Emoria: Chapter One; Sretin

The Sretin Provinces were renowned for their natural beauty. The sun always seemed to shine on the land, never letting their crops go long without sunlight. Even the nights were peaceful, the people never worrying about intrusion or disturbance. An seemingly endless grassland, populated with the peaceful Breale, it was likely the closest one could get to paradise in all of Emoria.

In the city of Candbridge, in the bowels of the Cathedral, something cold stirred from unliving slumber. Robes of elegant black danced freely in the empty air, flowing free without a frame to hold. Eyeless sockets turned to the twitching form cradled in the split sarcophagus, before words formed from nothing, and echoed thought the crypt like a choir.

“Rise.”

Claws of bone screeched against stone, as the creature slowly pulled itself from it’s stone womb. Exposed muscle twitched with every movement, as dulled eyes took in the world around it for the first time. A powerful maw stretched slowly, as it climbed over the side and landed softly on the aging rock below. It struggled to move at first, its muscles struggling to adapt to their new design, but soon the creature settled, and the watching presence seemed to warm.

“Excellent, my child.” The robes drifted closer, the jewelled skull of the Grand Lich Ka’urderen seeming almost to smile at the success of it’s creation. Aged oak groaned as the door to the crypt opened, and the form of a young priest entered the dark. Two others followed behind him, another boy and a young woman.

“What did you hear?” Her voice shook, as her discomfort as the prospect of wandering around a dusty crypt permeated the lich’s senses. A wordless order, and it’s creation darted into the shadow’s without a sound.

“Some sort of…I don’t know, it sounded like something was digging at the stone.” The lead male replied, holding his torch forward to examine the crypt before him. A look of confusion came over his features, and he inched closer to the open crypt before him.

A cold rush of air filled the crypt, slamming the door behind them, and snuffing out the torch, engulfing them in the black. The young woman screamed, as the men shouted at the darkness. It darted past, barely brushing against their legs as it moved.

“What the hell was that?!”

The stone sparked, as the creature tackled the lead man to the ground. There was a brief moment of struggle, before it’s teeth sunk into the soft of his neck, and tore his windpipe from his body. Blood dripped from it’s face, as it looked to the remaining Breale hungrily.

“It’s…it’s some kind of ghoul! Get the door open!” The women nodded and raced frantically to the door. Gripping the handle of fallen friend’s burnt out torch, the young priest watched the hunkered predator carefully, a bead of sweat running down his brow.

Silence reigned in the crypt, save for the frantic breathing of the living, drawing the ghoul’s gaze like a beacon. A low hiss echoed from deep inside it’s throat, sliding off the body and circling behind one of the pillars.

Swallowing quietly, he backed up quietly towards the door, watching for the creature. Glancing over his shoulder, he whispered in a panicked breath. “What’s wrong?”

“The door won’t budge! It’s…it’s like someone’s holding it shut!” She looked back, and screamed. He turned his head just in time to see the beast’s maw before it snapped shut on his skull, crushing the fragile bone, and sending a shower of crimson and grey over the young woman. She collapsed to the stone, backing away frantically from the ghoul as it advanced on her, muttering prayers to Mira as the few seconds she had left began to tick away.

“Wait.” The voice echoed through the crypt, without a source and yet entrancing. An unseen hand gripped her throat, and lifted her off the ground with ease. Ka’urderen emerged from the dark, his eyeless gaze on the girl. “I have another use for this one, my child.” The ghoul hissed softly, as the door creaked open once more, this time at the lich’s command. “Go and hunt, my child. Find the living, and end them. Bring me their bones and their flesh, and I will craft you kin. There will be risk, and danger. Avoid the paladins of light, and the soldiers of the false prophet. Bring me the weak, and when the time comes, we will drown the strong in an unliving tide.” The creature snarled, before bounding up the steps and disappearing into the serene night.

The woman struggled in his grip, the frigid touch sending shivers down her spine and numbing her body. “As for you, daughter of peace…” Something pressed on her face, forcing open her mouth. “I have another fate in mind for you.” She tried to scream, only for it to die in her throat as something…cold slipped through her mouth and forced its way down into her body.

He released her, letting the Breale crashed to the stone as he moved back deeper into the crypt. The cold remained though…and she felt it spreading through her body. Raising her shaking fingers to her face, she watched as lifeless grey slowly began to devour the soft tan of her skin, the feeling slowly slipping from her fingers. A scream tried to escape her, but the numb had already found her lungs, and left her robbed of precious breath.

Ka’urderen remained still as the muffled sobbing and panicked scraping slowly died down. A powerful command split the silence as the graves began to open. “Rise, my children. The time of the living has passed, and we must deliver them to their fate.”

A chorus of lifeless birth filled the crypt.


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It was amazing how quickly things could change. Moving quietly up the hill to Zin, Alphonse spared a glance back at the makeshift battlements that blocked the main road to the capital of Sretin. Weary Soldiers stood firm, flanked by the timid Breale who had broken their pacifistic ways to help defend their homeland for the blight that had burst from the earth. They knew they needed to fight. They knew the end stood vigilant on their doorstep, ready to claw it’s way inside at the first sign of weakness. In twelve days, their entire world had changed. He couldn’t imagine the shock and pain they felt at the loss…

Images of the creatures, Ghouls the Breale called them, flashed to mind. Horrible beasts, ripping grown men apart with their teeth, dragging down whole horses just to get at the body atop them. Swarms erupting from the dark whenever you thought yourself safe…the retreat to Zin had been a voyage through the Shadow Plane itself, Alphonse was certain, and so many friends and comrades had fallen to the dark…did they see the same? Bodies of loved ones and friends, brought back to slaughter those they once laughed with and loved? By Sanctus Unis’s grace he prayed they didn’t. It was a thought that had robbed him of sleep every night.

A shiver raced down his back at the memories of the days before, and he found himself picking up the pace as he approached Zin. His throat was dry, and he swallowed nervously as the city drew closer. The men posted at the front gave him a nod and a weak smile, one even offering a “Welcome back.” He smiled, something he found nigh impossible now that had once come so easily. A quick wave to the gate guards was all he had time for, as weary legs carried him into the besieged capital of Sretin and on towards the makeshift camp that had been erected in the city square.

It wasn’t hard to see the fear on the faces of the Breale. He came to a stop near a small family that was returning home with their rations for the night. A small bag clasped in the father’s hand told him that the parents would not eat tonight, giving what little food they received to their young children. They were a peaceful people, and for something so…horrifying to have befallen the gentle folk, it was a nightmare trying to imagine what was to come for his homeland. Shaking off the thought, Alphonse gave the weary Breale a warm smile and a wave, before continuing on his way, silently marking the small family’s location in the back of his mind for later.

The circumstances had forced the regiment to take the cities food supplies and strictly ration it, with the large majority being consumed by the Vatienne soldiers. While an understandable sacrifice, it didn’t sit right with Alphonse, and he had been smuggling some of his meals out to the families and children in the city. It left him with a rumbling stomach sometimes, but his conscious was clean knowing he provided what he could.

The once bustling market of the city center had changed drastically in the twelve days, going from a bazzar of shouting merchants, and joyful shoppers, it now looked like a sea of tents, stuffed full with weaponry and armours. Men patrolled the streets constantly, and there was a constant rush amongst the men to get where they were going. A thick miasma of fear hung over the city, fed only by the fact that all knew the battlements where the only thing stand between them and an unending horde of those they once called kin. The great cathedrals filled each day with prayer to the gods, although no answer seemed to come, leaving the faithful to wander back to their homes with only the resolve of men to trust in.

Such grim thoughts…we must hold onto faith, lest we truly lose that which gives us strength.


He approached Comandant Romeus’s tent, taking a small hint of pride(a welcome feeling compared to the ones before) at the grand flag of Vatienne streaming over the royal blue clothe that comprised the tent. Coming to a halt just outside the tent, he quickly clasped a hand over his heart, before straightening his arm out in a crisp salute. His voice, strong and proud, rang out and echoed away in the high towers of Zin, a brief sound of strength that was quickly lost to the despair around it. “Alphonse Ramsden, Sretin Regiment, Infanterie Reguliere. Reporting on the Situation at the Battlements, Commandant.”

There was a brief moment of silence, before Romeus waved him inside the tent. Alphonse slipped inside, removing his helmet and holding it under his arm. Giving his head a quick shake, he ran a hand through his red hair, careful not to unclasp his ponytail. “Commandant. The battlements still hold. The ghouls are keeping their distance, rarely entering striking distance. It appears as though the creatures are intelligent enough to realize not to stick their jaw where they get struck.” He watched the commandant for a moment, before continuing. “The sentries are vigilant, and with the Breale volunteers assisting us, it appears the men are getting the rest they need. His grace certainly shines down upon us for such good fortune.”

Biting his lip in a moment of silent contemplation, Alphonse decided to continue. “ I do however, have some concerns over the Militia forces. I understand the necessity of utilizing some of the native Breale to even out our shifts, I fear that in the event of a full scale assault by the Ghouls and their infernal masters, they will be little more than fodder for the jaws of our enemies. I think, with your permission, Commandant, that it would be best to assign some men to teach those willing proper sword play.” He gave a brief bow of his head. “Forgive me if that is out of line, Commandant. This is your regiment, and I know you will run it best, not I.”

A good sized group of Apahov people were gathered at the Tuko’Tae waterfall’s base. The sound of the waterfall’s thick stream crashing into the wide pool near them was made the background noise to the stronger resonance of a heavy drum beating in a perfect, slow rhythm. It was a bass noise, smooth and rich, and pairing so entirely well. The waterfall crashed into a rich wide oval pool that drained by a slender creek on the left and right sides, while the far end- farthest from the waterfall- had a slender stone walkway of rocks that barely protruded up from the water. A walkway that had to be tread carefully for its slick nature. In the center of the deep pool of water collective was a stone platform, wide and roughly hexagonal. While being rigid, it still maintained a flatness that was nice, especially being only four or five inches above the water. Moss grew richly around the edges where water could slosh along the black stone, and along some spots in the center, but it was mainly kept up to be clean and dry for ceremonies.

Today, upon that platform in the center of the base pool of the Tuko’Tae waterfall, stood the tribe Saosi. She adorned a white silk gown with silvery wet seams and small pendants of quartz that hung down from the “V” cut collar line. Hair tumbled down the white silk in thick wavy locks of obsidian, pairing well with naturally rich tan skin that bore a sleek golden shine in the light. Her lips were forming a light frown, but she was facing the water and not the people of Ramidi- and some from other islands- behind her. Her full dark lips finally let go of the dark look and she sighed, her fingers brushing the bottom trim of her gown, falling just above her knees.

Behind Amala were everyone, most kneeling and some further back standing. Closest to the water’s edge was a group of kneeling folk. They were organized to one half women, one half men. Half Warriors, and half crafters and Weavers. The drum never ceased. Never stopped, only barely quickened. Soon, those people raised their hands. Their heads dipped and they began to perform a ritual Su’jioku. Hands raising, humming quietly. The chorus of their soft throaty hums was peaceful, beautiful even. It was also sad. It meant the beginning of a journey that Amala wanted to deny. Soon from their fingertips stretched threads of element- water and wind and dominant energies. These threads wrapped around Amala’s ankles and legs, around her waist, stomach, chest, upper arms and wrists. Her throat and hair were touched. These threads sank into her when she closed her eyes and willed it. Her skin absorbed the energy of these elemental strings, and she felt the power of her people coursing through her, running through her veins.

When Amala opened her eyes, the threads disconnected from her body, disappearing in the wind or falling to the water and stones in the form of lines of mist. She stepped forward, drawing her arms back, and crouching to some degree. With her knees bent and arms drawn, she pushed herself forward and into the air. Leaping up, Amala drew her hands in front of her, placing them together and ducking her head down as her body arched, hitting the water and then straightening as she dove into the cool crystalline waters. She swam deeper, to the bottom of the pool and towards the waterfall. There, she was able to burrow into a tiny tunnel, her hands gripping the slick rocks inside to pull herself through. She held her breath amazingly well, trained for the day where she would set off on this journey. She finally reached the other side of the tunnel, and propelled off of the bottom of this much darker pool to rise up and reach the surface.

After about fifty to fifty-five seconds of fervent swimming, Amala had resurfaced behind the waterfall, through the quartz wall that rested hidden by the falling water of Tuko’Tae. The cavernous area was wide, round, and had a high ceiling with sharp claw-like marks in it that let the light fall in. Inside, the cave was damp, and the sounds of running water was everywhere- especially the dull hum of the water crashing down behind the white crystal wall behind the pool. She stepped up upon the dark stone floor, embedded with hundreds of quartz and gemstone formations, leading up to the walls which were jagged with thick candle-like bundles growing up along it in shades of violet, red, green, blue, and white. But Amala was not alone here, where the sunlight radiated off of these brilliant crystals in pastel shades.

Across the room was a man turned away from her, wet as if he had swam here earlier himself. He fit the Apahov description almost perfectly. Gleaming bronze skin, coppery short nails, and a very defined yet lean, tall physique. His back and chest was bare, his waist to his knees covered in a pair of bleached leather shorts. His hair fell down his back in dark wet tendrils of a rich rosewood deep red, and one could hint at a black leather band around his neck that must’ve held some pendant on it. As he turned around slowly, his bare feet gentle against the rock, Amala could gather more about him, though she knew well before she even arrived who it was who awaited her. His gaunt features, and steely expression softened by unusual blue hues and tender lips, the amethyst bead that rested against his rippling toned chest. His long arms, wiry with muscles, ending in a hand that bore curled fingers around a long band of Beads.

“Saosi,” Zafir began quietly, his baritone voice echoing through the little cavern, “I have been waiting for you. Tonight we are bound by destiny.”

“No.” Amala said, and she ran her hands over the chest of her silken dress that was soaked and heavy, hugging her every inch that it covered and unveiling the shape of a unique one-piece outfit beneath that was a strapless wrap that was tied down the front and ended at her hips, much in the shape of a bathing suit though it was not made for water use.

“Why are you so stubborn?” Zafir commented, his eyes narrowing and his sharp brows suggesting frustration as he took another step closer to her, though they still managed to be about twenty or so feet apart.

“I believe destiny does not lead me to you.”

“Then you are a blind believer in lies.” Zafir gripped the Beads tighter and Amala shook her head, shifting to the side of her to see a small pile of things. She raised up two crystal hair pins and rolled her hair up, creating a thick winding bun atop her head that she pinned using those crystal needles. Then she used her nails to pin the band of a set of Beads to the ground, cutting through the band quickly and letting the beads roll off onto the floor. She stood, and grabbed her dress, nails easily cutting through the silk with applied pressure. Tearing it off, she disposed of it to the floor, only after having pulled the beads off of it and let those too fall to the floor. Finally, she stepped forward, and something like a wild flicker of rebellion danced across her exotic features.

It only took a second to begin. Threads of elemental wind appeared in the form of tiny aquatic pastel green dots along her fingertips. From there one could watch with a trained eye and notice the events as they quickly ensued. The air around those dots began to spiral, like little tornados until they were so fine and tight that they formed a little wire that lengthened out from the base of the thread against her skin. Soon they were long, elegant, and floating, and quickly moving for something. Amala parted her hands out to her sides, and the threads hooked all of the beads and the group of blades from the ground. Amala whipped her hands up, and all of the things her elemental threads caught, were now levitating in the air- scattered around her beautifully as her pinkish hues set upon the opponent- her family’s chosen partner for her in matrimony.

Zafir engaged as well. Though Amala was a woman, which usually meant little to no fight training, she was the Sintag’s daughter and a direct bloodline descendent of Sinbao- meaning her power was unrivaled. But he was the strongest Warrior, so accustomed to fighting that it became his way of life, that he knew it better than even the oldest of the Apahov men. He reeled back his arm and then threw the Beads into the air, his thumb hitting one of the hooks right before release. The band flattened and the beads began to fly off, upward and outwards towards Amala. His hand outstretched, while his right was pulled back in a powerful hold against his side, palm up. Rich azure bases formed against his fingertips and palm, and light wisps of water began to appear in the air as if the moisture around him was coming together. Banning, it began to coil into a thread of water, each little thread lengthening out and doing so fast enough that they latched around the little orbs and daggers before they had a chance to fall below his waistline.

Jerking his hands back, the Beads were drawn back, and then looping his arms down and forward sent them whisking towards Amala at alarming speeds after having swirled back behind him and come down before raising and shooting outward.

Several loud clatters came to be, as beads crashed into each other, some breaking and others just losing their threads upon impact. Beads hit the ground and yet it stopped nothing. Amala twisted and brought one arm around her, in a wide oval motion. As she drew her hand back, the Beads attached to the corresponding hand were swung towards the back of the cavern before heading around full swing and lashing towards Zafir.

The daggers of Zafir came towards Amala and she took them head on. She was graceful and elegant in motion, twisting and evading the swinging attacks with the agility of a wildcat. And Zafir evaded in his own manner. Less graceful, but still quick, sharp, and his motions were so perfectly timed that the two fighting appeared more like a fatal dance.

On and on, the two went on for minutes. The cavern filled with the sounds of soft footsteps falling upon the damp rock with every twist or jump, and sharp resonance rang through every time the blades swung to the sides and raked across the crystal walls. Zafir had worked up a sweat, beading upon his brow in frustration, as Amala served as a suitable challenge. Where she used a faster element, he used a sturdier one. While she was not as trained in battle, he was not as versed in evasion as she was. Finally it began to close.

Zafir saw Amala coming forth by swinging two blades from her left, and two from her right, coming to close on both of his sides. So he crouched, and then propelled himself up. Like most of his people, he was lean, and able to leap back, the blades cutting through the air below his back before he landed on his feet. But the water in the cavern floor’s dips caught him by surprise- outwitted by the environment. His foot slipped and he ended up down on one knee, head dipped down and his threads suddenly broken by his lack of concentration.

Amala grinned, drawing her hands up over her head. She stepped forward once, and the blades and beads coiled up over her head, creating a thick bar of gem beads and a tip comprised of four thinner blades almost like an axe head. She was about to let Zafir know that this journey was one she would not go on. There would be no prophetic journey for her and Zafir if he was injured, no?

But before she could bring down the collective of threads and items at their ends, Zafir had sprung up from his position, racing hard and fast to close the distance. It only took seconds before the lean Apahov Warrior had come up to her, no need for weaving or elements now. She jerked her hands back, her focus broken. Beads came crashing down and blades clattered to the ground only a foot behind her. Zafir hooked his arms around her, pulling her off of the ground and up against his body.

For a moment, he only stared down at her, catching his breath as tendrils of rosewood hair fell along his iron set cheeks. Amala’s arms were pinned against his chest, and she writhed, but her feet did not touch the ground.

“You fight, but do not win. You cannot deny your eq’luin. You will come with me, and we will leave in the night, tonight. From Ramadi to the inlands, and we will begin. Pack your things, the Sintag has offered us a boat from the Ubi Yen that resides on the coast of Arcona. We have a long travel ahead.” Zafir’s voice was cool, hardened, and barely graveled when he kept his tone to a whisper.

