The Field of Sighs and Sorrows

[Caden Law]

In the formless, insubstantial land of Mental Turmoil, Caden was considerably less fortunate than those around him. Instead of flashbacks, hallucinations and psuedodemonic possession, he just blacked out for a good minute or two and opened his eyes to a crisp, clouding sky and a moment or two of near total numbness and deafness that felt like novacaine and sounded like underwater drumbeats.

The moment passed, and the world came back into focus; tinted yellow and red to match the colors of his bloodstained goggle lenses. He sat up and immediately took stock of everything: He had all the limbs the Sway gave him, none of his insides were spilling out, and his Hat still rested snug atop his head with the light weight of the Grimmoire inside it. All things considered, this was a comfort.

But then you get to all those other things and the considerations about them, and it wasn't a very big comfort at all. He still wore his chestplate, deformed as it was with an impression of Warson's gauntlet spanning the width of his chest from side to side and stomach to collar. He still clutched his sword in one hand, but that only seemed to be because his fingers had gone unresponsive -- and they stayed that way for a few seconds too long for Caden's comfort. His clothes had seen better days, but that's what alchemy and spare thread are for.

He used the sword as a prop to stand up not long after that, and then he took stock of everything else in much the same way he'd examined himself.

The short of it: Everything had gone to Hell in a handbasket.

The long of it: Everything had gone to Hell in a handbasket, but it was a very finely made wicker picnic basket filled with sandwhiches and whoever was holding it had conveniently forgotten something in the house. The undead were everywhere, moving with a little less intensity and cohesiveness than before, but the Elves and the Men were rallying in turn and pushing them back. Everywhere came song and scream, and more than a few severed limbs that often seperated the two of them. Swords and arrows blurred by, and a ghoul leapt right over his head into a Turlin blade. The wielder spun around and something very much like a spider tackled and gored it down through the shoulders, even as the blade thrust up into its gut.

The elf petrified and the spider did the same, and Caden watched it rather stupidly since the fight played itself out too quickly for him to do anything about it. He heard a song like tenors gone to war, and then a horn blaring like the screams of eagles. He turned, took a blind swing, and had the ridiculous good luck to cleave off an ancient Elf's face; bone and leathered skin crumpled at the tip of his sword, then simply tore away.

Caden stared, blearily, into the gaping maw of what used to be brain and sinus cavities, as well as a mangled upper jaw and a relatively complete lower one.

It's about this time that his adrenal glands decided to come back from their coffee break and kick him in the fight or flight mechanism. Much to Caden's credit as an ambassador of humanity to All Things Good And Right, he decided on the former. With a less-than-epic scream and a lunge forward that put his foot straight into the dead elf's chest, knocking it over. He motioned blindly, sensing magic and letting his fingers do the rest with a puppeteer's tug: the other, much more recently dead Elf's Turlin sword went spinning up into his left hand so forcefully that it almost wrenched his arm, shoulder and back all in rapid succession.

Caden stopped the sword high.

Then he brought it back down.

The magic of Wizard and Turlin slammed into the ancient elf's body, and reduced it to a spray of purple ash and dust after a quick flash of gold and a harp's cry. Caden straightened back up, and again took stock of the situation: He had a sword in each hand, his wand was lying in ruin back at the bridge, and his Company was all, probably, dead.

He could sense a familiar presence though. A presence whose Name he knew almost intimately after today's back-and-forth: "I know you're there, Little Reaper," Caden said again, and though his Voice lacked the depths of power he'd spoken with on the Bridge, there was a challenge in it. He looked for her, and there was an awful, terse little smile on his face as he did it.

Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, a wise man once said, For they are subtle and quick to anger.

Caden wasn't subtle, but he sure as hell was angry.

[Viola Darkstalker]

The undead under the control of the pleasantly insane general fought with the fury and fervor of wild animals, though with little more skill. An arm fell off? That’s why you had two. Skewered by a lance? Make is so they can’t use it any more. Like a rusted blade, the wedge of undead cut their way through the elven charge, taking at least one elf down for every zombie killed. In the center of it all, the violet-haired general grinned maniacally and forced her swarm through the ranks.

