Legion of Light VI (Tales of the Seraphim): Symphonia Destructio

[Wings of Endymion]

~ First Movement – Overture ~

***

Snowdrops floated like vagrant wanderers from the heavens overhead, aimlessly meandering upon the ash-strewn wasteland. Momentarily their combined efforts obscured the worst of the devastated Raiaeran city from sight, dampening the heavy stench of death and decay under the purity of their itinerant paths. The hour was nearly midnight, though the low-lying clouds secreted away the moon and stars as if they were precious jewels destined to languish forever at the back of a safe; the silence was almost absolute, only emphasised by the thick blanket of white that had cast itself over the ruins of what had once been Trenyce.

The last few days had been fresh and warm, heralding the arrival of the reborn spring. The snowfall seemed to symbolise that Lady Winter herself realised this, and had gathered her powers unto her for one last show of might before she finally relinquished her grip.

The majority of the occupants of the rubbled buildings paid the weather no heed, crystals of cold clarity that built up on rotten flesh and motionless shoulders. Those who commanded this undead army either blessed the snows for the twin advantages of concealment and time it bought them over their bitter High Elven foes, or cursed the wintry wet for the chilly stiffness it inflicted upon their brittle bones. Only one soul in the entirety of the city luxuriated in the beauty of the frozen petals, watching on in innocent delight as they concealed the morbid desolation of the undead stronghold.

It was not long before she stepped out into the stillness, her long flowing robes distinctly outlandish in their folded weave as they blended seamlessly into the snow-strewn cityscape. Her shoulder-length hair was a stark black against the whites and greys that surrounded her, the colour of the shadows that undulated at the very edge of her vision. Her light tread left crisp footprints as she slowly ventured towards the centre of the tree-lined clearing, revelling in the sensation of fresh snow beneath her feet and the faint signs of life that flowered in the hearts of the drab foliage.

Spring has called to them, and they respond, despite all that has happened… she murmured in her mind, upturning her delicate features so that she could taste the snowdrops on her alabaster skin. One landed neatly on her pale lips, melting away into a gentle smile. Winter serenades them with one last lullaby before they wake…

Her mind was focused in a pleasantly blank equilibrium, devoid of all the fear and worry and trouble that had plagued her over the past few days. She felt for all the world as if she too were one of the petals floating on the breath of wind, gliding through the darkness as if guided by the wings of destiny themselves.

In the centre of the clearing the young woman paused, inhaling deeply of the frigid air before slowly releasing her breath. A sustained blast of foggy steam escaped skywards; she watched it leave her behind, mingling amongst the falling snowflakes before disappearing from sight. For a long time she did not move, allowing herself to be overcome by the pervasive peace that cocooned her in this brief moment of eternity. It was all so… quiet.

So… tranquil…

Suddenly she stabbed the staff she held into the snow-lined earth. Bleached brown and exquisitely slender, it quivered there in the mud before finally settling into position like a makeshift flagpole, a lonely marker of human presence amongst the monochrome splendour of the winter-touched night.

Taking two steps away from the staff in the direction she had come, she once again stopped still, closing her luminous black eyes to her surroundings. Her thoughts whispered to her like predatory sirens seeking to banish her concentration, but with effort she managed to silence them and maintain the mirror-like calm of her soul. Once again her mind was poised as blank as any slate, savouring the now in breathless anticipation of the next moment.

Eyes still closed, she folded her knees beneath her and settled into the snow, ignoring the bite of the cold through the cotton fabric of her trousers. One slim hand reached out to rest on the hilt of the short kodachi she wore at her waist, trembling imperceptibly at the palpably murderous intensity emitted by the ornately decorated weapon. It was as if the finely forged steel was seeking to influence her with the very aura of its presence; an elegant, beautiful sword it may have been, but it was first and foremost a killing tool.

Long moments passed by as she seemed to hesitate, composing her thoughts in a succinct poem of the type favoured by the courtiers of her homeland. Around her the snow continued to pile, the shadows continued to loom, and the wind whispered in her ears as it blew soft flurries against her face.

Snow falls from spring skies,
Winter’s breath upon my face,
Night flees before me.

