In the Dead of Night

[Christoph]

((Solo quest))

Chapter One: Dusk


The sun set peacefully in the quiet sky, casting a golden glow over a horizon of pine-covered mountains and illuminating the rocky bald spots of the landscape. The only sounds save the gentle rustling of the late summer grass were the steady creaking of a trio of wagons, accented by the muffled clopping of hooves. Even in the wane of dusk, the worn, winding road stretched on for miles into the eastern horizon like the stray mark of a scribe’s pen.

Elijah Belov lay stretched out on a pile of wheat sacks, peeling potatoes with a small knife and tossing them into a large pot of water. He felt relaxed and content, both by the simple, familiar task and his equally simple and familiar surroundings. He inhaled the crisp air with a genuinely happy expression. There were traces of the Salvic chill, as well as the distinct aroma of the land’s soil, pines, and farm animals. It smelled like home. After over two years of travel all across the Althanas, and gods-know where else, it felt wonderful to be breathing familiar air again.

Finally, he could put his whole extraordinary ordeal behind him. Indeed, he’d seen more of the world in those months than he had in his entire life leading up to it. He’d met fascinating people and done some amazing things. However, the facts that many of those people he’d met were trying to kill him and much of what he did also almost resulted in his death in one manner or the other certainly put him off to traveling and the overrated notion of adventuring. It was almost as though some bored gods had taken it upon themselves to toy with the chef for their own amusement.

As a result, none of the pleasant points in his long journey were enough to make him ever want to do it again. He concluded, plunking another peeled vegetable into the pot, that even a peaceful, and for the most part boring, life of working in his hometown’s tavern was preferable to living out an existence of self-inflicted misery as a traveler.

He sighed wearily from the memories, but pushed them all from his mind, instead focusing on his simple culinary task. It didn’t matter anymore; it was over now. In another few weeks, he would be back in his hometown, working in the tavern’s kitchen, and telling stories to curious patrons. Assuming anyone recognized him, anyway. His ordeal had changed him. He looked older, the last vestiges of his baby-face gone. His brown eyes were more intense and his frame was whipcord-lean and fit. His brown hair had grown curlier and longer and possessed faint red streaks caused by the kiss of his sorcery. Even his iconic chef coat was covered by an intriguing collection of stains and mended tears, each with its own story. He was no longer the same meek, lazy child that had left the tavern two years ago; he had grown up.

A large settlement slowly appeared in the distance. The glow of perhaps a hundred fireplaces escaped the windows of most every house, making the distant settlement look like a handful of burning embers tossed over the dark hilltop. Then, oddly, the metaphorical embers died one by one as the lights went out, leaving a cold emptiness in their place. Odd.

He recognized that town; its name was Tirel. He’d passed through the town with his mother a few times growing up. It made no sense for them to put their lights out so early. He sighed warily. Whatever the cause, Elijah’s track record with luck and fate tempted him to believe that it wasn’t good.

[Christoph]

The wagons continued to creak along the eastbound road toward the darkened town. By the time the last of the sun’s light faded from the dreary sky, they had reached the edge of the gloomy settlement. Even the horses were uneasy.

Elijah finally sat up and examined the town more closely, unable to grasp why an entire settlement would put out its lights so early. It gave him a foreboding feeling, and not just because of the lights. The surrounding countryside possessed a subtly unsettling quality. Though it had nothing overtly wrong with it, the land itself seemed unhealthy, sickly. The dark, lush carpet of grass had gradually faded into a yellow, patchy rag of vegetation, and the soil was dry and cracked.

The massive forest beyond possessed an unwholesome quality as well. Summer had reached its peak, yet the forest looked as though it had been ravaged by winter. The leafless skeletons of deciduous trees stretched upward like demonic claws reaching for the heavens. Even the mighty pines had an ominous look to them, towering above their sickly cousins like vicious slave masters. This was definitely not the bustling, cheerful town that he’d remembered from his childhood.

The weary cook had been tempted to suggest to heads of the caravan that they bypass Tirel and continue on. The pair had seemed dead-set on stopping the wagons there, though, despite having all the supplies they needed. A warm bed couldn’t have been that tempting, either; they had all made due with sleeping in the wagons for weeks. Still, Chris held his tongue; those men were not the type that he ever wanted to cross.

He’d never seen merchants like them before. The men dressed and acted as a merchant would, wearing a faded cloaks and well-tailored clothing common for their class, but there was something different about them.. They both prayed unusually often, but otherwise spent much of their time silent or speaking to each in financial terms. There was still something different about them, though.

The larger of the two was a man in his mid thirties. His head was shaved completely bald, his shoulders were half again as broad as Elijah’s, and his massive hands looked as though they could crush a man’s skull like a grape. The man’s face sported several small scars, including a single long one running up his head. His eyes were the color of amber and had the distant look of a veteran soldier, rather than that of a merchant.

The second appeared a bit young, perhaps only a handful of years older than Elijah. He had a youthful face, mostly free of scars, and thick black hair fell down past his ears. His dark green eyes, however, were as hard and distant as a soldier’s, and were so piercing and potent that Elijah dared not meet his gaze. Their forceful and compelling presence kept the caravan on its course into gloomy town without protest.

If anything, the settlement seemed even more depressing and off-putting from the inside. Every window was shuttered and some were even barred. The doors were locked and every light had been extinguished. The trio of wagons made their way for the Inn, which was as dark as everything else.

“Well, it looks as though we’ll be sleeping outside, tonight,” said the chef, thinking out loud. He smirked. “I somehow doubt they’ll let me in if I ask nicely.”

Elijah took a moment to organize all of the reasonable assumptions regarding the situation. The first assumption was that the townsfolk were afraid of something. This, of course, was so obvious that it didn’t even count as an assumption. Its associated question, regarding what, exactly, they were afraid of, wasn’t an assumption either; it bordered on the opposite end of the philosophical horizon, where wild guesses and paranoia reigned supreme. He had more than enough of both to spare.

Another assumption that he felt safe making was that the townsfolk were either hiding something or they believed that the caravan was somehow associated with whatever they were afraid of – or both. Why else would they have put out all of their lights and fireplaces just as the caravan came into view? That piece of information would actually be very crucial, especially considering all the dark, shadowy forms of villagers lurking around some of the corners.

Everyone in the wagon train was still sitting quietly, as though they’d never expected rest or supplies in the first place. This led to the next assumption; just what was their purpose in Tirel? Perhaps the time had come to get over his irrational fear of the men in charge of the caravan and start looking for answers—

Wait… back up!

Elijah Belov’s entire train of thought screeched to a halt and rewound. His head darted around and he saw a mass of townsfolk closing in on the caravan from behind. He counted at least twenty, many of them carrying pitchforks. Their sickly, shadowy faces were painted with the telltale expressions of fear-spawned anger. More scuffing footsteps alerted the chef to the presence of another mob moving in from the front of the wagon train. They were surrounded…

A balding fat man stood tall at the forefront of the second mob. In his ornate robes, he looked like a purple silk potato sack, waddling forward and waving a club. Dark rings circled his eyes and large, fleshy jowls dominated his pale face. His corpulent appearance, style of dress, and the pompous air laced through his nasal voice marked him off as someone important – or, more accurately, someone self-important.

“They must be thralls of the bloodsucker!” the man screamed, pointing at the caravan. “Get them!” The townsfolk hesitated for a moment, as though sparks of reason were surfacing in their minds. These sparks were, of course, extinguished like candles in wind as they let their fear take over once again.

“Wait. Thralls of the what?” asked Elijah, patting the chef knife hidden in his coat. “What are you talking about?”

“Silence!” cried the ringleader, his face contorting with rage. To the cook’s trained eyes, the rage appeared more exaggerated and forced than sincere. He took another step toward the caravan, clumsily brandishing his bludgeon. His grey hair was damp with sweat, as though even that minor physical exertion was strenuous.

“Actually, I think discussing this might be a better option,” countered Elijah in an ironic tone. Ignoring him, one of the townsfolk jabbed hard at Elijah with his pitchfork. The cook growled, grabbed his assailant’s weapon, and punched the man squarely in the face, sending him to the ground with a groan. Another advanced with a sharpened stick, but Belov gracefully parried with the pitchfork he’d relieved from the first man and smacked his attacker across the jaw with the butt of the handle. Were the crowd now made up of angry, frightened thugs, the young cook imagined that his showman-like display might have earned some modest applause.

The mayor’s anger intensified. “You filthy heathen!”

“A funny thing for one such as yourself to say, Mayor Eugeny.” The caravan leader was on his feet with a steel-bound staff in his hand, closing the distance between him and the mob’s fat figurehead. The dark-haired man’s compelling voice silenced the mod. “Now, don’t do anything… unwise.”

The plump mayor’s eyes went wide and his voice jumped up an octave. “What… I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he cried.

Marvelous, thought the cook. To his distinct dismay, things were getting interesting.

[Christoph]

At that moment, the dark-haired merchant threw off his charcoal-colored cloak. Even Elijah, a veteran to hundreds of story-telling nights by tavern fires, had to admire the man’s dramatic flair. The heavy, dark cloak concealed well-tailored clothes of black cloth and brown leather. More importantly, a large silver pendent, in the shape of an eye swathed in flame, dangled around his neck.

A lump formed in the chef’s throat at the sight. All citizens of Salver knew the emblem of the Ethereal Sway’s holy agents, though few had as much reason to fear it as he.

“I act by the only true authority, Eugeny,” the witch hunter replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. Elijah’s unease was nothing compared to the sheer terror now gripping the mayor, who seemed to barely keep from soiling himself. “So answer carefully. Would you defy the divine authority of the Ethereal Sway in addition to your other blasphemies?” The mayor shrank visibly and sank backwards. The mobs of villagers had already lowered their weapons, looking on in shock.