A sudden and unexplained sensation of loss slithered across the surface of her mind; the magic that allowed her to see did not falter despite the loss of Xem'zûnd’s will sustaining it. She felt sluggish, though, and her army reflected the loss as well. It wasn’t as large a change as some of the divisions, but it was still noticeable. If anything, the power they were receiving from Xem'zûnd was all that was keeping them from delving into the same madness that Viola reveled in. With the flow stemmed by her master’s weakened state, the crazed woman’s forces grew more ruthless as they took more of her personality in each order. Her forces wouldn’t falter. She was having too much fun to let a pathetic setback like this even think about stopping her.

The wicked smile that seemed so naturally out of place on her face was wiped off almost completely, however, by one word. Well, it wasn’t really one word but rather one man who spoke with a voice that reverberated in her mind. She knew his voice; he was the bastard who wanted to stop her from crossing the pathetic little bridge. She had crossed anyway, but the fact that he was calling out to her could not be denied. She was going to kill him, and he would die a terrible death. But first… the writhing mass of undead flesh that was her army wheeled around as they broke through the charge. Both hammer and anvil were softer without Xem'zûnd to temper them, but it would still be a strike to remember.

The general, however, was not with her army. Perched atop her eight-legged mount, the crazed woman was licking her lips and racing toward the source of the defiant voice. Not much ran though her mind other than the all-consuming need to kill things. She was fine with that line of thinking, even comfortable with the freedom it afforded her. After all, what good was a conscience when it stopped you from doing what felt so right? Maybe this man would be handsome. She could stave off her violent desires for ones infinitely more pleasurable if he was attractive enough.

A man with two swords, something across his eyes, and a rather impeccably pointed hat stood defiantly looking straight at her. Her hawk spies had shown her this man before. He wasn’t ugly, but he was nowhere near handsome enough to stay from killing. She bared her teeth at him and her mount leapt high into the air, leaving her to flip off its thorax and land gracefully on the ground. The spider wasn’t trying to crush Caden; it leapt much too far to do anything of that sort. It was simply going to stop anyone from interfering with Viola.

As soon as she landed, the mad reaper took off at a sprint straight at the armed and armored wizard. The pitiful creature’s breastplate was battered quite nicely, but it would still deflect attacks from her spikes. But… none of his other limbs were so protected. She was still a ways away, but that didn’t matter; she was within striking distance already. Her right hand crossed her chest as though she was going to throw something, even though she was clearly unarmed. Only a slight wavering in the air around her fingers gave a clue that something wasn’t right, like an isolated patch of heat surrounding her hand.

She was still twenty feet away and closing rapidly when she made a motion like throwing something. Some time between starting the throw and finishing the throw, a spike one-foot long and blacker than the darkest night appeared out of that warped space, flying toward the wizard’s right knee. Or… at least that was where she was aiming. It was a small target, after all, and she was running, so her first attack ended up flying wide and a little high. As link after link of the black chain that linked the spike to her body shambled out of the warped space near her right shoulder, her left hand shot forward like an open-palm strike. It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise when a second black spike-and-chain shot out like a javelin for his left shoulder. This one was more accurate; he would actually have to move for it to miss.

[Caden Law]

...and move he did. Caden was not a professional soldier -- and to tell the truth, he was a fairly poor fighter and a downright godawful swordsman. But he was a Wizard, and it can never be overstated that he was always thinking. He'd held his nerve against Nalith Celiniel, focused his magicks and he would've fought to the death against that woman for nothing but his ego.

Viola Darkstalker was going to get the same treatment in spades.

The spider flew overhead and he tried (failed) to ignore it, but he still focused on the woman herself. First spike and he sidestepped by inches, and it would've missed him anyway. Second spike and Caden showed no such reserve; he leapt right into the damn thing and sent it clanging off of his chestplate and over his shoulder, like a soccer player with nerd rage. His feet hit the ground, and Caden drew his swords up as one.

He gave to her this: He was overeager and probably quite unskilled.

He took from her this, and in these exact words: Weapons summoner, nowhere near as blind as the medusa rag makes her look, probably into bondage and torture.

...because, ladies, men are always considering what you're like in bed. Even if you are trying to murder them in cold blood in the middle of a warzone.

She juked to her left, and Caden went on the offensive: The Turlin sword swept up, its inherent magicks trying to sing...except that its current owner was rather tonedeaf, didn't have pointy ears, and was doing magic too crude to carry a tune. This was all about brutal pragmatism, nothing more and nothing less. Such is the way of Geomancy.