When she moved again, it was with the swiftness of a swallow in flight. Her blade seemed to literally leap from its saya, and her eyes flashed open with resolution and intent. Her initial stroke sliced open everything in its path… air, night, wind, snow, and even the very silence itself.

Rising to her feet in one fluid motion, Yuka Kanamai began to dance.

[Wings of Endymion]

Her movements were lithe and graceful, brimming with purpose as the guided her slender form in a choreographed dance through the silent snow. Every stroke of the blade was measured to perfection, every shift of her body effortless and smooth. It was as if she were enacting a lonely ballet of silvery sword and swirling robe amongst the desolate ruins, her only audience the faintly whispering snowflakes and the ominously looming shadows that surrounded her on all sides.

The cold seeped in below her skirts, whisking about her leggings before darting away with whatever warmth it could carry. Yuka paid it no heed, however, preferring to concentrate on the intricacies of every precise motion, every weighted stance that punctuated her artistic movements. She was not so presumptuous as to believe that she was anything close to a master practitioner of the ancient tradition, and neither did she hold faith in the notion that the strokes would sharpen her skills with the sword in any real combat. But it did her mind and body no harm to put themselves through the elegant kata; her wounds – still recovering from the ruthless assault of the necromancer Ar’zhanekkar a week prior – welcomed the moderate exercise, her troubles and worries basked in the luxuriant zen of lightly-aching muscle and calm blank mind, and if it was anything that her latest experiences had taught her, it was that it was not a bad thing to become accustomed to the feel of her blade in her hand.

How she had managed to survive since the assault, she did not know, but it was as if the incident with Ar’zhanekkar had never happened. The necromancer’s overlord, Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, had never once demanded an explanation; her own patron, the daemon Natosatael, had only looked on with a snide smirk playing about his raw lips. She had been allowed to recuperate in silence in her private quarters, occasionally patching up the worst of her wounds with her magic and allowing sleep and solitude to take care of the rest. Tonight was the first night in seven that she had felt well enough to venture outside, and the heavens had sought fit to greet her with a winter wonderland.

There’s definitely something afoot… she thought to herself, in that peculiarly formal manner that was a product of both her cultural heritage and her scholarly upbringing. Something that takes precedence over internal foibles such as that night… something that results in something as serious as this getting swept under the carpet as if it never happened.

Her mind harkened back to Thomas’s words earlier on that fateful evening, and the warning that he – or rather, his illusory visage in the poolside mirrors – had given her. They had been close friends from long before their time together at the renowned Toho Academy in the eastern isles of Nippon, and he had come to her aid on many occasions, not least when she had wished to escape from her fate as the daughter of an underworld syndicate. On that occasion, he had opened a portal to the daemon realm of Haidia and spirited her away. Only on very rare instances throughout their relationship had his warnings proved false… and the sober solemnity with which he had warned her of Maeril’s forthcoming plot – details of which even he had been unable to sniff out – once again sent chills down her spine.

What have I… she began, then caught herself just in time from giving voice to her weakness. As she did so, however, her legs gave way upon the slippery snow, and she slipped and fell awkwardly to the hard frigid ground. The jarring impact thundered up her backbone, eliciting a mental curse for her uncharacteristic clumsiness. Yuka Kanamai was not somebody who was used to tripping up.

Exhausted by her brief moments of exertion, she allowed herself to fall back into the snow. Her slight chest heaved with every breath as she fought to supply her oxygen-starved lungs with fresh air; the cold nipped at her once again through her thin layers of clothing, nibbling like some live animal at her exposed neckline until she shifted position ticklishly. Not so far to her left her peripheral vision caught sight of her staff, still pointed in purposeful poise towards the skies; her right hand, meanwhile, remained wrapped tightly about the hilt of her short sword.

She tried to cast thoughts of the war aside as she breathed deeply of the vigorous chill, concentrating on the white snowflakes drifting lightly down upon her face from the heavens overhead. But no matter how Yuka tried, her mind kept ignoring the faint specks of white in favour of the menacing mass of cloud behind them, and the shadows spawned by the night that surrounded her on all sides. It was so difficult to concentrate on the good things in life when all around her was darkness.

