiding marker for those whose lives had been lost -- the city had fallen.

Arimov partially stumbled through the darkening streets, hunting a straggler he had seen escape from the execution line. A handful of them had managed the feat, no doubt preparing a brief revolt before they were quashed, much like this greater uprising would be. That blasted sorcerer-witch, Elijah Belov from the reports Arimov had read, had started this. He supposed it didn’t really matter, though.

The whole rebellion would be nullified in one fell swoop and the elf would be given a payout merely for taking part. Rounding the corner, the Silvan came across an unexpected sight: three lone soldiers fending off a group of the rebels. The mercenary quickly identified the man he’d been pursuing and deemed it a worthy enough cause to participate. Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth appeared in his hands, twin crescents to shed light on the encroaching dusk.

He lunged into the fray, his blade lashing out in a streak of silver and a spray of red. His foe's head toppled to the ground and a spurt of gore stung the elf's eyes. Blinded and acting on instinct, he calmly parried the incoming strike. He sprang backward, narrowly avoiding another slash, and wiped the blood from his eyes in time to see a corpulent woman charge him. He ducked her axe strike and thrust upward with his scimitars, cutting deep into her stomach. The woman's gaze went blank as she fell.

Her partner entered with a mace, already swinging at Arimov. He leapt away in time to avoid it, then spun around and sank both his weapons into the man's exposed back. With a final shrill call of pain, he sank to his knees, dying. Arimov was done. All his potential enemies had been defeated. The elf turned slowly to look at his allies: one of them had blood splattered all over his navy blue vest. His salt and pepper beard and hair were fairly well-kempt, giving Arimov the impression that he was a man of importance. The next was a brutish man, tall and with rippling muscles and a long cord of a dark ponytail trailing from the back of his head.

The last man seemed frail and small, eyes wide and innocent. He wore a hood over his silvery hair, and from his soft appearance Arimov guessed he was a cleric. The barbarian gave him a brief look and then a nod before returning to the priest’s side. They began toward him, but didn’t even utter a word of thanks and merely passed him by. Tough crowd. The older man, though, stopped in front of him. “I appreciate it, son,” he said with a fairly deep-voiced inflection. “We might’ve been in a bit of trouble if ye hadn’t distracted them. I’m Augustus Cesar… maybe you know me. You look familiar.”

“I’m one of the sellswords you hired to assist in the taking of this city, as well as the routing of Elijah’s mutiny.”

“That explains it. You seem handy enough with them swords of yours… maybe you should stick with me. If anyone’s gonna survive the next battle, it’ll be us. We’re not normal fodder for the cattle, y’know. I’m a seasoned veteran in this game, boy, and even these numbers aren’t gonna mean squat when that warlock sees us! Fire will rain from the skies! You hear me? Fire will rain from the skies!” There was a brief hint of manic flame flickering in the older man’s eyes, but as soon as it had come it was gone, replaced by steely composure.

Without another word, Augustus left. Arimov caught a look of him; the weathered warrior was shivering slightly, and clenching his weapons tightly. He held a longsword in one of his vibrating fists and a dagger in the other – the elf made note of it, just in case.

The sound of cheering men carried back through the streets: the capital punishment was being carried out. Arimov shrugged and mentally blotted out the noise as he walked towards the crowd. Soon enough they’d march out of the ruined city with all of their remaining forces to mount an assault on Elijah’s stronghold. His thoughts drifted to a dreamscape of the money he would be rewarded, complete with gold doubloons spewing out of ivory fountains, and briefly lost himself… but then came the vertigo, racking his mind with a bout of dizziness. His head lolled a bit to the side, swaying back and forth.

His vision began to clear a bit and Arimov began to stumble in an inebriated swagger towards the main army. The men were gathered around a makeshift platform with those at fault lined up horizontally in rows, Augustus standing atop the pulpit with a smug grin on his face. He was speaking, but Arimov couldn't filter his words properly... His meaning was obvious enough, however, when the general turned and decapitated one of the prisoners with a brisk sweeping motion of his sword. Augustus was playing judge, jury and executioner, and these people had been found guilty. Arimov looked away to the rooftops, not caring to see them die.

There, he saw through the slowly dissipating fog of his vision a lone gunman, preparing their last arrow. The mercenary didn’t bother to issue a warning, content to let one of these filthy cutthroats meet a bloody end. He did, of course, hear the cry to “look out!” as the projectile was loosed and a hail of return fire bombarded the rebel.

Arimov, though, realized just too late that the arrow was cutting through the air toward him. Tûr Amarth and Námo Gîl rose to challenge it, but he knew he couldn't deflect it. Aware that he was about to meet his end, the elf retreated into the back of his mind. At least there it would be painless. As the last moments of clarity fell upon his darkening vision, Arimov found that he wished quite a lot to see another sunset.

~*~

‘Blast. I’ve finally gotten one of these bastards, and he won’t talk!’ the witch-hunter Setri thought darkly, casting a forlorn glance at the stalwart man who sat there, bleeding. He had so many instruments of torture and had already gone through so many, but nothing seemed to help. The myrmidon was adamant; Elijah must’ve issued some sort of order, or perhaps this infernal vagabond insisted upon mocking him before death finally came. Thumbing quickly through his utensils, Setri decided that he would give no mercy. He found a particularly nasty device and decided it would be good enough.

