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Round 3, The Final, will begin January 31th, 2022 at 10:00pm EST.
Round 2 will end February 16th, 2022 at 10pm EST
The only prompt is to write as well as you can to continue the story of the AC so far. Whoever wins will impact the future of Alerar, so please write as if an entire region depends on it.
The tapping of Sorian's walking stick was enough to draw the attention of the curious birds as he passed by. Otherwise, he remained relatively unimportant as he wandered to meet the host of his mystery invitation. Ignoring the many sounds of Radasanth: children playing, horses whinnying, and the many, many footsteps of rushing people; Sorian focused on the songs of the many Starlings that lived amongst the streets. Wandering alone, Sorian had walked from the residential district through to the more upmarket food district. He had been quiet since he returned to Corone three weeks ago, he always enjoyed his quiet time after a long venture, but his old body was once again taking time to recover.
It had taken half an hour to reach his destination, but as he shielded his eyes to see past the midday sun's rays, he finally laid eyes on the building. The old restaurant sat peacefully under the more expensive and open part of the eating district. Many places rivalled one another here, but this place, shaded under two large Beech trees of great stature and age, stood the test of time. The old stone was well kept and while the sign could do with a bit of a touch up, it still remained predominantly and boldly over the doorway.
The Paladin’s Golden Saddle
Stepping into the shade as he passed under the old archway of the entrance, Sorian felt the relief of the dip in temperature, quickly followed by the light after-burn of the sun on his cheeks. It was not quiet inside, the bustling sound of munching, chewing, chatting and charm rang throughout the walls and made it clear why this place was so popular. Sorian however, was not here to enjoy the atmosphere, nor was there to meet a group of people, only one.
“May I take your name?”
There were not many places that Sorian visited where they asked your name to enter, but while unaccustomed he responded in kind. Led down past the main rooms of the restaurant Sorian was taken to a different smaller area of alcoves and private seating. Cushioned and cosy they were designed for small groups of maybe two to four people - adequate for his meeting.
Turning into one of the private alcoves Sorian’s eyes widened and the hostess gasped. “Alina!” She shouted - more high pitched than her earlier, softer voice.
Before them, Storm Veritas lay over a waitress on their table, locked in embrace with her legs wrapped around his hips, his eyes darted up to Sorians arrival. Surprised, he almost dropped her off the table, stood upright to adjust his white shirt, and then flung back his dark leather overcoat before leaning back into his seat with no shame.
The waitress, under duress from the hostess, scarpered, and many apologies were flung their way. Storm, however, merely smiled with that bright white grin Sorian had come to know. He casually lit his small smoking pipe and then gestured to Sorian to take a seat opposite him.
“She’ll be back. They need to bring us more drinks.”
“When I received this invitation, I never thought it might be you that sent it.” Sorian sat.
“It’s been some weeks. I heard stories recently that an old man was following around a giant skeleton. Seemed unlikely to be anyone else.” Storm picked up his empty beer stein and attempted a drink. He paused as he realised he spilled it during his embrace and returned it to the table. “I had no doubt I’d be returning, but I lost you back in Alerar. I thought you hadn’t made it.”
“Oh… Well apparently I wasn’t destined to die.”
Destined to die? If it were only that simple old man. Storm leaned forward with intrigue. “Ignorance is bliss for this world. I think only you, me and Elite know what really happened over there. Even then, we both have different sides to this story. It’s bothered me since I got back. What exactly happened to you?”
“I guess this is why you’ve invited me here, to discuss the events of Alerar.” Sorian looked out into the empty room beside them, void of staff, the white walls gave it a bright, clean interior.
“I figure, after our history, we’re becoming friends. At least on a basic, distant level. A bit like those cousins you see maybe once a year.” Storm took a light drag from his pipe and leaned back into his seat once more, the cushions spreading to this weight. It was time to listen.
“Okay. Well please get a waitress back to serve us. Preferably without necking her first.”
- - - Three weeks ago, somewhere in Alerar - - -
“Don’t worry. Old age hits us all, you aren’t really needed here anyway.”
Those few words stung hard and Sorian’s heart began to beat powerfully in his chest. His eyes, unable to focus on Cazri’s face, started to blur and his balance quickly faded. Sorian dropped to the floor with a thump - a whirl of dust lifted into the air around him and the bright blue sky span around in an unnatural, hazy circle. What was happening to him?
—
Sorian’s eyes opened with a flicker and then closed again, daylight, initially too bright for him as he came around to the waking world. He felt his chest rise up and down calmly, his dusty dry nose an echoing cavern as he snored loudly. A few voices muttered in the background, and they quickly became the only noise he could focus on in this silent awakening. As if the wax was removed from his ears, the muffled voices came into focus, and the familiar tones made their way into his mind.
Sorian remained still, being careful to listen before revealing himself. It took some effort to catch the words, but gradually he took in their conversation.
“However, the Skeleton may not be so compliant, should we let Sorian die.” The well spoken tone of Aratmus, the leader of the Dwarven army, slowly became clear.
“But no one knows what is wrong with him.” The familiar voice of Cazri was easy to identify, curt and femine, she sounded frustrated.
“We have more than just men at our disposal. Use them.”
“I don’t think…”
“Respect!” Aratmus said sternly and suddenly, and Cazri immediately paused without a huff. “I shouldn’t have to ask for it… Whatever you wish to do in the near future is your choice.”
“As you wish.” Cazri’s voice calmed into reluctant obedience, and then the blackness of Sorian’s closed eyes was met with silence.
Waiting a moment for anything further, Sorian then opened his eyes and the world illuminated before him. The dull brown of the medical tent filled his initial vision, shielding him from the bright sun above. Taking one long deep breath he rolled his head to look around, wincing slightly as his neck cracked from stiffness.
Lay upon a basic but firm fabric bed, he was propped up from the floor on a crude but effective wooden frame. Shaded from the direct sunlight the tent was open but for the windbreakers that surrounded it. The somewhat sweet smell of foreign plants struck his nose, while only the light flail of the wind breaks sounded into the surprisingly silent area.
One of the windbreakers raised open as Carzi stepped inside. Dressed in a hooded tunic of sorts, she protected herself from the sun, but the reflection from her silver eyes was unmistakable. She paused upon meeting his weak gaze, but the surprise that filled her face was not a happy one.
“So… You’re finally awake.”
It took some effort to sit up and he placed his hands out wide to steady himself. His head felt heavy and while only momentarily, his vision blurred and then refocused as he regained some composure. He rubbed his head as Cazri handed over a canteen of water.
Tipping the canteen back he felt the beautiful relief of the cold water as it passed his flaky lips and softened his sore throat. As enjoyable as the water was, it revealed the true nature of his current state, his throat ached and pained as he took a pause between sips, and his dry eyes quaked as he received a much needed hydration.
“You need to drink more water out here,” Cazri placed a second canteen at his feet. “We may not see eye to eye, but right now your health is important to our cause.”