Again, silence ensued afterward, as Zafir stared into the eyes of the Saosi, his azure inner irises focused intently upon her cerise central hues. He loosened his arms, and Amala’s feet touched the cavern floor. There was utter silence compared to when they were battling only minutes prior to that moment. The sounds of water returned in full, and Amala’s heart raced heavily. She did not jump, or flee like a gazelle in the hands of a lion. She merely planned to turn and walk away, and give up, for now.

Yet it was not so simple. Zafir leaned in, his eyes then focusing on her lips. Amala tilted her head up, as if to oblige him. But just as his lips came only an inch away from her own, his face suddenly was etched in pain as a soft resonance cut through the room. He growled low, a rumble that vibrated through his chest as he leaned back and stepped away. Across his chest was a series of cut marks, and it was obvious what made those as Amala let her left hand fall to her side, nails dripping with dark red blood.

“Then let’s go. But do not put yourself upon me. As far as you are concerned, I am not yours. Not to be your ticket to the title of Sintag, not for the warming of your bed, and definitely not for you to smile at and confide in. I am far from your woman, Zafir, I hope you can etch this into your mind… Now… Let’s go, before I hurt you again.”







The travel had been long, and unruly to the two Apahov. While Zafir managed to keep himself well composed, Amala swayed back and forth between hectic dismay against the rule of the Warrior, and a calm nature that showed her wiser, more settled side. The ocean trip did the most though. Being on a small passenger's boat being enhanced by Apahov magic was definitely one way for two people who hated each other to learn to resist ripping their heads off. They even had a slight friendship in place, but it was a love hate styled relationship.

Their first trek had been over the waters between the Miran Isles and the banks of inner western Arcona. Then from there up to the land of the Ubi Yen as the Apahov called them- Shienienarans being their actual name. From there they went to the coast of their confederation, where the two bargained for a roomy little boat and a series of goods including some salted foods, berries, and canteens of fresh water, as well as a free sail that had yet to be applied to a boat and served double as a thick, warm blanket.

The ocean trip was nearing it's end though. While in the first week of travel, they had been well, the second and third week had not been so lucky. Two storms hailed in from the north and sent the two Apahov off course. Yet the stars led them west again, and with a little extra time tacked onto their calculated journey, they foresaw the coast in the distance after twenty-one days. It was perhaps mid-day, the sun overhead and well.

In the boat, Amala sat along the bow, tying the strings of her sleeveless water-woven duster together as they neared closer to land. Behind her, Zafir sat. His hair was neatly tied back, with a few tendrils falling along his cheeks and forehead as his sturdy features were set in a concentrated focus, his figure in the boat's center. He was cross-legged and hands open. His knees were pressed under one of the sitting boards of the boat, where some of the stuff was packed beneath, to help him stay sturdy. From his hands rose blue tendrils of element, reaching above the boat and the rolled and tied sail to hang another larger sail above the boat. It flickered and waved, and was a smooth beige with earthy jagged marks upon it that represented no nation, but was better than a black sail or something that could have been seen as dangerous.

"Zafir." Amala's voice came forth from her as she narrowed her eyes- feather-like lashes hiding her two-toned irises from the sun. "There is something on the shoreline." She said. Her eyes studied it, studied the bodies hunched over and walking around. Elderly humans or something else. They looked sick. Was there a plague on the western world? She had only heard stories of the western world and its people, but this was far from something she'd been told by her predecessors.

"What kind of something?" Zafir said quietly in response, his voice's depth the only thing that made it audible over the breeze and flapping of the sail he held with his magic high above. His body rocked forward, the wind pushing the sail and thus pushing him, but he had himself secured into the boat, and thus tightened his legs and held his magic in place.

"The..." She stopped, narrowing her eyes more, as she saw the creatures looking about, acting a little oddly and appearing a little more than one would call sickly. Amala licked her lips, a strange off-violet as she slid back into the boat a bit. She hooked her arm around the shaft where the sail was tied, and gazed out to shore, feeling her braid thumping lightly into her back with the wind. "People, but they look a little dangerous. Sick, I'd suggest we not go near them. I'd hate to become ill and have to rely on you." She said swiftly.

"That's so kind of you Amala." Her name rolled off of Zafir's tongue as he spoke a little louder, opening his azure and midnight colored hues, and gazing past her just barely. "If you would move, I could give you my opinion." Zafir then said, as one wire of water was born in the air connected to the back of his right hand, snaking up to rub against the outside of Amala's right thigh. She jumped a little, but shifted aside and let him see.

"So what is it?" Amala asked. "People or- Gah!"

The boat rocked hard, and the two stumbled forward, though were eager to catch themselves, as the bottom of the boat raked against a sand bar. The sound of the polished wood against the wet sand underneath the water was a wretched reminder of their closeness. A thunk that followed spoke of a rock, but the boat continued to ride over it and a groan came from Amala.

"Take the rope out of my bag and hook it around the hooked lip of the bow, and be ready for hostiles when we reach the shore."

Amala nodded to Zafir's words, and did as he pleased, waiting for the last few moments before the boat grazed sand again...


Ten minutes, if even that, and they realized that the creatures were not happy, nice, or just sick. Amala watched them in the distance as the boat stopped in the sand, making them ducks in the water. The sail had been brought down and wrapped up in the boat while Zafir hooked the bag over his arm and neck, hanging it at his side as he came up and jumped out into the water.

"Prepare, they see us." He said, as he saw the heads turn towards them. The death look was common amongst the Ghouls, and Amala was rather surprised, while Zafir was not. It was now, so close, that one could tell they were not alive. Muscle and bone, they reeked of rot. Zafir used long steps to move forward, and drew his Beads up from his waist, unhooking the band.

As the water came down to his ankles, they were coming. Faster than one would expect, berserk and crazed. The man threw the Beads into the air, and held up his hand. Thrown straight up, his elemental water threads raced straight up after them, latching onto every bead and the two sword-like blades and double hook blade. Bringing his hand down as if a hammer were within it, the blades rushed forward. The actual rough stone beads came down, being attached by a second wire that came forth from his lower arms, just above his bracers. There, the stone beads were drawn to his arms and created a band of stone there for later use should he chose to use it in battle. The first blade shot out to his left, towards one Ghoul. The Warrior watched him from the corner of his eye, and twisted his fingers in such a way that the blade lurched forward and swept up, catching the Ghoul's throat and spearing into the spinal column before being withdrawn just as quickly as it had come. The second blade was headed straight, where it dipped down under the water and was hidden by the water as Zafir crouched. But coming to a stand, he swung his arm up, and the blade arose from the water and sliced vertically into the Ghoul, piercing the sternum and opening the undead creature like a shellfish.

"Bring in the boat!" Zafir roared, his focus sturdy as he twisted his right arm up and swung it in an arch from the right to the left, the two shortsword blades sweeping outwards about ten to twelve feet, knocking away any enemies as they came on. As he had eliminated two from coming forward, two more were dancing on the edge of his range, a little smarter than the others- or perhaps they had learned.

Amala behind Zafir had the thick horse rope wrapped around her arms as she dragged the boat in behind Zafir.
Soon Zafir had pushed the few Ghouls back and had made it to dry shore, and allowed Amala to reel in the boat til it would not carry off.

And as soon as she had done so, the woman dropped the rope and offered her help. The third Ghoul jumped towards Zafir, rushing until it was dangerously close- which to the Apahov was about the five foot range. Zafir stepped back, but before he could realize what had happened, Amala had drawn her Beads out and the element of wind. As the Ghoul dropped into a pounce and readied to jump forward with its jaw agape, three slender dagger blades plowed into its skull with force followed by thin pastel green threads, propelling the Ghoul into the sand. Zafir gazed up at Amala quickly, smiling vaguely, before planning to handle the last of the Ghouls.

Amala withdrew her daggers and stepped back, as the last Ghoul- armored- began to lurch forward. Zafir reared his right arm back and then swung it over his head several times. Above him, glinting in the light, was his double hook blade, appearing almost like an "S" as it swirled about. When the Ghoul stepped about seven feet away from Zafir, he thrust his arm from above his left shoulder down to his right hip. And like the blade had been shot out of the air, it corresponded to its blue element thread and was jerked down at a diagonal angle. The hook met the Ghoul's leg and sliced right through it, the blade taking landing in the sand it kicked up upon impact with the earth. As for the Ghoul? One legged, it wobbled over and met the sand, before the two continued.

For a minute afterward, around the two hung in the air their threads as well as the little orbs and blades of their Beads. Usually after battle an Apahov kept their Beads levitated around them using their elements as a sign of victory but as well preparation. Amala withdrew hers back onto her band and hooked it around her waist, before then pulling the boat further upon the short. There, she looked upon Zafir, then to the highland cliff in front of them.

"Welcome to the western world." She whispered.

"Don't loll about. It's obvious it's dangerous here." Zafir commented quickly, patting her on the back with his large, lithe hand before he began to walk the sands, beads and shortsword blades sliding upon his band as he hooked it around his waist and steadied his bag over his shoulder.

Romeus Dallaire, Commandant du Regiment in Sretin, leaned closer to one of the papers that were before him. He hunched even closer over his large table that stood before him, overlooking his pile upon pile of maps. The maps were so numerous that if someone was to glance over to the table, they would not be able to see the actual color of the wood. The table was actually able to sit 6 people comfortably, made of thick oak wood and normally sat in a local inn. Things have indeed changed. The table was now being used for a task much darker than it used to. The art of war is a much darker thing than is the art of drinking. Although not by much.

Normally Romeus wouldn’t have taken such a big thing to put in his rather large tent. It wasn’t that his tent was too small or the table too big. That wasn’t exactly the issue. It was just that Romeus hated to change things too much in such a desolate environment, especially when all that the people around him had was the memories that certain objects could inspire within them. Places, or in this case tables, that remind people of a certain night or party can be part of one of those good memories and worked miracles for morale of the natives. Romeus, logically, would not have taken this potential memory reminder for himself, but the Breale were so… generous. It was slightly ridiculous. He did not complain, though. He had simply accepted the table, as he had accepted many things that the Breale had provided him and his soldiers; be it totems or other. The irony that these people were the first to suffer was unbearable. Such waste.

However now was not the time to pity the Breale. Now was the time to fight for them and give them back a place they could call home. These maps were going to do just that. There were maps of the districts of Zin and its sewers, then there were maps of the entirety of Zin, maps of Candridge and maps of Aom. The size of those pieces of paper, however, paled in comparison to the gargantuan size of the map of the whole of the country of Sretin that hung at the back of the tent. That was what people in the military referred to the Theatre Map. On it was the known position of friendly and enemy units, as was the territory and under whose control it lay. So far it looked bleak for his men and the Breale. The only circle of green was around Zin, while the rest was flooded in a sea of red. Nothing was clear as to how he and his allies could win this battle, but there was one thing that was now and forever will be certain to Romeus: he hated ghouls.

They had come so fast, destroying and killing everything in their path. He had been foolish, then, to have thought that his then 600-man strong regiment could end the potential threat. It was clear that he would need more to squash these unholy abominations. And while he was content of the reinforcements that had arrived from Vatienne, he knew that it was nothing compared to what his homeland could send if they really wanted to liberate Sretin from the evils of this plague. He would need at the least three other fully manned regiments to simply push and hold the enemy back far enough to capture some kind of farmland. Without more farmland or a beach head, it would be impossible to feed or sustain a larger force. The rationing was starting to take a toll on him, his soldiers and the refugees. Romeus then let loose a long, drawn out sigh. He knew that reinforcements won’t be coming any time soon, if ever. If only he had had more forces come from the homeland.

Indeed, Romeus remembered the horrible events that transpired right before his final arrival to Zin. He had been in his ‘dormant’ regiment of 600 men for about 6 months now, he was simply completing his shift that compromised of keeping some sort of military presence in Breale to serve and protect by camping out in the surroundings of Zin itself. It was some sort of service that his Emperor and the leaders of the Breale had agreed upon a long, long time ago. It was now seen as more a tradition more than anything else. The roots of this agreement could be traced back to the days of the Wars of Illuria when the Emperors of old wanted to be sure that their bread basket and northern front would be secured in case of attack from the forces of darkness. The Breale, as generous and polite as they were, accepted happily. Then again, Vatiennien military aid was much larger back then. Now all that the present Emperors sent over to serve in Sretin was that: only 600 men, simply to have some sort of minimal presence or sense of protection and of course the sense of tradition that was present in both peoples, although for different reasons. However, recently, due to the kidnappings, Romeus had received news, some three weeks ago that le Maitre Generale and the Emperor were boosting his regiment to full strength, be it 2000 men. The men had arrived just in time, too.

Anyway, during Romeus’s regiment’s shift, Sretin went under siege. At first it was simply a matter of disappearances near Candridge, which was odd for a country as peaceful and calm as Sretin. Romeus sent only a few investigators to scout out the situation. After all, it could simply be one misguided punk who had caused all of this and the sight of a couple of Vatiennien soldiers should have been enough to discourage any further shenanigans. That, however, was not the case. The first investigative party sent to Candridge never returned. Romeus sent another, larger party to look for the missing one and the possible culprits. They also never returned. He had had the last straw when he had heard no news for many days from his party of men. He decided to ride north in force with his 600 men and get to the bottom of this ridiculous affair. That was a bad choice. On the very first night upon arrival in the principalities of Candridge, they were ambushed in the middle of the night in their own camp by ghouls and zombies. All but 50 men of the 600 were slaughtered. Only Romeus, his personal guard, a handful of soldiers and some cavalry were able to retreat.

They fled immediately after the attack. On their way back to Zin, they met up with the reinforcements sent from Vatienne that were supposed to fill up his regiment and be transferred under the rule of Romeus. They had been told that Romeus and his part of the regiment had gone north to investigate and they had decided to meet their would-be leader up there. Everyday Romeus thanked His Holiness that the reinforcements showed when they did and not later – or sooner, for they could have all been slaughtered. To this day Romeus still does not know the full numbers of his enemy.

His first order to his new regiment was to turn back and head back to Zin, where they could fortify the city and welcome refugees from the attacked villages. On their way back, they evacuated a couple towns and villages, bringing them back to Zin with them. Romeus knew that he couldn’t save everyone with only fifteen hundred men; he could only do so much. When his regiment arrived in Zin, he immediately started barricading the city all while sending out troops to gather up survivors of attacks from the zombies. Soon, however, such excursions out of the city became too dangerous as the enemy closed in all around Zin. Now they were stuck and helpless in Zin and its very close surroundings. Everything looked bleak indeed.

Romeus rubbed his chin and looked closely to the map of Zin. There were red lines here and there indicating the presence of barricades. There was a black square over the now-gated entrance meaning it was fortified and the green bands on the walls and on the archery towers that he and his men put on top of the walls meant that they were garrisoned 24/7. He had successfully turned the place into a fortress, but he wondered if it was enough. He did have about fifteen hundred men to defend the place, but the numbers he faced were impossibly high. He was literally defending the country against itself. He thanked His Holiness that these sinister creatures had not found their way to Vatienne... yet. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to shoot faces he once knew, even if they were horribly mutilated, corrupted, twisted simply and not the same people he once knew. Romeus shuddered at the thought, than quickly recovered. He had to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Romeus got up from his hunched position and stood straight up, folding his arms. His gaze stayed on the map of Zin and occasionally moved over to the massive one of Sretin. He took his right hand and plowed it through his brown hair. It was such a strategic pain, this campaign. He could not think of another place so prone to stalemate, other than Illuria, in all of Emoria. Romeus brought his hand back to his chin, resting his chin on his palm. His right elbow was resting on his left arm that was still folded on his chest. He looked over at his helmet, sitting on a chair. Ideas raced through his mind. He wondered when that helmet would finally fall from his head and onto the cold floor by the strength of the claws of his enemies… Romeus shook his head once again. He mentally slapped himself. Hard strategic situation often did that to him. His mind wandered off very easily and often.

Romeus sighed again and let his arms fall to his side. He walked over to his chair and took his helmet and simply placed it on the ‘map table’. He then collapsed onto the uncomfortable piece of furniture from which he had removed the helmet from. The cushioning was barely existent and he thought he could feel his skin getting pierced by at least a dozen splinters. War time furniture; how lovely. Romeus was just about to kick himself in the butt to go inspect his soldiers and perhaps try and fix up morale when he heard footsteps approaching his tent. Romeus immediately shot up from his chair and placed his hand on his helmet over on the table, hoping that it was a citizen who needed to ask a question or something; but a soldier of his. He always thought that, when a soldier came to his doorstep it was to announce that they were under attack. At the thought of that, Romeus angrily walked over to the huge Sretin map and studied it. He tried to calm himself about the idea that the enemy could be at his doorstep for it could not be logical, but with the undead you could never be certain.
Suddenly, the footsteps ceased. A Vatiennien soldier stood before him. Romeus’s blood froze. He immediately thought of the orders he will be shouting in a couple seconds to his tired soldiers and terrified refugees. His eyes narrowed and his hand on his helmet got tighter. The soldier saluted him and Romeus waved him in. Be the bearer of good news, my boy, thought Romeus.

The soldier immediately introduced himself as Alphonse Ramsden, Infaterie Régulière. He was here to report about the situation of the battlements. Surprisingly his was indeed the bearer of good news. He reported that his archers were enough to keep the enemies at bay – for now. Romeus’s clutch on his helmet relaxed. There would be no death or horrors for the refugees today. Romeus tried to conceal a smile that was caused by the good news, but he was incapable. It had been the first time in many days that he felt less morose than usual. Alphonse then went on about how well the alternating shifts between his fellow soldiers and the militia were a good idea. Alright, thought Romeus, where are you going with this, son?

Finally the cat came out of the bag. He actually seemed like a smart soldier. It wasn’t that there weren’t many in his military, but normally they weren’t outspoken. Alphonse wanted to train the volunteers to fight well and not become chopped liver. Romeus arched his right brow. He felt stupid for not instating this before, although he could have sworn that he had given that order upon arriving in Zin, but he may well be imagining things. This soldier looked like an honest man and seemed to genuinely want to help these refugees. Good. That was what Romeus liked to see in his soldiers. Although there was something that annoyed him about Ramsden’s attitude towards the refugees; the pity was needed, but so was admiration for the Breale.

“Indeed, soldier, that is a good idea,” started Romeus, putting his helmet on the table and walking over to Ramsden. “I honestly cannot say why this hasn’t already been implemented, but you have done well in reminding me of this important prospect.” Romeus looked at Ramsden top to bottom. He then realized what his name meant: Ramsden... He was part of the family who made those extravagant horns and who had worked for the Empire for generations. Romeus thought about what he was going to say and then agreed with himself. After those long seconds of pause, he spoke again. “Well, Ramsden, I can say I am not surprised you are the one to bring this to light.” Romeus folded his arms behind his back and walked towards the table in the tent.