“No! No…” The obese mayor’s club clattered to the cobbled road. His voice rose as his weapon fell. “I swear, I didn’t bring ruin upon this town! I am not a blasphemer!” The starkness of the man’s change in demeanor took the cook aback; he could not longer tell if the mayor was still putting on an act or if he had actually be driven to that sad state by the presence of such a dangerous religious agent. Both seemed plausible.

“Then you are either lying, or you are a greater fool than we thought,” a deeper voice growled, his rough, guttural inflection of Tradespeak thick with an Old Salvic accent. Elijah glanced behind him to the source of the voice and found the second head of the caravan – the large, broad man with the shaven head. He too, had thrown off his disguise, revealing the vestments of the mighty Ethereal Sway warrior-templar. To say that the chef was shocked would be an understatement. As though one deadly religious agent wasn’t enough, there needed to be two in the same caravan. To say that he was surprised, however, would have been a blatant lie. Such things were all too typical to the recent patterns of Belov’s life. “Either one is a capital crime, Mayor.” The second agent’s nostrils flared with wrath.

“No! Please!” the mayor pleaded, falling to his knees. None of the villagers budged. They were frozen, their eyes locked on the two powerful men before them. “I would never side with the Vampire Lord!”

Everything clicked in Elijah’s mind at that moment. Deep down, he’d already made the connection but had been trying to deny it. Now the truth was before him, indisputable and undeniable. That explained the unsettling aura clinging to the land. That explained why the villagers hid in darkness after sunset, hoping that their unnatural predator would pass them by one more night.

Of all the things to get caught up in on his way home, why did it have to be one of the night-stalking beasts? Why did it have to be a vampire?

The witch hunters allowed Eugeny little time to beg. The older of the two strode menacingly toward the mayor, flanked by two others from the caravan, as his younger compatriot addressed the mayor and the rest of the assembled townsfolk. His voice carried the stern edge of a judge and his eyes flared with vengeful wrath.

“You have allowed the infernal forces of this monster to ravage the countryside in your domain and you attacked a caravan that has come to your town in peace in order to protect your own position, thus risking the demise of your town’s only hope for salvation. It is through the cowardly actions of men like you that evil is allowed to not only endure, but to thrive. It is because of filth like you that innocent families are destroyed and orphans created.”

“No!” cried the mayor, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Take him away!” ordered the older holy agent. The ten remaining men with the caravan immediately answered the order, springing forth to restrain the mayor and drag him, screaming, into the shadows. Elijah merely stood there, dumbfounded, his face sweating despite the cold air.

The chef’s discomfort multiplied dramatically the longer he stayed in close proximity to the witch hunter. The Church of the Ethereal Sway was duly respected throughout Salvar and rightfully feared by everyone, especially practitioners of magic. Everyone knew the stories of their brutal exploits, kidnapping traitors and political enemies in the dead of night, and having “dangerous” sorcerers burned at the stake. Darker still were the stories of the exploits of their more fanatical witch hunters. The sorcerer Elijah had much to fear from their ilk.

He refused to dwell on the mayor’s fate, even though his best guesses were probably frighteningly accurate. On one hand, the chef felt little sympathy for the gluttonous official; he was corrupt and a fool at best and a twisted slave to the undead at worst. One the other hand, the chef knew that one false step, one clumsy mistake that revealed him for the sorcerer that he was, could put him in the same position.

He found himself wondering if he’d been a mass-murdering rapist in a past life, for the choice between death at the hands of the undead or in the witch pyres of the Church seemed very grim indeed.

[Christoph]

Elijah walked through the dark streets alone, retreating from the commotion in the center of town. Torches had been hastily lit as the Sway agents began questioning the villagers. After the night’s revelations, the chef craved solitude.

The chilly air prickled on Elijah’s skin. He rubbed his arms and drew his light chef coat tightly around his body. The cold had been bothering him more and more lately – even the gentle chills from summer nights. He wasn’t used to it anymore.

“It does get cold up here, doesn’t it?” The familiar voice of the young witch hunter made Elijah jump. The startled cook froze, trying to form words into a reply. His attempt was swiftly and adeptly cut off. “I’m surprised that you haven’t added a spell to keep warm to your repertoire.”

The sorcerer’s entire body became rigid and still. His eyes widened as he gazed into the darkness, refusing to face the religious agent. How did the man know?

“I… what?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice calm as his composure wavered.

The dark-haired man laughed softly. It was the warm, affable chuckle that the chef would have expected from an old friend at the tavern rather than a ruthless hunter of the unnatural.

“I know what you can do,” said the agent simply. Eli spun around to face him, prepared for the worst, only to see the man grinning. He chuckled again. “Don’t worry, friend, I’m not about to kill you for using magic.”

The cook raised a confused eyebrow. “But how did you— ”

The hunter cut him off again, his smile turning sly. “I’m very good at my job, Elijah Belov,” he replied. “But I only use your sort of petty ‘witchcraft’ as easy grounds to arrest and execute those who were… already my targets.”

“You know, that really doesn’t make it sound much better.”

“No, I suppose not. But it does ensure your immediate safety.”

In spite of himself, Eli relaxed a little. Logic prevailed, telling him that had the caravan full the agents of the Ethereal Sway had wanted him dead or in custody, he would have been tied to a burning stake already.

“What can I do for you, then?” he asked.

He inhaled deeply and finally looked the dark-haired hunter in the eyes. Their gazes locked with an almost tangible energy; the two forces of will collided in an invisible storm. Everything about the man was formidable, from his speech, to his poise, to his undeniable aura of power. Elijah had always considered himself to be a potent individual, but the dark haired agent of religious wrath was the alpha wolf and young Belov was a lowly coyote in comparison.

“Names first,” he replied. “My name is Marcus Salbrecht.”

“Should I feel privileged that I know your name?” asked Elijah, unable to control his innate sarcasms. To his surprise, Marcus laughed.

“No… ‘Privileged’ information involves a lot more pain and blood for most people,” answered the Sway agent.

“Right.” He shifted nervously. “But tell me, how ‘privileged’ would I need to be to know why you were all pretending to be merchants and why you weren’t the least bit surprised when the mayor tried having us killed? I’m going to go out on a metaphorical limb and guess that it’s not wild coincidence, regardless of how mischievous fate can be.”

“There is no fate, destiny, or coincidence; there is only the will of the Sway,” stated Marcus with conviction, gazing intently at Elijah even as he leaned casually against the wall.

“Of course,” the sorcerer replied, biting down a less flattering reply. “But the entire exchange back in the square seemed… staged, as though you and your bald compatriot had planned out the whole thing.

“You speak more like a scholar than a cook; are you sure that you chose the right profession?” laughed the witch hunter, his casual demeanor putting Elijah even more ill at ease. Still, the attempted humor was not lost on him, and he rolled his eyes.

“Which? Cooking or setting things on fire with semi-illegal magic?”

“Take your pick,” replied the hunter with a smirk. “But your suspicions are correct. This is but the final chapter in an extended investigation. My inquiries led me to Tirel, and it turns out that I am closer to my goal than I’d though. This is why I came to find you.”

“I really don’t like where this is going,” Elijah groaned. “I know that there is more to all this than it seems. It’s obvious that that mayor wasn’t the only one you came here to bring to justice, but I was hoping that, for once, I could not get sucked into another mess.”

“Yes, yes, but you’ll just need to cope,” replied Marcus dismissively. “And you are very correct; there is much more work to do this night. Brother Ciaphas and my interrogators have extracted some very valuable information from the former mayor of this town.”

The pyromancer cringed. “You people work unnervingly fast. Remind me never to make you angry.”

“Amusingly,” the agent laughed. “That’s not the first time someone has said that to me.” His voice grew serious. “At any rate, after having something of a little conversation with the mayor, we were able to confirm the existence of the vampire Kincaid’s tower in the forest and discern its location.”

“But wouldn’t someone have come across it by now?” inquired Elijah. He smirked. “Dark ominous towers are hardly inconspicuous.”

“That is another matter Eugeny was kind enough to explain. As it turns out, there’s some sort of enchantment on the structure so that it’s only visible at night, and—”

“And who in their right mind would go off to find a vampire’s lair at night?”

“Precisely,” Marcus answered, looking Belov in the eyes.

“Abyss take me… All right, this is where you tell me that you need my help for something that’s likely to get me killed, correct?”

“Ha, a very good guess,” replied the hunter. “And close, too. We have an opportunity to go into the forest and destroy this dark power once and for all, before he escapes and casts his shadow somewhere else. Brother Ciaphas should be rallying the town militia and the villagers right now, but our numbers will be small. I will need every able man I can get out there, Eli, especially one with your skills. Superstition and intolerance be damned, fire is a potent weapon against the undead, and I’m willing to look the other way. It will go a long way in keeping morale high.”

“With all due respect, this is going to get a lot of people killed or worse. Why not send for more support from real soldiers?”

“I have been tracking this abomination for too long to let him slip from my grasp once more. We will strike at the vampire’s lair, in the heart of the forest.”

“This is insanity,” argued the sorcerer more forcefully, finally finding his nerve. “How many people are you willing to sacrifice? What you’re proposing could have consequences worse than death!” The witch hunter’s hand lashed out in a blur, striking Elijah across the side of his face with such force that the youth staggered back a few steps. The pyromancer straightened and met the hunter’s gaze, refusing to rub his throbbing cheek.

“Do not lecture me on the risks, sorcerer,” Marcus shot back in a warning growl. His voice softened again quickly, though. “This is our only chance. I understand that you did not plan for this when you hitched a ride, and I did not expect your presence, either,” continued the hunter. “This was not a coincidence; I have no doubt that Gods of the Sway had a hand in it. The odds are stacked against us, but I doubt that Kincaid, for all his power, will expect such a bold move. Your presence will help fight off his unnatural minions and keep the courage of the villagers from shattering like a piece of pottery. If they panic out there...”

"We're all dead.” Elijah finished.

“Indeed.” Marcus motioned toward the center of town. “Join Ciaphas and the militia there. I have one more thing to do in order to prepare.” With that, the witch hunter sank into the shadows and disappeared from view.