“I asked you nicely,” Setri said, sighing in exasperation. He aligned it with the fool's arm. “But I’ll say it again: tell me all you know about Elijah and his bloody rebellion. Weaknesses of the fortress would be nice, too. If you can sweeten the deal a bit, maybe you’ll get out of this alive." He licked his chapped lips and smiled warmly. "I will kill you if I need to."

No response. After a few minutes of “friendly negotiation” with the tool, though, and perhaps a little provocation of his own with magic, Setri managed to get a scream. Beads of sweat were rolling down the dissenter’s face, forming rivers of almost-clean through the grime that had begun to layer. “I- I’ll tell you,” he stuttered after awhile longer, pupils dilated and eyes wide open in horror and anguish. Haha! Torment succeeds again. Setri allowed himself a chuckle or two before he began to concentrate, intent on capturing every single word this traitor would say.

In the end, he found he was extremely dissatisfied – the rotten cur had spilled nothing of importance except a more exact location of the enemy fortification. He called over a subordinate and told him to take the “coordinates” to August Cesar, current figurehead (in Setri’s “humble” opinion, of course) of this particular army. Setri was angry. He had been thwarted yet again in his search for anything to help him in the inevitable confrontation with the enemy.

Setri was in this for far more than revenge, though. One of his brethren had been killed by that monster Elijah, and Setri had taken on a vendetta and molded it, shaping his desire to personally murder the cretin… sorcery had no right to be in the hands of such an impotent animal. As he systematically took the life of the man he had just interrogated, the man he had just promised freedom to, Setri mulled over the statistics and decided that his chances of defeating the wizard alone were quite macabre. For the second time today, the witch-hunter recognized, he was very unhappy. Maxilla guide him.

~*~

Unconsciousness, or perhaps death, was usually a dreamless slumber, from what Arimov knew. The elf acknowledged that he was fully self-aware, which led him to conclude that he had indeed been felled by that random projectile. He felt as though he should’ve been angry, perhaps even enraged… but instead, there was only a calm acceptance. Deciding that he would go through a recap of the events that could have lead up to his most unfortunate episode of lightheadedness, Arimov took a look at all that had occurred today. In his subconscious, it was fairly easy to look back through his memories:

The gates were down! Those unruly and large siege machines had torn down the switch that opened and closed it while the men managed to briefly commandeer it. Arimov was one in the epicenter of the swarm of troops that demolished the force who tried to hold them back, meaning he wasn’t skewered on their spears and halberds. Arimov was pleased that he had already managed to dodge one of those nasty polearms. Oh, how he hated them. Smoke was beginning to rise as the troops threw torches and poured flasks full of oil they had carried in with them and a handful were beginning to arrive with entire kegs and barrels full.

Against such overwhelming odds, their enemy was being pushed back, but Augustus would be waiting behind the town with more fighters to hold them off. The red brick buildings seemed to perspire with fear of the blaze. This whole thing seemed a bit surreal for Arimov, who had only taken part in small raids… he didn’t have experience in capturing entire settlements, and from what he had heard through the grapevine, they didn’t even think the leader of the uprising would be here. Whatever. It didn’t matter to him, so long as he was paid for the hardship. He crossed his scimitar-like swords into an ‘X’ as he plowed through, nudging his way through the crowd to try and whet his thirst for carnage. It didn’t seem to take long before it was becoming harder and harder to find a good foe to challenge.

Multiple times, someone stole one of his kills and blamed it on their “adrenaline high” or “the thrill and exhilaration,” and Arimov was hard-pressed to resist the impulse to stab them on the spot. It would be easy, of course, but he might be tried for mutiny and painfully hanged on an itchy rope.

The sun was beginning to descend, now, having finished its great and daily journey across the cerulean heavens. Arimov sighed despondently as a ripple of cheers throbbed in his ears and rang out through the cluster of people. Augustus had ordered the cadavers to be piled high and set alight – these scoundrels and turncoats deserved no funeral pyres or ceremonious monologues. The men shouted their approval and pushed to get their chance to spit on their foes. A handful of volunteers, Arimov included, were sent to scan the area of survivors. They were told to bring as many as they could back alive – public executions were much more humiliating than an honorable duel...

Arimov floated insubstantially in his mind, a bit displeased now that his future had been stolen from him by a simple arrow. How ignoble. Life had been so sourly ephemeral…

But then came the lights. Arimov’s vision took a moment to readjust from the darkness to sight, taking in the images of that feeble cleric standing over him. A vague emerald light was glowing around the priest’s hands, mending the wound he had been dealt with surprising haste. His retainer was there, too, the barbarian with the long, black knot of hair. Augustus pushed past the man and offered a word or two. When Arimov gave no sign of having heard, he repeated himself, “You alright, lad?”

“Yes,” Arimov replied quietly.

“Good. Then we’re moving out.” The older man stood up straight and walked away, outside of the mercenary’s hearing range. He did, however, hear the sound of marching and grinding gears and it took Arimov only a moment to absorb the information. He realized quickly, however, that they were beginning the brief march to the ruined fortress where Elijah was said to be staying.

For some reason, the elf thought, it all seemed like a bad idea.