“It must have pained you to have to help me.” Sorian took another sip of water.
Cazri stared at him as he coughed and cleared his throat, she wanted to respond with a witty remark, but now wasn’t the time. At least not while she was under orders to look after him. “Drink up. I’ll come check on you shortly.”
Cazri began to walk off.
“I know.” Sorian called out, forcing her to pause in her exit. “I know you want me dead. Does your hatred really stretch so far?”
Carzi turned back to him, disgruntled enough to respond. “I don’t actively want to kill you. But it would be convenient. Do you expect anything else? You have been a pain in my ass for over thirty years.”
“And you mine.”
“I’ve spent many more years than you’ve been alive plying my trade. Earning my reputation, and putting myself at the top of all things important in this world. And you… You constantly get in my way. You… even at your age continue to be my competition. Fighting me for contracts, trying to out-smart me…”
“You resent healthy competition?” Sorian laughed with difficulty, holding his throat as i to sooth the pain.
“Competition? You scrape the barrel of life. You do not have your own home. You carry your belongings on yourself, and you bathe rarely. Efficient over the years for your job… but useless with yourself. No self control.”
“Enjoying life and spending my earnings. That isn’t a bad thing. Tell me, what else is there to achieve? A plot of dirt to call mine? How utterly pointless.”
“I celebrated when you retired.” The blunt response was designed to insult, but Sorian seemed unaffected. “Why did you return?”
“I also celebrated. At least at first I did. I began to wonder what I was to do, I had no purpose, no goals… I’ve never had that before. Then… Elite changed that. I don’t know why he chose me. Why he follows me. Why he does anything. But he gave me life… vigor, again.”
“You’re dying. He couldn’t have helped you that much. Maybe he’s really here to collect your soul.”
“We all die. Besides, what makes you think your leader has the best of intentions for you.”
“The Syndicate is hiding too much in the shadows. Their actions and methods are slow. I’ve found something bigger, faster, more powerful.”
“At least the Penumbra Syndicate doesn’t raise armies to begin wars. How many people will die in a war that gives nothing but power to certain individuals? The people do no benefit. I imagine they are coerced with lies and false promises. You won’t get what you are promised from this. I guarantee it.”
“I don’t know why they sent you. I don’t need you, and quite frankly, I’m not interested in explaining myself to you. A new power is arising, and I’m backing the victor. Now shut up, and drink up.”
- - - Some hours later, Alerar - - -
It had been some time since Sorian did something completely selfless, something others would consider an act of a good man. Would this journey be considered an act of a good man? Sorian sat, elbows to knees and bearded chin to hand. He stared at the floor, lost in thoughts he dared not share.
What am I even doing here anymore? I really fucked it up this time… Elite always said I wouldn’t have an honourable death. There is no funeral out here for me. Is Cazri right? Is the victor already predetermined?
“Sorian.” The deep growl of Elite’s voice called to him.
Sorian looked up, that vigour he claimed to have was waning, and he just didn’t feel the same anymore. He knew when he left the port of Radansanth that this all felt wrong. Had he just come here to die? Had Elite finally led him to his death upon this sulphurous landscape of sand, dwarves and demons. Elite stood over him, like a reaper waiting to collect him on passing. The sun silhouetted his bony appearance, but glinted brightly from the sharp end of his demonic eyed cleaver.
“You act like the shadow of the man I once met. Are you giving up?”
“You tell me!” Sorian stood up sharply, his face stern as he glared up and into the burning fire that is Elite’s eyes. “Are you just going to stand there and watch me burn?”
“Burn? This heat is getting to your head. Our paths have not diverged.”
“I am lost… I do not understand what is happening to me. I think... I fear I’m dying.”
“No. We are here to destroy the lost, Sorian.”
An eerie silence fell over them, Elite as only the second visitor to Sorian as he recovered. Cazri would return soon, but with Elite being tall enough to effectively be his own lookout they were currently alone.
“Then help me regain my strength. What happened when I collapsed?”
If a skull could grin, it was showing right now, Elite lifted and then stabbed his cleaver into the soft earthy floor. His arms waved and elaborated as he explained. “It was great. I could feel the creature's thoughts, its rage, its mind looking for answers. It reminded me of myself when I first died and dropped into the plain of death. Lost, hurt, wanting answers and only getting back more fear and pain.”
“I don’t understand. The device gave you control of a demon? Just by thought alone?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot begin to fathom how such a thing is possible. I’ve never heard of, nor imagined such a thing could be physically created.”
“Created?” Elite laughed. “Now that would be a feat of technology. There are some big advantages to being as old as I am. It comes with a wealth of knowledge and plenty of time to understand it.”
Sorian urged him on with a rolling movement of the wrist, his eyebrows raised with curiosity. Elite kneeled down beside him. This must be important if it's making you talk this much…
“I kept myself out of your discussion with the Syndicate, but I should have been part of it. The history of the items that now make an appearance is most certainly not a coincidence. They are related, and with everything happening, it is now clear to me that someone has planned this very well. Death will fill this land one way or another.”
“Cazri?” Sorian questioned, but hoped otherwise.
“Maybe. Though after speaking with the grand Dwarf Aratmus, I would guess otherwise. Have you heard of the First King of Alerar?”
“A bit before me time I believe.”
“Most certainly. Elrohir Fararil, the First King. Led his army against the demonic invasion of Alerar. Hundreds… maybe a thousand years ago. I’m a little unsure of the exact timescales, I was frozen for some time...”
“Yes, yes. To the point.”
“He defeated an army that should have crushed him. Why? Famously known as a great tactician. But he had more than that. The war with the demons of the past was one that lasted centuries, they existed side by side, and the war and the death that came with them were just part of life. Elrohir went with his most trusted men on a secret expedition into the heart of the demonic landscape. Led by their now unknown informant, they remained hidden and stealthy in their approach... to avoid combat. Soon they came across an old tower, crooked and broken, any passing adventurer would assume disused. Yet their informant sent them into its eerie passages and broken walls to find a room that held their every desire. Weapons to purge the demons from this plane. At least that's how the story was told.
Elrohir collected a sword, a helmet, and war horn. The sword granted the ability to not only slay demons with ease, but it was said to send them back into their plane of existence. The helmet was said to allow the wearer influence over a demon - So he could subdue their rage and weaken their resolve.”
“What about the war horn?” Sorian played with his beard as his mind wandered with curious imagination, his fingers twirling through his grey hairs in a repetitive loop.
“The horn… well… The war horn was said to be the most powerful. Though stories of the past vary depending on where you research.”
“And? What about you. What do you believe it to do?”
“It calls forth an army. It whispers into their souls as they rest at night, and it charms them into servitude.” Elite watched as Sorian’s face shifted from intrigue to confusion. “The war horn did not make any sound that you could hear on the battlefield. Elrohir would play the horn at night, and its silent tune would charm them, unaware while they slept. Men that would do anything you asked them to.”
