The Warden of the Wastes

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

"There are others. I have to find them."

-Madison's journal, found by Coronian Rangers at her compound in Condordia; final entry

Solo. Takes place shortly after The Nuclear Option.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Hyperion took a bite of her dinner, tearing meat from bone with her sharpened teeth. Her amber eyes flashed inquisitively. "This is just like one of those post-apocalyptic books you like to read, isn't it?"

I watched my friend as she chewed her food, a thin trickle of blackish blood running down her vine-woven chin. She swallowed her mouthful, and took another massive chunk out the severed arm. Bits of grayed, decaying flesh stuck to the yellowed bone of her teeth.

"I suppose so," I casually remarked as I continued to wipe the gore off the flanges of my mace with a rag.

All around us, dozens upon dozens of undead laid on the plague-stricken ground. Heads were caved in, limbs torn from torsos, blood everywhere. As it turns out, in the time since the necromancer and Forgotten One Xem'Zund met his fate at the hands of a band of plucky adventurers, his dark grip on Raiaera weakened and had certain effects on those who were in his thrall. The once-terrifying hordes of mindless killing machines were reduced to something akin to ripe fruit that exploded shit everywhere when lightly brushed up against. They were nothing that myself, Hype, and four hastily-grown briarbane couldn't handle.

The small horde managed to tear one of them to shreds. The other three avenged their fallen sister by messily feasting on the corpses of the creatures that killed her, unaware that their accelerated lifespans meant that they would soon join her.

"I mean, if you think about it, maybe I could write a book out of our adventures." Hyperion gingerly set the half-eaten arm on the ground next to its owner, trying to push it as close to the severed socket as she could, as if she were sorry she tore it off in the first place. "Lots of walking around, a little bit of intrigue and action, even more walking around." She rose from her seat on the dead earth and moved towards her backpack, which hand been tossed aside when we were attacked. "I think it will do well with fans of the genre. People love books where there's nothing but walking around, right?"

She wasn't wrong. I thought about how much walking I've done in the stories I've told people. Hells, we've been on the mostly-empty roads of Raiaera for a week now.

"Just make sure you leave out anything that might incriminate me," I told the briarbane with a wink.

Hyperion flipped open the top of the canvas bag and removed one a pencil and one of her many notebooks. "Of course, of course. I'll just change some of the names, fudge a few of the key plot points..." She sat back down on the ground cross-legged, pushed the pencil to an empty page, and paused for a moment. "What do you think I should call it?"

Satisfied that the head of the mace was as clean as it was going to get and that those last few flecks of dried blood weren't coming off without water, I slid it back into the sheathe ring on my belt. Leaning down, I picked up my mythril face mask off the ground, which had been torn away during the scuffle. "I'm the worst person to ask. I'm pretty terrible with names."

"You named me. I quite like my name."

"Yeah, but I also named what you are 'briarbane'."

"So what?"

I lazily hung the mask off the other side of my belt. This deep in the plaguelands, there would be nobody I had to hide my twisted visage from. Everyone here was either a figurative or literal monster of some sort, or too dead to care. "I'm just incredibly lazy when it comes to names, is all. My plague? Freebird's Bane. You and your brothers and sisters? Briarbane. A lot of things just end up as bane this, bane that."

Hyperion motioned off to the side. "What about him?"

I shrugged. "I could have named him something cool; like Shadowfang, or Deathclaw. Something that would inspire fear into the hearts of my enemies. And instead I chose Boris, to honor the hunter who died trying to help me capture him."

A rumbling growl filled the air around us.

Hype turned toward the source of the noise and hushed it in her normal, cheery tone. "Don't be like that, Boris! I happen to think it's a lovely name."

One ton of furry, cuddly death muttered to itself as it sat on the ground. For something that I enslaved with cordyceps nearly two years ago, the Kodiak bear was in remarkable shape. The hulking creature's brown fur was as clean as it could be, its flesh all intact, and its beady black eyes full of life--or, as much life as it could have, considering that every single action it took was controlled by the strain of fungus that infected its brain. In fact, the only telltale sign that it was something special were the thin stalks of inky blue fungus that wrapped themselves around its neck like a collar.

I strolled across the battlefield to where the bear sat, and caressed its muzzle with a briar-knit hand. "It's okay, buddy," I cooed. "You can disagree with her. You'd rather be called Ultramurderbeast, Slayer of Zombies, wouldn't you?"

Boris gave me a friendly headbutt, growling in agreement.

A hoarse whisper escaped from near my feet. "Get this thing off of me, I command you--" And then, coughing and painful cries as the stubborn bear shifted its massive bulk in a most inconvenient way.

