Searching for a purpose...

[Falcon Darkflight]

"...Canen, what's our current position?" Inquired the nimble, dark haired youth Mandal as he trudged a couple of metres in front of his leader, hurdling fallen trees and stomping flat the long, rough edged grass that whipped around in the warm Concordia breeze. He was only around 5'5" tall, with a slender complexion that one would guess would belong to a young human of his mid 20's, and bore hazel brown eyes that glimmered in the filtered summer sunlight of the forest. By his side he carried a quarterstaff of some impressive craftsmanship; a smooth bore steel pipe with two three-foot long blades welded on either side to an almost perfect connecting joint. The weld-work was barely even visible to the naked eye and such showed that somebody had put a lot of time and effort into crafting the weapon. Although it was plain, with no markings or inscriptions of any sort aside from the worn letters "G.H.O" printed in italics in the centre of the hilt, it looked extremely dangerous.

"Well, i'd say we were about two miles north of where we need to be..." The Nocturn answered quietly, brushing his long black hair back behind his head so that the tangled mess would no longer obstruct his view of the feintly marked map he had unfurled in front of him. His emerald green eyes flashed quickly over the red inked markings he had previously made with a feather pen that indicated the last known positions of the Ghost Hand Order fortifications had been searching for over the past two days. The ink spiralled in a winding pattern down the parchment, clearly indicating the frustrations that had followed as their targets eluded their progress. It looked as if all hope was soon to be lost.

Growling to himself under his breath in a momentary lapse of patience, Canen sighed and stopped dead amongst the foliage that entangled itself around him, snaring his feet in thick vines and pricking his skin with spiny branches that extended from almost every direction. The small band of black and grey arnour clad footsoldiers also stopped and stood bolt still, waiting for an order to be barked or, more hopefully, a break to be announced. However, previously having served in the G.H.O for many years before Canen's departure, they collectively thought that the latter was unlikely. The exile of their leader had caused them to follow him out of the front door into Karak, pledging their loyalty to the fallen one as he experienced his near fatal illness. Without him, they would be nothing. Canen felt the same way.

"My lord, why have we stopped?" enquired Mandal once more, twirling the quarterstaff around in his right hand with some degree of finesse and playfully slashing at the long grass that had enveloped his heavy, boot clad feet. It was the same quarterstaff that had once belonged to Dxun before his untimely demise at the hands of Prince Raelyse Salidan. "Is something up?"

Canen's eyes rolled up to the canopy of leaves above the platoon where the thick oak trees of Concordia thrived the most, and peered through the broken light to see the form of his trusted companion Lothrain, a Nocturnian Crow, soaring overhead on his lush black wings. The distant echo of consistant cawing had signalled that he had indeed honed in on something in a clearing ahead...perhaps a mile away. With this, a thin grin parted his lips and his eyes flashed back down to the ground, a slight twitch in his right fist indicating his need to find the destination.

"Lothrain has found something, and I sincerely hope it is the Concordia Fortress. We move on for a mile and see what we can find. Spread out, keep it low profile." The Nocturn barked at the small platoon behind him, who immediatly set about performing their task. The back lines separted into a bigger, further spread chain that spanned a distance of 100 feet through the woods, each man acting as his neighbor's messenger through the chain. Mandal paralled the movements as they traversed the obsticles of the forest of Concordia together, awaiting the sight of what would hopefully prove to be their most sought after target.

Canen's apparently fruitless venture went on for another ten minutes. The peace and serenity of the forest appeared to have a calming influence over the ex Ghost Hand Order leader, who would normally lose his composure at such frustration. This fortification that the ex-Partisans looked for, it appeared to not exist at all. But he had been there, he had overseen the construction of the fortress piece by piece. How was it so that a structure of such design could simply go missing without a trace?

His feet crushed the leaves underfoot as he walked in the seemingly endless Concordian forest, his band of men in cautious pursuit behind him. The seemingly peaceful forest looked to be only an empty void now for the warrior. He had remembered how he had met Raelyse here, and how the blood of Dxun had stained the beautiful forest. He also remembered how that one single misunderstanding, how Raelyse had been confused for that bounty hunter, had created a flawed empire. That's why he was always on his guard, his ears perked at all times. His senses were poor though and his mind was focused on both finding the fortress as well as trying to recover from the exhaustion of his pilgrimage...

[Falcon Darkflight]

"Stop."

One simple, solemn command from Canen's lips was enough to halt the line of his men who raked the foilage with prying eyes, searching for anything they deemed suspicious to the nature of their mission. Mandal stood still, flickering his eyes in the bright sunlight that filtered in through the gaps in the leafy canopy overhead as he tried to scan the area for whatever his leader had seen, but he found nothing. Overhead he saw Lothrain glide on his gorgeous black wings for about 100 metres before landing with a graceful posture onto a nearby tree, overlooking a small clearing up ahead. The trees seemed to purposely part in this clearing, as if man made, but had an aura of mysticism about the place that suggested no one had been here for years. The undergrowth was undisturbed and silent. The trees flourished in these parts of the forest better than any other, and in more volume as if growing conditions increased the further into Concordia one travels. It was a strange sight, no doubt, but was not unusual. Nature has ways to preserve itself if it was needed.

Falcon stared straight ahead in a trance like gaze, his emerald eyes transfixed on an object of interest ahead. Although he had no clear point of view from where he stood due to the overhanging branches that obscured his otherwise long sighted vision, his bond with Lothrain would be enough to identify what appeared to be the reason for his coming to Concordia ahead. He closed his eyes for a second, reaching out with his mind and soul to his partner in the trees, and then opened them slowly and calmly.