- - - Radasanth, Corone - - -
The wizard’s face irked with confusion. Sorian was telling a story that seemed unclear and somewhat unrealistic. He sipped at his wine, the red beginning to stain his lips a darker shade - He swallowed and rested his glass down, leaving another circle of wine on the otherwise gleaming, clean shine of the oak table before them. As much as he wanted to hear an embellished and exciting story to how Sorian escaped alive, he wasn’t stupid.
Come on now. If you’re going to exaggerate, at least make it about your fighting skills.
“Hold up! So right in the middle of a camp of Dwarves, you start discussing this?” He raised his eyebrow sceptically, “and no one heard you? I doubt it.”
“The medical tent I was being held at, was not erected directly with the rest of the army tents. So since the war hadn’t started… it’s not like there were any other casualties at this time. It was honestly the perfect place.”
“Alright. Let’s say that bit is true. Then how did Elite happen to know all of this jargon?”
Sorian smiled and took an equally enjoyable sip of his own wine. “He’s thousands of years old, with no memory loss, and a connection to demons and death. I think that places him in a unique situation to know more than either you, or I. Honestly speaking, if not for this situation, I’d never have needed to know.”
Storm knew there were many relics and magical artefacts of the past that were lost to history. Even within his short time on this world, falling far short of Elite’s thousands, he too had interactions with items of far greater power than people should be allowed to wield. It was never a good thing.
Fuck it. I suppose it’s not actually that far-fetched.
“Anyway,” Sorian continued. “We made a plan to get the three items and then I took the rest of the day and night to recover. In the morning I saw you briefly as we began marching towards our destination.”
“Yes… I was surprised to see you, but by then, I had my own issues to deal with. I Think it’s the last time I saw you.”
- - - Two days later, Alerar - - -
Travelling further into Alerar took some time, and without the thousands of horses to carry them and their many weapons of war, it would have taken much longer. They weren’t just racing against the increasing horde of demons, but also against any other factions that were planning on invading this growing horde. They had to be there first otherwise everything would be a failure, and the aspiring Aratmus would not let that happen.
Sorian watched him from a lonely distance, it was as if the sunlight shone upon Aratmus and every step along the way. His gold armour gleamed over the dull greys of the main army, an easy target for an assassin for sure, but an even brighter icon to a powerful marching army. No flags swung overhead, unmarked and informing no one, he was the only symbol they needed.
Do the Gods favour you? Are you destined to accomplish everything you claim to want? Or are we meandering to our deaths?
Aratmus had made no attempt to hide his excitement of Elite being here, but ever since Sorian’s first meeting Aratmus had not returned to interact with him. Politeness and ignorance were faked to him only, and right now that’s the best he could hope for.
Aratmus admired his army as he rode his horse. The slow trot saw his plump shape rock side to side, but the large saddle was clearly designed to help keep him up-top his horse.
“Tell me Elite. If I could bring you back to life as a human. Would you take it?”
“I have nothing to gain by being human again.” Elite responded with no emotion.
“Really? You do not miss the sensation of sex? The satisfaction of eating cake? The relief of pissing against a tree?”
His suggestions broke Elite from his forward stare. “I barely remember them to miss them.”
“Well, when this is all over, and you’ve fulfilled your side of the bargain, we can re-evaluate your feelings on that.”
“Everything is a bargain with you. I’m just doing this for fun.”
“Life is a bargain, and that’s what makes it fun.” He smiled with great confidence as he looked ahead of them. “However, the time approaches. We must now take our positions for the battlefield.”
Aratmus’ horse dashed into a gallop as he moved away from Elite, his personal guard alongside him as the feeling of caution began to rise. Through the many contraptions and weapons of war Aratmus slowed to a halt before his own personal chariot. Constructed into the shape of a giant rams head, the front wheels were hidden and protected beneath wooden carved teeth, with two large rear wheels protected behind the spiralling horn; the giant skull was plated with metal to strengthen it, and then painted to appear like bone. The eye’s were deliberately decorated with black and red paint to draw attention to them, appearing like demonic bloodshot eyes that stared forward into battle. Then the spiralling horns again formed with metal, but were covered in spikes and blades, anything that got close to such a thing would be easily pierced and crushed beneath it. With its mighty intimidating appearance, a gold throne, wrapped in black veins, sat upon the peak of his head. A throne for a fearsome leader. A conqueror. A killer.
For everything that Aratmus had shown them, this as the first time he had presented this. Now at the forefront of everything, any warrior on the battlefield could not miss this eye-catching chariot. Aratmus sat upon it, proud and excited for what was to come. Quickly beside him, a group of men lifted an adjustable mouthpiece to his face, it clicked into place by design alongside the throne, and Aratmus blew into it. The deep growl of the mighty horn echoed across the battlefield and all at once, the army roared with eagerness and complicity.
Sorian watched, trapped in suspense as he watched one of the ram horns vibrate out its mighty sound. Was King Elrohir’s Horn built into this mighty chariot? A chariot so heavily armoured that Sorian knew of no way to stop it. His own horse trotted within an armoured legion designated for guests, he was heavily protected, but also heavily imprisoned.
Whatever your exact plan Elite. I sure hope it works… I fear I may not be able to hold up my end. How do I even get to the horn, nevermind destroy it.
Elite made his way towards the device once more. Stepping up onto the catapult looking vehicle he nearly wobbled over as it bumbled over the uneven surface of Alerar’s plains. He braced himself between the two struts and lay his cleaver safely on the base of the vehicle.
“Keep it steady so I can focus!” Elite roared out at the dwarves pushing them along. The few oxen on the front may have been pulling it along this far, but with Elite’s weight the dwarven soldiers joined in to keep them moving. Digging their boots into the ground and keeping their heads down they pushed and forced it over each rock and groove in the floor. The large wooden wheels were solid in strength but had no suspension to make this an easy ride.
Elite took a hold of the helmet, the wires and metal plates were all installed over the top of the original magical design. Turning it over he could see its original self, bent out of shape to fit this contraption and only really the size to fit a humanoid's head. The old carvings of ancient design were still grooved into it, whoever created this in the first place would be ashamed to see its fate.
Such a shame that such a beautiful design could be so recklessly ruined. They don’t make them like they used to.
Above them, dark misty clouds circled and spiralled into a center point and a bright, beaming green light reached up into the sky. Thunder and lightning gave a light blue glow into the growing blackness of the dark sky, but where others would run, this army of dwarves marched forward with no fear. As they arrived over the hill, the oval green glow of a black gate came into view. It stood out brightly within a mass of old destroyed ruins and the cross of a shining sword sat before it, stabbed into the earth like many described myths. Then a mighty army of demons, at least twice the size of the dwarven army, stood between them and the sword.
Even Elite paused in surprise at the sheer size of the army. Sorian gasped in shock. Storm’s eyed widened in horror, but Aratmus smiled in delight.