"Ah, yes, nearly forgot about you." I sat down on the ground cross-legged and looked my guest in the eyes. They were silverish-gold, powerful and piercing like a Raiaeran's. The woman's purple hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail that was caked with dirt and blood from the battle. The scars of the Corpse War crossed her face. Her bird-like features were lightly dusted with crimson spores, which neutralized her ability to cast spells. Much like the horde she had ambushed us with, her considerable powers were diminished in the years since the death of her master.

My face twisted into a wicked smile as I drank in her anger and frustration. She struggled in vain against the great weight that pressed her to the cracked earth.

"Hi."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

"Fuck you," my elven prisoner spat at me.

"I just want to talk. You're the one who attacked me."

"You don't belong here."

"And you shouldn't be alive," I said, amber light from my eyes flaring in anger. "You should have died in the Siege of Eluriand, like nearly everyone else. You should have died when Xem'Zund was sealed away for good."

The enthralled mage's sneer deepened. "You know who I am?"

I motioned towards her violet hair. "It's a dead giveaway, really."

I took a deep breath, and began recounting the information I had on her. "You are Elmirah, the Spellsinger, the Death Lord who commanded the Deathcasters; the brilliant mage who struck fear into the hearts of the Raiaerans during the Corpse War. You rained down hellfire upon Eluriand during the siege, causing incalculable amounts of damage and death. The mere whisper of your name caused widespread panic as everyone fled before the coming storm. You bested Bladesingers in one-on-one combat. You were one of Xem'Zund's most trusted generals.

"And now here you lie, punked by a bunch of overgrown houseplants and a giant teddy bear."

Elmirah desperately tried to lash out at me, to wrap her hands around my throat, to flay my flesh from my face with her nails. All she ended up doing was squirming in the dirt under Boris's massive, fuzzy bulk. Even her furious screams came out as only annoyed gurgling.

I clasped my vine-woven hands together and leaned in closer to the Death Lord. "Look, I don't want to kill you. I want your help."

"You will get no help from me," she wheezed at me. "You are an outsider. Our enemy."

I pushed on. "I am not your enemy. I'm not aligned with the Raiaerans. I am here on my own volition, on a research trip of sorts."

"You seek to cure the land of our lord's work," the Spellsinger growled.

"I wish to understand it, more than anything else." A small amount of venom leaked into my words. My patience was beginning to wear thin.

"Then look around you," Elmirah said defiantly. "All you need to know is that it brings death everywhere it spreads."

My eyes flashed brilliant orange again. A deep feeling of hatred and anger grew inside me and burst to the surface. My gnarled, twisted arms turned a deep crimson as her magic flowed through them. Before the mage could react, I latched onto her face, and began pouring everything directly into her mind. My anger, my frustration, my desperation. The memories of giving my life up to a power far greater than anything I could ever hope to achieve on my own. The incredible feeling when she gifted me with a sliver of her ability. The terror that I caused with it, furthering her goals. The incredible sense of emptiness I felt when I destroyed her with my own two hands, and how I've felt lost and diminished without her guidance ever since--something that I had never admitted to anyone before, and will never admit to anyone again.

I showed the Death Lord that we were very much one in the same. I allowed her inside my mind, to show her that I am not her enemy. I showed her my plans, what I hoped to gain from the surviving members of Xem'Zund's inner circle, and what I would be willing to do to achieve my goals.

I showed her his Archivist, which I stole from the restricted depths of Ankhas, and what I had already learned from it--and how I could improve the Forgotten One's work.

In that brief moment, we had an understanding. I could feel her mistrust and anger slowly fade away as she processed everything I revealed to her. "Boris, off," I muttered with a nod towards the hulking creature.

The blood red tint of my arms faded back to green as the bear lifted itself off the elf. She immediately sucked in a massive breath of air, gasping as she tried to push her lithe frame off the dusty, plague-ridden earth. Boris turned around, his yellowed fangs bared slightly and ready to pounce should the mage try anything stupid.

Elmirah looked at me with those silvery-gold eyes of hers, but the tone was different. Her steely gaze lacked the hatred and malice that it held merely minutes ago; instead, there was almost a sense of friendship--or, at least as close to it as she could probably feel. She understood everything now; and while she still didn't trust me, she wasn't against the idea of helping me in my quest.

"What do you want from me," she asked between deep, sucking breaths, her voice still hoarse and raspy.

"I need you to safely escort me to Trenycë," I said flatly. "Please."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

- - - - -

They were dying.