“I have seen you, Ramsden; I have watched you these past few days. I saw you eye those refugees, powerless to help them but impossibly willing to help them. I am not blind to these things. It is because of this,” Romeus turned back to face Ramsden, “that I will put you in charge of the responsibility you wish to see implemented.” Romeus turned back again to the table and reached for a piece of paper. Finally, he decided on one. It was a scroll with the names of 16 people on it. It was a Squad. “I am placing you at the head of this squad. I will not promote you right away, but do well and it won’t be far off. I am not sure if it is your name, family history or the compassion in your eyes, Ramsden, but I have faith that you will carry out my orders to its fullest extent.”

Romeus walked over to Ramsden and handed him the scroll. The Commandant du Regiment then walked outside and motioned Ramsden to follow him. Romeus made his way across the streets to the very end of the city; where the cliff began and where you could see the sea. While walking, Romeus spoke. “You see, Ramsden, the civilians here are not as weak as we are lead to believe. Yes they are pacifists, yes they have been overrun in 12 days, but it does not make them fodder. Do not mistake my words; I do not want to compare them to beasts by saying that when something is cornered they fight with doubled ferocity. That is not what I am saying. I am referring to the inner strength that these people have. It is much harder to force one’s self to relinquish fighting in the name of the Greater Good than to take up arms for it. These people have shown this to us.” Romeus kept walking through the streets. The beginning of the cliff started to become visible to Romeus.

“Do not forget what I say now, soldier; the best way to win a battle is to have won it before drawing swords, or to never fight it at all. Some may have different opinions on that idea, like our beloved priests, for instance,” Romeus was deeply sarcastic when he mentioned the priests, “but it must be how life is lived. These Breale have shown us that many battle can be won without ever fighting them, until now, of course.” The Romeus was now very close to the magnificent scene that the cliff offered. “Why I tell you this, Ramsden? Simple. I wish to tell you to not pity the Breale but to admire them. They are not helpless or defenseless as they may seem. In some ways they are stronger than us. Never forget that greatness comes from peacefulness, not warmongering.” Romeus then turned to face Ramsden and pointed to a large waving Vatiennien flag in the distance. “It is by the peacefulness of elves that our country has come to existence and it is with those ideals that our Empire has been founded on. Better things will come from acting like the Breale and learning from their ways, not by pitying them and simply fighting for them. What I am trying to say, Ramsden, is stop torturing yourself on their case.”

Romeus turned to face the sea. He looked at the sapphire waters, crossed his arms and was about to continue his lecture when something caught his eye. An odd ship was approaching the beach to the east. There were certainly ghouls and or zombies there, which was bad news. He spoke to Ramsden without turning his gaze. “Soldier, you see that boat over there? See where it is heading?” He said that pointing over to the beach it was headed for. He then turned and looked at Ramsden, a sparkle in his eye. He can’t believe how unprofessional he was being with this soldier. He was certainly very tired to be doing this. Still, Romeus needed to have a closer look at the odd boat.

Romeus looked over to the patrolling soldier that was but a few yards away. The soldier was supposed to be gazing over the horizon with his scope, but he seemed to have dozed off instead. Romeus quickly walked over to him, took the scope and walked back next to Ramsden. He shot a penetrating glare over to the soldier who had failed his duty and extended the scope. He looked through it and saw that there were only two passengers on the odd embarkation. Romeus fell silent for a bit. He then pushed the scope back into its small state and looked over to Ramsden. “Call those in your new Squad, Ramsden. You first assignment, before training the Breale volunteers, is to bring those two boat passengers into Zin peacefully and, more importantly, alive. I will be coming with you. Sound the horns.”

The group of men charged down the field to the beaches in a very short period of time. They had no surprises, no zombie attack or any unplanned encounter, which was unusual, but certainly welcomed. The last thing Romeus wanted was to get sidetracked when most of these men were on their first sortie. Once at the beaches, the men had one hell of a sight to behold.

Two odd beings stepped out of their embarkations. It took a moment for them to make eye contact with the Vatienniens, and it was obvious that they were skeptic about the intentions of a bunch of horsemen charging to meet them on a beach. However, before anyone could say anything, a loud noise was heard. It was a deep, guttural moan. The Zombies were here. Romeus cursed under his breath. They were coming from the far east side of the beach, running down to their position with stunning speeds.

At the sight of these beasts, the two strange creatures simply ran away, terrified, into the forests. Romeus was clearly angry and disgusted by that unlikely turn of events. Cowards, those beings, but lowly cowards. Romeus then turned to Ramsden and put on an air of obedience… somewhat. Romeus did put Ramsden in charge, and Romeus wanted to see Ramsden lead. This was his chance.

“What now, Sergeant?” said Romeus to Alphonse. The Commandant du Regiment put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

It had started off as nothing more than a rumor.

Something had happened…no one really knew what, or they wouldn’t say, but it had to be bad because soldiers were heading that way to investigate it. If a soldier is in action, then something terrible must be happening. It was the way of the rest of the world: violence. Something violent had happened in Candbridge. Perhaps the soldiers of Vatienne were more aware of what was happening, perhaps they had seen it. But the rest of Sretin turned a blind eye and pretended that it was out of their hands.

Reyabel just didn’t know. However, being raised as a pacifist like the rest of her people, it was a very easy thing to ignore. Looking back, it was obvious that ignoring the violence was Sretin’s second mistake. The first? Being a pacifist country in the first place. She, along with everyone else in her city, went on with day to day life, pretending that nothing was wrong in the far off reaches of Candbridge. What once had been a part of them now was treated as foreign, almost surreal in nature. For something violent to happen, well they must not have been true to the nature of the Breale, right?

Unfortunately, Reyabel would find out that wasn’t true at all. No amount of peaceful interaction would save them from the abomination that quickly grew in the north. It was within a week of that initial rumor that thousands of lives were spilt, both soldier and civilian alike, and the horror that was foreign and far away was brought right to the doorsteps of Zin. It was only with blind luck that reinforcements had come and quickly began barricading the city just as the rest of the original regiment – which had been horribly reduced in number – came crawling back to the safety of Zin. The inhabitants of Zin were lucky; Reyabel Garrin was lucky. She remained at the Great Tree, where prayers to Mira had been of primary importance.

Soon though her job had changed; healers were in high demand, and though there were plenty to be found, they were all needed, whether healing severe wounds or giving peace to those who were in pain from hunger. Reyabel’s duty was to keep the inhabitants of Zin from dying like the rest of Sretin. It was here that Reyabel was first introduced to the horrors that were happening outside the walls. The gashes, the bites…appendages ripped from their sockets, pieces of men missing that she did not dare remind herself of. What was it outside those walls that was committing such an atrocity? Not all of the healers were able to handle the gruesome work, and even Reyabel had to vomit a few times before her senses became adjusted – however grossly – to the disgusting smells of a dying man.


It was late, and Reyabel emerged from the healing tents exhausted in every part of her body. Her colorful Brealan robes had long since been replaced with grey working gloves and a simple white dressing shirt with black trousers, and even this had been drenched in other men’s blood. Even her hair had blood soaked in it, clumping in spots and making it impossible to clean. She tried to wash, but water was imported from outside the city walls and had to be used sparingly. Her clothes came clean easy, but clumps of dried blood remained in her hair, winding it into blooded red dreads that hung down to her waist.

She realized with a sort of muted horror that she would have to cut it off. Having no weapon of sorts, she searched through the possessions of the dead until she found a small knife. Tears streaming from her face, she slowly cut away her once beautiful, long golden locks a little bit at a time until all that was left was a shaggy, uneven, unkempt mess of dull blond strands. The remains of her bloody hair were strewn across the bodies of the dead that still lay at her feet. Reyabel suddenly felt very sick, and ran away from the pile of corpses, keeping the knife as a reminder that life would never be the same again. More than that, it was a realization that the time of peace was truly over. If she kept to her old ways, she would eventually die. She now understood why her parents abhorred her sword fighting with her older brother…who would want this?

That thought gave her pain in her heart. Her brother, Saun, had been out of the city during the initial attacks. She had no idea where he was, or if he was alive. Judging by the severity of the attack, she thought it wasn’t likely. She had run out of tears, and why should she be crying? She was lucky to be alive, lucky to be ignorant of the reality of situation that her people were in.

She was no longer running, but she walked brusquely, trying to shake away the feelings of sickness and remorse. She must have been walking for a long while, for suddenly she was face to face with the northern barricade. She could walk no farther.

Reyabel was going to turn around when she noticed movement in the corner of her eye. Fear took over her, but she quickly realized that it was not an enemy: two men were beginning to climb the barricade. She recognized them as some of the Sretin Guard. One she knew more intimately, Dantin, was a friend of her brothers who shared the art of healing, but instead joined the Guard. She had had a brief romantic encounter with, long ago. They didn’t see her, so she called out to them.

“Shh!” Dantin whispered as he heard her call his name. “Reyabel, come here,” he waved her over. She came to them, quietly, suddenly realizing that something important was happening. Perhaps being here was a bad idea.

Dantin spoke quietly. “This is Cabhren. He was living just north of Zin on a small farm. He left his family in a basement and went to seek help and came here.” Reyabel looked at Cabhren, who was not a guard member, as she had thought. He was merely wearing the armour and weapons of one. “Vatienne troops won’t risk their soldiers for one outlying farm. But look,” he pulled a map from within his gauntlet. “See? The farm isn’t a mile past the barricade. They could still be alive, Reyabel. We’re going to get them.”

Reyabel looked at the determination on Dantin and Cabhren’s faces. If she had known that Saun was on that farm, would she not go too? “I’ll go with you,” she said to them. Doubt shrouded Dantin’s face, but Reyabel was not going to back down. “You may need more than one healer,” she said. “Those who are at the farm may be starved or hurt. I’m going too.”

And with that the three companions left the safety of Zin’s military presence and walked to the farm. The journey there was uneventful; there were no noises, just a deathly quiet that hung around them like a thick fog. Dusk changed to night, and when they arrived at the farm the only source of light came from the stars overhead. They dared not light a torch, and attract any unwanted attention.

The farmhouse was just as silent within as without, and even more dark. They felt their way through the rooms, Cabhren going first, since he knew the way. Dantin’s hand was on Cabhren’s back, and his hand held Reyabel’s tightly as they wound through the house to the kitchen, and the basement door. It was shut. That’s a good sign, she hoped.

Cabhren opened the door, and it shrieked loudly in protest. The loud noise made her heart jump, and it kept on throbbing with the intensity of not knowing if Cabhren’s family was even there. It was dark behind the door. No one called out to them. That’s a bad sign, she knew.

Cahbren called out their names as he descended the steps. Dantin followed, and Reyabel had no choice but to follow as well. Only two steps descended and she could smell it; unmistakably the horrid stench of decay washed over her attuned senses. She was about to tell them that they needed to leave when Cabhren slipped and fell, or rather, the step that he had moved to had given way and he slid down the rest of the broken staircase. He fell into a pile of dried body parts and cried out in horror. But that was not the least of their worries. In the far corner of the room crouched a hungry ghoul. None of them saw it until it was upon Cahbren and he screamed once more, but with much more desperation and pain.

“Run!” Shouted Dantin and Reyabel did so, him short behind. The ghoul however seemed more hungry for the chase than the meal in its grip, and followed after them, howling. Dantin spun around and swung his sword, but it was cut short by a counter that he had not seen, and the ghoul was upon him, attempting to rip him to shreds. Reyabel could not see the extent of the damage being done.

“No!” Reyabel cried out, and then the ghoul looked up at her. She screamed and ran again, but it was upon her in seconds. She scrambled across the kitchen floor, finding a pan and spinning around, smacking the ghoul in the head. It jumped back and shook, but was soon on her again. She pushed away with all her might, but its jaws were inching closer, and she knew that she was going to die. If only she could…if only she could…

Suddenly she felt the need to pull. When she healed a person, she pushed outward with her life force. Now though, she pulled, with all her might. There was a surge of power rushing toward her, and the ghoul dropped off of her, laying on its side, curled up in fetal position. Reyabel felt a wildness in her, a rage of hatred and pain and she felt herself dying inside, and she reeled on the floor, begging Mira to release her from such torturous mental bondage.

Dantin crawled to her then, his face half missing, blood flowing freely from a wound in his neck. He reached out and grabbed Reyabel’s leg, and gave her the last of his own life force. She was healed, and he was dead.

Reyabel jerked upright, immediately coming back to consciousness and realizing what Dantin had done. She touched his pulse, yes, he was dead. She then looked to the ghoul, and she could hear its rattled breathing, like a man just before death. Whatever she had done, she hadn’t killed it. She took the knife from her belt and cut its throat, killing it such as it had killed Dantin. Then she ran, ran with the life force of a dying man and the terror of a frightened young woman, and didn’t stop running until she was back at the Great Tree.

She fell down at its roots, letting her face it the floor, and cried and cried until she drifted into sleep.

Rya rocked back and forth as she sat on the edge of a cot in the small room she had lived in for the last two months. A faint flickering light came from the fire place in the wall of the room. Rya smiled as the faint warmth from the fire touched her face gently. The light danced happily around the room and the bright colors the Rya had painted the room with were cheerful. Her smile turned into a frown slowly as she thought of what had happened.

Rya had come to Zin two months before. She smiled fondly at the memory, the Breale were a kind people like her own. They had made her feel almost at home here. Rya had been happy to be there working at what she loved among such people. The one flaw in her enjoyment of her calling was that she found out that happy people did not feel the call to change their faiths. Rya was saddened that these gentle Breale were not receptive but found her calling satisfying still.

Like the Breale Rya had ignored the terrible rumors at first. The native people did not worry and she felt safe. Rya continued her routine of helping those she could and living the way to show the glory of the EverBurningOne. Then things changed. Rya woke to screams in the dark of night and she huddled close to the fire and prayed to the EverBurningOne to return and give her strength once more. The day dawned and the EverBurningOne rose and Rya had breathed a sigh of relief.

That night had ...

Rya started as she heard a faint sound from outside her dwelling. It was night time. Even the Breale mostly stayed in at night now. Rya listened harder, and then frowned lightly. It was the sound of sobbing, someone crying and hurting. She wanted to get up and go outside to find the poor soul and comfort them, but it was night. Rya did not go out at night, the Deceiving Reflection hovered above poisoning the EverBurningOne's world.

So she did nothing and the sounds of sobbing slowed and faded. As they stopped Rya felt a feeling of disgust. She was charged to live the way and she was cowering inside when someone needed help. It was not right. Rya slowly rose and lit a lamp to hold the light of the Deceiving Reflection at bay. She nerved herself to it and then opened the door slowly and stepped out into the square near the great tree.

Rya held the lamp up above her head and looked around. Then she saw the person who must have been crying. A girl curled up in the roots of the Tree. Rya walked slowly over to where the girl lay and bent down next to her. The girl's face was puffy and tear marked. Rya gently laid her hand on the girls shoulder and spoke softly, "Wake up. Let me take you out of the darkness, my room is just over there and no one should be out here in the darkness." Rya glanced up towards the Deceiving reflection and shivered as she finished.

Xiana couldn't help but feel saddened as she slowly made her slow path through the skies of Zin. From the ground, she doubted she would appear as anything more than a faint star, notable only for it's unprecedented maneuverability. Part of her wanted to go check in and see how things were down there; she'd met a few Breale back at the Citadel, and they intrigued her. They weren't the most popular choice for Fae to bond with, but some of the Fae more aligned with goodness and joy seemed to like them quite a lot and she never really understood their staunch pacifism. Beyond that, though, she wanted to see how they were fairing against the dark magics that churned softly below. Curiosity was a horrible thing; for every cat it had killed, it had killed at least a dozen Fae. Well, it didn't actually kill most of them-- the Fae weren't exactly the type to get themselves killed-- but still not the kind of thing Xiana really wanted to get mixed up in while she was still so young and weak. She just had to keep on flying; closing her mind to the captivating drama unfolding below and keeping her thoughts away from how positively riveting the events on the ground must be. She held strong… and then she felt a trace of Apahov magic.

…Dammit all.

She couldn't resist that one. What were the Apahov doing in Sretin of all places? She dive-bombed from the sky, streaking downward like lightning. Blue, winged lightning. Weavers here, halfway across the world from the Miran Isles. Who, what, when, where, why? This was… well, she wasn't sure what it was, but she was fairly sure that if any of the elder Fae were here, they'd say something like, "This is an unprecedented reversal of conventional expectations!" and then go back to bickering over one thing or another. She took a moment to be thankful that she didn't have to deal with their constant debates now that she could leave the Citadel, and then started slowing her descent, following the faint traces of the Apahov magic as they grew stronger. The darkened land spread out before her, giving way to the ocean along the sandy coast. Corpses littered the beach, though the extent to which they had been warped by magic was obscured by the veil of night. Xiana chose not to examine them further; she wasn't one to investigate things to which she didn't want answers. The Apahov magic was strong in the air here, they had to be close. She took a moment to examine her surroundings and noticed an unusual bulge of darkness further down the coastline. The flew closer, and the bulge revealed itself to be a small boat, and she noted two people standing nearby. She cried out in the airy voice shared by most Fae, her words echoing softly in the relative silence of the night.

"Hey! You there! Weavers, right?"

Daen Lehran felt the midday sun on the back of his neck, beating down on him, adding to the weight of responsibility he felt as the senior paladin in Sretin. Leaning his forearms on the flat stone top of a barrier, Daen was looking down the cliffs without really seeing any of it. The steady ambience of the sea down below was calming, but that was as far as his senses acknowledged the surroundings. Things had gone from bad to hopeless in the blink of an eye. Now, everything felt still and expectant. Daen's heart ached under the weight of that expectation. When things go wrong, the powerless look to their leaders to keep them safe. Since the breale by and large were, even now, less concerned than any other race would be under these circumstances, Daen felt his own concern all the more poignantly. It was so wrong, all of it; that the breale, of all peoples, should be subjected to this horror...

Daen took a steadying breath. He frowned at a chip of stone next to the bracer on his forearm. He saw where it should have been: a small dent in the stone a couple finger-lengths away. He put it back.

Rae must be half-way to Vatienne by now. Dannya would probably be in Nolwë by tomorrow afternoon. It would take Areth somewhat longer to reach Aendrel. Lantis was busy helping the breale more directly, closer toward the borders of enemy territory. That left himself to maintain thendári presence and assistance. If only they had solved the riddles sooner. Yet Daen couldn't quite make himself believe it would have made that much of a difference. The outbreak was too quick, too methodical, for all its apparent chaos, for anyone to have done much of anything to stop it. Daen could only find peace and complacency to blame, but how could he blame peace for war? The world was upside-down. Morgarath would pay for this.

Yes, it was Morgarath. There was no question in any paladin's mind about that, despite a lack of overt evidence. Morgarath had been holed up in his precious blackness for 2,000 years. It made sense that such a sudden onslaught could only be conceived and accomplished after centuries of planning. Yet wasn't that the paladins' pupose: to uncover and undo Morgarath's designs? Daen felt a profound sense of failure.

He sighed once more. Over 14 Cycles of life, and still he troubled himself with the feelings of every living soul around him instead of doing more to make it better. Finally, true to the teachings, Daen made himself stop dwelling on the magnitude of the problem. He couldn't feel sorry for the the world all day; there had to be something to do. Daen stood up straight and rubbed the back of his head, straightening his short feathers of dark blond hair. His scalp was warm; he'd been standing in one spot for too long. He looked up at the bright sky, though it didn't seem as bright to Daen as it probably was. Just past midday. At least, he thought, it still was bright at all.

