The Harbingers of Ruin (Closed)

[Christoph]

Army battle. Closed to Visla. All NPC use approved. All bunnied casualties are assumed approved.

“To trust the sorcerer is to trust the demon.
To forgive the sorcerer is to stain your soul.
To spare the sorcerer is to damn creation”.

The Texts of Ethereal Law: Tome of Saint Maxilla, Book of Judgments.

*

Foul wind whistled an ominous harmony through the tops of distant trees and churned over a field littered with death. Witch hunter Heinrich Reichter of the Ethereal Sway climbed atop a jagged rock and surveyed the panorama of carnage, surprised at the strange calm that occupied what had so recently been the scene of an intensely violent and bloody conflict. The stench of blood stained the icy air; he breathed deeply the smell of slaughtered heretics.

Heinrich displayed every bit of the dark and intimidating image associated with his profession, with his black cloak, leather hauberk, holy symbols, and stern, unyielding scowl. Gore spatters covered much of his body and blood trickled from the scabbing gash on his forehead. He gripped a deadly glaive in his fist and kept an even deadlier flintlock pistol partially obscured at his waist.

The battle’s outcome was not clear from his position. He could see naught but a mile of corpses from both sides strewn across the silent battlefield. True, the army of Salvar had possessed a significant numerical advantage, the rebels from the city of Archen might have been able to use superior knowledge of the rugged landscape and their sheer desperate stubbornness to grind the initial confrontation into a stalemate, inflict heavy losses, and force the Salvic host to pull back and regroup.

It wouldn’t matter in the long run, of course, as Salvar and her Church would, in the fullness of time, crush the traitors one way or another. It only affect his immediate safety and the direction in which he would need to travel to find the army and his agents again and prepare for his next moves. That was crucial, as locating and catching his prey would become far more difficult without the army’s support. The Sway only knew what foul schemes the rogue sorcerer and infernal trafficker Visla Layne would soon set into motion, and he would not risk losing the demon worshiper’s trail again. She had already destroyed the town of Mittergrad in distant Corone after sacrificing every man, woman, and child to her demon masters; her taint could not be allowed to spread further.

Heinrich navigated though the string of boulders that protruded from the ground like rows of blunted teeth and stepped out into the clear field. There he nearly tripped over one of hundreds of arrows stuck in the earth and jutting from the corpses of Salvar soldiers.

He began reconstruct the battle in his mind from there. The last thing he remembered before receiving the head wound that had knocked him unconscious had been the spear regiments marching in to support the forward guard against the first rebel resistance. It had been troublesome from the start; the orderly Salvic infantry had a difficult time navigating the forest of boulders and their crossbowmen could not bring their weapons to bear. All the while indirect fire from longbows had scythed down ranks of soldiers like wheat.

The arrows themselves actually told the witch hunter a surprising amount. The rebels could not easily replace good arrows. That they were still there presented one likely possibility: the enemy’s force had been defeated and left their arrows behind in the subsequent retreat. The traitors had been routed, but not without cost, and the Salvic war host must have continued on to the city. With his course now set, he checked the location of the sun and started southwest, whistling an old hymn to occupy his mind.

He had barely finished the first phrase when he detected movement in his peripheral vision, followed by the sound of heavy, metallic footsteps. He stopped sharp and scanned his surroundings, instinctively tightening his grip on his weapon. The glaive had been a gift from a fellow holy warrior of the Ethereal Sway. It was beautifully crafted and perfectly balanced. Engraved of holy scriptures adorned its surface and the bones of saints were hidden within the long shaft – a weapon worthy of the gods’ most loyal servants.

A silver-clad figure emerged from the rocks some fifty yards away, ponderously approaching the witch hunter with a heavy bastard sword resting on his shoulder. The armored warrior stood with a straight posture and projected a nearly tangible air of superiority. He wore combination of heavy chain mail and thick, battered slabs of metal on his chest and shoulders. A large helmet with a slotted visor and a ridiculous blue feather plume completed the package. All told, it looked barely lighter than full cavalry armor, and no less conceited.

Heinrich spotted the insignia of Archen, along with some family crests, though the emblem of Salvar had been scrubbed down to a brown smear. This confirmed what Heinrich had known from the first glance; he was dealing with a rebel noble. The hunter scowled, a bad taste forming in his mouth. Few things were viler than nobles who turned their backs on the kingdom that had made them powerful. Judging by his dented and battered sword and armor, he had likely spent much of the day slaying Salvar’s soldiers before getting displaced in the retreat. The turncoat was one of the most contemptible sorts individuals imaginable, second only to the hated, demon-worshiping warlocks and sorcerers.

“Lay down your weapon and surrender, traitor,” Reichter called, approaching the noble and holding out a large silver pendant crafted in the shape of the Scale of Maxilla, named for the ancient Saint of Justice and Retribution. “And I shall deliver you to the merciful and fair judgment of the Sway.” As expected, the armored warrior offered no response as he closed the gap. Heinrich strode forward to meet him. He didn’t bother drawing his pistol; that would have implied that intended to kill him right away.

Without warning, the witch hunter darted forward like a hunting arctic wolf. The armored warrior gripped his sword in both hands and lashed out with a brutal horizontal slash, which Heinrich deftly ducked. The hunter used his momentum to lunge into his foe, thrusting his glaive into the noble’s face. The heavy blade at the end impacted the traitor’s helmet with a thunderous clang, leaving a solid dent in the visor. The noble staggered back, uttering a stream of blasphemous curses.

“‘Silence the blasphemer with faith and holy steel.’” The agent of Maxilla recited the old proverb, inciting his impious foe to attack. The noble raised his blade and charged, his heavy metal boots pounding like drums into the earth, and lashed out in a flurry of blows that could have easily cleaved a lesser man limb from limb. Heinrich let combat instincts, faith, and his two decades of experience take over, sidestepping, ducking, and parrying each attack for nearly a minute, until the traitor’s breath ran ragged from bearing the weight of the heavy armor.

Reichter’s counter attacks served more as nuisances; a thrust here, a solid strike to the helmet there, all to keep the traitor at a distance and to wear him down. Soon, the armored noble’s steps became slow and clumsy and the witch hunter found his opening. He darted at the armored warrior, pivoting to avoid another attack. Then, with a single fluid, powerful motion, he swept the warrior’s feet out from under him with his polearm. The traitor landed harshly on his back, his sword falling from his grip. Heinrich placed his leather boot on his foe’s chest and flicked the damaged visor open, revealing a face obscured by sweat and blood.

“Now, perhaps we can now discuss this like civilized men,” said Heinrich with a sneer, holding his blade to the fallen warrior’s throat. The noble remained defiantly silent. “Do you know who I am? No? My name is Heinrich Reichter, honorary Deacon in the Ethereal Sway and a High Justice in the Order of Maxilla.” The hunter took a moment’s satisfaction at the fear and surprise in his new captive’s face. “Ah, now you understand.”

“What do you want from me?” asked the once proud noble, his voice starting to quaver.

“Only information, and for that you are most fortunate.” The religious agent unrolled a bit of tanned parchment, revealing a detailed sketch of a young, straight-haired woman with a slender face and striking features. “This vile witch goes by the name Visla Layne. She worships demons and has already sacrificed an entire town in Corone to her vile masters. She has recently entered the kingdom to continue her infernal work, and my last information led to Archen. Have you ever seen her?” The fallen noble hesitated and Reichter applied pressure to his glaive, drawing blood. The warrior grimaced.

“One of our trained courier foxes delivered a message that someone looking like that crossed the western border into this province 10 days ago, in the company of who he believed to be some unnatural being.”