Storm raced up onto the vehicle with Elite, his jacket lightly blowing back by the wind of this magical storm that hovered overhead. He clambered up into position and took a seat on the crude but comfortable seat that hung off the side of the vehicle. The wizard was ready for his part in this, he could give this device a mighty charge for Elite, but for the rest, he would have to remain hopeful it could do exactly what Aratmus suggested.
“You better make this fucking work, Elite!” Storm shouted as he buttoned up his jacket, but got no direct response. This is one big fucking gamble. Why am I doing this again? Money, yeah. It better be worth it.
Riding down the hillside Aratmus’ Ram Chariot led from the front. Rogue or loose demons that had left the main pack charged upon them, only to be crushed and slaughtered by might of the sturdy chariot, while his front line of dwarves cut them down with axes, hammers, halberds and more. Their plan was not to fight the entire army, but to gain its attention and draw them into close quarters before activating the device. Fearlessly, Aratmus remained at the front and his men, outnumbered, valiantly ran into the frey.
It was brave to run into such a giant army, with so little chance of direct success they could all be going to their deaths. The trust in this situation, their trust in Elite and Storm doing what they had agreed to do was borderline insane. They had only just met, and through a series of promises they lay their luck and faith in them without question.
Is this the power of the horn? Sorian watched from a distance from battle and hoped he would not get drawn into fighting himself.
The makeshift vehicle of Elite and Storm was led down the hill and into battle as the dwarves centered their attack like a piercing arrow, cutting into the heart of the demon army. The further they pushed in, the more they became surrounded. The Dwarven artillery, with cannons and catapults, designed with steel mechanisms powerfully launched rocks far into the demonic army ranks. Crushed and blown apart from the explosions the demons did not waver, appearing even more incited by the spread of blood and gore.
Sorian watched from up top his horse, safe from the battle up top the hill with the artillery. A small squadron of men remained here, not just to fire the weapons, but to set up tents and stack up resources. Here Cazri controlled the orders, ensuring the tents were set, that the artillery had its ammunition, and that when the battle was done, their men had a camp to return to. It all seemed awfully confident.
I’m not sure if I want us to fail or succeed.
Heading towards Cazri, Sorian watched her enter one of the tents. Set up impressively quickly, the dwarves were constantly proving how organised and efficient they were; the circular tent had its own extended entrance for guards and appeared constructed in a classic yurt-like design. Hopping off his horse he tied its reins to a secure post, just as the rain from the dark clouds above began to fall, and the daylight seemed to darken as the clouds above them continuously expanded.
Sorian cautiously entered the tent as the dwarven workers moved on to the next one. It was ever darker inside, the dull light barely enough to let them see, but Cazri didn’t seem hindered as she dug through one of the boxes. She pulled back her hooded robe and looked over her shoulder at him as he entered.
“Did my footsteps give me away?”
“What do you want, Sorian?” She huffed and turned back to her box, shifting through what appeared to be fruit.
“Have you even paid any attention to the war outside? I thought you’d be there.”
“I don’t need to. I know we are going to win.”
“You have a lot of faith. So does everyone else it seems. How did he inspire such confidence in his men? In an elf?”
“Some people are just charismatic and inspiring. Others are drawn to that.” Cazri pulled out a wonky looking green fruit and took a bite. The escaping juice caught by her spare fingers as she slurped up the fresh fruity flavour with some enjoyment.
“They all seem to be in a trusting gaze. No one Dwarf is hesitating out there. They are outnumbered, greatly outnumbered. And the gate is still open, I saw it with my own eyes. It’s presence is causing this strange storm overhead.”
Cazri didn’t respond for a moment. Leaving him to listen to the bite of her eating the fruit, and the pitter patter of the rain as it struck the outside of the tent. “If you don’t believe, then leave.”
“Come now. We both know you can’t have me leave and risk warning Ettermire.”
“I’m sure, when all of this is over. We’ll let you leave alive. Now go back outside and watch as we make history.”
“Before I do. When this is over, and we have the army… And we have Ettermire defeated. He’ll have what he wants. Will you remain at his side? You're not a dwarf. You’ve already organised and used your contacts to get him this far… Will he still need you?”
—-
The fight waged on, bloody and horrific, if left to continue stories of the horrors would shape this land of the slaughter of the dwarves for centuries to come. Finally Elite and Storm were moved into position, deep within the ranks of demons they centered themselves as much as possible and began their plan. Elite placed the makeshift helmet upon his head.
“Get ready to have the ride of your life!” Storm pursed his hands and let rip with a powerful blast of electrical energy. Doing his best to focus his efforts on the conducting poles, he watched it rip down the wires, sparkes pouring out as they could not handle all of the power that he mustered. His eyes strained red, and his now dirty hair blew backwards with the force. He could feel it against his skin, the burning sensation he felt was not new, but putting all his energy into a device he was only one step back from, forced him to endure the pressure of his own unique power. With such powerful electrical energy being drawn in, the sky storm thundered down a streak of lightning that hit and tore into their vehicle.
KABOOM!
They exploded out in a thick cloud of black dust and a glowing blue energy symbolic of electrical sparkes. Storm flew back off the cart as his chair was blown backwards - ripped off with the power of the explosion. Elite held his head as he stumbled forward, even his bony skull was overwhelmed with the energy. He roared out in pain as his mind raced and expanded into everything around him: the demonic rage, the hate, the anger, the want for death and destruction filled him - He was now one mind with the demon army. His vision blurred and ran between the dark recesses of the plain of death, and then the war torn land before him. The fighting continued, the demons getting ever closer as he took in the power. Then he further collapsed to his knees, the device clinging together with scraps of metal and wires, but somehow, someway, still working.
“STTTTTTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!” Elite roared his order into the battlefield, and quickly, rank by rank the demons stopped charging, stopped fighting, and allowed silence to fall over the battlefield.
“Congratulations,” Aratmus smiled as he stood beside Elite. “You have accomplished what no one considered possible. The demon army is under our control.”
Aratmus turned and waved his men with him, climbing back up upon this ram chariot he set off into the sea of demons. The war horses pulling his chariot now trotted towards the portal, working their way through the ruins of carved rock and collapsed stone. Resisting the urge to panic in sight of the grotesque figures before them, the horses plated with armour for protection, looked stoic as they huffed and snorted boldly in their trott.
The portal, like a tear in the very air they breathed, swirled backwards like a water drain. The warping colours of black and green gripped the event horizon of the portal and twisted deep into its center; this circular motion almost hypnotised Aratmus as he pulled up alongside it. Stepping down off this ride he paused before the portal and admired it. It was his, and his alone. Here he stood, surrounded by an army of Dwarves, further surrounded by an army of demons, and before him, a sword that could give him an infinite amount of demons to fight with.
