The Wounded King

Aamira stood silently, observing the scene before her with wide eyes- no longer out of interest but fear. She had no real defenses against these people, and had to be ready to run at any moment. Though the woman's words calmed her over time, she remained ready to run- just in case. And soon, the woman spoke of a threat to all of them. A knot developed in her stomach. She may not be the most spiritually inclined, but Aamira was faithful to her gods and believed in signs and fate. But why on earth would fate bring me into something that seems so threatening? I do not fight and I do not heal... She questioned her gods. I mean you no disrespect but if this is fate then so far it makes no sense... but I trust you. Her thoughts then turned to what the mercenary was saying and showing them. And then the tone changed as he spoke of seeing the woman who died. He thinks he's intruding, and he has no kin here? At least these three have a connection to the poor woman. I shouldn't have come... This is not my place...

"I want nothing from you- from any of you." She heard the man say. Well that settles it then, I'm leaving. Unless there's a sure sign that I may actually serve a purpose, I'll find somewhere else to rest. I'll leave town. She paused, hoping that she hadn't just insulted her gods on accident. But then, as if they had heard her comment, or known of it, the man in black shouted.

"The Dragon's Eye!" Aamira's heart seemed to stop. For a few brief moments, she hoped that the man was mistaken- that he had seen something else and misunderstood. But they continued, only confirming what she feared. She didn't know much about the birds significance past the fact that they were carrion birds, but that was enough. The gods surely have a sick sense of humor when it comes to my prayers and timing... As he concluded, warning that they must leave, she fought to keep from shaking as she did when faced with danger alone. Perhaps she wished to help, or perhaps she was being selfish and seeking protection. Either way, she was going with these people. They still think I may be able to help, so I should be allowed to stick with them... Maybe I will be of use... She hoped.
 
'Gideon', or so he called himself, sat behind the sturdy oak counter of the bar. Most of the good stuff had been packed away days ago, not that they ever served anything good here. The festival of fools, a name that matched its goals, its desire, its expectations so perfectly that he could not help but grunt in small acknowledge of the holidays self-awareness. Still, it would come and go as any other day had, nothing special for the bar keeper, only a few more rowdy customers than usual. He placed down his rag from cleaning the last mug, placing it under the shelf and scanned the bar, none yet needing or requesting another round. Small murmurs or coughs kept him company, the dirty-face men that lined the seats closest to him, all of them his regulars. Often they drank here, for truly nowhere else would give them a cheaper drink than he would, and for good reason.

"Get on, the lot of yeh'" Gideon stammered, ushering them away from the bar with a hand. "You've got enough drink in each of yer bellies for the next few hours, best ye get on with the day. No shifts until mid day, 'morrow." The dirty faced smiled, some with missing teeth, others unusually white contrasting against the black stains on their faces, except for Thomas, whom they called the live birth of a mine chute. As usual, Thomas invited them to kiss his black quarters, picking up his coat and slinging it over his shoulder, as much of the men did in return.

"Yeh, yeh. 'Member, mid-day tomorrow.", Gideon called back at the crowd as they left, some with small cheers, others with grunts of reluctance at the events to follow. The calls of the stained faces disappeared, leaving him alone at the bar to handle the occasional refill. Despite the hustle of the city, his bar never felt packed, though the line may head out the door. Reaching under the bar, he brought up a small wash basin, reaching into the murky water and splashing it on his face, feeling the small sting of dirt as it ran from the crevices of his face. Drying himself off with the rag, he tossed it aside and placed the basin back away, dragging out a second rag for the next round of glassware.

The floor of the tavern was covered, through no help of his own, in the greenery that spread of its own accord through the city, inevitably ending upon his ground, through drunken manor or simple neglect. In the corner, he spotted one man, blissful in his ability to play the ass, sitting among a pile of the flowers, holding a mug in each hand, singing songs of which no one knew the words.

He heaved a sigh from his chest, the cold void refilling itself with air against his will, and returned to cleaning the glasses at the bar.
Hearing the door open, without looking, he called forth at the entrance. "Gideon's pub, cheapest beer in the' city. Seat yourself.".
 
The day had set after the final oath was given and all were running about the monastery.
Garkin hugged his friends and waited for his mission.
Oddly enough he was the first one to receive his mission from the head master.
The monastery's base was only a small pool with fishes and other plant life around it.
"My son, your journey is far from over. You must go to your first mission within a city a couple of miles away."
Garkin nodded to the head master and sat before him with his legs crossed.
"Your time has come to become a true monk of the flame.
All of the brothers and sister of the pure flame have a name that the spirits have told me.
Your name is.... Thunderfist."
_________________________

​
Garkin walked around for sometime in the town. He gazed upon the moon and how it shined over the festival. The town itself was wondrous at this time. He had never seen anything like this until now. Everyone around him was either drunk, dressed up, or having fun. Garkin felt somewhat alone, not like he didn't have a love, but like he didn't have anyone to share his time with.

The monk kept moving around until he saw a sign for "Gideon's Bar." It's weird, Garkin has never noticed this place even though he has spent some time here. It was his mission to get to know the area and to help those around him. Garkin made his way to the bar and opened the doors. Gideon's pub, cheapest beer in the' city. Seat yourself." "I'll have a glass of water!" Garkin moved closer toward the oak counter to be able to talk to the bartender. Pushing through the crowd he made it to the front. "I'd like some water, sir!" Garkin shouted loud trying to get past the loud talking of the other customers.

"My name is Garkin Thunderfist what is your name?"



 
The bustle of the crowd had pushed like a stream of people, creating a current that led to the local pubs and brothels, which Tem found herself caught in like a small fish. It was no longer a matter of wishing to head toward a bar, she had little other choice as she was all but shoved in the general direction. The first place without a questionable looking woman on the sign happened to be a small building with a comforting, earthy smell exuding from it. With a small nod, she pushed open the door and took a step inside.