“I thought as much,” the hunter muttered darkly. He narrowed his eyes at the armored noble. “And you didn’t bother reporting this to your local Chapter House of the Order? Of course not, because you were too busy preparing to revolt. Perhaps you were in league with this witch. Maybe she caused this uprising.”

“Your people caused the uprising!” the noble spat. “How long did you expect the citizens of Archen to slave and starve to meet the desires of a tyrannical kingdom and a corrupt church?”

“‘Take from the heretic his venomous tongue lest his words poison your righteous soul’,” Reichter recited, pressing his glaive even harder into his captive’s throat. “Be careful, lest I decide to practice the literal interpretation of that passage.” Satisfied with the traitor’s silence, the hunter continued, his voice cold and piercing. “Where did the rat flee to after inciting this foul treason?” When his captive didn’t answer quickly enough, he kicked him squarely in the side of the head.

“I don’t know! Maybe she snuck off somewhere to else. I have no idea.”

“Oh, I know she’s still there,” said the hunter, his voice low and emotionless. “To flee the city would be the reveal herself, and she would have nowhere else to go save for into the wilderness or back the way she came.”

“Sounds like you have it all figured out,” the noble spat with a sneer.

“Any idea what she’s doing here?” inquired the hunter, ignoring the traitor’s comment.

“Burning holy books?” the noble offered, seeming to find his nerve in the face of oblivion. This time, Heinrich did not ignore it. Hi face contorted in rage and he whipped his glaive around in a blur of motion, smashing the butt of the weapon across the defiant noble’s face.

“You have expended your utility,” stated the witch hunter nonchalantly, as though he hadn’t just lashed out in anger. He pressed his glaive even harder into his captive’s throat. “May the Sway have mercy on your soul, for I shall have none on your life.”

The traitor noble silently became the first casualty in the real battle for Archen, the battle for its soul. The witch hunter knew that this would be but one of many before the next morning. To make war against the infernal is both the most sacred and most trying duty of righteous. In the distance, smoke rose from the city.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla hobbled her way up the weathered crag that jutted out from the wind-swept Salvic landscape. The hood of her cloak billowed with cold, dry air that crept down her spine and chilled her to the bone. Her fingers gripped the head of her cane tightly, almost frozen in place over the course of the long trek. Aelva floated ahead of her with a shadowy trail beneath her, foregoing the subtlety of her human disguise for the utility of drifting above the arduous footpath.

"I've tolerated this for some time now without complaint, Aelva, but as I reach the point where I feel my fingers ready to fall off, I'm going to have to ask you to be more transparent about our reasons for visiting this miserable land," Visla called ahead, digging her cane into a patch of frost and refusing to move any further without a reply.

"Your mind must be getting hazy from the chill, Visla," Aelva replied, absorbing her leathery wings back into her illusionary form and drifting to the ground. She turned and faced her companion with her brilliant green eyes. "As I told you before we left, your efforts in bringing me back were more than I could have ever hoped for, but your methods were somewhat non-traditional. Before we get too comfortable and rest on our laurels, I'd prefer to know for certain that I am summoned here for good."

"And what does that have to do with this wintry hellscape?" Visla moaned.

"Heheh, I suppose it doesn't seem so bad when you've seen the Canian tundra. If you think this is troublesome, I must recommend you never visit the Eighth," Aelva replied with a wistful grin.

"Your attempt to discuss the geography of the Nine Hells is a fascinating bit of trivia, which, for the record, I was already aware of, but it still doesn't answer my question," Visla replied, becoming genuinely frustrated with her partner's obstreperousness.

"You really are very unpleasant when you're cold," Aelva huffed. "Fine, then. There's a summoner in these lands that can ascertain my planar status, and anchor me more securely to this realm if need be. His name is Abbarax, and he's supposed to be quite skilled, if mildly eccentric."

"Oh, well then, fantastic. I get to wear my feet to nubs wandering into the gods forsaken wilderness for the privilege of having some strange man critique my work in bringing you back to life. You're a great friend, Aelva, truly," Visla growled and stamped her cane against the rocky ground.

"You're just tired. It should only be a bit further. I'll carry you the rest of the way," Aelva sighed and rematerialized her wings. She drifted down and wrapped her arms around Visla's waist, buoying them both into the air. They floated along slowly, but with Visla's troubled gait, it was probably no slower than they had been progressing otherwise.

Visla resented being treated like a petulant child for a moment, but once she felt the warmth of Aelva's embrace her frigid mindset thawed a bit. She managed a smile and placed her hands over Aelva's, knowing full well that the smooth sensation she felt was merely a compelling lie that concealed vicious claws beneath.

The two moved along leisurely through the air rounding the top of the crag. The panorama of a frozen plain was laid out before Visla's eyes with only two sights to disrupt it. In the distance, there was the misty outline of a walled city. Knowing little of Salvar, she looked up toward her de facto chauffer.

"I take it that city is our destination?"

"No," Aelva replied, tightening her grip with one arm and pointing to the other disruption on the placid landscape with the other. A speck of red light shimmered in the midst of the icy expanse. "That's where we're going."

The approach still took several minutes, Visla straining all the while to get a better look at their target. As they drifted along the surface of the plain, it became clear that the light was emanating from a runed spellcircle. The air lost its icy bite and began to waft with the scent of sulfur as they drew nearer. When she could finally make out the figure in the center of the mystical sigils, the air was almost tropical, wet with the humidity of melted snow. The ritual seemed to be growing in strength even as they drew closer, for the ground was now brown, stripped of its frosted coating. When they looked from afar, no such change had taken place.

"Abbarax!" Visla cried out toward the crimson-robed figure. She could hear him speaking, but it was clearly not a reply. His rhythmic chanting remained undisturbed even as the pair moved within arm's reach of his swirling pattern of etched symbols.

"I wouldn't disturb him," Aelva warned, placing Visla gently onto the ground and tracing the spinning runes with her eyes carefully. "By the looks of this, he's performing a fairly serious ritual."

The two watched mutely as his chanting reached a fevered pitch. Even from behind, they could see his hands frantically tracing the somatic components of the spell as it reached its climax. The ground trembled and cracked before him as a pillar of flame erupted, tracing the sillhoette of a massive six-armed creature within. When the fire sank back into the fissure below, the horrific figure of a Marilith stood before them. A serpentine body several meters long coiled along the ground and gave way at its fore to sickly humanoid skin and a female elf's head, ringed by six lithe but muscular arms wielding six jagged scimitars. The beast hissed before calling out in a torturous Infernal voice.

"Abbaraxxxx, your work is done, and you shall have your reward," it crowed, and without a moment's hesitation plunged two of its blades into the man's chest, tearing upward in a swift stroke and severing his arms.

"Why!?" the man managed to intone between agonizing screams.

"Your blood shall fuel the fires of the Abyss," the vile demon said blithely. With a flick of one of its wrists, it cut the man's wailing short by cleanly severing his head. His mangled body fell limp into the center of the spellcircle and his blood began to pool. The Marilith glanced casually at Visla and Aelva but said nothing.

Instinctively, Aelva lowered her disguise, proudly displaying her demonic horns and claws for the benefit of her twisted brethren. At the sight, the Marilith gave a sadistic grin and then cast its eyes downward. From the swiftly draining corpse of Abbarax, the blood was trickling along the ground to form a circle twice as large as the one he had painstakingly drawn out. As its perimeter became visible, the mighty serpent demon let out an otherworldly cry that set the blood alight with infernal fire. Shapes of every sort began to crawl their way out from fissures in the earth with misshapen hands, serrated blades, and putrid limbs.

As the very gates of the Abyss opened around her, Visla could only watch in horror and cling tightly to Aelva's cold clawed hand.

