Searching for a Purpose: The Origin of Omega ((solo))

[Falcon Darkflight]

There came a stressed groaning from the supports of Asmodeus's throne as the repulsive, faceless monster sat his cloaked 'body' further back into its smooth slate cove. The stagnant air of the deathstream, the steady river of departed souls from the mortal realm that ran through the throne chamber, where Asmodeus would inspect the flow of the dead, was potent and stomach turning like the scent of rotting flesh. He was quite busy observing the twisting spiritual vapour forms swirl and flow through the damp room in a linear stream before the gesture of a hooded, humanoid Executor spear-point waved from the direction of the small jagged opening in the wall it was loyally guarding, and signified the expected arrival of one blank faced Icarus Pentagathon. The devil’s bodily demeanour did not change as his newest sub-ordinate approached the throne, being careful to kneel on the select crest symbol engraved below him, the emblem of the underworld.

Asmodeus placed a black chalice into his left hand, and clicked at the nearby Executor to have it filled quicker than physically possible.

"Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear the first time? Or did you purposely ignore my orders?"

Icarus dared not look up through his mass of knotted black hair, still kneeling. He had remembered those who had previously done so, and quickly recalled their gruesome fate at the hands of the leader, involving a quick dip in the deathstream to be deafened by the screams of the deceased. He allowed himself a moment to breathe, knowing that restraints of his lord’s patience were like the last thread on a burning rope, and chose wisely to say nothing that would further incite him.

"I created you for a purpose, Icarus. You are the only one I have ever gifted a real soul, and so instead of honouring it…" the devil paused, exadurating it as if to dramatacise his anger, "…you decide to abuse it…"

Asmodeus huffed. To hear any kind of answer from the kneeling demon now would have probably flung him into a rage, and had felt more and more sure that he had made a mistake in giving this Icarus's soul independence when confronting the gore-soaked remains of the guards his sub-ordinate had disagreed with over something or other.

"Do you think I would hesitate for a single second to take that purpose away, leave you with nothingness? Another empty shell in the deathstream? A hollow vessel without a reason to exist?"

Icarus sank once more at the implications of the question. The demon was right. Hundreds of thousands of ‘shells’ passed through here on an hourly basis, acting only as escorts to the deathstream. A shell was a being who had served little purpose in the mortal realm and whose purpose in the underworld was to be used their own soul to encase and shield the greater souls. The beginning of their life to the end was expected to be a solid hour before eradication at the hands of the resurrection process. Anything but this for a fate was pleasant enough. He summoned some strength to talk at last.

"These lifeless shells...these disgusting, devoid of purpose energies, they are the souls of people who have wasted their lives. Why do you give me their mark by giving me their black wings, when my life hasn't even begun?"

An angry shape came to his voice as Icarus posed his question for Asmodeus, who appeared to be devoid of any expression of emotion at all. He simply raised the chalice to his face, and allowed the liquid to pour into the void underneath his hood. It simply evaporated upon contact.

"I care little whether or not you accept your circumstances. I have all I need in that they ARE your circumstances, no matter how hard you attempt to repel them. All that you cling to has been created by me. I am refraining from destroying you as I am starting to wish because you actually hold a purpose..."

The devil stopped, and sat forward in his creaking, straining throne.

"Your purpose, my messenger...Icarus, the Black Messenger...Your purpose is to be the disrupter. The destroyer. The figurehead. I want the mortal realm merged with the dead. I want to destroy those who would oppose me or would grow to destroy me. You will give no name as you kneel. You will be ready for death because you deserve none...You, self professed saviour of the soulful, will find your purpose 'up there'. Lead us into a new era of darkness, bring me the extinction of those who would seek my destruction. And then, only then, will I offer you the freedom and independance you so sickeningly seek. Now..."

He paused for a moment, draining the chalice to the bottom.

"...Get out of my sight..."

The heavy steel point of the spear struck the side of the rooms only entrance, signifying the Executor's intention to forcibly remove Icarus if he chose to defy. Asmodeus whisked a hand in the air to order the warrior to be removed from the premises of the Black Temple under Executor escort. The terrible demon lolled his head back, and refilled his chalice whilst Icarus made a slow and angry exit through the dark tunnel.