There were only a few people in the bar, from what she could tell, and those that she saw made her strongly consider heading back out the door. Were it not the worry that perhaps next time those with tricky hands might not be so easily intimidated by her sword, Tem would likely have headed right back out into the throng. As it was, the tail end of the conversation between the man at the bar and the tender made her consider sitting closer to the man admiring the green on the ground . At least he wasn't asking the tankards their names... was he?

Not wishing to talk with the fellow so boisterously asking the name of the tender, as he might well inquire things from her she'd no interest in sharing, Themisa tried to sit on the stool as far away from him as possible, her eyes roaming the room with apprising slowness. It was a decent place, all things considered. It might be somewhat unclean, and there was green growing on the floor, for Harvester's sake, but it still had a homey charm. She felt less worried for her well-being here.

"A flagon of what's cheapest?"
​
 
"Cordelis!"
​

The evening's festivities were in full sway, yet one young nobleman had yet to join them. Halted by the sound of his name in the act of descending the stairs of his family's mansion, Cordelis Norray groaned dramatically and turned to look up at the one who had called him; his eldest brother, Lyderron, frowning down at him from the top of the stairs.

"What, brother? Don't tell me you've managed to scrounge up some work you expect me to do this even! It's a festival, 'Derron, mayhap father would even forgive you if you came with me to share a drink or two down at a tavern! It would do you some good to get out and have some fun!"

The elder brother sighed, reaching up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "Try to stay out of trouble, wouldn't you? It may well be that none of our family's duties should ever fall to you, but you still carry our name. It worries me sometimes, to think of the ways you might drag our reputation with you through the gutter," he added, a touch dryly.

Cordelis actually looked affronted by this. "Give me some credit, 'Derron," he said, "I have done nothing that should so tarnish our name! I have intentions for nought but some harmless celebration this evening!" But his brother only shook his head and waved him off.

"Begone, mischievous one, and just do well to be back before you can drink yourself into oblivion," he replied, turning and disappearing beyond the banister. Shaking his head, Cordelis turned and made his escape out of the mansion and into the city itself.

Time to find the nearest tavern and join in a tawdry song.
 
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After his call for the bartender he looked around the tavern. It was not the most impressive place, but oddly enough it felt quite homely. The place was not too big, but not too small either, and that is why Darius liked the feel of the place. He then spotted the peculiar man in the corner, singing songs of happiness and such. He shrugged at the sight and didn't pay much mind to it. His left hand moved to the back of his shield and touched it, his eyes looked down at the floor, and he let out a sigh. The items on his back were a memo of the past, the past which was never going to leave mind. Darius let out a groan at the own mental statement. He looked back up to still see the man cleaning the cups. What was he waiting for? He might as well go ahead and order the "toddy" so that he could rid his mind of his tormenting flashbacks with intoxication.

"Sir, can ya give me one of yo - "

His thought process was interrupted by the individual who was entering the tavern, and stormed up to the bartender, completely ignoring the fact that Darius was about to speak. The man did seem quite exotic, having no hair and a very ample beard. If he was from a different country, he should at least know about manners, and not push past others just to get to the front. Honestly, where was this man from anyways? He let out a sigh as he let the rude man finish his order of water. He then started over with his request.

"...Idiot. Anyways, sir I would like to have yo - "

Darius heard the creak of the tavern doors again and he sighed before looking back, only this time seeing a woman entering. She gave the fellow in the corner and odd look, which made him slightly smile. Seems he wasn't the only one who thought the man over there was weird. She sat in a stool quite ways away from the man who seemed to be drunk, and commenced with her order of the cheapest ale that the tender had. Darius was planning on spending much, so he shrugged and ordered the same.

"Same for me, but instead of one cup, I would like five."



​


 

Visante paced into the town of Argeria, finally seeing the source of the cacophony that he had heard from a mile or so out. It was the Feast of Fools this day, and Visante doubted that there was a holiday he detested more. All the drunks and fools paraded in the streets, so proud of how raucous they could be that they seemed to stain the air with it, infecting all those around them to join them in these so called festivities. As if he were tip-toeing through mud, he carefully wove his way into town, avoiding contact and confrontation with as many people as possible. He had places to be, and he'd be damned if he let some damn Fool's Feast get in the way.

The music was loud, joyous. The dancing was fast, furious, filled with flailing limbs, twirling skirts, pacing feet. Drink was as plentiful as the air, in both mug and breath. In fact, it was likely that the entire town was drunk in their revelry. Truly they would look back on this day and view it as a very good Feast of Fools. Visante grumbled to himself, wondering why he had to arrive precisely on the day he hated most, in the town that seemed to enjoy it more than any other location. He feared he was getting a headache, and while he too enjoyed a good drink, the pure excess around him made him almost wish to abstain. However, his destination soon loomed in the distance, behind all the crowds, booths, and stands that laced the roads of Argeria. The office of the Arcane Symposium.

A modest building, this was merely one of their outlying branches. It was a place for users of all sorts of magic to congregate: either for texts to further their research, or supplies for potion-crafting, or simply to get in contact with other users scattered throughout the world. Visante himself was a member of one of the highest orders, and had used their extensive resources repeatedly to further his own arcane knowledge. He was here today, not to browse their library or shop at their inventory, but to merely inquire the location of a certain necromancer, one Aderas Vorde. He had heard from a colleague of his that Vorde had, a ways back, been doing research into the Dragon Lords. He had pointed Visante in the direction of Argeria: the last location where Vorde was known to have been.

Visante opened the door, and quickly closed it behind himself, glad for the slight damper the walls put on the noise outside. The building on the inside matched the outside: lacking in extravagance. Some simple cushioned chairs marked the lobby that he had walked into. To the left was the library that took up the left side of the building. In front of him was the desk that transactions were made for magical supplies. A cabinet marked the backwall, stocked with the most common and frequently bought of their inventory. A door to the right of it led to the storerooms, where they held everything in excess, as well as items not commonly bought. Visante walked up and rang the small bell that resided there, signalling that someone was looking for the man in charge. The door leading to the back opened, and a short round man, balding in hair and wearing small thin spectacles came out. He cleared his throat and made his way to behind the desk, his short steps giving him a certain waddle.