“We’re all dead,” Elijah repeated with a sigh, the full weight of the situation falling upon him. They were all dead. But what choice did he have?

[Christoph]

“I’m afraid it probably isn’t what you’re used to, my lord witch hunter,” apologized the elderly local priest as he led Marcus and one of the hunter’s retainers into the church, hobbling along with a wooden cane. The witch hunter glanced around his humble surroundings. Rows of simple wooden pews covered a roughly hewn floor. Burnished iron candelabras lined the aisle, their dim, flickering glow dancing surreally across the far walls of the chapel’s interior.

“Worry not, father,” Marcus replied, placing his gloved hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We know that the Sway will bless wherever they are welcomed with open hearts.” The trio slowly made their way to the altar, pausing to hold their palms over the flame of each candle.

“Through pain and fire we invite the Ethereal Sway to purge our souls of doubt and our hearts of fear,” the old man intoned. “The holiest champions stand in the face of darkness…”

“…And shine their lights in the dead of night,” Marcus finished as they reached the altar of polished cherry and ebony. His retainer set a very long, very narrow canvas bag upon the altar and the priest followed suit, placing a small vial of holy oil next to it. “Thank you, father. You may both go.”

“May the Sway light your path,” croaked the old priest as he limped out of the church with Marcus’s retainer.

The witch hunter sank to his knees before the altar, inhaling deeply as he gazed upon the carved obsidian effigies of Saint Maxilla, the ancient patron of justice and divine wrath, and the beloved Saint Denebriel. He idly wondered if his deeds would ever live up to the holy champions of legend. He closed his eyes for a moment and recited a series of simple litanies and prayers to clear his mind.

For over three years, Marcus had actively hunted the vampire Kincaid all across the kingdom, and he’d sought the bloodsucker’s demise for even longer than that. On several occasions, he had come close to capturing the demon. Each time, though, the beast had slipped from his fingertips, leaving more destroyed lives in its wake. The thought of such a foul creature finally within his grasp set his nerves on edge. Perhaps his ordeal would finally be over, but he would not rest until he could spread Kincaid’s ashes into the ocean. Even destruction by fire would be too merciful for such a demon.

Fire… the witch hunter’s thoughts shifted to the sorcerer. Could he trust him? The Ethereal Texts warned against rogue magic users, proclaiming the danger of magic that lacked the guiding light of the gods. The Church kept a modest clutch of wizard-priests under their employ, but they were closely monitored for purity and piety to ensure that they were free of taint and drew their powers from the lands of Salvar and the pure energy of the divine, rather than intentionally or accidentally seeking power from any infernal sources. Life as a wizard-priest was harsh and exacting, causing many with budding arcane talent to ignore the proclamation that they turn themselves over to the clergy.

Some witch hunters devoted their careers entirely to hunting down these rogue sorcerers, tracking them and bringing them back to Saint Denebriel’s Cathedral willingly or unwillingly, alive or dead. Some would merely execute them for witchcraft outright. Marcus had never been so puritanical, only seeking out these rogue sorcerers if they caused trouble or if they were involved with demonic entities.

Still, superstition had been drilled into him, as it had every Ethereal Sway initiate. While he highly doubted that any infernal force had enthralled Elijah, the witch hunter could sense the pyromancer’s power, and it made him uneasy. Had the youth been found by the Sway earlier in life, he could have risen among the wizard-priests rapidly. Furthermore, working with a rogue sorcerer in any circumstances could earn Marcus censure if his superiors were to learn of it. What were the alternatives, though? Better to have the pyromancer fighting on his side against the vampire than becoming a potential problem.

He would use the sorcerer as a tool to help him defeat Kincaid and the vampire’s undead forces, and then he would be done with the boy.

Feeling more at ease, he opened the canvas bag and slid a heavy black quarterstaff from it, placing the weapon on the altar. Even in the dim light, the quality of the weapon was obvious. Crafted from wood cut from a tree that had been growing next to an unnamed saint’s grave by a master carpenter, the staff was a work of art. The weapon had then been bound by a spiraling strip of tempered steel, with silvery scriptures engraved into the blackened metal.

“May the godly patrons of the Ethereal Sway lead me along the path of light and righteousness,” he prayed, bowing before the altar. “In your name I shall persecute the wicked, and through your might shall I purge the unclean.” He applied the holy oil in drops across the staff. “Cleanse my mind of doubt. I beseech your justice and grace to bless my weapon and your wisdom to guide my wrath to smite the thralls of evil.

“So said the Sway: “Cherish the purity of humanity. Trust not heretics and abominations. By our will, the faithful shall destroy them.” Sweat trickled from Marcus’s brow as he continued his prayers, rubbing the sacred oil into his weapon. His entire body felt a tingling chill. He would stay until his soul was prepared, and he would walk out of the church with his gods beside him.

[Christoph]

All of the able-bodied men had gathered at the eastern gate, torches lit, pitchforks sharpened. Nearly a thousand in total, the mob gathered around a large wooden platform in the center of the square, looking to the dark form of witch hunter Marcus Salbretch for inspiration and hope while the other Sway agents managed the mobs like a jumbled swarm of bees. Also present were the one hundred men of the town militia, standing at attention in a more organized block.

Ciaphas leaned silently against the platform, now proudly displayed his ornate, gilded breastplate, knowing that the need for subtlety had been replaced by the need for presence. He clutched a brutal spiked mace in his ham-sized fists, and watched his comrade work. Marcus had taken longer than usual to return from the chapel, which spoke volumes as to the graveness of their mission. The holy templar had witnessed his comrade’s obsession in hunting down the vampire Kincaid and knew that if things didn’t end that night, it would devour the hunter.

“‘And the righteous shall wield the might of the Sway like a sword from the heavens and strike down the forces of wickedness’!” Marcus called over the heads of the townsfolk, projecting his voice to the far corners of the square. His voice was as smooth as silk, but as powerful as a storm. He used motions from his staff to accent his words.

“So said the holy Ethereal Sway, and so shall it be this night. Our patron gods have bestowed upon the agents of their most holy Church the power and divine duty to defend the good people of Salvar from the shadows that lurk in the Cold Night. Tonight, we come to fulfill that sacred promise!” A modest applause came from the crowd as a response. Ciaphas idly stroked his chin. The people were still afraid; they needed to be angry. Anger, while a pale substitute for real bravery, would carry the night.

"For too long have the forces of darkness plagued your town! For too long has the foul, unholy abomination murdered your brothers, your mothers, your sons, and your daughters. The vampire desires nothing more than to feed upon you and your families for generations!" The witch hunter leveled a fiery gaze at the assembled townsfolk. "Will you allow this outrage?"

"No!" shouted the crowd, their voices a wailing, vengeful chorus of rage. Ciaphas saw a small grin appear on his compatriot's face.

“Then fight by my side!” Marcus commanded. “Though we, the chosen of the Sway, fight with the light of the gods on our side, we cannot do it alone! As brothers, as sons of the blessed land of Salvar, we must band together to drive the foul undead abomination from our lands once and for all! Even now, the unholy vampire hides in his tower like a cowering winter hare before the wrath of the righteous warriors! Together, we will send him back to his infernal masters in flame! Kincaid's reign over the darkness ends tonight!”

“It’s time,” said Ciaphas, climbing up next to the witch hunter. “May the Sway guide our steps.”

* * * * *

A meager fireplace illuminated the hall of the black tower, it’s faint glow reflecting off of the crudely carved basaltic bricks, but offering little heat. Kincaid sat upon an iron throne in the silent gloom, running his fingers over the beautifully crafted sword that rested upon his lap. Even his dead flesh could appreciate the smooth feel of the gilded hilt and the sensation of warmth that emanated from it; it brought back flashes of long-lost memories, memories of life and sunlight. The glyph-covered blade was a truly magnificent weapon, one that had been well worth the trouble of murdering his vampiric sire to possess.

He couldn’t begin to guess its age, but he could sense truly ancient power pulsating within the bluish metal like the sweet, warm blood in the veins of his victims. He had only to sink his fangs in and unlock its secrets. Then its terrible hidden power would be at his command. Then he would rule the night. Until then, he would merely continue enjoying his reign over the mortals in his shadowy domain. What point was there to being superior to the living in every way if he couldn’t savor his dominion?

The sound of wing beats shook Kincaid from his reverie. He glanced up and saw a small black bat flying in through a window. It squeaked urgently and dropped down onto the vampire’s outstretched arms. His winged scout had seen something.

“Tell me what you’ve seen,” the vampire commanded, gazing keenly into the bat’s eyes. Communicating with his familiars was always a tricky task; his sire had been a master of that art and could effortlessly engage in long conversations with all manners of animals. Kincaid however, lacked such skill and finesse. He could on glean short, primitive messages from the minds of his wild minions.

Town… attack… Words flooded Kincaid’s mind, but they made little sense. he tilted his head and snarled in frustration, glaring more intently into his familiar’s beady eyes. Town… attacking… here! A grin of cruel amusement spread across the vampire’s face. The cattle were attacking him?

“So the mortals have grown a spine?” he asked nobody in particular. He pondered for a moment, forcing away his dangerous complacency. Something wasn’t right. After all this time, why would they strike at his stronghold that night? What had changed? He needed to know more. “Come along, my faithful servant,” he said to the bat.

Kincaid stood and stalked to the fireplace, holding the bat gently in his grip. While he lacked his dead sire’s affinity for conversing with lesser creatures, he possessed some skills of his own. He tossed a heap of kindling into the fire, flinching reflexively at the sudden burst of heat and flame. He stepped closer, suppressing his instincts, and muttered a few ancient words from a shamanistic chant. He couldn’t recall whether he’d learned the words in life or in unlife, but he wouldn’t question the power they held as they slipped from his hold, lifeless lips.