[Falcon Darkflight]

He moved like a shadowy apparition through the intertwining network of tunnels, his heavy black and blue lined cloak whipping the black stone of the floor as Icarus departed his master’s presence. Simply brushing aside anyone who he deemed was blocking his way with a sharp thrust of a shoulder or elbow, the latest addition to the underworld empire was visibly disgusted. Underneath that mass of tangled black hair, those powerful ruby eyes pierced even the most unfazed of gazes.

He stepped forward into a strange cavern like room to see the smouldering orange hue of a cookery pot, a second later catching the strong scent of roasting meat. The grotesque figures that hunched by its steaming broth jumped up and down in a manner that seemed primitive even for a race of small, uneducated demonic people, their menacing spearheads jabbing at the subtle pale red of the undercooked joint of meat simmering away in the confines of the cauldron. As Icarus attempted to pass around the sides to evade having to converse with the startling goblin-like demons, he noticed that each of them seemed to be staring at him with convicting yellow eyes.

A feeling flowed through his body as he wrenched his eyes from the grasp of the goblins’ own, and continued to walk on down another narrow, jagged slate corridor. Firstly, it was isolation. To them, he was an alien, an ‘upper class’ who had been serviced with the rarest of commodities in having received a soul. His presence was seen by the lower class servants of Asmodeus as a good opportunity to prove their own worth by constantly challenging him for the right to own a soul, a situation which often resulted in the demise of a handful of demons per day, something Asmodeus was ever dragging Icarus into the throne room for. The second feeling was pure, undeniable hatred. These primitive beasts, with less intelligence than your basic everyday farm animals, dared to mock his image, his purpose and his pride. They would gather in their little evening hordes, speaking in their pitiful languages about the ‘outcast’ as they feasted on their tablescraps to power their useless existence.

He understood for the first time the meaning of the ugly sensation of hatred, abhorrence and disgust. Its sting kept his mind trying to convince itself he had no ties to these pathetic, irritating creatures. His soul burned at the thought he was one of them. He simply wouldn’t believe it.

Just inside the cavern the cauldron swung back and forth wildly on its spit, as if knocked by a sudden stampede, and Icarus suddenly stopped dead. The many sounds of clattering hooves and feet pulsed out into the tunnel from every which way. As he turned, scouring the poor lighted outlines of the tunnel entrance for their source, the goblin who had locked eyes with him in previously sprinted from hiding and leapt silently into the cold air, knocking the demon warrior to the ground. An ash-like eruption of dust filled the air as they landed, and Icarus quickly tore at the black scabbard by his waist, clutching the pallid green neck of his aggressor also as he did, his lungs panting for air. A second later he dragged the black scarf-like garment away from the hilt of his cleaver like warsword, Endymion, and grinned at the cringing face, those yellow eyes staring back at him in rage.

Thinking no more of the words of his most recent warning from Asmodeus, he drew the massive sword from its sheath and stood up before the young goblin of Asmodeus's cult could move, dust sliding off in sheets from his dark attire as he rose. He kicked at the stumpy legs of the goblin which had landed dangerously within reach of him, carving up another bank of dust and filth, and then throwing back his cape like garment, he spoke to his captive.

"You imbeciles never learn. Do you think I don’t have the balls to tear you in two, just because you’re one of the lowlife, infectious scum of the cesspool that is Asmodeus’s little cult? Have I not already proven I will kill each and every one of you that dare attack me, one by one, until this whole damned cavern is sent to the deathstream?!"

The crinckled green cheeks of the goblin puffed in and out as he sat back from the point of the sword, pressing his back against the jutting rocks of the corridor walls. An uneasy, high-pitched rough voice answered Icarus’s question.

"Kill me and Asmodeus will discard you like the worthless whore you are, we guardians, not you! You scum! You disease!"

The anxious yellow eyes of the demon narrowed, his flustered red face coated in a thin film of slimy sweat even in the damning cold of the corridors. Sitting up, he reached out for a discarded fragment of sharp rock closeby, and Icarus simply motioned the cleaver’s edge to his throat, barring the path. Upon this the stricken enemy lashed out, grasping Icarus’s empty hand, throwing back his target’s arm and rolling him onto his front, locking the arm back as he did so. As he forced Icarus down, thrashing with every bit of strength as he was held, the resistance became more and more until the demon with a soul simply broke loose in a fit of rage, seething through pursed lips in frustration at his momentary weakness; his utter rage seeping through.

