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minderp
2016-07-06, 12:05 AM
Introduction;
I am currently playing this amazing campaign, Way of the Wicked by Fire Mountain Games, having started the adventure two years ago. I have always enjoyed writing journal's of our group's exploits, but this campaign really caught me off guard, it has to be my favourite so far. Kudos to Fire Mountain Games. If you haven't played this campaign, i'd highly recommend it.
The journal contains MAJOR spoilers for the campaign, so if you plan on playing it, don't read passed the prologue.

The journal is written through the eyes of my Pathfinder character, Willow Monteguard, an Unchained Rogue Knife Master. It follows her story, including i guess what you would call "side missions" of her own, delving into her backstory and personal development.
I get a little more involved than most PF players, "obsessive" my DM likes to call it.

Hopefully someone will get enjoyment out of these journals, my group and i certainly have.
The writing gets better as the campaign carries on, so stick with me.

Seriously though, the writing starts to get rad around Chapter 20. Give it a go.

Any comments are welcome, it's nice to know people are actually reading my ramblings.
- Mindy


Book One - Knot of Thorns - Part One


Prologue – Solecism


Motionless, she sat staring at the blackened oozing flesh on her arm. Bruises covered her stomach and chest, cuts and grazes covered her knees, but not a tear fell from her eyes. She watched as the skin around the wound on her wrist reddened and swelled. As the wound festered, she thought back over the past few years; she needed to know where she went wrong if she was to survive.

Willow Monteguard was raised like any other girl from a noble house in Matharyn. The capital of Talingarde and it's famous Golden Bow, the single richest district in the city, an arc of luxurious manors covering the western edge of the broadest and deepest part of the River Danyth. Equally one of the higher ranking noble houses, the Monteguard's had their city manor in prime location, a large mansion almost three hundred feet wide on the highest point of the riverside. They were part of the infamous Forty Four, the Noble’s Elite of Matharyn. And to be part of the Forty Four was to be on the cusp of the Talirean social scene.
The Monteguard line had been part of Matharyn since the origin of the Markadian reign. Generations had passed through the decades, becoming a staple in Talingarde's history. The current head of the house and Duke of Keldenryn, Bartley Cassidus Rebold Monteguard, was renowned for his abilities as a diplomat. His clever tongue and quick thinking had saved the region uncountable gold over the years. It was a trait that had evidently been passed on to his only daughter. Words flowed from her lips with ease and grace. Her eyes could read the lies others were telling without breaking face, controlled and calm she stayed, never giving away a thing.
Willow learnt to curtsey on arrival, sway and glide as she walked, cover her mouth when she laughed. She read books about kings, studied lore about empires, wrote songs about history. As she matured, she learnt to soften her gaze and flutter her eyes when a potential suitor was looking. She learnt to act like a proper lady, always leaving her admirers wanting more, but never leaving so much to the imagination that she wandered from their mind.
It was rumoured that Willow’s fair completion, slender graceful figure and pale red eyes were the result of distant generations of Elven blood mixed in the Monteguard line. Though such rumours were falsities, harshly dealt with and never spoken in polite society. Still, her beauty was renowned among the people of Matharyn, common and noble folk alike. Her long luscious black locks flowing down her back were the envy of every woman, and her crimson kissed full lips were the desire of every man.
The townspeople spoke of her gracefulness, her kind aura and her angelic nature. The offers of suitors were in over-abundance; every noble ranking family in the Matharyn region would have been grateful to accept Willow into their family. At the ripe age of sixteen, it was the offer of the great House Talrish that was finally accepted by Willow’s father. The eldest son, Audric Edmond Talrish, was a fine suitor indeed. He served the Knights of the Alerion, the elite warriors of Talingarde, devout followers of the Shining Lord Mitra. A fine match they made, a stern faced noble knight and his sweet talking ever-graceful bride.
Or so she would have you believe…
As a child Willow studied history and religion. She was particularly taken with a certain prince of history. An entity of pride, contractual obligations and tyranny. Asmodeus – The Prince of Darkness. It was him that the Monteguard’s honoured and followed. They strived for his order, his freedom from chaos. But of course it was only behind closed doors. For the worship of such a god was heresy – and the Monteguard’s were no use to Asmodeus dead.
Willow was taught power in hierarchy and order. She studied the way of Asmodeus rule. Every creature knowing its place, the weak always being ruled by the strong, the smart always outwitting the daft. What others called evil, was what she saw the natural order of the universe; water flows downhill, fire burns and the strong dominate the weak.
The Monteguard's had worshipped their Infernal Lord since before the Taldorian vassal state of Talingarde was born. Their ancestors came across the great sea, playing their part in the gruelling war of conquest. In the time of Markadian I, all religions were worshipped and the Monteguard bloodline ran strong in their home country of Cheliax, where the Prince of Darkness ruled unrivalled.
When Markadian IV came into power, The Zealot launched a war against the Asmodean faith. By fire and inquest, he sought to destroy every trace of Asmodeus from the land. Cassidus Edward Monteguard, Willow's Great Grandfather, had long held the title of Lieutenant General. He had played an instrumental part in the great conquest, earning him and his family special recompense. Cassidus and his family publicly renounced Asmodeus. They repented, begging forgiveness, embracing Mitra as their lord. Of course, they did not actually abandon the Prince of Darkness. They worshipped him behind closed doors, plotting and planning for his return.
Every bit a child, Willow fostered a special connection with Asmodeus. Her parents would find her talking to him late at night as if he were in the room with her. She would tell them of him, his constant watchful eye, helping hand or warm embrace. At his command, she spent her younger years delighting in tricking people, convincingly lying and learning to manipulate them to her will.
As an adult, she fulfilled her duties as a wife and put on the face to make her husband believe he was all she needed. But he would never be enough. No man could ever be enough. No man could rule her while she was their better, she knew her place, and it was certainly above them. She could never love someone she could manipulate to her every whim. If they were not smart enough to see through the manipulation, then they deserved to be used like tools to suit her needs.

It was her strong connection to the Prince of Darkness that had her question her mother and father's devotion. As an early teen she would accuse them of their lack of faith, their laziness having taken over leaving them idle, fat and happy. She regarded them as undeserving of their power and status. As she grew, she learnt that some thoughts were better kept to herself. For she knew Asmodeus to be the Lord of Ambition, and she was most certainly ambitious. She was strong where her parents were weak, and their Lord had his own way of working these things out.

“A way with words,” people would say of her gift – her ability to talk anyone into or out of anything. As young as fourteen, she had already begun work for her father as a lower transcriber in the Mayor’s office. It took only a few short years to talk her way up the ranks into the role of first administrator to the Mayor of Matharyn. It was from here, that Willow could weave her web of deception in the name of Asmodeus.
As first administer she had access to most records and was responsible for sorting the priority list for the mayor’s charges each day. The mayor was an easy man to manipulate. All that Willow had to do was bat her pretty eyes while handing the him the contracts he was signing and his hand followed her lead while trying to slide around her waistline. While she was in the room, he had no time to pay attention to anything else. Fraud and extortion were simple play things to Willow; she would smile gracefully as people unknowingly signed away their money. Most of them would never realise how mislead they had been.
But she had her sights set on something much bigger; The crown.
King Markadian V of the House Darius was known for his charity. It was his “help the less fortunate” attitude that sparked the fire in Willow. It was his “help the less fortunate that refuse to do anything to help themselves”. The natural order of the world was that the strong rule the weak. They were weak for a reason. Willow craved real leadership. She craved the rule of a man who saw the world and its people for what they were – most of them inferior helpless sheep. She craved Asmodeus.
It was this flame that put her into action. She knew that getting to the King himself would be perhaps beyond her reach for the moment, but a target she could surely reach was his beloved daughter Belinda. A benevolent kind girl, the apple of her father’s eye. No better way of disrupting the royal line than wiping out the only heir to the throne. She would work her way up to the king next. One by one she would wipe out every existing Markadian. Her own family were only a few steps from royalty. Nothing like a string of untraceable deaths to boost them up.

A decent assassin was always someone Willow had respect for, a man who could separate himself from his emotion and get his job done. Willow had need of such a man, and she had just the one in mind. A man who had never failed a task set before him, with a stoic face to rival her own. He asked no questions. He sought the target and location, he accepted her money, and the job was done on time as agreed. He called himself Switch, and after five years of working together, he’d never divulged his real name. But he’d earned himself a special place in Willow’s mind. A man in constant observation, a man who chose each word wisely, a man who never revealed his cards. It was not very often Willow lost control of her emotions, but a man so hard to break, no batting eyes would sway - he was a man worth her time.

It was only one night that brought about her downfall, she could see that now. Willow usually sent payment along with a hireling, dirty work and road running were certainly not to her status. Only, that night she decided to go herself. Her curiosity was piqued, she had to know if the man of mystery and stone cold looks had a weak point, and she had been unable to discern one yet.
They met in an abandoned temple on the outskirts of town, a forgotten relic of the past and a place she had always felt safe. She wore a cape of black to cover herself and her ruby carved daggers that were strapped to her hips. She stalked into the temple only after she was certain she was not followed. Dropping her hood, she heard the faintest of breaths behind her and swiftly unsheathed her daggers as she span around. In a single moment, she came face to face with the ruggedly handsome masked assassin, his dagger resting at her throat. She smirked as he ran his eyes over her, not making any effort to disguise that he liked what he saw. As he met her eyes, he lowered his blade, gently tracing it down her chest before sheathing it. Willow fingered her dagger for a few moments more, before unfastening her cloak and taking up a perch on the nearby wall. As they stared in silence for a while, Willow considered the man. Tall, strong and built, but still lean and nimble. She noticed the scuffed boots with worn away soles, the tight fitting pants and shirt, even the soft material it was all made from. They would never hear him coming. He chuckled as she tried to study his face, the mask he wore covered any recognisable features, but his familiar laugh sent shivers down her spine. Attempting to hide her reaction, she began talking and turned on her usual charm. She found it oddly curious how easily the conversation flowed with him. They spoke of everything from fine arts to tight corsets; he held a twisted sense of humour that Willow certainly enjoyed.
After an hour talking with the curiously evasive man, she said her farewell, tossing him the pouch of gold as she turned to leave. Before she had taken a step, his hands gripped her forearms, spinning her towards him. He thrust her backwards and pinned her against the wall. He crushed his lips to hers, crushing her further against the stone as he pushed his thigh between her legs. Willow was outraged at his audacity, but she couldn't restrain herself. So long, she had thought of this. So long she had denied him, denied herself. He had warned her that this day would come, and he had told her that when it did, she would be unable to ignore her desires any longer. She cursed her treacherous body as she ground herself down on his leg. She knew she should push him away, yet she was compelled to draw him closer. Every time they had met, she had managed to stay herself. This night was different. He seized her hands and forced them violently above her head, lifting her away from his leg and denying her all bar what he was willing to give. It was a move that fanned the fire within her; she had to gain control of him, she drew his lip into her mouth and bit down firmly. In a trice, he had her flipped around, face pressing into the sharp stonework of the wall. With a hand in her hair, he drew her head back, staring deep into her eyes. He stared into her soul as he took complete control of her – and all she could do was listen to her body and obey.

It was a night of weakness, she had let herself become vulnerable, she had been made to feel a passion she had never felt for anyone but Asmodeus. It was a frightening thought.
They never spoke of that night. After all, Willow was a married woman. The wife, the trophy, the pedestalled doll of a great noble Knight of Mitra. She could not be seen or connected with the scum of the streets; a man who killed for money. Switch accepted the contract on the Princess’ life. No queries, no objections, just a price and a wink as he left her dishevelled and exhausted on the temple’s stone floor.
Willow had to admire the way he worked once under contract. He was smart, no bravado - quick and efficient, always believing in ending someone else’s life only through necessity, and through the fastest and most effective means. Willow had seen too many cases put through the Mayor’s desk, incompetent amateurs wasting time with painful prolonged revengeful deaths. Leaving enough time for the victim to escape, be found or saved, leaving only the imbecile who allowed his feelings to disrupt his task. Each time he had completed a contract for her, Switch kept his mind on the job and got it done. Over the years he had completed a few for her. No one as high ranking as the Princess of course, but a merchant chewing into her profits, or a politician looking to jeopardise her convenient position. He was always efficient and successful. She had no doubt he would be again, for the exorbitant measure of gold she was paying, there was indeed no doubt.

As the daughter of a Duke, Willow was always invited to soirées the Princess hosted, and like every other year she would be bidden to the Royal Gala on the Vernal Equinox. If planned meticulously, she believed it would be the perfect chance to lace the Princess’ wine glass with a little amber lotus lowder. A swift death, leaving no trace of lingering poison.
Willow was incredibly gifted at bribes and blackmail and took particular pride in the way she could bend people’s will to suit her needs. A few well-placed coins to the palace kitchen staff; one would leave the potato sack in the way of the storeroom door while the stew was on, another would leave the window ajar so the Princess’ favourite pie could cool on the sill, one would spill a bucket of water across the brick walk to the kitchen stores just as the rear western guards were changing watch.

It was the night before the soirée when the guards kicked Willow’s door in. They came bursting through, led by her husband and another of the knights. Before she could speak, she was thrown to the floor, restrained and gagged.
“High Treason!” they kept barking.
Willow kept her calm as she was dragged out in chains, staring into the eyes of hatred, her husband with his stone cold face tinted with betrayal. When they brought her before the magistrate, she stood silently listening to the testimony of the manor staff, what they had been paid for small mundane tasks all amounting to a clear path for the would-be assassin. The same assassin who had turned her in, who had anonymously been blackmailing her husband with the evidence of Willow’s guilt. The same husband who could no longer protect a woman, an apparent faithful, loving wife, who would sleep with another man. She knew not what betrayal had iced over his heart. For when he looked to her, she did not see outrage or anger at her high treason. She saw a broken heart, a lover scorned.
It was a fairly short hearing; for there was no doubt that Willow was guilty. She did not protest; she did not try to claim her innocence. In fact, she said nothing. There was nothing she could say. She had lost all she had worked for, and she knew why. This was the natural order of the universe. The strong rule the weak and those too weak will be taken advantage of by those strong enough to do it. She had been weak, but she had learnt a harsh valuable lesson. She would not be weak again. She would not be inferior.
She was hauled into Branderscar Prison and thrown onto the cold stone floor. They pinned her down and pushed a searing hot brand into her arm. She felt the skin split, melt and burn away, but she did not move or whimper. She would not grant them the satisfaction. Picked up by a firm rough grip around the newly scorched open flesh, two guards dragged her to her cell.

Willow gazed into her blackened oozing arm. As the wound festered, she knew it would serve as a lifetime reminder. She would grow from this – Asmodeus demanded it.
She closed her eyes and spoke to him; she would not beg forgiveness, for all he demanded was obedience, all he demanded was that she keep her place. And her place was with him, fighting for him. She was strong, she was meant to restore order to this world. She would not be the victim again.





Chapter 1 – Escape from Branderscar


The smell of burnt flesh hung thick in the air, cold and stale musk lingered through the darkened cell. The throbbing of the bruises on Willow's side were what woke her, as she found herself dangling by the wrists chained to a wall. The wound on her wrist still tender, the crisp edges of the runic scar met with swollen red skin. Forsaken they said. Marked for eternity as scum, vermin, traitor. An abandoned soul.
Chains clanked as the forsaken soul to her right tried to brute force her way out of her restraints. An abnormally strong looking female, with a face Willow could almost recognise, was pulling hard on her bonds trying to snap the chain away from the wall. Scoffing internally, Willow knew the Branderscar Prison chains would not be so simple to escape.
Straining her eyes, she looked around the cell to find four other prisoners. The man to her left was tall and toned, he had red fiery eyes with one of those charming faces Willow would have enjoyed taunting back at court. On his left was a woman whose face had that slightly angular exotic shape, clearly not from the lands of Talingarde. At the end of the row was an older gentleman, his ashing hair and almost wrinkle-less face spoke of a privileged life.
A loud clank to her right brought Willow's eyes around to see a reinforced cell, with a bulking beast of an ogre sleepily swaying side to side. Covered in wounds that had clearly not been tended to, the beast simply sat idle, looking groggy and drugged. The cells stank of blood and faeces, the filthy rags she was barely dressed in stuck to the wall, in places where it had obviously not been cleaned in a while – or ever.
Willow wondered what kind of atrocities the other prisoners had committed to find themselves locked with her in the infamous Branderscar. For it was a place only for the heinous and unspeakable, those who commit great sins against the faith. Those who had betrayed the great and eternal love of Mitra and his chosen mortal vassals. Condemned, each of them faced at best a life of shackles and servitude in the nearby salt mines. Others would await the ministrations of the inquisitors so that co-conspirators may be revealed and confessions extracted. Or, like Willow herself, some would be spared that ordeal. She instead having been brought to Branderscar to face the final judgment. In three days, the executioner would arrive and the axe fell, or the pyre lit.
For the Shining Lord repelled against villainy, cursed the damned and irredeemable, and his people fought tirelessly against the onslaught of darkness. Though Talingarde was in no such dire holy crusade. It was the most virtuous, peaceful, and noble nation upon the material plane. The land was ruled by King Markadian V called the Brave of House Darius. The benevolent monarchy was heavily intertwined with the Church of Mitra, the Shining Lord. Mitra, the god of the sun, of bravery and honor, justice and charity. The Church of Mitra was the preeminent religion of Talingarde. Willow knew it was not always this way. Before the Darians took over, Talingarde worshipped an entire pantheon of deities.
Prominent among those deities was Asmodeus, Prince of Hell, Lord of Ambition and Order. Now though, it was forbidden to worship the Infernal Lord. To do so is to be condemned.
As she hung by her wrists upon the wall, limbs aching in stiff and sore agony, she wondered if heresy lay among the crimes of the prisoners. She had never been revealed as a servant of darkness, she had been smart enough to keep no incriminating evidence within the manor that she shared with her husband. Though little good her precautions did for her now.

Escape seemed hopeless. Willow had been thoroughly searched, though she had not tried to conceal anything. The manacles were clamped so tight her hands were beginning to swell, but even if she could somehow slip her bonds and fly out of the prison, where would she go? Who could she go to? She had brought shame to her family name, so much so that her mother and father had not bothered to show up to her trial. She had never truly made any real friends, only fake smiles and mutually beneficial allies. The only man who knew anything of who she truly was, was the very author of her current fate. Despised, alone and shackled – all that she could do is hang her head in humiliation.
The sound the muscular female was making with her chains brought the attention of the guard to the door, and as he yelled a warning, Willow remained motionless. Once the door slammed shut, she inspected the restraints. Simple enough locks if she had her tools, but tight enough that even Willow's slender wrists could not slip through. Willow contemplated breaking her own wrist to get at least one hand free, but with three days until her scheduled execution, she decided to leave that as her last resort. She did not know where she would go, nor what she would do, but she knew she did not wish to die here at the hands of the Mitran inquisitors.

An hour after she had woken from her restless slumber, the door flung open as the guards entered, led by their captain. The same captain who had laughed as he seared the brand into Willow's arm, who had explained to her in detail how it was going to feel being drawn and quartered. The thought of feeling her blade in his throat surged through her in venomous glee. The shadowed unlit room made sight difficult, but as the torch they carried came closer, Willow’s eyes squinted against the blinding light.
“You there!” the captain grunted, “That’s the scum! Get ‘em unshackled. If any of you makes trouble, they’ll earn a thrashing! Today’s your lucky day, scum. You’ve got a visitor. How you ever warranted such a fine lady is beyond me. Seems she wants to say good-bye. Now step lively. We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”
Willow frowned as the handsome man to her right was dragged away. An odd thing, to say the least. Willow had never heard of anyone in Branderscar being allowed visitors. Nor had she heard of anyone who would want to visit a soul condemned as forsaken.
It was short while later that the prisoner with the charming face was dragged back into the cell and re-chained to the wall. A few filthy comments from the Captain, and the cell was locked shut. Two guards had been stationed outside their cage, and after a while they filled the dreary silence with drone conversation about card games and cheaters. Chains quietly clinking to her left had her looking over at the charming man, as a white veil draped from his hand.
“It's a magic veil!” whispered the foreign woman, a thick lilt to her voice, "It has items sewn into it, try peeling it off!"
As Willow’s eyes drifted over the veil and she saw the five pointed star of Asmodeus, her heart warmed. She knew she was not done in this life, she had a much bigger role to play and that she would do great things for him. She knew she was not forsaken, Asmodeus was there for her as she would always be for him. Seeing the lockpick embroidered into the veil cemented her will. The charming faced men offered them to her, and with a wicked smile she set to her own hand restraints. A swift and quiet click of the lock and she could rub her sore but free wrists. She decided the best course of action was to free the other prisoners, if not for help to escape, at least a mighty good distraction while she slinked off into the shadows. The charming looking man’s manacles were as quick and easy as her own, but as she reached for the brutish female's, her nervous fingers dripped with anxious sweat and the long end of the lockpick chinked to the floor. Willow whipped her hands above her head as quick as she could. Luckily, the guards only huffed, assuming the noise was a rat – clearly not expecting any possible way of escape. After a few minutes, and with her feet still retrained, Willow returned to her task of unlocking the chains. The older gentleman was too far away for her to reach, so he would have to wait until she was completely free herself.
She watched the Asmodean star peel from the Veil and come to life. As it was passed to the butch looking lady, she considered the possibility of not doing this alone. Quiet as she could, Willow crept over to the side of the cell where the chains were attached to the wall. Deft hands made short work of the lock, as she quietly dragged the chains through the manacle attached to her ankle. Keeping a sharp ear for any pauses in the guard's conversation, she crept to the other side of the cell and unlocked the gentleman's restraints. With the five of them free, she heard the foreign lady whisper an incantation as the faint sound of battle came from beyond the prison cell. The guards seemed to weigh up the repercussions of not aiding their comrades against leaving the prisoners alone. After a curse, they followed the sounds, rushing out of the room. Willow sprang to the door, quick and swift it was unlocked and open.
“What about the ogre?” said the butch female.
Willow scoffed, “What about it?”
“We can't just leave him here. He could help us escape. Or at least be a decent distraction.”
Again, Willow smiled. Another distraction was always welcome. She ushered the manly woman into the ogre's cell, and carefully set about unlocking the massive manacles on his ankles. The ogre stirred, looking apprehensive and nervous, watching Willow work. The metal fell to the floor with a clank and she got out of the cage as quickly as she could, positioning herself behind the corner cell. Without her blades there was little she could do in a fight, she would have to bide her time and wait for an opportunity. Other items were stripped from the veil, including two daggers, which Willow eyed hungrily. The men were given one each and set about to prepare for an ambush. When the guards entered, conversationally discussing the odd sounds they heard, the prisoners attacked. Swift and precise, the handsome man plunged the blade through the guard’s eye. The other received a fair cut to the throat as he stumbled back, falling into the door and sliding to the floor clutching his neck. Willow pounced forward as the charming looking man tossed her a dagger. She caught it mid air and as the guard spluttered a warning, she cut off his sentence by embedding the dagger through his throat. An odd feeling it was. She didn't have much time to ponder, but she was surprised how remarkably easy it was to end a mans’ life. A sergent outside the door called out to his fellow guards as Willow stripped the bloodied uniform from the dead man.
"All ok," barked the gentleman, "Just bloody rats!"
“I’m Willow,” she whispered in introduction.
With little to no modesty left after spending nights dressed in foul rags covered in her own waste, she stripped naked and put on the guard uniform, trying to wipe off as much of the filth as possible.
“Pellius,” the handsome man replied.
“Teelee,” said the foreign woman, eyebrows raised high and chin lifted.
The brutish female scowled at the gentleman as he took the only other sword, leaving her with the small dagger.
“Garvana,” she whispered to Willow.
They looked towards the gentleman, who merely grunted, “You kids can call me Sir.”
Willow almost laughed, her control keeping hold of her reaction. Even in their humiliating state, some men would always believe they were above all others.
After the bodies were stripped of their belongings, the group set up another ambush. The ogre, who called himself Grumblejack, stood in front of the door while the old man called out to the guard in the next room. When the door opened, the guard was greeted by Grumblejack's fist. He was flung backward, tumbling into the seat behind him. As the prisoners swarmed into the room, his eyes wide in realisation that he was clearly out numbered and over powered. So he sat quietly, trembling slightly as he watched. While the others bickered about what to do with him, whether to kill him outright or whether to lock him away, Willow made the easy choice and approached him from behind and drove her dagger into the side of his neck.
“He can't stop us if he's dead.”
While some of the group looked shocked at her actions, Pellius gave her a disarming grin, one that lit his already handsome face. With a wink, she quickly began stripping the guard.
The group of prisoners began discussing the plan to escape, when the old man suggested someone with quiet feet should scout ahead, looking to her expectantly. Willow raised her eyebrows in disbelief and disgust. If the old man thought she would be at his beck and call, he had another thing coming. He raised his eyebrows back and pointed his sword threateningly at her face while repeating his suggestion. Willow fingered her dagger while staring him down. She pictured with a different fate, if Pellius had not intervened. He pushed in between the two and batted away the old man's sword.
“Forget this,” he said impatiently, “I'll go first.”
Willow eyed the old man for a moment longer before brushing past to follow Pellius down the stairs. As she got to the bottom of the staircase she found him with his ear pressed to the door.
“My lady,” he whispered, “May I ask you to listen, perhaps you can hear what I cannot?”
Surprised and flattered, Willow obliged, pressing her own ear to the door. The sound of a crackling torch was all she could hear, as she was about to pull away she heard a distinct cough from the other side. She signalled the group and they prepared for attack. The old man, who clearly enjoyed his theatrics, played the part of a drunken musical guard. As the door opened, Willow plunged her dagger into the throat of the wide eyed guard while Pellius skewered him on his longsword. As over kill goes, ogres do it best; Grumblejack stepped forward and crushed the impaled man into the ground. Further down the hallway, a guard stood frozen in shock. A sickening terror flooded his face, the fear seeming to stunt his reaction. The prisoners surged forward and reached him before he could flee.
“Do not move, do not speak,” Pellius warned.
He quickly nodded and mumbled incoherently.
As he sank to his knees, he spluttered, “Nobody can escape Branderscar prison, you'll never succeed.”
Garvana smiled, a dark and ominous sight, “Asmodeus will show us the way.”
The guard's skin drained of all colour, with wide eyes he breathed, “Mitra preserve me.”
Willow lent down close to the guards’ ear and with a callous grin she whispered, “Mitra can not save you now...”
As the guard let out a shriek and began to wail, she quickly slashed her dagger across his throat, cutting off the sound in a shower of blood.
The group split up to search for supplies and any information to help them escape, and Willow found herself raiding the armoury and the office rooms. Within the stores, she found the cast iron brands used to mark prisoners as forsaken. Clutching it within her fingers, she smiled. She told herself she would not use it for vengeance; she would use it to send a message.
While she was searched through the desk drawers of the office, she heard the old man fumble around with the door handle to the captain's room and clumsily knock the door open. As a signal horn sounded from the room, Willow clutched her dagger and sprang into action. She pounced into the room and slinked in behind the captain as Garvana shattered a bottle of oil over his shoulder. Instinctively, Willow grabbed a torch from the wall and bludgeoned him, setting the oil alight. The fire spread across his body quickly, as he screeched and wailed, crashing into the wall and falling to the floor in a heap. As his flesh turned charred and crisp, he struggled to roll in an effort to douse the fire. When his efforts seized, his figure slumped and still, Willow pulled free the brand from her belt. She held it over his flaming corpse until it glowed bright orange and pressed the mark into the centre of his forehead.
"It would seem dear captain," Willow whispered, unhinged and wrathful, "That Mitra has forsaken you.”

Coming from the hall Willow could hear the sound of swords clashing. She ran out of the room with her blade in hand, hitched up her uniform pants as she dove passed the guards with a forward flip and sideways roll, she sprang up and lodged her dagger into the top of the closest one’s spine. As the guard fell forward, she saw the others impaled or crushed. She could not help but be relieved that each of the prisoners seemed to have some fighting prowess. Pellius handled the sword with military efficiency, controlled strikes and defensive blocks. Garvana struck out with fierce stretch in each untamed blow. Even the old man pierced quick and true, a duelist style to his swing. Teelee held no blade, but appeared to have a small set of arcane spells she could perform, some of which had already proven their worth.
Prowling through the long and winding hallways, they searched desperately for any sign of an exit. The stone brick walls were barely lit by torch, dirt and dust littering the floor. They continued through, passing empty cells in eery silence, only the sound of their own feet echoing through the chambers. When they opened the door to a side room, they sighed a breath of relief. A kitchen, filled with fresh vegetables and leftovers of previously prepared meals. A great oversize fireplace lay on the eastern side, a relic of the old castle that was before Branderscar. Shelves filled with plates, bowls and other cooking utensils lined the walls. Over the great flaming stove, Willow spied a sharp long meat cleaver, which she eyed thoughtfully before handing to Grumblejack.
While they rested within the chamber for a moment, and feasted on the much needed food, Garvana ran out the front door yelling about a fantastic plan to lure the warden and the guards. With no more explanation, she was gone. It was only seconds later, multiple signal horns sounded. After scoffing and shaking her head, they crept out of the kitchen door. The courtyard of the castle was adorned by a small fountain, soft green moss coated the sculpted marble, a slight stale scent to the stagnant water. The centerpiece was a statue of the Mitran pantheon’s patron saint of law and order – Saint Dothan the Just. In his outstretched hand was a sword that pointed towards the great hall. At the base of his statue was an inscription that read, thus is justice done. As the prisoners crept passed the statue, they saw a great banner emblazoned with the emblem of Branderscar Prison.
Sneaking around the back of the cell block, heading towards the warden's tower, the sound of guards yelling and dogs barking had Willow cursing. The thought of leaving Garvana and sacrificing her so the rest of the group could get away, was certainly a delicious temptation. But Willow could not ignore the fact that her possible allies in the world could be counted on one hand. With a sigh, she and the group charged around towards the fighting. When they rounded the corner, they saw her limping towards them, fifteen guards and two great hounds on her heels. Willow saw the warden, an elderly harsh looking man, commanding a sphere of flame and shooting wisping missiles of magic. The prisoners charged to meet their captors, cries of desperation calling across the courtyard, as steel and might clashed.
One by one, the guards were cut down. Their blades and arrows had split open wounds and punctures in each of the prisoners, but after decades of slackening and complacency, the guards were poorly trained and unequipped to deal with the ferocity of desperate vengeance.
Willow knew well that this standard of defence was not always so. When Branderscar was founded, it housed the most heinous of all criminals. The small bands of Asmodean cults were purged from the land like a stain on Mitra's glistening robe. They were hunted and captured, slaughtered and burnt at the stake. The prison once housed the ones they had managed to capture alive, holding them until the judgment of the pyre was ready to claim their souls. The walls of Branderscar were fabled to be filled with the strongest and mightiest warriors, protecting the fair people of the land from the vile villainy of Asmodeus. In recent times, the prison had fallen into disrepair. The guards grew lazy, their defence grew sloppy, their training severely lacking. No one ever escaped from Branderscar, no one ever would. It was a fact that was accepted and never questioned. Willow couldn't help but smile as each guard fell. The Talrien’s complacency was about to be their undoing.
She had her sights on the warden. She took off at a run and with a forceful leap came down over him and hacked clumsily across the back off his neck. Blood showered across the yard as he collapsed to the ground. Willow stood over him, holding him down with her foot. The warden lay helpless on the ground clutching his neck, as the blood pooled from his body and his struggling grew to a still. He was just another sheep, she thought, another blind follower. This is how she would do it. She no longer needed words, all she needed was a blade. Looking down on the warden as the life drained slowly from his face, Willow leant close and positioned the blade to his skin. With one powerful jab, she thrust the dagger through his throat.

They made their way up the winding spiral stairs of the wardens’ tower, they came across the hall of history. The entire floor was dedicated to the history of the, Castle Branding and the subsequent history that led the castle to become Branderscar Prison. It consisted of a series of mostly uninteresting plaques that tell of nobles and deeds so un-noteworthy that even Willow found her hunger for knowledge vanish. Only one of the tapestries held anything of interest, an old brocade tapestry that depicts Castle Branding being turned into a prison with the motto, marked with the foreboding words in celestial.
“His judgment cometh,” Willow translated aloud, “And that right soon.”
“You speak celestial, my lady?” Pellius enquired politely.
“I speak a vast amount of things,” she smirked.
His lip lifted into a grin, “Intriguing.”
She looked to him, noting the strong line of his jaw, the harsh lift of his cheekbones.
“You are not from Talingarde,” she observed, less of a question.
“I am not, my lady,” came his smirked response.
When he said nothing further, Willow merely chuckled, turning from the tapestry as they continued their search. The tower held little interest, nothing that would help them with their escape, so they returned to the courtyard under a hail of arrows from the walls. Willow ran to pick up a bow from the body of a fallen guard and began to fire back. Years of hunting trips with the Royal Court were finally proving of use. Although, Willow couldn't see much difference in the mindless creatures she would shoot then and the ones she was shooting now. As her arrows landed true, she saw Garvana struggling to even draw an arrow to her bow. As she fumbled and continuously dropped first her arrow followed by the quiver, flinging her bow string pointlessly, Willow couldn't stop the laugh that escaped. Another few failed attempts had the pair of them keeled over in deranged laughter.
It had been a very long time since Willow had laughed like that. Neither her usual days at work in the mayor’s office, nor her social gatherings with the noble houses, ever yielded any actual fun. Her husband had never been a particularly funny man. Nor a fun or interesting one. Apart from his status, there wasn't anything Willow liked about him. If there was one good thing about having been caught, it was the memory of the look of horror on his face when he realised Willow was not the weak, pushover he believed she was.
Loosing a quick volley of arrows, she smiled as she realised she’d never have to make love to him again. She often wondered how he had no clue that she was within her own world, wishful dreams of making love to her Infernal Lord. She would envision serving him; he would demand and she would obey. Every time, in the haze afterwards Willow always had trouble telling what had been real and what had been dreamed. She always felt the touch of Asmodeus, along with the cold dead weight of her husband. She snapped out of it and shook her head, drawing a final arrow a letting it fly free. It soared through the air and struck the last guard through the throat.
When they regrouped, she wrapped the few coins, food and supplies she had gathered in a length of fabric and wound it to her side. With no idea what would come next, she faced the looming double doors keeping her from the outside world. Together, they pulled the wooden panels wide, darting through the torrent of arrows that came from the slits on each side of the wall. Quickly, the ran free over the threshold, greeted by the raging sea as it crashed into the road of rocks. Slowly walking along the jagged cliffs towards the gate, Willow found herself grinning. One wrong step would mean a very painful fall to her death, but she had always been nimble on her feet. Each step was like a weight being lifted from her shoulders, her second chance was becoming a reality. The sea breeze whipping her hair around, the salt smell clearing her nose and watering her eyes; it truly was a beautiful day. And freedom tasted damn good. As the group made it to the gate there were smiles all around, even the old man turned to Willow with a wicked grin of his own.
He winked, “But, nobody escapes Branderscar Prison...”

Upon reaching the outside, Pellius turned to the others, a frown upon his brow.
“I was visited by a woman in white,” he began, “She said we possessed a mutual friend who would like to meet with us. The friend was unwilling to visit us in prison, and was the one who gave us the veil.”
“Who is this friend?” Willow asked warily.
“She would not say,” he replied, “Only that once we had escaped we were to cross the moors on the outskirts of town. On the old Moor Road she said we’d see a manor house with a single lantern burning in the second story. That is where he awaits our arrival.”
“I do not like this,” Garvana said suspiciously.
“What choice do we truly have?” Willow said plainly, “I do not have anywhere else to be, nor anywhere else I could go. If he wishes an audience, the least we can do is grant it. I shall take the man of mystery over the pyre any day…”

With little to no other options, Willow was anxious to meet this mysterious benefactor. They trudged through the moors for hours, as quickly as their exhausted feet would take them. Finally, the mansion came into view. There it sat, foreboding and unwelcoming. A tall dark manor, with a single lit lantern in the second story window. There was nothing warm about the place, it felt like no refuge. But it was as close to a sanctuary as Willow was going to get.
She had escaped, she was free. A faint hope lit within her heart. She was being given a chance to prove herself worthy to her Infernal Lord. She would seize it; she would earn her rightful place…

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:08 AM
Chapter 2 – The Master

The last gasp of sunlight sighed as dropped below the horizon, the shadow of dusk consuming the sky. The soggy marsh swelled water through the holes in her stolen boots, as Willow gazed towards the foreboding manor. She was exhausted and filthy, but free. Her bones ached as she trudged through the mud, the severe lack of sleep draining the last strength she had. With no clue what these mysterious benefactors wanted from her, and no other real options, she squared her shoulders and marched on. Some of the others seemed wary or scared, unsure what the future held for them, whether it better or worse than the confines or swift promise of death that Branderscar had offered. Grumblejack on the other hand, pushed ahead to the cast iron gate with no hesitation. As he swung the gate open with ease, the breeze whipped his hair aside and Willow would have sworn she noticed small horns protruding from his forehead. Slowing her steps slightly, she hung back from the door, fingering her poorly made dagger and preparing for anything.
As the manor door opened, a strangely beautiful woman stepped out with a smile. The menacing aura that surrounded her betrayed her polite and warm greeting. Her eyes searched the newly escaped prisoners, and landed upon Pellius.
“Darling, what took you so long?” she said, a dastardly grin in contradiction to her soft fretting voice, “I was worried and beginning to think you weren't going to make it.”
She looked the rest of the group over in slight disgust.
“Slaves!” she bellowed behind her, “See our honoured guests to their chambers. They are to meet with the master, and they most certainly cannot appear in front of him looking so… vile.”
Although Willow could not honestly disagree with her observation, standing in the dirt covered dressed in a bloodied guard uniform, she still chafed at the insult.
“Make yourselves presentable,” she sneered, “And the master will see you when he is ready. He commands that you enjoy his hospitality, and help yourself to the waredrobes he has arranged for you.”
The slaves came rushing out of the doors and began to faun over each of them, heads bowed in subservience, mutterings of respectful greetings. The idea of a bath had Willow almost in tears.
As she was escorted through to the west wing of the manor, she felt almost at home in the stunning halls and beautifully decorated passages. Exquisite oil paintings in golden frames lined each wall, immaculate woven runners lined the floors. When the door to her luxurious bedroom opened, a smile lit up her face. An elegant four post bed stood centre of the room, draped with shining silk sheets, plump feather pillows and intricately embroidered throw rugs. A smart looking sitting area to the left, arranged with taut leather couches and an exaggerated number of glass beaded cushions, surrounded a mahogany oak short table displaying a fine ceramic tea set. To the right was an open door leading to a large bathroom tiled from floor to ceiling. The centre piece of the room was a lone standing claw-foot bathtub as high as Willow's hips. She had to bite her lip to stop a whimper from escaping.
She turned back to the slaves and demanded a bath drawn immediately. In a politer voice she requested food and plenty of wine to be served in the bathroom when she was ready.
Stepping into the steaming water was ecstasy, she submerged her entire body and simply floated there. The two male slaves scrubbed her from chest to toe, while the female worked delicately with her hair. Once her skin was clear and red, free of the filth she had been living in, she demanded the bath be emptied and refilled so she could soak properly. While the slaves got to work Willow sat at the vanity and stared into the mirror. What she saw staring back was but a shadow of herself. She was born to be so much more.
The slaves scurried about, efficiently lugging bucket after bucket of boiling water into the room. Stepping back into the bath tub, Willow felt every muscle in her body clench and relax. She sipped fragrant spicy wine while the men massaged her legs and arms. As she drank, she felt her wounds closing over, looking down she watched the sore weeping skin around her brand knit together and heal, leaving a solid white raised scar in its place. It was more than contentment that she found herself in. As the searing broth burned away the filth she felt that lingered beneath the layers of her skin, she floated atop the water in a languid state of bliss. She soaked for the better part of an hour, while the female slave gently worked through what was left of the knots in her hair, rubbing through oils made from liquid myrrh, cinnamon and cassia. When her skin was pink, soft and subtle, she dried and explored the opulent wardrobe she had been provided. Garments in every colour, made from every material she had ever heard of. This was a wardrobe to rival Willow's own. She selected an elegant silk black gown, high neck and long sleeve, with a plunging drop down the back and a completely socially inappropriate slit up one thigh. It was perfect. A perfect fit, hugging into her slender waist, flaring out and flowing down to the floor. She knew not how this mysterious master knew her so well, little did she care as she eyed her figure appreciatively in the mirror. While her hair dried, she powdered her pristine skin, applied a modest amount of carmine to her lips and a thin line of kohl to her eyes. She lifted her hair into a spiralling weave, braiding the tail and fastening it with the golden pin that had been left for her on the vanity. She smiled as she gazed at her reflection. Elegant, and beautiful. Just how she was meant to be. She didn't know what the master wanted from her, but it would have to be horrendously awful for Willow to think of turning down this kind of treatment.
After slipping her feet into a pair of blood red leather heels, Willow flowed down the hallway towards the east wing. The female slave led her across the affluent wings to the master's waiting chamber. She perused the finely bound leather books, marvelling at the rare pieces in his collection, as she heard the heavy stride of a man entering. She turned gracefully, inkling her head to Pellius. Her eyes raked over his fine physique and figure dressed in a high necked colonial jacket, smart black trousers and gleaming leather boots. She batted her eyelashes as she complimented his dashing attire.
“You also are looking splendid this evening, my lady,” he said as he kissed Willow's hand.
The corner of her lip quirked, "Such manners."

A short while after the last of the group had entered the room, the mistress who called herself Tiadora, beckoned them into the master's attendance. Without hesitation Willow stood and glided into the room with her re-found confidence. She was led into a beautifully appointed office, richly decorated with dark wood and sumptuous brocade tapestry. But a sight behind the grand desk, made her heart skip a beat. A man, draped in black and red robes adorned with a large red inverted pentagram in the centre of his chest. With a gaze so intense, she found it impossible to take in anything else. Hitching her breath, she slinked into the room as the others filed in beside her. While he eyed each of them, the respite from his gaze allowed her to scan her sight across him. His head was closely shaved, above his consuming and ebony welled eyes were dark thick eyebrows and a sharp black goatee.
There was something else about him that had Willow still short of breath.
She had always had a strange connection to the powers of the nine layers of hell. It had taken her years to discern what it was. But as she grew to be a woman, she started to understand what she was feeling. She knew she could feel the touch of Asmodeus. Whether in a place or a person. She could feel the infernal blood within their veins, like a pulse or beat of a drum. She felt His burning heat, as if hell itself enveloped her for brief moments. It felt like a fleeting searing kiss. This was no kiss, this man had her blistering and sweltering in places no lady should rightly think about. As he his gaze drew to her again, the feeling flared, and Willow had to clamp down on her lips to stop from gasping. The corner of his mouth turned up in a sly and knowing grin.
“I believe you to be the first to ever escape from Branderscar Prison. Well done! Of course, you had help from the outside,” he said with a wicked grin, in a deep and rasping voice, “But enough with the pleasantries. You must be curious why I’ve helped you. Rest assured this is no random act of altruism. I have brought you here for a reason. My name is Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. I am the last high priest of Asmodeus left on the island of Talingarde. Once the Prince of Nessus was rightly revered alongside the other great powers. Now, the king of Talingarde has become a puppet to Mitran fanatics who wish to destroy any religion that does not bow to their insipid sun god.”
His lip curled in revulsion, mirrored by Willow’s own.
“For their blasphemy, I will see the same people who imprisoned and condemned you suffer. I understand what you went through for I have faced it myself.”
With that, he pulled down the sleeve of his robe to reveal his own runic brand, identical to the one they all bore.
“I am going to burn Talingarde to the ground,” he snarled in ferocious wrath, “And from the ashes I will build a new nation that knows its rightful master. I cannot do this alone!”
As he spoke, the air within the chamber thickened. His eyes lit up with a frenzied scarlet glow, his voice echoing through the chamber in rage.
“I seek servants worthy of our Infernal Father's majesty,” he rasped, “Have I found them in you?! Join me! Swear fealty to me and to Asmodeus! Put aside forgiveness and I shall give you vengeance! Put aside mercy and be made powerful! Put aside peace and become my harbingers of war! What say you?! Will you swear your allegiance or will you burn with the rest of the blind fools?!”
The blood coursed through Willow’s veins, her heart soaring, her mind was more than made up. She stepped forward and knelt in front of the Cardinal.
Staring deep into his eyes she said breathlessly, “I will join you, I will serve you as I will serve the Prince of Darkness.”
The wicked grin grew along Thorn’s lips as he inclined his head. She stayed where she was while he eyed the rest of the group. One by one they each agreed, some more reluctantly than others.
“Excellent!” he declared, “Let us make it official!”
With a rasping incantation, two copies of a long detailed contract appeared by him. Though Willow listened intently to his words as he read aloud the terms of their servitude, she could hear the thundering of her own panting breath.
She was to be Bound. To adhere to four loyalties. First to Asmodeus, to do everything she could to further his cause, to obey him and his principals. Second to her Master, the Cardinal, to do his bidding and serve him faithfully. Third to her companions, the group of Forsaken soon to be bound along side her. And finally to herself.
"For Asmodeus is the Lord of Ambition," he crooned, "And to serve him is to strive to be better, to be the best, the strongest and the most powerful."
Willow had scripted a lot of contracts in her time with the mayor. Most of which she had twisted in clauses and conditions to take advantage of the weak minded souls she was scamming. But this contact was perfect. There were no loopholes. There was no negotiating. It bound her to Asmodeus, in the only way she was not. There was nothing that would stop her from signing. She stood with a grin, determination cementing her will, as she approached him with her chin high. He reached into his robe and pulled out a long thin silver dagger.
“These things are usually best sealed in blood, don’t you think?” he said with a devilish smile.
Willow's heart was trembling within her chest, her eyebrow arched as she took the blade and made a thin cut along the tip of her index finger, never breaking eye contact. She stared deep into his eyes as she scrawled her long elaborate signature, and with each loop the Cardinal's grin widened. Unconsciously, she drew her bottom lip into her mouth and firmly bit down. As she finished with a dot upon the second scroll, she sensually licked the drop of blood from the dagger. Still looking into his consuming gaze, she dexterously flipped it pommel first and handed it back to him. Grinning, she slinked to the side, watching the alluring man of hell, while the others signed their souls away.
After everyone had scrawled their names upon the binding contract, Thorn clasped his hands together in satisfaction.
“Well done,” he said, a strange pride in his tone, “Your first command: prepare yourselves. Stay within the manor. You are still hunted by the Talirean soldiery. In three days we begin your training. Until then, please enjoy all my estate has to offer.”
As the others filed out of the chamber, Willow couldn’t stop herself from appraoching the Cardinal, wicked intent on her face.
“If there's anything else I could do for you in those three days," she said sinfully, meeting his intense gaze, "I’d be happy to accommodate. Willing, one might say.”
His gaze deepened for a moment, with his devilish grin returning he spoke at almost a whisper, “Child, I think you're asking for more than you can handle, much more than you realise.”
Willow's lip curved into a dark sinuous grin, “For now, perhaps,” she mused.
As she sauntered out of the room, she could feel his consuming fierce gaze following her, giving him one last lustful glance before closing the door.

She took a moment to catch her breath and calm herself before following the others to the parlour. Relaxing within the lavish and comfortable room, she sat in conversation with Pellius, laughing and flirting while sipping on more of the house fine wine.
“I think a proper introduction is in order. I must admit, I’ve never met people under such peculiar circumstances,” she said with a wine giggle. “I am Willow Miryah Monteguard. Condemned disgraced daughter of Bartley Monteguard, Duke of Keldenryn. Traitorous harlot wife of Audric Talrish, Knight of Alerion. And, apparently, trying to assassinate the dear Princess, and wipe out the Markadian line, isn't something a proper lady should do!” she said with mocked surprise.
Pellius laughed and raised his glass inrepsonse.
“I am Pellius Albus,” he said formally, “From the far lands of Cheliax. I landed upon the shores of Matharyn and was accused and arrested for the crime of heresy. The guards upon the dock took a single glance and called for the watch. Apparently crimson eyes are a sin.”
Willow smirked, leaning towards him, winking and whispering, “Do not worry handsome, some women find crimson incredibly attractive.”
Teelee piped up and introduced herself simply as Teelee from Rahadoum, who had been captured and charged with slavery when she docked ship and her slaves went to the local authorities.
Willow couldn’t help but laugh and **** her eyebrow, “Maybe you need a little help in proper disciplining, I can help with that if you like.”
Garvana began a lengthy tale about the death of her father, the burning of her house and strange scorch marks appearing from the abyss. A slight silent pause went over the room before Willow raised her glass and called with laugh, “Cheers to that.”
She relaxed back in her chair and looked over to the old man, “And what did an uncouth sir such as yourself do to end up here?” she said mockingly.
“Killed little whelps like you,” he snapped.
Willow raised her eyebrows and paused. A slender length of gold was pinned into her elaborate braid, and would take only seconds to detach and ram through his throat. Thinking of the contract she had just signed, she realised that it might not be the brightest idea she'd ever had. So she simply smiled and sipped her wine. The high road may be boring, but visualising her pretty golden pin sticking out of his jugular, was satisfying in itself.
The rest of the night Willow spent swapping stories with Pellius, the content growing more iniquitous and crude with each glass of wine. After six bottles were gone, and Willow noticed her tongue getting looser, she knew it was time to retire for the night. She was happy to share harmless light banter and her dark sense of humour with these new companions, but she didn't trust them completely. Even Pellius, with his disarming smile and witty charm; Willow had known his type before. Right now they were all she had, and she would make the most of that. But there were some things she would keep closely guarded. They all had secrets, and there was only one entity she would share hers with. Asmodeus would keep her secrets, and she would keep his.

As duck approached on the evening of the third night, the master called for the bound. Willow held her breath as she entered his room and as his heated gaze settled on her she felt the fire burning deep inside her. He greeted them with his devilish grin and handed each of the group an iron circlet and a silver medallion.
“The iron circlets allow you to move amongst your enemies as one of them,” he said from behind his great dark wood desk, “The silver amulets will remind you of your true loyalties. You have done well to escape from Branderscar and to accept my offer. However, you are still not ready for my service. Tiadora will lead you to the basement of this domicile. There you will find nine chambers each more dangerous than the last. Somewhere hidden within these chambers is a pendant of silver and sapphire. Recover the pendant and bring it to me. Let nothing and no one stand in your way.”
He from his desk, looking out of the manor house window across the grey moor.
“It is almost dusk,” he warned, “You have until dusk tomorrow to bring me my prize. Do not fail me.”

The group was ushered out of the room and shown the way to the basement. Teelee lit both Garvana and Pellius’ shields with magical light before the five of them filed in down the pitch black tunnel. A set of stone stairs led down into the depths, through an archway and into an unfurnished chamber beyond. An inscription upon the archway in the common tongue caught Willow’s eye.
“Deception is a tool,” she read aloud, “Self-deception is death. Deceive always thy enemy but never thyself.”
The room beyond was lit by a small oil lantern hanging from the center of the chamber. A single doorway sat to the east, a plain wooden plank on a simple hinge. Willow crept into the shadowed mist of the chamber, each step controlled and light, testing for any soft change indicating a pressure plate. Deception was her tool. It came naturally to her, so she tried to formulate her strategy around the way she would use it to trick and ensnare her prey if the roles were reversed. She prowled on light feet towards the door on the eastern wall, cautiously eyeing the hinges and locking mechanism for any sabotage or traps. As she stepped on the stone in front of the door, she felt the distinct sinking of a pressure plate, leaping to the side with swift grace narrowly avoiding the drop as the stone slab fell away. She wobbled on the edge of the gaping pit before a firm hand grasped her own and pulled her from her fall.
"You're quite nimble, my lady," Pellius said charmingly.
Willow smirked, "Not quite nimble enough it seems."
The door slowly swung open to reveal a continuation of the stone wall behind it. Willow cocked an eyebrow and thought for a moment. Following a hunch, Willow began to trace her hands along the stonework, feeling for any discrepancies or prostitutions. Her instincts had been correct, the group indeed found two hidden doorways disguised in layers of the stone. The northern door lead to a small darkened chamber, a single glimmering jewel sat upon an altar, filled with a magical substance that Teelee identified as alchemist's ice. The southern door led the group into the blackened caress of another chamber.
“Following the herd is for fools,” she squinted as she made out the next inscription, “Fear not their icy derision. Instead, fear only thy Infernal Lord.”
Inside the stone chamber, there were four doors, each facing a cardinal direction. The interior of the chamber shivered a strange cold. The western door throbbed in a strange pulsating violet mould, it's growth seeping out of the door's hinges and handle, it's thrumming beat releasing wisps of chilled air. Suspicious as always, Willow inspected the other doors. At first glance, the doors appeared harmless, a much more promising prospect than the festering perse growth. But on closer inspection, hidden within the wooden frames of both clean doors were coin sized circular holes, about the size cut for spears.
"They're rigged with traps, be cautious," Willow said to the group.
She stood in the centre of the room thinking of the inscription. The herd would have followed chosen the safe looking doors and shied from the feral mass covering the western door. Willow found the use of the word icy quite peculiar, also noticing how much colder the room was when she stood close to the mould. As the thought formed, before she had a chance to speak, lit torches flew towards the mould.
"No!" Willow yelled.
As the flames made contact with the pulsating cluster, it violently contracted, spreading and swelling as it doubled in size. Willow was hit with a freezing blast that seeped into her skin, her joints aching and her bones throbbing.
"Garvana! Throw the alchemist's ice!"
With a slight frown, Garvana pulled the jewel from her pouch and hurled it at the oozing mass. Just as quickly as it had grown, the mould began to shudder and fester, shrinking in on itself until it dissipated completely, leaving the doorway empty and clear.
"Very clever, my lady," Pellius said quietly.
His disarming grin made Willow's breath hitch.
“Thou hast made thy own path,” Garvana recited from the wall beyond the open door.

They made their way through a labyrinth of other chambers, procing their worth as they overcame each obstacle in their way. Arcane darkness blackening each passage, twisted and alien creatures hidden within their depths. They faced the undead men with their water rotted corpses left sprawled in a decaying mess across the cold stone floor. They managed to dismantle and capture one of the mithral cobras that tried to rip through flesh with it's razor sharp metal fangs. Willow was riddled with anticipation as they approached the chamber marked by cruelty. Opening the door, she frowned as she saw nothing but a torture rack sat in this room. She didn't miss the way Pellius' mouth quirked up in a small grin at the sight of the torturing equipment.
"Is this what you did?" Willow asked him quietly, standing by the door, "Back in Cheliax."
He turned to her with a slightly sad smile of nostalgia and nodded. Willow couldn't was curious about him, there was little point denying that she found him incredibly attractive. Yet he did not seem the usual type of torturer. Callous men, sadistic and cruel, seeking pleasure in the infliction of pain on others. He was stern and certainly seemed impeccably disciplined, qualities she found completely endearing. But as she turned away from him and returned to their task at hand – her mind continued to churn as it always did.
Looking further through the room, she began to run her hands along the stone, looking for another passage or component to this lesson. Reaching the eastern corner, she found a slender crack in the wall, almost invisible to the naked eye. Pulling the wall open, she was greeted by an odd sight. A small boy dressed in the garb of a squire, barely older than fifteen, sat huddled in the corner. He looked up at Willow with terror in his eyes. For a moment, she thought he recognised her, but he merely shook his head and began to mumble.
"Calm down child," said Garvana soothingly, "Tell us who you are, and what you are doing here?"
It took sometime to settle the child, but Garvana was patient and comforting. Willow stood back against the wall next to Pellius, frowning at the strange sight that she felt was a complete waste of time. Though as he spoke, she stared at the crest marking his robes. She heraldry was painfully familiar, but she could not pinpoint the bloodline. His story was that his knight had been fighting the cardinal, and that he had panicked, fled and escaped. Willow raised her eyebrows at that, a smirk lifting her lips. This child was here as a test, planned completely by the cardinal. She smiled at the ridiculous thought of this pathetic child escaping those soul penetrating eyes. The boy agreed to come along, believing he'd found allies and friends. Garvana seemed to take him under her wing, guiding him through the maze of Thorn's test. Willow didn't care what the child did, as long as he stayed out of her way.

“Suffer not the fool,” she read from the inscription on the farthest southern wall, “Stupidity is our faith’s cardinal sin.”
The door opened wide into a blackened dim chamber, a single oil lantern burning low, hanging form the stone ceiling. A single podium sat centre of the room, atop it lay a pendant of silver – a dragon with sapphire eyes. A sudden flare of suspicion swept through her body. This was too easy. Surely a man as powerful and dominant as the cardinal would require more of his acolytes. Surely escaping the prison was more challenging than this. She told the others to wait as she crept up to the pendant, checking every stone and crevice along the way. By the stairway on the eastern wall she noticed a slit along the base, an indication of a deadly trap, possibly a spring loaded board or a large swinging blade. Carefully, she inspected the pedestal, looking for any signs of sabotage. No pressure plates, no poisoned spring loaded spikes, no trap doors. Gingerly, she reached for the pendant and grasped it in her hand. Nothing happened. Definitely too easy, she thought to herself. She threaded the pendant around her neck, cautiously prowling through the rest of the chamber. After tediously feeling over each stone, calling the others into the room, Willow finally found a single stone out of place. The solitary brick was slightly smoother than the rest, indicating it had been buffed by regular use. She gently pressed the stone in, springing back and readying herself to defend. Darkness was all that greeted her. The group followed the winding maze of tunnels until they arrived at a sturdy iron banded door. A heavy brass key hung upon the wall under their final message.
“Serve thy master well,” she recited, “And be rewarded.”
Willow inserted the key into the lock and hefted the door open. What she saw made a grin split her face from ear to ear. A single man standing in full plate armour in the centre of the room. Sir Balin of the Knights of Alerion. Not just any knight. He was the knight who broke down her bedroom door, slammed her to the ground and arrested her, all while her heartbroken husband watched. He was the one who dragged her to the waiting cell by her hair, stripped off her night gown, left her naked and spat on her bare skin. This was the man her husband had confided in, and was the man responsible for Willow's arrest, conviction and sentence. This man was her vengeance.
As Sir Balin saw the group he began to question what was going on. As his eyes drew to Willow, his face drained of colour, and a look of rage swept over him.
“YOU!” he yelled, “What in Mitra's name is going on here?”
“Oh dear Sir Balin," Willow chuckled, "I see your Mitra has left you in my hands. Such a generous gift. How does it feel to know your precious Shining Lord has abandoned you?”
Willow crept into the side of the room, winking at Pellius as she passed.
“What foul sorcery is this?!” Sir Balin shouted, “Mitra preserve me!”
Willow laughed, a foul and wicked gleam to her voice, “Mitra will bring no salvation, Asmodeus will grant me vengeance!”
He recoiled from her, “I know not what devilry has allowed you to be free, but I swear by the Shining Lord that I will right this injustice!”
He charged at Willow and cleaved with his sword, but she was too quick and ducked under its swing. She flipped and dove in behind him, laughing as she drove her dagger into a slit in his armour. Pellius charged forward, sword over head, and smashed it into the Knights chest. Sir Balin was knocked back by the blow but kept his footing as he failed to parry. Garvana leapt forward with a mighty swing and brought her sword down into his shoulder.
Willow was watching the look on fear and confusion on Timeon’s face as his former knight battled his rescuers. She wasn't paying attention as Sir Balin's sword came down carving into her shoulder. She cried out in agony, before she slammed her teeth shut, the wound splitting open so her bone protruding through. Better than most, Willow understood there was no pleasure without a bit of pain. With a deep breath she embraced the throbbing ache and let it feed her anger. Slashing her dagger forward into the slit on the other side of his armour, driving it deep into his ribs. His scream of agony was music to her ears.
Staggering slightly and heaving breath, Sir Balin seemed to gather his strength.
“MITRA GUIDE MY SWORD!" he bellowed righteously, "If I am to die for you, let me take this harlot with me!”
A sickening wave of holy energy surged towards Willow, wrapping its tendrils of goodness tightly around her, forcing a dry heave from her throat. Empowered, Sir Balin cleaved his sword towards her. At the last second she managed to bend backwards from the blade, as it skimmed the tip of her nose, and slammed into the wall shattering a large chunk of stone into a shower of shards. She could see the torment in his eyes at the prospect of leaving a naïve impressionable child like Timeon in the hands of Asmodeans. In a last desperate attack, he span and hacked his sword straight down into Timeon's skull, splitting it in two as the child collapsed to the floor. The old man came out of no where, lunged through the carnage and with an almighty jab swiftly impaled the Knight straight through the chest.
He sank to one knee, dropping his shield, barely holding himself up with his sword. Coughing through the pooling of blood as he struggled to breath.
“I am sorry, Mitra forgives you Timeon,” he spluttered, closing his eyes.
Willow grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head back into the wall, baring his throat. His eyes flew open on impact, and she smiled down at him and drew his sigh to her own.
She held the blade to his throat and whispered, “Mitra could not save you. Mitra cannot save anyone from the reckoning we will bring.”
She hacked deep, and with a cascade of crimson she carved across Sir Balin's throat. She held him close, and watched the life drain from his eyes. Vengeance was sweet. Vengeance was hers. She grabbed the pendant from around his neck before allowing his body to slump to the floor. She turned the pendant within her fingers and read the engraved Mitran prayer on the back. A silver and sapphire pendant. Clever, Willow thought. Her lips pulled into a grin as she slipped it in her pocket.

The Cardinal was still seated at his desk as they entered his office.
Looking up from his work, he said, “You've returned.”
“Indeed,” Willow replied with a smirk.
“And my pendant?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Willow unlatched the first pendant from her neck and handed it to him. He lifted the stone in front of the light, carefully looking it over. He seemed about to speak when he suddenly threw it down and smashed the pendant into his desk. A shower of blue crystal and silver shatters littered the floor.
“Silver, yes. Sapphire, no. Do not disappoint me, tell me you have something else.” he said, almost in warning.
The rest of the group looked slightly lost and worried, but Willow only grinned. She reached into her pocket and pulled out Sir Balin's pendant. She dangled it by the chain and slowly lowered it into the cardinal's outstretched hand. Willow saw the corner of his mouth kink up in a smile as he turned the pendant over and examined it. He stared into the sapphire as if in contemplation, utterly silent for a moment.
“A pretty enough thing, eh?” he mused, “This is a holy symbol of Mitra in particular the sort favored by the Knights of the Alerion. But I suppose, some of you already knew that. Remember this symbol. This is the mark of those who destroyed our faith and sought to banish all trace of our Father from these shores. These, my friends, are your enemies.”
He tossed the pendant back to Willow.
“Keep it,” he said, “It may aid you in disguising yourself.”
He looked up at the group and smiled, “You have done well. Escaping from Branderscar Prison, slaughtering Sir Balin … yes, you are worthy. Now, let us complete your training...”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:09 AM
Chapter 3 – Beginnings

With the soft linger of blood in the air, the lantern light glistened against the radiance of the sapphire stone. Willow gaze was locked deeply into the Mitran pendant she had lifted from Sir Balin’s corpse. As she listened to Thorn spell out their instructions for the coming months, her mind wandered upon his previous words. They would burn Talingarde to the ground. They would bring down the monarchy and wipe the Church of blessed Mitra from the land. As it should be, Asmodeus would once again be worshiped from every corner of the isle, statues and monuments to his greatness would be seen along every street. She would do this. She would be the harbinger of war, and be the herald that brought forth his glory.
Twelve weeks of training they had ahead of them. The cardinal planned to turn them from a bunch of rogue criminals into an efficient team worthy of his service. As the group filed out to rest up ready for the next day, Willow stayed behind. Thorn watched her curiously, and once the door had closed she looked up from the pendant into the cardinal’s eyes.
“Thank you," she said sincerely, "Thank you for this."
The cardinal smiled. He knew she was talking of vengeance.
“This is only the beginning, my dear.”

In the three months that passed, Willow was taught a few harsh and valuable lessons.
First, the cardinal was more than a worthy master. He was relentless. He was an amazing teacher, skilled in all aspects of war. He expected obedience and results, but in return gave invaluable advice and guidance. Second, Tiadora was a sadist. She delighted in the groups failure and injury. One afternoon, frustrated and infuriated by her laughter, Willow could contain her anger no longer.
Willow spat, “What in hell’s name are you?”
Tiadora gave her a wicked smile, “I'm a devil dear, and I'm here to do a devil’s work.”
Third and finally, Willow had found her calling. With each day that passed, she gained bruises, sprains and scars. She also gained confidence and strength in her will. The effect the cardinal had on her didn't lessen, but she did learn to control it. It was only an occasional wicked grin that set her body aflame. She learnt to continue without pause, giving no indication of the searing heat inside her. She trained in the arts of stealth. She was taught how to enter a room and draw her dagger without making a sound. She was taught the vital spots on the human body, where to strike to inflict the most damage and the quickest way to kill them. She was taught to dodge and weave, to simply not be where the target would strike.
Willow already had a talent for deception, the cardinal told her as much, but he had much to show her. He taught her to control her body language, to keep her voice level and to wear her disguise like a second skin. On his suggestion, Willow spent one evening dying her hair with carmine and lemon, for her black long locks were more than recognisable anywhere near Matharyn.

On the final evening of their three months, the cardinal hosted a grand banquet in their honour. The dining room was lit up with chandeliers, a quartet of slaves played smooth violins and the room-length dining table was lined with exquisite canapés and thick fine wine. Willow had dressed her hair in immaculate waves to the side, the candlelight shined through them, reflecting the copper tones. She slipped into a tight fitting black chiffon dress, thigh high, no sleeves and tulle flaring from the waist. Wearing a carmine of deep blood red upon her lips, she wore the perfect velvet shoes to match. She glided down the stairs and into the hall, tulle undulating in trail behind her. As she flowed across the room and lifted a wine from a tray, she could feel the cardinal’s intense heated gaze tracking her every movement. She exhaled gently and gracefully turned to face him. Meeting his eyes sent a wave of fire searing her from the inside out. She stared back at him, and as his gaze intensified and the burning flared below, her lips crept into a sinful grin.
“Care to dance, my lady?” Pellius offered, breaking into her inappropriate thoughts.
“I would be delighted to,” she replied, taking his arm and inclining her head to the cardinal.
Willow laughed as Pellius swayed and spun her around the room, following his lead in an elegant waltz. He was a fine dancer, controlled and dignified in his movements, classically trained in all forms of tradition noble dances. He was charming, a smooth talker with an alluring rasp to his deep baritone voice. They conversed easily, quite comfortable within each other’s company. Though she could not put her finger on it, there was something oddly familiar about him. She knew he had never been to the land of Talingarde before his fateful collision. Yet, as she looked up at him as he spun her around upon the dance floor, she felt the prickle of something meaningful. As he guided her into the final notes of the tuneful dance, she dismissed her strange suspicion and ended in a theatrical curtsey. He grinned to her as he bowed deeply in return.
After they had dined, wined and danced, the cardinal called them into his private side chamber. The fierce heat that radiated from him had Willow biting her lip in anticipation. As she stepped over the threshold, she was pleasantly surprised to feel right at home within the chamber. The inverted pentagram lining the floor, the walls laced with red and black ritual candles, the podium centre of the dais. The Monteguard’s housed a similar chamber in the hidden cellar of their Matharyn manor.
She took her place in the left point of the pentagram, as the others filled out the remaining four. A slave was lead into the centre and the cardinal took his place at the podium. As he began chanting, the candles flared. Willow could feel the ground heating up and the air thicken as he spoke. As his voice intensified, a crack emerged along the floor and the flicker of hellfire unfurled like tendrils from the void. Willow groaned as she was hit with a searing wave of blissful heat. As the crack widened in the floor and a rotten bleeding hand reached up; she felt her knees weaken as the burning scorched its way down her legs. A foul creature dragged itself out of the realms of hell, scarlet gore in a constant state of furious bleeding, the beast flicked its tail and screeched. The cardinal simply gestured to the slave. The beast let out a frightening wail and leapt on the sacrifice. It shredded the body to shreds of flesh and bone, devouring and consuming its turmoil. When there was nothing more left of the slave than a smear on the ground, the beast bowed it’s head and held out its wrist. The cardinal approached it with a bowl carved from a human skull, tearing through its hand with a shining ruby blade, filling the bowl with the crimson secretion. With a small hand gesture from the cardinal, a ripple went through the creature, before it vanished from sight. Even as the crevasse in the foundation of the manor sealed itself, the heat inside Willow remained. Thorn approached each of the bound one after another, using the bowl of blood to draw an inverted pentagram on their foreheads. As he completed the star on Willow, she felt the blaze rage through her limbs, burning and scorching its path. She could feel Asmodeus swarming through her veins. There was little she could do but bite down on her tongue to keep herself from whimpering aloud. The cardinal stood back and a strange look of accomplishment came over him.
“Now,” he said with great pride, “The Nessian Knot is forged.”

The five of them were ushered from the chamber, and given strict instructions to wait for their master’s summon. The servants still lingered with trays of wine and canapés, waiting patiently to be of need or use. The five of them sat within the parlour, relaxed and excited for their new days to come. It was not long before they were beckoned into Thorn’s office once more.
“Welcome, my children,” he said in a deep resonant voice, that had an almost inhuman quality to it, “Training is at an end. You have proven yourself worthy. Now, it is time for you to use that training and take on your first mission. Your mission is war, my children. You will bring war to Talingarde.”
The prior easy comfort that fell between the bound now chilled in a hush. It was not fear that stilled their movements and shortened their breath; it was anticipation and adour.
“You have two objectives,” he continued, “First, you will see a shipment of munitions delivered to a bugbear chieftain named Sakkarot Fire-Axe. He makes his camp on the northern coast of Lake Tarik beyond the Watch Wall. With this shipment, the Fire-Axe will have resources enough to unite the barbarous humanoid tribes of the north and light the fire of war. Sitting on the dock as we speak is the longship Frosthamar captained by Kargeld Odenkirk. Tomorrow when the ship is resupplied it will be your transport. The captain is a ruthless mercenary and not to be trusted. He knows nothing of the specifics of our mission and you should keep it that way. He knows he is smuggling cargo to the north beyond the Watch Wall. That is all he need know. Once the cargo is safely delivered, he will take you just south across the lake under cover of darkness and land you near the town of Aldencross. There our contract with Captain Odenkirk will be concluded. It is shame how greedy he has proven. I had hoped to let the captain serve me again but it seems he is too much of a liability. Kill him. Kill his crew. Burn his ship and leave no survivors. It is crucial that no one suspects our involvement and that loose ends are taken care of. Be sure to reclaim the coin I gave him. Best not to be wasteful. That done, you will begin your second task. We will do more still to aid our ally the Fire-axe. The bugbears are mighty warriors but poor siege engineers. You will infiltrate the tower Balentyne, keystone of the Watch Wall, kill its commander and open the gate for Sakkarot’s horde. Once the shaggy monstrosities pierce the Watch Wall, the bugbears will pillage and lay waste to the townships of the north and the local garrisons will have no choice but to meet the Fire-Axe in the open field. Sakkarot is the most brilliant, gifted and murderous bugbear of his generation. I expect these battles will go poorly for the knights and yeoman of fair Talingarde.”
All the while as he spoke, he showed no signs of irresolution nor uncertainty. Cardinal Thorn appeared as callous and earnest in his grand scheme as one could ever hope to be.
“Do all of this,” he said, “And then when your task is done, break this clay seal.”
He handed Willow a delicately carved clay seal adorned with a tangled knot of thorns surrounding the five pointed star of the Lord of the Nine.
“I will have more instructions then. Succeed, and I will see you rewarded handsomely. Fail or betray me, and you will pray for the comfort of Hell before I am done with you.”
He turned to gaze upon the stretch of marsh beyond the window.
“The mission you start upon today is a holy mission,” he said, in a quiet yet terrifying voice, “The people of Talingarde think they have seen the last of the mighty Asmodeus. Soon enough we will remind them that there is no escaping the grasp of Hell.”
Though his sight darkened and a wrathful look of fury threatening to swarm his control, he suddenly returned behind his large desk. He pulled the cork free from a bottle of heavy velvet burgundy wine, morning a glass for each of them first before pouring one for himself.
“Let us toast our success!” he emboldened, raising his glass high in the air, “TO WAR!”

By the dawn light as the sun began its upward march, they set sail aboard the Frost Hammer. Odenkirk was a gruff sailor, dirty dark hair, worn hide armour and a feral toothy grin. His teeth were stained a dark rotting brown, protruding from his gums in odd and sparse angles. Willow cringed every time he leant in to speak to her and she had to smell the wafting stench of his breath. It was late one night, as she slumbered upon the wooden deck, that she awoke to a hand grasping her thigh. Impulsively, she drew her dagger in the blink of an eye and held it firm to the captain’s throat.
“Remove your hand before you lose your head,” she warned viciously.
His breath heavy with whiskey, he panted and slowly withdrew, stumbling towards the other side of the ship. She watched his groggy form disappear behind the small cabin before she rolled over, pulling her coat tighter, keeping her dagger firm in hand until dawn.
After days at sea, the ship sailed passed the trading port of Daveryn, the gem of the western coast. It was the third largest city of Talingarde, and in her opinion, the far most boring. As the ship sailed towards the north, they spied a Talrien vessel in close pursuit. A single mast fully-rigged pinnace only thirty feet long, marked by what Willow recognized as the crest of Saint Martius.
Captain Kargeld grimly paired down their options, “She’s seen us, sure as damnation. And there is no way the Frosthamar will outrun her loaded like this. One look at our cargo and they’ll know us for exactly what we are – weapon smugglers.”
“Continue on course,” the old man said calmly, “When the hail us, follow slow the ship. We will deal with this.”
The newly bound used the magic of their circlets to disguise themselves as part of the ships crew, rough salt worn slacks and shirts, aiding to blend them in seamlessly. The old man formed his gear into a perfect mimic of the Alerion Knights armour, adorned by Sir Valin’s pendant, he looked every bit the stern faced knight. Willow held her dagger fast, hidden beneath the tattered fabric of her shirt, preparing to strike if the need arose.
“Stay your oars!” called the Mitran sergeant form afar, “Prepare to be boarded!”
The crew anxiously looked to one another, intimidated by the strange magic afoot, unsure of how their guests would manage the ruse.
“Halt!” called the old man commandingly, “Identify yourselves!”
As the vessel pulled along side of the Frosthamar, the sergeant eyed the Alerion Knight suspiciously.
“We are of the Blade of Saint Martius!” he replied, “Charged with the inspection of all passing ships. We have had no word of the Knights of Alerion in these parts.”
The old man sneered in response, “And are you usually privy to the missions of the order?”
“W-well,” the sergeant stammered, “Well, no. But-
“You will return to Daveryn at once!” commanded the old man, “I have no time to be interrupted, it is crucial I arrive at my destination on time!”
With sceptical eyes tracing over the shabby crew and the wooden crates of cargo, the sergeant frowned. Although he seemed to suspect something more was going on that he could surmise, he reluctantly accepted he was outranked. Hesitantly, he ordered his ship to return towards Daveryn. As they turned and they ship grew smaller from their sight, Willow hissed out the breath she’d been holding. She was impressed, she had not expected the old man’s ruse to be successful. She allowed her guise to dissipate, inclining her head to him.
The captain grunted from behind the ship’s wheel, “Don’t know how ya did that, but sure glad it worked…”

After two weeks of rough sailing along the turbulent coast of Talingarde’s eastern shores, the Frosthamar finally arrived at the ice-choked entrance to the River Taiga. Kargeld proved himself a worthy captain, nimbly sailing the heavily laden craft through fields of floating jagged ice. He barked orders in norspik, the language of the men of the north, and his sailors scrambled to comply. Again and again, he turned the boat at just the right moment to pass between the broken shards calved from ancient glaciers. Finally, after nerve-wracking hours coursing through the slender pass, the boat pushed through the dangerous headwaters of the Taiga into the clear water of the almost uncharted mighty river. Beyond, lay a land of savage wonders. The Taiga wound through a great northern forest that to the best of anyone’s knowledge had no name. After miles and miles of picturesque pine trees frosted with new fallen snow, the ship came to a great mountain range. The river flowed through a great rift in the mountains that looked as if some impossibly gargantuan primordial giant
smashed a pass through the grey slate. Although the turned for the south, leaving the frosted chill of the northern realms behind, it appeared to have no effect on lessening the intense cold that froze their bones. They were headed for the great interior sea of Talingarde – Lake Tarik. It was to the south of Tarik that the Watch Wall lay. And on the northern banks in a wide wooded valley was their destination – the camp of Sakkarot Fire-Axe.
As dusk loomed heavy upon the great expanse of open sky, the Frosthamar craned wide passed the jagged rocks, when slowly the sounds began. Devouring howls of beasts, screams that curdled blood, savage cries of barbaric horror. As the ship veered to the north-east, the fire littered canvas came into view. Thousands of bugbears were already assembled. Savage beasts clearly not welcoming or pleased to see outsiders, worse still, white fleshed humans. There were more than just feral hordes of bugbears amassing in the camp. Fur-clad goblins scampered here and there, laughing with frenetic glee. Grotesque hill giants gathered at the edges of the great procession. Snarling beasts of callous and ferocity prowled through the fire-laden swarm.
There was only one place to dock the boat – a crudely made pier that jutted into the river. Blocking their entrance into the camp, were four hulking bugbears. They watched the ships approach with foul hungry eyes.
“Keep your mouth’s shut,” Willow whispered harshly to the captain and his crew, “Let us handle it.”
“Right you are,” Kargeld nodded quietly.
As the Frosthamar pulled along the side of the dock, Willow prowled to the edge of the ship with a face of cold venom.
“Looks like dinners here,” grinned the largest of the bugbears.
“This one’s not got much meat on her,” scoffed one of the others, “Be a bit chewy for me.”
As the brutes chuckled in laughter, Willow and Pellius stepped on to the dock together, while she crossed her arms over her chest. Inside she was terrified, the idea of being simply a meal was enough to turn her stomach, but on the outside she kept her exterior cool and hard.
“Where is Sakkarot Fireaxe?!" she snarled viciously, "We are here to see him, and I have little time to waste speaking to you.”
The largest of the bugbears scoffed, his furred eyebrows lifting high.
“Huh,” he grunted, “Least my dinner’s got a bit a spice.”
Her eyebrow arched, as she deliberating pulled her blade slowly from it’s sheath. She never once looked away from his sight, her will warring with his, her threat clearly understood. The smaller bugbear frowned, grabbing one of the others by the ear, grumbling between eachother. In the corner of her vision, Willow saw a commotion coming from the back of the crowd that had gathered around them. When the largest bugbear looked to make a move towards her, Pellius stepped forward threateningly.
“You heard the lady,” he warned with utter malice, “Where is Sakkarot?”
Suddenly, the largest bugbear Willow had ever seen burst through the crowd, a great black-furred beast wielding a fearsome axe of flame. His namesake became immediately apparent.
“Who sent you?!” Sakkarot Fire-Axe demanded.
Willow smirked, inclining her head, “The master Thorn.”
At that answer, he smiled a toothy grin.
“Then you are welcome here!”
He turned to the somewhat stunned throng of bugbears who were getting ready to storm the boat and devour it’s occupants.
“These humans are my guests!” he growled, “I will deal with anyone
who harms them. They are our allies!”
He stopmed over to the boat and ripped open one of the crates revealing finely made axes with in. He tossed one to a nearby bugbear warrior who until now only had a crude club to wield.
“Behold!” he boomed, “They bring us steel! They bring us war!”
His proclamation earned a terrifying chorus of growls and cheers from the monstrous assembly. The boat was unloaded and Sakkarot’s lieutenants saw that each case was distributed among the throng of beasts. It was a rapid transformation that overcame the camp. Where once there were a thousand bugbear savages – now there was a thousand bugbear soldiers each with new weapons and shields adorned with the emblem of the fire axe.
“Tonight,” he called to his newly armed horde, “We feast!”

The night held a brutal, savage affair with bugbears fighting each other and all manner of
monsters in attendance. The bound were given postions of honour, as far as honorable went amongst the lawless brutes. They sat at Sakkarot’s table, and earned themselves a front row seat at the spectacle of savagery. The brutal festivities raged on, hunks of meat were hacked off the dire boar that was roasting on the spit, and the strange bugbear liquor flowed through the camp. Willow watched the feral celebrations in disgust; animals slaughtered for food, barely cooked, no preparation or cleanliness. Simply freshly dead animals on the fire, fur, feathers and all. She had no clue what the liquor was, and as she asked Sakkarot, the only answer she got was a laugh.
“Bugbear special,” he said with a grin.
She accepted a particularly burnt piece of meat, and the cleanest looking drinking horn she could find. The drink seared her tongue and after a only few swigs, it mattered not what the meat tasted of, as she could not taste a thing.
“You’re little,” grunted one of Sakkarot’s lieutenants to her, his face riddled with confusion, “How don’t you get eaten being so little?”
Willow had to concede his blatantly obvious observation, she was indeed very little in comparison to his size. Yet size and strength were not everything. Faster than the inebriated bugbear could react, she ripped her blade free and pressed it firmly into his throat.
“I am too quick,” she grinned.
The stunned brute blinked a few times, before bursting out into a hearty laugh. She sheathed her dagger and laughed before taking another hefty swig from her drink. She tried to keep pace with the men in their rapid procession of drinks, but her small slender frame could not handle it well. After countless horns of burning black-red drink, she stood and pulled free her daggers. It was with a drunken sway that she slinked over to Pellius.
“Spar with me?” she winked.
She tossed the second dagger to him and took up a defensive position. When he was ready she took off at a run. As she went to dive between his leads and through his wide stance, she came face first into his knee. She rolled over on the ground and laughed as she rubbed her face. With a chuckle, Pellius held out a hand for her. She grasped it and he hoisted her to her feet. As he went to push her back, Willow bent down grabbing his arm and pulling his shoulder, using his own weight to flip him over her back. She dropped him face up on the ground. The crowd of bugbears cheered in a song of feral growls and snarls.
“That is how it’s going to be?” he questioned slyly.
Willow giggled as he got to his feet, too distracted to notice him step in behind her and lift her weight easily. He flipped her over his shoulder and slammed her down into the table. Crudely made plates and drink containers went flying, flinging the food into the air and drinks sloshing across the ground. Their bestial audience cheered with approval. Even through her winded chest, she giggled uncontrollably. She only laughed harder when she saw the food her landing had splattered over his chest and face. He laughed with her, wiping his face with his sleeve before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. This, of course, earned them a mixture of crude catcalls and taunts.

After the revels had died down, Sakkarot called the group into his tent. Willow followed and took a seat on the pile of furs next to him. He spoke of war and battle, their plan of attack and what the group were required to do. He paused and looked around at each of them.
“I have to know,” he said seriously, “You are traitors to your own kind. You must know that. When Balentyne falls and my horde pours through its shattered gates, we will slaughter the Talireans by the thousands. Yet I see no regret in your eyes. Tell me, how can this be?”
Willow smiled and looked deep into his eyes, placing a hand on his forearm.
“Our ‘own people’ as you put it,” she said bitterly, “are led by a king who has become a puppet to Mitran fanatics. They wish to destroy any religion that does not bow to their pitiful sun god. They have wished to banish all trace of our Infernal Father from this land. They would slaughter us, they tried to, purely for our faith in him. Their charity is sickening. They tax those who have gained power for themselves and reward those who fall at the bottom of the food chain.”
Willow’s gaze grew intense, “They are pathetic, the weak rule the weak minded. We will show them strength and power, we will purge them from this land, true order will rule and true power will reign.”
He grunted and nodded, “You sound just like Thorn.”
Willow smiled, it was a sentiment she would find no fault in. Sakkarot glanced down at the brand on her wrist. When Willow noticed his gaze, she merely scoffed.
“Courtesy of our people.”
He pulled aside his great breast plate and revealed a large carved scar, in the shape of the five pointed star of Asmodeus seared into his chest.
“We all have our scars…”
He looked around at the five who sat with him.
“Tomorrow, you must depart this camp,” he said, “It will never be truly safe for you here. Over the next week, more tribes will rally to my banner. I will promise them blood and give them steel. Then at last I will be ready to march. A week after that – I will be poised to strike. I will move my horde to the valley just north of Balentyne. There we will wait for your signal. Fire this rocket into the air. Within the hour, we will attack. Make sure that the way is ready. After we gather, my horde will be idle and start to grow anxious. I can hold them together for another two weeks. After that, I expect desertions and squabbling. Get your
work done before then. You have one month to infiltrate and destroy Balentyne.”
Sakkarot handed them a single carefully wrapped signal rocket. Suddenly the bugbear warlord grew immensely serious and stern. He stares straight into Willow’s eyes.
“Can you do this? In one month can you break the Watch Wall?”
“We can,” she answered, “And we will.”
He grunts and nodded, “Thorn has faith in you. If you weren’t his best, he wouldn’t have sent you. Do this and your names will be legend. Now go. Hail Asmodeus!”
Their response came, in fierce and determined voice, “Hail Asmodeus!”

The plan was set. They had one month to infiltrate the Watchtower Balentyne, find and kill the Commander, take out the siege weapons on the roof, open the gates and set off the signal rocket. It was an arduous and dangerous mission, one that sounded a sure suicide. Yet, when Willow looked to the other members of the Nessian Knot, she saw the same passion and determination that she bore. Perhaps, all was not lost. Perhaps, they would be victorious. Either way, they would succeed or die trying.
Before they left by dawn’s light the following morning, Willow suggested to Grumblejack that perhaps he would have more fun crushing and smashing things with the bugbears. He considered it for a moment.
“Grumblejack does like smashing,” he grunted, “Grumblejack stay with bugbears.”
As they boarded the ship, Willow turned to Sakkarot, “Why do the bugbears want war?”
He gave her a toothy feral grin, “Little one, bugbears love nothing more than the hunt of the soft skin prey in the south.”

The captain and his crew were anxious and desperate to leave. As they sailed away from the dock, the captain spoke aloud to himself.
“Look in that one’s eyes. He's smart, always plotting. Bugbears should not be smart.”
It took most of the night and next day to travel down the coast to the outskirts of Aldencross. When the landing site was visible, Willow took her stance next to the captain. She continued mundane conversation until the old man stepped in behind the captain and everyone was in position. Willow withdrew the dagger from it’s sheath and in a breath drove it into the side of the captains’ neck. He turned just in time for her to miss his jugular. The old man drove his rapier deep into Kargeld’s back, piercing through his stomach. The captain spun around just as Willow dove behind him, he swung his great axe and cleaved it downwards, narrowly missing the old man. She sprang forward, fist in his hair, tearing his head back to bare his throat. She swiftly sliced through his neck, a cascade of crimson showering the dock. She grinned as she dropped his body and flipped up onto the railing deftly running along the edge. Sneaking behind the sailor locked in battle with Pellius, she winked at him before thrusting her dagger through the back of the sailors neck. It was not long before the last of the crew fell to the blades of the bound.
Working quickly, they stripped the crew and the ship of any valuables, before flooded the hull and slowly sinking the ship.
From the bowels of the vessel, Willow taken the wooden crate that had been marked as emergency rations. Six bottles of whiskey, a staple for every dire emergency. She handed a bottle to each of them, eyeing the old man warily before winking and tossing him one. As the strolled from the hidden wreckage, she pulled the cork free, and took a long swig from the dark burning liquid. If there was a positive to their swim ashore, it had at least washed away the majority of the blood.

They arrived in Aldencross just as dusk was falling. The found an Inn taking travellers, by the name of the Lord’s Dalliance. It wasn't much by the way off accommodation; but it had a bed to sleep, water to bathe and food to eat.
Her room window faced west, and as she stared into the blackness that was the night, she smiled. He was with her here as He was always. She lifted her hand and traced the inverted pentagram into the air.
As she closed her eyes she breathed deep and whispered, “Hail Asmodeus...”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:11 AM
Chapter 4 - Reconnaissance

Glistening sunlight shimmered through the windowpane, casting beams of warmth across the wooden floorboards. Willow awoke with a clear head and a determined chin. They required information. They needed a way into the Watchtower and they needed to know what they would face within. The traveller’s inn they had taken up residence in, was a perfect place for that kind of information. While the others skirted about town, Willow headed to the bar at the Inn, dressed in her adventuring gear and a friendly smile on her face. The barkeep introduced himself as Bellum Barhold, the owner of the Inn.
“Lady Kathryn,” she introduced herself, “Of House Fairholm of Matharyn. I am but an adventurer, striding across the country, seeing the sights, and successfully avoiding my marital duties.”
Bellum laughed, “And what can I do you for?”
She saw the impressive range of wine along the shelves, and asked after a recommendation of a fine vintage. Excited and a little thrilled, he whisked off to the cellar, returning with tall bottle of elven red. As he poured her a glass, Willow read the elven script on the label and smiled.
“Forest Elixir, vintage 4715,” she praised, “Such a strong robust red. Beautiful.”
Bellum seemed impressed and complimented her pallet, excitedly offering her a tour of his wine cellar, to which she smiled and accepted. As she admired his selection, such rare, uncommon and exotic wines, she was reminded of her own cellar back home. A strange longing welled in her chest for only a moment, before she shook her and pushed aside her thoughts. That life was done. She would build a new one on the bones of her past.

As dusk fell, the Inn filled with local soldiers and workmen coming to drink their days away. Willow continued her idle chatter with the barkeep as she watched a group of dwarves enter and set up at a table. She listened to them talk in dwarven about their hard days work up at the watch on the trebuchet and the siege weapons. She continued to listen as she asked the barkeep for a round for the table of whatever they were drinking. Willow smiled as she stepped over to the table, putting the round of drinks down, she winked at the dwarf who looked like he was in charge.
“Sorry for listening in,” she said in dwarven, “but it sounds as if you lads a rough day.”
The leader looked Willow over for a moment before laughing and agreeing with her. He offered her a seat next to him, introduced himself as Barnibus Eisenbauch and took a swig of his drink. The rest of the dwarves cheered and downed their cups.
“So tell me lass,” Barnibus said, “How'd a young kid like you come upon learning dwarven?”
“My father is a diplomat to the south, in Matharyn,” she smirked, “I suppose he wanted me to follow in his footsteps.”
One of the dwarves piped up, “Matharyn? What's his name, I might know him?”
The Fairholm’s were only a minor noble family she remembered through her work at the mayor’s office, she knew how unlikely it would be that they would be recognised.
“Alright now all the formalities are out of the way,” said Barnibus, his voice turning dramatic, “The real question is! Do you know how to play Hammer and Anvil?”
Willow laughed and shook her head. After she threw in twenty two gold pieces, she was dealt in to the game. She tried to follow as best she could, but the strange and obscure rules had her chuckling at her own mistakes. After two losses, she cheered out as she slapped down her last card in victory and scooped in her winnings. The dwarves laughed and called beginners luck, dealing the next round.
As she played, she made small talk about the dwarves work and got them chatting about the watchtower and its weaponry. Acting fascinated in the mechanics of the siege weapons, Willow pried for more details on the trebuchet and its location, noting the best way to disable it. She made sure not to stay on one topic for too long, drunk or not, she didn't need the dwarves to become suspicious. She asked about sights and people of interest around the place. One person in particular lit Willow’s curiosity. Every Monday, a lady known fondly as Mumma Giuseppe cooked a delicious venison and vegetable stew up at the watchtower for the soldiers, enough to feed all one hundred of them.
“How sweet of her,” Willow smiled, “It sounds perfect.”

As the night grew late, and the barkeep called for closing time, Willow approached the bar. As the guests and soilders departed for the evening, and Bellum wiped the counter with a sheet of cloth, Willow sat upon a stool and smiled.
“Seems like a hard night, can I buy you a drink?” she asked compassionately.
He smiled, “Yeah, I think I need it after all that rabble.”
He poured two tall glasses of the Forest Elixir, and toasted a thanks. They sat and chatted about the town and the latest local gossip. Willow listened as he told her the story of the Lord's Dalliance, the long standing rumour of an unfaithful lord, dallying with a young barmaid.
"How scandalous!" Willow laughed in mock outrage.
"It was!" Bellum laughed with her, "Even the name, controversial to say the least! Wouldn't get away with it if we were any closer to the capital."
"I struggle to see it fitting in between the Noble's Hollow and the Fragrant Lily," she joked.
"Indeed," he chuckled.
He refilled their cups and turned his back to wipe down the far bench. Willow reached into her pocket and silently pulled out a vial of poison, smiling easily, sipping from her glass. As he bent down to stack the mugs under the counter, she uncorked and swiftly emptied the contents into his glass. Sipping her wine, she stared out across the room. She laughed along when he made a joke about the very drunken dwarves snoring upstairs while he wiped down their table. She watched him, his footsteps slowing and as his eyelids starting to droop. Acting concerned, she asked if he was ok as he stumbled forward. He mumbled about being tired all of a sudden, apologised and turned to head for the stairs. Willow jumped up and caught him as the poison took hold and he fell unconscious, she was quick enough to catch him seconds before he smashed his face into the ground. She struggled with his weight and lowered him to the floor gently, dragging his body behind the bar, and set off down stairs to explore the basement. After searching the cellar and finding nothing but bottles and kegs of hard liquor, Willow took a bottle of 4675 whiskey and headed up stairs. As she passed the room Pellius was staying in, she noticed the flickering candle light from under his door. Being slightly drunk after the multiple bottles of wine she had drunk trying to keep up with the dwarves, she knocked on his door and leant up against the frame.
“So I might have poisoned the innkeeper,” she said in mock innocence, “And he might be passed out downstairs behind the bar.”
Pellius smiled, “And you need my help to get him upstairs?”
Willow smirked and nodded, “I’m good for helping them down, not helping them back up.”
They got him into his room and dropped him on the bed. Willow patted him down and searched through his pockets, as she pulled out a great wad of keys, she held them out to Pellius with a grin.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes minimum, two hours maximum,” she said as she lifted Bellum’s eyelid to see if they were still glazed, “Depends on how tough this guy is.”
Pellius didn't waste anytime, he took the keys straight to the room Barnibus was staying in. Willow prowled across silently, she muffled a giggle when he clanked the key in the hole, failing miserably in his attempt to be quiet. As the door opened, the overwhelming smell of ale and the booming snore coming from inside, reassured her that the dwarf was still out cold. As she delicately searched his pockets and his body, she rolled her eyes as she pulled out his Mitran pendant. She whipped her head around when she heard Pellius mutter under his breath. She walked over to the desk and smiled to see architect maps of the watchtower. Knowing their fifteen minutes were nearly up, Willow snuck back into the Bellum's room to replace his keys while Pellius made a copy of the maps. As she closed his door silently, she saw Pellius leaving Garvana’s room. She quirked her eyebrow in question, and as he passed he held up a wooden symbol of Asmodeus. She frowned for a moment, watching him enter the dwarf’s chamber. When she realised he was planning to set up Barnibus with charges of devil worship, she sighed internally. She knew at some point they would have to get rid of Barnibus, after all he was the one in charge of fixing the tower, but she had kind of liked the brutish dwarf.
Willow dawdled to her room as Garvana ran off to find the guard. She uncorked the whiskey and took a swig. She sat in silent prayer while the guards came through, finally managing to rouse the drunken dwarf and took him in protest away. She prayed, and as she felt her Infernal Lord’s touch, she let go of her feelings towards the dwarf. He would be punished for the same reason she would be if she was caught. If he knew who she was, he would not hesitate to turn her over for the same fate he was now facing. They all would. She would die for the Prince of Darkness, she would sacrifice herself if need be, and everyone else. She took a deep breath and let him swarm through her veins. She was his, and in the end, nothing else mattered.

The group spent the next few days gathering information, listening to rumours and investigating their truth. Willow had even heard a rumour about a secret passage way from the Lord’s Dalliance to the keep. When she returned to the Inn that evening and slyly asked Bellum about it, he laughed a little too firmly as he denied its existence, and Willow was sure that there was some truth to it. She waited until the middle of the night and everyone was asleep before she started strapping on her gear. As she reached for her door handle she froze as she heard footsteps shuffling towards the stairs. She silently opened her door and saw a silhouette tiptoeing downstairs, so she crept after the figure on light feet.
As they turned left and head down the basement stairs, Willow was right on their tail. She hid behind one of the large ale barrels and let her eyes adjust. She heard the sounds of stone scraping against stone as she watched a part of the wall open, she smiled as she recognised the familiar sound of a pressure stone being activated as the wall closed.
She sat perched behind the barrels and waited. Forty minutes passed before she heard the pressure stone and the scraping again. Her eyes had adjusted enough to make out Bellum carrying two bottles of wine as he passed her on his way up the stairs. She waited until she heard him enter his room and lock the door before she approached the wall. She traced her hand over its surface and found a slightly smoother stone in the left corner. She pressed it in and watched as a pitch black tunnel was revealed in front of her. Willow considered going ahead on her own, but thought better of it; if it did lead to the keep, she may have needed some help. She slipped up the stairs and approached the room Pellius was in. She went to knock but stopped herself as her lips crept into a mischievous smile, and venereal thoughts flooded her mind. She silently picked his lock, and softly pushed on the door. She scoffed as the door stuck on something heavy jammed behind it. She rolled her eyes as she knocked loud enough to wake him. Willow laughed as he opened the door and she saw him holding his massive axe.
“Don't like late night visitors, huh?” she said cheekily, eyeing his axe, “No fun.”
She slinked into his room, closed the door and told him about the secret passage she had found.
“Did you see where it led?” he asked, pulling a shirt over his head.
Willow’s grin came back as she raked her eyes over his sculpted torso, “By myself?”
Pellius smirked and shooed her out the door.
Together they followed the tunnel uphill by candlelight. After a while they came to another stone wall, Willow traced her hands along it looking for a similar smooth stone. When she found it, she leant over and blew out the candle as she pressed the stone in. It opened into a room that appeared as the vault of the Balentyne keep. Filled with long term food rations, water barrels, weapons and mundane gear like candles and blankets. She smiled as she perused the room, it was indeed a brilliant place to start.

While Willow had been busy sourcing her information from rumours spoken by the locals who frequented the tavern, the others had not been idle. Pellius returned with information of the patrolling captain and his men, camped just south of Balentyne. Teelee had learnt of a deathly poison kept within the magister’s chamber in the keep, a vile and putrid broth known as wolfsbane. For their plan to poison Mumma Giuseppe’s stew, they needed a vast amount of the average poison, or something strong enough to spread thin.
“I’ll go,” Willow offered, “While you four take care of the captain and his rangers, I’ll infiltrate the watchtower.”
“That is a very dangerous plan, my lady,” Pellius frowned.
“All the fun ones are, good sir,” she smirked.
“At least you will have the distraction of that bard retinue in town,” he shrugged, “If you are to infiltrate, that may be your best distraction.”
“I cannot see another way,” Garvana said, brow pulled tight, “We need the poison. Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Willow’s eyebrows slowly rose, “I am more than up to it.”

As night fell, and the others prepared to head into the forestry, she braided her hair back and donned her armour and gear. She double checked that she had her poisons and potions, strapping on her daggers and her blow gun, pulling on Pellius' boots. He had lent them to her with a grin, ‘good for jumping and landing’ he’d said with a wink.
She snuck downstairs and met him in the basement. They walked in silence through the tunnel and when they reached the other end, she hissed out the breath she’d been holding.
“Will you pray with me?” she asked seriously.
He looked slightly shocked by her request, but after a moment took her hand and began a short prayer to Asmodeus. As he spoke, Willow could feel the Dark Prince encompass her in a fiery searing warmth, burning her, guiding her.
“Hail Asmodeus,” Pellius finished.
Willow smiled, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, feeling the fiery wave zap him.
Before stepping through the arched passage, she looked to him and whispered, “Hail Asmodeus.”

Climbing through the trap door in the ceiling of the vault, Willow found herself in the forge. Drinking down her first invisibility potion, she followed the map they had copied from Barnibus, heading up the stairs on the eastern wall into a room filled proudly with flags marking the lineage of the commanders of Balentyne.
Two guards were leaning casually against the far wall, chatting easily about the festivities and performance that they’d be missing while on duty. Although they weren't paying much attention to their surroundings, they were directly facing the door into the courtyard. Willow did not wish to chance her exit, so she crept passed them and followed the spiral stairs further up into the tower. As she entered an unguarded room of arrow slits, she approached the holes thoughtfully. She guessed it would be a tight squeeze, but she surmised she’d be able to slide through into the courtyard. She did her best to hold in her laugh when she had the most trouble fitting her chest through the slit, and although it took longer than she would’ve liked, with a little shuffling she managed to slide through. Once free of the wall, she fell toward the stones and felt the strangest sensation as the boots pulled towards the ground. As she impacted, she landed in a crouch, eyes scanning her surroundings. Creeping along the path towards the keep, she cursed under her breath as she saw the only way in was through the main chamber. The one room packed with every off duty soldier and staff member as they watched the grand performance. She took a deep breath and clutched her Asmodean pendant tightly. Keeping her breathing even, she focused on each footstep as she took them, lightly transferring her weight from one foot to another. She made it across the hall, weaving silently in between chairs, reaching the side of the front row. As she continued forward, she noted the important members of the watch all lined in the front row. Those she assumed were the captains, the priest and the magister.
As Willow took another step, she was hit with a wave of sickening divine energy. She looked over into the centre of the front row and saw a man with an intimidating forceful presence, staring straight at her. Willow’s stomach quivered in revulsion, and it was only sheer will that kept her from whimpering out loud. She knew instantly that he was the Commander. His eyes pierced through her confidence, his intensity drained the blood from her hands and feet. She froze, clenching her pendant tighter and as she held her breath. When he made no move to stop her, she kept her eyes locked on him as she stepped forward silently. His eyes seemed to follow her for a moment longer before he shook his head and turned back to the play. Feeling the sweat drip from her forehead, Willow forced herself to stay calm and continue on, through the stage curtains and up the stairs into the keep. She leaned back against the wall, catching her rapid breaths, heart racing and blood coursing in vigorous anxiety. He was a man she did not wish to meet alone, nor ever again.
As she gathered herself, she saw the stone brick room guarded by two men. They were stationed directly in front of the door Willow needed to pass through. With no alternative, she slipped out her blowgun and drew her aim. In quick succession, she blew the darts doused in taggit oil, piercing them both in the neck. It took a moment for the guards to realise what had happened, both clutching their throats, slurred words falling from their mouths. Willow quickly drank down another potion, pressed tightly against the wall as they did a sweep of the room seeking their attacker. As the poison took effect, both bodies slumped to the ground in quiet thuds of metal upon stone. She quickly searched the doors nearby and found an empty room, littered with horrible stains and claw marks; much like those seen in interrogation chambers. Willow spied a small inscription at the back of the room scratched into the stone. She smiled as she saw the five pointed star of Asmodeus, accompanied by the sinful words – Send us Vengeance, O Prince.
Willow swiftly dragged the slumped bodies into the room, smiling as she sealed the door.
After creeping along silently, passing the guards and dodging the patrols, Willow finally found the magister's room. As she opened the door, a cold breeze wafted from the chamber. Slipping inside and closing the wooden door, her steps faltered. It was an uneasy stomach that she looked over an ice form, laying upon a table in the centre of the room. She watched as cracks formed along the figure, before slickly sealing themselves. Taking a breath to steady herself, she crept to the shelves covered in vials and alchemical ingredients. When she saw the words Concentrated Wolfsbane, Willow was thankful this magister seemed organised enough to label his poisons. She grabbed the vial and stowed it in her pouch, keeping one eye on the ominous ice form. She didn't linger, tiptoeing out as fast as she could, letting out a sigh of relief once the door closed behind her.
It was on quick and light feet that took her upward to the last level of chambers under the roof. As she crested the top of the stairs, she was met by a set of ornate large double doors. The entrance spoke of great importance. Although was tempted to have a peek, a sickly feeling of dread came over her when the commander flashed through her mind. She had to get out of the keep, and quick. She silently swung the trap door to the roof open, and slithered through the gap. As she gently closed it behind her, she looked up to see the massive trebuchet standing tall looming over the gatehouse. Five guards were standing to the side, shivering and complaining about the cold. Willow felt the chill as her lungs filled with outside air. She approached the edge cautiously as the wind whipped her hair into her face. She took a deep breath and she prayed. She prayed that Pellius had been truthful about the boots. She promised that if he hadn't, she would live long enough to take his head from his shoulders.
She gripped her pendant close and held her breath as she stepped off the ledge. She kept in her breath as she fell and watched the path closing in, only metres from the ground did she feel the boots pulling downward. Dirt and dusk blew up in a great cloud as she landed in a crouch. Though she struggled to breathe, the wind had been knocked out of her chest – she was alive. She quickly prowled across the courtyard, and headed for the door to the flag room. As she reached for the handle, she felt the ripple of arcana as her invisibility vanished. She panicked, grabbing the last vial and pouring it down her throat as she dove behind the cover of the stables. When she looked back into the courtyard, she shivered as she saw the commander standing at the door to the hall, arms crossed, eyes scanning. He made Willow's skin crawl, the fierce righteous might radiating from him like a pulsing wave. He would not go down easy. He would be the hardest part of their task.
Willow shrugged off the awful feeling he gave her and headed back for the door. She silently unlatched the handle and softly pushed it open, doing her best to mimic the wind.
“Damn latch is still broken,” called one of the guards, “Thought those dwarves were gonna fix it?”
As they neared the archway, she snuck by them and headed for the vault without delay. As she dropped into the pitch black room, she lit her torch and quickly pushed in the pressure stone. The scraping of stone on stone sounded as the passage was once again revealed. Willow took off at a run, winding through the darkened path with a grin lighting her face.
“We're really going to do this,” she said to herself with determination, “We're going to take this place down...”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:13 AM
Chapter 5 - Sewing the Seed

Dusk departed the far northern lands of Alden Cross, with the shadow of night sweeping the mountainous range in deafening blackness. By the dim light of a simmering torch, Willow ran through the winding tunnel towards the cellar of the Lord’s Dalliance. As she reached the hidden stone wall, she doused her flame and listened intently to the far side. When no sound of scuff came from the wine cellar, she pushed in the pressure plate and slipped through. She crept up the stairs from the basement and could her first opportunity to blend in with the raucous guests that lingered drunkenly near the bar. Casually, she returned to her chamber, locking the door behind her. Before stripping her armour off, she found the wooden board she had loosened in the corner of the room and levered it up with her dagger. She carefully placed the vial of poison in the shadowed hole, next to the runic metal brand she had taken from the prison.
As she lifted her pendant over her head, she held it to her lips for a moment, inhaling deeply through her nose. She had infiltrated a watchtower guarded by more than one hundred men. She had walked right through the keep's front doors in plain sight, trusting in the magic from a vial and her own ability to go unnoticed. She had come face to face with the legendary Lord Commander, and she had kept strong to her task. It was pride that swelled her chest. Though his stare may have incited fear in her heart, it was but a drop in an ocean compared to the fear her Dark Prince incited in her soul. She served him, and while she served him, she would face anything he asked of her.

After changing from her armour, she found most of the group and called a meeting in her chamber. Although she looked for Pellius throughout the inn, no one had seen him return after their mission was completed within the forest. As they dragged the table from the corner and unfurled the parchment map of the tower, Willow looked to the others.
“You were successful?” she asked Garvana.
Though she was sure that they had been, for they had returned on time, she did not miss the fragile state they were in. She could hear Garvana's staggered chest wheezing, and saw strange bite marks on Mathias that had barely closed over.
“We were,” Garvana grunted.
Willow frowned, looking for more of an explanation. When none came, she sighed.
“And?” she said, “Are the captain and all of his rangers taken care of?”
“Dead,” Mathias snapped, “Yes. Clearly, or we wouldn’t be here.”
“And Pellius?”
“No idea,” he grouched, “Took off after we finished. Thought he’d be back here.”
Willow shook her head and began scribbling the details she could remember from each room she passed within the watchtower. She explained what she came across, focusing on the features of each room and its number of doors, windows, guards and weapon stashes. When she spoke of the Commander, she noted the sickening aura that radiated from him, yet downplayed the fear and terror he had made her feel. She hoped they didn't notice the way her voice spiked as she mentioned him.

It was an our later that Pellius returned, with a look of subtle defeat furrowing his brow. He explained that he had also tried to infiltrate the keep looking for information on its layout and weaponry. His solo mission had not been so successful. Willow couldn't help but smirk when he told her how he had lost his weapons within his first five minutes. She listened to his story, and watched the sweat form on his forehead as he spoke of his encounter with the commander. She took a little solace in the fact that Pellius, the strong and proud dark paladin, felt the same fear that she did.
As she listened, she filled in the map with the details he provided of the lower levels of the watchtower.
“This is good,” Willow commented, writing out a list of priorities for their siege upon the tower, “Very good.”
They designated tasks out for the next day, each of them to source more information from different avenues. As they said their goodnights, Willow wandered down the stairs to the bar, and struck up easy conversation once again with the innkeeper. Getting answers through flattery and friendly prodding was always the easiest way. The man was a major gossip, if anyone had the information she needed, it was him.

As the sun rose over the mountains on the following morning, Willow donned her adventuring gear, braided her hair into pigtails and dotted her cheeks with carmine. They had developed a rouse to inspect the tower’s main defences and the gatehouse itself. She was to play the part of an innocent faced noble, naïve and young seeking glory passed the infamous wall. She was always so convincing when she tried to look young and innocent, she had spent much of her life before her downfall acting the same part.
She met Pellius in the dining area, chuckling at his gruff mercenary outfit, and ushered him out the door. They strode up to the keep on horseback, with the task of information on the layout, defences and specific weaponry. Two guards stood at the front gates, watching their approach.
“I am the Lady Kathryn of House Fairholm of Matharyn,” she said proudly, “And I wish to pass through this tower and head into the northern lands.
“The north is no place for a noble lady such as yourself,” the guard frowned.
“Yes yes, so I’ve heard,” she said, rolling her eyes, “So many people with opinions on what is and isn't a place for this lady. Nevertheless, I wish to head north.”
The guard looked in questions over her shoulder to Pellius. Looking severely unimpressed, he simply shrugged.
“Madam, I do not think you understand what you're asking,” said the other guard, wide eyed, “The north is a savage place full of horrifying dangers!”
Willow cocked an eyebrow and smiled coldly.
“My dear soldier,” she said softly, “I do not believe it is your place to question what it is I do or do not understand. I wish to see the infamous north for myself. So fetch the captain and let us get things moving.”
The guards looked to one another; one shrugged and the other shook his head. After a short time, an unfortunate unattractive man clad in heavy steel armour, approached Willow with a face of clear annoyance. He looked her up and down and shook his head.
“So you want to enter the north,” snapped the captain, “Look mam, outside that wall is no joke, no pleasure cruise, no royal hunt. Its savage lands, bloodthirsty beasts and imminent death. What in the world could a child like you want with it?”
“Adventure captain!” Willow said, brightly wide eyed.
“There's plenty of sheep to chase south of the wall,” he grunted.
Willow raised her unimpressed eyebrows, “Maybe I like to chase really big sheep.”
Not a single muscle in the captain’s face moved, “They're called cows."
His lip pulled up in a hint of a smile as he chuffed at his own joke.
“Captain,” Willow said firmly, “I wish to head north. I thank you for your opinion and advice, but it is my decision. And I will be heading north.”
The captain stared into her eyes for a moment before his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat.
He looked behind her at Pellius, “And you're letting her do this?”
“Not my call,” Pellius replied curtly, “Family's paying me good gold to follow her around wherever she wants to gallivant.”
Scoffing in response, the captain simply shook his head and led them into the keep. She slid gracefully form her steed and guided it through the entryway. Looking around with inquisitive eyes, Willow took note of how many guards were stationed and where. She noted the large iron barred double doors on the southern side of the bridge, the twenty foot drawbridge on the northern side, the murder-holes in the gatehouse and large cast iron pots around the edge of the ten foot murder-hole in it's ceiling. She entered the gatehouse and stood in front of the large iron portcullis keeping her from the savage north. In perfect feigned anxiety and fright, she stared at the gate wide eyed, and looked through the murder holes.
“I-Is all this really n-necessary?” she stuttered.
“Of course it is,” the captain said sternly, “The evil terrors of the north could not be contained otherwise. Last chance, do you still wish to go?”
Willow faked flustered.
“Yes! Of course. B-but,” she stammered, “I've, i've... left my good boots behind! Yes! In the inn! I must go get them!”
She spun on her heel, pulling her horse with shaking hands, striding back towards the entry. She saw the captain and Pellius make eye contact, mirrored faces of annoyance and frustration. As they mounted their horses and continued towards the town, when she was sure they were out of earshot of the keep, Willow innocently batted her eyelids at Pellius.
“Oh, my dear captain,” she said patronisingly, “I think it's the evil terrors right under your nose that you need to be worrying about…”

As the twilight hours of dusk came and the group returned to the inn, they all had news to share. Willow and Pellius filled in the map with further details, drawing out the important pieces of weaponry they knew they’d have to disable. Mathais had spent his day listening in to news on the missing patrol. The priest of the tower had begun an investigation, suspecting foul play after evidence of a battle was found at the camp site. Garvana had been searching for information on the commander's late wife, and found only that it had been a decade since her demise. Willow was impressed when she heard Teelee talk of her day spent with Captain Mott's wife. She had not only found out about an affair with Captain Eddarly, but she had found out that once again they would meet for a secret rendezvous that night. They devised a plan to stir discontent in the captain ranks, forging an anonymous note with the details, waiting until the cover of night to deliver it.
Relaxing by the fireplace in the tavern, it was passed midnight when word came in rush from a band of soldiers. Mott had caught the pair in each others arms, and had issued a formal challenge of duel at the hour of dawn.

As they slept through the hours of night, Willow woke with a burning rush that seared down her body. She couldn't stop a moan from escaping as she forced herself up and the heat pulsed in fiery bliss. She tried to concentrate through the searing warmth; something was close, something with a strong connection to Asmodeus. She forced herself to ignore the burn so she could determine where it was coming from, but by the time she had narrowed it down to the rooms to the right of her, the feeling vanished. Breathing heavily, she laid her head down, waiting for the feeling to return. After an hour she felt her eyes drift close. It was a curiosity to be sure, but she smiled, basking in the residual warmth as she fell back into the lands of slumber.

As the sun rose over the mountains, Willow and the others stood with the crowd of townsfolk and watched the two men prepare to duel. Mott was a sturdy fierce man, solid in his defence as he waited for an opening. It did not take long, Mott was not there to simply teach the man a lesson. When his chance came, he lunged and cleave down his halberd deep into Eddarly's chest. As he slumped to the ground in a shower of scarlet, Mott pulled his bloodstained weapon free as the crowd cried out in horror. Duelling unto death, a crime punishable by beheading. A man resigned to his fate, he did not struggle as the guards in the crowd surrounded him and put him under arrest.
While the others went to watch the sentencing and explore more of the keep, Willow was struck with an idea. Three of the watch’s captains were now either dead or incarcerated. There was one last captain that they had to eliminate. She returned to the inn, and spoke to the innkeeper Bellum, the brother of Captain Sam Barhold. With a few sly hints and sighs of admiration, he winked and promised to introduce her to him next time he came in for a meal.
The others returned from the watchtower with the tragic news of Mott’s sentence. As they gathered around the table in Willow’s chamber, she was pleased with the decision to begin their assault and start sewing the seed of fear and angst into the ranks of the watchtower. Their first target was the rookery. With no quick way for the guards to call for reinforcements, they could take their time and thin out the defences, one by one.
They waited until dark, and together crept out into the tunnel, carrying a tray of meat laced with enough arsenic to poison hundreds of ravens. They followed the winding passage by torchlight, clad in armour, weapons strapped tight. As the stone wall into the vault scraped open, a sudden squeal had Willow’s head snap up. Bellum Barhold stood in front of her, two bottles of wine in hand, a face stricken with fright. Willow cursed as dove over the barrels, narrowing dodging the shatter of glass as he threw the bottle on impulse. She swiftly tumbled and landed on her feet, lunging in quickly with her dagger poised at the back of his neck.
“I'd suggest you stay calm,” she warned quietly, “And keep your voice down.”
“Y-yes, yes,” he said shakily, “I think I’ll do that.”
She pressed the dagger a little firmer on the back of his neck, “Calmly, quietly, inside the tunnel.”
With trembling hands held high, he fumbled into the tunnel with his hands up.
Willow sighed, looking to Pellius, “What are we going to do with him?”
“Do it!” Garvana said, staring fiercely at the dagger Willow was holding.
With a furrowing brow, Willow’s mind raced for a way out, for any other solution.
“Who are you people?!” Bellum stuttered loudly, “What are you planning?”
With an exhaled of frustration and anger, she grabbed his hair and held tight as she drove the dagger into the top of his spine, killing him as quickly and painlessly as she could. He fell forward as his body collapsed to the floor. She hissed out a breath, cursing viciously under her breath.
“It had to be done,” Pellius said sombrely.
“I know that!” Willow snapped, “It does not mean I am glad for it.”
He gave her a moment, as she continued to curse under her breath. Frustrating as it may have been, she understood that he needed to die. She saw no other way around it.
“Come along, my lady,” Pellius said gently, “We have much to do. There will be many sacrifices along our path, it is what must be done…”

Using the strange arcana of their circlets, they formed their frames to mirror the guards and servants. Willow took the lead, carrying the large tray of raw meat, passing guards on watch as she walked up the winding staircase towards the rookery. As she reached the door, the others hid as she knocked.
“What da ya want?” a voice grouched.
“I’ve got feed for the ravens,” Willow called, “Come on now, the trays heavy!”
“They’ve already got their dinner,” he barked.
“Come on Martin,” she sighed, “Commander’s orders. He’s worried some one might have tried to poison the birds, what with all this strange happenings around the keep.”
“Poison ya say?” he questioned worriedly, “Why’d they do a thing like that?”
“Martin!” Willow snapped, “I’ve spent the last hour carving this damn boar, my shift is done, my kids are waitin’. Just let me in!”
With muttered grumbling, she heard the sound of several locks being unlatched. As he opened the door, Willow smiled and handed him the tray. As the weight fell heavy in his hands, she slyly unsheathed her dagger and walked in the rookery passed him.
“Let me get the other tray,” she sighed, “Damn birds.”
As she strolled passed him, Pellius suddenly leaped from his hiding place, ploughing into the frail man and rushed him backwards into the room. Mathias dove from behind the pillar, lunging forward and piercing Martin's chest with the rapier. As a cry of pain and surprise escaped his mouth, Willow leaped in from the side and plunged her dagger deep into his windpipe. It was quick and efficient, and most importantly relatively quiet. They set up the poisoned meat for the ravens and quickly searched Martin's belongings, using his keys to lock in his corpse and the feasting birds. As the sound of a signal horn blew a short burst, signalling the change of the guard shifts, they quickly descended the stairs back towards the hidden tunnel. With their small objective completed, they made their return to the inn, sheltered by the cover of darkness and the warmth of success.


The dawn sun rose, as Willow woke with an uneasy stomach. They had made their first real offensive move, and it was one that would surely be noticed. She knew alone, she would be able to blend in to the crowds and remain unseen. But there was nothing subtle about the group. They would just have to take it one day at a time, and always keep their main objectives priority; opening the gates, killing the commander and firing the signal rocket.
She dressed and strapped her daggers to her thighs, before headed downstairs to pretend to wait for breakfast. The group had decided the best plan to deal with the innkeepers sudden disappearance would be to pretend to know nothing. Keep their stories simple and act as shocked as everyone else.
When the barmaid arrived for work and the front door was still locked, she ran off to fetch the guards. Minutes later, Father Donnigan and Captain Barhold arrived, flanked by four guards. The captain barged the door open with his shoulder, shattering the lock, flinging it from the frame. The father had a friendly but firm tone as he requested for all of the inn's patrons to gather and await questioning. One by one the group were called in for solitary interviews.
As Garvana was called into the office first, Willow watched on with a look of feigned concern and confusion. It was almost a genuine look. The masculine woman may of had a strange approach to her life and duty, but she had grown on Willow. She did not want her to be captured. She did not want any of the bound to get captured, for they were her only allies in this world, and she knew not if they were strong enough to withstand interrogation and keep their secrets hidden.
While she waited for her turn, Willow mused on the curiosity of the souls she was bound to. Garvana was an odd woman, to say the least. But she had a twisted sense of humour and a strange intensity Willow liked. Teelee was a quiet and spoilt child, that much was always apparent. But she seemed to have a brilliant mind hidden underneath the layers of her cossetted attitude. Pellius was charming, handsome and arrogant. All bad things for Willow, but so very much fun. And even Mathias had a certain charm himself. An old fashioned misogynistic gentleman, who clearly believed women were below him. He had that kicked puppy charm about him; been wronged by the world, the black sheep, the underdog. Willow did not want to see any of them captured. For they had formed a strange sort of bond, and also because rescuing them spelt more work for her later on.
Willow and Pellius had spoken briefly of a plan if they were to be questioned. A ruse of an affair, giving plenty of cause for a story that may have lacked a few clear facts or held a few mistakes. As they sat and waited for their turn, he made eye contact with Willow and cocked his eyebrow in question. The corner of Willow's mouth turned up in a smirk as she placed her hand high on his thigh in answer.
As Teelee was called in and Garvana was escorted back to her seat, Willow wanted to know what was asked, and what she had said. But the four guards were keeping a fairly close eye on them and she knew better than to risk it. When it was Pellius’ turn, Willow squeezed his upper thigh slightly digging her nails in before he stood, making sure he knew that she had understood his plan. After only a few minutes, that felt much longer, she saw the door open and watched Pellius stroll back to the table. They pointed to Mathias and ushered him inside the small chamber. Pellius sat down and leaned back in his chair, placing his hand on Willow's thigh, squeezing tightly.
The anticipation grew as Willow waited for herself to be beckoned forth, and as the old man strode out with his usual swagger, she forced herself not to roll her eyes at him. She scoffed in her head, there was something about him that blossomed an irrational need to act like a child. The guards escorted her into the office, and indicated for her to a seat against the wall.
“Sorry for the trouble,” Father Donnigan said sincerely, “But we need to ask you a few questions, miss...?”
Willow smiled gently.
“Fairholm,” she said sweetly, “Lady Kathryn Fairholm.”
The priest furrowed his brow, “Fairholm? Minor noble house of -”
“- Lendaryl, Matharyn Province, yes,” Willow answered for him.
“Ah yes,” he said, “I remember reading something about your family...”
Willow smiled, “Of my Father no doubt, Theodore Fairholm, works as a diplomat in the Lendaryl Mayor's office.”
“Ah, I see. Yes, Theodore,” the priest muttered, “Lands of wheat, yes?”
“Corn, Father,” Willow corrected.
“Ah yes. Corn,” he nodded, looking up from his note book, “The odd thing is I remember young Lady Kathryn was a beautiful thing of brown ashen hair...”
Willow gave him a wry smile, “Oh I’m sorry father, you must be mistaken. Our family tree has been laden with hair of aubrun for generations.”
She tried to sound helpful, “Perhaps you're thinking of the Fairmont's from Aberthall? I studied with their eldest, Lady Caitlyn, long brown hair. And I believe they grew wheat as well?”
Father Donnigan smiled, “Perhaps.”
“Alright Lady Fairholm,” he said, “When did you last see Mr Barhold, the innkeeper?”
Willow frowned, “Bellum? Why, yesterday lunchtime I suppose. Why is that? Is he alright?”
“That is what I’m here to find out Lady Fairholm,” he said, “You knew him on a first name basis? Can I ask what your relationship was with him?”
“It was a mutual love of fine wines,” she said truthfully, “Such a connoisseur, great selection, impressive taste. Oh my, I hope nothing has happened to him.”
“As do we all. And may I ask, how did he seem yesterday?”
“Just as normal, happy to take my gold and feed me wine,” she chuckled.
“I see,” he said humourlessly, “May I enquire as to what brought you into town?”
“Oh, adventure Father,” she said bright eyed, “I had planned on adventuring north of the wall, but alas, the solicitous captain I spoke with persuaded me otherwise.”
“Indeed,” he said, not looking up from his note book, “And you are adventuring alone?”
Willow chuckled again, “Of course not, Father. Johnston, my bodyguard, is with me ever vigilant.”
“Indeed,” he repeated, “And what were you doing last night?”
Willow feigned a look of fluster, “Late dinner, a bit of light reading.”
“And is that all?”
“Well... no... Father...” Willow forced a blush, “There was some.... other...”
“Other?” he queried.
She looked down at her hands and begun twirling her fingers, “A... visit, with Mr Johnston.”
The priest looked up from his book, “Please be more specific Lady Fairholm.”
“Father!” she said in indignation, “You would not ask a Lady to verbalise those activities, would you?”
“I do apologise Lady Fairholm,” he said genuinely, “But with the nature of the crimes we are investigating, I’m afraid I must insist.”
Willow hung her head and stuttered, “Yes Father. I-I went to him.. and... w-we lay together.”
“In his room, you say?” he said, without missing a beat.
Willow froze momentarily. A simple detail, but they had not covered such things.
“Yes Father,” she continued, her head bowed avoiding eye contact.
She figured Pellius would take the dominant road and make things on his terms. A sudden fear simmered in her stomach, she could only hope she was right.
“Thank you, child,” he said, “Oh, and one last question, did you two come into town alone?”
Willow looked up and quirked her head, “No, we followed a group of others here. As my father says, safety in numbers.”
“Specific names of the people in the group, Lady Fairholm?”
“Oh Father,” she said wide eyed and innocent, “I'm sorry, I just don’t remember the common rabble. Maybe one of two of the others staying here?”
“Very well,” he said dryly, “Well thank you Lady Fairholm, you may head back outside. We'll call you back if we need more information.”
Willow stood from her seat and shyly made her way out of the office. As she returned to her seat, Garvana was called upon again. She rose from her seat and returned to the office, looking determined and fearless. Willow was desperate to ask Pellius of his answer, but the watchful eye of the guards satyed her once again. A few moments later, Garvana was carried out of the room by Captain Barhold, gagged and bound. She struggled against her bonds, until she tied securely and placed behind the bar guarded by a soldier. Willow let out a gasp of shock and used the opportunity to huddle against Pellius.
She turned her faced to his neck and whispered, “Your room, right?”
He placed a comforting arm over her shoulder and squeezed.
“Yeah,” he said, “It'll be alright miss.”
Willow exhaled in relief. She frowned when Father Donnigan called for Teelee again. As she leant forward, they sat in silence while they waited. After only a few minutes, they walked Teelee out with her hands bound behind her back. As the priest and the captain closed up the office, Willow felt Pellius shift in his chair. She quickly laid a staying hand on his shoulder, squeezing firm. One of the guards looked at her questioningly, but she merely batted her eyelids in feigned worry and shock. As the guards dragged Garvana and Teelee out through the doors, the priest addressed the remaining guests.
“You are free to go,” he said politely, “I thank you for your time and patience. I am afraid you will have to find other accommodation, for the Lord’s Dalliance will be closed until further notice.”
Willow stood up, and rushed over to Father Donniagan, placing a gentle hand on his wrist.
“But Father,” she pleaded, “We were told this was the only inn that would take travellers. Where will we stay? Surely I’m not to sleep in a tent?!”
She did not care for sleeping in a tent, but it really did not matter. The ruse of keeping up appearances did.
He looked at her with empathetic eyes, “No of course not my child, head to the Brassbell at your earliest convenience. I shall send word and have a room available for you.”
“Oh thank you father, thank you...”