The bat began to squirm and squeal as Kincaid’s grip upon it began to tighten. He crushed the creature in his hands, silencing it. It was a worthy sacrifice to see what needed to be seen. He tossed the corpse into the fire, his only remorse being that of the creature’s blood wasted. He continued to chant until shapes slowly to take form in the dancing flame.

In the fire, he saw through the recently dead bat’s eyes, witnessing what his winged scout had witnessed as though looking through a window. Townsfolk, hundreds and hundreds of them, marched into the forest brandishing torches, pitchforks, spears, and other makeshift weapons. One hundred men from the town militia marched with them. Though largely unorganized, they marched with purpose and direction; that filthy mayor must have told them where he’d hidden his tower. He hissed like an angry demon.

His rage intensified when he spotted the men leading this army. A witch hunter strode at the side of a massive templar warrior. It all made sense. How else could those ignorant townsfolk have organized so quickly? What else could have sparked such an audacious move if not the thrice-accursed Church of the Ethereal Sway? He snarled and smashed his fist into the stone hearth.

These upstarts were bold, he had to admit, but they clearly did not understand the power they sought to overthrow. This was his forest and they were his possessions, his cattle, his food. It was time he reminded them of it.

“Sandulf!” Kincaid shouted, his voice echoing through the chamber. The sound of grinding stone and heavy footsteps answered his call. A muscular, demonic figure emerged from the shadows, it’s massive wings folded behind its imposing body.

“Your will, master?” asked the gargoyle in a deep, gravelly voice.

“The time has come to defend that which is ours. Take your coven and remind the mortals invading my forest of their place.”

The so-called holy warriors had made a grave mistake in threatening a cornered beast in its own lair. As for the townsfolk... all herds occasionally needed to be culled.

[Christoph]

Chapter Two: Night


The battle raged beneath Sandulf’s dark granite wings. The stink of rotting flesh floated like a putrid mist between the trees. Grown men screamed like children as the unholy beasts tore them limb from limb. There were no clear battle lines to speak of anymore. Chaos reigned supreme. By the dark gods, it was beautiful! Two hundred years standing as a motionless living statue had done nothing to diminish his appreciation for beauty and art. And this hurricane of bloodshed was art at its finest.

When the village “army” arrived, the battle didn’t erupt all at once. Rather, it began with a series of small skirmishes as the walking dead lurched through the forest in staggered groups. Over two hundred townsfolk and militia had charged into the fray with reckless abandon, bludgeoning the zombies and skeletons with a variety of makeshift weapons. They quickly and easily pushed the undead forces back, or so it seemed.

In their careless courage, they mortals hadn’t even seen the trap until the vice closed around their neck. Then Kincaid’s plan had come into action as his silent, shambling legion poured from the twisted trees from all directions. Finally, Sandulf and his stone kin descended upon the attackers like an executioner’s ax.

The gargoyle’s stone lips formed into a gleeful smile as he swooped down to pluck an unsuspecting villager from the ground, tearing out the mortal’s throat midair. Sandulf had not had such fun in many decades. It made him wish that his master Kincaid’s victims would rise up more often.

He swooped down for another attack, weaving between trees and raking his claws across the stomach of another pitchfork-wielding upstart. He then drove his other hand right through the chest of a third, just as the man cracked off a metal ball from his flintlock pistol, ripping out a shredded wad of flesh and bone. He threw his victims aside like discarded husks.

The winged statue strode forward for a few seconds, swatting aside the weak humans with the backs of his hands, before taking off into the dark sky once again. Soon, the pathetic mortals would learn for all that he and his master reigned supreme in the dead of night.

Sandulf’s burning eyes were suddenly drawn to a lone male figure wearing a white coat of a chef. The winged demon of stone would have thought the buy easy prey were it not for the piles of corpses strewn around him. The bloodthirsty gargoyle arced down without a moment’s hesitation, his clawed hands outstretched. The lithe, brown-haired human saw him coming though, and cried out with a start, diving aside. The stone demon grinned. This one might prove even better sport.

Surprisingly, the cook didn’t run away or attempt to strike with the large knife in his hand. Instead, he conjured an orange sphere of flame in his hands and hurled it at Sandulf’s chest, leaving a painful patch of cracked red. A fire wizard? That would complicate things for Kincaid, but not for a creature of stone. The boy struck again, this time with a concentrated lance of white-hot fire, blasting a massive crater in Sandulf’s chest.

Enraged, he swatted the pyromancer to the ground with the back of his hand, growling like a feral beast. This human didn’t cower and whimper like the others. Instead, he wore a smug smirk upon his face. Oh, yes, this will be fun, but not for you.

He would truly enjoy extracting his entrails. He would rend the boy’s flesh brutally from his bones while he screamed for mercy. Then, he’d feast upon the warm flesh before handing the rendered, violated carcass over to his master to become another member of the dead legion. And then—

Sandulf’s thoughts ended abruptly, never to resume, as a mighty mace shattered his head, sending a spray of jagged rock in all directions. A bald, bulky priest stood over the gargoyle’s slumping stone body, muscles bulging like an ox, the offending weapon clenched in his massive fist. The dying gargoyle would not despair, however, for his brothers and sisters would surely avenge him.

* * * * *

“Thank you for that, Ciaphas,” said Elijah, genuinely grateful.

“Yes,” he replied simply, his voice low and rough. He offered him a massive hand, which the sorcerer accepted and regained his footing. “I’m sure you had it… under control?”

Belov grinned, though he wasn’t sure if he shared the templar’s confidence. “Things aren’t going well,” he said, motioning to the chaos growing around them.

“I know… is very bad,” he grunted. “Marcus has made himself scarce as well. I should pray to Sway he’s not doing something foolish.” He sighed. “But for now, we take control of situation.”

“But how?” asked the pyromancer. All around them, zombies swarmed and devoured the isolated ‘army’ of villagers. The militia had gotten split off from the rest, leaving the poor, unfortunate citizens to fend for themselves. Well over two hundred had surely died already. “This is a mess. There isn’t much to work with.”

“We have faith and courage,” he replied sternly, narrowing his eyes. “We need nothing else.”

“Right…” He very much wanted to ask him if he was serious, but the spark in his grey eyes made his seriousness very clear. “What do you plan to do?”

“We rally villagers while we still can, while we still have villagers left to rally!” he boomed

“I was afraid of that,” murmured Elijah.

“What did you say?” demanded the warrior-priest.

“I said I like that! But… I should leave the rallying to you. At least one of us should find Marcus.

The holy warrior paused for a moment, thoughtfully rubbing his thumb against a spike on his mace. “Very well. I pray for you as well, then.” With that, he gave a somber nod before charging through the forest, leaving a trail of battered undead in his wake. Elijah set out to find Marcus.

[Christoph]

“‘By the grace of the Ethereal Sway shall we be delivered from plague, temptation, and war.’”

Marcus rushed from the ranks of soldiers and into the zombie swarms, smashing the abominations into mangled heaps with his staff. He danced through a sea of rotting flesh like a whirlwind of destruction, leaving a swath of devastation in his wake. No doubt his display filled the militia with awe, but that was not his primary goal. All of his fallen foes were but obstacles in the path of his true target.

As the hunter fought his way up the final hill, the shroud of cloud parted, allowing the moon to wash the forest with its sickly glow. And there it was, standing like the ominous shadow of a demon in the surreal light. Even through the trees and in the gloom, jagged spikes were clearly visible protruding from the black stone. Balconies lined with spiked railings and covered with stone gargoyle statues dotted the walls. Marcus settled his eyes grimly upon the monument of terror.

A dark, lithe figure leapt from the highest window in the tower, smashing out the iron bars blocking it as it exited. The shadowy form landed on the ground with cat-like grace. Its eyes glowed faintly of hellish green and an expression of cold malice dominated the creature’s face. Kincaid had revealed himself and marked the beginning of the final act.

“‘By Their justice shall the righteous steal from the plate of debauchery to feed the mouths of the pure.’”

His voice grew stronger as he recited the prayers. He tightened the grip on his blood-soaked quarterstaff, leveling his eyes at his adversary. For twenty-five years, he’d prepared for this moment. Since the night that the beast took his family and left him in the forest to die, he had been waiting.

From the moment that his parents were murdered just outside of Tirel and their bodies violated by the vampire Kincaid, the hunter had awaited this moment. He knew that in a world of victims, all must desire retribution, but few would ever possess the might to extract it. That was what set him above the common man – faith, will, and strength.

For over two decades, Marcus had prepared for the night in which he would finally possess the power to avenge his family and all of the other innocent lives that the vampiric monster had destroyed. Whether he fought in the name of Ethereal Sway or not made no difference; this was a personal task.

Perhaps it was destiny or divine providence; perhaps it wasn’t. It didn’t matter, for fate carried no weight compared to the power of desire; and no desire was stronger or more all consuming than that for vengeance. He wondered if the vampire could appreciate the irony that its brutality had forged the weapon of its own demise.

“‘By Their wisdom shall we be protected from the blight of evil and the blasphemy of abominations!’”

He started for the vampire, the abomination, taking long, purposeful strides. The rest of the battle disappeared into the background as he advanced on his family’s murderer. His slow strides quickly shifted into a lightning sprint.

His foe’s face came into view under the moonlight. The creature carried no expression of fear or surprise, nor one of anger or confusion. There was no spark of recognition; why would a monster remember a victim? Instead, Kincaid’s lips formed a smile of the most malevolent amusement and a haunting laugh escaped his throat.

The hunter recognized that laugh, as no doubt every one of his victims did.

Marcus grit his teeth as he silently chanted verses from the Litanies of Might and Retribution. Even with the frigid air whipping through his hair, he was sweating more than he ever had in his life.

“‘And by Their might shall the divine servants smite the agents of wickedness!’”

The hunter’s first blow struck before the vampire had even drawn his sword. The slick staff snapped forward, slicing through the air too swiftly for mortal eyes to follow. Kincaid’s eyes, however, were not mortal. As fast as the attack was, the vampire anticipated the strike and blocked just in time, the staff cracking brutally against the creature’s forearms.

