Round Four

[Christoph]

Welcome to round four of the Vignette Tournament! This week's prompt is...

Your character is forced to choose between a friend or family member and his/her own code of honor or morality.

You decide the details, such as the other person's relationship with your character, why siding with or helping them would go against your character's honor or morals, and any other details regarding the circumstances. The overall tone and mood of the entry is up to you as well. All of the usual Vignette guidelines stand as normal. Your entries may be canon or non-canon for your characters and can take place at any point in their histories.


The round ends 11:59 PM EST this Friday. Good luck, and have fun!

[Captain on the Wind]

The rain fell in heavy drops on the green hill where the drifter lay. The wound on his belly let out a steady stream of blood, which snaked down the hill like a thin crimson river. His eyes were barely open and the world around him was buzzing. He tore his coat into pieces and through the pain he did his best to bandage his wound. The years he had spent in the Fallian militia as a child paid off once more.

His entire body was numb, although he did not know from what: was it the cold? the rain? the blood lose or the betrayal?

What does it matter? Gale thought to himself.

His view of the night sky was slowly being veiled by the slow, dark smoke. He could smell the burning houses. He could hear the cries for help. He could do nothing for them.

Gale tried to stand, attempting to prop himself up on his elbow. The wet grass did not make it easy, as he slipped over and over.

I have to crawl? This really is an all new low... the wounded man thought to himself.

The drifter made his slow decent from the hilltop. The whole gruesome scene played out before him in slow motion. But no matter how he struggled to move faster and no matter how hard he tried to yell; no voice came out and he could do nothing but crawl down the hill.

The town before him was black and red. Smoked covered the sky and blocked the moon and the stars. Fires burned everywhere, carried by the cold sea breeze. Every house was engulfed by an almost living flame, which cruelly danced around from house to house making sure to leave no building standing and no soul alive.

Soldiers adorned in silver ran to and from buildings, carrying bloodied weapons and supplies. The seemingly endless fires reflected off their shining armor, making them look like mighty demons running through the streets of hell. Some dragged out women, kicking and screaming, fighting to get back to their children who's cries were not stifled until the raging inferno claimed their voice and their life. Others carried stolen treasures: the meager savings of a modest fishing town.

Gale was at the bottom of the hill, his entire body aching , his every muscle screaming in agony. Gale continued to crawl, now on his hands and knees, he made his way on a familiar path. The soothing gentle breeze that had washed over his whole body had been replaced by burning flames which closed in from all sides. The singing and cheers he had grown accustomed to hearing were replaced with cries of pain and death. The road which he had traveled so many times was covered in blood and debris.

Gale was alone now. Although screams and yells could be heard farther away, the part of town he had learned to call his home was desolate. The drifter managed enough strength to stand, quickly stumbling over to the nearest house. He took a board from its ruined fence and used it as a crutch.

Gale took out the dagger he kept in his shoe and put it over a flame nearby. After the blade was sufficiently hot, he pressed it over his wound. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and a white-hot pain blinded his vision. Gale's voice momentarily joined the echoing screams which filled the night. He staggered to a clearing at the end of the road.

Before the drifter stood a large three story house, with a vast porch and a staircase on the side. The many windows which were usually open to let the cool sea breeze in were shattered, the porch and yard riddled with broken wood and glass. Fires stuck out from every opening of the once noble inn. The tables and chair which were surprisingly comfortable lay scattered around the porch, smashed and broken. The doors of the inn were kicked in, their splinters adding to the mess, while the inside of the home was lit up by roaring flames.

But Gales gaze did not leave the shapes at the foot of the porch steps. He was frozen, not from pain like before, but from sheer terror. And even though he knew the truth, his heart could not take the shock. The drifter fell were he stood, tears streaming down his face.

Whimpering quietly, the weeping man crawled to where the bodies lay.

The old woman, Alice, who saved his life and took him in all those years back, who raised him as his own and loved him unconditionally and sincerely lay in front of him: her neck twisted all the way around.

The young woman, Rose, he had fallen in love with, who taught him of happiness and serenity, whom he had made so many promises to, chief among which was to protect her, covered her foster mothers body with her own: a small dagger sticking out of her heart.

Gale cried over the corpses, remembering all his promises to them: "I will always be here, promise," "I promise, I'll protect you no matter what," "With me here you guys have nothing to worry about! Promise!" "I will help everyone and anyone I can, I promise." "I promise, I will always love you."

After a moment, the drifter wiped his tears away. He pulled the dagger out of his beloved's chest and closed her eyes. Both she and her mother looked at peace.

"You kept your promise," wiping the blood of the dagger, he whispered, "now let me show you my resolve."

Gale marched through town, his rage building his strength returning.

Before long, Gale was standing in front of the central gathering place: a small enclave of stone slabs set in a circle and surrounded by miscellaneous pillars and statues. A stage was set between two of the long stones, with a small podium, where one could have the floor and speak his or her mind.

This was a place where the towns people came to discuss pressing matters or to celebrate happiness. Visions of the past filled Gales head, as he remembered the blissful times spent here. The night he was accepted by the town and protected by its leader. The night Alice and Rose took him to his first dance, the night he and rose kissed for the first time.

On the small stage, behind the long podium stood a man. His black clothes matched his dark hair, but both were covered in blood. He stood over the corpse of the towns leader, a well-known and loved man who was better than most with a blade. The only foe he could not fell, the only foe he thought he would never have to towered over him: his only child.

"You were like a brother to me," the man spoke in a calm, rasped voice "and yet you saw fit to take everything away from me. The love of my woman, the admiration of my people, the respect of my father..." he paused, his shaking fist clenching a short-sword covered in blood.

"IT WAS NEVER YOUR'S TO TAKE!" the man yelled, spinning around to face Gale.

"It was all mine! And now..." He grinned, his eyes widening with elation, "Now I have taken everything from you. Now, I will take the last thing from you." He whispered, bringing his bloody blade up, ready to attack.

Gale stood, not moving, his eyes focused on the manifestation of a man in front of him. He gripped his two daggers, his hands were steady.

"I promised Rose that I would help everyone I could," Gale spoke finally, as if he had been holding his breath, "And I'm a man of my word, through and through, 'brother'."

The man leapt at Gale like a savage beast but before a single blow was struck it was over.

Gale awoke from his nightmare, covered in a freezing sweat and breathing heavily. He threw off his blanket and fumbled around in the dark for his flask. Taking it out of his pants, which lay on the floor next to a dress, he emptied more than half of its contents in one long, pain drowning drink. With a loud sigh, he fell backward onto the bed of his room, which was still his for another day.

Not again, he thought to himself, as he sat up and took another short swig.

A soft, slender hand caressed his back and moved around his shoulder to his chest. The woman he had loaned for the night knew her trade well. She kissed the drifter along his neck, to his ear, and bit the lobe tenderly. Her hands eased its way down and he offered the flask to her. She accepted it and finished off the dark rum which the drifter always kept with him.

"I like you," she said, handing the flask back to Gale, "how about another two hours, on the house?"

"Sounds like music to my ears, love," Gale said as the two fell backward onto the bed, and she was still his for another three hours.

[Aegis of Espiridion]

The man was morbidly obese, to the point where he could not ride his own horse and Ywain had to call for his palanquin. Even then he seemed to flow from the sides of the ornate wooden litter like a rich pudding. Ywain, his countenance knightly but grim, did not bother to hide his disapproval.

“Lead on then,” came the haughty voice, sticky as toffee sauce, from behind the veiled velvet curtains. Ywain snapped a command to the four bearers, who obediently strained to lift the noble off the ground. The small company left in stately procession through the wrought iron gates.