She quickly scaled the stairs and collected her belongings from her chamber, being swift and quiet about retrieving the items from her hidden plank. She slid the brand down her corset and stuffed the poison vial in her slip, putting the pendant around her neck, slipping it in her shirt. She handed Pellius the rest of her gear at the top of the stairs, muffling a laugh at his unimpressed look as she slinked down to the dining area. They found the Brassbell with little trouble, an establishment of higher class than the last. The bellhop greeted them at the door and ushered them inside the grand waiting chamber. He told them that Father Donnigan had already sent word along and had arranged a few suitable rooms.
“We'll take two rooms for five nights,” Willow said politely, smiling at the luxurious interior of the parlour.
“A room is twenty gold a night, my lady,” said the bellhop, “Paid in advance, of course.”
“Twenty!” barked Pellius, in his mercenary accent, “We only need one room!”
Willow rolled her eyes and thought it over, it would be much easier to escape by night if need be, if they were in the same room.
“Fine,” she huffed, “We'll take the one room, thank you.”
The bellhop looked shocked.
“My Lady,” he whispered scandalously, “The rooms only have one bed, large as they may be.”
Willow raised her eyebrow.
“We'll take the one room,” she said sternly.
“Yes, my lady,” he replied with a bow.
After showing them to their chamber, and he bowed to them before turning for the door, Willow saw the corner of his mouth lift up in the smallest of smirks as he made eye contact with Pellius. Once alone, Willow searched the room for somewhere she could stash her forbidden items, as Pellius went in search of breakfast. After testing the wooden floorboards and wall panels, she found a loose pane in one of the cupboards, removing it to fashion a small hidden alcove. She quickly slid her pendant, the vial of poison, the brand into the drawer before sealing it closed.
It was close on midday by the time she had settled and Pellius returned with food. She sat in the window seat that faced the keep, as she picked at her poached eggs, half expecting to have an army of guards charging down the hill towards her at any point in time. Mathias visited their chamber after lunch, remaining vague about his whereabouts, declining their offer to stay together. They wasted the day away by going over the rescue mission. Arousing more suspicion now would only indicate to the guards that there are more conspirators. The brands on both Garvana's and Teelee's wrists would be enough to have them locked up and awaiting their return to Branderscar. It would be at best weeks before the inquisitors could arrive to escort them back to their fates. The three of them knew they would be more likely to be successful in rescuing their companions if they tried when the keep was weakened.

When the sun set on that first night, Willow stepped out of the bath and entered the living area dressed only in her nightgown, her long auburn hair wet and flowing down her back. As she sat in the window seat and looked up at the bright shine of the moon, she realised that she had never shared a bed with any other man than her husband. She could not help but think about the dead weight he used to be. He was such a fine specimen of manhood. Sculpted torso, chiselled features, handsome face. A righteous, virtuous, faithful man. And yet, she felt nothing for him. She never did. She spent years of her life trying to force the feelings, she truly and honestly tried to learn to love him. He gave her his heart in full, and she still did not feel a thing for him. Not for all his suffering, his sacrifice and duty. He was weak. Pathetic. Ruled by a sense of fairness and justice – he embodied everything she despised about the lands of Talingarde.
She watched Pellius in the reflection in the window, as he stripped his shirt over his head, she watched the muscles across his back flex and release. She watched him bend forward and unstrap his boots, his firm behind strong and thick as the muscles craned down the back of his thighs. She tore her eyes away, chastising herself for her deliciously inappropriate thoughts.
“I know little about you, Pellius,” she said quietly, “The curious and handsome man from the far lands of Cheliax.”
“Handsome?” he repeated, a sly grin on his lips.
“Do not be coy,” Willow chuckled, “You are more than aware you are handsome. Tell me of yourself, what are you doing in Talingarde?”
“My lady,” he frowned, a guarded expression coming over his face, “I do not wish to speak of it. You will forgive me if I wish to keep my secrets as my own.”
Willow’s eyebrow arched in intrigue.
“You do not trust me?” she asked, a smirk lifting her lips, “Then you are wiser than I gave you credit. We are bound together, this is true. Yet, none of us know more of each other than simple crimes and reasons of our capture.”
She looked to him, a peculiar gleam to her eye. A strange curiosity he indeed was. She could feel Asmodeus within him, she knew his connection to her Dark Prince was strong and true.
“We do not have any other allies in this country,” she said, “We are alone. We will have to learn to trust one another in time. Of all of our allies, I feel the most drawn to you. Perhaps I can show you a little of me, for you may be the only one of the bound who can understand it…”
She stood from the window seat, strolling to her pack and removed the small silk pouch. She sprinkled the crimson grains of dried blood so lightly along the floor that the shape she was making was barley perceivable. As she finished the fifth point on the inverted pentagram, she stood back, inhaling sharply as she unlaced and dropped her nightgown. The cold chill seeping through the windowpane feathered against her bare skin. She delicately stepped into the centre of the star and lowered herself into a kneel. The spark of excitement ran through her veins, the nerves and anxious trembles pulsed low in her stomach. She had been praying this way since she was old enough to first truly feel the Lord of the Nine, but she had never prayed this way under the eyes of someone else.
“Hail, Asmodeus,” she whispered, the first wave of heat lick her flesh, “Deliver me from chaos that I may serve you in eternity. Unmake the lies of my body and reshape my soul in your design.”
As her rasped chant continued, the waves of warmth began to burn and simmer. She repeated the words she seared into her brain, begging her Prince for the chance to serve him. By the sixth round, she was chanting in between aching whimpers. The seventh, her knees began to buckle and her hands began to shake. The eighth, her chest was heaving as tears welled in her eyes, the blissful agony of Hell’s fiery rapture overwhelming her senses. As the ninth chant fell barely audible from her lips, she cried out through clenched teeth with the final wave of searing inferno swarming through her. The euphoric pain of her Infernal Prince’s touch blazed through her limbs, scorched it’s way through her chest and crushed her slender frame in it’s grip. Obediently, she held herself perfectly still while He settled in her veins, encompassing her in his profane and fiery wrath. It was only as his frightening grasp release, that she free her trembling exhale. On shaking and weathered legs she stood. She wiped away the grains with her foot, tenderly turning for the bed. She could feel the piercing gaze of Pellius’ sight, but she could not face questions or queries now. As she slid under the silken covers, she closed her eyes and willed sleep to take her quickly.

It would be Moonday that they would push their assault on Balentyne. They planned to meet early morning before the dawn, in the cellar of the Lord’s Dalliance, before making their way through the passage and into the tower.
Ealry Sunday evening, they ate and finished preparations for their tasks. Willow had snuck out earlier that day to steal a few bottles of wine from the cellar, sharing a few too many with Pellius over dinner. As she did every night, Willow bathed and dressed her hair with liquid myrrh cinnamon and cassia. The easy haze of warmed velvet wine settled well within her mind. As she watched Pellius change in the far corner of the bedchamber, his sharp physique and bare skin feeding her excitement, she felt the rapturous need for carnal pleasure. Slowly, she prowled towards him. Her long locks slicked along her back, her pale skin shimmering against the candlelight. She wore only the black laced slip, slim straps that draped the fabric loosely across her naked flesh beneath. As he heard her approach and tied his drawers around his waist, her turned to her, brow arched in question. She did not say a thing as she slowly sauntered towards him. She stared into his eyes, thrilled to see the mirrored spark of desire lit within his gaze. As she reached him, she traced her finger intimately slow, along his collarbone and upward along his neck. As she slid her fingers over his chin, she gently pulled his head downward. When he did not refuse or resist, the thundering need of lust overcame her senses. She lifted her head, bringing her lips to meet his, in a gentle and soft kiss. As her tongue slowly slipped between his lips to tenderly seek his, a wave of heat undulated through her limbs. Though the caress began as a leisurely exploration, he suddenly gripped her waist in a frightening embrace. He pulled her to him, crushing her small frame against his firm chest, his kiss deepening as his fingers latched through her hair. Their touch became almost desperate, teeth scraping against flesh, nails digging deep into each others skin. She ripped her mouth from him and rasped a panted breath. As he released her, she watched his eyes flash a fiery and fearsome scarlet. With a deep grin, she turned from him and slinked over to her bag, pulling free out a firm leather riding crop. As she had been strolling through the town that day, she had seen them in the window of a stable house, and been struck with the lecherous and sinful idea. As she walked on trembling legs, she knelt down and raised the crop up in both hands. She turned her head and looked deep within his curious and intense gaze.
“Will you help me pray?” she rasped, a tone tickled with mischief.
He prowled slowly to her, standing above her as his consuming gaze began to devour. She stared up through her eyelashes and shivered as he grabbed the crop by its handle and tested it with a loud lash to his hand. He grinned, disarming and sinful.
“This we give our Infernal Father, our obedience to him above all else...”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:14 AM
Chapter 6 - Thinning the Ranks

The first of the morning birds started their song, the sky still shadowed black as dawn slowly approached. The warmth of summer’s air lingered in soft breeze through the crack of the open window, the bright leaves upon the trees rustling under the weight of the singers’ wings. Willow awoke in the warm embrace of heavy solid toned arms. It took a moment for the reality to set in. The memories of the prior night swarmed back to her mind, unconsciously bringing a blush to her cheeks. She had never shared something so intimate with another soul. She had never bared herself so openly, her faith and devotion so completely on display. Even knowing Pellius shared her beliefs; through every step of their lustful and carnal joining, she had expected him to turn form her in revulsion. She had never known the feeling of real trust, she had kept her faith so hidden over the years, so sheltered from all watchful eyes. Yet, here she lay, in the arms of a man who knew her darkest and most well-kept secret, and who not only accepted it, but revelled in it.
Stepping out of the bed, she stretched her arms high and arched her back. She winced as the flesh pulled tight along the welts from the crop on her sides. She couldn't help but grin as she traced her fingers down their ridges. Walking gingerly, she tottered towards the bathroom on fragile legs. She grinned as she heard Pellius’ gratified laugh from the bed as she gave him a crude finger gesture before closing the door.
Under the cover of darkness, they met up with Mathias and broke into the secret tunnel within the Lord’s Dalliance. Their plan was to await the evening, to poison the stew and take out as many guards as possible, using the distraction to free Teelee and Garvana. They had a few hours to wait, so Willow retired a bottle of red from the cellar and they sat by torchlight, passing the time with a few rounds of cards.

They emerged silently from the tunnel after the sun had set, sneaking through the vault and into the forge. Willow had disguised herself as a plump female servant with unremarkable features and an aged forgettable face. Pellius and Mathias had disguised themselves as guards, planning to loiter in the walkway pretending to eagerly await the stew much like the rest of the guardsmen. It was Willow’s job to lace the cauldron with the concentrated wolfsbane. She took a large tray from the store room and hefted it through the hallway. Shuffling her footsteps, appearing busy and in a hurry, she barged the door open with her backside and navigated her way into the kitchens. As she entered, she saw the hefty size older woman known as Mumma Giuseppe. She was leaning over and stirring a large steaming cauldron, as the smell of spices and venison wafted throughout the room. To the left were a dozen kitchenhands, and an intimidating woman brandishing a rolling pin. Willow had to think of a way to get Mumma Giuseppe’s attention off the stew only for a moment. As she attempted to knock a servant over by bumping him firmly in the shoulder, perfect and terrible timing had him bent forward to adjust his laces. The movement sent Willow off balance as she tumbled over his back. The tray she was holding went clattering to the floor, and in a chorus of shouts of surprise, the kitchen staff all ran over to help. The fierce looking woman came barking towards Willow as she picked up the tray and quickly wiped it over at the sink.
“What’s wrong with yer girly!” she barked, clonking Willow over the head with the rolling pin, “Useless! Can't git decent help these days!”
Mumma Giuseppe turned away from her cauldron to calm the cook down.
“Come now, Larza,” she soothed, “They’re only children. And it’s only a tray.”
Willow took the opportunity to slip in behind her silently, emptying the vial into the broth. She watched the poison simmer on the top of the meaty stew, before being sucked under and absorbed into the chunks of venison. She quickly piled her tray with a few bowls of simple foods, sliced vegetables and meat, and a tankard of ale. A horn signalling the beginning of dinner sounded throughout the keep as Willow left the kitchen. She shuffled down the corridor making eye contact with Pellius, smiling with a nod to him as she continued on her way. With casual ease, the two men fell in behind her and followed her up the stairs and into the keep.
As Pellius and Mathias stopped to talk to the two guards standing on duty outside the cells, one of them stopped Willow as he put his hand out in her way.
“Are you busy at the moment mam?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Willow said politely, “What is it you were after my dear?”
“Would you have time to bring me up some of that stew after?”
She smiled compassionately, “Oh of course I will, I hear it's extra delicious tonight.”
“We’ll take over,” Mathias said, “We already got our share early.”
“Really?” the guard asked, “Oh, that’d be great. You two sure you’re alright to hold the post?”
Pellius laughed, “Yeah, go on.”
As the pair hurriedly made their way down the stairs, Willow smirked as she quickly put down the food tray and set about picking the lock on the door. She had it open in seconds and wasted no time, prowling in quickly and deftly unlocked the cell doors. As she threw the outfits at both women, the other prisoners started shouting out for the guards. She pulled out her bow and drew an arrow trained on Mot’s forehead, as Mathias did the same to Barnibus. With no where to run or hide, it was swift and quick that they fell, silencing their cries for help.
Willow quickly went to check the women over, both of whom looked drained and exhausted. As Willow approached Teelee, who hadn't said a word since being freed, a frantic signal horn sounded an alarm. She placed a firm hand on Teelee’s shoulder.
“No time for sorrows,” she said softly, “Take this and get to the tunnel. You remember where it is?”
Teelee took the invisibility potion and nodded. She drank it down in a gulp and she was gone. Willow turned to see Garvana pacing the floor, she spoke an enchanted incantation and disappeared, sounding footsteps travelling up to the next floor. Willow shook her head and transformed herself into a guard before following Pellius and Mathias towards the exit. They passed dozens of guards falling into rank as they ran through the courtyard, when they reached the forge, Willow cursed under her breath to see it filled with guards donning armour and fitting weapons. She pushed passed Pellius and strode up to the pile of longswords, grabbing a few, passing them out to each guard. She saw Mathias smirk and take up position handing out halberds, while Pellius tended the shields. Suddenly, a shrilling high pitched squeal sounded from the top of the keep. The guards they were outfitting seemed to quicken their steps, all converging on the main tower. Willow would have bet anything that Garvana was the cause of the alarm.
Once the last of the guards had his gear and the forge was clear, the three of them hurried down into the vault. With no sign of Teelee or Garvana, they waited quietly, listening out for any incoming infantry.
Willow stretched out her sore muscles while they waited, ignoring the smug grin on Pellius’ face as she massaged her tender thighs. She was arching her back when a wave of sickening cold hit her, sapping her energy and forcing every muscle in her body to clench and cramp. She cried out as the surge zapped through her, hearing Pellius and Mathias gasp and groan in unison. Pellius was the first to charge up the ladder to see what was going on, Mathias and Willow following closely on his heels.
“I KNEW IT!” squealed the magister from the top of the stairs, “I’VE GOT YOU! I KNEW IT! IN HERE! GUARDS IN HERE!”
Willow followed his eyes and saw Garvana reaching for a longsword as the Magister pulled out a wand engraved in runic flames.
“FINALLY!” the magister called excitedly.
He smiled with glee as he launched a pellet of flame down the stairs towards the group. Watching the bead crane down, Willow leaped into the air, flipping as the fire impacted and exploded in rippling waves of fury across the stone floor. She landed in a crouch as the flames furrowed outwards. The others weren't so lucky, blackened scorch marks charred Pellius and Garvana, while Mathias’s clothes were still burning as he dropped and rolled in a desperate attempt to douse the embers. As Willow raced up the stairs and dove in behind the magister, Garvana ran to the hearth and pulled free a book from her pack, holding it over the fiery forge.
“Surrender,” she rasped viciously, “Or I will burn this book to ashes!”
The magister seemed to falter in his steps. But, it was already too late for him. Willow felt Pellius before she heard him. A wave of searing profane energy exploded from him, like rapturous tendrils of unholy wrath, wrapping their clutches of darkness around him. As she turned her head to face him, the wave hit her like an unending torrent of might, forcing her breath out of her chest as her heart pounded in her ears.
“IN ASMODEUS’ NAME!” he roared, his voice coloured by the fury of hell.
He charged up the stairs with eyes of pure fire. The magister didn't know where to look between his book and the ferocious man charging towards him. In a panic, he went to jump off the stairs and misstepped, falling free with a cry as he fell on his face. Pellius dove down after him, and as he lifted his great axe high into the air, it was the frightening wrath of the Lord of the Nine that encompassed his swing. In a shower of crimson that cascaded across the stonework, the life of the magister was at an end.
From the top of the stairs Willow could see a contingent of guards led by Iron Sam charging their way. She flipped down the stairs and quickly scavenged the magister’s belongings, taking his wand and the few curiosities that lined his pockets. A strained wheeze had her looking up, as she watched the blood slowly draining from Pellius’ face. He was swaying on his feet, his eyes unfocused and his breathing staggered. She carefully yet quickly guided Pellius down the ladder and into the tunnel, where she saw Teelee standing in wait. She helped him slide down the wall to the floor before closing the secret door and standing in silence, listening intently for pursuers.
As she stood in silence for a time, she tried to ignore heavy smell of death that lingered around the innkeepers’ body. She had forgotten they had simply stored the body within the dark passage, thinking it safer than remaining unseen in an attempt to bury it. Willow couldn't allow herself to think on it, it still did not sit well within her, but it had to be done. There was no way around it. It was as she was listening to the muffled sound of the guards in the vault, that she heard a ghostly whisper in her left ear.
“Why?” the whisper asked.
Willow closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She would not let her mind do this to her. She focussed on the other sounds; the guards in the vault, Pellius’ panting breath, Garvana’s quiet healing words.
“Why?” the whisper asked again, “Murderer.”
Willow took a deep breath and hissed it out. She heard Garvana murmur an incantation as light flooded the tunnel. She watched the shadows recede along the walls and saw a pair of shadowed hands retreat into the darkness. As the sounds of the guards retreating back into the forge, Willow turned on her heel.
“Let’s go,” she snapped.
As they walked away from the corpse, she swore she saw it move its head to face her, cold dead eyes staring through her soul. Only once it was out of sight she grabbed Pellius by the arm and looked into his eyes. She didn't care if he saw how frightened she was, she didn't care if he saw weakness, she needed his help.
“What do you know of spirits and hauntings?” she asked quietly, “Why do they stay in this world and how do you appease them?”
With a curious eye he replied, “The sole target of the haunting must to be the one to appease the spirit. If the body remains, it must be buried formally, to allow the spirit to move on to Pharasma’s realm.”
With a sigh and nod, she knew what she had to do. She asked for his help to carry Bellum’s body out of the tunnel. As they trudged down the passage, the corpse over Pellius’ shoulder, Willow and the others following closely behind. The others did not see what her own eyes saw. Images of Bellum, staring at her with accusatory eyes she passed them.
Willow slipped in front when they reached the cellars secret door. As she open it, she inhaled sharply as the racks of wine began to shake and rattle. Willow stepped lightly towards the stairs, narrowly dodging a bottle that came flying towards her head. She grabbed a bottle from the racks and sured her courage. As she strode up the stairs, only sheer force of will stopped her from screaming aloud in fright as the lightening and thunder cracked and the foul wind flung the window shutters open. She swung the front door wide and marched towards the forest. It was the dead of night no other sound could be heard above the roaring fury of the sudden storm. The trees and shrubs whipped and tore at her face and arms, each branch seemingly reaching for her, clutching at her limbs and clothing. The rain pelted down, seeping dread and guilt through her skin and deep into her soul.
When they were far enough from town, they laid Bellum’s corpse down and Pellius handed Willow the shovel. She began to dig into the solid ground, the shattering feeling throbbing her hands with each plunge. The larger the hole became, the more water filled the grave, and she found herself standing knee deep in mud as she continued to dig. Her hair clung to her face and the rain poured an endless flood in her eyes, making it near impossible to see. It took her almost three hours to complete, but finally when the grave was large enough, she climbed out the side and walked solemnly towards Bellum.
She struggled to pick his corpse up and teetered towards the water filled grave, lowering him into it as gently as she could. She could hear Garvana and Pellius saying their own prayers, though she could not hear the words. She watched the corpse float for a minute, lingering atop the body of rain, before it slowly sank to the bottom of the grave. Hundreds of images of Bellum had formed a tight circle around scene, and they watched, as Willow turned her sight to the sky. Only then did she speak, and only at a whisper.
“We wage a war against a nation, in the name of what we believe, of what I believe. A war to change the nation, to change the world. His world… You my friend, are but the first of many innocents to fall. Sacrifices for the greater good. I do not take these sacrifices lightly. I… do not take yours lightly.”
Willow grabbed the bottle of wine and uncorked it, holding it up high.
“To Bellum,” she exclaimed into the stormy sky, “The first stone in our pathway to Infernal Glory! Go now, to the side of whatever god you may find peace with!”
She drank down the wine and passed the bottle to Pellius, each of them taking a sip and speaking his name. As the bottle returned to Willow she took a final swig, staring into the eyes of one of Bellum's images. She placed the rest of the bottle into the grave. The sky seemed to sigh as she stepped back from the grave, with sore and tender arms she began to fill it in. The clouds cleared and the rain ceased. The stars glittered in the distance, the wind only gently caressing her while she shovelled away. Each image of Bellum slowly faded, one after another. They looked at peace, no resentment nor hatred. As Willow tapped down the last of the dirt and stood back, she sighed. She knew she would not forget Bellum Barhold anytime soon.

Still soaking and muddy they wandered back into town and returned back to the Brassbell. Willow looked the group over and strongly considered simply bidding them goodnight and retreating to her chamber alone. She sighed, and offered to share their room. She and Pellius disguised their mess and walked through to the suite while the others snuck in through the back window to their bedchamber.
Willow combed through the worst of the knots in her hair while Garvana told her story of torture and interrogations. By the sounds of story, she was quite good at giving her captors misleading gibberish. While Garvana spoke, Willow couldn't help but notice the change in Teelee. She was quiet and withdrawn, staring into thin air as her eyes barely blinked.
“And what of you Teelee?” Willow asked softly, “What happened to you?”
Quietly, she told her story; playing innocent, misleading the interrogators and a single broken finger. As she spoke Willow could feel the anger building, each word becoming more forceful than the last. She knew not if the words she spoke were the full story, or if she had suffered such indignation that she would not speak of it. Willow put a comforting hand on Teelee’s shoulder.
“It is over now,” she said gently.
Teelee nodded sharply, turning away from the group.
Willow frowned, but did not want to push things any further.
“So where did you get to after we risked ourselves to come and rescue you?” Willow asked Garvana curtly, “I certainly hope it was worth the risk.”
Garvana forced a smile, speaking through clenched teeth, “I went for my belongings, since you did not think to find them before.”
“Oh!” Willow scoffed, “My, how grateful you are!”
It didn't take long for tensions to strain. Willow was still saturated and muddy, she had twigs stuck in her filthy mane of hair, and all she wanted was to be alone so she could work through the moral dilemmas of tonight by connecting with her Infernal Lord. After a few snapping comments back and forth between Willow and Garvana, Pellius stood up and stepped in.
“Enough!” he snapped, pulling a scrolled parchment from his pack, “You two! Read this!”
“Pellius…” Willow began.
“Read, this!” he demanded viciously.
The fiery command within his tone, soothed the rebellious flare within her. Her brow arched as she revelled in the strange wish to follow his words and obey his orders. She took the parchment from his hands and skimmed her sight down the page. He had written a reminder of their loyalties, and why it was they were together along the mission. Furthering the Infernal Father, his goals and his glory. Willow read the lines he quoted, drafted by their master, Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. As her eyes drank in the words, it was a small smile that graced her lips.
“I'm sorry,” Garvana said sincerely. “It has been a rough few days.”
“I do apologise too,” Willow sighed, “My behaviour is unacceptable. Look, let me bathe and get clean. I despise being filthy, it is so hard to be polite while you're covered in mud and shrubbery.”
Willow gave a small bow to the group, and turned to locked herself in the bathroom. She bathed and washed away the layers mud and filth. As she soaked in the tub, she dressed her hair, finding comfort in the soothing ritual of combing and the familar smell of the cassia oils. When she was clean, she knelt in front of the window and prayed in silence. Although she could almost beg for guidance today, she never did. Asmodeus was not a god to give comforting words and coddled encouragement. She knew his will, she knew what he wished of her. She was stronger than let on, she was stronger than even she knew. She smiled through the comforting heat of her Infernal Prince; she knew always she was on the right path when He was here with her.

Once she was clean and dressed in her nightwear, she returned to the living area where the group was still conversing. Willow pulled out the house fine crystal tumblers, pouring five double nips of the whiskey. She handed each of them a glass and took up a perch on the arm of the embroidered couch Pellius was seated in. As they spoke, she felt his hands pull her closer to him, so her back leaned against the side of his chest.
“So what did you actually find up in the keep?” Willow asked Garvana, “And what in hell’s name was that shrilling alarm?”
The group sat sipping their drinks, listening to Garvana retelling her adventure. Willow laughed as she told about her quick dashing escape from the ice golem and the infinite struggle to open a simple lockbox. Willow perused the magister's book titled The heart of all flame, a book dedicated to all things fire, mostly written in magical rattlings she couldn't understand. Though her interest piqued as she looked up from the book when Garvana spoke of the chest with an alarm in the commanders meeting room. The treasury of Balentyne, Willow guessed. Upon their return to the tower, she was planned on detouring to that. When Garvana told the group of the portrait of the woman she had burned – the room went silent.
“It must have been his wife,” Willow said quietly, “A harsh thing to do, but a most effective way to mess with his head.”
Lastly, Garvana handed Willow a book she found in the commanders personal chambers. Flicking through the pages, she realised it was his personal family bible. Sermons and Mitran chants; words of apparent wisdom. Willow read through as she wandered over to retrieve the bottle of whiskey for a second round. As she poured four more drinks, she came across the Havelyn family tree, a list of names she partially recognised.
“Sir Richard Thomasson Havelyn,” she read, “Son of Commander Thomas Havelyn. He is known as a Holy Knight of Mitra. One of the apparent great heroes of the current age.”
It was the name to the left of the commander that had Willow’s eyebrow arch high. A name that had been scratched out furiously, barely recognisable.
“Samuel Havelyn,” Willow said quietly, more to herself than the others, “Cardinal of Mitra, Brother to Commander Thomas Havelyn.”
Willow vaguely remembered having heard of Samuel before, but only as a curse spoken under the breath of fearful townsfolk. She didn't know who he was nor what he did, for his crimes were well before her time. Yet, she could not shake the feeling that she truly needed to find out.

As she woke with with the dawning of the sun, Willow rose quietly from the bed, carefully stepping over the sleeping bodies sprawled across the floor. She dressed quickly and ordered breakfast to be served in the sitting area, ignoring the odd looks the servants gave when she ordered enough food for five people.
Over breakfast they discussed the possible plans of attack and priority targets. Willow’s work in the mayors office had her sometimes working run sheets for the local military and militias. She had enough experience to make a rough judgement on how well the bugbear army would fair if they were to attack with the present state of the watchtower. They needed to wipe more of them out, they needed to further thin the ranks. Much to her distaste, they came up with a plan to fake a ransom of Bellum Barhold, in order to lure his brother away from the keep. After much deliberation, they agreed on an anonymous ransom note, delivered by a local courier.
Their plan was simple, Pellius would disguise himself as Bellum, Mathias would play the ransomer, and the rest of them would hide in wait. Willow would hide closest to the keep, back into where the enemy lines would be, set up with poison should she get a clear shot with her bow. Once all in was in play, she watched silently as Captain Samuel Barhold and six of his men approached the change over sight, far from the keep. Sam exchanged a few tempered words with the old man before throwing in the ransomed amount of gold. As soon as the gold had been collected, Garvana let lose a fireball from the west, and as it impacted, the soldiers that had trained their crossbows on Mathias let loose their bolts. Willow smirked as she watched him deftly dodge out of their path, only taking a single clip to the shoulder. She prowled from the top of the trees, laying in wait for one of them to come close enough that she could silently take them down. She watched the soldiers rush forward to the man they thought was Bellum and cover him with their shields, guiding him back into their line. Pellius waited until he was well behind them to strike.
“Now!” Sam roared, as four archers sprang up from the shrubs, poised and ready.
One of the first guardsmen stepped forward around the tree to get a better shot at the old man, stepping right underneath Willow. She silently dropped in behind him, slicing her dagger across his throat. Willow heard Pellius groan, whipping her head around to see him spit out a mouthful of blood as an arrow pierced through his shoulder. Willow ripped out a vial of healing from her belt, weaving through the fray as she ran straight for him. She threw him the potion, pushing him behind the cover of a nearby tree and quickly assessed the worst of the wounds. She grabbed a firm hold on the arrow sticking out of his shoulder, holding the gap open as she pulled with all her might. The arrow came out cleanly, iron tip still attached as the armour gap closed, and she saw the magic working as it knit his flesh back together.
Suddenly, the ground shook as a large booming rip sounded. Every head snapped towards the south where the Mathias’ body lay limp and lifeless. Willow had not even seen him fall. As a veil ripped the seams of the material plane open, she couldn't stop a moaning screech from escaping her lips. Her body soared and scalded, her blood raced so fast and hot it felt like it would explode out of her skin. Her knees buckled and she had to clamp her thighs together and lock her legs to keep from falling. Hell was on the other end of that portal. Willow knew that with every fibre in her body. Her limbs throbbed, her breathing becoming tortuous as she was barely able to contain the moans and whimpers that were trying to force their way out. She had never experienced anything so raw and intense.
Willow watched the portal open, and a fifteen foot devil step out. Scarlet scales layered across its skin, oversize eldritch bone wings protruded from its back, tall twisted horns shattered out from its head. He paid no attention to the cries and shouts of the humans that surrounded him, shrugging off the torrent of arrows as if they were nothing. Willow had to close her eyes tightly to gain her composure. Breathing deeply, she embraced the burning pain, pulling it deeper inside her, to a place she had never known she possesed. Her eyes flew open as she felt the devil’s gaze on her. They made eye contact for a mere moment, before he snapped his sight and head away, almost in deference. Curiously, almost forgetting the raging battle around her, she watched the devil lift Mathias’ limp body as he dragged him back through the tear.
As the portal began to close, Willow’s chest eased. It began to fade, when suddenly, a large creature dove through. In desperation, a half-orc dressed in rags, landed with a thud and clawed his was from the veil. Stark and alert, he scrounged around for anything he could use as a weapon, grabbing a thick branch from the ground and brandishing it towards them.
As she turned back to Sam and his men, Willow knew her smile was bigger than it should have been. It was not that the battle nor the death of these men made her happy, it was that her blood was singing and her body was soaring. Her connection to her Infernal Lord was more powerful than it had ever been, she felt his power surging through her veins. She charged at the archers, dancing across the field, almost as if she was floating. She laughed with glee as she hacked one through the throat and another through the torso in seconds. She landed with a pirouette as her enemies fell, missing limbs and entrails flowing to the ground.
“ASMODEUS, GUIDE ME!” Garvana yelled, as she let loose a wave of horrifying wrath.
Willow saw the captain fading, struggling to block Pellius and the orc’s onslaught of attacks. With her mind still racing and her heart pounding in her chest, she sprinted towards the captain. She leaped through the air and hacked blade through the side of his stomach in a fatal shower of crimson gore. She landed in a crouch and swiftly stalked up to him, thrusting his head back, baring his throat. In one swift curve, she took his life with her blade.


The questions quickly turned to the large half orc, adorned with Asmodean tattoos, who had some how just escaped from hell. He introduced himself as Bor, yet said little else. When Willow asked of his origins, she received only a two worded answer.
“The wall,” he said, a furious intensity to his words.
“Well Bor,” she said courteously, “I am Willow. You will have to forgive me if I am a tad suspicious, for one to escape the realms of hell, it is… unheard of...”
“Don’t know what else I can tell you,” he shrugged, “I don’t remember anything, except being there and seeing an opportunity to escape.”
Willow looked to Pellius, whose brow was furrowed low.
“What do we do?” she asked him.
Pellius sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hand.
“You cannot have escaped unnoticed,” he responded firmly, “The Lord of the Nine has allowed you to escape. But, why?”
The bestial man shook his head, “I do not know.”
“I do not believe in fate,” Willow said quietly, “I believe that we make our own, the gifts we receive and the consequences we face are of our own making. If the Infernal Father has seen fit to put you in our path, then I will not question his will. Perhaps you are to aid us in this perilous undertaking.”
“Let us return to camp and we shall speak of it further,” Pellius concluded.
As they turned from the carnage of the battle, Garvana said a final prayer to Mathias.
“I wish you well,” she said solemnly, “Though I will not mourn your passing, for you are now beginning your afterlife of servitude to the great and undying Lord of Hell.”

They had decided to make a base outside of the city, Pellius led and found an alcove along the edge of the lake, about a mile from town. While they set up tents and built fires, Willow filled in Bor with the details of their current mission and status of the fair country of Talingarde. For now, she left out the details of their master. Bor seemed as if he would be a most helpful ally, but it was not her place to judge who was worthy in the cardinal's eyes. When she asked if he would join them, he laughed.
“And where else would I go?”
Willow smirked in response, “Where indeed.”
The smell of batter had Willow’s head whip around, to the sight of Pellius leaning over the fire, flipping golden brown looking pancakes. Willow excused herself from Bor and sauntered towards him. She looked down at him as she approached, hands on her hips as she cleared her throat. He looked up at her with raised eyebrows.
“And what is it I have to do to get pancakes?” she asked him suggestively.
He piled two onto a dish, dropped one eyebrow into a smug expectant look as he held them out to her. She laughed, giving him a wicked grin as she snatched the plate from his hands.
“You don't need to bribe me with pancakes to get that,” she said cheekily, “But it certainly helps...”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:20 AM
Chapter 7 - Fall of Balentyne

The wind howled across the lake, echoing its mournful chorus into the night sky. Willow lay awake staring at the spine of the tent. She could hear the breeze whistling its somber song, the nocturnal creatures calling to one another on the outside of the camp. She could hear Pellius’ satisfied heavy breathing as he lay next to her in a deep sleep. But she focussed on the low rumbling snore coming from the orc. He was a curiosity to her, a puzzle she needed to solve. As they had sat by the fire, he spoke of The Wall. Willow had pried for more details, listening intently as he described a prison of sorts, a place that sounded like an eternity of misery, uncountable souls crushed upon each other in a lay of tormented moans and ululating cries. He had no recollection of life prior to The Wall, no memory of what would have led him to become imprisoned there. Willow asked him of his loyalties, noting he had no obvious moral qualm with taking out Iron Sam in armed combat. She watched his facial expressions as he answered, searching for telltale signs of truth or lies.
“Do you serve our Infernal Lord Asmodeus?” Garvana asked forcefully.
“I do. That, I will always remember,” he answered truthfully.
“Who or what was that devil?” Willow asked curiously, “The one who opened the portal, do you remember him?”
Bor turned and stared intensely, “I don't know what it was, I’ve never actually seen it before. But I could feel it. Always there, always watching.”
She was most intrigued, looking over to Garvana she asked, “Do you know what type of devil he was?”
Garvana frowned, “Nothing I've ever come across.”
Willow had no knowledge of a devil such as him, nor had she ever heard of The Wall. Of course, she intended to find out.

The day had certainly been strange. Willow’s mind wandered through a labyrinth of questions, at the top of them all was her intense bond with Hell. Most intriguing was how the bond was strengthened and intensified as the portal from this realm to His had formed. She had always known she had an odd religious connection. She had never heard of anyone feeling their god the way she did. As a child it was more like a friend, an eidolon of guidance and comfort, always by her side. But as she grew, it changed.
Her fourteenth birthday had barely passed before He came to her.
Her mother had insisted she accept the offer of a date from the son of Marcus Edanburn, Duke of Tevvarneh. Willow had to admit, Samson was certainly the most handsome and adventurous of the four Edanburn boys. He was sixteen years of age, tall and lean with cropped darks waves framing his soft edged face. He had a reputation for fun and mischief, far more exciting than the other young noble men who had tried courting her.
After a polite lunch in the parlour of his families’ manor, he offered Willow an arm as an escort for a tour of the gardens. They strolled slowly away from the watchful eyes of their chaperones and approached the end of the maze of flora.
“Want to go somewhere a little more fun?” Samson asked mischievously.
Willow laughed as he grabbed her hand and pulled her along, sneaking off the property. She hitched her dress up as they ran through the wheat fields and into the forest. They ran alongside the river, following its bends and curves, climbing over rocks and fallen tree trunks. When they came to the cliff edge of Fell Valley they sat and hung their feet over.
“May I say my lady,” Samson said, “You are staggeringly beautiful. I am most grateful you accepted my invitation.”
Willow laughed, “And may I say dear sir, that flattery will get you entirely everywhere.”
She stared out across the rolling hills of the valley, pretending not to notice as he slowly leaned in, planting a kiss on the side of her cheek. Turning to face him, she looked into his eyes, smiling coyly she moved in closer pressing her lips to his. He placed his hand gently behind her head, staying locked in the kiss for a time. Willow could feel a warmth growing from within her. As he reached his other hand around her waist pulling her closer, Willow whimpered. A hot rush flooded her, and an aching tear seemed to be pulling her deeper into the forest. She broke the kiss suddenly and scrambled to her feet.
“What's wrong sweet girl?” asked Samson standing after her, “I apologise, I did not mean to rush you.”
“There's something out there,” Willow said distractedly.
“Wait, come back!” he called as she ran off, “Wait for me!”
Winding through the trees she followed her instincts. She knew she was getting closer when the feeling in her grew and started to burn, her breath quickened and with each step her senses heightened. She stopped as she came upon the largest weeping willow tree she had ever seen. Pushing aside the curtains of branches, a moan escaped her lips, an open abandoned stone temple stood dark and solitary.
Willow jumped as a hand grabbed her shoulder.
“What is this place?” Samson asked, eyes wide.
“I haven't a clue,” Willow said in a breath.
As she stepped forward, Samson pulled her back.
“No, I do not like this place.” he said sternly, “It feels evil. It feels angry. Wrong.”
Willow scoffed and pushed his hand away, “Nonsense, it feels… like… Him.”
The words came out of her mouth with no intent on her behalf. But they felt right, they felt truthful.
“What are you talking about?” Samson snapped, “This is not right. Who are you talking about?”
Willow wandered forward ignoring his protests. As she reached the entry to the temple, she was greeted by a hot wave of energy, searing her from the inside out. She groaned as she continued on, timidly climbing the stairs one at a time. The further she made it, the louder the rushing energy sounded, she could barely hear Samson talking behind her. She stood at the threshold of the archway and paused. The pulling was at its worst, threatening to yank her inside, but this was a step she knew she had to take herself. Taking a deep breath, Willow lifted her chin high and crossed the threshold, stepping inside.
A surge of knowledge flowed through her veins, the burning heat comforting her in a way she had never known.
“This is his,” she said in awe, “This is his place. He’s here, he’s everywhere!”
Willow studied the markings on walls, most blurred by burn marks. She surmised that the temple used to be a place of worship for those faithful to Asmodeus. As the thought formed in her mind, a wave of heat flared down below, forcing out another moan.
She lifted out her arms and span in a circle laughing, “I can feel him. He’s actually here!”
“Willow!” Samson bellowed fiercely, “Stop this nonsense at once! No future wife of mine should be permitted to carry on in such a way!”
Willow froze in her position. Her arms dropped to her sides as she slowly spun to face him.
“Can't you feel him?” she asked intensely, “He's rushing through my blood, he’s fire in my belly, he’s feeding my soul.”
Willow ran over to Samson, pushing him up against the wall, forcing her lips against his. Grabbing his hand, she thrust it between her legs, the touch sending a shock wave through her body. As she kissed him with fiery passion and ground herself down on his hand, he struggled with the decision to pull away, eventually tearing himself from her.
“Willow,” he panted through a heaving chest, “What is going on? What is this? Who are you talking about?”
Willow looked up at him with bright eyes and whispered, “The Prince of Darkness.”
Samson recoiled with a look of disgust.
“What in Mitra’s name?!” he screamed, “Who are you?!”
He backed away from Willow with his hands up in defence.
“Stay back you devil bitch!” he yelled, “Heinous blasphemer!”
He ran down the stairs and back through the forest, Willow followed behind him, skirts flying as she leaped. Her parents had warned her of this. She had been so caught up in the moment that she had forgotten the reality of the world. Even simple worship of her beloved Infernal Lord was outlawed, punishable by death. As they neared the clearing of Fell Valley, Willow knew she would never catch him, she had to act fast. She swooped down and picked up a heavy stick and threw it hard at his head. A perfect shot had him tumble forward and skid along the dirt on his stomach. Willow ran over to him and grabbed him by the collar pulling him to his feet. She could feel the searing heat circling in her again. Her eyes flashed with hellfire as he stood frozen in fear.
“Deliver me from chaos that I may serve you in eternity,” she said fiercely, holding his collar tight forcing him to step backwards to the edge of the cliff.
Staring deeply into his eyes she kissed him softly and whispered, “Hail Asmodeus.”
She shoved with all her might and saw Samson fly outwards, plummeting down the side, his body falling limp as it smashed into the rocks along the way. Willow watched until he came to a stop, unmoving and lifeless. She sat down, hanging her legs over the edge of the cliff. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She did not enjoy death, even when it was necessary. As she stared out over the expanse and more tears fell, Willow felt a gentle warmth encompass her. She smiled through the tears as it wrapped her tight, like a gentle caress from a lover.

Staring up at the spine of the tent, Willow smiled. She may not feel her god as others did, but the way she felt Him was magnificent. She remembered learning some very valuable lessons that day. That she could not trust anyone with her secrets, that a crying woman’s lies are very likely to be believed and that no man would ever be as great, or mean as much to her as Him.
Willow thought back to the day she had just had and was struck with an odd thought. She remembered the devil that had stepped out of the portal had looked straight at her. When she caught him he had snapped his head away, she would have sworn it seemed almost in deference. She was still left with questions, certain questions only her family or their histories could answer.
Rolling over, she could make out the silhouette of Pellius’ face. His Chellaxian bone structure so rigid compared to those of Talingarde. She wondered what he felt when he channelled their Infernal Lord, smiting he called it. Did he feel the same heat? Did his blood burn and his chest heave? Did he know that was what she felt?
Willow silently crawled on top of him, gently grasping his hands and swiftly slamming them down above his head. He woke with a shock, instantly flipping Willow over and under him, hand to her throat.
Willow laughed, “Round two?”

In the early hours before dawn, Willow was woken by a familiar lick of burning flare. She blazed in the same way she had that night in the Lords Dalliance.
“And does our great Infernal Lord offer any guidance?” she heard Garvana ask.
“The Master of Devils,” spoke a smooth baritone voice, “Is of course far too busy to provide guidance, nor would he expect he would need to provide guidance. He would of course assume, that you would suffice with your own capabilities.”
“Of course,” Garvana said curtly.
Willow lay still, listening to their exchange. What she could gather was that Garvana had been contacted by this creature more than once. Willow wondered what she had to gain by hiding this information, and what other knowledge she was withholding from the group. The creature seemed to be offering advice and encouragement, as well as the use of his particular talents, described as best used in shadows. As they said their farewells and the creatures’ presence faded into nothing, Willow thought of how far she had let her guard down. She had begun to trust these people although she knew they all had secrets. Garvana’s concealment was a reminder of why trust was such a futile and hindering value.

Willow heard Garvana shuffle around the camp, darkness still looming, first light not having breeched the horizon. The group roused quietly, gearing up and clearing out well before sunrise. Garvana, Pellius and Bor dragged the corpses of Barhold’s men towards the clearing around the Watchtower. Willow helped Teelee carve inverted pentagram’s on each of their foreheads. She watched deep in thought while they strung each body up by its neck in full view of the keep. A gruesome message sure to inflict fear in the hearts of god-fearing men.
They hustled back to town as the sun bloomed low in the distance. The signal horns sounded from the keep as they reached its secret entrance. Upon reaching the other end, they slowed and listened. Garvana signalled that she could hear coughing in the vault. Preparing for a fight they opened the wall, charging the two guards from the tunnel, catching them by surprise. The group was so quick at taking them down, neither managed to use their signal horns. Willow took the brass flute off the guards body, a keepsake, someway to remember the beginning.
Pellius and Bor used the magic from the circlets to mimic the guards they had killed, copying the fine facial details. Willow and the others stood in the shadows, readying their weapons, prepared for anything. She watched Bor’s face contort with rage as he reached the top of the ladder, leaping from the trap door into the room. Before anyone else could react, Willow had surged up the ladder and darted in behind the blacksmith that Bor had hacked, and sliced him through the neck. One by one, each of the six blacksmiths were cut down, but unfortunately not before they managed to raise the alarm.
They took the tower one room at a time, meeting any resistance head on, emerging almost unscathed. Climbing another lot of stairs, they came face to face with Father Donigan. Poised for battle, a grim determination set on his face. Willow felt her fierce energy flare as he made eye contact with her, unflinching and undeterred he stood tall, while she smiled at his arrogance. He whole heartedly believed his Mitra would save him.
The room was lined with guards forming a barricade in front of the priest and layers of archers along the northern stairwell. Willow dove through a gap in between two guards, jumping out of the way of a shower of blood flying across the room. Bor had hacked a guard clean in half, splattering the priest as his sword carved through flesh. Pellius charged through the defence into the path of Father Donnigan. Willow flipped around the room with ease, ducking and weaving gracefully, effortlessly avoiding swords and arrows alike. As she slid under the stairs flanking the priest, she was flooded with a searing rush of profane heat. Pellius called to Asmodeus, dark energy seeping from his skin, making Willow clench her teeth to stop from moaning. Father Donigan did his best to fend off the attacks, surprisingly skilled with his shield, but was ultimately too weak. A last desperate attack he started a summoning, magic wisps stirring, but was too slow to avoid Willow’s dagger aiming for his heart or Pellius’ great axe aiming for his head. He fell to the ground as the last sounds of his incantation spluttered in his throat. Pellius charged onwards upstairs towards the archers while the others took out the infantry men. Willow lingered over the priest.
“Do not be afraid,” she whispered, draping his eyes closed with her fingers, “Our fate cannot be taken from us. It is a gift.”
Dragging her dagger to his throat she pushed down firmly, “And if that gift is displeasing; the strong will carve out a new one for themselves.”

The last room in the tower they took quickly. Willow was repulsed watching Bor cram a guard through an arrow slit barely half his width. Pellius seemed to puff out his chest and cleave with vicious strength, so cleanly decapitating the last guard that his head appeared to float in mid air for a moment, before dropping to the floor with a thud. Willow laughed at their vile display of testosterone.
Through the other arrow slit they were greeted with too much silence. Looking closely, they managed to make out men on the top floor, the remainder of the guards and the commander having fallen back, preparing for a last line of defence.
Willow and Pellius argued on which way to go, she wanted to go back through the guard rooms and come up from underneath, avoiding the open space of the courtyard. It didn't take long for Willow to snap with impatience.
“Go wherever you go,” she clipped, “I'm going DOWN!”
Pellius chuckled, “No no it's fine, I always have fun when you go down.”
Willow rolled her eyes and span on her heel, smirking as she trotted down the stairs.

They prowled through the hallway, clearing each room they passed. As they entered the passage that joined the main hallway they came upon four sturdy reinforced doors. Willow watched Bor shift his balance lifting his leg and ramming it into the door, not even making a dent. She placed a hand on his forearm as she slipped in front of him, swiftly picking the lock and swinging the door wide, winking at him as she entered. The four rooms belonged to the captains, none of which contained much worth the weight. As she rummaged through their belongings she heard a loud crack of splintering wood. Slinking back into the passage with her daggers at the ready, she laughed as saw Garvana holding a large wooden door, the door to the forge. She squeezed passed as Pellius ripped another door off, splitting the hinges apart, tearing it from the wall.
They reached the main door in the hallway and prepped themselves for a fight. After opening the door towards them, Willow quickly took a peek at what awaited them. As arrows flew towards her head, she saw a line on four infantry men guarding a line of four archers, set up on the northern and southern side of the hallway. She swiftly withdrew, dodging the arrows with ease. Pellius and Garvana stood with their wooden doors as shields at the ready. They stepped out on either side of the door, followed by Teelee with the fireball wand and Willow with her bow. Willow saw an arrow slip through the side and puncture Pellius in the shoulder, he stood fast, tall and strong behind his wooden shield.
Teelee launched a pellet of flame into the centre of the southern guards ranks, the explosion of fire rippling outwards, obliterating all but one. Willow launched a volley of arrows to the north, not standing in the return path long enough to see if they had hit. The northern guards retreated back into the gatehouse, calling for the drawbridge to be raised. Teelee launched another charge and managed to slip it through the small gap of the rising bridge. They knew it had found its target when the screaming sounded.
The last infantry guard on the southern side started a desperate charge towards them. As Willow stepped out and drew a bead on his leg, Pellius launched his door towards the guard. The guard tripped forward as she loosed her arrow, unintentionally shooting it into his forehead.
They closed and barred the large doors to the north, blocking off any chance of attack from behind. Pushing on into the barracks they saw part of the devastation they had caused with the poisonous Wolfsbane. The smell of decaying limbs pungent in the air. Guardsmen strewn about the place, gaping mouths, wheezing chest, blackened lips and tongues. Willow cringed at the smell and continued on, leaving Teelee to burn the barracks down behind them.
Entering the acolytes’ quarters, they came across a simple candlelit shrine to Mitra. The humble altar stood in the centre of a small pond filled with holy water, a shining sun sprouting from its top. Willow was intrigued as she watched Pellius approach it feeling the dark energy radiate from him. He hefted his great axe and cleaved the sun from its pedestal, sending it flying into the wall, shattering on impact. A small moan escaped her lips as she felt the darkness pulse and surround him.
Along the back wall stood a small bookshelf, flicking through the titles Willow pulled out a blue white and gold book, a Mitran holy text. She held it gingerly, half expecting it to turn to ash and scorch her hands as it lit itself on fire. She laughed at herself and threw it roughly in her bag. Pellius led the way into the chapel, dutifully charging up the ladder and into what lay above.
“LEAVE!” bellowed a saintly voice.
“This place,” Pellius called with sacred purpose, pulling out his Asmodean pendant, “Like all others, is His. And we… are here to claim it for Him.”
Empowered by his words the rest of the group charged up the ladder into battle. Willow reached the top and sprinted towards a nearby acolyte, cutting him down with quick slashes to the chest and neck. Looking around she recoiled as she saw a great mass of energy, like a whirlwind of dancing firefly lights. Nine Archon lanterns, scouts of heaven, forming one single entity.
Willow twirled around the chapel, flipping above the pews, avoiding each attack with ease. As she dove through an acolytes legs, reaching up behind him and impaling her daggers into his spine, she felt a menacing aura surge from the Archon. The surge throbbed and threatened to break into Willow’s mind, but Pellius’ words were still bounding around, giving her strength. She was here to claim this place for her Infernal Lord. She shrugged off the feeling and leaped back into the fray, carving her way through.
As the last of the acolytes fell, the group realised they could do little to no damage to the Archon, they fled back down the ladder. As Willow hurried towards the latch she laughed and winced as she saw Bor hack off an acolytes head and throw it up at the Archon.

Barging through the kitchen door, they were greeted by the chef, an array of knifes set out in front of her.
“Don't be thinkin’ your using my kitchen as a way in!” she barked, picking up a knife.
As Pellius charged forward she started hurling knives erratically, clearly with no skill, flinging them everywhere but at him. He reached her and easily knocked her to the ground subduing her pitiful attacks. Willow sprinted forward and leaped up onto the table, diving off it plunging her dagger into the woman's skull. She had to prop a foot against her forehead to remove the blade, shrugging and smiling in response to Pellius’ quizzical look.

Climbing out of the trap door into the throne room, Willow’s lip turned up as she felt the sickly righteous aura of the Thomas Havelyn.
“Lay down your arms, lest you further endanger your very souls with this villainy!” boomed the Lord Commander.
The group ran into attack and Willow vaulted up onto the throne in the centre of the wall.
“Our souls have always belonged to Him,” Willow replied fiercely, firing an arrow at his head, watching it clang of his helmet, “We are in no danger. It is your soul Havelyn that I would be worried about!”
With a flash of fire, Teelee conjured another inferno that ripped through the ranks of guardsmen, more than half of them falling to their knees. As the Commander charged at Willow he beseeched Mitra for healing aid, channeling holy energy allowing it to flow from him into his comrades, reviving them from the brink of death. Garvana, Bor and Pellius took the brunt of the attack as the guards and the commander pushed forward. Lord Havelyn seemed to recognise Pellius for what he was, a Paladin of the Archdevils faithful, the righteous embodiment of his power. Willow bared her teeth as the sickening wave of divine energy flooded the area, he called down Mitra’s guidance, smiting Pellius in the Shining Lord’s name.
Willow dashed in behind the commander, slashing and slicing, searching for a weak point in his armour. He carved his great sword across into Pellius’ torso, continuing through to strike Garvana in the shoulder. Pellius continued to try parry and defend, while Garvana called out to Asmodeus, her blood covered mace erupting in flame.
Bor harnessed his rage into effortlessly hacking through the guards, making his way toward the commander. Pellius started to falter after taking the majority of the assault, his gaping wounds refusing to stop bleeding, he continued to fight, his strength draining with each hit.
Bor stepped up to the Commander and brought his sword down into his helmet. Caved as it was, it held fast. Garvana swung her flaming mace, smashing it into his chest, denting in the front of the breast plate.
Willow saw her opportunity when a spilt in the armour opened, allowing her to plunge her dagger into the Commander’s spine, his legs collapsing underneath him. The guards behind tried to grab hold of him and drag him back into their ranks. Before they could Willow pounced, landing atop of him plunging her dagger down through his throat. Feeling an intense rush of burning pride, she looked up at the guards with the fury of hell in her eyes and grinned. Willow laughed as she saw the look of horror form on their faces and fear took over, sending them scrambling out of the door. She watched as she heard Teelee send off another fireball, but as it passed her she whimpered when the searing hot flare swarmed through her veins. The fireball had been enveloped by a dark swirling mist, the sweltering burn of hell engulfing the simple pyromancy. As it reached the fleeing guards, it forcefully imploded, leaving behind only a shower of red blood misted through the air.

Garvana saw to healing Pellius, while Willow stayed perched atop of Lord Commander Havelyn. She pulled off his helmet and studied his face. He looked like any ordinary man, and in death of course, nobody was special. As the last flicker of life drained from his eyes, her thoughts churned over in her mind. This was her enemy. Mitran fanatics that would never understand or appreciate real order. Freedom and equality were the cause of the chaos in this world. She felt slightly unhinged as she sat crouched atop his corpse. She had gone from a life of privilege to a life of death and destruction. The chaos of death and destruction that she had caused. She knew that the cardinal had a greater plan in motion, she just had to trust that he was capable of reining in the chaos he was ensuing. She would follow him, while he was still powerful enough to lead.
Still crouched on top of the Lord Commanders corpse, she heard Pellius’ footsteps behind her. She smiled, stepping off the body, throwing the helmet to him.
“Don't mind the blood stains,” Willow said with a wink.
She turned to walk off, but froze as she felt a creeping surge of powerful profane darkness. Spinning back to the commander, she watched the silver armour flake and shed its layer, revealing a matte black finish underneath. The trim boiled off leaving a blood red one in its place. Willow smiled and her heart sang as the Mitran sun burned away, exposing the Asmodean star, front and centre in the heart of the armour.
Pride pounded in her chest, “He is pleased!”

They seized each floor of the keep, working their way to the roof. As they rounded the stairs on the top floor, they reached the ornate doors leading to the commanders meeting room. Willow smirked as she threw the doors open and approached the large chest in the corner. She carefully inspected its joins and grooves looking for the trigger to its alarm. She noticed the creases of a small hidden button at the back, disguised as one of many decorative engravings. She disabled the trap and sprang the lock, opening the chest to reveal two silver Asmodean pendants and two iron circlets laid over a heavy barbed mace; Garvana and Teelee’s confiscated belongings. After she lifted out the last piece of armour, Willow smiled at the glittering wealth she saw. Perfectly sorted bags of gold, jewelled chalices and valuable medals. She knew she had been correct, she had just robbed Balentyne’s treasury.

After storming the roof and cutting down the rest of the guards, they dismantled the trebuchet by cutting through its ropes. Pellius stood by the edge, pointing to the north, lighting and launching the signal rocket. It exploded into a shattering of green flame coating the sky, unmissable by their bugbear army over the wall.
Heading towards the gatehouse, they reached the bottom set of stairs, leading to the throne room. They heard a large number of guards and dwarves blocking their exit, leaderless and with little chance of success, they had banded together as a last ditch effort to attempt to stop the take over. Deep and intimidating, Pellius shouted a warning of the incoming attack, giving them a one time offer to flee. Bor, Garvana and Pellius bickered amongst themselves about what to do with the group, while Willow strained to listen to the others. They were divided, some wanting to flee in fear desperate to stay alive, some wanting to stand fast and stay and fight. While the bickering kept the group distracted, Willow used the arcana of her circlet. She bled her skin crimson, grew her teeth and tail out, flashing her eyes blood red. Slowly she prowled out in front of the guards and dwarves, with a wicked toothy smile, watching the fear drain their faces hollow. She perched up onto the arm of the throne.
“Go,” she purred, “Take this chance and flee. For you will know real fear before long. He is coming for what is rightfully his. And when he comes, those who are unworthy shall drown in agonising dread. For his shadow is darkest at the bottom, a place where terror and horror feed on the fear of mortal men.”
She leant forward, “GO!” she screeched, “Or I will cut you down myself and offer you in sacrifice!”
She laughed as she watched the men scramble and shriek. Looking over to the stairs she saw the group staring down at her.
“What?” she asked innocently, fluttering her eyes as she blinked away the fire.

The gatehouse had been abandoned. Only scorch marks remained of the guards, their screams of agony still haunting the walls. While Garvana and Bor opened the portcullis and the drawbridge, Willow sat along the top of the outer wall facing north, watching the bugbear horde approach in the distance. She had dropped her disguise and sat, legs dangling, marvelling at their own accomplishments. The five of them had managed to infiltrate, wipe out and take over an entire watchtower by themselves. She watched the army flood through beneath her and she cringed at the utter chaos they would bring. She understood the necessity, and saw their usefulness in the long term, but still despised their thirst for pointless brutality and violence. Feral beasts at heart, dogs that needed to be kept on a short leash.
And from the front of the charge she saw Sakkarot. A feral beast indeed, but with an intellectual mind. A dangerous sort and a powerful ally.
The horde spilled out of the keep towards the town. Willow could hear the massacre bounding across the clearing. She dropped down landing in a crouch when she saw Saakrot approaching.
“I'm impressed little one,” he laughed, slapping her on the back, almost knocking her off her feet, “I’ve barely worked up a sweat. You sure did a number on this place!”
“Eh,” she said in her best cockney accent, “All in a day's work.”
“Haha!” he bellowed, “That's the spirit!”

The gruesome deeds raged on and fires burnt high in the town, while the group gathered around the clay seal they had been given. Willow studied the carving, an inverted pentagram surrounded by intricately detailed thorns. Firmly holding it between her hands she snapped it clean down the middle, watching the cracks rivet along the pentagram's points, shattering the clay through her fingers. The waited mere seconds before Tiadora, the Mistress from the cardinals’ manor, appeared before them with a small wooden box in her hands.
“Well,” she said patronisingly, looking around, “I suppose this means you've been successful in your task. Most surprising.”
She handed Willow the oddly heavy box containing a hefty amount of platinum bars and a note marked with an A. The Cardinal gave his congratulations offering the fine reward. He gave orders to rest and recover, before they would be called on again soon. Tiadora announced that she had been given authority to recruit Bor as the replacement fifth charge in their Nessian Knot. He signed without hesitation, much to her obvious disappointment.

They traveled to the dockside where a ship awaited them, Willow turned back towards the watchtower. She saw the smouldering embers and thick ash smoking through the air. The outer walls were crumbling, the tower had fallen into rubble, the inner sanctum was nothing but an inferno. To the south the horde had amassed in camp. The horrific cries of the last townsfolk and the ferocious calls of the beasts could still be heard as she walked away. She threw her hood over her head as she toed along the plank.
The Watchtower of Balentyne had fallen, and with it, all hope of peace for Talingarde as they knew it.

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:24 AM
Chapter 8 - Visitant

Her skin shivered as the chill of the breeze feathered along the sweat covering her chest. Willow whimpered as another fiery wave pulsed through her.
It had been every night since the eve of her fifteenth birthday, two weeks in total, that she had dreamt of a flaming palace with its scorching walls as tall and far as she could see. The paths lined with the ashen remains of what were once people and creatures. In the dream, she would run through the endless hallways, searching for the source of the pulsing heat pulling her closer. She could feel him. She could feel his presence, watching, waiting, taunting. She ran and ran, as far as her feet would carry her, but she never seemed to be gaining.
The wind stirred and blew heavy through her window. The freezing blast on her sweat drenched body had her eyes snap open as she flung herself out of bed. The dreams had been getting more intense, the burning becoming closer to reality, the pain lingering longer after she had left the dream realm. She paced back and forth across her bedroom, panting through a heaving chest. Tonight the burn stayed with her, low and rumbling, making each step difficult to take without moaning. As she paced, she caught her own reflection from the corner of her eye. She gasped, mouth hanging open as she approached it. The room was lit by a fiery red light, beaming from her eyes. Her chest tightened, wheezing as she struggled to draw air.
“Come child,” spoke a soothing seductive voice.
The burning flared out aggressively, forcing Willow's knees to buckle.
“Come to me,” it crooned.
Willow span on her heel and staggered towards the door. She didn't know how, but she knew exactly where the voice was coming from. She gingerly tiptoed down the stairs, groaning as the searing grew and spread through her limbs. She pushed the heavy doors to the library open and stumbled along the bookshelves. Reaching the far side, Willow pulled the hidden leaver firmly and fell back to rest on the ladder. The shelf opened wide to reveal the secret stairway, the inferno raged on as Willow's legs collapsed. She crawled down the spiral staircase on hands and knees, sliding down one step at a time. As she reached for the doors hidden trigger, she screamed out, the burning reaching its apex. Sweat poured from her body, her hair dripping and plastered to her face and neck, her nightwear wet and slicked to her skin. She ripped the dress down the middle, leaving it in rags behind her, staggering to her feet. On unsteady legs she teetered towards the back stone wall, panting in between whimpers, eyes cast down. Without looking up she pressed the five stones in order, starting in the top left corner, tracing out an inverted pentagram. Sucking in a deep breath she closed her eyes and forced in the centre stone. A split formed down the middle of the wall, both sides of stones parting and opening to reveal the Monteguard’s family shrine to Asmodeus. A golden statue immaculately carved in intricate detail formed of their great Infernal Lord. He was depicted as a large towering devil; razor sharp scales layered across his bared skin, large angular horns crowning his head, serrated talons protruding from each finger and toe, a thickened tail with a blade-like barb and long sharpened teeth hanging from his roaring jaw.
Willow had spent a lot of time in here over the years. She would spend hours kneeling in prayer or cuddled by the statues feet in study. There was no where in the world she felt more safe and comfortable.
As the walls opened and the looming statue of the Prince of Darkness was unveiled, she was knocked back with the force of smouldering heat coming from the room. Draped sensually at the feet of the statue was the most beautiful woman Willow had ever seen. Long black hair floating in midair, long black eyelashes fluttering almost in slow motion, and a stare so carnal it had Willow blushing. So achingly familiar she seemed. Willow struggled deeply, grasping for an answer just out of her reach, this woman felt more familiar to her than her own parents.
“So beautiful,” the woman breathed.
As the words found Willow's ears, her knees collapsed as the surge of blissful agony ripped through her body. She whimpered as tears flooded her eyes, the burn so painful, yet euphoric.
“Breath it in child,” commanded the woman, “Draw it deep within you. Harness it, use it, control its power as only you know how to do!”
Willow let the words sink in, finding the strength to breath. She drew in every ounce of willpower she had, pulling the pain deep down, letting it swim freely through her veins. She forced it into her legs and demanded they stand. She forced it into her neck and demanded it lift her head. She forced it into her eyelids and demanded it stare back at the woman, drinking in the sight of her.
“Remarkable,” the woman whispered, “I've never seen it mastered so quickly. You may be the one… Let me take a look at you.”
Willow felt her feet leave the ground, her body became as light as a feather, her arms stretched wide of their own accord. She turned gently, levitating just above the ground, spinning in a circle while the woman looked her over.
“Marvellous,” she breathed, “Such a beautiful creature.”
She lowered Willow back down and leant back against the statues base. Willow stared back at the woman and struggled to string any words together. Hundreds of questions were racing through her mind, but the aura the woman was giving off was so distracting, Willow struggled to hold on to a single thought.
“Who… are you?” she stuttered.
The woman smiled.
“Such strength of will,” she mused, “Who I am child, is of no importance right now. Who you are, and who you will become, is.”
The woman pushed off the base of the shrine, gracefully floating to the ground. She approached Willow, flowing rather than walking, reaching out a hand to caress her cheek.
The inferno blazed inside Willow’s lower stomach, scorching deep, expelling a moan of ecstasy.
“Trust no one and nothing, but this!” she commanded, “Always trust this, let it be your guide. Follow where it leads, for it will lead you to greatness. It will lead you to his side, where you were destined to be!”
As she stepped away, she gave Willow a last longing look before rearing her hand back, striking Willow in the face. As it connected, Willow flung herself up from the bed. She sat, twisted in her sheets, sweat drenching the bed. She leaped from the mattress and ran to the mirror. No red glow flooded the room. She struck a match, lighting her lantern by the vanity. She scanned her reflection in awe. Her naked skin was flushed and pink, her black hair was askew, soaked and slicked to her body, her nightwear strewn about the bed. But as she traced her hand across her cheek, she smiled. Four raised ridges along her cheek, red and swollen, in the shape of a handprint.
Staring into her own eyes, she sighed and whispered, “Hail my Infernal Father, Asmodeus.”

They would visit once a year, and every year it would begin in the same way. For two weeks after her birthday, Willow would spend her nights in a blazing frenzy. She would battle with uncontrollable sexual urges and deep seeded masochistic desires.
Each year after the two weeks, Willow would wake in a dream, creeping down the stairs into the sanctuary. One of them would always be there, waiting for her. Each one stunningly beautiful in her own way, each as painfully familiar as the last. Willow was never visited by the same woman twice, but the aura they carried was identical. They taught her of the power a woman carried in between her legs, the power that came with the confidence and knowledge of this.
Her last birthday had been different. She may have woken the next morning without a mark on her, but inside she had changed and grown. As she had entered the shrine that night, in her usual dream state, she was grabbed by the throat and forced to the ground. Her body had fallen limp and obeyed without question.
“There is great pleasure and power in pain dear child,” spoke a husky deep female voice, “Learn to master it, learn to harness it, and you will be unstoppable.”
Willow was dragged into the room and strung up by her wrists. A tall sturdy woman, a power house of beauty and strength, stood over her with a long leather whip.
“To achieve order,” she said sternly, “There must be obedience. To ensure obedience, there must be punishment.”
Willow clenched her teeth, refusing to make a sound, as the woman lashed the whip back and forth across her bare ribs.
“To simply accept this punishment is submission. To embrace this punishment, feed from it, harness it… That is obedience. And there is great power in rightful obedience.”
The woman smiled at her, something close to pride shining from her eyes as she selected a second whip. This blackened whip was hardened with wax and embellished with a single metal blade barb on its tail. The whip struck deep, splitting the skin, leaving a trail of welted slashes in its wake.
“We do not submit,” she said fiercely, “Submission is surrender, weakness! We choose to obey those who are greater than ourselves! There is great power in truly understanding your place in existence.”
As the lashes continued and Willow's blood pooled along the floor, she felt herself growing weak. Her grip on the chains faltered and she slipped, dangling freely from the bindings. Her head hung low, her breathing slowed, as she struggled to stay conscious.
“Wake!” barked the woman, lashing her viciously across the chest, “Embrace the pain! Draw it in, pull it deep inside and FORCE IT BACK OUT!”
Willow inhaled deeply, welcoming the pain, letting it swarm her insides. She crushed it further into herself, and with a surge of willpower, brutally forced it outwards. In one swoop, Willow swung her body up high enough to loosen her bonds so she could free her hands, as she swung back down she flipped and landed in a deep crouch poised to attack. In a breath, she had flipped in behind the woman, lifting her dagger from its sheath and forcing it up against the woman's throat.
“Ha!” the woman exclaimed with a smirk, “Blind obedience is submission, it is for the weak. You my child, are most certainly not weak.”

Leaning up against Pellius’ solid chest, laying along the port side of the ship staring up at the night sky, Willow felt the sweat drip down her chest. It was her birthday tomorrow. Twenty five years old. If tradition held, this would be the tenth visit she had received.
She shivered as the sea breeze blew along her sweat covered chest. She would have to spend almost the entirety of the two weeks cooped up on the ship with a dozen other people. Already she was having trouble controlling it, even though the symptoms had yet to manifest completely and the dreams had not begun.

They were headed for Farholde, the northern most colony of Talingarde. Willow had travelled to Farholde as a child, her father having been called across for business. They had come across during one of the infamous floods, the nine tall hill tops surrounded by the overflow from the Great Lake, boats and rafts the only connection to each part of town.
Tiadora had told them little of their mission, spending most of the trip locked away in the captains cabin, having apparently evicted him from it. She informed them only to use the trip to recover and await instruction.
As Oathday dawned, Willow drank to celebrate her birthday, staring out at the sunrise. After she polished of the last of her wine, reaching for a bottle of whiskey, she saw Pellius eyeing her questioningly.
“Twenty five,” she said softly, staring into the brass liquid, “It feels like more.”
“It is little fun to drown those years alone, my lady,” he said with his usual charm, “Would you care for some company?”
Willow laughed, passing him the bottle, “I would indeed.”
On such a small ship, there was no privacy. Word of Willow's birthday was spread instantly. As the others celebrated and joined in the drinking, Pellius pulled out his cards and began teaching them a strange Chelaxian drinking game he known as kings. They spent the day drinking and gambling, bottles of Rotgut Whiskey shared amongst them. The liquor flowed and gold passed hands, they listened to each other swap stories of the past, more relaxed than they had been since coming together.
That night as they dropped anchor, Willow leaned along the railing and listened to the faint sound of screaming echoing from the near by towns. She watched Tiadora smile at it as she entered the cabin for the night. Shaking her head, Willow heard Pellius’ footsteps as he approached and leant next to her.
“The war wages on,” she said quietly, “So much destruction. So much chaos. The bugbears are obliterating everything in their way. What will be left when they are done?”
“It's a necessary step, my lady,” Pellius replied.
“I do understand it,” she said softly, “But the cardinal must have a plan, if the bugbears are left unchecked, there will be nothing left to rule over when they're done.”

As the days passed and her temperature grew, Willow struggled to contain the blaze feasting inside her body. As dawn crept upon them each morning, she sat along the starboard side and dangled her feet in the river. The freezing water splashed up her legs, so cold her toes lost their feeling, she let the chill seep through her skin and calm the rage inside her.
Each morning she sat in observation, watching as the others went about their usual routines, learning more about them by their habitual practices.
She watched as Pellius spent his morning in an unwavering regime. She chuckled at the obsessive amount of time he dedicated to grooming himself. In strict order he meticulously trimmed his nails, shaved his chin, brushed his teeth and combed and styled his hair. Once finished, he stood shirtless and began his methodical stretches, slow limbering fluid motions. Each morning, Willow's eyes followed the flex of his back muscles as they rippled from left to right.
Garvana rose with the sun like a bat out of hell, hair a wild mess with puffy tired eyes, trudging about the ship scuffing her feet. Each morning, she stood by the edge of the ship as the sun lifted in the sky and her awareness slowly came around. Once her eyes would stay open on their own, she would begin her prayers and memorise her spells, the boons granted by their Infernal Lord.
Willow always knew when Bor awoke, for the ship would shake as he lumbered to his feet. Every morning he sat in silence as he therapeutically sharpened the blade of his axe. Willow watched him in intrigue, she saw the torment in his eyes, the horror of his past lingered behind them. Although he laughed along with the group, Willow could hear the pain in his voice, the inner battle he was fighting behind his stone cold face.
Teelee was always the last to rise. She sat with her nose turned up, complaining about the conditions of the ship and the quality of the food. She pulled her hair into an uptight bun, plastering it back off her face, each morning after she woke. She washed her clothes in the river water, grumbling to herself about having to perform a chore she thought was clearly beneath her.
As for Willow, each morning she woke before the sun. She hung her feet over the edge of the ship while she methodically brushed her hair, weaving a differently arranged braid for each day. She stretched her limbs, her flexible frame bending effortlessly, contorting into strange positions. One of the mornings while she stretched, she felt eyes on her as she folded forward, flattening her stomach against her legs, draping her hands behind her knees. Hanging upside down, she turned her head to see Bor and four of the sailors grinning at her, staring at her backside. She winked, lifting a leg towards the sky and stretching it high.

The days were spent much the same. Bor was patient enough to teach Garvana how to speak the Draconic tongue, each day becoming less painful to listen to. Willow paid little attention, draping her feet along in the water, her nimble fingers mindlessly braiding her hair. On their seventh day, from the corner of her eye she saw Teelee staring, trying to mimic the braid, ending with her nails entwined in her own hair. Willow laughed and offered to teach her, starting with a basic braid, rather than the five strand cascade braid she had been weaving.
Later that afternoon, they cleared a space along the decking, large enough for a few rounds of sparring. Wooden makeshift weapons in hand, Willow prowled around Pellius as he stood solid in defence. As he lunged forward with force, she swiftly span out of the way, diving under his arm and coming up behind him. She jabbed him in the ribs with the wooden board, too late at noticing his back swing towards her head. She slacked her body, rolling with the force of his hit, tumbling backwards to her feet and thrusting her weapon upwards clipping him under the jaw. She danced under his cleave, springing from the right to strike him across the back of his head, laughing as she dove out the way of his boot. She went in for a double strike, ducking under his arm, slashing him across the stomach pirouetting to slash again. But as she turned, she felt his crushing grip latch onto her wrist. She giggled and squealed as he yanked her backwards, grabbing her by the throat, effortlessly lifting her and slamming her slender frame into the floor.
“You're enjoying this, entirely too much,” he said with a smirk, as she wheezed out giggles through a winded chest.
Willow watched intently as Bor and Pellius clashed weapons. Bor was an explosion of strength. He hit with force and might, attacked with everything he had, no thought for defence. Pellius on the other hand was a sturdy form, tough and resilient, taking each blow in his stride waiting for his opportunity. They were evenly matched. Exchanging blow for blow, both men heaving, energy drained and depleted. After almost an hour, they called for an end, a draw as it were. They stood on either side of the ship, staring at each other, tensions escalating. Willow laughed at the testosterone emanating from the pair and offered up her whiskey, calming the tempers long enough to break the feud.

Throughout the nights Willow fought the battle against herself to keep quiet. The dreams of the blazing palace, running in circles, burning from the inside out. She knew she used to thrash and moan next to her husband, loud enough to wake and panic him. Night terrors, she told him. Filled with frightening creatures and a banquet of debauchery. What she failed to mention to him, was that she was the frightening creature, the main conspirator of the heinous acts.

On the last evening as they pulled along the coast, Farholde a sight in the distance, Tiadora called them to attention.
“The master is here and commands you to attend him,” she said grimly, “He awaits in the cabin.”
Willow cringed at the thought of the cardinal seeing her in this state. Bathed only in river water for two weeks, worn black travelling clothes, salt licked mane of hair flying free and wild. As they filed in, Willow swiftly braided her hair back, twisting and flicking it up into a bun.
As she entered the room, expecting to be blown away by his fierce pressed, she was surprised to find the blazing heat did not flare as strong as before. He still had her stomach churning, her lower region sweltering and her chest seizing, but the intensity had ever so slightly dimmed.
She slinked in the room, sinking to her knees in front of him, looking up into his dark eyes. Her looked down at her, his all knowing devilish grin still lighting his handsome face.
“You have served me faithfully, my ninth knot," he said with pride, "And I have rewarded you both in treasure and vengeance. Thanks to your efforts, the Fire-Axe has been unleashed. Even now he writes his name in blood across the Borderlands. But our work is not yet done. Talingarde has not yet acquiesced to our unholy master nor tasted the full measure of our vengeance..."
He outlined the objectives of their next mission. Firstly, he gave them the name of an old Asmodean worshipper, a man not to be trusted, but a well connected potential ally. Secondly, he told them to enter the largest unmapped forest on the island of Talingarde. Hidden within the Caer Bryr was an ancient temple called the Horn of Abaddon. He told them how it was overthrown almost eighty years ago by the Markadian I, the Victorious. How he defeated its inhabitant, an Archdeacon known as Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes.
"So terrified of this monstrosity was the king," the Cardinal recalled, "That he had the priests of Mitra craft a great silver seal to forever forbid the daemon from returning to our plane of existence. The seal remains to this day."
“I have learned the truth about this daemon prince. I have learned what the Victor feared. Vetra-Kali is in service to the lord of pestilence. This immortal monster could create a plague so virulent that it would bring Talingarde to its knees. When the Victor attacked, the Daemon Prince was close to unleashing his masterpiece upon the world -- a pestilence known as the Tears of Achlys."
"Find the Horn. Find the seal and shatter it. Call Vetra-Kali back to our world. Bind him to your will and force service from the monster. And then bring the Tears to me. Can you do this, my knot? Have I found servants with might and will enough to see this task done?”
Willow inclined her head deeply, Garvana and Bor nodded firmly, Teelee smiled and Pellius bowed low, “Yes, master.”

As they pulled into dock on Farholde’s shores, Tiadora gathered them together.
“I shall escort you to the dinner with Baron Arkov Vandermir tomorrow evening,” she clipped, “Six o'clock sharp. Do not be late. And please,” she said disgusted, looking over the group, “Make your selves appear presentable.”
As they wandered from the docks, Willow told the group what she knew of the town. After telling Pellius of the shanti town in Drownington, he and Bor trudged off down the muddy path. Willow informed the women that she would be heading to the Bronze Minotaur in Auld’irey, a luxurious establishment in the most historic and wealthy part of the merchant area.
“I've heard they also have the most amazing desserts buffet,” she said quietly with a grin, “Apparently they do a lychee panna cotta worth killing for.”

Once they were set up in their suites, and heavily stuffed with desserts, Willow retired to her bedroom. Staring up at the ceiling, she sighed deeply, only two nights before her visitor was due. Her chest was tightening, her hands were trembling, the burning was beginning to throb preparing for her return to the fiery palace.
As she dreamt of racing through the halls in the dead of night, Willow woke in her room at the inn, with a dagger to her throat.
“You!” she breathed, panting heavily.
Poised over her, pressing the blade down firmly, was a man she would remember for the rest of her days. Switch, the assassin who had turned her in, the reason she was arrested and imprisoned.
“Miss me?” he said with a sly grin.
He flipped the dagger up in the air, catching it by the pommel and swiftly sheathing it.
“Sorry to wake you from such an entertaining dream,” he mocked, “Very erotic. With moans like that, any chance you were thinking of me?”
Willow ignored his question and slowly lifted herself from the bed. Eyeing him warily, she slipped her legs over the side and cautiously stood. Force of will stopped her from screaming out as the burning rushed from her thighs to her toes. Still keeping one eye on him, she slinked across the room, shamelessly naked. She felt his eyes upon her as she gracefully wrapped herself in her silk nightgown and poured them both a nip of whiskey.
Handing him the drink, she lent against the bed, containing her squeal as she pressed her hyper sensitive body against the hard metal frame. Her eyes searched his face. He still wore his hair shorn clean, the dark wells around his piercing eyes still heavy, his arched jaw still strong and firm. Though she seethed at the thought, he was still as alluring as ever.
“So, what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I've been watching you,” he said, sipping his whiskey, staring directly at her.
“So I can tell,” she said dryly, “And what do you want?”
He paced to the other side of the room, “You've impressed me, not an easy thing to do.”
Willow scoffed, “And why does that matter?”
He stopped pacing in front of her, “Because I can help you. You've got potential. I couldn't have dreamed you would escape that prison, let alone make it this far.”
“And why was I in that prison?” she snapped, stepping up to him face to face in rage, “Why did you put me in there?!”
Switch chuckled, “Because your parents paid me more to turn you in.”
Willow's eyes widened, “They what?!” she said, mind reeling, “Those faithless traitors!”
As her anger started to boil, Switch scoffed, “They say that about you, don't they?”
Willow's eyes shot to him. His sheepish grin softened her temper, she rolled her eyes and couldn't help but laugh. She drank down the entire glass of whiskey, tenderly walking over for another. She relaxed a little, if he meant her harm, he was smart enough to have already attacked.
“I don't suppose you know their reasoning?” Willow asked hopefully.
Switch raised his eyebrows at her.
“I suppose not,” she huffed.
She sipped on the drink as she watched him. His footsteps were silent as he moved around the room, inspecting the decor on the walls and Willow's belongings, he moved with a fluid grace she hadn't seen before.
“So what is it you actually want from me?” she asked warily.
“There's a job,” he said, still perusing the room, “A test of sorts. Perform well, and I will train you. Perform badly, and well, the consequences will speak for themselves.”
“A job?” she balked, “Train me? Have you gone completely daft, why would I want that? And why would I trust you?”
He simply smirked, “You already do, and you already don’t.”
Willow sighed at his answer and rolled her eyes. He was correct. He had much to teach her, his skills had always been impressive, though she never had any use for such things. And she certainly did not trust him.
He downed his whiskey, placing the cup on the bench, heading for the open window.
“I'll contact you when the time is right.”
Placing her glass on the table, Willow stood.
“What was that night?” she asked curiously, “Was that all part of the game?”
Switch stopped in his tracks. After pausing only for a moment, he spun on his heel and charged up to Willow, grabbing her by the throat and backing her into the wall. He crushed his lips to hers in blazing passion, holding her off the ground firmly by the neck, stripping open her nightgown and forcing his thigh in between her legs. With the fire raging so fiercely through her, she tried but couldn't bring herself to push him away, only managing to sink herself further into his grip. She snapped her teeth against his tongue pushing her sweltering body against his, blistering where his thigh was rubbing, clawing her nails down the back of his neck.
Chuckling against her mouth he pulled his lips away, panting shallow breaths, resting his forehead against hers.
“A game I'd like to play again,” he said darkly.
Willow laughed, breathing hard, “Perhaps we not end it with me imprisoned this time?”

By day break he was gone. Willow woke alone, satisfied, sore and dishevelled. Standing in front of the vanity mirror, she laughed as she inspected her bruised neck and wrists. She was lucky her outfit was high necked and long sleeved.
Strolling through the market place, Willow browsed the wares and listened to the townspeople. She selected a few elegant gowns in black and red, picking out a new pair of black leather heels to match. Willow returned to the Inn, bathing and dressing for the dinner. The dress, layers of black lace, bound together with black leather boning. The leather stretched high and wrapped around Willow's slender neck, long and elegant. The layers of lace ruffled from her small waist, flaring out gracefully, almost appearing as if she was gliding when she walked. Before she slipped into the dress, she strapped her dagger to her leg, its sleek curve a perfect fit on the contour of her thigh. She pulled her hair up tight in a sleek bun, wrapping all of the lengths into a chignon. Her flawless pale white skin glistening, her natural red lips plump and full. She wore only a single line of black along her eyes, their pale redness shining brightly.

She wandered down to the dock, with Garvana and Teelee in tow, arriving as dusk began to fall. Garvana wore a pleated frock of red, soft lines attempting to soften the tightness of her harshly toned figure. Teelee fashioned a bespoke gown with hard tucks in a trend Willow had only seen from the shores of Rahadoum. She smiled as she saw Bor in his large black tailored suit, with sleeves so large she could probably wear one as a dress.
Pellius stepped towards her, his black colonial style coat slim fitting and sharp, hair slicked effortlessly back in a quiff.
“My lady,” he bowed, she curtsied, “Beautiful as always. I have a gift for you.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a red silk pouch, gently tipping it into his hand, revealing a stunning gold and ruby necklace. A single large ruby sat centre, surrounded by intricate gold carvings and smaller individual rubies, laced together with a fine golden chain.
“It's… exquisite,” she breathed, eyes wide, suspicion flaring, “truly beautiful.”
“May I?” he offered, taking the necklace and stepping behind her.
Willow closed her eyes and breathed deep as his hand gently caressed her neck, adorning her with the jewellery. Although she felt his fingers curiously move aside the layers of silk to reveal the bruises beneath, her mind could not think of it. She held the ruby and stared down into it. Her eyes flicked up to Pellius and back to the stone around her neck.
“Thank you,” she said graciously, “Truly, thank you.”

Tiadora exited the cabin of the ship, wearing a slip of white beauty and dripping with diamonds, looking the part of royalty attending her own wedding. She guided the group through town across to Caviller Green, the wealthiest section of the city. They arrived at the gates to the largest manor spread across the rolling hills. As they strolled up the path towards the entrance, Pellius offered his arm to Willow, to which she smiled and accepted. The guards stepped up to them as they reached the great archway of a front door.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” spoke the guard, “I'm afraid I can't let you in looking quite so armed.”
As the rest of the group handed over their weapons, Willow shrugged to the guard who looked her over, her blade was hidden and strapped seamlessly to her leg.
They were escorted into the lounge area where platters of delicious hors d’oeuvres and glasses of fine white wine awaited them. Willow picked at the food a little and simmered on the single glass of wine. The Cardinal had said that the Baron was not a man to be trusted, she would heed his warning, she needed to have all her wits about her.
After a while, a man called for them to join him along the main table, an extravagant long oak dining trunk. He appeared a slender half elf, a young almost boyish face, dark calculating eyes that spoke of years beyond his appearance. Willow knew he was the Baron Arkov Vandermir, part of the Barcan line, the rulers of Talingarde before the Markadians came into power.
Willow laughed softly as Pellius insisted on pulling out her chair for her, eyeing the servants warningly, keeping them away. He tucked her seat in before taking the chair to her left.
“Your hospitality Baron, is unrivalled,” Pellius said graciously, “Master Thorn would be most pleased with your treatment of us.”
Vandermir scoffed, “Enough with the pleasantries. Get to the point. What is it you want?”
“We are here to see if you can aid us,” Teelee said shortly.
Willow stayed quiet and merely watched the Baron’s face, attempting to read him.
“You come to me as beggars,” he retorted, “The last remnants of a forbidden faith. You will promise me much; of that I have no doubt. But all that I am likely to earn from helping you is the inquisitors pyre. Tell me, why should I help the likes of you?”
Teelee spoke of their past victories, their unimaginable escape from Branderscar, their impossible success of taking down Balentyne. Garvana spoke of her contact with the devil, his trust and his willingness to help. Vandermir stared intently and listened, clearly interested in what they had to say, but remaining unswayed.
“Even so, the risk is still not worth it.”
“This risk,” Willow said smoothly, “Is nothing against the risk of facing our Infernal Father’s wrath. He is the Lord of Ambition and yet you claim to serve him?” her voice turned intense, “Ambition is the definition of the desire to succeed, and to succeed we must risk. We risk much to gain much. Does his ambition not run through your veins?”
Vandermir stared into her eyes, his mind ticking and turning.
“Enough!” Bor stood and said forcefully, “There are only two sides of this war. You are either with us, or you are against us. There is no neutral ground, you must pick a side!”
“Those who stray from the path,” Garvana said, standing too, “Will be laid unto dust.”
Willow rose from her chair, tilting her head slightly.
“The kingdom will be His.”
Slumping slightly in defeat, Vandermir paused. Looking around at the group, he begrudgingly agreed. He offered his services, his accommodation and contacts. He spoke with the group for a few minutes before he began to bid them goodnight. As he turned to leave, Willow approached him with a question that had been bouncing around in her head.
“Baron,” she beckoned politely, “What do you know of Samuel Havelyn?”
The colour drained from Vandermir’s face. Suspiciously, he looked deep into Willow’s eyes.
“What would a disgraced cleric of Mitra mean to the likes of you?”
Willow smiled and batted her eyelashes, staring back, “Oh, I was just interested, I found a mention of him is all.”
He stared at her, seemingly trying to conclude or decide something. He shook off the look of fear that had began to creep over his face and turned back to Willow.
“He was a Cardinal of Mitra,” he said curtly, “Burned at the stake for the crime of Heresy.”
He stood to leave, “This meeting is over,” he said sharply, “Good night.”
“Good night,” Willow replied softly.
Her interest was piqued. Vandermir's response was not at all what she had expected, but was in fact, all the more deliciously curious.

They were shown to their separate rooms where their belongings had been delivered. Willow requested a bath be drawn as she unpinned her hair, brushing methodically as her mind reeled over the possibilities. She laughed at some of the dramatic situations she came up with, deciding to go searching the library in the Hall of the Sun Victorious tomorrow.
Freshly bathed and smelling of cinnamon, she dropped back into the large bed. As her head fell to the pillow, she was hit with a crashing wave of heat, pulling her deep into a heavy sleep.
She gasped for air as the blazing force crushed down across her body. She lay sweltering, drenched in sweat, drowning in the storm of heat. Her body quivered as a breath of wind kissed her soaked skin.
"Child," soothed a sultry voice, "Come, you are ready."

Willow's eyes snapped open. Her chest trembled as she struggled to breathe evenly. She crawled out of bed, one foot at a time, standing on fragile legs in her childhood bedroom. She whimpered as she lifted her leg to step, gingerly shifting her weight across, knees buckling.
"Stand!" commanded the voice, "You are greater than this. SHOW ME!"
Willow felt the force of the words rip into her soul. She clamped down her teeth and arched her back, seizing the scorching fire and forcing it deep into the pit of her stomach. Her eyes flew wide and her head snapped back as she violently expelled the power outwards.
"Very good," the voice smouldered, "Come to me child."
Willow forced her feet to lift off the ground. She glided across the carpet, opening the doors with little but a look, floating down the stairway towards the library.
She felt her blood rushing through her veins at rapid speed. Her senses had become so heightened she could hear it racing through her limbs. She could feel each individual muscle and tendon in her hand working separately as she clenched her fingers together. She could see the veil between this plane and the next. She could taste the fear of the souls trapped in and around this locus.
She smiled as she hovered at the entrance to the sanctuary, basking in the roaring power flowing through her, simpering at the affectionate way the heat licked at her heels. Stepping out from the stairs she felt the fire surge and soar. She dropped to the floor, heaving chest, and forced her way forward. She reached the stone wall, panting fast and hard, unable to stop the moans seeping from her lips.
Upper left, bottom centre, upper right, bottom left, bottom right, upper left. The wall shuttered as she reached for the centre stone. Fighting a raging cyclone of fire, she thrust her hand out, forcing the stone to open its walls.
"Child," spoke the woman softly, "What a creature you have grown to be."
In the centre of the steps on the altar, sat a woman surrounded by curtains of long crystal white hair. She held an air of confidence married by an overpowering aura of dominance. Piercing eyes alight with red flame, skin so pale it glistened like glass, lips so deep red like blood. Willow smiled. The woman, so intimately familiar, so incredibly well known. Yet she could not place it, the thought drifted just out of each, her identity blurred by only a wisp. It did not matter. Willow glided to the stairs and knelt in her place by the woman's feet, eyes downcast, head bowed.
"Come closer child," she hummed, "I wish to see you."
Willow looked up, leaning in towards the woman, shaking in awe.
"Ah yes," she said, smiling almost fondly, "I see it."
Willow desperately longed to beg for answers, but she knew better, some ingrained reasoning kept her silent.
"You will see it one day too," spoke the woman, "When you have learnt your rightful place. You must not falter. You must stay strong. You must leave behind who you were, and embrace who you are, who you were meant to be and who you will become.”
The woman traced a single finger across Willow’s forehead and down the side of her face, following a long flowing curl down to her shoulder.
“You must use the tools you were given child. You have a power seeded deep within you. One you can control, that can give you control over even the most powerful of foes. Embrace it, extort it, it is there to be used."
Willow sighed softly as she felt a searing kiss deep down below.
"Yes," the woman smirked, "That is it. The greatest tool you have."
She leant down close, "Use that. Never this," she said as she pointed to Willow's heart.
She reached down to the golden ruby necklace laced around Willow's neck, lifting it gently and inspecting it.
"You must learn to stand alone, do not allow this festering affection to root any deeper. You are growing, transforming, ever-evolving. Do not let this attachment gain any momentum. Enjoy yourself child, play for great pleasure and gratification. But stay guarded always. Do not let your heart strings attach themselves."
Her gaze turned intense, the strength in her voice made Willow tremble, "You are bound to another. You know this! Nothing or no one else will ever be enough for you. You will never be satisfied. You were meant for Him. Your heart belongs to Him. You, belong to Him.”
The woman traced a finger along Willow's jaw, smiling down at her before pressing a kiss to her lips, sending her world spinning.
Willow flung up from the bed in the Barons manor. Hair soaked with sweat, chest pounding, hands cramping from their tight grip on the sheets. Scrambling from the bed she raced into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, she frowned at her reflection. She saw the woman she used to be staring back at her. She reached for the ruby and laced it around her neck. Her hand traced over the edges of the centre stone as she stared in thought. She knew not what the intentions behind the elegant gift were, nor did she know what her destiny was to be. She knew only that a story of ordinary romance was not in her fate.
She lit a lantern by the desk and composed a letter in finely scripted perfect cursive.

Pellius,
I am writing to you only for I find the spoken words evade me.
I do not know how to arrange my words to shield you from the brunt of them, as I do not know the motives behind your actions. So I shall be as honest as I am permitted to be.
I am bound to another, with ties much greater than any written contract. I have always belonged to Him. There are things in motion, a fate I am to walk, that not even I am completely aware of.
My heart and soul are not mine to give. Though my body, it is a tool for use in his service. Whether for assignment or reward, I may use it as I see fit.
The necklace is magnificent. Such beauty. A gift I would be honoured to bear.
But I must impress upon you, do not entangle your heart.
I do not claim to know your intentions. For it may be only sheer flattery, and our nights together only uncomplicated sinful pleasure. If this is the case, it is a pleasure I would be most eager to continue. But if it runs deeper, if your heart strings are trying to take root or your mind thinks of courtship, let us end this.
You are the pinnacle of strength, but even the mightiest of warriors can be damaged by the pain of the heart. There is no future of love with me.
Willow

Sneaking out into the hallway she slipped the note under his door and returned to her room. She stared at her face in the vanity mirror. The contours of her high cheek bones seemed sharper than she remembered, her eyes held an age she had not seen before. As she began to comb her hair back she stared at the fresh growth of jet black hair near her scalp. Quirking her head to the side, she smiled. Reaching for her dagger she grabbed a handful of her long auburn hair and slashed outwards. She dropped the mass of copper curls onto the bench. She continued around both sides and the back of her head, cutting off the red leaving only the black behind, wispy and jagged. Looking up as she sliced off the last dangling strands, she grinned. Black had always been her colour anyway.

Willow watched the sun breach the sky, sitting in the dressing room by the window, staring out across the rolling hills of Calliver Green. She slowly sipped her ginger tea, rolling out her ankles, stretching out her feet and toes. Her ears tweaked to the footsteps entering her room. She recognised Pellius’ wide stride as he walked around the bed and retreated back into the hallway. After finishing her tea, Willow draped her silk nightgown over her shoulders and strolled into the bedroom. A folded letter sat upon her pillow, her name written across it in fine script.

My Lady,
I fear your suspicions of my motives do contain some truths.
Allow me a brief explanation.
A life in the Chelaxian capitol has left me wary of courtly intrigues. Guards can be bought, judges intimidated, clerics corrupted. The baron is a selfish man, loyal only to himself. Think of the strength he would garner for revealing us to the Mitran dogs. I could not allow this uncertainty to threaten our mission. To this end, the necklace. While it is indeed a fine piece, entirely suitable for enhancing your charms, I am surprised to learn your quick eyes and keen hands have not yet located the hidden lockpick situated amongst the golden trim.
As to your fears of leading me astray, worry not. Although young, I am not some moon eyed lad who would fall to his knees at the sight of bosom, perfect though yours may be.
I think it is fair to say that we both understand that sex can be a very useful and satisfying tool. To have encountered such a skilled partner in one such as yourself has been very beneficial.
But as I write this, I will admit that I feel drawn to you. Though the others can bleat their words from a book and blindly follow His practices, I know it is you who holds true passion for our Lord. I feel it whenever you draw near, and to enable you is to serve Him.
While you and I are together, He shall flourish.
Pellius
Postscript
I have some new manacles I was hoping you could help me test out.
Bring the necklace and we'll see how long it takes you to finish.

As she read his words, her lips crept into a grin. She chuckled as she pulled the hidden lockpick from its crevice, thinking of the lockpick she had sewn into the seam of her undergarments. She laughed at herself, shaking her head at her worries of heartbreak. It seemed she had finally met some one who truly understood…

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:26 AM
Chapter 9 - Secrets of the Sons


The sun rose high, casting its light across the glittering lake that wound through the stretched of Farholde. The city awoke in bustling life, the streets filled with people and the chorus of cheer lingered through the air.
After the five of them had eaten breakfast, they headed towards the docks to meet the Seventh Knot. A woman of long white hair, and a heart as cold as the icy arcana she wielded, by the name of Elise led the band. She strolled off the ship with her nose in the air, surrounded by an aura of arrogance. Willow had to forcibly stop herself from rolling her eyes as the woman spoke about how fantastic she was to have completed her mission of eliminating certain commanders, ensuring no army could quickly come to the aid of Alden Cross. Two roguishly handsome twins, known as Trick and Track waltzed off the ship, Trick with his charming smile and Track with his scowl.
“Hello again. Hi. Hello.” Trick greeted the party, “Hello to you! We saw you lot in Thorn’s manor.”
He looked around the group, “Where’s the old man?” he asked Willow.
“In hell,” she scoffed.
“Ah,” Trick paused, shrugging he said, “Shame that. Who's this?”
Willow laughed as she introduced Bor and continued friendly banter with Trick. Garvana spoke to Elise and found out the details of her assignment here. Willow half listened as she spoke of watching their backs, having devised a plan to make sure no one would follow them to the Horn. Willow smiled, she could not imagine an arrogant creature like Elise being satisfied with playing second runner.

She spent the afternoon scouring the Hall’s library for any mention of Samuel Havelyn. She wasn't expecting to find a detailed account of his treachery, but she was disappointed to find nothing pertaining his namesake. Not a single mention of him at all.
Meeting up over dinner, Willow was impressed when she saw Bor had obtained a map of the Caer Bryr with the Horn of Abaddon circled in the centre. He had followed a lead on a missing elf, presumably the leader of the fourth knot, tasked with this mission before them and failed.

The group left town as the sun broke the horizon and shed its first light across the city. Walking through the dense brush leading into the great Caer Bryr, the rain poured heavy from above. The further they entered, the more impassable the surrounding forest became. The lush greenery sprouted in falls, the shades, shadows and dappled darkness muting the array of jade and carob hues. Rays of light pierced through the hooded canopy, illuminating the soft mist feathered through the range. Great stone spires stood in their majesty, painted with forestry, each a tapering conical point reaching to the clouds. The thickness of the humidity enveloped Willow in a rich swell. Looking to her left, she smiled at the marvel of nature, everything around her in flux – in some state of living, breathing, growing, decaying or dying. The water trickled through the unbroken emerald canopy of trees high above, she smiled upwards as she let the rain fall on her face. Looking to her right, she laughed as she saw Pellius walking in his ridiculous rain poncho, shielded from any and all elements.
Stefan, the guide Pellius had hired, led them through the forest with relative ease towards the south. As they reached the point marked on the map, they approached a large spire, tall grand and undistinguishable from every other spire in the forest. Willow marvelled at the height of the spires and the sheer presence they dominated. Using her imagination, Willow could picture the stone slab in front of her resembling a large upturned horn shape. Unfortunately, she could also make out the same picture with every other spire around them. The group approached it cautiously, nearing the base with uneasy feet, a cave entrance gaping behind bindings of thick vines.
“I wouldn't go in there if I was you,” said a deep wise old voice.
One of the nearby trees turned it trunk to face the group and slowly lifted its branches.
“Why not?” Teelee asked the Treant.
“This place,” the Treant said, ever so slowly, “is not a very nice place. Those that dwell here, are malign beings.”
“Greetings, Elder One,” Garvana bowed.
“Greetings, Child of the City.”
“We wish to enter this cavern, Elder One. We know of the malign beings, we shall disperse of them with no trouble,” Garvana said, eyes downcast in a show of respect.
“Be that as it may,” the Treant soothed, “You have happened upon the Horn of Abbadon. I am charged with a sacred duty to protect this place from the evil which wishes to always take root.”
“We do not wish to bring harm to this place,” Garvana lied.
“That is good,” the Treant breathed, “But I can not let you enter.”
“Who gave you the job to guard this place?” Willow asked.
“A very good man, a very long time ago.”
“Markadian, The Victor,” Willow smiled.
Pellius called out to the Treant after finding a single foot print on the ground.
“I believe someone has already breached this place,” he said seriously.
“We were sent here,” said Bor confidently, “To stop this villain breaching the seal, by Sir Valin, a descendant of the Victor himself!”
“By one of his line?” the Treant asked, “Why, did you not say so? If he, so trusted you with this task, then who am I, to say any different. You, may enter.”
Willow smiled and inclined her head to him as she passed, such a magnificent creature, she was sorry knowing he would burn with the rest of the country.
They pushed aside the vines and revealed a large cave mouth. Stalactites and stalagmites protruded from the rock in jagged erosions forming a toothy grin of a passage. Willow climbed over the rocks on light feet. As she landed she looked out into the total darkness, listening to the scurry of the den, the water echo of each droplet.
“Will you carry this for me, my lady?” Pellius asked, “I must hold my shield. Stay behind me, I will guard you.”
Willow lifted his lantern high and aimed it into the cave.
“Stefan,” Pellius called, “Have you ever been in a cave? Do you know what to do?”
Stefan looked to him, wide eyed and shaking, “No, no no, never.”
“Well we have, and we do, so stay close.”
“Will do!” he said as he fell in close.
“Stay beside me, but behind him,” Willow said sternly “Don't fall behind, I can not watch out for you if I can not see you.”
“Right you are,” he said, walking closer again.
Creeping though the opening passage she felt the ground melt beneath her feet. The thick layer of mud suctioned to her shoes as she crept into the cavern. The walls of sharp battered stone were slick with humid condensation, each winding crevice housing a silhouette of shadow and mystery. While the group pushed on silently, Willow focussed on the sounds of the cave. She could hear the shatter of small rocks as they dropped from the higher creases and the flow of a short stream or fall of liquid. But what she could not hear, was the creatures that lived in the cavern. They had made their way through many winding stone tunnels and not come across a single creature. Willow kept her dagger tight in hand at the ready.
As the path hardened and the stone underneath solidified, Willow heard Garvana muttering incantations, and turned to see her staring at a wall.
“There's something here,” she said distractedly.
“It's called rock,” Willow scoffed.
Garvana pushed hard on the stone wall and a door seam spilt into its side.
“Well,” Willow said, “I certainly did not expect that.”
Shining the lantern into the hidden room, revealed a spiral staircase winding upwards into darkness.
“We should clear this floor first,” Bor said, leading the way, “Wouldn't want anything to come sneaking up behind us.”
Following the curve of the passage way, they entered through a tight squeeze and came to a large open cavern. At the far end of the cave, sprawling across both sides of the room, was a boiling basin of mud. Steam was expelled from the bubbles that were simmering along the top of the dirt filled sludge. On the opposite side sat a ledge, housing an empty upturned chest tipped on its side.
“Suspicious,” Pellius uttered as he turned to face and guard the entrance.
Teelee walked closer and inspected the mud, “There's a touch of necromancy at work here.”
Willow paced back and forth across the cavern while Garvana and Bor lassoed the chest and dragged it across the mud. As the reached the solid ground, Willow bent down to inspect the chest lock, which had been brutally ravaged and left in pieces.
“Amateurs,” Willow scoffed.
“We've got company!” Pellius yelled.
They turned to see a group of boggards dancing on the edge of the lantern’s reach.
“Get behind,” Willow said quietly to Stefan, hearing Pellius and Garvana yell a warning.
The boggards let out fierce croaks that ricocheted off the caverns walls and echoed through Willow's head. She cringed and clamped her teeth shut, shaking it off as she took up a defensive stance. A frog creature larger than Willow's size bellowed his blood-curdling croak and charged towards Garvana. Foaming from the mouth, he swung his great sword wildly. While he was distracted, Willow snuck in behind him, barely dodging his erratic movements as he flung his sword around through the air. Exhaling deeply to focus, she plunged her dagger forward and stabbed the frog through the eye, flinging it out of its socket. The frog croaked loudly and seemed to fester his rage further, his attacks becoming quicker and more volatile. Garvana smashed her flaming mace down into the frogs foaming face, but although it left a concaved blackened welt, the frog did not so much as flinch. When Willow saw Bor charging towards the frogman, she dove out of the way, flipping gracefully towards another of the boggards. As Pellius cleaved his sword in warning to the smaller frog, Willow ducked in behind it and rammed her dagger through its throat, retching it upwards and splitting its face open in a shower of brains and blood. Pellius pulled his shield up just in time as the splatter landed, Willow laughed and deftly stepped out of its way.
“Impressive, my lady,” Pelius grinned to Willow.
As one of the small frogs tried to escape, Pellius clipped him over the head with the pommel of his longsword and Willow swiftly flung out her bow and shot the frog through the neck, dropping him to the ground.
“Why thank you, kind sir,” Willow grinned back.
A spiral of blackened wisps flickered through the air, as Teelee created a magic hole in the ground, the mud creating a vortex and sucking down the last of the smaller boggards. As Garvana and Bor fought the savage frog, Willow approached the pit. She stood by its edge and prepared to strike, waiting for the strange spell to end.
From the corner of her eye, Willow saw the large one charge towards Stefan. She was too late to draw her bow again, the great sword came carving across, slicing him in two with such force that he was flung from the edge into the boiling mud.
Bor raised his great axe and cleaved into the large frog, knocking him onto his knees, death closing in on him. From the side of the battlefield Pellius charged in with his longsword, stealing the killing blow, slashing his sword downward and ending in a shower of green blood. The frog fell to the ground, foam and blood pouring from his face and body. Bor hefted his axe high and dropped it down apace, cleanly hacking its head off.
As the pit began to cave in on itself, the frog dove out in the nick of time. Willow was ready, slicing deeply across its throat and pirouetting through the air back for another slice. As she span and carved her dagger across, she slashed the air. She looked down to see the frog's body impaled into the ground by a familiar longsword. Looking up she saw Pellius across the cavern with a smug grin on his face.
“Oh thank you my saviour,” she said sarcastically, dramatically bowing, “What ever would I have done without you?”

Surrounded by splatters of thickened black boggard blood, Willow stood and caught her breath. The bodies of the massacred frogs lay strewn about the cavern floor. While Pellius wiped down the sticky residue coating his blade and Garvana checked their guide for signs of life, Willow strolled to the bottle neck entrance. The body of the boggard she had shot down was gone. A thick smear of blood dragged away towards the right, around the bend and out of sight.
“Come on,” she called to the group, lifting the lantern along the trail.
As they rounded the corner, they saw the dying frog crumpled in the mud ahead, dragging himself towards the darkness. In the shadows lurked a cluster of beaded eyes, the rest of the boggard tribe, toeing the line of the lanterns light.
Garvana brandished her mace at them, deeply rumbling her voice.
“This is our cave now,” she called, “Leave or be slain!”
The boggards croaked in response seeming confused by her words and flew into a panic, abandoning their friend in the mud, clambering around before retreating into the huts aligning the walls.
Willow peered in one of the huts, a pair of mud covered boggards cowered in the far corner. She prowled through the camp, Pellius and Bor on either side of her. Garvana cased hut to hut in search of one that could speak a common language. While she struggled to get them to comprehend, Teelee approached the dying boggard bleeding out in the mud. As she messily shoved her dagger threw its throat, Willow frowned. She saw an opportunity in the fear induced submission these boggards were exhibiting.
At a strange frantic croaking, Willow turned and laughed. She saw a boggard dancing from foot to foot in front of Garvana, shaking his hands in the air, periodically pointing to the north of the cavern.
“I think he wants us to go that way?” Willow laughed.
Garvana hurried out of the hut, a strange metal helmet in hand.
“Come on,” she called, walking off towards the North, “The frog told me to go and see someone called Zikomo. Perhaps he can understand me.”

They approached a large dome shaped part of the cavern, water dripping steadily from it's ceiling, fluorescent green algae softly lighting it's walls. In the centre stood an elaborate hut, made from layers of mud, sticks and bones. The archway entrance was decorated with hanging vines of bone pieces and crusted strips of unsavoury leather. Smoke plumed from the apex of the hut, bellowing in soft clouds, the stench of incense seeping though the doorway. As they stepped inside, a large fire simmered in the centre of the hut. A scripted spiral adorned the wall, smeared in luminescent green paste, softly pulsing. Staring at it made the hairs on Willow's neck stand on end. Sitting cross legged to the left sat a small boggard, embellished with necklaces made from the bones of many different animals, wrapped in thin bands of leathers. He held a staff made of wood and fish bone, as he sat glassy eyed in a trancelike state.
Garvana cleared her throat loudly.
The Boggard, Willow presumed was Zimoko, turned his attention on the group.
“Ah,” he said slowly, clouded eyes gleaming, “The cave of the blue slime conceals your future. Learn its secrets or fail at your masters charge!”
Zikomo leapt from his seat and began to wail, bouncing from one foot to the other, dancing around the fire. As he yelled loudly, the fire rippled and flared with blue flame, pulsing in shades of sapphire. Garvana tried to question him further, asking of the caverns and his people, and for explanation on his prophetic words.
“Blue slime! Blue slime!” Zikomo cried, dancing passed, ignoring Garvana.
As Garvana struggled to obtain any answers, Willow saw Pellius’ lip twitch. He was ready to slaughter the frog and all of its kin. She trailed her fingers along his back as she passed him, stepping in the frog’s path, summoning the frightening hell fire from inside her.
“What reason do I have, not to massacre every last one of you?” she asked him fiercely.
Zimoko stopped in his dance, looking up at Willow calculatingly, staring back into her eyes. He inclined his head, “You who have slain Kumanda, we, are now yours.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?” Willow asked sceptically.
“The boggards will serve you, and Zikomo will show you the way,” he said, nodding his head, clearly satisfied with himself.
“Show us the way to what?” Garvana asked.
“To the Fathers return!” he called happily.
“The Father?”
Zikomo danced on the spot, “You will return the Horn to greatness! And Zimoko, Chieftain, will show you the way!”
“Chieftain?” Willow questioned threateningly, eyebrows raised.
“Second, Chieftain,” he said respectfully.
Willow laughed as she exited the hut, leaving Garvana to converse with the frog.
The cave mouth to the west of the hut hung a wall of blue capped pointed mushrooms, a thin path had been worn in to the ground, weaving through the growth. Zikomo provided a boggard guide to show them through the rest of the tunnels in the caverns. They rounded a corner into a small cavern, it's rear walls littered with diamonds. Willow eyed it suspiciously, looking the ground over in front of her. From the corner of her eye she saw Garvana prance forward into the cave. Willow threw out her hand and grabbed Garvana’s collar, hauling her backward just in the nick of time, the floor falling away beneath her feet. A pit lay at the bottom, sharp stalagmites crudely protruding from the ground.
“Ah, thanks,” Garvana said, wide eyed.
Exploring further through the winding rock faces, covered in humid condensation, they approached a weather worn lip in the tunnel. Iridescent blue algae flickered along the walls inside the cavern, growing in large clusters, oozing its cerulean glow. As the group entered the mouth of the cave, the light glittered softly at their sides. The cave was empty, save a slender gap the corner, fitting nothing larger than a cat. Willow slid her hands along the crevice, testing the squeezing room.
“I'm pretty dexterous,” Willow mused, “But even I'm not slippery enough to fit through there.”
“There's something in there,” Garvana said thoughtfully, reading the magical auras, “Something powerful.”
“Get the boggards to dig it out,” scoffed Pellius.
Garvana smiled, “That's not a bad idea.”

After setting the task to the boggards, they returned to the southern caverns. Pulling free the large stone piece covering the secret stairwell, the group filed in one at a time. They crept up the winding spiral staircase surrounded by thick stone brickwork. As they reached the top of the staircase, they came upon a room covered in blackened ancient blood spray, battle scars littering the stone. In the corner lay two human skeletons, the bones sporting puncture wounds and blade marks. Both sets of bones lay heavily inside sets of rusted full plate armour bearing the heraldry of Vetra-Kali.
Ear against the only door in the room, Willow heard an odd sound. Two voices, conversing in cultured and impeccably mannered Abyssal.
“I say,” stated one voice, “I am quite peckish today. I believe it may once again be time to take a trip to where the boggards roam.”
“Perhaps,” spoke the other, “Though I do loathe the grittiness of boggard…”
Pellius came forward and threw the door open with force, confidently stepping inside.
“Oh look,” said the large daemon on the left, grinning widely, “It seems dinner, came to us.”
Two brutish looking ceustodaemons stood guarding a solid brick wall. Sharp elongated horns protruded from their skulls, large fangs hung from the mouths, thick heavy hooves shot from their legs. Standing at close to twice Willow’s height, built sturdy and wide, the two daemons looked hungrily down towards them.
The group spread out along the wall, Willow entered warily, keeping to Pellius’ shadow.
“May I request a moment of your time, Hexor and Vexor,” Garvana said politely, reading the runes carved into pendants around their necks, “before you attempt to devour us.”
“Oh my yes,” Vexor said dramatically, “We have been positively starved of stimulating conversation all these years.”
“How long has it been?” Garvana asked.
“Oh, a few decades,” Hexor answered, “Roughly eight or so.”
Willow listened intently, a plan beginning to form.
“There was another who passed this way, an elf?” Garvana inquired.
Vexor laughed, “Ah yes, he was delicious, if a little boney.”
“No great loss,” Willow scoffed.
Garvana spoke with the daemons, attempting to convince them to stay their attack.
“Perhaps,” Willow said softly, stepping forward, following her instincts, “We share a common goal…”
Hexor turned his gaze on her, “And what goal do you suppose that is?”
“We are here to unbind and free Vetra Kali,” she replied sharply.
“Indeed?” he said, grinning fiercely, “Well that would be most beneficial. Should you manage to succeed.”
He looked the group over, “I am ever doubtful, but I digress, I am ever intrigued. You may pass, the stairs beyond the wall lead to the sanctum. Unleash Vetra Kali if you are able…”

Willow felt the pulsing low in her stomach. A sickening battle for the ages. A twisted wave of evil energy being held at bay by an overwhelming aura of good. As they climbed the last of the stairs, they stepped into a fifty foot tall chamber, facing the balcony looking far and wide over the Caer Bryr. A loud crack of lightening had them spinning around in haste. Willow spun and stepped back, blades drawn. Her mouth dropped open as her eyes travelled up. Standing centre piece loomed a great statue, a carving made of green alabaster depicting the archdeacon himself, Vetra Kali. Frightening boned eldritch wings draped from its back, folded equine hooves sat under its bulk, a single serrated horn jutting from its forehead. Its face illustrated as a mantis skull, three symmetrical hollow gaping eyes, giving the Daemon Prince of Pestilence his insectlike appearance. Six arms stretched from his sides, taloned hands clawed three bowls and three daggers. The statue leered over the black stained altar at its feet. And finally, a large silver seal sat locked in its centre, layers of silver chain surrounding the statue from base to top. Willow cringed as she looked over the plague daemon and its silver prison.
Another loud crack from above had them jump back, eyes up, only now noticing the large flowing form of electricity huddled in the rafters. As the group looked it over, the mass swooped low, striking out as it sped through the air. Willow dove out of it way, rolling to her feet, slashing into the mass with her blade. She swore as she felt her hand slide straight the the form, tearing little damage along the way. The form reached out and latched itself onto Pellius, it's flashing tendrils wrapping around him. Willow flipped to his left and thrust her dagger forward it’s the sparking mass, whimpering as she felt Pellius surge with profane darkness. She sliced and slashed at it, following with her attacks as it slowly dragged Pellius towards the edge of the balcony. She saw Bor from the corner of her eye charging toward them, his glistening great axe above his head, as he cleaved downward into the form. The lightening pulsed, a sharp shudder of electricity as a chunk of oozing blue flesh ripped off it and splattered across the floor. Garvana ran from the other side of the room, arching her mace, slamming it into the form hard enough to shatter its tendrils, releasing Pellius as it fell backwards off the balcony.
Breathing heavily, Bor clapped Pellius on the shoulder, nodding firmly.
The group cautiously approached the seal, it's aura of goodness almost painfully overwhelming.
“Don't touch it,” Willow said quietly, “Mitra’s light will do nothing but harm to Asmodeus’ faithful.”
She prowled to the balcony and leaned forward over the railing, peering along the forested side of the Horn. She called out to the others as she noticed two sets of winding stairs spiralling up and around the base. The group decided to retreat back to Farholde to rest and restock, sourcing materials to help their progress.
Looking out along the horizon before she left, Willow marvelled at the majesty of the great spires littering the land. From this view, each spire seemed to be bowing in reverence to the Horn.

Swiftly tracking their way back to town, the group crept into the secret entrance to the Baron’s manor as the sun fell behind the horizon. Willow had a bath drawn as she penned a list of materials she needed to procure in the morning, top of the list being a scroll of stone shaping to open the cavern of the blue slime. She soaked for an hour, floating in the scalding hot water, draping her legs over the edge of the tub. Once her skin flushed pink and the water cooled, she stepped out, towelling herself dry and ruffling her hair. As she rubbed herself down with oils of cassia and liquid myrrh, she heard Pellius’ footsteps. She sauntered naked across the room, passing his approving grin, pulling out the canvas wrap from her bag. Unravelling the wrap on the bed, she offered an array of whips, floggers and crops, neatly organised tucked into the canvas.
She grinned sinfully, “Shall we worship tonight?”

Willow strolled through the markets, perusing the fine silk sheets and drapery. She traced her fingers along the soft materials, selecting the midnight black duvet to compliment the blood red slip and pillow coverings. She instructed the servant the Baron had provided which ones to carry and handed the merchant her velvet coin purse full of gold. The servant followed a respectful distance behind her while she glided from stall to stall. Her yellow sun dress swayed in the breeze, it's delicate lace layers flowing out behind her, a trail of intricate embroidery in a soft train. Weaves of yellow satin wrapped high around her neck, lacing back down into the boning of her corset. The golden and ruby necklace draped gracefully along her collarbone, it's deep red shine accentuating the red in Willow's eyes.
“Excuse me madam,” called a young pedlar, carrying a basket of flowers, “Only a rose as beautiful as this, could be worthy of your beauty my lady.”
He bowed to her, hand outstretched offering a single red rose, wrapped in a red silk ribbon. Willow laughed as she curtsied and accepted the rose, flicking the youth a gold coin. He grinned as he scurried away and Willow continued on, inspecting it suspiciously before gently lifting the rose to her nose to take in its fragrance. She noticed the fine sick ribbon wrapped around its stem, stiffer along one edge than the other.
After collecting a few more luxuries, she returned to the Barons manor before mid morning. She sent the servant to procure tea and biscuits while she set herself up along the dressing room desk. Gently unravelling the ribbon from the rose, she placed the flower in a slender glass vase. She sliced the end of the ribbon with the point of her dagger and slid out a sliver of parchment.
Sister Marta Dian. The Abbey. Tonight. 6 o'clock. Blade to the throat.
Willow smiled, holding the scrap of paper over the candle flame, watching it burn away into ashes.

Willow dressed herself in a simple peasants robe and strapped leather sandals, disguised as a young lay sister. No make up and a simple wrapped braid, she slowly dawdled through the city, heading for The Abbey.
“What can I help you with my dear?” asked a middle aged nun.
Willow smiled up at her, looking around brightly, she noticed the women dressed in their religious garb over chainmail shirts.
“I've just come into town, on my pilgrimage,” Willow said softly, “I'm Rosalyn Margaret Chadwick, a lay sister of Matharyn.”
“Well young Rosalyn,” spoke the sister firmly, “You'll be wanting to see the Hall of the Sun Victorious. Not the simple Abbey.”
Willow smiled at the sister, “It is not the large walls and structures where Mitra shines his light. A wall will be a wall long after I have passed it, I wish to see his light shining through his people.”
As the words lit up the sister’s face, Willow had to forcibly swallow the bile in her throat.
“Oh bless you child,” sighed the sister, “Come on in young thing. Would you enjoy a tour?”
Willow smiled graciously, “Very much so.”
Sister Cassandra Thia, as she introduced herself, guided Willow around the Abbey speaking of their history. She spoke of the Brides of Light, a female band of holy warriors. She told the tale of their founder, Saint Cynthia Celeste, famous for defeating the malicious ice devil Skathyl. Willow sighed as she laid eyes on the menacing wicked glaive strapped to the wall, frost coating its outside, banded in layers of silver chains.
She marked each exit in her mind, each door to each room, scanning for the quickest and cleanest escape roots. She noticed the arrangement of the beams throughout the rafters, spread across the entire Abbey, large enough to support a slender framed woman.
“Sister,” Willow said thoughtfully, “This morning I overheard the towns folk speaking exceptionally kindly about Sister Marta Dian. I'd love to know her tale, better yet, I'd be honoured to meet her. Do you suppose it at all possible?”
Sister Thia smiled fondly, leading the way, “Sister Dian is responsible for defeating an entire horde of zombies single handed.”
“Zombies?” Willow blurted, faking shock, “Oh how terrifying!”
As they came upon a group of nuns running training drills, Sister Thia called out to Sister Dian. An average looking woman, plain mousy hair, with a natural up turned nose. Willow smiled softly at her as she approached.
“I've heard such wonderful things about you from the townspeople ,” Willow lied, “they truly admire you. You should be very proud Sister Dian.”
Quietly spoken she smiled, “I am only glad the ordeal is over, and the danger has passed.”
Her modesty made Willow cringe.
“Do you hold an evening mass here?” she asked innocently.
“Why of course,” said Sister Thia brightly, “Five o'clock sharp.”
“Will you be joining us?” asked Sister Dian.
Willow smiled, “I'm afraid I've already promised myself to a group of children for a rematch of hackeysack,” she chuckled, “But perhaps I can join tomorrow evening.”
“Not the children from the Vandermir orphanage?” asked Sister Dian, looking concerned.
“I believe they may be,” Willow said, acting confused, “Why do you ask?”
“You best watch your coin purse down there,” she said bitterly, “most of those kids would serve us better in jail.”
Willow softened her gaze, “They are children. Mitra’s children. Mitra teaches us forgiveness, open hearts and open arms. A second chance without judgement may be all they need.”
Sister Dian stared back at her and said harshly, “You’ll regret that second chance when you’re lying dead in a gutter with your throat cut.”
“Perhaps,” Willow mused lightly, “But if it is my destiny to end up there, then it will happen with or without caution. Perhaps it would be that which taught a lesson to one child alone, forcing him to change his ways, helping him find Mitra's light. Then I say, it shall have been worth it.”
Willow smiled and swallowed firmly. She was always amazed at how easily she could convincingly spin utter rubbish.
“Mitra's light on you child,” Sister Dian said graciously, “a selfless sentiment, worthy of our Shining Lord.”
Willow smiled kindly, keeping her rolling eyes on the inside.
After a while longer in conversation, as the sun began to set, she excused herself and left the Abbey. She strolled casually into an alleyway around the corner and used the magic of the circlet to morph her appearance. She stripped off the peasants robes, revealing her tight black leather underneath, the armour she had commissioned to be slick to her skin and silent.
Creeping around the side of the Abbey, Willow deftly climbed the lattice work of the balcony to the main living area on the top floor. Hiding among the shadows, climbing into the high rafters of the Abbey as the sun passed behind the horizon, signalling the arrival of six o'clock. As the Sisters left the great prayer hall, Willow hung from the rafters, waiting for her opportunity. She spotted Sister Dian, smiling and patiently listening to one of the more boisterous nuns, walking towards the dining hall. Willow quietly followed, climbing between beams, keeping out of sight.
She saw her chance when Sister Dian veered off from the group, heading for the bathrooms. As she closed the main door behind her, Willow pounced. She dropped from the great beam and struck from the rear, grabbing the Sister by the hair and reaching around with her dagger.
“Mitra’s light cannot shine on what it cannot see,” she whispered menacingly.
She slashed along the sisters throat, showering the bathroom in a frightening display of blood splatter. Willow released her grip on Sister Dian’s hair and let her body crumple to the floor, the blood pooling across the concrete ground. She swiftly sheathed her blade and retreated back into the rafters, climbing up the large dressers along the wall, leaping to the wooden beams connecting the ceiling.
She grinned as she climbed back down the lattice work, hearing a chorus of terrified screams bounding through the halls. She quickened her pace, sprinting for the shadowed alleys of the city.

Sitting along the large oak table in the Baron’s dining room, the group dined on fine roast duck and discussed their current plans.
“Bor, will you ask the Baron something for me?” Garvana asked.
“Of course, what is it?” Bor answered, sounding intrigued.
“I need a blacksmith. One who won't ask questions.”
The group turned and looked to Garvana.
“I think we should arm the boggards,” she said confidently, “They may be mere amphibians, but they could be quite useful if given the right tools.”
“What do we do about those daemons, Hexor and Vexor?” Teelee piped up.
“We leave them where they are for now,” Willow replied smoothly, “They are there to guard the sanctum, so let them. We shall disperse of them once they are no longer useful.”
“Willow's right,” Bor agreed, “For now they are stopping anyone else from interfering with the sanctum.”
She smiled, “They need not know they are disposable.”

When the sky was at its darkest that night, Willow woke to a blade pressing into her throat. Switch leaned in close, his lips mere millimetres from hers. Willow pushed up gently, forcing the blade in firmer, far enough to trace her tongue across his lips. She heard his sharp intake of breath and smiled. She dropped her head back and looked deep into his eyes, the intense lust burning there only fuelling her own. Slamming the dagger into the mattress next to her head, he forced her face to the side and bit down firmly on her neck. She groaned as her back arched, thrusting her body against his.
She despised him. Everything about him disgusted her. His smug attitude, his appalling manners, his severely lacking vocabulary. But his repulsiveness only seemed the fan the flame she felt when he was around. His arrogant air of dominance stirred something primal in her.
She carved her nails deep into his shoulder blades. He grunted, biting down harder in retaliation. Willow screeched and giggled, growling at him as he unlatched from her.
She laughed as he tore himself away, chest heaving he strode to the cabinet, helping himself to her whiskey. He poured a single nip into a tumbler, but drank long and hard straight from the bottle. His breathing slowed as he wandered back and sat next to the bed, handing Willow the glass and taking another swig himself. Running his hand along his head, rolling out his shoulders, he laughed.
“Most impressive performance today,” he chuckled, “Clean and convincing.”
Willow sat up against the wall, the sheet barely covering her chest, she smiled and inclined her head.
“You’re a fantastic liar,” he mused.
“I say! How rude!” she exclaimed in mock outrage.
“Lies just sing their way from your lips,” he laughed, “A lay sister? An innocent untouched child of the faithful? Ha!”
Willow laughed and batted her eyelashes innocently at him.
“Oh sacred and untouched I am,” she said wide eyed, “Would you care to desecrate me?”
She watched the heat flare in his eyes as he stood and looked away. He grabbed Willow’s nightgown and threw it to her.
“If we are going to do this,” he said sternly, looking across the room, “We need to keep some things separate.”
“Yes sir,” Willow chuffed, pulling the nightgown over her shoulders.
“I will offer this once,” he said seriously as he turned to her, “There is no going back. You've been given the opportunity to join the ranks of the sacred covenant of assassins, the Black Serpent Coterie. You've been tested and passed with full marks. I, Jonathan Cadwell Swichlem, take responsibility for your training and tutorage. I will be your mentor and your teacher. You are required only to give your dedication and your silence. Secrecy is our greatest ally as we strike from the shadows. Do you, Willow Miryah Monteguard, accept this offer?”
Willow’s lip curved up in a grin, “I accept.”
“Very well, apprentice,” he said, returning her grin.
He reached into his cloak and lifted out a glistening red dagger. Willow sighed at the sight of it. It was her beauty, her heart, her soul. Her personal dagger crafted out of solid ruby, enchanted with dark unholy magic, the touch of Asmodeus himself. Passed down to her by her Great Grandfather Cassidus II. She stared at it lovingly a while before she realised Switch was still holding it.
“What is this?” she queried, scrunching her nose up.
“You know exactly what it is,” he said wickedly.
She crawled from the bed and reached gingerly for the dagger before quickly attempting to snatch it. He swiftly sheathed the blade back into his cloak.
“You can have it back,” he chuckled, “When you can take it from me.”
Pulling out a second dagger from the other side of his cloak, he flipped it up at Willow, she caught it mid air. The dagger was long and curved, slender and graceful, but terribly deadly. The thin blade had been carved to penetrate deep and swiftly dispose of its victim.
“Use this,” Switch said, “It'll serve you well, until you're ready for the other.”
“It's beautiful,” Willow breathed, tracing her finger lightly up its blade, “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet,” he clipped, “You've got a lot to learn. I will teach you, but you are to do exactly as I say. You are to follow every command I give you.”
“Every command?” she asked sinfully, quirking an eyebrow.
In a breath Switch had Willow pinned against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands wrapped around her throat.
“Every. Command.”