Kincaid spun to the side and drew his sword in a single fluid motion before making a counter attack. The gleaming blade flashed with supernatural light as it connected with the other end of Marcus’s staff, mere inches from the hunter’s thigh. The vampire didn’t let the duel stagnate for a moment. He lashed out in a flurry of attacks, each one accompanied by an eerie flash of light.

Marcus found himself forced back, desperately parrying each strike inches before the blade reached his flesh. It became a vicious dance with a rapidly increasing tempo. Kincaid came in for a thrust; the priest parried it down just in time.

An undead fist impacted Marcus’s very living skull with a sickening crack. The force of the punch sent the hunter spinning to the ground. Carefully honed combat reflexes took over as his vision failed him. He rolled to the side, narrowly escaping Kincaid’s demonic blade. Trusting his instincts, the holy warrior struck out with his foot mid-roll, kicking the side of the vampire’s jaw with a crunch that was almost as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

Marcus scrambled to his feet, deflecting more blows through luck and faith alone. He sprang backwards frantically, out of his foe’s sword range. The witch hunter struck back, jabbing at the abomination from a distance with the spiked end of his staff. Though he struck substantial blows to the vampire’s arms, abdomen, and shoulders, he drew no blood and did not slow his foe in the slightest

He grit his teeth and locked eyes with his supernatural adversary. The demon had inhuman strength and speed on its side, but the witch hunter possessed faith and the fire of divine retribution and justice. He needed nothing more; he would not be denied satisfaction.

[Christoph]

Elijah darted through the towering pine trees, hacking through undead abominations with a bloodstained long sword. He had taken the liberty of relieving one of the fallen militiamen of the blade after he parted ways with Ciaphas. While heavier than and lacking the of the style of dueling swords he’d practiced with since his teenage years, the stolen weapon served his needs efficiently enough. Looting a dead body might have seemed distasteful to him were the situation not so grave.

The vampire’s undead forces numbered far higher than Elijah had dared imagine, with well over a thousand moaning, shambling corpses infesting the forest, attacking from three sides. While the militia had been quick to form up and push further into the forest in a careful, ponderous advance, the mobs of villagers charged into their festering foes with reckless courage and the organization of a swarm of mosquitoes. They were going to get themselves killed fighting like that.

Fortunately, following his near miss against the gargoyle, the sorcerer had gotten clear of that storm of certain death while he could, escaping with only a series of bruises and scratches. If he’d gotten stuck in the middle of the chaos, no amount of skill or fiery magic would have saved him; if the zombies didn’t devour him, the villagers would have probably trampled him in their fervor to charge or flee. Their defeat seemed certain, as clear as the frigid frost that captured his breath. The only hope of seizing the night rested in finding Marcus

The chef hacked through a dry, shriveled corpse as it staggered for him, hideous, raspy moans escaping its throat. Taking the dulled sword in both hands, he bludgeoned the creature to the ground, splitting open its skull. He cursed at his stolen weapon. Age and poor maintenance had reduced the blade to little more than a metal club Tainted black blood and ichors splattered all over his face and coat. Smiling grimly, he charged up the rocky hill.

Six zombies impeded his path, but the pyromancer didn’t even slow down, instead mumbling a string of incantations between gasps for air. His sword began to glow like a branding iron fresh from brazier. With expert precision, he slashed gashes in his unliving adversaries. Fire erupted from each wound, consuming the undead victims like a voracious beast. Several of the burning abominations surged forward, mindlessly seeking retribution even as their bodies turned to ash. Elijah dodged and weaved much like he had against countless drunken buffoons during his barroom brawling days.

One zombie grabbed his arm, digging its filthy fingernails into his skin and sinking rotten teeth into his shoulder. He cried out in pain and used his momentum to hurl to walking corpse to the ground and, with a snap of his fingers, incinerated his unclean attacker. His pulse pounded in his skull and his lungs burned when he finally reached the top of the hill. He staggered into a tree, supporting himself against the trunk until his vision cleared.

From the vantage point, he could see the entire battle unfold. The villagers were proving even more disorderly and useless than he had feared. Some tried to charge further forward, others tried to escape, and others still just focused on their own survival with no other direction or purpose. Even the comparatively well-trained and equipped militia had overextended and was barely holding before waves of undead warriors.

It was all folly, as though the entire an entire town worth of healthy men were being sacrificed just to divert the vampire’s legion. He swallowed hard; it would be a dark tactic, and the thought of it made Elijah’s stomach tighten, but he couldn’t deny the cold logic behind it.

But what part was Marcus playing in all of this? Elijah’s breath caught in his chest when he spotted the witch hunter and received the answer to his question.

* * * * *

Marcus weaved left, then right as the vampire lashed out furiously with its hideous blade. His carefully honed combat skills failed again and again against the undead creature’s terrifying might. It had become clear that he was outmatched. Already, his breath had grown ragged and short while his undying adversary had no need for air at all, and the beast shrugged off every blow, while each gash on Marcus’s flesh bled openly. Kincaid’s relentless advance forced him further and further back. He offered a bleak prayer that Ethereal Sway would preserve his soul.

He realized that he had let righteous fury and the burning for vengeance cloud his judgment; he knew that he would be no match against the lords of the night. For that reason, he’d come prepared. As Kincaid charged once again, Marcus reached into his cloak, producing a pouch of a shimmering, golden powder and hurled it into his assailant’s face. The substance was, in fact, gold powder sanctified by blood of minor saints and blessed by the Grand Justice of the Church, Lev Testhan, and when it struck the vampire, the creature recoiled, hissing in pain as the powder ate away at its corrupted flesh.

The Kincaid growled in pain, clawing the powder from its face and eyes. Seizing the opportunity, Marcus darted forward, a wooden stake appearing in his left hand. He drove the crude weapon into his foe’s chest, aiming for the heart. He felt the vampire’s ribcage crack and give way, but before he could drive his stake the final inch, the creature’s clawed hand gripped the wooden spike and pulled it free. With a feral snarl, Kincaid shattered the stake in his hand like a twig and then hurled the holy agent several yards. He landed with a jarring force, but scrambled back to his feet out of sheer desperation.

Desperate, Marcus realized that he had but one card left to play. With the meager gap between the opponents rapidly closing, the witch hunter produced three small stones from his cloak. Arcane runes of destruction, justice, and fire were respectively etched onto the grey surface of each one. He grinned harshly and hurled all three at once. They detonated in a vicious supernatural explosion, spreading a wave of fire and kinetic force over the shocked vampire.

The brief glimmer of hope lasted barely an instant, however, before the shock quickly passed to Marcus as Kincaid flipped backward away from the magically generated inferno with grace beyond that of any acrobat. The hunter cursed as the slightly scorched and battered vampire started for him again, a murderous snarl on his face and the arcane markings on his blade burning brightly.

Marcus struck out desperately with his staff, but this time the vampire lord caught the steel-shod shaft in his free hand, yanking it from the hunter’s hands like an abusive parent stripping a child of a toy. Kincaid lashed out with the staff repeatedly, rage fueling its inhuman strength.

Marcus felt his own staff shatter his ribs. The sounds of metal bindings groaning and the wood snapping almost downed out the sound of his spine breaking. He tumbled helplessly to the ground just as the vampire’s sword cut deep into the hunter’s chest and neck, burning like a hellish branding iron. His heart stopped and the world faded into a sea of blackness and agony.

[Christoph]

Elijah watched in horror as Marcus fell before the might of the vampire, unable to look away from the gruesome scene. In an instant, the last glimmer of hope vanished, snuffed out under the boot of the undead. The town militia had broken into several pockets of survivors, each fighting their own individual battles of survival, and the undead host seemed to spawn endlessly from every shadow.

“This… is so very, very bad.” The sorcerer swallowed hard. Marcus had been defeated and the vampire still lived. He shuddered to think of the power and skill that it must have taken to defeat the witch hunter. The only consolation was that Kincaid seemed to be drained and injured, but even one without sorcerer’s sensitivity to the flow of magic would have realized that the creature was quickly recovering.

And that sword… The cook’s eyes were drawn magnetically to it. There was no doubt that the blade that the vampire wielded was magical. The glyphs and runes covering it glowed with devastating arcane power. Such a weapon would only make the mighty vampire even more dangerous.

One chance remained, and he cursed himself for even considering it. “Damn it! Someone needs to make it to the tower and finish the vampire off,” he muttered. “I’ll have to—NO!” He growled to himself and shook his head furiously. “No, no, no! Coming out here was suicidal enough, and why would I charge down there and get torn limb from limb? What would that accomplish? What could I achieve after Marcus failed? And, damn it, why am I talking to myself?” He smacked his palm into his forehead repeatedly.

Yet, there was no other option. So long as the vampire remained, so would his undead host. At best, every living thing in the forest would be slaughtered. At worst… Elijah didn’t want to consider their fates. If he didn’t act, then all the death and suffering would have been for nothing. Steeling himself, the sorcerer pondered his next maneuver.

Discarding his stolen sword, he crept down the hill, darting from tree to tree until he reached the base of the black tower. He inched along the wall of the infernal structure, making sure to keep out of the vampire’s sight. He focused his energies and chanted self-taught formulae under his breath, tuning out the din of battle. He felt the familiar warmth of magic surge through his body. His lungs burned, the hairs on his neck stood on end, and he felt truly invigorated. The concentration of magic in the air was stronger than he’d ever felt before.

Swallowing his fear, Elijah jumped out into the open to face a surprised and clearly annoyed vampire. With a strained cry, the sorcerer unleashed a devastating wave of fiery wrath. Raw magical energy poured from his fingertips in a river of pure, white flame and enveloped the vampire lord. The force of the attack threw the unholy creature against the wrought iron gate of the tower. His hissing, bloodcurdling shriek carried across the entire battlefield like a tormented wraith.