"What is this?" He muttered to himself in a slurred tone, his mind racing and digging for an explanation for what he saw...or, in this case, what he couldn't see. In the back of his mind the image of the Ghost Hand Order's Concordia Fortress pressed upon him. He remembered how it looked, as if it were in front of him now, towering above his position.

For miles and miles in every direction there was a blanket of healthy green foilage, with looming trees towering over the ground in an almost proud fashion that made the forest look as if it were the very ruler of Corone itself, the very vanguard of the society of Concordia. This veil of lush plant life rolled over small foothills and mountains alike and created an atmosphere that just could not be felt anywhere else on the island. It was a magnificant natural occurance, and there was little decision that had to be made when the GHO had decided to use it as a foundation for their first headquarters.

Canen remembered standing atop the northenmost foothill in Concordia, which although un-named was a familiar sight amongst travellers and warriors alike, feeling the clear day's breeze touch his pale white skin with a delicate and gentle sensation. His emerald green eyes looked down to the thick valley of forestry below and upon the human lumber town of Underwood, which seemed around 4 to 5 kilometres away down the slope. In the clearing upon which it was founded he could spot the early morning workers, mainly lumberjacks and craftsmen of the practical nature who would no doubt harvest from the seemingly endless supply of trees and timber that flourished here, going about the first steps of preperation for their business. Setting up stalls, retreiving tools of all descriptions and biding farewell to their families.

He could feel his black hair bustle in that sensational early morning breeze, falling about his face as he paced down the black stone ramparts of the Concordia fortress, finally completed after months of construction. It's bulky structure stood atop the peak of the hill, almost built into the side of it but also cleverly constructed so as not to disturb any of the wildlife that populated the area. Forestry surrounded the base of the hill, but did not climb it. That was something he had pondered to himself as he slowly climbed down a flight of stairs upon the northern wall which led down into the large cobblestone courtyard below. His then black greatcoat trailed down the stairs behind him and fluttered violently in the the breeze that had suddenly picked up, and as he reached the bottom he stood silent for a moment, reflecting on his work and the work of the GHO.

He remembered standing in the centre of a large courtyard, somewhat similar to a small town square that you might find nearer the ports. A towering wall, crafted from the finest black stone and heavily re-enforced with steel girders and supports, encircled the main enclosure and at each of the four corners stood a towering spire, which served as both a guard station and also a main support for the walls. The spires twisted into the air with an ethereal aura and felt almost alive as you passed by them upon the ramparts. Passing through them was something else though, as the interior gave the impression of a very modern apartment that one might find in the city of Radasanth. Fully furnished for the guards to live in, with beds, a kitchen in each and the usual security equipment and a generous supply of food and water. Perfect for living in.

The Courtyard boasted a large well from which fresh water was hoisted from an underground river, which Canen had remembered solving his original problem of having to find a supplier for fresh water. Next to the well was a small ivory fountain. This particular feature had been a solid piece of Red Dragon architecture from the old headquarters back in Karak that he had saved especially for a time where he would construct a new HQ. It was in the shape of a large dragon that had curled itself around the crown jewels in what seemed to be a bid to protect them, and upon the base of the fountain read a large golden plaque, scratched and worn but legible. It's text was italic and of a scripted nature, but the message read loud and clear, and echoed several decades of truth, justice and honour.

For honour, dignity and respect...

Canen struggled to contain himself slowly as he remembered, or tried to remember, the meaning of that motto. There was little anybody did these days to earn the respect or honour that had been acheived between clan-mates in The Castigar war, but hopefully he could change all that. Hopefully. But here he stood in this modest clearing, surrounded by the ones who used to frequent this place with their activity and methodic scouting, and looked on in horror at the empty void that had been left. Only the bedrock was visible from the massive structure, and it hurt him to think of the only explanation he could muster from within.

Are they all gone? Has the Order dissolved?

[Falcon Darkflight]

Concordia forest, 01:00hrs

Canen's decision to set up camp for the night had been widely welcomed.

The gentle caress of the evening on the thick, bushy leaves of Concordia's great forest created a zone of comfort in the silence of the night. There was nothing alive that was awake at this god forsaken hour in the morning aside from the ex-Partisans and their leader and not even a dark navy blue hint of dawn, not a shred of light, appeared in the inky, cloud smudged sky. It had rained during the night, the sodden earth on the soil of the forest bed consisted more of the soaking wet autumn leaves than of dirt these days and this placed a lot of emphasis on the sheer volume of trees emerging, even at this late stage in the year. The odours of the greenery mixed and swirled with the scents of the fresh and healthy forest soil, and further adding to the natural atmosphere was the smell of the smouldering campfire on the old fortress bedrock. Three or four groups of man slept at once, with two black clad two-man guards patrolling the perimeter to keep the campsite secure. However, no matter how hard he tried, Canen Darkflight could not get his head down for even just an hour of sleep.

The heavy gusts made his red and black runed cape flap in the wind like the sail of a ship, his black hair tumble about the wind in heavy, twisted saturated strands and his emerald eyes wince. He strode over the leaves and through the blanket of branches through the forest in a manner which almost seemed like gliding across water. He was light footed despite his weight and rarely allowed a single twig to break underneath his crisp leather boots, perhaps a trait of leading the Partisans for so long. He had journied far, from the faraway regions outside of the known borders to return to the Corone mainland after his self inflicted exile away from civilisation, and it had appeared that he had returned to a self aware and fit state again. There were no dark markings on his skin, no signs of wear or tear on his body. There was even a slight smile on his lips as he embraced the isolation in nature he so loved, standing still for a moment so he could feel the droplets of rainwater fall from the leaves above.