At least, I’m better now, the young woman allowed, knowing that she had been at her most helpless and most vulnerable over the past few days. There was little relief in the tone of her thoughts, however, for her recovery only hastened her need to find a definitive answer to another problem… that of what she would do next.

Her breathing settled to calm at last, but her heart still sounded like a drumbeat in her ears.

[Wings of Endymion]

The low-lying breeze played havoc with wisps of her fine black hair as it passed her by. Her eyes were wide open and gleaming gently in the darkness, onyx pupils dilated to better take in the night. There was a tension to her neck and shoulders that caused her head to throb horribly; her muscles ached tenderly to the touch, spasming every now and again in pulsating agony. She knew that she would pay the next morning for her fleeting moments of exertion, for already she was having to beat back the heaving waves of nausea that threatened to swamp her chest.

Yuka did not question whether it had been worth it, only briefly acknowledging that it had been necessary. She had needed to know that her body could still obey her commands, that the wounds that she had received at the hands of Ar’zhanekkar had nearly healed. She could no longer bear to be cooped up in the cage of her room any longer; like a grounded bird, it was her instinct to test her figurative wings and take to the skies once again. For soon she would embark on an even more epic journey: a flight before the foul necromancy and intrigue that coruscated about her like some poisonous miasma.

No longer could she stand to associate with such unrepentantly evil and selfish company. No longer could she afford to languish like a solitary flower under the so-called protection of her daemonic patron. For all she cared now, Maeril’s schemes for domination of the Raiaeran heartlands and Natosatael’s ploy for gaining a lasting presence on the physical plane could both be cursed back to the depths of whatever abysmally dark realm had spawned them. No matter what they offered her – power, protection, or purpose – she would not have anything to do with them any longer.

She was sick and tired of being a pawn, caged and flaunted like some precious trophy.

Taking another deep breath of the chill air in an attempt to settle her anxiety, Yuka allowed her mind to focus on the near future, and the plan she had for her escape. It was deceptively simple, as most good plans were, and thus flexible in case of failure… and, if worst came to worst, she would be able to fight her way clear before they could bring any force to bear, and then trust to her legs and endurance to escape any pursuit.

No… that’s not the problem.

She was not concerned with the past, for she dared not consider the potential horrors that she knew remained yet in the depths of her mind. She did not preoccupy herself with the present, for she knew what had to be done, or the near future, for she knew what she would do. It was the distant future that roiled like a stormy sea in the back of her mind. She was troubled by the fact that she had no idea of where she would end up when the dust had settled. She couldn’t even picture herself in a month’s time.

In short, what concerned her most was not her escape, but what she would do after it. Raiaera was still, after all, a realm under siege. It would not be easy to travel through the war-torn countryside, infested as it was with rife disease and the shambling legions of undeath; even if she could somehow convince the High Elves that she was untainted by her months-long association with a Death Lord and his core retinue, there was no guarantee that she would be able to solicit their aid in slipping out of the country, or even in carving her own tiny niche in the world.

For not the first time, she revisited her options, dismissing them one by one in a practiced litany of weighty reasoning.

She dared not return to Nippon even if there was somehow a way; her family would swiftly learn of her presence and chain her once again to what they saw as her destiny… a pawn in the never-ending wars against other shadowy faceless organisations from Nippon, and even Cathay and beyond.

She could not retrace her steps to Thomas and his operation in Haidia from which he accumulated a veritable fortune in power and secrets… there were no skies or stars in the underdark, no freedom from the constantly oppressive gazes of her daemonic ‘sponsors’, and to return would be to throw away any progress in self-reliance she had made in the half-year since she had left. Yuka shuddered at the thought of caging herself once more, dependent upon Thomas or Natosatael for everything she wanted to do.

To ask for help from Ingwe would be bordering on the blasphemous; her scholarly friend from her schooldays in Nippon had more than enough to deal with in beating back the undead from Raiaera and salvaging what he could from the livelihoods of its peoples. Even if the whispers were true that he had travelled to the northern continent all the way from Nippon for her sake and for her sake alone, there was no way that she could impose on him like that.

Which left…

Nothing.