Or, were already dead? Not dead in a literal sense; although there could be arguments made that several of them were. But he was certain that their true end was coming.

Maybe it was inevitable. So, in a fashion, maybe they were already dead.

But, how long until their end? It could be weeks, it could be months, it could be years away.

The High Bard Council would contract the right mages and assassins to strike him down. The Raiaerans would amass an army powerful enough to take back their homeland. His remaining undead forces would be burned to ash, his master's plague purged from the land. The fire of his succession snuffed like a flickering candle.

That is, if the last fraying strands of Xem'Zund's power didn't snap and cut him and the others off completely, guaranteeing them a slow and painful demise anyway.

For the first time in what seemed to him like forever, Maeril Thyrrian was scared.

Countless nights he spent awake experimenting with eldritch magic and necromantic science, desperate to recreate the Forgotten One's success with what resources he could scrounge up. Of those, the Dread Lord had plenty; he had access to two of his master's Archivists and the hand-written grimoires that were chained to their misshapen backs. He also raided the ruins of the Obsidian Spire and salvaged a lot of the ancient necromancer's equipment, samples, and reagents. He also knew the majority of the incantations by heart, and had thousands of undead currently under his power and countless more corpses he could raise.

If only he could do it as well as his predecessor.

He felt the gap between himself and the Forgotten One growing wider with every passing second. Ever since the Corpse War ended with Xem'Zund being sealed away for good, the necromancer's grip on the world was slipping. Those that Maeril had taken under his wing, the Death Lords who relied on that ancient power to do his dark work were now grasping at what little remained just so they could see tomorrow.

He discovered that he was able to tether his life force and the lives of the remaining Death Lords to the world itself, leeching precious seconds and minutes from the very earth by spreading the plague throughout Raiaera. For each man and beast who fell to the sickness, for each new corpse he added to his army, he extended their lifespans by an unknown amount.

It's the only reason he tolerated Raiaera's pithy attempts to reclaim their homeland. They would send in groups of adventurers and mercenaries, take back some territory, allow themselves to slowly become tainted by the plague. That's when Maeril would strike; he would enslave both the survivors and the dead, adding their bodies to his armies and their spirit to his own. And then, he would move his armies in and retake the land that they lost in the campaign.

It was a simple cycle, but necessary. It was also infuriating.

The Dread Lord could feel the weight of his lord's disappointment growing with each passing day. The prospect of failure suffocated him. He commanded world-shaking power; at any given moment, he could snap his fingers and finish off the Raiaerans and put the rest of the world on notice. And yet, with all the resources and knowledge available to him, he could only barely survive.

It was incredibly infuriating.

And yet, he couldn't stand the idea of giving up. The very thought of abandoning all he had worked for made him ill. He had worked too hard to get to where he was. Maeril Thyrrian spent years earning the trust of the great necromancer, commanding his legions and learning from him, helping to defend him from the efforts of the Raiaerans during that long, terrible war that seemed like eons ago. He scraped and clawed his way to the top, to take up his mantle and his purpose when he fell in battle, and to continue his quest.

But as time went on, he realized that he couldn't do it alone. The Death Lords under his command were competent, each individual valuable and skilled in their own ways, but they were also a petty bunch. They preferred to squabble over their own scraps of territory rather than unite under his cause and prolong their survival. If they weren't a necessary part of his plans, he would have done away with them ages ago.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt the walls closing in around him.

Something had to be done, and quick.

Which made one morning in particular very interesting.

He was interrupted in his studies by a lieutenant--one of the Bladesingers that had been turned during the Siege of Eluriand--who brought to his attention a terrible commotion that was taking place in a wing of his fortress. He was halfway down the winding stone hallway when he heard the cries. They were faint at first, but quickly grew in fervor.

"she is here"

"she is here she is here she is herehereherehere"

"shE Is hErE!"

"mAstEr tOld Us shE wOUld sAvE Us All!"

"sAvE Us All, yEs shE wIll! yEs shE wIll!"

Maeril stood in the doorway of the dark dungeon where he kept his two Archivists chained. He remained motionless as the two mutated humanoids draped in purple robes screamed their prophecies, the shrill cries scraping against the blackened husk of his soul. It was the first time he heard either of them speak, and it was terrible to behold. And yet, he could only find himself becoming more and more curious. He had read both tomes front to back, absorbing every single piece of information written on their pages. Every spell, every peek into the past and future available to Xem'Zund. This was the first time he had heard of any "she" who would "save us all".

The Dread Lord, his face unreadable, his emotions flat, opened his mouth to speak. "Who is here?"

- - - - -

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

"Who approaches the gate?" The voice was barely audible over the pounding rain.