They left the manor as dawn approached, trekking through the rain forest quickly, making it to the Horn by midday. They crept passed the resting Treant, sneaking through the mud of the winding tunnels towards the rear of the cavern.
“We have bought with us iron for the boggards,” Garvana said, placing the pile of basic armour and weapons outside Zikomo’s hut.
“Thank you, Third Chieftain,” Zikomo replied, bowing his head, “The boggards have already repaid your service, making progress on your tunnel and capturing an intruder.”
“An intruder?” Willow queried.
“Yes, First Chieftain,” he replied respectfully, making Willow smirk, “We, the boggards, have captured the intruder.”
“Take us to him,” said Garvana.
“As you wish, Fifth Chieftain.”
Willow muffled a laugh as Zikomo lead the way to the shabby cell, two boggard guards posted on either side of its door. Garvana dismissed them, opening the door and waltzing in. Willow slipped in and leant back against the side wall, crossing her arms, relaxed but ready.
Garvana questioned the intruder, finding that he was actually a simple fisherman, who had been harvesting his usual catch, a far distance from the caves. Willow grew impatient, listening to the back and forth between the confused prisoner and Garvana, forming a shaky agreement. She did not trust any deal they made. She did not trust this peasants’ promise, made in desperation in exchange for his life. A few boggards and their strange human friends were little threat when he could turn to the authorities. Certain authorities that would be very interested to know that a strange group of humans were conspiring for any reason inside the Horn of Abbadon.
Willow crept on silent feet, unnoticed as she snuck into the shadows behind the captive. She drew her dagger from it's sheath, quietly stepping forward, raising the blade slowly. As she approached, she caught Pellius’ eye. He shook his head softly, giving her that look that said he had a plan. Willow huffed, disappointed, but obedient for now.
The prisoner, Hask he called himself, made an agreement to deliver half of all of his catch once a week to the boggards. As Garvana checked with Zikomo if the deal would satisfy him, to which he agreed, Pellius approached Hask.
“If you conceive the idea to betray us,” he said threateningly, removing a vial of blood from his pocket, imprinting his thumb into the prisoners forehead, “Know you have been marked. We will find you.”
“Will you have your men escort Hask back to his fishing hole?” Garvana asked Zikomo.
Willow leaned in close to the prisoner, who had not noticed her.
“Unharmed!” she commanded fiercely, making Hask jump in fright, “For now…”

Gathering after the commotion of sending the prisoner off, the group headed to the blue slime covered cavern to check on the boggards progress. Unexpectedly impressed, Willow raised her eyebrows at the two metre deep missing rock. Pellius pulled out the scroll, handing it to Teelee. She made a dramatic fuss over the unravelling of the parchment, calling the words loud and strong. As the magic reformed the stone and split it down the middle, Willow watched Zikomo. He sipped on a steaming brew from his horn and smiled, misted eyes rolling.
“This is good,” he said from his trance.
Willow prowled forward on light feet, stepping along the firmer patches of ground. Sprawled across the floor, a caustic lime encrusted skeleton draped in shreds of time weathered fabrics. Still wrapped in it’s grasp lay a black leather bound tome, the remainder of a shattered vial spread at its feet. Willow lifted the tome from its boney fingers, and noticed a glint of light reflect upon something tucked in a tattered pocket. She smiled as she gently lifted it out and held it to the light, a large shining exquisite emerald. She slipped it into her pocket and stood, flicking through the tome while Garvana and Teelee read the magic of the cavern.
“The Dirges of Apollyon,” Willow read aloud, “Chronicles of the Pale Horsemen.”
Willow perused through the pages, marvelling at the rarity of the book.
“This would be worth a for-
She stopped on the last page, “Oh, hello!”
Willow walked over to Pellius, handing him the book, the last page open revealing a hand written letter.
He quickly skimmed its contents, “The ritual!”

Perched upon the ledge, Willow read the letter aloud.
“Behold our shame that we, the Sons of the Pale Horsemen, failed in our darkest hour to defend our prince the undying and ever malevolent Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes. But I have seen it! I have seen the road to repentance!”
He spoke of a ritual, performed over two hundred and twenty two days. A practice in which they would have to speak six hundred and sixty six prayers. Each day, bathing the seal in unholy water and intoning three prayers from the Dirge; Supplication to Darkness, Cursing of the Light and Call Across the Void.
“Blessed day!” she read, “Be ready, my brothers. His eyes have been stolen from him. Return them and the Prince will honour ye with one task for each. For the Eye of Vigilance ask only for his mercy upon we mortals and plead that he do ye and yours no harm. For his wroth will be great. For the Eye of Hatred ask for his greatest gift – the Tears of Achlys so that once more every corner of the world may know his mercy. For the Eye of Withering ask what ye will for in his gratitude he must answer your charge. And then, behold, the Prince restored. All shall know his blessings of pestilence and despair…”
Willow closed the book and sat in thought, the others beginning to bicker amongst themselves. Seven months was a long time to stay unnoticed. The boggards were a helpful defence but they would need a whole lot more to if they were going to make this work.
“But what are the eyes?!” Teelee called.
Willow frowned, tracing her hand over the lump in her pocket. She pulled out the emerald and stared down into it.
“This is one,” she whispered quietly in realisation, “Garvana!” she called, “You said this was strongly magical, could this be one of the eyes?”
Garvana frowned, looking the emerald over, “It's the best guess we've got.”
The group began to argue about how to proceed when Willow became too frustrated.
She leapt off the ledge, heading towards the outside, “There's two other levels to this place that we know of, let's figure out what else is here before we panic, alright?”

Climbing the outside of the densely forested horn, Willow prowled up the stairs, following closely behind Pellius. She chuckled as she found herself thanking his cuisse armour piece for the way it curved into his backside with every step.
“Nice view,” Bor muttered.
Willow smirked sheepishly, turning to look back at him. She laughed as she saw Bor’s devilish grin with his eyes on her own backside, coated in slick skin tight black leather.
Reaching an open door made of stonework bricks, they entered as quietly as possible. Willow frowned at the entrance hall. Arrow slits lined both sides of the room, panelled tiles lined the floor, an iron barricade at the far end of the passage. Willow tapped Pellius on the shoulder before he stepped forward. She passed him and lightly crept from brick to brick, searching for any signs of tampering, listening and feeling for any irregularities. She prowled below the arrow slits, far enough until she was sure there were no traps, nodding to Pellius and allowing him to pass her. They searched room by room, Willow's suspicion growing with each empty chamber. She checked each door over before Pellius burst through it, but although signs of a brutal massacre stained the walls, the base was empty. They found an entire set up there. An armoury, a forge, a guard post, a jail cell, a holding cell, a throne room, even a tavern.
They entered a room tiled with plaques, what appeared to be a trophy room. The trophies had been removed long ago, leaving behind only their owners name and a few words on their death. While the others moved on, Willow traced her fingers along the crevices of Ergun Nigma, noting that the plaque sat out a few millimetres further than the others. She slid her nails in behind the plaque and gently pulled. The plaque slid outwards, attached to a metal rod connected to the wall. Willow softly turned the plaque, feeling the faintest of clicks beyond the stone after turning it to the left three turns. She smiled as she softly spun it back the other way, feeling the click after only a single turn, winding it back towards the left for a final two turns. As she swivelled into the last latch, the lock clicked loudly, opening a hidden panel in the stonework. Willow laughed, pulling out fifty five pieces of shining platinum and a large solid ruby. Reaching into the back of the wall safe, she pulled out a pair of silver manacles and threw them to Pellius, a wicked grin on her lips. Teelee seemed to miss the sexual tension and went about examining the manacles and muttering incantations.
“There's some kind of charm on them,” she muttered, “A compliance charm…”
Willow stalked away, heading on to the next room, pausing as she passed Pellius.
“There's no need for that,” she whispered sinfully, “You know I always do as I'm told.”
His dastardly laugh was music to her ears.
As they entered the next room, Willow heard his sharp intake of breath. An old torture room. A broken rack lay in the centre with its bindings cut, and a dismantled iron maiden smashed to pieces had fallen heavily in the corner. Various tools of sadistic whim laid strewn about the room, it's benches and shelves in disarray.
“Salvageable,” Pellius murmured to himself.
While the rest of the group continued on towards the throne room, Willow leaned up against the door frame, watching Pellius’ mind race with possibilities. She didn't need to say anything, the wicked gleam in his burning red eyes said enough.

Willow read through a journal she had found while she walked through the throne room. She looked over the throne as she read about a peculiar situation when the owner of the diary had seen someone vanish while sitting in it. Scrawled along the bottom of the throne was a simple inscription in Abyssal – Yah. A nonsense word with no meaning. Willow made note to ask Garvana or Teelee about it later. She trailed back past the large stone pillars supporting the ceiling and paused as she heard an echo. She knocked on the closest pillar and smiled at its resonating ring. She guessed that was where their secret spiral staircase to the sanctum was hidden.
“This place has potential,” Pellius called to Willow, “We could achieve much from here.”
Willow looked around her and up to the throne decorated in Vetra-Kali’s insignia, picturing it draped in red and black, a large inverted pentagram defacing the wall.
“The start of a kingdom,” she whispered, heart racing, “And it shall be His…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:28 AM
Chapter 10 - Clandestine


“The rotting flesh rapidly deteriorates as the infection spreads,” Willow read from the Dirges of Appolyon, “Contracted through contact of bodily fluids.”
She cringed, flipping through the pages on detailed accounts of the plagues of history. Those sent forth throughout the planes by the hand of the Prince of Locusts, deep from his Throne of Flies, centred in the festering pits and shrivelled forests of the Plaguemere.
“Disgusting,” Willow commented, turning her nose up.
She turned the page and traced her fingers across four names.
“Apollyon, Szuriel, Trelmarixian and Charon,” she read aloud to the group gathered around the small fire they had made in the throne room, “Pestilence, War, Famine and Death.”
Willow skimmed over the little known lore of the Pale Horsemen, repeating facts she found interesting, as the members of their knot listened in. When she continued on, she came across the rambling account of a plague ridden doctor devoted to Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes.
“Wilfred Frederick Collan, Oathday Pharast 4679,” she read, “The bacteria has spread into my lungs. The cough has grown heavy, my lung capacity has shortened by a factor of four. Symptoms have grown to include fever, chills, muscle cramps and infrequent seizures. It is most fascinating! The skin on my fingers and toes has begun to discolour, I shall be interested to see in which order I lose them…”
Willow cringed, reading his entries aloud, frowning at the unhinged enthusiastic script.
“Wilfred Frederick Collan, Starday Desnus 4680. He spoke to me. My undying Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes! He congratulated me on my self mutations of the pneumonic plague. He gave me his blessing, he touched my soul, dousing it in his unholy pestilence. I can feel the greatness within me, corroding my lungs as I write this. This shall be my last entry. Know that as my insides are putrefied and decayed, my heart is full. The life shall drain from my rotting carcass, my soul shall live on in my Prince of Pestilence’s despair.”
Willow closed the book as she finished and stared off into dead air in contemplation, “We cannot allow him his freedom,” she said coldly, “A plague we have control of is acceptable at best, perilous at worst. But releasing a malefic plaguebringer of his might? The repercussions would be catastrophic.”
Willow was struck with an idea.
“Garvana, Pellius,” she called, eyebrows pulled tight in thought, “How binding is this ritual?”
She flung open the tome, flipping to the last page, the hand written letter.
“For the Withering Eye of Hatred ask what ye will,” she recited, “for in his gratitude he must answer your charge…”
Willow looked from Pellius to Garvana, “How bound is he to that? Can we ask for his banishment? Ask him to leave this material plane and never return?”
“That would most certainly anger him,” Pellius said, eyebrows drawn together, “But it is possible. Rituals such as this are soul binding. He must comply, but he is free to taint the ‘wish’ in anyway he can.”
“Well we've got seven months to perfect the wording,” Willow smirked, “I'm sure we can come up with something fool proof.”
“I've been meaning to mention,” Pellius continued, “We are obviously in need of allies, trustworthy allies devoted to our Infernal Father...”
“And you know of some?” Garvana questioned.
“When I arrived on these shores I was heading a small fleet of my Chelaxian brethren. Their punishment was lacking in comparison to my own. But say we spare some time to locate them? They would flock to our Infernal Lord’s banner.”
Willow smiled, “Perhaps the Baron may provide some assistance, his contacts could prove useful in locating them.”
“Ah,” Pellius frowned, “He is going to be a problem. We must eliminate him or at the very least find some compelling leverage over him. I confess, I am not a man of easy trust, but I have known men such as he. He will betray us, it is only a matter of time.”
“Of course he will,” Willow chuckled, “But let us suck him dry of his use before we dispose of him.”

As the first light from the sun pierced through the large canopy along the horizon, the group crawled up the second staircase winding around the spire. A slender set of steps, narrowly winding up the two hundred feet. Willow marvelled at the large Horn, it's open entrances ominously forming a silhouette of Vetra-Kali’s three eyes.
They crept in through the entrance way, passing what should have been a brutal death trap. But instead, the arrow slits lay unmanned, the gaping pit trap hung open, the barricade strewn off centre. This entrance also abandoned. A single pair of Boggard tracks scattered across the floor, breaking the dense layer of dust and moss swarming the stone. As they crossed the board bridging the pit trap, Pellius and Garvana seemed to slow.
“Do you feel that?” Garvana asked quietly, “It's like a sickening ray of goodness, an aura of just and righteousness.”
Pellius cringed, “I feel it too.”
Willow frowned, she did not necessarily feel comfortable in this place, but she could not comprehend what they were feeling.
Searching warily through the rooms, they discovered it held great resemblance to the level below. The entrance hall littered with gaping pit traps, guard rooms, store rooms, even the remains of what was once a functioning brothel. Willow shuddered, viewing the murals depicting the ravenous scenes of lust and debauchery. She grimaced as she noted not all of the clientele were humanoid in nature.
The murals continued throughout the base, intricately carved tales of the Pale Horsemen and their deeds of history. Willow browsed each carving, recognising the worth that could be if they were to catalogue the information. As she studied the long vivid images lining the lengthy passageway, she noticed three separate patterns.
“They're rituals,” she mused, “Daemonic rituals…”
Willow made note to study them further during their long stay in the walls of the Horn.

Laying amongst the rubble of a room laden with various shattered statues, Willow found a single stone head, unlike any of the others in the room. Examining it close, she noticed how intricately detailed the stone carvings were.
“Garvana,” she called, “What do you make of this?”
Willow handed her the head, as she looked it over in frown, “I do not know, it is far too detailed for a mere statue.”
“That's what I thought, could it have been human? Turned to stone by magic?”
Garvana nodded, “It is possible.”
Bor offered to carry the head if Willow wished to searched for its body.
“I would appreciate it,” she chuckled and winked, “My hands are more use elsewhere.”

Opening the door to the small room along the western side of the base, they were greeted by a tumbling of creeping vines furling along the walls. The mural on the western wall had been smashed so vigorously that the stone had collapsed, allowing the outside forestry to slither its way in. As the door clanged against the wall, two clear oozing masses resting by the hole began to shudder. Green vines rippled from the blobs, convulsing in an eery dance, mimicked by the greenery wrapped through the wall. Before Willow had time to react, she saw Pellius collapse in a sleeping heap on the ground. Three thuds behind her had her spinning around in time to see the rest of the group fall in the same unconscious daze. Willow panicked, slamming the door to the room closed, locking in the oozing forms.
“Wake up!” Willow called, bending down and slapping Pellius across the cheek, “Wake up!”
Willow grew frantic, unable to comprehend a plan. She kicked Pellius in the stomach, hoping to rouse him. When he gave no signs of consciousness, she rammed her pick into the lock and jammed it tight. She knew the blobs to be creatures called Verdurous Oozes, but she had little knowledge of them and even less on what could have caused this effect or how to combat it. She paced in front of the door, feeling completely out of her depth. She kicked Pellius low in the stomach.
“Wake up damn you!” she screeched.
After a few minutes, and a few more solid kicks, she saw life slowly return to his eyes. Frustrated, she kicked him again in the side for good measure, his groan enough to stay her panic.
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, offering him a hand up, “You're probably going to have a few good bruises…”
Pellius chuckled, clutching his side, “You'll just have to rub them better tonight.”
Willow grinned, unabashedly feeling safer with him conscious.
The others woke a few moments later, each dazed and confused as to what had happened. Willow explained the little she understood, Garvana deducing that the sleep effect was a natural ability of the oozes, possibly an ingestible type of spore.
“Well,” Willow said, “The lock is good and jammed, perhaps we clear out the rest of this place and come back to this later?”
“No objections here,” said Teelee, rubbing her head, straining her eyes.

After double checking the lock has been sufficiently compromised, the group continued their search of the base. Two large wooden doors stood centre of the hallway, a looming feat in the stone brickwork. They cautiously opened the doors, the second of the great throne rooms laying beyond. As they entered, Willow marvelled at the expansive panorama of murals, depicting a great civilisation in all its glory. Knights in majesty and gleaming armour, standing tall and proud, stout in their defence of the hoard of commoners. Towers and spires spiralling into the sky, strong and protective, overwhelming artistry of the civilisations might. As the group began their approach of the throne, Willow watched the horrific transformation. With each mural they passed, the crippling effects of the Pale Horsemen became apparent. The Knights grew gaunt, their skin hung from their meatless bones, the flesh rotted and festered. The scene depicted pestilence in all its lustre. A plague sweeping the country, the walls of the great buildings decaying and falling in disrepair, the common folk purged by famine and disease. As the scene mouldered and putrefied, images of daemons spawned across the expanse. The civilisation in festering ruins, portraits of cackling daemons, herding the masses of plague ridden undead humans into the blackened void.
“Lead the flock,” Willow read, from the Abyssal script carved above the throne, “Into the arms of blessed death…”
She shivered, the images of the death of humanity shaking her to her core.
“I will do as my master bids,” she said quietly to Pellius, staring at the foreboding words, “but I will not allow this monstrosity his freedom.”
“Agreed,” he replied sombrely.

Willow stood in silent prayer for a few minutes, reminding herself of the power Cardinal Thorn harboured, reassuring her faith in her own instincts. She knew he was utterly devoted to Asmodeus, whatever his reasoning and motivations, their goals of her Infernal Lord’s reinstatement aligned. She had to trust in his wisdom, and his ability to control the backlash that unleashing the Tears of Achlys would bring. Her lips lifted in a small smile as she felt the softest pulse of profane energy, like a sweet searing kiss, a reassurance of faith.
Gathering herself, Willow began a closer inspection of the throne. After examining the intricate carvings along the base of the large chair, she found another small scripted nonsense word written in Abyssal – Rah.
“Command words?” Willow proposed.
Teelee took it upon herself to test the theory. She marched with confidence up the stairs leading to the throne, sitting upon the seat in natural regal might.
“Rah!” she called. Nothing happened.
“No no no,” Willow chuckled, “My guess is Rah is the command word to return here. Try saying Yah.”
“Yah?” Teelee said, unsure.
She vanished. For a few moments, the throne lay empty as her person was sucked through another dimension. Just as quickly she blinked into existence, returning to the throne in front of the group.
“Did it work?” Willow asked.
“Of course,” Teelee chuffed, “I knew it would.”
Willow laughed, walking back towards the exit, “Of course you did.”

As they approached a door adjacent to the throne room, both Pellius and Garvana cringed. The spine tingling aura of goodness radiated its strength from behind this door. Willow checked the door over for any unexpected sabotage. Satisfied, she swung the door wide, revealing a small shrine on the far wall and a carved inscription in ancient tongue.
“Mitra lucet omnibus,” Garvana read aloud, “Mitra omnia regit. Mitra shines on everyone, Mitra rules everything.”
Willow grimaced, the sickeningly sweet words caressing her ears with its taint.
“It seems powerful,” Willow said quietly, nose turned up, “Desecrating it would take more than merely brute force. I've read of such things, a blood sacrifice in our Infernal Father’s name would suffice.”
Garvana called for her dog, leading it over near the shrine. Willow raised her eyebrows, she would not stand by and allow it to be slaughtered. She had little remorse for human sacrifices, sentient beings who were weak enough to be massacred, failing their natural born right to be strong. But loyal animals, ones who knew their place by their masters side, their slaughter felt wrong and immoral.
“Surely we can offer our Lord a more worthy sacrifice,” Pellius remarked to Willow as Garvana decided against it, leaving the shrine for later.

Opening the door to what appeared to be a large bedroom chamber, Willow sighed with delight at the sight of an enormous four poster bed. The grand structure reached a height of over ten feet, it's intricate oak beams carved in immaculate beauty, it's deep base heavy laden with majesty. The mattress and bedding rotted with mould and mildew. The drapes lay in shreds, the coverlet corroded into frail scraps of silk.
“It's beautiful,” Willow crooned, strolling around the bed, speaking to Pellius, “How difficult would it be to procure a mattress from Farholde?”
Pellius smirked, “It would be possible.”
“This is definitely going to be mine,” she said, grinning back at him, “I'll let you join me on occasion I suppose.”

Entering the last room on the floor, had Willow chuckling. Centre of the chamber was an intricately carved statue, missing its head.
“I think we've found its owner,” she chuckled, looking over to Bor.
He pulled the head from his bag and placed it atop the statue. Each shattered fragment sliding snug for a perfect fit. Willow rounded the statue, making out the markings of insignia of his back. The image of a bull skull, tall pointed horns and deep gaunt hollow eyes, lay carved into his back.
“Here lies our first sacrifice,” Willow mused, thinking of the components to the ritual.
The ritual to release Vetra-Kali had spoken of three necessary sacrifices. The first, one of the Sons of the Pale Horsemen, sacrificed to show their acknowledgement of their failure and their prolonged devotion. The second, one of Mitra's faithful, sacrificed to called forth the malevolent powers of darkness to weaken the seal. The third, one of the Victor’s own bloodline, sacrificed to use the same blood that bound him, to unbind him.
Willow had recited the specifics of each ritual to the group. She surmised that any priest or priestess of the Light would suffice as the second sacrifice. She had recalled a rumour of Sir Valen’s relation to the Victor, suggesting him as a possible third and final sacrifice.
“One of the Sons,” Willow said, tracing the stone bull skull carving with her finger, “Do you know of any way to un-petrify him?”
Garvana frowned, “Did we not uncover some stone salve from that abandoned alchemist laboratory?”
“Would it work?” Willow asked, as Garvana pulled the vial from her pack.
“It should,” she said.
“Let us wait,” Willow said quickly, “He may have useful information. There is another floor to this place, let us be sure of our surroundings first.”
Bor chuckled, “I do not think he'll be going anywhere.”

Willow deftly clambered up the outside of the forested Horn, a thick rope bundled over her shoulder, towards the only visible entrance to the next level. She quickly reached the balcony and peered in along the tiled hallway, another room laden with horrific imagery depicted in murals. Bor leaped along the wall beneath her, his great strength allowing him to force his way up onto the balcony. Willow laughed as he reached the ledge, seeing Teelee clinging fiercely to his back. She handed Bor one end of the rope and flung the rest down towards Garvana and Pellius. Garvana hefted her dog under one arm and struggled her way up the rope awkwardly towards the balcony.
“Come on Pellius,” Willow yelled as she laughed.
Strong and stubborn, battling with his pride about taking help to climb a simple steep, Pellius brooded.
“Come on man,” Bor laughed, “Can't climb a simple rope?!”
Pellius glared up at him, dramatically gripping the rope and hauling himself up. As he reached the balcony, Willow couldn't stop the giggles from escaping, earning her a fierce glare in return. Her giggles exploded into laughter, as she patronising soothed him.
Still chuckling, she turned to the passage. As Bor stepped forward, Willow flung her hand out to stop him.
“Look,” she pointed, “Another trap.”
Carved intricately into the centre of the floor was a portrait of Vetra-Kali, the borders of the stone plate raised ever so slightly. Willow bent down, inspecting the mechanism of the slab, lingering over the sculpted three eyes. She saw the finely tuned minuscule pins of their locks, threaded into the joints holding up the trap door. As she reached to press the buttons, she saw Bor leap over the trap, barely clearing it with Teelee still clinging to his shoulders. Willow scoffed as she clicked all three eyes in together, snapping the trap in place, standing and sauntering across its board.
“Eyes as keen as they are beautiful, my lady,” Pellius complimented.
Willow laughed, playfully fluttering her eyelashes to him.
She heard a great thud on the plate behind her, turning to see Garvana having failed to leap across the trap.
“What?” she said, “It's hard to jump in this much armour.”

Entering the passage, the murals lining the floors and walls made one thing abundantly clear. This was Vetra-Kali’s abode. Each scene depicted his own accomplishments, terrifying imagery of his pustule nightmares ransacking the land and its people. The murals lead them through the halls, through cell blocks of sturdy might and hidden libraries that once held the secrets of his blasphemous pestilence.
Chills ran down Willow's spine as they stepped inside a chamber littered in ominous Abyssal script. A large red circle carved into the floor, surrounded by dark ritualistic chants and blackened glyphs. Menacing whispers chanted in soft chorus, hurried and hushed wisps of sound licking Willow's ears.
“Receive the wisdom of Abbadon,” Willow read from the wall, large print furiously carved into the back wall.
Scribbled hastily a hundred times over in Abyssal script was a single word – Nen.
Willow was bent over, translating one of the chants written upon the floor, when she heard a single word.
“Yah!” Garvana called.
Willow spun on her heel, in time to see Garvana vanish, gone from the centre circle.
“What in hell’s name does she think she's doing?!” Willow burst.
A moment later the air rippled and Garvana winked back into the room.
“Are you daft?!” Willow yelled, “Standing in the centre of a room dripping with the ‘wisdom of Abbadon’ and you run without thought into its ritual circle and use its magic?!”
Garvana raised her eyebrows, “It was not without thought, I suppose I possess a greater understanding of this magic than yourself.”
Willow temper flared, “Do you not see the risk?! Are you so stubborn and blind?!”
“What I saw,” Garvana said proudly, “Was that it worked. It was indeed, a teleportation circle, aligned with the others.”
Willow scoffed, “Let us hope that is all it is.”
She turned from Garvana, fuming at her carelessness. Her worry was less for Garvana's safety, primarily for the success of their mission. As skilled as Willow was, she was not arrogant or naïve enough to believe she could succeed alone. After taking a deep breath, exhaling it slowly, Willow calmed. She knew Asmodeus saw strength enough in Garvana to grant her access to a sliver of his immense and unrivalled power. Willow would follow Him. She would forever follow Him, and never question his supreme wisdom. He saw Garvana as worthy, and so would she.
After the others had left the room, Willow pulled Garvana aside, requesting a word.
“I apologise for my outburst,” she said softly, swallowing her pride, “It was aberrant and puerile of me. But I must confess, the gain falls far short of the risk. Losing you would endanger our odds of success in this holy mission, and this mission must come above all else, pride and might aside. We must succeed at all cost.”
Garvana hung her head slightly.
“I do admit, it was indeed a rash action,” she replied, “I apologise. I was most confident of the outcome, I would not have attempted it otherwise. I do only wish you would have more faith in me.”
Garvana lent forward and gently kissed Willow on the cheek.
Softly, she said, “Asmodeus smiles on us both.”

Two heavy reinforced, intricately carved doors stood solid and proud, what appeared to be the final doors to the Horn. As ornate and baroque as the entryway hall was, it paled before this expansive and vaulted chamber. The fane was adorned with a riot of lurid colours. Magnificent murals depicted daemons of every sort engaged in countless acts of wanton evil, callous destruction and inhuman savagery. Rows of pews lined the room, that would have once allowed a congregation of the chosen Sons to gather. A single podium stood centre of four heinous shrines.
Willow approached cautiously, eyeing each step warily.
A shrine of white stood to the far left, decorated with bas-relief depictions of open pits of the dead and foul lepers crying in anguish.
“Pestilence,” she said quietly.
A shrine of red stone stood second, decorated with cruel iron weaponry and horrifying imagery of slaughter and massacre.
“War.”
Third, stood a shrine of black, decorated in repulsive illustrations of mortals in ravenous hunger wasting away from starvation.
“Famine.”
Fourth stood a shrine of pale green, adorned with a skull with two coins over its eyes and a jagged Abyssal inscription.
“Behold a pale horse,” Willow read sombrely, “It's rider is Death, and all shall follow him.”
Willow shivered, sickening chills tingling her spine as she approached the centrepiece of the chamber. The large wall bedizened with an immaculately carved portrait of Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes. He sat with his equine hooves cross legged beneath him, his boned grotesque wings draped heavy over his shoulders, his single corroded horn protruding from his skull. He held out a hand offering his greatest work, his masterpiece, the Tears of Achlys.
The three eyed daemon prince may have been paying homage to the four shrines, but there was no doubt that this fane was built primarily to honour him.
Willow turned her head and scanned the other walls. Each contained a litany of the deeds performed by the daemonic prince. It was he who crossed the great void and came to the material plane to establish the Sons of the Pale Horsemen. It was he who oversaw the construction of the Horn of Abbadon. It was he who forged the frightful Tears, and he who planned to unleash it.
Willow turned back to the centrepiece. Slowly, she approached. As she neared she saw a jagged key carved into one of Vetra-Kali’s open hands, a small inscription on its neck. Bor followed as she moved closer, walking up beside her. As he neared, she heard his sharp intake of breath. She snapped her head to him, frowning as he began to gasp for air. He cried out, a mournful sound of sheer terror, as he sprinted from the room. Garvana went after him as Willow turned back to the carving. She felt a sickening wave of fear tugging at her mind. She could feel it trying to wrap its tendrils around her, worm its way into her thoughts. With a surge of willpower she flung the effect away.
Willow cringed, “It's a curse or hex, I think?”
Once Bor had calmed and returned, Garvana carefully approached. She called out an incantation raising her hand in front of the carving.
“There's summoning magic here,” she said, eyes glazed, “And here…” she said, pointing to the eastern wall.
“Look at the words,” Willow said quietly, pointing to the inscription on the key.
“Hail Vetra-Kali,” Garvana read aloud.
Willow grimaced.
“The foreboding magic is gone,” Garvana commented, “I no longer feel its presence. It must be a charm, warding off all but the followers of the Pale Horsemen.”
“I will never utter those words,” Willow replied coldly.
“Spoken words have little meaning,” Gavrana responded, “Asmodeus knows of our unwavering devotion.”
Willow smiled, “I concur, but if those words were to leave my lips, I feel I would be betraying my… heart.”
Garvana smiled back at Willow, “Then there is no need, I shall speak them for you.”
She turned back to the carving as Pellius approached Willow. He bent down to whisper in her ear.
“Asmodeus rewards his faithful… As do I,” he said low and menacing.
Willow drew her lip in between her teeth as she grinned, winking back to him.
Garvana reached out to the carving, tracing her fingers over the three eyes of Vetra-Kali, clicking all three in together. The sound of stone scraping on stone had the group spinning around. The bricks of the eastern wall separated and opened, revealing a store room filled with discarded broken furniture. As Garvana approached the room, Willow called out.
“Wait, there was magic connecting the door to the shrine. What would it do if you entered?”
While Willow was distracted, Bor sent the dog into the room. Willow spun around, and pursed. The dog merely trotted into the room, unharmed. As the others followed in, Pellius took a seat on the pew, leaning on his weapon. Willow strolled next to him, watching warily from the outside of the room.
After searching the chamber and returning empty handed, closing it behind them, Garvana approached the carving. She stood in thought for a moment before reaching for the eyes.
“Hail Vetra-Kali,” she said, clicking the eyes inwards in sync.
The stone bricks parted, revealing a room littered with glistening gold and treasures. Silver furniture, golden goblets, jewellery in an array of sparkling stones. Mounds of coins flowed across the floor, potions and ornate vials stacked along the wall, delicate plates and silverware piled upon each other.
Floating atop the hoard of trinkets was a blackened swirling wraith foaming with hatred and malice. Three lesser wraiths cried out from behind it.
“Fresh mortal souls!” wailed the foaming wraith in Abyssal tongue.
As it moved to swarm the party, Teelee called out.
“What binds you to this world?!” she boomed.
“What binds us here, mortal,” he groaned, “The banishment of our great Vetra-Kali is what binds us!”
“Then stay your attack and let us help you,” she replied, “We intend to free Vetra-Kali!”
“And what makes you think, you mortals are of might enough to free the Undying Prince?!”
Garvana stepped forward, “We possess the ritual, required to release him.”
She turned to Willow expectantly. Willow frowned, sceptical of trusting the sinister spectre. She slowly pulled the Dirges out of her pack, flicking to the back page, eyeing the wraith cautiously as she held up the hand written letter.
“Ah,” the wraith moaned, chuckling ominously, “You must be the ninth knot.”
The group started, suspicion flaring.
“Indeed,” Willow clipped.
“The memories of your fourth knot were deliciously informative.”
She scoffed, “They were weak. Failures. Their deaths mean nothing.”
“Very well,” he groaned, “For now, ninth knot, I shall allow you to attempt the unbinding of our Prince. Make haste, for my patience is short.”
Willow raised her eyebrows, biting her tongue, “We shall require the use of this wealth. There are many components to the ritual.”
“Take it,” the wraith shrieked, “I have no use for treasures.”
A glistening green ray of light bounced off the walls, sparkling in Willow's vision. The second emerald of Vetra-Kali’s sat atop a thin pedestal behind the wraith.
“And we shall require the Eye.”
“You may take it, mortal. I feel the presence of the first Eye on you. But know this; we will know if the Eyes ever leave the Horn. And we will come for them.”
“Of course,” Willow said, inclining her head.
She slipped in the room a grabbed the large gem, eyeing a few golden and ruby pieces of jewellery, snatching them along her way out.
Before the wraiths swirled into nothingness, they told the group of the last Eye, incased in stone on the floor below them. Willow turned to leave and saw Bor and Pellius still poised to attack.
She laughed in realisation, “You two can't speak Abyssal, you didn't understand a word?”

They sealed the room after taking as much lightweight treasure as they could, deciding to camp on the current floor for the night. After they had eaten, they cleared the room and set a round of sparring.
Willow exhaled slowly, poised and ready, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She fingered her makeshift wooden dagger, holding it lightly, preparing to attack. Garvana stood solid in her shining metal breastplate and chainmail, wooden club firmly in hand, grim determination painting her features. Willow approached cautiously, circling Garvana counter clockwise. She feinted to the left, stepping forwards and quickly changing direction, darting to the right. She attempted to strike Garvana in the side of her ribs, struggling to find a break in her armour. She hacked as she continued her movement through, tumbling away and springing to her feet. The tight lace of Garvana's heavy chainmail deflected the blow with ease, but made her movements sluggish, slowing her reflexes. Willow dove in beside her, leaping up and slashing the dagger between Garvana's shoulder and neck.
“One point!” Bor called.
Willow span back around, scoffing at Bor’s poor scoring, diving straight back into the fray on quick dexterous feet. Garvana swung her club fiercely, hacking low, clipping the edge of Willow’s knee as she leapt backwards. Willow jumped to the right, thrusting her dagger out into the seam of the chainmail sleeve, pirouetting swiftly and drawing the dagger back across Garvana's face.
“Eight points!”
Garvana roared ferociously, she tackled Willow and latched on, gripping her tightly. She locked her elbow tightly around Willow’s neck, squeezing firmly attempting to cut of her airways. Willow couldn't help but grin as she struggled, finding herself in a very familiar position. She conserved her breath, using every bit of strength she had to inch them closer to the wall. When they were close enough, she swiftly braced her foot against the brickwork and ran up, leaping herself over Garvana as the grip broke around her neck. Landing in a crouch, panting for breath, she backed up stepping warily.
Garvana spun around and charged at Willow with her club flying high above her head. As she neared, Willow attempted to feint to the left, darting to the right in hope of avoiding the attack. But this time Garvana saw through it, her keen eyes noticing the change in time, her club swinging wide and carving back towards Willow’s face. The brunt of the blow hit Willow in the jaw, the force of it knocking her off balance and sending her skidding backwards.
“Ten points!” Bor yelled.
Willow shouted in frustration, wiping the blood from her mouth, baring her teeth. She flipped the dagger reverse grip, cracking her neck side to side, preparing to charge.
A firm hand gripped the back of her neck, painfully tight, in a familiar dominant gesture.
“Enough!” Pellius said firmly, the fierce bite in his voice soothing Willow's temper.
She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, revelling in the sharp pain his fingers were causing.
“Certainly,” she said softly, inclining her head, “Well fought, Garvana.”

Later, as the moon rose to its full height for the night, Willow sat straddled atop Pellius, her sounds of carnal satisfaction echoing off the empty stone chamber. She took him as she pleased, slow and steady. Her mind revelled in the low torturous hum of her Infernal Lord circling in her veins. As her mind drifted and her body dazed, she was suddenly hit with a frighteningly forceful pulse of profane energy. She cried out, doubling over onto Pellius’ chest, the wave of sheer blissful agony sweeping through her. Pellius took it as a sign, taking control, rolling her over and under him in a swift spin. Willow screamed as her body was set alight, the fierce inferno exploding from within her. Her chest tightened and her throat caught, the pulsing fire crushing her slender frame in the most pleasurable of ways. Something was here. Something touched by the hand of Asmodeus. Willow knew from experience that Pellius was highly skilled in the way of their nightly escapades, but a pain so primal and so wicked, was more than he could offer. She had never felt something so intense. Her limbs failed to respond, every muscle had clenched so tightly they felt as if they were trying to tear themselves away her bones. Her joints seized and locked in place, each bone cradled and stiff. But it was the throbbing deep below in her that had her screaming in rapturous agony. Each surge of searing burn, reverberating dark ominous carnal pleasure, ricocheting throughout her insides.
She tried desperately to call out to Pellius, warning him of the unannounced visitor, but all she managed was a guttural unintelligible groan. She struggled to claw her way to the door, her nails digging deep into the sheets, shredding them beneath her fingers. As another wave crashed through her body, her back arched off the bed, her frame suspended in the air by her head and backside. She shrieked in ecstasy as her own pleasure climaxed, pushing it’s apex ever higher, a blinding red light flashing behind her eyelids. As the euphoric torment fluctuated, Willow became unable to quiet herself.
Pellius sat back, eyeing Willow with a mix of lust, concern and suspicion.
Suddenly, the feelings vanished. Willow gasped for air, chest heaving, scrambling to her feet. She scooped up her dagger as she flung the door open and ran, completely naked, out into the hallway towards the camp of the others. She heard Pellius’ heavy thud of footsteps behind her as she rounded the corner.
“What happened?!” Willow yelled, running into the room, “What was here?!”
She raced over to see Garvana bent over Bor’s limp body, Teelee standing back watching. She knelt down next to Bor, frowning as her eyes flicked across his bare chest, smouldering burns festering along his torso. Two hand prints seared on each pectoral, thick oozing welts seeping from them leading down his trunk reaching his legs. Garvana called for her profane power, feeding from Asmodeus’ boon.
“Something is blocking it!” she called, frantic and confused, “I cannot draw from His power.”
She reached into her bag and lifted a potion, tipping its contents into Bor's mouth. The scorching bleed stopped, each of the blistering burns remaining.
“That's all I can do for him,” she said, “He is stable, it shall not get any worse, but something is preventing his burns from healing. I cannot do anything further.”
“What did this?!” Willow demanded.
“I do not know,” Garvana said frustrated.
She frowned, muttering the incantation Willow had learned to recognise as a Detect Magic spell. Garvana shuddered, crying out as her eyes rolled back and her body crashed to the floor. Pellius, standing in all his naked glory, dropped his axe and dragged both Garvana and Bor to the camp room. He dropped them upon the bedrolls and stood back, eyebrows pulled tight in contemplation. Life sprung from Garvana’s eyes, she slowly came to as Willow stayed crouch over Bor, inspecting his wounds. Garvana got to her feet, shaking off the haze clogging her mind, silently returning to the dark ritual room, kneeling upon the scripted circle.
Willow had little knowledge of what could have possibly done this to Bor, or what Garvana would want with a ritual chamber smothered in Abyssal script and Abbadon’s wisdom. Her body still alight, her adrenaline still racing through her veins, her insides still throbbing. She had little patience left for curiosity.
“Teelee,” she called, turning to face her, “Will you watch over Bor?”
Teelee smirked, averting her eyes from the two naked bodies in front of her, “Why? Are you too busy?”
Willow grinned strutting towards the exit, grabbing Pellius by the hair and pulling him along with her, “We will be very busy, we’ll be busy all night…”

The sweet scent of pancakes woke Willow from her heavy gratified slumber. The morning rays of light beamed in through the open balcony as she draped her slip over her tender body and went seeking the alluring aroma. She whimpered as she had to strain her thigh muscles to sit crosslegged by the fireplace, laughing at Pellius’ devilish smirk as he handed her a plate topped with pancakes drizzled with honey. Willow grinned sheepishly as he turned his back and she saw the gouged claw marks along his neck and shoulders.
“So,” Garvana interrupted, “When do we restore the man of stone?”
Willow snapped out of her inappropriate reverie, “We must return to town first, there is no point reviving him and leaving him here alone.”
“We have an array of places to confine him,” Pellius stated.
“Yes,” Willow replied, “But his knowledge of this place will undoubtedly be greater than our own. He may have information that could aid us. Let us wake him when we are ready to coax the material from him.”
Pellius opened his mouth to speak, a look of longing painted his features.
“And if that doesn't work,” Willow said soothingly, “You can extract the information in the way you do best.”
He grinned, dastardly and handsome.
Willow looked over to Bor, who sat in silent contemplation, face as emotionless as stone.
“Are you alright?” Willow asked quietly, gently laying a hand on his shoulder.
He looked to her, agony swarming through his eyes, “I am fine.”
His cold tone told Willow he was not wanting or needing to voice his inner battle.
“We must inform the seventh knot of our plan and progress,” Teelee said.
“Ah yes,” Willow said, eyebrow cocked, “Dear Elise. I believe we must be cautious of her actions. I cannot imagine one as arrogant as her to be thrilled with playing second fiddle to us. If it were I in her position, I would not be content as the assistance. I would plan to take the prize for myself. We must be wary, she is very likely to betray us.”
Pellius chuckled, “Is that a hint of jealousy I hear?”
Willow laughed, lifting her chin full of pride, “Jealous of her? I have little reason to be.”

By midday the group had returned to the city. While Bor left to converse with the Baron, Willow strolled to the market, in search of a large luxurious mattress. After selecting the most opulent bedding and handing over a purse of fifty platinum pieces, she instructed the merchants that she would send servants over to retrieve it. She swayed through the market place, a dress of vibrant green laced tightly around her waist and bust, the soft train of tule flowing behind her. When she arrived at the docks the group had arranged to meet by, they were introduced to the crew the Baron had recommended. Ten handymen, built sturdy for hard labour and brute strength, and a skilled carpenter leading them by the name of Sven.
Willow smiled politely, approaching the men.
“Sven,” she called, dipping in a small curtsey, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. You may call me Willow.”
He smiled, eyes lighting up as he looked Willow over, “Nice to meet yer mam,” he replied in a gruff voice, thick with the Northerner’s accent, “Happy to be workin’ for yer.”
Pellius approached, placing a possessive hand on Willow's shoulder, “You men come well recommended. You are to be part of a worthy cause, a holy mission set to shake the very core of this world. What credentials do you have to vouch for yourself?”
“Well uh,” Sven stammered, “The work I'll do for yer will speak for itself. I have no ‘credentials’ as yer say, but me and my boys’ll do right by yer. I'm kinda wantin’ to leave my past where it is…”
Willow smiled, softening her gaze she said gently, “It is alright. We all have our secrets.”
“Thank yer kindly mam,” he replied, head bowed.
“This is your chance to atone for those past mistakes. Failure will not be tolerated,” Pellius said threateningly.
“Right yer are,” he replied, eyes wide.
Sven clapped his hands together, bellowing to his crew, new vigour in his step. Willow informed them of the mattress they were to pick up and have delivered to the Horn at the earliest convenience. He barked orders at the men, delegating the tasks between them.
“He seems competent,” Willow said quietly.
Pellius huffed, “Let us hope so.”

They made their way to the tavern Elise and the rest of the knot had checked into, finding them in the lounge, sprawled around a table.
“Finally,” Elise said coldly, “I began to assume you had failed in your task after waiting this long.”
Willow smiled condescendingly, “I do apologise, it must have been terribly boring having little of importance to do.”
Elise pursed her lips, “Indeed.”
“We have secured the Horn,” Willow said with an air of pride, “We have also obtained the complex ritual required to perform our task.”
“And how long do you expect this to take you?” she scorned, “I suppose we shall be waiting around, delayed by your incompetence.”
Willow smiled, “The ritual will take nine months of incantation to complete,” she lied, “Try not to be too bored in that time. I'm sure you'll be able to make yourselves of some use.”
Elise gritted her teeth in obvious disdain, “I'm sure. If that is all, we must be off, some of us have actual plans to adhere to…”
As she turned to leave, Bor chuckled, “Huh, you sure start whoring early.”
Willow burst out in laughter, slapping her hand over her mouth. Fuming, Elise stormed away, her oversize elven guardian following her lead. Trick smiled and inclined his head to the group as he left, Track and his usual glare tailing behind. Willow grinned at Bor as they left the tavern, giggles still tickling her lips.

They split up for the afternoon, the men off hunting the stores for weapons, while Willow took both women shopping. She found a beautiful set of black and red drapery, large enough to hang from the windows of the bedroom chamber she had selected. Willow smiled as they cased the markets for silk undergarments, grateful for the smallest of normalcy in their adventurous tales.
They met back at Vandermeir’s manor late afternoon and sat down for a civil meal along the great oak dining table. Willow marvelled at the glistening warhammer that Pellius had commissioned, it's grand might visible by it's weight and solid surface. When he asked what she had spent her coin on throughout the day, she grinned.
“Oh,” she said seductively, “You'll see it later tonight…”

Before they retired for the night, Willow strolled out onto the terrace overlooking the expansive green valley that was the Caer Bryr. She held her crystal wine glass to her lips as she stood deep in thought. With a soft swish, Garvana joined her at the railing, dressed in the gown of soft peach coloured silk that Willow picked out for her. The draping lace sleeves and high neckline softened the harshness of her sculpted masculine figure. Willow smiled as she looked her over, tight banding around her waist giving the illusion of a slender yet curvaceous figure.
“Two eyes, and the location of the third,” Willow mused, turning to stare back out across the horizon of forestry, “We are worthy of this mission.”
“Indeed we are,” Garvana said confidently, “For the glory of Asmodeus, and for the glory of ourselves.”
Willow smiled, her heart fluttering with pride and pleasure, “For Asmodeus, The First and rightful ruler of everything…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:33 AM
Chapter 11 - Preparation - Part 1


Light pierced the sky from the edge of the horizon, as the sun once more rose from its slumber. Standing by the open window of the bed chamber in Vandermir’s manor, Willow stretched her sore muscles. After watching the sun grace the rolling hills with its gleam, she turned and lifted her corset from her dresser, wrapping it tightly against her bare skin. As she laced the boning up her chest, she frowned at the itch irritating her ribs. Sighing, she unlaced and dropped her garment onto the bed. Quirking her head, she noticed a slither of parchment tucked into the frame of her corset.

The sun rises forty nine revolutions, Longeviei awaits those who sip from the fourth corner of shadowed chateau, the last light of Oathday of Pharast calls to thee.

Willow frowned. She searched the rest of her clothing and bag for any fellow words, and found nothing. It was a cryptic puzzle. She dressed herself while musing it over, pouring a cup of tea, sitting upon the window ledge. Oathday of Pharast was today. She assumed the note had come from Switch, arranging a meeting of some kind, he had always loved his riddles. She knew Longeviei was a small town in Ravenmoor, known for it’s most infamous red wine, the Chateau de Longeviei. Stretching her imagination, the sun could have been a tavern she had heard of in Farholde known as the Golden Sphere, and she knew that sat in the shadow of the large College of Magic called Four Corners of Arcana.
She wrote down her thoughts, trying to piece them together.
“Perhaps the meet is at the Golden Sphere at dusk today, and the Chateau de Longeviei is some kind of password?”
She slipped into her soft black silk dress, lacing the bindings high around her neck. The slim fitting gown clung tightly to her waist, trailing out and flaring outwards towards the floor. She draped her golden and ruby necklace along her collarbone, adjusting her appearance slightly with the magic of the circlet. She traced her hand over the dagger strapped to her thigh, sliding her hand into the fake pocket she had sewn seamlessly into the dress, allowing her quick and easy access to her weapon.
Late that afternoon, she left the manor, strolling casually through the marketplace. Willow made her way towards the tavern marked with the golden sphere above its namesake. She entered the dimly lit bar, eyeing the exits inconspicuously. She approached the bartender with a smile.
“Good evening,” Willow said politely, “I believe the ’49 Chateau de Longeviei I ordered has arrived.”
“Of course madam,” the bartender replied, a smooth lilt in his voice, “It arrived earlier this afternoon. Right this way.”
Willow smiled, sighing inwardly in relief. He led Willow through the opulent hallways lined with elegant embroidered runners along its polished wooden floors, large foreign paintings framed in thick golden frames and crystal candelabras draped from its walls. At the end of the passage he stopped by a doorway, unlatching the lock and opening the door with a small bow to her, indicating she enter on her own. She inclined to her head to him as she glided through the arch. A single candle lit the small room which housed an antique oak table and two chairs. Draped casually in the corner seat, sat a man cloaked in a long black jacket, two shining leather boots folded lazily across the bench.
“You're late,” Switch clipped.
Willow smiled, swaying in her layers of black satin, drifting towards the vacant seat.
“And what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked, “Your words were incredibly vague.”
Switch smirked, “Impressed you managed to figure it out.”
She laughed, “Contrary to apparent popular belief, there are not a great many men in my life who sneak around slipping letters of cryptic rendezvous into my undergarments.”
He grinned, dark and handsome.
“So what is it you wished me here for?” she asked, pouring herself a small nip of whiskey, “As much as I enjoy your company, I have much to do.”
He scoffed, “I wished you here,” he said in a deep condescending tone, “To introduce you to a few of my friends. I have contacts, ones who are willing to meet you. Contacts who procure goods from a variety of sources, certain goods not readily available or on offer to the common market.”
She softly sipped her drink, raising her eyebrows in interest.
“I will introduce you,” he said, dropping his legs from the bench.
He stood and turned towards the door, his coat flaring out. Willow's eyes flickered down as she saw a glisten of shining red stone strapped into the back of his belt. She drank down the whiskey, gracefully rising from her seat, strolling towards him.
He flung his finger out at her, pointing in her face, “Do not mess this up,” he warned menacingly, “I have vouched for you, my name is on the line and I will not be made a fool of. These people respect their privacy, their operation exists on the base of utmost secrecy. Do not mess this up.”
Willow stepped towards him and traced her tongue slowly along his finger. She looked into his eyes as she stepped in close, running her hands along his chest and around his lower back. She spoke against his lips as she gently lifted the ruby dagger from his belt.
“I would never allow you to be made a fool of,” she said in a sultry voice.
He crashed his lips against hers, gripping one hand in her hair and the other around her waist, crushing her body against his. He grinned as he withdrew, turning for the door. Willow felt the slightest movement, the hair on the top of her head return into place.
She laughed, clearing her throat, holding her hand for the circlet he'd lifted from her head. He turned back to her, his devilish grin wide and proud.
“Yes?” he asked.
Willow smirked, “I believe you have something of mine.”
He held out his hand expectantly, “And I believe you have something of mine.”
She laughed, throwing the dagger, spinning it through the air towards him. Just like a pompering show horse, he twirled the circlet through the air so precisely that the dagger travelled through its loop before he snatched it. Willow caught the circlet, still grinning, arranging it atop her head.
“Shall we,” he said, offering his arm to her.
She laughed at his patronising bow as she accepted his arm, allowing him to lead the way.

They left through the back entrance of the tavern, strolling through the side streets of the market district. As they reached a long empty pathway, Willow noticed him casually scanning the area. Once he seemed satisfied, he approached a panelled wall. She remained silent as he unlatched a series of locks hidden within the woodwork. He pulled the wall to the right, revealing a dark tunnel beyond the frame.
“Not scared of the dark, are you?” he teased.
Willow chuckled, stepping over the threshold to the passage, “There could be nothing more frightening than entering the dark with you.”
He bent down, whispering in her ear after shutting the wall behind them, sealing them in absolute darkness.
“A statement far truer than you know,” he breathed, low and ominous.
She grinned at the shiver that racked her body.
With a hand around her lower back, he led her through a winding corridor, not a crack of light for guidance. She trusted in the fact that if seeked her death or imprisonment, he would have acted long before creating this elaborate hoax. She did her best to keep her steps even, emitting a confidence she struggled to feel while encased in darkness.
As he pulled her to a stop, she heard the same routine of locks clicking, noting the exact pattern he was unlatching them by. He pulled the wall to the right, opening to reveal a short hallway, lit with small crude torches hung from its walls. Willow noticed a small inscription above the door at the end of the hallway.
“Secrecy is our greatest ally, as we strike from the shadows,” she read quietly.
“Come along now,” Switch beckoned.
He opened the door, striding in before her as she followed behind, far beyond intrigued. As she entered, she smiled. It was a marketplace. Vendors in dark shadowed robes lined the walls, their various illicit goods and contraband on display. Customers in ranging disguises swarmed each table with interest. No one appeared to pay any attention to Willow and Switch as they entered. He wandered over to what Willow assumed used to be a bedroom chamber, that now only housed a large desk and walls lined with shelves and draws of paperwork. Switch knocked on the door frame and he strolled in, grin from ear to ear. The man draped in heavy back hooded robes looked up and laughed.
“Switch old boy,” he called in a heavy rasped voice, “Good to see you.”
Switch chuckled, “Martin you old sod.”
The man stood from his desk as Switch approached, clasping his hand in a friendly firm hand shake.
“Ah,” Martin crooned, “This must be the dear lady you were speaking of. You are correct of course, she is most ravishing.”
The man lifted his hood, dropping it on his shoulders. His wrinkled face and warm smile matching the wizened voice.
“Martin, this is Lady Kathryn,” Switch said with a mischievous grin.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Willow said, offering her hand for a shake.
Martin gently reached for her hand, turning her wrist slightly, bending and laying a soft kiss on her second knuckle, surprising Willow with his perfect execution of the traditional noble greeting. He chuckled as he seemed to note her surprise.
“When in the presence of such a beautiful woman, you'll have to allow me my small taste of past etiquette,” he said with a wink.
Switch laughed as Willow smiled.
“Martin will show you around while I take care of some business,” he said, still laughing, “Be careful, he'll smooth the pants off you.”
Willow rolled her eyes at him as he left them alone in the room.
Martin chuckled, “Come my lady, I shall give you the tour.”

He strolled with Willow on his arm, guiding them through the expansive hallways. Willow found his natural charm and impeccable manners quite endearing. They perused various magical items, jewellery of all different kind shape and makes. Willow lingered over the shining weapons, imbued with rare magical qualities. They bantered in between each stall, speaking pleasantries of fine artwork and famous novels. He was delighted when Willow knew of his favourite writings, the Sonnets of Whispering Mountains.
“When he crooned to Algernia, make haste dear love for thou reckoning is now, oh how my heart nearly leapt from my chest,” she said passionately.
He smiled, true and wise, “And thou reckoning shall come, and tear this world asunder.”
Willow sighed, lost in the written heartache.
He chuckled, “I think my lady,” he said softly, “That Switch does not know what a prize he has found, for she is ready to take over this world and the next.”
Willow smirked, saying quietly, “I think there is a lot he does not know, when only one head can lead him at a time.”
Martin threw his head back in laughter, “Come along, there is more I wish you to see.”
He took Willow through a small hidden passageway leading to another room, lined with exotic weapons and items in glass cases, flanked by thick burly men in protective poses.
Willow approached an exquisite dagger, coated in a grey mist, radiating dark energy.
“Beautiful,” she breathed.
“Huh,” Switch scoffed from behind her, “Didn't think you'd be trusting enough to show her this stuff Martin old boy, getting soft in your old age I see.”
Willow turned, eyebrows raised, smirking at him.
“I have trusted my instincts since long before you were born,” Martin said with a grin, “And my instincts tell me we have found a worthy ally in this fair lady.”
Willow smiled, inclining her head to him, “I think this friendship will be most beneficial, for the both of us…”

After returning to Martin’s office and indulging in a glass of fine wine paired with enjoyable conversation, Willow bid him farewell. Switch, who had stood watching them cross armed and legged casually in the corner, saw Martin off with another familiar hand shake.
“We still on for poker?” Switch asked him with a grin.
Martin laughed, “Oh you are a glutton for punishment. Of course, I am never one to refuse taking your gold with so little effort.”
He turned to Willow with a warm smile, bowing formally, “It has been a pleasure, my lady. Please feel free to come again. You need not tag along with Switch, the office is manned all hours, and you are most welcome. For business, and if you're ever wanting to discuss any more of Fendal Hovermere’s great scripture.”
Willow bowed, the formal noble farewell curtsey, smiling softly, “The pleasure has indeed been mine, I look forward to seeing you again.”
Switch scoffed, “Come on love bird, we best be going.”
Willow laughed as they left the room. When they reached the hallway leading to the dark tunnel, Switch held his hand to the false wall expectantly. She approached it confidently, recalling the order he had unlatched each one. It took a single try for her to unlock and slide the wall across. Switch raised his eyebrows.
“Huh,” he said sounding surprised, “So you were paying attention.”
Willow frowned, staring into the darkness, noticing how the light from the torches disappeared at the passage edge.
“It's a charm,” Switch said, “Magical darkness. No natural light will pierce it. There are traps hidden within, listen closely.”
He stepped in close behind Willow, his torso flush to her back. He spoke as he guided each leg like a dance into the pitch black passage.
“Five steps forward,” he whispered close by her ear, “Four steps right, six steps forward, four steps right…”
He danced their way through the maze of hallway, guiding her hand with his to show her each edge of the wall. When they reached the other end, he instructed her to open their way. She traced her hands along the latches, finding it far more difficult without sight. He grasped her hand, forcefully opening each lock in order, pulling the wall across. He held her tightly, his soft breath rasping in her ear. He pushed her head down, her sight drawn to the ground, her sharp intake of breath inciting a chuckle from him.
“Surprised you missed it the first time,” he said as they looked over the large pit trap they were standing on, “If the door is forced or the code entered with even a single mistake, it unlocks. From the other side you'll believe you've cracked it. And then down you'll go, fifty feet deep, where no one will ever find you.”
He released Willow as they stepped over the threshold, a devilish grin lifting his lips as he pulled the wall closed. Offering his arm to her again, they strolled through the marketplace weaving in amongst the vibrant nightlife of Farholde’s merchant district. He led her across town into the barely lit warehouse precinct, the prowlers of the night eyeing them warily. Willow noticed how they looked on with hungry eyes until they seemed to recognise Switch, then scuttled away in fear, retreating into the shadows. They came across a large abandoned warehouse, slipping in through its broken wall, entering the timeworn building. Willow lifted her length of black silk, careful not to snag the expensive fabric on the splintered wood. Approaching the western wall, Switch opened another secret passage, one lined with cleaner polished pine. He lit a torch and proceeded to light the room, while Willow strolled around examining the chamber. She laughed when she came across a neatly arranged pile of shining black leather armour and laced black lingerie.
“Sneaking into my chamber in the Baron’s manor once is an acceptable risk,” she said smirking, “But multiple times? Rummaging through my clothing and undergarments? That's just asking for trouble.”
The grin on his proud face said it all.
“You do realise,” she said in a low sultry voice, “That I am not always alone in that bed chamber?”
Switch chucked, “Ah yes, the big stud.”
He approached Willow on light creeping feet, devious intent on his face, “You do such a good job of wearing him out, I need not worry about him waking.”
Willow laughed, turning from him and lifting up a whiff of black silk in the form of a night slip, “And so what is it I am doing with these tonight?”
Switch smiled, trying to put on a face of professionalism.
“Get dressed,” he clipped, his feasting eyes betraying his strong impatient manner, “We shall train tonight.”
Willow turned to him, eyebrow cocked, holding the night slip out to him, “And is it a requirement of all your apprentices to train in such things?”
He chuckled, “Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable…”

Willow chose to forgo the laced silk in place of her armour, strapping its buckles tightly around her limbs. For all the sexual tension between them, the pair trained remarkably well together. Switch’s arrogance was not misplaced, his skill with the blade clearly greater than Willow’s. She followed his orders as he barked them, following his instruction to the letter. He took her through the basics of vulnerable points on a man's body, and the easiest ways to reach them with a light blade.
“You're missing the targets!” he spat, thrusting Willow backwards with his palm, knocking her to the floor, “Stop trying to play fair! What is this? A duel for the right to your fair maidens hand?”
He prowled over to Willow with fierce gleaming eyes, dropping his knee into her chest, holding her down with his weight.
“You're smaller and weaker than most men, but you are faster! Use it! Go for the weak points, if you can't slip a blade in, kick them in the groin! Even in full plate armour they’re only covered by chain, a boot will bludgeon them to their knees, dropping their neck for you.”
As he pushed his weight down into her chest, Willow growled. She thrust her legs up with all her might and threw him forward. As he fell through the air she flicked out her foot and caught him square between the thighs, before swiftly rolling to her feet.
Switch wheezed and laughed, “Yeah, like that,” he said in a strained voice.

After a few hours of gruelling training, he walked Willow back to Vandermir’s manor. When they passed the secret tunnel, she looked to him in question.
He smirked, “You aren't curious how I can come and go so easy into your suite?”
Willow grinned, inclining her head to him.
He weaved through the brush surrounding the outskirts of the building, slipping through a slender gap between the rocks before climbing the lattice leading to the gardens. He toed silently behind the dense hedges, creeping towards the window Willow recognised as her own. The window stood at least thirty foot off the ground, with no perceivable access from the ground. Switch looked to her with a smug knowing grin, holding out his hand to her. She eyed him warily, placing her hand in his. He yanked on it, pulling her close, lifting her body on his and holding on until she held her own weight. Willow marvelled as he began to climb the wall, in a spider-like fashion, his fingers clinging on to what appeared as impossibly thin wafers of ledge. With little effort he made it to her window, picking the lock with one hand while supporting the both of them with the other. He slid her window open without a sound and slinked inside before placing her down.
Willow began, “How-
“We all have our secrets,” he said mischievously.
He grabbed Willow by the hair, crushing his lips to hers fiercely. She bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, heart racing as he groaned low and guttural. He ripped her away by the hair and pushed her back further into the room, a primal gleam in his eyes and wicked grin on his face. His eyes flicked to the door for a moment before he stepped back to the window.
“Will be seeing you soon, Willow,” he whispered menacingly.
He swiftly stepped out and sealed the windows behind him before leaping from the ledge. Willow grinned as her racing veins struggled to settle. A firm knock on her door had her spinning in fright.
“My lady,” called Pellius, in his deep baritone voice, “Are you in?”
Willow threw her bag under her bed, smoothing her hair and wiping her lips.
“Come in,” she called, trying to steady her voice.
Pellius opened the door, striding in, dripping with his usual charm.
“Ah,” he said, a small frown pulling his brow, “I did not see you return.”
She smiled, turning to the liquor cabinet and pouring herself a nip of whiskey, “I've not long returned.”
“I see,” Pellius said, looking her dust covered armour over, “And was it a productive day?”
Willow smirked into her tumbler, “Indeed.”

While Willow had been out, the rest of the group had been busy.
“Bor has managed to convince the Baron to provide a trap maker and an alchemist,” Pellius informed her, sitting casually in the arm chair, watching her undress, “Garvana and Teelee have procured supplies for the tavern and food stores. I have organised the supplies needed to restock the forge, the holding cells and of course the torture chamber.”
Willow grinned at the way glee slithered into his voice as he mentioned his new sanctum.
“The locks you requested have been made to order,” he said, dropping his voice to a low menace, “We shall have to test their strength.”
Dressed only in her night slip, Willow remained still as Pellius stalked behind her. She heard the faint jingle of manacles as he lifted them from his pocket.
“And what is it you were doing today?” he breathed in her ear.
Willow couldn't stop the shiver as he clicked the manacles into place around her wrists.
“Procuring contacts,” she said simply, breathing a fraction faster.
“Contacts?” he breathed, tracing his fingers over the red hand print still marked around her neck, “Any contacts of worth?”
Willow laughed, “Of some import, yes.”
“And what can these contacts do for you?”
“Give me access to items not even the Baron has access to,” Willow breathed.
She stood motionless, hands clasped behind her back as he strolled to the bed, reaching down and lifting out her dust covered bag.
“Very productive day it was then,” he said, as he pulled out the golden ruby necklace.
He prowled back to Willow and laced the chain around her neck, the pendant laying heavy on her bare collarbone. He returned to the arm chair, lifting his glass to his lips.
“Proceed.”

The sky still dark as the moon flickered towards the horizon. The city still soundless in its slumber, only the sounds of the wildlife waking broke the peaceful silence. In the twilight hour before dawn, Willow rose from the bed and donned her armour. She strapped her daggers to her thighs and penned a quick note for Pellius, leaving it on his bedside table.

Pellius,
To desecrate the shrine tainted by light, our Infernal Lord requires a sacrifice. I will meet you by the twisted large oak along the entrance path to the Horn within the hour of daybreak.
You shall have your sacrifice.
Willow

She slipped unnoticed out of the manor, creeping swiftly to the small dormitory housing acolytes of the southern most church of Mitra. Willow had strolled by the day before on her way to the docks, taking note of the layout of the hall and the garb worn by the faithful. As she neared she created her own robes, matching those of the church, using the magic of the circlet. She shaped her hair into a simple pale brown wrapped braid, morphing her face into soft and humble unremarkable features. On quiet feet she snuck through the large archway, into the common area of the hall, slinking into the shadows. She listened carefully for any noise or disturbance, the air still and mute. As she neared the row of small modest bedroom chambers, she pulled out the wand imbued with silence, that she had borrowed from Teelee. She whispered the incantation she had been taught, casting the magic upon her person. Willow felt herself encased and surrounded by a deafening heavy silence. She hurried, inaudibly opening the door, slipping inside and sealing it behind her. A shabby single pine bed frame sat centre of the room taking up majority of the space in the slender stone chamber. Laying on its tattered mattress was a man, dark hair askew, peacefully slumbering unaware of the danger he was in. His soft snore muffled as Willow approached, pulling the manacles from her belt pouch, stepping up to the side of the bed. He slept with his hands draped above his head, his body relaxed and slack. Willow leant over him and inhaled to focus. As quickly as she could, she snapped both of the metal rings around his wrists. The magic they possessed swiftly shrank to his size, locking tightly in place. He woke, startled, Willow hanging closely over his head. She had two poison vials strapped into her belt as a back up, incase the magic of the manacles was not enough to restrain him, she was ready.
His face slowly turned from frightened alarm to calm confusion. Willow sighed, smiling at the acolyte. She put her finger to her lips, indicating for him to be silent, and beckoned him to follow. She pulled his robes from the small cupboard, throwing them to him and signalling he put them on, before leading him silently out of the door towards the exit. She kept up her appearance as the magic of sound wore off and their soft footsteps along the paved road could be heard.
“Follow me, and do not talk,” Willow said as she led him towards the Caer Bryr, “It is better if you remain silent.”
He nodded compliantly, keeping pace with Willow. She looked him over as the sun broke the horizon, checking to see that the manacles were hidden from view by his long robes. Willow smiled, if anyone was to see them, they would look like nothing more than a pair of Mitran acolytes taking an early morning stroll.
It took them close to an hour to walk the path to the large tree she had mentioned to Pellius. As they rounded the bend through the rolling hills, he came into view. When he noticed the pair of young acolytes, he stood ready, suspicious and poised for battle. Willow laughed as they neared, allowing her appearance to transform to her natural state, slicked skin tight black leather replacing her modest robe. She saw Pellius’ dastardly grin, his laugh deep and menacing.
“You do not disappoint, my lady.”.
“Of course not,” she said with a grin, “I would never disappoint you.”
The acolyte looked the two of them over, confusion and worry across his face.
“Do not be afraid,” Willow said to him, “You are coming on an adventure.”
“Oh,” the acolyte frowned, “I've never been adventuring before.”
Willow laughed, guiding him by the shoulder towards the secret entrance to the manor.
“Trust me,” she said wickedly, “This will be unlike anything you've ever experienced before, or will again…”

After collecting the rest of the group, and retrieving Grumblejack from a disreputable tavern, they reached the Horn by midday. Pellius led the acolyte up the winding stairs to the second floor and into the room pulsing with a deep aura of holy light. He told the Mitran to pray, to which he complied willingly. Willow watched from the corner of the room as Pellius stepped in behind the kneeling sacrifice. He lifted his shining warhammer, quietly lining up his swing.
“In the name of all that is His,” he whispered, “I name thee Doombringer.”
He cleaved his weapon with fierce might, the impact shattering the skull of the acolyte and launching a shower of blood across the shrine. As the body fell forward against the humble altar, the room shuddered. Willow felt the pulse as the aura of malevolence swarmed through the area, the goodness bleeding through the building, fading into the void. The words upon the wall began to ooze and smear, the once divine sentiment, dying along with its power. Garvana spoke of a righteous vengeance, casting all back down into His fiery domain.
“Doombringer?” Willow commented, looking the desecrated shrine and then to the blood covered base of the weapon, “Fitting.”

Later that afternoon, as the men they had hired found their way to the Horn, Pellius called them together. The group had discussed the highest priority tasks that needed to be performed. They had agreed that the base needed to be cleared out, fixed up and cleaned.
“You have one week to completely clear this floor,” Pellius instructed, a fierce gleam to his eye, and strength to his voice that made Willow heat, “I have given instructions on each room and it's required work. One week. Lateness, indolence or failure will not be tolerated, and will be punished. Work well, and you shall be rewarded. Fail me,” he said low and threatening, “And the consequences will be severe.”
As the men dispersed with renewed vigour and fear in their eyes, Willow approached Pellius, standing by his side staring down at the men.
“You're very good at this,” she said quietly, giving him a fierce look as she turned to leave, “They follow you without question. It seems you were born to lead…”

When the group had spoken of the boggards, Willow had been outvoted. They had chosen to send Bor leading the boggards to capture peasants. Pellius, Garvana and Teelee had been eager for the idea, while Bor only relished the plan of heading a squad and getting back to what he was good at. Willow agreed graciously, not opposed to the task, but of a different mind of what held priority. By sunset, Bor and the band of boggards had left for one of the nearby villages.
Pulling out the maps of the Horn Willow had drew, the four of them planned the best use of traps in the lower caverns. The trap maker that the Baron had provided, a stout man named Horrick, was efficient and quick with his work. They left him in the caverns, along with orders for the remaining boggards to leave him to his work, unmolested and unharmed.

When the sun dawned on the following morning, the group took Grumblejack hunting. Their goal was to capture beasts with might enough to guard the lower caverns. Grumblejack frowned as the group explained the plan.
“You mean,” he said in his brute broken speech, “That we bash them…?”
“Yes,” Willow chuckled.
“But we no eat them?” he asked, struggling with the concept.
“Yes,” she laughed.
“Bash them, but Grumblejack no kill them?”
“Exactly.”
“But then,” he said, frowning, “What do we eat?”
“We have other food,” Willow said.
“Bor’s off getting you live food at the moment,” Pellius said simply.
“Ah!” Grumblejack said smiling, “Then that is good. People yes?”
“Yes,” Willow laughed.
“Then Grumblejack eat those people, yes?”
“Exactly,” Pellius said, struggling to keep a straight face.

Willow split off from the group as she heard a rustling in amongst the shrubbery. She was silent on her own, no thudding armoured footsteps to give away her position. She followed the tracks of the clawed foot animal, hearing the distant sound of battle from the rest of the group far behind her. She knew they could handle their own without her help. She crept down to the edge of the lake following the path the creature had taken, further along down the bank the tracks continued back into the forest. As she neared the tree line, she heard a vicious slurping and chewing, some predator feasting on its prey. On silent feet she prowled in behind it. A long lizard like creature, standing to her waist, devouring the deer it had caught. Willow toed behind it, not so much as a twig breaking, and drove the pommel of her dagger into the creatures head. She hit with such force, the creature fell forward into its meal and span into unconsciousness. Willow grinned, quite proud of her own strength. She turned back to where the group was, still hearing their loud ruckus from a hundred feet away. She laughed as she saw Grumblejack carrying a large praying mantis, wrapped tightly bound in rope. She whistled loudly to them, unwilling to carry the filthy lizard-thing herself. Grumblejack patted her hefty on the back as they reached her.
“We eat this one, yes?”
Willow laughed, “Not this one, the deer you can eat though.”
As Grumblejack raced to devour the half eaten deer, Pellius looked to Willow.
“Dead?” he asked, signalling to the lizard creature.
Willow screwed up her nose and laughed, “How would I know? I hit it, and it dropped?”

With eyes searching the ground as they group made their way back to the Horn, Willow called for a halt.
“These stones,” she said intrigued to Pellius, “Perhaps they are the ruins that guide fellow you hired had mentioned.”
Willow scoured the rocks, looking over the strange symbols carved into parts of their face. When she quirked her head to the side, she frowned. When looking from this angle a certain formation of rocks appeared to be shape like a throne. She cleared the debris from around the stone and gasped.
“Vah,” she read in Abyssal from the base of the rock.
Willow's eyes went wide as her mind raced.
“Teelee!” she called, “Can you read the magic here? Is this magical? Can you tell?”
Teelee frowned, muttering the detect magic incantation. As her eyes glossed over, her eyebrows shot high.
“It is the same magic linking the thrones in the Horn of Abbadon,” she said seriously.
Before Willow could reply, Garvana had stepped up and sat on the throne, calling confidently, “Yah!”
As Garvana vanished, Willow rolled her eyes. Garvana’s proud confidence was her strength, and her weakness. A moment later, Garvana blinked back into the stone ruins of a throne.
“It does indeed, lead right into and out of our base.”
“We must destroy it,” Willow said firmly.
“Why must we?” Pellius asked, “Would it not be better to keep an escape route open for ourselves? Who could possibly know of this?”
Willow frowned, trying to piece together the fragments of thought she had racing though her mind, “Anyone who has access to the information that Master Thorn did,” she said slowly, “We do not know how he procured his information about the Horn and its inhabitants, for him to come across it, it means it exists. We can't know what other information the Victor recorded and kept, we also have no knowledge of how the Mitrans entered the base. You've see the scars on the walls, you've seen enough battle to know it was a massacre! What if this was their way in?”
Willow turned from the group, brow furrowed deeply in thought.
“We do not know what will happen when we start the ritual. We are calling across the void to summon an Archdeacon, I can not imagine the resonance will be quiet in this realm. If we unknowingly draw attention to the Horn, then any information on it may be retrieved and scoured. The Victor was powerful enough to defeat and cast out Vetra-Kali, is it naive to assume he did not know of this place?”
Pellius looked to Willow in contemplation, “You are right,” he said, “If it's purpose was discovered, it would leave a very large hole in our defences. Let us use it to transport our captures, and then we shall dispose of it.”
Willow sighed in relief.
Pellius himself had to struggle with the enormous weight of the mantis, a creature taller than Willow, and more than six times her weight. She couldn't help but laugh as he strained its mass over to the throne, wheezing the command word and vanishing from sight.
When he returned a short time later, minus the great insect, he and Grumblejack used their combined might to shatter the throne to shards. After Teelee and Garvana confirmed the lack of lingering magic, Willow was satisfied. Safe was not a word they would use to describe their situation, but as the crumbled stone mess collapsed in a cloud of dust, she at least felt at ease.

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:35 AM
Chapter 11 - Preparation - Part 2



They entered the Horn before nightfall, returning to the news that the alchemical golem they had found in pieces amongst the lab, had been restored by the Baron’s agent and merely awaited the last component. Willow cringed at the thought of watching Pellius retrieve a brain from a freshly slain being, so she chose to retreat to her chamber for the evening, to work on more civil matters.
She had been scripting the exact wording of their pleas to Vetra-Kali. She had written and rewritten it many times, attempting to achieve the finesse she believed was needed. She had read through the Dirges of Appolyon ten times in order to perfect her wording. As she sat by candlelight scribbling along the parchment, she felt the ground shudder with heavy metal footsteps. As she entered the hallway, she laughed, seeing Pellius striding next to a ten foot golem. It's reservoirs buzzed with charged arcana, wisps of the brew encased in the glass dancing freely.
“This is Lady Willow,” Pellius said, introducing her to the golem, “You will not harm her.”
“Thy bidding will be done, master,” it hissed.
Willow smiled, looking the massive structure over, “Impressive.”
Pellius gave her a charming smile, “We have agreed the best course is to dispose of those creatures in the far room.”
Willow grinned, leading the way to the vine riddled chamber, “Try not to sleep through all the fun this time.”

As they approached the western chambers, Grumblejack looked up to the ceiling.
“Grumblejack likes this place,” he said, “Grumblejack feel good here.”
Willow's steps slowed as her mind turned. She remembered the first day they had met Grumblejack. When he had swung the iron gate wide, the gust of wind had lifted the long wisps of hair that fell down his forehead and revealed two small horns. She thought about how little they knew of him.
“Where were you before Branderscar, Grumblejack?” Willow asked curiously.
“Grumblejack just went place to place,” he said, still staring into the ceiling.
“What were you doing?”
“Smashing things, eating things, that's all Grumblejack likes to do.”
Willow thought for a moment while she watched him, her curiosity peaked.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Grumblejack not looking, Grumblejack just likes this place, it makes Grumblejack feel good.”
“How about we go smash some oozes, then I'll show you around?” she offered.
“Grumblejack likes smashing things,” he said with a big toothy grin.

Pellius swung the door wide, and as the spores released, he and Grumblejack crumpled to the ground in a familiar sleep induced unconsciousness. Willow couldn't help but laugh as she tumbled passed his body, ready to defend his limp form. As the oozes swarmed from the room, the golem began to smash into them with its solid fists. The oozes slithered up onto Pellius’ legs, it's acidic slime beginning to melt the hard steel of his armour. Willow drove the pommel of her dagger into the blob with all her might, causing it to explode in a splatter of simmering ooze. She was not proud of the feminine screech she let out as she dove out of its path. After Garvana had pummelled the other in a squelching mess, Pellius and Grumblejack awoke.
“Did we win?” Grumblejack yawned.

Before Willow left, she overheard Pellius question the golem. It's name was Artephius. A name Pellius had trouble pronouncing, when Teelee suggested he rename the construct, Pellius grinned, instructing it that it's new name was to be Artephus. He questioned the golem on what it remembered of its time before its destruction. It spoke of its creator, Ezra Thrice Damned, the High Priest of the Sons. Pellius asked it of the minotaur, laying dead in the storage chamber, the magic of the room still preserving his corpse as if it had been freshly slain. The golem identified him as Gerrion Joth.
Willow was struck with an idea, her curiosity still simmering with her mind, “What do you know of Cardinal Samuel Havelyn?”
“This vessel has no knowledge of Cardinal Samuel Havelyn,” it replied.
Willow lowered her voice, so only the golem and Pellius could hear, “What do you know of Cardinal Adrastus Thorn?”
“This vessel has no knowledge of Cardinal Adrastus Thorn.”
Willow turned to Pellius, his eyebrow cocked in question.
She smiled, “There is no harm in asking.”
Lastly, Pellius asked the golem of the man encased in stone.
“This stone structure holds resemblance to the Sons of the Pale Horsemen’s torturer, Halthus the Flayer.”
Pellius turned to the group, a charming smile on his face, “Then let us wake this, Halthus.”

As the group approached the room, Teelee spoke of the Eyes and their magical qualities. She informed them of the need to coat each gem in a sentient creatures blood, in order to reveal their true purpose.
They filed into the room, surrounding the stone statue, Willow positioned herself out of sight behind it. She drew her blade and waited. Teelee covered the statue in the salve, placing his head firmly on his shoulders. As the magic began to work, and the statue reanimated, Willow fingered the blade softly. Halthus awoke, frightened and confused.
“W-what?” he stammered, “What's going on, who are you people?”
Pellius pulled out his Asmodean pendant, shushing the erratic man.
“Calm down Halthus,” he said firmly, “We are not Mitrans. We are Asmodeans.”
Halthus panicked, “How do you know my name?”
As Willow saw his hand slide into his pocket, she swiftly stepped up and drew the dagger to his throat.
“I would not do that if I was you,” she said threateningly into his ear.
Slowly he withdrew his hands, raising them in surrender.
“Alright, it's alright,” he stuttered, “No need to do anything rash.”
Willow slipped her hand in his pocket carefully, retrieving a canvas wrap filled with a poor set of torturing tools, the scalpel half drawn.
“The eye,” Pellius demanded.
“The w-what?”
“The Eye of Withering,” Willow whispered.
“H-how do you know of it? What do you want with it?”
“The eye,” Pellius demanded, a low threatening growl to his voice, “I will not ask again.”
“Alright!” Halthus trembled, “Alright, alright it's in my pocket.”
He gingerly reached for his other pocket, moving slower as Willow tightened the dagger at his throat. As he pulled out the gleaming gem, Willow snatched it with her free hand. She gently sliced through the palm of his hand, wrapping it around the emerald. As Halthus cried out and whimpered, Willow felt the malice of the Eye pulse. Teelee inspected the gem, chanting her incantation, reading its purpose.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “It is the last Eye.”
“See!” Halthus exclaimed, “I told you, I did what you asked, now how about letting me go?”
Pellius smiled, his dastardly and charming smirk, he looked to Willow and gave a single nod.
“One wrong move,” Willow whispered in his ear, before stepping back and releasing her blade.
“Ah,” Halthus said, rubbing his throat, “Much better. Now may I ask, what you intend to do with the Eyes?”
“We intend,” Pellius replied, “To summon Vetra-Kali.”
“You do?” he asked in disbelief and excitement, “Perhaps I can be of service?”
Pellius looked him over with calculating eyes, “And what use can you be?”
“Well, I uh, am skilled in retrieving information?” he said shakily, motioning to his tools.
Pellius raised his eyebrows, “What else?”
“Oh,” he replied, far less confident, “I uh, I suppose I know of anatomy?”
His words were met with silence, as the group waited for him to continue. Willow saw the panic dawning on his face as he realised he had nothing more to offer. In a flash he leaped forward, charging past Pellius in an attempt to escape. Willow was ready. He made it as far as the door when she pounced forward, knowing they needed to sacrifice him later, she slashed only through his calf. The blade cut deeper than she had meant it to, slicing straight through the muscle and tendons, separating the joint of the bone. As he fell forward screaming in agony, Willow landed atop him, knees in his shoulders and blade warningly pressing to his neck. The blood began pooling along the floor, his leg hanging on by a shred of skin.
“Garvana, will you take care of that?” Willow asked.
Garvana summoned her healing magic and knitted the majority of the wound together. The healing had stopped the bleeding, and taken away the pain, but still Halthus whimpered. Pellius knelt by his head, a stone look on his face.
“Do not try that again,” he warned, low and menacing, looking down in disgust at the whimpering pathetic man, “Not accustomed to receiving the pain? Only giving it?”
“That harlot was going to slaughter me!” he shrieked, “I saw it in her eyes!”
Pellius looked up into Willow’s eyes, a fierce gleam of what could have been pride in his eyes, “She has done much worse.”
Willow leaned close to the trembling fool below her, “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”
She pulled out the manacles from her pouch and latched his hands together. She wiped the blood from her blade on his robes and stood back as Pellius pulled him to his feet.
“He's all yours,” she said with a dark grin, “Try not to kill, we still need him.”
Pellius turned and gave her one of his disarming devilish grins, “Have a little faith, my lady.”

While Pellius escorted Halthus to the torture chamber, Willow took Grumblejack on a tour of the upper levels. The closer they grew to the sanctum, the more comfortable he became. As they entered the chamber through the balcony, he clutched his head.
“Grumblejack has been here before, Grumblejack not feel good, so thirsty.”
Willow drew her water skin from her bag and offered it to him. He drank it down in a single gulp, not satisfied, his mouth still dry and parched. Willow did a quick search of the room, noticing a trough at the base of the grand structure of Vetra-Kali. Reading the Abyssal scrawled around the trough, frowning at it's phrase mentioning water. Following a hunch, she tipped her second skin into the trough. The water festered and rippled as green infection spread across its surface.
“It's unholy water,” Teelee mused, inspecting the rotting liquid.
Willow frowned as Grumblejack groaned, unable to determine what was going on. She shrugged as she offered the putrid water to Grumblejack. He did not seem to notice or mind the filthy state of the water, he scooped it up and drank it down.
Suddenly, the small horns of his forehead grew and lengthened. The claws on his fingers and toes arched into long talons. His feet lifted from the ground, and as he floated, he grinned.
“Grumblejack feel much better!” he exclaimed, “Grumblejack feel great!”
He turned to the balcony and leaped from its edge. Willow gasped, racing to its edge and watching the massive ogre fly through the air. He swirled and spun for a few moments before returning to the balcony.
“That was great!” he roared, “Grumblejack has magic! Magic not scary! Magic is great!”
“What else can you do?” Teelee asked.
“This!” he said, as the air around them blackened and darkness swarmed them.
The light flickered and returned, Willow smiled at his glee.
“Grumblejack can smash things better now! What can Grumblejack smash?”
Willow chuckled, “Nothing right now, we shall find you something later on. But how about a lift back for dinner?”
He held Willow and Teelee in his large arms, carefully avoiding them with his claws, he flew them down to the first floor. As they entered and headed for the tavern, they met Pellius along the way. His eyes flew wide when he saw Grumblejack, he gripped his weapon as they passed. He grabbed Willow by the arm and steered her alone into the nearby empty chamber.
“What in Hell’s name happened?” he said furiously.
Willow shrugged, unbothered by his anger, “He drank the unholy water from the sanctum. Teelee says it awoke the daemon blood in his veins.”
“How could you let this happen? You are always so cautious! You have no idea what you have done!”
Willow raised her eyebrows, “And nor do you. He remains willing to serve us, he has just grown in power, that power will help us succeed in our mission.”
“And if he decides that he does not wish to serve?” he spat.
“If that happens,” Willow said soothingly, “Then we will dispose of him. At this stage he still wishes to aid us. Pellius, not every ally we will gain will be white skinned and human. Allow me to talk with him, if I believe he is a threat and his loyalty becomes a question, I will not hesitate to cut him down.”
Pellius remained silent for a moment in thought.
He turned from Willow, saying quietly before leaving, “The consequences of this, are on your head, my lady.”

They met the rest of the group in the tavern, dishing up plates of dinner. As Pellius sat alone and brooded into his meal, Grumblejack approached him.
“Grumblejack want armour like you,” he said, towering over Pellius, “Grumblejack powerful and magic now, he want magic armour like you.”
“We'll see what we can do,” Willow replied, walking over to join him.
Grumblejack grinned and walked back to his seat, devouring the rest of the deer. Willow put a soothing hand on Pellius’ shoulder.
“Let me talk to him,” she said softly.
Pellius remained silent as Willow walked to Grumblejack and slid up onto the table next to him.
“We will get you armour,” she said, thinking on how to explain what she wished to convey, “But armour like Pellius’ is special, it was a reward. To simply obtain it, it is not cheap. It will not be easy to acquire, it must be made, and we do not have the resources to make it here.”
“Then why we not go to blacksmith in town?” he asked.
Willow smiled, “Because we need the townsfolk to remain oblivious to our presence. Your appearance has grown less inconspicuous, more… diabolical shall we say?”
“Incon-what? Dia-what?”
Willow chuckled, “Your new appearance is much more threatening. You would stick out too much, the townsfolk would panic, and that would draw bad attention we really don't need.”
“Why we not go to blacksmith and make him do it, and if he not do it, then we eat him?”
Willow mused on how to explain it.
“We have a mission. A mission of the utmost importance, one of a higher calling. One we cannot fail. And at the moment, that mission calls for as much secrecy as possible.”
“What is this mission, who do you do it for?” Grumblejack asked.
“Our master, and our Infernal Father,” Willow replied, “You know how you feel your connection to this place, and it is more than just a ‘good feeling’?”
Grumblejack frowned in thought, “You are speaking of gods, yes?”
Willow smiled, “Yes, and ours is great, the most powerful and fearsome of them all. Our mission allows us to fight for him.”
Garvana smiled fiercely, “We fight for His kingdom, we fight to return all to what is rightfully His.”
“As-mo-deus?” Grumblejack asked, “Does he hate ogres?”
“Asmodeus does not care of your race or your appearance,” Garvana replied, “He cares only for your power.”
“He cares only that you serve Him,” Willow said, “You know your place, and fight to force those who ignore their place back down where they belong.”
“The strong will rule the weak!” Garvana said fiercely.
“Grumblejack is strong. Asmodeus let him smash things?”
Willow laughed, “Yes, when you are told to.”
“Asmodeus let him eat people?”
“Yes, unless you are told not to.”
Grumblejack grinned, “Then Grumblejack worship Asmodeus!”
He leapt from his chair and began to dance around, “Grumblejack have god! Grumblejack is unstoppable with god!”
“But Grumblejack,” Garvana said sternly, “You must do as we say, you must follow our orders and you must listen. We serve Asmodeus, and our great Infernal Father demands obedience.”
He grinned, a toothy feral grin, “Grumblejack is ok with this.”
Garvana smiled, “His power is great, his word is law. Hallowed be Asmodeus, the First and rightful ruler of everything.”

The group spent the next few days buried in their separate tasks. While the workmen cleared and repaired the first level to the Horn, the trapmaker finished his work in the lower caverns. Teelee and Grumblejack set off to ambush and capture a blacksmith, while Garvana studied the Dirges in greater detail.
Pellius and Willow spent their time studying the Hall of Murals, trying to decipher their meanings. The air between the two of them had changed. Pellius, ever polite and charming, seemed distant to her. Over the days they spent together studying the walls, he seemed standoffish and reserved. There was no light hearted flirting, no fooling around. At her every try, he politely declined, always seeming too busy or too engrossed in what he was doing. Each night he chose not to return to the chamber they had been sharing, instead sleeping somewhere else. Willow struggled to determine what was wrong or what had changed, so she continued their work on the Hall of Murals, focussing her energy and thought on it.
As day one passed, they had written the components and instructions for a ritual named Call forth the hounds. It described a sacrificial ritual summoning three Hellhounds from the pits of Hell. The second day the discovered a ritual named Call forth the Steed, summoning a nightmare steed of Abbadon. On the last day the uncovered the ritual named Caldron of the Earth, summoning creatures known as mud men.

Together as a group they summoned the mud men into the pit of boiling mud in the lower caverns, disgusting creatures with the power to suck their victims deep into the suffocating mass of mud. Once they were done, Teelee decided to lead the ritual of the steed, leaving the caverns to perform it outside in the nearby forestry. Willow had no desire to see a steed sacrificed in a blazing frenzy, so she climbed the stairs to the second level, heading to her chamber. She scrawled down her thoughts into her journal, before the days strain of mental exertion took its toll.

Willow woke as the sun breached the height of the canopy. She lay in thought amongst the soft silk sheets alone, mind wandering of the revelations of the last few days. Her mind turned to the Hall of Murals. She could not fathom why a place dedicated to the crumbling wastes of Abbadon would harbour rituals deep seeded within the depths of their Father’s Infernal Palace. The ritual held no trace of Abbadon, the hellhounds were creatures straight out of Hell. She continued to ponder as she rose from the sheets and dressed for the day. She glided through the halls of the Horn towards the tavern where the group had began taking their meals. As she walked in and saw Pellius sitting alone on the far side of room to the rest of the group, she dished herself up a plate of breakfast and approached him.
“May I join you?” she asked politely.
“Of course, my lady,” he replied casually, ever a gentleman, standing to push her seat in behind her.
“My mind has been turning,” she said quietly, after he returned to his seat, “I have been contemplating the hound ritual we discovered.”
“And what conclusion have you come to?”
“I wish to perform it,” she said slowly, “But there is much risk, and I fear my want for the prize may be clouding my judgement. Yet, I find the gain of such a prize would be worth such risk.”
A small smile graced his lips, “It seems you have already come to a decision.”
“Not entirely,” she replied, eyebrow cocked, “May I ask a favour?”
“You may ask,” he said slyly.
Willow tried to keep up her face of lighthearted whim, unable to suppress the small frown furrowing her brow.
“Will you stand guard?” she said hushed, “You need not involve yourself, but just be with me, incase my skepticism proves true and the ritual is tainted with Abbadon’s malice?”
Pellius smiled, “Of course, my lady.”

After sending off one of their hirelings with the task of procuring three stout guard dogs, Willow spent the day concocting the specific poison the ritual required. When word of her intent spread to the others, Garvana approached her in curiosity.
“I thought you were against the slaughter or sacrifice of animals?” she asked.
Willow dropped in the last ingredient the poison required, turning to Garvana once the hissing brew had festered and settled.
“I do have a fondness for canines,” she admitted with a nostalgic air, “They are the perfect servants. They know their place in the world, they do not question it, they do not seek to rise higher, and they are fiercely loyal. All qualities I seek in servants.”
She smiled slightly as she continued, more to herself than to Garvana, “This ritual offers beasts with the same qualities, born in the fiery pits of Hell. Though I will not enjoy the slaughter, I will relish in the birth of the three Infernal creatures.”
Garvana merely smiled, inclining her head to Willow.

By midday Bor had returned with ten filthy peasants in tow. They locked them in the holding cell with the new manacles Willow had ordered. Pellius selected a young female, a kind hearted looking soul, compassionate and fearful.
“We shall allow you some portion of freedom,” he said to her, stone faced, “But I will give you one warning. If you try to leave or flee, they will die. You have a chance to better their situation. You may bathe them and feed them. You may care for them as you wish. They are your responsibility. You have only one chance, if you flee, you are killing every one of them.”

As daylight retreated and the moon rose high, the workman returned with the hounds. Willow and Pellius descended the stairs and guided the dogs into one of the empty barren caverns below the Horn. Pellius stood in the shadows, his watchful eyes ever keen. Willow remained silent as she fed each hound the menacing poison, soothing each one gently with her hand as it ate. She stood, exhaling deeply. As she lifted her dagger to the first hound’s throat, she spoke in hushed rasping Infernal tongue, ignoring the single tear welling in her eyes.
“Serve in death, as you did in life, rise from the deep pits of Hell. Lith.”
She closed her eyes as she slashed through it’s flesh. Approaching the second hound, she gently traced her fingers over its ear to calm it.
“Serve in death, as you did in life, rise from the deep pits of Hell. Loras.”
Through clouded eyes and wet cheeks, she approached the third and last of the hounds, calming it in a similar way.
“Serve in death, as you did in life, rise from the deep pits of Hell. Sith.”
She stepped back, too proud to wipe her tears. As life faded from the last, the ground began to shake. Willow felt a familiar pulsing with each rumble, her body trembling, her breath quickening. She breathed deep, pulling the searing burn deep within her. A crack rippled through the earth beneath the hounds, splitting the rock and opening wide, revealing the scorching flames of Hell. Willow clenched her teeth and plastered her eyes open, finding no sexual pleasure in the Infernal throbbing in her body, only a burning strength of might and purpose. A great inferno engulfed the hounds, dragging their bodies into the depths of the underworld. As a moment passed, Willow felt a fierce vibration shake the ground. As single paw rose from the cracks, claws digging into the rock, dragging its body up from the depths. A flame ridden hound climbed into the cavern, followed by two more. Once the last had risen from below, the crack violently slammed shut, sealing the blazing realm once again. Willow stood frozen for a minute, staring in awe at the creatures. She recognised each one. Standing tallest in the centre was the largest of the hounds, powerful, fierce and beautiful, the leader.
“Lith,” Willow breathed.
The hound approached, its head dropped in deference. Willow reached out and sighed. She marvelled as the flames licked her skin but caused her no burn. She gently traced her hand along its head, curling her fingers under its chin.
Her eyes turned to the second hound. Thicker and sturdier than the first, but still as graceful, “Loras.”
It approached her in a similar way, head lowered as she reached to caress its chin. Looking to the third, she smiled. Smaller than the others, it stood with its own pride. Willow could tell it was the fiercest of the litter, possibly the fastest, the most viscous.
“Sith,” she beckoned, reaching her hand for him.
He approached her with no delay, turning his head into her palm.
Willow grinned as she stood, surrounded by flickering flame, her three hounds circling her in a protective fashion. Pellius stepped out from the shadows, a peculiar look on his face. The three hounds began to growl low and menacing as they noticed him.
“Naas!” Willow snapped, calling for them to cease their growling.
The hounds hushed, lowering their heads once more. Willow cocked her eyebrow and smiled. As Pellius turned and left the cavern without a word, Willow frowned, she did not know what was churning through his mind. She stood in thought for a moment before shaking her head. If he wished to speak of it to her, he would come.
“Norr,” she called, beckoning them to follow.
Willow trailed up the stairs to the second floor, the three hounds closely by her feet. She glided through the halls to her chamber, directing the hounds to a single corner, bare of anything flammable.
“Dravith,” she commanded, ordering them to stay.
She lit her lantern and left the hounds behind as she went to clean the days grime and mud from her clothing. Along her stroll to the bathroom, she passed Pellius in the hallway.
“Do you have time for worship tonight?” she asked, cocking her eyebrow.
“Regretfully no, my lady,” he replied, “I'm afraid I have much to do.”
A similar response to that which he had given her for the last few nights. As he turned to leave, Willow put her hand on his forearm.
“May I ask what is troubling you?” she questioned, “You seem distant of late.”
“Between the demanding strain of deciphering the summoning rituals, the interrogation of Halthus, overseeing the prisoners and workers, along with numerous other projects; they have left me little time for sins of the flesh,” he said, reaching for Willow's hand, laying a small kiss on the ridge of her knuckle, “I fear I would not have the energy to keep up with one as vivacious as yourself, and I would hate to disappoint you so.”
Willow frowned as he turned from her, his emphasis on the word disappoint had not gone unnoticed. She continued on to the bathroom, her mind musing on what he could be referring to. As she polished her boots to a gleaming shine, she surmised it revolved around Grumblejack's transformation. He had been furious, the disappointment in his eyes had been clear. She conceded her actions had been a tad rash, her curiosity had been piqued, and her response a little careless. She had no knowledge of what unholy water could have done to Grumblejack, she had only followed her instincts as she had always done. She would not apologise for her actions, for she was not sorry. She had meant it when she had said that if she caught the slightest hint of wavering loyalty, she would cut him down.
The men that the Baron had procured were always eager to heat buckets of water and fill the bathtub for Willow. Each night she smiled, and thanked them politely, batting her eyelashes softly. She had learned long ago that polite manners and soft eyes could get a woman almost anything she needed. She undressed by the tub and soaked as the water simmered, allowing her mind to wander. Her muscles retracted and relaxed, soothed by the soft burn of the water, her skin pink and flush. As the bath cooled, she stepped from the tub, drying herself with the soft fleece towel. Coating herself in a fine layer of liquid myrrh, she hung the towel to dry and prepared herself for prayer. Sprinkling the dried blood in her ritualistic fashion, she kneeled in its centre and closed her eyes. As she began to chant and the husking words slithered from her lips, He came to her, as He always did.
Leaving the room dressed only in her night slip, she glided towards her chamber. As she reached her door, her head turned to the men watching her pass, eyes wide mouths open staring at her barely covered skin.
“Evening gentlemen,” she said with a wink.
“Ah, evening mam,” they stuttered, sheepish grins on their faces.
They gasped in shock as she opened the door and she slipped in passed the three flaming hounds growling at the men in warning. She chuckled as she closed the door behind her.
“Naas, Sivish,” she crooned, pointing to the corner, telling them to sleep.
As she fell upon the silk draped over the grand structure of the bed, she smiled listening to the three faint snores of the hounds. She rolled onto her side, staring at the empty side of the bed. She frowned, the bed had not felt so big before. A small huff from the hounds had a small smile split her lip, she need not sleep in fear while three graces of Hell slept so close by.
She sighed, closing her eyes, thinking of the great task set before them. They would tear the very fabric of this nation, and they would do it all, in His name. The flickering glow behind her her eyelids of the Hellfire encasing the hounds had her smile.
“For His glory,” she whispered, reciting the words that had been so long seared into her mind and imprinted on her soul, “All shall burn in Hellfire, and it is His.”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:37 AM
Chapter 12 - And so it begins


The condensation clustered and grouped as it formed around each light footprint littered along the roof tiles. Willow followed their lead as she silently slunk along the top of the building. They trailed to the east of the city. Farholde stretched out along the expanse, it's populated hill tops visible in clusters of buildings. The footprints lead towards the upper district, Estell.
Willow had made her way back to the city of Farholde for mundane and arcane supplies. The group had been tasked with jobs of their own, most relating to the defence of their lair. After Bor had returned from his successful mission with the boggards, he and Pellius had taken on the task of detaining and relocating their animal captures into the lower caverns of the Horn. Garvana had begun her self appointed quest of the conversion of the peasants they had obtained. Teelee busied herself overseeing the restoration of the second level performed by the carpenter and his men. Willow knew better than to think overseeing meant anything more than standing around huffing useless orders with hands on her hips.
Willow however, had volunteered to travel to Farholde, in search of the items they required. Her underground contacts enabled her to procure odd items with no questions. Items such four scrolls of plant growth and one of charm monster, a masterwork set of smithing tools, three potions of invisibility, and a small assortment of poisons.
Earlier that morning, she had left the Horn as dawn reached out to smother the teetering stone slab in its blessing, the light illuminating the seas of greenery swarming and encasing the spire’s purpose. She traveled quickly on her own, no heavy armour to slow her down, no thudding footsteps to give her position away to stalking predators. Well before midday, she arrived at the hidden black market, stepping through the buzzing atmosphere of Farholde’s infamous thieves and fences. She found Martin in his office and shared a companionable brew of tea over a passion fuelled debate of the twin Baracus poets; Lesimet and Darainet Luthergrow. Willow smiled, rolling her eyes as Martin finished another one of his speeches, all arrangement of words meaning the same thing; I am right, you are wrong, I shall not listen. She smiled, because out of all the things she’d missed from her pampered life of nobility, it was the intellectual banter of two who understood the importance and beauty in the written language. Words could be arranged to have any effect they desired. Certain arrangements could pierce the heart of a man, shattering his ego or confidence, the words immune to the barriers of the steel armour encasing the man's body. Other arrangements could let the heart believe the impossible or trust the implausible, leaving the man defenceless against betrayal. A man or a woman, Willow thought nostalgically.
“Ah, I almost forgot,” Matrin said, reaching for a small scroll in his pocket, “I was to deliver this to you when you dropped by today.”
Willow frowned in suspicion, “How did you know I was coming?”
Martin chuckled, “He is a clever man. Cocky and arrogant, but clever nonetheless.”
Willow unfurled the small slip of parchment.

The more you make, the more you leave behind.

Willow’s frown deepened, she had heard this riddle as a child. Her grandfather had always given her riddles as homework before he ended her studies. He knew well that a quick body would never be enough without a quick mind behind it.
Footprints. But what was she supposed to do with the riddle? She raised her eyebrow at Martin in question.
He smiled, saying softly, “The look that could seize an empire.”
Willow smiled but cocked her eyebrow further, not allowing herself to be distracted in his flattery. He chuckled again.
“He said to point you in the direction of the sky,” he said, “Not that I know what use you have of footprints in the sky…”
Willow finished her cup and farewelled Martin as she retreated to the blackened night encasing the cities side streets. On silent feet she trailed away from the hidden passage, approaching the bustling marketplace filled with rather more legal wares. As Willow mused the riddle, casually browsing the stalls of silk and satin, the humid yet cold mist licked the bare skin of her face and neck. She had not worn one of her beautiful gowns on her hastened return to the city. Instead, she had strapped on her blackened leather armour - slick, tight and silent. She stood to the side of the street, scanning the night sky and the peaks of the buildings above. She quirked her head to the side as a hunch formed. Creeping into an alley way shielded from the light of the street, she climbed the boarded windows and pulled herself onto the slanted ceiling. She smiled. Footprints trailed along the roof tiles towards the east. On light feet she toed along the roof, the magical lens she wore enhanced the outlines of each print, making them easier to follow in her quickened tracking. The hook of the small lens sat crested atop her ear, stretching its delicate bronze limb towards her right eye, forming a thin clear lens over her sight. The magic it held helped her seek each footstep ahead of her. She leaped across the close knit clusters of buildings, from house to house she followed the alluring trail. As she reached a fork in the arrangement of the town, the footprints seemed to split into two separate paths. Both trails lead in separate directions, no backtracking lead around or from either, it was as if one person had spilt into two. Willow eyed the prints with distrust. She frowned as she examined each. Both were the exact same size, from the same boots and presumably the same feet. Only when she inspected the prints closely did she noticed the slightest difference. The tracks that lead towards the left held a fraction more condensation, giving Willow the impression they'd been left earlier than those to the right. She made her decision and followed the winding path of prints heading to her right. After tracking across the city skyline for the better part of an hour, she found herself standing on a large hall in the middle of the warehouse district. The footprints simply stopped. The hairs on her neck rose as she felt the touch of eyes on her. She crouched low and waited. Switch had set up ambushes for her before, men hiding in shadowed alleys with simple instructions - kill her. Her orders were of practicing vital points, wounding and incapacitating her attackers, but not killing them. Tonight felt different. There were no close-by nooks or crannies, no hiding spaces where men could reach her in time to surprise. She eyed the buildings around her, their blackened windows shielding their contents from her sight. Suddenly, she heard the snap of a bowstring, an arrow being loosed. She dove and tucked, the arrow skimming her shoulder and scattering across the rooftop. Four more snaps and she deftly dodged and rolled out of each of their attacks. Willow danced across the tiles, moving too quickly for any of the arrows to reach their target. After a few minutes, the attacks ceased. She eyed her surroundings warily. As she spun in her low crouch, she didn't hear the **** or launch of the crossbow. The bolt pierced her shoulder, missing any vital organs, but splitting the skin and embedding itself deep into muscle. The pain screamed through her shoulder, but Willow knew better than to pay any attention to it. She inhaled sharply, pulling the pain deep into the pits of her stomach, letting it fuel the power pulsing through her veins. She kept her senses acutely aware of her surroundings, paying attention to more than just her sight and hearing. Switch had proven the seemingly endless extent of his magical abilities, or at least his boundless access to magical items. He could hide himself in the shadows of the starlight, he could mask his footsteps, his breathing, his every sound. But he could not control the slight rumble on the tiles that Willow felt through the soles of her scuffed light boots, the weight of his amble towards her. She waited patiently until she was certain he was within her reach. In a single heartbeat she swung her leg wide, sweeping his legs out from under him and pouncing to attack as she unsheathed her dagger. Switch feel onto his back heavily and a look of surprise raised his eyebrows. A momentary change, he grinned in his dark and disarming way before leaping to his feet daggers at the ready. He matched Willow with each blow, blocking her advances, using his greater strength and weight to force her steps backwards. Willow couldn't keep herself from grinning in turn, ducking his wide swing, tumbling to the side and launching another flurry of attacks. He was by far stronger than her, but her lighter weight meant that she was quicker and more nimble. She used this to her advantage, slicing small welts on each side of his torso, retreating again to gain some footing. As usual, he mockingly wore little armour. Burnt bronze coloured vambraces strapped to his forearms and matching greaves on his shins. He wore a black cotton shirt, buttons hanging free from his neck to his chest, revealing a sprinkling of dark hair along his chest. His regular black pants close fitting yet lose enough to give him freedom of movement. He wore no armour on his torso, blatantly displaying his lack of worry that anyone could be quick enough to reach him. Willow loved the challenge, and the better she became with the skills he taught her, the more she used them to show him he had a reason to worry.
“Tsk,” he huffed, rolling out of the reach of Willow's dagger, examining the cuts, “This was a perfectly good shirt. How little respect you have for fashion.”
Willow smirked, side stepping under his attack, “Perhaps it says something of my opinion regarding your sense of fashion.”
He laughed as he leaped forward in an overhead blow, swiping his blade through the air so quickly that Willow had trouble darting passed, the tip of the dagger barely missed her outstretched fingers. She dove to the right, tumbling across the roof tiles, spinning up into a defensive stance. He winked, turning from her and dashing away across the building, leaping to the adjacent roof. Willow swore under her breath and took off after him, following closely on his heels. She laughed as she leapt over the gap between buildings, soaring through the air, the wind flicking her short stands of jagged black hair against her forehead. Every few buildings Switch would stop and attack, his powerful blows pushing her back a few steps. But with each training session they had, they grew more evenly matched. That was at least until her made use of his magic. Willow knew of magic that could make someone impossibly fast, and when Switch made use of this - she had no chance. He leaped at her with frightening speed, using his dagger to carve a small ‘S’ in between the joins where her breastplate met, the centre of her chest. He leaped back, smirking in a clear sense of arrogance. Willow looked down at the letter, now seeping bright red blood.
“Your hubris knows no bounds,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Do you feed your ego by marking all of your apprentices?”
“Only the pretty ones,” he said with a devilish grin, returning his dagger to its sheath.
“You'll have to excuse my inability to be flattered by that,” she replied patronisingly.
As they seemed to be taking a reprieve from the nights training, Willow inspected the bolt she had forgotten was wedged in her shoulder. The metal rod had penetrated cleanly through to pierce the back of her shoulder, she clenched her teeth and yanked it back through to front. Luckily, Switch had begun using headless bolts for easier removal. The grunt that seeped from Willow’s lips at the pain, unfortunately came out more like a moan, earning her a knowing grin from Switch. As Willow reached for the healing vial in her belt pouch, her eyebrows shot up as she heard him quietly reciting a line from an ancient sinister poem.
“All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows that wear out the soul, wert thou once pure…”
Willow whispered as she finished the verse, “When desire took thee first by the throat?”
Switch’s eyes met hers as ripple of fear and pleasure swept though her.
“Who are you?” she heard herself breathe.
He only grinned and shook his head, “Ah, the all important unanswerable question.”
The poem was a verse nearly a millennia old, one scripted by an unknown author, the script found in an ancient cavern in the Mindspin Mountains. Scholars had debated for centuries about its origin and content. Willow had read its entirety in the secret library of her families manor. Filled with forbidden lore and profane scripture, ranging in age from the beginning of the last two millennia. The poem was entitled Our Lady of Pain. She had also read her ancestors musings on the literature. Arlond Cassidus Monteguard had believed the masochistic writings had been written in reference to one of Asmodeus’ Whore Queens - Doloras. She ruled the domain of pain, dispassion and detachment. Her worshippers held that she preached the abandonment of emotion for an unfeeling difference, pain being only a tool that was useless in the face of one who embraced it. Willow had grown to understand her meaning far better than any of those in her bloodline. She had always been drawn to the masochistic teachings of Doloras. She had never mentioned this to anyone. She suspected Switch had entered her families sacred cellar for him to have procured her ruby dagger. The idea of her family handing over something so clearly profane was inconceivable, as they would be handing over irrefutable evidence of their heresy. It was also unlikely that Switch had inspected the walls of forbidden lore and happened upon the very poem she felt so drawn to.
“How do you know of that script?” she asked warily.
He smiled and said simply, “There is much you don't know of me.”
Willow frowned, drinking down the healing vial, feeling her wound begin to knit together. Switch slowly circled her, a mischievous grin on his lips.
“But perhaps I'd be willing to tell you.”
Willow scoffed, “And how high is the cost?”
“I propose a game,” he said smoothly, “Each hit you land against me earns you a question about me, and I must answer truthfully.”
Willow cocked her eyebrow, “And the catch?”
“Each hit I land against you earns me a question.”
She frowned, thinking of her closely guarded secrets. There were things hidden in her mind that she had never revealed to anyone, nor was she ever planning to. She also could not reveal anything of Cardinal Thorn and his task.
Seeing her reluctance, Switch sighed, “Do not fear, I will not ask of your mission or your plans. You are playing a dangerous game with that, and I never throw my cards in with someone until I am sure they will win. So for now, the less I know the better.”
“No magic,” she stated.
“No magic,” he agreed.
Willow smirked, answering despite herself, “I accept the terms.”
The grin on his face spread. He held out a hand in a mocking bow.
“When the lady is ready.”
Willow laughed and reached to accept his hand up, but instead of pulling her weight up she unsheathed her dagger with her other hand and spun on her knees, slicing the blade delicately along his stomach. She tumbled out of his reach and leapt to her feet, noting the bottom half of his shirt hanging free.
“The poem,” she demanded, struggling to control the smug look on her face, “How do you know of it?”
He chuckled, “She shows her colours,” he commented quietly, twirling his dagger in his fingers, “I grew up in Cheliax, where profane texts were not forbidden to read but encouraged. The boys and I found a copy of it in the library tomes. The rest of them laughed at the oddity of a woman enjoying pain, I however, found the quality quite endearing.”
Willow couldn't help but grin, “So you're a sadist?”
He laughed as he launched his attack, “That is two questions, and a poor choice of query if you have to ask it to know the answer.”
Willow chuckled as she tumbled under his arm, slashing her dagger out barely skimming his side. He spun and feinted to the left, lashing out with his blade to the right. A move Willow fell for and cursed as it sliced through her forearm. He retreated slightly, circling her with paced footsteps.
“What did you see in your husband? Why did you marry him?”
Willow frowned. She had no clue what sort of things he’d ask, but questions of her husband were at the bottom of the list.
“That's also two questions,” she noted as she mirrored his steps, “But they are similar reasons, so I'll allow it. Position and power. His family line may have been below my own, but as a Knight of Alerion he held much sway in the way of this land. He was also naïve enough to see me as the delicate maiden of innocence that I am.”
Switch burst out laughing as she fluttered her eyelashes, leaving her a clear opening in his defence. She dove towards him and hacked her dagger along his thigh and again along his torso before she continued through behind him. He wasn't distracted for long enough, he quickly turned as she passed him and drew his blade hard along her lower back.
“Ladies first,” he said, facing her and beginning his circle again.
She fingered her dagger, ignoring the pain of the deep gash on her back, “Why did you come to Talingarde?”
“I was shipped here as an adolescent,” he said with little enthusiasm, “My parents thought by sending me to a peaceful non oppressive land that I would break away from the slums of my station.”
Willow frowned, “Oppressive? Were not your family Asmodean?”
Switch scoffed, “They revered the Prince out of fear alone. A fear that controls them, though they would not call themselves Asmodean.”
He continued his predatory circling, “That was your second question. I do believe the turn is mine. The stud, what do you see in him?”
Willow frowned again, “The stud? Pellius?” she laughed as she saw an envious twinkle in his eye, “I suppose it is that he is strong. His body is a well crafted force of might, and his mind is a stubbornly faithful whirlwind of power. He is also frightfully skilled in making a woman's body feel things no proper lady would speak of...”
Willow suddenly leap towards him, arching back under his reactive attack, his dagger narrowly missing the tip of her nose. She launched herself forward, her body inches from his, and pressed her dagger to his throat.
She leaned up, her face so close that her lips brushed his own.
She smiled and whispered, “Are you jealous?”
Quicker than she could react, he hooked his foot behind her legs and took them out from under her, using his weight to force her to fall to the ground. As she hit and his weight drove her back into the roof tiles, he ripped her hands and pinned them roughly above her head. Her breath came in shallow pants as the blood rushed through her veins in excitement and need. She watched the slender trickle of red slide down his neck before looking back into his fierce heated eyes. He held her hands with one hand, gripping the other in her hair and forcefully crashed their lips together. His tongue found hers in a fiery dominating dance, he bit her lip as he clenched her hair tighter in his hand. Her traitorous body couldn't help but respond to his every touch, she fought back and struggled for control, revelling in her lack of it.
He chuckled as he tore his lips away from hers, heaving chest, relaxing his body slightly against hers. He still held her hands and her hair in a brutally tight grip. She grinned deviously, struggling to regain her own breath, panting her response.
“I guess I'll take that as a yes.”

The Horn was abuzz with life when she returned the following day. She scampered up the winding stairs towards the second level, passing rows of busy men carrying the debris from the lair. As she entered the passage, she smiled to see her fiery hounds bounding towards her. She had left them behind with orders to patrol the halls and keep watch for intruders, acting also as a greater motivator of fear to keep the peasants and workmen in line. She chuckled at the strange looks she received from a group of nearby peasants as she greeted her hounds warmly with chin and ear rubs. They seemed fascinated by the slim wafer that was Willow having such fondness for yet command over the infernal hounds. She knew well that intimidation need not be ruled by brute strength and size. She did not need threatening words when her calm exterior promised fierce unfeeling reprimand.
She went in search of Teelee, planning to give her the scrolls to commence her work, but she frowned as she heard a ruckus coming from the entrance hallway. Turning the corner, she was greeted by a fearsome dark steed, clutching a man's body in its jaws. Dressed in a brown hemmed mesh frock, Teelee sat perched side saddle atop the nightmare horse.
“Who is this?” Willow asked, baffled at the sight.
“An alchemist,” Teelee replied, the steed dropping the limp body to a heap on the ground.
“And is he alive?”
Teelee shrugged half heartedly.
Willow rolled her eyes as she bent over the man, rolling him onto his back. He had smooth honey coloured skin, sun weathered flushed cheeks framing angular features, a tall ridge along his thin nose. Not unhandsome, his face held the appearance of a man in his fourth decade, a man of foreign lands. Willow pressed her fingers to his neck feeling for a pulse, as Garvana walked into the entrance way, frowning at the scene.
“An explanation, if you will?” she asked, pulling a healing vial from her pouch.
“We were in need of an alchemist,” Teelee said simply, “So I found one.”
“And I take it he did not come of his own free will?”
“Yes, well, Carnitheria Rex was a tad over zealous…”
The look of fear in the man's eyes as he awoke to the sight of the steed, confirmed the understatement of Teelee’s words.
“What is this?” he barked, panic and fear stirring his movement, “What's going on?!”
“Calm dear man,” Willow soothed, resting a hand upon his chest, “I will not allow it to hurt you if you stay calm.”
His eyes flicked to Willow, he momentarily relaxed, but suspicion flared strong.
“What is this? Who are you people? Where are we? Why have you brought me here?”
“We are hidden within the Caer Bryr. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Willow.”
He stared at her, frowning in confusion.
“Coran,” he replied, giving her a short nod, “Now tell me, what is going on and why have you brought me here?”
Willow looked to Teelee, rolling her eyes as she saw the woman barely paying attention.
“A job. We require your services, on a more permanent basis.”
“A job?!” he yelled, “You could have asked?! There was no need to kidnap me!”
Willow struggled to contain her agreement, “I understand, and I apologise. Though the methods of your recruitment were indeed unorthodox, we can provide a rare opportunity for one with a skill set of your capacity. We possess a functioning alchemical golem.”
He couldn't hide the spark of excitement that lit in his face.
“Truly?” he asked, “Well, that is impressive, though I'm afraid I've had little experience with such constructions.”
Willow smiled softly, “Then it is a chance for you to study it. Perhaps repair and improve it.”
His eyes turned to Teelee, “So, the picnic,” he said quietly, “It was just a ruse for my capture? Why not simply ask?”
“You would not have come willingly if you knew we were Asmodean.”
“Ah,” Coran said, seeming a little more deflated, “That explains it.”
“You will not reside here as a slave if you prove your worth,” Willow said to him, standing and stepping back, “We will pay you a fair wage, and your food and tools will be supplied.”
“Once we have finished our task,” Garvana added, “You will be free to go.”
He squinted in suspicion, “You mean it? Do I have your word?”
“You have my word.”
He dropped his accusatory finger, “Well then. I have had dealings with those of your kind before. Honourable, if not some what aberrant. Very well, I suppose I have little choice.”
He stood, keeping an eye on the steed and stepping away. Willow turned to Teelee, handing her the case full of scrolls, before turning back to Coran.
“Come along, I shall show you your work station and quarters.”
Willow lead him further into the Horn, escorting him across the large stone hallways. She smirked as he let out a gasp of fear at the sight of the three Hellhounds growling at his approach and his proximity to Willow. She laid an affectionate hand on Lith’s head.
“Nass, dorith,” she crooned, hushing their snarls, “Do not be afraid, they will not harm you unless I instruct them to.”
Coran cleared his throat, “I'll keep that in mind.”
The hounds trailed closely by her heels as she lead the way to the alchemists laboratory. Coran’s eyes lit up as he entered the room, the large bundle of alchemical reservoirs that formed the golem standing stationary in the chamber. Willow smiled as he rushed forward to get a closer look.
“There is some parchment and ink on the bench, form a list of everything you need to begin your work, and give it to the carpenter named Sven. Is there anything you need retrieved from your store in town?”
His excitement dimmed, a frown furrowing his brow.
“No,” he said shortly, “Leave it. My daughter shall grieve and the least I can do is leave her my possessions.”
“Your daughter?” Willow enquired, “Is she dependant on you?”
He stiffened, “I will tell you this now. If I even so much as suspect any harm has come to her, I will not hesitate to kill myself, you will get nothing from me!”
Willow's expression softened, “I assure you, I was not threatening her. I merely ask, as I would not be comfortable with the knowledge that we are leaving a child abandoned. I was sincere in that we are going to pay you, I was wondering if you needed the gold you earned to find its way to her.”
His shoulders slumped slightly, “No. She can take care of herself. Leave her out of this.”
“I will respect your wishes, we shall speak no more of her,” Willow spoke as turned to the door, “The rules are simple, do-
“Do not try to escape,” he finished her sentence, “Do not betray you, do as I am told. Yes yes, this isn't my first show.”
Willow smiled, “I'll leave you to your work.”
“May I ask one thing?” he said.
“You may.”
“Do not tell me how you use my work, I do not wish to know…”

The next few days were spent with far less excitement. The crew prepared the defences of the Horn as best they could. They had come up with the idea to use magic to overgrow the vines and foliage around the entrances to the spire, further masking the stairwells, Teelee had seen to the arcane execution of their plan. The others focussed on their own tasks while Willow concentrated her study of the ritual they were planning to commence by week’s end.
Sitting amongst the piles of hastily scribbled observations she had made, Willow’s heavy eyelids drooped. Midnight had passed hours ago. She had begun listing the theoretical outcomes of their task, the possible backfires and disasters waiting to happen. It was not that she failed to believe in their own strength of mind and might, it was that she had little to go on but fanatical ramblings of the power their enemy possessed.
And that's what Vetra-Kali was. Their enemy. He would not be content with their plan to rid the land of its benevolent weak leadership and instate the rightful hierarchy of Asmodeus. He wanted only for death and destruction. He would want his plague to run free in the land, ensuing chaos and infestation by slow sickness of the people on their hastened walks to the afterlife. The soft-minded people of this land had no idea how lucky they were that Willow and the crew sought to raise Asmodeus instead of some other god who only wished for the death of its servants. The people would be protected by the harsh rules and defined classes mirrored by the very layers of Hell itself. Willow had made such observations in her journal.
As she once again skimmed the wording of the pleas they were to recite to the Archdeacon, a familiar pulse of infernal power strummed in her stomach. She had began to recognise it's throbbing as Garvana’s devil associate. She had mused whether or not each agent of Hell had his own unique pulse, or whether it merely pulsed in regards to their station or power. As she retrieved the parchment she had made similar notes on, the pulsing disappeared. Willow frowned, it had been a short meeting tonight. She continued her writings by candlelight recording the intensity of the pulses she had felt, noting that although they were familiar, the severity had decreased substantially since his initial visit. As the quill scrawled across the page, Willow was hit with a low thrum of infernal power, a new and unfamiliar rhythm to it. It was stronger than the other, it's vibration beating low in the pits of Willow's stomach. A small sigh escaped her lips as she rose from her bed. Dressed in a silk whiff of a night gown, her curiosity got the better of her, she crept on silent feet towards Garvana's chamber. As she approached the pulsing grew louder and more complex. The best explanation of the way she interpreted the pulsings, were a song she could feel instead of hear. Each throb struck a different note, each chord soothed a crested peak or valleyed low. The more powerful the aura, the louder the tune became, the more forcefully she felt it. The closer she was to it magnified its effect, the emotional attachment to the melody was replaced by her physical body’s reaction. In all her research over the years, she had never come across any mentions of anything similar.
She prowled along the throne room stones, careful where to place each step, as the thrumming attuned to allow her to hear the faintest voices.
“… to bring into our Infernal Lord’s service,” she heard Garvana say.
The stranger replied, politely by his tone, but Willow was too far to hear his words.
“I believed you have the ability to craft such contracts,” Garvana responded, “I wish for these servants to have a binding tie to our great Lord.”
Willow slowly crept forward, straining her ears to listen.
“It is, of course, within my ability to do so,” a smooth masculine tone replied.
His charming almost soothing voice had Willow step closer. She cursed inwardly as she heard the scuffle of her foot against the stone.
“You are quite welcome madam,” the stranger said, loud enough for Willow to know she had been heard, “Please, do join us.”
She slunk forward, pulling aside the curtain to Garvana's bed chamber, silently stepping inside. She saw Garvana standing centre of the room, arms folded over her chest, a look of slight surprise and annoyance on her face. A smaller devil stood in the shadowed corner, his crimson skill matte and dim, his head bowed in deference. But all attention was drawn to the devil standing next to him. He stood with a natural air of pride, straight back tight shoulders, yet a calm confidence that made him appear completely relaxed. His scarlet toned skin shone brightly against his black formal outfit, richly embellished and fine fitting velvet robes draped from the shoulders to the floor. Thin horns protruded from his forehead in an almost decorative fashion, forming a crown upon his brow. Two thick golden rimmed horns pierced from pleats in his back, arching forward in smooth angles, their tips pointing ahead of him. Dozens of scrolls hung along these horns and his shoulders, swaying almost hypnotically in a nonexistent breeze. His face held the only difference to his imposing appearance. Rows of glittering razor sharp teeth formed his malevolent yet welcoming smile. His wide dark eyes, calculating and perceptive.
“Dessiter, of the Phistophilis,” he introduced himself, “A pleasure to meet you madam.”
He accompanied his words by a deep bow from the waist, right foot slightly forward in perfect execution of the formal greeting bow, from one noble to another.
Willow inclined her head politely in response.
“Can I help you?” Garvana asked bluntly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion.
Willow raised her eyebrows at her brashness.
“Perhaps in the matter of contracts,” Willow replied smoothly, “It would be wise for someone with experience in these matters to read the terms before they are signed.”
Dessiter smiled, a menacing charming grin, “Wise advice indeed.”
Garvana nodded, a frown still burrowing her brow, “Is that all?”
Willow's eyebrows rose further, but she smiled politely in response.
“Until next time madam,” Dessiter said, another deep bow to enhance his words, “For I am quite sure we will meet again.”
Willow inclined her head to him, eyes lingering locked with his, before retreating from the room. She hoped Garvana would take her advice genuinely, for a man or devil who possessed such confidence would have very good reason for it. She left them to their deals as she strolled back to her room, thinking over Dessiter’s unique infernal pulse. It was unlike any she had come across, limited those may have been. As she found herself back in her own chambers, the fatigue she had felt earlier, returned in force. She shuffled her notes into the lockbox she had commissioned, and fell upon the mattress. The melody of Hell’s heartbeat lulled her to sleep.