Daen started to walk back through the streets of Zin. Romeus might need help with something. There was no diplomacy to be at; best to spend efforts where they were most needed. Many generals were none too keen on listening to advice--or, more often, simple challenge of their tactics--especially from outsiders. Daen found he somehow made military leaders feel unjustly manipulated. Fortunately, the Vatiennien commandant currently in charge of the Sretin defense was a different sort, appreciative of input from any source. In addition, Aendrel and Vatienne were allies. It might have been the congenial atmosphere of the breale, but Daen had got along quite well with the man, Romeus. Since word of the ghouls had already been sent out, it was about time Daen offered to assist in a more direct capacity.

The elf hadn't gone far when he heard the sound of horns. Romeus probably was not in his tent, then. Daen Lehran, thendári paladin, made toward the rallying call, curious, entertaining a fast-growing thirst for action.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Lantis Ashei was running in bursts, alternating roles as foreguard and rearguard to four breale men, all carrying sacks of food back to their starving families in Zin. They'd just come from a farm. Lantis carried a sack of his own. His was filled with cauliflower, spinach, spring onions, overgrown radishes, and carrots. The others' sacks were similarly filled, though they carried more. Lantis had his sword drawn in his free hand, in place of a second sack. They'd been running like this for over an hour; at last the sparse woods were giving way, and the hill of Zin rose in the near distance. Desperation had given them courage and speed.

Lantis, running at the back, looked behind them into the woods. Sunlight fell from above; shadows were few. If any ghouls tried to startle them, they wouldn't succeed. Thanks be to Sanctus Unus for Alos' Light. "Almost there," Lantis called, needlessly. Lantis was just starting to feel the weight of the sack he carried, straining the muscle of his shoulder, banging lightly against his side. The whole side of his bright armor was streaked with dirt and dry mud. Starting out secretly at dawn, they had been in a mad rush to stuff the sacks with food from abandoned gardens outside the city. The breale men, devoted fathers all, were willing to brave any danger to keep their families alive long enough to endure this madness. Lantis half suspected they would have tried to go even without his protection. If they didn't possess that level of resolve quite yet, Lantis was beginning to think they would soon. The thought gave him hope.

Not a ghoul in sight. There were the battlements! "We made it!" one of them gasped. The breale ran gracefully, but they had to be tired despite their tenacity. Lantis looked behind once more. Again, not a ghoul in sight. He breathed a sigh of relief.

It took nearly half an hour to get back on the safe side of the defensive line--a half hour of nervous jitters and glances in every direction. When they arrived inside, though, the precious crops were immediately requisitioned to be added to the ration. It took Lantis' influence to let them keep even one sack to divide among themselves for their own families. It was hard not to resent what happened, after so much risk, but the breale understood. Lantis knew he himself would have been much more angry. The breale were generous and beyond spite. Somehow, Lantis knew even the little those fathers were allowed to keep would be shared far beyond their immediate families.

When everyone had gone back to their duties, Lantis sheathed his sword. Shaking his head in admiration for the breale spirit, Lantis headed to the city square to clean himself up.

Alphonse allowed himself a smile at the commander’s words, before confusion settled into his features. Not surprised? When your commander was watching you, it meant one of two things. You were either doing good work, or that you were heading for a reprimand. He sincerely hoped that it was the former. As Commander Romeus continued, Alphonse found himself shocked as he held out a scroll with the names of a squad on it. “A squad, Commander? T-thank you, sir!” He saluted instinctively, pride and excitement radiating from his figure. “I won’t let you down, sir!” The scroll felt heavy in his hand (a side effect of the responsibility he was certain) and he gave the names upon it a quick once over, before following the commander out of the tent.

The soldier followed at a respectful distance, soaking in every word and storing it away. He spoke words of great wisdom, and Alphonse found himself nodding in agreement more and more. 13 days ago, he had longed for a chance to fight, to battle the forces of the darkness but now that he stood in the thick of the siege, and had seen firsthand the horrors the enemies could bring, the young man found himself longing for the peaceful days of casual patrol, and idle chatter with the local folk. For a brief moment, his mind slipped back to those carefree days…

_____________________________________________________________________________________


The sun hung low in the sky, just beginning its journey across the sky, but Alphonse, it marked the ending of his night watch, and a meeting he couldn’t afford to miss. The other soldiers grinned and laughed at the anxious infantryman, some even making kissy faces at each other in parody. He laughed at their jokes, cracking a few at his own expense, all the while inching further and further from the group. Finally, they parted ways, the others heading for the barracks, whilst he went the opposite direction, heading directly for the gates. Hurrying through the city streets, he darted past the few Breale that were about, his white armour glistening in the sun’s early rays. His arrows rattled in their quiver, and his family horn bounced against his side with every step, clattering loudly despite his efforts to stay quiet.

At last, the caravan came into sight, and the young soldier doubled his pace to reach the wagons. Coming to a stop a short distance from the gathered travelers, he scanned over the crowd in search, before an elegant hand grabbed the string of his bow, and pulled him behind the cover of the caravans. A smile spread across his face, as the woman pulled in close for a hug. “You actually made it. I was worried you wouldn’t, Alphonse.” Her voice was soft whisper, gentle and inviting as the summer’s rays in an open field.

“I wouldn’t miss the chance to see you off.” Her eyes, one a soft blue, the other a striking white, softened, and a smile spread across her sun-kissed face. He returned it, eyes committing everything they could to memory, as if he would never get another chance to see her like this. She meshed perfectly against him, her head resting just beneath his chin whenever they were close. She was an oddity amongst the Breale, her hair a pure white, and the markings along her arms setting her apart from the peaceful folk, but she wasn’t exactly a normal Breale either, her mother having been a Quende from the Hyara clan.

“You look like a sad puppy getting left at home.” She giggled, as a faint blush crept onto Alphonse’s face. “Don’t worry so much, soldier-boy,” He always disliked that nickname, yet she had found it appropriate enough to keep. “I’m only going to be gone for a few weeks. Maybe you can use all your free time to work on your aim, hm?”

“My training has…slackened, I will admit.” He smiled back, before a look of thought crossed over his features, and he worried his lip. Nothing was said, as she waited for him to work up whatever courage he needed. Swallowing hard, he spoke. “Nyana…when you get back, I’ve been…well, I’ve been saving and was hoping that…well…maybe you’d honour me with your company to dinner?”

A soft whistle sounded, signalling that it was time for the caravan to depart. Nyana glanced over her shoulder, then back to Alphonse. “I was wondering when you were going to ask. I’d be delighted.” Before he could respond, she leant up, and placed a soft kiss on his lips, letting the brief contact linger for a minute. She tugged him along as they parted, and he helped her up into her caravan, a wide smile on his face. “I’ll see you soon, Alphonse. Don’t do anything reckless, okay?” He nodded quickly, wishing nothing more than to just hop up on the caravan with her and go, but…a soldier had his duty, and a Ramsden never abandoned their duty. The carts rumbled out of the gates, and he stood watching them until they were out of sight.

For a moment longer, he lingered, nodding to himself as he turned back towards the barracks. Something rattled in his pocket, and Alphonse paused. He hadn’t had anything in his pockets. Reaching in, he felt his hand touch something cold, and he pulled it out. A silver chain dangled from his grip, an amulet of ocean blue shining back at him. A soft smile spread across his face, and he hung it around his neck.

“See you soon.” He pressed his lips to the pendant, before disappearing into the crowds of the market.

_____________________________________________________________________________________


The memories surged forward unbidden, and it took all his will to force them back to the dark of his mind. If the commander had noticed his brief lapse into the past, he said nothing, and Alphonse was more than grateful for it.

“Soldier, you see that boat over there? See where it is heading?”

Squinting at the shape, he noticed it’s bow was pointing straight towards the beaches below, beaches which had been swarming with Ghouls not hours ago. His fist clenched at his side, as the Commandant examined the boat. They were going to be slaughtered!

“Call those in your new Squad, Ramsden. You first assignment, before training the Breale volunteers, is to bring those two boat passengers into Zin peacefully and, more importantly, alive. I will be coming with you. Sound the horns.”

There was no hesitation as he snapped a quick salute. “It will be done, Sir.” He started down the steps, quickly pulling his horn up and pressing it to his lips. Its call blasted over the city, and the sound of clattering armour signalled that it had its intended effect. Moving with purpose, he weaved through the tents, easily picking out the men assigned to him (thankfully, they were all his own age, to prevent the oddity of a soldier so young commanding a veteran), who quickly fell into step, catching on that something was evidentially afoot.

As they cleared the tents, he spoke, clear, sharp and leaving little room for negotiation. “Commandant Romeus has honoured me with command of this squad, and he intends to ride with us on what is to be our first assignment.” The men nodded quickly, shooting each other worried looks at the prospect of riding with the Commandant. “I and the Commandant spotted a boat approaching the shores not minutes ago, and as we all know, the land outside the safety of Zin is entirely hostile. We’re going to ensure the occupants of that boat reach the safety of the walls, no matter what.”

Inside, he shook, from excitement and panic. He had never lead men before. They would be depending on him to direct them, and to keep them alive. It was a sobering feeling that called up from his gut, and forced him to focus on the task at hand. In perfect unison, they reached the stables, and immediately, the men began to clamber aboard horses, having guessed the intent of their being there. Alphonse climbed into the saddle, and gave the steed a stroke on the mane. “We will not delay, nor will we hesitate. If it looks like a ghoul, it’s a ghoul and we will kill it if it impedes us. Do not break away from the group; do not try to pursue any of the enemy. We all know they’re stupid, but they’re also predators.”

He looked over them, trying to keep his own fear from showing on his weary face. Each looked afraid, but ready to fight at his command. Would they die by his orders? His mouth moved before he could even think of what to say to them all. “I swear on His Holy Light, to each of you. I will die before I let the same come to any of you. I swear.”

Stillness hung over them, before one of the men spoke up. “Then you best not die on us, Sir.” A smile spread through the group, and Alphonse nodded his head once.

“It’s a deal.”

Romeus quietly smiled to himself when Ramsden saluted him and left. He was an eager young lad, which was good. The only thing that could dampen a young and beating Vatiennien soldier like Ramsden was death itself, and Romeus himself will be personally making sure that doesn’t happen. If only the army was full of men like Ramsden, then there would be nothing stopping Vatienne’s military might. Romeus wondered if that was necessarily a good thing, especially with the multitude of scheming priests looming in the Capital, trying to get their power hungry hands of every other little thing they could.

Priests… How those arrogant, self-serving men were in charge of foreign affairs was above him. From what he last heard, the Emperor had been trying to train a complete new cast of independent diplomats and have them be in charge of the Ministry of Foreign affairs. It had something to do with some Senators, the non priests, complaining on how Vatienne’s foreign relations were greatly suffering from having incompetent despots in charge of relations. Romeus hoped that something of the sort would be done shortly to at least improve, somewhat, either the state of the priest’s attitude (even if there was a bigger chance of him becoming Emperor than that happening) or the creation of the Emperor’s revamped Ministry all on its own.

The sound of Ramsden’s horn pulled him out of his mental rant. He quickly turned his head and looked at his tent in the distance. Romeus broke into a jog on his way to his tent. On his way there, he came across two men from his personal guard on active guard duty. He quickly made his way over to them. The two men saluted him they saw him arrive. Romeus saluted back. “You two, I am relieving you of your guard duty. Saddle up and meet up with me at my tent. We have a little some people that need saving on the beach.” The Commandant du Regiment needn’t say more and the two men were off. Patrol duty was the dullest, although safest, activity in Zin. Any soldier was more than happy to get pulled off of it whenever he got the chance.

Romeus continued his jog to his tent, gathering speed as he went. Upon arrival, he quickly went inside, grabbed his sword, tied the sheath to his waist, and then walked over to the large wooden table at the center of the tent. He grabbed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Romeus then stepped up to the huge hanging map on the back wall at the end of the map, just to quickly take a look at the general, last known positions of any zombie hunting party that could be in the area. It seemed as if one had been sighted on the beach not too long ago. The Commandant du Regiment hoped that those mindless beasts had time to go pollute the area somewhere else.

Having everything he came for, the Commandant du Regiment broke into a light run just outside his tent. There, peacefully grazing on a small patch of grass stood his white stallion, Blazerunner. It had been his faithful steed and companion for 8 years now, and he could not have asked for a better horse. Romeus quickly put his helmet on, saddled Blazerunner and mounted him. It was just at this time when his two guards arrived at his tent. Romeus nodded at them both, leading the way at full gallop to where Ramsden and his men should be waiting, thundering down the streets.

When Romeus and his guards finally arrived, the Commandant du Regiment made his way to Ramsden, who was on his horse, as were the other men of his squad. “Good, I see you are here with your men.” Romeus looked Ramsden over, and nodded with approval, and then he turned his gaze towards the squad of men. “Welcome to Hell, boys,” Romeus yelled out. “I won’t hide it from you; you might all die in the next few minutes. You might lose a leg or an arm. You get eaten alive or see your friend killed before your eyes. You may wish you have never been born…” Romeus paused for a moment, letting his initiation speech sink in a moment. “These things we are going against will not hesitate to kill you. They will not hesitate to turn your skull into stew and your limbs into mush. You will get no mercy from them, so I expect you all to return the favor…” Romeus paused again. He worked hard to suppress a smile at the somewhat frightened faces of these fresh men. His two veteran guards sitting on their horses behind the squad were barely containing their laughter.

Romeus continued with his speech. “But,” started Romeus as he pulled his sword violently out of his sheath, making a loud shriek and his weapon being held firmly, pointing at the sun, gleaming in the light, “we are not the ones who should be afraid! The very earth trembles beneath our might! Creatures of the night flee at our sight and the heretical Gods themselves whisper our name! We are His chosen few, we are His champions! We are soldiers of Vatienne!” With that last sentence, the squad members burst into a cheer, with even the veteran guards behind them joining in. It was necessary pre-battle morale boosting.

With the sounds of all those men cheering, Romeus’ voice could barely be heard as he yelled to the patrolling men on top of the rampart walls to open the gates. Heavy machinery and chains could be heard as the primary locks for the Gate opened. “For Vatienne!” yelled Romeus. The squad repeated those two words. Now the Floor Spikes on the gates were being retracted. “For Vatienne!” repeated Romeus. The squad answered, even louder. Men on the ramparts were gathering to fire a clear-safe volley of arrows to make sure no zombie was hiding in the debris on the field in front of the city. The Gates finally screeched, lurching upwards. “For Vatienne!” yelled Romeus one last time, at the top of his lungs, louder than he did the two other times, in synchronization with the volley of arrows that flew overhead. The squad answered him even louder.

They charged out of the gates.

Reyabel jerked as a hand rested upon her shoulder. She looked up to see a woman bending over her, worry on her face. She was dressed strangely, and vaguely Reyabel remembered that a foreign missionary had been spreading the word of the Flamte some months prior. She had seen this woman from a distance, but never up close. Her cloth was rich, still clean, quite unlike Reyabel. Her fine clothing had been ruined, and replaced with simple working clothes. She didn’t remember much about the woman’s religion, being uninterested in it at the time. She had known Sretin was on good terms with Solaria, and it was possible they had missionaries out there as well. She hoped they did. She hoped to Mira that some Breale were living in peace right now. No. Mira had abandoned them. Surely, this woman’s god was no better.

Reluctantly, Reyabel agreed to follow the woman to her room. She noticed the woman glance up to the moon as if it were an angry beast waiting to pounce on them. Reyabel gave the moon no ill will, and wondered what it was about it that made other’s fear it so. She had heard that the moon made some crazy. She had heard of mythical beings, the Lycans, whose power waxed and waned with the moon. She didn’t believe it though…those were just stories to scare frightened children.

They wound their way through the empty courtyard, to a beautiful building just beyond it. It was built for guest housing, though the very rich could afford to stay there from time to time. It was the most prestigious place a guest could be offered, even more so than the castle grounds. To be in view of the tree was a sign of high respect, and Reyabel reminded herself to be civil with the woman, even if she did not quite agree with her…purpose, in Sretin.

“Who are you -” Reyabel asked her, quickly adding a “My lady?” to the question as they climbed a spiral staircase to the third floor of the building.

“I am Rya De-Solarius, Priestess Missionarious of the Ever Burning One, may his light guide us.”

Reyabel scoffed quietly, but still Rya glanced over her shoulder, and gave a sad look. She said nothing though. They walked through large, engraved double doors into a room which was lavished with décor. Mira was everywhere, in the tapestries of the walls to the engraving of the furniture, to the painting on the ceiling. Still though, there was a shrine most unfamiliar to her, which must have been the Flamte’s doing.

“Please, sit down,” Rya gestured to two couches, beside a fireplace. Had the fire been there before they entered the room? She did not remember. Suddenly she felt nervous. She has power far beyond me. What does she want with me? As if reading her mind, Rya said across from Reyabel and said, “Tell me, daughter of the Breale, who are you, and what led you to crying at the great tree? Only those in the most pain would dare shed tears there.” Reyabel realized that Rya knew a lot about the Breale, even if she wasn’t one. She had been living among them for a while now, suffered a catastrophe alongside them. She might be a stranger to Reyabel, but she was not a stranger to Sretin.

“I’m Reyabel Garrin,” she sniffed and wiped her swollen eyes on her sleeve. “I’m a priestess of Zin, healer and guardian of the Great Tree.” She took a breath. Rya did not interrupt her, or push her to continue. She just stared at her with her large green eyes, long red hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned in slightly. The fire leapt a bit, and then settled into its monotonous flickering. Slowly, Reyabel began telling her story. At first she started with going over the wall, then found herself back tracking to the beginning of the attacks, and then even further back, to the time when she was young and full of spirit. Back when her brother was alive. She spoke of Saun, and how he was missing, and then her story went back to the present. She spoke of going over the wall, to help a friend find his family…and what they had found. She found her story spilling out of her, words forming on her lips even before in her mind. Rya said little, merely nodding here and there or asking a quick question to clarify when one event happened in relation to another. The only thing Reyabel didn’t mention was when she had injured the ghoul. She didn’t know what she had done, but whatever it was felt wrong. She was ashamed to mention it. The moon had moved far in the sky before Reyabel had finished. Suddenly, she was exhausted and ashamed. What had driven her to speak so?

“I’m sorry for taking your time,” She said, awkwardly standing. “I should be back at the healing tents. There is always work to be done.”

Rya remained sitting, looking at the fire. “It was a brave thing you had done, trying to save Cahbren’s family. You faced much darkness for hope of light, and the light was not there. But it has not abandoned you.” Rya looked at Reyabel, green eyes piercing. “You hold the same hope for Saun. Have you considered trying to find him? The Ever Burning One will guide you to your light and glory.”

Reyabel’s mouth hung agape. Go after Saun? She’d never even considered it. “The earth has abandoned us. Mira is gone. The ever burning one is gone too. We are left here to die in darkness and despair!” she half shouted, tears welling up when she’d sworn she had none left to spill.