Belatedly she realised that the snow had stopped, and that the clouds above were shifting and spoiling in petulant reluctance under the influence of a fresh will. Her slender frame heaved once more as she took one last deep breath of the winter chill, filling her lungs with air that was almost as cold as the snow that had built up around her on all sides. By dawn, she knew that little would remain of the pure white, and that the wind would have veered to a warmer and more seasonal zephyr. If only her worries would melt away as easily, Yuka thought as she remained motionless and still upon her back. If only…

There’s no point in dwelling, she decided abruptly and at last. A final mighty exhalation escaped her lungs, chasing away a portion of the clouds that blocked her line of sight.

It was with wonder as she watched the heavens part before her, revealing a bright full moon in all its ghostly glory. And for the first time that night Yuka allowed herself to completely relax, basking in the luminescence upon the mattress of white snow.

[Wings of Endymion]

~ Second Movement – Sonata ~

***

Whumpf!

The black-barbed bolt slammed into the stone by her head, far closer than she would have preferred. Shards of splintered shrapnel lacerated her pale cheeks like angry swipes of a monstrous claw; were it not for the fact that she had just thrown herself behind the moss-encrusted boulder, the viciously shaped shaft would likely have impaled her gruesomely. Yuka had little doubt about what one of the ballista-like contraptions could do to a human body, having witnessed them in action in the Battle of Nenaebreth a month or so previously.

Skeletons with crossbows are cheating, she muttered to herself, clenching her body like a tightly-held fist as another pair of bolts ricocheted from the rock. She could not vent her frustration aloud, because her breath was coming in mighty heaving gasps that threatened to split her slender chest asunder; the chase had been ongoing for over half a day, and even her legendary endurance and fleetness of foot was being tested to the limit. Another time, perhaps, the dark-haired, alabaster-skinned young woman might have admired the skilful magic that had crafted her foes; for now, she was simply content with sending it a silent curse. And how do they always seem to know where I am?

She had already applied what limited skill she had at concealment to try to evade her foes, but to no use. Every time she had tried a false trail, or a double back, or any other trick in her repertoire, they had homed in on her position with no hesitation, and she had barely made it away alive. Most of her belongings lay abandoned in Trenyce, and most of what she had brought with her lay scattered about the dead forest of Timbrethinil, in the thought that something had somehow been cursed. Now she was left with only the clothes on her back, the staff in her hands, the sword at her side, and a few small trinkets in her pockets… everything else she owned, even her wits, seemed lost to her.

With the exception, of course, of the portion of her mind that was concerned with her immediate survival.

Abruptly there was silence, the lack of stone-splitting impacts a telltale sign that the undead were advancing on her position. Yuka breathed in lightly as she braced herself for the next leg of her marathon escapade, chanting a practiced litany of power under her breath. Wisps of arcane power formed a faint halo about her head, manifestation of her mind’s will.

Slowly she counted to three.

“Renkuha!”

The wisps erupted blindly into action behind her at her shouted cry, the words channelling power into the physical plane with enough intensity to explode earth and splinter dead wood. Yuka did not stand around to observe their effect, instead taking advantage of the general havoc caused to put some distance again between her and her foes. A few stray bolts whistled through the air in her general vicinity, but none were well enough aimed to be a threat; for now, with the corrupted earth once again flying beneath her feet and the chill wind breathing frost upon her sweat-stained brow, she was safe by the breadth of a hair and the length of her stride.

Rank wind whispered in her face as she navigated the treacherously twisting roots that sought to entangle her feet, over the hidden pits of quicksand that waited to catch her unawares, and through the parasitic blood-sucking vines that had evolved through necromantic corruption to take full advantage of whatever scant prey fell into their clutches. Over her head, nightfall was building up in the form of westerly storm clouds, a change in weather that would hamper her progress but would favour the restless dead. She had to reach safety before the cold spring rains sapped the last of the strength from her limbs and the vitality from her mind. Her only advantage was that she could outrun for a while anything that was chasing her, thanks to her foresight in putting Maeril’s elite tracker corps out of action.