He lolled wildly at his goblin adversary, eyes wide and unaware of the sheer level of anger he now gripped in his soul. At this, each blow from Endymion became more protracted, as Icarus lifted the massive cleaver and drove it down onto the stony altar, until he finally plunged his sword into the decimated carcass with a sickening squelch.

"I warned you. Don't f*** with me..."

[Falcon Darkflight]

That’s it, my boy. Hold the blade still. Pivot, slash, release…”

The Khaian scarlet dawn sun tinted the blunt side of Canen’s Valiance a brilliant orange as the boy struggled to balance the heavy weapon in his locked grip, swaying as the weight caught him by surprise. Even as he maintained a shaky hold on the hilt, the young boy staggered to his left as he tried to cut across the breadth of one of the many pine training poles surrounding him in a circular perimeter, his training grounds. He frowned as the edge of the blade did little more than bite into the wood sharply and lodge itself into place, showering thin splinters from the gash, and despite his efforts to free the broadsword, his arms could not find the strength to remove it from its wooden captor. Feeling defeated from fatigue and frustration at his failure, the young Nocturn slumped against the pole, his heavy metal weapon jutting out of the pine above his head.

Artremeas laughed, but not out of spite. He had seen this many times before.

“It’s a big 'un, there’s no denying that!” He said as he paced up to the pole, trailed by his red and white robes, and yanked the blade free with one hand, the frail wood giving way upon the blade’s exit. “It was forged in the Khaian Great Temple by the Nocturnian Reavers. With the kind of toys they play with, my boy, you can expect this one to be of great use to you one day...”

The elderly master stopped and sunk down on his knees to level up with the fatigued Canen Darkflight. The man noticed his eyes didn’t have the same shine they usually held, and his long black hair was knotted with sweat and moisture that had accumulated through the hard day. The supple grey of Artremeas’s own hair contrasted with that of Canen’s and his own eyes, worn and weary, poured over the boys hands to search for the trademark blisters that accompanied the handling of such a burden at a young age. He noticed the blisters on his palms from where Canen had poured countless effort into wielding this heavy sword, and unpacked a crushed herbal remedy from a hide pouch, pressing the shredded leaves onto the sores. Canen winced.

“Aye, boy. It will only sting for a while, I’d rather not explain to your father that your hands became infected from my training. Bear with it."

Still wincing, Canen nodded slowly. He hadn’t the energy to even let slip with a curse at the pain, and could feel his eyelids growing heavier as the dry, gritty sting in his palms slowly faded. Since the early hours of that morning, the twelve year old boy had done nothing but hone his skills. They had started off by travelling from his home town of Sael in the kingdom of Khaia to the borders of Domine. Here, he had learnt about the great civil war between the Riisans and the Domines.

"During the time of your father, Nocturnis split into two great factions..." Artremeas said, waving a palm over the horizon of the imaginary Domine kingdom methodically. "..the Riisan faction, led by King Mineav II, and the Domine faction, led by Kujra Ardemis. The Riisans primarily controlled the coastline of the continent after being pushed out to the west, and held many of the shipyards and ports. The Domine faction instead maintained control of the capital, Nocturnis, and many inland towns and cities."

Ardemis motioned the hand back north, towards the Kingdom of Khaia. From his hilltop view, it was not difficult to see where the geological features of the land divided up the kingdoms, with long stretches of moutains marking the borders. His hand motioned towards a small dot on the sunkissed moutain straight ahead of him.

"At Domine castle, which to this day holds no official name, the disagreements began. King Mineav II, ruler of the Khaian, Domine, Riisan and Artinian nations at that time, decreed that he wanted to control all kingdoms under a single united nation on Nocturnis instead of them having independance from one another. This would result in him having tremendous amounts of control and power, which many people believed the King would use to gain a stronghold on many other nations and therefore opposed."

Artremeas paused.