“Contrary, I feel the earth below my feet, and the sun burns in the sky, protecting us. Times are dark, but the Ever Burning One is still here, to guide us. Think about what I have said. We could find your brother. And others. He will guide us. He will protect us.”

Captain Drysdan of Useli

---

Captain Drysdan bit a Flor leaf straight from the stem and chewed it impatiently. These Vatienne soldiers seemed like professional dawdlers with their ridiculous motivating speeches. Innumerable ghouls were slowly suffocating the provinces from all sides while these uppity troopers weighed themselves down with unnecessary politeness and consideration. To the Captain, the rich land resources were more important than the pacifistic denizens of Sretin. More important than that was the payment promised by the Vatiennan Commandant. Of course, at this rate, they would never set foot on the battlefield.

These thoughts were all kept to himself for the most part. After all, Vatienne had hired Drysdan's army for a handsome sum of resources on top of a generous amount of money. Over the past several days, the Ayrens had integrated into the town's population and help with various tasks, most notably teaching some of the locals how to operate the large cannons that they brought along with them. Their short firing range limited them to defensive purposes, something Drysdan was not particularly interested in. He was hot blooded and ready for action at a moment's notice, especially when it meant he was able to close in with his enemy and personally hand deliver their defeat.

About half of the Captain's men were readily available to fight when the Vatiennan Commandant rallied a group of soldiers to storm out of the gate. The forty men stood off to one side of the gate as they prepared for battle. Their half-capes were perfectly white and bore the Vatienne insignia, which helped with identification on the battlefield; their lightweight combat gear was much different from the sturdy plates and intricate designs of their counterparts. Against this particular enemy, mistaking Ayrens for the enemy wasn't exactly a problem, but the practice was both traditional and effective.

Finally, the mechanisms on the gate sprang into motion. Captain Drysdan unsheathed his two handed sword and rested it upon his broad shoulder.

"Stay close, but don't babysit them. Some of these lads aren't too bad with a blade!" he shouted to his unit. "Same goes for each other. Watch your man to either side, but leave him enough room to fight."

Various weapons could be heard leaving their sheathes, along with the near bloodthirsty shouts of their owners. Captain Drysdan of Useli had trained a deadly army who lived for moments like these.

"For Vatienne!" was shouted in unison by the Vatiennan group storming through the gates. Drysdan's men were close on their heels, each shouting something of their own, knowing their role in the upcoming fight.

Drysdan strode alongside the Commandant on his way through the gate. The giant of a man pointed his large blade towards the battlefield with one hand as he addressed the Vatiennan.

"Now we're going to show you what we do best, Commandant! Your men would do well to watch and learn!" He spat the now-pulverized Flor leaf into the dirt and wiped the spittle from his squared jaw.

The arrows slowly found the earth, littering the advance to Zin with arrows, as the gates opened for the small army exploding forth from its protective shell. The air around the city seemed to chill, as the men advanced quickly down the slope, before something made its presence known.

Slowly, it emerged from the woods, a shadow floating inches above the ground, robes of billowing dark flowing from nothing. A simple skull sat atop the robes, but something dark flickering in the pits of its empty sockets.

“Fools.” Its voice, born of neither tongue nor mouth, clawed at the very air around the men, a whisper and yet so perfectly clear. “You abandon your fortress. You charge forth as if the Black One itself blessed your march.” A skeletal hand rose from its side, dark magicks pulsing around the creature’s bony fingers. “The Black One has marked you for death, Living. We are the emissaries of the Void Beyond, and it hungers for your essence.”

The Magick exploded out, washing over the dying land like a wave, vanishing inches before the advancing soldiers. A laugh more akin to a banshee’s screech echoed from the creature, as its soulless eyes turned to the corrupted woods behind it.

“Children of Ka’urderen…the Living come. Send them to the Void Beyond! For the Black One!”

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His heart was beating furiously in his ears, and Alphonse found himself wondering if was from the Commandant’s speech or the sudden appearance of…whatever the hell that thing was. The fleshless being clad in shadowy robes sent shivers up and down his spine, but he pressed his lips to a thin line to prevent his fear from showing.

Soldiers didn’t let the enemy know their fear.

But as the woods grew loud with screeches he knew far to well, Alphonse forced the lump in his throat down and he knocked an arrow in preparation of what was to come. The Ayrens were already breaking towards the wood, the mercenaries hunger for blood rampant on their faces. Did they truly need beasts to fight the monsters that besieged them?

"Now we're going to show you what we do best, Commandant! Your men would do well to watch and learn!" The Mercenary Captain spoke harshly, brandishing a monstrous weapon with but one hand, but Alphonse felt his pride sting at the man’s words.

“I have already seen men slaughtered, Captain, I do not need the refresher.” He barked back, muttering a curse as he briefly fought the string of his bow for purchase. You’ve done it a thousand times before, Alphonse, just stay calm!

Something shot forth from the woods, and he let the arrow fly with a panicked breath. The beast jerked as the arrow thudded against its shoulder, stopping in its tracks to examine its wound briefly. Dead eyes flicked over the rag tag force, and the creature screeched loudly as it continued its charge forward.

Before he could knock another arrow, the tide of bone and sinew erupted from the woods, hundreds of eyes focusing hungrily on the armoured bodies before them.

“C-Commandant! What are your orders, sir? Should we press to the beach?” His voice shook, far too much for his own liking, letting another arrow soar into the undead horde. How are they moving so fast?! They weren’t this fast before, were they?!

Glancing one final time to his commander, Alphonse knocked one final arrow, the first of the ghouls mere seconds from clashing with the mercenaries. “His Light preserves us…”

"Now we're going to show you what we do best, Commandant! Your men would do well to watch and learn!"

Romeus smiled when the mercenary leader spoke. It was a small, nearly suppressed smile, but it was still there. He hoped the mercenary was right. That’s why Romeus hired these men in the first place. As they rode out, he heard Alphonse yell something out to the mercenary leader. The Commandant could feel the tension between some of his soldiers and the mercenaries. He knew it the second he had hired them, but it was necessary.

Once Romeus had his regiment to its full strength, 2000 soldiers, he thought it would be enough. It turned out it really was not the case. And far from it. The Empire no longer wanted to send troops to Sretin, seriously underestimating the ghoul threat that is unfolding in Sretin. Romeus had to think outside the box to counter this. He had to ask for the aid of the mercenaries. Something deeply frowned upon by his nation’s general mindset thanks to the priests. To them, they were barbarians, servants of evil corrupting and killing for money. For Romeus, they were a much needed back up.

The priests in Vatienne were the propagators of that ideal, while the military generally had no qualm about hiring mercenaries, and if they did it is because they felt there was no honor in paying someone else to do your dirty work for you or because military leaders thought it wasted combat experience that could otherwise be gained by imperial troops and not foreign ones. However, the older the military brass became, the wiser they became. The longstanding rivalry between the imperial military and the religious sector also played a part in the differing of opinions, characterized by each other’s respectful leaders, the conservative Papus for the priests and the liberal Emperor for the military. Romeus was part of that older military brass, and embraced the practical needs of the mercenaries. One day these young soldiers will come to realize the benefits of these hiring decisions.

Romeus’ mind was suddenly pulled back to the battlefield. As they rode towards the beach, he saw something unwind. The boat that he had seen off the coast back in the city landed on the shores infested with ghouls. Romeus watched in horror in what he thought would be a massacre of the passengers of the boats, who were probably Breale survivors. What he saw was not exactly what he expected would happen. Two figures got out of the boat, and looked nothing like the Breale. They were taller, seemed stronger and... they ran very fast. Once they had seen the ghouls on the beach, they took their legs to their necks and ran for the woods, barely running past a terrifying sight.

A thing of terrible evil erupted from the forests, followed by a sudden chill in the air. Dozens, if not hundreds of ghouls jumped out of the forests soon after. This being was unquestionably under the orders of the Black One, Morgarath, undeniably proving once and for all that he was back, taking into considerations its words of evil. Romeus would be shaken by this revelation, but, not only were his battle instincts kicking in, Vatienne’s population in its entirety was already convinced that Morgarath had returned. A slew of thoughts rushed through Romeus’ head. Should he run back towards Zin seeing that his purpose to save the castaways or should he finally make his stand? The solution was obvious for him.

Some archers were already shooting some arrows intermittently, trying to keep the ghouls away as long as possible such as Alphonse, others were shaking with anticipation for combat… others were shaking by fear, for this may be their first taste of battle. Romeus took one last long hard look to the rapidly advancing ghouls and their ghastly leader and then turned to his troops. The sky was getting cloudy. They were storm clouds. He wasn’t sure if it was due to dark magic or because they were on the coast. Whatever it was, it was starting to cloud the sky and will block out the sun in a few hours. Not good for morale.

“Men, today we make our stand. Done are the days of sitting in that city, waiting for the end. Done are the days of rotting away helplessly as evil reigns triumphant.” Romeus reached for a spear on the floor that had been probably dropped during a rescue mission. Romeus then reached for something on one of the bags on his armored steed. It was a Vatiennien flag. He tied it to his spear and held it up high, getting ready to bring it down and charge into the ghouls. But before bringing it down, he brought up his horn and blew in it, the sound much louder than it was to summon his troops before leaving for this expedition, the sound so loud some soldiers had to cover their ears. Screeches and squeaking were heard in the distance. After all, they were only 16 regular Vatiennien mounted soldiers, Alphonse who was the newly minted leader of the squad, Romeus’ personal guard and Romeus himself, not counting the handful of mercenaries that followed them in battle, bringing the total number to toughly 50 men. They needed help if they were going to win this skirmish.

“Today marks the beginning of the liberation of the Sretin provinces!”

With that, the gates of Zin opened up, letting another 50 Vatiennien cavalry ride out and a sight that was rarely seen since the days of the Illurian wars rose out from the city, a secret weapon known until then only as elite, almost myth like soldiers: three gryphon riders flew out from the city, their gryphons screeching fiercly.

Romeus turned back towards the ghouls and muttered a small prayer under his breath: “O Sanctus Unus, beatus mihi quod meus men ut victoria may adveho celeriter. Indulgeo nos pro quis nos es super efficio.” He then raised his spear with the Vatiennien flag on it and charged. “For the Emperor, for the Light, for Vatienne!” The hundred men and gryphon riders followed him in.

Romeus charged in, slashing the faces of several ghouls with his spear while he charged towards the leader of these monsters. His mind zeroed in on the evil leader. His soldiers and mercenaries were creating enough chaos for him, especially the gryphons, who were plucking the ghouls from the ground viciously. He was getting really close towards his target. The closer he got, the colder the air became. If anything, it fuelled his will to kill this thing.

Just then, a claw clamped down on his thigh. He looked down to his left and saw a ghoul trying to jump on him, trying to use his claw as leverage. The idiotic beast must have never fought a man in armor before, because it waited for a pained reaction from Romeus because of his claw in his thigh, but instead found only a spear to its face. Romeus spat on its corpse, his focus turning towards the enemy leader, who was also looking at him now. And advancing.

“You were wrong, beast, we were not marked by Death, we have been marked by His grace, and with His will as my weapon, I will smite you down and send your master into the pits of nothingness where he belongs.” With that, he saw a small floating… rock orbiting around him. Curious. He wondered what that could be… then he had an idea. It was probably something akin to whiskers for cats. If he destroyed it, he could send this thing’s senses into disarray, thus making it easier for him to kill it. Romeus knew how he could do that and executed it.

Romeus charged with his horse, and when he was close enough he jumped off, his spear high in the air. He was lightning fast and planted the spear firmly in his rib cage. Romeus then fell to the ground. The beast looked at the spear and cackled. It then looked back to Romeus to see his face as the spear was simply stuck in its ribcage, not doing any damage… but he wasn’t there. Before it could turn around, however, he heard it. “Miss me, you damned beast?!” Romeus had pulled his sword from his sheath and from behind, jumped up and smashed the floating rock with it. It blew into several pieces. Romeus landing on one knee and quickly turned, expecting to block a blow from the beast… but all he saw was a pile of bones with his spear and the Vatiennien flag tied to it sticking out of the ground. It was dead.

Romeus stood in place, frozen, for a couple seconds, slowly processing what happened, then realized there was a battle being fought. He jumped right back into the fray.

The charge was brutal and swift, and perhaps against another foe, they might have even caused a retreat. But their foe knew no fear, and bogged the cavalry down with bodies, forcing the men from the horses into a bitter battle for their lives. Steel clashed against bone, and claw tore against armour, but the soldiers and their mercenary allies held fast, cleaving down the ghouls left and right.

Alphonse fought along side those of his new squad; both thrill and panic driving his blade into his enemies. As a ghoul lunged forward, he jerked his shield forward, slamming the creature’s skull against the firm metal before driving his blade swiftly into its neck. The creature screeched, slashing furiously at him with its razor-like talons, and the young soldier risked evisceration the longer he stayed close to the beast. Gripping the pommel of his sword tighter, Alphonse jerked it roughly up through the skull of the ghoul, before ripping it free as his enemy fell quiet.

There was no time to celebrate, however, as another simply rose to take it’s place, forcing him onto the defensive as more of the undead reached the battle lines. Sidestepping another lunge, he took the brief respite to look for the Commandant, who had engaged the dark being that had spoken at the start of the battle. His charge was furious, and for a moment, Alphonse wondered where the man had gotten such courage from. His Light shone down even in the darkest times.

The ghoul’s pressed again, and he lost sight of Romeus, hoping that the men could at least by the commandant the time he needed to end the abomination. Dispatching another ghoul with a strike from his shield, Alphonse shouted loudly to his squad. “Come together! Tight! Watch each other’s backs!” The men, boys no older than him, pressed in, striking out against the endless tide, claws sparking and shredding against their already battered armour.

His legs ached, the frantic blitz of combat already wearing on his body. His arms felt like lead, even as he parried a vicious strike meant for the man to his right, giving the solider time to dispatch the creature ruthlessly. Was this truly going to be the end?

The ghouls pressed in closer, and Alphonse gritted his teeth in frustration. No. A Ramsden didn’t surrender. A Ramsden wouldn’t accept defeat until Sanctus Unus Himself called them from the field of battle. These…these abominations. They had slaughtered the innocent Breale. They had slaughtered his countrymen.

They had taken Nyana from him.

Fury swelled in his gut, and adrenaline surged into his veins as he cleaved his blade through the head of a ghoul with ease. Another surged towards him, only to feel the power of his shield snap its neck at an angle nothing could truly survive. Hot tears streaked his cheeks, as he pressed into the throng with the blessings of His Light guiding his blade into the flesh of his unliving foes. His legs didn’t hurt the gash along his cheek a pain forgotten in his righteousness.

They would pay for what they had done!

The squad followed quickly on his heels, unsure of what had roused the fighting spirit in him so, but thankful for whatever it was.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky overhead darkened more, as the air filled with the sickly scent of rot and decay. The forests continued to spew forth the ghouls, but from the black more of the shadowy creatures could be seen. And then the source emerged, slowly birthed from the womb of dark, jewelled skull watching the battle intently. Lumbering hulks of bone and sinew strode at its side, furiously batting aside anything, friend or foe that dared to close in on their master.

Soulless eyes found the source of its fallen pupil, and the Grand Lich seemed to smile without any lips. “Servant of the False Prophet, you walk on land no longer meant for the Living. You guard the Children of Peace against my children, and stand defiant in the face of the Black One. An impressive feat, to be sure, but foolish.”

The air grew heavy and thick, the Lich watching him coldly before its twin guards released a bestial roar and charged off into the fray, leaving Romeus face to face with Ka’urderen. “The Void Beyond hungers for you, Servant. I shall give you one chance to surrender, and join us in eternity.”

"You insult my god; you insult my nation and myself! I'll be sure to send you back into your precious void and back to your beloved Black One." Romeus unsheathed his sword and stood ready. "We'll see whether this land is fit for the living or not, you abomination." Romeus lunged towards the Lich.

Ka’urderen hissed with glee, his body gliding effortlessly out of the way of Romeus’s lunge. “I shall do more than insult, Servant of the False Prophet.” The arm of his robe rose towards the commandant, before a blast of ink-like shadow erupted from the folds and arced towards the soldier with terrifying speed.

Romeus hit the dirt as the bolt skimmed over him. "Shit," he murmured to himself. "You are lucky that the Papus is not hear, you monstrosity." As he spoke, Romeus grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it at the thing's face, hoping it would have some kind of effect. As Romeus threw his hopefully blinding dirt, he threw himself at a tree, hoping to get his feet anchored on it so he could launch himself onto the thing so he could attempt to find the floating rock that killed the previous floating pile of bones.

The Lich laughed at his attempt, turning to face the soldier before a powerful bolt shattered the tree into a hail of shrapnel. “I will burn your temples. Raze your cities. Slaughter your people, and build shrines that split the sky from their corpses.” Cold laughter echoed through the air again, as the Lich raised it’s ethereal hand. The bones of it’s fallen pupil leapt to it’s command, and lunged forward like a hail of darts.

Romeus' eyes widened as the tree he was aiming for vanished from sight. The Commandant was quick enough to extend his arms so his fall wasn't too harsh, but it still hurt. Romeus landed and rolled over himself a couple of times before landing on his back. By the time he got back up, the Lich spat some poisonous words from his mouth trying to destabilize the Vatiennien, probably, but Romeus' instincts were starting to kick and he stopped responding to the beasts taunts. The Lich, somehow, was able to use his magic to send a volley of needle like bones hurdling towards him like wasps. In a heartbeat, Romeus lunged behind the nearest tree, using the forest to its fullest extent.

The Commandant was able to take a few seconds of a breather before thinking up his nest plan. He was about to take out his dagger out of one of his sheathes and throw it at the Lich, as the dagger was flying at him, Romeus was to jump onto him and start slashing away with one hand, all while trying to find the key to the beasts downfall. In a series of lightning quick actions, he executed just that and a split second after he thought of it; he was already running towards the Lich with the dagger almost hitting the beast in the forehead.

“I am beyond you, Living.” Ka’urderen raised his hand once again, dark magicks crackling around his robes as he prepared to strike. A blur of motion gave him pause, before the splintering crack of bone sounded, his skeletal head jerking back roughly from the impact of the blow. The Commandant fell upon him in a barrage of blows, shredding the Lich’s robes with the furious strikes of his blade.

A force ethereal grabbed the soldier roughly by the neck, lifting him effortlessly off the ground as the skull slowly returned to look at it’s assailant. The dagger stuck out of the skeletal head like a horn, the worn bone cracked from the vicious blow, but the Lich was very much unharmed, his jewels dangling pristinely as if nothing had happened at all. “I am Ka’urderen, Grand Lich of the Black One, and Bringer of the Void Beyond! You are nothing to me, Servant of the False Prophet.”