[Christoph]

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked the Heinrich Reichter, looking out over Archen. Spires of smoke rose from the city in the twilight as the rebel holdouts smoldered. All along the outside of the wall, traitors and blasphemers burned in massive pyres, spreading the stink of burnt flesh for miles. The witch hunter nodded in satisfaction from the perimeter of the army’s camp; such vile crimes of moral turpitude deserved nothing less. To his left stood the general whose name the agent of Sway hadn’t taken the time to remember. “Treason, heresy, conspiracy, sacrilege, and harboring witches, such crimes will earn the condemned far greater punishments in the next world.”

“You would know better than I, sir,” replied the officer, shuffling uncomfortably in the presence of the dangerous religious agent. “I’m just glad this is all over. Fighting against the savages and beasts of the north is one thing, but taking arms against fellow citizens of Salvar is never a thing of pride.”

Heinrich glanced sideways at the general. The officer had a strong military bearing, probably bred into his family for generations. He had a weatherworn face adorned with many scars and wore a breastplate that bore the marks of many hard campaigns. His voice had the raw gruffness that only comes from years of shouting orders that get obeyed; here was a man who had spent his entire life fighting for his kingdom and his liege. He hated taking the field against his countrymen; he was a man of honor. While Heinrich respected that virtue, he also worried that it might prevent the commander from doing what needed to be done.

“All men can have doubts, but one must be strong and not allow such thoughts to hinder his duty,” Heinrich replied, paraphrasing one of his favorite passages from the Ethereal Texts. “But you are wrong about one thing: this is not yet over.”

“Not over? But we crushed the revolt. We captured and executed the leaders. We may need to leave an occupying force for a while, but beyond that…”

“Witches are roaches among men, General,” stated the hunter. “They would scatter from the Sway’s light and hide in the filth and darkness of civilization, waiting to scurry forth from the shadows and spread their plague of damnation once again. You see, this uprising was but a symptom of that larger sickness.”

“How can you be so certain?” asked the veteran officer.

“I am very good at my job,” Heinrich replied, his voice level and certain. “I have little doubt that the true culprit behind this revolt is hidden somewhere in this city. Just three days ago, my agents captured and killed a known infernal cultist; after a lengthy interrogation, I learned that this vile warlock had been heading to Archen. This city must somehow be important to the demons’ schemes, and we must root them out and cleanse this infection permanently before it is too late.”

“You would have my army enter the city again tonight?” asked the officer, a slight hint of incredulity filtering into his voice. “There is already enough civil unrest that I had to leave three hundred men inside to keep order. There would be an outcry if our soldiers returned to tear the city apart chasing shadows.”

“The Sway commands it, General,” said the witch hunter sternly, his eyes making it clear that he would accept no questions to his authority. “You still have two and a half thousand fighting men fit for battle. That will be enough to scour the city and put down any… resistance. The demon worshiper is close. I can feel it.”

* * * * *

The army was on the move by nightfall. Ranks of soldiers marched over the frozen grass toward Archen, spears pointed toward the heavens. Even after a day of bloody fighting, the army kept an impressive appearance, marching in unison with banners flapping in the icy wind. Under the night sky, approached the walls like a giant, shadowy predator coming to ravage and violate the corpse of the once proud city.

General Nicholai Timko watched over his battalions with a grim frown from the saddle of his horse. Two thousand and five hundred soldiers… he had arrived at Archen with over five thousand good men; almost half of them would never be returning home. The witch hunter wanted to cause even more death by chasing imagined witches through the city, smashing in doors, breaking window, and terrorizing the population until even more rose up against Salvar. But he had little recourse.

Thus, they marched. Approximately twelve hundred spearmen and men-at-arms, five hundred crossbow infantrymen, and three hundred halberdiers advanced in orderly blocks of infantry, led by a full complement of two hundred elite Honor Guard, resplendent in their sturdy armor and proudly bearing the army’s battle standards. Behind the formation, over two hundred light horsemen waited in reserve along with a detachment of nearly one hundred heavy knights. The witch hunter had been right; even weakened as it was, this force would be more than capable of subduing the city almost indefinitely.

That didn’t mean he liked it. He joined the army to fight against enemies from the north, and had spent his decades of service keeping Salvar safe. He hated turning his sword against his own kingdom. He especially hated having his authority subverted by that witch hunter. He wanted to say that Heinrich Reichter had no right to dictate the actions of his forces, but that wouldn’t be true. Few in Salvar could refuse any sanctioned witch hunter, let alone one of such high rank. To do so would be heresy, and death.

“Lord General, sir!” The voice came from his new Captain, Alexander Talinov. “How shall we proceed?” The young officer rode out to Timko’s position atop a white horse, a cloak of fur trailing behind him and polished armor reflecting the pale light of the moon. He looked very much like one of the questing nights from legend, though his eyes betrayed his unease; the general would have attributed it to inexperience if he hadn’t been feeling the same way about this task.

“The cavalry is to stay back in reserve,” Timko replied. “I doubt that we’ll be needing them, but it never hurts to remind the city that they’re here. Have the siege engineers bring the catapults into range of the city, but tell them to take the light ballistae onto the outer walls and point them inward. I pray to the gods that we don’t need to fire them, but perhaps the fact that we can will keep the citizens in line for now and act as a check against any insurgents that may still remain.

“The infantry is to enter city to conduct a thorough search at the witch hunter’s direction. There is still and occupying force of three hundred soldiers, but they are to continue their current duties and keep watch over the key areas. Relay these orders to the other captains.”

“Very well, sir,” the lieutenant replied, though the general could tell that he was not happy with the idea.

“I want this carried out as quickly and efficiently as possible,” the general added as his subordinate turned to leave. “Find whoever Reichter seeks and then get my men out of there.” The younger officer rode off, leaving Nicholai staring at the darkened city with a sense of foreboding in his gut. Somehow he knew that the night would herald unimagined disaster.

* * * * *

The sound of boots marching in unison echoed between buildings and through alleyways as Salvic troops advanced through the city unchallenged. The streets were empty; everyone had scurried into their homes, praying to the same gods whose name the soldiers acted on that the witch-hunt would pass them by.

Captain Talinov rode silently beside his battalion’s complement of fifty honor guardsmen. They were the finest warriors he had ever commanded in his short career. They always marched in perfect form, projecting a menacing calm that was only magnified by their sturdy kite shields, vicious battleaxes and maces, and their gleaming silver armor and featureless helmets. Many had seen more campaigns than Talinov himself. Yet, even those hardened, disciplined veterans couldn’t help but glance nervously into the shadows.

Aft first, Gerard had dismissed the witch hunter’s wild claims of evil magic and demon worshipers, but with the coming of night, he couldn’t deny the strange and sinister aura that hung heavily in Archen. The old brick buildings towered ominously overhead, their darkened windows glaring down at the soldiers like hollow, sunken eyes. The pale moonlight cast oppressive shadows over the street and painted the city in a sickly, corpse-like glow. He shivered, and not only from the cold.

“Keeps your wits about you, Captain.” Talinov hadn’t even noticed the witch hunter approaching. “We don’t know where our enemies hide or what they have planned.” The man was a menacing shadow in the gloom. Four templar initiates accompanied him, looking very much like black-clad incarnations of the honor guard, as well as a frail man with an old face, grey hair, and an intricate silver collar around his neck. The old man’s eyes burned with madness and power. Alexander averted his gaze from the Empowered Priest, the sanctioned arcanists of the Ethereal Sway. The witch hunter had several more agents, but they were clearly elsewhere, most likely managing the movements of the other battalions in their master’s stead.

The captains nodded, his face betraying no emotion. “How would you have us proceed, my lord witch hunter?” he asked, hating being forced to answer to anyone other than the general.