"How may I help you?" He inquired after he took up his position behind the desk.

"Yes, I am Visante Triviali, and I come here looking for a man that I was told was last seen by the Symposium here. Do you know of an Aderas Vorde?"

"Hmm, yes, but I haven't seem him in quite a while. I'm not even sure if he's still in town, to be fair. I don't get out much, far too much work here, plus I often get lost in the library myself. Tons of fascinating material there you know. Why just the other day-" The man began to ramble, and it took a loud cough from Visante to get him back on track. "Ahem, yes, I have a tendency to ramble. Anyways, I believe he lived on the northern outskirts of town, in a small house that he had lived in with his deceased wife. Though after she passed away he became a shut in." The man pulled out a scrap of paper and a quill, and began to draw a crude map. It wasn't the greatest, but it was more information than he had previously. With a curt nod, he took the paper and turned around. The man was testing his patience, and the sooner he met this Vorde, the better.
 
"And just what in hell is the Dragon's Eye?"

Brill's question would not be answered in words. For even as he asked it the light flickered. All light - the moon, the fireworks in the sky, the candlelight from the church - every source of illumination twitched as if a singular ripple of darkness had passed across Argeria. Then their breaths caught - every man's breath, a sudden shock followed by icy misting of the breath. It was if one hand had seized the souls of man.

A scream cascaded inside the church, the congregation crying out. And then, just as quickly, it was silenced, as if it had never happened.

Then began the rushing of air, the whirling howl of dust and wind. Vorde and Synae staggered. Aamira and Brill turned. The headstones leaned. The wind was phantom and pulsing, ruffling their blood as much as the yew trees. They stood, horror-struck, and watched the wall of the church crumble. Brick by brick, window by window, piece by piece, the building was taken apart. It was like the church was dissolving. Rubble was sucked into a vortex, spun away in concentric circles, and as it folded the figures inside were seen.

The congregation stood, their heads bowed, their bodies veiled in impossible shadow.

And at their centre rose the creature.

"No... oh gods, no..." Vorde whispered amid the storm, thyme and headstone distintegrating around him. "What is that?" Synae shouted, but Vorde had already gripped her arm. "We have to go... WE HAVE TO GO!"

The Dragon Lord stood amongst the worshippers, head lifting from the blood-red rose in its hand. And through the church grounds Draconic whispers began.



* * * * * * *​


"Cordelis!"

The young nobleman stopped halfway down the gravel drive and sighed, turning back to see what his brother wanted now.

Derron stood in the doorway of the mansion, lips trembling. It was as if he had forgotten what he wanted to say. "I just..."

Behind him, every servant in the hallway had frozen like a statue, trays balanced in hands, linens half-folded. And across the lawn, either side of Cordelis, footmen stood perfectly still, their guard-dogs sat calmly and staring into middle distance. It was as if someone had paused the world itself.

Derron swallowed. His brow furrowed. Something was pressing on his mind. "Brother...?"

Then, with one short and precise step, he backtracked and his head came into shadow, darkness summoned from the air itself and wrapped around his face. The servants behind him did likewise, pulling back into veils of black. The lights of the governor's mansion flickered.

And then, from the darkness near the stairway, something else came forward. It stepped as if from another world, as if it had always been there, watching, waiting, as if the house itself had been but a fleeting construct balanced upon the truer fabric of reality.

Cordelis looked into the eyes of the Dragon Lord, and felt the whispers pooling in his head, words of ancient Draconic eroding his will. And then the dogs howled, painfully, and the pillars of the house began eroding.



* * * * * * *​


It was the last thing Visante expected.

He had barely made it through the doorway when he was blown off his feet, crashing against the front desk of the Symposium. Something tore down the street and through the building, cleaving wall and roof. The tiles were ripped away and a great wind howled, narrow and relentless like a blade.

The lorekeeper he had been speaking with shrieked and fled from the desk, running between the bookshelves. But he had barely made it a few steps before he froze just as suddenly. His back arched, and shadow fell like a cowl around his head and shoulders. There was nowhere it could possibly have come from. The shadow was simply... and impossibly... there.

From other rooms of the Symposium came wizards and sorcerors - any who had been studying or resident here. As one they stood amongst the debris of rooftiles and fallen beams and looked up at the roiling sky.

And there, floating in turbulent mists, they saw their assailant.

The Dragon Lord extended a hand, and at once a chattering whisper cascaded. The wizards clutched their heads, the stronger wills defying while the weaker seized up and became wrapped in shadow.

"Brothers!" yelled one of the older mages. "We must fight!"

A chain of protection spells were raised, and bolts of fire and electric shot up against the Dragon Lord, smashing against its ethereal shroud. The mages came together, chanting and channelling whatever power they could muster.

The Symposium would not go down without a fight.



* * * * * * *​



Kendrick froze, one hand on the beer tap, the other holding a glass for Darius. It was as if he had suddenly been petrified. But there were twitches on his face, words half-formed on his lips, confusion in his brow.

Garkin and Tem, stood before him, wondered for a moment if the barman was suffering a stroke.

"What is... who...?" Kendrick's words could not be finished. Every part of him seem to struggle against some unseen force.

Then blood poured from the beer tap and across his hand.

The barman bucked and his head came back into shadow which had suddenly, impossibly, formed from the wine-racks and glass shelves. They saw his eyes turn black, his skin turn pale. His sudden silence was echoed by the other patrons. Drinkers at tables, performers on the stage, runners in the kitchen - all at once they stopped what they were doing, confused, and then pulled back into shadow.

From the air itself came whispering, like needle-points driving into the brain.