Why do I always get the short straw, Fionan? Resplendent upon his piebald charger, the knight led the way with the palanquin trailing behind at a snail’s pace. Munro Manor was in a forested valley about a league north of Rousay, and it had taken him less than an hour at a light canter to make his pre-dawn arrival. But the noble had insisted on being appropriately accoutred before consenting to his arrest, and given the time that it would take to carry the man into town… I hope the boys leave me noontime chow…

He sighed, and the late spring verdure sighed back from all around him. The salty breeze ruffled his head, sending his long fine black hair streaming out behind like a second cloak. Light from the low midmorning sun pierced the trees to glint from his polished armour and from the gilded hilt of the claymore hung at his right hip. The device on his tabard bobbed as he rode, the golden heron on azure field of the seaside town he called home.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, knight,” the haughty voice once again spoke as they turned eastwards onto the main road. To Ywain’s ears it sounded whiny and weak, as pampered as the pudgy bejewelled hand that waved in his vague direction. The palanquin-bearers pretended not to hear, concentrating on their job, sweat dripping from their bare torsos despite the lingering Salvic winter. “I am a most powerful man, favoured by the king himself. I have wealth beyond the dreams of your petty mind. A snap of my fingers would be enough to dismiss these ridiculous charges and ruin both your career and that of your upstart superior. You had best…”

Go on then, snap your fingers. See how far it gets you. Ywain didn’t bother to favour the rambling complaints with a glance, much less a reply, but his horse snickered as the reins tightened imperceptibly. To the young man’s mind, the slobbering fool behind him represented all that was wrong and corrupt with the Salvic nobility, and it was only Fionan’s distinct command that stayed his blade. I need to bring him in alive.

Ostensibly, the charge that led to Lord Munro’s arrest was embezzlement; the noble was responsible for maintaining the road and bridges in the vicinity of his estate, but had failed to execute his duty whilst claiming large sums from the barony’s purse. Ywain’s suspicions, however, ran far deeper. The two villages beneath the noble’s protection stank of poverty and oppression, the menfolk whip-scarred and barely literate whilst the wives and small children hid beneath thatched roofs and peered at him fearfully from dirty windows. Not a girl of marriageable age remained at home, although he had managed to speak to one personally that morning at the manor. Frightened into subservience, the serving girl had merely stammered lavish praises regarding her lord, but Ywain had not missed the burns on her back as she bent down to serve him breakfast. Foul-eyed mercenaries had glared daggers in his direction when he told them they could not accompany their lord to town, but they had not been circumspect about the source of their pay, nor the perks they received in their employment.

The rumours spoke of far worse. They told of monsters kept in the dungeons beneath Munro Manor, fed on children taken from the villages and girls who displeased their lord. They told of the noble’s predilection for ‘entertainment’, which mostly consisted of his torture-master slicing off digits or flaying people alive. They told of his infamous hunts, where once a month by the light of the full moon he would loose his beasts through the woods after some unfortunate soul, grinning languidly at the carnage.

Ywain had no hard evidence to substantiate the claims, and Lord Munro was not stupid enough to leave any trace behind for the knights to discover. In that sense, the young man disagreed with Fionan’s strategy; the smart move would have been to storm the compound before the noble’s pawns within the city could inform him of their interest. But baronial law prevented even that. If a noble was to be arrested and charged, he had to be brought in person to the exclusive gaols – a set of richly furnished rooms within the castle walls – before evidence could be collected.

Such were the reasons why his sword hand trembled, and his elfin features clenched tight, as they made slow progress towards Rousay below the leafy forest canopy.

“I am hungry,” Lord Munro suddenly announced, barely half an hour after they had left the manse. They had not yet left the boundaries of his lands, and were still approaching the bridge that would carry them over the wide slow-flowing river before the road turned south and followed the waterway towards the estuary and Rousay. “Knight, your duty is such that you must feed me luncheon.”

Ywain’s brow twitched, scarred with cross lines. Perhaps he can make a meal out of cold steel? he asked himself, fingering his sword. Dared he do the deed? Dared he not? Songbirds in the branches overhead tittered as he debated, and his steed whickered messily once more.

The palanquin-bearers groaned as the nobleman shifted in his seat, the poles they held bending under the strain. Gold and scarlet curtains lifted, and Lord Munro poked his head out, squinting as the sun caught him flush in the face. “Knight, I demand to be answered!”

Ywain grimaced as he made up his mind to speak. He turned in the saddle to give the noble his sternest glare. Such was the weight of the man’s cheeks and jowls that despite the flush on his forehead, they were bloodless and deathly pale; beady blue eyes glared back at him from where they were lost in thick folds of flesh. He looks like a caricature made from melting dough,

“I don’t have any food on me,” the knight said matter-of-factly, holding his reins steady. “If you’re hungry, best get to Rousay as quickly as possible.”

He allowed his charger to slow so that he was alongside the palanquin, steeling himself to stare directly into Lord Munro’s eyes. Condensed there was all the conceited arrogance, all the distasteful disgust, all the pampered pride that he despised in the aristocratic class. He met it with resolute fury, and at length the nobleman paled and looked away.

“Well hurry up, then!”

The road beneath their bare feet changed from dirt to stone as they spoke. The bridge was close now; underneath the metal clop of his steed’s shoes, Ywain could hear the flow of the water as it forced its way through the great stone spans. His attention was caught, however, when Lord Munro produced a gilded riding crop from within the confines of his litter and raised it high.

“I said…”

Three things happened at once. Ywain’s gauntleted fist reached out to parry the crop from the nobleman’s hand, and it went spinning away into the undergrowth at the side of the path. The palanquin bearer at which it had been aimed instinctively cringed and closed his eyes, causing the entire litter to sway dangerously as it overbalanced. And then into the litter came a well-aimed crossbow bolt, one that would have taken Lord Munro in the throat but instead grazed a bloody streak across one flabby shoulder.

The nobleman screamed, more in panic than in pain. The litter-bearers dropped their load with nary a second thought, abandoning their lord in an undignified heap in the middle of the road in favour of fleeing into the woods to save their own skins. Ywain sawed viciously on the reins, and his mount sprung into a full charge towards the bridge and the five men who had emerged from hiding there.

Munro’s mercenaries, he recognised as he wrenched his sword from its scabbard. The one with the crossbow had been the quietest of the men-at-arms he had seen at the manor. Here to silence their lord…?

Their clothing was bloodstained, and two of the men hadn’t even bothered to wipe the gore from their cheeks. Likely they had already committed unspeakable atrocities back at the estate, and then headed off their lord by cutting through the forest. They scattered like leaves on the wind before Ywain’s charge, the knight’s claymore cutting only air as its intended target nimbly rolled away.

“Ignore the knight! Finish him!”

“No loose ends!”

He was free. The mercenaries regrouped at the edge of the bridge, between Ywain and Lord Munro. Their backs were turned as they spread out in a semi-circle, moving to surround the fallen palanquin and the bloated leech that was crawling from it gasping for air and begging for mercy. In their minds, the knight didn’t matter. Only the noble needed to die.

He was free. He could simply ride away now, and he would not be wrong to. Fionan would not fault him for not taking on odds of five to one. The Thaynes knew that Lord Munro deserved to die.

Ywain knew that Lord Munro deserved to die.

He would have done the deed with his own hands, if it were not for Fionan’s assurances that baronial law would allow them to make an example of the corrupt noble. All he had to do now was turn away his steed and leave the bridge behind, and the corruption that festered in Munro Manor would be purged and cleansed, ironically enough by the very rotten offspring that it had spawned. All he had to do was…

And what would Fionan say?

Fionan would not fault him for choosing not to face such odds. Fionan would not fault him for failing to bring him Lord Munro. Fionan would not fault him for doubting that baronial law would deal with the corrupt noble.

But Fionan would fault him for not doing his best in the name of the innocent and oppressed.

Trust me, Ywain. Together, you and I, we’re going to make this world a better place.

With a silent curse, Ywain spun his charger on its heels and re-entered the fray.

[Wings of Endymion]

The cherry blossoms fell with the elegance of a soaring falcon. Petals of pink and white carpeted the barren courtyard grounds, floating upon the calm sheen of the pond like a flotilla under review. A single stone lantern stood stern sentinel over the serenity, whilst the peaceful echo of a bamboo deer chaser kept time above the tinkle of flowing water.

The morning was cold for mid-spring, and Kayu had wrapped a padded cotton cardigan over her shoulders. Its black sateen collar contrasted well with the white of the cotton and the aster violet of the semi-formal kimono she wore underneath. The white symbolised purity and integrity, the violet patience, duty, dignity, and nobility. The pattern of her kimono, fine snow petals that accented the colour of her lips, was simple and discreet as befit an unmarried girl of twenty. She wore no makeup on skin somewhat pale from lack of sun, and her hair was let down in straight silken strands that cascaded past her slender shoulders. But she still cut an elegant figure as she sat motionless upon the reed tatami mats. Her eyes were unwavering and determined, focused on the rolling landscape depicted upon the tightly shut sliding panels before her.