Up came the spikes, erupting from the dying grass and the bloody, hard-packed dirt like broken bones; each one a dozen feet long in under a second, and each one ending terminally in a sharpened point. A normal woman would've died six times before the first one finished going through her ribcage. The Reaper simply leapt at them and performed acrobatics like Caden had only seen in the nightmares that left him feeling inadequate compared to Althanas' endless martial artists: She kicked the points off of each spike, and as they continued rising with each one taller than the last, the Reaper handsprung from one to the next. Between them, she backflipped while moving forwards, and at the last...

She went right over him.

Caden did not take that lying down though: Up came the steel sword of his right hand, and there were chains barring the way and she was doing a handstand over him for just a split second, the only thing blocking her face from sharpened steel being a chain that seemed to come from nowhere during her acrobatics.

And then she rolled right down. Down the length of Caden's arm, down his back, down the backs of his legs and all the way to a crouch on the ground. He was faster to react than you might give him credit for; a swing of the Turlin sword came down and up for her backside, but he couldn't tell if it hit or not. The Reaper leapt away, and all he could do was to backpedal towards the spikes.

Distance, Caden thought, somewhere in between the fanboyish, misplaced id of I could see up her dress! and the more pragmatic superego of Natural tumbler, able to summon spikes and chains at a minimum...maybe more...acting as a command-hub for multiple undead. Take her out, they might scatter, but keep the hell away from her or you'll die screaming.

The clouds were starting to thicken overhead. Maybe it would rain soon.

[Viola Darkstalker]

If nothing else, this wasn’t going to be a boring fight. Despite the fact that her opponent lacked advanced sword techniques, she was also fresh from more than a year of doing nothing but recovering in a hospital after being struck blind. Now she was blind no longer, thanks to the glorious man named Xem'zûnd, and learning a new way of throwing her weapons. They were both disadvantaged.

A dull pain in her right foot told her that the stones she broke were rather solid, but the pain brought a sense of rationality to her mad mind that was infuriating and necessary at the same time. Any mongrel could kill a wild beast that didn’t think. The thin line that now ran down from her right shoulder blade to her hip had a slight crimson tint to it; she had only just escaped the wizard’s second slash after managing to put her chain in the way of his first counter. If his slash had been much higher, she would have lost her dress completely, not that he would mind. But he was the one, all right; the lines of magic that flowed from his core into the earth were the same flavor as the ones that rained from the sky and whirled around barely hours ago.

Tumbling forward from her narrow escape, she forced her will around her body and the chains flew back into the phenomenon that now surrounded her almost completely. Sightless eyes were unaffected by the distortion, and the magic that allowed her to see put her old eyes to shame already. Oh how he would scream when she was done with him. The mage was backpedaling, keeping some semblance of distance in mind as Viola prepared for another charge. Her gaze turned motionlessly from the ground to the wall of spikes and back to his battered armor.

She ran again, that terrible grin smeared across her face the whole time. Each step that brought her closer to her prey was a step closer to pure bliss. Before she was even in range to throw her spikes, she leapt toward one of the pillars, running two athletic steps along its surface before springing off and increasing her jump yet again. Three spikes blossomed from her right hand, one after another, flying toward the pathetic wizard, all intending to hit and skewer him.

Of course, since it was practically the exact same attack that she had just launched, the wizard was far less surprised than he could have been. The trio of penetrating devices flew fairly true to their course, and Caden simply sidestepped out of the way. Or, to be more precise: he sidestepped, spun out of the way, raised his left hand that still held the Turlin-enchanted sword, and focused. It was a quick focus, but it was enough to force his will on the bit of space just behind the inch-thick spikes. The gravity in that small area inverted quickly and suddenly, sending the implements of death back approximately where he figured the Reaper was going to land one moment later.

Viola slowly flipped as she soared from the earthen spire and in her left hand a fourth spike appeared. The chain disappeared into her forearm like an anchor line into the sea, and even as she spotted her landing she dreaded it at the same time. Not only had the blue-clad wizard avoided her yet again, but he had somehow managed to give her a return present. It was almost funny until the chains that she had thrown vanished into her body one link at a time as fast as the spikes from the retaliation approached her. When she landed after her acrobatic feat, her left arm swung around and the chain that ran between the end of the spike and her arm got longer. A lot longer. She had landed within eight feet of the wizard BlueRaven, and before he had the time to fully regain his composure, black links struck his chest plate solid with all the force of steel and momentum.