Elijah didn’t relent. He focused his energy into a concentrated inferno, consuming the undead tyrant as though he were a corpse in a crematorium. Belov’s eyes burned bright like brimstone. Kincaid’s screams deepened into a demonic bellow as the flames ate away his stubborn vitality. The tortured howl pierced the heavens and resonated through Elijah’s skull.

The pyromancer didn’t cease the attack until his strength failed him. By the time he had finished, the sleeves and hems of his chef coat were singed, his fingertips were black and blistered, and a webbing of raw burns covered his forearms like veins. He gasped for air and choked down a cry of pain, realizing the severity of his exertion. Kincaid had been reduced to a sizzling, blackened husk.

He approached his fallen opponent to look over his handiwork, smiling grimly. He only got within four steps, however, when the vampire tightened his hand around the hilt of the magical sword and, with a raspy hiss, climbed back to his feet.

“That’s not fair,” the exhausted sorcerer whimpered as Kincaid lurched toward him.

[Christoph]

“Citizens of Salvar! Rally to me if you wish to live!” Ciaphas shouted out from atop a large mound of brutalized corpses, his thickly accented voice booming across the battlefield and attracting more attention than a beacon of light.

Alexander Timko, a sergeant in the militia, stood beside the giant priest, his sword, breastplate and shield soaked with slime and gore. His commanding officers were nowhere to be seen, leaving the militia, as well as the conscripted villagers leaderless and in chaos. The marginally better trained and equipped soldiers from the militia barracks had driven ahead without guidance and swiftly found themselves separated and cut off from the villagers, and surrounded. That needed to change before the undead devoured every one of them. But what could he do? As a boy of nineteen, he’d spent his entire life following orders, even as a sergeant.

He glanced up at the holy templar, his eyes filled with both hope and cynical doubt. “Are you sure this is going to work?” asked the soldier, straining his voice over the sea of moans and screams. One of the zombies lunged for him, impacting his shield. Timko hacked recoiled, hacking desperately at the creature with his sword.

“Rally! Do your holy duty!” Ciaphas shouted, before turning to his young accomplice and swiftly dispatching of the attacking abomination, splattering its tainted brain matter over the forest floor. “It had better. Besides, as my witch hunter comrade would say… peasants always eat up inspirational rubbish like this.” He returned to his shouting. “Rally and fight! Tonight we throw off the shackles of fear and defeat the lord of the night!”

To Alexander’s surprise, it actually worked! Small mobs of ragged villagers swarmed toward what they likely perceived as their only source of hope. After a few short minutes, over four hundred had answered the call. Many were injured, and all were frightened. Many more weren’t there at all, either dead, severely wounded, or trapped in isolated pockets. As they gathered, it seemed as though the battle had lulled for a moment, though Lara knew that it had merely condensed; the undead hoard had been drawn back to protect the tower.

“Form up!” yelled Ciaphas, waving his bloody mace above his head. “You stay with me or you die!” The holy warrior nodded as the rag-tag army of villagers scrambled to obey his commands. He turned to address Sergeant Timko again. “Follow me. While they’re getting themselves in order, we need to see how the militia is holding up. If they’ve fallen already, this pathetic excuse for an army behind us won’t stand a chance. We must use militia as anvil to smash undead legion against.” He articulated his final statement by pounding his mace into his palm. He motioned for the Sergeant to follow and the two darted up the final hill before tower.

They reached the top to behold a gruesome and terrifying scene unfold before them. The remaining hundred militiamen had formed up into a tight block of spears and shields, marching inexorably toward the tower. At first, it seemed as though their objective was near. Then, the wrought-iron gate of the tower lifted with a hellish metallic grinding noise, spewing forth swarms of twisted abominations. Their unholy bodies appeared to have been stitched together from different body parts and their arms had been replaced with large metal hooks and other deadly implements. Hundreds surged forward from the tower, their toothy, drooling maws gibbering with single-minded hunger and bloodlust. With nowhere to run, the militia held its formation even as the mass of undead flesh slammed against their wall of shields.

Their resolve gave Sergeant Timko some meager hope. He felt oddly disconnected from everything, standing on the hilltop and watching the battle unfold as a spectator. It was surreal, yet it only enhanced his sense of urgency.

“Things are going better than I feared... is still bad, though,” Ciaphas breathed. “If villagers don’t form up soon, it won’t make a difference. Without militia formation, our counter-attack will have no anvil!”

“Right,” Alexander replied absently, not fully listening to the holy warrior as he continued to scan the battlefield. A gore-stained chef coat caught his eye in the distance near the base of the tower. It had to be that strange wizard the Sway agents had brought. While magic had always left him uneasy, his dread at that moment came from a different source. His hands began to tremble at the sight of the black silhouette stalking toward the cook, oozing palpable malevolence. “Brother templar! It’s your wizard down there!”

“‘Our wizard’?” asked Ciaphas, with a scoff. The outlaw sorcerer? “What are you going on about?”

“It’s your wizard in the chef coat, at the base of the tower! And…” Ciaphas followed the young soldier’s finger to the source of his distress. He growled a curse, his face twisting into a snarl.

“What’s that stupid boy doing? Marcus was supposed to take care of—oh, may the Sway preserve us all.” Ciaphas clenched his fist and inhaled deeply. He didn’t meet the hopeful soldier’s eyes when he next spoke. “The witch hunter has fallen, and I must fight in his stead. You must rally the villagers on your own, and quickly. Tell no one of witch hunter’s fate, understand?”

“No, wait!” he cried after the templar. “I can’t do it alone!”

Ciaphas laughed darkly. “You will have to.”

Timko shouted after him one last time, but he didn’t even turn back as he charged down the hill toward the tower. Even after witnessing him fight that night, the hulking killing machine left the soldier in stunned awe. He whirled his mace around and smashed a gory swath through the forest of the walking dead.

Like a knife, he cut into the scattered swarm of zombies. He was a terror to behold, crushing skulls like melons and swatting aside any abomination that got in his way with godlike might and demonic fury. Nothing could stand in his way as he charged toward the tower.

Then, a winged shadow swooped from the treetops. Its stone musculature and mighty wings revealed it for what it was: another gargoyle. The sergeant screamed a warning from the hilltop, but his voice couldn’t penetrate the din of battle. The granite demon plucked Ciaphas from the ground like a child and threw him mercilessly into a pack of the metal-handed abominations. The holy warrior collapsed under their weight, but exploded outward with a ferocious bellow, flailing and hurling broken bodies in all directions

The gargoyle came back for more, along with yet another. This time, Ciaphas was ready. His mace lashed out in a silver blur, shattering the chest of the first and breaking the wing of the second even as it raked its claws across his chest. He let out a primal roar and pounded the damaged stone creature again and again until there was little more than dust remaining.

Yet, even in this triumph there was defeat. More undead beasts swarmed over him, bringing the battered templar to the ground as he fought. Several more zombies crumpled before his attack before they dragged him down again. That time, he did not rise.

Sergeant Timko stared in stunned horror, unwilling to accept the loss of their last beacon of hope and light. He was frightened; he hadn’t signed up for this when he joined the militia. He wanted nothing more than to run and hid, but his pride and honor would not allow it. To give in now would be to sacrifice what tiny shred of hope remained for this lost cause. With forced determination, he turned back to the assembled villagers and prepared to lead them to their deaths. There was no other option.

It was the end.

[Christoph]

Fire. It was the bane of the Unliving. It had consumed him, singing his flesh, boiling his blood, and threatening to extinguish the stolen life that he’d spent centuries so jealously guarding. He had been brought to his knees. Was this what awaited him in the next world? If so, he never wanted to die.

The burning ceased, only to be replaced with an even more excruciating pain as the icy wind hit his charred undead flesh. Kincaid snarled as his strength faded. He grit his teeth defiantly, unwilling to have met his end at the hands of a puny mortal magician.

Then, he felt vitality return to him. Invisible tendrils of energy slithered from his sword, up his arm, and coiled soothingly around his dead heart like a cold serpent. It was as though spite alone drove him on. Or perhaps the abyssal blade was not yet ready to let its master fall.

Kincaid stood, a grin forming on his mangled face at the sight of his attacker’s shocked, frightened expression. The boy backed up quickly.

Not so fast. Kincaid sprung forward, inhumanly fast despite his injuries, slashing out repeatedly with his wicked sword. The chef dove out of the way, narrowly evading the lethal strike. The vampire’s blade sank several inches into a tree trunk. He growled and cursed his agonizing injuries. The pyromancer was proving annoyingly adept at not dying.

The undead lord snarled as the boy retreated and evaded. He lashed out angrily with his claws, raking across the mortal’s chest. The scent of blood tingled his nostrils and threatened his self-control. Only through strength of will did he contain his thirst.

The boy cried out as the vampire’s claws tore more flesh in another slash. The chef started to panic as the Kincaid closed in. Good. Unfortunately, he lacked the time and strength to truly savor it. Killing could be so boring if one couldn’t take the time to enjoy it. Fortunately, there would be plenty of time to truly relish the deaths of his enemies, or rather, his cattle, before the night ended.

A swift kick sent the magician flying several feet back. Blood spewed from the boy’s mouth. Kincaid pulled his sword free and lunged after his prey. Victory was close. His nightmarish minions were already devouring the helpless mortal soldiers. Soon, these upstarts would learn to remember their places as the cattle of the immortals.

He raised his blade to finish the boy off. While he couldn’t enjoy his victim’s fleeting moments of life, he would make him worth the effort in death. He would consume the magician’s flesh, blood, and soul, delighting in it and savoring it like fine wine.

Suddenly, Kincaid felt a piercing pain in his back as something drove past his spine and through his ribcage, into his black, atrophied heart. The agony from his burns multiplied three-fold. His body went rigid and he fell, paralyzed, to the ground. His sword and the dark gods had forsaken him, leaving him broken and defeated in both body and spirit.

The moon cast the shadow of a ghost upon him.