At length they cracked, her mother’s pleasingly manicured fingers visible as they curled around the edge. The panels paused once they were ajar a hand’s width, then slid open the rest of the way. The older woman bowed formally, but did not make a verbal greeting. Kayu followed her lead and simply bowed back.

Loud footfalls echoed in the wooden corridor. Her father strode into the room without any care for decorum, dressed in every-day kimono and haori. His hair was done up neatly in the samurai style, and his eyes were like angry hornets as they darted around the room. He grunted once, then imposingly seated himself cross-legged opposite from her as she held her bow. The sliding panels closed behind him on silent rails, leaving father and daughter alone in the room.

For long moments he was silent, and she continued to hold her prostrated bow. The sleeves of her kimono formed crescent arcs to either side of her, and her hair settled neatly in the small of her back. She could feel his gaze boring holes into the nape of her neck, scrutinising her studiously.

It was a while before he spoke.

“How long has it been since you left for the Academy?”

His voice was deep and raspy, just as she remembered it. She relented her position slightly so that she could reply, but dared not yet match his gaze.

“Eleven years, father.”

“You have made the family proud, it seems. High Maester Abiko has written personally to emphasise your talent and potential. He tells me that there is nothing more for you to learn from even the foremost spellweavers in the land, and that you have already been of great aid to the Emperor.”

The Nipponese ideal of womanhood was typified by the dianthus flower: pure of heart and beautiful, sensitive and wise, loyal and humble. A woman was supposed to abide by tradition, to act for the benefit of the family, and to follow the instructions of her father and husband without question. Kayu had been brought up beneath such ideals, and reflected upon them as she answered.

“I was only following your instructions, father. When you allowed me to leave this home and study at the Toho Institute of Academic Learning, your words were for me to develop my talents, to continue my studies and my training.”

He grunted again, a coarse sound that caused the paper partitions to shudder all around.

“You have done us proud,” he repeated, continuing to study her. She waited patiently for him to move on, knowing that there had to be more, knowing that he would not have summoned her so soon after her graduation ceremony otherwise.

He rose to his feet, the rustle of fabric on tatami giving way to the squeak of floorboard as he walked slowly to the terrace. Kayu raised her face at last, finding her father staring thoughtfully out over the garden courtyard. She knew better than to join him, but her eyes too went to the blossoms that so symbolised Nipponese culture.

“How old are you now, Kayu?”

Her gut clenched. She’d guessed that he might try to take the conversation in this direction, and she was prepared. She forced herself to be calm, to reply without allowing the emotion to enter her voice.

“I reached the age of twenty last summer, father.”

“Twenty, eh? Time sure flies…”

For a moment he looked almost vulnerable, an effect amplified by the poignant shedding of the delicate pink blossoms. Kayu steeled her heart and again forced herself to be emotionless. Without turning to her, he tactlessly revealed what was on his mind.

“It is high time you were married. Lord Gamo is my biggest client, and his third son is roughly your age. He indicated to me last night that, although it would be marrying below his station, he would be willing to make an exception for one so talented and well brought up. You would be marrying into nobility, Kayu, and by doing so will firmly ally us with one of the most powerful houses in the land. I hope that you are honoured.”

“I am, father.” She showed her sincerity by prostrating herself once more. But the curtness of her reply, and the silence that followed, was enough to tell him that there was much she left unsaid. He turned to her, frowning.

“Are you dissatisfied, Kayu?”

She knew that she had no reason to be. In an age where many noble girls were married at twelve or fifteen, she was practically an old maid. To be given the opportunity to marry into one of the foremost families in the courts of Nippon was a blessing beyond belief.

“I am truly honoured by your considerations, father,” she said, artfully dodging the question. The frown didn’t leave his face.

“Don’t tell me that you’ve bought into some barbarian nonsense while you were at the Academy?”

She hadn’t, and shook her head vehemently to deny the accusation. Her own feelings didn’t even enter into the equation. Only commoners married for desire, or were allowed to pursue each other on the basis of something as fleeting as a heart’s whim. Marriages in Nipponese high society were a matter of political expediency and gain, to further the ambitions of the clan. In essence, she was a pawn, to be advanced or sacrificed as her father saw fit.

Kayu did not resent being a pawn. Such was the lot of a highborn woman in Nippon; there were plenty of girls who were in the same situation as she. Not all of them would be treated as well, or given the same opportunities.

But Kayu did resent having spent her entire life honing her arcane talents, only to be packed away as a bargaining chip. Surely, the yearning voice in her heart said, surely there was some better use for her powers, some contribution she could make to the world?

“Father,” she began, even more dignified than usual. Her mind churned as it sought a way to express her thoughts, all her carefully prepared phrases lost like melting ice upon her tongue. “I would ask what use my skills as a spellweaver would be as a wife to Lord Gamo’s third son. Would I be allowed to wield the knowledge that I earned at the Academy for the good of the nation and its people?”

Her father guffawed, derisive with scorn. “Of course not, Kayu. Your duty would be that of any other wife in the land, to look after your husband and be loyal to his family and to ours. Of course, we may call upon you from time to time in order to avail ourselves of our divinations… and your presence in the Gamo household will do much to give us respectability. If Lord Gamo so desires, his son may even take over from me when I retire. With his blood and your talent, our house would then be invincible!”

The thought clearly excited him; his fists clenched, lost in the moment. But then he turned back to her, and his gaze was stern.

“You will be dutiful and loyal, and obey your husband and his family in every matter. I am sure that they will not think highly of any attempt to wield your powers without their permission. Under no circumstances are you to defy them. Am I clear?”

He was, and so was the choice she had to make. Duty to her family, or duty to the larger world? Her father, or her freedom?

“So the talents that you so enthusiastically encouraged me to hone… were merely a means to earn me a favourable marriage?”

“Of course,” her father replied, puzzled as to the reason why she was still arguing, why her voice had cooled and lost most of its respectfulness. His confusion swiftly mutated into anger. “Know your place, Kayu, or else…”

The Nipponese ideal of womanhood was typified by the dianthus flower: pure of heart and beautiful, sensitive and wise, loyal and humble. But the dianthus was a wildflower, after all, and a woman was also supposed to be strong of soul and stout of mind, ready to defend her family and her ideals with martial force if necessary.

And Kayu was not a doll, to be dressed up and polished and then packed away at a moment’s notice.

“Father,” she said solemnly, this time not bowing as she addressed him. “I must refuse.”

For a moment it was all he could do to stare at her, incredulous. Eyes that had only minutes before wavered between hope and pride now blazed with fury. His hair seemed to stand on end at his daughter’s callous disregard for his authority, bald pate glistening with sweat and ruddy with barely contained anger. He loomed over her, his body strong and straight, his fists held like massive clubs and more than willing to enact violence.

Then he stopped, transfixed by the power of her gaze.

Kayu was not so heartless as to use her magic against her own father. But she had no need to.

Lost in his daughter’s calm resolve, only in that instant did Soken Kanamai fully realise what she had become – a powerful and independent figure in her own right. So used to being given absolute respect, he had not been prepared for the fact that she was worthy of it as much as he.

The cherry blossoms fell with the grace of a dying butterfly. Petals of pink and white died and rotted amidst the churned mud, drowning in the emotionless mirror of the pond like soldiers massacred in their ranks. A lonely stone lantern kept forlorn watch over the carnage, whilst the hollow echo of a bamboo deer chaser gave discordant call above the dribble of fleeing water.

Kayu gracefully rose to her feet and bowed to her father as she might to an equal. When he did not respond, she stole away in silence, leaving him still standing there paralysed. She could not control the tears that flowed down her pale cheeks at the thought of what she was about to lose, but she had no regrets. None at all.

By the time her father regained his senses, she was long gone.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

These are the foes that you must face.

Touma watched as they boiled from the ground in a tide of muddy limbs and filthy faces, savage bestial roars heralding their birth into the outside world. Vaguely humanoid in form, they moved like shadows, slipping instinctively from one corner of an eye to the other without ever coming into focus. Pitch black darkness covered their tracks as they bounded from cover to cover, using the dense forest as a lesser being might use a cloak. The stench was horrible: stale blood and raw sewage and rotten decay all rolled up into one. Even worse were the incessant shrieks as they sprung forth on the hunt.