“Most of the lodges, hostels, and inns are located in this district,” Heinrich replied, motioning to the rows of buildings. Many had plaques and signs illustrating the names of the various establishments. “Your battalion will begin here. It is likely that one of these establishments is either harboring the witch or has seen her. Split your forces and scour the district. Enter every single building, breaking down the door if you must. Bring the occupants into the street and search the structures thoroughly. If any resist… subdue them if necessary.”

“With all due respect, isn’t this rather excessive?”

“Do not question the authority of our gods, Captain,” said the witch hunter, his voice tolerating no challenge. “Extreme times call for extreme measures. Whatever suffering and loss we cause these people tonight will be nothing compared to what Salvar herself will endure if this demon worshiper escapes.”

“Very well, my lord,” replied Talinov, his voice neutral and his words chosen carefully. All five hundred men under his command, honor guard, men-at-arms, and crossbow infantrymen, looked to him, awaiting his response. “I will act upon your declarations, as is my duty.”

* * * * *

Shouts and cries could be heard across the entire western side of Archen. The four infantry battalions of the Salvic war host spread across the city under the direction of Heinrich Reichter and his holy subordinates. They shattered windows, kicked in doors, and began forcing people onto the streets, whether guests at inns or frightened families. Even from the high ramparts of the governor’s keep, Lieutenant Conrad Dietrich could see and hear much of the commotion. The aging veteran glared dourly across a city on the brink of chaos.

“What are those madmen doing out there?” he asked no one in particular. The night chill bit at his face and he reflexively pulled his brown fur cloak tightly around him. He was already not looking forward to spending a year commanding the occupying force in the freezing backwater city of Archen, as were the joys of being an over-the-hill junior officer with little prospect for future promotion. But now the army was terrorizing the city, surely at the behest of the Sway agents.

Conrad knew that this wouldn’t end well. Even if the night passed without a disaster, they would have earned the scorn of the entire city – scorn that he would need to content with in the coming months. He had three hundred good men in the keep under his command that he hoped he didn’t need, at least not that night.

He couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling. Chaos threatened to overtake the city, but he could do nothing but react when it came. He pitied the citizens; the witch hunter was clearly out for blood, and even those with nothing to hide had much to fear that night.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Thousands of twisted forms rose into what must pass for a units among demonic rabble, wretched, faceless, and yet their agony was still apparent to any that saw them. In gnarled limbs they clutched battle worn polearms, flame-seared and some still dripping from service in the eternal Blood War. Lex Daemonica called them Rutterkin, victims of Abyssal punishment, the arbitrary whims that more powerful demon lords enforced upon the teeming masses of banished souls. These were the first to rise before Visla's eyes from the dire ritual, and yet the runic circle continued to burn and the earth continued to tear open.

"Murdering the summoner is common practice for a demonic army, so you know," Aelva whispered to an unsteady Visla. "Since we aren't dead yet, I would guess they have some purpose for us."

"Correct," the Marilith hissed. Aelva had been absent from her own kind so long that she had forgotten the honed senses that many possessed. "A human commander was to lead this legion, a man of some renown," the beast scowled with contempt at the idea of a human deserving any fame at all. "His soul likely travels to the Abyssal gates as we speak, and so he may well serve in time, but for now, your human will have to do."

"The Abyss' maw smiles upon you then, Lady Serpent. This is Visla, Bane of Mittergrad, a warlock of the highest order. By Melcanthet's Crown, she will harvest your enemy's souls and scatter their bodies for the ravens," Aelva boasted, the scent of brimstone wafting from her lips.

"I have heard the name whispered in the shadows, but it means nothing to me. The legion is hers, so long as she can hold it," the Marilith talked past Visla and handed a bracelet from one of its many arms to Aelva. The metal was black as night and seemed a strangle a small red stone set within. It was neither ruby nor garnet, deeper in color than either, and made clear by its luster that it could never be priced with gold.

Aelva took the artifact and ushered Visla away from the gathering horde as the Marilith resumed her watch over the growing number of fissures. The pair drifted over the now parched landscape until Aelva was as certain as she could be that they were outside the serpentine beast's impeccable hearing.

"Have you gone mad? You just volunteered me to lead a demonic legion! I barely even play chess," Visla protested as Aelva finally set her back on the ground. She gripped her runed cane tightly as her knees began to feel weak at the prospect.

"A game that reasonable would only serve to confuse you. Demonic tactics amount to little more than the following maxim: 'If it moves, kill it. If it does not move, destroy it.' You'll be fine I'm sure," Aelva attempted to reassure her, slipping the armlet over the young woman's wrist.

Visla pulled back reflexively, but as the metal touched her skin, she felt a familiar sensation. The lingering sensation of Essence flowed through her body. Like an old drunkard tasting the intoxicating flavor of his beloved rum after a long and painful sobriety, Visla felt joy tempered with an unease at the analogy that best fit her feelings. She fixed her eyes on Aelva and scowled.

"What is this and why do I sense Essence?"

"It's a Bloodstone Bangle. It links you to the success of the demonic army. It's the reason they use humans for this sort of thing. As your forces slay the living, they feed you the Essence. The idea is to inspire a bloodlust that spurs further success. If you fail, the artifact devours your Essence and the Marilith will merely have to remove it from your corpse when it is all over. Don't worry, though, the Lords of the Abyss have a very high tolerance for casualties. A few thousand Babau can die and you won't feel a thing," Aelva smiled and patted Visla on the shoulder.

"How can you say all this so matter-of-factly? This is madness," Visla insisted, shrugging off the succubus' claw. "You bring me here for a summoner who has now been sacrificed to a demonic army. Then you put this shackle on my arm and tell me I'll die if the army doesn't win. Against who, even? This has nothing to do with us."

Aelva sighed. "Vis, you saw the Marilith cleave that man into chunks without a second thought. If you didn't make yourself useful, you were next. We cannot control circumstance. We can only make the best choice available. Sad is it may be, this is your best choice."

Visla couldn't deny that. As maddening as it as was, standing in the snow-swept tundra of a far off land at the head of a demonic strike force, at least she was not alone. The fact that Aelva was so calm in the face of it all was as comforting as anything could be. Visla relaxed from her scowl and softened her tone as she turned a kinder gaze to her succubus.

"You're right," she admitted. "You seem pretty familiar with all of this. How many humans have you lead to their deaths like this?"

"One."

Visla's anger quickly resurfaced. "I was making a joke! You've really done this before!?"

"You saw what I used to be like. I'm not proud of it. I was legate to a human commander very early in my life, when I was as ruthless as the Marilith," Aelva confessed, casting her emerald eyes toward the ground in shame.

"How… did that go?"

"He wasn't very clever. You'll do much better," Aelva said dismissively, wrapping her arms back around Visla and buoying them both into the air once more, drifting back toward the searing staging area. "You'd best survey your forces if we want to have any hope of leaving here."

While the two spoke, the Infinite Abyss had kindly provided thousands more warriors for Visla's use. The armlet pulsed in time with Visla's heavy heartbeat as her ranks swelled. Two groups of Armanites, twisted demonic cavalry with the bodies of warhorses and the torsos of black-hearted knights, the damned cousins of centaurs, each group a thousand strong, charged and clashed against one another, diminishing their numbers even as they prepared for battle. A trio of Vrocks circled like the vultures they resembled, swooping down with their massive festering talons to snatch up bits of flesh from the infernal infighting. Amongst the troops, plumes of fire roze from summoned elementals, called forth from the Elemental Chaos to bolster the demonic forces and kill any holy men that might seek advantage against the evil beasts that made up the bulk of the army.

Visla was set down next to the Marilith, who did not even give her a look. She simply struck together two of her scimitars. Every eye turned toward her; every tortured limb stopped in mid-swing. Her voice echoed through the scoured plain.

"The Commander is Bound. Die in glory, die in shame, your souls will suffer all the same," she called out with practiced Infernal diction. It seemed that this was what passed for inspiration among the Damned.