[Christoph]

“Forward!” Nicholi cried, raising his sword above his head as heroically as he could. Hundreds of men were gathered behind him – farmers, blacksmiths, carpenters, tanners, and butchers assembled into a desperate army to fight for their hones and families. He tried to think of something inspirational to say, but words failed him.

The citizen army lurched forward behind the sergeant like a massive wounded beast, echoing Timko’s simple command. With their rescuers in sight, the militiamen redoubled their efforts and drove into their unliving foes. The mass of people smashed against the sea of zombies like a hammer, shattering the undead legion against the anvil of the beleaguered militia.

The tides turned within moments. The extra weight of numbers pushed the swarm of twisted abominations back to their black tower with a wall of pitchforks, torches, and spears. They broke through the final bastion of the undead forces. Moans and inhuman hisses mingled with war cries and heavy, panting breath, creating a bloody, stinking harmony with the sounds of splattering flesh.

The one being in the forest that could turn the tables around against the living was Vampire lord, but he was nowhere to be seen. Without their master in sight, the abominations fell into disarray and scattered before the victorious humans. The clamor of battle faded as the cheers of victory rose, echoing between the gnarled trees and filling the void of the dark forest. The night was there.

* * * * *

A bewildered Elijah staggered to his feet as the creature that should have been his demise suddenly fell to the ground before him. He lurched forward, his exhausted legs shaking under his weight. Then, the chef saw the broken half of a familiar staff in Kincaid’s back. It had pierced directly between his shoulder blades, stabbing into his heart.

Staked through the heart… The sorcerer’s eyes finally fell upon the cloaked figure behind the fallen undead warlord.

“Marcus?” he asked, seeing the familiar green eyes. “This is impossible. You were dead!”

The witch hunter laughed. “By all rights, I should be,” he replied, showing the chef the other half of the staff. “The last thing I remember was that beast smashing my ribs to splinters and piercing my heart with his infernal blade. But yet…” He pulled his cloak back to reveal a torn, bloody shirt, but a perfectly intact torso.

“That's not possible,” the chef repeated, disbelief painted on his face clearer than the blood splotches. “Magic?”

“I believe my gods decided that it was not yet my time,” stated Marcus solemnly. “Whatever plans they have for me did not involve me meeting my end at the hands of this vampire tonight.”

The sorcerer couldn’t help but scoff, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to a witch hunter and warrior priest of the Grand Church of the Ethereal Sway.

“Oh, come now,” replied Elijah, incredulous. “You don’t actually believe that, do—” It took no more than a stern glare from Marcus to silence the pyromancer. “Oh, right… I suppose you do.”

“Yes, I do.” The two of them stood in awkward silence for several moments.

“It seems the battle is ours, then,” stated Elijah, finally. “Though the cost was grave.”

Marcus nodded. “It always is when battling the forces of darkness. The identifiable dead are being gathered. Everyone else, including the zombies’ remains, are being hauled to a large ravine a few hundred meters behind the tower to be burned, lest the unholy contamination spreads.”

“That’s probably for the best,” he replied. “And… thank you for saving my miserable hide.”

The hunter smirked. “Oh, it looked like you had it under control, judging by all those nasty burn marks on that abomination.”

“Well, I do have a few tricks…”

Marcus chuckled. “‘Remind me never to make you angry.’”

The sorcerer cringed slightly before gazing down at the seemingly dead Kincaid.

“I had better make sure he doesn’t get up again,” he said, reaching down for the vampire’s sword. He felt a surge of power rush through his arm the moment his hand gripped the hilt. With a single fluid motion, he severed the creature’s head from his shoulder. “This… is a beautiful weapon, wouldn’t you say?”

He smiled, feeling the strange euphoric energy flow through him. The hilt seemed to melt into his fingers. The hunter’s expression, however, was far more apprehensive, though Elijah couldn’t be bothered to notice. The runes and glyphs covering the blade still glowed faintly, burning into his eyes.

“That sword is evil, Elijah,” said the hunter, taking a step toward him. “It’s dangerous. We will need to dispose of it.” The chef didn’t respond, his gaze still locked on the blade. “Elijah? Belov! ”

The pyromancer jumped with a start, jerked from his daze. “Ah! You’re right, of course. We… this sword needs to be gotten rid of…”

Marcus nodded. "As it is, I don't know how to destroy it," he sighed, pausing thoughtfully. "Our best option is to bury it with all of the bodies in the ravine before we burn them. The pile of charred remains and ash will be enough to keep it hidden until I can send for more knowledgeable aid to take care of it for good."

"Why don't you just take it?" asked Elijah, raising an eyebrow. He held the sword out -- albeit reluctantly -- to the witch hunter. "Why not just keep it in your possession and protect it yourself?" The Marcus began to reach for the blade almost too quickly, but then recoiled, expertly concealed fear in his eyes.

"No. That would be unwise," he stated at last. "Follow me. This is how it must be.”

[Christoph]

Epilogue: False Dawn


The town celebrated for the remainder of the night. Elijah couldn’t decide whether they were truly happy about their hard-won liberation, or if they merely wanted to drown out the horror and loss with copious amounts of alcohol. The hedge-mage had no desire to join them, though he couldn’t figure out why.

It wasn’t homesickness, as he was mere short weeks from his town. He certainly didn’t scorn the victory either, and he felt no bitterness for having fought for strangers. By all rights, such a noble deed should have made left him proud, and it did. He was happy for the town. He had never been the dark, quiet, brooding type, either. He’d always enjoyed the company of others.

Then why this solitude?

The weary cook sighed. Elijah enjoyed being the hero, but little had gone right that night. He had considered himself a potent individual and had admittedly gotten used to seeing others react with awe and fear to just a fraction of his power. Here, though, even his best wasn’t enough. Fire was the weakness of Vampires, yet even with every ounce of power he possessed, he failed to vanquish the beast.

He’d always been well aware that there were many forces in the world mightier than he. However, knowing that and actually being thrown in the middle of a case study are two very different things. It proved a humbling experience, as well as frightening. It was easy for him to think about sinister villains and beasts of unbelievable power from the depths of the hells when he could simply pretend that they were in some far away land, not right in his backyard.

“The more power you have, the more power you see,” he muttered as he stalked the edge of town alone. He gazed at the starry sky. The thick blanket of clouds had drifted away like a film of smoke hiding the stubborn light of a thousand candles. Each star was small enough to pluck from the sky, and just one of them had more power than the entire world. He sighed. “The more power you see, the more you crave.” But where could he find power he craved? He already knew the answer to that question. But could he go through with it?

He already knew the answer.

* * * * *

The cold Salvic wind swept across edges of the forest and through Marcus’s hair. On the bright side, at least he was still alive to feel it. That in and of itself would baffle him for the rest of his life. By all rights, he should have died. His chest cavity should have been smashed to dust like dried clay and his heart pierced and bled dry. The gods of the Sway must have had plans for him.

He must have. There was no other explanation. Why, if he hadn’t somehow risen again, that cook-magician would have been killed, the vampire would have survived, the villager assault would have been crushed, and the blight of that abyssal blade would have spread like a cancer within the Kingdom of Salvar.

Marcus stopped sharply as he heard faint shuffling sound to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow creep from one tree to another. The witch hunter cleared his throat.

“‘The light of the Sway shines brightest in the dead of night,’” he called. A few moments of silence followed before the shadowy figure emerged from the night. “Good evening, father Boris. It’s good to see a friendly face lurking in the shadows for once.”

“Well met, Marcus,” replied Boris, stepping into the moonlight. He was a graying old man in brown robes, his face so heavily lined and scarred that it could have been carved from granite. His sky blue eyes were stern and distant. “But I was beginning to think that you’d had so much to drink that you didn’t notice me.” Marcus laughed and gripped the old monk’s hand firmly.

“It’s good to see you, old friend,” said the hunter.

Boris nodded. “Aye, likewise. Now, for the business at hand.”

“The hunt is finally over,” Marcus replied. “The rumors were true; the source of the disturbances in Tirel were the work of Kincaid. Our suspicions were correct, as well; he had the blade of the ancient dread lord Zephyriah in his possession. He has been destroyed and his tower cleansed. Most importantly, the sword has been secured; its days of plaguing the mortal realm are numbered few.”

“This has been a fortuitous turn of events,” said the old man with a warm smile and a nod.

“Yes, Father,” replied the witch hunter. He eyes turned somber. “Though our sacrifices were great. Brother Templar Ciaphas fell in battle against Kincaid’s foul minions.

“His fair justice and unshakable valor and conviction will be sorely missed, but he died a hero. No warrior of the Sway could ask for more. He is feasting with the gods, now.” He placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Have you anything more to report?”

Marcus paused and inhaled deeply. “I should have died out there, brother,” he replied solemnly. “The beast dealt me a mortal blow. I felt my ribs shatter and my heart pierced by the vampire’s blade, yet here I stand.”

“I don’t believe I need to tell you that the Ethereal Court protects Their servants,” said Boris.

“Do you believe it was Their will that I complete this task and finally slay Kincaid?” asked the hunter.

“Perhaps you are destined for an even more important task,” the old man replied, knowingly. Something about the priest’s answer gave Marcus pause, as if it held some hidden secrets or proof that he knew more than he was saying.

“What… do you mean, father?” the younger Sway agent asked.

“Let us just say that it is most fortunate that your trials against Kincaid’s influence have ended, for you are much too valuable to the Church to be allowed to die so easily.”

* * * * *

Where is it? He knew it was there; he could sense it.

Elijah dug, almost frantically, through the endless heap of ashes and charred human remains that choked the dark ravine behind the burnt-out shell of Kincaid’s tower. His white chef coat was caked with black soot. He would need to dispose of it, lest he rouse the suspicions of the Ethereal Sway’s agents.

He couldn’t believe his own actions. He was digging through a giant crematorium. The atrocious smell caused him to gag every few seconds. It would all be worth it soon enough, he promised himself.