He watched as the fireball blossomed in the middle of the slope, casting petals of bright light in every direction. It became clear that these beasts were men, or at least had once been. There was not one amongst their number that was not drenched from head to toe in dark matted blood. There was not one amongst their number who had not flayed the skin from their bodies to expose withered musculature and blackened bone. There was not one amongst their number who had not maimed their flesh with scraps of rusty metal or sharpened wood and bone. Their very appearance was violence personified, and exposing them to light only served to send them into greater frenzy.

He watched as they fell upon the hapless packhorse in animalistic fury, cleavers and machetes rising and falling as they methodically butchered the beast, spraying fountains of dark crimson in all directions. The guide was less lucky as he panicked and fled blindly into the night. Within heartbeats he was caught and hamstrung by no less than four of the men-that-weren’t, who proceeded to take their pleasure of his flesh. A thin wail echoed above their screeching calls, one that did not dissipate for a long, long time. He turned away from that, feeling the senseless brutality begin to tear at the veils of reality.

They are remnants of ancient times, forged in an age of strife long since past. The Dar’el call them Akallabeth, the Downfallen. Those of the Five Kingdoms whisper of Reivers, and shudder at tales of rape, torture, cannibalism, and murder. In Nippon they are but far legend… but you may know of them as Utsusemi, Death that Crawls from the Night.

Steel flashed, and Maester Musashi bellowed a warcry. Flames kindled amongst the dry wood and fallen leaves, dancing off the ornate spear he spun in his hands as he dared his foes to close. Beside him Maester Yamato had drawn his katana and was incanting another spell, free hand held upright before his face as a focus. The bloodthirsty tide surged forth without a second thought, instantly inundating the pair of them in a deluge of flashing silver and blooded flesh.

Three more figures appeared at the edge of the circle of flames, frightened and fleeing. Touma might have once labelled them as friends, but perhaps more appropriately they were only associates: the nameless boy the elves called Ingwe Helyanwe, the dragon-blooded Akiyoshi Sanada, and the inheritor of the Flute of Harmony, Satori Sakurazaka. Ingwe saw the two Maesters battling back to back and shouted something to his comrades. The three split two ways, with Akiyoshi and Satori escaping into the darkness as Ingwe joined the attempt to stem the tide.

Touma’s eyes left the swirling melee behind, concentrating on the girl and boy as they ran through the night. The terrain was hilly and treacherous, and stray roots grasped at their feet like gluttonous hands. And then one of them was a hand, and Satori screamed as she was caught and stumbled. Akiyoshi spun, hacked with that greatsword of his, hacked again. But in that moment they were surrounded and cut off. Bloodthirsty shadows leapt at them through the night.

He had a chance to help them. Satori was of little importance to him, but Akiyoshi was one of the Chosen, the Talons of Telperion. His mission, however, was to watch, to observe. For the sake of future battles, he had to learn all he could about the rarely seen enemy. The Reivers, as Natosatael called them, were the foremost servants of an apocalypse still to come, and there was still so much that even he didn’t know…

What are you going to do?

The voice in his head mocked him, sensing his momentary discomfort, revelling in his rare indecision. As sweet as honey, as repulsive as vomit, dulcet tones from another dimension sought out every last corner of his mind and probed for further weakness. Allies they may have been, but friends they certainly were not.

“Be quiet, Natosatael.”

The revenant arrived from the skies with enough force to crater the ground, crushing three of the Reivers beneath its heavily armoured bulk. Touma stared from its lifeless eyes at scenery drenched in dark crimson and splattered gore, as the undead warrior construct rose tall and malevolent.

“I’ve seen enough.”

Fearless and unthinking, the berserkers came at him. Morning star spun and impacted on the skull of the first, reducing it to mashed pulp in less time than it took to blink. The reverse stroke slammed into the next Reiver’s ribs, splintering them with an audible crack and sending the man-that-wasn’t flying against an unyielding trunk. The third used the distraction to duck in close, but was pummelled aside by the cold iron of the kite shield in the revenant’s off-hand. They kept on coming, one at a time and all at once, until their corpses choked the ground at his feet and their blood dyed his slate-grey armour a rusty brown.

Their cleavers pierced the ancient armour, but the revenant did not fall. Their machetes tore eagerly at the construct’s ironbound frame, but succeeded in little more than sending angry screeches across the desolate autumn-bound hills. When their weapons failed they clung to its back and tore at the iron plates with bloodied claws and filed teeth, but although they managed to prise away one or two bands as souvenirs, their foe did not even slow. The revenant was a daemon’s soul bound to the exhumed remains of a long-dead hero, slaved to the will of a psy-mage powerful enough to influence the very fate of the world. Brutal fury and bestial savagery was nowhere near sufficient to bring it down.

But they did not falter, even for an instant, until the last of their number was a lifeless body crushed beneath the undead warrior’s spiked heel.

The sounds of battle had not yet ceased from further up the slope, but the immediate vicinity was quiet except for the laboured breathing of the two humans. Akiyoshi leant on the gleaming crescent of his odachi as dark flames danced all about him, drenched in sweat and blood. Satori slumped to the ground beside him, all strength sapped from her frame, her relic flute forgotten in frail fingers. The pair of them, no older than seventeen, wore haunted expressions that would have frightened the battle-hardened.

Mercilessly he turned towards them, battered plate creaking like the sigh of a northern wind. Instantly Akiyoshi was on his guard, struggling with exhausted hands to bring his sword to bear.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, dragon-blooded.”

A whisper of wind and he left the samurai in his wake. Unfeeling iron gauntlets reached for Satori’s pale face, caressing her tender chin. She choked on a sob, frozen in fear.

Somewhere behind him Akiyoshi was screaming. No doubt he was a splendid sight in his crimson armour, brandishing the oversized sword with an ease that would shame warriors twice his age. To the revenant and the mage that possessed it, however, such matters were simply irrelevant.

“Let this be a lesson to you.”

At the last moment, her self-defence instincts kicked in. A shrill note sounded as she hastily brought the flute to her lips, and the morning star crumbled to dust like so much rusty sand. But then the gauntlet at her chin clenched tight about her throat, and she could not breathe, much less blow.

Akiyoshi was screaming again. The sword battered heavily into his back, sundering armour as if it were rice paper. It was not enough to stop him. He drew the iron blade from the inside of the shield, a dagger for him, easily a zweihander for its victim.

The screaming intensified, and the sword came back for another blow. He ignored it all.

Human flesh was such a fragile thing. It was so simple to puncture, so easy to twist apart, so painless to release. Yet somehow it managed to contain such a prodigious amount of the crimson liquid that sustained life, releasing it like a blossoming flower upon the thirsty earth. And the faces of the newly dead always seemed so surprised, so wide-eyed, so uncomprehending.

The Flute of Harmony slipped from the girl’s nerveless fingers, sliding down the slippery slope until it came to rest against a rock with one last discordant clunk.

Akiyoshi’s howl of despair echoed louder than any battlecry. Armour clanked noisily as he slumped to the ground, to be replaced by the incessant crackle of dried leaves feeding the flames. His breathing was coarse, growing harsher and harsher with every heartbeat, until it sounded nothing like anything that would come from a human’s lungs.

“That’s better, dragon-blood.”

The dark fire swirled uncontrollably, blazing into a whirlwind inferno. In an instant the entire forested hillside was lost to sight, with Akiyoshi and the revenant caught in the very centre of the devastation. It was hungry, greedy, reaching through rent armour for the very essence of his soul…

Abruptly Touma found himself back in his own body, seated cross-legged on the floor of a dark room and surrounded on all sides by gleaming mirrors. A voice from one of them spoke directly into his mind.

My apologies, Touma. I had to recall my minion. Natosatael seemed almost upset, an unusual state for the daemon. I have to admit that I am rather disappointed. In the end, you were neither able to save your friend nor gain the knowledge that you require. I had expected more of you.

“My actions were for the future, daemon,” the psy-mage replied without hesitation, standing to loosen cramped limbs. His voice was emotionless, as were his features. “I wouldn’t expect them to be understood by somebody like you.

He turned away, impassive and unfeeling.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Me or the world, Yann?