"Send the fliers ahead and assess the enemy's strength," Visla commanded. She hadn't the slightest clue what enemy they sought, but before the words had even left her lips, the three Vrocks soared toward the city on the horizon. Whatever poor creatures had incurred the wrath of the Abyss, they hid within those walls.

Or perhaps not. As the vulture demons soared through the frigid air, images began to flood into Visla's mind. The perception of the Vrocks bored directly into her mind. Their eyes flicked back and forth in a constant, dizzying manner and the color seemed to be washed out almost completely from their vision. Through the nausea, she could make out a city besieged. It seemed that whoever she was to fight, they were already somewhat occupied.

With but a thought of attack, the demons were let loose on the seigeworks. She watched through their twitching eyes as they raked through the operators with their claws. Clouds of noxious burrowing spores erupted from their festering forms and began digging into men's flesh and the wooden supports of catapults and ballistae. The chaos was too much to watch, and Visla shook her head to banish the visions.

"Form ranks and advance," she said as a formality. Before she could finish, the infighting came to a halt and the beasts before her collected themselves into massed hordes and began marching across the long empty stretch of tundra between them and the city walls.

Aelva wrapped her arms around Visla's waist and lifted her skyward to follow.

A note for readers and ultimately judges: Because the armies have not been formally detailed, it should be noted that my demons are largely following their rules and abilities based on DnD 3.5 source materials. They by no means function identically, but they will not have any additional or surprising powers. Most likely they will have fewer, as many of the demons are quite fearsome...

And no, even though there are the magic number of three Vrocks, they cannot perform a Dance of Ruin.

[Christoph]

A trio of winged shapes fell upon the Salvic siege works and chaos erupted. The hellish creatures swooped across the field, tearing men apart with vicious talons. The crews abandoned their machines and scattered in all directions. Some fired off panicked shots with crossbows, but none struck true. Soon, thick, caustic smog began billowing from the three demons, eating away at everything it touched like a plague of infernal locust.

General Timko watched the mayhem through his looking glass from a few hundred yards away. He had remained at the command post outside of the city, along with the cavalry, knowing that to enter Archen would be put a target on his back. He cursed and passed the device to one of his lieutenants.

The junior officer swore as well. “Those are not of this world,” he said grimly. “The witch hunter was right after all.”

“Yes, I bet he’s got a big grin on his smug face,” Timko growled. “Regardless, we must protect the siege machines and their crews. The Magistrates will not be happy if we lose them.”

“Your orders, sir?”

“Release the Manticore.”

* * * * *

The order echoed frightfully throughout the command post until it reached the ears of the Sulgoran Beastmasters. Every Salvic army kept a small clutch of beasts taken from the harsh wilds of Sulgoran’s Axe, a land named after the founder of the Beastmaster Clans. The nature and numbers of these creatures varied greatly from host to host, ranging from pairs of massive war mammoths to dozens of lithe arctic wolves. The army of General Timko contained but one Sulgoran beast: a deadly Manticore from the northern Gorum Mountains.

“Release the Manticore,” said the grizzled Beastmaster elder, grimly repeating the order to his apprentices. As if in response, a low, guttural growl rumbled from a massive vented metal box positioned nearby. The box rattled and shook on huge wheels as the beast inside thrashed eagerly; it had been locked away for many days and hungered for blood.

The ten apprentices approached their feral charge with caution, torches, whips, and spears at the ready. One climbed to the top and released the latch, letting the front of the solid cage fall outward. The creature lunged from the box with feline grace and let out a bellowing, ear-splitting roar. The Beastmasters kept the beast at bay with jabs and lashes as the elder stepped forward, his leathery face firm and certain. They locked eyes and the Manticore reared up on its hind legs, revealing its form in the torchlight – the body and head of a massive lion, mighty, leather wings spanning thirty feet, and vicious barbed tale dripping with venom. It smelled foul.

It snapped its mighty jaws at the elder, but the Beastmaster didn’t flinch. “Cirothe!” boomed the elder, his voice vibrating through the air with primal power. “I who have given you a name commands you!” The Manticore landed back on all fours and glared intently at its master with smoldering eyes. The elder’s control seemed supernatural, and indeed the Church had made many inquiries over the decades. “Take to the skies, Cirothe, and destroy the demons that infest it!”

Cirothe bellowed and darted away, loping across the rocky ground toward the siege works. When it reached a full run, the massive beast leapt into the air and took flight. Its mighty wings carried it high into the air, higher than the flying vulture demons. Its roars echoed across the fields and city like rumbling thunder.

The beast went into a dive suddenly, surging toward its prey with frightening speed. The first demon darted to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed under Cirothe’s massive form. The Manticore staggered on the landing for but a moment, clawing up clouds of dirt and rock. It snarled as the demon’s caustic smog burned on its leathery hide, but only seemed to be driven into a greater frenzy. It lunged into its prey in a feline pounce, bringing the infernal vulture down beneath its considerable bulk, and crushed the demon’s head with its powerful jaws. Cirothe let out a triumphant snarl, black demon ichor dripping from its teeth.

The second demon swooped in from the side, raking its claws across Cirothe’s back. The Manticore growled and lashed out with its claws and knocked the infernal vulture away. It lunged toward its prey, but the demon quickly flew out of reach. Cirothe hunched up for a pounce just as the last demon flew in and clawed at it from behind, cutting through its leathery hide and drawing blood. More plumes of the noxious fumes enveloped the Manticore, burning into the wound. It snarled with impotent rage as its prey continued to stay out of reach.

With a heaven-shattering bellow, Cirothe launched forward into a full run, escaping the burning clouds. Its fury drove it through its injuries, and the beast took to the sky once again. The demons pursued, diving in to attack again. This time, Cirothe weaved to the side in an astounding display of aerial agility. It descended, skidding across the frozen dirt. A demon made an attack dive, but in a blur of motion the Manticore lashed out with its tail, impaling the infernal vulture on the massive barb and slamming it onto the ground and clawing its otherworldly form to ribbons.

Lost in its frenzy, the Manticore didn’t notice the final demon attack, and weakened from its many injuries, it could not react swiftly enough to avoid the rending talons of its foe that sank deep into his flank. Blood poured from the gash and for the first time, Cirothe faltered. The caustic fumes festered in his wounds and burned its eyes. It lurched and swayed, and the demon clawed it again, drawing a large slash across its neck. At last, the mighty beast of the North fell.

And then a horn called out from the far side of Archen.

* * * * *

“What is going on in there?” General Timko growled at the sound of the horns. The call was deep and urgent, with rapid pitch changes. “What does that call mean?” He turned to his own musician.

“My lord, General… that call means that there is an enemy army approaching the city!” the young musician replied. “And…” The distant horn rang out again with one high, haunting note followed by another that trailed off. “And they number at two thousand at least, probably more.”

“That’s impossible!” the general snapped. “How could the rebels have hidden such a force from us? Where did they come from?”

“Wait, sir…” The distant horn called again, this time in a deep, bellowing tone. It carried through for several ominous notes. “Sir… they’re demons.”

“Demons? Here? Are you certain?” Timko glared intently at his musician, but there was no doubt in the young man’s eyes. “Damn it! My army is scattered about, chasing shadows within the city while the real enemy threatens us from outside the city.” He spat out a few curses that he learned from a sailor as a boy and turned to his lieutenants. “Send messengers to every battalion and send them to the walls! Prepare the artillery and gather the cavalry for a counter-attack! The gate must be secured and protected!” His subordinates gave their affirmation and hurried away, but Timko knew that it was already too late.