"Sir..." Crept a voice from the centre of the slab of bedrock, near the burnt out and now drowned out campfire. One of the Partisans sat up, apparantly also unable to sleep in these somewhat humid conditions, and supped a cup of murky brown liquid from a canteen kept in a leather knapsack nearby. He screwed on the rough lipped lid and tossed it a short distance towards Canen, who caught it in his right hand. The Nocturn unscrewed the bottlecap and swigged the liquid from the container, wincing as the bitter and warming alcohol punched the back of his throat. He replaced the cap, and tossed it back, thankful for the stomach warmer. "Cheers, Sekonda."

The Partisan named Sekonda nodded and rose to his feet, perching himself on a log nearby to the Nocturn, who was still reeling from the strength of the drink. "You like it, sir? It's home brewed Coronian whisky. Made it back on the ranch near Radasanth during my time as a farmer...matured in a beechwood cask for eight years, single malt..." Sekonda rubbed the scratched black sides of the canteen with the sleeve of his uniform, breathing onto it and polishing it furiously. Canen could hardly make him out in the dark, but noticed his blue eyes shining back out of the darkness. He was of elven descent, picked up by the Partisans during a mission back in the days of the old Ghost Hand Order. Mandal had found him left die in Concordia forest with three stab wounds after bandits torched his house and killed his mother and sister. Sekonda had killed four of them in the ensuing fight with only a knife...

"It's good. Got a bit of a kick to it though..." Canen cheerfully stated, wiping his burning lips free of remaining whisky with the back of his sleeve. He coughed as the fumes of the drink hit his nasal passage. Sekonda chuckled to himself, taking another large swig from the bottle. "It's not for pussies, Sir. This shit could knock the back of your head off. That means its a 'Partisan-only' drink, sir. If you get my meaning..." There was a long pause. Sekonda was thinking, and eventually broke the deadlock of silence. "What do you think happened here anyway?"

Canen shook his head. He had no idea himself, and could only begin to hazard guesses as to where an entire garrison of GHO soldiers and a fortress could be taken and how far. "Well, its not easy to move a fortress brick by damn brick. Perhaps they re-located? Or disbanded...I don't know. If Raelyse Salidan is still in control, who knows what he's done..." Sekonda continued whilst the Nocturn paused, thinking for a quick moment whilst he tried to get his thought processes in order. He sat on the log next to his Partisan and sighed. "The only way to find out is to get to Erebus and visit the Headquarters. If they still exist..."

[Falcon Darkflight]

The humidity climbed further through the early hours of the morning. This, coupled with the warmth of the campfire that had smouldered away for hours on end created a heavy, uncomfortable atmosphere as the Partisans slept on through the night, tossing and turning in the heat. The ground was rough and hard, and hardly anyone in the group could sleep past a couple of hours undisturbed by the sweltering temperatures. The journey to Concordia had been hard enough over the past two days, traversing the hazards of the mountains and taking the risky descent through monster infested terrirtory, but these conditions were becoming near unbearable, even for the core of the former 25th. However, no Partisan dared to show a grimace or voice a complaint. It was against their nature. They were professionals...even at this dark time.

Canen was completely without the desire to sleep. He walked at a slow pace, weaving in and out of the small groups of sleeping Partisans quietly, his feet pressing silently on the bedrock of the now dismantled fortress. His eyes surveyed each face of the sleeping men and women individually. It was nice, once in a while, to remind himself that these were people. Individual, living people. Each with their own asperations and dreams, hopes and fears. Each one could be broken in one way and motivated in another, yet together, they seemed to glue. They seemed almost immune to defeat. He could not care for the fairy tales he had often listened to about the 25th, about their so called cowardace. Canen had long since kept his eye on the main bulk of the Partisans and had never found himself to be disappointed with his decision to create the division, or had ever once regretted recruiting particular individuals.

The ever alert and never sleeping Sekonda walked a few feet in front of the Nocturn, his fists tightly clenched by his side. They were drenched in sweat from the unbearable humidity, yet his youthful face never once showed a sign of complaint. The fierce warrior was exceptionally defensive of his pride and was never one to show pain, even in the face of death. Perhaps that was why he was one of the ones who Canen was most concerned about.

As the young human officer snaked through the seemingly endless groups of Partisans, he began to hear something. He started to slow his paces, looking around the dark reaches of the shadows into the edges of the clearing. The sound of a faint rustling of leaves rippled into his rosy ears, and his blue eyes flickered from left to right as he tried to identify the postition of the sound.

"Canen..." He whispered to his leader, who was now stood deadly still by his side. "...Can you hear that?"

The sound echoed, louder and louder, nearer and nearer and deeper into the woods a small humming noise could be made out over the snoring and grumbling of the sleeping soldiers. Sekonda and Canen skipped over their black-clad counterparts and silently rushed to the edge of the grey bedrock to further analyse the noise. They began to grow more and more cautious...

"Yes. Stay silent..." The Nocturn raised an authorititive pale white hand into the air to signal to Sekonda to remain quiet, to which he obeyed instantly.

The sound was becoming audible to the point where it seemed the source would emerge at any time through the thick foilage of the Concordian Forest, the slumbering Partisans still unaware of this sudden occurance bar their leader and officer. The point of origin of the sound seemed only about ten feet wide. The sound then, suddenly, differed. It's monotonous tone sharpened into the sound of scraping, like someone or something was dragging an iron girder through the deadwood of the forest bed. It seemed as time grew further on, with Canen and Sekonda the only ones managing to stay alert, something was headed their way. By the sounds of it, something big. Or something carrying something big. He did not know why, but Canen felt a sudden surge of rarely experienced fear surge through his veins and up his spine. He glanced sideways at Sekonda, and noted his expressionless face. Was he hiding the fear? Or was he truely dead to the meaning of it?