[Christoph]

“What do you make of all this?” Elijah sat on a wooden crate next to a large pile of vegetables, making short work of their skins with a small knife before systematically tossing them into a large black couldron. The warm glow of a large oil lamp filled the canvas tent and glimmered balefully in his eyes.

“I fear our venture could end prematurely.” Alexandria leaned against the massive cooking pot, her foot propped up on a brown sack, somehow managing to seem both relaxed and alert at the same time. Her chain mail vest and warrior garb clashed with her highborn poise and classic beauty. The flickering light danced angelically across her disheartened face as she spoke. “And perhaps I do not mind.”

After giving out a series of preliminary orders to his subordinates, Belov had left the command room, or the “command closet” as he sometimes called it. The other men had wasted no time in suggesting their own ideas on how to respond, with plans ranging from fleeing the area to Ciaphas’s proposal that they hide in the ruins and set an ambush, using what minuscule protection the place provided to take as many Salvar soldiers down with them before slipping off.

The former-chef and sorcerer took his leave and relocated to the large tan food tent set up just north of the ruined castle. It was an unusual spot, but Elijah had always been more comfortable when handling food. Besides, with his white chef coat, he certainly looked the part. It allowed him to escape, just a little, to his past life. Alexandria Volg followed him out shortly after so that the real meeting could commence. It was off to a good start.

“I’ve worked too hard to let this all fall apart around me, Alex,” Elijah snapped, his voice harsher than he’d intended.

“When did you become so obsessively ambitious?” she shot back. She glared for a moment before her face softened. “I’m just saying… don’t you miss when it was just the two of us, before we brought my brother and everyone else in? Before… when we just did our best to stay alive and help people. Before all the delusions of grandeur.”

“This isn’t a delusion,” Belov sighed, plunking a peeled potato into the pot. He set his knife aside looked Alexandria in the eyes, cupping the side of her face in his hand. “Look at what we’ve accomplished in the last month alone. Almost a thousand have rallied to our cause, and word of us has spread through the underground circles for a hundred leagues in each direction, drawing a small army of rogue sorcerers to our ranks. We’ve tamed beasts from the mountains and gathered nearly enough weapons to supply a legion. And this is just the beginning.”

“But it’s changing you, Eli. Back, sitting at that table earlier… that wasn’t you.” She turned aside. “It was someone else.” The lamplight flickered somberly in her eyes.

“Of course it wasn’t. It’s merely the role that I needed to play. You grew up in a noble family; you know what happens if someone slips or shows weakness.”

She turned her head away. “Until you wake up one day to realize that you became what you were pretending to be.”

“Given the circumstances, I’d say that risk is one of my smallest concerns,” Elijah replied with a chuckle, earning a scathing glare from his companion. “But right now, we’ve got an enemy army to take care of.”

“So more fighting,” sighed Alexandria wearily, sitting down onto the crate next to Elijah, leaning against him and taking his hand in hers. “We’re certainly no strangers to it.”

* * * * *

By the time Elijah took his leave from the food tent, the last traces of sunlight had vanished, chased from the sky by relentless tendrils of darkness. Figures in dark clothing and scavenged armor patrolled the grounds silently and efficiently, contrasting the chef’s casual gait and white cooking garb.

He used to hide his former profession in the early days of the movement, but these days it had become part of his strange charm. It was a remnant from his former, simpler life of toiling in a tavern kitchen for his mother – back in their hometown in the Salvic province of Hanslev. He missed those days; back when things were as simple as taking care of family and friends and wearing a chef coat because he actually worked as a chef. But they were gone, stolen from him by the terrible civil war and the Church responsible for it.

He had left everything behind when he left again, including all of his old friends. Perhaps it had been for the best, for his trials had changed him into someone other than the boy they had known growing up. They would not have stood by him. Alexandria alone remained by his side during those terrible days. Only she stayed to hold back the tides of darkness and insanity that threatened to consume him; she gave him more than blind vengeance against the church to live for. She had not only understood that the Ethereal Sway’s grip needed to be broken, but she had been willing to fight by his side to make it happen. Alexandria was a remarkable woman, one whose companionship Elijah treasured more than anything. The thought of her losing her nerve and her spirit pained him more than any mortal wound.

Torches and lanterns dotted the ruins, illuminating the sprawling shell of a fortress. Where most saw rubble, though, he saw potential. According to legend, two hundred years ago, the site had been the headquarters of a society of powerful monks and sorcerers. Their members were unrivaled warriors who safeguarded the surrounding lands and struck fear into the hearts of tyrants. They kept their domain virtually independent of Salvar’s rule for nearly a century before being wiped out by the massive kingdom’s armies. It made sense, then, that the people of Archen had rebelled so willingly.

We will continue your noble work, Belov promised, running a hand over the cold stone of keep’s only fully intact wall.

First though, they would need to contend with more imminent threats. That forces of Salvar were clearly out for blood following the uprising and it couldn’t have been a worse time for it. He had just commenced the reconstruction of the castle, not only meaning that it offered meager defense, but also that the complex was crawling with masons, laborers, and other non-combatants who the attackers would have no compunction against executing. Belov could not allow that; the loss of such valuable skilled hands would be catastrophic to his plans. The fight needed stayed away from the ruins if at all possible. It wouldn’t be an easy task against any opponent, let alone a fully equipped Salvic host, filled with professional soldiers.