Sorry for the long delay. Feel free to have your demon forces power through the gate without much trouble -- there are only a few sentries guarding it with crossbows and a couple light ballistae.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Her army assembled before her, Visla floated just above the ground, peering over the spiked armor of the Amorites and the gnarled skulls of rutterkin soldiers. Behind her, the fissures still sizzled and moans came out from the depths as her legion's numbers continued to swell. Before long, the Vrocks' vision thrust itself back into her mind, despite her attempts to banish it.

It came in flashes, bits of disjointed information from the three, blood, talons, and screams. The tainted perception of a single demon was chaos enough, but the three fel-vultures jockeyed for position in the warlock's mind. Suddenly, a single sight dominated the attention of all three. Visla saw the limp body of human prey tossed aside as all three pairs of darting eyes became still and focused. A creature as much at home within the Abyss as any within her army soared through the sky. A vile chimera formed of earthly beasts, the Manticore seemed an ironic choice of weapon for those who fought abominations.

The visions resumed their choppy presentation as the Vrocks fell upon it, and it upon them. The tumult of senses quieted as the flock's numbers dwindled. As the first demon fell, a terrible cold crept into Visla's chest and choked out the warmth from her heart. The bangle on her arm seemed to glimmer wickedly as she cast a hateful gaze toward it. As the battle played out in her mind's eye, she felt just the attachment and dedication that the artifact was intended to create. She yearned for the manticore's blood as it brought another of her demons to its demise, and the dark claws within her chest dug ever deeper.

"ADVANCE! SLAY THE LIVING! PAINT THIS CITY'S WALLS WITH THE BLOOD OF ITS DEFENDERS!" Visla howled, her words tinged with pain and fury imposed upon her by the Bloodstone.

Hearing the Abyssal battlecry, Aelva lowered her companion to the ground and loosened her grip. Moving around to face the warlock, Aelva stared deeply into her eyes. Even through the bloodlust, Visla could see the sorrow in those emerald orbs. She clutched her chest spoke again, meekly.

"I cannot continue. Two are dead and it already pains me so," she pleaded, as the demonic forces marched on ahead of her. "There must be a way out of this."

"The bangle can be—"

Aelva's words were snuffed out by thee victory shriek of a Vrock, echoing within Visla's mind. She saw the Manticore slain, its blood dripping from her demon's talons, sinew hanging from the vulture's maw. Along with the vision came a torrent of euphoria, flooding her body. Where once the fire within her heart was an ember being snuffed by an insidious hand, now it blazed as an inferno doused with the bloody fuel of Essence. The bangle controlled as well with the carrot as it did with the stick.

Visla shoved Aelva aside and tossed her cane on the ground, marching with a vitality and boldness she had never possessed before. With her unearthly vigor, she quickly caught up with the back ranks of her army, rows of Amorite cavalry moving at a trot behind slower demons.

Her mind overwhelmed, her heart burning, her sensibility gone, she pulled herself onto the back of one of the centaur-like demons. Its barbed armor dug into her hands and then her thighs and she mounted it. The blood flowed, but not from Visla. Aelva's legs began to drip with vitae, as her companion continued her Essence-fueled rampage.

The Amorite turned to its rider with a pale hateful face. "I do not carry humans," it growled, displaying rows of teeth inside its otherwise plain mouth.

"CHARGE FORTH! OBEY!" she brandished the Bloodstone and gave her command, her voice echoing with a terrible depth and ferocity.

The demon turned its head back around, eyes glazed over with a pall of servitude. It hooves thundered as it tossed aside the creatures in front of it, grinding limbs into the dirt like any other obstacle. Soon Visla found herself at the head of the army, blazing elementals at either side, gazing upon the city walls.

The Vrock sat perched atop the gate, awaiting her. Crossbowmen loosed shot after shot at its black-feathered form, but it merely swatted the bolts away like gnats and crowed wickedly. As its commander arrived it swooped down and carved a path through the corpses and debris with its talons, landing in front of her with a fiendish bow.

"TO THE SKIES!" she cried, allowing it to grasp her, its razor sharp talons digging into her flesh. The wounds formed once again on Aelva, cutting across her abdomen. Neither felt a thing. Any pain transferred to Visla was lost beneath the warm, entrancing feeling of succor.

As she rose from her mount, she threw her hand forward and willed the attack. A wall of corrupted flesh fell against those few defenders that still held their ground. Black metal blades tore their way through the lines of weak flesh, feeding Visla ever more of the seductive Essence. Rutterkin fell to volleys of crossbow fire from those who kept their nerve, but their deaths were but a faint trickle of loss in a sea overflowing with human blood. Visla gazed down on the slaughter with a wicked smile as her elementals surged against the gates, battering them down with savage fiery explosion.

With the city breached, the elementals' flames began to spread, devouring every flammable thing in sight. The churning, living inferno spread gleefully through the streets, sowing chaos and searing the unwary. The hooves of the Amorites clattered along the streets, sinking their barbed lances into any creature in reach. Rutterkin poured in like a bloody tide, heedless of danger, throwing themselves into any opening and tearing it wider with their gnarled limbs and twisted blades.

Above the tumult, Visla watched, circling in the Talons of her Vrock, drinking deep the tithe of Essence and losing her sanity more with every moment.

Beneath her, behind the crest of the demonic wave, Aelva clinched her fist glanced up. The warlock soaring above had given up everything so the two of them would not have to live lives dominated by debauchery and slaughter. After all her sacrifice, Aelva had shackled her right back to damnation. It was that or death, but that didn't make it any easier. She cast her gaze back down and swore that she would not let Visla lose herself in this storm of blood and suffering.

Darting past the Marilith, its face contorted into a sick smile, she made her way to the gates, already thick with butchery. Among the bloody heaps, she searched for those who yet lived, for only another human could bear the burden she wished to relieve her summoner of…

[Christoph]

The battle raged in the blood-soaked cobbled streets. The stink of demonic flesh and steaming gore floated like a putrid mist between burning buildings. Infernal forces poured from the eastern gate like blood from a vile wound, overwhelming the meager defenses and leaving half-devoured bodies in their wake. Civilians scattered for cover, screaming like children as the unholy beasts tore them limb from limb. Chaos spread its tendrils across the city.

Looking down from atop a nearby warehouse, Heinrich Reichter couldn’t help but admire the scene’s dark beauty. He admired it as he would a massive mountain to climb, or a raging river to dam and control; it was the beauty of a challenge to be overcome. It was the beauty of doing holy work. He knew that this was the work of the vile Visla Layne. The Sway had placed him here for a reason; in their infinite wisdom and foresight, they had foreseen this blasphemous infernal incursion and placed their loyal servant in its path. There was no mountain he wouldn’t climb, river he wouldn’t dam, and demon he wouldn’t banish to serve his holy masters.

From the west, the first Salvic soldiers appeared, running frantically up the main road. Officers shouted, drums pounded, and a bearskin banner flapped in the foul wind. Crossbowmen crowded the roadsides as spearmen hurried into formation, blocking off the street in a wall of shields and spears. Numbering at just over three hundred, they would barely even slow the insatiable, infernal tide surging toward them.

Crossbows unleashed deadly volleys into the oncoming hard, scything down dozens and dozens of twisted abominations. The wave of demons smashed into the human infantry like a massive infernal hammer. Countless demons were skewered on spears. Many smaller, hound-shaped beasts were repelled by Salvic shields before being trampled by their larger brethren. The humans dug in their heels, but the demons redoubled their efforts, overwhelming the spearmen’s forward ranks. The crossbowmen quickly withdrew to find more secure ground to fire from.

“Markov, the time has come to intervene,” said the witch hunter, watching the carnage unfold. His frail Empowered Priest appeared by his side, his silver collar gleaming hellishly in the firelight. “The demons have come to defile our land, and thus you must use our land to banish them. Strike down the infernal beasts with hail and lighting.”