Sekonda softly looked both left and right, and then back at Canen. It was visible now. The fear in those deep, marine blue eyes had finally worn through. There was something...not right...about that scraping sound. Like it wasn't natural...first, he had dismissed the noise as nothing, perhaps a fragment of his inability to sleep. But then it came again. And again. And again.

What happened next, Canen could not explain.

[Falcon Darkflight]

The scraping of the iron continued to shrill over the forest, over and over again in small, heavy intervals. One by one the Partisans began to awaken to the sound, some of them still believing themselves to be locked inside their dreams, others beginning to grip the reality more quickly than others and leaping to their feet instinctivly grabbing at any weapon they could find close by, even if just for personal comfort. Every moment that went by as that ethereal shreaking of metal continued was adding to the pulsating feeling of fear. Sekonda could not stop looking from side to side like some sort of deluded paranoid maniac, or thinking about whether he had made the right decision to come to this place, and now every little feeling of fear he would usually keep under lock and key was starting to filter through his usually invincible deminour.

It was then, as that metallic scraping got so loud it seemed almost upon them, it stopped. An eerie silence covered the clearing, and each and every Partisan of the former 25th Division waited for an order or instruction form their leader. Canen did not issue one, nor did he make a single movement. His emerald eyes were caught in some sort of deathly trance and his head locked firmly in position, staring into the sheer black outline of the forest to the west. At first the Partisans, including Sekonda, had thought Canen had gone mad with fear but after a short while they soon discovered the reason for his endless gaze.

At the forests edge, the silhouette of a large, shadowy humanoid could just be made out. It stayed completely still all for its breathing and appeared to carry something in its right 'hand', perhaps an iron girder or something else of metallic nature, it couldn't be indentified in this light. Suddenly, without warning, Canen began to pace slowly forward. Even the silent pleas of his troops went un-noticed as one black boot followed the other off of the edge of the fissured bedrock and stone onto the leafy clearing below, eyes still firmly secured onto this terrifying figure ahead.

Canen, what the hell... Sekonda internally cursed as he his frantic waving and silent pleas fell on deaf ears. His face showed an unhealthy mixture of fear and frustration and thus gave away the fact he did not want to get involved with whatever it was on the edge of the forest.

Dressed in a body length bloodsoaked black smock, complete with a black, faceless war helmet. Canen could see more of it at each pace forward, his hands now trembling with fear. The humming noise was still within hearing distance, albeit feint, and this added to the tense atmosphere surrounding the now isolated Nocturn and this demon-like figure. The Partisans had never seemed so almost reduced to helplessness, unwilling to step down from their secure position to possibly risk their lives and mission for the sake of a psychopathic looking entity.

It was at this time, aghast the pitch black background of Concordia Forest, Canen had came his closest to not caring for his lack of bravery. The fear flowed through his body like blood, his hands quivering at the very thought of what he knew was stood in front of him. Already, he had tried to explain what he saw in front of him without success. Surely it couldn't have been the entity he thought it was, standing only a couple of metres from his position in the same trance like posture the Nocturn had adapted. There was no way. It was impossible...

His trance like state, however, was quickly knocked back to reality when his mysterious and frightening counterpart suddenly jerked forward, accompanied by a deep throated growl. it's right 'arm' thrust from left to right and the whistling sound of the Concordian air being slashed went just inches above Canen's head as he threw himself to the muddy floor with all of his might. He quickly rolled out of the way as the demon revealed its mighty weapon the Maul Scythe, bringing it back slowly from the right to swing its massive curved blade over its dark, faceless head to pierce the leafy clearing bed.

"Everybody get out of here, NOW!" Canen screamed at the top of his lungs, evading a left fisted swipe from the lumbering humanoid. It seemed too slow to hit him but still so determined, showing no signs of frustration and no hesitance in its efforts. "If you want to live, climb the trees!"

Before he could finish his cry of warning to the black-clad warriors of the Partisans, he felt the butt of a wooden object smash into the back of his skull. He fell to his knees, as if the connection to his brain had been severed in an instant, and collapsed face first into the dirt.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Nocturnis City: 117 Years Ago

He stood in a daze, gripping his Valiance tightly within the grasp of his pale, chalk white hands. The sword was much too big for him, being only a boy, a year or so shy of the coming of age of a man and weighed him down greatly. The swaying black hair and spirited shining emerald eyes looked somewhat out of place against the white porclain like face of the young Canen Darkflight, his black painted lips pounding back and forth heavily with every painful gasp of air. He bore the sword like a crucifix, wincing in pain every few seconds from the cramp he was suffering in every muscle in his young body as he struggled to follow Ardemis through the thick white fog of Nocturnis, whose aged, war painted face seeemed to dance before his eyes in slow motion, the man turning to hurriedly beckon to Canen. A thundering cry erupted from Ardemis' mouth as Canen was sucked back into real-time, the sounds of screaming and roaring fires suddenly jumping back to life, surrounding and smothering him like a blanket of fear.

"Do not face them, child. Your father would never forgive me! This way, we should make for the forests!"

All was a blur. He dodged the clumsy and lumbering black-garbed Haicheyanne who paced solemnly around the burning city, torching buildings and slaying its defenders with contemptuous malice. There were hundreds of them, perhaps even thousands crawling over the city's vast architecture like a swarm of locusts tearing apart a season's crop. What angered him most, even as powerless as he was with his inexperience, and despite being armed for battle, not a single Haicheyanne or demon spirit had raised a sword to him. They deemed him not worthy of battle, and to suffer the deliberation of tormentors as despicable and amoral as the Haicheyanne made him burn inside with a blinding fury.