“Master Belov!” A voice both urgent and eerily emotionless interrupted the rogue sorcerer’s thoughts. A trio of black-clad warriors emerged from the shadowy trees and approached him. They were Brothers of Shadow, members of a tribal warrior clan that Elijah and his earliest allies had saved from annihilation at the hands of the Ethereal Sway. They were honor-bound to his service and proved invaluable as trackers, scouts, and saboteurs; aiding them had certainly been a worthwhile investment. The three knelt before their leader in unison.

“Stand,” he instructed, effortlessly slipping back into his confident commanding demeanor. The underlings obeyed immediately. “What is the status?”

“We completed our patrol, as have the harpies,” replied the lead Brother. “The army will be upon us within an hour, master. We counted three thousand – spears, crossbows, and cavalry. They even have a complement of siege engines – catapults and ballistae kept in the rear.”

Elijah nodded. “Standard procedure. No doubt they expect us to make a last stand in the ruins. Gather up the rest of your brotherhood, the rangers, and the other warriors and prepare yourselves.” He handed the Brother a roll of parchment. “Follow your part in these instructions, and pass them on to the other commanders. The enemy must not be allowed to reach the ruins.”

“Understood,” he acknowledged. “Also, the sorcerer coven seeks your audience.”

“I was already on my way.”

* * * * *
By the time Elijah joined his fellow sorcerers beyond the ruins, they had already constructed a truly massive bonfire, over fifty feet in diameter and fifteen feet high, with more wood still being added. It raged and roared like the depths of the hells. A thick trail of smoke reached into the night sky like a demonic arm. The thirty sorcerers in the coven formed a wide circle around this fire, chanting softly. Eli could feel the crackle of arcane energy in the air.

The coven was perhaps the most mismatched and diverse of his followers. Some sported traditional robes, others leather armor or tribal attire, and some just wore normal clothing. All were human and most hailed from Salvar, though a few appeared to be from Corone and one woman had the brown skin and eyes of a Fallien native. The Fallien woman, known as Bashah, stepped forward from the circle, clutching short, rune-covered rod crafted from exotic wood.

“All preparations are complete, Master Belov,” she said, inclining her head respectfully toward him. He found her accent fascinating. “We are ready to begin.”

Everyone looked at him expectantly, but Elijah didn’t respond at first. He let the silence linger, ready to act on his word; he had to admit it felt somewhat intoxicating. He silently removed his cloak and chef coat, revealing a twisting network of burn scars covering his lean arms and torso like a spider web. They were scars left behind by his fiery powers, the marks of his magic, and the price he paid for his growing supernatural might.

He nodded, just nodded. Bashah returned the gesture and took a place on the opposite side of the fire. Two others stepped forward to complete a close circle around the inferno. Atlin, a frail graying man from Corone, formed the traditional image of a wizard of old, with his brown robes and gnarled wooden staff. The final member was Anya, a Salvic woman who would have been rather beautiful if not for her scarred face and missing left eye. She had lived a hard life, but was easily tougher than most men. The three of them were the mightiest sorcerers in the coven, though none could match Elijah’s power. They all had their own reasons for joining his cause, but they all had in common the hope of learning some of their leader’s secrets.

“Let us commence,” said Elijah at last. Without ceremony, he drew the sword strapped to his waist and held it out before him. The magnificent weapon gleamed, the firelight seeming to flow over the blade’s surface like burning water. All eyes locked on the weapon; every member of the coven knew of its power. “To your places.”

The remaining coven members formed a wider circle around the four masters and began chanting again, their words rippling beneath fabric of reality. After short pause, the inner four joined. One by one, they thrust their arcane foci into the ground; Atlin used his staff and Bashah’s her rod. Anya produced a golden-tipped arrow from her belt and did the same. Last, Elijah rammed his sword into the earth with a burst of power so fierce that the ground cracked for dozens of meters in each direction, steam gushing from the fissures.

The ritual build up for several minutes as each member of the coven poured power into one massive spell. The chanting had reached a fevered pitch as words spewed from their lips, words alien to the material world. Gusts of wind swirled in a cyclone around them and the fire grew into a massive burning pillar over a hundred feet tall. Electricity crackled in the air. Dozens of surrounding plants crumbled into lifeless dust as their already faint vitality was sucked away to feed the voracious spell.

The sky above rumbled and churned in time with the chants. The heart of a storm began to form overhead, throbbing like a malignant tumor in the night sky as lightning in every spectrum coursed through it. Then, just as the ritual reached its peak, the chanting fell deathly silent. For two heartbeats, nothing happened. A strained stillness enveloped the air.

Then, the hoarded power released with an ear-splitting screech that echoed throughout the forest. The entire coven struggled collectively to keep reigns of the spell; Elijah’s scars burned and glowed like small rivers of lava. The roiling flame shot up into the sky, lancing through the pulsating storm. The storm exploded outward in a surge of black, green, and purple and expanded at an exponential rate, consuming the sky like a virulent plague.

The massive pillar of fire died quickly down to a smolder and the inner circle of the coven collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air. Except for Elijah. He stood on both feet through sheer force of will. Blood oozed from his nose and steam and smoke rose from his webbing of scars. His sword glowed like a hot branding iron, but he drew his sword from the earth anyway. He gazed at his coven, looking like a demon in the dying glow. None spoke for several moments.