Elmirah cupped her thin hands around her mouth and shouted into the storm, "The Spellsinger."

"We were not aware that you would be arriving," was the reply.

The elf's steely gaze narrowed further than I thought possible as she swiped a soggy clump of her violet hair across her forehead. "Trust me, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be." She glared at me for the briefest of moments. I paid no attention to her. "I'm escorting a trio who seek an audience with Thyrrian."

A pause, then a response. "The Dread Lord is not receiving guests at this time. He is busy with his studies, and has told us to turn away anyone who approaches."

The elf balled up her fists and her voice became a raging inferno. "Open the gates right now, you idiots! I didn't come all this way for nothing!"

"Sorry, but we will not let you in." The response from the guard was slow and deliberate. "Return to your domain, and the Dread Lord will send a message when he is ready to receive you."

Elmirah raised her right hand into the air, a swirl of fire forming in the palm of her hand. "Open this fucking gate right now, or I swear I'll burn it down!"

The guard simply looked up into the sky as rain pelted his gray flesh. "In this weather?"

The Spellsinger screamed, and suddenly there was a violent pop! from on top of the outer wall that surrounded Trenycë. A flash of fire, a spurt of dark viscera, and the collapse of a freshly dead again body. I simply stood there and allowed her to have her childish fit of rage. Wouldn't do me any good to come all this way only to interrupt her and find every inch of my self on fire. Again.

Elmirah turned to the remaining guard on the battlement. "So? You going to open the gate or what?"

It was several moments before there was any reply. But instead of grinding, calculated words; there was the unmistakable clanking of machinery from within the stronghold as the tall iron-reinforced gates slowly swung open.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

My first steps into the city of Trenycë weren't anything special.

If you were familiar with the city back before the Corpse War, you would have marveled at the hybrid styles of elven and human architecture. You would have been brought in by the rich history of the region, and trapped here by the vices that the foreigners brought with them. But nowadays it's just a pile of disheveled ruins like the rest of the country, only slightly less so.

As myself, Hyperion, Boris, and Elmirah padded along the muddy thoroughfare, I noted that this place was slightly better kept than other Raiaeran cities I've read about. Sure, every other house and storefront we passed seemed to have been marked by some sort of damage--fire, collapse, broken glass, what have you--but the streets themselves were relatively clear of debris and corpses.

It would make sense, I guess. From what I've learned, the Dread Lord who made Trenycë his last stand was paranoid that the High Bard Council would get their shit together and come down on him with every last mage, mercenary, and Bladesinger they could scrape up. Keeping the streets clean would give his zombified army plenty of room to overwhelm his enemies, while giving them fewer places to hide.

Speaking of--except for the two who manned the gates, not a single walking corpse stood outside in the pounding storm. The streets and alleyways of the former city were completely barren. Not a single candle was lit in any of the windows that we passed as the purple-haired spellslinger led us towards the center of the war-torn city. All of the curtains were pulled. The city was as dead as everything else.

I pulled my hood further over my head in a vain effort to keep the rain from pelting my mythril mask. "Is there anything I should know about Maeril?"

The Spellsinger glanced over her shoulder. "Sorry?"

"What's he like?"

Elmirah turned back to face the road ahead of us, and the small castle that loomed in the distance. "Honestly? I think he's an asshole. He spends all of his time locked up in his manor, studying the works of our master."

The Forgotten One. The Necromancer. The Scourge of Raiaera.

"He's out of touch," the elf continued. "He has no idea what's going on outside the walls of Trenycë. We'll convene here for one of his stupid councils, we will update him on the Raiaeran effort to push us back deeper into the plaguelands. We'll tell him that we are ready to strike back, to finish what we started all those years ago."

I caught a glimpse of her gloved hands clenching, her knuckles turning white underneath the cracked and faded leather. "And yet here he sits, isolated from the rest of us, refusing to act."

It was something about the tone of her voice. It held anger, disappointment, and resignation. In that moment, I could see Elmirah for who she really was. She was a warmonger, driven by hate and revenge. Frustrated at the death of one lord and the apparent anemic nature of the next, the Spellsinger wanted nothing more than to burn down the world. This was the monster who nearly torched Eluriand with her ranks of undead mages, reveling in the destruction she caused wherever she went. And now she was nothing more than a caged animal, starving and chomping at the bit, desperately wanting to be unleashed on the world once more.