Romeus brought his hands up to grip the ethereal hand that was holding him by the neck. The Commandant could barely breathe, but he was able to lift himself about a millimetre off the lich's arm, just so he could breathe easier. Romeus looked the beast straight in its empty sockets. "I alone may seem weak, but where I come from hail many. This land may be under your control, but if you or your wretched horde put one more of your boney toes closer to my homeland, you will know the fury, strength and vengeance of the Empire of Vatienne. Then you will see who the true ‘prophet’ is, you will see why we are feared, you will see the face of the nation that went into the heart of darkness and DESTROYED your Black One all those years ago." With those words, Romeus whistled a high pitched call to one of the gryphon riders who nearly immediately swooped down to free the Commandant.

The Lich leant close, eyeless sockets staring hard into the Commandant’s own. “There is more than one master of the Void Beyond, Servant. Speak not of what you don’t know, for my loyalties are secrets only death herself can claim.” Tossing the man aside, the Lich spun quickly, focusing it’s attention on the swooping Gryphon.

A dark prayer flickered through the air, before great gashes of darkness opened on either side of the Grand Lich, who continued in his cant as though nothing had happened. The Gryphon drew close, but before it’s razor-like beak or talons could ensnare the Lich, something in the portals acted. Great hands of liquid black jumped free of the gashes, gripping the diving beast by it’s jaws and forcing it to the ground with a sickening crack. The Gryphon’s protests and screeches fell on deaf ears, as the hand tightened their un-natural grip.

Ka’urderen moved in closer to the beast, his cant reaching it’s end as the hands began to pull. A great screech sounded, before the snapping muscles and cracking bone filled the air, the great hands of black tearing the poor animal’s head asunder, coating both the rider and the Grand Lich in the fallen bird’s life blood.

The rider brandished his spear, leaping towards the Lich with murder in his eyes, only to feel the potent magicks of the creature slam into him. His skin boiled, and the man barely had time to scream in agony before the virulent destroyer virus ripped it’s way through his body, leaving only gore in it’s wake.

Casting his dark gaze onto the battlefield once again, Ka’urderen dismissed his colossal hands from the void, before the hunting cries of more ghouls filled the air. “Come, my children! Deliver the Living to their final rest! For the Black One! For the Void Beyond!”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Lantis followed Daen at a run from the city square to the gates of Zin. He acknowledged no tiredness in the pounding of his legs; nevertheless, despite the natural stamina of thendári, he couldn't quite keep up. He'd had no chance for food or rest after completing his mission, only a moment's respite before the sound of horns--the first a simple signal, followed then by a serious call to arms--and Daen having come to find him even before the second horn sounded. The gate loomed ahead, and the sounds of battle clamored just beyond. Lantis nearly bumped into Daen, he had stopped so suddenly. When he looked out, Lantis saw why.

Under the eaves of the forest, great hands of darkness were rending a gryphon in half before their eyes. "The work of Shadow," Daen said in horror. Lantis pointed: "That's the Commandant!"
"Oh no!"
The ghouls were monsters; this was a servant of Shadow. Both paladins drew their swords, blades of isildin imbued with the light of Alos. Daen put a hand on Lantis's armored shoulder before he could charge ahead. "Don't fall behind," he said in Thendarin. "We need to take him together. I'll cut a path; you guard my back."
Lantis checked his rash haste and adopted his superior's plan with a firm nod. With that, the two elves charged down into the fray.

Before they came level with the battlefield, Lantis took stock. There were so many ghouls between them and the shadowmancer, it was like a seething tide of gore. Ghouls, undead flesh and muscle and bone, rearranged as monsters that could bite off your arm or claw open your chest, knit together in a skin of darkness, each one uniquely grotesque, every one deceptively mobile and more ferocious than any beast of prey, stood in a roiling mass, dealing death, barring their way. Then he and Daen crashed into them.

Daen's first cut severed one of the ghouls from shoulder to chest and flung him aside into another. Lantis leaped over the falling bodies and landed with a strike that severed the long, clawed forearm of a ghoul reaching for Daen's head. At the same time, Daen had dove through a gap and rolled, leaving Lantis to slice through the flailing limbs just in time to cut the legs from under another ghoul that had noticed Daen's passing. The path Daen cut allowed them to preserve their momentum. If they slowed to give more aid to the Vatiennien soldiers, let alone the whole force including the Idonian mercenaries, they might become ensnared in the rat race of survival and fail their mission. If the Commandant fell, the Vatiennien force, weak as it was, would be in even worse shape. And, they had a responsibility to balance the scales against the Shadow.

With a last surge, they broke free of the mass of ghouls. More were coming from the forest, but they had escaped the deadlocked sea of battle. Before them the Commandant was battling the shadowmancer, a robed skull with limbs that faintly glowed in reaction to the energy of the paladins' armor. The thing advanced on the Commandant with claw-like hands of transparent bone. A knot of ghouls was advancing on the Vatiennien while his back was turned.
"Romeus, behind you!" Dane shouted in the human's language, lunging to parry an attack from Romeus's back as Romeus turned to see.
Lantis stepped in to block a blow from the shadowmancer aimed at the Commandant, who by now had not only grasped this new development but had calculated its advantage.
"Look for a floating stone or something in its clothes!" Romeus told the paladins, railing on the ghouls coming at them, "Destroy it and they die!"
Daen, who was fighting alongside Romeus to keep the ghouls off him, shouted a word in elvish to Lantis: "Phylactery!!"

Lantis's full attention was on the deep eyes of the jeweled skull, but he understood Daen's delineation. It made the difference of what to look for. A soul-stone, appearing in Thendári chronicles as the vessels of dark spirits. It was before Lantis's time, but training and reading had armed him for such a foe. "Whatever you are, demon of the void, servant of the Shadow, prepare to meet the Light!"
"I have been waiting for you, paladins. To blot out such light, the pleasure I will reap is beyond your imagining!"
"Your darkness cannot harm me!" Lantis shouted, and struck at the lich.
An inky net of darkness shot from the shadowmancer's outstretched hand and toward Lantis, only to wither like candle smoke as it touched his white armor. At the same time, when Lantis's unhindered sword met the lich's robes, its blade dimmed and did no more damage than a mundane sharp edge against the cloth.
The lich shrieked, whether in thrill or rage Lantis could not tell. It raked its half-invisible claws across Lantis's armor, dealing a blow that sent the paladin back through the air.
Unhurt, Lantis twisted and landed in a crouch, then charged the shadowmancer once again.
"Parity will not save you, slave of Light!"
Lantis swung, but the lich, unexpectedly agile, struck him a backhanded blow like a boulder to the chest. This time Lantis fell flat on his back, too shocked to roll upright. He was barely able to parry the sharp, bony claw as the skull-headed demon came in for the kill.
Then Daen's sword stabbed into the lich's robes, shoving it off balance and cutting some of the cloth away, giving Lantis time to leap to his feet.

There was a brief pause as it became apparent that the real fight was starting. The skull's face darted between Romeus and the two paladins. Three against one.

Ka’urderen watched the servants with darkened glee, confident in his victory even against the greatest champions of the Light. Nothing more than sheep to the slaughter, but who said the butcher couldn’t toy with his cattle before sending them to their deaths?

And he had just the vassal in mind for his games. A miasma of black billowed forth from his robes, a temporary smokescreen from the prying eyes of his enemies, but it was all he needed to begin. A whisper in ancient tongues echoed from unseen mouths, energy weaving through the dark being as his intentions took form in his mind’s eye.

One of the Paladins burst from the smoke, and the Lich darted aside, head still bowed in dark enchantments. Time was all it needed. The other came from his flank, and Ka’urderen allowed the strike to slip through his already shredded robes without a second thought. Third strike would come…breaking his cant briefly, a faint shield of shadow snapped around his back, deflecting the vicious strike by the commandant.

They were pressing their advantage. Wise for the Living.

Another line of the cant boomed around the battlefield, snaking tendrils rising around the shadowmancer like a thousand coiled vipers. The sight was enough to give them pause, but the attacks continued with renewed haste, as if they sensed the danger he was bout to birth.

As the lead Paladin leapt forth to strike a crushing blow to his skull, the Lich screeched it’s final blasphemous command, and the tendrils arced violently into the blackened sky, before racing back towards the blackened earth.

The gryphon’s still warm corpse swallowed the energy greedily, the twitching mass pulsing violently as the power crackled across it’s dying flesh. Lifeless eyes blinked once as cold unlife flooded into the once noble beast, and the darkness took hold of it’s faded mind. Bone snapped and shattered, as the sinew and marrow of the undead beast forced itself back into the blackened shadow of the Emperor’s finest. It’s shattered skull, rent in half by the very being that called it back into service, split down the center, before half skinned bits grew from the gore smeared earth to complete the unholy abomination.

Ka’urderen, fatigued as he was by the potency of his spell, allowed himself a laugh, drinking deep the horror that etched itself into the face of every man who saw the fresh born, and letting his echoing laugh shatter against the frail minds of those who opposed him. His newest childe screeched from twin heads, pupil-less eyes watching the Commandant and the Paladins hungrily.

“Servants of the False Prophet, witness the power of the Void Beyond. Those who fall simply rise again to serve me in death, and you shall be no different.” A single hand stretched up, elegantly pulling the soldier’s dagger from his skull, and holding it up to the light to casually examine it’s edge. “I will return this to you, someday, Servant.” The blade vanished into his robes, and the billow of his robes turned away from the warriors, skeletal eyes still watching them.

“If you live to see another day, that is.” The titans of flesh, coated thick with the blood of dead and dying, returned to their master’s side, whose form slowly faded from view into the gnarled woods. A simple phrase dripped from the air, cold and enthralled despite it’s departure from the scene.

“Slaughter them.”

The Abomination screeched, lunging forward to rend them with it’s sword like talons.

The Ever Burning One had risen high in the sky before Rya woke up. Reyabel had left as the Deceiving Reflection had begun to flee the Ever Burning One's return and Rya had promised that she would help the girl find her brother. Rya had then slept. She had not had any sleep before and she could tell she would need it in the journey ahead.

Rya got up from her cot in the corner of the room and slowly walked over to one of the windows. It was time to greet the Ever Burning One. She was a little late. Normally the Ever Burning one was greeted when it first returned and drove away the Deceiving Reflection. Rya pulled aside the shutters gently. She smiled softly as the warmth and light from the Ever Burning One touched her face. It was comforting to know that no matter what the Ever Burning One never deserted her, it always returned to drive away the dark. The warmth soothed her worries as Rya whispered the prayer of greeting and thanks for its return.

Rya finished the prayer and after lingering in the light for a little bit she put on her proper clothes. The orange and yellow robes and gloves of a Priestess of the Ever Burning One. Rya also put on the feathery headdress of a missionary and smiled to herself. Rya was happy that the Ever Burning One had sent her a sign of what he wanted her to do. It could only be by his will that Rya had heard Reyabel's crying last night. She nodded happily, yes it was his will that Rya help the Breale girl. And maybe it would help Reyabel know the Ever Burning One's light.

Rya shook her head slightly to clear it, she needed to gather her things. Rya knew she might not be coming back for a long time and it was not right to leave anything to bother her hosts. Rya gathered her belongings, a book of the Ever Burning One's scriptures, a little glass vial of firepowder, and an extra set of clothing. She put them all into her pack. Rya looked around the room she had lived in and her face fell a little. The small shrine to the Ever Burning one was not big, but Rya knew she could not bring it with her this time.

Rya walked over to it and knelt down carefully. She lifted her hands and placed them gently against the old wood. "From his fire we were born, and to his fire we return." Rya whispered softly and fire quickly burned the little shrine down to ashes before dying. Rya slowly rose and wiped a little ash from her robes. She then walked over and opened the door slowly and stepped out into the square near the great tree.

Rya looked around and then gently tapped a passing Breale woman on the shoulder, and asked how to find the healing tents. It made Rya smiled a little inside that even with everything that had happened the Breale still were helpful and kind. She was glad to have lived among them. Rya thanked the woman and walked towards the healing tents. The directions were good and Rya found the tents with out any trouble.

Rya walked into one of them and shuddered. There were so many injured and dying men and woman waiting to be helped. It made Rya more certain that she needed to help in the little way she could. She saw Reyabel near the back of one of the tents and walked over slowly. "I am going to help you find your brother like I promised." Rya declared firmly.

Romeus was glad that the paladins had shown up. It was about time, he was starting to forget they had come to Sretin. Regardless of what anyone can say about their tardiness, however, they were one of Vatienne’s greatest allies, and vice versa. It was always a pleasure to kill monstrosities of darkness alongside them. And now, they were three versus one against that monster, the Grand Lich: a rotting pile of bones with hints of magic.

The Lich then did something that was simply abominable. He raised the fallen gryphon to be his servant. Wonderful. As if he or his men needed another thing to kill. There plenty of ghouls already. The only good thing that seemed to come from the creation of that thing is that the Lich decided to leave, the magical energy needed to rebirth a symbol of Vatiennien military superiority into unholy servitude. Romeus took this time to assess the situation of the battlefield. It was a nightmare.

There were bodies everywhere; be it soldier, ghoul or even some mercenaries. The Commandant was definitely not expecting the influx of ghouls or the apparition of their boss. He thought it would have been a small skirmish: small, yet easy victory to help boost morale. Instead of doing that, it did something else. This whole encounter gave Romeus an idea, an idea on how to win the war, not just the battle. This entire encounter probably bore more fruit than any small skirmish victory could ever do.

However, before he could enact his idea, he had to get out of this prickly situation. First, he would have to make sure that all the dead here could not be raised again to be used against him. That was easy to do, they simply had to set them on fire… and probably set the whole forest on fire just for safe keeping. If the Breale had anything to say against, he would tell them it was saving lives and that the ashes will make the soil more potent than before. Destroy so that others may live… or in the case more like destroy so others may not live an unlife.

A screech rattled his brain. The gryphon was swooping down on them. Romeus rolled out of the way, the undead gryphon’s talons grazing the grass where he just stood. Romeus stood back up and signaled the other two gryphon riders with a loud whistle. He knew the riders policy on aerial units that they were unfamiliar with: fly circles around it in order for the ground forces to retreat. That is what they were to do. He was confident the elite flying skills of the two riders would be enough to fly circles around the beast, although Romeus seriously doubted it could be felled by maces, spears, arrows and swords alone.

Once he was relatively certain that the gryphon was off their backs for a couple moments, he yelled out to the paladins: “Paladins, we’re retreating back to Zin. I trust you wield roughly the same powers as our priests, so I ask on you to set the ground and trees ablaze with your focused light. Do not fear the consequences, just do it!” With that, Romeus brought his horn to his mouth and blew three loud times in it to signal retreat.

Romeus started to make his way to his horse that was surrounded by ghouls, its armor badly scratched but the beast still hanging on. Romeus simply charged into the three ghouls, chopping them down before they realized that they were getting surprised attacked. The Commandant then got up on his horse, patted him on the muzzle, and started riding to gather up his men and mercenaries. “Retreat back to Zin! Fall back! Fall back!” Romeus had no idea where or what the paladins were doing because he was too busy yelling at his men and the mercenaries, but he hoped they were able to do what he asked.

There was always the possibility that they could not do what he had asked of them. He could be slightly harsh when he was in the heat of battle, so he rode to a couple on soldiers, who were wielding torches instead of shields. It was a logical thing to bring into combat with these things. They seemed to be afraid of it. Romeus simply took a torch from the hands of his soldier and instructed the other three men with torches to light up as many bodies, shrubs and bushes as possible, and as close to the forest as possible. He deeply hoped that that bastard lich would still be in the small forest as it burned to the ground.

As Romeus rode, he kicked and slashed a couple ghouls, trying to cover the retreat of his men and mercenaries as best he could with the help of the fire. The Commandant looked over to his men who were riding back to the city gates, which were starting to open up for them. That was good. Now to finish the job here.

Romeus jumped off his steed and ran with his torch touching the grass as he ran. He made sure he headed to spots where there were many flammable, dead bushes and shrubberies so that it would spread quickly. There were less and less soldiers on the battlefield, in fact there barely any… but ghouls were still pouring through the holes that his fire had not started in yet. He would surely get overrun if he did not get out… five seconds ago. He had stayed too long already.

The Vatiennien threw his torch as far as he could into the forest and ran towards his horse, immediately heading for the gates of Zin. As he rode, the fearsome mercenary leader arrived from behind to flank him. They were the last to enter the city gates. He had no idea where Alphonse or the Paladins were, but he hoped that they had made it out alright. As they passed the threshold, the heavy gates closed tightly. Romeus, however, did not stop there. He ran to the ramparts, to see the effects of his pyromania.

As he ran up he saw something he had almost forgot about: he saw his gryphon riders still in the sky, flying air acrobats around the undead gryphon, both injured, one more than the other. They would not fight for days or even weeks after this encounter. The other –dead- gryphon, on the other hand, was unscathed. Romeus spat to the floor. Abomination. He told the dozen guards on the ramparts to pull their bows ready and yelled for some oil to make these arrows flaming. He even yelled at the mercenaries to aim their strange cannons to the sky, in hopes that if it would not hit the undead beast, it would startle it. The Commandant then he blew his horn twice again, hoping his gryphon riders could hear the retreat signal clearly this time.

Romeus sighed with relief as they gryphons were finally coming back to the city. He hoped the undead beast would follow so that he may taste a dozen arrows pierce its hide. Romeus looked at the sergeant in charge of the ramparts guards and nodded, leaving the duty to fire at the undead beast to him should it decide to show its face to the city. Before he left, he looked to the fire he started. The grass and lesser bushes and shrubs were on fire, consuming some bodies in the process, and the fire was starting to spread to the forest. He hoped, for himself and the morale of his troops, that the fire had consumed their fallen brethren and not undead life. Satisfied, Romeus got back down to the courtyard.

His soldiers were already being undressed and tended to by the generous and grateful Breale. It had been a bloodbath. Of the 60 Vatiennien soldiers that had come, including thhe reinforcements, 23 were dead and 31 were injured, both seriously and less seriously. He looked at the mercenaries, they were around the same, but he couldn’t tell clearly, they weren’t his men.

Romeus gave the reins to his horse to a squire and looked for the nearest bench, where he took off his helmet and untied the sheathe to his sword, putting it on the bench next to him. He took in a deep breath thought about what had happened: the survivors who he was supposed to save were lost, probably dead by now, he had killed a lich, fought with their monstrous leader, lost a lot of his men, set a small forest on fire, one of his gryphon riders were dead with his gryphon resurrected to terror them, while two others were seriously injured.

That was fun.

The healing tents stood in the middle of the city, far enough away from the walls for the people within them to have some amount of safety and be sheltered from the noises of battles. Reyabel worked in the tents, with several other healers, healing wounds that were not fatal, but would be if not tended eventually. These poor men, who bore these wounds had to suffer the most pain, as they were constantly having to wait as the healers worked with the more immediately fatal wounds. Some men would lie for a week or more in severe pain, because there was no healer who could spare his or her time and energy without letting another man die whose wound was more immediate.

When the tents came to be quiet, sometimes Reyabel thought she could hear the shouts of battle, screams of death that were happening beyond the eastern gate. She wasn’t sure if she could actually hear it, or if it was her imagination. Either way, it didn’t stop her from working.