“I will remain and keep the ritual intact,” Elijah said at last. “You all know your places. Go to them and prepare for the arrival of our enemy.” It was a simple order, given with no theatrics or dramatic prose. Yet, it carried a weight that none could deny. The coven dispersed and vanished into the gloom.

He looked toward the sky; it was on fire. They had created a perfect storm that only they could command. Just as a mighty hurricane could shatter the keel of a ship, his storm would break the back of the invading army. To make war against him would be to battle against the earth and sky itself. Fire and wrath would rain from the heavens in ways that only the false prophecies had spoken of, and the enemy would be scoured from the land.

[Nevermore]

((OOC: Sorry about the relatively short length and the wait.))

Volume II

Arimov was near the back of the marching men. There was something in the pit of his stomach that didn’t quite feel right. He had taken Augustus’ advice and stood nearby to the captain, as well as with the healer and his bodyguard. A new addition to their small party had also arrived, a witch-hunter who told them his name was Setri. Arimov judged he was a little over standard human height, being shorter than most of his elven friends (as well as himself) but taller than the member of the clergy who had healed him. Normally, even the observant mercenary wouldn’t have bothered thinking over it, but this person looked particularly powerful – some paranoia was healthy.

After Augustus and the newcomer exchanged a few whispers, Setri fell into line behind Arimov. The elf could perceive some sort of animosity from the glances exchanged between the witch-hunter and the cleric, but it didn’t matter to him… He was much more concerned with what was going on above. The entire army had stopped moving and had instead been possessed to look to the heavens. The sky seemed to sense their despair. It faded to a grim purple, and for a moment, Arimov almost felt soothed. Then it flared angrily into vibrant amber, the hunter overtaking its weary prey. It was obviously magical in origin; Arimov couldn’t break his gaze from the spectacle.

The cleric suddenly stopped and gave a curt nod, and a handful of other Empowered Priests (perhaps his apprentices?) appeared, all dressed in similar saintly garb. For a moment, Arimov’s mind to compute that they had decided to try and counteract the gigantic nexus of energy that had appeared in the sky. For another moment, the elf didn’t think they were doing anything… And then he felt it. They were pouring holy energy into the sinister pollution that had overtaken the heavens, trying to draw venom out of the wound… It did not take a moment for him to realize they had no chance. The curse brewing above could be called a substantial ocean of paint, and these men were merely adding solvents.

Arimov’s thoughts became realities a moment later. The backlash of trying to confront such a powerful thing was an endeavor, to say the least, and it looked as though it was taking its toll. Without warning, one of the younger and fresher individuals of the group took on a look that appeared ghastly and ancient. The Silvan could feel his pulse of life empty itself into the void as it actually occurred and the soulless body fell flat. A few others soon followed, no match for the increasing abyss in the heavens. Arimov watched on mutely, hoping half for a miracle and half, he soon realized, that death would come quick when it found him.

With a hoarse cry of pain, the main priest fell to his knees. Arimov fluidly moved to his side and bent to look into his eyes; with a single glance, it was obvious the man would survive. A light trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth, but it appeared that he had almost all of his stamina and mana intact, curiously. Two or three of the others cut the connection as well, rushing over to their sire to make sure he was alright… which instantly placed the burden on the final two clergymen’s shoulders, crushing them instantly under the intangible weight. The atmosphere had shifted slightly, lightening a bit.

Arimov didn’t think it mattered. He was absently deciding if he would rather flee and dishonor himself or die in bloody combat when it became apparent that something was agitating the witch-hunter. He shuffled over to the man and decided he would ask, “What’s wrong?”

“They’re watching us,” came the curt reply. Arimov knew who he meant and quickly looked to the ground, but noticed something in the sky, first. It was nearly camouflaged in the chaos above, but it was still somewhat darker in color than the sickly clouds. It was also visible because of the sallow light that emanated down on them. It looked winged, and if he really tried to, the mercenary thought he could hear a shrill screech. He blinked, somewhat flustered that they were being overseen. His eyelids fluttered again as he tried to zoom in on the creature.

It was closer when he opened them again. Its features were clearer, now, and Arimov could tell it was definitely avian. He turned to ask Setri what action he thought should be taken, but it was irrelevant: a burst of fire ignited from his palm and flew like lightning through the sky. The elf could feel the heat and orange glow cast on his face momentarily, and then he watched a fireball lit up over yonder. Setri smirked. Arimov frowned. It was so brutally efficient and so ruthlessly powerful that he vaguely wondered if Setri could dance with Elijah himself… That he was unnecessary.

He wrote it out of the book. Casting a glance back toward the marching men, all of whom were oblivious to the creature that had been stalking them, Arimov noticed Augustus approaching. “Hey, boys,” the bearded captain said, his voice hoarse and gruff. “What’s happening?” From the flicker of jaded amusement that sparkled in his eyes, Arimov guessed he knew what had happened.

It didn’t seem like Setri minded reiterating himself, “Harpies. I suspect one or two of them saw that fireball, so expect more to come. Hopefully I’ll catch them before they take out any of the meat fodder over there, but don’t gut me if we lose a man or two.” Without another word, the witch-hunter strode off toward the bulk of the forces, and Arimov could detect a sneer as he looked upon the cleric.