Her voice was gentle, sad.

Me or the world?

He woke slowly, fighting not to let go of the warmth of his dream. He would have allowed himself to bask in its pleasant afterglow, except his mind was frantically grasping at details, struggling to commit them to memory before they were irrevocably lost. What did she look like? How long was her hair? What was she wearing? What did her voice sound like? Had her smile changed much?

A shared lucid dream? Astral projection?

His eyes lingered upon her afterimage as she raised one hand in farewell, long before they forced open their frosty coffin. He tried to recall every last word she had spoken, every last nuance of her slender fingers and kind eyes. Tried and failed, for already there were great black voids in his memories where he could barely recollect her face and her reactions. In some places he had been overawed by her presence, her proximity, after so long. In others, he had been simply too disgusted at his awkward attempts at a reply.

Clumsy oaf. Nothing’s changed since… since…

Curled tight around the bittersweet nostalgia, he was well aware of the hot tears streaking down his frozen cheeks, of the stabbing pain in his chest and the throbbing agony in his soul. And yet, for all that, he was content in a way that he had not been for nearly thirteen years.

Kayu…

He had no idea how long he remained in that foetal position, sheltering beneath a burnt-out stone bridge amidst filthy ashes and drifting snow. When at last he was forced from his shelter, it had little to do with his own free will and more to do with the four bigger, better-fed men who chased him away into the blizzard. He supposed that he owed them his life, for otherwise he would have been more than happy just to stay there, cradling his knees until the end of times. He wondered if the only reason they hadn’t killed him outright was because he already looked like one of the walking dead.

Xem’zund would have laughed.

He was cold. He wrapped the tattered remnants of his cloak tightly about his spare frame, but the Berevar winter invaded and conquered with no regard whatsoever for his well-being. What rationality remained in his mind was quick to point out that his thin tunic and threadbare tabard were in no way suitable for the weather he was enduring, and that no matter how long he grew his hair it didn’t have the insulating capacity of animal fur. It wondered idly how he had survived this long; the rest of him didn’t really care.

Queer, that a fire-mage should freeze to death…

He was hungry. Snow could quench his thirst, but it could scarce sustain him through the long days of travel. He couldn’t remember how long ago he’d consumed the last of his meagre trail rations; was it weeks, or was it months? He could barely remember what a hot meal tasted like, much less the texture of meat and fresh fruit, or the satisfaction of a full stomach. For now, he was almost ready to kill for a handful of rotten straw, or some of the mossy lichen that he could sometimes find growing through the snow.

Perhaps I should head back for some of those ashes…

He was in pain. Not just the figurative pain that tugged at his mind and pulsed through his soul, but the very real agony of the searing scars upon his chest. From shoulder to shoulder, collarbone to rib, the Necromancer’s curse festered and throbbed. It was worsening with every passing day, slowly spreading black rot across his chest and stinking of death and decay. On top of that, the skin of his entire body seemed to be on fire; whether through frostbite or through fever, it was difficult to tell. The cold and the hunger made it almost impossible to focus his mind on anything that didn’t matter.

Keeping myself alive… doesn’t matter…?

He was blind and deaf, robbed of all his senses by the angry storm. His world was a winter-bound snowscape, pressing in upon him with every successive whiplashing snowflake. A howling monster of a wind drove needle-like icicles before it like a remorseless slavemaster, sending them in vicious suicide runs against his scrawny frame. It took every last shred of willpower to keep one foot moving before the other, leaning with all of his weight into the gale, face turned down in a vain attempt to shelter his spectacles from the worst of the rasping flurries.

Only… Kayu. Only Kayu… matters.

His lungs burnt and froze with every feeble breath, and the puffs of steam that escaped clung frigidly to the whiskers of his upper lip. In the absence of a sturdy staff to help him along through the treacherous drifts, his fingers – or at least, what he thought were his fingers, since he could not feel them very well any more – were frozen to the sides of his bony ribs.

Should have kept… that elven relic…

More than once he lost his balance as his legs failed to find purchase in the soft snow. More than once he ended up crawling as the gale made it too difficult to stand upright. More than once he felt the last of his strength ebb from his insignificant form, only to be urged back to his feet by force of will alone.

Must keep… going.

It was dark. So very dark. He wondered whether it was just the weather, or if he had actually wandered so far north that it was perpetually night.

There is no light in the middle of the storm.

He tripped, falling face first into icy hell. Slowly it came to his mind that he couldn’t breathe, and that a mouthful of snow was not going to solve any of his problems. Slowly he rose to his knees, wondering what in this daemon-cursed landscape had caught his feet. It was not as if there were any rocks, or roots, or…

A… signpost?

It was almost completely buried, and the limited visibility made it almost impossible to read the worn lettering. It was clear, however, that somewhere beneath him was a crossroads. Perhaps it was even the one that he had been aiming for.

Buried somewhere under all this snow is the path that I must walk.

Somewhere to the south was Salvar, and beyond that Alerar, and even further Raiaera from where he had come.

Footprints tracing back to fields of war and sorrow.

Somewhere to the east were the wastelands of Kebiras, beyond the impenetrable veil of snow towards the Five Kingdoms and the City of Blightwater.

Will the path ahead be little different?

Only then did he realise that he was caught in two minds about where he should be heading.

Me or the world, Yann?

It was not too late. If he turned south now, he might find her before she left the continent. He might even be of use to her somehow. Was there anything more that he wanted to do than help?

To be… by her side?

But could he just leave events to transpire unhindered in the north? Touma had showed him too much, had not been lying when he had spoken of the apocalypse that was to come. Xem’zund was only the harbinger, the herald. There were just too much at stake…

The future… her future...

He wavered. It would be so easy to turn back towards warmer climes, where the war was over for now, where he stood a chance of finding her.

But…

He couldn’t.

No.

What would she think of him if he gave up halfway? What would happen to her if he abandoned the world to ruin? There was no guarantee that his presence would affect the course of fate, but at the very least he had to try, didn’t he?

Yes.

If he could somehow avert the crisis before she could get involved, it would be more than staying by her side could ever achieve. She would never have to learn of Touma’s future, never even have to know what he had done.

And in the end, all that matters…

For her sake, he had to go. For the sake of his feelings for her, he had to go. For the sake of the future of the world as they knew it, he had to go.

Me or the world, Yann?

In the end, as in the beginning, there was always a choice. The choice to help her, the choice to save the world… and the slimmest chance of doing both.

Me or the world?

Clumsy as he was, compromising had never been his forte. They said that the hunter who chased two rabbits caught none, but he wasn’t ready to give up without trying. Not yet.

Kayu…

Somehow he managed to wring strength enough from mind and body to stand again. The crunch of fresh snow beneath his feet had ceased to be a novelty some two hundred leagues ago, but for some reason, he felt as if he were starting anew. One foot before the other into the howling snowstorm, again and again…

… may fortune favour the worthy.

Into the east.

[Sagequeen]

“All it takes is a single word, Erissa. Not even a word, just a nod of your head, and this will all be over,” the man said, purring with a soothing and sinister voice. “You can go back home, back to your life, and so can this innocent woman.” Erissa Caedron shuddered, hugging herself tightly in the cool, damp basement.

That it was sunny and clear outside on this spring day mattered little; not a ray of it dared peek into into the old house, whose windows and openings were covered carefully with foul, heavy cloths. The only source of light inside was the glow of candlelight, unnaturally purple with the odd substance from which the candles were made.

“Just agree to my terms, Ms. Caedron,” the man said, drawing a knife closer to the neck of the woman who was bound to a wooden chair and gagged; the cloth stuffed in her mouth only muffled her terrified scream. The point of the dagger made contact with her flesh, and a crimson bead formed and trailed down skin pale with terror. A scream once again pierced the silence; there was, however, no one to hear. The little farmhouse was surrounded on all sides by rich brown fields awaiting seed in Corone's southern agricultural area. “You know as well as I do that your father is as corrupt as the blasted Red Forest. Why do you protect him?”

This foe was beyond the high elf arcanist. Erissa could not hope to overwhelm him in battle; the bruises and torn flesh across her body were painful reminders of his prowess. Even now, she was aware of the creeping and powerful magic he used, meant to make her more pliable to his will, and she felt it working. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, her limbs as rocks, and her thoughts congealed like cold gravy. Erissa's eyes were locked with those of the bound woman, Abigail, a dark-haired beauty with whom the elf had formed a fast friendship in the Radasanth market only three days prior.