After what seemed like an age they reached the forest clearing in their living nightmare sprint, Canen clutching his sword with every spare drop of energy he had left inside, adamant that if he could do only one thing within his power, it would be to bear this great burden, almost as tall as he, and about as heavy, as far as he could. He would die at the hands of his demonic stalkers before he’d let go. Ardemis lunged with grace and ease through the thick foliage, and then ushered his young Nocturn apprentice in front of him. His eyes grew cold, a hint of sorrow scouring through, and he spoke with that inevitably dense tone of one saying a sad goodbye.

"You must go with young Gideon now; he will take you the rest of the way. Your father smiles down upon you in this time of great pain for our people, and I see his tears of joy in this dark sky. You are no fool, boy, and I do not lie to you. You know now where I must go. I must stay to the end. Goodbye, Canen."

Ardemis embraced Canen in a second, a gesture which the young Nocturn was too choked to appreciate or even enjoy, having had no affection from any living thing for so long. The aged warrior looked spiritedly into his eyes; the man scoured for sorrow, but Canen would honour him by showing none. He had to show strength, even as the lithe, gentle hand of his brethren Gideon Xerxes gripped his shoulder.

Ardemis drew his sword, and leapt back along the forest path. A final cry of hope denoted his departure.

"Do not cry, Canen! Even death can never steal our freedom, which these black-smitten murderous beasts so envy! Honour be thy blade, dignity thy shield, young Canen, and great Gideon, son of the liberator Gabriel!"

Canen felt himself pulled away by the stern hand, the image of Ardemis growing smaller along the treelines, yet his voice boomed on and echoed around the boy's head. The forest wobbled before him as he walked backwards, defying Ardemis' wish as tears streamed down his face, and he sobbed openly.

The young Gideon Xerxes, with his white hair tangled and matted in blood, simply walked on, having the discretion and courtesy not to speak or attempt to console his younger 'brother'. Canen had the time to watch his home, his people, his identity, slip through his fingers.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Outpost #127: 107 Years Ago

All around him, explosions rang out across the concrete parapet within the confines of one of the last Nocturnian border outposts. The humming of the active Haicheyanne dimensional warp portals rang out all around him, churning the air into a stomach turning hummingbird sonnet. A small cohort of Nocturnian Reavers stood strategically at points around the parapet, dressed, as if being the sole bearers of their people's legacy; in the relics of their people, swathed in age old tunics and clothes salvaged from the forest itself. Above the sound of the portals, and the shreaking, a voice cried out from above, and carried itself across the wind to Canen. He looked up, his painted white face full of malice as he gripped tightly on his sword hilt. The being the voice belonged to was faceless, smothered in a black hooded robe that covered its entire body and was levitating at least ten feet in the air. It looked almost nonchalantly down at him, as the vibrance of the portals surrounding them built up more and more speed.

The wind whipped at the robes and billowed Canen's own black tangled locks.

"Don't you see, there's no one left to fight. Nothing left to die for. We have taken it away, dragged out from under your feet as you struggle to hold on to your grudge. That poor Nocturnian Canen, and the lone Gideon Xerxes, left fighting nothing more than their own shadows...the remenants of a failed equation wasted. A pity..."

The devil Asmodeus, as was his identity within the Nocturnian beliefs, was in the process of collapsing all colonies and settlements of the Nocturn, in an attempt to wipe its civilisation's very history from record. Its existence had become obsolete now that the 'experiment' to find the perfect warrior had failed and such a volatile people becoming synonymous with the design for the new realms was an outcome that Asmodeus could not let be. The demon had warped in and ordered the discontinuation of any life forms and the destruction of all evidence that Nocturnis had ever existed.

The entire truth was being destroyed, and the only people to care were a rogue band of surviving Nocturnians, dragged together, and living as fugitives from the devil itself. How could the truth be saved if its fabrication was accepted without question by other people? To Canen's left, his old friend Gideon wrapped his cloak around himself majestically, and ran out to tackle another band of weaker Haicheyanne with his mythical no-dachi style Vampire Blade, bearing his pearl white teeth in rage.

The black-robed warrior danced upon the murky concrete with great fluidity, drawing his thin sword as he turned, disemboweling one of the Haicheyanne on the backswing. He made no sound, but simply swooped left to right, seemingly anticipating the clumsy, slow motions of the servants of Asmodeus, who had great trouble fighting at close combat with any degree of fluency. With two strokes he severed the head of one of the demons, and then drove his blade point into the heart of the other, who fell, choking to the ground, blood spattering upon Gideon's face with what could only be seen as satisfaction in the swordsman’s countenance.

As the last of the weaker wave of Haicheyanne scrambled as fast as their fat, rubber layered bodies could take them back towards their white noise portals, Canen saw his own satisfaction drifting away before his eyes as the evil Asmodeus held the crystal controlling his own portal and was soon warped away in a blinding flash. The stronger cohorts moved in, securing the area and scrabbling for any sign of life they could brutally murder, and Canen knew it was already too late. None of this had ever happened. There had never been a Nocturnis, as far as anyone was concerned. A shattered colony outpost, identical to hundreds of others across the continent, marked the hollow shell of this, and there was no one left to hate.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Palace of Samael: Two days later

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 leather upholstery. In the sultry air of the dark palace where Nocturnis had once stood, Canen was forced to his knees by the methodical gesture of a cold steel spearpoint being pressed to his head, and a cold leather boot locking against his shoulder blade. The devil smiled, as all spirits of evil do in any given situation, when most ironically their day-to-day list of situations hold little to smile about.

He sipped a drink from a black chalice, which gave the impression that the lighting in the room was actually inadequate after all.

"What is your name?"

Canen looked up through his mass of blooded, knotted hair. He had remembered those other of his cadre having tied trinkets and charms into some of his locks and strands, and then noticed, rather to his surprise, that many of them still swung and clattered around his head. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, knowing that their cultural significance would at that very moment be sickening to the devil, whom without the smile-mask as a restraint would have dived from his ill gotten throne to tear them from him.