Viola’s smile grew even more twisted. The little wizard was pathetic after all.

[Caden Law]

Rare are the times when the Wizard called Blueraven found himself out of filler options; all the dirty little tricks you used to buy yourself time and set someone else up for something brilliant and/or brutal. Admittedly, he had the something-brilliant part down, but it was getting there that was probably going to kill him.

And to be honest, Caden looked every bit as maddened and pathetic as the Reaper thought. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. In the span of one day, he had been repeatedly humiliated, bled internally, and he had channeled powers far above and beyond his proper limitations...and that was before being knocked through a wall and left to drop at least forty feet.

...and strangely enough, none of that seemed to matter now.

It began to rain on the field of sighs and sorrows, and Caden lost himself in the moment as the first drops started pinging off his swords and chestplate. The Reaper was coming for him. That was the only thing that mattered.

Stay calm, he thought to himself as he slapped back up against the side of one of his own spikes. Tall, thick things that they were, it was about the same as being backed up against a wall. Analyze. She was a skilled weapons summoner, Caden figured, and an adept hand-to-hand combatant. He'd never beat her in a contest of blades.

So he tried anyway.

The Reaper slid to an elegant stop in front of him, then started forward in a blur of pale skin, black cloth, violent hair and bad intentions. Caden met her in kind with a lunge; right sword pulled back, left swung forward. The Reaper twisted into him at halfway; almost like a dance partner in a Salsa. Her arms spread out, a leg slipped back, and just like that she upended him in a flip onto his backside. Caden rolled upright and took the sole of a boot to his plated back -- and after all the damage his ribs had taken lately, it still hurt like hell.

"You know," the Reaper said, and Caden was dully aware of the sound from one of her chains whirling in the rain. "You're actually kinda cute when you're this pathetic," and he could just hear that blank, lustful smile on her face. "We could always put this little grudge on hold for a few hours, you know..."

Open-ended and oh-so-exploitable. On any other day, in any other place, and for any other reason. Caden was not above the temptation. He was just too far beneath it.

"Sorry," he said in between slow, wheezing breaths that sounded too deep to be even remotely healthy. "But I don't think you'd last that long."

Five miles away, you could probably hear ravens crowing a racket like laughter.

All too close, however, the Reaper merely slumped a bit as Caden stood himself back up and turned around. "Such a shame," she sighed, and it only belatedly hit Caden that she was mocking him -- hit him in much the same way she did. With chains. Heavy metal chains, looped and smashing into his chest like bullwhips on steroids; such that Caden's breath abruptly blew out and he bent forward with a gagging cough.

To his credit, Caden managed to straighten himself up by the time she caught him with her next attack; a rather elegant running dropkick that bowled him right over in a flailing mass of pointed objects and gangly limbs. Luck alone, and maybe something distantly related to the underwired nightdress thing, caused Caden to not only avoid chopping off his own arms, but it also had a much-delayed effect.

To get the full justice of this, wait for about ten seconds. Give Caden time enough to stand, and the Reaper time enough to recover her chains into whatever pocket darkness she stores them in. Now, watch closely -- because Caden sure as hell is.

It started with a miniscule snip and then degenerated into a long, ever-widening crevice of bared flesh, ultimately coming to an end with the Reaper's short dress simply falling off. In his frenzy, Caden cut the thing clean from top to bottom, from her collar down. How he did this without actually piercing skin, even Caden did not know.

But he stared at the results, and he gawked accordingly, and no man within sixty yards could blame him.

"Oh? I thought you weren't interested in me?" the Reaper asked with a voice dripping honey and sin. "Are you sure you don't want to change your mind?"

Caden kept gawking rather stupidly, and finally replied, "I'm thinking about it."

"Well, that's just too bad..."

And whatever she had to say after that, Caden lost it. She charged forward in the midst of her next words, and he took another blind swing -- but he was backpedaling as he did it. The Reaper ducked right by him, effortless and graceful and all sorts of things a nude woman in thigh-high boots and a blindfold shouldn't be in a warzone. He tried to turn around. He really, honestly tried.