The sword began to glisten in the falling rain, the dark skies not enough to dull it's magical aura as the rain cleaned it of dust. His grin seemed to run ear to ear as he crouched before it, and then as he wrapped his hand around its hilt, both armies bowed before him. He pulled it with relative ease from the dirt, and the portal swallowed itself up behind him - ending itself with a final swirl that dissipated into nothing but thin air. The green glow that stretched into the sky faded and while the clouds did not disappear, a thin vale of sunlight appeared to beam through the centre and down onto Aratmus as he held the sword to the sky.
“VICTORY!” Aratmus shouted at the top of his voice. It was quickly echoed by his army who repeated his cheer again and again as the landscape of death became the landscape of celebration.
Elite, with helmet up top his head, watched as Aratmus and his men celebrated with the retrieval of the sword. Now the sword could be placed anywhere they wanted and the demons had a gateway into anywhere in the world. This dwarf, this king of dwarves and demons, was going to bring down not just the elves, but the world. All he needed to do it was a loyal skeleton who would help take down Ettermire, the rest he could do himself. Elite could see the future events play out in his mind, the collapse of Ettermire, the formation of a new Alerar, and then the invasion of the surrounding territories. More adventurers and and more armies would come to fight for their countries and death would plague this land for centuries to come.
But who set all of this in place? Who put the sword deep into the Tular Plains of Alerar and let an army through into this world. It was all perfectly aligned with a magical helmet that could control demons, and a magical horn that could control men. This wasn’t just luck, this was all planned. Aratmus is a man of the future, not a man of the past…
Elite looked around him, dwarf after dwarf, demon after demon, was anyone one of these seemingly random characters secretly helping to bring this man to power? Elite had no way of picking them out, no way of understanding how this all really happened.
“Storm.” Elite turned to him while he was still recovering from the earlier blast. “If you want to live, then I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Without another word, Elite looked back at everyone cheering, their weapons were dropped or lowered, and smiles all around. Elite waited for the right moment, staring across at Aratmus as he raised and lowered the sword with his victory chant in excitement. Then, as he enjoyed the brief bliss of power, his eyes finally connected with Elites.
Yes. Witness your own destruction.
As if to mock the moment Elite raised his hands to his head and lifted the helmet, tipping it and then swaying it under his sarcastic bow to the dwarven king. Then he slammed it into the ground, gripped his giant cleaver in both hands and cut down into the helmet splitting it into two pieces.
“NOOOOO!” Aratmus cried out to the surprise of his men. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU’LL KILL US ALL!”
“Not all of us.”
The celebrations stopped as if frozen in time, they all watched as Aratmus tried to run over to Elite. But it was too late, and as his men stopped him from going further, he could only watch as Elite struck it several more times to ensure its demise.
The eerie few moments pent up the nerves of the dwarves as they looked at each and then the demons that now surrounded them completely. For all their tactics and technology, there were just too many demons for them to win, and as the demons began to regain their individuality, the dwarves made the first strike.
The land erupted into war, blades clashed, armour sparked and blood sprayed across the battlefield. Elite, seemingly ignored by both sides as they battled for their lives, stood staring back at Aratmus. He and his most elite guards ushered him behind their self-made wall and defended their position. Elite grinned inside, not only was the devastation gratifying, but another deceiver was about to be vanquished.
He rested his cleaver up on his shoulders as he calmly began to walk forward, like a man walking in through a sunny field of bliss, this was becoming a wonderful day. Blood sprayed across his leg as a Dwarf fell victim beside him, and Elite smiled inside. He could imagine the feeling of the soft wet mud between his feet, and how the cold rain ran down his face, now this was a feeling he missed. This was his sunny beach moment, this was what it was all about. Punishment of the wicked, karma for the corruptors, and a heightened love of victory for only himself.
I’m coming up to get you. Do not run little mouse.
Aratmus was ushered onto his Ram Chariot and amongst all the slaughter, he looked like he could get away. The might of the chariot made it formidable as it tore through several ranks of demons like snails under foot. He looked scared and panicked as more and more of his men fell to the claws and teeth of the deformed demonic army, and now it was literally a last gasp attempt to escape.
Moving into a sprint Elite charged through the carnage, bodies crushed under foot as he tried to reach the escaping chariot, aided by the many demons that were crushed by its weight, the chariot slowed and Elite chucked his cleaver into its path. Accidentally skewering a demon in the process, the sudden landing was enough to turn the horses in another direction. Aratmus panicked and turned his horses into a pile of rubble and rocks, and a late swerve was not enough to stop the chariot’s right wheels from crashing. The Ram Chariot broke, the horses ran free and the broken right wheels flipped the chariot up and flinging Aratmus free.
Elite arrived by the crash. Retrieving his sword he brushed his bony fingers over it, knocking the blood and rusty chippings from it. Sorry. Being undead himself, seemed to grant him immunity as the horde ran around him and continued to attack the dwarven soldiers. Or maybe it was the connection he had so briefly with them, but either way, he stood unopposed.
Aratmus crawled out of the wreckage, coughing and holding his ribs he spit out some blood which stained into his beard. His gold armour was a mucky brown and damaged, and his crown no longer anywhere to be seen. A fallen King.
He clambered up to his feet with difficulty, and looked up to see Elite standing over him. “You vagabond. You haven’t achieved anything you set out for. Imagine the things I could have done for you.”
“On the contrary. I’ve accomplished exactly what I wanted. I have the sword, I have you, and your pathetic army of drones are being slain.”
“Why?” Aratmus pulled out a canteen and took a drink, spitting his bloody spittle into the dirt. “I could have got you anything. I offered you everything. You are not just a demon, why would you ever side with them?”
“I’ve not sided with the demons. I’m here for very different reasons. But until I fulfil those reasons, I enjoy taking down liars, deceivers and betrayers.”
Catching the actual demon sword in the corner of his eye he limped across to it, Elite seemingly letting him pick it up to defend himself. “You will pay for this, Marcus! I know who you are from history. Cazri told me everything. While I still have her, I’ll still get everything. Even with this set back.”
“Feel free to use my human name. But don’t think that grants you any power. You’re about to die. You betray your own people with magic, charming them into service. You bring nothing but death to your society, your race and your family. You plan on cursing this land to benefit only your own selfish desires. For this, you will die.”
“Magic? What are you talki…”
Aratmus’ questions stopped there as the Elite’s cleaver sliced through him like a butcher's cleaver through a dead pig. His lifeless stare remained frozen for several moments until he fell back and his blood drained into the wet mud of the battlefield floor.
Hmmm…Now what to do with this.
Elite reached down and recovered the demon sword from Aratmus’ hand.
- - - Radasanth, Corone - - -
“That was a serious battle. It’s a shame you missed it.” Storm took a long swig of his drink and savoured it. Storm’s side of the story was brutal in its own right, but it was interesting to hear how Aratmus finally fell. Sorian watched Storm working it out, clearly thinking about his own position during these events. “I honestly came pretty close to dying myself. I’ve carried scars with me for many years, but this one event ended up giving me more than just one or two. Waitress! Another craft beer please!”