And then, from a side room, the figure stepped. The door fell, rotten, from hinges rusted in a heartbeat. It was as if it had been here all along.

The Dragon Lord released a piercing snarl and swept its blade in mighty arc. A whole table of drunks was cleaved by shadow, their souls leaping from their bodies and manifesting as dust and ether. They twisted like silk strands and fell in step behind the monster, a cloud of howling spirits, magnifying the whispers.

It came towards them.



* * * * * * *​


From his cell window, Skelter saw it all.

On the main thoroughfare that ran through Argeria, the dancing revellers stalled. The plays fell silent, the fireworks sputtered in the air, and banners and carnival floats were stilled in an instant. The crowds shifted from laughter to worried murmurs. It was the action of a stalked herd, sensing the predator in their midst. As dogs ran whimpering the children stared into the distance and costumed players held their pose. The moonlight itself seemed to flicker and shift, repainting every street-scene in sharper shadow.

Whispers rippled, but one could not tell if it was the people passing the chant or simply the air itself that bled Draconic curses. Alley walls began to erode and birds dropped from the sky. And beyond the two walls Skelter saw the forest withering. Leaves curled and dropped dead, while streams turned to boiling poison and trunks drooped over, corroding to rot.

There was a short yelp, muffled as quickly as it began. Skelter turned to peer down the hallway. And there he saw the guard he had spoken with earlier, stood in the shadows, face to the wall, like an errant child sent to the corner. Other cells had fallen eerily silent, or else their occupants were gripping the bars and yelling for help.

Then from the shadows the creature came, cloaked and walking with a staff, attended by chattering psychic whispers.

And wherever it went the cell bars corroded into dust.


The Dragon Lords had woken

The land itself was choked.

 
[size=+1]"Well, that cannot be good."

Skelter turns from the scene unfolding before him in time to watch the bars of his cell begin to crumble into nothingness. "Del polvo eres..." he mutters under his breath, shying back from the bars for fear of the corrosion spreading to him, "...y al polvo volverás tú..."

For a moment, he just stares at the growing pile of dust gathering on the floor, before gingerly stepping forwards and poking at it quickly with the toe of his boot. To his relief, it doesn't start to melt, and so he carefully steps over it all and into the hallway...

...just in time to see something swooping down the hallway towards him.

It could have once been a man, but men do not have skin of ash and eyes of fire. A black hood hangs over it's head, and maddening whispers slither out from around it, infecting the very air. "Mierda!" Skelter exclaims, backing up quickly; the doorway isn't far, and he suddenly has the powerful need to put as much distance between himself and this thing as possible--

--Heavy-set arms grab him from behind and wrestle him into place, and Skelter can smell the breath of guardsman Bob from behind him, whispering and muttering to himself as he pins the prisoner in place. "Bob, now is not the time for wrestling!" He wrenches and twists, trying to break the guard's hold, but Bob's grip stays firm.

And the thing in the hallway drifts ever closer, it's whispers echoing nearer and nearer.

From out of their cells the other prisoners emerge, dead-eyed and vacant-faced, whispering the same deranged nothings as Bob. They fall into line behind the cloaked being, like a twisted Pied Piper leading a legion of the insane. It's far too close now, and Bob is showing no signs of letting Skelter go.

"Bad, bad, very bad…" he mutters, still writhing in the hope of breaking free. Twisting his head, his eyes fall upon the blade sheathed at the guard's side and a desperate plan forms in his head. With a titanic effort, Skelter forces Bob's arm away far enough for his right arm to break free; it snaps out and hauls free the blade, spinning it around to slide it into the guard's chest.

From behind him, Skelter hears the air rush out of Bob's lungs and feels his arms go limp; bursting free from the guard's grip Skelter pivots around in fluid motion, arcing the blade high. It flashes under Bob's armour and into his neck, passing through. Bob's head falls from his shoulders and his body crumples to the ground as Skelter jumps over and runs for the door.

Pausing at the exit, he turns to look at the body of the dead guard one final time. "Apologies, Bob," he says in a quiet voice, "But it was you or me."

With that he's off, a free man racing into the night as the town dies.[/size]
 
Synae fell. The feeling of the forest, falling to the onslaught of corrupting energies, struck her like a bolt. For a moment, she remained there, stunned and on the ground. Aderas's panic brought her back to her senses, though, allowed her to regain her strength. She pushed up to her feet, looking to him and beginning to run with him. Around them as they raced through town, the people were standing stunned, or chanting, or otherwise appearing to be completely unperturbed by the sudden assault on the town.

"Stop! Aderas! The townsfolk!" She skidded to a stop, pulling away and rushing to a group. She reached, hands closing over the stranger's arms as she shook him. Through the grit and the surprise of the man's reaction, she didn't see the dagger he drew and slashed at her with. Only Aderas grabbing her and pulling her back saved her life. But now, now the townsfolk had noticed the group.

Fear gripped her, outweighing the feeling of nausea the dying forest was leaving her with. The group moved toward them, forcing Aderas and Synae to flee, clinging to one another and trying not to fall.
 

Visante howled with a mixture of anger and pain. His eyes rolled back as he fought back against the unknown force that began to tear through his mind. An incomprehensible cacophony of noises that inspired madness inside his head, it took a hold of him. Visante stumbled back, clutching his temples as he fought desperately to drive out the foreign foe. Everything had happened so fast. The annoying man he had just dealt with was now dead, killed by some sort of shadow that was cast without any source. It's existence was one that defied reason, but exist it did. With a roar and a final burst of effort, Visante mentally forced himself past the psychic barrage, protecting his mind as his eyes refocused on the Dragon Lord floating above them.