“I... I cannot,” Erissa began, the assault on her mental faculties robbing her of words.

“Here, Ms. Caedron. Let us see what this young woman has to say.” The man removed the gag from Abigail's mouth; the woman began to beg pitifully for her life, for her children. “I know enough of your past, Ms. Caedron, to know the havoc your father has tried to wreak upon your life, the way he has tried to control you to better his position among his political peers. I say again, why do you protect the one who has no regard for you? All I ask is for a little information; no one would blame you for giving it to me. In fact, you would be a hero, Erissa, for saving this woman's life and helping to dispose of a corrupt politician. Is his life worth more than this innocent woman? Is it worth more than the lives of her children, who will be without a mother? Will you you ever scrub the blood of this woman's death from your hands? Because surely, it is in your hands to prevent.”

Erissa felt her resolve weakening; the words of the dark man began to make sense. She knew not from which organization he was sent; nor did she know why he had singled out her father, when Ellear's office in Raiaera was rather insignificant. The high elf's eyelids fluttered as she felt herself slip more deeply under the sway of the spell; she sunk to her knees, hands splayed to keep her balance on the stone floor.

“Listen to reason, Erissa. I ask only for a nod, confirming his schedule for tomorrow. Be rid of him, the one who looms in the back of your mind, still trying to use you and your valor among the Ixian Knights to propel himself to heights, heights from which he could do even greater damage. Will you allow that?” To punctuate his point, he let the cold dagger in his hand dig more deeply into the woman's neck, a hair's breadth away from the exposed and pulsing jugular vein. Another scream threatened to snap the last thread of resolve to which Erissa still clung.

How had she come to the tiny farmhouse? The waves of confusion began to wash over her; the arcanist vaguely remembered buying Abigail's medicine when the woman did not have enough gold to do so; it was for her sick son. The woman was poor; her means of travel was by foot, and she fretted she would not make it home in enough time for the medicine to do its work. Had I been followed then? Erissa wondered. I brought her here in my carriage. Still, the elements of the situation did not make sense. Where were the children? Her train of thought was interrupted with a sharp pain to her cheek; the man had slapped her, and Erissa was on her side on the floor.

“Not yet, Ms. Caedron,” he said as her eyelids fluttered again; she began to lose consciousness under the weight of his spell. “I see you choose to be difficult. It was noble enough to be willing to give your own life, but are you truly willing to be responsible for the death of this innocent woman?” The man, though very composed, was showing signs of impatience; his eye twitched and he rubbed it with habitual exactness. Erissa felt the spell beginning to relent, and the man turned his back to her. Erissa's throat and mouth were dry from stress and dread.

“No,” she croaked. Her enemy turned on her, eyes bright.

“Then where will he be?”

“No,” Erissa repeated. “I will not agree to your terms. The dagger is in your hands; it is you who would take a life, and you think you can force me to decide whose it will be. I leave you to choose your own victims. The blood,” she coughed, “is on your hands, not mine.”

“You self-righteous little bitch,” the man spat. “You put your rickety little morals above life?” He kicked her in the gut, and Erissa heaved and coughed.

“No,” she wheezed. “But now you know I will not be an agent of your malice. It is pointless to continue trying, and pointless to threaten other lives around me. You have no power over me.” The man laughed cruelly.

“Is that so, Lightbearer?” At his words, shock when through the elf's body like a bolt of lightening, from her gut to her mind. Lightbearer? Erissa had heard that name before. As she reeled, the man paced to the woman in the chair; with a quick stroke of his knife, she was freed from her bonds.

“Master,” Abigail said reverently.

“Thou hast played thy part well enough,” he said as she took him by his outstretched arm. “As for thee, Lightbearer, I will see thee broken. Perhaps next time thou will not have such an easy decision when it is someone about whom thou truly cares. Until we meet again.” The demon paced ascended the stairs into the light-filled world with his servant, and Erissa was left with the dread of his ire; she had ousted him from her realm once, and it would seem he carried the grudge.

Her body broken, the high elf lay on the floor. Her mind was intact, and so too was what separated her from her from the likes of demons - and her father.

Spoiler:

This post refers to several past events in Erissa's life - it's canon. Just check out the links in my sig, specifically the first three. Spinner's Web is on Erissa's father, then Escape from... and The Art... speak more of the demon.

[Bloodrose]

Teric and Sidsa fled south under the cover of darkness, rushing through the woods towards the Osolav river. South of the river lay Uroda, the habitable breadbasket region of the country that was "Salvar" as most knew it. There would be towns in Uroda, even as far north as the riverbank. Towns had guards, and also housed garrisons of Royalist soldiers still working to rebuild after the war.

If we can just make it across the river, Teric was thinking, the Reus will think twice about chasing us.

Unencumbered, with only himself to worry about, the veteran had little doubt that he could make the banks of the Osolav before sunrise. Unfortunately, his companion would not make it. She was significantly shorter, and so proportionally was her stride. Where Teric had the strength and stamina of a fighting man to carry him forward, Sidsa was not accustomed to running for miles on end. They made it about two miles before the witch was panting for breath and had to slow down.

"Come on." Teric urged, as Sidsa's pace slowed to a walk. The terrain was rough, and they had a long way to go to safety.

"I... I..." The young woman was gasping for breath. "I can't."

"You have to try-"

Teric's encouraging sentiment was cut short by the low, unmistakable call of a war horn on the air. If the mercenary had to guess, the Reus had just found their fallen comrade, Draak, back at the cabin from which he and his companion were now fleeing. One brazen orc had been easy prey; Teric had killed him in the middle of small-talk with an underhanded trick. The rest of the war band would not go as quietly. They would stick together, and likely would be less inclined to partake of disarming conversation.

They'll be on us soon. The warrior mused, grimly. The Reus, like himself, would have both the speed and endurance to make good headway through the pine barrens. Who knows how many. How many could I kill?

Sidsa's walk slowed to a shuffle, and then finally the witch collapsed against a fallen log in a clearing. Moonlight filtered down through the hole in the canopy, casting the forest in layers of dim blue light intermixed with long, impossibly black shadows. A clear sky meant it was cold, but Teric could feel his heart pounding in his chest as his breath froze in clouds. He was sweating beneath his coat, partly because of the running, but also because he already thought he could hear the Reus crashing through the woods behind them.

Run. A voice in the back of Teric's mind said. Leave her. She'll get you killed.

Betrayal was a fact of life for mercenaries; the same men willing to pay you to kill would often times be just as willing to kill you. If you lived long enough, like Teric had, you learned to keep people at arm's length. You learned not to get tied down to any one person or place, just in case you were forced to abandon them to save your own skin. That instinct, more than just common self-preservation, became something so ingrained in you that the thought of leaving a friend behind didn't even cause you to bat an eye.

It was a lonely way to live. Teric had been living like that for decades. In a way it made the instinct to run stronger; nothing in his life would really change. In the same breath, though, his life up to this point was one day of misery after another. These last few weeks, cohabitating with Sidsa in a quiet cabin in the woods, had been different.

"Shit." Teric forced the urge to abandon Sidsa down into his gut, unbuttoning his coat as he resigned himself to the fight to come. He shrugged out of the heavy garment and left it in a pile behind his feet. Sword drawn, he put some distance between the witch struggling to catch her breath and himself, moving towards the tree line to the north. There he waited, listening intently to the sounds of the forest.

Minutes ticked by, but he didn't have to wait long...

A half dozen Reus came crashing through the pine trees like an avalanche; big men with long strides and broad shoulders. Low hanging branches were not obstacles, they were merely brushed aside or broken clean from their trees as the barbarians hurtled by. Teric heard them long before he saw them, but when they emerged into the moonlight at the edge of the clearing, they were much as the warrior expected.

"Ma brother waits for you in Salharra." The Reus in the center said. His accent was heavy, but his Common was good. He didn't mince words, and much as Teric had expected, he got right to the point. The five members of the war party with him fanned out in a semi-circle with practiced precision, hemming the clearing in on one side.

"Your brother died without a fight." Teric retorted. "Only true strijders go to Salharra."