Oh, that was right. He had to ask Augustus something. “What’s the name of that spellcaster and his retainer?”

“Xavier and Muse, actually. That’s a funny story. The brute is a mute, but in many ways he’s the most expressive of us all,” the grizzled warrior replied, chuckling. A serious glint came to his eyes, then, and his tone had changed. “They’ll all die. He gave it his all and he could barely dent that spell-” Augustus motioned with one hand to the layers of energy that were above their heads, “-and some of ‘em even died. But I’ve heard of this Elijah. It may just be rumors, but I think he might like to play with his food.” Arimov nodded absently and walked away, seeing the dark line of trees that signaled the entrance to the forest that separated them from their target.

It didn’t take long before they began to push into the woods. The canopy, where some of the larger trees that had not yet died of icy freeze had limbs of browning leaves. They were thick enough so that only pale shafts of moonlight dappled the ground through their cover. The trees themselves – they looked jeering, mocking the soldiers with their deceiving branches that scratched each other. One man leapt at the shadows, thinking it was an enemy lying in wait only to find he had heard… nothing.

If walls had ears, this forest had a mouth. A very big one. He could hear their whispers crawling in his skull, and taking each step began to get more and more difficult. Arimov swore, but this time he drove the vertigo out of his brain and smiled inwardly. At least that was one victory. He looked at the army, almost invisible even to him in this opaque gloom… They were approaching the enemy.

The disconcerting tingle in his belly began to grow.

[Christoph]

The storm fluxed and strained above Elijah’s head. He looked up from the massive mound of glowing coals, gazing grimly at the churning sky. He could feel a disturbance in the threads of magic; someone had tried to disrupt the spell. This meant only one thing; Empowered Priests accompanied their enemy.

This troubled him, but only a little. Even a cadre of those Church-approved wizards wouldn’t be able to push back the storm; the ritual feeding it was too powerful. Still, this was an obstacle that he would need to compensate for. He circled the fire, tracing more glyphs in the ash and dirt and breathing life into them. The fire flared up again. He nodded, satisfied, and retrieved his shirt.

Everything and everyone was in place. He wished that he could fight at the front with his warriors, or sneak through the forest with Alexandria, but so long as the battle raged, the spell must stay strong. He had to trust in them as they trusted in him.

* * * * *

With the silent grace of a deadly hunter, a feral, feline humanoid stalked through the forest. Her white and black stripes were dulled and grayed with mud and dirt, allowing her lithe form to melt into the night. All but invisible, she lurked through dead bushes and between ancient trees, stalking her prey like a solitary predator. This night however, the Caelgrar Tigress Asari did not hunt alone. Ten other Caelgrar warriors from northlands of Sulgoran’s Axe, all male, took up watchful positions. Asari’s pack mates were taller and far broader than she, with massive muscles rippling through their bodies. Despite their bulk, they were just as invisible as Asari.

There were others as well. The one hundred Brothers of Shadow, cloaked in black and armed with scimitars and deadly repeating crossbows haunted the night with them, invisible in the night. Further back, their comrades-in-arms, the rangers from the Gorum Mountains, crouched in behind rocks and brush, arrows notched and longbows ready. Even with her superior senses, she couldn’t be sure of their numbers, though she guessed over a hundred. Then came the rest, the two hundred known by no other distinction than “Belov’s warriors.” These veteran fighters hailed from almost every province in Salvar. Brandishing spears, axes, and glaives, they lurked between the rangers and the Brothers.

All of Belov’s forces moved in small, silent squads, covering a rather large area of forest. Quiet and resolute, they prepared to deliver the first strike against their enemy. The assembled force counted for more than half of Elijah Belov’s followers, yet it was still but a fraction of the hoard they faced. It would be a fell night.

Asari scaled a tree with silent ease and peered out into the night. Her feline vision pierced the gloom and she spotted the advancing Salvic troops. Breaking and scattering those first soldiers, estimated by the harpies at over a thousand in number, would be crucially important. A terrified enemy would be easily defeated regardless of their numbers.

Now, they merely needed their signal from the sorcerers, and what an impressive signal it would be. Their orders had instructed them to attack when “wrath fell from the sky.” The sky already churned, saturated with power; they waited only for sign of the sorcerers’ arrival. The enemy grew very close. Where are they? wondered Asari, glancing through the trees.

As if in response to her unspoken question, the sky rumbled and roared like a tortured beast. A moment later, a giant lance of flame plunged down from the heavens onto the approaching enemy infantry. The fiery blast struck with a mighty blast, sending soldiers flying in all directions. The sorcerers had arrived in truly dramatic fashion.

Without a moment’s hesitation, every one of Belov’s followers sprung into action. A cloud of arrows and bolts whizzed into the enemy grouping as the Brothers and rangers opened fire, shooting volley after volley from the cover of darkness.

Salvos lightning lashed down from the sky like jagged knives, lancing through ranks of Salvic infantry. Trees erupted into flames, scattering embers in a series of vicious explosions. In the tumultuous light, Belov’s warriors were revealed in hellish glimpses. With the wrath of the gods raining down from above and crossbow bolts and arrows flying from several directions, many Salvarians scattered and dove for cover.