A call to arms had been shouted among the mages and sorcerers present, and they began to cast a variety of spells against this mysterious assailant. The air shimmered with barriers as fireballs and bolts of lightning hurtled towards the Dragon Lord. Its shroud seemed unaffected, the spells seeming to lose all power and evaporating away. Visante stared up at awe at the power of the Dragon Lord, wanting to achieve something of that level, perhaps even higher. However, if he were to die here, Visante would never gain the power he worked towards. With this firmly in his mind, he stepped forward, joining his Symposium brothers, and began canting a spell. His lips flew as they uttered a multitude of inaudible words. His hands extended forward, and a ball formed between them. When he had said the final word, the ball shot forth, and its true power began to show. Crackling with electricity, and burning with a red hot flame, it screamed towards the Dragon Lord and its shroud. But like all spells before it, it fizzled away upon contact. Visante cursed to himself, and braced himself as the Dragon Lord made signs of a counter attack.
 
Aamira's eyes were wide, locked on the Dragon Lord. It took a few moments before she was thinking straight, going through everything she had been taught about them as she frantically chose the direction in which she would run. Glancing back at the Dragon Lord, her fear overrode her logic and she ran into the crowd, praying she'd be fast enough. She considered her chances, which weren't good. I can outrun them, as long as no one grabs me and the Dragon Lords stay put... She tried to avoid touching people as much as possible, jumping and ducking as she sprinted through the town. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that there was a group of magic users fighting back. Gods help those poor souls... Suddenly she heard Synae shout something and decided to see if she could find her, hoping that her chances of getting out of town would improve if she were with someone trained in magic. Moments later though, she halted. The townsfolk turned to her, one grabbed her arm. Not knowing anything else to do she grabbed her dagger and sliced the arm open, trying to run once again. She found it difficult to even jog now, it seemed that anyone who wasn't already caught in the shroud of the Dragon Lords was a target. Taking a deep breath, she tried to remember what little combat she knew. It wasn't enough. She resolved that thinking of her brother would be better motivation; He was a warrior. Think of what he would do... what else can I do? She adjusted her grip on the dagger and uttered a short prayer before fighting back the poor souls that attacked her, soon becoming a bloody mess. Often all she'd do was cut an arm, but she got lucky enough, slicing open throats and stabbing hearts. I can't do this for long... Jumping over a body and stabbing at the closest man in her path, she ran again, cutting those in her way until they either let her go, their arms had been severed, or she killed them.
 
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Darius watched as the bartenders hand moved over to one of the cleaned cups and picked one up. The tenders other hand then moved to the beer tap, and Darius slightly gulped. He wondered how intoxicated he would get by drinking five cups of this, but he did say that he wanted to relieve his mind of its torment. He watched as the tender then turned the beer tap slightly, but it seemed as if... time was getting slower. His left brow rose at this sight, before the tender looked towards him, the exotic male, and the seemingly quiet woman.

Blood then started to pour from the beer tap. Darius, immensely surprised, got up from the stool and took a few steps back. The tenders head then shot back before he seemed to be pulled in a large shadow. His eyes went black, as dark as the night, and his skin suddenly became pale. He became as stiff as a statue. Darius looked around, noticing that all the others became stiff as well. People stopped drinking and conversing, and performers stopped all their movements. It seemed as if the whole room just... died. Some of them were pulled into the shadow as well. He turned left and right to see that himself, the woman, and the man with the beard were the only ones who were not affected by this sudden horror.

He then heard a loud and ear piercing sound. He then moved his hands to his ears and covered them, but the sound would not go away. He looked towards the door, only to see it be burst open by a large foreign warrior. Its skin was grey, and its armor was a dull and faded gold. As Darius looked to its face, he widened his eyes. This thing wasn't alive. Immediately after entering, it rose its blade and swung through a table of drinkers, cutting through them. Pale and ghostly forces seemed to rise from their bodies before transforming into dust. Their cries pierced the air as they fell behind the creature.

What kind of hell was this.

The creature looked towards them, before raising its blade once more, and came towards them. Darius had to do something. He removed his hands from his ears, and his right hand swiftly moved to his back before grabbing the hilt of his blade. His other hand, grabbed at his shield. He tucked his left arm through the leather strap behind the shield, and his right hand held his blade tightly.

"Pushed into a battle yet again... damn..."

Not wanting to take the first hit, he charged towards the monster, and jousted at its solar plexus.​
 
As the other three fled, Brill was left dumbfounded. In the ruins of the church shadows, once merry makers, closed around the masked monster with unsettling adoration. The shroud of alcohol had been lifted from his vision when the priestess healed him, and already his wounds were beginning to close.

His entire life, he'd known who his enemies were. Once, they were the men who did not wear the sigil of Lomass proudly. Then, they were the men and women he was paid to kill. In every case, there was a clear line of morality he straddled. The defenseless had a free pass to salvation...mostly, and only combatants took their lives into their own hands. But what this...this...What was it again? Dragon Lord? What it did to those folk, that wasn't anything he'd seen before. Honest folk, gods fearing folk, by the Four, could he cut down people like that?

No.

Tearing the shield from his back, he charged in the opposite direction of the fleeing. He went right for the Dragon Lord.

Entering into the ruins of the church, shadows assaulted him. On either side they gripped or hung around his arms, the clamoring sigils and medals hanging off his neck. The ranks of the once folk walled his approach to the Dragon Lord, and for any usual mercenary, it would be enough. But there was something else to Brill, the depths of damnation that lent primal force to his leap. He used the back of a pew and vaulted over the heads of the villagers, sword out, like shadow itself against the darkness, aiming to cut the Dragon Lord in one stroke.

But that rose shattered, petals streaming up and past Brill. His sword came down, but it bit into the shoulder of a man writhed in shadow, someone who had stepped from the congregation to take the blow. Brill could not divert his blade in time and warm blood sprayed into his face and arms. Wrenching the blade free, Brill fell back and tried to swing around the pawn, but another stood in his way. Through the shadow, at this range, he could see their eyes were anything but blank. No. The man he cut was happy to lay his life down for this...this...thing. There was nothing but love and adoration in his eyes, wrath at the man who would strike at his beloved.

It was a chilling look.