He glanced sideways at the Reus warriors as they edged closer. Like Draak, back at the cabin, they all towered over the older man by several inches; some probably clearing seven feet in height. Like the tribal raiders they were, each bore an odd assortment of arms and armor scavenged from the dead. Amongst their numbers, Teric counted a spear, two axes, two bows, and a sword. They wore leathers, corroded iron mail, and bits of heavy plate. The sword, held by the brother of the dead Reus, was a claymore wielded in one hand like a longsword.

"I will cut your tongue from your head, and wear it around ma neck, Bloodrose."

"Come and take it." The mercenary replied with more confidence then he felt. The Reus needed no further invitation, and in an instant the moonlit clearing dissolved into a frenzied bloodbath.

The first casualty was the Reus on the far left flank. With speed born from a Thayne's patronage, Teric seemed to blink from his defensive position in the middle of the clearing to the tree line, falling on the big man before he could even notch his bow. Cold mythril bisected the meaty flesh of his thigh, and the raider went down howling as his right leg buckled out from under him. No deathblow followed, as Teric had already turned on the next Reus in line. Lifeblood gushed from the fallen orc, staining the white snow black in the dark, and steaming like warm breath on the air. He'd be dead soon enough.

"Heksbloed!" Someone shouted; a common insult amongst the Berevean people. Their language had no word for magic, and tricks born out of anything but sheer physical prowess were as alien to these fighters as rain in Fallien. Those with curse blood were treated like devils, and Teric was a demon.

The second Reus swung an axe, and while Teric managed to cut the lethal head from the shaft, the force of the swing carried the broken handle into his shoulder and staggered him. Quick as he could, the orc tossed aside the haft of his weapon and went for the knife hanging at his belt, but Teric was faster. The Reus' hand spun away from his body as mythril cleaved it off, and the barbarian's pained scream died early as the mercenary followed that cut with one to the neck.

The second raider fell dead in a heap, but by now his comrades were closing in like wolves around a trapped deer.

Teric sidestepped a chop from the claymore, and normally would have followed up with swing of his own. Instead he found himself dancing further, backing away from the seeking head of a spear as another raider jabbed at him. Big, sweaty bodies closed like walls around him, and the mercenary lashed out wildly. His blade scored minor hits on the legs and arms of the Reus warriors, but their reach exceeded his. In less than half a minute Teric went from dealing death to desperately avoiding it, parrying just enough to keep the steel of their weapons from his flesh. He was fast - faster than all of them combined - but it was all he could do just to fend off three skilled, collaborative opponents.

One of the raiders said something in Taal, and a gap opened in the wall of flesh. Like clockwork, an arrow whizzed through the opening and buried itself in Teric's thigh. He went down on one knee with a gasp of surprise, and something heavy clubbed him in the side of the head. The spear took him in the chest, and while it didn't pierce the chainmail under his shirt, it still knocked the remaining breath from the veteran's lungs.

Winded and without the use of one leg, Teric found himself flat on his back against the tree line, three Reus brutes lording over him with smiles.

"Should have run." Draak's brother gloated. "Like you did from my father."

"Spare me... the history." Teric coughed. "Do what you came here to do."

"Gladly." The Reus made to reverse his grip on his claymore, the preferred method of executing a fallen foe on the battlefield. Halfway through, however, the big man rocked forward and the weapon fell out of his grasp like his fingers were suddenly made of noodles. Draak's brother had a puzzled look on his face, and when he turned to look behind him, both Teric and the man's companions were surprised to find an arrow lodged between his shoulder blades.

"Waarom?" Was the last word he managed to gurgle before falling over dead. Why?

"Wat doet u?" The Reus with the spear jabbered, excitedly. The fourth living raider, still standing on the right flank with his bow, notched another arrow. The two remaining men standing over Teric shouted at him in Taal, waving wildly as if their friend had gone mad. Another arrow loosed, and the man with the spear sat down hard with the shaft through his eye.

At this point, the last Reus with an axe had seen enough. Whirling on Teric, he raised the axe to finish the old man quickly, but got the mercenary's blade in his stomach for the trouble. Using a tree against his back to help himself up, Teric climbed onto his good leg and pulled his blade free. The raider fell away holding in his own guts.

Casually, the last remaining Reus dropped his bow. From his belt he produced a dagger shaped out of a deer antler. He was looking right at Teric when he stuffed the sharp point into his own neck.

"What the-" It took Teric a moment to notice Sidsa behind the raider that had turned on the others. The witch was kneeling behind the brute's self-made corpse, her chin hanging down on her chest. By the time the veteran hobbled over to her, the young woman seemed to have pulled herself together a little bit.

"Do I even want to know what just happened." Teric asked. He gave the girl a wide berth as he came up beside her.

Sidsa shook her head. She looked exhausted - more so than she had when they'd stopped running. Her hands were icy pale, and Teric would have sworn the tattoos on her arms looked different than they had the day before.

"We need to bandage you up." The witch said finally. "We need to get out of here."

[SirArtemis]

Artemis' eyes scanned the note, every word pushing a dagger further into his heart as all the respect he had held for his father drifted away, replaced by a deep hatred and resentment.

My friend Gareth,

I expect you have accepted the terms of our contract. A pair of my men will come to pick up the weapons and armor on the first of the coming month. It is good to know that there are men out there like you who know how to run a business properly. I will be contacting you again if needs arise. I appreciate the continual support.

Draco D.

'How can this be?' he thought. 'Why would father ever do such a thing? Why would he sell to a man like Draco the Desperado, a man whose reputation is as vicious as sinister as any can be?'

Artemis balled his hand into a fist and slammed it down onto the metal table. He sat down and let his head fall into his hands as he tried to understand what the letter meant. He let his thoughts fall back to the day before when a man had approached his father and handed him this very note. The courier had worn a fine chainmail shirt and a well crafted steel longsword on his hip, and his movements showed that he knew how to fight. Hawk, the dark elf who currently trained young Artemis in combat, had taught the young man how to discern an individual's prowess by their stride alone, and this courier was no novice to the way of the sword.

Still, despite his fluid gait and fine attire, there seemed something twisted beneath the surface – as if an evil festered deep within this man's soul. Artemis could not shake the feeling, and so he decided to investigate further. However, he had never expected the man to be working for Draco.

Rage began to replace the shock in Artemis as he began to question all that he knew of his father. He barely remembered his mother, as she had died at a young age, so the father had raised him alone; well not entirely alone, as Gareth's closest friend, Hawk, also helped. Just as Hawk had shown Artemis the way of the sword, Gareth had shown his son the way of the hammer, teaching the boy how to become a skill blacksmith.

Artemis had always believed his father to be a man of pride, honor and virtue – he had been a fine warrior in his day, before Artemis had been born. Now he had settled into the family profession and helped protect their home town of Pylos – but at what cost?

“Is it worth it?” he wondered aloud. “Is it worth selling to a scoundrel like Draco just to keep your business going? Just for that extra coin? Is that what kind of man my own FATHER IS!?” He flung the metal table off to the side and breaking part of the wooden wall that separated the two rooms of the small home. The metal tore through and Artemis' refined muscles put plenty of force behind the toss, bending the iron easily. He stormed out of the house, heading to the smith where his father still worked.

His steps dug deep into the dirt paths that served as streets of the small town of Pylos – a place that made home to less than a hundred folks in the warm reaches west of Underwood on the island of Corone. The soil clung to his boots with every step and the warm afternoon breeze rushed against him, as if trying to deter him from his path. The sun had almost finished its descent, lighting the sky to the west the crimson of blood – a bad omen in some cultures. Yet Artemis did not notice any of this as he made the short journey.

He shoved his way into the small smithy, seeing his father sitting by the forge, wiping his hands free of the soot from a long day's work.

“What...” Gareth began, but Artemis cut him off.

“How can you do something like that and not be ashamed of yourself?” he shouted at his father, is fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white.

“What are you talking about?” his father replied, a confused look on his face.

“Who else do you sell to? Who else do you help kill others that don't deserve to be killed?”

“Artemis, stop shouting, I don't understand why...”

“Stop shouting? You sell to men like Draco and you want me to stop shouting? You know what kind of man he is, and yet that doesn't stop you from giving him weapons and armor that you make? That I MAKE?!”

“Artemis, Draco may not be the best man but he has his reasons...”