“My faith is strong, lord,” replied Markov in a raspy croak

Without another word, Heinrich produced a silver key from his belt and unlocked the Empowered Priest’s collar. It and the key clattered to the ground and the arcanist immediately began pulsating with power. His robes rippled and his eyes flared with white light. He hobbled to the edge of the roof and gazed down with fire in his eyes. Without so much as muttering a prayer or arcane formula, Markov snarled and held out his rigid, gnarled hands. His face contorted with strain.

Energy crackled through the air, and with an earsplitting crack it was unleashed. A salvo of lightning lashed down from the sky like jagged knives, lancing through the mobs of demons and blasting them into chunks of steaming gore. Several more arced into the deadly fire elementals. The hail followed, raining down in jagged shards upon the heart of the infernal swarm. Heinrich nodded in approval, though his Empowered Priest’s awesome display of power always left him uneasy, as did the mad glint in the old man’s eyes.

“Remain here and continue your work,” Heinrich instructed, before turning to the black-clad Templar Initiate at the stairs. “Vlad. Remain here with Markov. I and your Templar brothers are needed on the streets.” He handed the Initiate Markov’s collar and departed without another word. The three remaining Templar awaited him at the bottom. They stood perfectly still, but Heinrich could tell that they were eager for battle.

With but a simple hand gesture, he led his Templar into the tumultuous streets. The Witch Hunter darted out first, his gleaming glaive carving a bloody path through the demon swarms. Unholy flesh sizzled and burned at the holy weapon’s touch. The Templar rushed forward, forming a protective half-circle around their master, warding away the enemy with their shields and smashing demon skulls with mighty maces. The four of them quickly fought their way to the Salvic infantry.

“‘And the righteous shall wield the might of the Ethereal Sway like a sword from the heavens and strike down the forces of wickedness’!” shouted Heinrich over the din of battle and the crack of thunder. “The forces of darkness have risen to devour this city, and all of Salvar! By holy providence, we must drive them back to the abyss! To the gate, men! Push them to the gate!” More hail and lightning rained from the heavens, blasting holes in the infernal hoard. The spearmen cheered heartily and powered forward behind the holy agents.

In the distance, more infantry entered the fray from alleys and side roads, including a block of imposing Honor Guard that moved in to support the spearmen on the main road. There were still under eight hundred men trying to hold back thousands of hellish beasts. The rest remained scattered through the city. Heinrich did not know where they were, but if they didn’t rally quickly to turn the tides, the city would be lost.

* * * * *

Three hundred riders thundered across the field south of Archen. They galloped furiously past the remaining repositioned catapults as crewmen scrambled to load and fire their machines at the distant enemies. Deep cavalry horns pierced the night. The knights of Salvar rode into battle. They rode to their doom in order to cut the demonic tide off at the neck and allow the defenders precious time to rally.

General Timko led the charge with his hundred might knights behind him, their lances at the ready and their plate armor gleaming hellishly in the glow of the burning city. The lighter horsemen followed closely behind, their spears held high as they rounded the wall. Nearly two thousand demons stretched out in the darkness before them, pouring into the city as boulders and masonry rained down upon them. The riders faltered, and Nicholi Timko rode to the forefront of his host. With the eyes of his men upon him, the general, the warrior, spoke.

“Raise your shields, sons of Salvar!” Timko cried, holding his sword high. “This night, blood will be shed, bones will be shattered, and saints shall be born! Lift your voices to the heavens and let the hells tremble beneath your feet! Charge, men! Charge with me into the mouth of the Abyss!” Horns called, men shouted, and the sons of Salvar charged forth. The ground trembled beneath them as they smashed into the enemy in a wall of spears, lances, and hooves.

[Visla Eraclaire]

As Aelva wound her way past bloody heaps that once were men and the searing pungent remains of demons, she heard shouting and the thunder of horses in the distance. Her demonic features faded away, covered by the image of a terrified young woman, caught up in the tumult of battle. The wound across her chest only served to highlight her seeming misfortune. She looked up to the sky, the image of Visla clutched in the Vrock's talons, and forced tears into her eyes before she continued down narrow alleys away from the main streets where troops could march.

She knew a soldier would not do, no true military man would be taken in by her words. As she heard the mighty charge issue down the main way and out onto the battlefield, she knew that those were men too hardened to be of any use. She would be skewered on a pike without a second thought. Neither could she persuade anyone with her demonic wiles. In any other land, diverse as Althanas was, her horns would not arouse enough suspicion to undo the spell that her eyes wove into mortal hearts. But Salvar was acutely aware of demonic influence. Its people were wary of churches, abyssal beasts, and constant conflict. This was the foundation upon which to build her plea: human frailty, desperation, and a desire to be done with it all. What she asked was no less than suicide.

The wounded damsel with bloodied clothes and tearful eyes made her way through lines of residences, their doors battered in, belongings strewn about. It was not the work of the Marilith's forces but the Salvarian's own people. Neither side had a monopoly on depravity in this war. Inside one such disgraced hovel, a voice whimpered from beneath an overturned table. Aelva darted inside before any bloodthirsty being, man or demon, heard it.

She found a sandy haired youth, a boy who could only recently be technically called a man. His tall, awkward adolescent form was huddled in a pile of refuse, mixed with blood. Wide brown eyes looked up at Aelva with fear, fear even of a slender young woman, injured and unarmed. His mouth gaped open. Whether it was to speak or scream, the succubus placed her soft human hand over it and brought a finger to her lips, hushing him.

"The battle has just begun. Whatever terrifies you, much worse things are yet to come," she said with a voice more comforting than her dire words would suggest.

The boy wailed beneath the muffling of her hand. There were no words, just grief. It was a horror and loss that did not lend itself to syllables or sentences. As Aelva looked around the room, the setting told a story that did not need the boy as narrator. A table with three chairs, a woman's corpse in the corner, and likely a father's body littering the battlefield somewhere, it all gave a simple message: Resistance was hopeless. That the boy had not been pressed into service like his father was the only shock. Whether he had hidden, been spared, or simply looked too useless to be worth the effort, it didn't matter. He was alone, scared, and utterly suggestible.

"I need your help," Aelva pleaded, releasing his mouth. "My name is Alice and my sister has been taken by the demons. I'm not here to force you to fight. I won't hurt you like those men did. All you need to do is come with me and you can end all of this."

"H-h-how?" the boy stammered, evidencing that there was still some reason left in his rattled skull.

"A noble sacrifice, like your mother that saved you," she said, a wild guess, but hopefully close enough to have some effect. "You've lost everything that matters. Give up on this world and be greeted in the next as a hero. The choices those men offered you were death as a coward or death as a soldier, but I offer you a third choice: death as a savior."

The boy simply look her hand and stood up. However he came to his decision, whatever processes remained within his addled mind, he was willing. Willing enough, she thought, though he knew not what he would do…

[Visla Eraclaire]

Having requested a post by my opponent some time ago and receiving none, likely having something to do with his intent to leave the site and start his own ill-advised competing RP site, I am writing a conclusion to salvage something worthwhile out of what originally seemed like an interesting topic idea.

Aleva dragged her sacrificial lamb through the gruesome killing floor that the city streets had become. The gutters ran a murky red with the blood of zealot soldiers intermingled with a sickly black demonic ichor. Corpses of fallen comrades were left to rot beside the rapidly putrefying remains of demons. At the flashpoint of a cavalry charge between the city's defenders and amarite cavalry, mortal-forged steel clashed against spiny, hardened carapaces. Serrated pikes skewered horses alive and tossed their riders to the ground to be torn apart by shambling mounds of damned flesh.