"Your murderers killed my mother before she could name me," droned Canen, altering the pitch and intonation of his voice not once from the first word to the last.

Asmodeus huffed in the way only greatly obese, self-satisfied men can do. He loved to hear this answer, and felt more and more sure of himself when confronting the last of the Nocturnian race every time its verse was sung flatly and in such dull tone by one of their kind.

"Tell me, please. How many of your kind do you believe have knelt where you now kneel? I have heard this reply many hundreds of times. I know that it is common practice of your little resistance force. It is conduct and conduct alone. You cannot surely tell me that the Haicheyanne stormed your forest before a single one of you was named? Your name is Canen Darkflight, son of Maxmillian. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I know nothing of your little operations over the past ten years. It insults the image I grudgingly, most sickeningly bear of you..."

Canen sank once more with a disenchanted breath. He seemed to collapse entirely inside, not exactly at the words of his tormentor, but more at the implications of his question. The demon was right. Hundreds would have knelt here, or somewhere much less civilized. Oh how he begged now to be in some soaking wet, dark cell. How he begged to be away from the old whisky decanters, the oak furniture and the heavy silk curtains of this dark palace and its trespassing occupants. He pleaded in his mind for the thud of a heavy baton across his shoulder or face, the lash of a barbed whip upon his naked back; anything but this. It didn't draw this hateful spew of truth that began to surge into his consciousness. The truth did not make one truly see that hope was, in fact, nowhere in sight, but that it was truly, truly lost. He summoned some strength to talk, if only in order not to be silenced.

"I am. My master Armedis named me. My mother was killed in the fires of the last remenants of Nocturnis. You know this, and therefore know that I do not lie. Had I lied or told the truth, in any case, what difference would it make?"

Some shape came to his voice as Canen posed his question for Asmodeus, who appeared to be devoid of any expression of emotion at all. He raised the chalice to his face, and allowed the liquid to pour into the void underneath his hood. It simply evaporated upon contact, and Canen was unsure if the devil was actually consuming it or simply using it as a device to antagonise him further, sitting on the old Nocturnian throne drinking the royal wine.

"None whatsoever. I care little whether or not any of your race fell before or after you were named. I have all the satisfaction I need in that one word within. They fell. They are past-tense, as is all that you cling to. Anyway – just in case your savage little mind fails to remember, you are refraining from dying like the jaded martyr you would wish because you actually hold a purpose. Yes, a hidden purpose. You and Gideon both..."

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

"You are his only light. He has not seen you since last fall, and still he believes you will be here to rescue him. He has no home, and still he believes this, this so called 'fallen angel'. If you die, he loses whatever 'hope' he salvaged from the wreckage of his own life. Just like you. He will turn into another you, and I know that if you have any compassion for a living soul, you would never allow this to happen to anyone else. He is a fiery little wretch, not entirely unlike his old grand-dad, yes? But choose not to lie to yourself, Nocturn, and accept that you will not save him or any of your other people. I could have him killed at any moment I choose, and you could do nothing in your power to save almighty Gideon Xerxes. He will rot here by his sword, and, granted, we will learn from him. But please, give him this little fantasy – it is customary of Man to show some compassion, is it not?"

The devil looked at Canen's trembling form with false, cowing eyes, as if appealing greatly to him. In a second his 'face' erupted with laughter.

"You are alive for a purpose, Partisan. Canen, the Partisan. You are alive to be the living message that your race have failed, that your race has fallen. That your oh-so proud and prestigious people are now nothing more than angry, ugly slogans painted upon the property of mankind in the dead of night, proving to my race of demons what a disgusting and uncouth people you really are. You really are lost. You give no name as you kneel, ready for death because you deserve none. There is no Nocturnis, and history now accurately states that there was never such a civilisation. You have no great enemy to fight. You are shadowboxing every time you think that there is. You have lost. You, self professed saviour of your people, of Gideon, of your legacy, have lost..."

A prayer for the broken was answered at last, as the heavy oak butt of the spear struck the back of Canen’s head, the force knocking his face into the thin carpet at his knees. Asmodeus whisked a hand in the air to order the warrior to be removed, with no hope of tracing his journey, from the premises of the Black Temple. The terrible demon lolled his head back, his weight forcing the throne to creak loudly once more.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Khaian Forest: 105 Years Ago

The snow drifted its way through the forest canopy, blanketing all surfaces, no matter how irregular, as Canen made his way to the clearing. In the dead of night he came, the densely-packed trees and the moonless sky shrouding him from the eyes of the watchful demons under Asmodeus's iron rule. Ever since the slaughter of the city of Nocturnis over seven years ago, the Haicheyanne had continued to monitor the areas within the entire woodland area, and were said to regularly patrol its deep and silent tracks for miles, to the very heart of the forest itself.

He moved like a shadowy wraith amongst the firs, his heavy black cloak whipping the dense snow as he went. He tucked his head deep into the black hood of his fur coat and brushed aside a supple branch blocking his way, unsettling the cold white powder that had gathered and weighed it down awkwardly. He stepped forward to see the smoldering orange hue of a campfire, and a second later caught its strong scent, the bittersweet smell of burning wood. The figure that crouched by its fading warmth jumped up in a second, and brought the menacing point of a spearhead up to his side quickly, its polished metal surface being alien in contrast with the subtle greys of the sleeping forest. As Canen dived aside to evade the startled humanoid, he noticed the tight black uniform that clung to his frame, and also the shining 'Samael' insignia inscribed on his right shoulder.

'Executor'.