“Battlefields like that are no longer my strong point. At this point though, I had my own problems to deal with.”
“I’d love to hear that. As currently, while I’m fighting for my life, Elite was killing Aratmus… YOU were taking it easy out of the way. Not only was I having to mightily slay demons much bigger than I, I had projectiles flying overhead that could have landed on me at any moment.”
Sorian chuckled, “I guess I should explain.”
“Waitress? Alina?” Storm’s brow furrowed in frustration. “I need another beer!”
- - - The Demon Gate, Alerar - - -
“Of course he’ll need me. I’ll never leave him in a situation where he doesn’t need me.”
“Well. I guess you’re sorted for life then. As long as you are happy to watch thousands of others die on your path to prosperity.”
Cazri took a step towards him and then took another juicy bite of her favourite fruit, leaning right in his face to added effect. “I don't care.”
Sorian squinted as the juice almost sprayed his face. Beginning to walk away he paused by the entrance in thought. “You know. You never seem so enamoured with him. Not like the rest. You’re not blind like they are. You, as you say, don’t care.”
Cazri didn’t respond, taking a seat on a foldable chair she leaned back and indulged in the large fruit. Hoping her loud, obnoxious eating would deter him from conversation. Sorian looked her up and down, her cloak now hanging off her as she draped herself over the chair. That’s when Sorian noticed it, hanging off her belt was not just a sword in scabbard, but a small horn, normally hidden beneath her cloak. It was something she probably never expected anyone to ever think twice about. After all, it was just a horn.
“Tell me Cazri.”
“Tell you WHAT, Sorian?” She huffed with frustration. “How I managed to get this lucrative position? How I managed to get you and the Skeleton up here? Well, when I ask, I get. That’s just the way this works. I can talk anyone into doing what I want. I earned that, I’ve earned that over years and years of hard grafting and establishing my name within not just Alerar, but the known world. I’ve beaten everyone, and now, I’ve beaten you.”
“How about, how do you have an ancient horn attached to your belt?”
Cazri’s demeanour changed as quickly, she dropped the fruit, stood up and straightened her stance. Her silver eyes glared back at him through the loose strands of her blonde hair. “This isn’t funny anymore.” She responded sternly.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, and you have the horn…Not many know about such relics, not many understand exactly what you can do with them. I’m starting to build a picture here. Do you see the same picture?”
“It changes nothing.”
Sorian drew his sword. “My dear, it changes everything.”
“You’re making a mistake. You need to back off.”
“No. No mistake. You’ve planned all of this. And you have not beaten me.”
“Since you’re forcing my hand…” Cazri rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. “It’s a shame a demon made its way up here and killed you. Elite will be disappointed, but he’ll kill them all to ensure he avenges you.”
“Well since you’re going to kill me. Do me a favour of explaining how you did this?”
“Do you a favour? I don’t give to charity.” Cazri flung off her cloak and out slid her longsword. Gripping in her right hand the wavy blade was mpressive to look at as she paraded it before him; it was more fearsome looking than Sorians straight edged blade, but just because it looked scarier, didn’t mean it was.
Sorian raised his trusty blade up defensively, the tip of his blade tapping on the end of hers as they squared off. They had both threatened each other in the past, but now, for the first time they would follow through, and one of them would die.
Cazri lunged first, attacking from the left, then the right as her blade clashed against the defence of Sorians. Once a master swordsman, his reflexes were not what they once were, but he retained his knowledge enough to be better than average. She had just shown she was quick, and Sorian now knew he was not going to have it easy.
Cazri lunged again, viciously but not recklessly. Sorian blocked and countered with a controlled slash across the sternum, forcing Cazri back, uninjured.
She laughed. “You’re slow, old man.”
Sorian didn’t waiver, ignoring her goading remarks.
She stepped into a crouch, slicing one handed across the shin of his forward foot. Sorian stepped over the attack and immediately drove his sword down upon her. Cazri deflected with her raised sword and again dodged to one side.
Attempting a quick response, she replied with another arcing swing as she retreated, the tip of her blade cutting through Sorian’s old cloak and drawing blood. Cazri smiled with success.
Sorian held his shoulder for a moment, the wound was very shallow and not enough to hamper him, but it was a warning.
They circled for a moment in the yurt, the circular design of the rug beneath their feet leading them round as they judged the next moment of attack. Then, as Cazri stepped within range, Sorian went on the attack back, thrusting his sword at her gut and forcing a reactive block. As she moved back he spun round and turned into a second lunge, forcing her to the edge of the tent. She tripped as she met the boxes against the tent wall, the heavy heel of her damascus boots catching on the box hinge. Sorian’s blade crashed against hers as he went for the kill, managing to slice across her body as she fell backwards over the boxes of tools and food.
“You old, fuck-faced bafoon!” Cazri exclaimed in shock of her injury, she scrambled to her feet once more. “A coward's way of forcing me over the boxes. I thought you were a swordsman?”
“Your spatial-awareness is weak!” Sorian retorted.
“Fine! I’m not playing games anymore!”
Cazri flicked her fingers as a deep purple hue of gas wrapped around her hand, suddenly hardening into a thin glass bottle of purple liquid. She glared at him with great anger, almost hissing like a snake as she flashed her teeth, then threw the bottle into the ground between them. The tent filled with purple smoke, expanding like an fiery explosion; it engulfed them both before Sorian could see where she went. Now the dark tent was filled with a bitter tasting smoke that made him cough with discomfort. His vision, now poor, could not make her out as he pulled his shirt up over his mouth to protect his throat. Worse, it really stank in here, the distracting smell was like rotten fish, enough to make many a man puke.
“A coward’s way?” Sorian called out through the fabric of his top.
No response.
Sorian could feel his heartbeat nervously, now that he could no longer see his adversary he was at a clear disadvantage - assuming she could see him.
Carefully and quietly he moved around the smoke, the different purple shades of cloud crossing over itself again and again in a confusing and distracting manner. He could only hope she was equally distracted.
Then, a spark of energy flickered beside him, Sorian didn’t hesitate, taking a quick step to one side he attacked with all of his might, his blade tearing through fabric as he did. Yet no blood was spilled.
“ARGH!” Sorian yelled out as he dropped to one knee. Cazri’s blade slipped across his leg. The brutal wound was enough to stop him from standing once more. His fingers trembled as he grit his teeth to take the pain, but she had landed a cruel blow.
Stepping on the hilt of his blade as he knelt, Cazri put her weight into it to crush his fingers. “Let go, old man.”
Sorian had little choice, scraping his trapped fingers free from between the sword and rough rug; he may have paid more attention to this had his leg wound not been so painful.
“Did you forget who you were fighting with? I'm an alchemist, not a soldier. A master of the arts, though my sword skills are somewhat efficient.” She held the tip of her wavy sword to his throat. “Your sword is mine, and your life, I can take it whenever I want to. I would torture you, but I’m not giving that skeleton further reason to disobey me. No… I’ll just enjoy watching your facial expressions as I gut you like a wild animal.”