The following night, the moon rose directly overhead as midnight approached. They had deemed themselves as ready and prepared as they could be. The five of them escorted Halthus, their first sacrifice, to the sanctum waiting above. He seemed to understand their intent, he appeared almost eager, ready for what was to come. He stepped up and laid upon the altar with no resistance. The group was solemn and quiet as Garvana retrieved the unholy water from the trough. Willow handed out the copies of the first dirge, scrolled on parchment and translated into common. In low voices they began to sing the lines of the Supplication to Darkness, as Garvana threw the tankard of festering water upon the seal, bathing it in liquid filth. The seal hissed and squealed as the water acted like acid upon the holy artefact. Flares of putrid air sizzled on its face, sulphuric odours foul and pungent.
“We have failed thee O’ Prince, we beg thy forgiveness. Our darkest hour, our strength and might undone. We have failed thee O’ Prince, we beg thy forgiveness. Blinding light piercing deep, we mortals, the unworthy. We have failed thee O’ Prince, we beg thy forgiveness. Cast out beyond our reach, undeserving of our weakness.”
Willow cast her eyes away as Pellius lifted the sacrificial dagger to Halthus’ bare chest. His screams were not of those of fear and pain, but were of a man ready to be embraced by the arms of his god.
“We have failed thee O’ Prince, we beg thy forgiveness. Our failings to defend, Undying Prince, thy domicile befouled. We have failed thee O’ Prince, we beg thy forgiveness. We beseech thee, our Lord of Lues, extenuate fault and allow us thy blessing. We have failed thee O’ Prince, we beg thy forgiveness. Share thy gifts of pestilence and despair, our ever malevolent Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes…”
The ground beneath her feet began to shake furiously as Pellius dropped the beating heart into the bowl grasped in the statues outstretched fingers. A thundering boom racked the Horn as the tectonic plates beneath it began to shift. Suddenly, the entire spire caught fire in a flash of malevolent green blaze. It erupted into an ominous point stretching far beyond the reaches of the sky, a beacon inferno raging into realms and planes not guided by the reality of time. An eery voice slithered to their ears.
“Kazahrah voh...” it said.
“I hear…” Willow translated, whispering barely louder than a breath.
She stepped quickly to the edge of the balcony, gasping at the green magical barrier of flame that still surrounded the Horn’s upper half. Where the fearsome fires had scorched, the foliage and vines had been obliterated into ash. The Horn stood in all its menacing glory, runes blazed like torches littered upon the side of the stones. There was no hiding what it’s intentions were. She heard the maniacal cackling screaming from the wraiths that were circling low around the base of the lair.
Willow sighed, staring out across the horizon bathed in sickly green light, “And so it begins…”

The group had agreed to have rotating shifts to perform the ongoing ritual. Three times everyday the seal had to be doused in the festering broth of unholy water while the chant of the Supplication to Darkness was uttered. Once as the sun rose above the horizon at dawn, once as it sunk below at dusk and lastly as midnight was signalled by the moon’s teetering peak directly overhead. The second sacrifice was to be performed at dawn of their fifteenth week.
The days trickled passed with little interruptions. Their organisation grew steadily as they recruited more men and women to fill its ranks. Willow tried to find useful tasks to bridge the gaps in between her shifts guarding the sanctum. She regularly made the trip back to Farholde, happy for the distraction to fill the mundane stretches of days. She had travelled the route so many times that she had cut the trip down to less then a third of the day to reach the city walls.
She often took a few of the men with her on her travels, using the journey as a type of training. She challenged them to keep up, to move faster yet quieter as they sprinted through the green rush of forestry. She needed no threats to keep them in line. They obeyed her without question, they followed her instructions and seemed to relish in her rarely given praise. Willow could see the fear they tried to hide in their eyes, but it was a subtle fear, one that kept them on their toes but didn't hinder their abilities. Apparently they enjoyed their training runs, for with each that passed, Willow found herself with more and more volunteers. As the second week crawled by, she had made herself a nice little tracking team picked from the best of the lot. A lean man of barely twenty, shortly cropped brass curls covering a tanned squinted face by the name of Willem, lead point position. He was almost as short as Willow, but quick footed and quiet enough to keep up. To his left flank was his brother Terris, similar build and appearance, but slightly less dexterous. To the right was a girl named Margaret, she was closer to Willow's age, blonde hair clasped back in a braid revealing harsh features and a stern face. She was much like the men the group, focussed on the job, uncaring of things such as looks and hygiene.
Willow cared not for their appearance, but in their lack of it. They blended in smoothly with the rest of servants in the city when it was required. Most of the trips they made, she preferred that they appeared as simple travellers, they knew well to refer to her as Kathryn, their group leader as apposed to their Mistress.
One afternoon as they returned to the spire, they intercepted a messenger bound for the Horn. Willow accepted the parchment and sent him on his way, offering no rest or respite on his journey.

A group of local adventurers are planning to arrive in three days. Poor gear, no experience. The dwarf has been to the Horn before, he spoke of entering through the caverns. Prepare them a nice surprise, will you?
Z

Willow dismissed her crew and headed for the second level. Once she had gathered the group, they sat in the newly refurbished tavern and discussed what to do. The ideas were sparse. They had all some experience in planning the offensive, whether in brute force or subtle subterfuge, but it seemed they had little knowledge of the defensive. They had prepared certain aspects of their defence, laid within the traps and tricks of the caverns. But the plan they had come up with was skittish at best, gaping holes in their defence at worst.
It was not until Willow waited in the shadowed grace of the cavern three days later that she saw their lapses. She, Grumblejack, Lith and Loras would wait in ambush in the caverns. Garvana would guard the first floor entrance, Pellius the second, Bor the sanctum and Teelee and her steed would watch the from the balcony of the third level. Willow had given instructions to Sith, the quickest of her hounds, to race up the stairs as signal of the intruders arrival. But they had left the team without means to reach one another in time.
Although their defence was successful, it was a sloppy unorganised mess. Elise’s information proved correct, the team of five were poorly equipped and inexperienced. Willow launched into attack too early, making the preparations of actual defence irrelevant. One by one each of the would-be adventurers fell. The dwarf’s life ended on the end of Willow's blade, pierced in the back, straight through the heart. Another fell to a magical pit that Teelee had made, his body contorted to an unnatural and unsurvivable angle. Of the three others that had been beaten but remained unconscious, one of them held promise. Willow recognised the woman as a Bride of Light, one of the nuns she had passed during her infiltration of the Abbey. The ritual demanded one of Mitra’s faithful as the second sacrifice, and this woman who fit the description so perfectly, had unknowingly delivered herself straight into their hands.
They had their men bury the dead, while Grumblejack carried the three living limp bodies into separate cells, leaving them bound and gagged. On their return to the tavern, a bloodcurdling scream of fear echoed through the halls. Willow ran in the direction it came from, unsheathing her dagger, preparing to attack. As she rounded the corner, she skidded to a halt. As the others appeared, ready to exterminate the threat, they stopped as she did and stared. The golem Artephus, was standing over three bodies, in his eerily still mechanical way.
“What happened here?!” Pellius demanded.
As Willow stepped over the first body and inspected its wounds, the golem hissed his reply.
“They were attacked by unknown assailants, master.”
“Did you see them?!”
“They were attacked by unknown assailants, master,” he repeated.
Willow frowned as she saw the scorch marks around the gashes on the deceased woman's torso. A strange pattern of shock lines blasted into the skin away from the opening, leaving a trail of electrical current.
“Garvana, come and take a look,” Willow beckoned, “Are these what I think they are?”
Garvana bent down over the body, her eyebrows pinched in frown. As she seemed to recognise what Willow was implying, she looked up into Willow's eyes and nodded solemnly. They both stood, walking cautiously towards the golem. Willow peered around to its back and frowned further. The reservoir of electrical mass had been drained slightly.
“Artephus,” Willow said, “Did you attack these people?”
“They were attacked by unknown assailants, master.”
“Were they killed by the electrical mass in your reservoir?”
“They were attacked by unknown assailants, master.”
“Pellius…” Willow said warily.
He nodded, a look of almost disappointment in his eyes, “Come along, Artephus.”
“Come with me,” Willow said to Garvana as she took off down the hall.
She swung the door wide to the Alchemist Laboratory. Coran sat upon a stool, looking up from his work of simmering cauldrons.
“Have you made any changes to the golem?” she demanded.
“No, I haven't had enough time to study it,” he replied with a frown, “Why?”
“Have you adjusted it’s components or tinkered with it in anyway?”
“No, I haven't been near it since our introduction.”
Willow saw no telltale signs of dishonesty in his facial expressions, his frown was genuine, his concern seemed merely for his own safety regarding the accusation. But she had a way to be sure.
“We believe he has slaughtered some of our servants,” she replied, pulling the vial of Truth Elixr from her pouch, “I am inclined to believe that you had no part of it. But you understand, I must be sure. Drink this.”
He regarded Willow warily, reaching out to dip his finger in the vials contents. As he tasted it, he nodded. He drank the vial in one swallow and returned it empty to Willow's hand.
“Have you interfered with the alchemical golem known as Artephus in any way? Have you made any adjustments to it at all?”
“No,” he answered honestly.
“Did you have anything to do with the deaths of the servants tonight?”
“No.”
“What is your full name?”
He frowned, “Coran Raspunen Dirgian.”
“Did you play any part in the deaths of the servants?”
“No.”
Willow nodded, satisfied with his answers, “Thank you Coran, I believe you.”
She turned for the door, stopping before exiting, “I believe we will be deactivating the golem until we can confirm or deny our theory. If I provide you with access to it, can I trust that you will attempt to find any fault in it, and then report your honest findings to me?”
“Yes mam,” he replied, “I will be honest and forthcoming in my observations.”
“Thank you,” Willow said, “And good night.”

Sitting around the warmth of the fireplace, the group hunched in the disheartening air of the Horn. The whispers through the ranks of their servants had been heard passed between hallways. They were frightened. Willow could not blame them, they stayed loyal out of fear of the repercussions that their masters would bring, but also by the protection their service garnered. If their masters couldn't protect them from their own creations, what hope did they have. Willow found herself wandering the halls, trying to exude an air of confidence, trying to give their men something to feel stable in. As she strolled passed the barracks, she heard the familiar sound of wood on wood clashing through the halls. She approached the throne room, the one they had cleared morphed into a training room. Standing in the door way, she smiled. The men were grouped in pairs, sparing against one another. The smaller ones practiced with makeshift daggers, and the larger with swords and shields. They froze as they saw her, dropping into bows.
“Mistress!” the young captain known as Stephen said hurriedly, “I apologise, we just thought, I mean, we thought-
“Continue,” Willow said, with a short wave of her hand.
“Yes Mistress,” he bowed, “Thank you Mistress.”
As the men started their sparring again with a new found vigour, the need to impress overtaking their fatigue, Willow turned to Stephen.
“Why do they train well passed midnight?” Willow inquired.
“Mistress! Because we will not fail you again, we will not disappoint you again!”
Willow raised her eyebrows, a small smile on her lips.
“Very well, continue your training,” she said as she turned to leave.
She heard Stephen shouting his orders, a new vigour to him as well. Willow strolled back to her bedchamber, smiling despite herself. Perhaps all was not as lost as she had thought. The men still believed in the group’s leadership, even after three of their own had been slain. Perhaps they saw the golem as a test that their masters had set upon them. Perhaps they thought that their masters had been in control all along.
Willow stared through the slim opening of a window that revealed the darkened sea of rich forestry. They would learn from this day. They had been far too lax in their vigilance and planning. They would improve, they would grow. And they would win.

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:39 AM
Chapter 13 - Dalliance and Defence - Part 1


“The Forsaken,” Teelee said, lounging upon a chair in the hallway of the third floor, “It has an ironic ring to it.”
Willow smiled, stretching herself forward, nestling her legs as she sat upon the floor. She preferred to greet dawn this way, stretching her agile limbs at the open balcony of the entrance. She could smooth through her soft limbering movements as the sun graced the sky, lighting the rich emerald hues of the canopy of treetops.
“The men deserve a name like that,” she commented, “One that spits in the face of what others believe. For they are only forsaken by gods whose opinion matter not.”
They spoke of their growing organisation, the men and women they had gathered to serve them, and of course serve their Infernal Lord. The group had decided the best name was one that would strike fear in the hearts of good men. The Forsaken being the name that the Talriens gave to their most heinous criminals, each marked with the feral ‘F’ branded into their right forearm. Identical to the white raised flesh on Willow's arm.
After the group’s escape from Branderscar, even the fashions of the land had morphed to assist the fear. Previously, the idea of a noble woman baring her forearms would have been crude and unsavoury. But since their infamous escape, the people wore garments that proudly bared their unmarked flesh. Dresses were modified to shorten the sleeves, clear lace attached to give the women the appearance of modesty. Men wore their sleeves rolled and pinned at the elbow, cuff links attached in a decorative fashion. But no one spoke of the Forsaken, for superstition deemed that to speak of them would bring the wrath of their ill luck to your door. Willow had struggled to contain her smile when she heard such things. Farholde was far enough away that the majority of its citizens paid little mind to the fashion trend. Although, while in her elegant evening wear, Willow married the look to keep her forearms visible. The magic of the circlet ensured that her skin appeared clear, fresh and unmarked. She tended not to wear her circlet unless she needed it. She preferred the men and women who served them to see her for who she was. A survivor of Talingarde’s worst punishment. The men who ruled this country had failed to execute her, they had failed to keep her captive, they had failed to stop her. She believed it was important for their people to know this. It was indeed a sure way to keep the fear burning in their hearts. So the name Forsaken given to the crew, was a good way to remind the men, whom it was they worked for. Each rank of the organisation, including their leaders, were Forsaken by the gods of weakness and equality. But they were embraced, by the only one that mattered.

Every few days Willow sent her team of three back to the city of Farholde, they gathered information and rumours, keeping the crew up to date with the latest happenings of the small city. On the fourth week of the ritual, the three returned, filled with gruesome gossip upon their lips. A grizzly murder had taken place. A lady of the night had been slaughtered and disembowelled, her remains left in a blatant show of grotesque savagery. The group gathered over dinner to discuss the killers intent.
“Perhaps it was Elise’s crew,” Willow offered, saying her name as if it was a bad taste on her tongue, “In some twisted way of keeping the town in fear and out of the forest?”
“Perhaps,” Pellius agreed, “Although if it is them, it will only draw more do-gooders to the town. And that could prove a hindrance rather than a help.”
“We shall go and investigate,” Bor agreed, “If it isn't them, we might have a potential ally.”
Willow frowned at the idea of bringing a homicidal maniac into their fold. Looking around at their oddly arranged group, she had to concede, he might fit in better than she wished.

As morning dawned on the following day, the group made their way to the city. When they arrived through the southern entrance to the marketplace, they split up to seek out their various targets. Bor and Teelee left in search of Elise and her crew while Garvana and Pellius headed for the slums of Drownington. Willow slunk off to the east of the slums where the hidden entrance to the blackmarket lay concealed within the walls. When she was sure she was not followed, she unlocked the levers and stepped into the deadly blackened hallway.
Martin was not in his office when she approached, instead the beady eyed administrator known as Grant, sat perched in his chair. With a nose far too large for his face, and a slight sweat constant upon his brow, his squinted black eyes seemed obsolete. His greedy stare had Willow's skin crawl every time they met. She attempted to slide unnoticed passed his office, but his slithering beckon had her feel obliged to enter.
“Darling Kathryn,” he called, his eyes raking her over, “A pleasure to see you as always. Might I say you are looking most ravishing today.”
Willow hid the scoff under her breath, “My thanks,” was all she replied.
“And what can I do for you today?” he asked, “May I be so bold as to presume that you have not reconsidered my offer of dinner?”
“You presume correctly,” she said bluntly, “I’m here on business, but I heard there was a murder in Drownington last night?”
“Ah,” he said, tipping his glasses to the end of his incredibly large nose, “Such grizzly business. Come, let's talk of more pleasant things. Did you hear of my recent promotion to First Administrator?”
Willow struggled to reign in her temper. She had little patience for fools such as he. But unfortunately, he held much sway in the running of the underground in Farholde. He could make her contacts and resources dry up like a parched land suffocated in drought. So she gritted her teeth and continued the pleasantries.
“I had not heard, that is a grand feat,” she said politely, “But regretfully I have no free time to hear anymore of it, I must bid you farewell. Goodbye Grant.”
She left the room before he could continue, slipping down one of the hallways towards her contacts, passing the humour glinted in the eyes of those who has heard the conversation. Willow asked around about the murder, acting casual as if merely uninterestedly seeking gossip. To her disappointment, they knew little of the details. She found out that the kill had been made with a skilled hand, a clear indication that the murderer had done so before. But apart from the gruesome details regarding the state of the body, they knew nothing else. Willow made her way to the tavern the group had agreed to meet in. The Chancellors Foul was a dingy tavern filled with the scum of the streets. She had never bothered to enter it, and as she did, she was reminded why she hadn't. The tables were little more than wooden stumps littered with broken glass and spilled ale, the chairs were stools roughly crafted barely holding their occupants weight. Women selling their bodies as goods draped themselves over prospective buyers, their garments festered rags of satin, their harlot make up smudged and rough. Willow spotted the group crowded around a booth in the corner, their clean clothes shining like light in amongst the darkened char of the tavern. As chivalrous as ever, Pellius stood and pulled her rickety chair out for her. Willow sat graciously, questioning the chairs endurance, even troubled by her slender frame.
They each reported their findings, no one with a definite answer on who had committed the murder. Bor had spoken with Elise’s bodyguard, and received a patronisingly evasive answer, not confirming nor deny their part. The ladies of the night that Garvana and Pellius had questioned, knew little of the attack, only describing a man in a cape fleeing the scene.
“I propose we disguise ourselves amongst the women,” Garvana suggested, “And set ourselves up as bait.”
“Good idea,” Bor agreed, “We'll wait close by and keep an eye out. We may get lucky and catch the man in action.”
Willow cringed at the idea, she outright refused to dress herself up as a whore. She was happy to wait, hidden in shadows, watching from above. She worked best in the darkness, feeling at home in their blackened nets of smoke. She was patient and knew how to remain perfectly still for extended periods of time. So she chose a low roof that was overshadowed by a high one, making sure the moon stayed crested behind, smothering her in the pitch blackness. She heard Garvana’s voice leaving the tavern and saw two strumpets wandering into the alley directly across from her vantage point. Willow couldn't help but smile, Teelee and Garvana had imitated the prostitutes well. They were dressed in tight corsets and small layers of aged satin, ragged fishnets wrapped their legs and loose shawls around their shoulders. Willow could see through the magic of their disguises, but aided with the night and the darkness, they would be a very convincing lure. She heard Bor’s voice, slightly slurred, begin a catchy drunken shanty. She stifled a laugh when she saw him teetering from the tavern door in a very convincing drunken amble. Pellius sat himself at a table by the tavern, a tankard of ale in his hand as he lounged back and appeared to be nostalgically staring up at the stars.
And so they waited.
The night crawled by as they kept their positions, the streets remained silent, save Bor's occasional drunken melody. After an hour or two had passed, Willow had begun to think that they would see no action, and that she had been squatting on the grime covered roof for nothing. The sound of a can being kicked had her ears perk up. It rang out its buffered chime as it rolled down the street and landed in the mud. Willow kept herself still and scanned her eyes across the alley. Frozen in time for a moment while nothing appeared to be happening. With no sound she watched a puddle of mud indent in a thick boot print. Willow leapt forward in a heartbeat. She judged as best she could as to where the invisible man would be standing, and dove towards him. As she tumbled through the air, she heard a distinct gasp of surprise, inches from her right ear. A slither of cloth passed across the skin of her face as she somersaulted passed. She saw the footprints turning to flee.
“Bor! He's coming your way!” she yelled.
She saw the half-orc step directly into the man's path, latching on to an invisible form. Willow recovered from her roll and quickly made her way back to them. Teelee and Garvana dropped their disguises and emerged from the alley.
“Stop resisting,” Bor demanded, “We may be friendlier than you think.”
She heard Garvana mutter a spell and saw her throw her hands out, but nothing happened that Willow could perceive. The invisible form continued to struggle.
“We're not here to harm you,” Teelee said bluntly, “We're here to talk.”
“Well then have your brute unhand me!” a familiar voice snapped.
Willow smiled as she approached, lifting the hood from her face.
“Drop the invisibility Trick,” she said softly.
As the magic vanished, a cloak wrapped Trick appeared clutched in Bor’s hands, a sheepish grin on his lips. Willow nodded to Bor to release him.
“What are you doing creeping around in the dark?” Willow asked with a hint of amusement.
“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, his usual casual charm returning.
“We're trying to stop someone causing trouble, stirring up unwanted attention to this region.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” he asked casually.
“Are you behind the murder?” Teelee asked, as bluntly as ever.
“Murder? Most certainly not,” he charmed.
Willow cocked an eyebrow. She saw no signs of deception in his face, he seemed completely comfortable with his answer.
“You're either telling the truth,” Willow said, a small smile on her lips, “Or a very good liar.”
“Both, my lady,” he replied smoothly.
“I don't care if you're behind it,” Bor clipped, becoming impatient, “It draws too much attention to this area.”
“One might say,” Trick responded, “That fear would deter most people from seeking out that attention. But, eh, however you see it. Anywho, I must be off, things and people to do and all that.”
As he turned to leave, Willow stepped closer.
“Next time, perhaps avoid the mud,” she said quietly with a wink.
“Next time I'll invest in darkvision,” he replied with a grin, almost in respect, “I did not at all see you coming…”

Two weeks of little excitement passed. They received a messenger from Elise, informing them that a group of mercenaries known as Brendam’s Breakers had arrived in town on their way to the Horn, and Elise and her band had indeed broken them.
It was from a restless sleep that Willow awoke to the sound of screaming one night. She had been dreaming of the past, back when life was little more than the fun and games of corrupt politics. She had made her way up the ladder of leadership and landed her role as First Administrator to the Mayor of Matharyn. Society insisted that Willow, a woman of high ranking nobility, did not need to work. In fact, it was frowned upon that she did, even more so that she was successfully occupying a prime position. Her ever-faithful husband had been supportive in her decision to keep her employment after they had married. In his limited personality he seemed to admire Willow's will to work and better their government. Of course, he was none the wiser to her meticulous plots and scams.
She had been dreaming of her first meeting with Switch, almost a decade in the past. Over her few short years working the ranks of politics, she had made a few contacts in the underground society of Matharyn. Men who worked their muscle for gold. Gold was something she had in abundance; the daughter of a Duke had a weekly allowance that could feed a city of peasants for years. She used to her contacts bully her way into better position and act as debt collectors when those on her list failed to meet the terms in their agreements. They were simple mercenaries, thugs at best, with more brawn than brain. Perfect for the tasks she gave them. But when an opponent political power rose to popularity, Willow's cosy position became threatened. Graham Talinmere was a short stocky man in his fifth decade, a devout follower of Mitra, one who had a reputation of unwavering fanatical faith. He was also an unapologetic misogynist. He had been the loudest spoken voice in objection to Willow's promotion, declaring that women had smaller brains in order to keep concentration focused on their sole duty; baring and raising children. Willow hated the man with a fire that burned more fierce than Hell itself. So, as his popularity grew in his campaign to become Mayor, she knew she had to do something.
The contacts she had in the underground were brute men with little finesse and subtlety, the only way they would wipe out her rival was by beating him to death. Willow needed someone with a more delicate hand, one skilled enough to make the death appear an accident. She put the word out to her men that she was in need of an assassin. Weeks passed as she waited, watching Talinmere gain momentum in his crusade. It was on a gloomy night as dusk approached that Willow received an invitation to meet with her potential employee. She was wary of the proposed meeting place. The note had given directions to the abandoned temple on the outskirts of town, the same temple she secretly visited regularly, the old flame-rotted temple of Asmodeus. She had been told to come alone, and against better judgement, her curiosity and excitement won out. She strapped her ruby daggers into their sheaths, draping her large black mink cloak around herself, slipping out the servants entrance of the manor. She did not follow the winding directions that the note held, instead she took the shortcuts that she had always taken, quietly approaching the temple from the east. From cover of the nearby forest, she peered through the pillars into the charred stone temple. It was empty. She crept on light feet through the back entrance, clutching her daggers tightly, eyeing the dark shadows of the corners. She froze in the centre of the room as the hairs on her neck stood on end.
“Such a pretty young thing,” said a smooth deep voice from the shadows, “So brave to come out here all alone…”
Willow span in a circle, ripping her daggers from their sheaths, shaking slightly as she searched for the voice. A low chuckle sounded.
“Those are quite the weapons,” he said, “I wonder if you know how to use them.”
The tiniest sound of a boot scuffing stone had Willow spin again, as a black form leaped at her from the depths of darkness, two glistening steel daggers arcing down towards her. She flung her arm up, barely managing to block the attack, as she hacked out with the other arm. He moved with an eery grace, his body nimble and fast, he launched a second attack before she could recover. She side stepped passed one of the blades slicing at her chest, but stepped straight into his another arm that was waiting to grab her. He overpowered her with little effort, wrapping his arm between her torso and arm, forcing her shoulder up as his hand latched into her hair. With a swift clip to her wrists, he dropped both of her daggers to the ground as he drew his blade to her throat. His voice was a sensual whisper into her ear, his breath hot and wet, sending visible ripples of fear and excitement through her body.
“Too bad,” he breathed, “I was hoping you'd put up more of a fight.”
He trailed the daggers point slowly down her the middle of her chest, splitting the material as he went.
“Now tell me,” he whispered, “What could a pretty little thing like you want with an assassin?”
Willow scoffed, breathing heavily watching the daggers progress, “If you have to ask, you're not a very good assassin.”
He chuckled, the sound and vibration in her ear reaping havoc with her body.
“Indeed. Then allow me to think aloud as I figure it out. It is not a family contract, or your father would have never allowed his only daughter to come alone in the night into the waiting hands of such a man as myself. What could it be?”
The dagger made its progress downwards, slowing as it gently sliced though the dresses bunched fabric at her waist.
“Could it be a disgruntled lover? Retribution spawned from a broken heart?”
Willow scoffed, feeling slightly offended at such a pathetic accusation. His chuckle again had her shiver.
“No. Not that, you seem the type to lace the poison on his glass yourself. So, if not love or family, what could it be?”
Willow opened her mouth to answer, but as she did, the dagger whipped up to the front of her shoulder and the blade pierced into her flesh. There was no stopping the moan that escaped. Her body shuddered in pain and pleasure as his hand tightened in her hair. They froze for a moment, Willow's breath coming in ragged bursts, his own sharp inhale stunned. Suddenly she was thrown forward and whipped around so her back crashed into the stone pillar. He was on her a second later, his weight pressing against her, his hand wrapped around her throat, forcing her face towards his. It was the first time she had ever looked into his eyes. Glistening black wells of unending depth, keen and calculating, dark and mesmerising. He was handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a smooth brow, a clean shaven face revealing his soft pale skin. His hair was shorn and left with only enough to determine it grew black underneath. He stared at Willow with a mix of intrigue and suspicion. Slowly, he lifted his dagger back to the the point in her shoulder where he'd pierced her skin.
“That was meant to be a warning,” he said menacingly, “Not an incentive.”
Willow felt the blade more keenly as its cold steel pressed against her skin, she had not noticed in the scuffle that her dress had fallen open, pinning her arms against her sides and revealing her laced black corset. He pressed the tip of the dagger further into her skin, grinning wickedly as she whimpered. The noise would have sounded fearful if not for the look of pleasure on her face.
“Interesting,” he said quietly, raising an eyebrow into a look that made Willow quiver.
“Alright, consider me intrigued. What is the contract? Who is the target?”
Willow opened her mouth to speak again, but as she did, he pushed his knee in between her thighs making her gasp. He merely held his position, his face unchanged from the humorous enjoyment he was getting.
“Graham Talinmere,” she managed to say, straining to sound confident and unaffected.
“The politician?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised, “Why would a noble born like you want him dead? I hear he stands to make you more money.”
“I wasn't aware assassins needed reasons,” Willow snapped.
He chuckled, forcing his knee to rub against her, “You are right, of course.”
Willow clamped her teeth together to stop the sounds she desperately wanted to make.
“Do you accept the contract?” she gritted.
His grin spread, “I do.”
“Name your price,” she demanded, with far more authority than she felt.
“The usual rate is five thousand gold,” he said, leaning down so his lips were almost brushing her own, “But I am willing to negotiate for other goods…”
The exasperation she felt at his request seemed to snap her out of her sexual stupor. She slammed her knee into his groin and with his momentary lapse of concentration she ripped herself from his grasp. She lifted the shoulders of her dress and used her cloak sash to fasten it back around her waist.
“Five thousand is acceptable,” she said, trying to recover some dignity, “Six thousand if it appears like a convincing accident. His campaign ends in two weeks time, if it is not completed by then, the contract is void.”
She turned to leave, lifting her hood back over her head.
“Willow…” he said, low and menacing.
She span to face him, lifting her chin, “You will address me as Lady Monteguard or my lady.”
His devious grin returned, paired with a look of surprised excitement. He gave a short mocking bow.
“My lady,” he said, picking her forgotten ruby daggers up off the floor.
He prowled towards her with slow deliberate steps. She shivered as he slid both daggers into their sheaths strapped on Willow's hips. His dark eyes held a promise, one that said he would get what he wanted, he was patient enough to wait for it. He lifted his finger delicately to her chin, staring into her eyes as he leaned forward. His lips brushed hers softly in a fragile caress. Willow swore at her traitorous body that responded with a sigh into his mouth. She cursed inwardly as her mouth parted naturally, an invitation he didn't refuse. Softly, they kissed, their tongues barely brushing. It was a deceptively tender moment. Before Willow knew what she was doing, she drew his lip in between her teeth and bit down firmly. His fierce growl sparked a fire that raged inside her. He gripped her chin firmly and slid his other hand to the back of her head. The kiss heated, his mouth forcefully demanded what it knew it deserved, it dominated her in way she had never known. Before she lost every last ounce of self control, Willow ripped her mouth free, shallow breaths tearing from her chest in protest. The only consolation she had was that his heaving chest was a testament to the effect she also had on him.
She once again lifted her hood and turned for the exit, as she stepped over the threshold to the temple, she heard the words that had repeated in her head for the next decade.
“One day, you won't say no…”

“Mistress!” the voice screamed, “We're being attacked!”
Willow flung herself from the sheets, quickly rousing from her nostalgic slumber. She leaped from the bed and grabbed her dagger, flinging the door open. One of their guards stood shocked as she appeared, dressed only in her nightgown, no garments underneath.
“M-Mistress,” he stuttered, “W-We are being attacked!”
“Come on,” Willow demanded, turning for the hallway.
When he didn't follow, Willow turned to him, fierce command in her eyes.
“Fight them,” she said menacing, “Or fight me.”
Willow was pleased with how quick he took off towards the battle. She called for her hounds to follow, and they barrelled down the hallway, scenting something she could not see. As they rounded the corner, she frowned. Margaret, the servant she used in her scouting team, stood in the hallway pointing frantically to the entrance.
“What is going on here?!” she demanded.
Her hounds leapt and snapped their teeth at the woman, lashing out attempting to latch on. Willow took only a moment to decide what to do. She knew her hounds could scent things that she could not and she knew with absolute certainty that they would never disobey her orders. She had introduced them to each one of the crew, with strict instructions not to attack them unless they were told. But as Lith bit deep into the woman skin, she knew something was seriously wrong. As another of the guards stepped into the hallway, Willow noticed the renewed snarls of her hounds.
“Explain yourself! What is going on here!”
The frantic pointing towards the entrance was the only response they gave. Suspicion flared stronger as Willow reached the pair and struck out with her dagger. Any other case, the blow she landed on Margaret would have been her instant demise. But Willow gasped as her blade hacked through the flesh leaving barely a scrape. The other guard leaped out of her reach and its form began to glisten and shimmer. His skin began to ripple and sway, magic seeping from its flesh. Willow cursed as she saw Sith and Loras cease their attacks, sitting back on their haunches, eyes wide in fascination. Lith growled low, snapping a Sith before turning to lash out at Margaret again. Suddenly, Margaret let out a fierce howl. Willow could feel the fear it incited growing low in her belly. She refused to give in to it, with an explosion of willpower she forced the fear back down and launched herself into another attack. Unfortunately, the howl had been fearsome enough to have its intended effect on both of the stunned hounds and the guard who had raised the alarm. All three took off in a panic. Lith’s growl of disapproval mirrored Willow's own. Margaret leap away from them, racing to the entrance, leaping over the trap door and out of the Horn into the blackened night. The other guard who had been continuing his alluring dance, attempted to do the same. In a desperate attempt to stop him, Willow hurled her dagger through the air towards his head. Whether through the skittish attempt of dodging the dagger or just pure misstep, the man landed heavily on the trap and plummeted down into the waiting cell. Willow smiled as the trap door mechanism closed itself, sealing in its capture.
“Norr!” Willow bellowed to the hounds, then to the guards, “Get back here!”
She peered out the entrance, eyeing the winding staircase. The night was still and stagnant, not a creature rustled in the distance, not a soul in sight. Willow walked to the hidden doorway leading to the guard room, her frown turned fierce as she felt it jammed and barricaded. Sith and Loras returned to her side, heads bowed as they cowered. Lith snapped ferociously at them, reprimanding their weakness. Willow scratched behind Lith’s ears as approval. The guards slowly trickled in from their hiding spaces.
“Guard the entrance! I will deal with you later!” she spat.
“Mistress, what of Margaret and Sven?” one of the men asked warily, “I saw them fall in the other room!”
Willow scowled, “Do as you must. But do not leave the entrance unguarded.”
The guards cowered, much like the dogs, as she passed them and quickly hurried to the throne. She made her way to Pellius’ chamber and woke him from his sleep. He eyed the slip of nightgown she wore and the blood splatter down its front.
“Busy night, my lady?” he asked suggestively.
“Not now,” Willow rolled her eyes, “We have intruders.”
They gathered the group quickly and headed for the first level cell. The creature in the form of Sven’s body stood frozen in its cage. He eyed Willow with a fearsome hatred that radiated through the room. Some of the group tried to question him, but it proved pointless; the creature refused to speak. Willow watched it with interest as the group tried to cast spells at it. An eerily mocking laugh sounded in her head, and judging by their reactions, the rest of the group heard it as well. The man let out a terrifying howl, just as Margaret had. This time Willow shrugged it off with barely a shiver. She sighed as Sith and Loras took off again, followed closely by Bor and Teelee, she could have swore she heard a similar sigh from Lith.
“May I?” Garvana said to Willow and Pellius, indicating to the creature.
Willow was not sure what she would do, but the look in her eyes told Willow she would want to stand back. Willow and Pellius moved to the far wall, watching intently.
She felt it before she heard it. The strong pulsing of dark energy, drawn from the very pits of Hell. As Willow and Lith both slumped slightly in the comforting embrace, the creature in the cell let out a feral screech. As the power grew stronger, Garvana stepped closer to the creature, the tight knit bars of the cell giving it no escape.
“Asmodeus sees all!” Garvana boomed, “And he demands your death!”
The fiery wash of Hell grew in a crescendo, teetering as the creature writhed in agony, Willow felt her breath quicken as she felt the distinct touch of Asmodeus, as if he himself were guiding this action. As it reached its apex, the creature let out a final wisp of a howl and it fell to the ground, curled up in the corner of the cell. The power vanished. Willow felt her chest ease as the presence in the room retreated. The creatures appearance rippled and left behind was a slender white hound, eyes wide in the pain of death. Willow approached and kneeled down to where it's head rested through the bars. She draped her fingers over its face and closed its eyes. Lith prowled forward with snarling teeth, attempting to bite into the dead creatures body.
“Nass!” Willow snapped, “Sirth mer virith yurr trizith ti.”
Lith huffed in response. Willow chuckled and rubbed her hound under the chin.
“We do not foul the dead?” Teelee repeated as she entered the room.
“They have served their purpose. There is nothing to gain by mutilating the body.”
Teelee eyed her with mixed emotions, but simply nodded and said nothing. Pellius carried a weakened and exhausted Garvana to her chamber, while Willow organised the disposal of the hound’s body.
“We have guards to deal with,” Willow said to Pellius as he returned, “Two of them barricaded their door and fled. Another managed to call the alarm and fetch me. Oh and two might be dead.”
Pellius nodded, offering her his arm, “Shall we?”

The guards quaked in fear as Bor, Pellius and Willow approached. They gave stuttering recaps of what had taken place until the moment Willow had arrived.
“…and then Mistress saved us,” one of them said.
“And at what point did you think that barricading yourselves in and hiding was a good idea?” Willow spat to the captain named Stephen.
“M-Mistress!” he stammered, “They killed Sven and Margaret! They would’ve killed us!”
Willow raised her eyebrows, “And you are not willing to die for our cause?”
“N-no, I mean y-yes!”
“Enough,” Bor said, returning from healing the other guards, “Barris, you will be in charge from now on. Now back to your posts.”
Willow turned from the snivelling servants, as she left the room, she heard Bor's menacing warning to the previous captain.
“Everyone gets one, do not fail again…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:41 AM
Chapter 13 - Dalliance and Defence - Part 2


The following week they organised signal horns for the crew. Slowly they were learning from their mistakes, attempting to avoid further breaches in security. They commissioned solid doors with hefty locks for each entrance to the Horn. Once they were attached, it took Willow ten minutes to pick one open, she was definitely satisfied with their quality.
As the seventh week of their ritual passed, a messenger arrived with five thick parchment scrolls. They were invitations to a ball, hosted by the Baron Vandermir, in celebration of his one hundred and fifth birthday. Willow smiled as she read the parchment addressed to Kathryn Fairholm. She couldn't help the butterflies of excitement that bounced through her belly, she had always loved balls. The beautiful gowns, the plush suits, the enchanting music. And the dancing. The dance floor was where alliances between the great houses were made and broken. Willow had always been an excellent dancer; on the floor and in the melody of house politics.
As the group met to discuss their attendance, Willow immediately voted for accepting the invitation. Pellius and Teelee agreed readily, while Bor and Garvana seemed hesitant. It didn't take much for her to convince them to come along, though her excitement was halted when Garvana spoke of wearing armour to the ball.
“It is a ball Garvana,” Willow said sharply, “You are a lady. You must dress like it.”
“What about an armoured corset?”
Willow scoffed, “You couldn't possibly fit one under a dress. Besides, the ball is open to every upper noble in the region. Vandermir wouldn't risk himself being discovered. I think it is safe to say it will be a night of revelry and celebration. Not one of battle and chaos.”
Garvana frowned, “But I have nothing to wear.”
Willow smiled, “Come along, I'm sure I have something we can let out to fit you.”
“But we have no seamstress!”
Willow laughed, “Garvana, I am the daughter of a duke. I have been sewing since I could lift a needle.”
She did indeed have a dress perfect for the occasion. A red velvet frock usually worn fashionably loose, although it's pleats stretched wide to encompass Garvana's rather muscular figure. Willow stitched in an extra flank of silk to allow movement between her wide shoulders, and a sliver of fabric to lengthen her waist. She was roughly the same height as Willow, so the drape fell to the floor in a perfect plication. When she finished her stitches, she stood back to admire her handiwork. Her grandmother would have been proud.
“Stunning,” Willow said proudly, “The silk drape sits perfectly. Wear your hair up off your face and show off the neckline. Do you have any rubies?”
“Nothing elegant enough for this dress,” she replied, eyeing herself in the mirror.
Willow fetched a simple gold string of rubies from her dresser.
“Wear these,” Willow said, tying the sting around her neck, “They're not too obnoxious. They say that you have style and wealth, enough that you need not flaunt it in every way you can. A simple line of kohl on your eyes, but don't wear any lipstick. You'll look like a tomato.”
Garvana turned to Willow, a strange look on her face, “Thank you.”
Willow winked, “I would die of embarrassment if you arrived in your armour. I think of this as a trade for not shaming me so horribly.”
Garvana laughed as she left to pack her belongings for their stay in town. Willow knew exactly what she was going to wear. She had been waiting to wear the dress since she first chose it from the Cardinal’s manor, she had been waiting for the perfect occasion to present it. She had made multiple changes to it over the lonesome nights of the last few weeks. The ball was the perfect opportunity for it to make its debut.
The crew traveled to the city of Farholde early morning the next day. They rented separate rooms in the Bronze Minotaur in Auld’irey, taking the afternoon to prepare for their decadent evening. Willow bathed and soak herself until her skin was flush and pink. She coated herself in her distinct fragrance of cassia, liquid myrrh and cinnamon. As she began to prepare for the tedious task of combing and arranging her hair, she felt a ping of regret as she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had once been her crowning glory. Tousled waves of midnight black had cascaded down her back, the envy of every woman in the city. Whether she wore it up in a tight winding peak or had it flowing freely in the breeze, her hair had been magnificent. Willow combed the short jet black kinks that hung from her head. She was no longer the girl with the sea of sable curls. She was no longer a girl at all. She smiled at her reflection. She used the tonic she had ordered from the market to push her hair off her face. She combed it to perfection, crafted riveted waves that smoothed their way to her nape. She had the face of a woman, high angled cheekbones, thin tipped nose, wide vibrant eyes. She applied the kohl to her eyelids heavier than was usually socially acceptable. But paired with Willow's ebony hair and dress, her makeup drew attention to her fierce alluring eyes. She stepped into the layers of raven silk, sliding the dress up and around her waist. She laced up the inbuilt corset, with ties that clasped at the front, slipping her arms into their sleeves. She flared the tule to her sides as she stepped up to the mirror. She looked beautiful. The black silk wrapped tightly around her chest and waist, flaring to a short trim high on her thighs. Layer upon layer of tule and lace clutched at her waist and flared in an ocean of tucks, falling far passed the floor. Scandalously, the lace was almost see through, her bare legs slightly visible beneath. The lace wrapped high across her chest, fanning out along her collarbone, forming tightly pinched sleeves over her shoulders. A single layer of soft lace draped from the joins in the sleeves, cascading down to her wrists. The dress itself was not unseemly, it was in fact an exquisite piece of apparel. It was the material that made the dress so risqué. When hit from certain lights, the material appeared a hint translucent, Willow's slender womanly form revealed beneath. To really see anything, one would have to be gawking at her for quite some time. A thought that delighted her.
Willow slipped her dagger into the sheath strapped high onto her thigh, checking the mirror to be sure that it could not be seen. Lastly she stepped into her midnight black heels, their glistening black leather completing her look. She needed no jewellery to enhance her beauty, her bare neck and shoulder shimmered in their pale white way. Jewellery would just crowd the image. As the sun began to fall to the horizon, Willow exited her suite and glided to the stairs. She heard the voices of their group casually chatting below. As she gracefully began to descend the stairs, Willow smiled as all chatter in the parlour ceased. The whole room was looking at her. Pellius was the first to recover, standing and walking to the base, holding his hand out for her.
“My lady,” he said, “Words could not do you justice. You look, exquisite.”
“And you look immaculate as always, Monsieur,” she replied smoothly.
His disarming grin had Willow swoon inwardly. He did indeed look handsome. His tailored colonial style jacket buttoned high into a stiff collar, and fell down to just above his knees. His broad shoulders extended by the firm points, perfectly creased sleeves pinned with intricate cuffs. The material was the perfect matching midnight black to Willow's gown. She scanned her eyes over the rest of their group. She smiled to see that Garvana had followed her instruction and wore her hair high in tight bun, the bronze glint of her chestnut hair shone with the help of the tonic Willow had provided. She looked the perfect part of a noble lady in the layers of scarlet velvet and silk. Teelee wore a fascinating frock of brown and cream, alternating layers in a swish of silk and mesh. Her hair braided low and pulled into a chignon of carob grace. Willow couldn't help but stare at the dress, amazed at how the beaded hems seemed to sparkle without the help of light.
“Magic,” Pellius whispered in her ear.
“A lady should never have her secrets revealed,” Teelee replied in a huff.
“Impressive nonetheless,” Willow chuckled, “The dress is a true marvel.”
She turned to Bor and smiled. He wore a black suit, tight and fitted over his bulking mass. Willow approached him with a giggle and she undid the mass of knots he'd made to his tie, threading them in the current knar fashion.
“Very handsome,” she commented, giving him a wink, “Well, are we ready?”
“The carriages await, my lady,” Pellius said, offering his arm, “It would be my honour to escort you.”
Willow smiled and accepted his arm, placing hers under his and draping her hand over his wrist. They rode in the horse drawn carriages, winding through the upper streets of the Caviller Green. As the horse drew to a halt along the arching pathway in front of the grand entrance, Willow sighed in pleasure. It had been a long time since she had attended such a formal event. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Pellius exited the carriage with the grace of a man who had spent his life making striking entrances. He stood in the drivers rightful place, denying him the privilege of Willow's hand as she stepped out onto the pavement. They strolled up the path as the carriage pulled away, allowing the next in line to deliver its occupants. When all of the group had arrived, they made their way towards the large open doors, where the Baron himself was greeting his guests. Bor carried their present in his strong arms, the ivory tusk they had received in trade from the natives so many months ago. It was a fine gift, one that a man of Vandermir’s particular magical talents was sure to approve.
He smiled politely as they approached, his keen eyes ever calculating as they reached him.
“So glad you could make it,” he said, “I take it your work is going well enough to allow you to take the evening off?”
Willow smiled back as his eyes flicked over her outfit.
“One must always make time for the finer things in life.”
“Indeed,” he replied, “And what is it you have there?”
Bor stepped forward with the tusk, “A gift,” he said, “We thought some one of your arcane skill could make great use out of this.”
The Baron stiffened visibly. He quickly looked around, seemingly checking if anyone was in ear shot. He relaxed again once he realised they were alone.
“I would appreciate if you did not mention my particular preoccupation in public. But enough of that, please enjoy my hospitality and enter the ballroom when you are ready.”
He moved on to greet the next round of arrivals. They followed the line of guests into the main courtyard of the manor, it's entrance lined with servants carrying trays of crystal flutes filled with a mix of rare and delicate champagnes. Pellius lifted two from a tray and handed her one with an inclined head. They made their way to their designated table and sat for a moment, merely enjoying the accompanying soothe of the music.
The ball was a lavish affair. The halls were lit with hundreds of candles, the glistening rims of the gold furnishings sparkled and dazzled those that passed. The ball room was as grand and opulent as one would expect from the Baron. High crested ceilings embroidered with intricate patterns, smooth stone pillars buffed to a gleam, solid wooden floors oiled and lacquered. The guests were no less elegant. Gentlemen and ladies dressed in their finest robes and gowns, glittering rows of stones and gems layered upon their person. The wealth in the room shone like a beacon across the hillside.

“Shall we dance, my lady?” Pellius offered.
Willow smiled and stood from her chair, laying her hand in his, “I couldn't possibly refuse.”
They strolled to the edge of the dance floor and waited as the band finished their final chords before striking up a new tune. The song they struck was a vibrant upbeat melody played at most formal gatherings. She smiled as she turned to Pellius.
“Do you know how to Canter?” Willow asked, humour glinting in her eyes.
“I have been Cantering since before you were born, my lady,” he said with a wink.
Willow signalled for him to lead. Together, as they always did, they made a fine pair. Pellius held the lead position with a practiced hand, his solid form kept Willow secure as she span and swayed to his left and to his right. The lace of her dressed flared out a she span beneath his guiding hand, her height in comparison to his made the turns natural and fluid, she was graceful and elegant. His boot tapped in perfect rhythm to the beat, his natural commanding air drew attention from the onlookers as Willow's grace flowed like water over stone. Willow laughed as he spun her around twice, her pirouette forcing her dress to open like a blossoming flower, his hand landing each time firmly on her back. The music drew to its climax, as Willow swayed again to his left and right, she followed his lead as he finished their dance by whipping Willow fiercely to the right, spinning her in a final wave. She let go of his hand as the final beats of the song sounded, Willow's dress fluttered back down into its long train, her arms held high in their articulate poses. The crowd applauded as she retrieved his arm, stepping off the dance floor together, returning to their table. As Willow caught her breath, she couldn't stop grinning. She had forgotten how much she loved to dance, and by the matching grin Pellius wore, he obviously loved it to.
After a rest, she sipped her champagne and scanned the room. She picked out the man she was looking for instantly. He was the only man who seemed to not be enjoying himself. Sir Valin, the descendant of the Victor, their third and final sacrifice. Willow didn't have a clear plan when she excused herself from the table and began to approach him. Any information could prove useful, even the slightest most insignificant details, and she'd never gain those by sitting at her table drinking the night away. She approached him from the side, slumping her shoulders slightly, eyes downcast.
“Balls can be tedious events,” she mumbled quietly, “So many people, so much gossip…”
He smiled slightly, a small and subtle change to his somber face, “Terribly boring affairs.”
“I enjoy the music though,” she replied, “I only wish it was just the music.”
He chuckled, “Agreed. I don't believe we have met, I am Sir Valin Darius of Hammarhall.”
Willow placed her hand in his outstretched palm.
“Lady Kathryn Fairholm of Mathryn,” she said as he kissed her knuckle formally, “A pleasure to meet you.”
Willow continued their polite pleasantries, laughing at his attempt at jokes, smiling at his obvious flattery. When the conversation grew strained, she turned to him and grinned.
“Do you dance, Sir Valin?” she asked with a mischievous spark.
“Oh heavens no my lady,” he replied, “I was graced with two left feet.”
Willow winked, “Well then, it is lucky that I have indeed two right ones.”
He laughed as she pulled him to the dance floor. He had not been under exaggerating when he spoke of his dancing skills. He tripped on his own feet multiple times, he didn't hit a single beat on time and managed to bump his head into Willow's chin as he was busy watching his feet. She found herself guiding them both in the simplest form of the waltz, genuinely laughing as he failed miserably. As the song ended on a high note, he stumbled as he was supporting her and managed to spin on his feet and land one knee in a bow. Willow laughed at the surprisingly dexterous appearance of his finish.
“I must apologise,” he chuffed, “A lady should never have to bare such an embarrassment as dancing with me.”
Willow laughed in response, “What I choose to embarrass myself with is completely and utterly for me to decide, good sir.”
“Well, thank you, my lady. It has been a pleasantly surprising evening, the first enjoyable ball I've attended.”
“I'm sure there was a compliment there somewhere, so I shall thank you.”
He laughed, a throaty and hardy chuckle, “Thank you, my lady. But alas, i must bid you farewell.”
Willow smiled, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sir Valin.”
He returned her smile, “The pleasure was mine.”
“Hopefully we'll meet again, I'd love another dance.”
He laughed, “I believe that was enough dancing for one year. Good evening my lady, and good bye.”
He kissed Willow's hand again before he made his exit, leaving her to watch him from behind. She strolled quickly but casually to Pellius as he sat amongst a group of chattering nobles. Willow laid a hand on his shoulder, his humour filled eyes looked up at her.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said smartly.
“Gentlemen,” she addressed the group, batting her eyelashes, “I apologise, but I must insist I steal him away for a few moments.”
“Lucky man,” she heard one of them mutter under his breath.
Willow smirked as she guided him to the dance floor. The song that was playing was a soft melody composed for a close bodied slow waltz. Willow drew herself towards him and leaned her face towards his neck.
“He's leaving now,” she whispered, low enough that only Pellius would hear her, “Should we follow, or wait?”
He remained silent for a moment as they swayed back and forth to the tune, finally he stepped back from her and grasped her hand, leading her towards the upper balcony. The tight grasp he had on Willow's wrist had terribly inappropriate thoughts flood her mind. They reached the open space in time to see Sir Valin step into his carriage and close the door, the royal livery painted onto its side.
“Valin Darius,” Willow whispered, “He is definitely one of the bloodline.”
“Then he's the one we need.”
“Do we go after him?” she whispered.
“Not yet, let us bide our time and strike when it is right.”
When they returned to the ballroom, Willow realised the one important man she had not danced with. Baron Vandermir stood surrounded by numerous important looking nobles, talk of politics trickling to her ears. As she approached, one of the noble men smiled, noticing her and pointing her out to the Baron. He turned to her and inclined his head.
“It would rude not to dance with the host,” she said smoothly, “After all the effort he went to arranging such a fine evening.”
“Lady Kathryn,” he said, “It would be a pleasure to dance with you.”
He guided Willow to the dance floor as the music changed its tempo. They began an elegant waltz, bodies held in stiff positions, faces slightly turned away from each other in tradition. As they glided over the floor, she was impressed with how remarkably well he performed. His movements were graceful, his feet flowed in perfect unison to hers. He angled his head slightly and spoke low enough for only the two of them to hear.
“How are the orphans working out?”
“Surprisingly well,” she replied, “They need a firmer hand than most. But they are quite sufficient.”
“Very well,” he said.
They stepped wide in an arching circle, passing the smiling faces of others enjoying their dance, he gripped her waist and bent her low before continuing their trot.
“Do you regret aiding us?” she asked quietly.
He mused for a moment, thinking upon his words.
“That remains to be seen,” was all he said.
Willow smiled, turning her face back to its angle, “So does the very fate of this world.”
He eyed her for a moment as the music stopped. He bent in a half bow, a polite gesture, meant for those who were beneath him.
“It was a pleasure, Lady Kathryn.”
He guided Willow to the edge of the floor before taking his leave. Willow struggled not to frown, feeling as unsure about him as she had before. The Cardinal had warned them that Vandermir was not to be trusted, and she was inclined to agree. As a host, he was gracious and polite. As an ally, he was self serving and precarious. He would stay loyal only while it benefited him.
The rest of their evening passed uneventfully. Willow was impressed with how Teelee conducted herself, using the attraction of her magically enhanced dress to strike up conversations. Before she left for the night, she had a dozen contacts and offers of meetings. Willow accepted a few more requests to dance from eligible bachelors, and had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the repeating comments of disbelief at how she would be unmarried.
“Surely, a woman as radiant as yourself is spoken for,” Derrian Tralleger had asked.
He was the seventh gentleman to say so that evening.
“Oh, I am spoken for,” Willow heard herself answer, the many glasses of champagne hazing her mind, “But he is one of immense power, of such strength and might, I shall forever be beneath him.”
Willow's heart fluttered at the thought.
“Then the man is fool,” Derrian said obnoxiously.
Willow head snapped to attention, “He is no man. He is… a god.”
Realisation dawned on Derrian’s face, he smiled, warm and comforting, “It is a delight to see a woman of your station so devoted. A shame for the rest of us, but Mitra is more deserving of your love and attentions.”
Willow was caught between the urge to laugh and the urge to throw up. She settled on smiling politely, allowing the gentleman to continue his fantasy.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, stopping their waltz, “I do believe my feminine constitution has failed me, the champagne has gone straight to me head.”
He smiled in a polite understanding way, “Of course, my lady.”
He led her off the dance floor and returned her to her seat, bowing formally before he retreated into the crowd. Willow's feet ached from the hours of dancing in strictly bound heels, she turned to look over their group. The cheerful glint of alcohol sparked in each of their eyes. Willow laughed, standing herself up again on slightly unsteady feet.
“I believe it is a fine time for me to leave,” she said to the group, “Before my tongue gets any looser and my feet fall from beneath me.”
“I'd forgotten how uncomfortable these dresses were,” Garvana muttered.
“It's the shoes that kill me,” Willow said quietly, “If it wasn’t such a repulsive idea, I'd run around barefoot.”
The two of them giggled as they gathered their belongings, preparing to make their exit. Pellius approached with his arm offered at the ready. Willow eyed him as she accepted his arm, raking her eyes over his masculine figure. Even after a night worth of dancing and drinking, he looked as immaculate as ever. The only hint of the revelry was the slightest of flush to his cheeks. Willow on the other hand, had to focus all her attention on keeping her walk calm and graceful. She was grateful for his steady hand, for she made an elegant exit as the layers of lace swayed rhythmically behind her. Pellius helped her into the cabin and smirked knowingly as guided Teelee in behind her, stepping in himself and sitting to Willow's side. As the horses kicked off, the fresh air helped cleared her head and lift the hazy glaze from her sight as she watched the rolling hills go by. She leaned her head against Pellius’ broad shoulder.
“Tell me of Rahadoum,” she said lazily to Teelee, “I thought religion was forbidden there?”
“It is,” she replied, “Strictly. The Laws of Man prohibit any and all worship.”
“Yet you serve Asmodeus?” Willow asked intrigued.
“Only in recent times,” she said, “I landed on the shores of Talingarde with no god to worship, I come from a powerful wealthy family that are heavily intrenched in the faithless society. I have always been drawn to the values of Asmodeus though, he enforces the rightful way of the world, the strong should indeed rule the weak.”
Willow smiled, “And then you found yourself in his service.”
“It was indeed a most beneficial turn of events.”
Willow frowned, thinking aloud, “Such a strange series of coincidences. That we should find ourselves brought together by conviction. I often wonder of how it came about that we would find each other, servants of Asmodeus, sealed together in the same very cell.”
“Strange indeed,” Teelee responded.
Pellius looked down at Willow with a curious expression.
“I wonder…” she said, before thinking better of it.
She let the phrase linger as she questioned the methods of their meeting. She did not believe in fate, she believed every man and woman carved out their own path relative to their strength. But she had wondered how much of a hand Cardinal Thorn had played in bringing them together.

The blinding sun in her eyes was an intrusion of the rudest level. Willow woke upon the bed in the Bronze Minotaur as light flooded the room.
“We're leaving in an hour,” Garvana's booming voice said, “It's time you woke.”
Willow flung her pillow towards the voice in hopes of silencing it. Her head throbbed and the contents of her stomach threatened to repeat.
Garvana laughed, “You drank like a sailor last night, I don't envy your body today.”
Willow cringed at the voice, “Sssshhhhh!” she hushed.
“Perhaps Carnitheria Rex will allow you to ride him back to the Horn,” Garvana chuckled.
“Ugh,” Willow groaned, “Don't speak of that thing. Have you smelt it?!”
Garvana laughed as she left Willow alone in her chamber. She crept from the bed, ignoring her protesting stomach, dragging herself to the bath.

The way back was sluggish and sickly. She refused to let the group see how horribly ill she felt, so she kept up her brisk walk in hopes of reaching her bed before midday. Her hopes were shattered when they arrived to find a messenger waiting for them outside the Horn.

A new group of adventurers are in town. They are too visible to attack directly. They assault the Horn soon, unsure of the exact time of arrival. They mentioned something about the ‘centre eye’. Third level entry?
Traya, a sorcerous of some sort. Hassan, a strange foreign barbarian with red skin and horns. Tasker, half-orc knife specialist. Posca, dwarven cleric of a god of merchants.

Willow sighed as they made their way to the tavern to plan their defence. After much debate, they settled by majority on a plan that utilised all of them. Teelee and Carnitheria Rex would guard the Sanctum, Garvana and Grumblejack would guard the third floor balcony, Willow and Pellius would guard the second, Bor and the minions would guard the first and the boggards would guard their home in the caverns. They would keep near to the thrones for fast access to each other, and they had a signal set up to alert them which level was being attacked. The signal horn would be blown once for first level, two for second and three for third. Once they had agreed on the plan, they split for the afternoon, sure that the attack was unlikely to come the same evening that the messenger arrived. To air on the side of caution, Willow set each of her hounds on guard at all three level entrances. She gave Lith an affectionate pat before trudging to her quarters and collapsing gratefully into the bed’s silken embrace.

The first Willow knew of the attack was the newly installed door being smashed to pieces. Her and Pellius had been standing casually against the wall of the entrance on the second level, when the wood splinted and exploded into the room. Before Willow had time to act, a pellet of flame shot towards them. She leapt backwards, barely avoiding the blazing eruption, flames licking her heels. Pellius, in his solid heavy armour, was not quite as lucky. The fireball fulminated on his chest, ricocheting the scorching blast up his neck and face, searing any skin he had bare. He grunted at the pain, turning to face the incoming attack. As a red skinned man screamed in rage and leaped forcefully over the trap, Willow heard the signal horn blow twice from high above her. Teelee had been tasked with watching through the magic of Vetra-Kali’s eyes, and calling the alarm as soon as she could. Willow’s hounds reacted quicker than she did, leaping at the frothing man, snarling their teeth in response. They attempted to latch on to him, but he was moving so erratically, they had trouble holding on. Willow dove forward as a dagger flew directly over her head and slammed into the crease of Pellius’ armour. She heard his curse as he continued to block the red skinned man’s onslaught. Willow leaped to him with her dagger in a fierce grip. She lashed out, striking the man low across the torso. He barely flinched. As his sword came down and hacked deep into Pellius’ shoulder, Willow heard the woman who had launched the fireball, muttering another incantation. Willow swore and leaped back, flinging out her bow and quickly firing an arrow towards the sorceress. It hit its target, interrupting the spell and forcing her back behind the entrance wall. Willow didn't take time to celebrate, Pellius was steadily losing blood, his defence weakening under the strain of the barbarian’s unrelenting attacks. She slung her bow around her shoulders and ripped out her dagger, diving into the melee. She hacked her dagger into his shoulder and tore it downwards as she pulled it free. Pellius refused to give up, he swung his warhammer with all of his strength, smashing the man in the chest. His energy draining as quickly as the blood from his wounds.
“Pellius!” Willow screamed, “Fall back and heal yourself!”
He hefted his weapon and lurched it forward again, his weakening grip steering his swing wide. The colour was slowly seeping from his face.
“Pellius you stubborn bastard!” she yelled, almost laughing at his strong willed ego, “You're no good to me dead! Fall back!”
She saw the internal battle he had at the idea of retreating. The door to Willow's left swung open as Grumblejack barrelled his way into the room. She heard Pellius curse as he withdrew into the halls. Suddenly, the red skinned man let out a terrifying shriek. He cleaved his weapon to the right, slicing through each of her three hounds in a shower of blood. His blade continued its fearsome strike, slashing deeply into Willow’s chest. She slammed her teeth shut as she felt the cold sharp metal split her skin, she ripped the pain deep within and thrust her dagger forward. From the corner of her vision she saw the man who had been throwing knives fall to Bor's blade as it struck from behind the arrow slits. The man fell directly onto the trap as it swallowed him down.
“Asmodeus!” Garvana howled, “Show them your true vision!”
Willow felt the fiery blaze of Hell as Garvana weaved her magic, a look of utter terror spread across the faces of the adventurers, so frightening that some of them started to shake. As the red skinned man recovered, he curved wide with his blade, attempting to cleave into the hounds again.
“Bassirr!” Willow screamed for them to retreat.
She pirouetted under his swing and leaped forward, jabbing her dagger into the man’s throat. He lashed out his sword in a last desperate attempt, hacking his way across Willow's stomach. Willow felt the sickening shrill of blood leaking from the wound, but as the dwarf appeared behind her, she had little time to think on it. The barbarian dropped to his knees and crumpled forward, the sorceress trapped in a pit that Teelee had magically created and the rogue lay locked within the cell below. The dwarf was alone.
“Surrender!” Willow demanded fiercely, ignoring the patch of her clothing that was steady drenching in her blood.
His eyes flicked to the Hellhounds now viciously snapping at him from the rear, to the feral nightmare of a horse that eyed him as easy prey. As he made up his mind and lifted his blade to attack - he didn't stand a chance. Willow span and arched her dagger out, cleanly slicing through his throat, as Bor impaled him from behind. He dropped to the ground in a heap next to the red skinned man. The group turned to the sorceress as the spell of the pit ended.
“I surrender!” she said quickly, “Stay your attack, I surrender.”
Willow inclined her head, “We accept your surrender.”
Bor grabbed the sorcerous by the wrists and began to fasten rope to bind her. She struggled and writhed in his hands.
“This will go easier if you don't struggle,” Teelee said with her eyebrows raised.
When the woman continued to thrash about, the pain thumping in Willow's body took over.
“Cease!” she bit fiercely, “We have accepted your surrender, do not make me regret that and go back on my word.”
The woman’s protests fell silent. She looked into Willow's eyes and saw the clear intent of her words. She nodded shakily, allowing herself to be tied up. Willow remained where she was as Bor carried their prisoner away, she sent Sith and Loras along side him to guard her.
Lith stepped up to Willow at the exact moment she needed, stumbling on her feet, holding herself upright with the hounds back. Lith whined to her and barked frantically, trying to get Garvana's attention as she patched Pellius up. Willow swayed on her feet as she saw them racing towards her, Pellius’ firm arms catching her weight as she slipped from her stance. As his warmth encompassed her, she sighed an exhausted yet comfortable huff, stars dancing behind her eyes as her sight hazed.
And suddenly, the world went black.

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:44 AM
Chapter 14 - Eye of the Inquisitor - Part 1


“She needs rest,” a deep yet feminine voice said from beyond the blackness, “She has lost a lot of blood and will have a nasty scar, but she will live.”
“When will she wake?” asked a smooth baritone masculine voice.
“When her body is ready. She needs to rest for a while, it may be some time yet.”
“I wish you'd keep your voices down,” Willow muttered, her eyes flickering open, “I can't rest while you two chatter away.”
As her vision returned, she saw Pellius’ handsome battered face.
“Welcome back, my lady,” he said warmly, though his voice was strained with pain.
He lay next to her upon her bed, blood staining the sheets and the many bandages wrapped around each of their bodies. His face held a sickly yellow tinge, his muscles straining as he affectionately clipped her chin with his finger.
“How long was I out?” she asked, rolling towards him, cringing at the aching flesh of her abdomen.
“Only a few hours,” he replied, “You were too stubborn to take your own advice.”
Willow couldn't help but chuckle, much to her stomach’s protest at the movement through her newly healed skin. She remembered having antagonised Pellius for not retreating when he was gravely injured, much like what she had done after being sliced through the torso by the barbarian's blade.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” she muttered with an eye roll.
Pellius chuckled in response.
“How do you feel?” Garvana asked, looking almost concerned.
“Terrible,” Willow chuffed truthfully, “But alive.”
“You almost weren’t,” she replied seriously, “If it weren't for your hound’s relentless barking, I may not have gotten to you in time.”
It was then that Willow saw the worried face of her infernal hound, flaming in the corner of the room. Willow smiled, reaching her hand for Lith.
“Norr, barrith mar Lith siroth mer,” she said softly, calling for her hound.
Lith trotted to the side of the bed, pressing her face into Willow's palm. She whined aloud and chuffed against her hand.
“Hirr mer trath Lith,” she said in praise.
“Good girl indeed,” Garvana said fondly, “Now you two must rest. You are both confined to bed for the next week. I have done my best to stop the bleeding, but any vigorous movement could start it again.”
Lith strolled back to her corner, huffing happily as she lowered herself down, taking her place facing the doorway, guarding them while they slept.
“Confined to bed, huh?” Willow asked, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
“Did you not hear me?” Garvana snapped, “No vigorous movement. You'll both bleed out internally before you get to enjoy it.”
Willow chuckled, “Yes Mother Garvana, I heard you.”
As Garvana rolled her eyes and left the room, Willow shuffled closer to Pellius. She lay her head on his unwounded shoulder, closing her exhausted eyes. It took only moments for her to fall back into the depths of slumber.

When Willow woke again, it was to the soft sound of Garvana’s voice humming a gentle tune. Her eyes flickered open, she pulled herself upright, surprised to not find Pellius next to her.
“Stay there,” Garvana said harshly, “You still need rest, but you need to eat.”
She placed a tray filled with fresh cut vegetables, diced fish and a glass of water next to her on the bed. Garvana turned to the door as Willow fetched the plate.
“Did Pellius recover quicker than expected?” Willow asked, frowning at her pathetic feminine constitution; she still felt completely fatigued and exhausted.
“No,” Garvana said frustrated, “He's taken a walk. Deciding that he knows best, unwavering in his exercise regime. He can't grasp the idea of bed rest.”
Willow chuckled as Garvana turned to leave.
“Will you stay?” Willow asked, taking a sip from the glass, “I still feel as if I barely know you, and it's been months.”
Garvana turned to her, a strange look on her face. She looked around the room for a chair to sit in, but Willow laughed and offered her a spot on the bed. Begrudgingly, she sat.
“What do you wish to know?” she asked warily.
“Oh don't be so serious all the time,” Willow said as she rolled her eyes, “Everything with you is always so intense. Tell me something light hearted about you. Tell me something of your past?”
Garvana frowned, “My past is not light hearted.”
“Oh no you don't, don't do that serious somber thing. Tell me of a man, a dalliance, a romance or an affair?”
Again, Garvana frowned, “There is none.”
“So you've never fooled around with a man you shouldn't have?” Willow asked.
“I've never fooled around with any man.”
Willow's eyebrows raised in scandal, “A woman?!”
Garvana laughed in surprise, “No no, definitely not. I've just never fooled around.”
Willow's mouth dropped open in shock, “Ever? You mean you've never…?”
Garvana smiled, a small blush touching her cheek, “Never.”
Willow was almost lost for words, “Wow. That might explain why you're so uptight.”
Garvana’s head snapped to Willow, but relaxed when she saw the joking grin on her face.
“May I ask why?” Willow inquired.
“Do you want the truth? Or a light hearted answer?”
Willow frowned slightly, “The truth.”
Garvana sighed, “My mother was executed for her unholy union with the dark powers. I am the spawn of this union, the spawn of a devil. I suppose the knowledge of this has tainted my view of the world. I understand normal attraction, but I have never felt it strongly enough to consider doing… that, with any man.”
“And you've never wanted to just, you know, give it a try?”
“Not with any human man.”
Willow's eyebrows raised again, grinning wickedly, “Human man? But you have wanted with some other?”
“Well…”
“Oh come on, you can tell me, who was it?” Willow pried.
Garvana turned her pink cheeks away from Willow.
“Dessiter,” she whispered.
Willow groaned, “Oh yes, that commanding air, that striking presence. He would know how to split a girl from herself.”
“Willow!” Garvana called in shock.
Willow laughed, quivering at the thought, “He would be fun. If you made it out alive…”
“I can not believe we are having this conversation!” Garvana said, hiding her face.
“You could use those big horns like handles for leverage…”
Garvana burst out into giggles, “Willow stop!”
Willow laughed in response, “Alright alright, but in all seriousness, you might want to start with a fish a little smaller. I don't think he'd be the type to play gentle. I meant it when I said it would be a possibility you may not make it out alive.”
Willow dropped her voice to a low carnal whisper, “But it would be a hell of a way to go…”
Garvana’s blush threatened to burst her cheeks.
“Enough!” she said firmly, “Tell me of you. I would have assumed that you and Pellius were an item, but when you return from your solo trips to Farholde, I often see marks that he could not have made…”
Willow smirked, “Pellius and I have an understanding. Well, we had one. He's distanced himself of late... That man is remarkable, a most satisfying and vigorous lover. He is passionate and dedicated in his application to everything…”
“Yet you are not satisfied with only him?” Garvana asked, clearly pleased to have the conversation turned away from herself.
“Oh he indeed leaves me satisfied,” Willow chuckled, “And sore and weak in all the right ways. He is a touch of a sadist, and certainly knows where to push the pain threshold to make a woman-
“Alright!” Garvana interrupted, “I do not need to know anymore of Pellius.”
Willow laughed as Garvana shook her head.
“If you are so satisfied by him,” she asked questioningly, “Then why do you want the other man? And, who is he?”
“It is not a matter of want,” Willow tried to explain, “It is more a matter of need. Unfortunately, I am not satisfied for very long. I have always been this way. It is only recently that I have been able to experiment and explore it for myself.”
Garvana frowned, “What does that mean?”
Willow debated how much she really wanted to share. Garvana had been trusting and open, sharing secrets from her past, Willow owed her the same courtesy. Within reason.
“I do not seek love or romance,” she said carefully, “I certainly do not seek marriage. I was married once before to a man whose status and rank were the only admirable qualities he had. But it was a lie. I could never give myself to mere man. My body, yes, and I take great pleasure in that. But my heart…”
“I have felt it,” Garvana said, breaking Willow’s thoughts, “I have felt Him.”
Willow frowned and snapped her head to face Garvana’s intense expression.
“I did not know what it was at first,” she continued, “It would appear late at night, lasting for a while and leave me baffled in my meditation. So I followed it one night, it lead me to your chamber back in Alden Cross. I was unsure I had understood it correctly. When we settled here in the Horn, I was meditating as it returned. When I could hear the… sounds, Pellius and you were making, I began to grasp the idea. How is it our Infernal Lord is with you in those acts?”
Willow smiled in surprise, unsure how to truly answer.
“I am bound to Him. My heart and soul have always belonged to him. He is not just with me then, He is always with me…”

When Pellius returned later that afternoon, he was followed by Garvana and Bor. Garvana scolded him as he lay down and she checked over his wounds. The blue tinge to his lips seemed to be an indication that exercise was a bad idea. Bor spoke as she re-bandaged the newly opened wounds on his shoulder.
“The sorcerous, Traya, has agreed to work for us,” Bor said, “I believe she will be a beneficial ally. I have questioned her, and her motives and morals seem to be in line with ours, to a certain extent. She does not follow any particular religion, yet she genuinely seems to hold no bias against anyone who does.”
He reported the details of his interrogation. Traya appeared to have been honest in her answers. She was not here to quell the evil residing in the Horn, she was here for the treasure; she was after the Eyes. She was also wise enough to realise when the need to keep her life outweighed the need for gold. Tarska, the knife throwing halforc, had proven much less wise. He had been quick to sell out his friends for his freedom, and even quicker to sell his services for gold.
“Kill him,” Willow suggested when asked of his fate, “If he was that eager to sell out his allies, he will only do the same to us.”
“Agreed,” chimed the rest of the group.
While Bor returned to his duties, Teelee had left in search of the boat that Traya’s group had sailed upon. When she returned, she handed Willow a small locked chest and the journal Traya had used to find the information on the Horn and the Eyes. Willow perused the book while her body recuperated.
Sir Martin of Brandingshire was one of the Knights of Alerion who had accompanied the Victor on his raid of the Horn. He wrote a tale of battle and purification, a ballad of good triumphing over evil. It was a detailed account of each heroic deed he witnessed and played part in; from his captain beheading Ezra Thrice Damned, the High Priest of the Sons of the Pale Horsemen, to the Victor himself slaying Vetra-Kali in one on one combat. There were many interesting details in the journal, such as the failure of the Knights in recovering the three emeralds of the Archdeacon and the treasury of the Sons. He spoke of the construction of the shrine of Mitra, how each knight prayed in unison, the power of their combined faith feeding the shrine and strengthening the might it possessed.
Willow found a particular intriguing passage that spoke of the immense task of slaying Hexor and Vexor. Sir Martin described in great detail how the daemons were killed in brutal combat, slayed by the hands of the faithful knights, before their bodies dissipated into the abyss. She resolved to ask the group if they had any further knowledge of what the ceustodaemons had the power to do, and how binding the amulets they now held were.

As the sun rose on the final dawn of Willow's bed rest, she flowed through her movements of her regular morning stretches. Her muscles were stiff and sore, their forced lack of inactivity hindering her flexibility and reach. She gritted her teeth against the strain, holding her stretches for longer, testing her muscles elasticity against the cramps. The large scar on her stomach pulled the skin taut as she arch her back and neck, the newly knitted flesh quivering as if it feared it would rip open.
The group had been busy while Willow and Pellius had recovered. They had implemented the plan of sealing every entrance to the Horn, with the exception of the second floor. They had used stone shaping magic to collapse the secret entrance to the sanctum stairs, creating a single door from a third level chamber into the room guarded by Hexor and Vexor. They had closed over both balconies, collapsed the outside stairs leading to the first floor and made a crude set of stairs out of the stone wall connecting level one and two from the inside. They instructed the guards to keep the only remaining entrance heavily guarded at all times.

It was late afternoon on the ninth week of their ritual as Willow returned to her suite in the western wing of Vandermir’s manor. She mused over her findings as she strolled through the long hallways. She had come to Farholde in search of information on the celestial hounds that had attacked the Horn. What she knew before her trip was that they were known as moon dogs, and although they could certainly use telepathy to communicate, she had not heard a verbal word from them. She had a hunch that they could not speak, therefore giving the Forsaken a possible defence tactic. She had been correct, her research had confirmed that they could not verbally utter words. So she had come up with a plan to ensure they could be caught if the second hound returned for his or her partner. The crew would use a code word, a simple term or phrase that must be uttered each time they passed one another throughout the Horn, every time without exception.
Willow was scribbling notes in her journal as she approached her room. The hallways were silent, the Baron had instructed his staff to leave the western wing untouched unless otherwise instructed. So when the softest click of a window lock sounded on the other side of her door, Willow silently returned her journal to her bag and withdrew her dagger. Trying to appear as if her distracted approach had continued, she loudly unlocked her door and swung it wide. She was ready when the dagger flew towards her head. She ducked under it’s path and tumbled into the room, leaping up to launch an attack against her would-be ambusher.
Switch laughed as he bombarded her with a flurry of attacks, parrying each strike of Willow's with ease. He advanced forward with his unrelenting offence, forcing her steps back towards the bed. He leaped towards her in an uncharacteristic bull rush, catching her off guard and knocking her off balance as she fell upon the bed. True to character though, he swiftly slid above her and caged her there, knees holding her thighs, hands pinning her wrists. He forced her head aside, biting down firmly on her sensitive spot; the thin muscle that ran between her neck and shoulder. Willow squealed with delight, struggling to restrain her body from pushing up against his. This was a particular favourite game of theirs. He revelled in her inability to control herself, and unfortunately, so did she. It didn't stop her from trying though. She allowed her body to react as he anticipated, her back arching so her chest thrust itself against his, her hips grinding upon the hard length of his belt. As his teeth tightened their bite, his body slightly relaxed as he swapped his grip, one hand holding both of hers so his other could explore her body. She took a moment to enjoy it’s exploration before using every ounce of her strength to push his weight up enough so she could quickly flip him and roll on top. Her legs parted and slid to each side of him, straddling him tightly, knees locked against his thighs. She had surprised him enough for him to release the latch he had on her shoulder, but not enough for his hands to let go of their fierce hold on her wrists and waist. His hand forced the slender frame of her lower region to grind down on his. Willow couldn't stop the high pitched moan that pierced its way from her lips. He smirked at the sound. They stayed that way for a few moments, his unrelenting grip giving no room for escape as he rocked her hips ever so slightly. When he spoke, it was in an easy casual tone that gave no hint of the intense position they were in.
“I didn't take you for a lady of literature,” he said, “Hard to picture you encased in a room full of towering shelves lined with books.”
He just stared at her, awaiting a response, as casual as if they were sipping tea and talking over biscuits.
“I am not opposed to research,” she said as casually as possible, “And do you not have anything better to do than follow me around all day?”
“Do you not have men and women that serve you?” he asked with a mocking noble air, ignoring her question, “One would think that such a task was beneath you.”
Willow's laughing response was stifled with a groan as he rocked against her.
“It is quicker for me to do it myself,” she gritted.
“I'm sure that's true for a lot of things,” he said, crudely laughing.
Willow almost blushed at his words. Her dainty reply was cut short by his hand releasing her waist as it slithered lower. His other hand clutched its grip on her wrists, pulling them higher and forcing her body lower against his. She may have been on top, but as usual, he was completely in control.
“We've got two hours before training at nightfall,” he said quietly against her lips, “I can think of one good way to pass the time…”

It was on sore and fatigued legs that Willow followed Switch through the hazy moonlit streets of town. She kept within a few paces of him, ignoring the burn in her thighs. He gracefully ran on silent feet with the vigour of a man who had not expended his energy in the last few hours, even though she intimately knew better. They reached the warehouse and crept through the tattered wooden panels, quietly creeping though the large halls to the secret room hidden within its walls. As they entered, Switch lifted something from his cabinet and flung it towards her. Willow quickly reached out and caught it by the metal shaft. It was a dagger, a matching one to the first that he had given her. The sisters were identical in every way, both had unusually long blades that arched into fine slender points. Both had the intricate markings along their base, script written in a language she didn't recognise. Her contacts in the underground had translated it for her, they had said it was written in an ancient language, one so lost that it no longer had a name.
Silence is our greatest ally, as we strike from the shadows - the motto of the Black Serpent Coterie. Willow fingered the dagger lightly as she lifted the other from its sheath.
“You will learn to dual wield the daggers,” Switch said, watching Willow practice her grip, “In the beginning it will feel awkward, you'll feel sloppy and off balance as you've been trained to even your weight with a single blade.”
Willow practiced the basic dance of light blade training. She did indeed feel sluggish. Her movements were slow and jerky, her left hand untrained in its attack, her grip tight and unnatural. The unarmed hand had always been used for balance and control, there to support her weight as she pirouetted and cleaved. The dagger, though only a whiff of metal, felt like a lumbering weight in her hand.
“In battle you rely on your speed and agility to overpower your opponent,” Switch continued, no trace of the light hearted smug rogue, he was all business and professionalism, “But as a down side to keeping you light and quick, your weapon must be small. You are at a disadvantage when your opponents weapon can inflict massive damage each time he manages to catch you. Those opponents are usually the ones in the heaviest armour. So to even the playing field, you need to be able to hit them harder in the shortest possible time. Long drawn out battles are not your friend. The longer you take to cut them down, the higher their chance of landing a fatal blow on you. To that end, two daggers. You can inflict two wounds in the same time it would take you to make one.”
It was a simple theory, one that made perfect sense. But the logic of it did not make Willow’s grip anymore even. Switch started by weaving her through the basic attacks of dual wielding. They were similar to her normal attacks, with the difference being the follow through. Instead of slashing and leaping away, she continued her movement with it’s momentum and sliced with her left hand. He said that there was no need to expect her second hand to be as powerful as the first, but to allow the first to guide the path for the second. After an hour of hacking through air, Switch stood in place of her imaginary target. He slowed his movements in the beginning, allowing her to get comfortable with the two blades. Luckily, she was a fast learner. As his speed increased; so did hers, her attacks mirroring his in their fatal dance. By midnight she was almost attacking at her regular speed, her fluid grace returning, her steps quick and swift. She managed to slash deeply across his cheek as she countered his attack. As the blood seeped from the gash and Switch realised she was keeping up with him, he quickened his pace, his attacks becoming impossibly fast to parry. He backed Willow into a corner, a move she didn't notice until her back thumped against the wall. He cut off all her escape routes, his body seemed to be in three places at once, his blades seemed to triple, six daggers slashing towards her. She defended herself as best she could with the little room she had. As she lashed out at one of him, she struck her blade across his torso and gasped as the image of him disappeared. The other two of him grinned in glee at her response. She ducked under their swings and took a chance by leaping into one of them with her dagger forward. The blade and her traveled directly through the image as it vanished, leaving the single Switch to chase after her as he laughed. Willow had heard of magic as this, but had never seen it herself. It was disorientating to say the least. She continued her sprint across the room, trying to create space for herself to attack. The sound of his footsteps behind her suddenly silenced. She span on her heel and prowled, two daggers at the ready. The room appeared empty, no sounds bar the ones her own quiet footfalls were making. Her heart was beating too quickly for her to take in any slight feel of motion upon the wooden floor. Silently, Willow felt the press of a cold clean blade against her throat. It pulled her backwards until her back pressed against a hard solid body.
“You're very good,” Switch’s low grumbling voice whispered against her ear, “But not good enough. Your enemies may have access to the same weapons as I, and they won't hesitate to use them. You need to be better prepared.”
Willow remained silent as he pulled the dagger tighter against her throat, his other hand slipping around her waist and up behind the hem of her shirt. As the rough callous of his palm scraped the smooth delicate flesh of her torso, Willow quivered against him. She felt the soft wetness of his tongue trace her earlobe.
“Keep the dagger,” he whispered, “Use it train yourself. When you are competent, you will use it to fulfil your next task. When I deem you ready, I will deliver the requirements of your next mission. Once it is completed, you shall become a Journeyman. You have much training to do before then. For if you fail, you will only see me once more. It will be as I take your life with my blade.”
Without another word, he was gone. As if winking out of existence, he disappeared. Willow felt like she should have been frightened by the intensity of his words, or the utter conviction in which he said them. But she wasn't. If anything, she was excited. She didn't expect to fail, she knew she could complete any mission he gave her. But the thrill of facing Switch if she happened to falter, was a delicious tease in itself. Willow gathered herself enough to collect her belongings and right her skewed armour. Her blood was still racing too fast to return to the manor and sleep. So she decided to use her energy to run her way back to the Horn. The darkness of the forest did not scare her. In fact, it welcomed her into its eternal shadowed embrace.

The guards came barrelling up the stairs in the midmorning sun, an urgent hurry to their steps. They had returned to the Horn with the gruesome news about town. A slaughter had occurred in the slums of Farholde. Six bodies were found strung up by their hands, their entrails sprawled across the alleyway. One of the deceased had been a local prostitute, known for her easy nature and loud mouth. The other five had been an Iraen group of adventurers that had been set on ransacking the Horn. The most disturbing of the news was the message that had been written in blood cresting the bodies.

Stay away from the Horn.

“Subtle,” Willow scoffed as the guards recounted the tale.
“It might scare off the groups that were merely after treasure,” Bor replied, “But it is only going to bring those that wish to actually disrupt and stop our progress.”
By the guards report, it had indeed sent several adventurers north, figuring there were easier pickings over the wall. As the group headed towards the tavern to convene, Willow mused over the suspicions in her mind. The oddity here was the prostitute. She had not forgotten that the note Elise had sent had given them the wrong information on Traya's groups planned entry. It was Willow's suspicion that had each entrance manned. She approached the sorcerous who sat alone at the corner table of the tavern.
“May I speak with you?” Willow asked politely.
“Of course,” Traya responded, “I have some questions of my own if you don't mind.”
Willow smiled as she sat, “Go ahead.”
“The orc says you are here to banish an Archdeacon, yet you are strained for allies. Surely the Mitrans would have vested interest in seeing this task complete. Why not get them to aid you?”
Willow kept her words controlled, careful not to give an opening for the wrong information to slip, “We are Asmodean,” she said simply, “The Mitrans consider us their enemies purely for our faith in our Lord.”
“But surely they would put that prejudice aside to banish a greater evil from this land?”
Willow smiled and shook her head, “No. The crimes of blasphemy and heresy are punishable by death. Burned at the stake, like some backwards heathen ritual, punishing those simply for their faith. They would not set aside their differences, their own law states that our very existence is a stain upon this land, no matter if our cause is just.”
Willow listened to the others join in their conversation and turn it into a debate of the state of Talingarde. It was slightly refreshing to hear their views countered not by fanatical hatred, but by an unbiased outsider. Traya was smart enough to realise that there was more to their plans than simply banishing Vetra-Kali, but she held an open view of their intent, not condemning them for their belief that they could make the world a better place. Garvana spoke of the injustice against the Asmodean people of Talingarde, the slaughter of innocent families who were convicted and killed for their religion. Pellius spoke of order and freedom from chaos, real structure to allow those who were worthy to rise to from their station, everyone having and knowing their place in the world. Traya's arguments were valid. She spoke of the paradise that Talingarde was for the people, the more fortunate helping the less, charity and community being pillars in the society. Willow's mind trailed off while the others bantered, the sorcerous had raised several strong points. She could understand the views she put forward, but she could also see how they were wrong. The state of the land allowed many injustices to fester. It was those of worth that suffered. The poor were cared for by the gold stripped in taxes from the rich. The poor had no need to help themselves, they had no need to improve their own situation, the charity of this land ensured there was no need. The rich had no need to better themselves either. Their stations were protected by laws and rights, they paid their taxes and awaited the years of fattened bellies, shrinking muscles and full coffers. Willow's parents were prime examples of that. The land was stagnant. Nobody gained, nobody grew, nobody rose. It was the powerful and ambitious that suffered; there was no room for either in Talingarde.

Early one afternoon on the eleventh week of their ritual, the boggard chieftain Zikomo approached the group. His eyes were glossed over, a drugged fuelled haze surrounded him.
“Zikomo comes to you with grave news, oh great emissaries of the Father,” he said in his mystical amphibian way, “A boggard hunting party has not returned, they were headed east towards the great lake. I have read the signs. A great hunting demon has taken them.”
Pellius, who appeared almost uninterested in the speech, perked up at the mention of a demon. The temptation of purging the demonic being of chaos, was one too great for him to ignore. The group agreed to seek out and destroy the predator, leaving swiftly after sourcing all the information they could from Zikomo’s readings.
The trek to the east was slow, they followed the boggard tracks towards the river for a few hours until they came across the signs of ambush. The blood smeared along the ground casing the panicked prints of the boggards told a strange story. Massive clawed prints lay sprawled across the mud. Willow frowned at the tracks.
“I don't think the boggard meant demon as such,” she said wryly, “I think he meant it as a beast or creature.”
“A dire tiger,” Bor agreed, “And a huge one at that. I've never seen prints so big.”
“Well we can't have it running around killing the boggards,” Garvana chimed in, “They're no good to us dead.”
The group followed the enormous tracks to the edge of the great lake. They lead into a cave, black and shadowed, deep stone curving into an underground den. Willow slinked out of sight as the group tried to draw out their prey with noise. When a few minutes passed and nothing appeared from the cave, the group gave up their lure and decided to enter.
“If it's home,” Willow whispered, “It sure knows we're here.”
The arcane light that was cast upon Pellius’ warhammer lit the way into the winding caverns. They were greeted by a strangely clean and orderly den, bones of the deceased stacked almost neatly upon a single pile. As they delved deeper through the stone work, a frightening silhouette leaped from the shadows, straight towards Pellius. It was the largest tiger that Willow had ever seen. With paws the size of her head, on all fours it stood almost two foot taller than her. It ferociously mauled at Pellius, its teeth sank deep into his shoulder, it's claws on both front paws ripped furiously at his chest. As it tried to tear a chuck of flesh through his armour, Willow was the first to react. She tumbled passed the massacre and leapt up behind it, ramming her dagger deep into its side. The beast let out a fearsome growl as it unlatched itself from Pellius and attempted to turn on her. Pellius struggled to hold on to the tiger as it turned its attention on Willow, but it was too strong as it ripped itself free and leap on her. She cried out as its teeth pierced her flesh, embedding deeply into her neck, blooding running down her shoulders. The rest of the group attacked fast. This was not a creature they would attempt to capture, the attacks mercilessly seeking its death. In unison, Bor, Pellius and Garvana cleaved into the beast, their blades searing deep into its back. Even Teelee’s horse galloped forward, lashing out with its jaw and savaging a chunk of its fur and flesh before greedily swallowing it. The creature refused to let go of her, its teeth keeping an agonising hold as it lashed out at Pellius with its back feet. Willow saw his flaming warhammer fly towards the beast. As his mighty blow connected at the same moment Bor's sword shoved through its ribs, the enormous tiger collapsed on top of her. Still bleeding heavily, Willow dragged herself free of the beast with Pellius’ aid. His face was white with blood loss, the wounds across his neck, chest and torso were gushing bright red. Willow guided him to the floor as Garvana raced over to heal the worst of his wounds.
Approaching the dead tiger, Willow frowned as she saw an old scar slashed across his left eye. She had heard of a tale surrounding a one eyed tiger of the Caer Bryr.
“There is a legend of these parts,” she said to Teelee as she looked over the tiger’s face, “An animal companion of an Iraen druid, a tiger who grew to immense power in the presence of the divine might his master commanded. They say he lost his eye in the very battle that killed his master. He had grown intelligent. Enough to harbour a hatred for the Talriens who slaughtered his master…”
Willow's frown deepened as she inspected the scar. The exterior had healed long ago, but the flesh around the eye was still reddened and swollen. As she looked closer, she saw what appeared to be the pommel of a dagger. Delicately, she gripped its edge and pulled it free. It was a complete adamantine dagger. Willow felt a ping of sadness at the thought of the creature wandering for decades, a blade painfully latched through its eye. She handed the dagger to Bor as she turned from the beast.
“Take its head, give it to Zikomo, it will be good for morale…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:46 AM
Chapter 14 - Eye of the Inquisitor - Part 2


A soft knock on the door at midmorning broke Willow from her drawing. She had been sketching the Horn of Abbadon in her journal, shading the silhouette of a great blackened wraith circling its side.
“Come in,” she called, closing the journal.
Pellius stepped inside, dressed in his fullplate armour. The blackened metal sat on his flesh like a menacing stronghold, dark and wicked, almost frightening in its allure. He had been on bed rest again for the week following the tiger’s attack. It was good to see him up on his feet, looking his usual handsome self.
“My lady,” he said smoothly, “May I have a moment of your time?”
Willow smiled at his formality and impeccable charm, “Of course, what may I do for you?”
“There is a show tonight in Auld’lrey, a famous bard by the name of Wildak Quinitis, I would be delighted if you were to accompany me?”
Willow cocked her eyebrow in intrigue, “I would love to.”
“Very good,” he said, a slightly devious glint to his eyes, “We shall leave by midday. Pack for an overnight stay.”
Willow inclined her head as he left and closed the door behind him. There was clearly more than a show that Pellius had planned, and she couldn't help the flutters of excitement and anticipation that rattled through her body. After packing her belongings and gently folding in one of her gowns, Willow was almost disappointed when she left her chamber to find some of the others had joined in for their trip to the city. Bor and Garvana had decided to travel to Farholde to restock supplies and search the arcane stores for trinkets.
The sun was caressing the horizon as they arrived through the southern gates, dusk coming earlier as winter made its approach on the land. As the others made their way to follow Pellius, his sharp commanding comment had them stopped in their tracks.
“We will see you tomorrow,” he clipped, “Goodnight.”
He placed his hand an the small of Willow's back and guided her towards Auld'lrey. They said little as they strolled through the streets, winding through the rich pathways of the upper market district, towards a lavish inn situated at the highest point of the hill. The Minstrel and Shield was a three story building of timber and brick, magically lit lanterns blazed brightly by its entrance, illuminating the reddened brickwork along its door frame. Willow smiled at the bellhop as they entered. Her large black fur cloak hung close to the ground and hid her armour underneath. The fur glistened against the light glittering through the opulent parlour. Pellius stood tall in his shining armour, the magic of the circlet warping it to a brilliant silver shimmer. They would have appeared as a noble knight and his mistress. When the bellhop showed them to their suite, Willow had to smirk at the memory of the first night they had spent together at a similar inn in Aldencross.
As the door clicked shut, Willow began to unpack her things. The measured controlled footsteps behind her had her breath quicken. She could feel the heat from his body as he stood behind her, his fierce presence like a force pressing against her. The air in the room was different than it had been for weeks. Pellius had become distant and reclusive, still as charming and polite as he always was, but the desire and lust between them had dimmed. He had politely declined every advance she had made, leaving her with little choice but to accept it and stop trying. Willow had never been one to chase after her prey, she had always been patient enough to wait for it to come looking for her. And it always did. The air in the room seemed to thicken, her heartbeat sounding loud to her ears, her palms beginning to sweat. Suddenly, he turned and walked to the opposite side of the room. Willow frowned, spinning towards him. Pellius began to casually remove his armour, unstrapping each buckle with practiced efficiency, nothing remotely seductive about the methodical way he went about it.
“Am I correct in assuming you have contacts in town?” he asked simply.
Willow frowned, figuring she had only imagined the hint of jealously in his voice, “You assume correct.”
“I would ask a favour, if I may.”
Willow quirked her head, “You may.”
“I would ask that you inquire if your contacts could track down the fate of my shipmates. I have mentioned them before, they are my Chelaxian brethren, and although it is most likely they were captured and executed, the possibility that they survived is too tempting to ignore. They would prove great allies if we could locate them.”
Willow nodded, looking out the window to see the last of the sun dipping below the horizon. She had roughly two hours until the opening of the show so she picked up her cloak and laced it around her neck.
“I shall inquire and be back within the hour. I must pick up an item for Teelee while we are here, I may as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Pellius nodded as she turned to leave.
“Willow,” he called as she approached the door, “I must apologise for being discourteous over these last few weeks.”
Willow smiled and shook her head, “Do not apologise. We are all just trying to do what we think is right to accomplish our mission.”
“No, please allow me to offer an explanation.”
She stopped her leave, her interest peaked, as she took the chair he was offering.
“I am cautious of allowing him too much power,” he said, still tending to his armour, “I wish to keep Grumblejack compliant, I fear too much power will lead to a loss of our control. I am not so stubborn as I cannot see the benefit his transformation, but it is only a benefit while he serves us. He has pledged his services to Asmodeus, but you know very well how little words can mean when alliances change.”
Willow smiled, “You know I am not a woman of easy trust. I have been keeping a close eye on the beast, and will continue to do so, for now though he appears content in his servitude. If that changes, or at any time I believe it may, I will not hesitate to correct my mistake.”
Pellius paused for a moment, turning to Willow with a small smile, “I believe that. But I still must air on the side of caution. Willow, you are clearly the most talented and capable of the group, -
Willow laughed, “Flattery will get you entirely everywhere.”
His smile deepened, “It may flatter you, but I truly believe it so. I believe we have much to gain by assisting one another, there is much prestige and power we could source for ourselves, there is nothing binding us in Thorn’s contract to dissuade us from seeking our own advantages. In fact, it is encouraged by the Asmodean dogma. By aiding me in finding my previous companions, we would have a group of disciplined Asmodeans, loyal to me to help further our goals.”
Willow nodded, “I will endeavour to find them.”
He smiled his thanks as he returned to his armour, Willow strolled over to him and began helping him with his back straps, unlacing their thick buckles.
He sighed, “I am disappointed in our groups usage of our base of operations and its subjects. The men are cleaning walls that have already been cleaned, standing guard yet incapable of standing up to any kind of assault. We should be expanding our reach to bring true obedience and civility to this land, we have servants who are now bound to Asmodeus, yet we are giving them no way to truly prove themselves. What are your thoughts? You have contacts in the city who, if my suspicions are correct, partly run the underground. Do you have any better use for our men?”
Willow mused over the question, unstrapping the last of the buckles, pushing the heavy plates over his shoulders.
“I shall think on it, the men we have are peasants, thugs and thieves, perhaps I can find something more suitable to their skill.”
Pellius nodded as he bent forward to start on his greaves. Willow had to take a moment to admire the bulging muscles of his backside. She tore her eyes away with a grin, and turned towards the door, readjusting her cloak.
His silky words had her tremble, “I am not a man of forgiveness, I am a man of retribution. Yet denying you seems to have had little effect save leaving me missing your company. I’ve had to arrange more innovative means of punishment.”
Willow quivered. She cast a quick look at the last slither of sun dropping behind the horizon before striding for the door.

She made her way quickly through the back streets towards the slums, slipping through buildings until she reached the entrance to the black market. She approached the office to find Martin sitting in his chair, hunched over a large tome filled with hundreds of numbers and lists. She knocked as she entered and returned his welcoming smile.
“Kathryn my dear,” he said warmly, “A pleasure as always to see you.”
“And you Martin,” she replied.
He stood from his seat and greeted her with his usual kiss to the knuckle. He indicated her to a chair and went about pouring them both a cup of aromatic foreign tea. Willow quietly closed the door before she sat.
He raised his eyebrows slightly at her secrecy, “And what brings you here today, my lady?”
Willow smiled and accepted the tea, “I have a task. One of the utmost secrecy. I need people who I can trust, discreet people, and I do not have any to spare.”
Martin grinned, making his wizened face almost devilishly handsome, “Ah, colour me intrigued my dear. May I ask of the details? It may help to define the type of men you are seeking?”
Willow smirked, “Men I am seeking is an appropriate term.”
“Ah I see,” Martin replied, sipping on his steaming cup, “And are these men the type who do not want to be found, or cannot?”
Before she spoke, she tilted her head to the door, not sure if she was imagining the soft rattle of footsteps standing by the frame. She heard Martin whisper an incantation and suddenly every sound outside of the walls silenced. Willow's eyes flickered to Martin in surprise.
“I may be an old dog,” he chuckled, “But I've still got a few tricks. You may speak freely, no sound can penetrate into or out of this room.”
Willow saw no lies in the creases of his soft face.
“Roughly eight months ago, a Chelaxian vessel landed on the shores of Matharyn. A member of its crew was captured and arrested for blasphemy. The fate of the rest of the crew is what I require. For now, that information is all I need. I do not need these men to be approached, I simply need the status of them, and their location if they survived, escaped or were released.”
Martin barely battered an eyelash at the request.
“Consider it done,” he said with a smile, “It shall take time, but I shall send two of my own. You shall have your answer within two months.”
Willow quirked an eyebrow, “And what shall this cost me?”
Martin chuckled, “Think of this as payment for that scar upon Switch’s face. It has been a long time since that man has been marked by anyone, it brings an old man like me a lot of joy to see his pretty mug a bit roughed up. That it was such a delicate thing like you, makes it all the more sweeter.”
Willow laughed as she returned her empty cup to its saucer. She thanked Martin, laying a gentle kiss on his cheek before taking her leave, purchasing a vial of calamus and styrax for Teelee and heading back to the Minstrel and Shield. Teelee had requested Willow acquire a bottle of the scents when she had heard the story of why the perfume was forbidden. While on Talingarde soil, only one person was permitted to wear such a fragrance; Princess Belinda. Willow had always found the rule ridiculous, so she secretly enjoyed Teelee's instance at wearing it.

When Willow arrived back at the suite, she found it empty. She called out to Pellius as she began to remove her gear, but did he didn't respond. She strolled through the bedroom as she finished pulling off her breastplate and stopped as she saw an odd item laying next to her gown upon the bed. Two black leather garters sat neatly arranged along the layers of ebony silk. The garters themselves were nothing aberrant, it was the slender metal spikes attached to the insides that made them intriguing. The spikes were not sharp enough to break the skin, but their thin points enough to cause a constant discomfort and sharp jolt of pain to their wearer with every step. They were a more carnal version of the shirt Pellius had designed and commissioned their blacksmith to make. An innocent looking chain metal shirt, it's insides laced with razor sharp hooks that would latch on to its wearers skin. A perfect, if not cruel and callous, means of obedience. Butterflies flooded her stomach at the sadistic design of the garters. She left them where they were while she headed for the bathroom, finding the tub already filled with clean steaming water. She bathed and cleansed herself in her usual ritual, finding little comfort in her distracted preparation. When her makeup was done and her hair was arranged, she returned to the bedroom to face what was waiting. She delicately slipped her feet through the garters, whimpering as she dragged them high upon her thighs. They were a perfect fit. The leather strapped a tight seal around her skin and the metal spikes pinched deeply into her flesh. They were strangely not uncomfortable, Willow actually found them quite enjoyable. The slight sharp pain that rippled through her legs with each step was not dissimilar to the feeling she received each time her Infernal Lord found her. She would not have to be worried about hiding her pain in public, it would be her amorous enjoyment and the constant flush of her cheeks that gave her away.
As she finished dressing, a loud bell chimed from down the street, the sound indicated the theatres doors were open. As Willow glided through the room, Pellius entered the parlour.
“You look beautiful as always, my lady,” he said charmingly.
His lip curled into a sly grin as Willow’s breathing hitched as she stepped towards him.
“And you are as handsome as ever,” she replied, doing her best to hide the throbbing need she felt.
“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.
Willow smirked as she accepted it, keeping her steps graceful and soft. They strolled out of the inn and down the lantern lit street towards the theatre, Pellius spoke with a casual air as they neared.
“Did you have any luck this evening?” he asked.
“Indeed,” she replied softly, “We shall have an answer well before we leave the area.”
“Very well, my lady, and thank you.”

The performance made for a pleasant evening. The halfling bard sang with a soft foreign lilt, his skill with the fiddle living up to his famous reputation. Willow thoroughly enjoyed his rendition of some of the classical folk songs of lore, his delicate sopranist vocal range added a whimsical hint to the somber ballads. Of course, Willow found it difficult to really concentrate. On the occasion she managed her mind to drift off with the music, a firm hand would subtly squeeze the garter, forcing the metal spikes to dig further into the skin, making her clamp down her teeth to stop from groaning.
As his hand released its grip and the pain retreated, Willow found her mind turning. Both Pellius and Switch were sadists. She tried not to think about what it said about her that she would find herself so drawn to them. They were so very different. Switch was vicious, rough, impulsive. He was fierce, he preferred his prey to fight back, so he could dominate them and force them into submission. Pellius on the other hand was subtle. His commanding air needed no posturing. He expected to be obeyed and revelled in his target’s obedience. He did not need to force them to submit, they would willingly, for fear of his dark promise of retribution.
It was that dark promise that kept Willow's blood racing as they left the stalls of the theatre and made their way back to the inn. Dinner had been prepared and delivered to the parlour of their suite when they returned, the smell of heavily spiced roast duck filling the room. Willow trembled with anticipation as they ate in silence. The air in the chamber had thickened again, his ominous aura seeping into her pores. She was sure the servants in the room would have to be able to feel it while they served dinner and refilled their glasses.
As they finished eating and Pellius called for the servants to clear the table, Willow strolled to the bedroom and slowly began unlacing the binding of her dress. She jumped as she heard the click of the lock behind her. She dropped the gown to the floor, standing in front of the mirror dressed only in her corset, lace undergarments and the garters. The cold breeze drifting from the open slit of the window feathered along her bare skin, sending a shiver racking through her body. She heard his approach before his menacing reflection appeared behind her. His fingers trailed and lingered over the garters, before firmly clutching them and compressing them so tightly that Willow felt their points pierce her skin. Her teeth clamped as the guttural groan sounded from her throat. His grip retreated as his hands turned to her undergarments and swiftly ripped them in half, the silk fabric trickling to the ground. He stared into her eyes through her reflection, as one hand traced up to her neck, forcing her head to the side to bare her throat. Willow's breath was short and sharp, her pulse quickened, her body trembled. She watched it all in the vivid detail of the mirror, she watched him take it all like it was rightfully his.


An ominous worrying note greeted them as they returned to the Horn. A silver dragon had been sighted over Farholde, and Elise had sent an urgent message to warn them of the possibility that it was on its way towards them. The lingering enjoyment Willow felt from the night before vanished as she read the note. The group convened in the tavern to discuss their defence, combining their knowledge of silver dragons. They knew the creatures to be highly intelligent, strong willed and severely devoted to the forces of good. They knew they had powerful magic of cold and ice, giving them natural immunities to winters grace. This also meant they had a weakness to fire, one the group planned to utilise.
As night closed over the sky, the group retreated for rest and preparation. As they left the tavern, Willow grabbed Pellius by the hand and led him towards her chamber. Far past midnight, she collapsed atop him, shallow breaths, body lethargic and sated. The signal horn sounding from the entrance broke her sexual stupor. They both leapt from the bed, scurrying to grab their weapons. Willow quickly ripped on a black night slip, it's slender whiff of fabric would offer nothing but a touch of modesty. As Pellius turned to the knock at the door, she tossed his pants towards him. Barris, the guard captain on duty, appeared in the archway.
“The signal came from outside,” he mumbled, “They haven't breached the door yet.”
Willow and Pellius charged down the hallway, Barris and the hounds following closely behind, rounding the corner to see the rest of the group arriving at the entrance. Bor had been on duty, so he wore his ragged armour and appeared alert and ready. Teelee had managed to grab her belt of potions and wands and had it strapped over her floor length red nightgown. Garvana wore only satin trousers and unlaced boots, her heavily muscled chest and breasts sitting taut and firm, an erotic and imposing sight. The Asmodean star burned into the flesh of her back blazing like a beacon of malevolence.
What a strange tale this night would make, Willow thought.
She stayed hidden behind the barricade as Bor and Pellius cautiously approached the door. Suddenly, two halberd blades shattered their way through the wood. As they retreated, Teelee shot off a pellet of flame that slipped through the cracks and exploded the door inward, scorching their attackers. Three men with halberds stepped through the doorway, unbothered by the flaming mess of the wooden arch around them. When Willow saw the intricate sunburst decorating their armour, a wave of fear came over her. They were Knights of the Inquisition. Fabled witch hunters that roamed the land of Talingarde, righting wrongs and seeking out any evil to destroy it. These knights meant that an Inquisitor was with them - these knights were a very bad sign for the Forsaken.
Willow heard Pellius’ dark chanting as a crippling wave of energy burst through the room, for a moment, the knights looked weakened. It took them half a breath to right themselves again. The charged fiercely towards Bor, with practiced military proficiency one of them hooked his halberd behind Bor's leg and ripped him off balance, while the other two arched their blades high and brought them down into Bor's chest. Willow let off a flurry of arrows, struggling to pierce their fullplate armour, as Garvana chanted behind her. She felt the strange sensation flood her body, energy sprouted from her veins, she felt fast and keen. The strange joy was overshadowed by the entrance of their true enemy. The Inquisitor walked in with an air of complete control and arrogance. He wore a face weathered with age and trauma, his eyes held a deep wisdom and battered down pessimism. This man had seen much battle, much terror, much evil. A scar that slashed across his face contorted his lip into a permanent sneer, his hood hanging low on his brow, his shining sunburst medallion hanging heavy on his chest.
“Mitra guide me!” he bellowed, “I shall cleanse this stain from your land!”
Willow watched as the wounds on the knights closed over and healed from the touch of the Inquisitor’s hand. Bor leapt at one of the knights in a frothing rage, cleaving his blade deep through it’s shoulder and down into it's chest. The knight fell to the floor in a crumpled heap of metal. As the remaining two repeated their trip and cut manoeuvre, the gaping wounds in Bor's torso poured with blood. He struggled to get back to his feet as the strain of the blood loss intensified with each movement. There was little the group could do to help. The choke point of the corridor meant that no one else could squeeze through to aid him, Willow could have possibly made it through, but would have taken heavy damage along the way. Suddenly, Garvana charged through the guard room towards the arrow slits. She used her stone shaping magic to seal off the entrance between Bor and the Inquisitor's men. Pellius gave Bor a potent healing potion as he helped the halforc to his feet. Willow heard the forceful words of the Inquisitor booming from the outside as they retreated.
“You will not escape next time!” he bellowed, “This vile den of scum can not be allowed to stand!”
Willow assumed the group would take a moment to equip their armour before giving chase, but as she turned for her chamber, she heard Garvana reopen the stone. One by one they ran out of the building and followed the Inquisitor down the stairs. As Willow reached the entrance, she saw a slender man in black armour deserting the battle and begin to climb down the side of the Horn. Aided by the fleet of Garvana's magic, Willow quickly climbed down after him. As she neared, she saw the strangest thing. Teelee leapt from the stairs and fell plummeting towards the ground. Willow didn't have time to think on it as she deftly closed in on the man's escape.
“Leave me alone!” he screamed, “I didn't want to come! They made me!”
Willow had no mercy for the man as she leapt at him with her dagger. She slashed him across the throat as she clung on to the wall. He wailed as the wound spouted blood, his grip failing as he fell to his death. She heard a loud thump from out in the distance, unsure whether the ground broke the man’s fall or Teelee’s. From her vantage point she could see Grumblejack flying through the air towards the Inquisitor, hacking his blade deep through the shoulder. Willow quickly climbed her way back up, the slender slip of her night gown offering no protection from the cold bite of the night air. When she reached the stairs, she felt an ominous pulse of divine energy throbbing in the atmosphere. She looked further down the walkway and saw the Inquisitor and Grumblejack locked in battle. Wisps of holy magic danced around the Inquisitor, shimmering an eery cold blue, whipping back and forth as if building in strength. Suddenly, he unleashed them, hurtling them towards the ogre as their overflow bounded passed him and encased the rest of the group. Willow felt the sickening shrill of goodness, the righteous arcane power pelting her full force, sapping her will to fight. As she struggled to regain her composure, a menacing chuckle sounded from a deep and guttural throat. The spell had been aimed at Grumblejack, but as it poured from the Inquisitor's hands, it seems to collide with a magical barrier surrounding the ogre. He seemed to dismiss the holy man as an unworthy opponent, flying off in chase of the the priest who had rolled his way down the large staircase.
Bor and Pellius were not so naïve. Together they charged the Inquisitor, metal flashing as it clashed through the air. The man continued to scream his Mitran dogma, cursing the retched souls that were the Forsaken. His might was undeniable, his will a testament to his strength. He was not afraid as the warhammer and the axe came sailing towards him. He could not dodge both of them, he knew he was going to die, and yet he was so fanatical in his faith he believed he would die only for it was the plan of his Mitra. As the weapons hit, the axe tore through his stomach and the warhammer bludgeoned his chest. He fell to his knees and collapsed. Bor and Pellius turned their attentions to the remaining knights. As the battle drew to a close, victory on the lips of the Forsaken, Willow strolled down the stairs.
The Inquisitor lay slumped against the wall, his breaths shallow and rasped, blood seeping from his wounds. He faced death with a stubborn chin, a strong will cementing his knowledge that he was going to his Lord’s side. Willow approached him, dragging his hood back and lifting his head by his hair, hearing the spluttering broken words he was trying to speak.
“Mitra… will…-
Willow pushed all of her might into a single swipe of her blade, she felt an Infernal pulse guiding her strike with strength she did not possess. The man's words were cut off as his head came free from his shoulders. She dropped it to the ground with disdain. Lifting the pendant from its rest along his collarbone, Willow stared into the rapturous glistening sapphire. She felt an uncontrolled hatred flare in her stomach, she felt the rage of vengeance fuelling her actions. As Pellius and Bor turned back towards her, she let out a fearsome chthonic shriek, swinging the pendant towards the stone wall. The Infernal surge returned, it's force sending the medallion hurtling to it's demise. As the sapphire connected with the stone, it shattered, exploding in a feathering shower of blue and silver dust. The glittering cloud surrounded Willow in an ominous mist, before it trickled to the ground around her. She held the medallion by its chain. Lifting it into her sight, she saw the irony of the medallion’s state. A silver sunburst, hollow, destroyed and empty - just like Mitra's protection of this world.

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:48 AM
Chapter 15 - Leadership - Part 1


“You can't stay out here the entirety of the four months we have left,” Willow chuckled.
Since the shambles of the last attack on the Horn of Abbadon, Pellius had taken it upon himself to stand guard, stopping only for a mere two hours each night for rest.
Their defence on that night had been at best haphazard and sloppy. The group had found themselves fighting on the ten foot wide staircase leading to the second floor, chasing their foes down the hundred foot drop. They had snatched a precarious victory from the mighty Mitran Inquisitor. When the fabled witch hunter and his comrades had launched their assault, the group had been unprepared and unorganised. As they had managed to turn the attack back onto the Inquisitor, Bor had been near fatally wounded, grasping to the last shreds of his consciousness, Teelee had fallen to the ground from the ledge of the entrance, and several of their minions had been slain. So Pellius had taken the guard of the entrance upon his shoulders. While he stood rigid in his vigil at the top of the staircase, Willow sat leisurely by him with her feet dangling above the abyss that was the Caer Bryr.
“We're going to have to come up with a better plan than this,” she said when he didn't respond.
“Well, my lady,” he replied, charming as ever, “Do inform me when you come up with one. Until then, I shall remain on guard.”
Willow smiled, eyes grazing over the emerald blanket of the treetops. The early morning sun shimmered along the condensation kissing each jade leaf, making the canopy glisten like a sea of gems upon its top. She was glad for these moments, small reprieves from the intensity of their immense task, quiet moments where the beauty of the world still shone.
“We should split the guard duty into shifts,” she said, leaning back on her hands, “Two of us on at all times. Divide it into three shifts; morning, day and night. I know you are more than capable of handling the task alone, but perhaps it would be best to share the load?”
Pellius frowned in thought, “The responsibility would do the others good.”
“And think of how the place would suffer if you were hidden away on guard duty the entire time,” Willow said, gently stroking his ego, “The men would run rampant if you were not there to discipline them. I cringe at the thought of the state of our order if the others were left in charge.”
“I need no posturing, my lady,” he replied, a sly grin tinting his lips, “But I agree. There is much that fills my time, and indeed the place would be a ramshackle without someone to enforce authority.”
“Just think on it,” Willow replied, rising from her rest, laying a soft hand on his arm, “It is a fact I myself am having trouble accepting, but we are not without allies. We must rely on each other, for none of us can do this alone.”

As the sun dropped behind the horizon later that night, the group gathered around the table in the tavern. Bor had recovered slowly from the impressive amass of wounds he had taken, walking with only a slight limp as the flesh knitted back together along his legs and torso. Teelee strolled in with her usual swagger, head held high, nose turned up. The only indication of her perilous fall was the covered wince within her step.
Dismissing the tavern staff, the group turned their attentions to the task at hand. The discussion of the failing defence they were employing was long and tedious. By nights end, they had agreed to Willow's proposed guarding shifts, admitting to their failing at underutilising the magic of Vetra-Kali’s eyes. They had determined the best alterations to the entrance way, and decided on new specialised training for their pitiful followers. Pellius had scripted a list of which men and women would be best suited to which training, proposing to initiate the instruction himself. Their final task for the night was to sketch out a rough drawing of their plans for the entrance. They needed to open out the inner passage way to make room for more than one defender and narrow the door way to keep ranks of enemies from swarming them. Willow had come up with the idea of placing a gate at the tail of the pit trap, to force their attackers to deal with it instead of leaping over and rendering it obsolete.
“We need time to arm ourselves before we go running into battle,” she said, “Though humorous it may be, fighting in our nightwear is highly impractical.”
“I didn't mind the view,” Bor said with a cheeky grin.
“Nor I,” Pellius chuckled.
Willow smirked, “Be that as it may, I'd rather not be gutted, the erotic fantasy of naked fighting loses its charm when I picture my insides on my outsides.”
“Then we must take time to prepare,” Garvana agreed.
“Perhaps we set up bunks in the throne room,” Willow suggested, “Sleep close to one another so we can muster our defence in the shortest amount of time.”
Garvana scoffed, looking from Willow to Pellius, “You two don't do much sleeping though…”
Willow couldn't help but grin.
“The roster,” she continued, ignoring the comment, “Allows each of us our own free time to follow whatever pursuits we wish. Two on guard at anytime, changing shifts that align with the timing of the rituals. The signal horns, set with the series of alarms, can be heard from any level of the compound.”
“Very good,” Pellius praised, “We shall implement the changes over the next week.”
“Agreed.”

Willow couldn't help but be impressed with the group's progress throughout the following days. Garvana and Teelee took charge of the reconstruction in the entrance, combining their arcane skill to reform the stone walls into malleable forms. Pellius separated the strongest and most agile of the minions, setting them up into groups for training drills. Taken from their stockpile, he armed each set of guards with a different assortment of weapons. The men were made slightly uncomfortable with the joining of the boggard warriors, but under the intense scrutiny of Pellius, Bor and Willow, they performed through any trace of discomfort.
“Shieldbearers, spearmen and macemen with me,” Pellius commanded, a fierce bite to his tone, “Outriders and spearmen with Bor. Longbowmen with Mistress Willow. You have your basic instruction. Follow it, learn it, become it. Until now, you have proven useless. A waste of our time and resources. Prove to us your worth!”
The men and women complied readily, launching into their drills without need for guidance. Willow was glad to see her three scouts had been selected as longbowmen. She was quick to select Willem, the small scouting parties leader, as her man in charge. He ran each drill with practiced efficiently, a sharp short voice instructing the untrained novices in the basics of long ranged fighting. Willow was free to roam the hall in observation, a menacing deterrent to indolence, and an intimidatingly inspiring presence.
Pellius’ voice boomed across the throne room, ricocheting through the passageways, bounding across the stone. A fearsome aura loomed around him, strong, dominating, commanding. He ordered the men around with ease, a natural leadership to his ways. When he spoke, everyone listened. He did not request or ask. He demanded, and all who heard him obeyed. Willow found herself naturally gravitating towards him, her feet meandering with no intentional purpose.
“Hold fast!” he called to the shieldbearers, “Do not cringe, do not retreat! Do not falter!”
Willow smiled as the men remained in position as the flurry of attacks came barrelling their way. They received the blows and deflected the assault with the steel of their shields.
“Again!” Pellius yelled.
Willow kept her face cool as she approached, eyes full of heated intensity.
“You should use that voice when we meet later this evening,” she whispered sensually, quiet enough for only their ears to hear.
Without change in his face or demeanour, he replied, “This voice is reserved for those who do not know proper discipline, my lady. And you, are the most disciplined that I know.”
Willow surveyed the men’s progress as she responded.
“If that tone is my punishment,” she breathed, a subtle grin lifting the corner of her lip, “Then I believe I must misbehave and receive my chastisement…”


Curiosity had always been Willow's blessing and her curse. As an adolescent it had always lead her right into the path of the unknown, and more often than not, the forbidden. It had been the driving force that found her listening in on conversations not meant for her ears, seeking secrets and truths where she was meant to remain oblivious. Her young wide eyed appearance had always aided her in these ventures, for even when she was caught all she needed was to bat her eyelashes and respond in the naïve soft voice that accompanied her innocent face, and all those involved would believe she had heard little that could compromise their position. It was this curiosity paired with her naturally suspicious nature that had her seeking information on all of those around her, always looking for a crutch or heel that she could use to her advantage.
It was a subtle change that had Willow prying for details into the pasts of the other Forsaken. Loyalty was something she held above all else. Hers was not an easy venture to gain. There was only one entity she gave it to freely and without restraint, and her bond with him was soul deep and full hearted. But of late, she had begun to trust four other souls; four others who were bound to her true master, four others who pledged their allegiance to him along side her.
To say the Forsaken were an oddity to her was an understatement. Willow had only ever known a handful of others who shared their unwavering faith. Her grandparents and great grandparents had been loyal to their Infernal Father. Even hidden in the shadows, hidden in the very ranks of the blasphemous opposing religion, their loyalty had not broken. The same could not be said for her parents. Bartley was a disappointment to the Monteguard bloodline. He held the ambition of a true Asmodean, but his loyalty went only as far as his coin purse. His word meant little. He was faithful while it suited him, but when there was work to be done to achieve his goals, he would flake and fall resigned to keep what he had made and run. He spoke the words of loyalty to Asmodeus, but offered no service, no sacrifice. He was faithful right up until the moment came that he had to actually put in any effort to back his words. His silver tongue and easy lies made him prosperous in the lands of Talingarde - but family, faith and loyalty held no bounds over his soul; he was the worst kind of dishonourable. Willow's mother was no better. If she had to describe the woman in one word, it would be lazy. She steadily grew fatter as she rested in the family's manor. A manor that had stood for more than eight decades, a residence that was a testament to the effort and strength of the Monteguard’s legacy. Willow's mother resided in the walls, undeserving of the luxury and wealth. She had been the bride of an arranged marriage, a woman of status and rank in Cheliax, selected to strengthen both families ties in and out of the grand homeland. Willow was unsure if she had always been so useless and lazy, or if the easy life away from Asmodean rule had changed her. She held no ambition, no strength, no might. She desired more wealth and privilege, but refused to do anything to acquire it.
Their final act of disloyalty was what broke the last wisp of attachment that Willow had for the pair. They had turned her in, ruined her plans to bring the family's name higher into the ranks of royalty. Their reasoning was unknown to her, yet she figured there was little more to their plans than getting rid of the risk to their cosy positions. Willow was resolved to take everything from them. They did not deserve a life of luxury, they did not deserve the endless wealth that the Monteguard’s had clawed over the centuries. They deserved nothing. No sympathy, no forgiveness, no repentance.

“What of family?” Willow asked Teelee, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
They sat around the large wooden table in the tavern of the Horn, sipping wine from tumblers while the fireplace sapped the chill from the air. Willow had asked many such questions, eager to learn more about those that she was fated to ally with.
“Five brothers,” Teelee replied, “Four older, one younger, and a younger sister. The eldest is a General in the army, fourth eldest is a Major. Second and third eldest are part of the Gladiator Pits. Fighting tournaments created so the slaves of the land can slaughter each other for the amusement of the nobility. Feral displays of barbarism if you ask me.”
Willow grimaced, “Indeed.”
Turning her glass in her fingers, she stared into the flickering wisps of flame.
“And what of you? Did you work in Rahadoum?”
“My family are a large part of the slaving industry,” she responded, “We were very well known, quite successful. I tried my hand at bookkeeping, but found it tedious. I was better suited to being the face of the house, creating contacts, securing contracts. They say I am most captivating.”
Willow couldn't help but chuckle, “That you are Teelee. So what is it that had you sailing east towards Talingarde?”
Teelee sighed, “It is hard to stand out against six other siblings. Military prowess and profitable slaving were very well regarded in my fathers eye. I wished to make a name for myself, I wished to make him proud. So I was given a ship, fifty men and free reign to travel and expand our reach in the slaving industry. And as luck would have it,” she said with an eye roll, “I landed on the only shores within reach that condemned slaving.”
“An unfortunate turn of events given your goals,” Willow said, noting the irony.
Teelee pursed her lips, “Indeed.”
“And what of marriage?” Willow asked, “I do not know the Rahadoum customs, do you have a husband waiting for you?”
“No,” Teelee replied lightly, “I have not met a suitable man. He must be charismatic, handsome and rich. A trio more rare than it should be.”
Willow laughed, “Agreed. You can have mine if you wish.”
“You're married?” Teelee asked in shock.
Willow laughed again at Teelee’s dropped jaw, “Yes. Though I'm not sure if it counts if your husband condemns you to a death by drawn and quartering.”
“Oh, I suppose not,” Teelee laughed, “Still, he was rich and handsome?”
Willow scoffed, “Very. You’re welcome to him, though I suppose his fanatical Mitran faith may pose a problem, he's pretty against the whole slave trading thing…”
“Ah,” Teelee said, waving a dismissive hand, “Minor details. He’ll learn.”
Willow and Teelee burst into giggles. When they recovered, Teelee turned to her with a curious expression.
“Do you plan your vengeance against him?”
Willow frowned slightly. The anger she felt towards him had dimmed, the hatred she had held for him had morphed into almost pity. He would never understand her motives or her resolve, he would fight against her and seek her demise in retribution for her disloyalty. She felt so little for him, he was just another blind fool who could not see the beauty in her plans for order and her dreams for structure. He was just another stepping stone in her path to righting the wrongs of the land.
“I will kill him,” she said seriously, “I will cut him down myself, for he will never waver in his rigid beliefs of Mitra. He will never accept his place, he will accept only death before he bends to the will of Asmodeus.”
“And that does not bother you,” Teelee said, less of a question.
“No,” Willow replied truthfully, “His death will be one of many. He deserves no more mercy than any other who stand in our way.”