"Kujra was Mineav's best advisor. When he was told the people would revolt against him if he proceeded, Mineav flew into a blind fury and blamed Kujra for not being loyal enough to the Nocturnian cause. He tried to have him murdered...but Kujra's son, a summoner from one of Khaia's rural settlements named Lukav Ardemis, prevented the agents from doing so. This caused Kujra to gain an unprecedented amount of support from the people, and Mineav II was overthrown and named as a tyrant."

He stopped for a moment, peering down at his apprentice. Canen Darkflight, son of Maxmillian, was much like his father. He listened and focused on the facts, when most boys at his age couldn't handle such an influx of information, and this impressed his tutor. His hands were still red with sores but seemed much less inflated now than previously, a good sign the herbal remedy was working well.

He continued.

"Mineav wasn't finished though, my boy. He came back. He came with an army of ten thousand men from Riisa and marched upon Domine, and almost succeeded in destroying Kujra's people. The Domine faction, backed by Khaia and Artinia, barely managed to repel the invasion. With the help of the Khaian Reavers, though, Mineav II was killed and his nation banished from the realm. His son and grandson fled the kingdom and eventually disappeared altogether as the Riisans simply vanished...and now Nocturnis consists of the united kingdoms of Khaia, Artinia and Domine."

Canen, seated on the smooth butt of a rock, nodded slowly. He pictured the battles in his mind, the face of the tyrant and the fires that would burn all around the battlefield as the Domine took to the field. He could smell the burning gunpowder of the cannon fire, feel the wind blow about his hair and picture the amazing feats of the Reavers as their white painted faces danced about the battle, securing strategic positions and skillfully dispatching those who got in their way.

He longed, more than anything, to be there amongst his brothers. Little did he know that his battle to be would be the most decisive.

[Falcon Darkflight]

For Icarus, sleeplessness was no stranger. The price of thwarted ambition seemed to have weighed heavily on him since his creation at the hands of his so-called ‘master’, Asmodeus. The sandman seemed to scorn him for sins he had not committed and reminded him of the brutal future he was most likely to lead, a future he did not want. He spent most of his nights alone, staring at the dark ceiling of his quarters brooding about what might have been, and yearning for what might never be. By the age of a year he had already lost the majority of his identity, and perhaps even his purpose. No sufficient upbringing, save the training he had received from Asmodeus as a boy, had ever reached him and through this he had found it difficult to guarantee a place amongst the new world when his wish for freedom would finally be granted.

His mark upon the world he would ascend to would be all but completely erased along with him once he had completed his mission. Icarus knew this to be true. For this reason, and this reason alone, the demon lived with a quiet dread of following his ‘kind’ into obscurity. He didn't suffer from an inordinate fear of death; rather, but found himself troubled at the thought of dying before winning his freedom in the new world.

He had dwelled as much in the future as the present, envisioning where he wished to go, constantly mapping the path that ought to lead to his final salvation and release from this terrible life in chains. His strong mainspring was indeed wound tight.

Between his finger and thumb, Icarus clasped a folded parchment note from the grip of the scruffy, slime ridden messenger and closed the door without a word of thanks. Frankly, he was not in the mood today, especially not for being false with anybody when his true feelings were akin to a deep resentment of living thanks to his insomnia. As he turned his back on the creaky wooden door and headed to a small slate desk by the bed-sit, he unfolded the paper and immediately recognised the scrawled, smudged handwriting as the language of Asmodeus, written by a court scribe, most likely. Asmodeus may have been a powerful overlord, but his underling’s handwriting looked like a four year old child had been given a set of crayons and told to write whatever it felt it needed to in order to satisfy its creative urges.

Unusually, this letter was not full of the same bullshit it tended to be when sent by the great Asmodeus. In fact, it wasn't really full of anything at all, save a cryptic message in scruffy italics that slanted down the rough texture of the material.

Icarus held the note up to the oil lantern of his room, letting the dim light penetrate the paper in case there was some sort of hidden message written in invisible ink on either of the sides, but there was none. Typical. Again, he was left with nothing but a scrawny note.

Collecting his personal effects, his armour and Endymion from the side of the bed-sit, Icarus made his way to the main chambre through the intertwining and ceaseless tunnel complex to find his master.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Asmodeus was waiting.