Hands reached out to grab Brill, nesting in his hair, his clothes, his skin, pushing him to his knees. Even the man he'd stricken, bleeding out before his killer, did his best with remaining strength to hold the shocked Brill down.

The Dragon Lord cocked its head, stepping forward and reaching out a decrepit hand toward his forehead.

Whispers continued, roiling over him, speaking of...love? Brill did not speak the language, but the tone was placating, gentle, longing. He knew. He knew that if he allowed himself to be touched, he would be gone as well, another shadow puppet, another innocent victim.

Rage coursed beneath his skin, muscles bulged, and Brill hurled the congregation from him smashing his shield into the outstretched hand as it trailed inches from his skin. The bony hand crumbled beneath the attack, and the Dragon Lord hissed, withdrawing. He was replaced by the congregation, all righteous fury and adoration. Pushing away, the mercenary sprinted from he church, leaning down only briefly to pluck the cup from the ground and stuff it into his belt. That pale fellow had called them by a name, and maybe he'd know a bit more about them.

In the street, shadows had destroyed the festival, falling over folk like blankets. In the distance, he saw that lithe girl from earlier cutting and stabbing at the villagers as she ran by. Her blade ran red with their blood as the manipulated feel beneath her assault. Desperation lent strength to his pumping legs and he approached behind her, bringing his shield up. She turned as he swung, her dagger lancing out and scoring a bloody mouth against his arm before the steel shield smashed into her body, lifted her off the ground, and hurled her across the street.

"ARE YOU MAD?!" The mercenary snarled, turning and shoving two villagers away with his shield, "These people are innocent! Avoid them, don't cut them down like animals!" One pulled a dagger and thrust it into Brill's back. Roaring, he turned and punched them with the hilt of his blade, knocking them flat, "Touch another with that knife and I'll cut off your hands!"

Thrusting his hand down, he pulled her to her feet and scanned the street for movement. The sharp jerking motion of those not caught in the shadow were obvious among the sea of those who were, and spotting the necromancer and priestess was not difficult.

"Come on," he growled at the girl, nodding in their direction, "Follow closely." Behind her he swung his shield to send a large man off balance and into the cobblestone, taking a brief moment to slap the girl's ass and step back in front of her.

"No hard feelings," he called back to her with a grin, "But these folk came out to celebrate and I'll be damned if I give them a reason to grieve when they come to."
 
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Aamira let out a gasp as she was thrown on the ground, unsure of how to react. Looks as if it is mad to injure and kill people threatening you... Glaring at him as he stepped in front of her, she put off yelling at him for touching her and followed as he had instructed. She knew when to obey, and she had after all needed someone with more experience near by. As he turned and spoke to her, she didn't stop her glaring. She understood exactly what he was saying, and didn't take anything personally, she just didn't like it when people touched her like he had. She suddenly decided to sheath her dagger, realizing that she would likely attack again if anyone came near her with it still in her hands. She normally tried to be calm, but she didn't think straight when she panicked. I'll have to work on being more logical when chaos ensues. Something tells me that this won't be the last time I have to fight...
 
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"Gods have mercy..."
​

Fear flooded him. Cordelis had never beheld any creature like the Dragon Lord before him. The noise in his head only made it that much harder to even think of what to do now, chattering whispers of enticement or threat, he knew not which. Only that he quailed before it, and struggled in his own mind just to think. Shaking his head violently, he stumbled back a step, and finally, came back to himself.

His brother!

"Derron, behind you!" the young noble shouted, rushing forward to grab his brother's arm, trying to pull him away from the door, out of that shadow that had enthralled him. It didn't work--instead, to his shock, Derron grasped his arm in turn, in a vise-like, unyielding grip. Looking up into his brother's eyes, he saw only shadow, as Lyderron began chanting in a strange tongue, and the terrifying apparition stepped closer.

There was no time. Barely even time to think, hard as it was to think through the chattering in his skull. But two things were clear; first, that he would not be able to drag his brother away with him, let alone find the rest of his family--if they were not already in the same state as Lyderron. Second, that he very much did not want to find out what would happen if that being reached him.

Swallowing the taste of bile, Cordelis drew back his fist and punched his brother in the jaw as hard as he could, forcing him to loosen his grip; but as he wrenched his arm free, he took something with him--their family's signet ring, prised from Lyderron's finger.

He needed to get out of here and find help, and he'd need that ring to do it.

With the ring in hand, Cordelis turned and fled, racing past the dogs that barked and pulled at their tethers as he ran around the side of the mansion, towards the stables. Shoving the door open, he had to dodge one of the stablehands--enthralled, just like everyone else.

What the hell was happening here? What kind of sorcery could be this powerful? And worse, just how far did it stretch?

He was fortunate, at least, in that those under the spell seemed clumsier than normal. He was able to shove the stablehand outside and slam the door shut, dropping the wooden bar across it to hold it fast as he turned to find his horse. Most of the animals were in a panic, seeming to sense the foul presence from the mansion--his own horse wasn't much better off. As he rushed up to Dirk's stall, the beast reared up with a shrill whinny, kicking at the gate. Cursing, Cordelis grabbed for Dirk's halter as he let him out, trying to calm him enough to saddle him quickly. He didn't have time for this!

He had barely finished fastening the saddle to Dirk's back when a faint rustling made him look up at the stable doors once more; just like the pillars of the mansion, the wood, too, was eroding, decaying and falling into dust before his very eyes. His fear rose like a tide within him; swearing under his breath, he vaulted up onto Dirk's back, driving the horse to where his bow and quiver hung from the wall to snatch them and sling them both over his shoulder, as he drove his steed onwards towards the back entrance.

Kicking the doors open with another loud squeal, Dirk took off down the back street at his rider's direction, away from the source of the darkness and fear.
 