...then he felt a very hot, angry jolt through his right shoulder and finally went down in an inglorious sprawl. Caden didn't even scream so much as he faceplanted into wetting dirt and grass, biting down so hard his lower jaw went numb. When the initial shock of it passed, he could hear a silky laughter behind him. It goaded him to struggle up on one arm and flop to a seated position, facing her.

There was, give or take about an inch, a foot of solid black steel jammed clear through his right shoulder. It missed the chestplate by precious inches, and the blue of his coatsleeve was quickly turning a very dark, ugly red. His arm wouldn't move. Its sword dropped to the ground. His eyes were starting to tear up behind his goggles, and his breathing was interspersed with what could only be described as determined whimpering.

Through this newest haze of tears, pain, and cold certainty, Caden focused in on the Reaper. He clutched his remaining sword tightly, and tried to use it as a prop to stand. When that failed, he went down to one and then both knees, held aloft only by the Turlin saber. He smiled.

It was a very fatalistic expression.

"Your Name suits you," he decided. "Little Reaper."

[Twisted Infinitum]

The rain ran from the deformed wings of harpies, over the swells of sword-torn air, and down the agitated face of Jade Vipress. Though her vessel didn't contain the chemicals that induced shock, the full effect of Xem'zund's retreat took its time creeping up on her. Where are you? she sent, though the channel was gone. The campaign was failing, the efforts of his underlings be damned. The zombies still surged forward, a finite tide that would not stop until they all fell in the bloody quagmire yet to grow from death and rain. The harpies, too, seemed doomed, though they were taking a more survivalistic approach as the bulk of them tried to keep out of the archers' range. Unfortunately, the rain soaked their bodies that shouldn't have been able to fly anyway, weighing them closer to the machine of flying Turlin teeth. And these mortals thought themselves so different from the remorseless undead.

Vipress was surrounded now with only a wall of ancient elves and zombie buffers to protect her and the cloaked shadow from foolishly righteous warriors. The pressure was increasing, literally, with each heave of the enemy, and then fell away as the wall pushed back with saturated air and barely sentient meat shields. Rask had acquired three more of his brethren, who now all worked in tune with his bladework to make the small unit a heavy-breathed, seething organism amid the fray. The delay between each crushing press and relieving exhale was increasing, though, as Rask's second wind, perhaps his third, wound down. His body worked feverishly with the heavy blade, at times riding the momentum like a shimmering, rain-slick streamer.

What seemed an agonizing amount of time later, Vipress pulled her eyes from the east to see Rask stepping over a few scattered mortal bodies. Their blood pooled richly around them, vital and more valuable than gemstones. "There!" she shouted over the deathly screams and infernal songs, "Take them!"

It was not the same shadow that she found behind her, though. The lowest folds of the cloak dragged along the ground as if the presence underneath bore a great weight, and the cowl seemed mishapen, almost as if it were deflating. "... only his Lord's shadow..." came the broken response from the wavering shape. It still crept forward in the void behind Rask and his brothers, though without the grace it once had, and the bodies underfoot disappeared into the contained mist as usual. The foul thing had travelled the world. But, with its master weakened and enemies crushing all around, its isolated existence was stretched to the breaking point. The small amount of mist that hung about the cowl seemed to be drifting toward the east, homesick.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin did not know what strange voice spoke as if from the air, but it was the second time he heard it. He glanced at Galyl, knowing that the boy heard it too. What secrets were behind that boy's eyes, what mysteries known only to Galoriand brethren? Only time would tell.

Dismounting, Findelfin took the boy by the shoulders, turning him around. The boy was only a few inches shorter than Findelfin, but it was enough of a difference that Findelfin felt it appropriate to look down in his eyes.

"Galyl, the battle is not over. Something is delaying Xem'zûnd, but until I see his head affixed to the battlements I refuse to believe something as trifling as simple magic took down the great Necromancer. Listen now to me...everything I have taught you since we left Anebrilith together and came here for the short time before this battle. Consider it lost. My training was for battles against one opponent, where you can watch carefully, move swiftly, without worry of sideswipes from unseen foes. But now you must be alert; watch all sides, be liberal with your sword, strike down enemies on all sides. Taking time to observe your opponent will get you killed, you must let your watchfulness finally become like second nature."

Turning the boy to watch the battle, Findelfin said, "Galyl, I have taught you something of the art of horseback riding; how to wield a lance, how to hold on during a gallop and find footing in the midst of a raging river; a battle is no different than a river. Seek the smoothest course and trust your horse to find the sure footing.