It would need to be very soon, though. The first traces of morning light were kissing the purple horizon. The sun would soon rise and Elijah would need to be back at the inn before the others started to wake up.

I know it’s here…

“At last!” he shouted as his hand closed around the familiar hilt to the arcane sword. Immediately, coils of cold energy slithered up his arm, causing him to sigh softly. He inhaled deeply, a faint smile on his face. He climbed out of the ravine, the blade firmly in his grasp.

And from within the depths of the abyss, a dark god laughed.

[Ebivoulya]

Here is your judgment, good sir, and I must say I enjoyed the read. I hope my comments are helpful, and my scoring fair; if you’ve any questions, feel free to shoot me a PM on this account.




Story: 22 / 30


Continuity: 7.75 / 10


Christoph: You referred to your character and his actions in a way that concisely introduced them to the reader, but left out his physical description until later on. You gave reason for your character’s familiarity with Salvar through his recognition of the various smells abound, and tied that in well to a general overview of his ‘journey.’ The description of that prior adventure highlighted Elijah’s distaste for the whole ordeal, and his sarcastic sense of humor about it all. In your second post you referred to your character as ‘Chris,’ despite clearly stating his name was Elijah. Your introduction of the Church of Ethereal Sway gave the reader the information they needed to understand the scene at exactly the right time, which I found quite well done. You conveyed a very good image of the nature of the Sway, especially the unusual ceremonies practiced by its religious agents. Marcus’ past was introduced in good time, drifting into his history while he monotonously prayed. You delved deeper into his story when he reached his battle with Kincaid, and that was also well timed. The ending of the thread was very well done; I was hoping Elijah would seek out the sword again. I certainly enjoyed the read, but I felt like there were still some stylistic elements of the story that could’ve been improved upon, though I usually understood the intended effect.


Setting: 7.25 / 10


Christoph: Your initial description of the world about you showed much to the reader without even saying it, such as the sound of hooves and wagon wheels. The descriptions you employed became quite poetic and metaphorical, though you never gave a physical description of the wagons or their other passengers, despite referencing them several times. If that was the effect you intended, like they weren’t even there, perhaps acknowledging their presence and then fading them into the background would’ve helped. Your imagery in describing the ‘ruined land’ was effective, and fit well with the mood you were trying to set, and the physical descriptions of the caravan heads were thorough. You gave some physical description to the villagers, but generally only enough to mark them, which I understood considering their overall importance. For the most part they merely blended into the background. Your descriptions of the various objects Marcus carried were eloquent, as were your descriptions of most of the significant elements in the thread. Overall, you only focused on the important things, but that sometimes detracted from the visual imagery and made it a bit more like hearing the telling of the story rather than watching it unfold.


Pacing: 7 / 10


Christoph: Your pacing was usually fairly steady and quick, but you ineffably varied the speed during transitions between dialogue-heavy elements and narration. The distance between the outside of the town and the inside seemed to pass instantaneously while you were in the middle of the narrative, which definitely got to the point, but felt a little odd when reading. The list of assumptions was a bit too much information, and dragged the pacing down. Both smaller paragraphs and a lot of dialogue really sped up the pacing in your fourth post, and it then hit a narrative wall mid-way through your fifth. In your second scene in ‘chapter two’, you switched back to a dialogue-heavy prose and jumped the pacing around more. Undoubtedly, pacing variations are inevitable, but I would suggest easing into them more, and avoiding solid blocks of dialogue or narration when possible; even occasional internal monologue can keep the speed up enough to ease those transitions to dialogue.



Character: 23.25 / 30


Dialogue: 8 / 10


Christoph: Your dialogue was very appropriate, whenever it did come about, and Elijah maintained a casual feel to the way he spoke. The dialogue of the man with the symbol of the Sway showed both how much influence they have, and what kind of people these church members are. Though you didn’t do it much, you occasionally gave the tone of what was said quite well. You also gave a good image of body language once in a while. The dialogue you employed was sometimes fairly humorous, as well. In the last line of Marcus’ dialogue, just before the scene of him ‘rallying the troops’ ended, I expected a confirmation of the excited state of the crowd, but instead you suddenly lost sense of them. Kincaid’s dialogue was very well done, though, and befitting such a predator of the night. Ciaphas had a distinct voice and character, which was displayed well. The irony of Marcus repeating Eli’s words was well timed, and overall I didn’t feel there was much to change in this category. Well done, but it didn’t quite have the feel of ‘excellent dialogue,’ though it did get close.


Action: 7.5 / 10


Christoph: Your descriptions of the villagers as they surrounded the wagon train captured both the mood and some striking visual imagery. At first it seemed as though you intended your character to handle everything about the caravan attack himself, but eventually one of the caravan leaders did get involved; that struck me as a little odd. The mood you laid when the agents of the Sway revealed themselves was well set, and appropriate. When you finally did mention the other people in the caravan, they had no physical descriptions whatsoever and silently came to the aid of the two Sway agents with no explanation. The intended effect was clear, but it did bring about some confusion at the time. The vampire’s special ability was both very unique, and well described, and in the start of your ‘second chapter,’ you pick up the scenes of battle directly from the gargoyle you left off on, and I thought that was well done. The end of the gargoyle was almost great, but the last line just wasn’t enough. The fight between Marcus and Kincaid was very well done, and balanced well between the two of them. It was well played, especially the ‘golden powder,’ and follow-up wooden stake attack. The ‘death’ of Marcus was fairly well done, but I felt there could have been more to it. The image of Elijah smacking his forehead repeatedly was pretty humorous, and the initial skirmish between Elijah and Kincaid was well done; it almost convinced me of the vampire’s death. You described the attack on the last of the militia very well, and made clear their desperate situation. You use a lot of mental imagery in describing the last witch hunter’s approach of the tower, and his end was very appropriate, and well played from the sergeant’s eyes. The reappearance of Marcus was an excellent twist [/shyamalan] and a very fitting end for Kincaid.


Persona: 7.75 / 10


Christoph: You explained Eli’s thoughts and conclusions through the narrative well, and even showed a bit of his pessimistic side since his adventuring spirit had been slain. You showed your character’s analytical mind well, though sometimes a little thickly. Elijah’s reaction to finding out the agent of Sway knew he was a sorcerer was realistic, including his ensuing line of dialogue, but he just seems to accept his subordination to Marcus in stride, not even showing anger after being backhanded. You showed Kincaid’s logic and reasoning well in his narration, much like you do with Elijah. The second witch hunter did well to rally the remaining forces, and that deepened his personality some. The reactions of the sergeant when the last witch hunter left the command to him were very appropriate and realistic, and you almost managed to make him a significant character in the short time he was prominent in the story. The reactions to the sword that Elijah showed were very interesting and great foreshadowing. Aside from maybe a little more distinction when you switch to the narration of a different character, and deepening the characters themselves some more, you did very well here.



Writing Style: 24 / 30


Technique: 7.5 / 10


Christoph: You effectively transitioned from your nostalgic narrative back into the present with Elijah ‘pushing those memories from his mind.’ You followed that up with another of his in-narrative conclusions. You finally worked in a physical description of Elijah after mentioning that few of his hometown patrons would even recognize him after such a journey. That was well done, but you could’ve introduced the information a little sooner to give a clearer mental image while he was sitting in the wagon. Your repetition of the word ‘odd’ in your first post was ineffective, and drew more attention to itself than the idea. Your repetition of the phrase ‘there was something about them’ in your second post, however, was effective. You used personification a lot in your descriptions; sometimes a little too much. You introduced some foreshadowing, but in doing so seemed to switch from third person to third person omniscient. You used an interestingly literal metaphor to cease the narration and bring attention back to the world around Elijah in your second post, which I rather enjoyed. You constantly came back to this argumentative narrative style, as if you’re trying to convince the reader of something. You generally explained some long-term effect on Elijah just as you mentioned the effect in the scene. That was good timing of the introduction of information.

You used a lot of similes and metaphors in your descriptions, and generally to good effect. When describing Marcus’ thoughts and conclusions, you did it in much the same way you did Eli’s. He has his own personality, but the narrative of both characters feels almost identical. You describe Kincaid’s perspective well, but again the narrative voice you use seems identical to any other character. When describing from the gargoyle’s perspective, you give a little more life to it than the preceding characters. You transition well into Marcus’ narrative when Eli spots him. Near the end of the thread you begin to give posts more of a start and end, and this usually helps with scene transitions. You were very metaphorical with your description of the tides of battle turning, as with most of your other descriptions. I think you have a very good writing style in need of only some more polishing.

Mechanics: 8 / 10


Christoph: Occasionally you left in a comma where it would be better left out, or occasionally forgot a word or made a typo in your posts. Though it’s a small point, asking a direct question of the reader (ending a sentence in a question mark) technically changes the perspective to second person. You occasionally added unnecessary phrases, and your use of starting a sentence with ‘then’ the create suspense in your eleventh post wasn’t very effective. You made more mistakes later on in the thread. Occasionally you refer to Marcus as ‘The Marcus,’ which I assume to be a typo, but it’s ironic it’s always the same one. There are about as many errors as one would expect for a thread of this size, but they were only occasional and never too repetitive; fairly well done.


Clarity: 8.5 / 10


Christoph: For most of the thread I understood both what you said, and often what kind of effect you intended very well, though some of the latter were a bit harder to discern. There were never any glaring clarity errors, and you denoted scene transitions where applicable, and very effectively. There’s not a lot I can recommend for this category, except perhaps to highlight whatever moods or effects you intend as much as you can without drawing too much attention to them.


Wildcard: 7.25 / 10

I really enjoyed this read, and I thought the style of prose and storytelling abilities you displayed here were quite well done, despite their individual weaknesses or drawbacks. The story was original, as were the characters, and you gave me a great look into The Church of Ethereal Sway; very well done.


Total: 76.5 / 100



Christoph receives...

4,500 EXP!

and

250 GP!

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added