Whitevale had been rebuilt, a wooden-walled city that spoke from a single gated mouth to the north. It was light security when the aging electromancer arrived, and portended to be a simple affair. The gates of Whitevale opened wide, the creaking metal hinges squealing in protest to the quickly advancing winter. Had it really only been a day ago that he felt the warmth of the sun on his horse? Today, the sky was that grey-blue that echoed an unmistakable chill in the air, and some of the grass that skirted the road still wore the glisten of breaking frost.

Winter comes for us all, I’m afraid.

The face of Storm was commonly clouded in smoke, but this morning it was the simple condensation of his warm breath in the dry air. Snarling atop his great black horse, the gatekeepers stared at him as though he were the rider of the pale horse.

…and death follows with me.

The wizard was the face of calamity here, and it wasn’t so long ago. Still, the guards wearing tattered armor that looked worn and weathered actually weren’t glowering at Storm Veritas, but rather distasteful at another visitor. Storm could have been anyone here, and it would have meant nothing more or less to these men.

“Shinsou.” Storm peered through his squinted eyes, closed by the long road and early morning. The guard first simply crossed his arms, smirking defiantly. The burly, bearded man spat a mouthful of fresh smelling tobacco into the hay at the magician’s feet before he spoke.

“What of it? That’s not the password today, old man.”

The cold blue eyes of the mounted adventurer flashed white as he felt rage bubble over him. Storm was too experienced to expect the type of boundless gratitude the insolent shit of a guard should have offered. He knew better than to wait on a genuflection and the washing of his feet this fat fool should have offered. Hell, he could understand some degree of anger towards the wizard, who had led to chaos before helping save this God-forsaken town from its own demise. What was simply not acceptable, however, was ignorance. The desire to destroy the man with a savage burst of clean smelling ozone and electric anger hit him like a wave.

Attila brayed, rearing slightly at the open gate as he sensed his master’s fury. Two spearmen approached the horse, their weapons raised at the great steed with fear at the sudden arousal.

Nope, not fucking today.

With a wave of his hand, the metal spear-tips were pulled out of the hands of the guardsmen, volunteers who leapt back at the seemingly possessed weapons. Storm raised his hands, gently lifting the spears over the thick wooden palisade wall and releasing them, hearing the lifeless rattle-clang of the polearms some fifteen feet away. The big bearded fat one had approached, his delicious chain mail shirt beckoning while stretched across his substantive belt.

“Enough.” Storm pushed his hand out once more, pulsing electromagnetic radiation at the shirt.

The tobacco-spewing guardsman froze as he felt his shirt stop moving, and then his own vestment pulled him up from the earth. Confused and terrified, he opened his hands and showed his palms wide from his body, far too late for any sign of peace. The other two simply stepped back, their backs pressed firmly against the stacked timbers behind them. Slowly, the links of chain began to fold back over themselves, as Veritas constricted the metal with incredible ease. He could feel the man’s chest as the air between his fingers, and could as easily collapse the metal through the fool’s flesh as a child could squeeze a ripe banana between his fingertips.

“Tell him the devil isn’t dead, and he’s come back to save his sorry ass again.” Opening his hand, Storm released his spell, allowing the man to fall helplessly three feet to the earth. Flabbergasted and terrified, the guard kicked his feet furiously into the earth, driving his body backwards as he desperately scrambled to tear away his armor.

And the man would tell him where to go. And the man would never forget the name Storm Veritas.