At the forefront of the rebel army, hundreds of Belov’s warriors began to advance in a loose, staggered formation. With unison steps, they moved forward through the patches of smoldering and burning brush and charred corpses. Arrows and bolts whizzed by their heads as the haunting glow of flame gleamed from their weapons and the flickering shadows rippled over their cloaked forms. With their spears and glaives, they were incarnations of Death’s image, stalking toward doomed men. In a dark wave, they swept through the trees, reaping scattered soldiers like the aspect they personified. Terrified screams echoed across the hill as panic and fear spread.

Asari let out a savage cry and lunged from her tree. Her pack-mates followed, their feral forms resembling demons among the chaos. They rampaged through the enemy forces, ripping men apart with vicious claws and mighty jaws. They roared and snarled like unearthly beasts, playing on the primal fears of men. And yet, the true terror had yet to begin.

* * * * *

Ciaphas glided silently through the forest, keeping a watchful eye and a keen ear on the distant battle. As far as he could discern, things were going as planned. Yet, he couldn’t shake his foreboding and dread. He couldn’t deny that Belov’s plan was sound, masterful even, but they faced over three thousand men. If the attacking army kept their courage, things would get very ugly. There would be no prisoners; they would all be hunted down, and even if any escaped, the movement would be finished. He wouldn’t let that happen. He had already worked too hard and invested too much; he would never be able to return home.

The faint whoosh of flapping wings brought him back to the present. The lithe, sensuous form of the harpy Matron landed silently to his left, her grace inhuman.

“Good evening again, Celaena,” said the Noble, his voice smooth and almost flirtatious. He was the only man in the army to know her name. Such a trust came only from saving her life and her entire flock from a band of Salvic demon hunters several months before. He was the reason that the Harpies had joined the ranks Elijah’s followers. He trusted the Matron to be his eyes and ears over any other. “Your promptness is admirable.”

“Isn’t it always?” she replied in an amused hiss, circling around Ciaphas and dragging her clawed fingers playfully across his chest. “My Harpies have finished their final patrol and are prepared to attack.”

“Good,” he said, stepping away from the feminine creature’s teasing fingers. Celaena sighed drew her hand back, folding her wings irritably. “Things seem to be going according to plan. Is everyone else prepared?”

“As much as expected,” said Calaena, pacing beside him. “The war beasts are almost in position, as are the bolt throwers and rest of the warriors.”

“Where are Elijah and my sister?”

“Master Belov remains at the ritual site, maintaining the spell, I believe. The ways of magic are mysterious to me. As to your sister’s whereabouts, I do not know.”

“It’s odd that she would escape your eyes, as sneaky as she can be,” muttered Ciaphas. “No doubt Elijah knows where she is.”

“Perhaps she’s even sneakier than you, my dear,” Calaena purred mischievously, her voice taking on an unusually human quality. She circled behind the noble, who frowned. “You’re not worried about her, are you? That’s not like you.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about her,” he replied, giving the sensuous harpy a sideways smirk. “I’m worried about what she might be up to.”

* * * * *

Near the perimeter of the forest, Alexandria Volg was up to no good. Wrapped in a woolen cloak, she crept softly through the dried brush and undergrowth, hanging to shadows as she approached the distant torchlight. As she reached the base of the hill, her target came into view. Dozens of catapults and ballistae and hundreds of siege engineers stood in reserve, no doubt prepared to navigate through the forest once Elijah’s headquarters was found. Not that they would be needed, given the state of the old castle. Finding them was easy. The next would be far more difficult, but she would carry it out like she’d promised, for Elijah.

She opened a pouch on her belt filled with tiny, strangely luminescent vials. She took one out and shook it gently, and it swirled with phosphorous purple. She smiled; where dear Elijah practiced some of the most powerful sorcery that she’d ever seen, Alexandria had studied alchemy in Corone since a young age. It took much more preparation and often required expensive components, but a small vial of alchemical fire could cause more havoc than a barrel of Alerarian gunpowder.

She stalked closer to the first siege engine, crouched, and breathed onto the first vial. In ages past, it was thought that the alchemist actually breathed life into the magic; in these more enlightened times, they discovered that it had no practical purpose, but she stuck to the old tradition anyway as a way to clear her mind. She stood, and threw the vile at the catapult. Then she ran.

Alchemical fire had a five-second delay. That usually bought the thrower enough time to run off before things got ugly. In this case, it allowed Alexandria to sprint by the siege works, tossing vials as she went. By the time the first vial exploded, she had already hurled six of them. She continued until she’d emptied her pouch of all twenty vials. Chaos broke loose as massive gouts of flame consumed the man and machine alike. She paused to wipe sweat from her brow, and then turned to make her escape.

[Nevermore]

Volume III

A string of curses left Augustus’ mouth as he surveyed the battle. They were losing, that much was for sure. He had dispatched Arimov and four other men to take care of whatever was running amok their siege machines: two or three had already collapsed, and some mystic fire was quickly eating away at another. The priest, his retainer, and the remaining cadre of those Empowered fellows had gone off to who knows where. Setri, the bastard, had slipped away when Augustus wasn’t looking, no doubt to pursue his vendetta against Elijah. That meant he was alone, surrounded by nameless nobodies who lived and died and fought with reckless abandon.