“Elite won’t believe it.”
“He’ll have to. I’m not wasting my time with you anymore.”
“Shame. I thought you’d want me to know how you out-smarted me?”
“Sorian. Tsk, tsk. Always looking for answers.” She lightly cut a gash on the side of his neck to tease him. “Maybe you’ll get to meet your skeletal friend in the afterlife.”
Taking what felt like his last chance Sorian grabbed her sword hand with both of his. Pulling and tugging he tried to pull the blade free. Cazri wobbled off balance, her blade swinging wildly as they fought for it, a few light, clumsy blows may have landed in the scramble, but in Sorian’s desperation he felt nothing of the little cuts that marked his skin.
Forcing him back, Cazri pushed him to the floor. Saddling him for control, Sorian pushed the blade up overhead, the wavy blade stabbing into the rug clumsily. Both their eyes glanced up at the blade, and then down to each other. The surprise and panic was clear in that moment, he had caught her napping with arrogance.
Letting her blade go with one hand, Sorian reached down, grabbed his small dagger and then thrust it into her gut. She gasped, her eyes strained out in pain and she froze in agony as she felt the blade of the dagger stab deep into her gut.
Feeling the warm blood drip over his fingers, he pulled it out and stabbed back into her one more time. She squealed in pain and Sorian pushed her off, and onto her back.
He took a moment to recover as they both lay there, side by side, both panting in pain, staring up into the purple haze of smoke.
“I told you. I’m a swordsman, I always have a second weapon.”
Cazri continued to gasp in pain, holding her wound with both hands; she didn’t move on her own accord.
Sorian sat up awkwardly and looked down at her. Her silver eyes panicking with a desire to live, and yet unable to stop the life that was draining from her. Looking down at his own leg wound, Sorian was not entirely sure he would survive this, but he wasn’t about to let her know that.
“Looks like I’m going to make it. So tell me. You did all of this didn’t you? I can only imagine how you found these items,” Sorian pulled the horn, much smaller than he imagined, from her belt. Wonky but beautifully crafted and marked with ancient kings signature “And you planned how best to use them. To cause this war. To plan the death of so many people.”
Cazri glared at him with no response, her face just filled with anger and hatred.
“If you tell me. Even if you just nod with no explanation.” Sorian knocked the blonde bangs from her face with his bloody hand; a few smears marking her above the eye and cheek. “I have the medical knowledge to save you.”
Cazri lay there for a moment, still riving in pain as he looked down on her. “I’ll never… give you the satis…faction… of hearing those words.”
“That is a shame.”
Suddenly Sorian drove his dagger down into the neck of Cazri. Severing any arteries and quickly ending her life. He didn’t look as she bled out, and left the dagger embedded in her as looked away. “We always knew one of us would end up killing the other. I’m glad it is I, that got you.”
- - - Radasanth, Corone - - -
“Holy shit, Sorian!” Storm excitedly squirmed in his seat. The intrigue had distracted him from the fact the staff had still not returned with any drinks. “I’d been wondering what happened to her.”
Sorian smiled with a little chuckle as he basked in his glorious story. “Yes, and while it’s given me a permanent limp, I am proud to have beaten her. My greatest rival for sure.”
“So, if you think about it. To accomplish her biggest achievement, as if conquering Alerar, maybe even more, the only way she could do it, was to use her greatest enemy. A high risk, for a high reward.”
“Well. I don’t know of another undead skeleton that has the sentiance to do what they wanted Elite to do. I’d be dead if not for him. He came back and carried me out of, Alerar. Now, though, with this injury, and my age, I must retire for sure.”
Storm nodded in appreciation while still wondering why their drinks had never arrived, and why the waitress had not returned. God, damn it.
“So.” Storm stood up and left the table to look about the room. “How old are you anyway?
“Old enough to wrinkle without sitting in a bath.”
Storm smirked at this comment. Realising that the entire room was empty, and that no alcoves sat other people. Where are the other couples? Wait, did I just refer to us as a couple? Clearly, someone else wants the information I’m after.
“What’s wrong, Storm?”
Storm held up his hand to usher silence. His ears perked to listen for something more than just himself and Sorian. He adjusted and pulled up the cuffs on his jacket, then cracked his wrist and fingers. “I asked for privacy when I arranged this. But this silence is a bit much.”
Sorian raised to his feet, walking stick in one hand, sword in the other. Now he focused away from his story, this place had fallen with an eerie silence. Considering how bustling this place had been when he arrived, this silence was clearly a problem. Storm signalled to exit the rear door as he peered down the entryway.
Sorian raised his stick up to use as a make-shift club, he could limp enough to move without it. The white walls at least kept this place bright and easy to see, but the lack of people was disturbing. The sunlit rear door appeared clear and the song of starlings tweeting outside continued as normal, but these were false signs and both Sorian and Storm knew it. Peeping his head around the door a large Dwarf stood, armoured and carrying a hammer that equaled him in size. Sorian limped outside in front of him, the quiet back garden was mostly walled off from the street, and the Dwarf stood by the only exit gate.
“Sorian.” He bellowed out.
“I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“My name is irrelevant to you, however, your knowledge is relevant to me.”
“And what knowledge would that be, exactly?”
“I want to know where the sword is.” He raised his hammer in a threatening manner, displaying it in all its steel glory for him to see in the light of day.
“It’s a power that is too much for anyone one person.”
“Regardless of its powers, its value is unprecedented. It’ll go towards funding the families for the murder of its people.”
“I’m afraid the person who caused that event is dead. Cazri died on the battlefield.”
“Stop playing games. This doesn’t need to end with your death. I just want its location. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“I never found the sword. I was nowhere near the battlefield when they recovered it. I never even saw it.”
Storm slipped round the door to find them in the garden. Several dwarves followed him from behind, but now one large one remained blocking their rear exit.
Fuck. Well, one is better than fighting six. Say goodbye, dickhead.
Without a word, but giving the dwarf a mischievous grin, storm stood with his legs evenly apart, thrusting his hands forward and staring down at him like down the barrel of a gun, he let rip with a powerful blast of electric energy. The white and blue sparks poured from his palms like sparkling water, before flying across the garden and knocking the large armoured dwarf off his feet and crashing into the old stone wall behind him.
The dwarf collapsed with a slump.
Quickly turning around as if to spin on the heel of his boot, Storm slammed the rear door shut and shoved some outdoor seating up behind its handle.
“My friend. I think it’s time we vacated this establishment.”
Sorian did not take the time to question anything any further, they charged through the rear gate, and as if Storm had planned this escape to begin with, his horse waited patiently tied to a post. They made haste from the restaurant area and ensured they were not being followed, circling a few spots and taking short alleyways they were soon free from any form of chase or observation.