A sharp and accurate throw caused the javelin to sail through the trees, bringing an avalanche of powder from the heights of the fir trees to cloud the Executor’s vision even more so. Breathing hard and weaving at great pace through the trees Canen went, trying to get a better angle to confront the black-clad demon humanoid from. Suddenly, the thought hit him. He had never been in combat with an Executor class, and had absolutely no other experience to rely on in such a situation.

A feeling rushed back through his body, coursing all over his skin and making the flesh creep as he breathed heavily and wrenched the green talons of the trees from his face. He had not felt this way since he had felt his hands turn white, his knuckles protrude up like horrid sores as he attempted to hold on to his towering sword, back at the city as he was led away by his friend Gideon.

The feeling had to be ‘hate’. Such emotions had never been taught or entertained by the proud people who had educated the young Nocturn, as they were frowned upon as undignified and damaging to one’s honour. Yet the embossed black mark of Samael fixed itself in the young warrior’s mind, and he understood for the first time, the meaning of this ugly sensation. This was hate. This was real, undeniable abhorrence towards another, and its sting kept his limbs pounding to get into a more effective location.

Just inside the clearing the Executor swung back and forth wildly, as if blindfolded, startled by the many sounds of the forest which pulsed out into the night from every which way. As he turned, scouring the tree-line, the partisan-youth sprinted from hiding and leapt silently into the cold air, knocking the soldier to the ground. An ash-like eruption of snow filled the air as when a heavy book is dropped upon a dusty floor as they landed, and Canen tore at the black mask over the man’s face, clutching his pallid neck also as he did. A second later he questioned his reason for doing this, but in dragging the sock-like garment away he saw a youthful, cringing face staring back at him in rage. The Executor could have only just passed training, maybe a year or so older than he.

Thinking no more of this he drew The Valiance sword from its sheath and stood up before the young initiate of Asmodeus's cult could move, snow sliding off in sheets from his heavy attire as he rose. The Valiance was much heavier, Canen noticed, when its entire weight rested in ones hands alone. For months he had carried it upon his back, but never had he wielded it openly. Shaking, he kicked at the shaft of the javelin which had landed dangerously close to the reach of the demonic humanoid, which carved up a bank of snow and rested out of reach, and then throwing back his fur-lined hood, he spoke, gasping for breath, to his captive.

"Well, you have found what you were looking for, and now what of it? Must I kill you in order to secure my passage onwards?"

The young, rosy cheeks of the young initiate puffed in and out as he sat back from the point of the sword, pressing his hands deep into the packed snow. He sat forward slightly, and upon doing so he raked a path of snow with a heavy studded boot in an attempt to bring some stature to his pose. An uneasy, yet not high-pitched voice answered Canen’s question.

"Kill me. Do it now. It doesn’t matter; you will never have this forest back. It belongs to the mighty Asmodeus, we guardians of the safety of our native people. If I die, I do so struggling to the end to overthrow the most despicable enemy of the our kind. What better end could there be?"

The anxious eyes of the young apprentice demon narrowed into a creased grin, his flustered red face coated in a thin film of sweat even in the damning cold of the night. Sitting up, he reached out for his discarded spear, and Canen motioned the sword’s edge to his throat, barring his path. Upon this the stricken enemy of the Nocturn lashed out, sweeping The Valiance from Canen’s unsteady hand from where it plunged into the deep snow. Like a pouncing guard-dog the soldier cannoned into him knocking him to the ground in a flurry of wet slush. Writhing around on the ground the two struggled constantly, the soldier pulling a boot-knife free from its sleeve and forcing it down towards Canen’s guts.

In a single moment – the Executor barking his cloudy breath into his face with sheer effort – it dawned on Canen that his opponent was becoming exhausted. The man’s gritted teeth occasionally emitted a spray of saliva as he struggled to keep his advantage over the fur-clad warrior. His bright eyes seemed to be swollen, as if bursting forth from the sockets, and his whole body shook with effort. Every second though, he stabbed and stabbed like a man felling a fatted beast at the neck, endlessly willing the short knife to punch into Canen’s belly. He struck seemingly not even just to end the ordeal, but simply to satisfy his cruel lust for the death of Asmodeus’s enemy. It was obvious that the crazed soldier would not stop. It dawned painfully and shockingly upon Canen what he must do.

Grasping the Executors’s empty hand, the Nocturn threw back his assailant’s arm and rolled him onto his front, locking the arm back as he did so. As he forced the man down, thrashing with every bit of strength as he was held, Canen couldn’t help but feel as if he were dragging some poor sobbing slave-girl to her knees; the resistance became less and less until the man simply had to submit, groaning through pursed lips in frustration at his weakness; his utter helplessness.

With fevered eyes the son of Maxmillian ran his gaze over the uniform of the man. It was identical to those worn by the horrible fleeting figures of the Haicheyanne that one morning brought death and slaughter to his own proud home. A sudden surge of this new-found ‘hatred’ coursed like some memory-triggered catalyst into Canen’s arms; his hands now white again as they forced the man’s face down.

Again and again those hands wrenched his head back, smashing the pretty boy’s face to a pulp on the corner of a snow-cloaked stone. Through the cries and the struggling, choking, coughing of blood Canen throttled the Executor, dashing his head harder still upon the now gore-soaked rock. In no way could he stop; even as the twitching of the man’s leg ceased altogether, he lolled wildly at his prey, eyes wide and unaware of the misshapen mass of eggshell-like bone he now gripped between his bloody hands. At this, each blow became more protracted, as Canen lifted the limp body and drove it down onto the snowy altar, until he fell, lacking the strength even to kneel, upon the silent carcass.

The air was thick with the falling of a blizzard now, and the two opponents lay as if sleeping, one upon the other, and all the while the forgiving blanket of snow did its utmost to cover over the bloody sins that painted the forest ground, where the blind hatred of two had prevailed against all else.