The hooded demon lord shuffled in his black throne, rapping his thin boned fingers on the slate with an impatient conotation to the sound, whilst many of his smaller goblin servants scurried around the dark and damp throne room preparing for an audience between their leader and the 'one with a soul', who had been called to receive the details of his unholy task. The void like apparition that was the construct of the deathstream seeped through the room in a thick cylinder of vapour, spiralling and flowing faster than usual it seemed as the contorted faces of the dead lapsed in and out of sight with ever greater frequency.

The Executor on guard of the hallway tapped the point of his spearhead onto the side of the wall twice in succession to signify the arrival of the 'one with a soul', Icarus. Simply reverting back to his normal puppet stance, the guard retracted his spear, and Icarus entered, a firm glare locked onto his face.

As he strode through the court of Asmodeus, the black and blue marked greatcoat billowed behind him, its corners whipping at the dark, dusty stone as it went. Underneath this unique attire he wore a ribbed titanium breastplate, strapped over a chainmail vest that could offer him protection against many types of melee and missle weapons. A pair of sullen black pantaloons and steel capped boots finished the attire and Endymion, sheathed firmly onto his back, looked as proud as ever, its painted red cutting edge gleaming in what little light there was available from a number of small oil lamps.

His black hair tied back into a knot, the warrior stopped and knelt upon Asmodeus's crest, his flaring ruby red eyes not diverting from their master's 'face' for a second. It was almost as if Icarus had been trying to intimidate his creator.

A stern voice came forth from the warrior as he prostrated on one knee, and the gathering of the court fell silent.

“So, what would you have me do to attain my freedom?”

Asmodeus didn't move, nor gesture. He sat still in his ill gotten throne, robed in full ceremonial garbs, and replied with little emotion showing in his gritty voice.

“You will take a portal from this world to the Nocturnian nation of Riisa. There, where the deathstream reaches the surface, you will help assemble an army that will plunge the continent into the depths of despair. March upon Khaia, Artinia and Domine and raze them to the ground, and anyone who would oppose us. Once the continent has been overtaken by your forces, you will return here...”

The courtroom remained silent. Icarus, now standing, frowned. It was obvious the power he would attain with an army on Nocturnis would only be stripped from him weeks later. Nothing was guaranteed in these dark days. Not even his life.

“And what of my purpose after this has been done?”

Asmodeus jilted at the question, tilting his head slightly to the left as a goblin came with one of his traditional wine chalices. After a short pause, he allowed the warrior a reply.

“Time will tell...”

For a second, the demon warrior remained motionless, as if the words had hit him with a shot of a paralytic venom. He could feel himself boiling over, the falible words of his creator giving him no satisfaction that his life would be given any more consideration after its use. “Time will tell...” was not good enough. Icarus wanted a direct answer, and so pressed for one with his rage swelling up inside, restraining himself from giving Asmodeus too much of a reason or excuse to end his life where he stood.


“Oh, Will it? How can you guarantee me that you will keep your side of the bargain? How do I know you will let me live my life?! I don't trust a single damn promise you made me. Give me a reason to do so!”


Asmodeus rose from his throne, and the court backed away. His presence seemed enough to part the sea of demons that bore witness to the events that were being undertaken in this place, and now slowly, the demon approached Icarus.


“I guarantee you nothing. Now, get out of my sight. Return when your task is complete, and we'll discuss your future then...”

[Falcon Darkflight]

"What's up with Xun?" Jezoir said. "You see how she's sniffing around?"

"Yeah," Delur replied with an element of concern. "And I don't like it one bit."

Beside them, Hemlock, the senior man in the room, leaned pensively by his surveillance porthole and said nothing. At their monitoring station on the border between the kingdoms of Domine and Riisa, the guards were studying a complex archive of messages from the scouts that placed them at the very informational heart of the security network. All three wore black uniforms and newly issued shoulder patches - depicting a broadsword surrounded by a viper - of Khaia's first special forces division, the Nocturnian Reavers. It was a fighting force analogous to the infamous Riisan Knights of the first crusades, a squad of elite soldiers woth a no-nonsense approach to crisis management, forming the direct basis of the section name.