"No matter what, he'll never be Xem'Zund," the Death Lord muttered to herself, a hint of sadness in her words.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

It wasn't long after that we stopped in front of a manor. It wasn't the biggest place in town--definitely not the vast castle that the former rulers called home, but probably place that a high-ranking official or favored merchant laid down their head at night. Three stories of elaborate stonework that stood defiant to the nature of the world around it, the home was still in remarkably good shape. Every window on the bottom floor and most of those on the second were boarded up and nailed shut, and there were a few cracks in the stone from the assault of the undead; but that was about it.

Even the front door, which stood ten steps away from the grime-stained streets and up six stairs, was fully restored with the supplies at hand. Probably taken from another house, anyway.

As the shadow of the building loomed over me, I paused for a moment. The smallest, most insignificant weight began to grow in my stomach. I tried to shake it, but it refused to leave me. With each passing breath, my apprehension grew and grew.

Beyond those thick wooden doors with the golden handles lived a man who walked a path in life that paralleled my own.

An insatiable lust for knowledge and power that led him into the waiting arms of one of the most powerful people that ever walked the world. What they offered him was too intoxicating for him to turn down, and now his destiny had been forcibly changed by the Forgotten Ones and his very soul corrupted by their promises and teases of the terrible power they commanded.

And then the rug was pulled out from under him by a bunch of randoms whose names the chroniclers have already forgotten. Left lost and alone without anyone to guide him, he tried to pick up the pieces the best he could, fully knowing that he would never be on the same level as the ancient necromancer.

As much as I hated Podë's rotten crimson guts, I could sympathize with the Dread Lord's plight.

We had so many plans. So many great things to accomplish. As much as I don't want to admit it... Sometimes I feel that when I ripped the soul out of the witch's body that fateful day in the Red Forest, I killed both her and myself.

I understood him. I could help him. He could help me. So, why was I suddenly so afraid of meeting with Maeril Thyrrian?

Sensing my inner turmoil, Hyperion was suddenly at my side with a briar-knit hand on my shoulder. She cocked her head to the side. "Is everything alright?"

No. Never.

Deep inside me, the scattered shards of a Forgotten One's soul pulsated with a cackling laughter that I could not hear.

I nodded slightly. "Yeah. I'm okay." I turned my head back to take in the sight of the mansion again. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Elmirah casting judgmental looks my way. Her insufferable attitude was really starting to get on my nerves. For a moment, I considered slapping the shit out of her, releasing weeks and months of pent-up frustration and self-loathing and uncertainty with a single blow that would've loosened every single one of her yellowing fucking teeth in that perfectly-sculpted jaw of hers--

Deep breath, Madison. In and out.

The soul shards flared to life, sending wave after wave of malice through my vines. I welcomed their warm embrace. I could tap into them and mutilate that purple-haired cunt so badly that her skin would burst like a ripe melon and decorate the streets of this hellhole with viscera--

In and out. In and out! In and out, dumbass, you're losing control--

"--kill--"

Elmirah ran a scarred hand through her hair. "So, are you going to knock on his door, or did I waste all this fucking time for nothing--"

I wheeled on her so fast that she didn't have time to react. A loud crack echoed like gunfire down the empty streets of the dead city, and she was on the ground.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Elmirah quickly recovered; but before she could react, I was on top of her. Straddling her waist, I held pulled her up by the collar of her rain-soaked tunic with one hand and threw punch after punch at her with the other. I could feel the cartilage of her long nose give in under the weight of my blows.

"Gonna--fucking--kill you--" I screamed at her, each word punctuated by piston blows aimed at her face. The skin underneath her right eye split. Rain mixed with dark blood as it began to ooze down the golden skin of her face. The unmistakable scent of blood was in the air. With each breath, it pushed me deeper and deeper into a lust for violence. From deep inside, I could feel the comforting warmth of Podë's embrace growing. I fell into it, welcoming it once more. I allowed her to take control. To guide my movements. She would see to it that I achieved victory.

Somewhere behind me, I heard the faint sounds of Hyperion screaming at me. I blocked it out and focused on beating the shit out of this ungrateful whore--she did not deserve to be one of Xem'Zund's generals. She was lower that dirt, unfit to command his legions of undead as they worked to spread his glorious plague throughout the war-torn remnants of Raiaera. I would remind her of this, one broken bone at a time.

The spellslinger shifted around on the muddy stones enough to free a hand out from underneath me. A tempest of swirling flame grew in it, but I was too quick for her. The vines of my right hand parted, and a puff of red spores extinguished the spell and prevented her from casting a follow-up salvo of fire.

Angry light danced across my eyes as I glared at her. "You were never worthy of their gifts," I hissed at her, venom dripping from every syllable. "I will show you the power of a true heir."