She kept as low as possible amongst the boulders that cluttered the landscape, weaving a nimble dancing path away from her pursuers. Every now and again an opportunistic arrow whistled past her ears or clattered from the scenery about her, or she sensed the imminent impact of a long-range spell just in time to deflect the worst of its effects. Settling into the marathon stride that would sustain her for the best part of the next half-hour, she began to confidently throw herself around blind corners and across dangerous gullies, trusting fully in her survival instincts as she sought to melt away into her surroundings. Desolate and barren as Timbrethinil Forest now was, it still retained a fraction of the life and diversity that had characterised it in times before the undead, and that allowed her to blend in to the scenery as she had been instructed by her tutors at the Academy in Nippon.

Her breathing steadied, a series of long shallow breaths that fought a war of their own to keep her straining muscles supplied with fresh oxygen. Her eyes fastened onto her path on the immediate horizon, feeding her instincts with the information needed to plot her future course. Her mind, on the other hand, was allowed to drift away from the monotony of her run, seeking solace in memories of a not so distant past.

Memories of not so long ago…

[Wings of Endymion]

Two years ago, Nippon…

“There’s no way that’s going to work,” the young woman exclaimed sceptically, short dark hair framing her wide forehead as she raised one eyebrow in objection. The two men behind her – quietly handsome Yoshi and enigmatic charismatic Thomas – made sure that their agreement was clear in not so many words. “In fact, that’s suicide.”

“No, it isn’t!” the bespectacled boy opposite struggled to make his voice heard, wondering for not the first time why he had been chosen as group leader to try to impose authority over three of the brightest in his academic year. Even at the best of times he would have had trouble speaking out; with his ideas completely dismissed and his companions on the verge of open revolt, he was currently wishing that he could simply melt away into the forested shadows that surrounded them in the moonlit night. The slender forearm that once again traced his proposed route upon the vellum map held between them seemed scholarly and weak; his sensitive eyes sought sheltered sanctuary behind his oversized glasses as he took a deep breath and once again tried to argue the point.

“Our mission objective is to get one of us to the target point to deliver the message, no matter what. If we approach across the open ground here or through the forest here…” – his fingers indicated the appropriate areas on the chart, and Yuka nearly winced at the neatly chewed nails – “… the sensei will almost certainly catch us, and we’ll fail. If it was cloudy or a new moon, we might be able to scrape together an airborne raid of sorts, but to do that tonight would indeed be suicide. We have to swim the river here, scale the cliffs under cover of darkness, and then wait for dawn to catch the sentries at their most tired, if we want to succeed. Yoshi, Thomas, and I can create a diversion while you sneak by…”

“Except you’re forgetting that you can barely swim, barely climb, and you don’t have the stamina to keep up with the rest of us.” Yuka’s eyes flashed angrily as they reflected stray moonbeams from the starlit heavens, and Ingwe quailed beneath her wrath. “Not to mention that if we’re caught out of position, then we’ll all fail faster than…”

“As I said,” Ingwe interjected in turn, rallying his strength at the surprise in her face. It was not often that he was so firm with his words, and only then did Yuka recognise the resolve he wore, the determination that they should succeed at a task hitherto renowned as impossible and upon which all first year students were expected to break themselves. Ingwe was more than willing to sacrifice himself should he compromise their success… and it was that very thought which scared her the most. “If we move in predictably… I mean, if we don’t do the unexpected, then it’ll be expected, right?”

“Ingwe, have you perhaps thought that we’re not actually meant to succeed? Don’t you think that perhaps you’re trying too hard?”

“I don’t believe in no-win situations, I dislike giving up, and I don’t understand the meaning of trying too hard.” The sheepish, shy smile that Ingwe wore made him seem even more out of place, but his gently spoken words elicited the desired reaction. His companions were… stunned, for lack of a better word, presumably once again at his uncharacteristic forcefulness. “Besides, if we’re really meant to lose this, I’d much rather go down trying to win than just give up. Who knows… this could actually be a test of character rather than one of skill.”

For a brief moment, the silence hung heavy. Yuka was well aware of the fact that her mouth was gaping open in search of a reply, but she didn’t seem able to do anything about it.

“He… has you there,” Thomas finally pointed out, before Yoshi broke out into hearty guffaws, unable to hold in his mirth any longer. Ingwe blinked once as if surprised, then again wide-eyed in Yuka’s direction as if apologising for his indiscretion. She could barely muster a whimper in reply.