Jezoir slid forward in his chair, his features glowing in the pale red Domine dusk, his eyes transfixed on the borderline ahead through his own porthole.

"Shit. Look at that treeline to the west, where Xun is. Somebody or something is definitely out th-"

Jezoir broke off mid sentence as a guard waved a warning indicator from the guard tower placement ahead. He glanced over at Delur, who took hurried note of the development and glanced back through the fortification's porthole. A group of humanoid figures moved around the female Reaver Xun, alternately closing in and backing away. They were garbed entirely in black.

Hemlock thought of bloodhounds harrying their prey. But why would these sons of bitches play tag with a Khaian Reaver? The Reaver's main effectiveness lay in their early alert and standoff capabilities, especially when surrounded in a perimeter attack. Their purpose was to be, as individuals, the most dangerous fighting machine in Nocturnian history. Their purpose was to engage in close skirmishing once the grounds of their territory and the rules of engagement were compromised. At that stage, getting past one would not be easy, and crippling or taking them out just slightly more difficult. His forehead scrunched with tension as he scanned the treeline with absolute focus.

"This doesn't make sense, Hemlock," Jezoir said. "There is no way the outer fence could have been breached..."

"We can worry about that later." Hemlock was already reaching for his quarterstaff as he broke his silence. "Key the Reavers for full combat. Signal to Xun. Tell her to engage."

[Falcon Darkflight]

On Jezoir's flagged command, Xun, the first female Reaver, hit them with a barrage of light.

Her first counterstrike was a burst from her right palm that divided sleakly into seven smaller beams, each of them manifesting as a magnesium silver bullet of magic. To the four humanoids surrounding her, it seemed almost as if a small nova had ignited at ground level, momentarily filling the evening with diamond edged brilliance. The humanoids scattered rapidly, fanning out over several yards, but the magic of Xun was something for which they had come prepared. They had known that the Khaian Reavers often indulged in 'flash-bang' magic that could temporarily impair vision or burn out a retina, dazzle or blind, depending on its power or intensity. For this, they had worn face visors made from black crystal that would shield them from the brightness, correctly betting this would make the brightness tolerable.

Xun's sensory assault, however, was about to reach its peak. The magnesium flash had barely settled into the air before a red and blue swirling energy strobed from her outstretched left palm, its pattern and frequency pulsating in differing rates. A wave of a hundred decibels of pure sonic energy resonated outwards, a feeling that the black shrouded humanoids felt more than actually heard, a sour, abrasive humming that remained just below the level of hearing and worked its way into the lining of their stomachs and the soft tissue of their internal organs.

The combined effects of these measures overtook the invaders instantly, scrambling their senses and motor functions whilst sickening them and provoking all manners of hallucinatory and physically wrenching disconnections from their surroundings. Shaking, gagging and vomiting, they staggered in confused and purposeless circles. One of them dropped to his back, his bladder giving way as grotesque jerk spasms grasped a cold control over his body and ran through his limbs. Another clutched his stomach and eventually heaved with such force the lining of his stomach followed the contents into a mushy beige puddle.

Xun knew she had bare moments in which to act. The beautiful brunette forced her legs to remain steady underneath her as her final assault went underway, the familiar throbbing pulse of a deadly Dark Matter orb adding to the dying sounds of the sonic energy. She turned in the intruder's direction, narrowed her eyes against the backwind of the charged and powerful sphere of black energy and pumped her strong arm forward into the air, the releasing boom like a hellish kettle drum aghast the usually quiet border posts. It was a somewhat crude and overboard use of an extraordinarily refined technique, but it acheived its desired results nonetheless. The shell of the matter struck the centre of the incapacitated group, and with an explosive flash erased them from all being.

Xun dove to the ground as the concussion swept over her, waited a second or two, and got back to her feet to dust herself off. A quick look round revealed all but one of the black garbed soldiers had been killed in the blast, the other in no condition to survive the night or even the following two hours. He would die, limbless, from blood loss in the following twenty minutes.

As Xun regained her equilibrium, she sat down, breathless.

It had been a hard day. And now, she was sure that the Riisan's were up to something, as Hemlock had previously predicted.