All she could do was spit at me. A glob of blood splashed against the polished mythril of my face mask, just below my right eye holes. The elf scowled at me defiantly, mouthing words that I could not hear due to the swirling noise of her malevolent spirit filling my head. But I could read her lips, and I did not like their petulant message.

With a primal scream that tore up and down the battered streets of Trenycë, I ripped off my mask and tossed it aside. The mage's eyes went wide as she took in my terrible visage. Before she could cry out, I was at her throat, my razor-sharp teeth digging into her soft skin.

Rivers of crimson poured out from her wounds as I pulled back and tore meat from bone. The intoxicating taste of flesh and blood danced across my tongue, stirring something deep inside me that I had never felt before. A strange, tingling sensation that caused my heart to race and clouded my mind. Again, it urged me on.

I couldn't hear her screams as I gave into my bloodlust. I only heard the deep echoing laughter of the one who deemed me worthy; the one who gave me her gifts to use as she saw fit. The one I owed everything to. The one I would follow to the ends of the earth. The one who I would obey without question.

As I shot back down to consume another mouthful of the mage's neck, I felt a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around me. The next thing I knew, I was being pulled off the miserable wretch and hauled away from her as she laid there bleeding out.

A familiar voice screamed something at me, but I could not make out what she said. I was only hearing Podë's laughter, her words nettling me, goading me into killing this waste of life.

I struggled against the iron grip of the briarbane, but she would not let me go. I spouted curses left and right at the elf as she laid writhing in a growing puddle of her own blood, her hands clutching at her neck, trying to keep her fluids from spilling out on the cursed ground.

"--is wro--h you, Ma--so--"

The crimson fog that clouded my mind started to recede. The rippling energy of the Red Witch's soul shards deep within me began to fade, and I could think and hear clearly now. I could see with my own eyes again.

"Madison? Madison!"

I couldn't tear myself away from Elmirah, as she continued to bleed out twenty feet away from me.

"Hype," I finally managed to say once the fog in my mind completely went away. "I--I--" I couldn't think of what to say.

My companion dropped me onto the rocks and mud below and rushed over to the dying mage. Kneeling next to her, she opened up her satchel and produced a bottle of regenerative salve that would knit her neck back together and a roll of sterilized gauze. I watched on as she lightly touched Elmirah's wrist. The elf rolled onto her side and kicked at Hyperion half-heartedly, with what little energy she had left.

"Please, I need you to move your hand for a moment so I can help you," she cooed at her, completely ignoring her outburst.

Elmirah gurgled some words I couldn't hear. Her golden-silver eyes darted back and forth, from myself to Hype, and back to me. I felt every single one of the daggers she shot dig themselves deeper and deeper into my flesh. Death by a thousand cuts.

The first chance she got, she would slowly burn me inch by inch, relishing in every scream and plea for mercy, and I knew it.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is all her fault. She took control. It wasn't me. That wasn't me. That monster made me do it.

My head began to swim. A tsunami of regret, of hatred, of fear bore down on me, and I doubled over as tears welled up in my eyes.

This was all her fault, I kept telling myself. Not my fault, I didn't do this. This wasn't me. This was all her, that dead slag. That fucking whore who ruined my life and damned me for all eternity.

A warmth simmered in my chest, the remnants of Podë's soul coming alight at the mere thought of her. I promptly threw up.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Once I finished, I began to wipe the bits that caught on my teeth off on my sleeve as I squeezed the stinging feeling out of my eyes. A slight weight on my back caused me to jump a few inches to the left. I looked over to see Hype, a look of severe distress in her four glistening eyes. I've never seen her this frightened before in my life. It cut me right down to my heart to see her look at me like that. Wordlessly, she handed me a canteen full of water to wash my mouth out with and take a big drink from. I did exactly that.

A deathly silence hung over us, threatening to suffocate us all as we sat there in the street in front of the manor where the man I sought lived. I could hear the ragged, violent breathing of his lieutenant. Soft rippling noises came from her direction as well. The salve was knitting her golden flesh back together, healing the extensive damage that I cause when I bit--

--No. Not I. She. She did this.

...But... I enjoyed every moment of it. The salty, foreign flavor of her flesh as my teeth bore into her. The metallic tang of her blood as it danced in rivulets across my tongue. If she came at me once more, I would gladly feast on her again. I would consume enough of her that no amount of magic or alchemy could make her whole again.

--Wait--What the fuck am I thinking?!