Finally giving the horse a rest they stopped by the capitol building of Radasanth. Stepping off their horse before the mighty entrance, looking like ants before the entryway, Storm this time tied his horse to the mini stables post for security. He tossed a few gold coins to the stablemaster and then looked up at the guards who patrolled the stairwell to the entrance.
Sorian stared up at the statues gracing the top of the pillars, he had never been a stone mason, but the many poses of the statues were impressive, and he always appreciated the effort it must have taken to not only create these, but have them raised and placed up top the giant pillars.
“Well. I’m not entirely innocent of motive here. I promised I’d find out what happened to the sword. It never crossed my mind that the helmet, and maybe another item, would have played a part in all of this.”
“I figured. But if we were going to hurt one another, we’d have done it long before now.”
“Still, I think they followed me. I saw them earlier and failed to deal with it. You should be okay getting home. This part of the city is patrolled heavily.”
“I hadn’t come across any dwarves from Alerar since I got home. I hadn’t thought about being followed.”
“Well I haven’t killed their leader, nor have I stolen the sword. Not something I thought I’d be saying, but either way, it keeps me off their hit list. You should watch your back.”
“I will.” Sorian nodded in appreciation.
“Anyway, I now [I]have[I] to report on what I know. Damn Corone Council of rich big wigs.”
“I never suspected you’d feel you had to do anything for the council.”
“Well, if I want some of that payday they promised. Then, yes, I do. I’ll take them for what it's worth and then they can bicker amongst themselves. Besides which, I have both booze and women waiting for me when I get back.”
Sorian laughed, this was more like the Storm he knew. “Then good luck getting something out of them.” With that, Sorian turned to leave, returning to using his walking stick to make walking that much easier.
“Sorian, wait!” Storm called out. “We should do this again sometime soon. A good ale, a good woman, and no interruptions! At least tell me. What did happen to the sword?”
Sorian smiled once again, a big knowing smile that was going to make Storm question his answer. “We destroyed it.” With that Sorian left, walking down the street.
Well played, old ma... friend.
- - - The Demon Gate, Alerar - - -
Stepping up the hill, Elite finally made it back to the artillery rank. Demons had clearly made their way through, leaving bodies and abandoned artillery in their wake. One tent remained standing, the rest appeared unfinished, as if they had been interrupted while building. Crates littered the area, poles left scattered across the hill side, and damaged carts remained with no horses. The dwarven camp to be, would never be finished.
Elite, too tall to get under the tent entrance, ripped back the poles and tent doorway. The smell of death poured out and Elite ducked inside. It was impossible to miss Cazri’s body as it lay alone in the centre of the yurt tent. Her empty silver eyes stared up into the sky, and a dagger protruded from her neck. Blood had pooled on the floor and soaked into the rug, while a trail of red stains slid across to Sorian who sat against several boxes.
Sorian felt great relief at the sight of Elite. He had held his sword by his side for some time. He had listened to the screams and roars of battle, but no one had come for him. He had considered his fate: to die by sword, to die by demon, or to remain unseen and to die by his own wounds.
“All your worrying was for nothing. It’s done. Everyone’s dead or fleeing.”
Sorian smiled back, then chucked the small horn at Elites feet.
“What is this?” Elite leaned forward and collected it in his fingers. The little horn was not what he expected, but signed by King Elrohir Fararil made it clear. “I convinced myself it was the horn built into his impressive Ram Chariot.”
“She had it the whole time. While I have no idea how to use it, it would appear she used it to control everything, while appearing to keep herself as nothing but an advisor. Clever.”
Elite dropped the horn and then crushed it beneath his feet. It shattered into unrecognisable pieces. “And that’s the end of that. We can leave here, mission accomplished.”
“Elite. Are you suggesting I haven’t noticed?”
The demon sword sat hooked up in his skull rack; his shoulder gear enough to keep it safe and out of the way. “Well, I thought I’d keep it. Maybe use it for myself. Easy access to the other realm.”
“There are simply too many organisations that want it. It’s dangerous. We don’t need another Aratmus.”
“So we’re not handing it back to the Syndicate… And we are not taking it for ourselves… I’ve already broken two of these, it’ll be a shame to destroy them all.”
“It is.”
Elite held it one final time, it was a beautiful blade where the muck and blood just seemed to slide off it. Much cleaner and shiner than his cleaver. “You’re right, it’s much too pretty for me anyway.”
Holding it down at an angle, Elite stamped down on the blade, snapping it in two with a single stamp of his weighty foot. A pale blue mist escaped the blade as it broke, and the blade fell into a dull state. Elite placed the broken hilt up onto his skull rack once more, leaving the long blade shattered on the ground. Broken Souvenir… Not exactly another skull, but I’ll take it.
“I was fortunate, the right supplies were packaged here to help seal my leg wound. I believe I passed out for a while though. Came round a short while ago. I cannot, however, walk.”
“What happened to your leg?” Elite stabbed his sword into the floor to avoid having to hold it.
“I was lucky. I underestimated her abilities…” Sorian adjusted his sitting position against the boxes. “Her determination.”
“Then how did you win?”
“Arrogance. Luck. I’m still trying to decide.”
“Arrogance is often the best way to win. The surprise on their face is extremely satisfying.”
“Speaking of surprise. You don’t seem to be surprised I’m alive.”
“Why would I be? You were never destined to die here. Plus, I believed in you.” There may have been little tone in Elite's voice, but his words were clear, and Sorian appreciated that greatly. “So, now I have my souvenir, am I supposed to carry you back home?”
“Please.”
((Please note that all bunnying as been approved for this story.))
Judgment: Elite Optic
Congratulations on getting to the Final’s of the 2021-2022 Adventurers Crown! I am excited to read your submission and compare it with your peers in this solo based round. If you have any questions, concerns, or would like to reach out to me please feel free to do so!
Plot - 24The story section of the thread was well executed, but had a few small parts here and there that made me re-read to understand what was happening. Overall the writing flowed well, even with the intentional cut-scenes interspersed. There was a bit of a lack of setting to really create a full picture, but it was still enough to build on.
Character - 21The overall characters were well written. I thoroughly enjoyed the interaction and connection between Sorian and Elite, and felt that Sorian was the main portion of the character. There was a lot of dialogue in this, and at times going back and forth quickly where I had to go back and figure out who was speaking. I think that just interjecting a few “he said” type endings to dialogue when it’s that heavy, or some piece of narrative, would have made it clearer.
Prose - 20Mechanically, there were a number of small errors. The writing style, flow, and readability of the thread were pretty well done but could have been smoother at times. Well written with mi
Wild Card - 10
Score: 75
Rewards
2500 exp | 1250 gold
Exp and GP Added!
Congrats on Level 5!
The rewards granted for your completion are as follows. Please feel free to rename as needed, but if you would like to change the properties please allow me to review:
What Remains of the Helm of the First King: While the full helmet was destroyed by Elite, a piece of it is now hanging from his skull rack. The full power of the item no longer exists. However, what remains has the power to allow the user to communicate with the recently deceased.