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The headmaster finally made it official that Garkin was inducted into the order.
Garkin was excited and humbled by all the congratulations he received that day when he became a monk of the order.
The fist thing he would have to do is talk to the second in command, Amelia, who would give him his first assignment.
He knew her by the white robes she wore with gold lining on the stitching.
He marched to her quarters and spoke with her about his assignment.
She gave him all the information he needed and he was to head out the next day.
The next day he would ride out and begin his journey.


​

Garkin looked back at the man who muttered something about him and shook his head, then he turned his head back to the bar. He watched the bartender as he began cleaning a few glasses and put his hand on the tap. I wonder what type of beer they are serving tonight, Garkin thought to himself. It wasn't his intention to become drunk, since he was under oath, but he licked his lips waiting for the beer to pour out.

As he began filling the cups from the tap Garkin noticed something, are they serving wine tonight? He had never seen a dark and thick brew such as this, then he realized it was blood. Garkin's eye widened as he looked at the other patrons look in horror at what was occurring. His blood soon ran cold as he felt chills run down his back, this obviously wasn't a prank or a trick. As Garkin looked out of his peripherals he noticed that the whole place was quiet. Almost as if everyone within the bar was silenced.

Then silence broke as whispers broke out, almost like a demon whispering secrets into your ear. He turned around and saw the patrons grasp their ears and look around for the mysterious noise. Then the door fell to the floor and a dark figure stood at the door. "I guess he didn't want to knock." The being stepped into the bar, and Garkin stared at it. It's ghostly face, and skeletal body made noises as it walked. In that instant the being arced his sword toward the table of drunks, and their souls came from their bodies and went into the dust.



Garkin looked at it ready to engage in battle.
​

The creature turned it gaze toward the rest of the patrons. Garkin held his fists in front of him ready to fight. It was obvious that he had to do something, it was his job. The creature raised it's blade toward the rest of the patrons and Garkin took a fighting stance. The man next to him who made the comment about him held his blade and he tapped him on the shoulder telling him that he was there. "To live or die is not the job, it's how you keep working or end your mission."

They both charged the beast and began to fight.











 
"No! Stop it!"

As Vorde pulled Synae from the crowd in the town square, he was yelling at Aamira. The Elven woman who had fled with them had drawn her blade on the enthralled revellers. And now, as if in frenzy, she was slicing limbs and piercing throats and torsos.

Four lay dead, and seven bleeding, by the time Brill intercepted her.

"They're still people! Aaaargh!" The Necromancer dropped to one knee as whispering, like the keenest blade, sliced through his mind anew. Synae held him up, even as tears streamed her face, even as the grief of the dying forest suffocated her.

Arms across each other's shoulders, the Priestess and Necromancer pushed through the crowd.

They did not see what Brill saw.

Down the street from church to town square, the people began falling, dropping onto hands his knees. They brought their backs together, forming a grovelling carpet on which the Dragon Lord stepped. Those who did not carry its weight reached out to stroke and kiss the creature's rags. And all along, like some virgin bride, it carried the blood red rose. Whispering poured from its bones, the breathless nothings of a lover.

"Hurry!" Vorde's voice, poison-scratched, called out to them. "The Symposium! It's our only cha--"

Synae screamed and Vorde brought up his staff as a shadow loomed over them...



* * * * * * *​


..."Aaagh!" Cordelis yelped as two people stumbled into the road before him. There was a woman who screamed and a man who brought up a staff, magic light flaring out. His horse squealed and reared up, blinded, and the next thing Cordelis knew his back was slamming into the cobbles. The horse charged off, panicking through the streets, and all he saw were dead leaves and ashes in the sky.

"Careful, boy!" a voice rasped and a hand gripped his shoulder. In moments Vorde and Synae were pulling Cordelis to his feet. They were an odd pair, like opposite sides of a holy coin, like heaven and hell imagined. The Necromancer shouted in his face. "You're going the wrong way! Follow!"

The noble was turned back in the direction he'd come, but then froze. He put an arm up to stop Vorde and Synae, his other trembling as it pointed to the street.

It was the groundsmen from his father's estate. They were here... They were hanging from the eaves of the houses, throats slit, flesh skinned. The road below was sunk in shadow, and in its centre gleamed the two eyes he had beheld before. The eyes of a silent, inescapable assassin.

"Oh gods..." the pale man beside him breathed.

The Dragon Lord started moving, blinking, entering one shadow then emerging from another, clearing the length of the street in seconds. Vorde pulled Synae and the boy, "This way!" then yelled over his shoulder at Brill and Aamira. "Take the alleys!"

In moments they were cutting through the narrow passages. The only light came from Vorde's staff - the same glow with which he had startled the horse. And occasionally, overhead, a top floor light would show dark figures stood with candles, whole families of townsfolk gathered by the glass and watching them with dead eyes.

Their only hope was to get to the Symposium...



* * * * * * *​


Their only hope was to defend the Symposium.

Visante stumbled as one of the Guild Wizards was plucked off his feet, flung across the library and through the shelves. Eldritch chains had entwined the man's body and sheared off his flesh. His gap was filled by another mage. Then the floor cracked open and vines shot up to ensnare the legs of another two. They were dragged into darkness. Fire-serpents screamed overhead, and the night was lit by the pulse of magic barriers.

Visante summoned his own as a rain of crystal daggers fell. The Dragon Lord hovered like a grotesque angel above them, unfazed by all assaults, directing spears of lightning. A trio of Sorcerors had tried to charge him, aloft on levitation spells, but had been ripped to dust the moment they cleared the roofline. Then an Evoker had readied a fireball, which had exploded in his hands. Another's robe had been set on fire, and the man ran screaming between the bookshelves.

All was chaos and carnage, and the raw static of the arcane.

"We must fall back! The catacomb will be-- AAAAGH!" One of the Elder Wizards was torn apart mid-sentence, his blood leaping from his body like a cloud of flies. As he died his staff discharged, sending a shockwave that floored Visante and the others. Then more screams. One of the Enchanters had been turned into a bundle of snakes that thrashed inside his robe.