Reyabel was washing her hands for the twelfth time that morning, exhausted healing these minor wounds but reviving eleven men who had been unfit for battle, when the Flamte priestess arrived at the healing tents. Reyabel stood, slightly bowing, flabbergasted by the woman’s sudden appearance. She was taken aback considerably when Rya proclaimed interest in finding Saun; Reyabel’s brother.

“I…I don’t know what to say. I mean, where do we begin? How can I even start to find him? I know not where he is…if he is even alive.” Reyabel’s shoulders shook with fear and sadness.

“As long as the Ever Burning One prevails, we too shall,” Rya said with a smile. “Trust your heart. Does it tell you Saun is no longer with us?”

Reyabel thought about it. True, in her heart she felt that Saun was alive, somewhere. As a minor priestess, she did have a sensitive ability to life. But was it true, or was it wishful thinking? Would she feel that he was alive as long as she did not know he was dead?

“No…I don’t know…I –“ Suddenly, there were shouts from beyond the tents, and Reyabel ran outside, several of the other healers running out as well. What Reyabel saw brought pain to her heart. She had spent all morning and much of her energy trying to get as many men on their feet as possible…only for them to be replaced with more death. Most injured men were carrying themselves, many severely injured being carried by others who were hurt but could walk. The soldiers were mercenary and Vatienne alike, and Reyabel noticed that they hadn’t even bothered bringing the dead back with them this time.

“Run and get more healers! Now!” Reyabel said, locking eyes with Rya. “We’ll talk later, my Lady. I have work to do.”

“I will bring the healers. Do what you must, but forget not what I have offered you.” The woman turned and briskly walked away, her footsteps carrying her far and yet her mannerisms remaining calm and regal. Reyabel envied the Flamte woman’s demeanor, the way she always remained regal, even among such emergency. Reyabel herself was calm, scanning over the injured coming in and calculating who must be healed first, who could wait, who could survive without being healed at all, and, worst of all; who was going to die. It was quick and dirty math; but if three men could be saved from near fatal wounds in place of one being saved from a fatal one…well, she must go with the three.

Reyabel had little energy left for actual healing after all of the work she had done that morning. She set about organizing who went to where, sending healers as they came in to certain tents to heal the worst. She cleaned wounds and administered flor to those who she was confident could heal cleanly without Mira’s help, and then, took the precious flor to the large tent in the back: the death tent.

It was in this place that those who could not be saved were sent. Many of the Breale were too sensitive to even enter that place. It wasn’t just that they were unused to the violence; though that was definitely a part of it. When one is tied to Mira, to life…when one has the power to manipulate it, to feel it and save it…entering a tent full of nearly dead men is enough to twist one’s soul in such a broken and permanent way. Reyabel was one of those unlucky people who found that she could withstand the pain of death as it neared. She hadn’t known she could do it, had never prepared for it, was no different than any other Breale to deserve such a trait…and yet, there she was, the one to give flor to the dying and be their last companion before they left this world as men and returned as…well, whatever Mira had set for them.

Though her soul could withstand the pain of death, it didn’t stop tears from forming in her eyes as she entered the tent. Most of the men there were unconscious, some were screaming in delirium. It was these men whom she administered the flor, to the best of her ability but with the understanding that there just wasn’t enough to give them the amount they needed to truly be out of pain. She could only give so much, not only to preserve the leaf, but because too much would just increase the delirium and at that point, the brain could do anything to its body; even inflict more pain.

She was moving from one body to the next, her mind tactfully ignoring what little life remained within the death tent. As she moved, an arm suddenly reached out and grabbed her dress at the hip. She cried out, the sudden movement frightening her, and looked down to find a mercenary gripping her dress in his gloved fist. She took a deep breath and calmed herself, then placed her hand on his and replaced his grip on her dress with her own hand. Then she knelt next to him. His face was striking; or would have been if it was not pale and clammy with the onslaught of a slow death. His breathing was shallow, and painful, she didn’t have to use her magic to see that his lung was punctured. She put her other hand over his wound, checking again, seeing if there was any way she could heal it, even enough where he would not die; but what she found was infection, an infection that had spread so quickly that even if she healed the wound, he would die within weeks anyway.

“Pr-iestess.” He sputtered. His olive eyes locking with her own. “You see my time has come.” Another shallow breath. “I am ready.” Slow, broken breath. “Send me from this place.”

Tears fell from Reyabel’s eyes as she took her hand and smoothed back his hair. “I cannot do that, Sir Mercenary.” She said, as calmly as she could. He had no name.

He reached for his belt and pulled out a small knife. Weapons were supposed to have been removed from the wounded before entry to the tents; they must have missed this one. His movements were jerky as he laid it on his chest. “Just push it in here.” His finger lain over his heart. “I have not the strength for it.” He suddenly fell into a spasm of wet coughs, blood erupting from his lips. Reyabel tried not to cry out, but left her hand on his head and moved not for the knife.

“I cannot do what you ask, Sir Mercenary.” He had no name. No name. He had no name. No life. Saun, dying in some other fool’s camp, where some other fool refused his last wishes. A person with no power. She had no power. She could not help him. Nothing could help him.

She expected him to plead, to beg, to yell, to scream, to challenge. She was not prepared for what happened. He looked to her, put his hand to her face, his fingers tangling in her choppy blonde hair and just stared into her eyes. She saw acceptance in his eyes, acceptance of the slow fate that Mira had wrought him and that she, Reyabel, could not save him from it. It made Reyabel so angry. She was angry at all that had happened, that she and the rest of the Breale did nothing while everyone died around them. Everything she had ever believed in, the peaceful world she thought was the pact of life, she found was doing nothing but killing her, and killing everyone else around them. Bury peace! She thought. Bury peace and all the death it caused anyway!

And in that anger, she felt it again. She felt life, flowing, but in the wrong direction. She could feel it coming from him, into her, and it felt so wrong, and yet she felt herself getting stronger again. Not a lot, for he was nearly dead, but it replenished her all the same. And she saw his eyes fading, and she saw the smile grow on his face as he realized what she had done, or if not what she had done, what was happening none the less. And she kissed those smiling lips as she took the life from him.

---

When it was done, she went out of the tent and threw up. She vomited every little bit of sustenance within her, and then heaved some more. It was as if her body was trying to rid itself of the other sustenance that it had somehow gained...she had done it again. She had taken life...through her magic...through the gift Mira had granted her to save lives, she destroyed one, and she hated herself for it.

Rya found her there, shaking, heaving and crying. Rya put a hand upon Reyabel's shoulder.

"I cannot stay a moment longer!" Reyabel cried softly. "We must go. We must go find Saun."

"We will, Reyabel." Rya responded, calmly. "We will."

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Lantis watched as the Vatiennien commandant rode away to save his men, asking them to set the forest ablaze.
Daen was looking all around at what Lantis had seen already--with a few exceptions, naught but the bodies of ghouls. "We burn the undead," Daen said in thendarin, understanding the purpose of the fire.
Lantis nodded, comprehending. "So no more will 'rise again to serve in death' as the shadowmancer said."
"And sooner rather than later." Daen clapped his fellow paladin behind the shoulder. "Come. Archers will drive away the gryphon."

With the lich gone, the nullifying effect on their armor was lifted. Both paladins raised their swords to the sky, pointed them at the sun, and waited.
"Daen," Lantis said, one eye tracking the flight of the two-headed abomination, "how was the shadowmancer able to raise the gryphon while we were present? How were we unable to stop him?"
"The same way he could not have stopped us from summoning a light-dweller, if there were no veil or the portals were open. He was not using shadow magic, he was calling out to shadow spirits."
Lantis angled his head in thought, still holding high the blade of his sword. "Morgarath is bringing shadows past the veil?"
Daen nodded. "He cannot breach the Spirit realm and undo death; no one can, except perhaps the Holy One, if he chose. These fallen bodies rise because spirits from the Shadow realm inhabit them."
"Have we paladins fought shadowmancers such as these before?"
"No," said Daen, "they are some new devilry. Morgarath has had two thousand years to himself. This must be what he has come up with, and he is finally unleashing it upon Emoria."
Lantis shook his head. "First the kidnappings, and now the fall of Sretin. Wasn't the Council of Nolwë Osto to take place today?"
"Yesterday. Dannya will have arrived there by now." He added as an afterthought, "And she will have no news of the shadowmancers."
Lantis brought his head up, and at the same time felt his raised hand growing hot. "Messengers of Vatienne will convey the knowledge. And if nothing else, the Idonians will spread the word."
"Fortunate that the commandant hired them," Daen commented.

Their swords shone and flashed like a mirror in the sun, but they also glowed with their own energy. The heat of the blades radiated outward, heating the hands that grasped the hilts. All at once the blades' charge reached a certain point, and their light flared so that the paladins had to look away. Bringing their swords down and holding the blades behind them, the two turned toward the forest and advanced toward it, angling their path so that the distance between them steadily widened. They needed room.
A few hundred yards from the eaves of the wood, the paladins stopped, stretched the weapons out to one side, and slashed the air. Twin arcs of white-hot energy streaked toward the trees, leaving tails of flame and jittering heat waves in their wake. Green branches full of leaves absorbed the strike and withered in the sudden outbreak of fire. Like the lashes of a whip, the forest's wall of green was marred by lines of ash that sprouted flames. The dance began. The two paladins struck again and again, each to his own rhythm. With each swipe of the blades the power lessened, but the sun was bright in the heat of the day, and what was impossible in combat was a wonder against unmoving trees. The forest blazed, spreading flames brighter than anything that could have been caught from a torch.
When the forest was alight, the paladins marched in different directions across the battlefield, wreaking flame in great scything arcs. The stone walls of Zin would resist the heat, and the surrounding farms and fields were gone anyway. The seashore would absorb the rest. Every few minutes, as they went, they stopped and raised their swords skyward, letting the enchanted isildin blades drink in the Light before resuming their unaccosted incineration. There was no time for power on this level during battle, and there was rarely need of it outside of combat. But now, the undead needed burning, and the paladins obliged, leaving the wounded to gain the safety of the healers. The fallen would not rise to pursue them into the city.

When it was over, Lantis and Daen rejoined company. Everything around them was burning. It would be some time before it was safe to open the gates, but the paladins, unhurt, were in no great hurry to reenter the city. They could wait and watch while the fallen stayed on the ground, where they belonged, until they were consumed. Their armor kept the flames away as they walked--or more precisely, absorbed whatever flames or great heat were near. The burning forest stood on the left side of their view; the great city of Zin on their right.
There was a silence as they considered, each within his own mind, and then Lantis spoke. "These shadowmancers are creating rifts."
Daen shook his head. "No."
Lantis's gaze was far away. "They're tearing the veil. We have guarded the Rift in Aendrel cycle after cycle, and now Morgarath is making his own!"
"They are not rifts, even small ones," Daen reassured. "Morgarath himself might be able to make one, if he and all his minions combined their strength, but these are not rifts. They are nexus."
"What is a nexus?"
"You are very young. They do not teach about nexus anymore; it has been many, many cycles since we have seen one. Morgarath wasn't the only one to try and make them."
"You read it in the chronicles?"
"I talked with one of the Daystar Council."
All Thendári knew the names of the Daystar Council. Lantis could guess which one Daen Lehran had talked to. "Altina Lehran?"
Daen nodded. "Aqualytes once tried to make a nexus to the Water realm. They are artificial portals, forced doorways between the realms. They go against everything the portals were made for, and we are forbidden to try to make our own, but they are far, far less dangerous than a rift, especially one like ours."
"What if these shadowmancers make so many nexus that they cause a rift?"
Daen seemed to doubt this. "I don't know everything about it--few know very much at all--but nexus are risky to travel through more than once. They seem to unravel. In the stories Altina told me, Aqualytes lost limbs or came back contorted when they kept using the nexus, and eventually they didn't come back at all, until finally they couldn't even enter."
"Still," Lantis said slowly, not quite convinced, "it can't be good to make many, if they've raised this many dead."
Daen shrugged. "Either way, our enemy remains the same. We still have to stop Morgarath."

The afternoon was wearing on when the paladins finally returned to the city. There had been no sign of the dire gryphon. The elves were tired, especially Lantis who had overseen the foray with the Breale men earlier that day, but they went straight toward the command center to talk with Romeus. The city's defense had taken a hard blow, but it was apparent that the commandant was developing a decisive plan of action.

The call to retreat was a sound more pleasing to his ears than all the music in the world, and Alphonse found his body relaxing slightly at the sheer mention of being back inside the protective fortress they had crafted Zin into. His rage dissipated into relief, and he dropped slightly to his knees, cries of shock and concern bouncing pointlessly through his mind. Ghouls pressed in, and a burst of gore to his right snapped the young soldier back to his senses.

Then the screaming reached his ears. The unending symphony of agony sung louder than the fury of their steel, or the ghoul’s hissing screech that grated painfully against his weary mind. Blood danced from the edge of his blade, the familiar weapon now streaked with blackened and decaying blood, bits of the undying flesh still twitching from where it hung.

The man beside him, was it one of his squad? A rapid glance confirmed it so, but the sight almost forced his meagre breakfast from his stomach with a painful lurch. A gore-smeared stump replaced what should have been a leg, and the boy’s face was pale and gaunt from the loss of his precious blood. He…he needed to bandage it, didn’t he?

Fumbling with a roll of cloth, Alphonse forced his shaking hands to still, trying desperately to stop the bleeding as the others closed in around them to seal the gap left in their absence. “Y-you’ll be fine. The Breale, they…they can fix this, I…I know they can.” Pointless mutterings. He needed a healer. He needed one NOW.

Panicking hazel eyes flicked over to the city, to the mass of soldiers and mercenaries slowly falling back to the blessed barricades. Safety. Most were on foot, their horses lost to the endless claws of their attackers, those few who still had their creatures were trying their best to cover the retreat of their allies.

Where was his? Memory of jaws breaking the poor creature’s neck before being dragged to the ground surged unbidden through his mind’s eye. His fellows had done no better. How would they get to Zin..?

“Move!” His own voice surprised him, and the soldiers started forward. The wounded man, stifling the pain as best he could, jostled about on the weary Ramsden’s back, sword out to try and defend his comrade even as life ebbed from his body. The horde pressed in from all sides, even as the flames licked at their armour the ghouls threatened to overtake them. Chills raced down Alphonse’s spine as the Risen Gryphon’s shadow blurred past them, still busy with the others, but a looming threat he didn’t enjoy dangling over his head. They didn’t stop, moving past the corpses of allies licked by flame, racing past the wounded beasts that dragged themselves ever onward towards the city.

His men slowed as they raced into the city, but Alphonse gave no pause, his worn and blistered feet thundering their way towards the healing tents.

----------------------------------------------

The great beast screeched loudly as it’s prey escaped it, hovering just outside the range of the blazing arrows, eyes watching the men as they fired swiftly to keep it at bay. Another screech signalled it’s rage, before the flying horror dove down and disappeared from sight.

The tide slowed, battering against the gate violently, before the snarling drew to silence, and the horde turned away, dragging the dead from their desperate pyres into the blazing woods. Just as quickly as the undead had emerged, they vanished, leaving only the burning fields in their wake

It was over…for now.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Death seemed to hang in the air, clawing it’s way inside his lungs and taking nest, labouring every breath with it’s foul presence. He knelt beside a mat, hazel eyes watching the paling man who was to call it his death bed. “My friend…” His voice was but a whisper, and it alone cracked the young soldier’s resolve far greater than any strike he had ever received. “He…He calls me…”

Squeezing his eyes tight, Alphonse nodded with a forced smile. “He will sing of your bravery, I know it.” It was all he knew to say, those old tales his mother had spun when he still sat atop his father’s knee. Shaking fingers coiled around his bone white fist, a weak smile pressed out against the laboured beating of his head. “I swore, Fabien, I…”

Fading eyes spoke of forgiveness, and he could hold the tears back no longer. Thin lines trailed down his face, dripping onto his scarred armour. The hand withdrew from his, clasping tightly at rosary dangling at the fallen man’s side. “May His Light forever guide you, Alphonse…”

All was still, and the air pressed in on his slouching form. “May His Light forever guide you, Fabien.” Sobs shook his body, as the boy forced himself to his feet. He nearly buckled, only once, before his knees found their strength, and carried him from the tent with only his tears to mark his passage.

His staggering walk fumbled into a run, before grief powered his legs into a sprint, spiriting him deeper and deeper into the streets. It felt like hours before his legs gave out, tossing him to the stone like a drunk to the curb. Shaking hands pushed him against a nearby stall, before tearing his helmet from his head and smashing the metal against the ground.

His sobs grew more violent, the blood and screams winding mercilessly around his mind like a serpent. Everything screamed in protest, but he forced his tired muscles to drive his hand against the aged wood, relishing in the release, even as the knuckles split and bled from the abuse.

“I…” The voice was far too hoarse to be his, but it had no where else to escape. As if possessed, he fumbled furiously with the chain round his neck, clawing at the metal until it finally revealed it’s treasure. The amulet. Her amulet.

Pressing dried lips to the cool gem, he choked down his tears with grim resolve. Soldiers did not cry. Soldiers fought until the bitter end without an ounce of fear in their hearts. Soldiers triumphed against all odds.

“You’re as mortal as the rest of us, Soldier-boy…don’t forget that. Everyone stumbles sometimes. I’ll always help you up though, promise!”

Clenching the amulet tightly in his fist, Alphonse allowed a ghost of a smile to cross his lips.

“Thank you, Nyana.”

There was still a war to be fought.

The soldier rose to shaky feet, and started heading back towards the tents.

Activity had never ceased, though Reyabel had lost all notice of it. She was stuck in her own grief, and had lost track of what was going on around her, and what was her duty. Therefore, it surprised her when a soldier emerged from the death tent and took off down the road. Had he been in there when she was? Did he see what she had done? She had to find out.

Leaving Rya behind her, Reyabel set down the road after him. She was dizzy, and her stomach hurt from dry heaving, and try as she might to catch up to him, she found she was falling behind. She would barely get a glance of him going round a corner, only to reach that corner and see him disappear behind another. At one point, she had feared that she had lost his trail, until she heard a sound from somewhere in the short distance. At first, she knew not what the sound was, until she found its source. It was the soldier, sobbing. He was in mourning, must have lost someone in the tents, and she hadn’t been there to console him. That was her job, heal the body, and heal the soul. She had failed this man. He hadn’t even noticed her, though she was panting heavily. He was lost in his own grief.

His sobs were a sound so rare to her ears that she could hardly place it, and yet once she realized what it was it hurt her to the core. He was a protector, and to see a protector in a moment of weakness…it did two things. In the eyes of the weak, the first thing it did was frighten. And then, once it is realized that things are that bad, there are only two choices: fight, or flee. Reyabel could not abandon him in need, though she feared to even approach him.

She waited there, hovering a distance from him and yet refusing to leave. Eventually, he stood up to leave, and walked right toward her. Eventually, he saw her, and she stepped away from the wall she had clung to and placed a hand on his shoulder. He was not much taller than she, but even so she had to look up to meet his eyes. “I am sorry for your loss – Alphonse?” She knew this man! She searched for recognition on his face, but found none.

“Do I know you?” He said, stepping away. Her hand fell from his shoulder. She crossed her arms in front of her, suddenly uncomfortable.