A flood of anger and shame overcame me. I am not a monster. I am not a monster. I couldn't bear to look at her. I kept my eyes locked on the puddleof vomit on the ground in front of me. Dark orange mixed with red was starting to seep into the dirt in the spaces between cobblestones that paved the old elven city. I tried to claw the memory of sinking my fangs into her neck out of my mind. Focus, Madison, focus. I am not a monster.

Hype left my side and cautiously walked back over to Elmirah. The briarbane whispered something I couldn't make out, and she replied with a grumble before slowly rising to her feet.

Without wasting a second, the pyromancer violently pushed Hyperion and gave the war cry that preceded the slaughter of thousands in the Siege of Eluriand. With the legendary speed of the Bladesingers, she exploded towards me in a blur of gold and purple.

I barely had time to react before the doors to the manor nearly burst off their hinges.

"ENOUGH!"

Elmirah stopped dead in her tracks, her momentum's halt kicking up small clouds of dirt and dust around her feet. I looked up to see a man dressed impeccably for someone living in the middle of the plaguelands. He was tall, thin but not wiry, and covered in patterned black vlince. His features were birdlike and weathered with time, but strong and piercing and commanding of respect. His hair was slicked back and his goatee well-kept, with strips of gray poking out amidst seas of black. He had the poise and posture of a man who served a high-ranking position in a military organization, and was used to having his every word obeyed.

It was probably because he did, in a sense.

The Dread Lord Maeril Thyrrian. Heir to the Forgotten One Xem'Zund's legacy.

Dark brown, almost black eyes flitted back and forth between myself, Elmirah, and Hyperion. He paid no attention to Boris whatsoever. None of us dared to move while he continued to size up the situation. I couldn't even begin to imagine what was going through his mind.

It was an eternity before he spoke. When he did, his words were smooth, calculated. Confident.

"Elmirah, thank you for seeing that my guests made it in one piece." His slits for eyes narrowed just a bit. "You may leave now. Go, return to your domain. Heal up. Rest."

The elf stood there aghast. She clenched and opened her fists, closed her mouth and tried to speak many times. All that pent up frustration and adrenaline boiled her blood.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" she shrieked. She pointed a curved mythril dagger at me. "I'm going to kill this fucking whore, and you're not going to stop me!"

She turned to rush me once more, but Maeril spoke up again. "You are dismissed. Do not make me tell you again."

Elmirah snapped to face him, her eyes communicating nothing but fiery anger at being denied the opportunity to redeem herself. The two former underlings of the necromancer stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Thyrrian remained cool the entire time, the complete opposite of the former Bladesinger.

At last, she relented. Sheathing her dagger behind her back, she stormed in my direction. Her eyes were narrow slits, her face contorted in impotent rage.

"This isn't over," she hissed at me as she walked past. "Next time we meet, I'm going to gut you like the dog that you are."

I grabbed her by the strap of her vest before she could get away. I pulled her close, bringing her inches from my face. "Make sure you cook yourself a bit with that fiery temper of yours, first." My amber eyes flared with a sudden hunger. "You taste great, but I don't want to get food poisoning again."

A flash of fear ripped across her silvery-gold eyes before she knocked my hand away. Wordlessly, the elf mage walked off down the empty streets of Trenycë. I watched her go, silently cursing her and wishing that she never came back. When I turned around, I was surprised to notice that Maeril had made his way down the steps and stood beside me. He smelled faintly of flowery perfume. It didn't do much to mask the stench of undeath that wafted through the city, though.

"You must be exhausted," he finally said as he looked me up and down, taking in every detail with his inquisitive yet cold eyes. "Come with me. I've heard a fair amount about you. We have much to discuss." He turned on his heels and walked back towards the open door of his manor. Without a word, I motioned for Hyperion to follow me and Boris to stand guard outside in case Cinders-For-Brains decided to come back.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Maeril led the two of us through the twisting hallways of the old manor. For something that had been under siege for untold weeks and then left to wither away after the outcome of the Corpse War, the Dread Lord's manor was surprisingly intact and well-kept. Most of the house was clearly not occupied; as we walked to our destination, we were told that he only keeps to the top floor, where all of his books are stashed. The lower levels were strictly there for the other remnants of Xem'Zund's upper echelon and their entourages, whenever they were summoned to Trenycë.

When we rose up the staircase and reached the top level, my eyes drifted to a life-sized painting flanked by candles that hung between two dust-coated windows. Framed in polished gold, it depicted a man that had a thundering, ominous presence, even in two dimensions.

The figure appeared as he did in my dreams... But it seemed more real.