On the fourteenth week of their stay in the towering spire, Willow and Garvana returned from Farholde late in the evening. They had spent part of their day casing the town for rumours or information on the dragon that had been sighted over the city in the week before. While they found no further mention of the dragon, they did come across the raving claims of a fanatical Mitran preacher. Brother Ezekiel of the Mission of Saint Larius the Leper, had been overheard trying to empower the people of Farholde to rise up against the evil festering in the Horn of Abbadon. Fortunately, of those who had not already gone to war against the bugbear army ravaging the south, there were few left in the city who cared to involve themselves. Willow and Garvana had returned to the Horn with the knowledge of the minor annoyance the preacher had been causing.
“He's not worth our time,” Teelee said.
The group had once again gathered around the tavern to plan their week.
“He is a threat,” Garvana countered, “Why has Elise not dealt with him?”
Willow scoffed, “He is a preacher known for his lunatic rants, he is of no import to us.”
“He is drawing unwanted attention to the Horn,” Garvana replied, “With our second sacrifice due next week, we need to keep our plans as quiet as possible.”
“Send the guards,” Pellius offered, “It will be a good opportunity to employ their new training. We needn't waste our own time with him.”
“It is a fair compromise Garvana,” Willow said.
Garvana frowned, “Alright, but we must arm them, give them gold for bribes and supplies. They are fairly useless, I shouldn't expect them to succeed.”
“Fear can be a miraculous motivator,” Willow grinned.
They gathered in the throne room, the five of them standing tall along the altars steps. The hellhounds sat patiently by Willow's feet, perched regally above the cowering servants below. They had selected a group of five of their followers. Willow didn't know any of their names, nor did she care to. A brute of man stood in front of her, strong broad shoulders hunched in intimidation. Willow watched him with curiosity as he chanced a glance at her. Odd, each time he seemed to be gawking at her outfit as apposed to her body. To his left stood a woman close to Willow's height, blonde hair wrapped in an intricate braid, a semi-fine set of robes draped gracefully over her shoulders. She reminded Willow of the lower nobles from Matharyn, nose tilted in an air of superiority they did not possess. Next in line stood a skeletal man, twitching in a constant state of anxiety, black robes covered in charred marks and burns. A pyromancer, she assumed. Second from the end stood the thief. Willow could pick him out of a group with just a glance. Slender and lean, perched on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce or flee. With constant shifting eyes, he was wary of his surroundings, unsure whether his selection was a bonus or a death sentence. Lastly stood a man she could only describe as the sacrifice. Willow vaguely remembered him from their initial meeting, she had laughed for hours as he had struggled with the courage to convince Pellius to allow his pig into the Horn. The man was a pig farmer. He had joined the other peasants in their capture, and his pig had followed him for hundreds of miles, all the way to the Horn’s entrance. The reasoning Pellius had selected him for this mission was beyond her, for she figured he would prove little more than a good distraction.
“There is a task we have for you, a chance for you to prove your worth to us,” Pellius boomed, his voice hard and commanding, “There is a preacher within Farholde, Ezekiel Hawthorn, he speaks against us and urges the people to rise and raid the Horn of Abbadon! This must not happen! He must be silenced!”
The five of them trembled in fear, Willow watched their reactions carefully, reading the emotions they were struggling to hide.
“This heretical scum is nothing!” Garvana called, “He must be slain! And made an example of! When he is dead, then we will be troubled by his voice no longer!”
“No,” Teelee frowned, “If he is merely slain, he will become a martyr. That will only prove the truth of his words. He must be discredited, his name tarnished.”
“Bah,” Bor scoffed, “Who cares what those worms believe, by the time they summon any courage we will be gone from this place!”
Willow had to grit her teeth through the bickering of the group. She watched the faces of the five servants contort with fear and confusion. The situation was almost humorous.
“Enough!” Pellius bellowed, “You have your mission. The ogre Grumblejack will aid you in this, seek him out in the Lord Drownington Inn…”
Willow fazed out as the others continued their orders, she was busy watching the blonde woman and her reactions. There was certainly fear behind her eyes, but it was not a terrified mindless fear like the rest of them. This woman was cunning and deceptive, the trembling she showed was a fairly convincing act. It would have fooled many, but Willow had spent too long faking the feminine emotions, it was easy for her to recognise them in others. She would be one to watch, Willow thought.
“Go!” Pellius yelled, a fearsome and menacing warning, “Do not fail us!”

Much to Willow's utter shock, they did not fail completely. When they returned to the Horn two days later, they had indeed tarnished Brother Ezekiel’s name and he was certainly deceased. Unfortunately for them, it had been revealed that the Mitran disciple had been a werewolf. And although talk of the Horn of Abbadon had ceased for the moment, the chatter of his hidden transformation had spread rapidly through the many lips of Farholde’s population. Garvana was furious. She roared at the three who returned, cursing their incompetence and failure. Willow struggled not to laugh as she set them on a ridiculous quest as punishment; the capture of a hydra known to inhabit the swamp infested lands to the west of the Caer Bryr. Again, Willow watched the woman. She took Garvana's ridicule in her stride, showing no protest or worry at her impossible task. She merely bowed and strode out of the throne room. When the two replacements they had selected followed out of the room, Willow let her laughter out.
“A hydra, Garvana?” she giggled.
Garvana grinned in response, “It was the best that I could come up with. If they fail, and they will, then what have we lost? And if by some miracle they survive, then we gain a hydra to guard the caverns.”
Willow laughed harder, “But really? A hydra?”
The room filled with laughter, half of the group keeled over in stitches.
“That will keep them busy for a while,” Pellius commented, “Come along Teelee, it is our shift in the sanctum.”
Willow couldn't help the ping of jealousy as he offered her his arm, followed by the small satisfaction as Teelee strode passed and knocked it aside. His keen eyes didn't miss a thing, he smirked at Willow, raising his eyebrows in gratification. Willow laughed and rolled her eyes, silently thrilled at the reprimand his dark gaze promised.

Once again, Willow had to clench her teeth to stop her mouth dropping open in shock. It was late in the evening, darkness already smothering the land, when the five servants returned – with an unconscious hydra in tow. The group stood silent for a moment as the servants approached, eyes wide in disbelief. Willow could barely imagine the luck they would have needed to perform the feat, subdue the hydra and drag its body back to the Horn. Pellius was the first to recover.
“Adequate,” he nodded, the most praise Willow had heard him ever give the servants.
He turned from them as Bor and Garvana started debating the best position for the hydra to ambush their enemies. The servants knew they were dismissed. As they turned to leave, Willow excused herself from the discussion.
“You,” Willow called to the woman, “What is your name?”
She turned to face Willow, head bowed in deference, clutching her side in an overly theatrical fashion.
“Mistress,” she shakily bowed, faking as wounded prey, “I am Felicity Noverball.”
Willow saw the slightest twitch to her lip, her sight glance to the right too sharply, tell tale signs of a lie to those who knew how to read them.
“Lie to me again,” Willow warned low and menacing, “And I shall have your tongue.”
The woman looked genuinely shocked to have been caught out. She stammered on her words and continued to dramatically clutch her wounds.
“Save the act for the fools who would believe it,” Willow snapped.
Looking once again in disbelief, the woman slowly stood straighter, eyeing Willow with a subtle mix of fear, intrigue and respect.
“Yes Mistress,” she replied, a softer tone to her voice, “I am Lady Cassandra of Entharyl.”
Willow frowned slightly, “The fishing port? The governing lord there, Davenrow correct?”
Looking slightly impressed and worried, “Correct Mistress.”
Staring the woman down, Willow looked her over critically, watching each reactions as they tinted her face. After a moment, she came to a decision.
“You have a talent for the dramatics,” Willow commented.
“I-
“Speak only when you are told,” Willow snapped, pausing for a moment, “It is a good thing, a tool I can make use of. Come along, I shall explain what I require.”
When they arrived in her chamber, Willow began to unstrap her armour, speaking as she worked. The woman readily approached and began aiding her undressing.
“I require a spy,” Willow said plainly, “I do not require infiltration, merely observation. I expect the utmost secrecy. And I require someone who can lie their way out if they are caught.”
The woman listened intently, continuing her task of the straps along Willow's back.
“I require you to watch a woman for me,” Willow continued, “I require her habits and movements, the people she meets with, the people she mingles with. You will not be able to overhear her plans or be privy to her private details, do not attempt it, she is a formidable woman. Just observe her and report back to me in a week. I shall provide coin and accommodation. This is the only chance I will give you. Fail me, and you'll be cleaning the floors for the rest of your time. Do you understand?”
The woman couldn't hide the sound of glee and the look of excitement in her eyes, “Yes Mistress. Thank you Mistress, I shall not fail.”
As the last straps were undone and the breastplate fell to the mattress, Willow ripped out both daggers in a deft swipe, pirouetting and forcing the woman against the wall with the blades pressing into her throat.
“Do not think of betrayal,” Willow warned, a rasping malevolence, “For what I will do to you if you betray me is far worse than anything your mind is capable of envisioning.”
The colour was sapped from the woman’s face, a sickly pale green washing over her skin. She trembled beneath Willow's grip, legs weak, knees quivering in terror.
“Yes Mistress,” she whispered.
Willow stared into her eyes for a moment, allowing the vicious aura to surround the woman. Suddenly, she dropped her grip, sheathing her daggers.
Calmly she spoke, starting on the straps of her greaves, “It works both ways. Fail, and you shall never regret anything more. Succeed, and I can be most generous with your reward. You will not eat the slop given to the lowers, you will not dress in those rags they wear. There is much for you to gain, a higher station if you are deserving.”
Willow almost smirked as the talk of reward overtook the fear Cassandra had been oozing. She stood straighter, a small smile on her lips, returning to the task of helping Willow out of her armour.
She quietly whispered her response, “Thank you Mistress…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:50 AM
Chapter 15 - Leadership - Part 2

As the boggards returned from their hunt, shouldering a giant glistening scorpion, Willow was struck with an idea. She approached Pellius as he appraised their capture, deep in conversation with Bor about its possible use. Willow waited for a break in their debate.
“The tender flesh under the scorpion shell is considered a rare delicacy on Talingarde shores,” she said quietly, “It is served only once a year, at the Royal Gala on the Vernal Equinox. Perhaps the men have earned a reward for their successes.”
When the two men looked less than convinced, Willow smiled and repeated their own master’s words, “Serve thy master well, and be rewarded.”
Pellius’ lips quirked into a smile, he nodded his understanding to Willow.
“I have eaten one before,” Bor huffed, “I’ll gut it and remove its poison glands.”
“Take it to the kitchen,” Willow commanded the men, a joyous hint in her tone “Tonight, we celebrate, tonight we feast like royalty!”
The group of men roared in excitement, scurrying with renewed vigour to cart the beast of a scorpion into the Horn, running off to spread news of the night to their fellows.
Garvana smiled, “This will be very good for morale.”

As the tender flesh was seared and blanched, the mugs of cheap ale poured free and passed hands. One of the orphans that Vandermir had supplied, had a hidden talent for playing the fiddle. He sang crude songs of tavern wenches, cheap prostitutes and nights spent in the drunk tank. The men and women of their growing organisation danced to the tunes and sang along with the vile lyrics, laughing and cheering as the night grew late.
Teelee had shunned the idea of the celebratory evening, instead volunteering to take the guard shift in the sanctum. The rest of the group sat at the head table, poised on the platform along the throne’s base. They talked amongst themselves, occasionally stopping to listen along to the gaudy lyrics of a tune, or laugh at the particularly inebriated individuals.
Willow laughed along as the fiddle player crooned an ode to her beauty, she mockingly bowed to his confession of love as a finish. He sung a low bellowed tune to Pellius’ strength and might, remarking on his fascinatingly sculpted chest. Pellius sat with a slightly amused expression, keeping his face vague until he lost control at the ode to his voluptuous buttox. The small man sang a fearsome tale of Bor’s ferocity, painting the picture of a legendary battle where he emerged the lone victor. When he turned to Garvana, Willow found herself intently listening, sipping on her glass of velvet red wine, thoroughly enjoying her night. The fiddle dropped to a slow hum, the tune turning almost sad in its melody. He serenaded Garvana with a tale of her devotion and strength of conviction. He crooned to her of the fire in her words and her eyes, matching that which burned in her heart. Though sung through his drunken rasping voice, the melody was uplifting and joyous. As he strummed his last few notes, he bowed to the four of them first, before singing his final line.
“And please, my lords and my ladies,” he crooned, “Don't kill me for this in the morning…”


Sitting cross legged by the base of the malevolent statue in the sanctum, Willow perused the work of the scrying magic in the small water trough filled with its festering liquid. She had managed to shrug off the eery ominous aura that's radiated from the alabaster carving, just as she learned to ignore the stench of the infectious broth in front of her. As disgusting as her position was, she had to admit, the magic of the Eyes was incredible. A vision of the halls appeared in the mirror of the basin, she watched as the guards stood relaxed and at ease in the corridor. She cringed as she watched one of their men chew his tobacco and spit it into the corner, mentally noting who he was so she could reprimand him for his filth later.
As the structure pulsed another wave of sickening energy, Willow trembled. She could feel the touch of the blistering infection the dark magic was throbbing, slowly seeping into her skin.
“Enough,” she snapped, rising from her perch, “Will you take over Pellius? I can not sit by it any longer today.”
Courteous as ever, “Of course, my lady,” he replied, “I believe it is almost the end of our shift anyway.”
As he took up her place, she strolled to the opposite side of the room, leaning back against the stone work. She watched him for a moment, admiring the dedication to each and every task he took on. He stared into the basin with an intensity Willow could never muster for such a mundane and repulsive task.
“May I ask you a question?” she said.
“You may, my lady,” he replied.
"Do you miss Cheliax?"
“It has only been 9 months since I left, yet it feels a lifetime ago…” he said airily, pausing in thought for a moment, “Put simply, yes. It is the familiar, my birthplace, my childhood nostalgia. Nothing will ever replace those memories.”
"What is it like?” Willow asked, “Living under Asmodean rule? I've never known a life where I've not had to hide or deny my faith."
Deep and powerful, he said, "Following the herd is for fools. Fear not their icy derision. Fear only thy Infernal Lord."
Willow smiled at Thorn’s familiar words.
“Listen to me preach,” Pellius chuckled, “Soon I will be as bad as our proud Sister Garvana.”
She laughed, “You're a long way off that sort of fanatical preaching.”
“What I mean is Cheliax is different, and yet in so many ways, not that different. I was raised by the temple of Asmodeus. My Mistress, Grand High Priestess Aspexia Rugatonn, expected us all to uphold and enforce the tenants of Asmodeus, wherever we tread. Failure to comply was not taken well. An oddly familiar story, wouldn't you agree?”
He smiled and motioned around him and out beyond the stone wall hiding the lands of Talingarde from view.
“As to the day to day living, Asmodeus’ followers are much like the people in other lands, except obedience to their superiors is demanded rather than preferred. Perhaps they differ for they believe in harsher punishments for lawbreakers, are accustomed to the appearance of imps and devils among their daily lives, and are openly tolerant of slavery. Measures which allow our Empire to stay the most powerful and commanding force in the region.”
His smile dimmed, “Of course there have always been those who rebel against the Prince's will, and Cheliax in that, is no different. As a paladin, my main task was to keep the city in order and compliant with the rule of House Thrune. I lead a squad of five soldiers, bringing obedience and punishment to the any who would attempt to revolt; be it slaves, civilians, even my less than devoted comrades should it be called for. You are an educated woman, perhaps you have been versed in the rise of Thrune and Asmodean rule?”
“I have read much on Cheliax,” Willow frowned, “But most of it was more of a personal import. Tomes of the Monteguard history and legacy, or documents deemed priority of the bloodline. There was little more than curiosities containing knowledge of the country itself. And of course, the rulership of Cheliax held no place among the teaching of Mitra on Talingarde.”
“Ah,” he nodded, keeping his gaze observing the scrying bowl as he spoke, “Then allow a man a portion of pride in his country's success. Before Asmodean worship took control of Cheliax, the prophecies of the Starfall Doctrine predicted the Last of the First Humans, Aroden, would return from his divine ascension to lead humanity in the Age of Glory. He was to lead the charge from Cheliax, which would become the most prominent nation in the world. With this knowledge, Cheliax undertook the Everwar for 100 years, expanding her borders and spreading civility and culture among the barbaric Varisians and Galt.”
“This i have read,” Willow said, transfixed by interest in his words, “When the day of prophecy arrived, Aroden failed to appear.”
“Indeed,” Pellius said, “It is said that vicious storms and hurricanes racked the entire land for twenty one days, seemingly endless torrents of rain flooded the expanse, fierce winds ripped the very trees from their roots. The Eye of Abendego appeared, and remains, to create chaos in our seas. When the storms subsided, the clerics had lost their divine powers granted by Aroden. Robbed of the promised divine favour, our civil country fell into anarchy, and the lands we had brought to prosperity rose up against us. Only the strongest leadership could regain control in the chaos that ensued. And so it was, Queen Abrogail of House Thrune signed the Infernal Contract with the powers of Hell, and fought her way to lead the land, establishing the worship of Asmodeus as the new state religion and ruling with an iron fist. The worship of other Gods for healing, crafting and prosperity were still allowed, as long as it was known that Asmodeus was superior and the others faiths did not challenge His position.”
“Perhaps Asmodeus had planned that all along. The Master Deceiver luring humanity with power and prestige only to prove how worthless we all are in comparison to His greatness. Only allowing us prosperity again once we acknowledge his omnipotence. The mind may boggle at the scope of such an event, yet we stand ready to deliver an Archdeacon's plague to land in order to simply loosen the grip of Mitra from this land. Maybe it is not so absurd? Here, the odds may seem a little more skewed, but the mission remains the same to me; uphold and enforce the tenants of Asmodeus, wherever I tread.”
Willow smiled at the force of the words as they left his mouth. She could feel the Infernal fire that raged within him. He was devoted to this cause, with his entire being; mind, body and soul. As she opened her mouth to say so, her reply was cut short by the sound of two familiar voices echoing up the stairway.
Bor and Garvana loudly scurried their way to the top of the staircase, fresh and well rested faces as they approached.
“All quiet,” Pellius said, reverting effortlessly back into his professional commanding role, “No disturbances or suspicious activity.”
He clasped Bor's forearm in a masculine hand shake.
“Right you are,” Bor replied, “We’ll take it from here.”
After farewelling the pair for the evening, Pellius offered Willow his arm as they strolled down to the lower levels. Accepting it, her mind continued to turn, her curiosity not yet sated.
“What was it that had your ship sailing towards Talingarde?"
“Ambition, politics, caution, opportunity,” he said, his lip quirking slightly, “And add a dash of fate perhaps.”
Willow raised her eyebrows and smiled, “That effectively tells me nothing.”
“The temple novices are trained to be ambitious,” he continued, “And trained well. I was no different in that regard. Religious, arcane, martial and tactical training were all standard, but I sought more. Diplomacy, prolific names, scandal, sex, wine lists, art. These were what had more powerful warriors and more dastardly priests seeking my favour –
“Warriors and priests were seeking you for sex?” Willow grinned.
“My lady,” he shook his head, trying to hide his smirk, “On occasion your mind holds much similarity to that of an adolescent boy.”
“On occasion,” Willow said quietly, still grinning, “I'd have to agree.”
“They would seek things which others within the temple could not supply. And so I rose in influence and power. Unfortunately, that is a double edged blade. A high standing among the temple, the capitol's more influential members and many a lady was always going to draw envious eyes from below and wary eyes from above. After I countered my third assassination attempt, I decided to seek prestige further afield and so I volunteered to head a diplomatic envoy to Rahadoum.”
“From there,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “The winds, an incompetent captain, fate, who knows? But I dare not turn my back on a land so opposed to our Lord Asmodeus presence. From what I've encountered, the Mitran governance pursue strict religious obedience, capital punishment, torture and a strongly regimented army. Why oppose our Prince, yet continue with so much of what he stands for? Why allow the weak to rise?”
“Because they try to ignore the natural order of the world,” Willow mused, “But it can not be ignored. The strong will always rule the weak. They must, for the weak would not survive on their own. Of the many wrongs of this land, tampering with the order is their most heinous crime. Even if we were not the harbingers of change, the world would right itself eventually. The weak can not grow, they can not truly rule. A stronger more powerful force will always come and wash the weakness back into its place.”
Pellius looked to her with a true smile, “Indeed.”
They continued their leisurely stroll through the halls, detouring to check in on the guards, watching their backs straighten as Willow and Pellius passed. While Pellius demanded a report from the captain, Willow approached the feral man still chewing his vile tobacco.
“Mistress!” he said, black oozing from his teeth.
“I am in a generous mood today,” Willow said sharply, “So I will give you one warning. If you spit your filth on my wall again, I will cut out your tongue.”
His face paled as the surprise passed and the frightening intent of her words registered.
“Do you understand?” she bit.
“Y-yes Mistress,” he trembled.
Willow raised her eyebrows, staring at him for a moment, letting the intimidating fire in her eyes penetrate his mind. She turned, gracefully strolling away, accepting Pellius’ arm once again. He chuckled as they moved away.
“You are quite fearsome, my lady,” he said, “You would do well in Cheliax.”
“I'd let you cut it out,” she cringed, “I wouldn't wish to taint my blades with his filth.”
Laughing in response, he guided Willow towards her chamber, calling for a servant to procure them a pot of tea.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Willow asked, unbuckling the straps of her breastplate.
As he began to unlace his own armour, the easy smile slipped from his face, replaced by a guarded harsher expression.
“Blood ties? It is possible. The temple gave my siblings shape and form though. Brothers and Sisters truly. What of you? There are two inquisitive minds at work here, and only my tongue is doing the talking. I have heard no mention of any siblings?”
“There are none,” Willow said lightly, “I was an only child. A miraculous one at that. My mother was barren, as am I.”
“Ah,” he replied sombrely, “You have my sympathies.”
Willow smiled, a small and sad smile, “Do not pity me. It is perhaps a blessing, for I would have conceived a child with my pathetic husband. A child raised by a devout Mitran and a blasphemous harlot. It is best that such a union was avoided.”
"What are your parents like?" she asked, hoping to stop further prying into her infertility.
His face turned bitter, “My father was a fool whom Hell devoured,” he said viciously, “And my mother paid dearly for his mistakes.”
His eyes bore into hers, flashing with a hatred so fierce it made Willow shiver. She could feel the anger radiating from him, the burning intensity that churned the thoughts in his mind. His eyes slammed shut. Slowly, he filled his chest in a deep breath, exhaling as the anger subsided.
“All this talk of home,” he said softly, “I had forgotten you probably had not been privy to my upbringing. My father, Marcus Albus, was a rather influential noble and bureaucrat. Our family were ones who were not afraid to dabble with the Infernal in order to strengthen a position or gain power, so when my father required an heir and my mother could not conceive, he turned to the temple of Asmodeus. She fell pregnant with me. Everyone was overjoyed, but complications arose during my birth.”
A hint of regret trickled into his voice, “It was said that when Marco looked down upon his son, he saw the most handsome baby, with blond locks adorning his head so much like his mothers. Yet when his baby turned to look at Marco and he saw the red glow of hellfire in its eyes, he knew he could not keep his son, for it would be a constant reminder that his greed had killed his beloved.”
She knew her sympathy or pity would be unwelcome. So she sat and listened, letting him air what he wished or needed, even if he didn't know that he did.
“So he left me to the temple,” he said with a deceptively casual air, “It was only after his death fifteen years later that the temple revealed my heritage. I was granted the name Lord Albus, though it is an empty title now. I plan to make that name great once again. In this regard, you and I are similar, are we not? Restoring our names? I am curious to know how you plan to do this after the fall of these Mitran fools?”
A knock on the door halted the conversation. While the servant delivered and arranged their tea, Willow thought over her response. As the door clicked shut behind the woman, Willow lifted her cup to her lips before continuing.
“The Monteguard’s were once a proud and powerful house,” she said quietly, “Once strong and formidable, their reach covered the lands of Cheliax, Rahadoum, Varisia and, in their later years, Talingarde. The Archons of the bloodline were once fearsome and tremendously influential. Great grandfather Cassidus was a powerful man indeed. He first held the title of Lieutenant General in Queen Abrogail’s royal army, then he lead his portion of men to Talingarde to aid in the Great Conquest and rid the land of the feral clutches of savagery. There are many such men and women in the Monteguard legacy, many stories to proudly boast. But then there are the stains, the marks of dishonour that can not be wiped from time…”
Willow felt her own temper flaring, the anger burning hollow in face of unsated vengeance.
“Your parents?” Pellius asked, interrupting her stewing rage, “You have mentioned them little, and each time you've either been drunk or cursing.”
“They are traitors,” she said fiercely, “Traitors to everything I hold dear. Family, loyalty and faith. They have turned their back on our Infernal Father, they have abandoned their faith. They betrayed me, using the so called laws of this blasphemous land to incarcerate me.”
Willow laughed, a harsh and feral chuckle, “And they did it for nothing. They gained nothing from it. They actually had to pay to make it happen. They tarnished the Monteguard name for nothing! They have no honour! No respect! No ambition! And they will die for their disloyalty. I have no pity, nor sorrow. They will die, and be left to Asmodeus’ judgement.”
Pellius watched her with keen and controlled eyes, “It will be as it should.”
Willow breathed heavy, anger swarming through her veins. The cup rattled in its saucer, her hands shaking with fury. Frustrated, she placed the cup upon the table and stood from her seat, walking to the window. She stared out of the slender hole in the stone, watching the last of the sun shrink behind the horizon, the palette of the great forest morphing into a deeper ominous emerald. Slowly, her breathing returned to normal, the tightness eased from her chest. Pellius’ soft footsteps sounded behind her, bringing him flush to her back. She could feel the warmth from his body as his hands gently caressed her shoulders. His strong powerful hands could be remarkably delicate when he willed it. As soft as a breath, he began to hum one of his operatic melodies, his deep baritone voice pulling the tune into cascading depths. The sound always had a profound effect on Willow, her heart started to beat faster, her breath quickened as if the notes were a soft touch upon her flesh.
"Where did you learn to sing?" she breathed, closing her eyes, drifting with the melody.
“I always had a fondness for culture and arts,” he said quietly, methodically digging his thumbs into the muscles of her shoulders, “Keeping an eye on social events and knowing the going on of the town was part of what made me who I am. Knowing the operas, having a palate for food and drink, working through the intrigues of a room; these were my strengths. I guess after a while the melodies begin to stay with you, but I do not give the diabolic operas of Cheliax the justice they truly deserve. Once we have the means, I intend to bring that slice of civility to Talingarde, rest assured.”
“It is powerful,” she said softly, “I can feel the words, rather than hear them,” she chuckled, “That sounds absurd.”
“Not at all,” he replied politely, “But come, let us steer the conversation away from the heart. A question for a question.”
Willow smirked at the familiar game.
“So,” he said mischievously, “What do I want to know of the mysterious Willow Monteguard? Favourite colour, crimson. Hounds over felines. Red wine, powerful men, a fine dancer…”
Willow laughed as he spoke, having to admit he knew her pleasantries intimately.
“Hmm, a curiosity perhaps. You are intelligent, beautiful, brave and devout. What draws your likes to a career as an assassin?” he asked, nodding to the engraved daggers strapped to her belt, “I've seen their blades in my time.”
Smiling, Willow wondered how much he really knew of the Black Serpent Coterie.
“I'm very good at it,” she said with a sly smile, turning to face him, quivering at his proximity, “And the job entails all the qualities I seek and possess. Discipline, order, strict rules and detachment. It is a most enticing path…”
Pellius stepped closer, bringing his face closer to hers. Willow felt the air in the room heat, the intent in his eyes deliciously alluring.
“I believe the question is mine,” she said quietly, a devious glint to her tone, “Do you have a wife or a lady waiting for you on Cheliax?"
“Ha, no,” he chuckled, bringing his face closer again, “A wife would have lead to complacency and restrictions in areas I was the sharpest. Plus, I had not met one who could... keep me interested, shall we say. Challenged.”
He lent down, his lips brushing the flesh upon her earlobe, his heated breath reaping havoc with her body, “Perhaps Asmodeus, Calistria and Gozreh all came together to guide me into your bed,” he whispered, “Far be it for me to disappoint the gods.”
Gently, he nipped the edge of her earlobe with his teeth, causing a shiver to reverberate through her skin. Her breathing was heavy as he withdrew, looking deep into her eyes, wicked sin peering back at her.
“My turn,” he said, a grin creeping across his lips, “I already know you are no longer married. And I know you have more than one lover. Who was the best man you have lain with?”
Cheeky laughter spilled from her lips, the grin she wore illuminating her pleasure at the question tainted with desire. At her laughter, Pellius pushed his weight against her, caging her slender frame against the brickwork. He grabbed her chin and forced her head up to meet his. Even through the sharp intake of breath at the pain of the stones digging into her back, still she giggled.
“Would it please you if I answered by stroking your ego?” she stammered mischievously, struggling slightly for breath, “I could tell you that I have never had a man that could command my body the way you do. I could tell you that my body has never obeyed some one so willingly…”
She reached up on her toes lifting her face to his, gently pressing her lips to the crevice in the corner of his mouth before tracing their shape with her tongue.
“Or I could show you…”

As dawn neared early the following morning, a somber tint of grey laced the sky, smothering the usual rays of welcoming gold and copper. It was their one hundred and eleventh day of the ritual. The halfway point of their mission.
The group met in the throne room, together they made their way to the sanctum, a frightened and struggling priestess in tow. Pellius forced her further up the stairs, passing the hungry eyes of Hexor and Vexor, guiding her towards the altar. She fought to rip herself free of his grasp, knowing without thought what her fate was to be. They spoke not a word as Pellius lifted her to the table, strapping her wrists and ankles in flesh-cuttingly tight manacles. The gag in her mouth stopped the worst of the screams, muffling her cries for help and pleas for mercy. Willow felt nauseous. She understood that she must complete the task set before her, for it was her master’s wishes. That did not mean she had to enjoy it. As Teelee hurled the feral unholy broth upon the silver seal, Willow began to chant.
“We curse the Light, the good and the just. Rise up from the darkness, tear down that which binds thee. We curse the Light, the good and the just. Call forth the powers, The vile, the malevolent, the unholy. We curse the Light, the good and the just. Defile that which trammels thee, vitiate that which shackles thee…”
As Pellius plunged the sacrificial dagger into the chest of the Mitran priestess, Willow turned her eyes away. She continued to chant, focusing on the ominous words, cursing the light and the goodness. She tuned out the other sounds in the room, ignoring the sacrifice, not noticing if Teelee had refilled her jug or bathed the seal again.
“We curse the Light, the good and the just. Might of evil and dark, poison the virtuous. We curse the Light, the good and the just. Taint the purity of the divine, weaken the bond and vigour.We curse the Light, the good and the just. Smother in thou shadow, enable the unleashing of darkness.”
As the second heart dropped into the outstretched hand of Vetra-Kali, both began to pulsate anew. The Eyes in the statue lit up with green fury, sending a shockwave of emerald flame soaring into the sky. The Horn of Abbadon called out to its true master. The ground beneath their feet shook violently, sending each of them off balance, stumbling for perch. The tremors of the land reverberated outwards from the great spire, racking the surrounding towns and villages. Wraiths cackled, wisping their inky blackness in feral patterns through the air amongst the eery jade flame. A frightening blackness blanketed the sky, snuffing out each stroke of light as it tried to pierce the horizon. The sun failed that day, a dim glow behind a thickened wall of dense malevolence. The air in the sanctum grew crisp, a sickly thrum of darkness battered against Willow's skin, a feral pulse from beyond the material realm.
As the green beacon dimmed, falling back to encompass the stone work of the Horn once more, a voice filled with terrifying malice and venom slithered from the abyss.
“Tezahthrah voh…” it said.
Willow cringed as she translated the foreboding words to the others, fear racking her body, a touch of regret seeping into her soul. She breathed the words, no louder than a whisper.
“I see…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:52 AM
Chapter 16 - Darkness Feeding - Part 1


The emerald flame flickered to a simmer as the throbbing malevolence softened its thrum throughout the walls of the Horn of Abbadon. The air was crisp and solemn as the group spilt and returned to their bunks for the night. Willow knew sleep would evade her, she could feel the restless worry churn through her mind, like an ominous warning begging for release from the heinous atrocity they were committing. When she reached her chamber, she found her feet pacing without intent, leading her from one side of the room to the other in frustration. A battle of will raged inside her mind; her need to obey and her moral conflict fighting for voice. They had completed the second ritual, they had sacrificed one of Mitra’s faithful, and brought themselves one step closer to unleashing the Archdeacon of Pestilence.
She knew she would continue the absurd plan, she would fulfil her Master’s wishes and see the Tears of Achlys to his hands. But she struggled with the war of indecision, the whispering voice of hesitancy having grown stronger with each passing ritual. Though she took solace in the knowledge that they were going to employ the feat of trickery against the creature of Abbadon’s malice, deceive him into returning to the void, she worried he would find a way to bypass their scheme. The words of their pleas held part of a powerful arcane bond, he would be obligated to comply with their wishes, yet a creature of his might would surely find a way to taint and infect his end of the deal. Willow fretted over the personal repercussions of attempting such a deceit, but saw no better option, refusing the possibility of the implications surrounding letting lose a vile creature such a Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes.
A knock of the door awoke her from her spiralling steep of worry.
“Enter,” she called, taking a seat at her desk.
Pellius opened the iron banded wooden door, inclining his head as he met her eyes.
“My lady,” he greeted, “Pardon the intrusion, I came to see if you were alright? You seemed rather distressed before we parted this evening.”
A small smile touched her lips as she answered politely, “Your concern is touching Pellius, but misplaced. I am quite alright, it is only that I am not accustomed to the butchery of such vigorous organ removal.”
He chuckled in response, “It is not a task many have the stomach for.”
Willow quirked an eyebrow, “It is fortunate for us that you indeed possess one.”
“Indeed,” he replied with a smile.
As he looked to bid her goodnight, Willow frowned in thought, acting on the instinct that told her she could trust him and his wisdom.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked, gesturing to the lounge chair by the desk.
“Of course, my lady,” he replied, closing the door behind him before taking up the offering.
She churned on her words, carefully selecting the manner in which to say them.
“I am not one for insubordination…” she began, wandering slowly to the side table, setting two cups aside and pouring fresh tea from the pot.
Pellius raised his eyebrows, “I would not accuse you of such. Why do you say, my lady? What is troubling your thoughts?”
Willow sighed, “I will tell you, but you must not mistake my thoughts as disloyalty.”
She returned to her chair, handing him the slender saucer, placing hers by her side as she turned to face him, “Pellius, I will follow my Master’s orders and fulfil his wishes, I will see this mission completed. There is no force on this world that will stop me. My loyalty to our Infernal Father is my very soul, I shall never stray from his teachings. It is his very tennent of ambition that has me questioning. I shall admit, I find myself questioning the morality, the sanity of this task… The Mitran’s are naïve puppets, they follow teachings of equality and fairness when their view is so misguided. There is no equality in allowing the weak to flourish while the strong suffer. There is no fairness in the strong being condemned for being so. There is no logic in the strong allowing themselves to be used, it is a very contradiction in that statement, for if they were strong they would not allow it to continue. But as misguided as the Mitran’s are, they follow a code, a form of structure. The laws they follow may be unjust to those of true strength, but at least they follow their own rules. This plague daemon we are planning on unleashing has no such rules. It's only want is for disease, destruction and death. And we are planning on attempting to trick the beast back into its banishment, it is more than a plan; we are counting on it. A grand feat of graceful trickery if we succeed, but if we fail? If the abomination finds a way out of our trap? We have been the sole catalyst to the freedom of an entity whose base desire is to sew chaos and anarchy into the material realm… If that is our outcome, how can we justify what we have done?”
Pellius listened patiently, nodding as she spoke.
“This is why we cannot fail,” he said, eyes intent on Willow, “I agree, an archdeacon of Abbadon upon the material plane would be catastrophic, but the power we gain by controlling the Tears of Achlys would be beyond belief. The Mitran's would not stand a chance; no other course of action would present such strength. Although I am reluctant to say this, we must trust in Cardinal Thorn. He has obviously meticulously planned this revolution and would not risk such an occurrence hindering his rise. He would be wholly aware that an archdeacon is too powerful for us to fight or contain ourselves. An attempt to banish Vetra-Kali is risky, but if it is the only way to resolve the situation then it is the route we must take.”
“If we fail,” Willow said quietly, “Then we have not only released him, but our attempt at deception surely will anger him.”
“Indeed,” he replied calmly, “But it is the best option we have. We must retrieve the Tears.”
Pellius took a slow sip of the steaming fragrant tea, placing the fragile cup back into its saucer, looking out the window into the blackened night sky. When he spoke, it was as much to himself as it was to Willow.
“Should our current plan fail,” he continued, “We withdraw and wait. It will not be true failure unless we turn our backs on this land. The daemon will still weaken the Mitrans, though it will be a grizzly affair. Best case scenario, the Mitrans decimate their martial and religious forces banishing the deacon, allowing us fresh opportunities to seize power…”
Out from his musing reprieve, Pellius’ eyes suddenly snapped up and bore into hers.
“Willow,” he said intensely, no casual grace left in the expression on his face, “If the daemon does escape, flee to the coast. I've already made plans to have our newly acquired ship stocked and ready to sail on the final day of prayer. Do not attempt to save any of the others. I will do my best to withdraw our forces from the Horn, but you must flee. Do not let your pride stand in the way.”
“Flee?” Willow said, eyebrows shooting high, “You expect me to-
“Do not argue with me,” he cut in his commanding tone, “You must flee. Withdraw, gather the survivors and wait for your chance to return true order. The worst we can do is perish and leave Talingarde in the hands of chaos. Will you do this for me?”
Willow frowned, the idea of retreating sitting uncomfortable within her. She looked into his eyes, unsure what she saw there. An emotion close to concern, endless pride and a certainty she couldn't mistake.
“I will,” she said softly, before cocking her eyebrow, “But if you make a martyr out of yourself, I will raise you from the dead, just so I can kill you myself.”
He smiled with a small chuckle, “Have no fear, my lady, i have no intention of sacrificing myself.”

As dawn arrived to greet the expanse of the greenery in northern Talingarde, the group met in the tavern, planning their day over breakfast. Willow's dreams of a plague ridden festering land had left a bitter taste in her mouth as she methodically chewed her biscuits. They had fourteen more weeks of ritualistic prayer until she could be free of the foreboding walls of the Horn. She forcibly swallowed the food, struggling to shake off the ominous throb that had began to reverberate throughout the spire with more enthusiasm each day. Willow felt as if the Horn were calling to its master, pleading for its creator to return its abode, once again tainting its surface with the rotting filth that was the glee of the Pale Horsemen.
“We have not given due consideration to the dragon,” Pellius said, distracting Willow from her vile thoughts.
“None of us know any more now than we did then,” Garvana commented.
“Perhaps I can found out more in town,” Willow offered, glad to have the conversation to keep her mind focussed, “I can visit the Hall of the Sun Victorious once more, they have an array of information catalogued there.”
Willow couldn't help the small chuckle as both Pellius and Garvana cringed.
“I will not step foot in such a place,” Pellius said forcefully.
“You will not have to,” Willow said with a sly grin, “Besides, you would probably step through the doors and catch alight bursting into flames or begin melting.”
Pellius laughed, a deep throaty chuckle.
“Fortunately,” she continued, “I don't seem to set off any alarms when I enter.”
“We should see if we can source any more information from the townsfolk while we're there,” Garvana added.
“We also must speak with Elise,” Pellius said sternly, “Her failure at notifying us of the Inquisitor’s assault has not been forgotten.”
The sour taste in Willow's mouth returned.
“Though I have no need of being convinced of her incompetence,” Willow scoffed, “It is important to find out if she actually sent a messenger. We cannot assume otherwise, we must consider the possibility of outside interference.”
“Agreed,” Garvana nodded, “We must also consider the words of Hisperian. He is the devil who has offered his assistance to me. He believes Elise to not be of Asmodean faith, he is unable to read her motives. But he has mentioned that Trick is most certainly one of the Infernal Lord’s servants.”
“We may be able to use that,” Pellius said, eyebrows tight in thought, “He may be willing to share more information than his friends.”
“If we can find him,” Willow interjected, “I have someone watching the Seventh and my contact informs me that Elise, that elf and Track spend most of their time in the Auld Briar Hall. Trick is no where to be seen.”
“If we cannot find him,” Pellius replied with finality, “Then I will just have to deal with Elise.”

The group left Bor and Grumblejack behind, in charge of the dusk ritual and guard duty, as they travelled swiftly through the Caer Bryr’s dense forest and arrived in town by midday. Willow quickly made her way to the Hall of the Sun Victorious, dressed in fine jade satin robes and her usual disguise as Lady Kathryn. Entering the towering building bulging with teetering shelves filled with leather bound tomes, scrolls and books, she approached the hunched form of a man with his face buried in script.
“Brother Tedicus?” Willow greeted politely.
Jumping slightly as if he hadn’t heard her approach, the small man straightened his glasses upon his nose, squinting to adjust to his visions perception.
“Ah, Lady Kathryn, Mitra's grace upon you child,” he said warmly.
“And you, Brother,” Willow replied kindly, “I see you are very busy, but may I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course my dear!” he said with glee, hobbling towards her, “How may I be of service?”
“I'm seeking any lore on silver dragons!” Willow said, faking childish enthusiasm, “It is the talk of the town, and I fear I have little to add to the conversation. I would love to know more!”
The aged man smiled, heavy wrinkles creasing his face in timeworn lines, “A very popular request since the sighting. I have kept the tomes aside for easy retrieval. Come along child, I shall show you.”
“Oh thank you Brother,” she replied with a smile, “You are too kind.”
He shuffled to a large stack of tomes piled in the corner of his desk, impressively lifting the heavy stack and shifting them to a spare wooden study table. He separated the most relevant tomes according to what he believed Lady Kathryn would be interested in. She struggled to contain her scoff as he arranged the fantasy stories at the head of the pile, pushing aside the bestiaries.
“Hmm,” she said, browsing the titles, “My apologies Brother. I believe I've already read these ones, my father had a soft spot for the Adrien’s Blazing Dash novels. May I see the bestiaries?”
Tedicus chuckled, “I had forgotten how well read you were child. Of course, here we are.”
He unloaded the tall stack, pulling out a wide and heavily layered tome wrapped tightly in leather. As he dropped the book to the table, a cloud of dusk propelled outwards, creeping into Willow's nose and forcing her to sneeze. The dust spiralled as each thick parchment page was flipped, until Brother Tedicus opened the binding to reveal an intricate sketch of a fearsome silver dragon. The wings were drawn completely outstretched, razor sharp barbs of ice trickling from its webbing, delicate glistening flesh connecting each bone. Scales of shining silver layered across its body, pointed talons protruding from each claw, hundreds of teeth lined along its jaw. The creature looked majestic, a fabled beast drawn with intelligent penetrating eyes.
“Magnificent, isn't it?” Tedicus awed.
“Has anyone seen one in this region before?” Willow asked, staring at the fearsome image, “Do you know where it came from?”
Brother Tedicus smiled, a mystical tone to his voice, “My mother told me stories of an ancient silver wyrm, fabled to live to the north, in the cavern upon the mythical steep of the mountains. Perhaps the one above Farholde is one of its offspring, perhaps it is the same creature.”
Willow skimmed the little known lore of the silver dragon, seeking anything that could aid them in their defence. She frowned as she struggled to understand the terminology, picking out the main sentences that she could make sense of.
“Immune to the effects of arcane and natural cold,” she read aloud, “Can survive in freezing temperatures…”
“Apparently,” Tedicus added, “It makes them weak to fire, the heat is a hard climate for them to adjust to, so they live upon the highest peaks where the air is the thinnest and the temperature is the coldest.”
“Breathes ice naturally,” she continued, “Can summon an arcane paralysing gust of breath, affecting multiple creatures at once…”
“Oh yes!” Tedicus said excitedly, “It has powerful magic, the silver dragon is also a shape changer! It can assume the form of any animal and or humanoid creature!”
“So it could be hidden in this very town and we would never know…” Willow said to herself.
“Do not worry, child,” Tedicus answered, unaware Willow was not talking to him, “These are creatures of the purest order, the silver dragon fights for all that is good.”
He lowered his voice to a scandalous whisper, “We mustn't speak of it, as not to bring the evil to out doorstep. But if the dragon was here, my guess is that it would be to quell the wicked within the Caer Bryr.”
Willow traced the sketch of the dragon with her finger, thinking on the power of the foes they were faced with. Brother Tedicus laid a comforting hand on her forearm, smiling warmly.
“Do not fear, child,” he said softly, “Only the evil in this place has anything to fear from the silver dragon…”

Willow entered the small tavern a short time later, finding Pellius, Garvana and Teelee huddled around a table. She relayed the information she had gathered to the group, before they quickly departed and made their way to the Auld Briar Hall. Teelee volunteered to go in search of arcane items to aid their defence against the dragon while the three of them entered the parlour. Willow smiled at the barman, ordering a red wine as she sat delicately upon the stool, casually watching over the room. Elise sat by the fireplace, her long crystal white hair flowing down her back, a white raven perched upon her shoulder. Track was hunched upon the windowsill, staring through the glass, distractedly watching the crowd go by. The massive elven man, whose name Willow realised they didn't know, sat in the lounge chair across from Elise with his head in a book.
Pellius strolled towards them casually, unbothered as the towering man closed his book and stood behind Elise, eyeing Pellius warily. Willow smiled as the usual charm oozed from Pellius as he approached.
“A moment of your time?” he requested.
Elise quirked an eyebrow, gesturing to the now vacant chair across from her. Pellius inclined his head as he sat, lounging back into the cushioned seat, emitting an aura of calm and control.
“Had you heard we were attacked by a Mitran Inquisitor and his knights?” he asked coolly.
Elise’s face remained unmoved, “Indeed, I am glad to see you're still breathing.”
The side of his lip kinked up, “Are you?”
Elise’s eyebrows rose, a look of disdain tainting her petite features.
“Why is it,” Pellius continued, “That we received no warning? Is that not your one job?”
“A messenger was sent,” she gritted, a forced smile on her face, “What more could we do?”
Pellius leaned forward in his chair, arms crossed leaning on his thighs, “You failed us, you are failing in your mission, you are failing our master!”
Elise laughed softly, “I have performed my task, fulfilled my duties. We have eliminated multiple bands of upstart adventurers, deterred those we could from approaching the Horn, and informed you of all those we could not. It is not my fault you are struggling with your own mission, perhaps Thorn was misguided in selecting you.”
Pellius smiled, a crude and condescending smile, “I get it. If we fail, you may get the chance to take over our mission. You will be able to finally do something of importance, rather than playing second and watching us take the glory. But if you cannot succeed in the smallest of tasks, you are not worthy to attempt anything bigger. I expect better from you next time.”
Elise smirked, a dark and feral grin, “I do not care what you expect.”
Willow could feel the fury radiating from Pellius, his eyes flashing crimson, his nails digging into his knees. She stood from her stool and strolled to the entrance, directly in his line of sight. She watched as he struggled to keep his control and reign in his anger, he stood from the chair, inclining his head and striding gracefully towards Willow. He offered her his arm as he reached her, casually turning for the door as she accepted it.
“Yeah that's right,” Track spat under his breath, “Slink back to your hole you blonde prick!”
Willow couldn't help but giggle, trying to stifle it as she felt the muscles in his arms clench and retract. Slowly and deliberately, he turned to face the short man leaning on the windowsill. The air seemed to thicken with intensity, the leash pulled taut on Pellius’ fearsome rage. Willow subtly laid her hand upon his forearm, squeezing gently. It took a moment, but she knew when he had regained control. His charming smile returned slowly as he dipped into his pocket and flipped a coin towards Track.
“Buy yourself a drink, dog,” he said with a laugh, “Your tongue must be dry from licking so many boots…”

Preparing to leave town, the group strolled the streets of Auld'lrey on the way to regroup with Teelee. They walked in silence after leaving the inn, Pellius leading Willow by the arm in a companionable amble. She could still feel the heat radiating from him, the anger having not yet retreated, though his face was calm and casual as they perused the market. Willow found it curious that his temper seemed to contain a similar pulse to the Infernal marks of Hell that she experienced. It was as if his Infernal blood dominated part of him, flaring its hold over his fury and his temper, leaving him with little control over the rage. There had been times in battle when she had sworn she had felt Hell’s very own pulse thrumming from him, guiding his fierce and brutal attacks with the wrath of Nessus. She could still feel the low thrum beating from him as they walked, the gentle pulse of Infernal touch brushing against her flesh.
Suddenly, a colossal crash of splintering wood and shattering stone exploded behind them. The three of them spun in the direction of the commotion, gasping in shock and awe as a glistening silver dragon erupted into the sky, showering the town with shards of broken wood and brick. The creature was enormous. It's wings extended wide as it powerfully drove them down and back up repeatedly, gaining height as it flew towards the north. The sketch Willow had found did not do the dragon justice. The creature soared with regal and mystic might, raw power emitting from its sharp wing strokes, cloud rippling into nothing as the force of its gust shattered each mass of condensed white mist. They watched it, eyes wide, mouths open, as it soared gracefully further into the distance.
When it was out of sight and they managed to regain their composure, Willow frowned as she thought about the direction of the explosion.
“It came from near Vandermir’s manor,” she said warily, “If it got to him, we could be compromised.”
“Quickly,” Pellius said, starting off towards Caviller Green, “Let us find out.”
They made their way through the amass of worried townsfolk and reached the long winding driveway to the manor. Men and women were running from the gates, tears and shock covering their faces.
“He's dead,” mumbled one of women, “Baron Vandermir is dead!”
“Why would the dragon kill him?” cried another, “I thought silver dragons were supposed to be holy and good?!”
Willow and Pellius exchanged glances, both as surprised as one another. The right corner of the manor had been destroyed, leaving a gaping hole in the building where Vandermir's study had been. It appeared as if the dragon had transformed his size and exploded the room outwards. Crumpling rubble of stones were all that remained of the chamber.
Struck with an idea, Willow smiled, stepping behind the privacy of the towering gate. She used the circlet’s magic to morph her fine robes into simple Mitran garb and her face to that of a young lay sister. Willow grinned as Pellius shook his head and looked at her in question.
“He has answers we need,” she said simply, “We couldn't get them from him alive, so let us retrieve them now he is dead. Do not appear to be travelling with me. When I am gone, I'll meet you by the back entrance.”
Pellius merely smiled and inclined his head.
When they reached the manors front doors, Vandermir's men recognised Pellius and Garvana as associates of the Baron and allowed them entrance. The three of them made their way to the eastern wing where the study once stood, passing shocked guards and dazed servants. As they approached the chamber, Pellius and Garvana stood back as Willow took the lead, appearing to act out on her own.
“Captain,” she called gently, approaching the broad shouldered man giving orders, “I apologise for the intrusion. I come humbly by Mitra's light to offer my aid if I can.”
“He is dead, sister,” he said, a sad resignation to his tone.
“I am deeply sorry,” Willow said softly, “But captain, if you'll allow me, may I see him? Mitra has gifted me will the ability to return the souls to the bodies of the willing. Perhaps I can be of service, if it is not already too late.”
The man needed little convincing, ushering Willow into the room quickly, a pained expression on his face as if he dare not to hope. She carefully approached the body, kneeling by its side. The dragon had ripped the very organs from Vandermir's chest, the bloody mangled gash open and empty. The touch of death fell heavy in the room, the smell of blood and gore pungent and sickly. Willow continued her act, lightly laying her hand on the stomach of the corpse. She closed her eyes dramatically and began to hum a simple hymn she had known in school, a Mitran prayer of light and hope. Willow carefully retrieved the scroll of dimension door from her pocket, subtly unfurling it and carefully reading over the incantation. When she was ready, she smoothed the words into her humming, calling out the incantation with Vandermir's body in her grip. As she finished the incantation, she saw the realisation on the Captain’s face surface too late for him to react. As she finished the arcane words, she winked at the burly furious man and rippled out of sight, spiralling through the otherworldly portal and dropping back into the material realm. She found herself kneeling over the corpse amongst the hidden grass field by the secret entrance, sheltered from view of prying eyes. While she waited for the others, she searched through the remains of Vandermir's pockets, finding a small black leather journal. Most of the pages had been torn or shredded in the attack, but a single page of barely legible writing caught Willow's eye. Vandermir had suspected the Ninth Knot of a terrible deception. He had begun to believe the group were in fact Sons of the Pale Horsemen, using the guise of Asmodeans to gain his aid, yet surely intent to unleashing Vetra-Kali and instating his chaos throughout the lands. Willow could not fault his logic, it would indeed be easier to believe that, than it was to believe they were planning to unleash him only to banish him once more.
When the group rejoined after collecting Teelee, Pellius shifted Vandermir's corpse into the arcane infused bag he was carrying. The bag had an enchantment that morphed the inside into its own magically plane, allowing items much larger than the size of the bag to hide away in its leather walls. The body disappeared into its abyss, before they started their return journey to the spire.

The sun danced upon the horizon as the brush of the Caer Bryr grew dense. As the group walked deeper into the forest, Willow eyed Pellius with curiosity. He had spoken little since leaving the Auld Briar Hall, still brooding in his heavy steps, trudging his way through the foliage. Willow quickened her pace, catching his stride as she lightly skimmed across the muddy ground.
“Something on your mind?” she asked quietly.
Pellius continued his pace, a small smile on his lips as he sighed.
“At times, my lady,” he replied, “You are almost too perceptive.”
Willow gave a small laugh, “I believe I would have to be blind, mute and deaf to not notice something was troubling you.”
“Perhaps,” he chuckled.
“Is it something I may help you with?” she asked.
Pellius exhaled sharply before speaking, “No, it is not of imperative importance. It is, Elise…”
“Ah,” Willow nodded, “She is a sure piece of work. Completing her orders to the barest minimum, and about as trustworthy as a snake.”
“Her laziness is putting our entire mission at risk,” he said fiercely, “She needs to be brought back into line, or disposed of, her indolence cannot be tolerated.”
“I am of course inclined to agree, but we must avoid simple barbaric murder. She is not ours to dispose of, she is bound to Thorn as we are.”
“I am not suggesting such rash action, my lady,” he replied formally, “I am suggesting we uncover evidence that incriminates her wrong doing, be it disloyalty, disobedience or sheer failure in her efforts. She is not acting in accordance to Thorn’s contract, our first and primary loyalty is to Asmodeus. They shall do all that can be done to further Asmodeus-
“-His worship and his glory,” Willow finished for him, a warm smile gracing her lips.
He smiled then, looking upon her with respectful eyes.
“But we must remember Garvana's associate’s words,” Willow commented, “Elise is no faithful of our Infernal Father. We know not her loyalties, nor what her contract states.”
Pellius frowned in thought, “Perhaps it is information we can obtain from Trick, perhaps we quote our first loyalty and observe his reaction.”
“Perhaps,” Willow agreed, “I shall endeavour to find him. My contacts may have kept tabs on him, I cannot see them as the type to allow such a sly dexterous hand to go unnoticed within their city.”

As twilight seeped into the blackness of night, the four of them made the long climb up the winding case of stairs leading to the second level of the Horn of Abbadon. As they neared the ledge of the entrance, Willow felt the creep of terror bleed under her skin, rippling a shiver through her spine. She slowed her steps, realising there was more to her bad feeling when she noticed Pellius and Garvana mimic her halt. They stepped cautiously to peer into the passage, searching for the source of the ominous dread. The hall stood deathly quiet, the air almost visibly thick in its silence. Not a breath sounded from beyond the gates, not a cry nor a scream. Yet the foreboding intensity throbbed like a pulsing weight beating against Willow's chest. Carefully, she peered through the arrow slit to the right, where they had left Barris and Willem on guard. She frowned, seeing the place deserted, not a soul in sight. As she turned to inspect the other side, she caught sight of the top of a man's head. Chestnut locks, receding slightly, low widows peak – Willem. Garvana quietly muttered her incantations while Willow signalled that she would scout ahead. She crept through the passage way, working carefully to bypass the doors and traps silently. As she unlatched the main gate without a sound, she peered through the hallway, daggers held tightly at the ready. The long hallway was empty. The silence was bone chilling, sweat began to form in beads along Willow's forehead, the hairs on her neck standing upon end. The eeriness, so heavy, the air was thick like unseen fog. Willow could feel it; she could feel eyes on her, she could feel the predator watching.
She signalled to the others to move forward, continuing on soundless feet through the hidden door into the guard room. She prowled, daggers up, preparing to defend herself. Two bodies slummed against the wall, unmoving and lifeless. Willow ignored the cold chill rippling up her spine, slowly stepping towards Willem, shivering as she examined his face. A permanent look of utter terror shaped the features of his face, his skin had sunken in upon itself, his once almost handsome face now appearing gaunt and skeletal. It was as if something had siphoned the very life from his body. When Garvana and Pellius entered the room, Willow signalled silently for them to approach. Garvana rushed over, frowning at the state of the man.
“It's some kind of curse,” she whispered, “He's still alive, barely, but I don't know what state he’ll be in if we disturb him.”
Quickly dropping her bag, Willow fumbled through the belt of vials she had tucked in her zip, looking for the right one. One of the most useful pieces of advise that Switch had given her, was to be prepared for anything. He had suggested always keeping two vials of every basic healing potion, cure and remedy on hand. She had taken his advise seriously, carrying the belt at all times, even strapped under her lavish gowns besides her daggers. She pulled out a vial with the remove curse label and quickly handed it to Garvana.
“Cure him,” she breathed, “We need to know what we're up against.”
It took a moment for Garvana's surprise to settle, but as she leant towards the catatonic man, his mouth suddenly shot open and let loose a horrifying shriek that bounded down the stagnant hallways.
“Take away the sword!” he cried, terror flashing through his eyes.
Garvana struggled to get Willem to drink the potion, resorting to gripping his hair forcing his head back and pouring the vial’s contents down his throat. She released his head as the screaming subsided, shrinking into soft whimpers and cries, as the skin in his cheeks slowly rose and inflated off the bones. Willow crouched in front of him, watching as awareness slowly dawned in his eyes.
“Willem,” Willow said quietly, “What happened here?”
“Y-you,” he stuttered, “You've come to save us!”
“What happened here?” Willow repeated sharply.
“It-it was terrifying, it was terror, t-terror…”
His eyes glazed over as he drifted away from reality. Frustrated, Willow struck him fiercely with the back of her hand across the cheek. As the slap echoed through the passage, Willem’s eyes focused, dead centre on Willow.
“What did this?” she demanded, “What was it?”
“I don't know Mistress,” he said clearly, struggling to stay focused, “It was here, but not here. It was not completely here. It came through the walls, there was no where to hide. It just kept stabbing me. Over and over, over and over, over…”
Awareness slipped from his grasp as his eyes glazed, and his mind wandered away into the void. Willow was unsure if he would ever be the same after his mind had been rattled so.
“It is entirely possible,” Pellius said quietly, “That the creature we’re looking for is a physical manifestation of the horror experienced here when the Mitran's raided eight decades ago. The bloodshed was vast and gruesome, it is possible the terror that was felt as the men were slain, still lingers in the halls. The manifestation of those feelings being fed by the increased activity of the Horn, the darkness intensifying its reach.”
“Wait,” Willow said, frantically searching her mind to recall the dates in her research, “It is Fourth Starday of Rova, the exact day of the ritual, eighty one years later.”
“Indeed?” Pellius replied, eyebrows raised, “We must banish this horror, for the more souls it consumes, the more powerful it’s haunt will become.”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:54 AM
Chapter 16 - Darkness Feeding - Part 2


They decided to check on Bor and Grumblejack before seeking the terror that had consumed their men. Willow carefully unlocked the door to the throne room and attempted to swing it open. The door bumped into a solid form blocking the doorway, as Willow pushed firmly, a blood curdling female scream sounded from the other side. As the door opened, Willow saw the form of a woman sprinting in fear out of the double doors and into the hallway.
“We must get to the Sanctum,” Garvana said hurriedly.
As they nodded and turned for the throne, another voice boomed from the passage.
“You!” Bor's voice bellowed in the distance, “Get back here!”
The four of them looked to one another, silently agreeing to go in search of the voice. They quickly made their way towards the courtyard, scurrying through the passage, weapons at the ready. When they reached the opening to the large room, only silence greeted them.
“Bor?” Pellius called suspiciously.
“Bor, are you here?” Garvana parroted.
For a moment, nothing happened. The air hung heavy in its quiet rest, the shadows lay still darkening the corners of the dimly lit chamber. Suddenly, a mass of swirling blackness unfurled from the walls and swarmed towards Pellius. It's eery shaded tendrils wrapped themselves around his arms, passing though his armour and caressing his flesh. Willow stood shocked as she watch the horror ripple across his face. In panic he swung his sword at unseen enemies, struggling to block the nonexistent attacks, his body reacting as if he was being slash and skewered with ethereal blades. A flash flickered behind Willow's eyes. For a brief second, she saw herself as a Son of the Pale Horsemen, Mitran holy warriors charging towards her with death in their eyes. Her vision flickered back, she took only a moment to adjust herself and leap at the ebony nightmare with her daggers. It was a strange thing to see the physical blade pass through the inking blackness as if it were air, yet watch the arcane enchantment on the dagger slice through the flesh of the horror beast like skin. She quickly drove her second dagger into its vortex mass. The horror writhed and shrieked, a chorus of moans of agony and wails of despair ricocheted off the stone walls, filling Willow's ears with its torment. As Garvana began to chant a deep incantation, Pellius pushed through his torture, eyes flashing with hellfire as he cleaved his sword into the form. His blade slashed deep, tearing through the mystical flickering beast, causing it to groan its sorrow from the terrifying abyss. The wisps of agony swarmed towards Willow, scattered fragments of the past flashing in her mind, otherworldly wounds tearing at her skin. She could feel the very life been sucked from her soul, her skin slowly draining, sinking heavy upon her bones. Struggling to shake off the fear sapping her will, she launched herself at the mass, ripping her blades through its tendrils. Garvana's magic caressed her vigour, pulling her back from the edge of the void. With renewed energy, Pellius and Willow struck out in unison, weakening the abomination of grief. Teelee fired wisps of white magic, forcefully driving each arcane shard into their attacker. At his gasp, Willow risked a glance at Pellius. He stood still for a moment, staring up in trepidation at something she couldn't see. He flinched suddenly, his shoulder caving as if he had been cleaved by a mighty great sword.
An image of a Mitran knight sparked in Willow's eyes, his large axe cascading down towards her head. She tried to dodge the axe, leaping to the side, but her legs barely moved. She was not ready for the assault; none of them had been ready, the Mitran's had attacked so quickly, so organised. It was a slaughter, a massacre. All her brethren were already dead, their corpses littering the hallways and the chambers, their blood painting the walls in poetic crimson justice. The axe continued its course, splitting the air as it neared its target with an almighty force. Her feet still refused to move, she was frozen in fear. She was not ready to die, but as the axe split the skin covering her skull, she knew she would.
The blackened dread appeared in front of her, it's coils of sable surging through her flesh, drawing her will into its form. It slithered with uncanny speed, sinking into the stone below their feet, a shadow racing towards the left and disappearing behind the wall. Willow breathed heavily as she stood ready to attack, daggers held tight in her fingers, heart thumping in her chest.
“Mith si mortih!” Pellius growled in Infernal, taunting the nightmare to reappear.
Willow's heart drummed as the eery silence stretched, anticipation tainted with trepidation racing through her veins. Seconds later, the blackness swarmed from the stonework towards Teelee. As it’s rippling curls reached for her, Willow's head whipped around at the sound of a frightening chthonic battle cry. Pellius charged the creature, a frothing rage running rampant through his body, his eyes blinding in their scarlet glow. His sword ripped through the air above his head, riving in it's decent, tearing the nightmare asunder. As it shrieked and wailed, writhing in agony, Willow used the last of her strength to dive at it with her blades. As the daggers slashed, the mass shuddered. In a soundless pulse, the misted creature fulminated into shattered shards of ethereal wisps, shooting outwards as they dissipated back into the void.
As the feelings of dread slowly began to seep out of the spire, Willow's legs collapsed. She could feel the skin loose upon her body, the bones of her cheeks protruding while the layers of flesh hung slack. Garvana rushed to her aid, calling on her powers for healing, laying her firm hands upon Willow's gaunt shoulders. As the arcana circulated through her veins, Willow looked over to see Pellius, slumped against the wall. His head leant heavily upon his arm, eyes clenched shut, teeth gritted as if he was still fighting. But the internal battle he was fighting seemed like much more than physical creatures that could be slain with metal. Through the cracks of his eyelids, Willow could see the hellfire still raging from within. It was as if he were struggling for control, warring with his fury for perch in his own mind. It was a battle she could not help him win.
The last throb of divine healing pulsed within Willow's body, her chest lightened as her mind cleared. The four of them had miraculously avoided the nightmare’s curse, although they had been left shaken and drained. Pellius appeared to have emerged from his struggle, his stern face returning as he marched with his usual dominance. They made their way back towards the throne room, passing guards and servants slowly recovering from their terrifying madness. One of the guards gradually emerged from a side chamber, white faced and bewildered.
“W-what happened?” he stammered, “Is it gone?”
Pellius shoved him forcefully out of the way, his great strength unintentionally sending the man flying backwards into the room.
“We have dealt with it,” he bit.
They used the teleporting magic of the thrones to quickly ascend to the sanctum, hurriedly scaling the stairs passed Hexor and Vexor. As they entered the abyssal shrine, Bor charged towards them, sword drawn. He staggered on his attack as he seemed to recognise them.
“Are you real?!” he demanded, “Is it actually you?”
“It is us, Bor,” Willow soothed, “We have dealt with the creature.”
Hesitantly, he lowered his weapon.
“Good,” he said, “What in Hell’s name was it?”
“A manifestation of the terror caused by the raid on this place,” Garvana said.
“Hmph,” Grumblejack huffed, “Grumblejack don’t like it. Can not eat mani-fust-too.”
“Willow believes it to be the anniversary of the slaughter,” Garvana added, “If that is the case, it is most likely that it shall return again next year.”
Willow sighed, “Thankfully we’ll be gone from this place by then.”
“What of your progress?” Pellius clipped, “The nightmare did not interrupt your ritual?”
“No,” Bor said, back straightened in formality, “It was completed as planned. The creature appeared as the sun left. We had enough time to attend to the ritual before it attacked.”
“Good,” Pellius responded, “Teelee, Garvana, it is your shift. Are you in health enough to relieve Bor?”
Garvana raised her eyebrows, nose in the air, “Of course. I am not incompetent.”
Teelee shrugged nonchalantly, seemingly unbothered by the situation.
“Very well,” Pellius nodded, “I shall retire for a few hours, and return to relieve you before dawn.”
He turned, marching to the stairs and began to descend them. Willow said goodnight to the others before following behind him, quick steps catching up to him before he made it to the teleporting circle.
“Pellius,” she said gently, “May I ask a favour of you?”
“Of course you may ask, my lady,” he responded, his voice sounding tired and deflated, “But I fear I may not be of service this evening.”
Willow smiled softly, laying a hand on his forearm, “That is not what I wish to ask of you. It is just…”
She sighed, the smile dropping from her face, the horrific images swirling through her mind.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” she asked in quiet voice, dropping her eyes to the ground, “I do not wish to sleep alone, I have trouble sleeping within these walls as it is, yet tonight I fear the dream realm will be overwhelming in its dread. Your presence is… comforting.”
She looked up into his eyes, knowing well that the truth of her fear was present on her face.
A slight smile touched his lips, “Of course, Willow. I will offer what comfort I can.”

Sleep remained just out of reach as Willow lay upon the bed, head tucked into Pellius’ shoulder, thick blankets of soft wool funnelled around her. She listened to the steady beat of his heart, outpacing the sharp inhales and exhales on his breath. Mere moments after they had doused the candles, he had fallen into a heavy deep slumber. Willow could feel the tension within him as he battled his way through the dream land. She could tell he was tired, as they all were. The five of them had come from such varied backgrounds, their stories colliding into their shared fate. Willow had been so young before Branderscar. So naïve and blind, parading in a life she held no love for, serving a god she gave no real faith. Suddenly she had been confronted with her failings, given an opportunity to right her wrongs and truly achieve something. She had been thrown into a whirlwind of excitement, servitude and meaning. She had grown more in the eight months serving Thorn, than she had in her twenty five years of life as the delicate Willow Myrah Monteguard.
As Pellius’ chest trembled, she thought of him in a new light. Only two years her junior, with the cultured confidence of a man many years his senior. Yet, as she breathed along with him, she realised he was in over his head, struggling for grasp just as she was. Inexperienced, yet doing all he could in his first real mission in serving his Infernal Father. They were all struggling to succeed and please their master and their lord. They were all just trying to survive.

The warm rays of dawning sun failed to penetrate the darkened clouds the following morning. Willow thought it was as if the very sky was in mourning, sending off the anniversary of the massacre that took place, in a solemn condolence. The group gathered once again around the large oak table in the tavern to discuss the coming week. Even through the haze of her groggy sleep deprived mind, Willow had thoughts of their organisations growth.
“Vandermir's men are without a leader,” she said to the group, “We should recruit them before they have a chance to recover or be pouched by another.”
“Agreed,” Pellius nodded, “They are most vulnerable now. It seems our men have mostly recovered from the nightmare’s curse, we should send them into town as soon as possible.”
“We should send the boggards to discover the fate or at least the truth of Elise’s messenger,” Garvana added.
“Agreed,” chimed the others.
They prepared to relay the tasks to their minions, as Bor and Teelee left the tavern, Willow watched curiously as Pellius approached Garvana.
“Garvana,” Pellius beckoned, “May I have a moment?”
She cocked an eyebrow and stopped her leave, turning to Pellius with a short nod.
“Am I correct in assuming,” he asked formally, “You have never received any formal training in the way of Asmodeus?”
Garvana frowned, a suspicious glint in her eyes, “You are correct.”
“Ah, I did believe as much. Then I have a proposal for you. You may not know, but I was raised by the Temple of Asmodeus, mentored by those of true faith. From birth I was guided in the way of our Infernal Lord, taught and disciplined by the hands of his disciples. This I offer, if you shall accept my guidance, I shall mentor you.”
For a moment, Garvana looked taken aback. Her frown slowly retreated, a look of strange hope and acceptance dawning.
“Thank you, Pellius,” she replied, “It would be most appreciated.”
“The training will not be easy,” Pellius clipped, “I expect complete obedience and compliance, I will not tolerate complaining, and failure shall be met with harsh punishment. Do you understand?”
Willow couldn't help the smirk as she watched Garvana battle with her pride. While Willow revelled in Pellius’ harsh form of discipline, Garvana was a proud woman with a vicious stubborn streak. She managed to reign her pride in, smiling politely as she nodded.
“I understand,” she said.
“Good,” Pellius said sharply, “Change into some loose fitting clothing and meet me in the throne hall on the first floor. We begin in an hour.”
Garvana gave a stiff nod, quickly leaving the room. As Pellius turned to presumably bid Willow farewell, she stood from her chair as she spoke.
“Do you believe your training will be received well?” Willow smirked.
Pellius smiled, “That is yet to be seen. I have hope, discipline would be extremely beneficial to Garvana. She has the devotion, fanatical and boundless though it may be.”
“May I attend?” she asked, “I would be most interested to observe this discipline.”
Pellius quirked his lip, “You may. But you must remain silent and not distract her, she has much to learn and will not be aided by your commentary.”
With a sinful grin she replied, “I will be as obedient as always.”
His wicked chuckle echoed off the stone walls as he left the tavern and Willow behind.

An hour later, Willow wandered down the stone steps to the first floor, journal and ink in hand. She entered the great hall to find Pellius and Garvana already practicing the routine of stretches and exercises that he habitually performed every morning.
“Keep it slow and controlled,” Pellius said quietly.
He stood with his eyes closed and his face relaxed, legs apart as he gradually lowered himself into a deep balancing squat, both hands held together in front of his chest.
“This is the bastion stance,” he continued calmly, “Drawn from the teachings of the Sacred Mountain Monks. The monk of the iron mountain finds strength and power in the earth beneath his feet. Rather than spinning through the battlefield with the fluid motion of the river, he roots himself to the ground, as immovable and unshakable as the stones of the mountain. In this stance, we find balance and grounding. We hold fast, we remain still, we breathe. We are immovable, we are unshakable.”
Willow watched on with interest, fascinated by the array of knowledge Pellius had to share. She had been taught of the benefits in certain philosophies carried by monks, her own grandfather having disciplined her training with the aid of the Monks of the Mantis. They believed in the points where the flesh, mind and spirit coincide, and they were trained and highly skilled at manipulating these points. Having been a female in a male dominated bloodline, it had been important for her to utilise her agility and speed to counter her lack of physical strength. The teachings of the mantis were of pressure points and how to use them to control the flow of battle.
She listened intently to Pellius speak of the iron monks and their practises, the words of strength and control of the body, relating to strength and control of the mind. After he had guided her through the routine of poses, he called for her to continue as he patrolled and observed her posture. Willow flinched in excitement as he fiercely cracked a cane against her thigh.
“Lower!” he called, “Bend into it deeper.”
Garvana gritted her teeth and lowered herself further. Willow put down her journal and quill, sitting cross legged upon the floor, lazily leaning back on her hands. She watched as Pellius strolled, head high and shoulders back, a clear authority in the hall. She found his dominance utterly endearing. Busy watching Garvana in her vigil, she failed to notice Pellius stalk behind her, shocking her as the cane lashed across her forearms.
“If you are going to observe,” he said darkly, a menacing warning to his tone, “You will sit properly in a kneel and remain there.”
Willow felt the quiver of amorous delight as she quickly lifted to her knees, holding herself perfectly still in her subservient pose, enjoying the stinging flesh on her arms. She saw the glint of satisfaction in his eyes before he returned to Garvana. As she held each pose with sustained strength and control, Pellius lectured her on her faults he saw that needed correction. To her credit, Willow thought, she didn't call him an over observant rude bastard.
“At present,” he continued, “You are too impulsive, poorly disciplined and disrespectful. You are over zealous, too rash and unapologetically naïve. These are things we must resolve not to be. We will train with mace and shield; I will teach you to be controlled and smart about your offence and defensive tactics. We will train to use logic over emotion; I will teach you grace by study of religion, culture and strategy. Today you will fight with only a shield, and you will learn that your defence can be your best offence…”

As the sun fell below the horizon, Willow finished her shift on duty in the sanctum and followed Garvana to the storeroom where they had stored Vandermir’s corpse. Willow had told only Garvana and Pellius of her plan to question him, avoiding the possibility that her plan would draw the attention of those she wanted information regarding. It was a risky decision to ask Vandermir of Cardinal Thorn. Her contract or orders did not forbid her from prying into his past or identity, but seeking such knowledge could provoke his anger or his wrath if he wished his secrets to remain hidden. She was smart and paranoid enough to believe that he would have some way to keep tabs on his servants, and the fierce aura he carried spoke of powerful arcane ability. She would not be surprised if he regularly used his magic to scry and observe the bound, keeping check on their loyalty and progress. It was for this reason she quietly requested that Pellius and Garvana left their gifted circlets and medallions behind, minimising the possible links he would have to watch them.
Quietly, she followed the pair into the storeroom. They stood around Vandermir's body, staring down at the horrific wounds that had left his chest gaping. The strange magic that surrounded the storeroom chamber had kept his body in the exact state that they had retrieved it in. Willow's mind raced over the implications of the questions she was preparing to ask.
“I am ready,” Garvana said, retrieving her Asmodean holy symbol from her pouch.
“Proceed,” Willow nodded.
Garvana clutched the star in her hand, gently laying the other upon the corpse. Slowly, softly, she began to chant. Willow could feel the rush of arcana reaching out into the afterlife, seeking the soul of the corpse that lay under Garvana’s grasp. Excitement flooded Willow's veins, her curiosity chomping at the bit, a touch of fear feeding the anticipation. As a semblance of life rippled in the corpse, it's eyes flickered open. Willow shivered, staring back into Vandermir's vacant eyes. She had no true idea what information she was about to receive, nor if she would receive any at all. But as the corpse opened its mouth to speak, Willow felt the strangest sensation, a foreboding warning that promised what she was about to find out, would change the course of her fate forever…

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:56 AM
Chapter 17 - Treachery - Part 1


The air hung heavy within the stone walled chamber, stale and stagnant, dense with anticipation. The night air was crisp, a cold chill looming as winter made its inevitable approach. Willow, Garvana and Pellius gathered around the corpse, solemn faces as they performed their clandestine task. As Vandermir's vacant eyes flickered open, Willow inhaled sharply. The corpse groaned, shifting in its respite, the soul of the damned settling back into its former body. Garvana chanted her incantation, eyes wide with concentration, tone smooth and methodical.
“Ask your questions,” she said to Willow, “I will hold the spirit for as long as I can.”
Willow and Pellius stepped forward, staring down at the mangled corpse, facing their opportunity.
“Who were you meeting with before your death?” Pellius asked firmly, arms crossed over his broad chest.
They had agreed the best advantage they could gain was a description or the identity of the shape the dragon took on to gain access to the Baron’s manor. Even Willow had a regular disguise she favoured, they were hoping the dragon would have a similar habit. Shifting his gaze across the room, Vandermir wheezed his cryptic response through lifeless lungs, eyes landing on Pellius.
“Fair of hair,” he moaned, “Fair of eyes, fair of skin. His brawn matched only by his indomitable spirit…”
Willow knelt by the corpse’s side, her eyes piercing with intent. She had thought over her questions countless times, meticulously planning the wording to best achieve the information she was seeking. Vandermir's reaction to her questions of Samuel Havelyn had peaked her curiosity and sent her mind reeling. She couldn't deny the desperate call of suspicion that told her his identity was to play a major role in her destiny.
“What do you know of Samuel Havelyn?” she asked.
A sudden chill rippled through her spine as his eyes floated to stare back at her.
“Burnt, and forgotten,” he breathed, “Friend and son…”
Willow frowned on his words, unsure what to make of their meaning. She began to drift into thought, her mind spiralling as it leapt to conclusions. Garvana cleared her throat, the sound snapping Willow back to attention, reminding her of the time restraints she was faced with. She had not yet asked the question that had seen her biting her nails in anxiety for the last few hours.
“What do you know,” she asked carefully, “Of Adrastus Thorn?”
The Baron’s corpse seemed to almost sigh.
“Adrastus,” it wheezed, “He is a man who is not a man. One step, below the Father…”
Suddenly, the corpse shuddered with release. The soul sapped from the body, returning to the afterlife. Willow stood from her perch, brows pulled tight in a deep frown.
“One step below the father…” she repeated.
“What does that mean?” Garvana questioned.
Willow fiddled with the clasp on her cloak distractedly, “I am unsure. All that is clear is that our master is more than a simple high priest of Asmodeus…”
“One step could refer to the hierarchy of hell?” Pellius mused.
With no further speculation, Willow turned and strode out of the room, heading for her chamber. As she reached her door, Pellius’ heavy footsteps quickened their pace as they sounded behind her. As he open his mouth to speak, Willow turned and politely inclined her head.
“I must apologise, for you will have to excuse me,” she said, opening her door, “I have much to think on, and I would prefer to do so alone. When I have drawn my conclusions, or failed to, I shall seek your company.”
For only a mere moment, a look of suspicion crossed his face, quickly replaced by his usual charming smile.
“Very well, my lady,” he replied politely, a small bow before he retreated.
Sealing the door behind her, Willow swiftly took her seat at her desk and began scripting her thoughts in her journal. Vandermir's answers had only led to further questions. Cryptic words, a puzzle to solve. She had little to base a theory on, such little information, fuelled only by a hunch.
Willow spent the next few hours scrawling across the parchment, trying to find a link to unravel the mystery within the words. As dusk approached, she had gained nothing more than cramping fingers latching the quill and a sharp pain in her forehead as her eyebrows furrowed relentlessly. Frustrated and lost, she was glad for the distraction when Pellius returned to collect her for their shared night duty in the sanctum. They strolled together leisurely on their way up to the top floor of the spire, quietly discussing their lack of findings.
“It could mean anything,” Willow huffed, “We have no base to begin. All I have of Havelyn is a brief story of convicted heresy and a scribbled name in a book. I would have dismissed his importance, were it not for Vandermir's initial reaction.”
“Forgive me for suggesting it,” Pellius replied, “But is it possible your curiosity has created a scenario more enticing than the truth?”
“It is entirely possible,” Willow chuckled, before her laughter faded and her frown returned, “I cannot explain it, Pellius. I feel there is more to it, I do not know what it is, but I cannot deny the chill that tells me to keep seeking answers.”
“Then continue your search,” he reassured, “There is no harm in seeking information, so long as it does not interfere with our work here.”

Standing around the flicking flame of Zikomo’s bonfire the following morning, the group listened to his translation of the reports from the boggard tribe. Garvana had ordered the boggards to search the forest for signs of Elise’s apparent failed messenger. The frogs had returned, one man down, as they retold the tale of the terrifying tree that had eaten their brethren.
“He tells me the tree had a rope tied to its trunk,” Zikomo said, eyes glazed over in his drunken stupor, “He says it was as if a horse had been shackled, it's rider stopping for rest.”
“Could they not take care of a simple tree?!” Pellius barked.
Zikomo looked unfazed by his anger, merely chewing his animal rind methodically.
“He says the tree is of the darkness, an evil spirit waiting in ambush for its prey. The boggards cannot contain the beast. It is the work of the emissaries of the Father.”
Willow rolled her eyes, listening to the rambles of the inebriated frog.
“We shall deal with it,” Garvana said with authority, “Tell the tribe not to fear. We shall quell the threat.”
As the group left the caverns, Willow shrugged her disinterest as she was asked her opinion on how to proceed. Garvana and Pellius were of a mind to recruit the treant, deal with the threat by employing its wrath upon their foes.
“And what's to stop it from turning on us and our men?” Willow asked, “How much loyalty do you suppose a tree that eats people possesses?”
“We can ensure its loyalty by offering it regular meals,” Garvana offered.
Willow shook her head, “Let us first find this treant, then make our decision.”
The group left the Horn later that afternoon, following the boggards directions, seeking the ominous grove they had described. Pellius had chained one of the peasants they held captive to a leash, dragging him along behind them. When the peasant became erratic and began trying to escape in desperation, Willow looked away as Pellius sighed, disabling the prisoner with a crunch to the knee. Rain pelted from the skies, deafening thunder shook the ground beneath their feet, clashes of lightening ricocheted through the gaps piercing the canopy. The ground was sluggish and congealed, making their traipse through the mud slow and tedious. As they reached a clearing devoid of all animal life and riddled with blackened spirals of corrupted growth, they knew they had found their destination. They approached cautiously, peering through the dense brush, stopping in shock at what they saw. The corroded treant was easy to identify. It's long tendrils of branches hung heavy from its leafless trunk, rippling coils of wood formed into nooses, charred and sable oak seeping from its core. What had the group startled was a second treant, a familiar figure in the labyrinth of the Caer Bryr. Jurak, the treant tasked by the Victor himself to guard the Horn from evil doing, stood next to the festering hollow tree. Garvana quietly rushed to Willow's side, whispering as silently as the raging storm would allow.
“Will you talk to them? You are better at this than most.”
Willow sighed, unsure what they would gain from this meeting, but still willing to aid. She nodded, and shivered slightly as Garvana's magic circled around her. She felt a slight chill around her throat as the words of the majestic trees drifted to her ears. What had previously been mere rustling of branches and groaning of wood, became clear words that Willow could barely hear over the thundering skies.
“It is alright,” Jurak soothed, “Calm yourself brother…”
“He is comforting the tree,” Willow said to the group in confusion.
As Willow crept forward to better hear the conversation, she heard the rattling of armour behind her, loud enough to draw the attention of the treants. The carved face upon Jurak’s trunk contorted with anger, he lifted his roots from the soil and drove himself forward threateningly.
“YOU!” he roared, “LEAVE THIS GROVE AT ONCE!”
Willow realised the magic Garvana had summoned, had allowed her the ability to speak the language of the treants. She gave a small respective bow as she spoke, loud enough to the heard.
“I apologise, Elder One,” she said, “We do not wish to intrude, merely to speak.”
Jurak’s face raged with fury as the husk of the blackened treant began to twitch and shudder violently. Suddenly, Jurak stormed forward lashing out with his branches, swinging them wide and colliding with Willow sending her flying backwards. She skidded through the mud, tearing up the blackened shrubbery as she passed, coming to a halt at the edge of the clearing.
“LEAVE!” he boomed, “NOW!”
The group quickly retreated, watching the second treant as its convulsions intensified, it's own face rippling with raging need. Pellius swiftly lifted Willow from the mud, before they turned back to the grove. Jurak continued his approach as they paused to observe the situation, deciding that retreat was the best option and quickly dashing behind the brush.
“Will you allow me to remain behind alone?” Willow asked Pellius, “I can remain unseen, and follow Jurak back to where he rests, we need to deal with him at some point.”
Pellius frowned in thought, before nodding and turning to leave, “Agreed, but stay out of sight and be careful, he is a powerful creature you cannot deal with alone.”
Willow nodded, slipping into the dense foliage and quietly scampering to a subtle hiding place within the grove. She watched as Jurak returned to the treant, too far away for Willow to hear what was being said. The treant had not yet calmed or returned to its prior rest, the violent twitches and convulsions still rippling its trunk. Suddenly, it's coiled branches whipped out and latched upon Jurak's own. It heaved with fury, ripping the splintering wood from his form. Jurak continued to remain passive, presumably trying to soothe the raging treant. It tore its roots from the ground, launching itself into the other as a shattering crack of wood upon wood echoed throughout the forest. Willow watched on in fascination as Jurak gave up his attempt to settle the creature, regretfully having to retaliate in defence of his own life. The trees flung out their branches, crashing against one another, splinters of wood cascading through the air littering the blackened soil of the ground. A battle of titanic mass, both mystical creatures roaring with fury, bursting throws of exploding oak tearing through the wind. With a final tremendous blow, Jurak's massive trunk fulminated across the expanse in a shower of ripped leaves and shards of wood. Lightening flashed through the air, thunder bellowed as the wind howled. The treant sank further into the marsh, its roots furling deep into the mud, settling as it came to rest. The violent shudders retreated, and Willow watched as its branched coiled upon themselves, the tree ceasing all movement bar the gentle flow of the rain. She knew not what to make of the development, only that it was a decision for the group to make together. She crept unseen out of the grove, before sprinting her way back towards the Horn of Abbadon.
It didn't take long for her to catch up to the party, the crippled peasant slowing their journey, so she called out when they were in sight.
“Jurak is dead,” she said, panting from her sprint, “And the treant is injured. If we are going to fight it or deal with it, now is our best chance.”
“Quickly,” Garvana said, heading back to the grove, “Let us return.”
“Do you think it is smart enough to make a deal with?” Willow asked doubtfully.
“That remains to be seen,” Pellius replied, dragging the peasant behind him.
“I still believe it is too much of a risk,” Willow said, “What is to stop it from turning on us when it becomes hungry?”
“I agree,” Bor said firmly, “We should kill it and be done with it.”
“Let us speak to it,” Garvana said shortly, “It may be a great asset.”
“We shall see…”

As entered the grove once more, the group marvelled at the ruins of Jurak's shattered corpse. The treant still sat in it’s rest, motionless as they approached. Garvana summoned her arcana, touching Willow with the wisps of pulsating magic. As confident as she could, Willow approached with Pellius by her side, her voice loud and harsh as she spoke.
“State your intentions!” she called, “We come to offer a deal.”
The treant began to shudder, rippling vines swinging from its deformed top, roots slithering out from the ground.
“So… hungry…” it groaned.
Pellius tugged on the leash, yanking the peasant forward. He unclasped the chain, and with great strength, hurled their sacrifice towards the tree. The group cautiously stepped backwards as the powerful roots dragged the creature forward with remarkable speed. Willow grimaced as the treant hungrily devoured the screaming man, only shreds of flesh remaining as it finished its meal.
“What would it take to ensure your loyalty?” Willow demanded, “To guarantee you would leave our people unharmed.”
The tree croaked as it shuddered, dragging itself closer to the group, Willow felt the strangest touch of magic caressing her mind before retreating. She eyed the treant suspiciously, unsure what powers such a malevolent creature possessed.
“Take me… to the food,” it groaned, “Feed me…”
“Remain here and you shall have your food,” Bor interjected, sending Willow a silencing glance.
She frowned, unsure what his plan was, but happy to have the conversation ended as she became frustrated with the precarious loyalty of such a creature. She followed his retreat, carefully watching the treant for signs of pursuit, leaving the grove without a word.
“This is a pointless venture,” Bor said finally, as they made there way back to the spire, “We do not need the responsibility of feeding such a creature. If we are not to kill it, then let it remain a menace in the forest as it continues to feed itself.”
Garvana sighed, “I still think it would be an asset to have on our side, but I concede, our resources are stretched thin feeding the creatures we are already housing.”
“Agreed,” Willow nodded, “I will send a messenger to Elise to inform her people to avoid its location. We need not involve ourselves further.”

The morning rays of sunlight pierced Willow's sight from beyond the slender window in her chamber. Begrudgingly, her eyes flickered open. She rolled herself away from the light, into the warm caress of Pellius’ heated body. Even as he slept, the sculpted muscles on his back carved their form across his shoulders. She gently traced their shape, drifting through the hollow between his shoulder blades. At her graze, his body stirred, still deep in his slumber but always responsive to her touch. With its own intention, his body rolled towards her, his soft breath confirming his lack of awareness. She softly slid her self atop him, looking down at him in something close to affection. His face was at rest while he slept, free from the burdens of his waking life, no battle nor war to fight. The great weight he carried seemed to leave cracks in his strong defence, as the repercussions of shouldering such immense responsibility took their tole. In his dreaming state though, his brow did not furrow, his will was not taxed. He merely slept, free from the worry he harboured.
She traced her fingers along his chest, running them through the soft feathered tuffs of hair, marvelling at his striking physique. He was one of the few men that she had met that looked almost as imposing out of his armour as he did in it. She leaned forward, drawing along the scars that decorated his strong chest. Suddenly, his hands whipped up and gripped her own, his eyes flying wide in alarm. Willow smiled at his fierce grip, remaining still as he came awake into realisation. He tugged forcefully on her hands so her slender frame fell forward onto his chest, her face stopping in hover over his. She laughed softly at his raised eyebrows, laying a gentle kiss upon his lips.
“Good morning,” she said quietly, “Did you sleep well?”
“Indeed,” he said, his voice husky in its early morning strain.
Willow sat back, thighs relaxing on either side of his. She returned to her exploration, fingers grazing over his scars. As they made their way over his shoulders and down his arms, they came to rest upon his marking of Branderscar Prison.
“I treat it as a blessing,” he said softly, watching Willow's finger, “My release from Branderscar is a chance to bring an entire country to their rightful place under Asmodean rule.”
She smiled, looking to her own brand, the fine white lines scarring her delicate skin. Her eyes trailed over his torso, noticing the spattering of scars across his wide frame.
“So many times you've cheated death,” she commented, tracing the long raised scar upon his side.
“Each one is a reminder, a lesson given to me, to always remember not to be careless. Deception is a tool. Deceive always thy enemy but never thy self.”
Willow smiled at his words, looking down upon her own flesh, slender scars marring her skin. She flattened her palms against his chest and slowly ground her lower weight into him. At his sharp intake of breath, she smirked, continuing her rhythmic movements.
“So what plans do you have for your day?” she asked casually, a playful smile upon her lips.
He chuckled at her deceptive leisure, “I intend to further Garvana's training. She has proved her devotion and dedication to formal tutorage.”
Willow leant forward, sensually kissing her way up his collarbone.
“And what part,” she continued casually, quickening her lower movements, “Of your formal tutorage does she have to look forward to today?”
“Mace and shield,” he growled in a breath, “Exhibiting control of others.”
Suddenly, he gripped Willow by the waist and threw her to the side, guiding her beneath him and pinning her with his weight.
Willow giggled, “Control over others? You'd be a very good teacher.”

It was still early morning when they made their way to the throne hall, approaching the refurbished coat room that Garvana had claimed as her bed chamber. Willow remained slightly behind as to not interrupt Pellius’ lesson, but was close enough to over hear Garvana seemingly talking to herself.
“…as the oldest and most powerful motes, became leaders and predators among all others, adding the ever advancing essences of their lesser brethren to their own, and in doing so growing always greater. I feel the pull to be that predator, a leader this world needs, yet I have been born into this world but a year…”
Willow frowned at the intense words of Garvana’s spiel, the heavy weight accompanied by the eery prophetic tone she spoke in. Pellius cleared his throat as he approached the open door. Garvana greeted him, retrieving her armour and weapons, unbothered by having been interrupted or overheard.
“Good morning, Willow,” she said, inclining her head.
“And to you,” Willow said, eyebrow cocked, allowing her to pass.
Joining them in their warm up, Willow mimicked Pellius’ strong agile movements, lunging deeply and using her dexterous flexibility to hold her centre. Pellius prowled around them watching their efforts, firm cane tightly in hand, ready to correct any flaws in their technique. Although the flowing movements and fatiguing stretches came naturally to Willow, even she was impressed with Garvana's improvement. When the warm up concluded, Willow sat to the side, kneeling motionless in her respectful stance. She watched as Pellius took Garvana through the basics of mace and shield tactics, the correct way to hold the weapons and the best use of their defence.
“Let us spar,” he called, “And see what you have learned.”
As Pellius called for commencement, Garvana burst from her preparation and erupted a brutal blow to his chest. With brute force rather than any finesse, he was launched from his defence and sent falling off balance to the floor. As he crashed into the training mat, a look of surprise painting his features, Pellius laughed in good nature.
“Not bad,” he said, standing and preparing once again, “Let us see you duplicate it.”
The second attack was not nearly as successful. Pellius had anticipated her over head full forced swing, knocking aside her weapon with ease, bludgeoning arm hand with his shield and knocking the mace from her hand.
“Once more,” he clipped, as she retrieved her weapon.
Again, Garvana went for the fearsome blow, rendering her shield and defence useless. Pellius shoved his shield into her chest, so hard that Willow saw the air propel from her lungs, her weapon dropping to the ground. The following attacks continued much the same, Garvana opting for might and power over control and strength. After an hour of the similar routine, Pellius sighed, lowering his weapon.
“I feared this would be a long and arduous task. Hopefully your mind is stronger than your arm. Wash, then meet me in my quarters.”
He turned to Willow as he strolled towards the door, offering his hand to her. She accepted it as he helped her rise, laying her hand over his arm.
“Do you wish to accompany us, my lady?” he asked politely, “You will have to excuse me a moment while I bathe. I would offer for company there also, but I fear I would not make it back in time for chess.”
Willow laughed as they strolled down the passage, “Indeed, it is alright, I shall summon Isa for tea while I wait.”
“Very well, my lady.”

Willow skimmed through the pages of a Chelaxian tome as she sipped on the fragrant brew. The book was one she had not read, the glorious telling of Queen Abrogail’s rise to regal might within the grand empire. The author was one who understood overkill of royal flattery. As powerful and clever as the monarch was, describing the queens beauty by likening it to the rarest gem glittering amongst the rabble, was a touch too far for Willow's tastes. As the door swung wide, Willow's eyes trailed up Pellius’ freshly washed bare chest. He wore only his tailored pants and tightly laced shining leather boots, his hair wet and slick, combed to perfection off his face. She grinned at the single rebellious curl that hung on his forehead. A knock on the door sounded as he pulled his white shirt over his head.
“Enter,” he called.
The door creaked open and Garvana appeared in the frame, wet hair wrapped up in a lazy messy braid. She stepped over the threshold and inclined her head in greeting.
“We shall begin in a moment,” Pellius said, disappearing through the door on the far side of the room.
“Sit,” Willow said, unable to help herself, “Allow me to fix that travesty of a braid.”
Garvana chuckled, taking a seat and pulling free the mess she had made with her hair. It took Willow only a few minutes to tightly weave the long locks into a dignified intertwining plait, the finished result giving soft charm to her otherwise masculine features. Willow returned to her chair after she finished, just in time for Pellius to return to the chamber. He frowned for a moment as his eyes flickered to her hair, then nodded his approval as he took up his seat.
“Third lesson,” he said formally, “Control your thoughts and mind. A priest of Asmodeus should be careful in their exercise and pursuit of power. Understand that an over extension will leave you vulnerable to those watching for weakness…”
The games of chess were fast paced to begin. Garvana leaping into her turn, quickly deciding which piece to move, no thought or strategy to her tactic. With each move, Pellius corrected her mistakes, explaining where she had left herself open and suggesting a better alternative. The first two games, Pellius won by more than half the board. But by the third game, Garvana had calmed her rash decisions, thinking harder on her move, carefully planning out her approach. The battle was close, with only four pieces on the board, but she managed to trap Pellius’ king in a checkmate. Following her win, the games were evenly matched, Garvana proving that when she took the time to plan and strategise, she was able to match his wit.
“Well played, Garvana,” Pellius praised, “As much as weapons need sharpening and armour oiling, the mind requires trials of wit to remain strong and agile. Do not neglect this aspect of yourself, for knowledge is power. Perhaps the most important lesson I can give you is to know yourself.”
He stood from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back as he spoke.
“Vox, one of my mentors, once told me that you must know your place. Be courteous and respectful to your betters, for you are weak to them. You are stronger than many, but not all. So protect your weaknesses, and use your strengths, unless your strengths are your weaknesses. Above all else, know your place. You are not weak, you are ambitious and powerful. Prove it to those who would hold dominion over you. Hail, Asmodeus."
“Hail Asmodeus,” Garvana and Willow responded in unison.
Pellius smiled at the pair of them, "Good words to live by, are they not?"
“Indeed they are,” said Garvana.
“My lady,” Pellius turned to Willow, “May I beg a moment in private with Garvana?”
Willow quirked an eyebrow, “Of course.”
She rose from her seat, bidding Garvana farewell and inclining her head to Pellius. She left the chamber, choosing to give them privacy as she headed for her own room. Their voices drifted down the hall, the topic of conversation peaking Willow's insatiable curiosity, stopping her steps as she left.
"Now, I do believe you have not been respectful and are in debt to someone,” Pellius said formally, “In Cheliax, it is particularly ill-mannered not to offer a soul to a devil who aides you. As such, tonight I will teach you how to properly offer a sacrifice to our infernal brethren."
“You are right, of course,” Garvana replied, “I have been told as much in my recent dreams. I will do what I must to honour my allies.”
“Very well,” he said, “Return here after midnight and we shall proceed.”
They said their farewells and as the door opened and Willow heard Garvana’s wide step in the doorway, a pause in her exit had Willow still listening.
“Pellius,” she said seriously, “What you have started, I do not take for granted, nor does it go unnoticed. Until recently I have been alone and without direction, with only my dreams to hint at me what I am required to know. It is maddening, but it is my path to walk. To look to my side and see that I do not walk alone fills my heart with His infernal song. I will learn all you have to teach, and I will do this knowledge justice by laying the souls of Asmodeus’ enemies at his feet.”
Willow could only assume he nodded in response, picturing his solemn professional expression darkening his face. Suddenly, she realised Garvana’s steps were coming her way. Sheepishly realising she had been eavesdropping, she ducked into the side room silently, and pressed herself against the wall. Garvana distractedly battered by her, unaware and wrapped up in her own thoughts. As Willow heard her masculine voice calling out the command word for the throne, another voice drifted to her ears.
“Come, my lady, do not creep in the shadows,” Pellius called.
She sighed, refusing to run away from her exposure. She returned to his chamber, approaching as he stood in the doorway, arm crossed over his broad chest.
“Eavesdropping does not become you,” he said, almost sounding disappointed.
Willow shrugged, “It was unintentional, but all too intriguing to ignore.”
Although she sounded unapologetic, her inability to look him in the eye said otherwise. He sighed, and shook his head, lifting her chin with his finger to meet her gaze.
“Do you wish to attend?” he asked, “I suppose it will be beneficial for you also.”
Willow smiled, his touch softening the strange guilt within her, but she shook her head.
“I have seen and performed my share of sacrifices,” she said, “I may be of Talingarde, but I grew up in a bloodline of Asmodean origins. It is also disrespectful to perform a soul offering of gratitude with an unwarranted audience.”
“Very well, my lady,” he replied.
Willow turned to head for her chamber, but stopped after a few steps. She turned to face him, a strange look on her face.
“I…” she said carefully, “I apologise for my intrusion. It is most disrespectful of me to encroach on the privacy of those I… trust.”
Eyebrows raised, Pellius smiled, “It is alright. I understand, trust does not come easily, I myself am struggling with the concept. I will not betray you Willow, of that, you have my word.”
A small but true smile touched her lips, “And you mine, Pellius.”

minderp
2016-07-06, 12:58 AM
Chapter 17 - Treachery - Part 2


After days of uneventful mediocracy, Willow observed as Cassandra sat with her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed respectfully relaying her information. She had rented a room at the Auld Briar Hall in order to better keep an eye on her target. She reported that Elise rarely left the inn, her elven guard a constant at her side, paired with Track attached as if on a leash.
“She has caught wind of another adventuring group in town,” she said quietly, “But I am yet to find out what she plans to do about it.”
“What of Trick?” Willow asked, “Has he made an appearance?”
Cassandra nodded, “Only a handful of times, he does not return, or at least he does not return when it is explainable that I am awake and waiting in the parlour.”
Willow listened to her update, impressed with Cassandra’s attention to detail, but disappointed to her lack of findings. They had met in the Golden Sphere, hidden in a booth in the rear of the establishment, within the walls of the private sectioned area reserved for members of the underground. Willow had morphed her disguise appearing as an elderly woman, greying hair arranged in a simple braid, plain pale blue robes and a heavy sash covering her shape. As the woman finished speaking, Willow's ears pricked at the muffled scuff of boots within the shadows of the drapery.
“Thank you, Cassandra,” Willow said formally, tossing a silk coin pouch towards her, “That will be all. I will contact you again, keep at your task.”
Cassandra snatched the pouch from the air, clearly pleased with the weight of it as her lips quirked into a grin.
“Yes Mistress,” she said, bowing as she stood, “Thank you, Mistress.”
Willow watched Cassandra strut out of the tavern before leaning back in her chair and taking a slow sip of her wine. She let the moment drag, waiting while she enjoyed the robust flavour of the expensive liquid.
“Are you joining me,” she asked aloud, “Or is there something fascinating within the curtains that requires your attention?”
Willow quivered at the sound of his deep rumbling chuckle behind her. Slinking from the shadows, Switch slid himself to the booth, helping himself to the wine. He eyed Willow as he lazily draped his feet upon the table, looking over the elderly disguise she was hidden under.
“You make such a sweet old bird,” he said with a grin, “Innocent and humble. How deceiving looks can be.”
Willow laughed as she released the illusion, the magic rippling as her face morphed into her own, her pale robes tainting into the black leather armour.
“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked, eyebrow cocked.
Switch mockingly batted his eyelashes, “It's been weeks since we've spoken, I've missed you, my dear.”
Laughing at his fluttering lids, Willow refilled both of their glasses, lounging back and raking her eyes over his toned physique. He wore his usual outfit, worn leather boots wrapped over tight fitting black slacks, loose black shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal a wisp of chest hair. His head had been freshly shaved, shining skin reflecting light off the top of his head.
“She's pretty good,” he said, taking another casual sip from his glass, “It took me a while to realise she was one of yours.”
Willow shrugged nonchalantly, “She's got potential, but she's not competent enough for anything more than observation.”
“Such a hard task master,” he chuckled.
She smiled, “I give praise only where it is due. But I do have a question for you, seeing you were listening in to everything that was said.”
“Ask away,” he said with a mocking half bow.
“The man we were speaking of,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “Have you caught wind of him? I wish to speak to him, but do not have the time or resources to track him down.”
Switch shrugged, “I have seen him about town, slinking in the shadows before disappearing. He seems to have access to plenty of deceptive arcana.”
“Too much it seems,” Willow agreed, “For my men are incapable of locating him. Perhaps I'll do it myself if the need becomes paramount.”
“I also have a question for you,” he said slyly, a smile on his lips.
“Ask away,” she mirrored.
“Do they all call you Mistress?”
“The ones that wish to keep their tongues,” she replied menacingly.
Switch’s dastardly laugh had a grin split upon Willow's lips.
“Very well Mistress,” he said in mock formality, “I suppose I should request a moment of your time, rather than demand it.”
“If you were to request anything of me,” Willow chuckled, “I'd assume you'd grown weak, and would be sure to take full advantage of it.”
Laughing as he stood from his seat, he waited and offered his hand to help her up. Willow eyed his outstretched hand mistrustfully, cautiously accepting it as she rose. Just as she had suspected, he yanked on her hand, in one swoop dragging her from the seat and spinning her to pin her against the wall. He pressed his weight into her, his face looming close to hers, his breath warm against her lips.
“You should know better than to assume anything about me, Willow,” he growled.
The corner of her mouth quirked as her heart beat quickened. She had been ready for his approach, having silently withdrawn her dagger, clutching it in her free hand behind her back. She let her breath come in ragged bursts, allowing him to believe she had been swept away in his intensity, just as his ego eagerly craved. She kept her eye contact fierce, as she slowly lifted her chin, her lips reaching to caress his. She waited for the moment he dropped his head to meet for the kiss, before she dextrously slipped from his grip, slinking below his outstretched arm and whipping herself up behind him with the dagger at his throat.
“Wise words, if one were to follow them,” she whispered silkily into his ear.
She knew his greater strength would easily overpower her, if she had been truly intending to kill him, she would have slit his throat and retreated. So she giggled as he gripped her arm and swiftly spun around, using his force to slam her onto the table before dropping himself on top of her. His fearsome gaze pierced her from above before he lost his control and silenced her laugh as he crashed his lips to hers. Willow found her legs instinctively draping over his back, her chest rising to grind upon his, her tongue matching his in it’s passionate dance. As he released his grip on her wrists, his hands grazed their way to her throat. His kiss deepened its intensity, a ferocious need to his movements, before he suddenly ripped his lips away to stare down at her with chest heaving.
“Every damn time,” he huffed, laughing as he shook his head.
He tore himself from her, standing and turning away as he regained his control. Willow rose to a seated position, legs dangling from the table, relishing the maddening lure she seemed to have over him. He straightened his shoulders before turning back to her with as much formality as he could muster.
“What time are you due back?” he asked, “You never stay the night in town anymore, I take it this visit is no different?”
“After dusk,” she replied, eyebrows raised.
“Good,” he nodded, “Come along, I have a task for you.”

The task Switch had prepared was of a different sort to which he had previously given her. Usually, it involved fighting off bands of mercenaries or tracking single targets across the expansive city. This time it was one of subtly and silence. They made their way across the rooftops, quietly leaping from building to building, out of sight of the parades of people below. When they reached Caviller Green, they slinked through the bushes, leading to a large mansion built into the side of the wide hill. Naturally, Willow's eyes cased the perimeter, searching for guards and their rotations. Switch held his hand up to halt her as two guards meandered passed, talking loudly about the winnings of last nights game of cards. Once they had disappeared around the corner, he signalled to continue, sprinting silently to the lattice work and making his way to the roof. Willow followed suit, deftly scaling towards the top, listening intently for any drop in the guards conversation. As they cautiously made their way to the centre of the steep, they came across a tall brickwork chimney, still cold air feathering across Willow's face. She looked to the chimney, turning back to Switch with her eyebrow cocked in question.
“Well,” he said casually, “In you go.”
Willow had to cover her mouth to stifle her laugh, shaking her head as she chuckled.
“And once I'm in?” she grinned, “Surely there is more to this training than seeing how well I wiggle through slender shafts?”
Switch smirked, “One goal. Get out of the manor without being seen.”
He pulled a wrapped scroll from his pocket, tightly sealed with a leather band, speaking as he handed it to her.
“Use this if you must, but if you do, you fail. Do not set off any alarms or make your presence known, the chimney was cleaned this morning so you shouldn't have to worry about trailing soot. There are three exits to the manor, you must find the one guarded by the holy sun. I will be there, do not keep me waiting long.”
Willow grinned, excitement bounding through her body, adrenaline racing through her veins. Stashing the scroll of dimension door, she turned for the chimney and carefully climbed to its cap, reaching for its grate. Switch roughly grabbed her by the chin and forced his lips against hers in a fierce kiss, dragging his teeth around her lip painfully as he pushed her face away.
“Do not disappoint me,” he warned.
Willow smirked and slipped her legs into the chute, speaking as she winked before sliding down the shaft, “I never do…”
Her slender figure slinked easily down the widened chimney, her softened leather armour silently sliding against the freshly cleaned metal walls. She balanced her weight with her feet against the metal as she slowly lowered herself down. When she reached the bottom, she remained motionless while her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, straining her ears to listen for any indication of guards. When she was confident the room was empty, she carefully crept out of the fireplace, thankful for the scuffed soles of her boots as they paced soundlessly across the hard wood floors. She was in a study, a large oak desk sitting centre of the room, walls lined with heavy tomes upon shelves. Reaching the door, she cautiously eyed the lock to determine if it was trapped, when she found nothing, she retrieved her pick from her belt and set about unlocking the metal mechanism. With a subtle click, she carefully opened the door into the hall, sealing and relocking it behind her. She made a mental note of the location of the study, before turning right and continuing, using the intricate golden rimmed paintings to identify each door she passed. Silently, she made her way through the winding halls, finding an open door into what appeared to be the kitchen. She could hear the banter of two cooks from within, busy at work on their nightly meal. She peered through the room to the door on the other side, Willow could see the greenery of the garden through the window, but saw nothing resembling a holy sun to identify the exit. On careful feet, she crept passed the kitchen, keeping her ears primed for any footsteps upon the shining floorboards. As she continued through the passage, she came across a large set of embellished doors, lined with immaculately carved borders. Pressing her ear to the door, she remained perfectly still as she listened. When no sound came, she gently unlatched the lock and peered through the opening. The vestibule sparkled brightly with its lavish decorations, large ornamental vases filled with exotic flowers, tall masculine statues of men she didn't recognise. From her vantage point, she could see the large entrance way, the doors sealed shut with two guards standing at attention. It was almost a relief when she failed to find any mention of the holy sun. From the distance, she heard the soft trail of voices and footsteps, heading her way. She quickly sealed the door and reset the lock, swiftly disappearing behind one of the large plants decorating the hallway. She folded herself down and became as small as possible, keeping her body motionless as keys rattled from the other side of the door. The door creaked as it swung wide, revealing two men in fine robes, busy in their political debate.
“Sir Valin has taken control of his position,” one man said, “Fitting, given the pairs history.”
“Indeed, my lord,” the other responded, “Most fitting.”
“Arkov was a strange man,” the first continued, as they passed Willow's hiding spot unaware, “I was never sure if what he did for the orphans was for their benefit or his, but at the very least, he removed them from our streets.”
“It is odd, my lord, for a large portion of the orphans disappeared after the Baron’s demise.”
“Perhaps they are afraid to incur the wrath of the dragon,” the first replied, his voice trailing down the hall, “They were not the most innocent of adolescents…”
Willow smirked as she silently unfolded, creeping back to towards the turn off in the hall she had passed. She carefully made her way through the labyrinth of hallways, dodging guard patrols and chattering servants. She hid behind the drapery in a large sitting room as she heard a group of guards rushing passed, clearly in search of something or someone. Willow swore under her breath, frustratedly thinking she had been noticed at some point. She had been careful to stay silent and lock every door she had found in that state. She cursed herself for her failure, but refused to give in so easily. When she reached the only possible opening in the building, she almost laughed at the sight she came across. A large chamber lined with potted plants and rows of trestles of grape, four servants busily tending to the flora, gardeners weeding and trimming. The large doorway leading to the outside portion of the greenhouse, was decorated with a looming carving of Mitra, a large sunburst hanging above the door. Willow eyed the surroundings warily, carefully formulating her approach. She retrieved her vial of invisibility, swiftly drinking it down and returning it to her belt. As quietly as she could, she crept behind the servants, silent careful feet as she made her way towards the door. She neared her target and frowned, struggling to devise a way to open the door without being noticed. As if in answer to her question, a cold chill pierced her bare skin, the breeze drifting in from an open window. She grinned, slinking towards it and quietly lifting herself through its slender opening. Dropping to the hard dirt beneath the window, she quickly skimmed along the garden towards the open gate. She made her way through it just before her invisibility vanished, revealing her black leather form deftly running across the open field. As she made it to the edge of the clearing, she sprinted into the dense forestry surrounding Caviller Green. Suddenly, she was gripped by the throat and spun in the air, forcefully crashing into the foliage beneath her.
“Not bad,” Switch grinned, his grip on her throat frightfully tight, “They didn't manage to find you.”
“I don't know how they managed to detect me,” she rasped under his grasp, “But they didn't find me.”
Switch laughed, dark and menacing, “They didn't detect you. I warned them you were coming.”
“You what?!” Willow laughed as a wheeze.
“Five hundred gold to the one who found you,” he chuckled, “Lord Angsely is a friend of mine, seems no one gets the gold though.”
Willow couldn't help but grin, cursing at his deceit. She sighed under his grip and swiftly launched her weight from the bottom up, surprising him and flipping him off balance as he tumbled into the brush. She was quick to roll towards him, straddling him between her thighs, dagger pressed into his neck. Her victory lasted only mere seconds as he recovered, tearing her hand from his neck, gripping her waist and ruthlessly throwing her to the side and returning her throat to his clutch.
“You are getting too good at that,” he huffed, the wind having been knocked from his chest.
He slid atop her, his free hand roaming up beneath her blouse.
“Either that,” she chuckled, sharply inhaling as his nails dug into her flesh, “Or you're getting too slow…”

Returning to the Horn as the last desperate light of the sun gave in to the smothering darkness of the night sky, Willow climbed the amass of stairs into the entry upon the second level. She entered passed the croaking boggards who remained in the guard rooms on watch for trespassers. They eyed Willow warily as she strode passed, silent in their vigil, weapons at the ready. She grimaced at the smell of their oozing skin, continuing to her chamber, distracted thoughts filling her mind. She was surprised to find Pellius leaning upon her doorframe, legs crossed in a relaxed and casual stance.
“Ah, my lady,” he greeted, reaching for her hand to place a small kiss on her knuckle, “I was wondering when you would return.”
Willow smiled and inclined her head, aware of his keen gaze, knowing too well the armour she wore did not reach high enough to hide the red handprints around her neck.
“Did you learn anything of import from your contacts?” he asked, eyebrows raised, gaze locked on her throat.
“Of some import,” she said casually, gliding towards her door as he stepped out of her way, “Elise has learned of a new adventuring party around town, and Trick has been seen, but still remains aloof.”
She stepped into her chamber, leaving the door open behind her, beckoning Pellius within.
“Sir Valin has taken control of Vandermir's position,” she continued, pouring only herself a glass of whiskey at his polite refusal, “He has seized the property and most likely the wealth.”
“Curious,” Pellius commented.
Willow frowned, turning to adjust the tight buckles upon her chest piece, “It is actually fairly appropriate for this land. The ranking member of society takes over the holdings when no heir is in place. I do not believe the Baron had any children, well none that are legitimately recognised.”
Willow shivered suddenly, as she felt his presence close behind her, his fingers trailing over the markings on her neck.
“It is curious that you managed time to source any information,” he whispered menacingly.
Slowly turning to face him, a sly smile played on her lips.
“Where is the fun in this life, if we make no room for pleasure amongst our business?”
His eyes flickered down to her throat again before a dastardly grin tainted his expression. Willow felt the thrum of his infernal side, pulsing from deep within. It brushed against her flesh, caressing her bare skin, forcing her heart to throb in tune.
“Indeed, Willow,” he said quietly, his finger lifting her chin so her face was angled to his, “We all enjoy a little pleasure. And when it comes to you, I seek mine within the discipline of consequences for dissipation.”
Willow couldn't hide the quiver that racked her body at his dark promise.
“And I seek mine within receiving such discipline,” she breathed, limbs tingling, heart racing.
As if frozen in time, they remained perfectly still, the tension in the room heavy within the air, her ragged breathing sounding like thundering rasps to her ears. He was barely touching her, yet every inch of her flesh was shuddering in anticipation, sweat forming in droplets along the top of her spine. His eyes flashing with intensity, their red glow adding to his menacing appearance, his infernal charm fuelling her desire. As his hand dropped, he turned from her, almost regretfully, a sense of duty morphing the carnality.
“Come along,” he said formally, only a hint of a smile on his lips, “We have a shift in the sanctum.”
He offered Willow his arm as they strolled from her chamber, locking the door behind her, her heart still strumming and blood still racing. He subtly leant towards her, his breath warm and wet upon her ear.
“Once we are finished,” he warned, “We shall deal with your lechery…”

It was the sound of a long drawn out signal horn that awoke Willow from her slumber in the twilight hours before dawn. She leapt from her bunk, quickly ripping off her night slip and beginning the task of strapping on her armour. Looking around the throne room she saw Teelee and Pellius doing the same, Garvana and Bor already geared in their watch within the sanctum. It took Willow only a few moments to completely don her leather, dropping her Asmodean pendant around her neck before swiftly attending to Pellius and helping him dress in his bulking heavy armour panels. As she tightly fastened the last of his buckles, the signal horn blew again, two short bursts indicating the invaders where making their way to the second level entrance. When the group prepared at the entrance, primed and ready for the attack, Bor and Garvana arrived through the portal of the throne.
“We've been betrayed,” Bor said quickly, “They were aware of the entrance from the caverns, and they were warned it had been sealed up in stone. There are four of them, a dwarf, a ranger and two spell casters.”
“Try to keep one alive,” Willow replied, unsheathing her daggers, “We’ll find out what they know.”
They waited in silence until the faint sound of a lock clicked from the passage. Willow waited, perched behind the wall, ready to spring in from behind when they made it through the gates. As the door opened a crack, Teelee leapt into the hallway, prematurely summoning a pellet of fire and launching it through the opening. Willow swore under her breath, once again their plans had faltered, rendering the defences and traps obsolete. In consequence for her rash action, the attackers launched their attacks directly at her, being their only visible target. Two arrows shot in unison, flew through the air and pierced Teelee through the torso. She tried to leap out of the way, as a small gnome chanted his incantation, throwing crushed petals and sand into the air. As the arcana reached out to caress Teelee like a spiral of feathered wisps, Willow watched her eyes droop and her body slacken, before she shook herself forcefully and strengthened her will against the magic. A thundering ripple shook the ground, hundreds of vines furled from the stone work, green foliage cluttering the chamber they were standing in. Willow weaved through the entanglement, her lithe form gracefully avoiding the coiling mass. The dwarf charged into the entrance, slashing his axe through the arrow slits and easily slaughtering the croaking boggards within. The ranger stepped forward, cocking another arrow and relentlessly firing each one with shocking precision. Teelee’s eyes flashed with determination as she called for another fireball, launching the sweltering mass into the attackers, scorching flame searing upon their flesh.
“Fall back!” squealed the gnome, “Let's not throw ourselves at this meat grinder!”
Quickly in sync, the four of them retreated out of the entrance. Garvana called forth her magic and vanished the entanglement of the vines.
“Grumblejack,” Willow beckoned, “Will you carry me? We need to track them from the air.”
True to his name, he grumbled as he begrudgingly agreed, stepping out onto the ledge of the entrance. As Willow stepped forward, a sudden flurry of attacks launched at Grumblejack as he came into the view of the adventurers. Scorching rays of arcana flew towards him, lightening ricocheted through the air to the metal upon his body, but his mysterious magical barrier seemed to absorb both assaults. Willow refused to fight on the staircase, so she retreated back inside, calling for Grumblejack to do the same. She sighed, knowing he wouldn't have heard her over Bor’s ferocious battle cry as he charged out into the battle. Suddenly, his frame rippled, rendered completely immobile. Before Willow had time to react, the ranger leapt forward and shoved Bor over the edge, sending his frozen form plummeting to the ground below.
“Grumblejack!” Willow commanded, “Fall back!”
A huge frustrated huff sounded from his chest as he withdrew from the attackers range. As he made it back inside, the ground shuddered again as the vines rippled and filled the room once more.
“They're retreating,” Willow said quickly, “We must track them and find Bor. Come along Grumblejack.”
She dextrously slipped between the gripping hanging vines, reaching the entrance with little effort. Opposite to her approach, Grumblejack brute forced his way through the vines, ripping the coiling tendrils as he pushed through them. Willow carefully peeked around the corner, checking for a clear path before climbing upon the ogres back. He leapt from the edge and soared into the twilight tinted sky, completely unbothered by Willow's light weight upon his shoulders. The wind ripped through her hair, flicking the short strands against her forehead, as they veered down around the enormous spire. As they spotted the retreating enemies, two arrows came hurtling through the air. The blade on one splitting the skin across Willow's cheek as it tore passed her head, the other slamming in her side, piercing through her armour only far enough for the point to nick her flesh. Willow ripped the arrow free as they soared towards the ground, landing heavily upon the marsh, unsheathing her dagger as she sprinted at the group. Bor came hurtling out of the forest, a feral rage shuddering his face, his blade high over head. As enchanted words slipped from the gnome’s lips, Willow cursed as once again Bor's form rippled, freezing in its fearsome approach.
Metal clashed and grunts of strain rebounded across the expanse, Grumblejack laughing as he parried the dwarfs attacks, responding by brutally swinging his backwards sword towards the short man. Blow for blow, they matched each other, a battle of strength upon strength. As Grumblejack swung his mighty weapon with glee, the dwarf frothed from the mouth as his attacks grew more savage and desperate. There was no finesse in either of their onslaughts; an untrained ogre hefting his weapon with clumsy innate power, and a man festering with rage, slashing his fury through his strikes. He cried his anger through gritted teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead, fingers white with strain. He fought with no care for his life, committing to each attack as if it were going to be his last. The duel fought on, the might of a dwarf against an ogre.
Willow focused on the spellcasters, diving in behind the gnome and slashing her daggers in fierce unison, hacking through the small creatures flesh.
“No!” cried the druid, eyes wide with shock.
As the gnome crumpled to the ground, Willow turned to the druid, lashing out as she attempted to cast her arcana in vain. Her face contorted as she mourned the loss of her friend, her heartache morphing into fury. The blades cut deep into the woman as she called forth shimmering lightening that rippled towards Willow with shocking intent. Quick on her feet, Willow dashed out of its path, leaping forward to cut down the druid, hacking her blades low. The druid’s wrath was cut short as she fell, her cries silenced as life faded from her eyes. As Willow withdrew, she growled at the sharp pain of two arrow heads as they pierced her back. Grumblejack roared as the dwarf cleaved his mighty axe with frightening brawn, slashing open the ogres chest. The duel ended as he fell to the ground, a loud echoing groan rasping from his lips, as the dwarf cheered his battle worn delight. Willow raced passed as Garvana appeared from the staircase, charging to meet the dwarf’s celebration, flaming mace splitting the air as it carved it’s journey.
“The power and greatness of Asmodeus cannot be denied!” she roared, lashing out.
Their weapons collided with a shattering crash, fearsome strength radiating from the pair.
“I hate spellcasters!” growled the dwarf.
The arcana summoned by Garvana appeared to rebound from the dwarf, as if a shield had repelled the wisping assault. Undeterred, she launched herself against him, righteous fury guiding her hand.
The ranger fell quickly to Willow's blades, the fatigue of the wearying battle proving too great, her bow offering no salvation at such close range. Finally the group converged on the dwarf, his frothing rage redoubled, his last breaths spent screaming his anguish. He fought to the very last ounce of his life, attempting to take at least one of them down with him. It was Willow's final strike to his jugular that had him fall to his knees, straining to swing his axe as it dropped from his hands, life draining with the blood from his neck. He spluttered his last words through his wheezing chest, unintelligible mumbling, falling to his demise.
The magic holding Bor vanished, his raging form feral with wrath. He charged to the gnome’s crumpled corpse and launched it across the expanse. Looking somewhat calmer, he heaved his breath, cursing at the arcana that had held him so helplessly.
Willow checked each of their attackers for any signs of life, frustrated to find no survivors. While Garvana tended to the unconscious Grumblejack, Willow searched the packs and pockets of their four victims. It was in the sash carried by the gnome, that she found the most intriguing bit of information.
“Come along quickly,” Willow said sharply to the group, heading for the stairs, “We must meet now, we have exactly what we need…”

When they convened in the passage, Willow read the journal entry that had excitement flooding her veins.
“He delivered his pitch,” she recited to the group, “And then gave to us an immense pile of information, including maps, names and so much more. Really he did give us everything but the keys to the front door. He claimed the angels had driven him to stop the wickedness in the Horn of Abbadon and rally us to our ‘destiny’. I had Vethia follow the ‘holy man’ and our fears turned out to be justified. She saw this angel-speaker slip into a side alley and transform back into a dark haired much younger human…”
“It must be Trick!” Garvana snapped.
Willow smiled, a wicked and sinful grin, “It gets so much more delicious, just listen. She followed the young man to a rendezvous with a strange white haired woman with a white raven on her shoulder, he called her Z. They didn't say much to each other, all he said was, ‘It is done, the Ninth are finished’…”
Turning the journal around, she showed the group the perfect sketches of both Elise and Trick’s faces, detailed and exact replicas on parchment.
“I will kill her!” Bor roared, “She must die for her disloyalty!”
“Indeed she must,” Willow responded, “But do not be so rash, we must inform Thorn of her treachery, and abide by his decision. I cannot imagine he will let her live.”
“Bah!” Bor spat, “I do not need his permission to kill her!”
Willow snapped, “He is our master! We shall seek his permission and kill her on his wishes!”
“Willow is right,” Pellius interjected, “We must inform him first.”
Placing a gentle hand on his forearm, Willow spoke quietly to Bor, “We shall kill her regardless of his answer. I promise you that.”
“What of the others?” Garvana asked, eyebrows raised.
“The elven guard and Track will no doubt follow her to their death,” Willow mused, “But perhaps Trick is salvageable. His loyalty to Asmodeus may win out over his loyalty to Elise. If I am correct in my assumption, he was merely following her orders. We have no reason to believe either way, if we can determine his loyalty before Elise faces her judgement, then it is all the better…”

The group gathered upon the bloody battlefield with Thorn’s clay seal in hand. Willow knelt upon the muddy expanse, taking a deep breath before shattering the seal. Only a moment after the clay slipped through her fingers, the air rippled fiercely, and suddenly a wave of splintering infernal energy sapped Willow's breath from her chest. Cardinal Adrastus Thorn stood in his fearsome might, eyes of fire and fury, a look of immense ire upon his regal face. He looked over the group, as each of them dropped into low respectful bows, before looking up at the foreboding spire that was the Horn.
“Why have you summoned me?” he snapped, a displeased gleam to his tone, “You clearly are not finished in your mission!”
Willow pushed aside the searing pulse within her as she spoke, keeping her voice as steady as her amorous swelter would allow.
“I apologise, master,” she said respectfully, bowed low to the ground before looking up into his consuming gaze, “We would not bother you were it not of immediate importance. We have discovered compelling evidence that the Seventh Knot has betrayed you. We have suspected their disloyalty for a time, but chose not to act without irrefutable proof of their misdeeds.”
Snatching the journal from her outstretched hands, Thorn quickly skimmed the contents of the diary, eyes livid as he turned the page to the portraits.
“I have no time for this infighting!” he roared, “We are so close to victory!”
He growled, the fierce sound crashing against Willow's ears sending shivering ripples through her flesh, a small ardent whimper escaping her lips.
“The Knot Hibernal is declared broken!” he said fiercely, “In accordance with the Pact of Thorns, I release these traitors. They are no longer bound to my service or enjoy my protection.”
The air shudder around him as he drew an intricate pattern into the air. Suddenly, two creatures bled into sight, fierce and regal might. Both beautiful women, mockingly angelic in their appearance, soft crystal white skin littered with bruises and scars. Black stained wings hung delicately from their shoulders, flaming scarlet eyes piercing their surroundings. The devils were of a graceful crude beauty, like the twisted morphed sisters of their divine counterparts. Willow was transfixed by their terrifying splendour, the allure so strong within her, she struggled to draw air into her lungs.
“I send to you, my Nessian Knot, my furies. Make them suffer for their treachery and then return to the work at hand. Bring me the daemon’s gift!”
“Thank you master,” Willow breathed, bowing her head low, “It will be done.”
With a terrifying wave of infernal heat scorching across the expanse, Thorn vanished once again, leaving the two fearsome devils behind. Willow stood from her perch, a feral and dark grin playing on her lips, turning to the members of the Ninth Knot.
“Let us exact our revenge,” she said menacingly, “And serve their retribution in blood…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:00 AM
Chapter 18 - Exordium


In the wake of their master’s departure, the sweet taste of vengeance lingered upon the lips of the five bound servants. His fury and harsh reprimand had left the group eager to dispense his retribution. Leaving the boggards to deal with the carnage of their prior battle, they quickly scaled the stairs to the second level, followed closely by Thorn’s two fiendish furies. When they convened in the tavern, they dismissed the staff before turning their attentions to their task.
“Shall we attack where they rest?” Teelee asked, “Or shall we attempt to draw them out?”
“Let us hit them quickly,” Garvana clipped.
“It would seem they threw everything they had into that attack,” Pellius mused, “They would have to be aware they would be discovered if it failed.”
“So there is no point in trying to be subtle,” Bor added.
While the others began to plan their attack, Willow watched with interest, as the two devils stood on guard by the doorway. Both strong warriors, baring sculpted toned physiques, elegant, terrifying and foreboding in their vigil. Though their might and regal air were certainly alluring, it was their eyes that had her captivated. Piercing gazes flickering through the room in tandem, scrutinising and calculating, constantly aware of their surroundings. On the way to the tavern, Pellius had said to Willow that the devils were called erinyes, mocking the form of angelic hosts in their exaction of vengeance and bloody justice. Known to the pits of Hell as executioners, not judges nor jury. Willow smiled, they were a fitting aid in the group’s mission.
“It is settled,” Pellius said formally, bringing Willow's attention back to the present, “The furies shall restrain Elise first, while we focus our attacks on taking out her raven.”
“Have you given any more thought to Trick?” Willow asked, “If what I suspect is true, then his loyalty to our Infernal Lord may win out over his loyalty to her.”
“What do you propose, my lady?” he replied with a frown.
“Let me talk to him first, alone. I should be able to convince him, or at least, the erinyes should provide adequate proof of our word. I truly suspect he has been misled, simply following his orders.”
Pellius’ lip quirked, “You are most merciful, my lady.”
Smirking in response, she replied, “Not merciful, merely resourceful. He has proven quite talented in his deceit. He would be a beneficial ally, should his loyalty prove true.”
“And how to you propose to find him,” Garvana interjected, “Let alone speak with him without Elise knowing?”
Willow’s smile tinted sly, “Leave that to me. I shall arrange to meet with him tomorrow evening, we will launch our attack regardless of his answer once I return and dusk has fallen.”
“Very well,” Pellius concluded, “Do as you must. The plan is set for tomorrow eve.”
Willow nodded and rose from her seat, approaching the erinyes with as much authority as she could muster in their fierce presence.
“I require you to accompany me tomorrow evening,” she said firmly, “To a meeting with a potential ally. I shall give you the location and time, you are not to harm him until I say so.”
The penetrating gazes of the devils continued their search for prey, not ever meeting Willow's line of sight, as they nodded sharply in unison. She turned back to Pellius as the others left the tavern for the night.
“I shall make for town this evening,” she said, “There is a tavern by the Auld Briar called the Frozen Shield, I'll meet you there after dusk tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he said as she turned to leave, “But a word of caution Willow, do not be too trusting. It may be that Trick is unaware of his treachery, but it is also likely that he was a willing participant. I would be more comfortable with this plan if I was to accompany you.”
Willow smiled, laying a hand on his forearm, “You must trust me Pellius, I will not hesitate to kill him if he cannot be salvaged. Besides,” she said with a smirk, looking out at the two devils retreating to the chamber they had been given, “I will not be alone.”