“You were – you are Nyana’s sweet heart, right? She spoke of you often. I’m Reyabel. We met once before…”

Alphonse sighed, some tension in his posture releasing. “Reyabel. I did not recognize you. Your…hair.”

Reyabel instinctively grabbed at the shredded locks and tried to hide them behind her ears. “Oh, yes. The blood – my hair was getting in the way.”

Alphonse could see the shame on her face. And no wonder, Reyabel used to have long, curling golden locks that he remembered Nyana admiring herself. Now it was chopped short, dull, uneven, shaped wildly. But she'd done it of necessity. “It’s fine Reyabel. It’s good that you are helping in whatever way you can. I’m sorry I – I’m sorry you had to see that. I wasn’t myself.”

“Few of us are ourselves anymore, Alphonse. You don’t need to apologize for feeling anguish. It’s hit us all. We just do the best we can, amidst all this pain.” Reyabel thought of her family, her brother.

Reyabel’s words made Alphonse think of Nyana’s caravan. “Your brother, he was with the caravan to Cambridge, right? The one right before…everything happened?”

Reyabel nodded. “Yes, he was.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Reyabel’s head lowered. “No. I’ve not heard from anyone that was in Cambridge. And we haven’t had any rogue survivors make it to Zin for a while now.” Her eyes hardened. “But I have hope that Saun is alive somewhere. If only I could reach him.”

Alphonse sighed again. “Nyana was headed there too. I do not know if I have the same hopes you do. I have witnessed too much evil to dare hope.”

Reyabel felt a pit in her stomach. She had witnessed evil too…and it had done something to her. Dare she confide in this Vatienne soldier?

No. No, she could not.

“Perhaps we will see good again.” Reyabel responded. But there was little support in her voice.

“Perhaps. It is good seeing you again Reyabel. I must give my report to the Commadant now. Please…stay safe. If you need help, you need only ask.”

“Thank you, Alphonse. Hopefully we will see each other again.” Reyabel didn’t believe it. She was leaving Zin.

Xiana sat quietly on a rooftop in Zin, pondering the situation. The rising sun had curtailed her ability to monitor the unfolding events-- a drifting star might escape notice at night, but... stars weren't exactly a common sight during the day, and she didn't want to take any chances. Her people tried to remain the stuff of legend and rumor for a reason-- people could react oddly to the presence of the Fae.

Her mind was racing through her options. She hadn't been able to catch the tail end of events due to the rising sun, but judging from the situation she had left it in and the lack of ghouls in the streets, she could extrapolate how things had played out. She had witnessed the necromancer's attacks, the shear power of its magic, and she was intrigued by it. She wanted to see how it worked, what forces were behind it. She wanted to know everything she could about this foreign style of magic-- she'd heard of necromancy, sure, but she'd never actually seen it before. Its power was awe-inspiring.

But on the other hand, even if she was only loosely affiliated with the Fae Vyron, she was bound to uphold balance. At the very least, she'd be chewed out by her superiors if she didn't even try, which would mean she'd have to pledge allegience to one of the OTHER Fae clans, and they both gave her the willies. So, really, this wasn't her decision at all; the only choice she really had in the matter was whether or not she should really try to help these people, or just put in enough effort to say she tried. And that was an easy enough decision-- she had rarely seen a warrior as skilled as the apparent commander of these defenders. Even though she couldn't be of assistance to the powerful mage, she would be foolish to pass up this opportunity to forge a pact with someone who, in her judgement, was ready for greatness.

Sliding off the roof, she dropped into a silent alleyway, relatively out of sight from the streets. At that point, it was but a moment's effort to take on a new form, one which would allow her to move through the streets without drawing undue attention. She wasn't especially good at crafting human appearances from scratch-- she tended to proportion things incorrectly, or otherwise deviate from the core form slightly. As such, she had simply borrowed the appearance of a random citizen she'd spotted earlier-- waist-length brown hair framed a rather angular face, made thinner from the food rationing. Her form was slender and practically devoid of curves, with definate muscles filling out the bone structure-- not enough to be mistaken as a warrior, but the woman was clearly no stranger to manual labor. But Xiana didn't especially care about any of that-- mortals all looked funny from her perspective, but just so long as she could get from point A to point B in the city without causing an uproar, she was okay.

She strode out of the alley, and hurriedly headed for what she assumed was the commander's tent-- soldiers went in and out every so often, and it seemed central to the forces in the city. Assuming she didn't run into anyone who knew the woman whose form she'd borrowed, she should have no problems.

Romeus passed his hand through his dry hair, stiff because of dry sweat. The fight he had just gone through had been grueling, that much was for certain. However, even when all the losses and hardships were taken into consideration, the Commandant considered the sortie a success. He not only figured out who was in command of the masses of the ghouls, but he also discovered how to kill these beings of darkness, these liches, as they call themselves. This was no small thing. With this information, Romeus knew what he had to do. He knew now that the end was near for this campaign. The Commandant, who until then feared the worse for his company and the Sretin Provinces, now saw a glimpse of light: he had a plan.

The Vatiennien army officer slowly stood up from the bench he had been sitting on for the past ten minutes and started to make his way to his tent. On the way there, he pulled aside a young Vatiennien stable boy, who was running around, probably doing chores for various soldiers. Romeus grabbed the child by the shoulder in mid run. They boy was in his late teens, thus showed the typical reaction that any young male would exhibit if he was so unceremoniously plucked from his duties. However, his indignant reaction soon turned to surprise, disbelief then humility as he realized that none other than the Commandant was the one who had taken hold of him.

“What’s your name, son?” enquired Romeus to the stable boy.

“Gertrand,” he replied, holding his head up high, trying to redeem himself after such a show of arrogance in the face of his superior.

The confidence and strength that exuded from the child, when not offset by his arrogance or typical teen idiocy, was astonishing. A fine example of Vatiennien youth, just waiting and wanting to be given a chance to prove himself on the fields of battle for the glory of his Empire. Romeus could not help but smile at this. Every time he saw a soldier-in-waiting who showed promise, he always swelled up with pride. The Commandant was a Vatiennien patriot above all, especially above being a Sanctus Unus zealot. He loved his country, not his religion; although this is not to say that he was against the Sanctus Unus. That was far from the truth. He simply disapproved of the actions of the priests and their Order and how they conducted themselves.

Snapping back to reality, Romeus re-focused on Gertrand. “Gertrand, I need you to fetch Alphonse Ramsden, Mercenary Captain Drysdan of Useli and the paladins to my tent. Move with haste, boy, and I will make a soldier of you yet.” With that, the boy’s eyes flared up with excitement, and then he was off, running with god speed to carry out his duty. Romeus looked on as the boy slowly disappeared from sight. The Commandant, right then and there, decided to promote him to soldier once he came back. He was sure as hell that he needed some, after the casualties he just sustained, and he trusted that some Breale would volunteer to replace the boy as an aide to the defense effort. Some may call this taking advantage of the people Romeus was trying to protect, the Commandant called it reducing waste.

With that taken care of, he resumed his walk towards his tent. However, something else caused him to stop. The tents for the sick and wounded had appeared before him, in all of their despairing and sad glory. He had never really seen this place. Up until now, he had only gotten reports from his aides on the dead and wounded, never had he seen this terrible sight up close. With a heavy heart and a cleared out mind, Romeus took a moment to simply stand in front of the place, his helmet clutched in his left hand. Slowly, Romeus put his other hand over his heart, a solemn air hovering over his face. Emotions started to swell up inside him that he didn’t want to deal with right now. He had no intention in bursting into tears, because that was simply not acceptable for a man of his rank and stature. However, this was one of the rare things in this city that was completely out of his control.

Whispering, Romeus humbly sang a short prayer for his men and Breale who had been injured, who had been killed or who were dying in this tent. With that, a single tear rolled down his cheek, prompting an immediate cough and clearing of throat from the Vatiennien Commander. “Damn dust,” mumbled the Commandant, loud enough for anyone who could have seen this happen to hear. He wanted to at least try and make it look like he had stayed in control of himself in that moment, but he had no idea how convincing he had been at that. At that moment, he noticed a Breale woman who was working in the tents. He wasn’t sure if she had seen him, but what interested him was not if she had witnessed Romeus’ momentary lapse of self control.

In his mind, he reminded himself that, for his potential plan to work, he will need support. Not just any support either, he needed a healer to help him and the other to carry out their last ditch mission. If this woman, who seemed to be almost alone working in these tents, was strong enough to face the dead on a daily basis, she would be strong enough to accompany him and others on the mission. Romeus wasted no time in doing what he needed to do. He strode up to her quickly, without wasting time, and was extremely direct. “Good afternoon, madame, but I have a very important thing to ask of you.” Romeus could tell she was confused yet intrigued b his sudden appearance and proposition.

“Tell this to no one, but I will need to have a healer for a very important mission that will take place in the very near future. I think that, out of all the Breale in this city, you are the one for the job. Don’t try to protest, don’t try to be humble. I decided I needed and wanted you for the job. End of story. However, just because I want to be employed, it doesn’t mean I can force you. All I can say is that, if you are interested, direct yourself to the Command tent, which is my own, and we will discuss this further. Until then, madame. Hopefully.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Romeus left. He didn’t even wait for an answer. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel pressured or forced into accepting by the ‘intimidating and scary Commandant of Vatienne’. If she decided to accept the proposition, it will be on her total free will.

A few moments later, Romeus finally made it to his tent. However, instead of finding no one there, like he expected, he found a young Breale waiting for him. That was odd and took him completely by surprise. Normally, the Breale never loitered around his tent. Teenagers found it too busy and rife with soldiers to stick around it, and adults were busy being useful or were too scared to be walking around the Command tent. With a slightly annoyed pace, the Commandant walked up to the mysterious lady.

“M’aam, may I help you?” he enquired, trying to sound calm, but he wasn’t too sure if that was getting through.

The woman paced closer, and slipped into a chair opposite the Commandant. "Unless I'm mistaken, Commander, it's you who needs help. From where I was standing, it looked like you nearly died today."

Romeus stared at the woman incredulously. 'What the hell is she talking about,' the Commandant thought. She was either lying, crazy, or not who she appeared to be. For now, he didn't know which one she was, so he just went along with her games for a bit. "Really, now? I almost died? That's terrible. Do you mind telling me how you could possibly come to that conclusion?"

The woman just smiled. "Come now, don't play a fool. The power of your... god... nearly failed you against that sorcerer and his constructs. One of your men had to lay down his own life to free you from your foe's grasp. I don't need to be terribly intelligent to know what would've happened if your man had been just a bit late."

Romeus' face darkened. This was not good. He already did not like this person, and he knew that she was probably not friendly. "If you dare to speak that way of my god again, or dare mock me or my soldiers again, I will have your head on a pike!" She was no ordinary Breale, thus she deserved none of that respect. Already, the Commandant's hand was resting on pommel of his sword, his muscles were at the ready if this woman did anything stupid.

The woman raised her hands in a placating gesture, but maintained her composure in the face of Romeus' rising temper. "Stay your hand, Commander. I'm not here to interfere with your duties." She paused momentarily, head tilted in thought. "Actually, I suppose interfering is exactly what I'm here for. But I have no intention of making your duties any harder. To put it simply, I'm here to help."

Now the Vatiennien was really confused. "Who the hell do you think you are, walking in my tent like this, offering your help as if you were some all powerful warrior?" Romeus' was working hard to keep his temper in check.

With a sigh, the woman rose to her feet and began to pace. "This... This is always the tricky part. Tell me, have you heard of the Fae?"

Romeus took a step back. Something clicked in his mind when the woman mentioned the Fae. The officer faintly remembered a class back in school about the legends and myths of the World. The Fae were a very rare race that traveled the world, helping people in need to maintain balance in the world. Up until then, Romeus never believed they existed. And, unless this woman was crazy, he was probably about to be proven wrong. "Yes, I have. You can't seriously claim that... no, you just wait right here. I am calling for the guards." With those words, Romeus started to make the motion to head towards the exit of his tent to signal some guards to take this poor woman to the medical ward.

The woman froze, and her head whipped around to face him. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Think about it. Right now, you're going to lose-- it might take some time, you might even escape with your life and some of the refugees, but it's basically inevitable that Zin will fall unless something changes dramatically. You saw the sheer number of constructs that sorcerer was fielding. You have limited forces, they have unlimited forces. You need something to level the field, or at least move it in that direction. Would you really want to throw away your only chance to win?"

Romeus stopped right in his tracks. "You think we are going to stay like this? You think we are going to be static?" He then broke into a light laughter. "Oh no, I have a plan, my crazy friend, and things won't be like this for long. Now, if you excuse me, I will get the guards to-"

The woman rolled her eyes. She then interrupted the Commandant."Unless your plan involves a large number of reinforcements traveling at high speed..." She drifted into silence as she saw that Romeus had no intention of stopping. "You know what? I'll prove it to you." With a flick of her wrist, the woman conjured up a ball of magical energy. Then another. Then another. The orbs hovered around her, burning with ethereal light. "Do you require more proof, mortal?"

Romeus stopped again, this time permanently. He turned to face the woman, who probably really was a Fae. "Alright, alright," he conceded, "you have my attention... Fae. What is it that you want?" To tell the truth, Romeus was actually curious to hear what the magical being was going to offer. However, before he could hear a response from the Fae, he heard footsteps and voices. They were probably all those he had sent Gertrand to fetch. Quickly, Romeus turned back to face her. “Ok, we will discuss later, now I need you to be quiet and pretend to not exist,” explained quickly Romeus as he shoved her onto a chair in a corner of his tent. He would worry about her later. He had to admit though; it was quite humorous how he was treating one of the fabled Fae.

A few seconds later, and the group he had fetched. They all piled in, one by one into the tent. To his great happiness, he saw the Breale healer he had spoken to earlier... but she had brought someone else with her. The weird priestess from a far away land had accompanied her to his tent. Although he wasn’t against it, it was somewhat surprising. He would have to question her upon that later. It was a good thing, however, that she had decided to heed his proposition and join him on the mission. Romeus waited patiently as they all got seated. The Commandant walked towards the map, where he cleared his throat to get their attention. The Vatiennien officer explained to them the mission that he had thought up: they were to go, just this small group, over to where this ‘invasion’ had begun, around Cambridge and where the master Lich was probably hiding, and take him out, leaving the ghouls without organization and master, leaving them easy prey for him and his soldiers to clean them out.

After a lengthy explanation and walkthrough, Romeus looked at everyone present. “If you are in or out, or have any questions, now is the time to voice them all.” He didn’t think there would be a problem, but you never knew…

Reyabel was completely baffled. As she had been wrapping up the last of her duties, preparing the tent for someone else to take her place, a Vatienne soldier marched up to her and began lecturing her. She jumped back at his approach, at first unsure of what he was saying. He didn't even give her time to clarify, but as he marched away, the words began to sink in..."I will need to have a healer for a very important mission that will take place in the very near future..." Reyabel smiled. This was it! Mira had opened a path for her, and she would take it.

She had sent Rya to find Sharline, a healer with similar attributes as Reyabel. Those attributes being, she could look at a dying person and not quiver in fear. Reyabel knew that there were others like her, but many of them had lost their mental strength during the...during the invasion of the darkness. Reyabel gave a list of the injuries and how they should be tended, and which men had the best chance of survival and therefore were worth putting the most life force into. Sharline took it in stride, not blinking twice as Reyabel listed the doomed soldiers by position of the tents. She then said goodbye.

Rya and she then marched to find the soldier who had addressed her. Reyabel was slightly frustrated, and explained "He said Commandant. He didn't even say his name. We'll have to ask around."

It turned out that saying "Commandant" was good enough without the name, for she was quickly directed to a large tent that was filled with other people. Nervousness crept into Reyabel's belly as she realized it had not just been any old soldier...someone very important had picked her out. Why? Was it because she was the hardier of the Breale? Had he seen? Perhaps Alphonse had put in a good word...

Suddenly, the Commandant emerged into the tent, and quickly began discussing his new mission. Reyabel was having trouble keeping up, but the general idea was clear: Cambridge! Mira had definitely set this path for her. Perhaps she would find her brother. But this mention of a ... Lich... she wasn't sure what it was, but it sounded as though it was the source of the trouble. If the Lich was in Cambridge...how could Saun have survived?

It doesn't matter. I'm going. I won't sit around here to die. Reyabel whispered.

"Pardon?" Suddenly the Commandant's voice was directed right toward her. Her head jerked up, not realizing she had voiced her thoughts aloud. "What did you say?" He asked again, tone pressing.

"She said 'we're in'," Rya leaned in and quickly covered for her.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Lantis listened closely to the commandant's proposed mission, liking it less and less by the minute. It sounded to him like a path to suicide. How could they defend the Breale if they were dead?

By contrast, as Lantis glanced periodically toward his superior, Daen appeared to be all for it. By the look of determination--as if he'd been waiting for this moment for days on end--Lantis half expected him to leap at the chance as soon as the commandant was finished. Lantis wasn't sure he liked the position that would put him in, whether he joined Daen or stayed behind.

“If you are in or out, or have any questions," prompted the commandant, "now is the time to voice them all.”

One of the breale women in the tent muttered something. To Lantis it sounded like she was talking to herself.
"Pardon?" queried the commandant, wanting to know her input. "What did you say?"
"She said 'we're in,'" said the foreign woman next to her. That seemed odd to Lantis. A breale, volunteering to go and fight? And what about the other breale woman in the corner?

Lantis glanced over at Daen and spoke in thendárin elvish. "One of us at least should remain in Zin, yes? What if more shadowmancers attack while we are away, or what if the mission fails?"
"If you are thinking of staying behind," Daen responded, "I disagree. The situation cannot continue as it is, or Zin will be overrun. It is only a matter of time. At least this way, we have a chance. Our order doesn't need us to survive, for we have already sent word of Sretin's plight."
"Good paladins, what say you?"
Daen answered before Lantis could object. "Both of us will accompany you."
"Daen! What about the Breale? What if we succeed only to find nothing left when we return?"
"Paladins work best when not alone. You know this."
"Even so--"
"Does your friend not agree?"
"What will happen if there is another Lich attack while we are away?" Lantis asked.

The commandant nodded twice as if he had been expecting the question. "I will leave competent officers in charge with detailed instructions on how to defeat a Lich. It is less likely that the greater villain will return so soon; thus the new information should enable our men to hold the line."

Lantis still didn't like it, but, after a moment, he nodded slowly. Daen clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "We will leave word in the tower before departure."
Lantis conceded. "Mm. Very well."

The Vatiennien addressed the group as a whole again. "Any other questions? Concerns?"

Lantis thought of another one and interrupted anyone who was about to speak. "Actually yes," he said. "Excuse me for asking, but what is her role in this?" He pointed to the breale woman in the corner. She was never addressed as part of the group, and neither was she mentioned as a part of the mission proposal. It was even more puzzling than the other breale's presence. "Breale loathe violence." The mission was risky enough without gambling the lives of two breale. He recognized one as a healer, so that made sense, but though he thought he'd seen the one in the corner somewhere before, he couldn't guess a feasible role for a random breale on such a venture.