[Falcon Darkflight]

He had left his dingy residence in the company of his demonic brothers through an unstable portal, upon his ascension to the living world taking the first road north for over thirty miles to the ancient Riisan outskirts where the dirt tracked roads merged with one single main road leading by turns northwest and northeast past the Domine and Artinian border posts. Both pedestrian and vehicular traffic here, sparse since Riisa's extradition from the council of Nocturnis, had now completely dissipated, leaving Icarus Pentagathon the only living body on a road flanked with the sullen ashes of burned trees and a profusion of dead plantlife denuded by the long, sedentary winter.

The toll shack was empty, with no barricade or roadblock present on this ghost road leading to the captial city of a shamed nation. Clearly, these lands had seen much better days.

"From one dead world to another it seems..." Icarus muttered to himself. They had been the first words he had spoken for over an hour, his anger for his master settled now into the far reaches of his mind. "Never knew Nocturnis was so...barren. What does he want with such a disgusting place?"

Icarus walked on through, Endymion strapped firmly onto his back as the black robed demon proceeded with no caution whatsoever. About fifteen miles beyond the toll he turned right at a narrow, gravel track exit, stopped for bearings and continued past some worn looking sawmills and a couple of burnt out farms onto 'merchant's pass', a hilly stretch of more dirt track that led eastward towards the coast.

The sky was a drab grey of clouds, the wind becoming increasingly aggressive as he neared the coastline on his seemingly endless treck. It sheered off the sides of his ceremonial black robes, skirling into the interior through invisible spaces in the fabric, blowing across his chest in chill currents that slowly brought his warmth into submission. In between long and unvaried stretches of burnt wood and empty villages, there were the occasional rogue traders and junk dealers, attempting to make a living selling scrap from the remenants of Mineav II's brutal reign. The scenery seemed to ramble on with an almost antagonising monotony that seemed endless, so much so that Icarus could have easily believed the haphazard piles of reclaimed junk being hawled from the many abandoned shacks would never be moved.

Sighing to himself in deep frustration, the demon plodded on towards Riisa City, fighting back the powerful gusts with every step.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Jezoir sat in his small but tidy office in a sublevel of the Domine Border Patrol's compound, staring down at the plate of undercooked meat and watery mashed potatos on his desk with a look akin to savage contempt. It was just a few hours past the breach at the border fort, and a grim faced Delur had strolled in with the meal, holding a dish for himself as well, looking as if he would gladly wait a long time to get into it. The earlier occurance had annoyed Delur so much that he'd been completely unable to feign appreciation for having food on the table, and Jezoir glanced at him with a mild expression of sympathy, feeling still worse for not taking as much guilt on board for having allowed four black clad Riisan psychopaths anywhere near the Domine border.

He would just have to make up for it later. Explain that even the most upbeat person in the world could have his disposition ruined by two years of imacculate service to the border patrol for the sake of one mistake, and the repulsive ideal of eating dinner in an approximation of times between midnight and three in the morning. Only breakfast provided a sense of satisfaction, and only because the cooks arriving at the complex for six in the morning would give him the opportunity to send for some fresher food before the end of their shift, and thus eat at least one decent meal at a sane hour.

"Isa, thank you for our daily shitty slop" Delur muttered in a thick, irritated accent.

Their features glum, they were about to reach for their cutlery when the wood of the office door shrilled with the thumping of a fist.

"Yes? Come in."

The man at the door was Hemlock, their senior officer at the monitoring complex.

"Boys, there's been a penetration."

"Where?" Jezoir sat up straight, his dietry woes now forgotten. Delur's eyes widened with curiosity.

"The eastern quadrant, a couple of deer steps over the Riisan border." Hemlock's usually steady voice was edged with tension. "Xun detected several intruders. No damage to the walls or fence, no signs of forced breach. I don't understand it."

"You sic her on 'em yet?" questioned Delur, with an ounce of hope.

"Yes, she went out an hour ago after resting. but..." A hesitant pause filled the room "...it doesn't look good."

"By the strength of Isa..." Jezoir said. "We better send some men out straight away, A full detail around the crossings into Domine. We better seal this place up tight."

He rose from his seat, pausing for a moment, before placing his fist on the table in a tightly clenched ball. "Tell the Reavers to be prepared, just in case."