As the sun sank below the horizon and twilight shimmered through the air, Willow disappeared into the shadows of the underground market of Fareholde. She approached the office with her hood drawn low along her brow, a slender scrolled parchment her pocket. She had scripted a note to be delivered to Trick, a proposal of a truce and a private rendezvous, giving her word by their Infernal Lord that no other member of her knot would interfere so long as no member of his did. Martin sat at his desk, head buried in his large tomes as she approached the entrance.
“A moment of your time?” she asked politely.
His welcoming smile blossomed as he looked up from his book, “For you, my lady, always.”
Willow closed the door behind her and gracefully took her seat. Martin stood from his chair and shuffled to the steaming pot of tea on the side table, setting two cups upon their saucers, before chanting his quiet incantation as the sound beyond the office disappeared.
“How may I be of service, Lady Kathryn?” he asked with a smile.
“I require a messenger,” she said, accepting the tea gratefully, “One who is able track down the message’s recipient.”
Martin raised his eyebrows, “Ah, intriguing. And who may this recipient be?”
“He goes by the name Trick,” she replied, “Dark hair, no older than twenty five, your men might have seen him scurrying through the back streets.”
“I know the one,” Martin nodded, “He has been here on occasion. Very charming, smooth talker?”
Willow chuckled, “That would be him.”
“Very well, when would you like this message delivered?”
“Tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“It shall be done, my lady,” he replied formally.
Willow smiled, laying the scroll gently into his outstretched hand.
“To your prior enquiry,” he said, “My men have sourced all the information they could on your associate’s comrades and their fate within Matharyn. They are being transferred to the Mines of Bakkar, two dozen of the shipmates have survived. They are due to begin the journey within the month.”
“Thank you, Martin,” she replied warmly, “My associate will be most pleased.”
“I am glad,” he inclined his head, “But my dear, it is good you have visited, for I have another matter to discuss with you.”
Willow raised her eyebrows in interest.
“I have a client,” he continued, “Who is seeking someone of your particular talents. As I do, I first sought out Switch, but he has informed me that you would be most suited to these particular tasks. I will be given a list of contracts that need to be fulfilled. Is this of interest to you?”
“It is,” Willow smiled slyly.
“Very well, my lady. I shall send word through Switch when I have negotiated the payments. The need is not pressing, it may be a few weeks before I have any word. But alas, it will be a pleasure doing business with you.”

The following evening, Willow made her way through the shadowed backstreets of Auld'lrey, towards the bustling nightlife of the Golden Sphere. She had given details of the private back rooms to Trick and the erinyes, prepared for their meeting at seven o'clock sharp. She inclined to her to the barman, gracefully walking through the busy tavern, slipping behind the curtains. He followed with her usual bottle of velvet wine, pouring her glass before closing the door behind him as he left. Willow felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, only a moment before a voice came from the shadows.
“Hello,” Trick’s cheerful voice said, before his form rippled into sight in the opposite chair.
Willow smiled at his skill, “Good evening Trick.”
“And to you,” he replied with a grin.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said formally, “I have given my word that the Ninth Knot will not interfere, do I have yours that you have not informed the Seventh?”
He nodded, “Peculiar, but yes, you have my word.”
“Good,” Willow clipped.
She let out a sigh, unsure where to start.
“Trick,” she began, “I have called you here only because we are aware of your loyalty to our Infernal Lord. You would not be given this chance were it not for that.”
Trick cocked an eyebrow, his grin still sly on his lips, but beckoned her to continue.
“I do not know if you believed you were following Cardinal Thorn’s orders, but you were not, the Seventh Knot has been declared broken by the rule of disloyalty. He has released each of you, and ordered us to exact his retribution.”
Trick laughed, “You surely don't expect me to believe that?”
Willow pulled the incriminating journal from her pouch, laying it upon the table, opening it to the page with the sketched portraits of Trick and Elise.
“Your treachery has been discovered,” Willow snapped.
Suddenly, the air in the room shuddered as the two erinyes flashed into the room. Their eyes snapped to Trick, hungry gazes latched on to his form, ready to pounce.
“Thorn’s furies,” Willow said, sitting up straighter, “They have come to retrieve his vengeance.”
Trick’s charming smile faltered, his mind appeared to race with the implications of the devils arrival. Slowly, his features morphed from disbelief into fury.
“The witch,” he fumed, “Tricked me?”
“Indeed,” Willow replied, “And now the traitorous scum, and those that follow her, shall pay for her betrayal in blood. Your loyalty to our Prince of Darkness is the only reason you are being given a second chance, prove your worth, help us exact his judgement.”
“I must speak with my brother,” Trick said urgently, “Once he learns of the witch’s betrayal, he will surely turn from her.”
“And if he doesn't?” Willow asked coldly.
“He will,” Trick replied, standing to leave, “I am sure of it.”
“And if he doesn't?” Willow snapped, “Are you willing to remain loyal to our Prince?”
He staggered in his retreat, his brow furrowed, thoughts swarming through his mind.
“You are treading upon thin ice, Trick,” she warned, “There are those who believe you do not deserve a second chance. Your brother is besotted by her, are you willing to do what is needed if he cannot be salvaged?”
Willow watched his eyes flicker as he warred with himself over what he was prepared to do. As he appeared to come to a decision, he looked up into her eyes, no trace of the joking easy attitude he was known for.
“It will not come to that,” he said with certainty, “I shall speak with him this evening, I'll take him away from the inn, while the Ninth does what it must. But be warned, she is a powerful witch.”
“The raven,” Willow asked, “It is an arcane familiar?”
Trick nodded, “Yes, it is attuned to her. Now I must go.”
He quickly scurried to the door, a look of worried determination painted on his face, unbothered by the consuming gazes of the erinyes that tracked his every movement.
“Trick,” Willow called, as he reached for the handle, “Our Prince does not know mercy, his vengeance is swift and true. Do not squander this second chance, for there will not be another one.”
With a short nod, he fled from the chamber, leaving Willow alone with the two erinyes. She sipped from her glass as she considered their options. Trick would make a worthy ally, were he to prove loyal. Having Track along side would certainly aid their cause, yet Willow doubted he would ever knowingly turn against Elise.
“You may return to the Frozen Shield,” she said to the devils, “I shall meet you there shortly, let us go and finish this…”

Watching from the blackened alley, Willow waited as she saw Trick leading Track from the Auld Briar Hall. The brothers hurried their pace, voices low in hushed urgent whispers, as one lead the other from the building. Once they had rounded the corner, Willow crept through the street towards the grand inn, peering through the window. She smiled as she saw Cassandra sitting at a table in one of the common rooms, sipping from a crystal wine glass, a strangely coloured liquid swimming within. Willow signalled the others to wait, while she casually walked into the building and sat herself beside the spy.
“My lady,” Cassandra said, recovering swiftly from her shock, “How lovely it is to see you.”
“And you,” Willow replied, subtly scanning the occupants in the room.
“May I order you a refreshment?” she asked politely.
When Willow was sure no one was taking any notice of them, she leant her head closer and spoke in an even yet quiet voice, keeping her body relaxed and her eyes grazing the room.
“Where is she?”
“She spends most of her time in the other common room,” Cassandra said quietly, “They have rooms in the back. But the twins just left, right before you arrived.”
“Good,” Willow replied, “Your task here is complete, you may head back to the spire when you are ready. But I would advise you to leave quickly, you do not want to be here tonight.”
Cassandra paled visibly, giving a short nod before swiftly grabbing her pack and heading for the door, leaving whatever she had in her room behind. Willow casually stood from her seat and left the common room, catching a glimpse of Elise by the fire before exiting and finding the group hidden by the elaborate garden at the front of the large building. She could hear the flapping of wings high above them, as the erinyes circled eager for their prey. Feeling their arcane telepathy synced to her mind, she mentally informed them of their targets position. She smiled to the group, inclining her head as she turned for the door. As they entered, Willow lead the approach, slinking forward on light feet. Elise noticed their arrival and stiffened in her chair, rising to her feet, her tall elven guard mirroring her movements.
“Good evening,” Willow said, meandering forward.
Shrewd eyes met her gaze, as Elise tried to discern her motives.
“Good evening,” she replied cautiously.
“You know why we are here,” Willow said softly, “Shall we deal with this in private?”
Willow motioned to the innocent bystanders through out the room. Suddenly, Elise chanted in fierce hurry, hands carving intricate patterns into the air as a wall of ice shot out from the ground behind Willow. The freezing structure rippled to the ceiling, blocking out the entry of the rest of the group.
“Perhaps now you are alone,” Elise said arrogantly, “You will be more reasonable.”
Willow smiled as she saw the image of the two erinyes outside the window. Suddenly, a rope hurtled through the glass, shattering the shards through out the room as the twining fabric furled around Elise. It gripped her as it snagged and rippled around her limbs, controlled by the might of the fiend’s magic, it’s eyes latched in a penetrating gaze upon the with.
“Oh I am not alone,” Willow grinned, “The master protects those who are faithful.”
In retaliation, large eleven man let out a cry of rage, charging his bulking figure towards Willow. Though she was quick and nimble, the reach of his sword was further than her dodge could muster. As the blade came carving deep into her shoulder, she gritted her teeth against the pain, pulling it down inside her and letting it fuel her determination. As the second devil rippled into sight beside Elise, the elven man gave up his attack on Willow, his loyalty to his mistress overcoming his need. As Willow sprinted passed him, she leapt onto the table and sank her daggers into both sides of Elise's collar bone. Tearing them free, she heard the sound of ice shatter as Bor smashed his way into the room, before leaping over the bar and charging into the fray. He roared his fury as he sprinted his thundering way towards the elven man, his axe hefted high over head as it soared through the air. He cleaved it down into the man, skin ripping open as he let out a powerful grunt. Weapons clashed as the two bellowed their rage, both frothing from the mouth, both calling their cries of frightening wrath. The white raven soared into the air, pecking in maddening panic at Bor's neck. Willow struck out her daggers as she saw the arcana wisping its iced white magic, as if it was sapping the very life from the hulk of an orc. The magic spiralled its way back towards Elise, rejuvenating her, healing some of the wounds that had been littered along her skin. A flaming arrow flew toward the witch, striking her in the chest, piercing deep through her flesh. She cried out as the flame seared her skin, a strange steam and smoke curling from the wound, as she clutched at her chest. She threw her hands out and screamed a furious incantation, freezing blasts of air filling the room, wisps of ice lashing across Willow's bare skin. The blizzard whipped and tore at her clothes as it traveled through the room, blocking the entrance and freezing the unlucky bystanders as they hid beneath the bar. As Garvana's voice chanted from the other side of the room, Willow's mind was filled with blissful images of Hell’s terrifying abyss. The comforting images seemed to cement her will and warm her heart, yet her reaction was not shared by the witch and her elven guard. Their faces contorted with fear, colour seeping from their skin, trembling shakes racking their bodies. Screams of pure terror sounded from the room, as the bystanders that were under the tables were struck with the fearsome images. As Elise fought to free herself from the erinyes tightening grip, her eyes flickered through out the room. She spared no thought to the elven man in his feral duel with Bor, as she reached for a potion within her pouch. While she was swift and quick, Willow was quicker. She leapt forward and plunged both daggers into the witch’s side, ripping them outwards and tearing a gaping wound across her torso. The potion slipped from her fingers, gently clinking to the ground and rolling away. Her stance slackened, her weight falling into the bindings of the rope, her eyes wide as the blood drained from her side. Willow was not willing to take any risks, she sprang forward, both blades flashing through the air as she descended and plummeted them into the witch’s slumped form. As the blood poured from the wounds, Willow inhaled sharply, watching the red liquid solidify and freeze over as it trickled along her flesh. Her body remained motionless as a crusted coat of ice formed around the wounds, a cold chill radiating from her. As the final wail of agony was cut off short, Willow looked to the elven man. The second erinyes had gripped the rope around his neck, tightly binding his airways, as Bor’s axe embedded deeply into his chest.
The sound of whimpering drew Willow's attention back to the bystanders. She sighed as she shook her head. Though Elise's arcane blizzard had killed a few of the witnesses, the ones still living could not be left that way. Pellius seemed to realise the same thing as he stepped forward with a solemn face and took care of what he must. Willow could hear the commotion of panic outside of the window, the townsfolk crying in fear as they sprinted for the watch.
“Take her body,” she said quickly to Pellius, “And get back to the spire. I shall search their rooms and recover anything that would incriminate us.”
“Very well,” he said, “Do not linger, my lady.”
Willow turned to the erinyes, standing taller and speaking formally, “Thank you for your service. Your task is complete, you are dismissed.”
Both devil’s nodded sharply as the air rippled and their forms winked out of sight. Willow wasted no time, quickly morphing into her disguise and making her way to the bed chambers. It didn't take long to find Elise’s room and the piles of information she had kept on the Ninth Knot. She worked as swiftly as possible, stuffing all of the parchment into her pack, collecting every book upon the shelves to be sure she missed nothing. Once the room was clear, Willow slipped through the window, sealing it behind her. She casually melded into the crowd now surrounding the inn, mirroring their shocked expressions, as she slowly left the scene. As she made her way through the backstreets, she quickened her pace, reverting back from her disguise. When the edge of the Caer Bryr came into view, Willow smiled, sprinting into the darkness and disappearing into shadowed caress of the night.

In the wake of their sweet vengeance, the week passed uneventfully. Life in the Horn continued at a slow pace, as each passing ritual brought them closer to the completion of their mission. It was on a chilled winter morning, the group found themselves standing upon the stone steps of the throne room, looming above a handful of boggards that had requested a word with their masters. Duko Five Croaks, as he introduced himself, had apparently taught himself enough common to communicate with the group. He approached warily, struggling in his confidence, clearly unsure of his choice to speak with them now he huddled under their scrutinising eyes.
“Hunting been slow,” he croaked, “Not enough food for boggards, we need weapons, need more food.”
Willow raised her eyebrows, almost impressed with his audacity. He had attempted to write a list, filled with gear and items they were asking for. She skimmed her eyes over the list, guessing the total to be worth roughly three thousand gold. She had little patience or care for the boggards, thinking them no more than filthy savages.
“Shall we kill him?” Willow suggested to Pellius bluntly.
Pellius smiled at the look of fear that racked the small frog.
“He shall be of no use to us dead,” he said, “Let us take his tongue, it will serve as warning to the rest of them, and remind them that this is no charity…”

Time trickled by as the end of their grand ritual grew nearer, the days filled with preparation, while the nights filled with restless sleep and anxious worry. The quiet was almost more discouraging than the drama. Willow found herself in constant frown, unable to relax as each day passed and the Horn of Abbadon remained unmolested. She had not forgotten about the fearsome silver dragon that had killed Baron Vandermir. Nor was she naïve enough to assume that he had been the sole target of its enquiry. The only thing she was sure of was that it would certainly attack; the question that remained was when.
Pellius and Garvana had taken their religious roles within the organisation to heart, committing to educating their servants, teaching them to read and write while schooling them within the teachings of Asmodeus. Although Willow found the idea tedious, she could not fault the logic and benefit of having better educated slaves.
As the moon lingered high in the sky, she lay amongst the silken sheets, her body languid and content after spending the earlier hours of the night in strenuous worship with Pellius. The scratching of quill on parchment roused her from her stupor, the flickering of candlelight drawing her eyes open. His sculpted form sat hunched over his writings, the wells between his muscles upon his back patterned by the dim light, his hair tousled and free from its usual tight impeccable grooming. Willow slipped her legs over the side of the bed, pulling the silken sheet around her chest as she rose, the cold chill to the air feathering along her bare flesh. The strands of her sable hair had grown in the passing weeks, the lengths now skimming the corners of her throat. She held the silk along her front as she glided towards him, the soft material draping low along her back. When she reached him, her fingers instinctively traced the deep hollow of his collarbone, as she leant forward to rest her chest upon his back and her cheek upon his.
“What is this you’re working on?” she asked quietly, her voice husky and gentle.
He had sketched a grid and list on the parchment, two columns of official titles, lined under the headings of martial and theological chapters.
“A hierarchy,” he replied, continuing his sketch, “If we are to raise an army, there must be order. We are best to initiate the doctrine from the beginning.”
As she read the lines of the list, her fingers gently dug into the carved muscles upon his shoulders. At his deep appreciative grunt, she continued her methodical paced massage while she spoke.
“Pellius Albus, First Paladin of Asmodeus,” she read with a smile, “An immense title, a grand feat to live up to.”
Her eyes skimmed down the page, as she read the second heading of the theological chapter, a frown touched her brow.
“First Bishop of Asmodeus?” she asked, tilting her head, “Do you believe Garvana will ever be worthy of that title?”
His strong hands lifted from their script, he gently took Willow's own and guided her around to a seat upon the desk. Looking into his eyes, she could see the tired wear tinting the cemented determination.
“She is competent enough to become a leader,” he said seriously, “Though you may not see it now.”
“I see the stubbornness,” Willow chuffed, “But if anyone would understand that stubbornness breeds determination and strength, it is I.”
At that, he smirked, lounging back into his chair.
“I believe what our dear sister has lacked so far is direction and motivation, and so I give you power and competition. Perhaps she will flourish, perhaps she will flounder. Of only one thing I am certain, we will smile as we watch it unfold.”
“Indeed,” Willow grinned.
Her eyes raked down his bare torso, lingering on the feather of light hair across his chiselled chest. Before her mind ran away from her, she shook her head with a sheepish smile and returned her sight to the parchment.
“What are you planning with all of this?” she asked, motioning to the list, “We hope to raise an army, raise a nation, yet I know little of war and tactics.”
“As we loosen Mitra's grip on this land, Asmodean rule needs to be established. I do not want some ice witch, boggard worshippers or death cult taking subjects from our Prince. And as we claim lands and subjects, we need to be able to enforce a vigil over them. They could also aid us in the future. Infiltrating cities, converting villages, providing safehouses, the list is endless.”
His eyebrows raised as his tone deepened, “And loyal to us, not Thorn.”
Willow grinned as she traced her finger along his jaw, “Your conviction is most alluring.”
Still holding the silk across her chest, her eyes turned to the list of servants he had littered down the page.
“It is such an ambitious undertaking,” she said, “Do you believe you can really curb this scum and command them to be worthy of our Infernal Lord?”
A slow grin spilt his face, “We sit here summoning an Archdeacon so we may conquer a continent of hostile inhabitants, and you think me teaching some men to read and hold a shield is the ambitious undertaking?”
His dastardly laugh sent sweet chills tingling her spine, yet she rolled her eyes as she shook her head and chuckled.
“I was referring to raising an army, commanding a legion with might enough to conquer this land. Do you truly believe it possible?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
“I do,” he replied seriously, a fierce resolve to his words, “Even if we are to fail, we must attempt this. We must put everything we have into it, we must strive for His glory, we must endeavour to bring this land back under His rule.”
The words lit the spark within Willow's beating heart, she felt the warmth of the Infernal fire simmering low in her stomach.
“For He is the first and rightful ruler of everything,” she recited, lifting her leg sensually and sliding wrapped in silk into his lap, “And all shall bathe in his hellfire…”


As the sun ascended and the snow upon the canopy began to melt, Pellius began his initiation. He had formulated a test to help select ten suitable candidates for indoctrination into their Chapter of Asmodeus, which he had aptly named the Church of the Forsaken. As the final ten were selected and he stood atop the stairs within the throne room, Garvana by his side, they both stood tall in fierce authority. Willow clasped her hands behind her back, standing to the side respectfully, observing the proceedings.
“You,” Pellius called, his deep baritone voice strong and commanding, “Are the chosen few selected for the honour of spreading and upholding Asmodean rule. This is an opportunity like no other. His word is right, His judgement final. He is the First, and rightful, ruler of everything. Our mission, is a holy one. We are tasked to bring this blasphemous land back under the heel of our Infernal Father. Your accomplishments, will be met with ascension. Be warned, your failure or disobedience will be met with merciless punishment…”
Watching the servants as Pellius’ voice echoed through the silent chamber, Willow was mostly impressed with their reactions. Although some eyes fell heavy with fear and dread, the majority of what she could see was ambition and hunger for power. Straight backs filled with confidence, determined chins lifted, sharp nodding with ears drinking in Pellius’ righteous speech.
“Hail Asmodeus!” he bellowed.
“Hail Asmodeus!” Garvana and the servants mirrored.
As they split the group and both teams of five followed their leader, Willow was struck with an idea. Although their newly founded church covered the martial and theological chapters of the organisation, their beginnings of an army was lacking a key component. Once the days lessons were underway, Pellius lecturing the men and women on the principals of Asmodeus and Garvana seeing to their literacy and numeracy, Willow chose a different approach. After the successful mission that she had Cassandra undertake, she saw the benefit in having her own small network of spies infiltrating each city on their organisations behalf. Leaving the hall and their lessons behind, Willow gathered her own three candidates. Cassandra, Willem and Terris were eager to follow her with the promise of a mission to fill their time. Her instruction differed from the task of words and principals, for the art of remaining unseen and unheard was not something that could be taught on parchment. It was an instruction that reaped swift rewards, for as Willow spent her time testing and scolding, she had little room in her mind for pointless worry. Her team of three seemed the perfect trio of stealth and subterfuge. Cassandra was a brilliant liar. Though her natural air of arrogance would struggle to hide among the commoners, she had a knack for wearing it with pride in a way that no peasant would dare question someone who was clearly their better. When it came to Willem and Terris, they had been raised among the streets, two thieves with quick hands and quicker feet. They were used to remaining hidden, slinking within the shadows, melding into the background.
Together, the three of them left for town on their mission of observation, to keep an eye on the Mitran forces left within the town. It was only on their fifth day that their first opportunity presented itself. Late in the evening of a cold winded night, Willem returned to the spire. Willow was sitting at her desk within her chamber when the sharp knock rapped on her door.
“Enter,” she called, closing her journal.
“Mistress,” Willem said politely, bowing his head, “Sorry fer the intrusion.”
“You have news, I expect?”
He nodded his head, approaching her cautiously, bowing shakily as he dropped a scroll upon her desk. The parchment had been bound with a wax seal baring an insignia Willow recognised.
“The Brides of Light?” she asked, frowning as she unrolled the paper.
“We intercepted a message head’n to the capital, Mistress,” he said in his hard lilt, “Cassandra thought it be best to see what they’d be send’n.”
Willow skimmed the contents of the page, eyebrows raised.
“And the messenger?” she asked.
Willem quirked his lip, eyes still downcast upon the floor, “No one be find’n him any time soon, Mistress.”
Willow smiled, rolling up the scroll and placing it back onto the table. She stood and glided towards her chest, reaching into the lock box and lifting out a silk pouch of coins before tossing it towards him.
“Very well,” she said shortly, returning to her seat, “Return to your task.”
“I'll be thank’n yer Mistress,” Willem said with a bow, quickly backing out of the room.
As the door clicked shut, Willow unrolled the parchment again. The Abbess Temperance Avagail of Saint Cynthia-Celeste had grown worried. Through divination spells and many nights of prayer, she had become certain that a foul ritual was taking place within the Horn of Abbadon. She had written to the Church of Mitra, asking for aid, fearing that the strength of her sisters would not be enough to quell the evil. She spoke of her worry at having heard nothing from Inquisitor Harkon, the slaying of Sister Marta within their very walls and the disappearance of Sister Larnta. Willow smiled, knowing well that the scroll in her hands meant there was no aid coming from Matharyn. Knowing the letter was bound for delivery by ship, she guessed they had four weeks before it would have arrived, and at least that many for reinforcements to have made it back to Farholde. She figured with Abbess Temperance would hold her assault until then, certain that the Church of Mitra would rally to her side. Willow knew they had not faced their last trial in the summoning of such a vile daemon like Vetra-Kali, but having no army of righteous do-gooders turning their eye upon the Horn, made their task far less complicated.


Winter arrived to the green fields of the Caer Bryr in a white tint of feathered snow upon the canopy. Weeks passed by as the air grew colder and the nights stretched longer, the sun barely warm enough to melt the fleece of sleet drifting through the skies. Within the clustered mass of white tipped craning oaks, the spire still stood in its menacing glory, emerald flames still rippling in glaze along the teetering peak.
Twenty seven weeks they had spent in ritual and prayer. As the sun rose each morning they had bathed the divine seal in putrid unholy broth. As the sun set they had repeated the lines of blasphemous decent. And as the moon clung directly over head, they had called to the darkness, begging it to strike out and devour the purity that held their target at bay. The Horn throbbed with malicious intent, a beat of its own heart thrumming in tune with the abyss, opening its void to its master. Each night, sleep grew more distant to Willow. The hours of darkness no longer holding their comforting caress, replaced by the impending doom they were seeking out to restore. The immensity of their mission was weighing on all of their minds, the stress and trepidation showing in their snapping attitudes and short tempered conversations. Even her nights spent with Pellius had changed. Where once they had simply enjoyed the carnal satisfaction in their infernal union, the joining of late had been more of frustrated release and fettered impatience.
When word returned to the Horn of a fair coming to the town of Farholde, the group latched on to the chance of a respite. Leaving Grumblejack to guard the sanctum, they left the spire early morning, shuffling through light snow that had fallen through the canopy to touch upon the brush of the forest floor. They had made it half way to the town when the sound of trampling hooves ricocheted to their ears. Breaking into the clearing, seven knights in glistening silver armour trotted into arrowed formation. They wore garb of Mitran blue, flags of the holy sun tied to their long piercing lances. Leading the charge, upon the largest horse, sat a man they recognised as their third and final sacrifice – Sir Valin Markadian. The seven men slowed their horses and pulled to a stop while their leader and his steed stepped forward.
“I can sit by no longer,” called Valin, “This evil must be destroyed, this stain upon our fair land must be cleansed! We challenge you, to honourable combat!”
As the group slowly continued their approach, Valin’s eyes locked to Willow’s, a sad look upon his face as he recognised her.
“Ah, Lady Kathryn,” he said gently, shaking his head, “You leave me disappointed, throwing yourself in with this lot. Your smile so bright, hides a heart as black as night.”
Willow smiled softly, a quiet menace to her voice, “Not black, Sir Valin, but red. Red as the very flames of hell.”
Shock rippled his brow for a moment, before he frowned deep, his chin lifting higher in his righteous conclusion.
“You call for honourable combat,” Willow continued, “Yet I count seven of you and seven steeds. What is honourable of fourteen on five?”
Valin chuffed a laugh, “My lady, if you were so worried of specifics of honourable, you would challenge me to single combat!”
Willow smiled as she saw Pellius’ chest inflate in the corner of her vision. She looked to him, eyebrow cocked in question. He contained his eagerness, and at his swift nod, Willow's smile widened.
“Is it not customary of this land for a lady to select a champion?” she asked regally.
“It is,” Valin replied, his eyes sizing up the man adorned in gleaming ebony full plate.
“Then face my champion in single combat,” she called, “Pellius Albus!”
Pellius stepped forward, bowing formally to his opponent before turning to Willow and bowing to her. Willow bowed in return, eyes alight mirroring his in their hell fire.
“For the glory of Asmodeus,” she rasped.
“For the glory of Asmodeus!”

The duel that followed was one that Willow would have called legendary. Sir Valin regally atop his steed, his shining silver armour glittering with divine right, his lance long and sturdy. Pellius firm in his ominous stance, his black layers of hard steel tinted with the touch of blazing red, his mighty warhammer blazing with flame.
The steed threw itself into a charge, it's powerful legs launched it barrelling towards Pellius, dirt and snow bellowing in its wake. The ground shook with force as the tip of the lance crashed into his shoulder, the weighted drag of his armour making the dodge impossible. As Sir Valin turned his horse to come around for a second charge, Pellius readied himself. The clamber of hooves sounded as a ferocious battle cry shrieked, Pellius called for the darkness, summoning the will of Asmodeus within his weapon. As the steed continued its charge, he leaped into his own sprint. He cleaved the warhammer through the air with fearsome might, the cry propelled from his lips as he smited the caviller, the profane arcana spiralling its blackened wisps in tendrils around the cold steel.
Willow had both daggers clenched in her fingers, itching to launch into the attack, the terrifying aura radiating from Pellius leaving her trembling in anticipation. Time seemed to slow as his warhammer swung wide and the lance was galloped forward. The explosion of metal on metal rang out across the expansive forest. A cheer of proud glee escaped Willow's lips as she watched the hard surface of his weapon collide with the knight’s chest. Too comfortable atop a horse, Sir Valin seemed merely inconvenienced by the attack.
One after another, they exchanged brutal blows back and forth, until both were wheezing and wounded within the blood misted air. The caviller turned his horse to the battle, his eyes straining open, a finality to his posture. As they took their position, it was clear that one of them was not going to make it passed the charge. Red stained the shining gleam upon Pellius’ armour, a spilt lashed along his cheek, fatigue and exhaustion taking their toll upon his face. His lips began to move, a rhythmic beat to their movements, and it took Willow a moment to realise that he was chanting the Chelaxian hymn of Asmodean pride. As Sir Valin kicked his heels into his horse, Willow chanted along with Pellius in Infernal for support. With each stride, the impending assault closed in, her heart thumped in time. Drawing his sword in his left hand and his lance in his right, Sir Valin strided forward. Pellius stood with the warhammer gripped in both hands, his fierce gaze locked onto his target, his stance wide and anchoring. The lance splintered into shreds as it impacted upon Pellius’ chest, yet he refused to flinch. He hefted the warhammer and swung wide with a mighty force. Willow's stomach sunk as she watched his aim go too far left, the caviller ducking under the hit, launching his own sword towards the head of his target.
Time slowed to a trickle as the blade propelled down diagonally. Sir Valin's aim was impeccable, carving directly towards the join of Pellius’ head and neck. For only a moment Willow fought the overwhelming urge to hurl her dagger towards the knight in hope of stopping his onslaught. But her fingers pulsed in frustration as she refused to deny Pellius the honour of dying in glorious battle. Suddenly, as if guided by something more powerful than mere blades and hammers, Pellius’ warhammer lifted from its rest. He cleaved it upwards with spectacular force, sundering the blade within the caviller’s hand, pushing through and caving into Sir Valin’s head. The impact tore at the reigns attached to the steed, screeching it to halt as its riders grasp failed. As blood poured from the collapsed face of the knight, he slowly slid from the saddle, falling to a heap upon the ground.

Relief and pride bounded through Willow's chest. Her heart beating rapidly as the other knights launched into attack, shocked and outraged that their leader had been felled. The group cut down each of the cavillers, chasing them down and denying them the chance to return to the city or call for reinforcements. Once all had calmed, and the last of the knights lay unmoving, Willow checked Sir Valin for signs of life. The gentle pulse of heartbeat was a blessing, for it meant their final ritual could be completed now their sacrifice was detained and still breathing.
As the others gathered anything of worth from the bodies of the cavillers, Willow approached Pellius as he unlatched his armour to bandage the wounds upon his torso. She let the pride she felt radiate through her smile, her amorous delight at his imposing might visible within her eyes. She lay her hand upon his cheeks and pressed her lips fiercely to his. As she pulled away, her grin widened.
“And when one serves His might,” she recited, a true warmth to her words, “They serve His power, and bask in His glory…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:02 AM
Chapter 19 - Beginning of the End


As the winter blazed its frosted ember and the iced sleet hailed into the jagged stone of the spire, it was the clicking sound of a door lock that awoke Willow from her sleep. Her eyes fluttered open as dawn slowly approached, the sun having not yet lifted from its slumber behind the horizon. Flickers of light and shadows pulsed throughout her room, turning her head to see a lit candle upon her dresser. She rose from the bed, silently reaching for her daggers that lay upon the nightstand. Her eyes skimmed over her empty chamber as she prowled, quickly opening her door, peering out over both ends of the corridor. The hallways were silent and still. She crept back towards the dresser, frowning as she noticed a neatly bound scroll sitting centre next to the candle. She checked it over carefully, before delicately unwrapping its binding and unfurling the parchment. Roughly scrawled elven script littered down the page.

W
Being an assassin is more than just secrecy and subterfuge. Sometimes we are required to eliminate whole ranks of targets, sometimes we are required to send a message. So, this I task you with. Our employer wishes to send a message to his rival, a message that says that his rival cannot protect those he favours, for his eyes do not see everything.
Destroy the Keepers of the Accarian Beacon. Kill their leader, Sir Bonder of the Beacon. And every man who stands in your way. Leave none alive. The sooner the task is completed, the better.
The rules are simple. You have one week to perform your task. Any later and it shall be deemed a failure. You must complete the task in one night. This is not a task of infiltration, this is a slaughter. You must do this alone. You may gather information, but do not speak of this task or enlist the help of others. Any outside interference will be deemed as a failure. Allow none to live or escape. Leaving even a single survivor will be deemed as a failure.
You know what happens if you fail.
S

Willow frowned at the parchment. Not only had Switch entered the spire undetected, but the mission itself was daunting, she had never taken on such a large task by herself. She stared at the elven script and felt a hint of nerves creep into her mind. She would attempt it, of course, and she refused to fail. But anxiety set in, the more she thought of her task.
The sun graced the sky through the frost etched clouds, as Willow sat and pondered by her dressing table. She concluded that she needed to gather as much information as she could as she strolled the streets of the city that day after she had completed her shift within the sanctum. She took the parchment from the dresser, reading its details one last time, before setting it alight in the fireplace. She watched the note burn into unrecognisable ash before she began her preparation for the days task.

Twenty eight weeks she had spent biding her time within the walls of the Horn of Abbadon. Inactivity had stretched her patience thin, testing her strength of will and self control as the monotonous drone of life carried on around her. The thrill of a task set by her sadistic counterpart, was a delicious tease of a respite.
Arriving in town, it was the first piece of information she gathered had her frowning. She had asked one of her contacts of Sir Bonder, and he had revealed a great deal of information. An ambitious and ruthless man, he had apparently been recruited by Baron Vandermir himself. Willow smirked, thinking on the complications her mission would have aroused had the Baron still lived. She continued her search for information subtly, never asking too many questions to the one person, acting only mildly interested in their answers. By day's end, she had discovered that the lighthouse known as the Accarian Beacon was manned by at least fifteen guards, one of which was confirmed to be some kind of spellcaster. She had also procured a map of the lighthouse and a description of its surroundings. Willow returned the room she had rented for the night, and dined with Pellius in the parlour. He had asked to accompany her stay, claiming time for his personal ventures in town. During their meal she sat her knife and fork down, keeping a casual air as she spoke.
“I will be gone for a day or two,” she said softly, reaching to fill their wine glasses, “I have a personal matter to attend to, I shall not be away long, but may I ask you to cover my time within the sanctum?”
Pellius’ face slightly contorted, as he tried to keep the suspicion out of his voice, “Of course my lady, but I must ask, is it a matter I can aid you with?”
Willow smiled gently, “No, I must attend this on my own. But thank you for the offer. I may return sooner, but will be gone no longer than two days.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he said politely, “I shall return to the Horn tomorrow, but do not hesitate to ask if you need assistance.”
Willow inclined her head as she returned to her meal, delicately slicing her roast duck, slipping a slither into her mouth. She could feel Pellius’ intense stare as he tried to read her. This was the problem with letting people get close to you. They began to know you well enough to discern when you were lying or evading. They began to understand you better than they ought to.

Willow excused herself early, claiming exhaustion from the days tasks and reluctance at her early start the next morning. She planned to leave before the twilight hours of dawn, sail across Lake Scardynn in a small rowboat she had bought, and find herself a decent hiding spot for her to spy on the lighthouse and its occupants. In between retrieving her information earlier that day, Willow had scoured the blackmarket for the items she needed. She already carried the wand imbued with silence, so all she needed were potions of invisibility and scrolls of dimension door. She had packed her bag with supplies to last for five days; food rations and waterskins, poisons and potions.
She retired for the night as dusk appeared, dropping into a quick slumber, light and restful. As twilight began, her eyes strained open, her hand covering her yawn. Willow tiredly dressed in her armour, strapping the belts tight and fitted, sleepily stretching her muscles awake. She trudged her sluggish way down to the docks where her small rowboat was tied. As she dropped her pack into the hull, she sat herself upon the beam and lifted the oars. As the waves crashed around her, the fatigue had little choice but to vanish. The rocking of the boat upon the restless water was enough to snap her into concentration, for it took all of her wits to keep the boat from tipping. The sun had not yet risen as Willow reached the opposite side of the bay, she dragged her boat ashore and wrapped its tie around the thick base of a tree along the edge of the small beach. Hiking up the hill, the great beacon of the light house came into view. The fiery blaze so bright it could be seen from hundreds of miles away. Willow drank down one of the skins as she approached the towering light, she found a patch of foliage along the ground close enough to see the outside members of the crew known as the Beacon Watch. The patch was blackened by the salt from the sea poisoning the local flora, whipping it's briny tang across the once green brush. Willow slid amongst its cover, almost undetectable in her black leather armour. She set her bag up for easy access as she laid in wait and observed the patrols.
As the sun finally made its way over the horizon, Willow watched life spawn from the lighthouse walls. She counted five men in the group that left towards the town, two standing guard by the entrance, and three arranged around the very top of the tower. Willow squinted up through her glass lens at the men sitting around a small table next to the flaming beacon on the top balcony. She recognised Sir Bounder instantly. If his expensive outfit were not enough to identify him, his striking facial features that had been described to Willow certainly would have been. A greying moustache sat proudly upon his lip, thick and curled as it protruded to a point on each side of his face, matching bushy eyebrows hanging like curtains over each eye.
She debated with herself whether to attack now, or wait for the cover of night. At present, she had a clear view of Sir Bonder; her primary target. She could simply dimension door behind him and take him by surprise. The draw back of this would be that every man left in the lighthouse would be awake and quick to rally once her edge of surprise was gone. Willow felt exposed enough, lying out in the open, the piercing rays of the sun through the clouds a menacing deterrent. She decided to wait for the welcoming cover of darkness.
She chewed on some of her dried fruit and cured meat rations as she waited out the sun. Early afternoon she saw the five men returning from town as the others changed shifts. She counted fifteen men as she watched their rotations. Sir Bonder still sat at his table, merely exchanging one rival card player for another. He was relaxed lounging high upon his balcony, he clearly felt safe from up there, sure that their position would give them view of any approaching attack. Willow smiled as the sun sunk below the horizon. The night was ominous and dark. The clouds crowded the sky, the moon hidden beneath their smothering embrace, low rumbling thunder disguising the sounds of her breath. She waited until it was late enough to assume that some of the crew would have turned in for the night, giving Willow the opportunity to catch them unarmed and unprepared. She pulled her vial of invisibility and her wand of silence from her pouch. The spells would last for roughly five minutes, she would have to be ruthlessly quick. She lifted herself from the foliage, strapping her pack on as she prepared herself. In quick succession, she drank down her potion, cast the wand’s magic upon her person, and leaped forward into a deafened sprint. The sky seemed to open up as she approached, the thundering roars of the heavens shaking the ground. Rain started to bucket down, pelting around her, eliminating any chance that she would be heard as she reached them. Willow took it as a sign, the dark forces were watching this deed, their approval visible in their aid.
It was indeed a slaughter. She swiftly approached the two guards at the door, lunging in between them, thrusting both arms out and skewering them through the head. They dropped to the ground with looks of lifeless terror permanently struck across their faces. They died instantly. Willow was pleased that they did, for not only did they make her task to remain silent much easier. Soundlessly, she opened the door and prowled inside. Two men sat around a dingy table, enthralled in their battle of cards, small piles of gold layered next to their hands. As Willow stepped towards them and her silence followed, the sound of the raging storm came bounding through the open door. Both men looked up from the table, in time for her to leap towards them, slashing one across the throat and impaling her second blade into the other man's heart. The silence around her had the bodies slump across the table soundlessly.
In a section of quarters, Willow took out six guards while they slept peacefully in their bunks. She quickly made her way to the second floor, choosing to leave the looting for after she had completed her mission. With the magic still surrounding her, she opened a door into a recreation room, filled with guards and their tankards of ale. She hadn't refreshed her invisibility, so when she entered, three of the guards looked up at her in panic. She saw four guards at the tables, and a single man in decorative robes, walking unaware towards the far door. Willow knew she had to get rid of the spell caster first. She sprinted towards him, the deafening silence masking her footsteps, she slashed out and took his head clean from his shoulders. Unfortunately, she had moved too far from the others. The reach of her quieting magic had allowed one of the men his voice.
“INTRUDER!” he screamed.
Willow charged at the man, her magic once again encompassing them all. With only a few scratches to herself, she dispersed three of the guards. A single man managed to make it passed her as he ran for the stairs. She was quick to the railing, unstrapping her bow and unleashing a flurry of arrows. The stairs blocked most of her attacks, but a single arrow pierced his hamstring, sending him crashing down the fourty foot drop. Willow could see his body crumpled, unmoving as it laid in a mess of unnatural angles. She did a sweep of the level before making her way up to the next. She came upon a door made of a finer cut than those of the lower levels. As she approached, her arcane quiet wore off. She could hear soft voices of the other side of door, the soft chanting of a spell followed by a warning to the others.
“Get ready,” said a deep voice quietly, “Don't fire unless I say so.”
Willow gently tested the handle, finding the door locked. She silently withdrew her lockpicks, taking extra care to keep her movements slow and quiet. As she unlocked the door with the barest of clicks, she paused and listened intently for any sign that she had been heard. When none came, Willow drank down another vial of invisibility. She slunk behind the wall next to the door, and in swift motion, unlatched the door and swung it wide, sealing her body against the wall.
“Fire!” bellowed the deep voice.
Two arrows flew through the doorway, followed by a searing stream of blazing flame. It scorched the wall across from the doorway, leaving charred blackened soot in its place. Willow waited for a second attack.
“Grab the furniture!” barked the same man, “Make a barricade at the door!”
While Willow listened to the shuffling of footsteps, she prowled into the room. With light steps, she made it passed the two guards before they began to drag the table towards the door. She looked up at the man in charge. He wore fine robes of cyan, lined with soft golden trim, intricate patterns scrolling their way to the floor. He looked no older than fourty, greying wisps starting to creep upon his temples. As Willow crept towards him, a frown pulled his brow tight. He threw up a hand as he spoke.
“Halt!” he called to his men, “There is something already in here!”
As he reached into his robes, Willow pounced. She used her weight to propel her daggers forwards, both slamming into his torso at once. He fell backwards with a thud, and as Willow's form rippled into sight, he quickly read the incantation from his scroll.
Suddenly, a blinding flash of golden glitter exploded through out the room. It's sparkling mist coated everything in sight, including every inch of Willow. She sneezed as she inhaled fragments of glitter, but laughed at the way she sparkled.
“Gold has always looked good on me,” she said with a smirk.
She leaped upon him before the two guards could react, thrusting her dagger through his throat. She leaped back as the two men circled her, one of the men lunged forwards in a feint, forcing Willow to step backwards into the blade of the second man. He called out triumphantly as his sword sliced across the skin of her waist. Willow ignored it, slashing her daggers out in unison, her hooked blades piercing both of their stomachs.
“Who are you?” one man cried, “Why are you doing this?!”
Willow merely grinned, wicked and sinful. She didn't bother to try to block their swords as they hacked towards her. With her daggers still imbedded in their flesh, she ripped into a pirouette, hacking open gaping wounds on each of their sides. As they dropped, Willow wiped the blood from her face. One of them had managed to swipe his blade across her cheek, and the other across her neck. Both superficial cuts, but both would add to the swiftly expanding collection of scars she was amassing. Quickly searching the remainder of the level, she came across a locked door. She deftly picked its lock, springing her hands back just in time to avoid the needle that sprung from its keyhole. Willow had not even noticed the trap. She disabled it, managing to avoid the leaking poison now dripping from its handle. The room was arranged in a much finer manner than the rest of the lighthouse. An ornate bed sat in the corner, silken chairs and an oak desk sat by the far wall, hard leather tomes lining the bookshelf. Sitting centre of the room was a medium sized iron banded chest. Willow carefully approached, keen eyes searching for an alarm or trigger. She found one in the form of a slender copper wire, neatly casing the iron bands covering the outside of the chest. She pried the copper from its hiding spot, cutting off the trap from its mechanism. When she opened the lockbox, a small spark of electricity shot out. But without the copper to act as a conduit, it merely dissipated, leaving the contents ripe for the taking. The Beacon Watch’s treasury, in total about five hundred gold arranged in platinum, gold and silver. Willow left the prize where it was, she needed to take care of the leader before she worried about gold.
As the glitter faded and its spell ended, she drank down her last potion of invisibility, slipping silently up through the trap door to the beacon. She scanned the occupants of the balcony and formulated a plan. One man stood inside the room encasing the fiery blaze, a single guard packing more wood upon the heaping inferno. Sir Bounder stood facing another armoured guard outside on the slender balcony’s ledge. A single man in fine robes stood facing the sea, leaning against the railing, relaxed and calm in contemplation. Willow knew that to use her scrolls she needed to take out the guard loading the fire first. With the aid of her magic, she crept behind him, one dagger at the ready. She swiftly wrapped her hand over his mouth and drove the dagger through his throat. His moan was muffled by her hand as his weight fell into her grasp. Gently, she lowered his bleeding body to the ground. With her attack, her invisibility vanished. She prepared both daggers in a backhanded grip and whispered the incantation upon the scroll of dimension door. In a breath she had been thrown through a portal of otherworldly magic, blinking into existence behind Sir Bonder of the Beacon. Without hesitation, she plummeted her daggers into both sides of his neck, killing him instantly. The guard leapt at Willow, his own dagger managing to slide passed her breastplate and pierce through her shoulder. She yanked her blades free of the leader and span low, ripping the dagger from her shoulder and slicing through both of the guard’s thighs. He screamed in pain as he stumbled backwards, toppling over the railing and falling with a howl to his death. From behind her Willow heard the muttering of an incantation. She turned on her heel to see the man in robes, now split into five. Willow smirked as she recognised the spell that Switch had used.
“Be reasonable!” the wizard called, all his images mirroring his movements, “There is no reason that both of us cannot leave here alive!”
Willow smiled as she prowled towards him.
“And how do you suppose we do that?” she asked menacingly.
“Well,” he huffed, “You just go back down those stairs and leave!”
He ran to the other side of balcony as Willow circled slow and steady, allowing her footsteps to be heard.
“And what incentive do I have to do that?” she asked.
“As you can see, I have quite the array of spells, you'll only end your own life by continuing!”
Willow chuckled, low and rasped.
She heard him whisper another incantation as she quickened her pace and caught up to him. She cut down one of his images, just as the four remaining reached out to her.
“Aha!” he proclaimed, “I've got you now!”
The hands glowed with flickering blue magic, spirals and wisps of shocking electricity sparking from their fingers. Willow attempted to pirouette out of the way, but the lightning arced from his fingertips to the point of her daggers. Willow felt the jolt of the magic sting the skin of her hands. Rippled shock waves blackened the tips of her fingers, scorch marks furling towards her wrists. Willow ignored the numbness in her hands as she slashed out with both blades, one cutting into thin air and the other into solid flesh. The man cried out as a large wound opened across his chest. Willow allowed him to stumble back and take a few steps to right himself.
“It may seem we are evenly matched, but I warn you!” he called dramatically, “Retreat now, you have one last chance, before I unleash my arcane devastation on you!”
Willow smiled, dastardly and malevolent, mockingly bowing, “Unleash away…”
As he clasped his hands together and chanted in a deep ominous voice, Willow charged. As she leapt, she soared through the air with both blades flashing. The thundering sky seemed to pick up as its wind guided Willow forward. From the wizard’s hands, a searing ray of burning flame pelted Willow in the chest. The scorching burn was not enough to slow her momentum. The flame licked her flesh and singed her hair, skin split and smouldered, but still she did not stop. She flew between the pair of images and slashed both daggers at their throats. One blade fell through a vanishing man, but the other hacked deep into the real man’s throat in a shower of blood. Willow rolled with her landing, springing up and spinning on her heel. Her attack had knocked the man to his knees, his breath struggling to exhale through the gaping wound in his neck. He clutched it tightly, a look a true fear on his face as she approached.
“Please,” he coughed, “My legacy cannot end here. Stay your hand, I beg you, I beg you for mercy.”
Willow approached him slowly, looking over the snivelling man with disgust. She lifted her blade and pointed to his throat.
Viciously, she said, “You are not worthy.”
She slashed out with her dagger, spinning in an elegant pirouette, cleaving his head from his shoulders with her second.

Willow stared out to sea for a moment, the wind whipping her hair against her face, the carnage of death all around her. The salt water crashed against the rocks far below, with such intensity that the sprays reached her side. After a moment, she gathered her thoughts and made swift work of looting the men and the tower. With her contacts in the blackmarket she could fence just about anything. She would have to be careful, if Vandermir caught wind of her involvement, it could jeopardise their alliance. She took what she could carry, taking a few of their packs to cart the more valuable weapons. As she made it to the bottom floor, she was struck with a crude and unsavoury idea. One that would confuse the men of Farholde and strike fear into their hearts. She used the blood of one of the guards to write a message upon the lighthouse floor.

Mitra will cleanse the impurities from this land.

She left the lighthouse by the aid of her last scroll, appearing in the shadowed alley beside the blackmarket. She used the magic of her circlet to hide the blood smeared upon her person, changing her appearance to that of an unknown ordinary woman. She draped her hood low across her brow and proceeded to sell her ill gotten wares. She had retrieved enough of the gear to cover the cost of her mission. Willow smiled as she left the warehouse, pockets now lined with gold. She crept through the darkness of the streets towards the inn, disappearing into the shadows of night.

Switch was waiting for her when she returned. As she entered her room, she saw him lounging upon her bed in his usual relaxed and casual way.
“If you're returning, I must assume you were successful?” he asked.
She locked her door behind her and began unloading her gear as she spoke.
“I am not naïve enough to think you have not made sure of that yourself.”
He chuckled, “You are correct of course. A brutal massacre certainly took place in the Beacon. Not a single survivor.”
Willow smiled as she closed and locked her chest, now filled with blood tainted gold.
“The message was a pleasant surprise,” he said lightly, “It will certainly keep them guessing.”
“That was the idea,” she said, rolling her eyes.
She pulled off her boots and began to unstrap the buckles of her armour, gritting her teeth against the sharp aches as it scratched along her wounds. As she reached for the ties on the back of her corset, she felt Switch’s firm hands take over. He spoke softly into her ear as he unlaced the garment’s bindings.
“Our employer shall be pleased with the deception, it would seem as if a particularly zealous Inquisitor has turned his eye upon his enemy.”
“Was there ever an employer?” she asked quietly, enjoying the short pierces of pain as he pulled tightly on her corset.
He chuckled, low and rumbling next to her ear, “An answer you will never know.”
The garment fell to the ground, pieces of the material ripping skin that had been latched on by blood. He slid his hands around her waist and began to slowly unfasten the belt to her trousers.
“You did a fine job tonight,” he whispered, “Better than I expected. Once again Willow, you have impressed me.”
Her name from his lips slithered like a kiss to her ear. He slid her pants to the floor, guiding each leg out of their traps, leaving her standing only in her black lace slip. Gently, he pulled it up and over her head, revealing her blood smeared flesh naked as she stood in the centre of the room. Willow frowned as he left her still while he fetched a bucket of warm water and cloth from the bathroom. The tenderness and intimacy were deceptively sincere. She remained where she was, her mind racing as she stood utterly vulnerable, trails of blood seeping from wounds across her body. She nearly jumped when she felt the touch of the warm wet cloth pass over her waist. He was uncharacteristically gentle. He softly dragged the cloth along her side, cleaning the crusted blood from the slash on her torso. He carefully traced the cuts along her neck and shoulder. For a moment, Willow could almost just enjoy the welcoming embrace of his tenderness. But she was smarter than that. As the cloth reached for the gash on her cheek, she quickly gripped his hand and spun around, in the same movement ripping the ruby dagger from his belt and forcing it up against his throat.
“What is this?” she demanded.
Unbothered by her aggression, he merely chuckled, the dagger pressing itself into his skin as his throat moved.
“Am I not allowed to show my admiration?”
Willow's frown deepened, “There are many ways I would expect you to show it, none of them include you tenderly dressing my wounds.”
He grinned, dark and handsome, “Do you not trust me, Willow?”
Willow scoffed, still pressing the dagger into his neck firmly, still gripping his wrist as she arched it painfully backward.
“There are many things you are Switch,” she said low and menacing, “But trustworthy is not one of them.”
He laughed, a true and honest chuckle, “True enough. Then perhaps it is a selfish move.”
Willow raised her eyebrows in question.
His voice dropped to a sensual wicked whisper, “Perhaps I wish to run my hands over every inch of your body and take you in every way possible.”
Willow quivered at the intensity of his words. She didn't need magic to see the truth he spoke. Whether he had intended to do that tonight, or whether he simply meant it in general, the longing he spoke of was true. Slowly, she released his hand. She kept the dagger firmly pressed against his neck. He raised his eyebrows as a delicious grin spread across his lips. He didn't move away from the blade as the cloth continued its slow motion down her body, down her chest and torso, lingering as it reached her pelvic bone. She stared into his eyes, blackened wells of unending depth, fierce as a predator with his hungry gaze. Willow groaned as the cloth dipped lower. Her grip on the dagger tightened as he began to consume her, the feathering fleece of the cloth, like a ragged gateway to her own debauched hell.

His tenderness had a short expiry. For a man who prided himself by his self control, he had very little of it when Willow was around. She lay upon the bed, breathing raggedly through her chest, more scratches, bruises and cuts than her mission had given her. As usual, Switch remained almost fully clothed. He'd lost his boots and his armour, but he simply lay next to her, trousers and cotton shirt unbuttoned but still worn.
“That was not how that was supposed to go,” he chuckled.
Willow's mind tried to pay attention through her hazy stupor. Switch stood from the bed and retrieved a small black wooden box from his pack. He held it in both hands as he approached her side of the bed. His eyes raked hungrily down her naked frame before he shook his head and seemed to snap into professionalism.
He placed the box upon the floor and held out his hand for Willow. Intrigued, she allowed him to guide her up and followed his lead as they knelt facing one another.
“You have succeeded in your task, you have performed well and completed the final stage of your apprenticeship. I have witnessed and can attest to this.”
Staring into her eyes, he gently unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, peeling aside its layers to reveal an intricate scared mark upon his chest. Willow’s eyes opened wide as she recognised the pattern of an ‘S’ in the centre of the design, paired with five straight lines forming an inverted pentagram. He picked up the small black box and handed it to Willow indicating for her to hold it out to him with both hands. Slowly, he spun a hidden wooden plate from the centre of the lid, clicking it in and releasing as it seemed to open at its own accord. A small ruby plated knife lay in the centre of a silken wrap, surrounded by slender vials of what appeared to be salt. Switch carefully lifted the knife from its holdings, it's slender blade the same shape as the bloodletting knives Willow had used in her past rituals. He took the box from her and returned it to his side, indicating for her to rise onto her knees. He began to chant in a dark language she did not recognise, strange sounds with a similar slither to Infernal but with a heavy throaty rasp unlike Hell’s grace. He used the silk wrap to wipe down her chest, a strange tingle burned in its wake. Willow felt the knife pierce her skin delicately, like fine strokes of fire as he carved his intricate design. As he sliced the five lines of the star, his chanting grew intense. His voice crackled into a malevolent husk, the words seared her mind as his blade seared her skin. He continued to chant as he reached for one of the slender vials, carefully opening it and tipping its contents upon the wound. The salt seemed to be drawn to the blood, not a single grain fell to the floor as each was suctioned into the cuts. The scorching grew fierce as an Infernal drum sounded throughout her body. A sweltering pulse began to reverberate through her limbs, centring and stemming from her chest. As it grew to an almost unbearable apex, Willow’s lips began to mouth words of their own violation. Suddenly, her voice began to join in the chanting. A language she had never learnt, flowed from her lips like a silken caress. Where Switch’s voice was deep and rasping, hers was sultry and smooth. Her throat made sounds she wasn't aware it could even make, like a velvet purr from the depths of Hell. They finished the chant in unison. Willow's body slumped back on her heels, her mouth dry and parched. As she sat there, fighting the fatigue that had swept her soul, Switch fetched her a glass of water. He wore an air of pride as he handed her the glass, laying an affectionate hand on her cheek.
“You are now and forever, one of us,” he said quietly.
Willow looked down and marvelled at the perfectly healed brand. It lay delicately on her sternum, dropping just below her breasts. The design was barely visible to the eye, the finest of white lines forming its pattern.
“What was that lang-
Willow started. She was speaking the language they had been chanting. She had not noticed that Switch had been too, and she had understood him clearly.
Switch chuckled, “Your contact had been correct in saying the Coterie wrote in a lost ancient language. They also speak it. A boon for their service, given at their initiation. It is the way we identify one another, for no other soul on this plane can speak it. It cannot be taught or studied, it just is.”
Willow frowned as she traced her fingers over the scars.
“The mark cannot be removed. The skin cannot be regenerated, not by normal healing or magic. The entire flank of skin must be cut from the flesh to remove it, and once it is gone, it will kill you. You are one of us until death.”
Switch turned and began to redress himself, speaking as he strapped on his boots.
“The mark is guarded by subtle magic, dampening magic if you will. It can not be seen or felt with normal hands or eyes, nor simple arcane tricks for detecting trace magic, only powerful magic like that of true seeing with allow it to be revealed to those not of the Coterie. And that is only if the flesh is bared to them. You may reveal it if you will it, but I would advise never to do so. Keep your identity hidden, always.”
Slowly, Willow lifted herself from the floor and wrapped herself in her nightgown before pouring a heavy nip if whiskey.
“You spoke of a boon for service,” she said quietly, “Surely the simple services of eliminating rival nobles are not worthy of such a boon.”
Switch grinned as he buttoned his shirt, “Your mind is turning as usual. I could barely say my own name in the hours following my initiation. You are right, of course. Such tasks are not worthy of our reward. But it is not simple humans that require our services, at some point you will be contacted by our masters and you will be given a contract that trumps all others you are following. You'll understand when they come.”
Willow frowned, sipping down the whiskey, enjoying it's burning path down her throat. Switch approached her, a look of oddly placed longing on his face. She set down her cup as he reached for her. His hand gently caressed her cheek, his other slid around her waist. He looked deep into her eyes as he leant forward to kiss her. The kiss was soft. Slow, delicate, his tongue caressed hers in a tender touch. Willow felt the finality of the kiss. She pushed aside her suspicion and let herself fall into his embrace. Gently but firm, he pulled her body against his, his hands slowly tracing the shape of her waist and neck. She found her own hands wandering, finding their place as they ran through his hair. As his tongue slowly retreated, his lips drifted against hers. He pulled his mouth away, resting his forehead against hers.
“I must go,” he said sombrely.
“Where?” Willow heard herself ask, her voice sounding sad to her ears, her heart aching.
He smiled, “I have other tasks that need my attention. You must go ahead on your own, you do not need my guidance. You have done well, you will make a fine assassin. Don't fret, I will see you again, Willow.”
Suddenly, he vanished. Willow was standing alone in the room. The strangest sensation came over her. She frowned as she tried to regain her bearings. She was not heartbroken, she was not sad. She would miss the fun and mischief she had with him, but her heart did not ache as it had while he spoke. Her frown burrowed deeply as she tried to sort through the mess of her emotions.
“I told you I'd take you in every way possible…” Switch’s voice slithered into her ear.
She spun around, not really expecting him to be there. She laughed as it dawned on her. He had been manipulating her feelings with magic.
“Bastard,” she muttered with a grin.
Her grin widened as she saw the ominous ruby dagger still laying upon the bedside table.
With her glass in hand, she strolled to the mirror and opened the front of her robe. Willow had never desired a tattoo, even a mark to show her dedication to the a Prince of Darkness did not tempt her. While her skin was clear, nothing could be used against her. But this mark, felt right. She could still feel the lingering burn of her Infernal Lord in the welts of the design. Willow smiled at her reflection. This one suited her; this one, was who she was, who she was destined to be.


The weeks flowed into one another as each day passed. Switch was true to his word, he had moved on from the town of Farholde and had made no further contact with Willow. Although she had kept her initiation into the coterie a closely guarded secret, she used her training to pass on her knowledge to her growing team of spies, readying them for their move to wherever their next target would be. Pellius and Garvana spent their days continuing their teachings within the Church of the Forsaken, making steady progress with the illiterate servants they had chosen.
As dusk descended upon the grand pinnacle of the spire, Willow and Garvana sat upon the altar in the sanctum, methodically searching the scrying lens of the statue. The sudden shudder of the stone beneath them, sent both of them toppling from the slab. Trembling racked the teetering structure, splintering cracks rippled through the walls, violent shaking ripped chucks of stone from their rest. As rocks and debris pelted from the ceiling, Willow ducked and dodged the falling mess, leaping out of the way as a bulking boulder plummeted into the ground. A piercing screech echoed throughout the chamber, sounding from the alabaster carving of the Archdeacon himself. Willow eyes were drawn to the ominous statue, she sucked in a sharp inhale as she saw three pairs of claws tear into the material realm from beyond the abyss. As if the plane itself rebelled against the intrusion of such vicious evil, the earth quaked and convulsed, the silver seal rattling upon the base. The claws lashed out and tore shreds of metal from the divine guardian, before an ear piercing squeal slit into Willow's eardrums as the claws retreated. The sound of stone collapsing ricocheted and bounded from the halls of the spire. Slowly, the trembling subsided. The pulse of malevolence reverberated across the expanse, lingering in viciousness, a vile and heavy stench within the air. In horror, Willow stared at the seal. The claw marks remained upon the dense metal, thick gouges marring the shining silver glisten. She knew, there was no turning back from this point. The way was opening; Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes would enter the realm, and bring his pestilence to the world once more.

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:04 AM
Chapter 20 - Cessation


Small fragments of stone trickled down the side of the teetering spire, as the dust settled and cleared, the remains of the wreckage of the Horn of Abbadon were unveiled. Walls had crumbled, stairs had collapsed, gaping holes exposing the safety of the menacing abode. Willow brushed off the powdered rock from her shoulders, wiping the soot from her face. She looked across to Garvana, eyes wide in shock. Together they quickly scrambled across the layered debris and summoned the scrying circle of the Eyes of Vetra-Kali, scanning the crumpled levels of their home base. They saw Pellius in his chamber, unharmed and alert, clearing the debris blocking his exit through his door. They found Bor in the hall upon the second floor, lifting rubble to free someone from under the collapsed stone. When they directed the eye to the third floor, searching its rooms for Teelee, they saw two alarming sights unfolding. The western wall within Teelee’s chamber had given way and toppled its stone chunks across the room, landing upon her bed as she had relaxed upon it. They could see her struggling to free herself from the mess, weighty rock too heavy for her slight frame to budge. Troubling as it was, as they scanned the eye along the hall, they saw something that made Willow's heart shudder and her temper swing her into action. The ceiling within the cell block had taken the brunt of the force, the violent tremors had bowed the structure and ripped the sturdy doors from their hinges, opening the way to freedom for their prisoners. Amongst those subjects, was their final sacrifice. Their key to finishing the ritual, the last piece of their wicked puzzle – Sir Valin Markadian. For only a moment, Willow watched his movements through the eye, as he gathered the others and began to move through the cells.
“Quickly,” Willow snapped to Garvana, “He must not escape.”
“We must assist Teelee,” she replied, clambering towards the stairs, “Valin cannot get far.”
Rolling her eyes, Willow followed Garvana’s lead down the spiral staircase, swiftly climbing over the fallen stone in their path. Passing a grumbling Hexor and Vexor, they reached the collapsed chamber and scanned their eyes over the scene. Teelee had managed to free herself from the trap of the large beams crushing her bed, she sat upon the wooden edge, moaning in dramatic agony. Garvana rushed to her side, healing hands reaching for the slender woman. Willow cocked an eyebrow, noticing that Teelee had received barely a scratch. She leant casually back upon the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Oh it is awful,” she wheezed, “That I am injured so!”
Willow scoffed, “I think you shall live another day.”
As the warmth of the healing arcana soothed Teelee’s apparent wounds, the door to the teleporting circle flew open. Pellius rushed in to the hallway, eyes stark and alert, accessing the situation as he patrolled.
“You are all well?” he asked, a frown furrowing his brow.
Willow's lip quirked, “Yes, we are all well.”
Garvana stood from her crouch, “I have done what I can, I cannot sense any further damage,” she said to Teelee.
“Well let us hurry,” Willow clipped, pushing off from the frame, “Valin will be half way to Farholde by the time we actually make it to him.”
“Valin?!” Pellius asked in alarm.
Willow spoke as she strode into the Horsemen shrine room, where Grumblejack had made his foul nest, “The cells buckled under the weight of the collapse, the prisoners are free. The other ways are blocked, we must go through here. They must not escape.”
Striding towards the eastern wall, Grumblejack approached the group.
“Good,” he said, hefting his oversize weapon, “Been ages since Grumblejack killed something.”
“You may kill the others,” Willow said sternly, “But you must leave Valin alive.”
Grumblejack huffed, scuffing his foot against a pile of rocks, “Never get to kill anything.”
“I don't care what you do with the others,” Willow snapped, “Can you smash through this wall?”
The ogre gave Willow a slow feral toothy grin.
“There's no need,” Garvana interrupted, “I can make a doorway.”
Grumblejack sighed in frustration, growling as he stepped away. Garvana lifted her hand to the solid stone, chanting low deep methodical tone, wisps of laced arcana spiralling from her fingertips. As the magic melted into the wall, the stone began to shudder, rippling away from her hand, parting in jagged shards forming a crude archway into the adjacent chamber. From the other side, the wide expanse of the Caer Bryr shimmered its view through the gaping mass of scree, the cold chill of the early winters air whipping at the wisps of Willow's hair. Standing upon the edge of the lofty descent, three figures in rags, desperation and a touch of hope glittering in their eyes. Hallack and his lover, two of their earliest captures, stood hand in hand considering their flight. Sir Valin, stood beside them, proud and regal as ever as he stared back into the newly formed doorway. Willow held her daggers tightly, slowly prowling into the remains of the chamber.
“Surrender,” she said fiercely to Valin, “You have no hope of escape.”
Sad eyes stared back at her, tired and weathered, yet strengthened by his will. A sudden pulse rippled through the air, two voices chanting in unison. Garvana and Teelee mirrored each others movements, gracefully tracing their intricate patterns through the air, enchanted words slipping from their lips. Willow watched with keen eyes as their arcana soothed the frown from Sir Valin’s brow.
“Come,” Garvana crooned beguilingly, “Do not risk your life. Come to me and kneel.”
Valin’s face contorted, as if a battle of will waged within his mind, he struggled against the entrancement with the last of his hope.
“Valin?” Hallack called, “Do not listen to them!”
“Come!” Garvana commanded, a lash of sharp magic accompanying her words, “Come to me!”
Slowly, a strangeness overtook his face. Docile and vacant eyes stared back at them.
“Yes,” he said in a hollow voice, “Yes I think I shall do that.”
One gradual step at a time, he walked towards Garvana.
“No!” cried Hallack, “It is a trap! You mustn't!”
Willow looked to Grumblejack as she stepped up behind Valin and clamped his wrists in manacles, “You can kill them.”
His sharp walls of teeth showed as he grinned his excitement, stepping towards the two prisoners upon the edge. Willow pushed Valin towards the door, ignoring the pleas and cries behind her, shuddering at the sounds of the ogres feeding habits. The group didn't wait to see the carnage, escorting their priority back into the safety of the spire.

After confining their capture within a cell shaped from stone in a hovel of the sanctums wall, their discussion began of a plan for the remainder of their stay within the Horn of Abbadon. As they decided to leave their private quarters and bunk together at all times by the foreboding alabaster carving of Vetra-Kali, keeping the security of their final ritual at their utmost priority, Bor entered the sanctum followed closely by the pyromancer Traya.
“Bor,” Pellius said warningly, “Explain this.”
“Is it wise to bring her here?” Willow asked carefully.
Not one to be intimidated, Bor simply shrugged, “She's proven useful.”
“Useful still has its limitations,” Willow replied, eyebrows raised.
Traya stepped forward, determination set in her features, “Twice he has saved my life. I owe him, for this, my loyalty is his.”
Pellius’ penetrating gaze raked over the woman with an intensity that would have made any man shrink and cower, yet Traya stood her ground. After a moment, Pellius nodded sharply.
“We will take you at your word, but mind this, you will get but one chance.”
She nodded her reply, stepping back behind the hulking orc. Willow eyed her with scrutiny, unsure of her truth or motives, but willing to cede to Bor’s judgement. She released her grip on her daggers and turned back to the rest of the group.
“We have five days remaining until the completion of the ritual,” she mused, “I cannot imagine we have seen the last the Mitrans have to offer. Our defences are shattered, our position here is becoming increasingly precarious.”
“I have surveyed the damage,” Pellius continued, “It is extensive to say the least. We have little choice but to make our stand in this room.”
“The daemon's wrath has been plaguing my mind,” Willow frowned, “He is not to take our trickery lightly, and if my suspicions of this place are true, it is only his dark magic that is holding it together. He may well extract it when he returns to whence he came.”
“Indeed, I have been thinking the same, my lady,” Pellius said, “Perhaps it is time to withdraw our forces, begin an evacuation of our men and our funds, seeing they serve us no real aid from an offensive stance.”
“Agreed,” Garvana said, “We should retrieve our belongings from our chambers and send the rest to the ship docked upon the foreshore.”
“They cannot go unsupervised,” Bor warned.
“Grumblejack can take the charge,” Pellius suggested, “He may guard the ship and wait for our arrival once the ritual is complete.”
“Agreed,” chimed the others.
“And what of the dragon?” Willow reminded.
“Our defences are gone regardless,” Bor said seriously, “We must deal with it as we will any other threat that comes along.”
“We do not even know the dragon has us in its sights,” Teelee scoffed.
“Oh it does,” Willow smiled, a smile of resignation and anticipation, “I do not doubt that these five days will be the hardest we have faced. Talingarde is not a country that would let such evil manifest within its lands uninterrupted…”

The feeling of dread that had seeped into Willow's skin, swiftly proved justified. She had known it would not be an easy feat to achieve, not a task to be taken lightly, nor a mission of glory that would be handed to them without retribution. The five days that followed were indeed some of the hardest days she had ever survived.

As they waged their way through the hours of each day, the onslaught cascaded from the highest reaches of the skies and ascended from the lowest fell of the ground. From above soared the elegant Avoral creature, half eagle half man, surrounded by his flock of regal falcons. They bombarded the Forsaken with aerial attacks and strange avian arcana, fighting as a tidal wave swarming within the rafters of the ominous sanctum. To their deaths did they dive, as one by one the creatures were cut down in vicious fury. From the depths of the caverns below, oozed a frightening feral mass of sludge, consuming and devouring all in its path. From the mire it rose, seeping towards the unprepared boggards hidden within their village. Willow watched through the eye of Vetra-Kali with a stern face and a cemented will, as the mass ingurgitated the helpless members of the boggard tribe. There was little she could do, little she was willing to do. Keeping the sanctum safe and completing the ritual were the only things that mattered. The oozing filth greedily devoured the last of the village, before turning its gaze upwards, drawn by the throbbing power of darkness reverberating from the seal in the centre of the breach within veil. For all its ferocity and determination, the unrelenting torrent of fire littered down the side of the spire conjured from the blood magic of Teelee and Traya, proved too much for it to withstand. As the tendrils of muddy thickness reached the edge of the balcony of the sanctum, the last fireball let loose, charring the creature passed the point of no return. It shattered and cooked, crisping into shards of dirt, black and steaming. Pellius hefted his warhammer, exhaling deeply as he rounded the weapon and swung forth with terrifying might. In an explosion of dirt and dust, the creature fulminated across the expanse, trickling through the air and returning to the swamp rotten ground of the marsh.
As the battle raged from the skies to the ground, the venomous nature of the foul ritual called to its own menacing terror. As with all discrepancies within the magical currents of the multiverse, called are certain creatures known to seek out those who have trodden too far the netherways beyond time and reality, those who weaken the veil between this plane and the next. The Hounds of Tindalos followed the scent of stench that trickled across the void, from the cage of the abyss that held Vetra-Kali, to the sanctum where the Forsaken rested. The screeching of metal upon metal was the only warning the group was given. At the sound of her hellhound’s deep growl, Willow rose from her slumber, alert and keen. For all the warning, she was not prepared for the creatures that excreted themselves from the angular corners of the walls. Gaunt, long limbed quadrupeds with soulless clear eyes, feral toothy maws, slick creatures moving with predatory grace. They existed in a way that Willow could not comprehend. She saw the hound in front her as clear as day, yet its image rippled in and out of reality, as if it were real and not real at the same time. As the gaze of one was drawn to Willow, the skin beneath her clothing ripped apart, as if it's claws had slithered passed her armour and torn her skin to shreds. The room shuddered with a menacing progression, sickeningly thick air surrounded each of them, taint seeping into Willow’s skin as if repulsed by the presence of the void beings. The group fought the direful invaders, splatters of blood simmering across the blackened stone, deep gashes into wounds otherworldly desolation. Eight feral hounds thrashed viciously, latching their fangs into all they could, ripping skin from bone. The battle raged as if fighting fear itself, the group cut down the outsiders, strengthening their will with each strike. After the blood was shed, the last of the frightening hounds converged, with no clear end to their sanguinary nor concern for their lives. The remaining two appeared beside the pyromancer, her scorching rays flying wide, searing blackened char into the wall beyond. As their sinister maws ravished the soft flesh upon her body, Pellius and Garvana stepped together and called to their Infernal Father. With deep ominous rumbling tones, the pair cried out in unison.
“FOR THE GLORY OF ASMODEUS!” they roared.
A sudden ripple of dread thrummed into the atmosphere, inquietude shaking the daggers within Willow's fingers. The power of their call sucked in like an implosion, before forcefully slamming outwards in a fierce sweep of unholy venom. As the last of the horrors fell, Willow heard the unmistakable cry of her own vicious hound, Loras. Her head snapped to the fray, in time to see her loyal canine collapse, the flames of her fiery coat flickering low before extinguishing completely.
“Naas!” Willow cried, “Loras!”
Fury swarmed Willow's veins, red hot anger fuming inside her, her eyelids slamming shut as her fists clenched as tight as her teeth. The chamber hung in eery silence, the void settling back into place, as the Forsaken dealt with its aftermath. Willow drew air, slow and deep into her lungs. She knew the cost of a mission such as this, she knew at times there were prices to pay. Slowly, she approached her hounds limp and lifeless body, kneeling down beside it. She gently ran her hand over its coat, grazing her fingers and closing its eyes. She sat by Loras’ side for a while, tear stained eyes closed, chest heavy. Lith and Sith sat each side of her, heads bowed in mourning. It took a while for Willow to hear snippets of conversation, stern voices talking of bodies and storage. Slowly she realised the voices had been Pellius and Bor, speaking of Traya, who had shared Loras’ fate. It was then that Willow lifted her chin. She turned her eyes to the malicious carving, wrapped in silver chains, the last ditch effort of the seal of purity holding back the real terror. She rose from her kneel, eyes hard and cold as she approached the statue. The hounds had interrupted the midnight ritual. The seal had not been bathed, the dirge had not been intoned. With a tone as cold as ice, she recited the menacing hymn, tipping the festering broth upon the seal, eyes wide as it hissed and squealed. Two days. She had two days left, two days until she could be free of this place. Two days until she would get as far away from this place as she possibly could.


As dawn broke its way into the sky, Bor's voice roused Willow from her sleep.
“Dragon,” he called, “On the third floor, by the cell block.”
The group sprang from their rest, desperately throwing their amour on, strapping the metal and leather. Bor watched the dragon’s movements through the eye, by the time Willow made it to his side, it had reached the chamber where Hexor and Vexor rested. The dragon had changed into a vision of white elegance. Appearing as a man, solid and tall, strong and lean. White hair flaming from his head, pure white eyes piercing his surroundings. The man charged through the spire, sensing and observing as he went. When he stepped into the chamber, he did not hesitate to launch into attack, felling the two custodiandaemons with two foul sweeps. Quickly, the group readied their ambush at the top of the stairs. As he scaled the spiral staircase, he stepped upon the stone floor of the sanctum, and the Forsaken let loose their assault. Willow heard Garvana furiously chant her incantation, while she slipped in behind the fearsome man and launched her daggers into his spine. The spell Garvana called rippled with ferocious might, fighting the dragons own arcana in a strange unseen battle. Garvana's voice grew as her enchantment pierced through and overcame its target. Pellius and Bor tried to launch into attack, but suddenly, the man leapt from the staircase and exploded into his full dragon form. As he launched into the air, the slender bricked passage of the stairs was shattered into shards. The immense dragon flapped its glorious wings and dropped, landing on the altar in a heavy plunge. The Horn shuddered beneath their feet with the rumble his weight as he perched.
“Lith! Sith!” Willow cried to the hellhounds to attack, “Nessith dorr firith!”
The hounds snarled their response, launching over the slender stone wall, snapping their teeth as they breathed infernal fire at the great silver dragon. As the great wyrm writhed in the flames, Bor screamed his merciless battle cry, charging directly at it with his great axe over head. The axe cleaved downwards, hacking through the shimmering scales upon the dragons hide, a splattering of blue blood cascading across the floor. The dragon roared his fury, unleashing a torrent of ice from its gaping jaw, like a blizzard with the intent to freeze over the world. Bor rolled as best he could from the frozen hurricane, but bellowed his rage as the shards of ice ripped through his flesh. From the fray, Pellius called his profane wrath.
“IN ASMODEUS’ NAME, I WILL SMITE THEE!” he cried.
A wicked pulse of infernal glory reverberated throughout the room. Pellius charged at the wyrm, blackened tendrils of the Infernal Father’s menace guiding his strike. He hurled his weapon and collided, a fierce blow that ripped the scales from the dragons back. Teelee stood to the side, waving intricate patterns in the air, chanting in a low malicious tone, launching pellets of fire towards the beast. As each one exploded in shattering eruptions of flame, the dragon roared and writhed. The wyrm swung its tail with untold strength and cleaved through the group, knocking each of them back, it's frosted barbs splitting skin.
One attack after another, the Forsaken fought the legendary creature, scattered blood of each of them painting the stone walls and marble altar. The beast launched itself into the air, it's thunderous wings gusting the debris in the sanctum, into a vortex of dusted fog. It lingered just out of reached, unseen through the thickened tornado. Willow screamed her frustration, thinking little of her plan as she scaled the side of the alabaster carving of Vetra-Kali, leaping from it into the clouded mist with her blades flashing. As she soared, she felt both daggers pierce deep into something, a grinding thump when they hit something solid like bone. Willow tried to control her descent, rolling with the fall as she plummeted to the jagged rocky floor. As she hit and skidded to a halt, she heard dragon howl its anger. It landed from its hover, in another ground shaking plunge, the mighty creature with its wings outstretched and its teeth lashing. Blood poured from its wounds, it's strength was fading, it's life draining. It dropped in front of Willow, it's fearsome maw opening wide to clutch her within its jaws. She tried to roll out of the way, but felt the crushing pressure as teeth pierced through the flesh of her thigh. It was then, that a voice came from her left.
“ASMODEUS!” Garvana called, charging her flaming mace towards the dragon, “LEND ME YOUR MIGHT!”
Suddenly, Garvana's form rippled with otherworldly power. The muscles within her arms exploded outwards, tripling in size. Her height shot up, her weapon expanded, her footsteps sounding as a monumental stampede. The woman charged forward, appearing an ogre sized version of herself. The dragon sensed the heinous magic, letting go of Willow and turning to snarl at the profane Garvana. At the same time they launched at each other. The dragons teeth shining as they plunged down, attempting to tear Garvana in half. But the strange magic surrounding her was too strong for it to fight. She carved her mighty weapon through the air, plummeting it down across the wyrm’s enormous head. The sound of the impact ricocheted throughout the sanctum and the clearing across the Caer Bryr. In a glorious shatter of bone and gore, the dragons head was caved in and spread across the room. As the huge body began to collapse, Willow's swiftly rolled out of its demise.

The Horn of Abbadon shook violently as the mass of the creature toppled to the floor in a cloud of dust and debris. Slowly, the air cleared and the dust settled. Willow wiped the ash from her face, standing carefully on her wounded leg. The blood fell from the gash as she limped to Garvana's side. The woman had returned to her normal size, dropping unconscious as red seeped from her eyes.
“Foolish girl,” Willow said, checking for a pulse, “You do not know what you have begun.”
As Garvana slowly came around, Pellius charged to her in fury.
“Do you know what you have done?!” he snapped.
Garvana merely frowned in her fragile state.
“You have entered into a open pact, with who knows what devil!”
As she struggled to a seated position, she wiped the blood from her eyes with her sleeve.
“It is done,” Garvana said quietly, “And I shall pay the price when it comes.”
Willow shook her head, resting back to inspect her own wounds. When she saw nothing was broken, she retrieved the healing potion from her pack and drank it down.
“So,” Bor chuffed, kicking the dragons corpse with his boot, “What do we do with this?”


Sleep had evaded Willow as the hours passed and the last day of the ritual began. Somewhere after midnight she had given up and taken to sitting by the large balcony of the sanctum. She watched for hours as the glimmer of the moon beyond the clouds traced its way to west and finally disappeared as dawn approached. The sun tried to rise, but the darkness surrounding the spire smothered its glow. No one spoke as the time trickled by. Pellius stood in watchful observation over the magic within the Vetra-Kali’s eyes. Bor sat upon the stairs leading to the statue, sharpening his weapon, his features cold and composed. Garvana paced, weapon in hand, back and forth across the stoned chamber. Teelee sat in her hovel, reading from her arcane tomes in quiet study. And Willow remained where she was, eyes on the sky, calming her mind from the worry attempting to seep into her soul. Lith and Sith sat by her side, both of their heads resting on her thighs. Slow and methodical, she traced her fingers through their fur.
As night came over the expanse of the great forest, the Eye of Hatred glowed a venomous green, directing the Eye of Vigilance towards a scene unfolding on the third floor.
“Intruders!” called Pellius, his gaze locked to the scrying, “Four men. Paladin, priest, spellcaster and a soldier.”
Willow raced to his side, watching the men break their way through the wreckage of third floor. She frowned, staring closely at the men. The paladin was easy to spot, his gleaming silver armour decorated with a shining sunburst, a proud righteous gleam to his eye. The priest wore humble robes, the Mitran star glittering upon his chest, a stern look and a determined chin. The spellcaster donned his satin robes of royal blue, trinkets hanging from his neck, wand held tight in hand. And the soldier carried a vicious looking greatsword, a feral spark to his gaze, a snarl on his face.
“They almost look familiar,” Willow said quietly, “Yet I cannot place it…”
“It doesn't matter,” Bor huffed, lifting his great axe, “Prepare yourself, they are heading this way. Pellius, you're on the paladin. Willow, take out the priest. Garvana, Teelee, deal with the spellcaster. I'll take the solider.”
Willow instructed her hellhounds to wait by the stairway and ambush the intruders with fire. As the group took up their positions, Garvana cast her strange magic over the group. Willow felt the touch of an illusion surround her, and marvelled as each of the others took on the image of rocks and debris. She was not sure how strong the arcana would hold, but any advantage would be useful. As a racket came from beneath the stairs, Willow gripped her daggers tightly, breathing softly in wait. Suddenly, the tall soldier burst from the stairway, greatsword arched over his head. For only a moment, he frowned in pause.
“Be wary!” Valin bellowed from his cell, “The fiends have disguised themselves as stone!”
His warning came too late, as Willow leapt forward and rammed her daggers into the man, while the hounds let loose their flaming breath. Willow swore as the man erratically spun around, her daggers missing the target of his neck and slashing into his shoulder. Suddenly, Bor's immense axe flashed in her vision as he cleaved it down into the man. The others sprang forth from the stairway, weapons clashing, magic spiralling.
“For Balentyne!” the paladin called, “My father, know that this day, ye shall be avenged!”
Pellius’ warhammer came hurtling from the side, crashing deep into the chest of the man. Willow dove for the priest, slashing her blades through his tender flesh. The sorcerer bellowed his incantation, an arc of lightening rippling from his fingers, ricocheting between Pellius and Garvana.
“I shall cast you back into the pits, foul devil!” snapped the soldier, carving his weapon towards Bor.
Metal clashing rang out through the sanctum, grunts of exertion paired with cries of pain. Wisp of terrible arcana whipped through the air, blood splatters in mass coated the floor. In the mess of the chaos, the Forsaken fought for their very lives. With each blow, the ground shook, the divine blessing of Mitra warred against the profane might of Asmodeus.
“We are the Sons of Balentyne!” cried the paladin theatrically, “Here to claim our vengeance!”
Willow felt the thrumming vibration of Infernal grace as Pellius called out, rage burning scarlet within his eyes, a ferocious power to his swing. His weapon sliced through the air, colliding with the soldier with a bone crunching shatter. The man flew backwards with the brunt of the force, before smashing into the stone wall, as the momentum of the swing cleaved his body in half.
“Sith, Lith, nessith furr mortiss!” Willow called, telling the hellhounds to follow her attack.
As Lith turned from the fighting to follow her master, the paladin hefted his weapon high, soaring it down to rive the fiery hound.
“LITH!” Willow screamed, fury racing untold within her veins.
She abandoned her plan for the priest, screeching her wrath as she ran for the paladin.
“Asmodeus will devour your soul!” she shrieked, blades tearing through the air.
She dove into the fray, slipping under the paladin’s attack, leaping at him from behind. Both daggers plummeted into the side of his neck, slicing through his airways and throat at once. Willow tore her daggers free as he slumped to the ground, she screamed her anger, looking for the next one to cut down.
“Richard!” cried the priest.
The sorcerer began to furiously cast his spell. The air rippled within the sanctum, strange flashes of light morphed Willow's vision.
“You haven't seen the last of us!” called the priest.
As the haze cleared – the priest, the sorcerer and the paladin's body were gone.
She screamed in fury, plunging her daggers into the corpse of the soldier that was left behind. It was only the whimper of her last remaining hellhound that stopped her massacre of the body. Sith nudged Lith’s lifeless face with his nose, whining quietly by her side. Willow sighed, sinking to her knees next to what was left of Lith. She looked to the others, all battered, bloody and bruised – but alive. The Sons of Balentyne were defeated, but not destroyed. She knew they would be back. She had heard the tales of Richard Havelyn, son of Thomas Havelyn and grand hero of Talingarde. He would not be well enough to stop their ritual, but Willow knew he would be back for his vengeance.

The moon hung directly overhead, it's perfect alignment with the spiralling vortex of malice circling the Horn of Abbadon from the sky, cast an eery green glow across the land. Willow sat by the edge of the opening, legs trailing over the side, seven hundred feet in the air. As she watched the moon align, she bowed her head for a moment. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she slowly exhaled.
“It is time,” she said emotionlessly.
The group converged around the altar, the pulsing horror almost a physical push against their chests. Garvana spoke in a hushed enchanted whisper, crumpling the stone cell that held Sir Valin. Pellius grabbed the sleeping man, holding him firm as he wrenched him towards the altar.
“Blasphemous devil scum!” Valin bellowed, writhing within Pellius’ grip, “You do not truly know what you are unleashing! Mitra will not stand for this heinous abomination of an act!”
Pellius slammed Valin into the altar, mercilessly shoving him into position, clasping his wrists and ankles tightly into the manacles. Pellius stood by Garvana's side, as she took the dagger from his hand and prepared herself. Bor filled the jug with the putrid broth of unholy water, standing ready as he looked to Willow. Breathing deeply, she opened the Dirges of Appolyon to read the Call Across the Void.
“Hear our plea O’Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes, return to us once more. We call to thee. We summon thee. Hear our plea O’Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes, return to us once more. We open the way for thy malevolence. Awake from thy slumber. Hear our plea O’Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes, return to us once more. Allow us to guide thy way. Our devotion as anchor…”
The Horn trembled with turbulent rumbling, the feral malice seeping from the alabaster statue, darkness consuming the light from the lanterns in the room. Bor hurled the rotten brew towards the seal, with each line Willow intoned, the silver hissed and squealed in repulsion. A slow black spiral began to form surrounding the statue. Garvana surged her courage and drove her dagger deep into the chest of Sir Valin. As the cries of the man were greedily devoured by the vortex, the howling wind screeched in a mind shattering call, so loud that Willow had to scream the dirge to be heard over the wailing winds.
“Hear our plea O’Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes, return to us once more!” she cried, “We implore thee, Undying Lord! Cast thou gaze upon us! Hear our plea O’Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes, return to us once more! By the blood of those that caged thee! So shall thee be freed! Hear our plea O’Prince, Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes, return to us once more! Cross the void and restore thy rightful place! Take up thy throne and WIELD THOU VENGEANCE!”
As the heart dropped into the dish, a vibration began to shake the ground beneath their feet. Suddenly, with a shrieking whine, the silver seal exploded outwards. The shards flew through the air, slashing the skin of the Forsaken, tearing flesh and radiating divine blasphemous pain. The five of them were knocked back as the spiralling portal opened between the vile abyss and the sanctum. Thundering clouds unleashed their fury from the sky, hailing feral torrents of rain around the spire. The crashing winds battered them around, lashes of wind ripping at their clothes as if little claws were tearing at the cloth. The pulse burst with brutal force, followed by a still wave of pure dread. Suddenly, all became quiet. The vortex bled with darkness, they stared into an eternal night.
A voice, as alien and malefic as ever, called from beyond the void.
“Zah… voh!” it called.
Heads snapped to Willow as the feeling of terror raced through her veins.
“I…” she translated in a whisper, “Am…”
As the words left her lips, her eyes shot wide in trepidation. Six clawed hands rippled from the void, grasping the outsides of the shrine, pulling itself from oblivion. As each limb fell through, a feral slime oozed from its flesh, puddling around the floor. When the stench touched Willow's nose, it took all her will to keep her stomach down, it took all her will to stay where she was and not flee. Two hooves excreted out of the void, attached to eldritch formed equine legs. Two grotesque boned wings followed, scavenger pinions that appeared as if they had been torn apart by disease, chunks of flesh and feather barely clinging to the bone. It was the face that leached through last. A macabre skull, shaped of an insect, shadowed with three hollow pits for eyes. As the last of the foul creature slopped to the floor, as if being birthed in some abominable tragedy, he clawed and shrieked.
“My eyes!” he cried out in his high pitched, carrion-bird voice, “Where are my eyes?”
The moment Willow had been dreading for the last seven months had finally arrived. Faced with it, she made her choice. For Asmodeus, she would face anything.
“In return for the Eye of Vigilance,” she said boldly, booming her voice, “We ask of thee, thy mercy on we mortals, we plead that thee do us no harm.”
She held out the first emerald, placing it in his outstretched hand. He snatched it viciously, ramming it into his putrid mouth, swallowing it in a loud revolting gulp. The eye slithered upwards from his throat and morphed into an ominous green glow within one of his eyesockets. With sight, he turned to Sir Valin's corpse, shredding it with his sharp claws and coating himself in the warm blood and gore.
“It is good,” he cawed, “To be home.”
He turned back to Willow, his eyeless gaze locked on her. Willow felt herself cringe under his scrutiny, his consuming stare seeping the life from her veins.
“The other eyes,” he demanded.
“In return for the Eye of Hatred,” she continued, “We ask for thy greatest gift, the Tears of Achlys, so that once more every corner of the world may know thy mercy.”
“My gift to the world?” he cackled, “You wish it? Do you swear that you will see it dispersed among the mortals?”
Willow nodded, her lips sealed against his abhorrent glare. His claws reached deep into his wide open mouth, and as he pulled them free, a slender vial of disgustful menace followed. He stretched out his hand, offering the vial to her. Willow nodded to Pellius, unwilling to lay a hand on such a foul concoction. He stepped up with no hesitation, taking the Tears of Achlys from the daemon's hand. Once empty, the eldritch claw turned uncannily, open and awaiting his second eye. Willow carefully placed the emerald into his hand. As it slithered its way into his eyesocket, she took a deep breath into her lungs.
“And In return for the Eye of Withering; we ask of thee,” she said slowly, surging her confidence, a sly grin coming over her face, “To return to thy plane of origin! Leave this plane of existence henceforth, and never return!”
Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes shrieked in immortal rage, “Traitors! Devil-whores! You have the stench of the failed god Asmodeus all over you! You think you've won? You think you've outsmarted me?! Taste my vengeance, impudent mortals!”
He rammed the third eye into his mouth, before vanishing from sight. Suddenly, the Horn of Abbadon trembled. The archdeacon had left the material plane and taken with him the magic that had held together the fabric of the spire. Within in moments, the trembling turned to violent shaking, slabs of stone falling from their perch, rocks and debris tumbling from the ceiling.
“Quickly!” called Bor, taking Garvana and Teelee by the hand.
Willow, Pellius and Sith ran for the group, but a falling beam tumbled between them and smashed the floor, cutting off their escape. A large chasm opened up the stone work, each brick slipping away, widening the gap as they watched.
“Go!” Willow yelled, pulling the scroll from her pouch, “I've got him, we’ll meet you by the ship!”
Willow grabbed Pellius’s hand, gripping Sith’s fur in the other and prayed that the arcana would work. She read the enchantment as she had been taught, attempting to clear her mind so she articulated the phrases correctly. Suddenly, she was ripped through a portal, racing through an otherworldly plane, before being flung out across the clearing. They tumbled to a halt in the mud, Willow landing atop Pellius in a crumpled heap, dirt and ash marring her face.
“The Tears?!” Willow cried, launching herself from him.
“They're safe,” he assured her, tapping the small metal box within his pocket.
The pair of them turned at the thundering sound of stone crashing upon stone. Over the treetops they saw the might of the terrible spire teetering, before it craned to the right and collapsed entirely. Billowing winds of dust and debris blew up into a buffering cloud of smoke, the ground trembling beneath them. Suddenly, the air seems to sigh, a long aching whistle of relief.
“You two alright?” Bor's deep voice rumbled.
Looking up to see his smirking face had Willow laugh, she grinned her response, slumping to the ground beside Pellius.
“It is done,” Willow breathed in relief.
He smiled, a prideful grin, “It is done.”

When the others had gathered, the five of them stood while Willow removed the clay seal from her lockbox. With one last look to each other, she snapped the seal in half. The pieces of clay crumpled and slipped through her fingers, drifting to the marsh beneath her feet. Within minutes, Tiadora rippled into sight.
“You have the Tears?” she said coldly, no jokes or frivolity.
Pellius handed her her slender vial. She merely looked it over, checking for fraud, Willow assumed. After a moment, her eyebrows raised.
“Well done, my lords,” she said sincerely, with no trace of her usual sarcastic wit, “I will inform our master.”
She handed the vial back to Pellius before swiftly teleporting away. Willow looked to the others, noting in them, the same things she was feeling. Relief, exhaustion, pride and accomplishment. They had tricked the great Archdeacon back into his void with his gift in their hands. For now, their immense gamble had paid off. Before Willow had time to celebrate, Tiadora appeared once more.
She handed Pellius a pouch filled with emeralds, as much as twenty thousand golds worth at first glance, a glittering bag of wealth.
“Our master sends his regards,” she said, bowing her head slightly, the most respect she had ever shown the Forsaken, “Your work here in Farholde is done. You must make your way to the great city of Ghastenhall. There you will meet a fellow who will know how to best use this terrible weapon you have in your hands. This letter gives the details…”
She handed a neatly bound scroll to Willow, a large wax dot sealing it, bearing the insignia of Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. Tiadora turned to Teelee.
“You are not going with them,” she said, “You are to come with me. The master had need of another sorceress.”
Willow was shocked, confused by Thorn’s decision to split the Nessian Knot, after such proven success. Yet she did not question it. Instead, she turned to Teelee and pulled her into an uncharacteristic embrace.
“Take care of yourself,” Willow said quietly.
“And you,” Teelee replied, a strange look on her face.
She bid the others goodbye and walked to Tiadora’s side. In the blink of an eye, she was gone. Willow stared for a moment, overloaded with odd feelings being skewed by the exhaustion of her very soul. She shook her head to clear it, turning to the scroll in her hand.
“To my Ninth,” she read aloud, “Since that day you arrived filthy and famished upon my doorstep, I have always seen within you, great potential. And today you prove me correct once more. You have the Daemon's Gift! I could not be more pleased. You have in your possession a terrible weapon, and now we must see it used…”
The letter spoke of a man known as Brother Barnibus Thrain, a Mitran priest in the service of Cardinal Thorn. They were commanded to seek him out, deliver the Tears, and rest and recover for the month. Then they would meet up with Sakkarot Fire Axe once more, and command an army to assault one of the holiest sites within Talingarde land – the Vale of Valtaerna.
“They will not expect a winter assault. Break the Watchtower of Saintsbridge, invade the Vale during winters merciless heart and destroy everyone in that sacred place. Leave no witnesses, making it look like a bugbear raid. Violate the holy heart of the Cathedral of Mitra Made Manifest and leave not a single soul alive. By the time winter is ended, the Tears will be well spread across Talingarde. The people desperate for respite will run to the simpering Mitrans begging for relief, and they will find in your wake only death and ashes, my ninth. Do all as I command, and the time of our victory draws ever nearer…”
Willow rolled the scroll once again, slipping it into her pouch.
“We will have plenty of time to read it,” she said, turning for the ship, “It will take at least two weeks to reach Ghastenhall.”
Once settled and organised, Pellius approached the indentured servants; the blacksmith and the alchemist.
“Take these packs,” he said as he threw them two rough hessian bags, “They contain food, a map, a sword, basic camping supplies and some gold. Thank you for your service.”
The alchemist stared back at him, an odd look of respect on his face, “I will not say you are a good man. But you are an honourable one, for keeping your word.”
Pellius nodded, before moving on to his troops. Once the two had disappeared back into the Caer Bryr, he commanded the men to march on foot towards the large city. Willow turned to Sith, a stern look on her face, hiding her aching heart.
“You cannot come to the city,” Willow said in Infernal, rubbing his chin to soothe his whining, “I will be gone for the month, stay with Grumblejack. We will meet you north of Ghaster in the forest at months end.”
She turned to the hulking ogre, “Watch over him,” she warned, “And look after yourself. We will see you at months end.”
“But Grumblejack wants to come,” he grouched, “Grumblejack likes cities. Lots of drinking and smashing there.”
Willow smiled at his simple needs, not so unlike the human men she knew, “You cannot come, we are to remain unnoticed. You are always very noticeable. Besides, you can spend the entire time hunting.”
“Humph,” he huffed, “Least Grumblejack like hunting…”

Once all was sorted, and the men had begun their long journey on road to Ghastenhall, the four remaining Forsaken bordered their ship. Bor set sail and Pellius weighed anchor, and the small ship sliced through the waves out into open water. The wind was still howling, as it had been since the portal to void opened. But the wind held a different scent. As the ship cruised along the pass, Willow sat upon the foredeck and stared up a the stars dotting the sky. Looking to the emerald spiral, she saw the feral terror fading into the abyss, the menacing mass of clouds had begun to part and the light of soft twinkling stars penetrated through. They had done it. They were victorious. As the ship pulled beneath the canopy of the dense tree line crowding the shores, Willow retrieved her last bottle of whiskey, a vintage malt of smooth biting scotch. She found four glasses amongst the rubble within the cabin, and she returned above deck with them. One by one, she poured each of them a glass. She raised hers high, and spoke with thunderous righteousness.
“For those we have lost! For the Forsaken! And for the glory of Asmodeus!” she toasted.
“For the glory of Asmodeus!” the others cheered.
She spoke as she tipped the glass to her lips, “And to never stepping foot in place again!”

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:08 AM
Book Three - Tears of the Blessed

Chapter 21 - On to Ghastenhall


The waves crashed heavy upon the hull of the ship, the frosted winds crying from the north, battering the structure atop the water. The layered wood paneling did little to break the crisp chill in the air, an iced breeze freezing the tip of Willow’s nose, a rosy tinge of struggling warmth to her pale cheeks. Yet she found herself unable to remain cooped within the shelter of the cabin, relishing the freedom sitting on the foredeck, craving the open space and fresh air. The spray showered feathered mist across her face, as the bow plunged into the swell, before returning to its swaying travel.
“The open water suits you, my lady,” Bor called over the billow, standing at attention behind the ship’s wheel.
Willow laughed, “Freedom is what suits me, my dear man.”
He gave her a hearty grin, “Aye, it does.”
She smiled as she turned her head back to the expanse, frothing water splitting as their small ship sailed towards the east, passing the last of the dense emerald ranges of the Caer Bryr. They were destined for Ghastenhall, the city known as the cultural hub of Talingarde. Willow knew much of the raucous metropolis, having traveled north from Matharyn many times to attend the premieres of the work of the country's most famous and elite playwrights. The city itself housed the highest of talent in all areas of artistic performances, higher learning and cultural diversity. A place as heavily entrenched in the religious devotion as it was in the frivolity of creative ingenuity.
Willow rocked back and forth with the way of the ship, letting her eyes trail and her mind wander freely, thinking over the stagger of the long months she had been caged within the Horn of Abbadon. She felt no loss as she pictured the shattered remains of the ominous place, she left no regret lingering amongst the rubble. She did however, feel the seeping trickle of dread, a quiet trepidation for what was to come. The Tears of Achlys were a force in itself to be reckoned with, a menace all of its own. As her thoughts turned sour, the sound of familiar footsteps lifted her from her anxious spiral.
“It is good to be away from that place,” she said quietly to Pellius, as he stepped beside her.
“Very good indeed, my lady,” came his polite reply.
“Have you had a chance to study the Tears?” she asked warily, staring across the lake, “Do you know much of what it is?”
A frown furrowed his brow as he took seat next to her, a contemplative look pinching his features.
“I have,” he said sombrely, “And it is not at all merely some mundane disease. It is what is known as a minor self replicating spirit, no normal illness, it wishes nothing more than to spread and constantly continue it's infection and contagion.”
“It's wishes?” Willow said in disbelief, scrunching up her nose, “How can a disease wish for something?”
Pellius gave her a strange, small smile, “It is not mindless, but a living creature, the lowest form of a plaguedaemon. I would estimate its intellect to be that of dog, feline, or rodent. It has only one want, to multiply.”
Cringing at the thought, watching closely as Pellius pulled the vial from his pouch, turning it between his fingers.
“And it's symptoms are that of the most persistent and unpleasant,” he continued, “Early onset is detected by exhaustion, red irritated eyes and dry mouth. Second term begins the weeping. The eyes weep heavy salty tears, unendingly, until the body finally dies of complete and utter dehydration. For lack of a better phrase, you would cry yourself to death.”
“A poetic demise,” Willow said quietly, “And how is it cured?”
“Strong arcana,” Pellius mused, “Magical healing of the curative form would suffice.”
Willow huffed, “I shall be sure to keep some on hand.”
She leant back against the railing, sighing heavily as the ship continued its voyage, the rough waves swaying her slender frame with ease. She could feel the frown crimping her forehead, the worry set in lines upon her brow, the tension clenching her muscles. Sitting with both feet tucked under her backside, she pulled her cloak closer around her, sure the chill seeping into her spine was not all to blame on the winter’s grace.
“Care to speak your mind, Willow?” Pellius asked, his eyes searching her face.
Her frown deepened as she shook her head, “The same fears as they were last I spoke of them. How can Thorn be so sure of his ability to contain such madness?”
Pellius looked to the sea, the worry is his eyes betraying the calmness of his voice.
“We must trust him. For he is our master, and we must serve him.”
For a moment, she remained quiet, watching the tide sway in the reflection of his eyes.
“Then let us pray,” Willow said finally, “That he does not lead us and this land from the true path we are meant to take.”
“We will carve our own path, my lady.”
“Carve it through the blood of our enemies,” Bor agreed.
Willow smiled, the barbaric sentiment resting well within her heart. She watched him, standing tall with the posture of a solider and the knack of steering a ship as if he had done so many times before.
“Do you remember anything more of your life before the wall?” Pellius asked Bor, clearly in tune with her own thoughts.
A cold look came upon his face, the whites of his eyes sharper as his pupils dilated.
“Flashes,” he said quietly, “Fragments. Hellish red skies, dark scum rotten backstreets. Something giving chase. Something, wrong, bestial, heinous.”
Willow felt the agony within his words, the pain and suffering with each sound. Pellius either did not hear as she did, or did not care.
“What do you remember of this creature?” he pried.
“I do not care to remember,” Bor snapped shortly, eyes forward upon the horizon.
Willow placed her hand on Pellius’ leg, squeezing gently. Looking to her, he held his tongue, eyebrow cocked. She smiled, knowing well that he understood her meaning. She too was curious of the orc who had leapt from the void of Hell itself, but she respected the man held his memories close. She could not fathom the horror of his time within the great walls of Nessus, but she had always known how to read people. And when she looked into his eyes, she saw the anguish of a soul ripped asunder.

As dusk fell and darkness covered the land, Willow headed below deck to eat with the others, planning to return topside to accompany Pellius on his shift upon the wheel. When she descended the small stairs, she was greeted by a sight that had her skip a beat. A laugh burst from her lips, the first in many weeks, tickling her tongue and chuckling in her chest. She saw Garvana sitting crossed legged beneath layers of cloth, pins and cotton, pin pricks littering her blood smeared fingers.
“May I enquire as to what it is you're trying to do?” Willow grinned.
Garvana’s eyebrows shot high, “I am not trying,” she said with indignation, “I am sewing.”
“Oh how daft of me,” Willow chuckled, taking a seat by her side, “May I enquire as to what you are sewing?”
“I am sewing this chair into the cloth,” Garvana said impatiently.
The laughter returned, light and cheerful, as Willow shook her head in humour.
“You shall have to run that by me again,” she giggled, “The chair… into the cloth?”
“Yes,” Garvana cringed, as she dug the pin into her finger again.
“Bah!” she huffed, throwing down her peculiar project into her lap.
When Willow had her giggles under control, she attempted to straighten her features.
“Tell me once more,” she said straightly, reaching for the mess of stitches, “Why are you sewing a chair, into the cloth?”
Garvana sighed, long and loud, “It is a spell, I can sew our entire treasure hoard into this cloth. We cannot possibly cart all of this into the city without raising suspicion, but I can sew each item with enchantment and cast them into the cloth.”
It was Willow's brows that rose, clearly impressed.
“That is, incredibly good thinking,” she smirked, “Perhaps I could offer one of my cloth petticoats? It would be unquestioned to keep it close at all times?”
“That is a great idea,” Garvana snapped angrily.
“Then what is the problem?” Willow asked, rolling her eyes.
Garvana growled in frustration, “I cannot get this cross stitch to thread without catching!”
At that, Willow smiled. Taking the needle from Garvana's hand and lacing the bobbin.
“That is a problem we can certainly fix…”


They sailed the long river eastward, breaking out into the expanse of Lake Tarik after just shy of a week. The journey was slow moving as they passed by the towns on the shores, each appearing more empty and desolate than the last, their inhabitants having left home to join the war against the bugbear horde. Although their mission had them pressing fast for Ghastenhall, Willow did not mind the creeping pace in which their ship moved through the water. The quiet of lake, the simple crash of the waves, brought a soothing touch to their travel. By day she watched the members of the Forsaken go about their business. She saw the friendships they had formed over their time together, the strange bond in which they shared, the joined battle in which they fought. As her eyes lingered over Pellius and his fine form, habitually performing his morning stretches, the words of her guide rang true. The strings of her heart were attaching themselves. Not only to the companionship that Pellius offered, but to the friendship offered by the others. She was caught between the want for independence and the need for amity. What an odd hand she had been dealt, she thought as she sat in her perch upon the foredeck. In the years of her life before the Forsaken, she could not have stretched her imagine to conjure the strange fate she was pursuing at present.
As the ship turned from the great lake and began its journey south down the slender pass towards Ghastenhall, the group planned their arrival. Their story of simple travellers had grown thin within the bounds of the small city of Farholde, it was a cover that would not hold as well in the metropolis of Ghastenhall. So they played best the roles they could, Willow and Pellius the part of a minor lady and lord, Bor and Garvana the part of the personal house guards. They had discussed the necessity of using their arcane disguises as little as possible, keeping their lies as close to the truth, their chances fairing better that way. The instructions for their month in recluse were simple, deliver the Tears to the man known as Brother Thrain, then lay low for the remainder of their rest. Before they had fled the north, Willow had spoken to Martin, her contact within the underground. He had given her the names of a few men in Ghastenhall in which she could seek out to penetrate the black markets. She had left behind Willem and Terris, under the guidance of Martin, tasked with correspondence and surveillance.
As the sun tipped into its slow decent as midday passed, the docks of the grand city appeared on the horizon. After Bor called out to the others as he steered the ship onward, Willow tied her shoes and laced the strings of her bodice to the socially appropriate tension. Pellius appeared from below deck, dressed in his nobles outfit, sleek black trousers under his button up white coat. Garvana followed close, her sea-worn hair pulled back into a bun, her armour coarse from the salted brine of the lake. As was expected, Pellius stood at attention by the wheel, Willow placed delicately by his side. As the ship pulled along side the docks, the harbourmaster bellowed to the new arrivals. They pulled to a stop, the deckhands latching the ship to the quay, sliding the plank into place. Pellius took Willow by the hand, guiding her steps respectfully as they teetered along the wooden platform. They endured the usual customs and inspections, paying little mind to the men perusing their cargo. Willow smirked as she thought of the odd arrangement of items she had embroidered into the petticoat she was wearing under her dress. Chairs made of silver, eighty year old relics of value, things that would have been sure to raise questions. Sighting the harbourmaster, Willow let go of Pellius, and marched with authority to the burly man. As Bor and Garvana carted the packs and luggage from the ship, Willow found directions to the Lord's Quarter and returned to Pellius’ arm.
“Shall we freshen up before seeking the priest?” she asked, brushing the salt from his coat.
Pellius smiled, “A fine idea, my lady.”

By late afternoon the four of them had secured lodgings in the inn, stowed their belongings and regrouped, together seeking out the Library of Ghaster. Standing tall within the Priest’s Quarter, lay the grand building dedicated to the pursuit and collection of knowledge. They paid the three silver fee to enter the athenaeum, marvelling at the twenty foot high shelves and rows of tomes, scrolls and books. The library housed literature on all matters, from the bestiaries of the most far reached creatures, to the fictional tales of imaginary realms. There was only one topic that was forbidden, knowledge on one entity that was vacant from the thousands of tomes. By church decree, no lore of their Dark Prince Asmodeus was allowed to grace this hall.
A young scribe pointed Willow in the direction of Brother Thrain, to the western halls she meandered, eyes wide in the face of such immense knowledge. She found the priest quite easily, his small form upon a ladder; hunched back, wrinkled face, spatters of white hair protruding from his beard, eyebrows and temples. By all accounts, he appeared a humble priest of Mitra, content in his organisation of the lore within the church's library. It was only when his shrewd gaze found her own that she saw the hint of discrepancy. Cold, calculating eyes searched hers, they held wisdom and knowledge, a depth in which took her by surprise.
“Brother Thrain,” she said politely, “May I beg a moment of your time?”
“What do ya want, who are ya?” he grumbled.
“I am Lady Clarentine Myerlyn,” she introduced, giving him a small bow, before gesturing to Pellius, “And this is Lord Emerson Myerlyn, my husband. It is curious, may I ask whom you serve?”
The man narrowed his eyes, looking the four of them over before nodding sharply.
“Only knowledge,” he responded, “If you're interested in seeking knowledge, perhaps you'll join me for a symposium tomorrow evening in the basement lecture hall.”
Before Willow could respond, Thrain turned swiftly and hobbled away. When he had disappeared beyond the towering shelves, she chuffed a laugh.
“Charming fellow,” she said.
“Indeed,” Pellius agreed sarcastically, “But perhaps while we are here. It would be wise to gather information of this ‘Vale’ that we are destined for.”
Willow nodded, “Very wise, indeed.”


Returning to the inn as the day grew dark and night came to the city, the group settled into the parlour of the establishment, to mingle among the other guests. Bor and Garvana ate beside the other house guards, leaving their masters to dine in finer style, seated in the small hall along an intricate table of heavy oak. Pellius was as charming as ever, indulging the nobles in polite banter and small talk. He left the telling of false stories and lies to Willow, remaining the part of the husband allowing his wife to carry on the chatter. He listened closely as she sourced the rumours about town, yet kept his face calm and relaxed. Only Willow would have noticed his interest peak with mention of the Red Quarter, the scum of the city having expanded since the bulk of the martial forces had left the city to join the war in the south. The nobles scandalously whispered mention of a fighting pit having opened, ran by the notorious opium dealer known as Vex. Willow feigned shock as the lady beside her hushed her voice and spoke of the foul doings within his abode. The lady's husband reprimanded her sternly, before calling to the men to convene in the adjacent room for cigars and brandy. Willow bid goodnight to Pellius as he left, staying at the table to continue the conversation with the women.
“So where was it you said you were from, dear?” a small older woman asked Willow.
“Hamiltyrn,” she replied casually, “Just north of Fell Valley.”
“I have not heard of it,” the lady said apologetically.
Willow smiled, “It is a small estate, I am not surprised.”
“What is it that has brought you north?” she asked, “Such a perilous time for travel, with the war waging ever south.”
“We have been travelling since before the war began,” Willow continued, smiling wistfully, “Lord Myerlyn has fancy of relics of the past, I must admit, I too share his ideals.”
The older lady smiled, “Then you must visit the Library of Ghaster! They have quite the collection.”
Willow gave a small laugh, “We have just returned from there. We shall be attending again on the morrow…”

She spent the following day getting acquainted with the city, exploring the quarters, wandering the market district. Willow had dressed in disguise, leaving her elegant dresses behind and donning her slick black armour, before slipping unseen out of the window of her suite. She followed the directions that Martin had given her, into the lower districts across from the docks, seeking a balding man by the name of Chase the Simple. She found him exactly where Martin said he would be, sitting by a rundown building, black hat upturned by his knee. The beggar did not hear Willow approach, he continued to mumble his ramblings, jumping in fright when she spoke from his side.
“I have something for you,” she said, flicking the carved iron coin that Martin had given her towards him.
His fright was erased quickly, his hand lashing out a catching the coin in the air. He inspected it quickly, slipping it between his fingers before it vanished from sight.
“Third door round back,” he grouched, “Tell ‘em ‘the wings soar forward, the feet fall first’.”
Without a word, Willow slunk into the shadows, swiftly creeping to the back of the decrepit building. She found the door and did a quick look around her before opening it and slipping inside. The room itself looked exactly as it expected from the outside, rotten timber walls, uneven broken floorboards and piles of debris in the corners. A single door stood at the otherside of the room, a rusted iron door covered in scratches and dirt. Willow cautiously approached, timidly reaching for the handle, inspecting it for any sabotage or trap. It opened without resistance, revealing a slender stairway leading down into a basement. As she descended into the chamber, she saw the crumpled form of a man hunched in the corner. When her weight fell on a loose board, the creak it let out seemed to alert the man to her presence.
“The birds!” he called manically, sounding every bit the mad man he appeared, “The birds come! How do they come?! How do they fly?”
“The wings soar forward,” Willow recited, “The feet fall first.”
He laughed a lunatic cackle, gesturing to the bare solid wall in front of him, “And the tail flaps last!”
At his strange words, the wall shimmered, the image rippled across the panels and a door appeared. Willow frowned, hesitant to enter. Martin had warned her that the underground in Ghastenhall was more eccentric than that within Farholde. But what she had been expecting was certainly not this. She sighed inwardly, stepping up to the door and turning the handle. When she stepped through the door way, she felt a strange presence beyond the room. She knew not how to explain it, she only knew it reminded her of Switch. She knew it was not him she was sensing, nor did she think she had sensed him before. But there was a familiarity to the feeling, something she recognised but could not pinpoint. She followed the winding corridor to another door and felt the feeling grow stronger. Opening the door into a room filled with bustling stalls, men and women in hooded robes, stolen goods and contraband upon tables. Willow followed the feeling in its growth as she approached a room at the far end of the hall. Without thinking, she opened the door and stepped through.
“Can I help you?” snapped a crotchety voice.
A small man sat behind a desk, a deep unimpressed frown upon his brow, scowling at Willow. Layers of parchment and contracts sat upon his desk, scrolls and tomes lined the walls, chests and small vaults littered the floor. But none of this was what had her attention captured. It was the tall and slender man who stood slouched against the wall to her right. A half elf; sleek fine features, dark windswept hair, long pointed ears. He stood with an easy grace, relaxed in his posture, his long limps at rest. His keen eyes were certainly captivating, calculating, alert and watchful. Yet still, it was not what had her breathing hitch. It was an invisible glow radiating from below his sternum. A colourless, lightless glow that throbbed, as if she could see it without her eyes.
“Secrecy is our greatest ally,” came the words from her mouth, spoken in the strange foreign language that Switch had given her.
“As we strike from the shadows,” the half elf responded.
The man behind the desk huffed and rolled his eyes.
“What is the meaning of this?” he snapped.
“Calm Kenneth,” the half elf said in a soothing tone, “There is no cause for alarm. Will you leave us? The lady and I have much to discuss it seems.”
He stood from his relaxed state, walking gracefully to stand by the door as Kenneth grumbled his way out. Willow eyed him suspiciously as the half elf closed the door, fingers upon her daggers, frown pulled tight.
“Young Lady Willow, I presume?” he said casually.
“How do you know my name?” she clipped, the hairs on her neck rising.
He chuckled, “Switch has a rather loose tongue.”
Willow's eyes flew wide, the implications racing through her mind.
“He is quite proud of his new protégé,” he said with a smirk.
The confusion clouded her thoughts, suspicion flaring hot and red. She ripped her daggers from their sheaths, preparing her stance and slowly circling the man.
“Explain!” she demanded.
The man only chuckled again, “He said you were a fiery one, and a pretty one at that. Right on both accounts.”
Suddenly, his form shuddered, his face morphed into that of a female. The black hair grew down, his height shrank lower and his ears extended longer. He appeared not as a man nor a half elf, he became a full blooded elven female.
“I am Isilynor,” she said with a bow, still ignoring the threat of Willow's daggers, “Sister to you, one of the Black Serpents.”
Realisation clicked into place. Willow slowly lowered her daggers, still frowning as she slipped them away.
“He said I would be able to identify the others,” she said carefully.
“And you did,” Isilynor smirked, “Did you sense me from far? I could feel you when you entered the quarter.”
“The mark,” Willow said when it dawned, “I could see it, but not… with my eyes?”
“That's a good way of explaining it,” she smiled, “I am the first you have met?”
“Only Switch, but his did not glow the way yours does.”
“No, his does not,” she said wryly, “He is capable enough to hide it, from all but the most powerful of us. Well, that certainly explains the way you barged in, bad for business that is.”
“Oh,” Willow cringed, “I apologise, I was not thinking. I was, well, distracted.”
Isilynor laughed, “No harm done. I almost assassinated the first Serpent I met. I thought maybe it was how we identified our targets.”
Willow laughed, before shaking her head and realising what had happened.
“Wait,” she said, “What form is your own? Your magic is most confusing.”
Isilynor chuckled once again, “I am a shapechanger my dear. My form is that of which I take.”
She grinned, a wide toothy smile, very unlike an elf.
“But alas,” she said seriously, “I must return to my business, Kenneth is becoming restless. I shall put in a good word for you, he is a most resourceful contact.”
Willow inclined her head in appreciation, before exiting the study, passing a bustling Kenneth on her way out. As he entered and shut the door behind him, Willow stood for a moment. She could feel the pulse of the Black Serpents pull, recognising it now for what it was. She rubbed her own sternum, shaking her head to clear it. Looking around the long hall, a trinket stand caught her eye. Two cuff links sat upon a small cushion, the brilliant red and black gems glittering against the light. Willow felt a strange sensation come over her, a tightness around her chest, a feeling she refused to address. She smiled politely to the man, handing over a small silk pouch of coins to the vendor. He placed the cuff links in a miniature black box that she slipped in her pocket with unsteady hands. She sighed, turning form the stall, before making her way back towards the inn.