“There is no reason to do what he does!” Artemis shouted, grabbing a throwing knife off the counter beside him and throwing it across the room to stick to a wall. “I used to be proud that you were my father! I used to be proud of what we did! But now I see the truth!” Artemis scowled.

“Now come on now, Artemis,” Gareth began, rising to his feet and starting to approach the young man. “You know that we can't always pick who we sell to and who we don't. This is a business after all.”

“Let other man without honor sell to men like Draco, not us!” Artemis unsheathed the short sword at his hip, pointing the tip of the blade at his father. “Men who sell to those like Draco deserve to die just as he does, and I refuse to be a part of something like that!”

Gareth scoffed, as if put off by his own son's blind righteousness. “You know nothing of what kind of man Draco is, or what kind of life he leads, and yet you pretend to know so much. Put the weapon down and I can have you meet the man yourself. You will see, he is not so different from us.”

“From YOU!” Artemis yelled, slashing at the air as his vision blurred behind tear-filled eyes. “I am nothing like Draco, nor will I ever be! You are not my father! My father is a good man, and you are a coward and a murderer! You are no different from him!”

“Ha!” Gareth mocked, frustrated at his own son's words. “You say such things about your own father, after all I've done for you? After all I've gone through? Do you know how much I've lost in order to give you all you have!?” Gareth shouted, his own voice rising to match Artemis'. “Do you have any idea what it means to be a man? What it means to have to provide for your family? For the village?” Gareth reached for a warhammer that hung on the wall, the very one that he had used during his travels many years ago. “Do you know how many lives I've had to take with my own two hands? What do you know of murder? Of death? You're just a boy who plays with swords!”

The words sent Artemis into a rage, but not a blind one. With Hawk's training, the young man knew how to fight, and so his attacks flew at his father. Each stab, slash and stroke a calculated assault upon the slower and stronger man's defenses. Gareth, no novice to combat, easily dodged or deflected each attempt. However, Artemis would not relent. His movements became more instinctual and began to flow like a dance of steel, and soon his movements were quick enough to nick his father several times, one cut along the man's cheek.

“Now am I just a boy who plays swords?” Artemis asked, lifting the tip of the sword toward his father to show the blood that covered parts of the edge. “Do you still think you are a better fighter than me?”

Gareth spit on the ground, refusing to lose his pride, even to his own son. “You're a score of years too young to best a fighter like me, boy.” He attacked Artemis, which shifted the fight even more against the older man, as Artemis had been mostly trained in defensive counter-combat. Within moments, Gareth lay disarmed against a wall of the smithy, sitting down with an arm propped up against his chair to hold himself up.

“You are not my father,” Artemis declared, throwing down the sword and walking out of the smith. Gareth, settled from his rage, watched his son walk out, a tear trickling down his cheek and mixing with the blood as he tried to understand how things had escalated so quickly, and why he had allowed his pride to get in the way.

“I don't understand,” Gareth mumbled, pushing himself to his feet and getting a clean rag to wipe himself from the blood and sweat. “Even if Draco Delores is an awful political of Radasanth, I don't understand why it would offend Artemis so much that we are equipping his personal guard. It's not like it's Draco the Desperado.”

Gareth paused at his own words, as if hearing them had made him understand. “Oh no,” he mumbled, rushing out and trying to catch Artemis.

[Zerith]

“So have the Ixian Knights made any progress in that Mystic War of theirs?” asked Eric Matrino. The King of Moriah was perched in his golden throne as his gray eyes remained fixed on the only other person that stood in his throne room. “I’m hoping you will tell me that there is some sort of end to the fighting in the foreseeable future.”

Knowing that Eric was just as stubborn as his sister, Zerith tilted his head to the right as stared at his brother-in-law. He was trying to figure out why Eric called him here in the first place and stressed that Jasmine wasn’t to come along. It naturally sounded like trouble for the halberdier, like Eric didn’t want his sister present because he knew how she would react to whatever the real reason her brother demanded to speak to her husband. It all made the prince feel uncomfortable, like he was suddenly forced to be on the defensive for something he wasn’t even aware of.

“I’m not a fortune teller, Eric,” the Captain Commander of the Moriah’s army replied. “I can’t say when we can expect the war to be over. What I can tell you is that the Ixian Knights are doing everything they can bring it to an end as quickly as possible.”

“So what you’re really saying is that you don’t know. Is that right?” Eric questioned. “I thought Sei Orlouge put you in charge of the army.”

“He did, but I don’t see what that has to do with why I’m here.”

“It means that you’re suddenly tasked with managing two armies. Something I think any man consider a daunting task,” Eric explained as he shifted in his throne. Slowly, the halberdier began to see where his king was going with the conversation. “I’m going to be honest and upfront, Zerith. I don’t like the idea of you leading two armies just as much as I don’t like having some members of my family in the midst of the conflict there.”

“I respect your opinion, Eric,” Zerith answered politely. “But I believe I can handle the responsibilities of managing Sei’s forces.”

“Well I don’t,” the ruler shot back immediately. “I don’t think it’s good for Moriah for you to be focused on what is going on in Corone.” He paused for a moment and took a breath, gathering the courage needed to tell Zerith what he had be planning to tell him for a long time. “I believe it’s time for you, Jasmine and your kids to come back home and leave the Ixian Knights.”

“What? You mean to tell me you’re ordering me to-“

“To pull out of the Mystic War? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” Eric finished, his tone was gradually growing firmer and firmer with each passing minute. “Not only do I think it’s unsafe for my sister, my niece and twin nephews to be there, but you need to realize that you’re needed here.”

“Need me for what?” Zerith dared to asked. “What could possibly pose such a threat to Moriah that you would ask me to turn my back on Sei when I can actually help save people?”

“Just because Moriah isn’t being attacked by something doesn’t me you’re not needed here-“

“Moriah still lives in a shell, Eric!” Zerith snapped, his voice echoing throughout the throne room as he stood his ground. “People are dying in Corone while you stay hidden in a bubble! You can’t ask me to just stop trying to help people.”

“I gave you an order, Zerith!” Eric shouted as he rose from his seat. “As your king I shouldn’t have to ask you to think of what your doing to Jasmine by being there.”

“At least she’s willing to do everything she can to help the innocent people in Corone!” What have you done for them, Eric? You won’t even let me send some of our infantry here to reinforce the Ixian Knights!”

“It’s not that easy, Zerith! Doing such a thing would put Moriah’s safety as risk!” Eric countered, desperately hiding behind a shield Zerith was finally beginning to see.

“By the Thaynes, Eric! When will you understand that everything else in Althanas isn’t against you! Most of Althanas doesn’t even know Moriah even exists!” Zerith screamed in frustration. It was true though, as even he hadn’t heard of the place until his wife told him back when they first knew each other. The reality was that Moriah wasn’t even pictured on most maps, so the vast majority of people never knew the island existed.

“I will not just sit back and allow you to speak to me like this!” Eric boomed, storming down the steps that lead to his throne and proceeded to get right in the halberdier’s face. “If you won’t respect my decision and follow the order I’ve given you, then I’m afraid I can’t have you serve as my Captain Commander!”

The last sentence struck home, and left the young prince at a loss for words. Zerith’s first reaction was anger, as his grip on his halberd tightened so much that his knuckles turned white. Luckily, his self control was more than enough to prevent him from physically striking out at Eric. Yet he still couldn’t believe this man he considered to be family would do such a thing because the halberdier refused to turn his back on people he knew needed help.

Turn his back and remain the leader of an army, or lose his respected title and do what he believed was honorable. The choice wasn’t too hard to make, but it would leave a bitter aftertaste.

“Fine…” Zerith muttered as he slowly lowered his head. His halberd fell to the marble floor with a loud clang shortly before his hands began to move. His fingers moved deftly, working together to undo clasps and rid his body of the large piece of weight it carried. “…but we both know I’m the best fighter Moriah has.”

With that said Zerith retrieved his polearm, turned his back on his king and made his way out of the throne room. Along the way he dropped another object and listened as it echoed when it hit the floor. “I only hope that Althanas will know Moriah exists before a time comes when she would need all the help the rest of the world can offer.”

Left alone with his only his throne and marble to comfort him, Eric silently picked up the azure breastplate that marked Zerith Dracosius as Moriah’s Captain Commander.