“We won’t stop for you if you fall behind,” the psy-mage warned his younger classmate, and Ingwe nodded once, firmly, in return.

“I don’t expect you to,” he whispered.

***

Somewhat surprisingly, the bold plan succeeded, and the four young people managed to succeed where no student had ever done before. They made it to the base of the cliffs with an hour of darkness to spare, in spite of Ingwe’s inexperienced gait and clumsy strokes. Somehow the scholarly young man was not left behind in the wilderness or swept away by the current. He even managed to overcome his acrophobia whilst scaling the cliffs, clinging for desperate life to the vertical rock face in the wake of his more intrepid companions.

Reaching the top of the cliff was only half the battle; once there, they had to evade capture by the sensei who were guarding the checkpoint, and safely navigate one of their party to the designated location. But even here, Ingwe’s plan worked. Although Thomas gave himself up quickly when threatened with injury and Yoshi managed to stumble into a trap of binding, Ingwe held off no less than three superior opponents for just about long enough for Yuka to reach her goal. For the first time since the inception of the Academy some two hundred years prior, the infamous survival examination had been overcome.

The lesson that Yuka had taken away from that experience had not been to trust Ingwe, for he was too prone to risk for her liking, but to always strive for the best even when prepared for the worst. Fate wasn’t something for her to abide to… it was something for her to reach out and grab with both hands. Only then could the course of destinies be altered.

It was a lesson that she would repeat over and over again during the course of her flight.

[Wings of Endymion]

“Have you not caught her yet?” the necromancer Ar’zhanekkar wheezed angrily, eliciting a low growl from his lupine companion.

“Patience, necromancer,” his companion, a scarred wolf dangerously close to snapping, replied. Easily the size of a great Raiaeran stallion, his grey-lined muzzle drooped towards the ground, the remainder of his fur gleaming in shimmering velvet amongst the night.

Grim Jaw was the alpha of the pack of corrupted dire wolves that ran with the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, commander of Xem’zund’s northern legions. A proud and taciturn warrior who took no interest in the political bickering that corrupted Maeril’s retinue, the wolf held himself and his kind aloof from the rest of the undead armies, answering to none but the death knight himself. More pragmatic and perhaps more honourable than the majority of his bloodthirsty kin, he nonetheless saw his position under Xem’zund as an unavoidable one due to the callous dismissal with which the High Elves denigrated the dire wolves, and the ruthlessness with which the sylvan folk hunted them down. Caught between the mindless murderous tendencies of his charges and the iron gauntlet of discipline that Maeril imposed on all but the daemon Natosatael, he held his niche in the army through a mixture of paternal wisdom and ruthless professionalism.

The great wolf shouldered no shortage of dislike for the less martial elements of the armies, and bore especial hatred for Ar’zhanekkar, who he viewed as a slobbering, grovelling sycophant who was all too willing to step on toes and sacrifice those around him in favour of his own advancement. Ar’zhanekkar, in turn, thought of Grim Jaw as simply a relic of an ancient bygone age, an antique more useful as a decorative ornament than as an instrument of war. It was safe to say that there was no love lost between Maeril’s two lieutenants, although the Death Lord liked to foster such animosity amongst his higher echelons to keep them on their toes. In any case, despite their differences they had been ordered to cooperate in hunting down the deserter, and even Grim Jaw could not deny that Ar’zhanekkar’s magics – and the tracing rune the necromancer had implanted upon Yuka’s staff during their clash not a fortnight prior – were invaluable in helping them trace her.

“Lord Maeril will be greatly displeased by your inefficiency in this matter,” the necromancer sniffed, before coughing thick phlegm from the deep recesses of his filthy black hood. The front of his bulgingly obese robes was stained by years of lack of hygiene, and the gnarled staff he leant upon was coated in a thick layer of blood and grime. It was no coincidence that Grim Jaw’s eyes were firmly fastened on the horizon.

“It was your guards that were on duty that night,” the lupine commander pointed out through grit fangs, trying his best to keep his temper and not bare them. “And your pickets to the west that allowed her to slip through. My packs to the south were successful in driving her away from Galonan.”