Barnibus Thrain was waiting for them as dusk fell heavy and the group returned to the grand library. He escorted them down the spiralling staircase to the lowest level of the building, opening the wide double doors into a great hall, lined with rows of seats and imposing marble tables. Three brutish looking men stood waiting within, eyeing the group with suspicion.
“Close the doors and guard the entrance,” Thrain snapped, “We are not to be disturbed.”
The men nodded sharply, quickly retreating back to the doorway. Only when the doors sealed shut, did Thrain turn to the four of them.
“I am the fifth,” he said, his deep rumbling voice echoing off the walls, “And you are?”
“We are the ninth,” Willow responded, inclining her head.
He looked each of them over, seemingly trying to decide something.
“Welcome to Ghastenhall,” he said in a more cordial manner, “I am Brother Barnibus Thrain, and you are expected. Word has already reached me of your great triumphs. I presume you have something for me?”
Willow locked eyes with Pellius, only a moments hesitation, before she nodded. He eyed the man suspiciously, before slowly reaching in his pouch and pulling free the feral vial of pestilence. As the Tears of Achlys reached his hands, he stared at the eldritch bottle as if entranced by it.
“And behold,” he whispered, “A pale horse and hell followed with them.”
He shuddered, almost cringing at the venomous contents, “I will do what is asked of me, but I say now. I am filled with dread of this errand. Once unleashed, I am uncertain how easy it will be to put aside the Daemon's Gift.”
Willow lifted her chin, and spoke softly, “You are not alone in that trepidation, Brother. Yet we put our trust in our master, in his plan and in his power to control what he has unleashed.”
“Aye,” he nodded solemnly, “You are wise to trust in the Cardinal.”
He slipped the tears into his robes and inclined his head, “For now the Tears must wait. The time is not yet right to use his weapon against our enemies. I am told you will be staying in our fair city for a while, towards that end, I have already arranged for a small villa in the Lord’s Quarter – The Crowley Estate. It is stocked and well supplied for a months stay. There are servants that will make your stay more comfortable. My name is not attached to it so I care not what you do there. I will continue my duties as a keeper of the Library of Ghaster and should you require any assistance you have but to seek me out. We will not meet openly in the library, instead, contact me and I shall arrange a suitable place.”
He reached into his robes and pulled out a small bag of black gemstones.
“In exchange for the Tears, I was commanded to give you these. Each of you has an iron circlet, yes?”
He pulled out a circlet of his own, a black gemstone already mounted into its frame.
“Merely place the jewel in the centre and the crown will be strengthened. It is a gift of Thorn’s esteem. Now, is there anything else?”
Pellius questioned Thrain on his knowledge of the city, he asked of the Red Quarter and it's odd happenings. Willow had already gained such knowledge from the gossiping nobles within the Royal Hunt. She had questions turning through her own mind, but they were questions she sensed were not going to be answered or received well from another of Thorn’s servants. So when the words came from Garvana's mouth, Willow cringed deeply.
“Do you know of Samuel Havelyn?” she blurted out.
Thrain’s face rippled with shock, too late he covered it and returned to his composed state.
“I know no one of that name,” he said sternly.
Garvana sighed and spoke quietly, “I know you are not entirely truthful, but it clearly causes you distress, I shall not mention it again.”
Willow's eyes bulged at her rudeness.
With raised eyebrows he responded, “If I did know it, I would know it is not a name one mentions in polite company. But… Out of curiosity, where did you come across that name?”
Willow shot Garvana a piercing look, her eyes flashing red in warning. It was a look that was clearly understood.
“Oh I don't know,” Garvana replied vaguely, “Came across it some time ago.”
Thrain huffed in response, “Well, with that done, I shall depart.”
Garvana bowed, “Praise be to Asmode-
“Do not say the name of the Father here!” he silenced her, “The name can draw… attention.”
“Ah,” Garvana replied, “I am most apologetic. Praise be to him-
“Bah!” snapped Thrain, “You are reckless!”
“Indeed she is,” Willow said coldly.
Thrain shook his head, “If that is all. I bid you good night.”
Willow bowed to him as he turned to leave. The group watched him march to the door, throw them open and disappear with his brutes up the stairs.
“That went well,” Bor chuffed.
Laughing, Willow rolled her eyes, “Yes well, if we are done here, I wish to collect my things from the Royal Hunt and settle into the Crowley Estate.”
“I think I shall survey this Red Quarter,” Pellius mused, “Bor, Garvana, care to join me?”
Bor grunted his approval.
“Count me in,” Garvana agreed.
“Send word if you're going to compete in the fighting pits,” Willow winked, “But otherwise, there's a large tub of steaming water and a handful of trained servants waiting for me at the estate…”

Floating atop the bath with searing water soaking her skin, trained feminine hands washing her hair, had Willow sighing in pleasure. It had been a long time since she had bathed properly, the way a noble lady of her status was used to. The fresh cinnamon and cassia lingered fragrant scents throughout the room, the candles flickering soft light amongst the darkness of the bathing chamber. Willow had not been so content since the first night at Thorn’s manor, so very long ago. It had only been one year, but it felt like a lifetime. The pathetic state in which she had entered his abode, the young child she only now realised that she had been. Now, she was so much more. A woman, she certainly was, she was always going to grow to be. But now, she was powerful. A strong woman of might, talent and erudite.
As she rose from the tub, the steaming water trickled down the toned frame of her body. Her skin marred with small scars and large ones, each one having taught her more of herself, each one a new lesson in power. She kept her wrist covered as she entered the brighter candlelight, hiding her brand from the servants. She dried and dressed herself, slipping into the black night slip, draping the long satin camisole over her arms. She was lucky enough to find that one of the handmaidens had a particular talent with dressing hair, so she sat by the vanity as the young woman took the scissors to her tresses. As the months had passed, Willow had let her black locks regrow, the ragged tips now sitting low beyond her collarbone. She spoke casually to the girl as she watched her work, a pretty fair haired child, no older than sixteen.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Dennita, my lady,” she replied quietly.
Willow smiled softly, “Are you nervous child?”
“Um no, my lady, I mean yes. But, I am sorry my lady.”
“It is alright child,” Willow laughed delicately, “I only wish to hear the gossip about town. I shall be here for four weeks and I have no clue as to what to do with myself.”
“Oh,” Dennita stuttered, “Well, I suppose you'd like to see the Festival of Iris, my lady. It begins next week! The Duke throws a ball every year!”
Willow frowned, “Iris? Iris of Ghastenhall?”
“Yes my lady,” Dennita said sombrely, “You've heard the tale then?”
Willow recalled the strange ring she had found upon a plaque within the Horn of Abbadon. Dead from a broken heart and a poison dagger, read the inscription.
“I do not seem to recall,” Willow replied, “Will you retell it for me?”
“It is a sad tale, my lady. Eighty years ago, the Duke’s daughter vanished without a trace. Never to be heard from again. The Duke still offers the reward of a favour for any information on her disappearance. They say, that's what sent him mad.”
“Mad?” Willow questioned softly, eyebrows slightly raised, “Is that the way to speak of your Duke, young Dennita?”
“I'm sorry my lady, but that's what they say! They say he's completely mad! I've heard he runs around, wearing nothing but his crown!”
Willow laughed, “Do not believe all that you hear, whispered in corridors.”
When Dennita had finished, Willow turned to see her own reflection, her white skin shining against the black satin. She dismissed the girl once she had cleaned up after the haircut, sending her on an early finish after she had retrieved a bottle of the house wine and two glasses. Willow sat alone in the dressing room, she leaned forward, staring into her own eyes. She saw herself, the hollows of her eyes a little deeper, her cheeks ever so slightly more gaunt. The path she was treading was taking more of a toll on her than she would admit. Though she did not believe the worst was over, she was thankful to be free from the confines of the Horn of Abbadon.
A bustle of noise from the outside of her room broke her dreamlike trance. She stood from her seat, gliding through her chamber towards the door. When she opened it, the smell wafting from the three others was an assault to her senses. Opium, alcohol and sex. Pellius smiled his usual charming grin as his eyes raked over her half dressed figure.
“Ugh,” Willow cringed when she smelt him, “If you bathe and get rid of that stench, return here. I have something for you.”
Before he had time to respond, Willow closed the door in his face. She sighed, pressing her back to the door, shaking her head. The small black box sat upon the dresser, she stared at it from across the room, it seemed to shine like a black beacon. What had her most concerned, was that she was unsure what her own motives were. She had seen them, she had thought they would make a nice gift, so she had purchased them. Yet her own mind struggled with the concept. She knew he was homesick, she knew he craved familiarity. And she wanted to console him, more than that – she wanted to please him. She leant heavy against the door, racked with indecision over what she was to do. The sudden knock on the door startled her. She turned and flung the door wide, alert and wary. Dennita stood in the doorway, eyes wide in shock. To her credit, she held the bottle and glasses tightly even as she jumped.
“Dennita,” Willow said, exhaling sharply, “Thank you, you may put them on the dresser.”
The girl quickly scuttled to the dresser and back, head bowed as she skirted back passed Willow, curtsying before disappearing around the corner. Willow closed the door, walking to the wine and pouring herself a rather large glass. She drank it quickly before pouring another and wandering to the windowsill. The manor had small cushioned seats upon its windows, perfect nooks to curl up in and watch the sky. Willow sat with her legs folded beside her, eyes staring up into the black abyss of night. She did not know how long she stared, but after a while, another knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” she called.
She did not need to look away from the window to know it was Pellius as he entered. His familiar footfalls sounded, strong and wide step, even as he casually entered her chamber. He closed the door behind him, before lifting the other glass and helping himself to the wine.
“It is nice not to be able to smell you from here,” Willow said, cocking an eyebrow.
Pellius chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, “I have missed the big city.”
“It has been a long time, has it not?” Willow replied.
Pellius smiled, leaning beside her, “It seems much longer…”
They stayed in silence for a while, both staring out at the city’s expanse, the street lanterns glittering along the ebony landscape. Finally, Willow spoke.
“On the dresser, there is a gift for you.”
With a look of intrigue, he strolled to the nightstand, placing his glass down before picking up the box. Willow watched him in the reflection of the mirror, as he opened the box and a smile touched his lips. He pulled out the jasper cufflinks, inspecting the carved Chelaxian crosses.
“I am surprised to see something of my homeland,” he said, holding the gemstone to the light, “What marvellous craftsmanship, truly an exquisite gift. Thank you Willow.”
He gently returned them to their box, placing it back upon the dresser.
“A gift so grand must have a cause, to what are we celebrating?”
Willow shrugged, trying to sound as indifferent as she could, “It is just a gift, nothing more.”
She remained facing the window, staring firmly ahead of her, heart slowed to a thrum. Quietly, his slow prowling footsteps sounded behind her. His fingers suddenly gripped deep into her neck, his teeth scraped her lobe as his voice rasped close to her ear.
“Then let me show you my thanks,” he rumbled.
Willow felt the crushing pressure as she was lifted by the neck, her body quickly setting alight and craving his touch, a craving that was fed as he pushed her down into the seated cushion and his weight pressed into her. The glass of wine was flung from her hand and all but forgotten about, as he slid his hand around her throat and lifted her head so she could see their reflections. She stared into his eyes as his other hand traced lower, and on deep contact, she watched the hellfire flair in tune with her amorous moan. The thrum of his Infernal blood sped its thundering beat, with each guttural groan he forced out of her, the pulse grew stronger. She could feel the raging roar as his Infernal side tried to take control, it wanted to move fast and intensely, he wanted to move slow and methodical. It was a fight that he was losing, as Willow neared the apex of her pleasure, the beast within him howled for release. His grip on her neck tightened as he forced her head to the side. His lips touched the column of her throat in a deceptively gentle manner, in complete contrast to what the rest of him was doing to her. As the first wave of turbulent rapture came crashing over her, his teeth bit deep into her throat. Even as her body slumped in his arms, his grip remained achingly fierce. He lifted her head to see his face once again. His eyes throbbed with scarlet fury, his voice like velvet flame.
“Tonight Willow, may make you never wish for my thanks again…”


As the sun rose and its warmth caressed the iced layer that had frozen the windows of each building, the city blossomed in its morning life. Willow's eyes flickered open as the mattress rumbled and shook. She rolled to the side to see Pellius, sitting upon the edge, his sculpted wide back bare to her. Pulling the silk sheets with her, she slowly lifted herself to her knees and crawled to lean on his back, wrapping the sheet around both of them.
“I shall endeavour to find you more gifts,” Willow whispered, her voice husky with morning grace, “If that is the thanks I receive.”
His deep hearty chuckle had a smile touch her lips.
“Where are you off to so early?” she asked, as she gently pressed a kiss to the side of his throat.
“I have some business to attend to,” he replied easily.
“I was thinking of visiting the Duke today,” she said lazily, tracing her hands over his broad shoulders, “I found some interesting news of him from the servants, could be well worth looking into. Would you like to accompany me?”
“I'm afraid I'll be gone until this evening,” he said regretfully.
Willow smiled against his neck, intrigued in his secrecy, “And what is it that is keeping you out all today?”
She could feel his smile creep upon his lips, “Purely business, I assure you.”
Rubbing circles with her thumbs, pressing them deep into the tight muscles layered on his shoulders, enjoying the warmth between their bare skin.
“Shall you be competing in this fighting pit this evening?” she asked.
He laughed, shaking his head, “No, my lady. I shall leave that to the more brutish of our companions…”

Willow was dressed by mid morning, donned in a subtle pale peach frock, high collared and long sleeved. She braided her hair back into a soft halo, powdered her skin and set off to find the others. She found Bor sitting by the fireplace in the parlour of the manor, staring off into the flame. Frowning, she wondered what sort of thoughts would be running through the mind of a soul so troubled. As he heard her approach, he came out of his haze, giving her a simple smile as she glided into the room.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked gently.
“No,” he answered, “What can I do you for?”
Willow smiled, cocking an eyebrow, “I am headed for an audience with the Duke, regarding the ring we found in the Horn. Yet it would be most inappropriate if a married lady such as I appeared unaccompanied. And it's seems my husband has better things to do.”
Bor chuckled at her tone.
“Would you care to accompany me, house guard?” Willow winked.
“Of course, my lady,” he joked dramatically.
They fetched their coats and set off on foot, up the winding path towards the Duke’s manor. The walk to the mansion was one of beautiful sights, the first layers of winters snow had fallen over night, gracing the tops of the trees with white tips. The gardens within the Duke’s grounds were kept immaculately manicured, the hedges short and sharp, the now vacant flowerbeds arranged articulately. Willow had heard of the Duke in her previous station. Lord Hadrian of Ghaster, another of the Barcan line – cousin to the Baron Vandermir, now the last gasp of old nobility left within the country.
When they reached the gate, the guards stepped to attention.
“State your business,” the guard called.
Willow smiled, offering a slight incline of her head.
“I have come for an audience with the Duke,” she said with authority, “I come with news of his daughter.”
“His daughter?” the guard scoffed in disbelief, “If you have such news, I'll take it and pass it on to him. We don't just grant audience to anyone.”
Bor stepped forward, his grand physique and soul penetrating eyes a threatening menace.
“I'll have you apologise to my lady,” he warned, his voice a growling snap, “Do not speak to her so, show her the proper respect she deserves.”
The colour seeped from the guards face, fear paling his features, eyes widening as the hulking orc towered over him.
“I do apologise, my lady, I meant no disrespect,” he stumbled, “We are under orders to only grant an audience in extreme cases. And if you have news, I can see it delivered to him.”
Willow waved her hand dismissively, “You men have no idea. Your callous brute approach can do more harm than healing. It is not good news I bring, but harsh words tempered by the soft touch of a woman's approach can bring closure, rather than anger.”
The guard paused for a moment, looking into Willow's eyes. She had always known how to use her vibrant wide eyes to win a man over. She knew he saw sincerity; though how much was actually there would be a rather questionable tale.
“Alright,” he said, “My lady,” he added at Bor's flaring nostrils, “I'll be back in a moment.”
A moment was all she had to wait, as the doorman escorted her into the sitting room. Willow had expected to linger in the parlour for far longer, as an unannounced meeting with a Duke was far beyond the norm. After only a few minutes, they were shown into the throne room.
“Lady Clarentine Myerlyn of Hamiltyrn,” the announcer called.
She kept her posture straight and her chin high as she walked the embroidered runner on path to the throne. The room was filled with the noble elite of Ghastenhall, they stood circles chattering in hushed whispers, throwing sly looks towards Willow's arrival. She was glad she had used the magic of her circlet to slightly morph her features, for a handful of the nobles in the room were those she recognised from the Matharyn courts. Sitting atop the regal throne, sat a man in gaudy lavish robes of scarlet and gold, littered with rings of ruby and sapphire. His dark hair sat curled high on his head, his elvish ears pointing directly out from the mass of locks. Strange eyes stared back at her as she approached.
“My lord,” Willow said respectfully, bowing low with one foot forward in the noble tradition, “Thank you for seeing me, I wish our meeting could have been on a less sombre note.”
His odd eyes flashed as she bowed, he held out his hand, his shining rings glittering close to her face. A strange custom, one not usually performed within the lands of Talingarde, Willow kissed the tip of the ring on his second finger.
“Lady Clarentine,” he said, his voice deeper than Willow would have expected, “I hear you have news for me.”
Willow stood, eyes filled with sadness as she spoke.
“Yes my lord,” she said softly, “I have just arrived in Ghastenhall, and heard talk of the coming Festival of Iris. In my travels, this came into my possession, I have come to believe it was the belonging of Lady Iris.”
Willow held out the ring bearing the inscription ‘IOG’. Hadrian waved to his guard, the man stepped forward to retrieve it, stepping up to the throne as the duke accepted the ring. For a moment, he merely turned it over in his hand. Willow was surprised with the lack of emotion he showed towards the news she was bringing. Though she supposed that it had been a very long time since he had given up on believing she still lived. After a few moments, he sighed.
“Yes,” he said, “This was hers. Pray tell, how did this come to you, and what of her fate?”
“I am somewhat of a collector of curiosities. It came from a merchant on the edge of the Caer Bryr,” Willow lied, “Paired with story that it was retrieved from the halls of the dreaded Horn of Abbadon, found on a plaque stating that she met her demise, ‘dead of a broken heart and a poison dagger’,” Willow bowed her head, “I am sorry, your grace.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, staring down at the ring with little feeling showing on his face. Willow could not read his emotions, his features remained stale and perched.
“Well then,” he said finally, “I suppose you have heard of the reward? A favour from the Duke of Ghaster?”
Willow gave him a small, sad smile, “I did not come for gold, your grace. I come to bring closure, for that is its own reward.”
Hadrian leaned forward from his throne, “That is very gracious of you,” he said, then more forcefully, “But I insist.”
Willow frowned, having not thought her plan this far ahead. Getting in the good graces of the lord of Ghastenhall had been her only objective, gold was never unneeded, but the taste sat sour in her mouth. A sudden idea struck her.
“Well,” she said, continuing to frown but giving him a small smile, “I have been on the road for many a year. It has been a long time since I have attended a soirée and simply, danced the night away.”
“Then the matter is settled!” he bellowed loudly, as if the statement had not been only for her benefit, “Present yourself to the guard on the eve of Starday week, and let's see if we cannot organise a dance!”
He stood from his throne and bowed dramatically, far lower than one in his station would be expected to bow. Willow mirrored his bow, holding for as long as he did. Suddenly, he sprang up, twinkling his fingers.
“Toodles!” he called, before marching from his chair.
Willow was amazed at her ability to keep her face composed and her laugh inside. The strange man marched almost in a frolicking skip to the other room, leaving Willow standing beside Bor in front of the throne.
“I believe that is all, my lady,” Bor chuckled quietly.
Willow smirked, turning for the entrance and gracefully strolling to leave. As they passed the guards and began their descent back down the path, Willow mused over the duke’s odd behaviour.
“I am not entirely convinced that he's mad,” she said quietly.
“Ha!” Bor laughed, “Did you not hear or see him Willow?”
“He's certainly an eccentric man,” she smiled, “But I cannot tell if it is all an act.”
“An act?” Bor repeated, scrunching his nose, “Why would he possibly want to act like that?”
Willow shook her head, the intrigue of such a man a delicious tickle on her tongue, “Why, indeed…”

The city lamps were lit, as the night sky cast its shadow of Ghastenhall, the group left the warmth of the Crawley Estate. Willow smiled under her hood, eyes wide in excitement, cheer sitting low in her belly. She had not realised how solemn she had been over the last few months. Confinement and inaction did not suit her, she thought. This did - creeping through the backstreets of an unruly city, seeking out the verboten nightlife. She looked to the others, giving them a devious grin. They may have only a month within the respite of the great city of Ghastenhall, but she was going to make very good use of it...

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:13 AM
Chapter 22 - Illicit Distraction


Pulling the sable hood low along her brow, Willow followed the others through the shadowed streets of the Red Quarter. In comparison to her dainty robes of feminine dress earlier that day, she slunk easily through the road in her skin tight black leather armour. Bor took the lead as he strode into the Golden Palace, the infamous opium den of the underground. Willow couldn't help but look on in disgust as its patrons slumped in hovels, drugged from reality, lying in their own filth. The air was thick with lingering smoke, the pipes churning their hazy broth, the dense stench wafting through the chamber. Men and women crowded in, liquor flowing freely, music beating in a tempestuous trance. Bor shoved his way passed the rabble, pushing into the curtained back room, frightening his way to a clear table. Willow lowered her hood as she took up a seat next to Garvana, accepting the offer of a stiff whiskey. A tall, slender man approached them; small horns protruding from his forehead, a barbed tail flicking slowly from his back, small sharp pointed teeth showing from his charming grin. Martigan Vex, the proprietor of the Golden Palace, and the ringmaster of the fighting pits.
“Samuel!” he called cheerily to Bor, “Good to see you! Hope you're ready for tonight's entertainment!”
Willow scoffed at the name. Her strange paranoia with the name and identity of Samuel Havelyn, had become somewhat of a joke within the group. At her scoff, the tiefling’s eyes were drawn to her. They raked appreciatively down her figure, lingering at her barely exposed cleavage.
“Good evening,” he slithered, his grin widening, sliding in close to her.
Willow raised an eyebrow, staring back into his eyes intensely, a sly smile on her lips.
His grin widened again as he looked to Bor, “Not a talkative one, is she?”
Bor laughed, a creeping menace to his voice, “Perhaps she doesn't need to talk, for she may be more dangerous than any of us here.”
Vex’s eyes shot back to her, his tail flickering in an erotic sway.
“Perhaps she’d better serve as tonight's entertainment…” he said in a lowered voice, filled with seduction, “Upstairs.”
A slow grin came over her face, she looked him up and down, raising her brows as her eyes returned to his. He winked at her, his teeth sparkling from beneath his devilish smirk, before he turned back to the group.
“Alright then!” he called cheerily, “If you'll make your way to the pit, we’ll get this night started!”
As the others stood and turned for the door, Willow felt Vex’s clawed hand trace the side of her cheek. Before he had time to speak, she ripped her dagger free from its sheath, spun around and pressed it up against his throat. She had moved so quickly and quietly, that no one else in the room had noticed. Amorous fire lit in her eyes, she spoke in a sensual rasped whisper, inches from his face.
“Touch me again without permission,” she warned, the sly smile still touching her lips, “And I'll cut off both of your hands.”
His grin split his face, as he slowly lowered his hand.
“I'll just have to see what I can do about that,” he replied.
Willow sheathed her dagger, laughing at his arrogance, turning from him to rejoin the others. When she caught up with them, Pellius pulled her aside.
“Is everything alright?” he inquired.
“Yes,” she chuckled, “He could be quite useful.”
He gave her a strange look before nodding and offering his arm. They entered the stadium, finding seats by the front to observe the spectacle. The crowd grew rowdy while they waited for the show, ale sloshed from overfilled mugs, yells and catcalls bounding from the mouths of inebriated men. Abruptly, the crowd erupted in cheer as Vex appeared from the pits grand entrance. He wore the attire of a ringmaster, a loud red and white striped suit, matching top hat and riding crop.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” his voice boomed, “Welcome to the night of nights! The show of shows! The battle of beast against man!”
The applause and cheers rained down from the stands, the spectators stomping their feet in thunderous acclamation.
“Tonight!” Vex bellowed dramatically, “We have a new challenger! The towering half orc, the brute of a man – SAMUEL!”
Willow cheered loudly with the crowd, clapping her hands and joining the laudation. Bor stepped into the arena, a stern fearless look on his face, he brandished his great sword and cried out a feral battle cry.
“And tonight, my dear people, you are in for a treat! Let us begin with two for the price of one! Double the beast for double the fun! The two headed freak of nature – The Duo-Death!”
Bor readied himself, arching his great sword as the metal portcullis screeched open. A giant two headed serpent slithered towards him, fangs flashing, growling hisses seeping from its mouth. Bor didn't wait for its attack, he charged at the beast, gleaming sword soaring through the air. In one foul swoop, he cleaved his weapon down and hacked the serpent cleanly between its heads. Blood splatter flew from the carcass, a shattering mist of red bathing the battlefield. But the beast was not done, it's two halves writhed in anger, both lashing out with their fangs. As he barely avoided one, the second latched on, piercing its teeth deep into the chunk of his leg. Bor roared in fury, slashing his sword and decapitating the head attached to his thigh. He continued his swing and dramatically hacked through to the other one, slicing its head through the centre. The crowd screamed out in excitement, chanting his name from the stands. With no care for the bloodied mess upon the ground, Vex stepped forth to give Bor his four hundred gold purse, shaking his hand with a grin. Pellius excused himself for a moment as he set off to find the bookie, planning to wager on Bor’s next fight. Watching Vex carefully from the stands, Willow slinked her way down to his announcers box, leaning on the railing casually.
“Well!” Vex boomed, “What a fight, ladies and gentlemen! But you know how it works, it only gets harder from here! This one, half bird, half bear, all ferocious! I give you an abomination against nature – the Owlbear!”
Quickly retreating from the arena floor, Vex made his way to his box, grinning widely as he saw Willow draped over the handrail. The owlbear appeared from beneath the portcullis, squawking its warning to Bor, who only roared back in response.
“He's quite the savage one,” Vex grinned, stepping up beside Willow, leaning sleazily back on the rails, “Very good for business.”
Willow laughed, gently tossing her head back, her black hair swaying.
“I'd wager that this is not the only business you have your fingers in,” Willow said quietly, eyes locked to his, a sly smile on her lips.
Vex’s grin grew more devious, his shrewd eyes staring back into her own.
“I thought you'd be a wager kind of gal,” he said mischievously, “Tell you what. I've got a wager for you. Your friend loses tonight, you come be my entertainment later.”
“And if he wins?” Willow said, eyebrow cocked.
He dropped his voice to a wicked whisper, “You come be my entertainment, and I'll answer your questions.”
As Willow's gaze heated, and her sly smile grew, the crowd burst into applause. Looking to the arena, she saw the owlbear split into pieces, a massacre of blood and entrails littered across the dirt. Vex laughed as he saw the slaughter, winking to Willow before jogging back down the stairs into the pit. He spoke to Bor before tossing the purse to him and shaking his hand.
“Alright alright ladies and gents, things just got real! Samuel has agreed to fight his way to the end! Place your bets,” his eyes shot to Willow's, “Place your wagers! This one is going to get messy! The barbed fury! The spiked barrel! The living tank – The Smasher!”
As he walked back towards Willow, she smirked, giving him a nod before turning and sauntering her way back to her seat. She found Pellius talking to the bookie, trying to talk the man into taking on another bet. Garvana sat alone in the seats, watching each match intensely, eyes wide in excitement. Willow dropped into the seat by her side, retrieving her ale and sipping the cheap brew.
“He seems quite taken with you,” Garvana frowned.
Willow laughed, “He is quite taken with what my body can do for him.”
“What?” Garvana said, seeming outraged on Willow's behalf.
“Do not fret Garvana,” Willow chuckled, “I will only give it to him to get what I want.”
“But, but how can you be alright with such disrespect?!”
Willow smiled, quieting her voice and leaning closer, “The body is a tool, nothing more, but one I am quite equipped at using. And so I shall.”
Garvana's frown lessened, but did not disappear completely, “Very well, do as you will.”
“Relax Garvana,” Willow said, “This is a game I am well ventured in playing.”
“SAM-U-EL! SAM-U-EL! SAM-U-EL!” the crowd chanted.
The creature laid beaten on the ground, as Bor stood over its carcass victorious, roaring to the crowd with his sword overhead. Vex strolled back into the pit, clapping along with the chant, a wide showman grin on his face. He spoke quietly with Bor for a moment before throwing his head back in laughter and turning to the crowd.
“Folks! This may be the mightiest challenger we've seen! Fearless, brave, ferocious! But is it bravery to go for another special round? Or overconfidence?! A battle so fierce, I have a one time offer! Odds are FIVE TO ONE! You heard me lads and ladies, five to one. Now, let me introduce you to real savagery. A visitor form the frozen north! The iced beast of terror! The wooly warrior! One horn – the Impaler!”
There was no delay as the gate opened, the giant wooly rhino charged towards Bor, it's horn angled down in an attempt to skewer the half orc. Bor dove out of its path in the last second, rolling into a crouch before leaping at the mountainous beast. He slashed his weapon wildly, frothing his rage as he bellowed in fury, stabbing the rhino in the side. The matted mess of the rhino’s fur was so dense that the blade became lodged, Bor tried to tear it free, but the rhino turned its charge. It's sheer strength trampled over Bor, catching him as its immense weight stomped its way over his body. Willow stood from her seat along with most of the crowd, eyes wide in anticipation. His crumpled form lay still for a moment, his weapon laying deserted beside him, as Willow's heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, he pounced from the ground, snatching his greatsword, crying out his wrath. Spit flew from his foaming mouth, blood was thrown from his wounds as he stormed forward. The rhino kicked up the dirt in preparation for its charge, the enormous creature pushed off and began its trample. The crowd seemed to take a deep breath in unison, a sudden quiet coming over the stadium as the two opponents ran directly at each other. As he neared, Bor bellowed his feral battle cry, so fearsome that Willow saw some of the men in the audience pale visibly. When there was no more than a metre between them, Bor feinted to the right, stepping to left and screaming as his sword rent the rhino’s head from its shoulders in one mighty blow. The rhino’s body continued with its momentum, crashing into the wall of the pit, splintering the wood, shaking the entire stadium. In a barbaric display, the blood of the rhino exploded from the cut and showered Bor in a smother of scarlet gore. The crowd erupted, cheers for the carnage, catcalls for the victor. Bor laughed, taking a bow to the spectators, before picking up the severed rhino head and throwing it across the pit. Willow stood with the crowd, cheering him on, laughing and shaking her head at the vulgar display of strength.

The revelry continued back in the rooms of the Golden Palace. Commoners eager to meet and congratulate the champion, shake his hand or stare longingly at his sword. Although the women threw themselves at him, Bor politely declined all of their advances. He drank deep and accepted every round he was offered. Willow laughed as he called out a hundred gold of his bounty to shout the drinks for the spectators. The hours passed and the party continued, the liquor flowed by the galleon and the crowds grew looser. While the others joined in the celebration and Bor told skewed stories of past glory, Willow sat by atop the bar, sipping her glass of whiskey and chuckling at the scene.
“It seems you won our fair wager,” came a silky voice from beside her.
Willow smiled, turning to see Vex, leaning on the bar. He wore his black suit, tailored to perfection, a few buttons undone to keep his appearance casual and relaxed.
“It seems I did,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.
A devious grin crept up his lips, as he offered his hand to Willow. She eyed it for a moment, before slowly placing her hand in his, and sliding off the bar. He led her through the masses of drunken rabble, passed the back rooms and the brutish guards standing by the curtained door. He guided her up the winding wooden staircase, pushing aside the sweeping drapes and pulling her through. The room was a series of hovels, cushions lined the floors of each den, half naked men and woman slumped over one another crowded around the opium pipes. Vex let go of her hand as he strolled forward, gracefully unbuttoning his coat, handing it to a waiting servant.
“Feel free to help yourself to the poppy,” he said to Willow with a mischievous grin.
She followed his amble, chuckling softly, “I shall pass, I prefer to keep my senses sharp.”
He pushed passed the curtains into another room, this one containing a large circular bed, layered in satin cushions, rugs of soft fur and silken sheets. Willow counted three doors out of the room as she perused the fine chamber. Lavish decorations lined the walls, golden rimmed paintings, peculiar sculptures and gaudy gemstone hangings. Vex began unbuttoning his shirt, stepping into the walk in wardrobe, appearing a few moments later dressed in only a pair of black hessian loose fitting pants. He selected a fresh bottle of vintage wine from his rack, uncorking it before pouring the two of them a glass.
“I didn't catch your name?” he said as he poured.
“Does it matter?” she smirked, “I wouldn't be truthful either way.”
He paused for a minute before turning to her with a grin.
“The second door to your right leads to a tunnel into Crabtrap Row,” he chuckled.
Willow raised her eyebrows in question.
“You are cautious enough to be scouting an escape route should you need one,” he grinned, offering the glass, “It'll be more fun if you're not thinking about which way to go.”
Willow laughed as she accepted the drink, taking a small sip, watching him carefully.
“She drinks,” he said contemplatively, sinking himself back upon the bed, “Yet she is careful enough to drink slowly. She clearly fights, fierce enough to have men three times her size intimidated. She doesn't partake in freedoms of mind alterings, yet she accepts wagers with strange and dangerous men with no hesitation.”
A slow smile spread across Willow's face, “Perhaps it is only you who considers yourself dangerous.”
“And she speaks like she's cutting your pride with a knife,” he laughed.
Willow placed her glass on the corner table, walking in a slow deliberate saunter. Ever so slowly, she began unbuckling the straps of her armour. Vex watched her from beneath hooded eyes, sipping his wine, his gaze locked to her every movement. Once she had dropped her leather gauntlets, greaves and breastplate, she spoke as she delicately unbuttoned her blouse.
“Tell me of Ghaster,” she said casually, meeting his gaze, continuing her slow undress, “Tell me gossip I won't hear from the mouth of a priest or a peasant.”
“Now?” he laughed, “Surely it can wait til after the fun.”
Willow cocked her eyebrow, stilling her hands, paused on the last button of her blouse.
“If you can't manage two things at once,” she said patronisingly, “Then maybe we should just talk over tea?”
His devilish laugh tickled her senses, he motioned his hand for her to continue as he spoke.
“Alright,” he grinned, “There's a black market in the-
“Dockside warehouses,” she interrupted, stilling her hands once again, “You're going to have to do better than that.”
His eyebrow rose as his grin spread, “So she is connected, interesting. Alright, there is a crime syndicate in Salts Quarter, lead by a man named Garold Barningham.”
“Better,” she said, unbuttoning the blouse and dropping it to the floor.
She slowly began to unlace her corset, one string at a time. The music trickled in from the other room, a soft slow sensual beat, it's touch caressing Willow's ears. Slowly, she moved her hips to the soft drum of the melody.
“There's bad infighting going on,” he continued, his eyes watching Willow's hands, “Between him and his younger brother Dallius.”
“What are they fighting over?” Willow asked, pulling the strings slowly, before letting its follow her blouse to the ground.
Vex’s eyes widened, as Willow stood with only a wisp of a camisole covering her chest. She bent over slightly to begin unstrapping her daggers from her thighs.
“A broad,” he laughed, too casual for the look on his face, “Was one brothers wife and the other ones mistress.”
As her daggers dropped gently and she began unstrapping the belt on her trousers, she looked up at him.
“And what sort of business do they conduct?” Willow asked, pausing as she prepared to let her trousers fall.
“The usual,” he shrugged, “Robbing, extortion, beatings. Same thugs you get everywhere.”
Willow smiled, tracing her hands down her legs, bending easily as she guided her trousers to the floor. She stepped out of them, standing poised in only her black silken undergarments.
“And that,” Vex said sternly, standing from the bed, eyes alight as he walked towards her, “Is quite enough questioning.”
As he reached for her, he nodded to something over her shoulder. His fingers grazed the side of her cheek, as Willow heard slow moving soft footsteps behind her. Two of the barely dressed men and two women slunk into the room. The two women and one of the men continued to the bed, draping themselves upon it in each others embrace. The second man stepped up behind Willow, his hand tracing her waist. As Vex slid his hand into her hair, and began to lower his face to hers, she grinned. She dextrously slipped from his grip, grabbed his hand and spun him around. In one move she swiftly flung him to the bed between the others and pounced atop him, her knees straddling his sides. He looked up at her in shock, excitement racing in his eyes. The others made delayed noises of surprise, before moving to trail their hands over her bare flesh. Willow bent low, gently tracing her tongue along the shape of Vex’s lips.
“We do this…” she whispered silkily, “My way…”

As Willow returned to the Crowley Estate the following morning, she found the others around the table in the dining room, chatting over breakfast. As Pellius saw her, he stood from his seat to pull out a chair for her. She graciously accepted and sat at the table, under the eyes of the others.
Pellius arched his eyebrow at her, “Pleasure, business, or both?”
The corner of Willow lip quirked, “A little of both.”
His intense gaze bore into her own, but he merely nodded.
“He had much to say,” Willow smirked, “If we are looking to recruit in the city while we are here, we might have luck with the local crime syndicate. It's run by the Barningham brothers, apparently the organisation is in disarray, the two leaders fighting over a woman and dividing the men. From what Vex said, the men are growing restless and are sick of the carry on, so they're looking elsewhere for work.”
“This could be a great opportunity,” Garvana agreed, “Are you going today? If so, I'd like to accompany you.”
“Of course, Garvana,” Willow said, before lifting her eyebrows, “Right after I've bathed and scrubbed.”
Garvana's stern look told Willow it was a means of joking she did not appreciate, although Bor's hearty chuckle had her grinning.
“He's agreed to rent a small warehouse to me within the Red Quarter,” Willow continued, “For a very good price. A place for our men to stay when they arrive.”
“How good of a price?” Bor chuckled with his eyebrows raised.
Willow laughed, giving him a wink, “Never you mind.”
“I will not put my men under the thumb of that man,” Pellius objected sternly, “For I know what I'd do in his place. I'm surprised you would be so naïve as to trust a man such as he.”
“Who said anything about trust,” Willow scoffed, “He knows nothing of its intended use. I am not a halfwit, nor a fluttering eyed doxy.”
“No, my lady, you are not,” he replied, “But it matters not, I have already made arrangements for the quartering of our men.”
He lifted a scroll from his pack and unfurled it upon the table. Willow skimmed the parchments contents, a finely scripted deed to a homestead in the northern farmland. She nodded, reaching for the pot to pour herself some tea.
“I heard rumour last night of dwarves living in the mountains,” Garvana began, “Dark and twisted by hatred and foul magic. Perhaps we could… exploit their hatred?”
Bor nodded, “It is worth looking into.”
As the group dispersed from the table, Willow laid a hand on Pellius’ arm to keep him behind. When the others had disappeared, she spoke to him quietly.
“He also told me of rumours that a band of Asmodeans had been sent to the mines near Ghastenhall…”
He nodded solemnly, “It seems my course is clear then.”
“Do you wish to follow up on it together?” Willow asked.
A small smile touched his lips, “The fact that you are asking, implies you already understand I would wish to do this alone.”
Willow returned his smile, “I will not stop you or insist otherwise. I know well that there are some things we must do alone. But if you require my aid, or mere company for the journey, you have but to ask.”
His eyes lingered for a moment, before he reached for her hand and placed a small kiss on the inside of her palm.
He bowed before he turned away, “Thank you, Willow.”

The rest of their first week was spent with far less excitement. Willow and Garvana were fairly successful in their recruitment, finding twenty men who were willing to join their cause. Of course, the men did not know they were now serving the Asmodean faithful, they knew only that their new bosses were dark imposing figures seeking to overthrow the Mitran government.
By night, Willow attended the vast variety of performances and pantomimes with Pellius. Taking in the rich culture and diversity of the performing arts within the city of Ghastenhall. On the seventh night, they attended an opera, one that rang true to Pellius as a skewed version of the Chelaxian art he so treasured. As the tenors, baritones and sopranos crooned their heart wrenching story, Willow watched Pellius with piqued interest. His breathing followed the highs and lows of the notes, his eyes sealed to the stage, his heart beating in tune. She thought it was as if he felt the music with his very soul. The pantomime flowed through the story of a woman who had lost her husband, and closed her heart off to love evermore. Yet although she hid and ran from it, love in a second chance found her anyway. Willow did not believe she had ever been one for such romance, she had accepted long ago that her heart belonged to her Prince of Darkness, and that her fate was one she would walk alone. For she loved a being who could never love her back, one who she was unworthy of being loved by. As the melody of their voices soothed their way into her soul, she felt the aching loneliness she was destined to face.
Upon leaving the theatre, they strolled the streets in silence. Pellius dressed in his finest suit and his colonial jacket, Willow in a silk and seamless flowing gown of midnight black. When they returned to the manor, she found herself drawn to the hovel upon the windowsill. She slid into it, staring out at the ebony wave of night sky. Pellius either felt the same heavy heart that she did, or he sensed her morose aching. So he remained silent, sitting in beside her as she leaned back against his chest. They stayed like that for a time, staring out into the empty sky, hearts beating in unison. When she spoke, it was at only a whisper.
“Will you sing for me?”
For a moment, silence greeted her. But when he began to sing, her heart fluttered. His deep baritone voice carolled the soft ballad, as Willow listened to the words he intoned. He sang of heartache, loneliness and solitude. He sang them, as if he truly knew them well – as if he knew them as she did.

When the eve of Starday arrived, Willow made her way to the grand halls of the Castle of Ghaster. She had dressed in her fine teal velvet gown, with pale golden lace trim and an ebony satin bodice. In line with the current fashion, she wore shoes of vibrant scarlet in brilliant contrast to the red of her outfit. She had worn her hair down, cascading waves pulled delicately over one shoulder, her iron circlet disguised as a slender golden lined coronet. Bor accompanied as her chaperone, his armour polished to a gleam, his rough hair slicked back. They took the couch from the Crowley Estate up the winding streets of the Lord's Quarter. As they arrived, Bor stepped down from the drivers seat, opening the carriage door and offering Willow his hand. Gracefully, she slid out of the carriage. She was greeted by the servants, who bowed low as she passed, the other nobles offering less than an inclination of the head. When she arrived at the gate, her house guard by her side, the announcer called her cover name once again.
“Lady Clarentine Myerlyn of Hamiltyrn,” he called.
Some took notice of her arrival, eyeing the new comer with intrigue. But most barely looked up from their glasses or hushed conversations. Willow was shown to her table, her chaperone in tow. The table stood by the far right, three from the front. Not one of the tables of honour, but a respectable seat to occupy. Bor stood behind her, arms clasped behind his back, performing extremely well for an untrained personal guard.
“You are quite suited to this role,” Willow chuckled quietly, after making sure no one was in earshot, “I shall call on you next time I need a nursemaid.”
“Only because you behave yourself when you're in polite company, my lady,” he chuffed.
Willow smiled, eyes scanning the room, “They are polite, yes. But this lot would tear you to pieces quicker than an alleyway stalker, given half the chance.”
“I have never liked nobility,” he said, quieter still.
Willow did not wish to bring up bad memories in a place such as this, so she did not press him for further information or rouse his anger to get it. She merely sipped from her glass, sitting upright in the most impeccable posture, smiling politely at the passing group.
After an hour, a small man in glittering robes approached her table.
“The duke will dance with you now, my lady,” he said, bowing low.
“Thank you servitor,” she replied, gently lifting the front trail of her gown to stand from her seat.
She followed his path to the dance floor where the Duke of Ghaster stood in wait. Willow did not think it possible, but the suit he wore that night was more gaudy than the robes he had worn on their meeting. Bright sapphire blue and shining emerald green drapes lay over his shoulders, covering the sunshine yellow suit beneath. The trails on his coat fell longer than she had ever seen on an item of clothing. He looked less of a Duke and more of a court jester.
“Your grace,” Willow bowed respectfully, “Thank you once again for the invitation. And may I say, your outfit is simply splendid.”
“Lady Clarentine,” he bowed in return, before springing back up, “There is no need for small talk when dancing is on the cards!”
Willow laughed softly at his enthusiasm, curtsying her reply. She was taken aback when he suddenly began removing his shoes. She looked around the hall in confusion, noting that no one else had done so. Not one to shy away from oddities, she quickly removed hers and placed them beside his. He made no mention of it as he strolled his way barefoot to the dance floor. He held his hand out to Willow, a look of dramatic theatrics upon his face. Willow grinned, placing her hand in his and gracefully gliding into position. As the band stuck up a light hearted tune, she followed his lead in their merry waltz. He danced well, nimble on his feet, dextrous in his movements. After dropping Willow into a deep lunge, he pulled her up and swung her to the right. As they cantered, skipping steps to the beat and gliding across the dance floor, Hadrian overtly dragged his hand down to firmly grab Willow's backside. She laughed as she continued to follow his lead, dancing along as if she hadn't noticed that his hand remained where it was.
“Have you tried the cheese platter?” he suddenly asked.
“Oh yes, your grace,” Willow replied, slightly caught off guard, “Such a fine selection.”
“I'll let you in on a little secret,” he said scandalously, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I designed the platter personally.”
Willow smiled, keeping her face straight and containing her laughter, “Very impressive, my lord.”
“Would you like me to tell you about it?” he asked excitedly, “Come, I shall explain why I chose each one.”
He pulled Willow from the dancefloor, hurrying to the banquet table. She smiled as she listened to his ramblings, describing each cheese by its flavour and aroma, giving her strange facts about the making processes. After eating one of each as he recommended it, she handed her plate to the waiting servant. Willow eyed him with intrigue, still not completely convinced he was mad. She saw a strange intelligence behind his eyes, his overly dramatic actions almost appearing planned and thought out.
“The hour grows late, your grace,” Willow said politely, smiling gently, “Thank you for company, it has been most enjoyable. I would be delighted to do this again.”
“My lady,” he said dramatically, “Your company and most ravishing behind has been throughly enjoyable.”
Willow laughed softly, bowing low in tradition style, before redressing her shoes and returning to her chaperone. As she glided across the hall, some of the nobles stared at her, talking beneath covering hands. Willow ignored them, nodding to Bor as he escorted her from the building. As they reached the carriage, Bor grinned.
“Did he actually spend an hour talking of cheeses?” he chuckled quietly.
“Almost two,” Willow laughed.
“Convinced yet, my lady?” Bor asked, eyebrows raised.
Willow grinned as he helped her into the cabin, “Less convinced than before…”


As they gathered in the parlour around the fireplace, each of the Forsaken told of their days exploits. After they laughed over Willow’s newly obtained knowledge of cheese, Garvana spoke of the rumours she had heard in the local tavern.
“They say there are vampires living in the undercity,” Garvana revealed, “Prince Gaius, they call him, the vampire Prince of Ghastenhall.”
“Gaius?” Willow questioned, the name tickling her brain, “The old House of Vestromo of Ghastenhall had a son named Gaius. They were part of the old nobility. I seem to recall he met a tragic end, though I do not remember the details. I believe the house has a mausoleum within the cemetery in the Lord's Quarter.”
“Perhaps we should seek them out?” Pellius offered, “The undead are not likely friends of the Mitrans, they may be willing to ally with us in the coming battle.”
“Intriguing,” Willow smiled.
“Shall we go tonight?” Garvana asked, “The vampires only hunt at night.”
“Perhaps we should take them an, offering, of peace,” Willow suggested, looking to Pellius.
He grinned, “Of course. I shall collect such an offering and meet you by the gates.”
As midnight approached, the darkness swelled in the cold streets of the town. The four of them approached the cemetery, stepping quietly through the rusted iron gates, following the path deeper into the field. Pellius carried the peasant over his shoulder, unconscious in an arcane slumber. As they found the graves of the royals, they saw the imposing marble structure to the Vestromo family. The iced chill of evening slithered along Willow's bare skin, she kept her grip tight on her daggers within their sheathes. Pellius dropped their sacrifice in front of the large stone double doors. A rustle of pebbles sounded from the shadows to the right, as windswept whispered giggles trickled from their left.
“Prince Gaius!” Garvana called, “Prince of the night! We bring an offering of truce, we wish only to speak with you!”
The air hung still, all movement ceased.
“It is not often that dinner is delivered to my door,” came a deep formal voice, directly behind Garvana.
All four of them spun around quickly, Garvana stepping away in shock. A man stood inches from her, devouring gaze latched to her sight. He stood tall and lean, long graceful limbs, frosted white skin. His black hair was combed impeccably, hanging low beyond his shoulders. Dressed in a frilled tailored suit, puffed out sleeves and laced boots to his knees – the very fashion that roamed the land almost five centuries ago. Harsh pointed cheekbones, long slim pointed nose, gaunt hollow soulless eyes. He stood as a foreboding omen, regal, fierce and merciless. Willow was sure that there would be few alive that could say they had laid eyes on him and lived to tell about it.
“We offer a sacrifice,” Garvana said, strengthening her courage, “A token of peace. We have come only to talk.”
Time stretched thin as the silence lingered, from the corner of Willow's eye she saw movement beyond the graves. Savage beasts, mindless vampires, only being held back by their masters will. The prince lifted his eyebrow.
“Sacrifice accepted.”
Suddenly the feral kin leapt onto the body of the man, tearing his flesh to shreds and devouring the blood within him. Willow kept her hands affixed to her blades, her eyes prowling the darkness, listening to the surroundings as the others spoke.
“We come seeking an alliance,” Bor said sternly, “We have reason to believe we may be of use to you, and you to us.”
“What use would you be to me?” he asked, as if the idea was completely unfathomable.
“We plan to overthrow the Mitrans,” Bor said firmly.
“Interesting,” Prince Gaius said, his eyebrow still cocked, “Continue...”
Although Willow did not agree with revealing so much of their true plans, she trusted Bor's judgement and made no comment as he outlined the basis of their next mission to the vampire. Gaius remained eerily still as he listened. Willow couldn't stop the shivers that traced her spine when she watched him, the preternatural way his chest didn't even move as he had no need to breathe.
“Aid us,” Bor finished, “And we will leave Ghastenhall to you.”
“You say that as if it is not already mine,” he snapped fiercely, two thin fangs flashing as he spoke.
“You rule the night,” Willow interjected, the first words she had spoke to him, “Yet you hide in sewers and cemeteries. You feed only on those that will not be missed. Do you wish to continue hiding from the Mitrans?” Willow shook her head gently, “You do not rule Ghastenhall as you once did Vestromo, you rule the shadow of a life.”
His gaze bore into Willow, his consuming stare fearsome and frightful. But as Bor spoke, the intelligence behind his eyes bloomed.
“We will give you back Ghastenhall.”
Prince Gaius frowned in thought, as his thralls feasted on the sacrifice with a slowed pace, ears locked to their master’s words.
“I accept,” he said finally, “I will give you ten of my most skilled vampires. They will aid your battle upon the Vale of Valtaerna, do not underestimate them, they are the fiercest I have. And in return, you will leave Ghastenhall to me.”
“Agreed,” Bor said.
“There is one more thing I require,” he said formally, “Over the centuries that have passed, my blood has grown thin. It is an affliction that serves the most long lived of my kind. Alas, I can no longer turn true vampires, only the savage spawn you see before you. But within the Vault of Saint Angelo in the Cathedral of Mitra Made Manifest, lies a relic of my clan stolen long ago by the vile priest of Mitra. The Chalise of Audrelius Vestromo. With this, my power shall replenish, and with it my ability to create true vampires. Retrieve this for me, and you shall have my aid. And if you wish it, I will cast thee into my night and turn thee into one more powerful than ever dreamed.”
“We will retrieve the chalice,” Bor promised.
“I will accept nothing less than a blood oath,” Gaius warned.
Bor took the blade from his belt and sliced open his own hand, presenting it to the vampire prince. As Gaius sliced his own hand, Willow was intrigued to see that indeed he could bleed. They grasped hands in a fierce grip, so firm that the muscles and veins bulged from Bor's arm. As their blood mingled, Gaius smiled for the first time. He stepped back, eloquently bowing low in an old fashioned nobles address. As he stood, he grinned. He suddenly exploded into a shower of screeching bats, hundreds of them flapping furiously away into the dead of night.

As daylight came to the city, Willow made her way alone to the grand library of Ghaster. She had been thinking of their next mission, the immense task in which they would be undertaking, infiltrating and ransacking the holiest site in Talingarde. She wished to speak with Brother Thrain alone, pick his brain on the knowledge he held of the illustrious Vale. As far as she knew, he had been part of the Mitran order his entire life. Although Willow's own knowledge of the faithful of the Shining Sun was fairly vast, she had never been inclined to take the pilgrimage to the holy site. She was troubled by the idea of entering such a divine place with so little information. The idea had occurred to her that perhaps she was best to use their weeks of rest to scout out the path they would take come winter. Though she would not risk it with the small amount of information they had, she would not risk giving away their chance at surprise.
Paying her six silver fee, she entered the library, dressed in her soft feathered sun dress with its long respectable sleeves and high laced neckline. She found Brother Thrain in amongst the pillars of towering shelves, scuttling from one row to the next.
“Good morning Brother,” Willow said politely, “I wonder if you could aid me, I seek knowledge on the Gustos of Yoreshire.”
His shrewd eyes stared back at her, nodding as he spoke.
“Ah!” he said, “Perhaps you'd be interested in attending a symposium I shall be taking this evening. Basement lecture hall after dusk.”
He did not wait for her reply as he shuffled away. Willow turned to the tomes stacked neatly upon a table, awaiting their return to the shelves. She flicked through the tome upon the top for a moment, skimming its pages before returning it to the shelve and gliding to the exit.
After spending her day perusing the markets and their stalls, she made her way back to the library as the night trickled its way into the city. She meandered to the lecture hall, noting the whisper of sound her feet made upon the marble floors. When she entered, Brother Thrain stood between the same thugs that greeted their last visit. As he saw her, he clipped his orders for them to remain outside and ensure that the meeting was not interrupted. He waited for the doors to clamber closed, before he turned to Willow with a sly smile.
“You come with questions, I assume,” Thrain said, “You strike me as the one with the most between the ears.”
Willow chuckled, not denying the statement.
“I come also as I wish to apologise,” she replied softly, “At last we met, I had my reservations. I realise I did not even introduce myself truthfully. I am Lady Willow Myriah Monteguard.”
“I am Brother Barnibus Thrain,” he huffed, “And you owe no apology. You are obviously wise enough not to trust all who you meet. I recall talk of the young Monteguard girl who was trialled for high treason. Top of noble society, a name sure to get you recognised.”
Willow felt stale at the mention of her crimes and capture. She shrugged it off, keeping her mind on the task she had undertaken.
She smiled at the elderly man, “I come for seeking information, on the Vale of Valtaerna…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:18 AM
Chapter 23 - Seeking Valtaerna - Part 1


“What is it you wish to know?” Brother Thrain asked, eyebrow cocked.
“I have many questions,” Willow smirked, “Shall we take a seat?”
He gestured to the dust covered pews along the wall. Willow wiped the dust with her handkerchief from a slender spot and spoke as she lowered.
“What do you know of the Vale?”
“Ah the Vale of Valtaerna,” he replied, “I have made the pilgrimage several times and even held audience with the head of the Order of Saint Macarius – Earnan MacCathlain. The Vale is a beautiful place but too placid for my tastes. The residents of that Vale are so locked in tradition and orthodoxy that it takes a dozen prayers and a week of consultation with the Lord-Abbot for them to change the color of their socks. What would you like to know about the Vale?”
“Where exactly is it?” Willow began.
“You have a map?” he grumbled.
She smiled, lifting the scroll parchment from her pack. She held the sketched map out to him. He traced his finger along the winding path of mountainside.
“It is less than fifty miles from where we stand in the eastern Ansgarian mountains.”
“And how does one enter the Vale?”
He chuckled, “You walk. You must pass through the Watchtower at Saintsbridge. This will be no trouble for a small group of travellers. Merely tell them you are pilgrims and they will let you pass. Be sure to hide your true allegiance by both disguise and spell. They say there are beings in the Watchtower of Saintsbridge that can smell evil.”
“Smell evil?” Willow asked, eyebrow cocked, “Do you suppose they can sense the truth by means of magic?”
“Perhaps,” he nodded, “Though I do not know for sure.”
“The watchtower,” Willow continued, “Do you know how it is guarded? Do you know of any of their defences?”
“There is a contingent of holy warriors commanded by the Captain of the Watchtower. At least fifty men I think. There are also two strange statues in the causeway. I have
never seen them move, but it is persistently rumoured that they are some sort of golem. I know not the truth of this.”
Willow frowned, unease sitting deep within her. She lifted her journal from the pack and began scribbling notes. Vague enough that if one was to read them they would not seem suspicious, but detailed enough that Willow would be able to pass on the information to the others.
“Do you know how many soldiers reside in the area?”
Brother Thrain scratched at his beard, “It is difficult to be sure. I believe there were once more than five hundred plus a contingent of dwarves. But I think it likely some of them have been called to the war. How many are there today? I cannot say. But it is not the soldiers
that should worry you. There are rumours of all sorts of celestial beings from the higher realms that reside in that place. Those are your true enemies.”
“Celestial beings?” Willow repeated, “What do you know of them?”
“It is said there are angelic guardians that watch over the Vale, huge and imposing. In my research I have come to the conclusions that they are Archons of the Legion. Man-sized celestial knights, baring flaming blades, metallic wings grown from their armour.”
“Hmm,” Willow frowned, “I shall seek out lore on these beings, we'd best be prepared. What will we find within the Vale?”
“It is a beautiful, serene place – completely unprepared for an attack. There is the town of Sanctum, a small village where the priests, guards and farmers who live in the valley make their home. There is the legendary Mountain of the Phoenix. I’ve never been to that place. I’m unsure how you even get up there. And beyond that is the Garden of Serenity and the Cathedral of Mitra Made Manifest. I am unsure what dwells within those places, but whatever it is – it will not be happy to see you.”
“It is said that only Mitra's chosen are permitted into the Garden of Serenity,” Willow recalled.
“Indeed this is true,” he nodded, “It is good you have done your research.”
“What of the mountain, do you suppose that a phoenix truly resides atop it?”
“I could not say. But there is a constant light emanating from the crown of the mountain. Perhaps a phoenix has made its home there.”
“Celestial beings, holy warriors and a phoenix,” Willow smirked, “Only to name the ones we know of. This shall be no easy task. Is there anything else I should know?”
Brother Thrain arched his eyebrow, “Yes, there is one more thing. Something I came across
in one of my tomes. Saint Macarius founded the order that bears his name but he wasn’t the only saint that order produced. Saint Angelo called the Wise was perhaps the greatest
devil hunter this island ever produced. Though long dead, it is said he captured many artifacts of Father’s faith. Those that he could destroy, he did. But a few – and this is where it caught my attention – a few he could not destroy. Those he had placed within a great vault and hidden from the world. My source does not say where the vault is. I’m not even completely sure it is in Valtaerna. But I do know this – Saint Angelo commanded these evil artifacts placed where the “Sun never Sets”. That could be a poetic way of referring to the Vale with its eternal flames.”
“Indeed it could,” Willow agreed, “The Mitrans have an overwhelming fondness for vague analogies.”
The Brother chuckled, “Indeed they do.”
Willow frowned in thought, pausing before speaking.
“The pilgrimage,” she enquired, “How long does it take?”
His eyebrows raised, “You are thinking of going?”
“We have three more weeks here in Ghaster, I am fairly well trained in remaining unseen and undetected. We could gain a vast advantage by having first hand knowledge of the place before winter falls.”
He paused for a moment as a smile came to his lips.
“Pilgrims to Valtaerna take three days to walk to the Vale. They take a very particular route stopping at a number of shrines each dedicated to various saints, martyrs and important figures of the Mitran Faith. Three days in the Vale, and then they make the Pilgrimage back - a nine day trip in total. These holy pilgrimages are constantly being organised in the Priest’s Quarter. At last count it was two gold per pilgrim for a paid guide, he'll see to all the practical matters.”
“I shall talk with the others, then look into this tomorrow,” Willow nodded as she wrote.
“The others?” he scoffed, “You do not simply give them their orders?”
Willow smiled, before chuckling to herself, “No, each of us is worthy of one another. We all have great our own strengths. Fortunately, some of us are strong in mind, not only in arm.”
He laughed his response, as he nodded his agreement.
“Oh,” Willow frowned, “There is another question. They say the lake within Valtaerna holds waters of divine healing. Do you suppose it may cause harm to one of the Father’s faithful?”
“Only if you breathe it,” he chuckled.
Willow laughed, gently shaking her head, “You are not what I expected, nor do I know what I expected from a Mitran priest in service to the Father.”
“And you are not what I expected,” he replied, an impressed gleam to his tone, “The cardinal chose his Ninth well. Tell me, I have heard of your accomplishments in summary, most impressive feats they are. But I wish to hear of your exploits.”
Willow smiled, a prideful spark in her eye, looking out across the hall, “Did you hear of the vile Daemon Prince? More grotesque and repulsive than I could have imagined. So fearsome that the air around him seemed almost to thicken and repel from him. And yet,” Willow looked up at him, a grin tilting her lips, “I tricked him. I tricked him back into banishment with his gift clasped in my fingers.”
Thrain raised his eyebrows, a look of awe in his eyes, “A grand feat indeed.”
“Yes, but I am not naïve enough to believe we have seen the last of him. Betraying the Archdeacon of Pestilence is sure to have made us a powerful enemy.”
“Such things are unavoidable in war,” Thrain shrugged, “When and if he returns, you will be more powerful than before, perhaps trickery will not be needed.”
“We also slew the fabled great silver wyrm of the north,” she said proudly.
“Truly?” he asked, “My mother told me stories of it when I was only a boy. You have done well, very well.”
Willow frowned as she considered her next words. It was clear that Thrain knew more of the identity of Samuel Havelyn, that his knowledge held secrets of incriminating intrigue.
“There was one that escaped our grasp,” she said, showing her frustration while keeping a keen eye on his reactions, “The Mitran hero, and his band of followers, Richard Havelyn.”
She saw the recognition flicker in his eyes.
“Yes I have heard tell of him,” he nodded, scratching his beard, playing down his knowledge, “How is it they escaped?”
“It was suspiciously peculiar. The Horn of Abbadon was protected by a fierce arcane barrier, it's menace disrupted time and space, preventing any means of magic travel in or out of the spire. Yet the sorcerer that accompanied Sir Richard possessed a strange spell, one that allowed him to flee with his comrades. It must have been most powerful arcana to allow him to do so.”
“Powerful,” he mused, “Or very specific.”
“Specific?” she queried.
“With enough time and information, a spell can be scripted to almost any means. Who were the others?”
“They called themselves the Sons of Balentyne,” she continued, “Seeking their vengeance for the death of their fathers. We slew Sir Richard’s father at the watchtower, Commander Thomas Havelyn.”
Willow watched his eyes for more recognition than simple story of his name. The same hint of knowledge flickered his pupils, yet he continued to remain vague.
“A tale I have heard of,” he said, “A grand victory indeed.”
“So tell me of you?” Willow smiled, “Surely you have not been hidden away here in Ghaster forever?”
“Ah,” he chuckled, “That is where you would be wrong. I have lived in the great city of Ghastenhall the entirety of my life. Save a few shorts stays here and there. The Cardinal needs my services here, and so I continue to stay.”
“I am glad to serve him,” Willow said thoughtfully, “He seems an amazing man. Such power and, such presence. Have you served him long?”
A nostalgic air came over him, he smiled to himself.
“I have served him since before you were born,” he chuckled, “But I served with him when he was merely a Brother.”
His words had Willow's mind race, the strange clues falling into place. Though she was desperate to press for answers, she kept herself relaxed and casual.
“Served with him?” Willow asked.
Thrain looked to her, the sly smile returning to his lips, “Perhaps I have said too much already. The Cardinal will his reveal his past to you as he deems it appropriate.”
Disappointment pinged in her mind, though she would not risk losing the new found mutual respect she had garnered with him.
She replied with a gentle nod, “We all keep our secrets, some between only ourselves and the Father.”
He smiled at her words, “You are wise for one your age. Let that serve you well young Willow...”

The night was heavy with the early start of winters touch, cold frigid air drifting through the vacant streets of Ghastenhall. The city slumbered as the frosted winds lingered under the blackened sky. With her coat lined in fur wrapped tight around her frame, Willow returned to the Crowley Estate, trailing her steps as she mused over the information she had been given. The Vale of Valtaerna was their destination. A holy place touched by the light of Mitra, guarded by the faithful and the divine. Upon her return, she found Pellius alone in the parlour, sitting by the fireplace. He had sunk into the cushioned chair, one leg draped over the other, a thick tome open along his lap. The warmth of the fire slowly began to melt the frozen chill surrounding Willow; the flickering flames the only source of light within the room. She hung her coat by the hearth, extending her hands to thaw their stiffened tips. Pellius closed his large book and gestured for her to take up the seat beside him. Once her limbs felt more nimble, she sat upon the wide couch, folding her legs beneath her and sinking low into the warm cushions embrace. After a moment simply enjoying the comfort, she turned her face towards Pellius.
“I have heard much this eve,” she said quietly, “Troubling it is, but it has given me much to think on.”
He simply listened as she spoke, he sat in a rare state of relaxation and peace.
“I met with Brother Thrain alone,” she continued, “I figured his knowledge of the Vale would reach further than the textbooks we were able to find. For he may be in service to the Father, but he has lived a Mitran’s life in Ghastenhall for many decades.”
“I take it you were correct?” Pellius asked.
“Indeed,” she replied, “He has made the trip to the Vale many times. He had much to say, he told me all he knew, but I do not believe it is enough. We are walking in blind; rumours and old stories, guesses and assumptions. We cannot hope to succeed with so little in solid fact.”
“Would I be correct in assuming you already have a plan?” he asked, eyebrow cocked.
“He told me of the pilgrimage to the Vale, regular happenings organised in the Priests Quarter. There and back is a nine day journey. I could learn much if I was to see it with my own eyes.”
“You are most well equipped to go and return undetected, my lady.”
Willow smirked, “It is not my own skill that I question. I can scout men, weapons, defences. But I have no means of identifying the magic within the Vale of Valtaerna. Thrain spoke of much, that which guards the place with celestial grace, divine arcana sewed into the very mountains. If I enter alone, I enter blind.”
“Hmm,” he frowned, “Do you wish me to accompany you?”
Willow chuckled, shaking her head, “I wish to be subtle and unnoticeable. You, my glorious champion, do not blend into the background.”
“I shall take the compliment within that,” he smirked.
“I believe it would be best to seek Garvana's aid,” Willow continued, “For her knowledge of the arcane realm far outweighs my own. Yet, I am hesitant…”
Pellius reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder, “She has grown much in the last year. I think she will do well with you to guide her.”
“We shall see,” Willow said, a small frown upon her brow, “I shall seek more information on this pilgrimage come morning, and then I shall talk with Garvana…”

The priests within the Temple of Saint Arga Mivaeira were scuttling about their business when Willow arrived at the grey stone building. Disguised as a young handmaiden, she sought out the elderly man named Father Ezakiel, whom she was directed to for information on the pilgrimage. After a brief conversation, where she spoke of booking passage for her lady and a single house guard, she paid the small fee and signed her fake signature upon the scrolled parchment. The faithful men within the temple spoke of their joy that a women of ranking would be so eager to walk amongst the lower class in the light of their dear Mitra.
After briefing Garvana on the information she had sourced from Brother Thrain, and giving an overview of their proposed cover stories, Willow turned a stern eye.
“This is of the utmost importance, Garvana,” she said seriously, “There can be no mistakes. You cannot run off with a spontaneous plan, you cannot risk giving anything of our mission away. You must follow my lead, listen to what I say and when all else fails – say nothing.”
Garvana nodded, “I will cede to your judgement.”
“I do not wish to command you about,” Willow continued, “But this is what I do. I would be far more comfortable carrying out this task on my own, but I cannot refuse the benefit of having you there. Do not make me regret this. I am putting my faith in you, something I do not do with ease.”
“You have nothing to fear,” Garvana said, “I will follow your lead Willow.”
Willow eyed her for a moment, reading the lines in her face, before she sharply nodded.
“The pilgrimage leaves at first light in two days,” Willow finished, “Perhaps it would be wise that we spend that time seeking any further lore on these celestial beings…”

Following up on a piece of advice Garvana had given, Willow slipped into the halls of the black market, seeking a ring with a particular enchantment. A ring with the ability to shield her allegiance from the minds of all others. She found one that matched the exact description, an iron ring cast to hold an orange stone, slender set with an eery clouded glow.
Upon returning to the manor on the evening before their journey, Willow sat in the window hovel in deep contemplation. She rested with her knees drawn to her chest, her back against the frame. She held her ominous ruby dagger, slowly turning it over with the pommel and point twisting between her fingers. The candlelight ricocheted from the buffed planes of the shimmering ruby, glistening rays of pale light throughout the room. When she heard the door open, she recognised Pellius' familiar stride. She merely continued to turn the dagger over, watching the specks of light dance upon the walls. His footsteps carried him towards her slowly, bringing him flush to her back as his fingers trailed along the skin of her bare shoulders.
“I have a favour to ask,” she said quietly.
His thumbs pressed deep into the firm muscles between her shoulders and neck as his eyebrow raised.
“When I head into the Vale tomorrow, I must not be burdened by any evidence of my faith,” she said softly, lifting the dagger to the light, “I am hesitant, but I must leave this here.”
“I can sense the aura within it,” he replied, his fingers digging deeper, “It is wise of you to leave it behind. I do not remember you purchasing this, where did it come from?”
Willow smiled nostalgically, “It has long been in my family, passed down through the generations, given to me by Grandfather Cassidus – a long, long time ago.”
Pellius stilled his hands, a frown furrowing his brow. He sat upon the cushion next to Willow, looking at the ruby blade.
“We left Branderscar with nothing, how did this come to you again?”
Willow's smile grew sly, “A friend returned it,” she shrugged.
His eyes locked to hers, he smirked as he nodded his head, understanding she would say little else on the matter.
“Will you keep it for me?” she asked reluctantly, “Keep it safe until I return?”
“Of course, my lady,” he responded cordially.
Willow held the dagger for a moment longer, before sighing a long breath and placing it in his hand.
“I will not disrespect you by asking for your word,” she said quietly, eyeing the blade within his grasp, “For I trust you. But know that it is the one possession I treasure above all others. I did not fathom allowing it to leave my side for even a moment after I had finally recovered it. With this blade, I will take my vengeance on those that slew the bonds of family with their betrayal. Do not deny me this, please… keep it safe.”
“I will, Willow,” he said seriously, his gaze intense as he vowed, “I will keep it until you return…”


The morning sun lifted from behind the abyss of the mountains, it's warm glow a comforting grace upon the land. Willow wore a plain dress of pastel blue, modestly high neckline and long sleeves, thick leather riding boots beneath her petticoats. Her hair wrapped in loose braided halo, her iron circlet sitting firm within the locks, disguised as a simple sapphire coronet bearing the sparrow insignia of House Myerlyn. With a large beige fur length draped around her shoulders, Willow and Garvana met the group by the edge of town. Over sixty pilgrims had gathered, bright faces and smiles that greeted them with humble grace. Men and women of all ages, priests and worshippers, merchants and caravans. They greeted Willow warmly, some of the commoners bowing small respectful bows, staring at her with polite and friendly eyes. Only a single one seemed to resent the joy felt by all; a frail and crotchety elderly woman already loaded into the back of a wagon, grumbling loudly about waiting so long in the cold. As the last of the travellers arrived, Father Ezakiel gathered the people and led them in a morning prayer to Mitra. Willow and Garvana bowed their heads respectfully, inwardly saying their prayers to a god of a different kind.
The three days of travel by foot was one of gentle rolling hills, humble farmlands and picturesque green valleys. By day they walked the long dirt track, trudging through the first layers of light snow. Willow spoke with the people, listening to stories of the different regions they had travelled from, the adventures they had encountered along their path. The excitement of their journeys were meagre in comparison to her own, yet the common folk spoke with as much enthusiasm as if they had been battling dragons and slaying knights.
On the third night, as they camped for the last time before they were due to arrive in the Vale, Willow found Garvana hunched around their small fire pit.
“May I ask you something?” Garvana said, after looking around to see that they were alone.
“Of course,” Willow replied.
“You listen to them,” she frowned, “You hear their stories, you make friends. And yet, you know what we must do. Are you so… cold, that it does not bother you?”
Willow gave a sad smile, taking no offence at the accusation.
“I listen to their stories, for they wish to tell them,” she answered, looking into the low flickering sway of the fire, “Indeed, it does bother me. But I will do what I must. For it will be greater once we have finished, it will be stronger.”
The cold winds blew softly as the silence stretched between them. After a time, Willow rose from her perch, turning for the tent. As she reached the draped fabric opening, she turned back to Garvana.
“Even as the fire burns,” she said quietly, reciting a passage from a book she had read long ago, “Born from it’s ashes is the world anew – renewed, stronger than before…”


Towering over both the eastern and western expanse, stood the high rocky mountains that sheltered the Vale of Valtaerna from the outside world. Steep teetering ridges protruded along the spires, making pass on foot near impossible. So they climbed the trodden track, the one way into the hidden valley. As they crested the hill, the imposing fortress that was the Watchtower of Saintsbridge came into view. Heavy white stone stacked upon itself, reaching from one side of the mountain ranges to the other, sealing the entrance with the intimidating structure. As they neared, the building seemed to grow in size, it's walls reaching higher than the eye could see. And yet the mountains soared into the skies on either side, dwarfing the majestic blockage. Willow watched with keen eyes, counting the archers in their patrol, sizing up each soldier as she passed. When they made it to the enormous metal grate of the portcullis, the group formed a natural line, waiting their turn for entry. She watched with interest as a stern man bathed in Mitran blue and heavy gleaming steel greeted and searched each pilgrim. The captiain, she assumed, by his bright livery and prideful air. As their turn came closer, Willow thought over each item she had on her person. Her daggers were strapped sleek to her thighs, so well fitting that only the keenest of eyes or hands would find them. On Garvana's suggestion, she had magically sewn Willow's armour into her petticoat, should the need for defence or retreat arise. She wore her coronet as a lady of her supposed status would be permitted, and she wore her ring with its mind shielding abilities. She knew now was the real test of its function. Other than that, she carried no contraband, nothing that would seem suspicious or out of place. She had reminded Garvana the night prior to triple check her belongings, but spoke no more of it. For if she was to truly learn the ways of deception, she would have to learn her lessons the hard way.
The captain approached Willow with a friendly yet profession look upon his face. She inclined her head respectfully, smiling to the stern man.
“Good morning, captain,” she said formally, “I am Lady Clarentine Myerlyn of Hamiltyrn.”
“Good morning, madam,” he inclined, “And you are?” he asked Garvana, eyeing the heavy steel mace hanging from her belt.
“Rosary Livinstone,” Garvana replied, with a low cordial bow, “Personal guard of House Myerlyn of Hamiltyrn.”
“That's quite the weapon you have there,” he frowned, “The town of Sanctum is one of peace, there will be no need to draw it here.”
“I understand that,” Garvana said respectfully, “But my priority is always the safety of my lady. While she is in no danger, it will remain holstered.”
“Be that as it may, I would require you to fasten it securely,” he spoke as he held out a solid band of blue material, “If you will, tie it into its holster, if only to prevent it being drawn in haste.”
Garvana took the band from the captain and laced it firmly around the mace’s length. As she gave a firm tug to the tag, she dipped her head towards the man.
“Do you wish to inspect it, captain?”
He did a quick visual check and nodded firmly.
“I thank you for your cooperation,” he said formally.
As he stepped up and trailed his hands professionally down Willow's figure, she felt his fingers graze over the blades against her thighs. Unaware of their presence, he moved onto Garvana. Once the search was over, he stepped backward and closed his eyes. Willow watched with interest as he quirked his head to the side, as if listening intently to something she could not hear. After a moment, he smiled.
“You are free to enter,” he said formally, “Welcome to the Vale of Valtaerna…”

The idea of a paradise had never sat easy with Willow. She had trouble believing in a place disconnected so far from the reality of this world, that predators did not roam in the very walls of complacency. Yet, as she stepped out from the halls of the watchtower, the view she was greeted with betrayed her very thoughts. The valley glistened with life. The trees in hues of rich emerald and jade, verdant and lush green fields coating the hills, illuvial soil in a dense rufescent glow that caressed the edges of the farmlands. Beautiful, was an understatement.
As Willow strolled towards the north, she found her eyes wandering the snow kissed peaks of the encompassing mountain ranges. Although she felt the splendour of the place with a soft beat within her heart, she kept her mind as focused as she was able. She counted as many men as she could, listing the patrols in her mind, taking mental notes on any and all defences they passed. As they stepped into the courtyard to the rear of the watchtower, two clay statues caught her eye. Carved into two bulking brutes, shaped as men in glorious poses, at least four times her size. They appeared just as Brother Thrain had said they would, and she did indeed believe his hunch was correct – they were in fact, clay golems. She gave Garvana subtle indication to inspect the imposing statues, as she meandered passed them, spying the fortifications on each side of the pass. Levelled grounds and trenches, prepped if the need for defence arose. There were no towers or buildings bar the watchtower itself, it was as if the people of Saintsbridge felt they need no more to protect the sanctity of the Vale. Once Garvana had completed her tenuous observation, they carried on along the path, following the other pilgrims in a slow procession over the bridge.
Sanctum was a name that fit the town well. Temples and shrines decorated the streets, statues of Mitran Saints upon every corner, priests and acolytes swarming about the town centre. If there was a place where the Shining Lord’s light touched its heavy warming grace, it was certainly Sanctum. Such a divine and welcoming charm – Willow had never felt more out of place. The overwhelming swell of charity and civility, had her shuffle in her steps. She had stopped by the shrine of Saint Alivere Temperance, a holy warrior famed for her self sacrifice in the Battle of Killbyrn, the banishment of the daemon king Gnahrtick-Ovah the Feculent. Willow almost laughed at the exaggeration. Gnahrtick had been no king. He had been a lesser ceustodaemon, a mere servant of a master far more minacious, and one clever enough to return to Abbadon before the hordes of righteous Mitran warriors arrived. Willow's grandfather had told her the story as a child, having always favoured tales of real battles of blood and wit over bed time stories of falsities and fantasies. The thought of her Grandfather was a welcome reminder of her purpose. She turned a warm smile to the wandering crowds of the faithful, ambling into the streets, beginning her reconnaissance.

Over the three peaceful days the pilgrims stayed within the bustling town, Willow and Garvana had sought out every piece of information they could. They had toured the town, spoken to the people and scoured the defences. Of the many noteworthy defenders that inhabited the town, there were two that struck Willow as prominent. One was a dwarven warrior, known to Garvana as Durham One Stroke, named thusly for his ability to fell any foe in but a single strike. She saw him walking through the town with his mighty great axe, followed closely by his contingent of dwarven soldiers and his wife, known as Bride of Father Mountain, bathed in radiant Mitran blue. The other was the band of monks that Brother Thrain had noted – the Serene Order. Led by the most skilled student of the great Master of Serenity; Brother Nicodemus Getz. They were seen in one of the large fields by the town, practicing their fierce form of martial arts, incredibly disciplined and controlled in their training. Willow watched their ritualistic dance, the smooth crooning poses, their dextrous floating movements. She tried not to frown as she thought of the men they had under their command even attempting to face these practiced monks in battle.
The third afternoon, Garvana and Willow rented a slender row boat to tour the grand lake of the valley. They wished to get a better view of the hidden reaches of the northern side of the Vale. As they sailed passed the towering spire of the great Mountain of the Phoenix, Willow saw a white sandstone temple jutting out of the far side of the peak, unseen from the town of Sanctum. Around the summit of the mountain, Willow saw the light of the eternal fire pulsing from the apex. For only a moment, she thought she saw a drifting glisten of magic encompassing the summit. When she strained her eyes to see it again, she saw nothing. When Garvana looked to the peak on Willow’s request, she saw no lingering magic. Frowning, they returned to their northern bound journey, going only as far as the main lake would take them. From their vantage point, they saw nothing of interest. The winding forest and looming mountains overshadowing what hid within its realm. As evening came, Willow decided to press on further, seek out the mysteries to the north.
“I wish to see this Garden of Serenity,” Willow said quietly, as she strapped on her layers of blackened leather armour, standing within their rented chamber at the local inn.
“I think that is very wise,” Garvana nodded, “Shall I come?”
Willow shook her head, “No. I must do this without being noticed. We have no idea what we will find, and I can make a much quicker getaway if I am alone.”
“And if you are noticed?” Garvana said, “Do you have a plan?”
Willow smiled sly, swinging her legs out the window. She spoke before she dropped away silently into the night.
“I always have a plan…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:20 AM
Chapter 23 - Seeking Valtaerna - Part 2


On feet as silent as a whisper, she ran through the backstreets towards the edge of the woodland. She broke out into the dense underbrush of the greenwood, stiffened needles of pine layering the floor, soft green moss sleeping along the trees. As she sprinted, the cold wind whipped her hair against her forehead, small droplets of sweat lining her brow. The grin she wore stretched from ear to ear, as her heart raced and blood pulsed. Exhilaration and anticipation flooded her veins, frosted air splitting before her as she followed the craning edge of the the tree line towards the northern most reaches of the Vale.
Soft firelight appeared in the distance, at first as if slender flame danced upon the breeze. As Willow slowed her steps and softened her footfalls, the flames grew as she neared. Once at the very edge of the woodland, she saw the owners of the lingering flames. Six tall blades seared with holy fire, casting light across the shimmering water. Holding the great blades stood six immense archons, golden gleaming armour in heavy set upon their figures, metallic functioning wings protruding from their backs. Almost eight foot tall, easily at least three hundred pounds of clunking metal stood at six points along a thin stone dock. These were most certainly the celestial knights that Brother Thrain had spoken of, although his count had not been as high as six. Willow crept to the edge of the shimmering river, straining her eyes for any details she could. The large dock was decorated in carvings of men in robes and blindfolds, carrying lit candles as they walked towards a glittering light. The dock joined a wooden log building, slender yet long as it propelled back into the side of the mountain. Surrounding the building bloomed immaculate lush gardens; flowers in all arrays of colour, trimmed and groomed hedges, thick and dense exotic plants. The Garden of Serenity most certainly earned its namesake.
Willow sat by the riverbed, watching the scene for a time. The guardians stood with an eery stillness in their vigil. The only movement made by the gentle rush of water, the breeze sifting through the trees and the soft flicker of the bladed fire. The lure of information beat strong within her will, the temptation to explore further, too dominant to deny. Silently, she crept down the pass to the narrowest point of the flowing river, keeping her movements slow and controlled. The iced chill of the water stung the flesh under the leather armour, but Willow continued her progress, treading the stream towards the other side. She had ventured far enough passed the dock to allow the water to fall soundlessly from her clothing before she turned back. Slipping into the cover of the gardens, she crept towards the dock. Her footfalls were cautious, avoiding the heavy brush, stepping delicately over fallen logs as she ducked under low hanging branches. Pushing forward, the towering circular walls came into view. The stone had been buffed smooth, whether by tool or age was unclear in the shadowed depths of the night. As she ran her hand along the smooth surface, she knew climbing would be impossible even for one as nimble as her, as there were no grooves or ledges to grip. So she prowled along the side towards the docks, hidden from the moonlight in the casting darkness of the structure. Reaching the side of the wooden hall, she found no entry save the open doorway connected to the dock. The flickering light upon the swords carried by the archons glittered upon the nearby water, Willow controlled her footsteps, the silent scuff of her boots lost in the sound of the small waves upon the stone. Standing on the edge of the river, she quietly climbed the jagged timber logs that layered on one another to form the walls. As she clung to the side, hanging over the blackened lake, she paused before she rounded the corner. Slipping her hand into her pouch, she pulled free the vial filled with the magic of invisibility. She swiftly uncorked the stopper and drank its contents. Once she felt the lingering touch of arcana, she climbed her way around the corner, dropping on soft feet to the stone floor. She wasted no time as she slipped by the six archons, still frozen in their guard, motionless along the platform. As she passed the heavy wooden doors, a room of dense ebony darkness opened out before her. The long hall held no trace of light, bar the slender beams of moonlight that pierced from the glass windows high above. With little time to waste, she crept into the smog of stillness. Trailing her hand silently along the wall, she prowled into the hall, eyes keen and sharp, ears straining for any hint of movement. At the far end of the hall, she saw at the edge of the building, two doors that opened into a courtyard. As she made her way towards it, she had reached halfway into the shadowed room when her feet stilled on impulse. A strange sound filled the chamber, a beast or predator sniffing its prey.
“Your scent… betrays you,” rasped a feminine yet beastly voice.
Willow froze against the stone pillar she had reached. Her eyes scanned the darkness, yet no trickle of movement rippled in the air. As the moment drew on, she carefully lifted her feet, slowly creeping towards the open door.
“You would have made a fine huntress,” the voice crooned, “It has been a very long time since I have hunted the likes of you.”
To her far right, Willow saw the flick of tail in the beam of moonlight, for only a second before it vanished. The beast was making its way to the front of the hall, slow and silent steps hidden within the darkness. Willow could feel her heart thumping, so loud it was in her ears that she assumed the huntress could hear it too. As the doors to the front of the building creaked shut, closing with a heavy thud, Willow’s mind raced with indecision. As she paused against another pillar, the foreboding noise began. At first, soft slow padded footfalls in the distance. They grew in tempo, the trot became a canter, until suddenly the thundering steps morphed into a sprint directly at her. Without thinking, Willow leapt from her hiding place, running as fast as her feet would carry her towards the open doors. The footsteps drummed behind her, the beast was gaining, barely a few feet behind her. As she leaped through the door, she ripped her daggers from their sheathes, preparing to defend her very life. The huntress screeched to a halt in the venomous darkness. As Willow turned to face it, she saw two flaming orange eyes lit up in the blackened fog. It did not cross the threshold. For a moment, it merely gazed at her. The sides of its jaws lifted up in a feral grin, sharpened rows of teeth pointing from hidden lips. Eerily slow, the beast sunk into the darkness, leaving Willow alone in the courtyard, staring into an endless pit of shadow beyond the door.
She knew not why the beast failed to chase her passed the confines of the hall, but she decided not to wait and find out. As she approached the far end of the courtyard, she saw she had been mistaken in assuming that her path forward had been blocked. The wall that craned into the sky continued as far as her eye could see to the left and to the right. At first glance, the wall was made of dense emerald hedge. But on closer inspection, it was in fact crudely cut chunks of field stone layered upon each other, an overgrowth of jade vines rippling along a thick layer moistened green moss. Littered delicately along the heavy brush sprouted slender flowers of subtle pinks and reds. Slowly, Willow found her feet trailing down the path of the right, the never ending valley carrying on into the distance. The air danced with thousands of motes of light, swaying across her vision as if on a breeze she could not feel. The moonbeams lingered in the air, floating along the points of each leaf that grew from the walls. The atmosphere within the path pressed inwards on Willow’s chest, as if the twinkling entrancement held her tight in its mysterious grasp. As her feet wandered of their own accord, she found the first open passage as she made her way further right. Turning into the archway, she faced another endless wall that mirrored the first. She frowned, unsure of her path ahead. She knew she was in some kind of labyrinth, winding pathways of seemly unending turns. She had no means of determining the arcana that twisted her way, but she could feel the heavy glow upon her. There would be no mapping the maze, no simple way of tracking her way through. She did not know if she had entered a realm that lay on the material plane or the next. A sudden thought slipped into her mind. Looking to the vine grappled stone blocks, she carefully began climbing the heavy foliage, making her way to towards the top. Yet as she climbed, the high reach of the walls seemed to stretch further into the sky. As she scaled the side more swiftly, the apex raced upwards, further and further away from her. She sighed half heartedly, not really having expected anything more. She trailed her way back to the ground, dropping the last few feet onto the moss coated stone floor. As she withdrew the scroll from her pack, a single mote of light floated towards her. Cautiously unravelling the parchment, she watched the dancing speck warily. A sudden worry overtook her, the thought of the magic of this place preventing her from using her dimension door from exiting the warren. Suddenly, a fragile angelic voice whispered from the flit of gleam.
“Say it’s name,” the voice said, “And this thing dies…”
Willow frowned, a riddle was not what she had been expecting. She had heard this one many times over, yet it was with intrigue that she replied.
“Silence,” she said softly.
A strange sensation passed over her, a feeling as if the mote of light had accepted her answer. As the speck wandered airily away, Willow found her feet moving once more. Her curiosity had been enticed, a lingering hint upon her tongue, a trial of the mind she had no means to refuse.
Her footsteps were slow as she meandered through the mystic air of the labyrinth, the sparkling flits of light parting for her as she passed. Her fingers trailed through the lush wraps of vine along the wall, the soles of her feet soft upon the vibrant moss. Even time seemed different within the winding paths of the Garden of Serenity. Serene; it was a beautiful word that marked the place – calm, tranquil and peaceful. Willow lost count of how many turns she had taken, she had no way of knowing whether she was facing north or south, for the moon seemed to only follow in her wake. A howl pierced the night, bringing her back into reality. Since stepping into the otherworldly maze, she had not given thought to the fact that she was unlikely to be the only creature within its walls. With her scroll tucked in her pouch for fast access if the need arose, Willow continued her leisurely stroll around the bend. As she ambled, she stepped into a courtyard of spring’s grace. The heavenly garden grew with lush vegetation, glistening emerald grass, bountiful flowerbeds filled with an array of vibrant colours. It was as if the courtyard denied winter its frosted touch, smatterings of luminescent shades grown in mass. An oasis bathed in Mitra’s light. At the far end of the green paradise, stood four mystical creatures. Stags of immense beauty, radiating heavenly grace. Kirin, Willow recognised, drawn from her memory of a book she had long forgotten. Fabled creatures from the far reaches of divine lands, fiery manes that blaze with righteous might, glimmering draconic scales layered along their hide. They gently grazed along the tall grass, long necks bent low as they seemed to hover gracefully above the ground. It was as if they were made not solely from flesh, but from air. Willow had never heard of anyone who had ever met one in person, so when she spoke, it was in truth – if not slightly exaggerated.
“I humbly apologise for the intrusion,” she said respectfully, speaking in celestial, “But I am honoured to be in the presence of ones such as you. I had never thought myself worthy to lay eyes on such beauty.”
The kirin looked up from their grazing, heads cocked, eyeing Willow sideways. They seemed uncomfortable in the presence of a stranger, like startled deer caught within the campfire light. At a voice as soft as whisper, it sounded in Willows mind.
“You honour us too much,” it whispered.
Willow smiled as she bowed her head. Once she had risen, the voice sounded again.
“Are you,” it said timidly, “Here for an audience as well?”
“No,” Willow said gently, shaking her head, “I am merely following the light in my heart and the path of my feet.”
Even though they spoke no words, Willow got the feeling they were talking amongst themselves. She did not wish to disturb them, nor did she wish to meet whoever their audience was with, but she knew not to act out in haste.
“I would, if I may, take a respite within this sanctuary. If it would not cause offence?”
The kirin shuffled in their stances, still eyeing her from the side, not having moved since her entry. The one closest to her slowly nodded.
Quirking her head to the side, Willow smiled warmly.
“I apologise,” she said cordially, “It seems my presence causes you distress. I did not intend it; I shall continue my journey. Though, it was a pleasure meeting you.”
As she walked passed them towards the exit on the far side, they shuffled out of her way, giving a wide berth. Stepping back into the maze, her feet halted. A blissful and rapturous chorus of holy voices crooned a high note. The melody and perfect harmony tuned a pulsing beat within Willows heart, the purity and serene joy welled tears in her eyes. She had never heard a sound more beautiful. As the song came to an end, her breathing hitched. She turned from the courtyard and walked quickly, the absence of the ethereal sound leaving an emptiness within her chest. The thought of slaying such pure creatures did not sit well in her stomach.
It was a while that she wondered, aimlessly through the winding labyrinth. As she sighed and decided to leave the Garden of Serenity, another mote of light caught her eye. It lingered in front of her, dancing upon its hidden breeze. At a whisper, it spoke.
“One to whom,” it said, “The mirror, never lies.”
A frown furrowed her brow. She had not heard the words before, it was not a riddle she knew. Her mind raced, as she struggled to draw a conclusion. She searched her mind for any Mitran lore containing mirrors and lies. There were several that at a far stretch could possibly form the wisp of an answer, but nothing that truly made sense. It took a moment, but a sudden thought struck her mind. She remembered seeing the carving upon the dock by the outside of the gardens. Stone blocks carved with images of blindfolded men carrying candles, as if in ritual or prayer. With no other information to go on, Willow followed her instincts, as she so often did.
“The blind,” she answered.
The same strange feeling came over her once again, as if she knew the answer she had given had been accepted. As with the other, the mote trailed away into the distance.
Although initial curiosity had raced through her veins, the night grew heavy as she continued. She had no clue how to summon the motes to solve the riddles, but she did not wish to leave here without discovering what lay beyond the unending labyrinth. As she pondered this, she turned down another path and a pack of white wolves came into view. Eight young males stood wary, strange white eyes staring at her as she approached. The leader, a greyed noble wolf, wise and intelligent eyes taking her in. The wolves flashed from reality, blinking in and out of the material plane, divine beasts in sacred guard. The elder stepped forward, a slight quirk to his head.
“Good evening youngling,” he spoke in celestial, a deep wizened baritone voice, “I did not know we were receiving visitors at this time of eve.”
Willow smiled politely, bowing slowly as she spoke.
“Good evening, elder one,” she said airily in celestial, a soft touch to her tone, a slight humour to her words, “I did not know I would be here, so I would not expect it of you. His light does lead an odd path.”
“May I ask what you mean, youngling?” he asked, “This is not a place one is usually led unaccompanied.”
She kept her face warm, as her eyes wandered lazily up the length of the surrounding walls.
“It is his light I have followed for many years,” she said almost affectionately, “I awoke one dawn, with a vibrant warmth glowing in my chest, the Shining Lord, the sun itself beaming from within me.”
She laughed softly shaking her head, “I know I sound farcical. It was an arduous task convincing myself, yet I knew always that I must follow it. The light has guided me safely across the war torn country, it guided me to water where there was none, it kept me warm as I slept unsheltered in the wild. And now, it has led me here…”
The great wolf listened to her words, his own image flickering, his eyes glowing with interest. He huffed, craning his neck to the sky as his eyes clouded over, gleaming a luminescent white.
“See there,” he said, as if indicating to a certain point in the star trickled night sky, “Sirius has turned for the east, while the great wheel converges. A great conjunction is upon us.”
Willow looked to the sky, completely unaware of what he was reading. But she continued her act, seeming fascinated and almost dazed by her own feet.
“I can not tell whether this conjunction is for good,” he frowned, “Or for ill. Your presence here may have everything to do with it, or nothing at all. Perhaps it is best to take you to see Ara Mathra, he may know what all this means.”
It was the celestial translation of the words he spoke that had fear beat within Willow’s heart. She knew instantly that her simple ring, disguise and story would not be enough. Not near enough to fool one so called; Ara Mathra – He who stands in light.
It was with a calm face and steady voice that she spoke, in contrast to the utter panic within her chest.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she began, “I have followed the light always, and I would very much like to see where it takes me. I would carry on alone within this labyrinth, if I may. Perhaps the light will lead to this Ara Mathra, perhaps it will not.”
Each heartbeat thundered in her chest. As the wolfs eyes returned from their clouded state, and his blackened pupils contracted and shrunk, Willow waited for his response with her hand over her scroll. After what felt like a life time, he spoke.
“This place does indeed have its own trial of right,” he nodded, “Run along, youngling. The great conjunction will come either way, as it always did and always will.”
Willow smiled warmly at the great wolf, bowing deeply to him.
“Thank you elder one,” she said softly, “May Mitra’s light guide you.”
“Get of Sirius!” he called to the other wolves, “Come along.”
Airily she turned from them as they disappeared into one of the many paths. Her thundering heart threatened to burst within her chest. Once she was sure she was out of earshot, she ripped the scroll from her pouch desperately, preparing to read aloud the incantation. Before she did, a mote of light twinkled in her view. Racked with indecision, she paused for a moment, listening to the whisper.
“From this wicked thing, does darkness fly.”
Holding the scroll tightly within her fingers, her mind churned. Fire, was her first thought. Although cleansing and purifying, the flame had always been accused of being wicked. Yet, as she thought her answer over, the carving came back to her mind. Her guess was that each riddle would describe her way to exit the arcane touched maze. So it would seem fit that the ritual described may be the one carved into stone.
“A candle,” Willow answered, not as confidently as she would have liked.
But once again, she knew her answer had been accepted. She expected the lingering light to disappear as the others did, but it remained in its dance across her sight.
“Three at once,” it whispered, “Where the answer lies.”
As the mote trailed away, Willow couldn’t help but smile. She quickly read the incantation, and as the familiar arcane wisps pulled upon her soul as they spun her through the otherworldly portal, she sighed, releasing the breath of built tension. Appearing in the darkened streets of Sanctum, she saw Garvana kneeling in vigil to her right.
“You were successful?” Garvana asked quietly.
“Well,” Willow laughed, “You could say that…”


Only once they had left the Vale of Valtaerna on their return to Ghastenhall, did Willow begin writing her observations in her journal. By night she used the map of the Vale to scrawl in the defences and people of note within the valley. She spoke in hushed whispers to Garvana, telling her tales of the Garden of Serenity, with subtle pride she described her deception and wit. The three day journey back was uneventful, the pilgrims speaking fondly of the holy site and its inhabitants. As they arrived back in the city as night fell, Willow and Garvana said their polite farewells and returned to the Crowley Estate. Once dinner was served, Willow dismissed the servants for the evening and unravelled her map and notes upon the large dining table. She told Bor and Pellius of her discoveries, pointing out the prominent figures and most sturdy fortifications.
“We are going to need a very large army,” she frowned, pointing to the watchtower, “I was not able to search within its walls, but from what I could gather, although Sanctum is unprepared for an attack – it is most certainly not defenceless.”
“We have the beginnings of an army,” Pellius said, “Our men arrived while you were gone. I have set them up in the Silkcreek Homestead, they have been busy building the dormitories. But I agree, we need a force much larger if we are to assault such a place.”
“The instructions from Thorn say we are to receive the kernel of an army from Sakkarot,” Bor reminded.
“Yes,” Willow said, “And that we are to build upon it. We have the aid of Prince Gaius, but we are going to need more. Thrain found directions to the Duergar, an ancient map that was written before the lands changed. It is not much, but we may be able to catch hint of a trail.”
“Will they aid us?” Garvana asked, “Do they serve our Father?”
“They do not serve him,” Willow shook her head, “They serve one of the dark dwarven gods, I know not which one. But they may aid us, they hate all surface dwellers, but they despise their surface dwelling cousins with a vicious loathing. When we seek them out, I would suggest bringing along a few dwarven sacrifices as a token of truce. It will not guarantee us alliance, but it may be enough to grant us audience with their leader.”
“Very good, my lady,” Pellius nodded, “I have another lead…”
With resignation to his position, he sighed.
“While you were gone I sought out the Mines of Bakkar,” he said, “My former comrades are serving their sentences there, I sought to storm the keep and return with them. But I am not eager to run to my demise, there are heavy fortifications there, it is something we must do together. If we were to extricate my men, they would serve us faithfully.”
Willow inclined her head, “We will do this, and we will follow your lead.”
He nodded stiffly, turning from the subject, “Do we have any other leads?”
The group looked to one another, all scouring their minds for anything else.
“I cannot think of any at this time,” Willow shrugged, “But there is much we can prepare for. I will seek out Thrain tomorrow, update him on my findings and seek out any further information on those within the Vale. I have been thinking though, we wish to give our army the best chance of success. The Mitran forces contain ranks of archers and cavillers. Perhaps there are arcane ways to take out these foes from a distance? Garvana, can I task you with this?”
Garvana frowned, but nodded sharply, “I shall see what I can find.”
“Thank you,” Willow smiled, “And if that is all, I shall retire for the evening. There is a large bath and a larger bed awaiting me…”


By morning light, Willow outlined their leads in her journal. Pellius had left early on an errand of his own as she finished the last of her notes, so she sat by the window with a steaming cup of tea as she watched the sun rise in its splendour. She remained where she was as a soft knock on her door sounded.
“Enter,” she called.
The door opened as a timid Denita stepped over the threshold.
“A Lady Cassandra to see you, mistress,” she said quietly.
“Thank you Denita, show her in and leave us.”
Cassandra walked into the room, frowning as the servant bowed and closed the door behind her. As Willow saw the look, she laughed softly.
“You disapprove?” Willow asked, eyebrow arched.
“No my lady,” she replied, “Only, is it wise to have servants whom you do not trust?”
“Are you questioning my judgement, Cassandra?” Willow inquired, her other eyebrow raising.
“No of course not, my lady,” she said quickly.
Willow laughed at the panic, “I do not trust anyone, Cassandra. But that does not mean I wish to fill my own bath and clean the manor myself.”
“Of course, my lady,” she began, “I did not-
-Think,” Willow said coldly, “You did not think before you opened your mouth.”
Cassandra paled slightly, wisely choosing to keep her lips sealed.
“I have a task for you,” Willow said, turning her gaze back to the sun, “Go to the Library of Ghaster, seek out Brother Thrain and tell him that Lady Myerlyn seeks his audience. Tell him she wishes to hear his thoughts on the debate of Lyrshfield over Franston.”
“My lady?” Cassandra questioned, confusion tinting her features.
“You have your instructions,” Willow clipped, “Return with his reply.”
“Yes my lady,” she rushed, bowing before swiftly retreating from the chamber.
As the sun finally lifted from beyond the trees surrounding the Crowley Estate, Willow sighed deeply, the warm glow upon the window soothing the cold ache in her limbs. While she sat in wait for her spy’s return, her mind mused over the serene magic within the Vale of Valtaerna. The battle for the valley would be bloody and full of carnage. To see victory, they would need to be meticulously planned and prepared. Willow unravelled the map she had written her notes over, skimming her thoughts she had scripted. When the group met with Sakkarot Fire Axe once more, she was determined to have as much information as possible to share. For she knew little of war and battle tactics, and his keen mind seemed in tune with the two. She was not too prideful to ask for aid and advice when the opportunity presented itself so willingly.

As dusk lingered over the city, Willow entered the grand halls of the library once more. She toed her way down the stairs to the familiar lecture hall, the two brutish guards standing in vigil by the doors. They nodded stiffly as she passed, allowing her into the dusty chamber. Thrain was waiting for her, already sitting upon the timber pew.
“It is good to see you, Brother Thrain,” Willow said warmly.
“And you, child,” he said, with something close to fondness, “I assume your pilgrimage went well?”
“Very,” she smiled, “But it has raised many questions. I thank you for seeing me again.”
“I will help if I can,” he replied.
As Willow began a recount of her journey, she laid out the map of Valtaerna and her journal, describing each curiosity she encountered and listening to any comments Thrain had to make.
“I scouted inside the Garden of Serenity,” she said, with a touch of pride.
“Indeed?” he asked, looking fairly impressed.
“Indeed, it is a strange place. I am not entirely sure they lay on the material plane. I do not know what or where they are, but it was a place filled with lingering magic…”
When she continued her story, she spoke of the six legion archons and entering the wooden hall, she frowned deeply.
“It was in there that I met a peculiar creature,” she said ominously, “A beast of some kind. I had walked straight passed the archons with no hint of resistance, and yet this creature found me with little effort.”
“What do you know of it?”
“Very little,” she replied, shaking her head, “I saw only that it walked on four padded feet, a large fur covered tail, and the fiery copper eyes of a fearsome predator.”
Her frown pulled tighter, “It spoke of my scent giving me away, and referred to me a fine huntress. I know my information is vague at best, but can you draw any conclusions?”
“I am afraid not,” he replied, his frown matching her own, “But you must be careful now, child. If this beast is a huntress, it now has your scent. Some beasts do not see as we do, they can see by way of smell. And those smells are not easily forgotten.”
“I suppose it is good that the next time I walk those halls will be with an army prepped to slaughter.”
“Still,” he said seriously, “Do not take this lightly. We do not know what kind of communication such a beast uses; it may be able to pass the scent to others.”
Willow nodded solemnly, “I will heed your warning, Brother.”
She moved on through the tale and spoke of all within the Gardens of Serenity. As she finished, she wrote down the titles of books he recommended to seek further lore on the creatures within the Vale. As she closed her journal and returned it to her pack, she smiled at the priest.
“Thank you for your aid,” she said, “I have learned much. You are most wise and knowledgeable.”
“And you, young Willow,” he replied, “Are quite clever. It is enjoyable to talk to some one other than the elderly closeted librarians.”
She chuckled as they rose from the pew, together heading up the stairs to the halls of the library to seek the lore he had directed her to.

With a heavy pack she returned the manor, setting the tomes aside for reading the next day. As she dressed in her armour and strapped her daggers to her thighs, she relayed the information to Pellius. Once finished, they joined the others in the parlour, who were already dressed and ready to leave for the fighting pits in the Red Quarter.
“Don’t die tonight,” Pellius joked to Bor, “I am planning on betting big.”
Bor laughed, “I don’t think they’ll let you bet much. Maybe you should bet against me, the odds are bigger that way.”
“A sure way he’ll lose his money,” Garvana said, giving Bor a vote of confidence.
Willow grinned, a malevolent glow to her eyes, “As long as we return with at least three dwarves, I do not really care who else wins…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:23 AM
Chapter 24 - Opening the Way - Part 1


The last gasp of autumn hues littered the lands, a spattering of mustard yellows and carob browns trickling across the landscape, as the last of the leaves fell from their trees. Her light pack fell over her shoulders, as Willow led the way through the rolling hills south of Ghastenhall. Pellius, Bor and Garvana followed her trek towards the mountains, four clueless dwarves trailing behind. The previous night at the fighting pits, after Bor’s brutal victory against another round of Vex’s monsters, he had hired the dwarves under the guise of a job surveying an estate for building upon. The group had paid the dwarves ten gold each for their apparent employment, a small price to pay for the opportunity of securing an alliance with the dreaded mountain dwarves of the south. Of course, the dwarves that followed them knew nothing of such a plan. They conversed easily along the journey, seeming eager to get their work underway. Bor had been vague about the details of the job’s location, stating a mountain side manor to the southeast.
Following the ancient map that she had been given by Brother Thrain, Willow guided the group through the three day journey. The air held a frosted chill, a pre-emptive warning of the winter months to come. By night, they made small camp within the lowest points of the valleys, using the high arch of the hills to shield them from the brunt of the harsh winds. The further they pressed into the mountain ranges, the more rugged the terrain grew, the colder the ground beneath them became.
On the final press of the third afternoon, as the night began its darkening smother, the group reached the final point that the map’s directions indicated. Willow searched the details of the scripted drawing, noting that the land had indeed changed over time. The highest peaks that were drawn had fallen into the valleys below, harsh winds filled with sharp ice had worn away the stone over time, new pathways opened as old ones had closed. As she strolled around the area, she heard the dwarves begin to mutter amongst each other in suspicion. She paid no mind to them, eyes searching the ground keenly, seeking a trail or tracks to indicate the place was inhabited. As she traced her hand along a rocky edge littered with scratches of peculiar marking, whispers drifted to her ears from beyond the dense brush.
“Should we capture them and take them back to the thane?” a voice whispered, in a language Willow had not heard spoken since her Grandfather had taught it to her as an adolescent.
“No,” hushed another, “We should slaughter them all.”
The language they spoke was one known to her as the common language used by those of the underground caverns, mainly the drow and the beings she was seeking - the duergar. Willow let the magic of the circlet release the hellfire within her eyes. She turned to the bushes the voices had leaked out of, a harsh threatening rasp to her voice.
“I’d highly advise you do neither,” she warned.
As the voices within the dense foliage silenced in a eery chill, the dwarves spun towards her in shock and suspicion, the oldest of them pointing an accusatory finger at her.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” he barked.
Willow arched an eyebrow, unfazed by his reaction as she spoke again to the mysterious creatures behind the bushes.
“We bring these sacrifices as a token of truce,” she continued, “We seek an audience with your thane.”
Horror and panic dawned on the faces of the dwarves, in terror they tried to flee, racing as fast as their legs would take them. Suddenly, ten fearsome looking duergar burst from the bushes, in quick formation cutting off the escape of the dwarves. Much like their surface dwelling cousins, the duergar stood roughly five feet high, long intricately braided beards draping from their chins. But where the four captives had thick manes of hair upon their head covering bright olive skin, their captors had hairless shining scalps bearing sickly grey flesh. Willow’s eyes flashed crimson red as she stared back into the cold black eyes of the leader. He brandished his crossbow as he levelled it to her face, stepping menacingly towards her as the others fanned out to surround them.
“What are you doing here surfacer?” he sneered, “No one comes seeking the duergar willingly.”
“We come to speak with your thane,” Willow said, unperturbed by his threat.
“What business do you have with him?” he snapped.
Willow lowered her voice, eyes narrowing, a fierce threat within her words, “Our business is with him. Not you.”
His eyes widened slightly, the warning she implied sinking into his mind. He looked the group over as his men whispered between themselves. Willow stood with calm authority, her blades remaining holstered, her glare piercing into the gaze of the duergar. After a moment, he nodded towards her daggers.
“Surrender your weapons,” he growled, “We’ll see what the thane decides to do with you.”
Willow’s eyebrows raised as she gracefully slid her daggers free, spinning them slowly into a backwards grip, stepping forward to the duergar.
“Of course,” she grinned, a feral smile that tilted her lips as she raked her eyes up and down his body, “Where should I sheath them?”
Anger tinted his features, his brows drawn tight as his lip twitched.
“Just walk in front,” he snapped.
Willow smiled, mockingly polite, slipping her daggers back into their sheaths. She inclined her head to him, before turning to the others who stood with hands on their weapons, unaware of what had been said.
“He’s not happy about it,” she said, “But he’s taking us to their leader. Come along.”
“Are you insane?!” cried one of the dwarves, “They’ll slaughter us all!”
Willow shook her head softly, feeling a ping of guilt looking at the terrified dwarves.
“Not all of us,” she said quietly, turning away towards the path to the duergar caverns.
As the brush was pulled back from an unmarked stone wall, Willow stared into the dense ebony darkness of a hidden tunnel. So discreet was the entrance, that she was sure even her keen eyes would have overlooked it. Before entering, she retrieved a torch from her pack and quickly used her flint and steel to light the cotton wrapped end. As she lifted the small flaming wood, she saw the eyes of the duergar compress, hisses seeping from their mouths as they recoiled from the light. Unbothered, she stepped into the dimly lit cavern and began her descent.
The winding tunnel delved deeper into the mountain, as all trace of moonlight disappeared behind the miles of stone. After almost half an hour of following the crudely cut hollow, the stone began to sharpen, clean solid carving widening the passage. Soon the tunnel came to an end, opening into a vast hall spanning forty feet tall and at least that wide. A single platform craned along the centre of the expanse, meeting the large archway along the opposite side of the room eighty feet away, flanked by rows of smoothly carved towering pillars. By both sides of the thin platform, lay deep valleys that dropped lower than torch light would reach, a blackened sea of the unknown festering below. The side walls were lit with an eery white glow, a dim light so subtle that it only illuminated the deep wells of the elaborate murals. A litany of hate painted the scene, feral and savage displays of loathing and abhorrence that the duergar harboured for their dwarven cousins. Visual displays of barbarism, gruesome scenes of blood and carnage, showing the dark and twisted inhabitants of the underground for what they were.
Willow kept her torch high as they strolled through the grand hallways of the great duergar city, marvelling internally at the exquisite craftsmanship of the buildings. The stone floors were polished to a gleam, each wall carved in delicate detail, the ceilings craning higher than the light could shine – a dark fairytale of stone. It seemed to Willow that the dark dwarves had more in common with the surface dwarves than their ancestry.
As they passed, only rasped whispers could be heard, only pin pricks of red reflecting from the eyes of hundreds could be seen. Deadly threats drifted to her ears, vicious warnings of the wrath of their leader, gleeful anger at what he would do to the trespassers. They came to a mountainous archway, a grand entrance barred by two impenetrable stone doors. Guards in heavy steel chest plates stood by each side of the door, great warhammers clasped in their grip. At the nod of the scout party’s leader, the two doors scraped loudly against the gleaming floor, opening wide to reveal a dark yet resplendent throne room. The halls were filled with the most intricate and elaborate carvings that Willow had seen, vicious and despicable imagery painted throughout the chamber. To the right of the hall was a metal grate that ran the length of the room. The heat from the embers beneath could be felt radiating throughout, grizzly remains charred black still littering the grooves of the steel teeth.
“You walk in the halls of Thane Zashur Arzen!” boomed the announcer, as they entered.
Sitting upon the raised dais, on a throne of glimmering iron, sat a duergar of foreboding might with steel eyes of bitter cold. Adorned in lavish armour of midnight black, a sable beard reaching the floor braided in complicated weaves, a fearsome great axe poised by his throne. The scouts sheparded the dwarven prisoners to the front of the hall, roughly throwing them at the feet of the menacing thane. As Willow and the group approached, more guards flanked them, weapons ready with hungry eyes waiting for the command to attack. The thane stared coldly, motionless in his seat, speaking no words as they arrived before him. After a moment of lingering silence, Willow spoke in a harsh tone, addressing the leader of the duergar.
“We bring these sacrifices to you, as a token of truce,” she rasped.
His gaze pierced, scouring the might in Willow’s eyes. She kept her face cool and emotionless, her posture tall yet relaxed. She was determined to show no fear, nor remorse. She resolved to give nothing away as he judged her in his own right. She could feel the anticipation of the other duergar in the room, patiently awaiting the thane’s verdict. After a time, the barest of a smile lifted the corner of his lip.
“Gift,” he said in his deep venomous tone, “Accepted.”
Suddenly, the duergar guards leapt at the four dwarves. They ripped the clothes from their bodies, gripping the long hair and slicing it from their flesh. Willow kept her gaze locked with the thane, trying not to watch as the dwarves were slashed and grazed as they were publically shaved and stripped. The screams they cried as they were thrown on the fiery grate to the right, had the hairs on Willow’s neck rise and a sickening chill seep into her bones. Yet she remained still, her face calm and unperturbed, her sight still sealed with the thane. It was only after the whimpers and screeches of agony had died down that he spoke.
“You have earned your right to talk,” he said deeply, “Speak your piece.”
“I will not waste either of our time with more pleasantries, Thane Zashur Arzen,” she said formally, “I am Willow Monteguard of the Nessian Knot. We are representatives of the force that is at war with the Mitran scum of this land.”
“You speak of the Fire Axe?” he asked, a slight lift to his brow.
“Indeed,” she replied, “Sakkarot Fire Axe is one of us.”
“I have heard tell of his efforts,” he said, seeming almost impressed, “Even deep within these caverns do the rumour of his victories spread. So tell me, what do you come to me for?”
“We seek an alliance. We seek to destroy the Vale of Valtaerna.”
“You four?” he mocked in disbelief, “What could you four hope to do?”
Willow arched an eyebrow at his tone in disdain, “We are not alone. We have already garnered many allies. Come winter, we will command part of the army of the feral bugbears, elite vampire spawn and leagues of men. Yet an alliance with the duergar would bolster our forces immeasurably.”
He gazed at her, a frown pulling on his brow, his mind working over her words. Finally, he spoke.
“Why should the duergar get involved in your war?” he snapped.
Willow let the hellfire drift into her eyes, the passion and anger flare within her voice.
“It is not solely our war! The Mitran faith taint this land with all that is good and holy, they spit in the face of true power, they lay blissfully ignorant of the rightful order of the world! It is for this, that we will savage the faithful, slaughter the divine! Do you truly wish to cower behind your stone walls and allow the foul Mitrans to rule the land?! Do you not value your privacy? If we were able to find you, how long before they do? We shall strike them while they rest within their false safety of winter and Mitra’s grace! By taking Valtaerna, we will cut the very heart from the faith!”
The air hung still within the chamber, the tension too sharp, the silence stretched as Willow watched the thane muse over her words. She could feel her heart beating within her chest, her breathing rasping loudly in the quiet. Slowly, a feral grin tilted his lips.
“Your vehemence serves you well,” he rasped.
He eyed her for a time, his mind turning over her words, weighing up the cost of aiding the humans that had intruded his caverns. Slowly, he nodded as his decision was made.
“Very well,” he said, “The duergar of Zhaanzen Kryr will aid you in this battle, this battle alone, and only at night. You may have my son, Zargun Arzen, and his hundred warriors!”
He looked out to his people, a prideful gleam to his eye, “Let it be known, that the duergar were the ones that slew the heart of the Shining Lord!”
The warriors within the chamber cried out their feral cheers, hefting their weapons high in the air. From the corner of her vision, she saw Bor and Pellius shift in their stances, gripping their own weapons tighter. With the magic of the helmet Garvana wore, Willow knew she could understand what had been said. As the stench of burnt flesh lingered throughout the room, Willow cringed internally as she foresaw what would come next.
“We feast to seal the alliance,” Zashur said, shrewd eyes searching her reactions.
She kept her face calm as the charred remains of the dwarves were hacked and served around on sacrificial metal plates.
“We feast to seal the alliance,” she repeated in common to Bor and Pellius.
Ignoring the repulsion she felt racing through her veins, she accepted her plate, keeping her gaze locked on the thane as she ate. His eyes held a portion of respect, cold venomous and black as night. His grin widened as she finished, inclining his head to her. In turn, she bowed low, swallowing the alliance along with the bitter taste of flesh.


After three days to return and with the duergar set to meet them come winter, Willow found herself lazing by the warmth of the fireplace in the Crowley Estate, sketching further details onto her map of the Vale. While she sat curled up in the heavy armchair, she heard Garvana’s masculine stride approach from the eastern wing. Looking up from her drawings, she saw a frustrated look upon Garvana’s face. She entered the room and paced back and forth for a while, before dropping into the seat adjacent to Willow, staring at her with a curious expression.
“Is there something you need?” Willow asked.
“Do you know of anyone named Murphy Massidan?” she questioned abruptly.
Willow frowned, “No one I can recall on a whim. Why do you ask?”
Garvana’s eyes drifted aside, her brow clenching as she spoke.
“I have…” she said reluctantly, “I have been given this name by an agent of Asmodeus. I believe it my duty to seek the identity of this man.”
“An agent?” Willow queried, “The devil that has aided you in the past?”
Garvana shook her head, “No, not Hisperian.”
Willow waited for Garvana to elaborate.
“Another?” she asked when nothing further came.
For a time, it seemed as if Garvana had ignored the question. She gazed into the swaying flames of the fireplace, a look of strange distraction upon her face.
“I have these, dreams…” she said slowly, “Dreams that guide me, teach me. At times, I wake from my sleep and see things written in my handwriting that I have no memory of scripting. I awoke this morning with nothing but this name.”
Willow’s lips crept into a small smile, “Intriguing. And the name is not familiar?”
“No,” Garvana sighed, “I had hoped you would know of it. Perhaps you may ask your contacts? They may be able to give some insight.”
Willow shrugged, “I am not sure what information I could gain from them with so little to go on. Why not seek out Brother Thrain? Or at least search the library. If this man is of Ghaster, he is sure to be noted somewhere there, in the records of birth or death?”
“I shall,” Garvana nodded, standing from her chair.
Distractedly, she wandered from the parlour, the frown still upon her brow. Willow watched curiously, thinking on the mysterious stranger’s name. Massidan was no noble house within Talingarde that she had heard of, nor a man of any book she had read. As Pellius and Bor entered the parlour, their conversation drew her mind from Garvana.
“She could be a worthy ally if we were to convince her to aid us,” Pellius said.
“Or she could turn us all to stone,” Bor replied, “And all of our forces.”
Pellius scoffed as he shook his head, “I believe the gains outweigh the risk.”
“Willow?” Bor called, “What do you think?”
She frowned, “Are you speaking of the medusa the duke has the bounty on?”
“Pellius wants to seek her out,” Bor chuckled, “See if she’ll join us.”
“Wont she just turn us to stone?” Willow said, eyebrow cocked.
Bor laughed in response, “That’s what I said.”
“My lady,” Pellius began almost condescendingly, “We have faced greater foes than her.”
Willow shrugged, “If you wish us to seek her out, I am not against it. We have twelve days left in town, it cannot hurt to seek more allies.”
Pellius smiled triumphantly until she continued, “But I am not volunteering to walk under her gaze, I like my flesh to be flesh.”
“You’d make an attractive statue,” Bor joked, “But fine. We shall seek out this creature, perhaps I can talk some sense into her…”

It was two days later that found Willow splattered in scarlet blood, standing within the ruins of a deserted temple, with an answer to their question; no, Bor could not talk some sense into her. He had entered alone, his weapons holstered and his gaze withdrawn. He had tried to convince the fearsome medusa to join their cause, he had offered her an alliance and purpose. But the creature had no mind for his offerings, she had wished only to add his masculine form to her stone collection. So Bor had roared, ripping his weapon free from its scabbard, shattering the golden mask from her face. Her beautiful alluring figure in contrast to the hideous disfigurement of her face. When his fearsome battle cry had sounded, the group quickly pounced from their hiding places, slashing and slicing at the foul creature until she fell to the ground in the gush of her own blood. As Bor frothed from the mouth in rage, the beast turned her head to him, the deranged mania swarming her eyes. Crystal sapphire iris’ gleamed back at him, feral snakelike gaping mouth, fierce razor sharp fangs flashing.
“Am I not beautiful?” she gasped.
His vicious sword cleaved through the air, taking her head from her shoulders in one foul swoop. And so, Willow sighed, as the ricocheting blood showered her in crimson red. She wiped the mess from her face after she returned her daggers to their sheathes. As Bor collected the head and wrapped in the ripped silk of the medusa’s dress, Willow eyed the glimmering jewellery she wore. Though bathed in blood they were, their beauty was not veiled. Two coiling bracelets, golden and glittering with small rubies, shaped into shakes with slender piercing fangs. As Willow slid the claps on, allowing the serpents to unfurl along her forearms, she heard Bor laugh behind her.
“Well,” he chuckled, calming from his rage, “I tried…”


The days trickled by with little to note after the group had returned to town once again. It was through star lit streets that found Willow walking with Garvana towards the great Library of Ghaster, the cloudless night glistening with twinkling lights across the black canopy of sky. Together, they descended the winding staircase to the basement level of the halls, where Brother Tharin stood awaiting their arrival. Willow let Garvana lead as they entered, nodding to the guards as they sealed the doors behind them.
“Brother Thrain,” Garvana said formally, “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Hmph,” he grumbled, “’Bout time you learned some tact.”
Willow smiled as she approached, inclining her head as she held her hand out.
“Good evening, Brother,” she said warmly.
“Lady Willow,” he replied in a friendlier tone, shaking her hand in greeting, “I take it you are here to see if I have located information on Murphy Massidan?”
Willow gestured to Garvana, turning from them as she sat along side upon the timber pew.
“Indeed,” Garvana replied, “Has your search been successful since our last meeting?”
Thrain frowned as he nodded, “It has, though I am unsure what good the information will do. Murphy Massidan was a resident of Ghaster, some five or so decades ago. He is intoned within the cemetery to the west of the city.”
“Do you know who he was?” Garvana pressed.
“A carpenter of no real note,” he shrugged, “From all I can gather, he lived most of his life here.”
Garvana began to pace slowly, a deep frown tinting her brow. After a moment, she nodded, returning to Thrain with a bow.
“Thank you for your aid,” she said respectfully, “It is most appreciated.”
Thrain huffed, turning towards the door, “If that is all, I shall be off.”
“Brother,” Willow beckoned before he left, “May I ask you something?”
She stood from her seat, gliding across the hall towards him, walking passed a contemplative Garvana.
“Yes, child?” he responded, arching an eyebrow.
“I apologise if my assumption is misplaced,” she said cordially, “But would I be correct in thinking you are one taken by rare and unwonted lore?”
His eyebrow lifted as he replied, “It is all that has kept me going these long years.”
Willow smiled, reaching into her pack, pulling free a leather bound tome, “Perhaps this gift would entice your curiosity as it did mine?”
She held out the book, its black and green rotted corners rasping in her fingers. He frowned, taking the book and skimming its contents. As the forbidden lore of the Dirges of Apollyon scrawled along the blood stained pages, Thrain’s eyes widened hungrily as awareness dawned. He swiftly wrapped the tome within his robes, hiding it under draping layers of blue cotton, his face calm and collected as if nothing of importance had taken place. As his eyes met Willows, a sly grin tilted her lips. He winked to her, a devious spark within his eye, before he inclined his head and left the chamber. Willow chuckled, turning back to Garvana.
“How shall you proceed?” she asked, sliding herself back to sit on the table.
“I must seek out this cemetery,” Garvana frowned, “But it will be less conspicuous in the daylight.”
Willow laughed, “A lot less vampires then as well…”

The following morning the two of them made their way across town to the fields where the dead of Ghaster were laid in memory. They strolled through the rows of tombstones for an hour before they located the resting place of Murphy Massidan. Willow’s eyebrows raised as they found it. A simple stone block, fourteen crudely carved letters, identifying the man who rested below.
“Strange,” Garvana frowned, “I have never seen the Infernal language displayed so blatantly obvious. Perhaps we should not be seen by this, we risk being connected to it.”
Willow’s eyebrow shot high, confusion on her face.
“Um,” she said slowly, “What is it you are talking about?”
“The numbers,” Garvana scowled impatiently.
“What numbers?” she asked, her brow dropping to a frown.
“The Infernal numbers on the tomb,” Garvana said, pointing to something Willow clearly could not see, “Eleven, nine, two, one and seven.”
“Garvana,” Willow said quietly, “I cannot see any numbers.”
She frowned, looking to Willow in curiosity, “They are written in a fire red brand, the numbers carved beneath his name. What do you think it means? A code of some kind?”
Willow paused for a moment, thinking on the oddity.
“I think,” she said carefully, “That perhaps there is a reason that the name came to you, and the numbers have not revealed themselves to me.”
“What do you mean?” Garvana asked.
Willow shook her head gently, “I mean that perhaps this is a riddle you must solve, or a path you must take, alone…”

Wrapped in the fur length, Willow sat by the windowsill staring at the sky as her mind wandered. Tomorrow they would meet with Sakkarot Fire Axe once again. She had been reading over the list of their allies, planning her conversation with the mighty warlord, when a peculiar thought came to mind. Thorn wished the slaughter of the Vale of Valtaerna to appear as another bugbear raid. The wording he had used in his letter implied that he did not wish the Ninth Knot connected to the massacre, yet it was to them he gave the brutal mission. Why was it, she thought, that he wished to keep Asmodean influence out of it? Sakkarot had revealed his worship of their Infernal Father to the Ninth, yet Willow had not heard the Dark Prince’s name called, nor his glory cried as the tales of the battles had been recited. Thorn had never revealed his grand plan to the Ninth, he had given only instructions to each mission, blunt and to the point. He was still yet to reveal how it was they were to convert or control an entire civilisation of devoted Mitran servants. She surmised that the bugbears were not only expendable, but doomed to be wiped out along with the forces of the Mitran armies. How he was planning to achieve such deceit, was well out of her realm of knowledge. She knew little of war and battle, yet deceit was something she was intimately involved in. She could recognise it when it presented herself. Thinking back over the two main missions they had been given, she ceded that perhaps the Ninth had been too open in their devotion. Revealing their allegiance to their enemies, even those who were fated to die by their hands, was still risking their cover – and in turn, possibly risking Thorn’s master plan. If they had not been cautious enough to withdraw their forces from the Horn of Abbadon before facing the vile Vetra-Kali, the crumpled wreckage of mountain, stone and cinder would contain implicating evidence of Asmodean interference. Even the battle of Balentyne was not meant to appear as a victory of the Infernal Lord’s forces, it was supposed to appear as if the Mitran’s had slackened in their vigil, their complacency having allowed the overwhelming strength of the bugbear horde to overpower them. Or at least, that was what Willow could surmise. Since leaving the desolate ruins within the Caer Bryr, the group had been wiser in their concealment. All trace of contraband was sewed delicately into the cotton of Willow’s white petticoat, in a stitch so fine that only the sharpest eyes would reveal its contents. Even their newest recruits into the ranks of the Forsaken were kept in the dark, unaware the true allegiance of their masters. It was curiosity and speculation that kept her slumber restless that night.
As the sun lifted from the horizon, and the first rays of light seeped through the windowpane, Willow was already awake. By the time she had donned her armour, strapped her daggers to her thighs and packed her journal and maps into her bag, she heard a familiar voice drift from the parlour.
“Ah dearest,” Tiadora said, “There you are. You are ready I presume? The Fire-Axe awaits.”
Clutched in her hands, she carried an ornate scroll case of dark red lacquer wood, lined with shining brass fittings. As the four of them converged in the parlor, she opened the case and presented each of them a single bound scroll.
“They will transport you directly to the Fire Axe,” she instructed, “And then they shall allow you to return. Shall we depart?”