"I want you to mount Pelektar. In a moment I will order the charge of this infantry, see?" he pointed to where the Vipress was fighting with a cluster of ancient elves, their lines shaking and falling back. There were still many, many enemies, but at long last the elves appeared to have the mastery of the formations. "That is where we strike. I will charge with the infantry on foot, I want you to follow on Pelektar. Fight as you must fight; let your lance carry the weight of the forward charge, then discard it. Use your sword from then on, sweeping first at the hands that grasp your feet and then taking advantage of your height to lob off the heads and arms of your enemies."

He paused, and continued, "But promise me, Galyl. If this battle turns sour, should Xem'zûnd return or our enemies take the field...should I die...take Pelektar, and flee north. There are safe abodes under the trees of Daer Taurë, and there you can join the resistance. I do not want you to stop fighting; I want you to stay alive for the fight."

Findelfin did not wait for an answer; he knew already, from the look in the boy's eyes, what it would be. Findelfin turned to speak to the Bladesingers General, "Well, Tari. It appears the north and west charges are holding their ground, what say you?"

General Oronra nodded, "It appears so, Findelfin. The center falters, but as enemies fall back from the lines they shall swell the center and possibly burst out to surround the lines; it is time for the charge."

Findelfin nodded, then unsheathed Ainalindil once more. The blade glittered with vicious light, the self-luminescent blade glowing brightly in the dusk that faded even faster as the dark clouds rolled in. The golden inscription that ran up the side of the blade glittered in the dying light:


As the first raindrops fell, Findelfin shouted, "Aluserna, Megilindari ar Tel Aglarim! Aluserna a Dacilea! Aluserna ten Raiaera!"

As thunder split the sky and lightning crackled to earth, the swords of the Noble Order of the Bladesingers of Anebrilith were unsheathed, their smooth, slender metal mirroring on the pyrotechnics above. The host surged forward, and battle was met.

Translations: In elvish, the inscription read, "Sina sa Ainalindil, tel Calim tanya'ristea imya kula, tel Lina tanya'fallanea ilye harwea." English is "This is Ainalindil, the Light that cuts through evil, the Song that heals all wounds."

Findelfin's dialogue: "Forward, Bladesingers and The Glorious Host! Forward to Victory! Forward for Raiaera!"

[Feed The Machine]

The Galoriand grew unsettled while listening to his master. For the first time he felt Findelfin emanate uncertainty. When people spoke of the legend, they spoke of his unwavering confidence and how no challenge was too grand for him to handle. But with the threat of Xem’zund, and the realistic possibility that he could overthrow the current powers leading Raiaera and establish his own tyrannical rule, the boy thought that perhaps uncertainty was a healthy thing if one were to stay alive and attempt to avert that fate.

Still, he didn’t like this feeling of uncertainty. “We have to win. We just have to!” The young Bladesinger said, while mounting Pelektar.

The horse was comfortable with the young rider, having had the soldier ride atop him before. Galyl rubbed the steed’s head, remembering when he’d tackled him down to the ground in order to establish dominance and respect, the only two things that Pelektar submitted to. “We have to make it out of here alive, and see to it that master Findelfin stays safe,” The Galoriand whispered in the horse’s ear, stirring him up like a battle-ready foot soldier.

Pelektar anxiously trotted in place, awaiting the command to charge, as did Galyl. Then, with the blade of Ainalindil casting its brilliance in unison with the crashing thunder and radiant lightning, the troops charged forward. Galyl took hold of his lance and urged his steed onward.

The weapons of Raiaera’s stampeding warriors met the grotesque flesh of the uncoordinated undead. Galoriand had run several of the ancient elves through with his lance, before discarding it as his master had previously commanded. Immediately pulling forth his blade from out of his body, the boy deflected oncoming blows and countered by severing heads from enemy bodies. Pelektar was battle hardened and experienced, and knew to keep moving rather than stay in a single place. The high vantage point that Galyl had was indeed advantageous, but he would’ve rather had Findelfin on the steed so that he could back his master up on foot.

The eyes of the Red Forest native saw the Vipress in the distance being protected by her many troops. “She must be the second in command! If only I could---”

“Get close to her?” The voice of the machine had suddenly returned. “SLAVE, now you’re thinking!! She has power! I want that power!! Take her out! TAKE HER OUT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!”