“… and likely we would not be having this conversation if she hadn’t managed to poison half of your trackers!” Ar’zhanekkar’s retort was petty and petulant, but it stung Grim Jaw into another growl nonetheless. The silver hairs at the base of the alpha’s mane bristled in fury, and the necromancer’s jaw abruptly clamped shut.

The wolf was considering which of a dozen scathing replies to employ in order to bring the impudent spellcaster to his knees, when the sound of padded paws behind him caught his attention instead.

“Your orders?” a younger, brasher voice growled at him, one that belonged to the brazen youngster Ash Claw. Grim Jaw knew the type well: an impetuous youth desperate for the chance to prove himself and chomping at the bit to challenge his leadership. He’d seen off many such challengers in his years as an alpha, whether making them into productive members of the pack or breaking them and leaving their blooded corpses in the dust. He wondered how much longer it would be before Ash Claw too met the same fate… and which of the paths the pup would choose.

“With me,” the elder wolf commanded, heaving his aching body from the cool rock upon which he had been resting with one last glare in Ar’zhanekkar’s direction. “We search for the girl ourselves. With any luck, the necromancer here will not destroy everything in our absence.”

“… careful what you eat, mangy cur…” was the muttered reply, doubtless not intended to carry, but caught by Grim Jaw’s keen hearing nonetheless. The great wolf let the insult slide, but his mind dwelt on the words.

It was not so much guilt, as disgust at giving the necromancer the opportunity to snipe at him, and at allowing himself to be deceived by a young human woman of all things. Perhaps he was growing old, he mused, as he expertly led the troop of five wolves through the charred and desecrated remains of what had once been Timbrethinil Forest. Grim Jaw allowed his mind to wander back to the events of that night, the last time they had met…

[Taskmienster]

Legion of Light VI: Commentary where necessary, and as needed. I’ll be working on this for you. Just PM me if you have questions or concerns.

Continuity 7.5

:: The flashbacks, the memories, they were perfectly timed to allow for the reader to get a good idea of who Yuka was. However, I’d suggest a little more, maybe focus a little more on the present path than the past. The goal was clear enough, to escape, but beyond that it was a bit lost amidst the flashes of past memories and present weather.

Setting 8.5

:: Exquisite, to the point of bordering perfection. My only qualm is what I feel like I’m reiterating to death… there’s simply too much setting and not enough of everything else. I feel like it completely envelops your posts, the story, and the attention of the reader.

Pacing 5

:: You tend to write very long, elaborate, and overly flowery sentences. It cuts the pace to a degree because it makes the reader invest more time into following the flow of the sentences and finding where one thought leads to another amidst all the comma’s. I’d suggest trying to throw in some shorter sentences to serve as means of delivering emphasis to the aspects of the narrative that are most important. It will help slow the pace enough for the reader to follow, without completely killing the style of writing you prefer.

Dialogue 8

Action 6

:: The actions that you did were well formed, as if you know the character very well, but are hard to follow with how long the sentences are that I remarked about in the pacing. It’s hard to really get into the action of the character when the setting and narrative are so dominant in the writing, leaving the reader knowing more about the dynamics of a snowflake falling than what the character looking at it is doing.

Persona 6.5

:: [[Another time, perhaps, the dark-haired, alabaster-skinned young woman might have admired the skilful magic that had crafted her foes; for now, she was simply content with sending it a silent curse.]] From post 4 :: Why would you admire something that is trying to kill you and has nearly destroyed everything that Raiaera once was? I’m not really sure what it is that makes you want to admire that, maybe the magic that went into it and your appreciation for complex spells… maybe just because it’s a worth foe? Whatever the case, a little bit of reason behind it would have helped a lot with developing the character a little more.

Technique 8

Mechanics 7.5

Clarity 5.5

:: [[The snowfall seemed to symbolise that Lady Winter herself realised this, and had gathered her powers unto her for one last show of might before she finally relinquished her grip.]] Post 1 :: The way it is worded is confusing, despite making a little sense. I’d suggest taking things like this and reading it out loud to make sure that it makes as much sense out loud as does when you’re writing it.


Wild Card 7


Score: 69.5


Rewards:

Wings :: 3200 exp * 1.5 for it being in the FQ = 4800 exp | 1500 gold * 1.5 for FQ = 2250

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added!

Wings levels to 4!