For all the carnage and horror they were inflicting, the demonic army lost dozens of its own for every human killed. Without strategy or sense, their leader soared above riding on waves of intense pain and stupefying euphoria. Aelva looked up at her, knowing that if she did not free her soon, the rout of the army would mean Visla's death. She grabbed the boy's hand tighter and forced him on, past men and beasts locked in deadly combat, toward the ramparts of the city.

Those stone walls were crumbled in places by the battering of senseless masses below, fueled by an undying rage but lacking even the most basic intelligence to walk through the open gates. Piles of rubble formed a precarious ascent which a group of demonic archers had surmounted to rain down arrows upon the troops below, both friend and foe. They were satyrs, close relatives if only by appearance of succubi like Aelva. Cloven hooves, clawed hands, and curling horns made the two races brother and sister, though the teeming chaos of the Abyss made certain that for all appearances they were almost nothing alike.

Aelva revealed her claws and clutched the ruined section of the wall tightly, hefting the boy behind her. Her grip loosening with every inch she climbed, she struggled upward even as her temporary companion wriggled. Perhaps somewhere in his mind he knew that his fidgeting brought him ever closer to a precipitous fall, but fear and confusion ruled his thoughts more than any semblance of reason and so he squirmed every last moment of the climb, until he was at last tossed onto the summit. Aelva joined him shortly after and surveyed the battlefield.

The demons were held back near the city gates, even as piles of human bodies were stacked like cordwood at their feet. A dozen satyrs scattered along the wall drew their bowstrings and loosed black arrows at the point of battle, striking human flesh and demon hide with equal frequency. They took no notice of the succubus and her thrall as they scampered along the rampart.

As a satyr knocked another arrow, his gaze fixed on the chaos below, Aelva dug her claws into his back. She dragged out viscera, ichor, and sinew as she pulled her talons back and the beast fell limp, dropping his bow to the ground. The boy simply huddled against one of the wall's crenellations, doubting his choice to accompany this vicious woman but unwilling to change his course for fear of her wrath and knowing that nothing better awaited him below.

Aelva took up the bow from the ground, a recurve formed of bleached white bone and tendon that still seemed to pulse with life. The quiver produced a dart of sharpened bone with black feathered fletching. Sighting the Vrock, circling the battlefield, Aelva loosed the arrow, knowing the very real possibility that she would strike Visla and see another wound form on her flesh.

The bolt sailed toward the vulture demon and struck it in the wing. It screeched and turned its otherwise darting eyes toward the wall. Visla's gaze turned as well to see Aelva and what little humanity remained beneath the torrent of bloodlust commanded her steed to sail down toward the succubus.

[Visla Eraclaire]

The fiendish Vrock swooped toward Aelva, its razor-sharp leg talons extended toward her. Visla was still clutched tightly in its talons, the bloodstone bangle pulsing wickedly on her wrist. The succubus threw herself to the ground as the vulture demon struck, its dive crashing straight into the stonework of the wall. Unphased, it spun around and snapped at her with its pointed beak,

Tossing the bow aside, Aelva lunged forward, into the waiting maw of the Vrock, reaching out to snatch the bracelet that shackled her summoner. Visla watched with glazed eyes as her mount's beak clamped down across the succubus' midsection, even as she laid her hand on the crimson stone. Aelva felt no pain and struggled to wrest the bangle from Visla even as the warlock writhed in all the torment the succubus ought to feel from being nearly bitten in half.

Prying the item loose at least, it clung greedily to Visla's Essence, continuing to siphon it even after it was removed. And so Aelva shouted toward the boy, "Your time is now!"

He rose. His weak body animated by what Aelva hoped was a noble desire of self-sacrifice. In truth, it could only be described as an awkward reflexive obedience brought on by sheer terror. The young man made his way toward Aelva's outstretched arm and willingly accepted the bangle. It clung to his flesh and the stream of Essence draining from Visla abated, and with it her otherworldly daze.

The boy's eyes blazed with newfound life and the Vrock dropped both succubus and warlock to clutch him in its talons. It soared off over the battlefield, obeying whatever dark thoughts lurked within its new master's mind. Aelva was left with a massive gash across her midsection and Visla, no longer anesthetized by the bangle, wailed out in pain from Aelva's wounds.

Aelva took on her demonic form and knelt to collect the bow and quiver, a meager parting gift for such horrendous trouble. With the weapon slung over hs shoulder, she clutched Visla in her arms. Beneath her hooves, a carpet of shadow formed that let the two drift down the wall's rubble and out of the war torn city. The battle raged on, stoked anew by the young boy's furious commands against the men that had butchered his mother. The screams echoed in the air and the scent of blood and fire did not leave even once the city had become but a dot on the horizon.

Slowly and agonizingly, Aelva and Visla drifted along the Salvarian landscape, their escape unnoticed through the fog of war. They were flint and tinder, striking out the spark that ignited the powder keg of battle between man and demon. The container had been heaped high and filled to bursting with hatred, zealotry, and the never ending brutality of the Abyss. If it had not been them, any of a dozen other flames could have lit its fuse. At least that's what they told themselves as they limped back to a small camp to tend Aelva's wounds.

Hopefully by nightfall she could spread her ebon wings and deliver them to a land less fraught with strife, if even such a place remained…

Taking whatever necessary loss in XP and foregoing all GP for this thread, I would request the following spoil.

Satyr's Bow ~ The weapon described above that Aelva used to get the Vrock's attention. Its quiver produces a dozen arrows and so long as one of these arrows draws blood or its equivalent from a target, it produces another dozen when the ammunition is spent. The old arrows turn to ash once a new set is produced. If no blood is drawn by the shots, the archer must pour a vial's worth of her own blood into the quiver to produce more ammunition.

[Taskmienster]

The Harbingers of Ruin :: Well well, I’m finally getting to this. I’m sorry it’s taken so long, and I’d like to say that it was due to anything but the length… but that’s not the case. Hah. This thread was massive, and I’m going to go with limited commentary for both of you. Unless I see something that stands out, I’ll keep it rather brief. If you’d like to ask questions feel free to PM me or catch me in whatever means possible. I’ll help as much as I can.

I would like to note, before I get into the scores, that I’m rather confused as to the purpose of this thread. I’m not really happily going to hand out experience and rewards for writing not with your own character, or even having the character present. If someone writes as an NPC, it’d be nice if it was for a reason… such as in the FQ as part of a moderated quest, or if the NPC’s story somehow influences your own. Christoph… where was Elijah in any of this?


Continuity Christoph: 5 | Visla : 7

Wasn’t sure where Christoph’s character was at all. What was given wasn’t bad, it made sense and came together well, but all in all it was the lack of your actual character that confused me.

Setting Christoph: 7 | Visla: 6.5

You did better than Visla in this, but really… the posts were so long that I would be surprised if everything wasn’t covered twice or thrice over in every single post.

Pacing Christoph: 4 | Visla: 7

These posts were incredibly long, which isn’t bad… except for the simple fact that they seemed to go on forever to the point where I was bored while reading something about people that had nothing to do with your character. Christoph, you are a good writer, but writing 4 pages of block text about moving through cities and stuff makes the reader just cringe. This is a lot of writing, without enough to draw me into the writing.

Dialogue Christoph: 6 | Visla: 6.5

Action Christoph: 7 | Visla: 6

Persona Christoph: 6.5 | Visla: 7.5

Technique Christoph: 6.5 | Visla: 6

Mechanics Christoph: 6 | Visla: 8

There were a lot of mistakes in the posts by Christoph.

Clarity Christoph: 5 | Visla: 7

Wild Card Christoph: 6 | Visla: 8

Score:
Christoph: 59

Visla: 69.5

Rewards:

Christoph :: 500 exp | 130 gold

Visla :: 2875 exp | 80 gold

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added!

Visla levels to 5!