[Falcon Darkflight]

A few minutes past noon, a hard rain fell without warning. No thunder preceeded the deluge, no wind at all. The abruptness and the ferocity of the downpour had a sort of urgent quality of a perilous storm, the type of which are seen in nightmares, visions, omens of death and destruction.

Canen, seated on the rotting trunk of a fallen oak in the centre of the small clearing, remained still. He had been restless before the sudden cloudburst and had spent most of his time that morning dragging the large quantity of bloodsoaked corpses from the location of their deaths to a final resting place at the foot of the bedrock, the mounds of earth and soil leaving a grim reminder of the events that had been undertaken here. His pale white face and narrow emerald eyes gave a good indication that his rage and hatred had not died down since the gruesome discovery this morning, and that his internal theory he had been allowed to live as part of an ongoing torment seemed only too fitting for a man in his position. He felt it was his purpose from birth to suffer, to ceaselessly face the deliberation of his aggressors until he either perished in the fires of his memories or took a stand and brought the fight back to them.

The voices of the tempest were legion, like an angry crowd chanting in some sort of lost language. Torrents of water lashed down upon the Concordia Forest, pounding and prying at the Nocturn's pale flesh and the surrounding foilage. In the wet months of Corone's somewhat mystifying climate, the rataplan of raindrops on the leaves of the woods had served as a reliable remedy for Canen's often volatile insomnia yet this afternoon the liquid rhythms failed to lull him calm. As the scenario played more and more upon his angered mind, his facial expression grew into a brooding, almost seething image.

"Why must you torment me further?" He questioned to himself aloud. Although referring mostly to the Haicheyanne and their dreaded leader, he also thought this question could be directed inwards, perhaps sub-consciously interrogating his remaining sanity. "Did watching my homeland burn not prove enough to satisfy your sadistic, masochistic lusts? Was it not enough to just lose my identity, to watch my people fade into dust, to witness the deaths of the only family I had left? The erasure of an entire civilisation?!.."

By now, his fists were clenched tightly, the nuckles whitening an ever lighter shade than the pale skin. Canen bore his pearl white teeth in a hate induced snarl, sat trembling at the memory of Asmodeus's chilling voice echoing through his skull in a perpetual loop, over and over. It was simply too much to bare.

It was time to make a decision. A powerful decision in which he himself had always sworn to never undertake, one which Ardemis had always advised him to remain opposed to. The roar of the storm escalated until it seemed to be inside the rumbling machinery that powered the very running of the universe, the crashing of the pummeling rain now leathering the side of Canen's face. It could have almost been a manifest of his inner storm, and seemed fitting that the violent anger welled up inside the blood vessels of the Nocturn was contrasting the stinging downpour. It seemed Mother Nature was a lot like him, the 'Falcon', alternating between a nurturing and a destructive force.

But now was not the time to nurture. It was time to fight back.

[Storm Veritas]

Judgment Time! (Finally - sorry for the delay!)

A good, short quest, the flashback mechanism was pretty well executed, and some really exciting developments in the character of Canen over the course of the thread. There were some minor points that annoyed me a bit, and the thread was only a relatively small undertaking, but for the most part it was very well scripted and deftly planned.

Introduction - 7 A nice little mechanism, using direct action immediately and describing later what's going on with it. Simple, yet effective. I was a bit taken back by some overly-wordy text in the intro, but for the most part it was very well done.
Setting - 6 Good, but could easily be great. I think it seems as though setting is often overdone, and relatively inconsistent. Instead of describing one element in gross detail, just make sure we have a constant feel. Giving a solid description of certain items quickly - just like you did with the ivory fountain - provides a nice feel without breaking up the pace. Going over and over again about hair, eyes, etc. are unnecessary.
Character - 8 The best part of the quest. I like Canen, and how you are very skillful in the way you describe him, the way he acts, and his very human set of emotions.
Dialogue - 4 Your weak point. It isn't terrible, but rather merely mediocre, and lacks some of that clever insight that the rest of your writing has. I liked how you gave one of the elves a distinct personality, but for the most part you blast through dialogue as if to get it over with.
Strategy - 6 I give a few points as to how easily you flow back and forth with the flashbacks, but at the same time you may choose to work into the posts with a more consistent speed. When running duel plotlines, if you hit the ground running in one thread, it makes sense that the other plotline be moving at a decent pace as well. It seemed an awful lot more took place in the flashback, and the present-day stuff seemed like a back up or "filler" spot. By itself, the present-day stuff would make a fine quest! Just try to keep us excited with both lines. A very difficult task, and if you watch enough movies you'll see people do it poorly ALL THE TIME (just watch any new Star Wars movie!). I'm probably being too critical here.
Writing Style - 6 Again, good but could be better. Need to pick your spots to get descriptive a bit better. If I heard you describe the emerald green eyes of Canen one more time I was going to thrust my thumb into my eye. Conversely, I loved the way you wrote out combat, and made it feel fast and action packed.
Rising Action - 4 More a function of your plotline than your writing skill. It's a very short quest, and thus a dramatic build just isn't going to be there.
Climax - 7 Very, very good. I liked this quite a bit. I thought the fight was really enjoyable between the Executor and the young elf-boy. Emotion was drawn in effectively, but I felt that he switched from full-on fear to out-and-out rage a bit too quickly.
Conclusion - 7 Another very strong point. I am ready to read more!
Wild Card - 5 A good quest, but a short one, and it serves as a functional set up to something bigger. Well done, and I look forward to reading your next item.

Total Score - 60
Falcon gets 980 EXP and 150 Gold!
Well done!

[Thoracis]

Rewards Added!