The air was bleeding. Never in a half-century had this much magic been unleashed in one place.

And between every chanted spell the whispering grew louder. At the edge of the mage circle the younger novices were stopping, standing still, turning to look at the others with their faces in shadow.

The resistance was crumbling.



* * * * * * *​


One day they would meet again, with the power bestowed on but the greatest journeys. One day they would face the Dragon Lords and dare to succeed.

But it would not be today.

It was Garkin who broke off the charge first. It was like the weight of mountains had come against his knees. They trembled, they began to bend; his heart was filled, all of a sudden, with awe in this creature's sight. He saw the detail of the Dragon Lord's armour, the glyphs that crossed his polished metal. He saw the wisdom in its hollow eyes, the majesty of its crown.

He felt the authority, tangible and overpowering. The presence of a true king.

He wanted to kneel.

But his trance was broken when Darius lunged with his sword. The creature swung its own blade, bone and steel clashing. The parry sent Darius off balance, stumbling against another table where entralled peasants grabbed at him and held him down.

This left the Dragon Lord clear to march onwards, straight towards Garkin and Tem, still awe-stricken at the bar.

The monk shook the whispers from his head and threw his fist forward, shattering the creature's ribs. His muscled arm buried itself in the cavity of the Dragon Lord, and its step faltered. But in moments Garkin was reeling. Scarabs, spiders and worms poured from the entrail darkness and swamped his arm, a black tide rushing towards his chest and head. He stumbled to one side, limb covered in vermin.

And the Dragon Lord moved on, straight towards Tem, who with her back to the bar did not see the enthralled Kendrick raising a dagger.



* * * * * * *​


Outside, Skelter slumped his back against the wall of the tavern.

The convict was gasping for breath. Cardio had not been exactly possible on the inside, and now his lungs were on fire. A few feet along from him, through a window, Darius and Garkin could be seen thrashing inside the tavern with their respective struggles.

But Skelter didn't notice them. He was too busy looking back down the street.

The prison he had fled was collapsing inwards, each stone and oak beam imploding. The rubble fell against the shape of the marching Dragon Lord and bounced away, not fazing him in the slightest. Slabs the size of wagons, raindrops, torch fire - nothing seemed to touch the creature's cloak. And its every motion was conducted in total silence. He had to wonder if he was imagining it - seeing some phantom where there was only natural disaster.

But the ones moving with him were evidence enough. As the Dragon Lord approached dark shadows fell in step around him - other townsfolk, other prisoners, even horses and street dogs. Like some hallowed, silent pilgrimage, they traversed the town with glowing eyes and features etched in shadow. Some were missing limbs, severed in fighting. Some were naked from the bath houses. He even saw a torchbearer on fire, walking calmly as his body burned.

Skelter edged along till he felt the brass knocker of the tavern door press to his back.

There were thuds around him as birds fell from the night sky, their tiny bodies crushed.

And he could have sworn their beaks were still moving... whispering at him to join the ranks of the damned.
 
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Garkin thought back to the days of when he was a child.
He didn't really have much come to think about it as a whole.
The world then was much better then, maybe because he was just a kid.
He would play with his mates, eat, and go to schooling.
Living at the monastery was a good life, but he didn't get all things he would have.
That is if he had parents, apparently they died or something is the story he always got.
It doesn't really matter now...



​

Garking felt it, at a moment he was winning and now, not so much. The wound he made in the beast could have been worst if he had done something more with it. He felt the pricks and bites of spiders and scarabs as the crawled up and down his arm, slowly moving toward his head and chest. The bugs had moved to his shoulder and shoulder blade. What could he use to be able to get these things off of his harm? He couldn't just shake them off.

Garkin spun around and looked around and saw many of the patrons hiding behind tables and cowering behind the bar. His eyes darted back and forth looking around for something. A cup laid one of the tables and then Garkin thought of a great idea. With that mug he started scooping the bugs off of his neck, and his arm.

He soon filled his his cup with bugs, what would he get them out with? Garkin looked at the tap and spawned another idea. He punched a hole in the top and dunked it into the blood. All the bugs got out, so he continued doing it over and over looking up at the beast that had done this to him.

This isn't going to end well...

 
So much pain. She could barely see, and every step was one further into isolation. Only her hold on Aderas was centering her, keeping her focused. While others heard the chanting, the whispers, the tugs at their minds, while the Dragon Lords moved through town, her heart was filled with the death and corruption of the forests she guarded. Desperately, her mind sought reason. Was this destiny? She'd been brought here by a vision gifted by her faith. Faith that must have known the forest was to fall and had spared her life. It was a supreme twist of fate that would throw her into danger to save her. And there were others.

As one, the five raced through the alleys. Each time they crossed through a street, she held her breath, hoping that they would not be detained, would not run under the footfall of one of the monstrosities that moved through the streets.

Only very rarely do streams diverge once they have found one another. Stronger together, the water cuts through stone and earth to move where needed. If she'd been sent here, if these people had converged together, then they were stronger together. If they could just get to the Symposium--

She didn't recognize the scream as her own at first. In her mind, a thousand trees cracked under the weight of the twisting, tormenting corruption, animals crashed to the ground in the midst of their panicked flight, and the forest as it had been ceased to speak to her. Only one point within it remained, flickering faintly, on the edge of her mind. But now, that mind was grasping for anything to fill the sudden void. It latched onto the nearest thing it knew: the spark of humanity and courage that was still present in Aderas.

In that moment, her questing soul was thrown open. Through her panic, there was power, a power that was complementary to his own. For an instant, her talents lay bare, tools to be grasped, begging to touch and be touched by his own powers, for death was a part of life even while each are their own entity, and the edges so often meet up where the line becomes blurry in crepuscular circumstance. But here, it was useful, an accident, a moment's chance. One that might never come again and one that had to be seized. For a moment, fate's currents might not only be seen... but grasped.
 
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