The machine’s powerful bellow boomed so loud that some of Galyl’s surrounding enemies and allies were blown backward. To them, they believed that they were hit with unseen magic since their ears weren’t sharp enough to hear the high frequency sound. As for the machine’s slave however, the shriek caused his ears to bleed and his vision to blur. An intense headache followed, making it difficult for him to stay balance atop Pelektar. “What’s happening to me?”

Galyl shook his head repeatedly to try to regain his senses but it was to no avail. But then, the sound of the static conquered his hearing becoming the only thing that he could hear. Instantly, his eyes turned from being white and organic, to black, cold, and mechanical. Both of his irises glowed neon red, illuminating a portion of his face underneath the stormy darkened sky. The static sound dissipated, his headache faded, and his vision returned.

“I…I…can see…everything….” Quickly, the Galoriand shot a root out of his body to snag one of the enemy lances. Dispatching two more of the oaken tendrils, the three roots now spun the lance deftly like an airship propeller, dicing nearby enemies like chopped onions. With his sword, he proceeded in lopping heads when necessary, but the spinning lance took care of opposing forces for the most part.

“The target is Vipress! Let’s fight our way to her, Pelektar!!!!”

[Viola Darkstalker]

“Well, it’s good to hear that someone appreciates my little nickname.”

Honey laced with venom oozed through her words; a poison that you longed to taste for the sheer bliss you knew hid in the moments before death. And oh what pleasure Viola’s blissfully naked body had aroused in even the strongest-willed men. The sensuous curves that her dress hinted at were even more succulent to behold. Her left hand held onto the chain that was her makeshift leash while her right held the pivot of a rapidly whirling spike.

“You see, ever since I came to this rotten rock, nobody has even heard of me. I’ve been called a bit egotistical by a few men, but I wouldn’t call it an ego. I mean, when a dozen worlds changed their word for purple away from my name and a dozen more no longer exist, I feel that I am entitled to a bit of egocentrism.”

There was no slack in the chain as she walked ever closer, stopping only when the tip of her whirling spike was within inches of Caden’s face. All it would take to end his pathetic life was a single motion of the wrist. His face would be impaled so beautifully by her penetrating weapon. Her thighs shivered at the thought and an ever-maddening smile crept slowly across her face. Her army was forgotten; all that mattered was that she was finally getting the revenge she had been denied for so long. Nearly two years without killing a single soul was more than she could take… she was afraid that waiting any longer could possibly start her thinking about getting soft. Oh, how good it felt to finally be free once more.

Her right wrist flicked, and the black spike drove itself into the wet ground about a foot in front of Caden, sending mud and rain spraying at his face from the impact. A quick upward jerk on her left-hand chain sent fresh waves of pain through her little pet’s shoulder. His goggles were covered in grime, sweat, and tears, but the sudden and only slightly unexpected burst of pain still managed to make him close his eyes for an instant. When he opened them again, she was no longer standing in front of him. Since the chain was now leading over his shoulder, it was obvious where she was.

“This armor is such a pain, you know,” Her voice was breathy and low, and coming from just behind his right ear. A bit of pressure on his back plate only hinted at what she was doing, but her right hand exploring his lower torso did far more than hint. “I mean, you wouldn’t even know if I was doing something like this.”

With the last word, she pulled her body closer, squeezing her luscious breasts tighter against his armor and licking the back of his right ear. Her left hand was still free to give the “leash” a good yank in case he thought he could pull something funny, but he never did. However much pleasure he was (or wasn’t) getting out of her being so close, she was still getting incredible sensations that she was long overdue to experience again. Her firm stomach and hips were pressed tight against his lower back, pushing the armor closer to his body.

A different kind of pain shot through Caden’s body, and a loving voice mocked him as he tried his best to move away. “Don’t move, dear. I may accidentally go too deep and kill you before I’m ready.” To the left of his spine at the base of his neck, the honed tip of her spike etched a feminine “V” into his skin. On the opposite side, a “D” in the same flowery script appeared in red. Once she was done, she gave a sharp yank on the spike embedded in his shoulder and leapt over him, still flaunting just how pathetic he really was. She moved toward his best attempt to kill her, the wall of rocks, and yanked as hard as she could on the chain. There was quite a bit of resistance as the slick steel slid out of his shoulder and back to its owner’s hand.