A handful of men grouped together behind him. A single glance told him they were allies and not enemies. They brandished swords and axes and spears, determined to hold their ground. Augustus felt a brief glow of pride well up in his chest – at least he had loyalty on his side. Nevertheless, they were still losing the battle: bolts of that fiery spell prevented them from regrouping entirely, and in the pandemonium it wasn’t difficult for Elijah’s troops to swoop in and wipe them out. Even he couldn’t think very well, and could only autonomously defend and counter. It was astounding, the effect panic had in the art of war.

Augustus’ quick analysis indicated that they could hold out for a little while longer, if whatever was felling their siege weapons could be stopped. Setri might divert Elijah’s attention for a little while, if that was in fact where the witch-hunter had gone. Though he wasn’t sure about the clergymen, they might be able to weaken the maelstrom in the sky. His mind returned to the task at hand: survival.

~*~

The reassuring footfalls of four men behind him comforted Arimov… if only just a bit. His scimitars were already unsheathed and gripped tightly in white-knuckled hands. In front of them, green and purple flames burned brightly, devouring one of the siege machines. The air was electric, alive with the energy that was fueling the alchemical blaze. Arimov spotted a lithe shadow hurl a vial towards them. Three of his companions were smart enough to duck and find cover, but he didn’t bother looking at the last. What happened was… explosive, and then it wasn’t very dark. The glowing fire cast a glow, and Arimov could vaguely make out their quarry’s features.

He acted on instinct, darting forward. One slash should’ve been all that was necessary, but the silhouette tilted its head and he nearly stumbled past it. Another strike and he’d finished, because by that time the other three were dragging her, – it was a her? – kicking and screaming, to the ground. It was definitely a woman. They cuffed her and stood her upright. It was apparent even from here that she was crafty. He watched her eyes dart around, scanning those around her for any error she could exploit. Interesting. Arimov approached her, put one of his swords back in its casing, and slapped her across the face; there was a hollow silence, and then she smiled.

“Elijah will kill you,” she said.

“Not if you’re worth anything at all,” Arimov replied.

Dodging past the searing flares, Arimov began to lead the group towards where Elijah was suspected to be. One of the men stood with him in front while the other two positioned themselves in the rear. Alexandria was kept in-between, and if she tried anything they would gut her without hesitation. Arimov didn’t know what her purpose really was, but at that point, just about anything seemed worth the risk. They were losing the battle, and if he could use this woman as a bargaining chip, all the better.

~*~

Xavier stood with his brethren. Dressed in identical white robes and carrying identical staves, they were embodiments of the light. Muse towered above them all, eyes focused on Xavier and grip tightened on his axe. This was just a diversion. He doubted any of them would survive against Elijah’s powerful sorcerers, but they were duty-bound to fight them. Their reasoning was that it could weaken the storm that raged above, perhaps costing their enemy enough of their advantage so that Augustus could finish off Elijah’s resistance.

Muse moved forward to stand side-by-side with Xavier. They looked at each other for a moment, shared a curt nod and continued. Xavier thought he could hear chanting – it wouldn’t have surprised him if the sorcerers were trying to raise moral with one of their antiquated rituals, or even if they began to sacrifice each other. In his point of view, they were power hungry individuals who deserved no part in his holy world. He turned to his brothers and stopped their marching momentarily.

His eyes met each and every one of theirs, in silent acknowledgment of what they were about to do. “I would die with no one else,” the priest said. He turned around, shrugging off the waves of empathy he felt pressing down on him like a tidal wave, and resumed his stride into Death’s cold clutch.

~*~
Setri moved quickly. Augustus, by now, would probably be wondering where he was. Setri didn’t care, though: he had only come to this battle for a chance on Elijah’s life. One of his best friends had been brought down by that monster, and though most witch-hunters would show only disdain at his decision to pursue the vendetta, Setri felt it was necessary. He would only have a chance at victory for now, anyway, while Elijah drained himself feeding his spell. Setri was no fool. He had trained for months on end to hone his skill, but he was no match for that monster.

The castle was visible, now. Setri began to edge around the perimeter – there were rippling waves of heat rising into the sky. It was apparent that Elijah would most likely be in that area, supervising the ritual. His short sword was unsheathed in case he was noticed, and all of the charms and relics he’d carried on him were activated. They should mask his presence even further… He was nearly around the ruin, now. There was a clearing over there.

He drew closer. The witch-hunter could make Elijah’s shape out, now. Just a few more yards. Quickly, he found an adrenaline rush starting to build up. This would be the product of all his hard work, his one chance to destroy Elijah. He looked at the sky, at its multicolored haze. He would be praised as a hero, singlehandedly defeating the resistance’s leader and nullifying the spell that was terrorizing Augustus’ army! This would be the moment where his life took a pivotal turn!

Setri revealed another artifact. It was a glass orb with a fragment of bone in it. The witch-hunter was aware that it belonged to a saint, which one, though, he was unsure. He aligned it with the sorcerer’s silhouette. The device was fully charged, so he released it all with one fell strike: a bolt of white lightning shot forward towards Elijah. He could hardly contain himself as he broke into a dead sprint towards his foe, short sword in hand. Setri had every intention of reducing his opponent to a bloody mess.

The battle had only just begun.