He was a head taller than me, his shoulders wide and muscles apparent through the tight black fabric of his shirt. Dragonscale armor adorned him from the neck down, its inky black shade threatening to swallow what light the dancing flames cast upon it. His face was covered by a mask of polished silver, forged in the visage of a dragon's skull. Nothing looked out of the mask's eye holes, but I still felt a chill creep down my spine as I stared into them. I couldn't stop looking at them. It was like staring into the abyss--like staring into the infinite unknown.

I couldn't pull myself away. I only felt myself being drawn closer to it.

Slowly, I reached out to touch it. I barely heard the sound of my boot scuffing across the carpet as I took a half step towards it.

As I continued to look deep into the mask of the man who nearly destroyed Raiaera, a whisper of a voice inched into the back of my mind. It was soft, yet stern; it oozed into the deepest recesses of my consciousness like miasma. It spoke to me of destiny. It offered promises of power untold. It wanted to tell me all of its many secrets; secrets known and unknown even to my host, if only I would let it--

"Briarheart?"

The voice dissipated as Maeril's call echoed down the hallway. All that remained was a thick fog that covered my mind. It took a concentrated effort on my part to shake it all away. After a few seconds, all that remained was a drifting whisper.

”Find me. And then, you will find yourself.”

“Briarheart?” His voice cut through my own swimming thoughts with surgical precision. I turned to find the Dread Lord next to me, composed and regal as ever, his hands clasped behind his back as he too stood facing the picture. He continued to size me up out of the corner of one darkened eye.

I suddenly felt incredibly small. For all intents and purposes, I was this man's equal. We both sought out and accepted the gifts of the Forgotten Ones. We were their heirs. Every single waking moment, we fought tooth and nail for a dying cause. And once we lost those we pledged our lives to, we were aimless. We lost our way, and searched for a new purpose. The necromancer found his in desperately trying to hold together the legacy of his master. As for me? I had yet to find a new one. I suspected that I never really would.

It took a second for me to regain my composure. I glanced back at the picture, absentmindedly cracking the knuckles on my right hand as I took in Xem'Zund's terrible likeness once more. “My apologies. I was just admiring the portrait.”

“A talented hand indeed, whoever painted it,” Maeril said flatly as he followed my gaze back to the mask covering the Forgotten One's face. “I have never known my master to keep many vanity projects around when he was still around. But they say that the paint was imbued with a sliver of his life-force, as were a few other artifacts he kept in various strongholds. I do not know this for certain, but it was through them he communicated with myself and his other Death Lords during the Great War.”

The muscles in his face twitched for a moment, before returning to their natural stoic state. “But ever since his final death, they have been silent. Every last one of them.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but wisely decided to just keep my trap shut for once in my life.

Turning on his heels, he motioned with a thin finger for me to follow him. Hyperion fell in step behind me as we moved to a new room two doors down from the staircase. It appeared to be a small library, or perhaps a waiting room; twin bookcases lined the opposite walls, while a line of curtained windows filtered in light from the dying afternoon sun. A scuffed and scratched coffee table sat low in the middle of the room, circled by a trio of beat up old couches.

Maeril bade me to have a seat, while he took a couch across from me for himself. Even the way he placed himself perfectly on the faded red velvet spoke to his very structured and proper nature. I started to get an idea why Elmirah wasn't too fond of him.

Meanwhile, I threw my ass haphazardly into the crack between overstuffed cushions--scientifically proven to be the most comfortable seat on a couch.

As I wiggled around a bit to get more cozy, the Forotten's heir shot my briarbane companion an unreadable glance. “I would prefer to speak to you alone, Briarheart.”

It wasn't quite a question, but it wasn't a demand. Either way, I wasn't going to have any of it.

“She stays,” I said.

The smallest glimmer of anger appeared in his eyes before quickly fading away. “What I would discuss with you is very important and very private in nature.”

“And I need her here to guarantee that I remember it all,” I shot back. “I've grown forgetful in my old age, and need something to help me take notes and keep my thoughts in order. I trust her implicitly in this, for she is of my own design.”

I could feel the air behind me turn electric as Hyperion stiffened. She absolutely hated to be referred to as one of my science projects, just as much as I hated to refer to her as one. We both knew that, despite her origin, she was a living, breathing, feeling, thinking being. That's what made her special to me. She was something infinitely more to me than another hypothesis; she was my best friend and confidant. Deep down, I know she knew that. Still, I'll apologize to her later for what I said just now in order to keep up appearances with our host.

Regardless, I pressed on. “Nothing we say in this room will ever leave it.”

Several agonizing seconds passed before he relented. “Very well, then.”

I threw my vine-woven arms out wide as Hype slithered around the arm of the couch to sit next to me. “Great, perfect. Now, let's get down to business, shall we?”