“Any last words, toy?”

[Caden Law]

It's a trite thing to say, but still truthful: Caden blacked out. He was aware of his own screaming, his own bleeding, and a load of physical sensations that ran the gamut from raindrops to lightheadedness to pleasure to pain and every possible combination or variance therein. Eventually it just blurred together and the Wizard became something akin to a barely responsive rag doll; enough to hold interest, but not enough to do anything else.

Something started to carve into his skin, and the whole world just went cold. Caden was aware, distantly, of something wet cooling its way down the sides of his neck. It is here, and now, that he experienced the very same thing as so many others: He went deep, and he left this time and place for somewhere and somewhen else.

A field of ice, so cold as to cry despair when pride failed and humility was absent. Stones stood nearby, and there was a small gathering of tribal folk gathered around. In the stones stood a single man, who happened to be in two places at once. He was tall, imposingly bald, and wearing the white-and-blue robes of a sanctioned Wizard of the Church, marked uniquely with a grey streak down the back. His Hat was left aside, his Grimmoire hung from loops of chain on his belt. He raised a wand of pure White Liviol, and so did his image, and the young Blueraven could only tell them apart by their eyes.

They had the same color, the same presence, the same depth...but one was somehow sharper. This was the one who spoke, and his voice was as deep as it was nasal and somehow Right; ineffably proud and humble in a breath, and as sage as any other.

"Watch closely at what is about to happen," ordered the Wizard, Greyspine, "Only through strict mental discipline will I be able to endure this test, and someday, so will you. A Wizard's mind is his best weapon, and it must never sit idle -- not for one second. To stop thinking is to die."

The Wizards Greyspine began to circle one another, and...

Whatever happened next, Caden did not get to re-experience it as others did. The Reaper didn't grant him the luxury of time as she tore the spike from his shoulder. He went down screaming as his body reminded his mind that they were still connected to each other. The blood loss left him so lightheaded that he could hardly control the spasms running through his arms and legs, but...

"Never stop thinking."

A lifetime removed from the ice fields of the Salvic North, Caden did not forget the lesson. His mind turned to iron turned to steel, and somewhere through the hazing clouds of mental and physical and even spiritual pain, the young man found a focal point. A needle-sized hole through which to look through, and on the other side...

Sit up, he commanded himself, and somehow managed to push and pull up from the muddy ground. The rain was coming down in sheets by the time he managed to heave himself into a seated position on his knees. His right arm was completely limp, and it took precious seconds for the water to soak through his Hat's rim and start washing the mud from his face. When it was gone, there was just one thing to do.

"Any last words, toy?" she asked.

Caden smiled. After everything she'd put him through, and after everything he'd put himself through, and after all the gods-awful things that had happened today, Caden smiled.

"Yeah," he said with a voice that should've sounded weaker, but for the sheer force of ego behind it. "Just...three."

The medusa blindfold shifted slightly, the dampness making it possible to see her brow quirking up beneath it.

"You fucked up," Caden declared in his native Salvic, just before planting the Turlin sword into the bloody ground before him. Through pure force of will, he tore the magic from the sword and used it to fuel his own. To ignore the insane mechanics of it; he pushed his will into the ground, using his blood, Elven steel and Raiaera's unusual number of leylines as conduits for what he did next.

Spikes shot out of the ground, forming what looked almost like picket fence; ten feet high and two feet thick, with just enough space inside for a person to stand freely -- but not enough room to gain the momentum for acrobatics, or even to build strength for breaking out. Next came the roof; more spikes erupted from the first set, forming what looked like a classic mausoleum rooftop. He was slower about this part, much more deliberate.

There were holes in it. Blueraven was just cruel enough to put gaps that were big enough to see through, and maybe if she climbed far enough and fast enough, the Reaper would be able to get an arm or a leg out. She'd certainly still be getting rained on, and she'd absolutely see the skies above her.

The ground of Raiaera was malleable. So many generations of the Elves and their vassal Men refusing to tamper with it had left it unused to Geomancy. There was no resistance from the land as he shaped it. Perhaps it was just too scared of him.

When it was all over, Caden simply looked at his handywork, and his smile faded out.

"Quote Blueraven Forevermore, bitch."

He entombed her in this, the Stone Maiden Mausoleum, and from the walls came the fury of the earth; rock spires on all sides.