As the arcane world dragged her through its depths and she stepped into the camping grounds of Sakkarot’s feral army, Willow’s eyes raked over the scene in distaste. The Castle Westkirk was a burned out ruin, a husk of it’s former glory that was now decorated with the grisly remains of its former lords. Brutes and bugbears were camped in all directions, gleeful and bedecked with stolen loot. Mad giggling goblins scampered underfoot, snarling beasts snapped to each other, more fearsome creatures commanded prime real estate within the conquered fortress. The halls had been marred for eternity by the hordes of Sakkarot Fire-Axe.
When they appeared in the centre of the camp, Willow saw Tiadora step into the realm, wearing a guise of a different kind. She took the form of a female white-furred bugbear, garbed in a spike and skull adorned leather harness, bearing the icon of a great axe
wreathed in flame. Each bugbear she passed eyed her intensely, but seemed unwilling to
meet her gaze. She said nothing, proceeding directly to the Fire-Axe’s conquered throne. Sitting upon the grand dais of Westkirk, clad in fine but ill-fitting armor, still wielding his infernal weapon was the Fire-Axe himself. He stood, growling at the white bugbear with a low provocative roar. Her grin spread as she snarled back.
“Did you miss me, dearest?” she said to him, a sarcastic gleam to her tone.
Before he retorted, his eyes searched her companions.
“You’ve brought friends... old friends!” he boomed, “Welcome! Behold, my warriors, it was these vicious killers who slaughtered the guards of Balentyne and opened the gates for us to raid the south! It was they who brought us steel! They are my honored guests and I will feast upon the heart of any who does not treat them well!”
A bestial cheer roared from the throng of bugbears within the great hall. Sakkarot let out a fearsome call of his own. The savage cry had a chill creep up Willow’s spine – it was this that the lands feared, it was him at the head of this feral army.
“We have much to discuss,” he said, nodding towards a chamber to the right, “Join me in my war-room.”
As he turned for the room, a dozen elite bugbear lieutenants followed his lead. The feature of the side chamber was a grand oak table, layered in maps and scrolled parchments of numbers and names. Willow’s eyes were drawn towards the cowering whimpers from the corner of the room, a man tied to a chair having hot coals applied to the soles of his feet by two bugbear thugs.
“What are you doing?!” Sakkarot yelled, “Torture is to be done in the dungeon!”
“It’s full, my lord!” the thugs protested, fear in their black beady eyes.
“Imbeciles!” he roared, “Make room for the Baron and get him out of sight!”
Shaking his head as the two underlings scampered off, dragging the prisoner behind them.
He sighed, “Good help is so hard to find.”
“It certainly is,” Pellius agreed, looking on at the torture techniques as if he was critiquing their work.
“Take a seat,” Sakkarot said, taking the chair at the head of the table.
He pointed to one of his more junior lieutenants, “Bring us some of that good brandy we looted from Lorringsgate. Now!”
It took only moments for the bugbear to leave and return with the liquor, quickly pouring mugs for each of Sakkarot’s guests. While he was pouring, Willow eyed his maps curiously.
“It’s good to see you,” Sakkarot said, “I’ve been hearing a lot about your exploits from Tiadora here. I’m glad I’m not the only one fighting this war.”
“We have heard tell of your own grand victories,” Willow said, looking to him.
“Word has spread of your deeds as far as the duergar of Zhaanzen Kryr,” Bor commended.
“The duergar?” Sakkarot said, eyebrows raised with an impressed lilt to his tone, “My wolf-riders have reported evidence of them. But I have never been able to make contact with them. They seem uninterested in allying with us. You have gained their aid?”
Willow smiled slyly, “I can be most convincing when I try.”
“So it would seem,” he grinned.
Sakkarot’s lieutenants said nothing, they only stood at attention, listening attentively to their warlord. Although he played the brute in front of the hordes of his army, Willow was surprised once again as he showed himself to be far more intelligent than he let on.
“You know why we’re here,” Tiadora interrupted.
“Of course I know why you’re here,” he grouched, “You want to steal my army.”
“We want to use a small part of it for a special mission,” she countered, “If Valtaerna could be sacked, the king’s army will be denied those clerics. It will be-
-Yes, yes, I’ve heard your pitch,” Sakkarot snapped, cutting Tiadora off, “With the Vale destroyed, the king’s army will be weakened and we will fare better against them when we push towards Daveryn in the spring. I’ve already agreed to lend my friends here in the Ninth Knot, Hekkarth’s Head-Takers. That’s a hundred fine warriors!”
Tiadora nodded, “We want more than that. Cardinal Thorn also commands that Shagoroth Night-Mane and his retinue be given to their command!”
“What?!” he barked, “That’s another hundred and fifty warriors! What am I supposed to make war with come spring?”
“You will command more than ten times that number,” she continued, “And more reinforcements are due from the North. By the spring your horde, mighty Sakkarot, will be greater than ever before.”
“Half of your promised reinforcements never arrive!” he snapped, “You cannot have the Night-Mane. I need him.”
“We need them,” Willow interrupted, “I have seen Valtaerna with my own eyes. I have scouted their defenses, seen their numbers – we will need more than a hundred warriors.”
Willow pulled free her journal and her map, laying them across the table over his layers of parchment. She opened her journal to the long list of defenses she had written.
“See here,” she indicated, “This is only what I could find in three days, there are bound to be more. Archers, cavaliers, soldiers, warriors, monks! At least six of the archon legion, celestial beings, arcane creatures. We’re fighting at least five hundred warriors, and then there are at least two thousand civilians. It is not merely men we are fighting. There are rumours of a phoenix dwelling within the Vale, but more dire than that, I have heard tell of a divine being that guards Valtaerna. One they call Ara Mathra – he who stands in light…”
Sakkarot cringed at the name, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to recognize what it signified.
“No simple Mitran warrior would dare take on a name such as that, it is a title given to only the most holy of beings. My best guess, is that the rumours are true. The Vale of Valtaerna is guarded by an angel,” Willow sighed, pausing as she shook her head, “We have managed to secure an alliance with the duergar and the vampire prince of Ghastenhall. With their aid and our own men, it raises our own number to just under one hundred and seventy. One hundred of yours is simply not enough.”
“Slaughtering the inhabitants of the Vale is of vital importance,” Garvana said seriously, “Not just for your spring campaign, but to deal a deathly blow to the confidence of the Mitrans. Take away their sanctuary, defile their holiest of places, and you take away their will to fight.”
“I have seen my share of battles,” Bor added, a sorrowful gleam to his eye, “And I know the numbers. Battles may have been one with worse odds, but the cost is much greater. Send with us the Night-Mane, and we will return with more of your men intact. Let us overwhelm them. Let us massacre them in a victory in which a great many of our numbers walk away. Or send with us a smaller number, and be grateful for each single man that manages to return.”
“Fine,” he grumbled, “Night-mane as well. I hadn’t realized you were so desperate. If that’s the case, then I have one for you. Amongst the many fine reinforcements that Tiadora has gathered for me, one is an oni named Raiju the Exile. He is a beast! He slew the son of a chieftain and its just a matter of time before my killers manage to corner him. He’s yours if you want him.”
“We shall seek him out,” Pellius nodded.
“Well,” Tiadora said, “It is done, and I shall depart. You have your scrolls and now you have your army. Return to the Crowley Estate and muster your forces when you are ready. You march on the Vale in two days. Good luck, my lords.”
And with that, she vanished from sight. Sakkarot let out a small cheer as she left, taking a deep drink from his brandy. The group joined him in easy revelry, swapping stories of their battles, speaking proudly of their victories. As time slowly passed, Willow approached his side and took up the seat next to him.
“May I ask your advice?” she said quietly.
“Of course little one,” he chuffed, much friendlier now Tiadora was gone, “What do you need?”
“I am,” she began, “Unsure of how best to proceed. I deal in dark shadows and silent blades, not in brute force of raging armies. I know enough to know that we must take the watchtower before we can press on, yet I know not how.”
“You are at a great advantage little one,” he replied, “It is rare to be so well informed as to what you are going to face. What I would give to have a scout like you. The most important thing I can tell you is to take the watchtower as quickly and quietly as you can, so the armies have no time to muster their defense.”
“We must attack at night,” Willow added, “The vampire spawn and the duergar cannot fight by daylight.”
“That is not a bad thing,” he commented, “Although it will give you poor sight, it will also do the same for your enemy.”
“And these forces you lend us, Hekkarth and Shagoroth. Where are they best used?”
“The head-takers are savage brutes that prefer outright slaughter in battle, and night-mane and his band are better in the shadows, yet no less lethal.”
Willow scribbled his notes in her journal, along with other observations he made for her to record. After picking his brain with every question she could think of, he chuckled and gave her a hefty slap on the back.
“You will do well, young huntress,” he growled.
“Huntress,” Willow chuckled, “That is what the beast within the hall called me.”
“It is a good name for you,” he nodded, before standing from his seat, “Well, this reunion has been fun, but I’ve got a war campaign to plan. This country doesn’t burn itself you know…”

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:25 AM
Chapter 24 - Opening the Way - Part 2



Later that evening, they followed the directions that the bugbear captain had given, searching through the rooms of the castle seeking the elusive oni known as Raiju. It was in the eastern wing in a bedchamber that Willow felt the presence of something hidden. Like a breeze on the back of her bare neck, she felt eyes watching her.
“Raiju the Exile,” she said to the empty chamber, “I come with an offer, an ultimatum if you will. We seek to destroy the Vale of Valtaerna, and we offer you the chance to aid us. We know of your plight; you slew the son of a chieftain, and now the bugbears want blood as retribution. We offer you a way out. In return for your aid, we will take you from this place.”
As only silence greeted her, she shrugged.
“Or we can leave you here,” she added, “For the bugbears to reap their vengeance upon.”
A strange foreign voice slid from the shadows, “Your offer, interest me.”
Willow smiled towards the voice, “Will you reveal yourself, I cannot negotiate with the air.”
In the corner, a rippling image came into view. A peculiar large ogre-like creature; velvet red flesh, white clear eyes and sharp protruding teeth that formed in an under-bite. He wore oriental vermillion armour and grasped a long curved vicious looking blade, yet he smiled at Willow with an almost friendly grin.
“I am Raiju the Exile,” he said formally.
“I am Willow Monteguard,” she replied, inclining her head before gesturing to the others, “And these are the other leaders of the Forsaken.”
“So, you will come with us?” Garvana asked.
“Raiju is considering,” he replied, nodding his head, “You may hire my services. I will take half of all treasure, or two hundred and fifty gold a month.”
Bor scoffed, “Two hundred and fifty?”
Willow smirked, trying not to laugh at the unbalanced proposal of all treasure they collected against a measly amount of gold.
“Two hundred and fifty it is,” Pellius agreed.
Raiju clasped his hands by his side, bowing deeply in a foreign formal bend. Willow cordially curtsied back, before a frown dropped her brows.
“We are due to depart shortly after we farewell Sakkarot,” she said, “Perhaps it is best if you stay hidden until then. It is best if we avoid altercations with the bugbears, I’ve no mind to kill the ranks we’ll be needing for the Vale.”
“Wise is the lady,” he said, “Raiju will be there when you leave…”

It was their final evening before their journey to Valtaerna, that Willow visited the Library of Ghaster once more. Descending the familiar steps, she passed the brutish guards and entered the dusty lecture hall. Thrain smiled as she entered, inclining his head.
“A pleasure to see you, Willow,” he said warmly.
“And you, brother,” she replied, “I have come to say good bye.”
“Yes, I suppose that the time has come. Do you leave tonight, or tomorrow?”
“At first light. Our men prepare for their departure tonight, and by sun down we shall meet the army in Hatterfield Valley to the east.”
He nodded, “A wise decision, that region will be deserted with winter come.”
She smiled, “I cannot stay long, I have much to do before dawn, but I come to wish you luck in your mission.”
“And you in yours, child.”
He grasped her forearm in friendship, a tight grip for one his age, a proud gleam in his eye. Willow grasped his back, smiling gently.
“It has been a pleasure to know you,” Willow said, “May we meet again one day.”
“Bah,” he huffed, “We will certainly meet again.”
Willow grinned, releasing her grip and pulling him into a hug. He grumbled as an old man would, but she chuckled as she felt his arms embrace her back.
“For the glory of the Father,” she said quietly by his ear.
He finished her sentence in a whisper, “May all burn in His hellfire…”

A wisp of red flittered across the dawn twilight sky, like a flare sent high to warn the lands of the journey that had begun. The sun touched over the mountains, it’s light tinting the realm, a crimson glow to the early clouds. As the four of them arrived at the Silkcreek Homestead, the dawning sun bled light into the ether, though it held no warmth that Willow could feel. It was if the sun had no way of delaying it’s rise, but refused to thaw the chill from their bones that night had brought. The playful growls of Sith had Willow turn and smile, watching the fiery hellhound bound towards her. She laughed as he affectionately rubbed his head into her hand. Grumblejack stood proudly, bossing around the men under his apparent command, shouting orders at them. He grinned when he saw the Ninth approach.
“Are the men ready?” Pellius asked, his fierce authority commanding.
“Yes,” the ogre responded, “Grumblejack got them ready.”
“Good,” Pellius replied, “Lets move out!”
As the men heard the order, they turned to attention, watching their four leaders mount their horses. The men seemed composed, if not fearful now they were under the stern watch of their masters. Willow turned her steed to the east, kicking it into a trot. As a slow procession, yet as one, the ranks of the Forsaken set off towards the mountains to join the others in their mission of slaughter and war.

The day trickled by along the voyage, as the long legs of the oni mage kept his stride even with the slow trot of Willow’s horse. She watched him, seeing his eyes grazing the fields as his smile lingered across his cheeks.
“That is a fine weapon you have there,” Willow said conversationally, nodding to his curved blade.
“Yes,” he agreed, “It is Raiju’s family relic. Given to him when he was much younger.”
“Where are you from, Raiju?” she asked, “I have not seen an oni within Talingarde before.”
“Mmm,” he said, looking to the distance, “A place far from here. Very far.”
“What brought you to Talrien lands, why did you leave your homeland?”
“Raiju was an assassin,” he said proudly, “The best assassin in all of home land. Raiju worked for powerful magister, had contract to kill rival magister at his grand ball. Instructions say he would be dressed in all white. Raiju accidentally kill important ambassador instead, also dressed in all white. Contract was void and magister try to kill Raiju. So he fled to this land, and found the mighty Sakkarot-sama. Wanted to join him… But then, killed son of chieftain.”
“Why did you kill the chieftain’s son?” Garvana asked.
“Insulted Raiju’s honour!” he answered bitterly.
“You call him Sakkarot-sama,” Willow soothed, steering him from anger, “What does that mean?”
His frown softened, a small smile returning to his face.
“A term of respect from Raiju’s homeland,” he replied, “Raiju regrets that he cannot stay with Sakkarot-sama… Sakkarot-sama is wise; he is strong yet he is smart.”
“Indeed,” Willow said softly, thinking of her musings the night before, wondering where Sakkarot fit into the outcome of Thorn’s master plan, “He certainly is…”

They rode at the front of the march, wind whipping through their hair, cold chill biting at the uncovered flesh of their faces as the sun sunk below the horizon. They crested the hill and the fearsome horde of feral bugbears slowly came into view. The Forsaken ranks clutched their weapons tighter, unease and uncertainty tainting their features. Pellius kicked his horse into a canter, showing no fear as he charged forth to meet the vicious army. Willow kept her face cool, her steed proudly trotting forward, flanked by Bor and Garvana. As the forces met, Pellius ordered their men to make camp upon the western ridge of Hatterfield Valley, a stern lash to his command. He would suffer no trepidation from his men, forcefully instructing them in order and direction.
To the south came a low piercing signal horn, an eery drone sounding from the carved skull of a sapient being. In the shadowed depths of the snow littered forest, a swarm of blackened figures leaked from beneath the tree line.
“The duergar,” Willow said, a malevolent gleam to her voice.
Pellius looked to her as he nodded, together riding to meet their newest arrivals. As they approached, she saw their leader, a fierce duergar with eyes as venomous as his father’s. Stopping shy of the legion of twisted dwarves, Willow raised her voice in rasping greeting.
“Welcome, Zargun Arzen!” she called, “We are honoured to have the duergar of Zhaanzen Kryr join us in this glorious battle!”
Standing at least as five and a half feet, quite tall for a dwarf, the leader of the duergar force stepped forward. His long beard braided tight into a savage twirl of glittering golden beads, shining grey skin opposing his midnight black eyes. As Willow sat tall upon her steed, Pellius by her side, the duergar eyed them shrewdly.
“You must be the Lady Monteguard,” he replied, “The thane spoke well of your callousness.”
As he mentioned her name, she saw a hint of respect flicker through the faces of his men.
“It is a rare compliment, for my father speaks highly of no one,” he said, eyebrow cocked.
“Then I shall take the compliment,” Willow responded cordially, “Allow me to introduce the leader of our forces, Commander Pellius Albus.”
As eyes turned to Pellius, sitting regally upon his wide horse, Willow continued.
“Do you speak the common surface tongue, Arzen? Our commander has much to brief you on, if needed I will translate, but there is much that I must do and a shared language would ease the time constraints.”
“I do,” he replied in common.
“Very well,” she replied in turn, “Commander Albus, allow me to introduce son of Thane Zanshur Arzen, commander of the legion of Zhaanzen Kryr – Zargun Arzen.”
As they greeted one another, and Arzen sent his men to make camp within the darkness of the forest, Willow said her farewell and returned to the ranks of their men. Not long after her return did the beasts within the bugbear horde begin growling and shifting in their rest. From the cover of unseen darkness, the vampire spawn arrived. Draped in heavy floor length cloaks, they appeared from the night, pale crystal white flesh glistening in the light of the moon. After greeting each force and organising camp, Pellius called the leaders and the elite of each group of allies together. Using a strange magic that echoed his voice through the valley, he stood proudly upon a large boulder that allowed him to see the entire expanse of their army.
“Comrades!” he boomed, “You stand together tonight on the brink of revenge. Nay, the brink of revolution! The Mitrans label you one and all as thugs and monsters who are unworthy of respect. Do you know what I say to their musings? I say they are wrong! They lock you behind their walls in the frozen north, isolate you in deep mountain holds, and condemn the aspirations of the truly powerful as corrupt and evil. For we who stand here tonight are the powerful, the mighty, the ambitious, and I seek vengeance on those who would deny us. They oppose and isolate us because they know that should we stand together, a fierce and bloody reckoning will fall upon them! Here, tonight, we stand together! Tonight we stand strong! We stand as allies!”
The ranks of the army growled their approval, roaring their might in howls and hackles.
He motioned to each group as he spoke with a feral snarl, “To the ferocious bugbears, the Headtakers and Nightmanes! They would call you brutish mindless fiends, worthless beasts! I say you are savage warriors who could devour this foul country whole!”
The bugbears thundered their roars, growling and snarling into the night sky.
“To the duergar of Zhaanzen Kryr, they would deny your existence and raise up your pathetic surface dwelling cousins! I say you are the worthy ones! The vicious and the fearsome, those that strike fear into the hearts of the blessed!”
As Arzen translated his words, the duergar cheered a feral savage chant, crying out in spine chilling fury.
“To the spawn of the mighty Vampire Prince Gaius! They have you cowering in hidden alleys, feeding from the dregs of society! I say you should take back the night, feed from the blood of those that would call themselves kings!”
Though only a small force, the vampires hissed their assent, venomous glee bounding throughout the camp.
“And to the ranks of the Forsaken; they say you are scum, you are nothing, forsaken by the divine light of their Shining Lord! Well I seek vengeance on those who would forsake us. Look around you and you will see what the Mitrans fear. The Forsaken, bound together with purpose and hate, ready to reclaim what has been taken from them! Tonight, we are all Forsaken! We stand together as one!”
“Follow me and I will lead you to revenge and glory as we desecrate their holy Vale and lay waste to the Mitran sheep within. Follow me and I will lead you to a wealth in steel, gold and slaves. Follow me and I WILL LEAD YOU TO VICTORY!”
The camp erupted in shouts and applause, a feral chorus of bestial cries, the valley awash with malevolent cheers and bloodthirsty calls. Willow felt the pride racing through her veins as she watched Pellius glow with purpose. He stood with his fist raised in the air, hellfire beaming from his eyes, a feral battle cry of his own screeching from his lips.
When the calls had died down, and the camps had turned away from the gathering, Pellius stepped down from the boulder and called the leaders of each force together. Hekkarth of the Headtakers was a feral beast, as savage and uncivilized as one would expect. Shagoroth on the other hand, was more refined in his speech, yet more sadistic and cruel than any other that Willow had met. Arzen stood tall, even as the others towered over him, a fierce creature comfortable within the darkened caress of night. The nameless leader of the vampire spawn stood warily towards the back of the procession, hungry eyes searching the ranks, as if his bloodthirst lay barely in check. Willow, Garvana and Bor stood in front of the group, fearsome expressions, heads raised high. Pellius took the lead as those who gathered listened while he explained the rules of the camp.
“You are all accountable for your own soldiers,” he finished fiercely, his commanding tone lashing like a whip, “Misconduct and disobedience will not be tolerated, and dealt with harshly. We are here as allies. We must act like it. I will personally slay any man or beast that disobeys my rules. Is that understood?”
Although unhappy to have been commanded so, the leaders nodded stiffly.
“Good,” he clipped, “I suggest you keep your forces separated from each other. We leave at first light and march through the day, we will arrive in Valtaerna before nightfall tomorrow. We will have a few hours to rest, and then, we shall march on the Vale…”
After the meeting was concluded, the group retired by their own fire, surrounded by their own tall lines of tents. Willow sat propped against a tree stump with Sith curled between her legs. She watched the flames of the campfire dance for a time, before looking out over the red dotted expanse of their army. What a tale this was, she thought. The four of them, leading an army so vast and fearsome. As she had done so many times since coming into the service of Cardinal Thorn, Willow marvelled at the path her life was leading.
A whiff of brimstone lingered for a mere second before the air rippled suddenly and a familiar figure appeared before them in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. Scarlet skin shone brightly against a black suit, richly embellished and fine fitting velvet robes draped from his shoulders to the ground. Thin horns protruding from his forehead in an almost decorative fashion, forming a crown upon his brow. Two thick golden rimmed horns pierced from pleats in his back, arching forward in smooth angles, their tips pointing ahead of him. Rows of glittering razor sharp teeth formed his malevolent yet welcoming smile. His wide dark eyes scoured the group. Willow felt the familiar pulsing within her, a deep thrum of hell’s beat, low and rumbling.
“Great and powerful masters of darkness,” the intruder bowed, “Behold your servant, Dessiter of the Phistophilus. It is an honour to meet those of you I have not, and an honour to see those of you once again that I have.”
Sith lifted his head as the devil spoke, growling a low threatening warning. Willow calmed him, softly stroking the fur between his ears, as she watched Dessiter with keen curiosity.
“I have only just received word of your great victories, and I come on behalf of the Lord of the Nine Circles to personally congratulate you. But more than that, I bring counsel, if this assembly of great lords will deign to hear it.”
“Dessiter of the Phistophilus,” Garvana said respectfully, standing to bow to the devil, “It is good to see you once more.”
“You honour me too much,” he replied, bowing lower than she had, “O’ powerful one.”
“Speak your counsel,” Willow said bluntly, suspicious at the intrusion of the devil.
He turned to her with his shrewd and calculating eyes, inclining his head formally.
“You have built an army to storm the Vale of Valtaerna,” he said dramatically, “Truly a noble undertaking. But know this wise masters, the Vale is guarded by more than mortal guardians. Agents of the celestial realm infest that Vale and you will have need to defeat them all if Valtaerna is to be taken.”
“You speak of Ara Mathra,” Willow said quietly, arching her eyebrow.
Dessiter stumbled on his words, frowning as if surprised that Willow knew of the name.
“Yes,” he recovered, “I do. But great and powerful dark master, you would do well to not speak that name aloud. For names, as you would know, carry much power.”
“There is a mortal master to the Order of Saint Macarius, but he is only a figurehead. The true mater of the order is undying and eternal – an angel. He is your ultimate enemy, and until he is defeated, your mission can only be deemed incomplete.”
“We have heard tell of him,” Willow nodded, “From what I can gather he resides within the Cathedral of Mitra Made Manifest.”
“Alas,” Dessiter replied theatrically, “Little is known of the interior of the Vale. It has been long since any who serve the Dark Prince has managed to infiltrate that stronghold of light.”
Willow smiled slyly, lifting the parchment map she had made of Valtaerna from her pack, laying it upon their makeshift camp table.
“It had been long,” she said quietly.
His eyes raked over the parchment, slight surprise tinting his features.
“Ah,” he said, “It seems I am not as well informed as I had thought.”
“Either that,” Willow replied, bothering not with humility, “Or I am too subtle to have been noticed, even to those so clearly watching.”
She watched his gaze imprint every detail upon her map into his mind. She had no doubt that if he had need, he could redraw the information in explicit detail.
“Certainly true,” he bowed formally, “This is a most impressive feat, my glorious lord.”
“What else do you know?” Willow asked, “Surely you come to speak of more than an angel?”
“Indeed, o’ great one,” he called, returning to his dramatics, “There is much. Defeating the mortal army stationed within Valtaerna is only the beginning of your struggle. Just as the Lord of Light wears three faces, so do three eternal flames burn within the Vale. As long as those divine fires burn, the Shining Lord’s connection to the Vale will remain too powerful for any mortal to overcome. Extinguish the flames and you extinguish your enemies’ ability to resist you.”
“The mountain top,” Garvana said to Willow, “That lingering aura you saw. Do you suppose it could be one of the flames?”
Willow frowned, turning from Dessiter as she thought over what she knew.
“Perhaps,” she nodded, “There was certainly something up there. They would not have a temple on the peak and a right of passage for their priests if there was nothing of note.”
“You saw the Garden of Serenity,” Garvana said, “Do you think there is one in there?”
As they spoke to each other, pointed over different areas of the map, Dessiter merely watched. Willow could tell he was evaluating every detail, taking in every word they said, cataloguing every reaction. But as her brain ticked, she had no mind to pay attention to him.
“It is possible,” she frowned, “I would guess that this angel guards one, somewhere within the Cathedral. There may have been one within the gardens, but I was not willing to push my luck any further, once I discovered the presence of the angel. I made it only as far as what I would assume to be the entry to the Cathedral.”
“Do not do yourself a disservice, my lord!” Dessiter interjected, “You are formidable to have infiltrated that far, and most wise to have withdrawn when you did, lest the angel discover you!”
Willow’s frown pulled tighter as she turned to Pellius, “These divine fires, I would assume they cannot be extinguished by normal means, for the heavy rainfalls of autumn would have done so long ago. Do you suppose they could be doused by water tainted by our Infernal Fathers grace?”
“It is likely,” Pellius nodded, brow drawn low.
“I could call on our Father’s power to desecrate them?” Garvana offered.
“That may be enough,” Pellius replied.
As they conversed back and forth, Dessiter’s eyes trailed over the legion of warriors they had in their command. His sight fell to Sith, who still sat by Willow’s feet with his fierce gaze locked on the devil. When they had hushed and Willow had begun to scrawl more notes upon her map, he spoke once again.
“The forces you command are most impressive, my great lords, yet it seems this servant is fairly out of it’s depth,” he indicated to Sith.
At the snarling response, Willow smiled and dropped her hand to his chin, trailing her finger through his fiery fur.
“Naas Sith,” she soothed, “Hirrith mer thrish.”
“Perhaps there is something I may offer,” Dessiter suggested, arching his eyebrow.
Willow eyed the devil suspiciously, nodding her head for him to continue.
“I could transform this runt into a fearsome beast, a ferocious creature; a warhound of Nessus!”
Willow cocked an eyebrow, “And what would you require in return?”
“A contract of course, my lord,” he said slyly, “A promise to slay the celestial being known as Ara Mathra, or at the very least, drive him from this plane and cast him back to the heavens!”
It was a task they were preparing to complete without the aid of Dessiter, it was part of their mission, he had spoken truly when he had said that their duty would be incomplete if the angel still remained. Willow knew the power of an infernal contract, it was not a thing to be trifled with, nor something to be entered into lightly. Yet as she stroked her hand through Sith’s mane and his flames danced between her fingers, she had to concede that the devil had a fair point. Though he was vicious in his fury and fiercely loyal, he was merely a pup. Willow knew her fondness for her hound was a weakness, but it was one she could not deny.
“And if we fail?” she asked.
“Well,” Dessiter said, eyebrows raised, “You’ll already be dead.”
Willow chuckled at his response, shaking her head as she looked to her hellhound.
“Your soul already belongs to our Infernal Father,” Garvana commented, “The aid of a Nessian hound would be very valuable.”
Turning back to Dessiter, Willow tilted her brow, “I will of course wish to read this contract before signing.”
“Of course my glorious lord!” he proclaimed.
Suddenly, a slip of parchment fell from his hands and began to lengthen, metres of minuscule font unfurled across the pages. The scroll laced around the horns protruding from his back, rolling upon itself until finally the long script finished with a dotted line for her signature. At least three weeks worth of reading, possibly more. He grinned at her, a glimmer of camp fire sparkling from his shining teeth. Looking once more to her hound, she sighed. She lifted her dagger from its sheath and delicately sliced the tip of her finger. With resignation, she signed her long elaborate signature along the flame wreathed parchment.
“Excellent!” Dessiter called, clapping his hand together as the scroll raced and rolled closed, slipping itself into his robes.
Suddenly, Sith let out a feral howl, as his body disintegrated into a pile of ash between her legs. Willow gripped her dagger so tightly her fingers began to throb, she was ready to pounce and drive the blade through the devil’s throat if things did not go as he had said. After a moment of still silence, the ground beneath her began to tremble. Carefully lifting herself to a crouch and edging backward, she watched the ash pile with penetrating eyes. A split in the earth opened, a crack revealing searing flames as the smell of sulphur radiated from below. A fiery paw the size of Willow’s head burst from the crevice. First one, then another, before a great beast tore itself from the ground. As large as a horse, born of pure darkness, terrifying to behold. The creature burned with an unquenchable blaze, infused with the primal might of the palace of the Dark Prince – Nessus itself. The beast roared in furious might, howling a frightening cry into the night sky. The entire camp stilled in awe, even the feral beings of their army hushing to gaze in fear at the fiend from hell.
Willow eyed the creature warily, hand still upon her blade. As she watched, the beast looked to her. It approached and bowed its head, as if waiting for her. Slowly, Willow carefully extended her hand. The mighty creature gently rubbed its head into the palm of her waiting hand, a familiar croon to its affectionate huff. She smiled, grazing her fingers across the smouldering inferno of its fur.
“Sith-Mistrithith,” she whispered in awe, calling him by the title given to the fearsome beasts of Nessus, pressing her forehead to his.
An odd sight it would have seemed. From beyond, her face and head disappeared into the fiery blaze of the beast. Yet as she pulled back, she simply smiled. A glorious beast he was, a grace of hell, his infernal beat drumming within Willow’s heart. When she had a moment to break from her marvel, she looked to Dessiter. The fondness she displayed for the hound seemed to amuse and baffle him, but he stood back and merely watched the proceedings, clearly pleased with accomplishing what he had come for. Willow nodded her approval, before looking back to her ferocious warhound. As he settled by her side, now too big to curl up between her legs, she rested herself against his enormous back.
“I have no doubt we will meet again, my lords,” Dessiter said respectfully, “Once other victories have been won.”
As Garvana made small talk with the charismatic devil, Willow merely watched him with curiosity. To each question, he responded in circles, answering vaguely with no real conclusion to his words. As he turned to the group and looked as if he would farewell them, Willow frowned.
“Why do you come to us?” she asked, “Why would a devil come to our aid unbidden?”
He answered her with a dismissive wave, “You fight for the Prince of Hell, did you think you would not receive aid?”
Willow smirked, that was exactly what she would have thought. No devil would put themselves out without an ulterior motive. Yet, as she felt the huffing breath of her warhound, perhaps he had succeeded in his task. The devil eyed her shrewdly, with no words there seemed to be an understanding between them. They both held secrets, yet at this time the actions of the Forsaken were furthering both of their goals.
Before he made his exit, he strolled across the camp to where Bor was silently perched. Dessiter leant in close, speaking in a hushed voice that Willow had to strain to hear.
“I suppose that past transgressions shall be ignored, while in your current service.”
At that he turned back to the group, looking to Willow with knowing eyes. He bowed a low dramatic bow, one foot forward, one hand tucked beneath his waist and the other across his back.
“Until the next time, great and powerful masters of darkness…”


The moon lingered high over head, tinged an eery red glow, as if it knew of the blood that was destined to be shed. The army had marched through the day and as dusk had fallen, they had reached the craning point of the mountains at the large pass of Valtaerna. The plan was set; the instructions were clear. The oni mage known as Raiju, had been tasked to scout the watchtower, remaining hidden at all cost. Garvana had cast upon him a strange magic that concealed his loyalties from any arcane means seeking such a thing. With his ability to fly and turn himself invisible, he left the hordes of warriors, while they waited in as close to silence as they could. Fifteen minutes passed before his return, while the bugbears grew restless, chomping at the bit as their bloodlust took hold. He dropped from the sky and approached the leaders.
“Raiju has returned,” he said proudly, “They did not know he was there.”
“What did you see?” Willow snapped impatiently.
“No men on the roof,” he replied, seeming unbothered by her aggression, “But two powerful guardians around a large brass gong. Raiju thinks the gong is an alarm, but it is tied down. Probably to stop wind making it ring. Big gate at the front is closed, a few of guards inside it.”
“I can use the wind to get to the gong,” Garvana said, “And cast a silencing spell to keep them from raising the alarm. But I do not think it wise to take on the watchers on my own.”
“No, that would be foolish,” Willow agreed, “Pellius and Bor can lead the armies, perhaps Raiju can carry me and we can take out these guardians together.”
“And if they managed to raise the alarm from inside?” Bor asked, “Someone needs to be in there.”
“No,” Willow protested, “The watchers can sense your loyalty, we do not have any further magic to shield it.”
“If they can sense me,” Bor said, a sly smile to his lips, “They will sense another who is loyal to the Shining Lord.”
She eyed him in curiosity, shaking her head with a smile at the secrets he held.
“Do you think you can do it?” she asked, “Convince them to let you in?”
“Yes,” he replied confidently, “I am simply a traveller who got lost in the cold winter’s eve.”
“Once you have taken out the gong,” Pellius commanded, “We shall send the vampires up over the wall to wipe the watchtower out, starting from the roof and making their way down.”
“Agreed,” chimed the others.
They set a scout to watch for the portcullis to lift, to signal the horde to charge into battle. Willow climbed upon Raiju’s large back, lacing her legs around his waist. As he lifted off into the air, she held her potion of invisibility tightly in her right hand. Once they were in sight of the watchers and she saw the portcullis open and shut after Bor had entered, she drank it down and slipped the vial back into her pocket. Hovering above the roof, Willow counted the thirty seconds in her head, giving Garvana time to get herself into position and cast her magic. Two great beasts flanked the sides of the brass gong, with eight foot long bodies of lions and immense eagle wings sprouting from their backs, draping over their figures. Whether they were sleeping or simply at rest mattered little to Willow. When her countdown came to an end, she tapped Raiju on the shoulder, before he plummeted down towards the roof. They dropped silently, behind one of the beasts, creeping to either side of him. In a breath, she ripped her daggers free of their sheathes and lashed out in four ferocious swipes, driving her blades into the neck of the resting creature. As Raiju’s large sword came hurtling down, he cut off the beast’s cry with a fatal blood splattering blow. Instantly, the second beast whipped its head up, rage and alarm across its strangely humanoid face. In mirror to what the captain had done the day she had infiltrated Valtaerna, the creature cocked its head slightly for a mere moment, before leaping towards Willow with deadly intent. She tried to dive from its path, but the feline creature pounced with immense speed, catching her easily and writhing its claws into her flesh. It tore shreds from her skin, blood gushing from its path, sharp points piercing her innards. Its claws sliced the organs of her stomach, opening wide from its baneful assault. Internally, she screamed in agony, yet she clenched her teeth fiercely as the taste of blood leaked into her mouth. She spun from the creatures’ grip, flesh ripping as she slipped beneath its enormous paws. As one, Raiju and Willow slaughtered the beast, cascades of blood flying through the air and raining across the stone work of the rooftop. As the creature fell into a gruesome mess next to its pair, Willow felt her own blood loss reap havoc through her body. As she slumped to her knees, wheezing for breath through the red velvet flowing from her lips, Garvana dropped to the ground and raced to her side. Her firm grip grasped Willow by the shoulders, her profane incantation soothing the worst of the pain that throbbed from the gaping wounds. As the lingering touch of the profane healing staunched the flow of blood, Willow felt the vitality return to her consciousness. As the spell ended, and the forms of vampire spawn rose from the walls, Willow stood from her prone position.
“Work your way down,” Willow rasped to the spawn viciously, “Slaughter everything along your path.”
As the vampires hissed their approval and gracefully slid down into the building, Willow turned to Garvana.
“Thank you, sister.”
Before she could respond, Willow marched for the stairs.
“Find the gate,” she commanded Raiju, “Get it open, now.”
As the sounds of battle were replaced with the howls of terror, she followed the gruesome trail of massacre that the vampires had left. As she descended each level, she quickly checked over each room for any survivors that had been missed. When she found a chamber that she presumed to be the captains, she saw a heavy steel lockbox by his desk. She almost left it there, turning for the door to join the battle on the lower levels. But as usual, her curiosity got the better of her. Working quickly, she picked its lock and opened the chest to find a single leather bound tome. Flicking through its pages as she left the room, she found a detailed account of battle plans put in place if ever the Vale was to be attacked. Smirking as she descended the stairs, she slipped the tome into her pouch. As she came across a room filled with the blood shed of Mitran warriors, something she saw had her stopped in her tracks. At the far end of the chamber was a simple shrine. Upon the table, sat a silver chalice, humble yet beautiful in its simplicity. The aura that radiated from the chalice made the hairs on Willow’s neck stand on end. It would do nothing but harm to her, she knew with every fibre in her being. She shuddered, as her gaze lingered. Turning from the chamber, she saw that the warriors in the room had put up a decent fight against the spawn of Gaius. Yet only a single of his vampires lay dead amongst the carnage.


As the defenders of the watchtower fell, the heavy metal grate of the portcullis was lifted, opening the way for their army. Bor had slain the captain and his lieutenant, before singlehandedly taking out the two clay golems. While the sound of the raging horde of their troops approached, Willow looked to the town of Sanctum. Peaceful and serene it appeared by nightfall, only specks of light where street lanterns glittered. Silence garnered by their sanctuary, aware of the slaughter that was to come. As the waves of enraged bugbears poured through the gates of the Watchtower of Saintsbridge, the horns of alarm sounded from the sleeping town in the distance. Bathed in the blood of their enemies and the blood of her own wounds, she watched the glimmering lights illuminate in panic across the paradise that was Valtaerna. Their forces flooded into the valley; bloodthirsty bugbears, vicious duergar, fiendish vampires and leagues of sinful men. The ferocious battle cries so terrifying that they would strike fear in the heart of ordinary men. But Willow was no man, nor was she ordinary. She watched the forces of her warriors as they charged forward. She watched the sparkling lights carried by the men of Sanctum charge south to defend their home and charge willingly to their deaths. Wicked, some would call her, for her lack of sympathy or remorse. Wicked, for her conviction and mercilessness. But if that was what she must be to serve her glorious Prince of Darkness – then wicked was exactly what she would be…

minderp
2016-07-06, 01:29 AM
Ok! All up to date! Hopefully some one is getting some enjoyment out of my stories!
Our next session is a week and a half away, so anyone reading can expect the next edition some time shortly after!

Would love any feedback, so feel free to leave a comment! :)

Kapow
2016-07-06, 04:44 PM
Hey there,
I just read the first post and yes I enjoyed it very much.
Thanks for sharing.

I'll read a little bit more, before commenting further.

minderp
2016-07-30, 11:35 PM
Finally finished our latest escapades, hope you enjoy.
This one contains the Battle of Valtaerna, tried to write the fighting as tastefully and gracious as possible.
For my standards, though i will admit they are fairly desensitised to violence, it is fairly toned down. But just a warning for those of you who find descriptions of blood and gore distasteful - maybe give this one a miss.
:) - Mindy

Chapter 25 - Righteous Falling


And so the righteous fell; blood spilled upon the fertile earth, tainting the carob hue in a sickly crimson wave, seeping down to the roots tunnelled far beneath the sacred lands. It sunk into the depths of Avernus, as the first layer of Hell unleashed its fury upon the battlefield…

The horde swarmed the rich green lands of the Vale of Valtaerna, an army of savage brutes and fearsome warriors, bloodlust raging through their veins as they charged towards the slaughter. Willow kept close to Pellius as they pushed forward into the farmlands, listening keenly for his orders as he yelled them, his booming commands clear even over the chorus of feral cries echoing around them. The armies of Sanctum raced to defend their sanctified home, awoken from their peaceful slumber that night, eyes red and puffy yet alert and stricken with fear. They had cause to be fearful, for the savagery of the beasts that molested their domain, would offer no remorse nor mercy.
“FORTH MEN OF MITRA!” came the call from beyond the hill, “FEAR NO DARKNESS!”
Racing to crest the hillside, a rank of cavillers came into Willow’s sight. Eight holy warriors strode directly south in practiced arrow formation, with might and purpose they galloped towards the oncoming wave of bugbears. Donning glistening steel, elongated lances and faces of unwavering determination.
“Garvana!” Pellius called, “Quickly, the cavillers! The bugbears stand no chance while they are mounted!”
Garvana lifted a sliver of wood from her pouch, a curled small branch carved to hold rippling vines along its flank. With a thundering incantation she launched the arcane wisp in the direction of the horsemen. Suddenly, the ground unfurled with life. The shrubbery and foliage rippled and extended, emerald vines sprang forth, latching onto anything within their bounds. The green ropes laced themselves around the legs of the steeds, coiling up the creatures hides as they ripped the riders from their seats.
“HEAD TAKERS!” Pellius cried, “TASTE YOUR FURY! CHARGE FORTH!”
Growls and roars of gleeful hunger greeted his words, as the hundred ferocious creatures enveloped the Mitran warriors. As Pellius, Willow, Bor and Garvana continued their charge forward, they watched the veteran soldiers fight to their deaths, taking no small number of bugbears with them before the sheer number of brutes overwhelmed.
Willow waded through the sea of battle, slashing out her blades through the flesh of soldiers and men. She dodged the clumsy attack of an untrained soldier, quickly ducking under his swing and launching her dagger into his neck. As she fought, she did her best to end each life quickly, leaving none alive nor slowly dying. She had never fought in a war before, she had never battled in mass nor seen carnage of this scale. The bodies of the innocent piled beneath her feet, her eyes scanned ahead and below, her steps swift and light. As Willow ran forward, she focused on keeping her mind clear and free of the guilt that lingered, when suddenly she cried out in pain as an arrow from high above plunged deep into her shoulder. A torrent of fluttering arrows rained upon them, piercing into earth and flesh. Quickly scanning the surrounding hills, they struggled in the smothering darkness to make out their ranged assailants. While she ran, she inspected the wood jutting from her collarbone. The head of the bolt had only managed to sink an inch into her muscle, so she clenched her teeth and quickly ripped the point from her skin. With a loud curse, she charged onwards into the night, as second volley of arrows pelted around them. She was prepared this time, deftly rolling away from the barrage, avoiding the sharpened darts. They spotted the archers in the distance, defending a clearing upon the horizon, launching their arrows high into the blackened sky.
“The archers will pick off our men one by one!” Bor growled.
“Willow!” Garvana called, “Take Bor with you, I have Pellius!”
Ripping a rolled parchment free, Garvana began the incantation Willow knew as dimension door. She quickly followed suit, reaching for Bor’s arm as she recited her hurried words. As they were suddenly ripped through the otherworldly portal, Willow gripped her daggers and launched them forward as soon as she rippled into sight behind the archers. The others cleaved and hacked with their weapons, catching their enemies unaware, felling half of their ranks before they had time to react. When they heard the sounds of slaughter behind them, the wave of arrows launched towards the Forsaken. As Willow pirouetted under the bolts, she dextrously spun and lunged forward to plunge her blades into both sides of an archers’ neck. Suddenly, the whispered words of the captain had even time itself appear to screech to a halt. As if in slow motion, Willow turned her head towards the man, as she watched him whisper his arcane entranced words to the glittering pale ornate bow in his outstretched hands.
“DEATH TO THOSE WHO HAVE WRONGED ME!” a booming voice called from the cedar bow.
As seconds stretched to seem like minutes, he drew his arrow and unleashed it. The razor sharp point of the bolt came hurtling towards Willow, yet time did not seem to speed up as she struggled to move out of its path. A feral dread seeped into her bones, the sink of demise as the fatal wrath of the bow closed in. Suddenly, a mighty force collided with her, knocking her off her feet and sending her flying through the air. Bor had lunged in front of the arrow, taken the brunt of the attack with barely a flinch. All at once, time sped up and returned to normal. The fearsome roars of the waging army thundered all around them, the ominous beating of the drums that accompanied the fierce duergar rumbled throughout the Vale of Valtaerna. Willow sprang to her feet, diving underneath the bow’s second arrow and launching herself at the captain. She slashed her daggers deep into the splits of his armour, a flurry of attacks that ended as she carved her blade across his throat. As blood gushed and the bow fell from his grasp, he slumped to the ground as death greeted him. Once the last archer had been cut down, Willow rasped through a heavy chest and gave Bor a small smile.
“Thank you,” she said, holding out her arm.
He grasped her forearm and nodded stiffly before turning back towards the raging battle. The group quickly retrieved their vials of healing, taking shelter behind the sandbags that the archers had set up as they saw to their own wounds. Willow had not felt the other arrows that had pierced through the thick leather of her armour, their points only scraping the skin. She snapped the wood and pulled free the bolts as they prepared to continue their push forward.
All around them the cries of men sounded, iron clashed on steel, grunts, groans and hackles echoed off the teetering wall of mountains. It was a melody of slaughter, a song that dripped with the venom of blood and death. In the distance, Willow saw the last gasp of a priest of Mitra, his sapphire robes drenched in a violent red. With his last breath he sent a pellet of flame, that came hurtling towards the Forsaken. She was quick enough to tumble out of its way, the searing flames licking the tails of her clothing. It erupted in the centre of them, burning with vengeance, scalding the bare skin of Pellius and Garvana. Yet, like so many curiosities about him, Bor took the full brunt of the flaming explosion with not even a hint of discomfort. The flames had not scorched his skin, nor charred his wisping hair. Before Willow had time to comment, a rumbling deep voice shook the valley.
“AXES OF THE DWARVES!” called the warrior Willow knew as Durham One-Stroke, “THE DWARVES ARE UPON YOU!”
She saw the man dressed in mighty steel armour, brandishing his fearsome great axe, flanked by his contingent of dwarven warriors. Covering him as always from behind was his wife, known as Bride of Father Mountain, bathed in robes of radiant Mitran blue. The Forsaken watched as the dwarven battalion slew their way through the hordes of bugbears, fighting in practiced efficiency, carving a seemingly effortless path towards them. They were no mere Mitran soldiers; they were men of experienced battle and slaughter.
“Send the duergar!” Garvana called, tying off the bandage around her waist.
“Forget the duergar!” Bor roared, racing headlong to meet the dwarves, “I shall take them myself!”
“Ugh,” Pellius growled, following in haste, “Quickly, come on!”
“Sith-Mistrithith, nessith dorr firith!” Willow yelled, ordering Sith to attack.
The towering hell hound barrelled towards the dwarves, a torrent of flame spiralling from his jaws. His large stride overtook Bor as he lunged forward and devoured one of the soldiers in his fiery bite.
“BLASPHEMOUS MONSTROSITIES!” Durham bellowed, “FOR YOUR ATROSITIES, YOU WILL DIE BY MY HAND!”
As the Forsaken collided with the mighty warriors, an array of blood and steel flew through the air. Grumblejack charged from behind and cleaved his terrific blade with glee into the heavily armoured men. In a feral rage, Bor launched himself at Durham. The dwarven swords ripped shreds through his skin, but even as his blood gushed, he continued his relentless onslaught. Willow slipped behind them unseen, as Pellius and Garvana matched blow for blow against the Mitran force. She dove into the fray, thrusting her daggers into the exposed necks of the men from the rear. She heard the ferocious cry bellow from Bor as he plunged his feral greatsword through the heart of the mighty Thane of the dwarves.
“NO!” cried his wife, horror and fury painting her face, “DURHAM!”
Pellius parried an oncoming strike and rounded his weapon with enough might to knock the warrior to the ground, before he converged on the Bride of Father Mountain. It was with a great swing he battered the Warhammer from her hands. Willow wasted no time, racing behind her and swiftly slashing her daggers through her torso and throat. Suddenly, a painful cry howled from Grumblejack, the blades of the dwarves piercing deeply into his flesh. At the sight of his own blood coating his chest, there was no hesitation as he launched into the air in a desperate retreat. Distracted by his flight, Willow failed to dodge the sword that lashed through the side of her stomach. She growled in agony and frustration as she spun dextrously under his second swing, leaping backwards as it went wide, forced off course by the thundering power of Pellius’ mighty backswing. A terrifying roar came from Sith’s maw, as he leapt on the man and ripped his flesh from his bones in defence of his master.
As Bor howled and cleaved the last soldiers head from his shoulders, the frightening call of the bugbears screamed to the east. Brother Nicodemus Getz and the Serene Order were slaughtering their way through the army of brutes and beasts. Willow saw Nicodemus lift a bugbear twice his height, and effortlessly shatter its spine with a single thrust of his palm. Her head span, as the blood continued to pour from her wounds, looking to the others, she saw none had faired any better than herself.
“We must intervene!” Garvana called, desperately trying to stop the blood loss from the gaping wound along her shoulder, “Look at them! The bugbears are being massacred!”
After staunching the flow of the worst of her own wounds and drinking down multiple healing vials, Willow quickly ran to Pellius to bind the bloodied mess of laceration on his thigh.
“No!” Bor shouted furiously, “Look at us! We will be massacred along with them, we must heal!”
“We’ll send the vampires to slow them down!” Pellius snapped, exhaling stiffly as Willow pulled the bandage as tight as she could, “If nothing else, it will give us time to heal!”
He shouted his order to the vicious spawn of Gaius, before checking his leg over and drinking his own share of potions. Willow quickly approached Sith, feeding the ferocious creature a vial, soothing his growl with a soft stroke through his fur. Amidst the chaos of battle, Willow smiled despite herself. Sith now stood as tall as a horse, taller than her, so she could barely reach the top of his head when she rubbed his ears. Yet, although a feral beast from the deepest pits of hell, he still whined affectionately as she ran her fingers through his fiery mane.
As Willow regained her breath and Garvana channelled divine arcana to heal the group, she watched as the vampire spawn and the sacred monks fought in a terrible battle of bloodied fangs and flesh. Limbs flew, hisses and cries thundered, as a mist of scarlet rained upon the field. By the time the Forsaken had regained enough strength to push forward, the last monk and vampire lashed out in unison, slaying one another in an almost poetic demise.

“There!” Pellius called, “The bridge!”
“That is Saintsbridge,” Willow said, “The town is just passed it, over that hill.”
Bor growled, pointing to the distance, “But we’ve got them to deal with first.”
Two massive celestial constructions stood towering over the entrance to the sturdy stone bridge. Layered in gleaming golden armour, two Archons stood fast behind great shining shields. The waves of bugbears clashed against the frightening metal boards, and were repelled each time as their numbers thinned in a bloody shower of gore. Willow watched wide eyed as the arms of the archons reformed at will, one blink they held their immense shield, the next its arm reconstructed and extended into a sharpened lance that skewered the attackers on its end.
“Shield archons,” Bor grumbled, “Quickly, these are creatures only meant to hold the enemies at bay until the reinforcements arrive. Something much stronger is on the way.”
“I have to get behind them,” Willow frowned, “But it would be foolish to do so on my own.”
With a chuckle, Pellius gave her his devilish grin.
“I am feeling fairly foolish,” he winked.
Willow laughed, grinning in return.
“Sith-Mistrithith, nessith ti firith mer di,” she said to Sith, ordering him to distract them by attacking from the front.
He growled his response and leapt into a charge towards the archons, followed by Bor in a thundering sprint. Willow quickly looked the scene over before pulling her daggers free and holding out her hand to Pellius.
“Ready?” she grinned.
As he gripped her hand, Willow recited her incantation and they raced through the otherworldly portal and rippled into the realm, directly behind the fearsome archons. Sith funnelled his fiery breath towards the constructions, heating the metal flanks and charring the crisp edges. As Bor lunged towards them, so did Pellius and Willow, striking out with their blades in unison. She slashed her daggers in between the layers of golden steel, seeking any flesh beneath the fortress that was their armour. A flash of infernal heat crashed over her like a torrent wave, as Pellius called on the darkness to smite the archon, before his fearsome weapon tore like claws through the metal. Bor suddenly rippled in strange arcana, his muscles bulging as he doubled in size. He threw himself at the archon, frothing at the mouth in a venomous rage, blade flashing as he carved his out his fury.
Clashing metal rang out across the clearing, as the chorus of terror and slaughter trembled through the mountainous range. The sound could be heard from all corners of the Vale of Valtaerna, no soul could sleep through the massacre that thundered in the ebony night sky. Although outside of the once peaceful Vale the cold chill of winter had crept upon the land, inside the sacred grounds the atmosphere held a spring-like warmth, an easy temperature that enabled the fresh luscious greenery of the hollow to glimmer all year long. That greenery still grew in rich emerald hues along the scenic expanse. Now though, it laid in trampled mess painted in the blood of those who had lived amongst the serenity. It had been blackened by the taint that spread in a mass of beasts and abominations.
As Willow carved her blades in deadly precision, she struggled against the notion, that she was one of these abominations.
A sharp lash of agony surged through her shoulder, as the thick point of a lance ripped through her flesh and muscle. Pellius’ blade cut the limb from the archons socket, spinning into a backswing and taking the golden helmet and head from its body. A cry of a beast boomed from the sky. As the archons fell, the group looked in time to see a legion of blessed knights soaring through the air on the backs of mythical griffons. The fierce warriors donned in heraldic armour, gleaming and glistening in the fragrant touch of the moonlight. The griffons floating upon the breeze, coats the colour of the brightest dawn, feathers in each hue of autumns luminescent touch. They were without a doubt, the vanguard of Mitra’s elite.
They craned to the west before turning to the east and spiralling low to swoop and slash as they passed. Willow felt the flesh of her lower back split as she tried to dive out of their path. As they launched back into the air to turn for another pass, she quickly ducked behind the walls of the bridge and tore a healing vial free to consume its contents. As she watched them descend, saw heard Garvana’s booming words as she hurled a pellet of flame that glided across the sable canopy of sky and erupted between the mounted knights. Searing fire littered the atmosphere, scalding the wings of the mighty griffons, burning with enough heat to tear through two of the creatures and send them plummeting to the ground. As the remaining four screeched with fury, they soared towards the Forsaken, the ground trembling as they landed in a heavy crash. All at once, the battle resumed. Swords carving their path, sharpened blades of daggers and axes slashing and slicing, screams of wrath and pain. As the claws of the griffons raked their way across Willow’s cheek and neck, she lashed out in a terrifying flurry of blades. In a cloud of red vapoured blood, she tore the life from the griffon and its rider, felling them both in a passionate frenzy. She felt the sudden touch of a sickeningly sweet divine caress, the blessing of Mitra, a promise sworn by the holy warriors to smite the evil that had encroached upon his land. As the two knights that had fallen from the sky arrived by their comrade’s side, their blades tasted foul, their fight more righteous and the power that surrounded their blows more immense.
“We shall cast thee out!” cried one of the knights, “BACK TO HELL, YOU FIENDS!”
As his blade craned down, Willow barely managed to move her head from it’s path, the frighteningly sharp sword embedding itself into her shoulder. As the divine grace of Mitra surrounded him, she felt the Shining Lord sapping her will to fight along with her strength. Suddenly, his look of righteous might morphed into feral anguish, as a familiar blade came jutting out of his chest. Bor ripped it free as the knight fell to the stone ground, turning to face another as his own wounds gushed with velvet gore. Willow tore the blade from her shoulder as she ducked under another swing, tumbling to the right and pouncing forward to thrust her dagger through the plates of armour.
“FOR THE GLORY OF ASMODEUS!” cried Garvana, a rippling wave of infernal ire fulminating from her flesh.
As the wave crashed upon the knights, and the flaming vortex from Sith’s jaw ricocheted across them, they writhed and called out in agony. The last standing knight cleaved his weapon in desperation, his wounds dire and fatal, his strength and power fading. As his last breath was cut short by the thrust of Pellius’ blade, an ominous horn blew from the north. The group turned towards the town, chests heaving in exhaustion. The end of their battle was in sight, the last defence of Sanctum was all that stood in their way of victory. On the far side of Saintsbridge, stood a retinue of soldiers. But these, were no ordinary band of soldiers. Willow fumbled in her pouch and retrieved her last vial of healing, drinking it down as she backed up and watched the approaching group warily. Eight holy warriors stood in practiced formation, veteran knights walking in lockstep, stern faces weathered by the workings of time and experience. Behind them stood four men in radiant sapphire cloaks that billowed from behind glimmering full plate armour. They wore the livery of the Order of Saint Macarius. By the notches in their tabbards, Willow could tell they were senior members of the holy congregation. They held in their grasp identical morningstars, weapons of a brutal design, large rounded steel heads covered in frightfully sharp five inch long spikes. They marched with such cold grace, as if they knew their fate was sealed – and they had accepted and embraced it. They would fight with such righteousness, such purpose running through their veins, they would die and return to their Shining Lord with no regret. From the corner of her eye, Willow saw the rest of the Forsaken drink their vials and ready themselves. Sith prowled beside her, a venomous growl rumbling from his jaw. As the four priests cast their divine magic, Willow watched them shimmer with arcana, their bodies morphing and enlarging with the swell of enchantment. The legendary defenders grew to double their size, their shining armour rippling under the soft fire light that hummed from the Mountain of the Phoenix. With a deep breath, Willow growled her order to Sith.
“NESSITH!”
As Sith roared with sanguinary hunger, an explosion of hell fire pelting from his mouth, the Forsaken charged headlong into the chaos that ensued. Weapons flashed as blood was shed, wisps and rays of arcana firing through the air, beams of red and black burning and sundering armour and flesh. Pellius and Bor leapt into the fray, pushing their relentless onslaught upon the ranks of warriors. With each hit, the priests summoned Mitra’s grace to heal the wounds they had taken, forcing the Forsaken to curse in frustration. Garvana’s masculine voice cried from behind, as vines rippled from the earth surrounding the priests, latching on to their limbs and robes. Yet although it prevented them from continuing their march forward, the reach of their fearsome magic stretched far beyond the edges of the emerald vines. As Pellius and Bor cleaved through the mass of warriors, Willow knew she had to reach the priests. She leapt upon the walls of the bridge and dextrously toed her way along. A sudden beam of blindingly bright arcana craned directly towards her. As it neared she leaped high upon the stone bricks, flipping herself into the air, as the ray seared beneath her. She saw its path continue into the horde of battle surrounding the bridge, the white beam striking a nearby bugbear, obliterating him instantly and exploding into a radiant light bright enough to stun all who were nearby. As Willow landed, she called for Sith to follow and deftly ran along the bridges edge. A torrent of fireballs landed in bright vermillion eruptions around the priests, as Garvana hurled them one after another in a frightening display of malediction. Sith sprang upon the opposite side of the bridge, nimbly avoiding the warriors as he mirrored Willow and launched towards one of the priests. In a savage rage, Bor charged forward, cleaving his weapon erratically in a frenzy of feral wrath. Pellius bull rushed the last warrior, knocking him to the ground and plunging his fearsome weapon deep into his chest.
As their numbers fell, the priests of the Order of Saint Marcarius did not relent in their defence or attack. They did not surrender; they did not stop their fight until every last breath had been taken from their chests. They were honourable, and dedicated, to the very end. Pellius cleaved his axe with the might of the Infernal Father guiding his strike, its blade carved through the steel armour and continued its path through flesh until it flew out the far side in a shower of blood. Bor screamed his anger as the spikes of the morningstar ripped through the joint of his elbow, leaving his arm visibly weak and gushing. Yet he continued his powerful charge, gripping his greatsword fiercely as he propelled it forward and thrust it through the chest of the warrior with a trembling clash. As the warrior facing Willow stood and the thundering melody of steel and metal cascaded around him, his eyes narrowed upon her, his stoicism an unwavering manifestation of his iron will. He lunged forward with his mighty morningstar, as Willow tumbled to the side, trying to dodge his attack. As she sprang to her feet and she leaped forward, she screamed with the wrath of her Prince of Hell as he raced through her veins. She soared through the air and slashed her blades with a strength and malice she had never felt the likes of, as they carved through his flesh and the points fell deep into the wells of his collarbone. As she continued her descent, and the daggers forced themselves in to the hilt, her momentum carried her directly into the spikes of his waiting weapon. She landed as his morningstar bludgeoning her armour and the sharp spikes pierced directly through the centre of her stomach, ripping the skin apart as she collided into it’s base. As each priest fell to the ground, Willow felt the taste of blood seep into her mouth.
“G-garvana,” she managed to cough.
The thick crimson leaked from her lips as she collapsed heavily to her knees, clutching the savage weapon as it sat embedded in her stomach. The sound of the surrounding battle slowly faded, she yanked firmly on the Morningstar, barely hearing the scream that flew from her lips. As the world around her morphed from her sight, she felt her body fall limp from the ground, and the darkness enveloped her completely.

When her sight returned, Willow was not where she was meant to be. Where was i? She thought to herself. She frowned as she looked to her surroundings. A grey barren land of endless depths stretched as far as she could see. The horizon held no colour nor hue of life or vitality. In fact, the only thing that Willow could see was a vast tower that craned into the sky into seemingly endless heights. And to her right, was a river. Or a stream. Or a procession of something. For some reason, her mind could not decide. Her feet moved of their own volition, wandering aimlessly in a slow meander, unbothered or unaware of their journey. As her eyes trailed along the flow of the floating river, a strange thought drifted into her mind. Souls. It was a gliding course of souls. Her mind fogged as she tried to think, tried to focus on where she was or why she was here. She was not supposed to be here. But where am I supposed to be? She thought to herself. A white fog seemed to linger through her mind as her feet turned for the floating mass of ethereal wisps. With no intention, Willow found herself standing upon the edge of the crooning river, every fibre in her being drawn to the procession. She felt her eyes glaze over, her will to think her actions through had silenced and drifted away along with whatever she had been thinking. As her toes lingered on the edge of the river bank, she looked out to the teetering spire that awaited the flow. With a sigh slipping from her lips, she stepped forward…

A sudden tightness clenched her chest, she gasped for air through her compressed throat, as the battlefield that was Valtaerna came rushing into her vision.
“Willow!” Pellius called, his frowned pulling his brow deep, “Can you hear me?”
She coughed through the blood pooling in her throat, blinking rapidly at the world around her.
“Are you alright?” he asked, worry tinting his features.
“Y-yes,” she coughed, “W-what happened?”
She looked to Garvana, who was crouched over, frowning severely as her eyes scanned the life returning to Willow’s eyes.
“You died,” Garvana said seriously, “I… brought you back…”
Realisation dawned like a flooding wave crashing into her mind. Willow flung herself up into a sitting position, screeching at the pain that tore through her stomach.
“Not so fast!” Garvana snapped, “Lord, you’ll rip yourself open again!”
A small whimper of worry sounded from her right. She turned her head to see Sith’s contorted face high over head, something close to panic in his canine features. She smiled as she reached for him, whispering softly to soothe his worry. As Garvana began to cast another healing spell with her hands firmly against Willow’s stomach, a strange warmth seeped deep into her core. Willow looked down at the torn shred of her armour and gasped. Five gaping wounds littered her stomach, blood stains trailing heavily down her hips and thighs. As the divine arcana knit the open flesh together, Willow felt some of the tension in her core relax and unclench.
“Thank you, sister,” Willow said warmly.
“That’s twice in one night,” Garvana replied, a small smile on her lips, “Let us not make a habit out of it.”
Pellius held his hand out to Willow, his smile warm, yet his eyes filled with an intensity that betrayed his calm state.
“It is good to have you back, my lady,” he said, pulling her to her feet.
“Where do we stand?” Willow asked, looking out over the expanse, the black caress of night clouding the battle from view, “What of our armies?”
She could hear the raging roars of the brutes and the beasts in the distance, the cries of horror and bloodshed that ricocheted across the mountainous lands. The city to the north blazed in a barrage of fire and chaos, the bodies of both man and beast lay littering the once peaceful lands of the Vale.
“Our army has crossed the bridge,” he replied, “They have overwhelmed the forces in the city. At rough count, we have lost a quarter of the bugbear horde, half of the duergar and half of our men.”
Willow sighed as she eyed the piles of corpses that lay in clusters upon the battlefield.
“And yet,” she said quietly, “The count of those who lived here is more than three times that number, and it has only just begun.”
“War is not a thing of beauty, my lady,” he replied solemnly, “It is a necessity of bloodshed and death, one that we must see through to it’s end.”
“And the children?” she asked, eyebrows raised, a cold chill to her voice, “They will be devoured along with everyone else. Never given the chance to grow from their upbringing and find real faith within our Infernal Father’s grace. They will be slaughtered, because that is our order. That is what we must do. How do I stomach that?”
Pellius looked out to the town, his mind turning on his next words. The silenced stretched between them, the trembling roar in the distance like a sickening melody, composed of the torturous cries of the damned. As he opened his mouth to speak, Willow shook her head. She knew not what his words would be, yet she was unwilling to risk his response being something that would repulse her to her core. Instead, she recited a passage she had read long ago, a tale of truth in war and loss.
“War must be,” she said softly, “For there are wrongs to be righted, and such may be, only by the shedding of the blood of the innocent. But I do not love the bright blade for it’s sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which I call home. I love only that which I defend…”
“I love only,” Pellius finished the verse for her, “That which lays within His kingdom.”
Willow looked to him, seeing the same resignation within his eyes that she held in her heart. He did not enjoy the slaughter of innocents, yet he would do as he must, just as she would. With a heavy heart, she looked out over the burning expanse of the city of Sanctum. The Vale of Valtaerna had been devoured by the venomous force that had swept through the once paradise. No corner of the farmlands had been left untouched or undefiled. As the Forsaken made their way towards the town, flaming spires now raged where the temples had stood the last time she had visited. The bugbears rampaged in a frenzied bloodlust throughout the streets, looting and setting fires to the halls and houses as they swarmed. Willow strolled quietly as she eyed the wreckage and chaos that they had left in their wake, as Pellius and Bor stormed forward to regain control of the enraged horde. Their commands bellowed through the winding streets and echoed out into the night sky. As Willow walked with Sith close by her side, she looked north to the craning peak that was the Mountain of the Phoenix. They still had much to do before their mission could be deemed a success. It had been over two hours since they had first led the charge towards the Watchtower of Saintsbridge, although it had felt like many more. It took Pellius, Bor and both leaders of the bugbear bands, another two to rein the brutes back under control. Miraculously, they had managed to stave off the bloodlust of the feral horde in time to take prisoners from the civilians of the Vale. For the war that they were waging, it was good news. Even Willow could see the benefit of having prisoners, sources filled with useful information. But as the hollow of her stomach dropped once again, she sighed and stood in her resignation.
Pellius’ voice boomed from the centre of town, calling the leaders of each force together. Willow put her feelings aside and marched herself to the group converging in front of the once glorious townhall. The building was now a ramshackle of it’s former glory, its walls still smoking with the crisp blackened char now coating its foundations.
Pellius stood in regal might at the head of a burnt oak table, clearly dragged through the wreckage of a nearby building. The fearsome creature that was Shagaroth Night-Mane, stood to the side, his blackened wells of eyes consuming his surroundings, his gaze hungrily feeding from the carnage. Hekkarth toed side to side, controlled for a bugbear, but clearly resenting the fact that he was standing in a meeting and not out reaping havoc and seeking blood with his savage brethren. Zargun Arzen stood much like his father. A man of little words, yet a venom that seeped deep into the skin of those around him. Willow felt his ominous threat, made all the more menacing as he smiled at her as she approached. Bor stood tall by Pellius’ left side, blood staining his skin where wounds had been knitted up by arcane healing, his weapon still hefted in his hands. He, like Pellius, looked completely comfortable in his position at the war table. Garvana stood next to Bor, arms crossed over her chest, a stern expression on her face. Those who did not know her would not question her leadership nor experience, she held herself with a confident air of command. Yet after the last year and a half that Willow had spent with her, she had begun to understand the small creases showing beneath her eyes as worry and uncertainty. Willow on the other hand, knew little of battles and war. She had read many books detailing accounts of both, she had read many journals describing the daily life as a solider or commander. But she had never experienced anything such as this herself. So she listened intently as the men and beasts planned their next move. When she arrived to Pellius’ right, Sith flanked protectively by her side, Shagaroth arched his eyebrow.
“I did not hear you approach,” he mused, sounding almost impressed, in his cold and bitter way, “Saw you on the battlefield. Pretty vicious for something your size.”
“Like one of those little lapdogs,” Hekkarth chuckled, snapping his feral teeth, “Delicious.”
“I’d watch what you say,” Shagaroth interjected, eyeing Willow with a strange curiosity, “I watched her take a dwarves’ head from his shoulders… with nothing but a dagger.”
Hekkarth threw back his head in laughter, bellowing for a moment before he noticed that no one was laughing with him. He looked to Shagaroth, eyebrows raised in question. The creeping bugbear simply nodded, the corner of his lip tilting.
“I saw it too,” Arzen added in his own language, a hungry gaze paired with a callous grin, knowing only the two of them understood.
“Commander Albus,” Willow said, turning towards Pellius, “What is our next move?”
“We have taken the Vale,” he replied, looking over each of those in attendance at the meeting, “Now we must hold it until winter’s end. We have suffered a small number of losses considering the odds that were stacked against us. The Vale of Valtaerna is ours, and now we must storm the fortress of the Cathedral of Mitra Made Manifest. We must slaughter every last inhabitant of this valley, and claim all in the name of the mighty Prince of Darkness…”

And so the righteous fell; blood spilled upon the fertile earth, tainting the carob hue in a sickly crimson wave, seeping down to the roots tunnelled far beneath the sacred lands. Open, was the path to vengeance, the trail leading through the depths of the nine layers of hell itself. They would walk the path to glory, and they would condemn all who stood in their way.

minderp
2016-09-20, 11:56 PM
Sorry for the delay, not sure if anyone is actually reading these, but here the next one is anyway!

-Mindy

Chapter 26 - Fire and Wrath, Part 1


Darkness has ever been a force that came with purpose. It never lingered longer than its need, its natural state darkening the land for only long enough to stay in tune with the grand cycle of the multiverse. This had always been the timeless path it took. Yet, as the last of the bloodcurdling screams faded into the the twilight air, the morning sun did not seem to rise above Talingarde. A foreboding darkness smothered the expanse of the sky, a menacing loom that dimmed the furthest reaches of the canopy above, hiding the sun from sight. As winter came in earnest to the Vale of Valtaerna, the snow and sleet covering the lands in a way that no inhabitant of Sanctum could remember ever having taken place, its heavy sheet clogged the pass in an almost impenetrable way. When the ranks of the Forsaken had passed through the Watchtower of Saintsbridge, the first days of winter had begun. It had only left the lightest of falls, a tempered pale not yet enough to cover the vibrant emerald hues of the lush landscape. Now, the blood stained land lay hidden under the opaque white layer of winters grace.
Willow watched the morning curiosity through the gaping hole in the roof of a semi burnt building near the centre of town. As she waited for the return and report of the bugbear chieftains, she saw the trial of the suns’ warmth lose its battle against the dense fog of misery that sheltered the light. Perhaps, the early onset of winter had merely been the seasons natural course, a simple coincidence of impeccable timing. Perhaps the darkness was a merely symptom of the frosted chill come early. Willow smiled up to the sky; she did not believe in such coincidences. Perhaps, she thought, her Infernal Father was watching the deeds of the Nessian knot – and was pleased.

Midday came to the land, a ghostly shadow directly over head looming in the smog of sky, barely visible enough to signify the direction of time. The Forsaken were called to a meeting of the leaders to hear the reports of the state of the Vale. Once again, Shagaroth and Hekkarth stood by the burnt oak table, awaiting the arrival of the Nessian Knot. Clutched in the fist of Hekkarth was the man Willow recognised as the mayor of Sanctum. Hekkarth dropped the snivelling man to the ground in front of the Knot.
“We have taken almost two thousand of these cattle prisoners,” Hekkarth snarled, “This one would not stop pleading to speak with you.”
“Timeon Lotte,” Willow acknowledged, arching her eyebrow.
He scrambled in a crawl to her feet, bowing and grovelling, his voice shaking through his words.
“Oh great and terrible lords,” he trembled, “We surrender! The township of Sanctum and the Vale of Valtaerna is yours! I beg you, free the women and children. They are no threat to you! Spare them and with the spring they will spread word of your great power and victory of awe, to every corner of Talingarde! All will fear you!”
Willow steeled the stoic expression in her eyes as she watched the man plead, bow and scrape at her feet. She turned from him, looking to Pellius who stood by her side.
“Our orders were clear,” she said quietly and as coldly as she could.
“Indeed, they were,” Pellius replied.
It was the year of strenuous servitude that had hardened Willow’s exterior. The hard work and callous decisions she had been forced to make, that had given the ability to shield her emotions from her face. For now, her heart ached for the children. She felt little mercy for the adults among the prisoners, for they would have slaughtered her for the very reason they in turn would die. Faith. As they would put her to the stake for her faith in the mighty Asmodeus, she would do the same for their faith in Mitra. But the children, they were the real innocents. Not yet having had the chance to grow and strive within the world. They were the sacrifices that had to be made, they were the grim and awful truth of war.
“We cannot leave any alive,” Garvana said quietly.
Hekkarth stepped forward, a grin of hungry savagery along his toothy maw.
“Let me build a pyramid of skulls in the centre of town, my lords,” he growled, “With the deep chill of winter, it will freeze into a solid block of blood and ice. When we leave and the Mitrans retake this sewer pit, they will find our mark and know it was the Headtakers that did this!”
Shagaorth clicked his tongue at the bugbear, “There will be time to build pyramids out of skulls, Hekkarth. Before we sever the heads, perhaps we should learn what is inside them first. The Vale is not yet entirely ours. A light still burns on the Mountain of the Phoenix, and the Cathedral is unconquered. I could begin torturing the survivors to see what they know?”
Willow cringed internally, the suggestions of the brutes chilling her to the bone. It took all the will she had to keep the bile building in her throat from spilling into her mouth. A sudden ripple flashed across the sky, as if lightening she could not see bellowed from the grey canvas. She knew her Infernal Lord was watching, listening to every word she spoke, and every thought she did not. Her eyes searched the hollows of the others in the Nessian Knot. Her resignation was mirrored in each of their sullen expressions. She looked to Pellius last, and at the stoical determination she saw, she nodded sharply.
“Proceed Shagaorth,” he said firmly, “Begin with the Mayor, then move on as you must. When you are finished with them, Hekkarth may build his pyramid.”
Both bugbear chieftains grinned with feral delight.
“You shall have a report within the week, my lords,” Shagaroth snarled, snatching the collar of the mortified looking man.
“Please don’t do this!” cried Lotte, “You don’t have to do this!”
As Shagaroth growled his terrifying snarl to silence the man and turned to begin his butchery, Willow stilled them with a viciously rasped command.
“The children,” she said, “They are not to suffer. Kill them quickly.”
Shagaroth turned on his heel and eyed her curiously. His consuming gaze raked her face, his black beady eyes searching in intrigue.
“Do you understand?” she snapped.
“Yes, my lord,” he nodded, his eyes still locked to hers.
Willow’s lip curled at the depraved glee within his face, he was no mere savage brute; he was more of a sadistic fiend relishing the joy of the heinous acts he was tasked with committing. The hairs on her neck did not lower until the bugbears dragged the crying man out of sight. Willow’s heart felt the iced chill, as if winter had frozen it even through the layers of warm fur she wore. She turned her eyes from the ruins of the town centre, looking north the craning peak of the Mountain of the Phoenix. The soft glow of warm light still lingered from the summit, the darkness shadowing the rest of the land only penetrated by the glow atop the rocky spire. To steer her mind from the horrendous acts she was allowing, she turned her thoughts to the remaining obstacles in their path. As she opened her mouth to speak with the Forsaken, she saw Prince Zargun approaching from the east.
“Our pact is fulfilled,” he said in the common tongue, “It is a great victory!”
“A glorious one, indeed,” Pellius responded, inclining his head.
“Now,” he said viciously, “I demand you hand over the entirety of the dwarven prisoners! And then we shall return to Zhaanzen Kryr, in the grace of victory, with our spoils of war in hand!”
Willow raised her eyebrows at his demand, yet saw no fault in his request. Pellius turned his head to the others, eyebrow cocked in question, looking for any objections. When he saw none, he nodded to Arzen.
“You may take your spoils,” he replied formally, “And we will relish this alliance in the light of this victory.”
A feral grin lifted the duergars lips, “I declare the Forsaken, friends of the Duergar of Zhaanzen Kryr! You will forever be welcome in our home!”
“I command only this,” Willow rasped in his mother-tongue, “You will personally see that not a single one escapes their fated death.”
He cackled, a loud and booming laugh, “Of that you can be sure, my lady.”
Willow did not laugh along with him, her face still cold and callous.
“It is on your head, Arzen,” she warned, “Not a single one.”
Though his malicious grin did not falter, he replied in a vow.
“You have my word,” Arzen replied, “Every last one will face their fate, though their deaths may not come for a while yet.”
With that, he marched from them, to gather his force and prisoners to prepare for their journey home. Willow sighed, turning to the others, the fatigue and exhaustion sweeping through her.
“Are we done here?” she asked, “I believe I’d like to rest for a time.”
“We have more to discuss,” Pellius replied, a strange hint of concern in his features as he looked her over, “But perhaps we shall find a place to retire first.”
“If I remember correctly,” Garvana offered, “The mayors’ manor was on the western side of town. I believe that region was left relatively untouched?”
“Very well,” Pellius nodded, “Lead the way.”

Garvana had been correct in her prediction of the western region of Sanctum. Although at least half of the city’s homes and houses had been destroyed by savage raiding and looting, the manors upon the regions edge had been missed in the fire and battle. The mayors’ manor was a modest estate, small in size, yet decorated in fairly fine furnishings. Bor set the fire place alight while Garvana searched the manors kitchen for refreshment. Willow found her way to the bathroom, using the wash basin to cleanse away the worst of the blood staining her skin. Her mind drifted while her eyes followed the cloth as it wiped away the crusted crimson mess from the flesh of her neck and face. As she unbuckled the latches of her breastplate, she cringed as she pulled it away and the skin tore around the tender wounds on her stomach. Unlacing her corset, she peeled the camisole free and lifted it over her head. Five wrinkled scars had knitted themselves along her stomach. As she traced them with her fingers, she frowned. A barren grey wasteland. The image flickered into her mind, and just as quickly disappeared. She had seen something, she had gone somewhere, experienced something as her eyes had closed and the last breath had left her lungs. But what was it? She had no memory of being in a place like the empty landscape of grey. She could not remember where she had seen such a place.
A knock on the door startled her, the cloth slipping from her fingers and dropping to the floor, its once white fleece now smeared with carob and crimson.
“My lady,” came Pellius’ voice from beyond the door, “Are you alright?”
“Of course,” Willow said as she rushed to cover herself with a towel, “You may come in.”
The door opened and he stepped through, closing it behind him. As he looked to her, his brow dropped deep into a frown.
“How are your wounds?” he asked, reaching to pull her towel free.
Willow held the fabric tightly, stepping back from his reach.
“They are fine,” she said shortly, “They shall heal properly in time.”
A sudden strange look passed over his face.
“Do not be so stubborn, Willow,” he said, stepping forward to her, “Will you allow me to examine them?”
“I am alright,” she replied, “Do not trouble yourself.”
“Willow,” he warned, in a more forceful voice than his usual commanding tone.
Hesitantly, she sighed. She dropped the towel slowly, letting it fall to the floor. The blood still crusted along her flesh as his fingers trailed over each wound carefully. He did not speak as he inspected her wounds, his touch gentle and soft, as his expression grew guarded. Willow had known him for long enough to realise that there was more stirring through his mind than worry of infection. As she watched his peculiar reactions, his fist clenched upon itself as his eyes slammed shut. It was only a momentary lapse in his calm presence, but it was enough to pique her curiosity. Before she had time to question, he withdrew his hand and his charming exterior returned.
“I shall heat some water for you,” he said politely, gathering up her armour as he looked over the tears in the leather, “Perhaps Garvana has some form of arcana to mend this. The meeting shall wait until you feel up to it.”
“Thank you,” Willow said quietly, staring into the mirror, thinking over his strange reactions.
He nodded to her, watching her for a moment before leaving the room. For a short time after he had gone, she simply looked vacantly at her reflection. Her mind mused over what could be troubling him so, yet she felt the fatigue too great to really take it all in. When footsteps sounded down the hall, she shook her head to clear the haze. She turned to her pack and pulled free the warm nightgown she had tucked away. Pellius came back and forth, carting pails of water to fill the brass tub, staying in silence as he departed each time. As Willow laid out her belongings, she was surprised that a softer knock came from the door.
“Come in,” she called, pulling the towel around her again.
When it opened, she saw Garvana carrying a large pail of steaming water, a strange look painted on her face.
“I am sorry to intrude,” she said respectfully.
“You are not intruding,” Willow said, “Come in.”
Garvana poured the last bucket into the tub, placing the pail to the side.
“May I aid you?” she asked, “The spikes pierced through to your back, and it is imperative that the wounds are cleaned thoroughly.”
Willow smiled at Garvana’s awkward demeanour, only now feeling the twinge of ache in her lower back.
“I would appreciate it,” Willow responded.
As she carefully hung the towel upon the railing, she began to unbuckle her trousers when she saw Garvana turn her head away in haste.
Willow laughed softly, “You need not look away, sister. I have little modesty left.”
Garvana smiled sheepishly, slowly turning back. Once Willow was bare, she stiffly lifted herself over the side of the tub and lowered herself into the steaming bath. The burning water stung each cut along her flesh, a searing agony that somehow eased the ache within her frame. For a moment, she simply sat in the caress of the warmth, letting the water cleanse her wounds as it cleansed her worry. It was only the movement of a fleeced cloth along her back that woke her from her dream state.
“You call me sister,” Garvana said quietly, softly tracing the cloth along Willow’s back, “Why do you call me that?”
Willow sighed into the simmering broth that filled the bath, “Would you prefer I did not?”
“No, no!” Garvana rushed, “It is just, I wonder why you call me sister?”
Her eyes closing of their own accord, Willow spoke soft and lazy words.
“Perhaps it is your station within our Church of Asmodeus,” she said, “You are a priest, are you not? It is your title.”
“Oh,” Garvana said, sounding almost disappointed, “Yes, that is my title.”
“Or perhaps,” Willow continued softly, “I consider you a sister. We have been thrown into this righteous path of fate together. We have the world against us, the odds are immeasurably against us, and we must work together to overcome it all. Perhaps, to me, the trails of fate that we face has made us sisters…”
The cloth along her back stilled for a moment. As the silence lingered, Willow opened her eyes and turned to Garvana. Her eyes were heavy; shadows fell deep in the wells beneath her lids. Willow knew hers looked much the same.
“I consider you a sister too,” Garvana said quietly.
As she began to clean the bloodied mess from Willow’s back once again, they stayed in mutual silence for a time. When she had finished, and Willow had cleansed her own front, Garvana guided her head back to wash the crimson from her hair. With her ears drifting above the water, Garvana spoke.
“May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Willow replied hazily.
“I had always believed that I had been blessed with innate strength for a purpose. I believed it was my destiny to fight my way to the top with brawn and might. And yet, I look back over our victories and we have achieved the same, almost more with subtly and deceit. Why do you think it so?”
Willow smiled, her eyes closed as Garvana’s fingers cleansed her sable locks.
“We serve the Master of Trickery, the Lord of Deception. Did you not think employing His own tactics would further our goals? My Grandfather once told me that wars will be won by the sword and shield, but if the enemy has his eyes closed, then he will never see your blade coming.”
She heard Garvana’s smile in her words, “Then we have closed the eyes of many along our path. I know I have been over zealous in my approach, but I believe I am being drawn to a different path. I can see the benefits, and I feel as if our Infernal Father is guiding me by offering me a sliver of His power.”
“Then you are truly blessed,” Willow replied, “It will serve you well. He possesses untold power, that He chooses to wield over others, tricking the simple minded into what ever he desires. It is wise to follow his guidance.”
“We would have not succeeded in Balentyne, were in not for our deception; our infiltration and disguises allowed us free reign of the Watchtower. In Farholde, our deceit allowed to move about the city raising no suspicion. And Vetra-kali! We tricked an Archdeacon into banishment! We had him hand his gift over and we sent him back into the abyss!”
Willow smiled as she lifted her head from the water, her hair slick to her back as she turned to face Garvana.
“And the Watchtower of Saintsbridge,” she said with a sly grin, “The men and beasts may have cleared the battlefield, but it was us who cleared the way. Were it not for our silent approach, we would have lost the element of surprise and had to face the full extent of the army with the towering walls guarding them.”
“Yes!” Garvana growled, splashing the red tinted water across the room, “You understand this! You understand where it is I am being drawn!”
Willow chuckled, “Calm sister, calm. Yes, I understand. It is a wise path indeed.”
Garvana grinned, ignoring the wet that had sprayed along her own clothing.
“Then I will follow it,” she said determinedly, “I will follow His path!”

The warmth from the fireplace heated the living area as Willow curled up by the flame upon a cushioned armchair. She had combed her wet hair back off her face, allowing it to lay free to dry as she sat wrapped in layers of fur blankets. As Bor and Pellius returned from their errands, they accepted the shabbily made food that Garvana had prepared.
“We have set a portion of the bugbears to stay on watch,” Bor reported, “Keep vigil and alert us to any movement in the north.”
“The Headtakers are looting the rest of the city,” Pellius added, “With orders to bring all the spoils to the centre of town, for us to inspect and hand out as we see fit.”
“Ha,” Willow scoffed, “They will steal half of what they find.”
“Nevertheless,” Garvana shrugged, “They do not have much use for trinkets and potions, it is really only them that we have need of.”
“And what of the Watchtower?” Willow asked.
“We have not organised anything of yet,” Pellius frowned.
“The headtakers can man it,” Bor grunted.
“Do not be foolish,” Willow countered, “We are tasked with keeping this slaughter a secret until spring. Wayward travellers who see bugbears along the gates will flee and send for aid. Perhaps we man it with our men, dress them up as the Mitran guards.”
“Yes,” Pellius nodded, “Tell them to keep the ruse going long enough to allow travellers inside and ambush them once the gate is closed.”
“Grumblejack can take charge of them,” Willow added, “But stay well out of sight.”
“And the gold and possessions within the watchtower?” Garvana asked.
“Give them to our men,” Willow shrugged, “We need to start rewarding good service, we have little need of the small amount of treasure that the watchtower holds.”
“Agreed,” Pellius said, “They have done well, they held their own in battle and the losses they suffered were far less than I imagined.”
“Has Shagaroth began his interrogations?” Willow asked, keeping the cringe from her voice.
“He has,” Pellius nodded, unfazed by the process, “We have a week until his report. Perhaps it is a week best spent resting and preparing for our push towards the Cathedral.”
“I shall scout the north after dusk falls,” Willow said.
“Do not be ridiculous!” Pellius snapped suddenly, “You have barely recovered from your wounds. You will not be going anywhere.”
“I beg your pardon?” Willow stammered, eyebrows shooting high.
“Willow,” he sighed, the fatigue seeming to sweep through him as if the words he spoke were more effort than he could muster, “You must rest. It would be foolish to allow you north before we are at full strength. You will not be going.”
The audacity he had to command her so, lit a fire of furious rebellion within her body. She warred with herself bitterly. It was only as she noticed that the determination within his eyes held a hint of desperation, that she stayed her bucking thoughts of disobedience. When she took a moment to settle herself, she had to concede that in her current state, even she could not guarantee a successful infiltration.
“I shall send Cassandra and Kurtis once dusk falls,” Willow said plainly, keeping the disdain from her voice, “With any luck, they’ll return alive with information on the north.”
“Very well,” he approved in a sigh, “The headtakers will have finished by then, send them along and we shall see what the town held…”

The dimming of the sky as dusk came to Valtaerna, made little difference to the shadowed caress of the day. Through fire lit streets, the group made their way towards the centre of town. The bugbears had settled in to their temporary home as if they had lived in the Vale all of their lives. The burnt husks of homes were a luxurious delight compared to the tattered mess that was the Castle of Westkirk. The grisly remains of the battle still covered the streets. The blood smeared across the stone cobbled paths had turned a sickly brown as it began seeping visibly through the layers of ice and snow. The screams of the tortured rang in a highpitched chorus of terror throughout the valley. As the group arrived in the centre of town, they saw a glimmering pile of silver furniture and shining valuables, layered upon themselves in a heap. Pellius received the report of their task, while Bor and Garvana began sifting through the treasure pile. As Willow approached, a pulse of ominous dark energy tingled her nerve endings. The pulse held the lingering touch of her Prince of Darkness. She smiled at the pleasurable warmth as she lifted items out of her way. It was then, that she saw it. A shield, its edges burnt and crisp, charred marks staining the sable steel and covering the searing mark beneath. She wiped the soot with her sleeve and felt her chest involuntarily intake breath sharply. The five pointed inverted pentagram had been smouldered into the seal, gleaming above a slender insignia of a crow with razor sharp talons. Willow frowned, as she searched her memory, a hint of recognition flittering in her mind.
“Hekkarth!” she beckoned, “Where did you find this?”
The bugbear chieftain shrugged, “Lying around one of the churches.”
“In which church?” Willow snarled, feeling her temper flare, “It is a shield painted in Asmodean heraldry, it would not be simply, lying around a church.”
The menacing warning in her tone seemed to register within the bugbear. For only a moment, a hint of fear trickled across his eyes. Though not fearful when he replied, even his words were more respectful.
“In the church to the east, my lord. Under a plaque which said something like ‘Behold the shield of the last Asmodean knight Talingarde, having died by fire, he now burns forever.’”
“The last Asmodean knight?” Willow said in awe, more to herself than to Hekkarth, “Skerrdohk… the Eternal.”
“Who?” Hekkarth asked warily.
“Nevermind,” Willow clipped, “Carry on.”
She turned from him, staring down at the charred steel. The glorious stories that her grandfather had told of Skerrdohk came drifting to her mind.
“Garvana,” Willow called, “I think you might like this.”
Garvana dropped the pile of cheap jewellery she was holding and approached Willow in curiosity. Her eyes widened when she saw the insignia.
“Do you know of Skerrdohk the Eternal?” Willow asked.
“No,” she replied, mouth opening in awe.
“He was a knight of Asmodeus,” Willow smiled, “An Inquisitor to be exact. He began as a lowly priest and worked his way up the line, to become the most feared Asmodean in Talingarde. He was guided by Asmodeus, and performed feats of battle and deceit that no stories could do justice. I think, you should have this…”
Garvana gingerly grabbed the shield, staring at in amazement and wonder. Her mouth still hung open slightly, speechless as her eyes traced over the superb craftsmanship.
“And I believe,” came Pellius voice from behind, “You should have these.”
Willow turned with a coy smile on her lips, eyeing the rough gloves he held in his hands.
“They look about your size,” he chuffed.
Willow slipped her hands in each glove, looking at the strange pleats along the palms. Ebony black leather crafted into tight forming slips, the pads of the finger covered in thousands of tiny crevices, like slender hairs that were kept short and dense.
“What are they?” she frowned, as she clutched her fingers and the gloves seemed to shrink and retract comfortably on her hands.
“Infused with magic that will aid in climbing and swimming,” he said, looking from the deep sapphire lake to the tall spire of the Mountain of the Phoenix, “They should be useful.”
“Indeed,” Willow replied with a smile that faltered when she looked over the horde of treasure, “But is there nothing for you?”
He grinned and banged his fist upon the immense shield he had strapped to his back.
“The Mitran sergeant’s shield is of impeccable make, it will serve well.”

The soft rasp of fleece against steel, methodically played in a perfect tempo, roused Willow from her slumber. Her eyes flickered open as the dim light of the morning sky glowed through the ice stained windowpane. When she softly lifted her head, she saw Pellius surrounded by his impressive array of weapons. A great longspear, a greataxe, his mighty warhammer, the glistening white bow, and more steel than she knew he possessed. Wearing only a simple loose fitting white shirt and his grey trousers, he carefully tended to each weapon with the same slow and regimented care. His hands smoothed through the motions, though his mind was far from the menial work. Watching his all telling brow, Willow saw the taint of sorrow, worry and anger drift across his expression as if dancing emotions rippled in his mind. She had not noticed before, but as close to fatal as the battle had proved for most of the Forsaken, Pellius had remained almost unscathed. As she pulled the satin sheet around her chest, she gently lifted herself to a seated position. When she stirred, Pellius looked up from his task and set aside his shield, walking to her side and lifting a cup from the dresser. Willow smelt the lingering scent of cocoa wafting from the ceramic cup.
“How are you feeling?” he asked seriously, his brow pulled tight in worry.
A small chuckle escaped her lips, his overprotective manor tickling her senses.
“I am fine, Pellius,” she said softly, “You need not worry.”
At her laugh, his charming demeanour returned. His handsome smile lighting his face, although the strange worry did not dissipate completely.
“What is troubling you so?” she asked, reaching to trace her finger along his cheek.
“Nothing, my lady,” he replied dismissively, “I merely wish to see to your comfort.”
“Pellius…” Willow began.
“Do not fret,” he hushed, pushing the cup into her hands, “It is nothing.”
Willow frowned, intrigued to delve further into his mind, but deciding to stay her questions. She sipped the warm milky brew delicately, staring back into Pellius’ eyes as she blew the steam from the rim. Curious, she found the way he watched her drink, searching her face for the reactions he was seeking.
“What is it?” Willow sighed eventually, “What are you searching for?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he replied, seemingly deflecting the question, indicating to her stomach, “What was it like? Although I have some understanding of the afterlife, it is not everyday I get to sit and have breakfast with someone who has been to the otherside.”
“I…” she stammered, her eyes dropping to the contents of her cup, “I am unsure. I remember so little. I have flashes and splinters of memory; scenes of a desolate grey barren landscape.”
“Is that all?” he asked, sounding intrigued, “Was there anyone, waiting, for you?”
Willow frowned, gently shaking her head, “I do not think it works like that. There was, a stream. An endless torrent of souls… but I know not where they were going.”
“Did you feel His presence there?” he questioned.
“No,” Willow answered with certainty, “I did not go to His realm. The domain I entered was one of equal and unfeeling… neutrality.”
Pellius nodded in understanding, “Pharasma rules the afterlife with just cause.”
As she drained the last of the cocoa from her cup, she returned it to its saucer and began to slide her legs over the edge of the bed, when his hand stopped her.
“I have posted two of the Chapter of Asmodeus outside of our door,” he said, “Fava and Jurok. To accommodate your needs so you may rest. You are not to go anywhere without informing them.”
“Pellius,” Willow scowled, “I am not a child. I will do no such thing.”
“I am not asking you, Willow,” he warned, “I am telling you, and you will listen.”
“Pellius!” Willow snapped, “Enough! I understand your concern, but this is ridiculous!”
Suddenly his wide palm gripped her slender waist, as his thumb dug deeply into the newly knitted flesh of one of her wounds. The pain rippled through her torso as the ache craned harshly in her stomach. His eyes flashed with scarlet wrath, as his words rasped with dark promise.
“You are too important to have die on some curiosity fueled scouting mission!” he growled, “Especially after your recent injuries! Asmodeus has granted you freedom from Pharasma's hold, and I will not let you fall! The Knot must hold.”
Her breath came in jagged bursts as the pain radiated through her veins. The sheer command in his voice swelled his infernal blood, it’s pulse crashing against Willow’s will like a wave of profane catastrophe, daring her to disobey him. As his fingers released his crushing grip, the pain slowly receded, leaving her panting rapidly through a tight chest. It was only as he broke his gaze and turned his head away that she heard his own shallow breaths.
“Is that clear?” he asked, a quiet voice filled with terrible menace.
Willow could feel the raging fire of his diabolical side, warring within him, fighting for control. At the throbbing beat of his dark struggle, she felt the amorous flint of desire light within her. Allowing the sheets to drop from her chest, she gently lifted herself to her knees. As she moved with preternatural grace, the mattress barely shook as she slid behind him. She leant in close, delicately tracing her tongue along the lobe of his ear, delighting in his sudden sharp intake of breath.
“Just how restful,” she whispered silkily, “Does this rest day have to be?”
Pressed firmly against his back, she felt the rumble of his growl as it sounded from his throat. He pulled from her grasp as he stood, quickly turning towards her as he reached forward to clutch her throat in his grip. He effortless lifted her into the air, driving her slender frame back down into the bed. He crushed his lips upon hers, dragging his teeth painfully along the curve of her mouth. Just as quickly as he had pressed his weight into her, he retreated and tore himself away. Although she saw the strenuous effort it took to control and deny the beast within him, he laughed in almost ease and shook his head. Gently gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her lips.
“Rest,” he whispered, a small smile on his lips, turning for the door, “And please, my lady, do not hesitate to ask Fava or Jurak for anything you may seek…”


*Continued in Part 2*

minderp
2016-09-20, 11:57 PM
Chapter 26 - Fire and Wrath, Part 2


The north of Valtaerna remained quiet in it’s vigil, as the week passed by with little disruption. Willow had sent her scouts north through the forest each night to scout the entrance hall to the Cathedral, noting the same six legion archons standing guard, unmoving in stance along the dock. The city of Sanctum however, was anything but quiet. Shagaroth was unmerciful in his command, his retinue cold and cruel in their approach, yet efficient and dedicated. Pellius regularly checked their progress as the days passed, reporting their competence to the members of the Nessian Knot. When the week came to an end and Shagaroth called a meeting, Willow was relieved that her inactivity would be at an end and the screams that sang out through the days and nights would finally cease.
“The torture’s gone well,” Shagaroth grinned, “Oh how talkative my new friends have been. First, you missed somebody. The head of the Order of Macarius wasn’t in the battle.”
“Earnan MacCathlain,” Willow remembered, “You’re right. He should have been leading the priests at the end of the battle.”
“Yeah, no idea where he is,” Shagaroth shrugged, “But I bet he’s up to no good. Some of the people feel like he’s betrayed them, but most believe he must have a plan to defeat us and liberate the Vale. But no one seems to know exactly what that plan is.”
“The head of the Serene Order was absent as well,” Willow mused quietly.
“Second,” the bugbear continued, “There is an actual phoenix on top of that mountain. It’s as big as a house, it breathes fire and has been there for longer than anyone can remember.”
“We presumed as much,” Garvana nodded.
“Good luck with that,” Shagaroth scoffed, “And third, everyone agrees that there are angels in the Garden of Serenity. How many, they ain’t sure. But angels. And if you make it passed the labyrinth, there are probably more angels in the Cathedral. There is something powerful in this valley they believe will defeat you. Its name is Ara Mathra. I’m not sure what it is, maybe that’s the phoenix’s name.”
“No,” Willow said grimly, “He who stands in light. Ara Mathra is an angel, a powerful celestial being. A divine grace of Mitra, sent to guard the Vale of Valtaerna from the vicious tide of evil in the world. He was sent here, to try to stop us.”
Shagaroth stared back at her, mouth agape. It took a moment for him to recover and shake his head.
“Good luck with that,” was all he said.
“Is there anything else to report?” Pellius asked.
“Nothing worth wasting your time,” he shrugged, “Seems you lot have a great deal to do.”
“You’re not going to aid us?” Garvana asked, a dark warning in her tone.
Shagaroth laughed, “Our orders were to fight and take the Vale. No one mentioned fire breathing phoenixes or angels. We’ll keep the city occupied until you return. If, you return.”
With that, he nodded to the Nessian Knot and withdrew.
“Well,” Bor said, “Should we face the mountain first, or the Cathedral?”
“The mountain,” Pellius said, “Best not take on Ara Mathra with a phoenix on our tail…”

The sun rose, a shimmer of light barley visible through the darkened cloud over head, as the morning of the following day dawned. With pockets and pouches filled with scrolls, wands and potions, the group marched through town towards the dockside. When they reached the lake edge, Bor stopped them and began an enchanting incantation, reaching out and touching Willow’s arm. The cold chill in the air suddenly evaporated, the frosted wind turned delicate temperate breeze. Willow frowned, looking to the orc in question.
“There is much I do not know about you,” she mused, arching an eyebrow.
The only response she received was a sly grin that tilted his lips. With a wink, he stepped off the dock, out into the water. Willow’s startled gasp was silenced as she watched his feet tread easily atop the waters edge.
“Come on,” he laughed, “The water’s lovely this time of year.”
Willow frowned, delicately testing the water with her right foot. She gingerly tapped the surface with her boot, warily putting her weight down. The water rippled as she transferred all her weight into her step, yet she did not fall through into the shallow depths of the shoreline. The strangest sensation came over her as she carefully walked out across the lake to where Bor was standing, laughing at the others as they warily took their first steps.
“So many secrets,” Willow chuckled, finding more confidence in her stride.
He merely grinned, turning away to skim the lake’s surface, heading for the towering Mountain of the Phoenix.
“Norr, Sith-Mistrithith,” she soothed as she beckoned the hellhound forward.
Willow laughed as she watched the glorious warhound whimper along the dock, gingerly stepping forward. With a few careful steps, he suddenly bounded towards her gleefully, barking in excitement. She laughed again as he reached her, scratching behind his ears and soothing encouraging words.
They made their way across the lake, marvelling at the captivating arcane mystery of water walking, relishing the beauty of the northern vale from their vantage point. Although the town of Sanctum and the lower region of Valtaerna had been marred by the char of fire and the stains of bloodshed, the north still bloomed in luscious greenery softened by glimmerings of white snow and sleet. Willow heard Garvana laugh, a look of ease upon her face. She seemed to be taking in the surroundings, and enjoying the few moments of peace before they entered the phoenix’s domain. She stopped to plunge her hand into the water and pull a fish from the blue crystal lake. Willow chuckled as she shook her head, watching Sith snatch the fish from Garvana’s hands and quickly gulp down the pink scaled creature. After a short and easy crossing, they reached the base of the teetering spire, searching its rocky slopes for a way up.
“Gather together,” Garvana called over the howling wind.
Although Bor’s magic had dimmed the chill from the air, the noise and force of the wind had not lessened. As Willow approached the group, she eyed the icy crooks of the mountainous terrain with worry. Trickling over the wail, came Garvana’s incantation. Willow felt a tingle along her fingers, the gloves she wore gently pulsing with a strange fur-like movement. She looked to her fingers and saw nothing different, yet she knew somehow they were. Placing her fingers against the sleet painted rock, she felt something close to a thousand miniscule hairs cling to the white surface. With preternatural grace, she found she could lift her weight, ascending the rocky side with ease. Willow marvelled at the strange workings that her eyes were unable to see. Though she had seen this before. This was the magic that Switch had used it to enter her suite at Vandermir’s manor with such ease. Her fingers gripped impossibly thing ledges, the toes of her boots clinging to slender iced gaps. Even as the wind battered her slight frame about, she knew she was at no risk of falling, as illogical as that sounded in her own mind. She couldn’t stop herself from grinning as she scaled the mountain as if it was nothing.
“You need to teach me that!” she yelled to Garvana in a laugh.
But as she looked to the summit, there was indeed something that wiped the grin from her face. The same shimmer of magic that she had seen from the rowboat when she had infiltrated the vale. The glitter of arcana seemed to encompass the balcony ledge, the only visible entrance, almost seven hundred feet above the lake’s surface.
“WAIT!” Willow bellowed, calling out over the harsh cry of the winds and rasping drone of the ice and sleet battering against the rocky mountainside, “GARVANA! LOOK!”
Garvana stopped her ascent, looking to the summit. With a frown, she shrugged in question.
“THAT AURA!” Willow called, “IT IS SURROUNDING THE BALCONY!”
As her frown deepened, Garvana rushed her arcane words, calling forth the magic to reveal itself to her. Suddenly, her mouth opened and her eyes widened.
“A POWERFUL WARD!” she called to the group, “SOME KIND OF PROTECTIVE BARRIER!”
“TOO POWERFUL?” Willow yelled, “CAN YOU DISPEL IT?”
“I CAN TRY!” Garvana nodded, “BUT BE READY, I MAY NOT BE ABLE TO HOLD IT FOR LONG! WE NEED TO REACH THE BALCONY BEFORE IT RETURNS!”
The group crept as close to the barrier as they dared, waiting on her command. Her frown pulled low, her eyes narrowed in concentration, as she rasped her incantation.
“GO!” she yelled.
Willow desperately scrambled upwards, her fingers clutching the sides of the ledge as she pulled herself atop the balconies edge. Pellius, weighed down by his immense ebony armour, fell behind as he climbed as fast as he could.
“HURRY!” Garvana cried, “IT IS REFORMING!”
As Garvana and Bor struggled to pull themselves to the ledge, Willow looked down over the lofty fall to the iced water below. She saw Pellius climbing with all his might, powering his way to the balcony. Willow reached her hand down, panic painting her face.
“FASTER PELLIUS!” she screamed.
As he neared, she saw the shimmer flicker around her, the aura twinkling as it began to return. Pellius growled in exertion, eyes wide as he watched the flickering magic reform. Suddenly, the magic took hold. Willow felt the odd invading sensation as it stripped the enchantments from her, a freezing shiver racking her body as the frosted chill of the wind bit into her skin. Realisation dawned as she watched Pellius’ fingers slip from their clutch upon the ice shards of the walls.
“PELLIUS!”
In a display of sheer strength, Pellius launched himself with the last gasp of grip he had, leaping upwards to snatch Willow’s hand. She screamed as his great weight snapped heavy on her arm, almost ripping the joint from it’s socket.
“BOR!” Willow cried through the agony, “HELP ME! I CAN’T HOLD HIM FOR MUCH LONGER!”
Bor raced to her side, bending low and grasping Pellius’ wrist, heaving backwards and dragging him atop the balcony. Willow collapsed backwards, her breathing rasped and short as she rolled her shoulder back into place. Lying upon the cold stone ledge, Willow turned her head to see Pellius panting heavily and Bor hunched over with a grin on his face.
“Thank you, my lady,” Pellius chuckled, his panic stricken eyes betraying his calm.
“Don’t mention it,” Willow replied, rolling her eyes.
Although she joked, she refused to voice the sheer panic that she had truly felt, how her heart had almost ripped from her chest as her arm had almost from her shoulder. They shared a look for a moment longer, before Willow’s eyes broke away to search their surroundings. The temple stood before them, a crystal white marble temple, perched on the side of the summit. Two tremendous doors barred entry to the building, flanked by an intricate carved marble railing that ran along both sides of the balcony. Quickly scanning the area, Willow paused as the expanse registered in her mind. The Vale of Valtaerna was not just a place of celestial grace and divine beings. It was a place of picturesque beauty. Looking out across the land, Willow’s heart sighed at the beauty that was the Ansgarian Mountains in the heart of winter. White grace drifted atop each peak in the distance, painted only by touches of emerald greens and hazel browns. It was with a heart of heavy duty that she turned away. As the others cast their spells and drank their potions, Willow approached the foreboding marble doors. The temple was a marvel of true artistry, covered in breathtaking bas relief showing the deeds of angels and phoenixes in immaculate detail, the columned pillars a masterpiece of classic architecture. Written in celestial scripture below a magnificent carving of a fearsome phoenix was the phrase that read – Praised be Suchandra, praised be the First.
Willow eyed the large carved key holes suspiciously, but found nothing but a simple locking mechanism that had clearly not being used in decades. As she leaned towards the door, she heard the whisper of a voice, mournful notes crooned in an elegant piece of loss and tragedy. The celestial words were sung with a heartbreak so sorrowful that Willow felt the sadness creep deep into her bones.
“…here then,” the voice grieved in melody, “Extended on this wither'd moss, we'll lie, and thou shalt sing of hearts’*loss. And thou forlorn hearts’ demise, and thou hearts’ death, begin thy*mournful song, and raise thy tuneful breath...”
A deep sigh escaped from Willow’s lips, her chest deflating as resignation settled in her mind. She, like the one who sung the words, mourned the loss of so many souls. But she would not regret it. She knew her cause was great, and her righteous path was true. She knew she was doing only what had to be done, what must be done to further the reach and rule of her mighty Infernal Lord. So it was with a determined chin that she lifted her head from its sorrow, sliding her daggers from her sheathes and squaring her stance. As Bor and Pellius dragged the great marble doors open, Willow stepped over the threshold, ready to quell the light that trickled across the vale – ready to quench the last glow of hope from the Mitrans below.

A scarlet and copper flaming beacon surrounded by a sea of glimmering white marble. A woman stood in the centre of the room; ashen skin that glistened, crystal white hair that billowed in waves, shining specks of golden jewellery lined upon each arm. Wings of raging flames searing their way from her back, a magnificent simitar sprouting an inferno of pulsing fire. Even the crimson robes she wore smouldered with embers. The song that she sung did not falter as she turned towards the Nessian Knot, it grew in tempo as her voice bellowed the battle-cry of vengeance.
An eruption of sweltering flame exploded into the room, as she created a wall of fire that stretched from one end of the temple to the other. As the blaze raged and the flesh blistered, the battle launched into action. Sith and Bor were the only ones that were unaffected by the burning mass, leaping through the flaming barrier with ease. Willow had to leap through the blaze, crying out as her skin seared and charred, the lengths of her hair sizzling within the burning heat. The weapons of steel and arcane fire clashed against one another, deep gashes of crisp and burnt skin showering the room in cascades of carmine blood. Bor and Pellius launched a flurry of attacks, heaving their weapons, cries of might and death bellowing from their lips. The group fought the woman of flame, wounding her with staggering blows, all while she continued her grand and sombre tune. When Willow’s blade found its way into the side of the woman’s stomach, only then did her words falter. Suddenly, she leaped forward into the flame, vanishing from sight. The wall continued to swelter, yet the room hung in an eery stillness. Willow gripped her daggers, panting heavily through her chest, backing away from the fire. She eyed a crystal orb, suspended on a pedestal of marble in the centre of the room. Carefully approaching it, she saw the strange contraption surrounding it, a mechanical lock set in amongst slender cogs and small splints. Making a quick decision, she hastily sheathed her blades and removed her tool pouch from her pack. As swiftly and delicately as she could, she disabled the lock and clicked free the orb. Suddenly, a strange wave passed over her.
“The aura around the mountain is gone,” Garvana frowned.
As Willow looked over the curious orb, a sudden screech came forth from the flaming wall. The woman reappeared and leapt forward with her flaming simitar, craning it down towards Willow’s head. Although unarmed, Willow was alert enough to notice the attack as it came, launching herself to the right of the temple as she narrowly avoiding the inferno of the blade. She quickly pocketed the orb and drew her blades, circling the woman of flame. As Bor leaped from the side, he cleaved his vicious sword directly into woman’s shoulder. Pellius lunged forward, and with a mighty backswing, bludgeoned his great warhammer into her chest. The woman’s song cried from her lips, as she danced a whirlwind, gracefully spinning and carving her weapon into all those who were within the flames reach. It was in a flashing spiral of blood and fire, that Garvana’s words bounded throughout the temple.
“WE HAVE COME TOO FAR, TO BE BEATEN BY THE LIKES OF YOU!” she cried as she charged at the woman, her mace soaring high over her head, “IN THE NAME OF ASMODEUS, I WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN!”
Willow felt the hard pulse explode from her, the surge filled with the Infernal Lord’s terrible unholy grace. She leapt through the torrent of flame, arching down her weapon and carving it down into the side of the woman’s head. On impact, the woman howled in pain, black ripples of profane darkness ricocheting across her pale flesh. The ebony shards of energy wrapped themselves around her limbs, seemingly consuming the life from her skin. The horrified wail bounded from her lips, as the darkness devoured her whole. In a shudder that racked her body, her frame collapsed in on itself, crumpling her flesh into a simple pile of ash amongst her smouldering robes. As her simitar dropped to the marble floor, the flames dimmed to a flicker before flittering into nothingness. Suddenly, a terrifying screech sounded from beyond the temple, a cry like the voice of a thousand eagles. The mountain top trembled beneath their feet, the walls of the temple shaking furiously, the mournful cry filled with the wrath of something that the Nessian Knot had severely angered.
When the mountain settled, the group looked to one another, understanding clear in their eyes. The woman was merely a guardian, a celestial being meant to guard the temple – the path to the phoenix’s summit. As the group turned to continue and prepared to meet the mythical beast, Willow saw the robes of the woman still simmered in their smouldering embers. Carefully, she pulled the fabric free, dusting the ash from its fleece. She recognised the exotic fabric as firesilk, a material prized for its immense rarity, made only within the fabled lands of the fire planes. Distracted by its intriguing peculiarity, she tied the robes over her armour, marvelling at the way the cloak appeared to billow of its own accord. As Sith approached her and his fiery mane flickered, her own cloak of embers simmering in unison, Willow couldn’t help but smile. Her story was certainly that of an adventurous ballad, it seemed fitting that the outfit she wore was worthy of note…

The door opened to reveal a sublime mountainside, lush with green vegetation and embellished with crystal white stone pillars. Centre of the summit stood a raging inferno of fire. The red flames blazed in a glorious sphere, at least forty feet high, a tempestuous ball lingering to encompass the peak. A winding path of white cobblestone spiralled along the steep ascent, veering to the left before continuing its journey upward. It was the structure along it’s path that caught Willow’s immediate attention.
“Bor,” Willow said quietly, pointing to the summit, “Check inside the flames, I think I know what we must do.”
Carefully, she toed along the path, eyes peeled for any movement within the winds or the flaming sphere. Bor passed her quickly, making his way directly for the peak of mountain. Willow walked towards the great circle of white marble, surrounded by eight intricate ancient stones. The spires held the look of peculiar antiquity about them, and did not match any other sort of architecture that Willow had ever seen in Talingarde. In the centre of the circle another fire was ablaze. Yet, this one was different. Willow felt the simple touch of divine grace as the flames swelled and retreated, a constant blaze that seem untouched by the winds that blew. The white marble of the construct was left uncharred, no soot was left by the fire, nor did any smoke leak from its flames. The fire seemed only to shed light, a shining glow, bright enough to linger further than the reaches of the summit – enough to light the entire valley below. One of the sacred eternal flames, Willow was sure of it. She delicately lifted the bottle of desecrated water from her pack, cautiously approaching the divine fire. As her foot lifted to step upon the marble dais, a sudden creeping chill seeped into her spine, her hairs standing on end instinctively. She could feel the menace radiating from the flames, a harsh warning of dire consequences. There was an ancient arcane trap that lingered around the circle, the fire itself flickering viciously. Willow knew not how, but she could sense the ward’s intentions – if she were to throw the unholy broth upon the water, she would face the wrath of Mitra.
A fearsome shriek cried from the sky, as the mythical creature born of flame soared into view. It launched a torrent of searing flame upon them, raining down the mountain side in thick waves of blistering swelter as it passed. Willow dove behind one of the pillars, the burn of the flames licking her heels. She saw Bor sprinting for the summit as Pellius launched a flurry of arrows at the phoenix as it passed. The creature seemed purely of fire, its rippling wings stretched wide as the wind ripped through the flames. Another crashing tide of fire swelled across the land in devastating fury, scorching all flesh and flora in its path. Willow barely managed to leap out of the way of the mighty gale of flame, but Garvana and Pellius were not as fortunate. Willow watched as the blackened steel of Pellius’ armour glowed red under the unrelenting heat. Garvana was knocked backward with the tremendous force, the fire blistering and scorching her bare skin. Willow picked her timing and quickly ran for the pair, using the healing wand that Garvana had given her, calling forth the magic as she recited the incantation as best as she could remember.
As Bor reached the summit and leaped into the blazing sphere, the phoenix let loose a hysterical cry of ferocity. It craned down swiftly, the mountain trembling in protest as the enormous creature thundered its landing. A screaming squawk rippled the flames atop the summit, a high-pitched sound so volatile that Willow felt her eardrums shudder. Clutching the unholy brew in her hand, she watched through the flames as they raged erratically. She could just make out the image of the phoenix, staring down Bor with a venom filled with vengeance. Bor stood fast, holding something tight within his hands, something that appeared almost like a ruby so large that he needed both hands to hold its weight. For a moment, there was only the sound of the billowing flames, as the crisp silence stretched between them.
“Leave this land!” she heard Bor’s stern voice command, “And never return! You will swear by the life of this phoenix, that you will do so, and I will return it unharmed.”
Another shriek ripped from the phoenixes maw, a hurricane of flame smothering Bor as it cried. For a moment, Willow was unsure that his plan had worked. The phoenix craned its neck high into the sky, as a sorrowful voice bellowed its celestial words.
“ARA MATHRA!” he called, a booming sound so loud it would be heard from all reaches of Valtaerna, “I AM SORRY, BUT I MUST GO! KNOW THAT I AM FOREVER YOUR FRIEND! MAY WE MEET AGAIN, WHEN ALL IS LIGHT!”
Bor kept his eyes locked threateningly on the phoenix, as he lowered the large egg and returned it to the nest. The phoenix swept the eggs into its wings with extraordinary swiftness, before it leapt high into the air, in a blaze of flaming glory. As it hovered just above the peak, it’s broad wings gusting torrents of flame aside, the phoenix cried a forlorn and crestfallen wind. The sound drifted throughout the valley, a sad and mournful farewell, before it turned away and disappeared behind the dense blackened clouds of the sky.
The flames atop the summit extinguished in a sigh, as even the ancient fire within the eternal circle seemed to dim. Willow approached the marble circle once again, determination steeling her will. She still felt the presence of the ward, warning her against what she was about to do. As she lifted the vial over head, she felt a rapturous blast encompass her, the will of her Infernal Lord urging her onward. With an almighty chthonic shriek expelling from her chest, she cast the bottle into the flames. As the sound of shattering glass echoed across the mountaintop, a venomous hiss burst forth from the flames. Suddenly, a colossal sphere of flame was launched towards her with devastating intent. The force collided with her chest with such might that she felt the bones of her ribcage splinter as it sent her hurtling through the air. Her frame was pummelled into the hard compacted ground, jagged rocks and sharp vines ripping shreds from her skin as she slid along the earth. The flames had blistered and charred her flesh and armour, scalding in torn patches and gushing wounds. The pain was untold, nothing like she had ever felt before. The divine grace of the wrath of Mitra had burnt her very soul. Her breath came in tortuous rasps, her lungs struggling for air as her broken ribs crushed their pipes. She heard rushed footsteps coming her way, and in the haze of her vision, she saw Garvana’s face appear. But the healing that Garvana had summoned was not what kept her attention entranced. As she stared into the sky, she watched the last of the lingering light faded. Lifting her chin, ignoring Garvana’s protest, she saw the eternal flames flickering to a simmer. It fought the tide of profane might, it struggled to stay alight. Yet, as she watched the fire die, and the last gasp of light succumb to the darkness, Willow couldn’t help but smile. As the light that had sheltered the people of the Vale of Valtaerna was extinguished – hope followed with it. The darkness that now consumed the sky belonged to one entity, the great and power father of them all; Asmodeus.

minderp
2016-09-21, 12:00 AM
And another one! :)

Chapter 27 - Ascending Advance

Scarlet mist hung delicately in the air, shimmering as it throbbed in tune with the deafening pulse. The seamless walls of unending height, swayed with ethereal grace in the feathered hot breeze. The fires burned and simmered in a searing wave of structure, pulsing with heat and purpose. She looked up timidly from her perch, her weight pressing deep into her knees. The words that were spoken sung like a tune from rasping throats. They watched her, observing the way she followed custom, kneeling low at their throne. Yet, they knew she was not intimidated, they knew she was not afraid. As the rapturous warm enveloped her, and the radiating menace exuded from her flesh, they watched in curiosity. When words slid from her mouth, her husky steel tone told them of the confidence she was not speaking. Current status required her to remain low, yet her own aura forced her natural rank to be observed. As more voices joined in the chorus of conversation, she smiled. As the thundering heat echoed throughout the realm, her eyes met theirs. As the gaze pierced in a war of will and might, an onslaught so strong that even the cold iron of Phlegethon would have shattered – they paused. The air thickened to a sickening fury, frightening in its malice, with the intent of a thousand blades. For a moment it would have seemed that she had lost. But she knew better, as the corners of her lip twisted into grin, she awaited what was hers. With resignation tainted by intrigue and interest, they nodded.


“And if she escapes through the window?” a hushed worried voice insisted from beyond the chamber door, waking Willow from her slumber within the mayors’ manor in Valtaerna.
“Wha’ if she tells us ter stay?” another piped in, fear tinting his tone, “I don’t want her angry with me. I like my fingers an’ tongue where they are!”
“Enough!” Pellius silenced, “You have your orders.”
As the voices continued, Willow rose from the bed, pulling the fur dressing crown from the vanity stool and wrapping it around herself. Her soundless footsteps approached the door as her ears listened keenly.
“Yes sir,” Fava answered, “But if she insists on not telling us? I can’t make her. Frankly sir, she’s… terrifying.”
“She’s also not so deaf nor incapacitated that she cannot hear your pathetic attempt at whispering,” Willow interrupted, opening the door suddenly.
Fava and Jurok recoiled slightly in fear, fumbling out words of mumbled and rushed apologies. Pellius, only smiled.
“Good morning, my lady,” he said charmingly.
He nodded dismissively to his two guards, stepping into the chamber and closing the door. Willow lent against the doorframe, arching an eyebrow.
“Still keeping me under lock and key?” she scoffed.
“Not at all,” he replied, pouring two cups of tea from the fresh steaming brew, “I am merely looking after your comfort.”
Willow sighed, softly shaking her head as she strolled to the cushioned seat by the large windows. The view looked out over the north, the dense procession of stiff pine trees, painted in a light mist of white snow. As she accepted the cup he offered, Willow stared out into glisten of winter.
“When will you relent?” she asked quietly, “Why do you feel the need to have me chaperoned?”
“My lady,” he began, “It is not a chaperone. They are guards who will allow you to recover without worry of intrusion.”
“You cannot dismiss my question, Pellius,” she replied in frustration, “Why are you so worried? I have never needed guards, nor do I need them now.”
“I have explained this, Willow,” he sighed, “You are too-
“- important, yes, so you have said,” she finished for him, “But I am not on death’s door, I have faced worse than that holy flame, and I am recovered enough to not need nursemaids insisting on my whereabouts.”
“That was no ordinary flame,” Pellius scoffed, “That was a ward of ancient arcana, strong and powerful, infused with the very might of the Shining Lord.”
He looked into her eyes and quickly anger turned his features as realisation dawned, “But you knew that. You knew what it was, and you alone still chose to risk yourself.”
Willow’s response halted, her mind returning to the way the infernal fury of Nessus had encompassed her, urged her onwards.
“I…” she said quietly, “I was not alone.”
Pellius’ brow pulled deep into a frown, “What do you mean?”
Willow felt unequipped to answer his question, though she tried as best she could.
“He was there,” she frowned, “He guided my hand. I knew what I was doing was His will. I felt no worry of dying, for it would have been what I was meant to do. What He required me to do…”
The frown that Pellius wore lingered only for a few moments, before the lines upon his forehead smoothed. Wordlessly, he nodded in understanding. As the silenced stretched between them, the pair gazed out upon the forestry of the northern Vale. After a time, Willow placed her empty cup and saucer on the side table, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her.
“You were quite restless in your sleep last night,” Pellius said softly, “Was something troubling you?”
Trying to return to where her mind had been while in slumber, Willow’s frown returned. The sweltering aura of Hell had wrapped its tendrils around her, a palace of flaming damnation, a courtyard of intrigue and status. She had not been herself, at least she had not been any kind of version of herself that she recognised.
“Lilitutivloth,” her voice whispered of its own volition.
“You were chanting that name in Infernal,” Pellius said, arching an eyebrow.
Willow’s frown pulled tight, her mind reeling to remember where the name had come from.
“Who is she?” Pellius pressed, keen eyes searching her face.
“I do not know,” Willow said quietly, shaking her head, “I have not heard it before, yet it is… familiar.”
A sudden knock at the door had Willow’s head spin and her heckles rise.
“Lady Garvana to see you,” called Jurok.
Willow sighed, in almost relief.
“Send her in,” Pellius called, eyes still locked on Willow in curiosity.
As the door opened and Garvana greeted them warmly, Willow stood and began to set another serve of tea. They spoke about their coming plans for their infiltration of the cathedral, but Willow’s mind was far from the current task. She had not been entirely honest when she had said the name was familiar. The name was indeed unknown, yet almost more familiar to her than her own.

The week of rest passed quickly, as the frosted chill of winter deepened its hold over the Vale of Valtaerna. The bugbears had settled into their temporary home with ease, decorating their halls with the grim and gory spoils of war, unbothered by the cold winds that blew through the remains of the town. On the morning of their second week within Sanctum, the Forsaken prepared to push forward to the north. They traversed the grand Lake Parynthus by rowboat, slow and steady was their progress along the freezing body of water. They sent Sith and Grumblejack by land, unable to conceal such obvious creatures of malice within the small craft. Willow kept her daggers hidden as they sailed north, the magic of her circlet forming her appearance into that of Clarentine Myerlyn. Pellius wore the guise of Emerson Myerlyn, while Garvana and Bor disguised themselves once again as the houseguards. Garvana had also used her strange arcana to hide the groups loyalties from seeking magic. As they steered through the River Aiden, the white stone dock slowly came into view. Just as it was the last time Willow had seen the entrance to the Gardens of Serenity, the protruding stone was guarded by the six mighty legion archons. They stood in unmoving vigil, gleaming golden armour flickering by their flaming spears held fast at attention. As the group rowed towards them, in unison they each lifted a hand in warning.
“HALT!” they called in perfect harmony, a foreboding delve to their tone, “Come no closer!”
“PLEASE!” Willow cried dramatically, “We seek sanctuary!”
For a moment, silence greeted her words, as if unseen communication was taking place.
“Who goes there?” they called, “Identify yourself!”
“I am Lady Clarentine Myerlyn of Hamiltyrn!” Willow cried, “Please! You must let us in!”
“All of you, identify yourselves!”
“My husband, Emerson, and our houseguards!” Willow called frantically, “Please! They may not be far behind us! Please, help us!”
As Bor and Garvana continued to row, the silence once again stretched. The sound of splashing waves crashed upon the wooden oars, as the Forsaken neared the dock, a booming command came from the archons.
“Throw your weapons on the dock! Stay seated in the boat!”
Willow looked to the others as they drifted along side the stone structure. They had only decided to use the ruse to get close enough to the archons to take them on with sword and shield. They knew each archon harboured immense metallic wings that could lift them into the air and out of reach, leaving the group almost defenceless against their aerial attacks, more so if they were stranded in the slender rowboat. Bor played along with the facade, throwing his greatsword upon the dock, before lifting from his seat and stepping up to help Willow onto the pier. The archons took his quick actions as hostile, and suddenly, a ferocious burst of energy surged from the towering guardians. A sickly aura so menacing, it rippled a strange but terrifying fear throughout the limbs of Willow’s body. She felt the pulse radiating from each of them, yet the connection between her and the archon on the far east of dock, was the strongest by far. The pulse weakened her hands, straining the grip her fingers had on her daggers hidden beneath her arcane layers of silk dress. As the archons lowered and brandished their flaming lances in perfect unison, Willow knew she had to act fast. Before they had time to react, she launched herself from the boat, ducking under the impulsive swing of one lance and lunging at the archon that the strongest aura was radiating from. Both of her blades plunged forward into the seams of his golden armour, striking the shadowed flesh beneath. In a furious blur, the others began their attacks, metal clashing and shatters of blood painting the dock. The archons moved as one, launching themselves high into the air above the Forsaken, morphing their weapons into javelins and raining down upon the intruders with fiery wrath. Willow dove in a tumble to avoid the flaming onslaught, ripping a wand free from her pouch. In a rasping voice of malice, she called forth the incantation that Garvana had taught her, ricocheting the profane magic overhead into the sky. A cold, cloying miasma of greasy darkness erupted into the air, wrapping its sleazed tendrils around the celestial beings. A pellet of flame flickered through the sudden shadowed blackness of arcana, exploding into a great scarlet inferno thrown from Garvana’s fingertips. As the warring blackness and crimson heat filled the sky, unseen on approach, another torrent of fiery javelins shattered along the dock. Willow deftly dodged the incoming missile of steel, mind churning with intrigue as the metal shuddered in a ripple and disappeared once it struck the hard stone of the jetty. Bor dove to the ground crying out in fear.
“Please!” he called out, “I mean you no harm! I want no part in this!”
“Coward!” Willow growled in frustration, launching a second unholy blight upon the sky.
She knew what he was doing, she knew he was unable to fight them from the ground while they soared high above. But as the splintered steel of another javelin pierced her shoulder, she couldn’t dismiss the whiff of betrayal that seethed.
“Stay where you are,” the archon’s bellowed in response, “And you won’t be harmed.”
Pellius planted his foot firmly in Bor’s back, taking aim with his mighty longbow, firing a flurry of arrows at the craning targets. In a shower of luminous arcana and waves of arrows and spears, the archons gave up their heightened advantage as three of their number fell to their deaths, the remaining guardians charging down from the sky with their morphed greatswords in hand. Willow narrowly avoided the cleaving blade, springing herself under and up, thrusting her dagger firmly under the archon’s helmet and into his neck. As his immense weight thundered into the dock, she saw Bor jump in from behind and cleave the head off another. As Pellius’ mighty blow caved in the armoured face of the last, the ground trembled beneath their feet. The bodies of the archons lingered only for a moment, before much like their weapons, they rippled from sight.
Quickly drinking down vials of healing, the group breathed a momentary restful breath. No one had been gravely injured, only minor cuts and wounds littered their skin, it was a victory of relative ease. Yet as Willow looked on into the entrance hall of the garden, her chest did not inhale with relief. She knew there was much ahead of them, and she knew the guardian of the hall would be waiting in ambush.

It was in eery silence that the Forsaken crept through the halls of the huntress. No life glistened in the empty room, no light nor fire lit their way. As the ringing sound of Pellius’ heavily armoured steps echoed throughout the room, Willow kept her senses sharp and keen for any sound or scuff of movement. Sith prowled close by her side, sensing her anxiety and anticipation. As Pellius found the extinguished fireplace, he poured a vial of oil upon the charred blocks and lit the mess with a flint of flame. The light cast upon the wooden logs flickered involuntarily, soothing the room with a menacing glow.
“Ah, she returns,” crooned a familiar voice from deep within the shadows, “And she brings her pack.”
The hairs on Willow’s neck rose, creeping chill seeping into her spine, as her ears struggled to discern where the voice had come from.
“You knew I would,” Willow said aloud.
“Show yourself!” Garvana commanded.
The slick feminine voice chuckled, “Predator does not take orders from prey.”
Sith’s ears rose, as if he was seeing something that her own eyes could not.
“Surthith morr ter,” she commanded quietly, telling him to seek the huntress’ scent.
He growled in assent, stalking further into the room. Willow followed closely, eyes piercing the darkness, all of her senses acutely aware of her surroundings. She tried to keep close to the light of the fire, but as Sith’s trail led her further away, the thrill of the chase blurred her caution. Suddenly, at the exact moment that the hellhound’s growl sounded, Willow felt the sickening rasp of warm breath on her neck.
“Gotcha!” the voice rumbled by her ear.
Sharp fangs pierced the flesh of her shoulder, before claws dug deep into sides. As she cried out in pain, and Sith snarled in flaming fury, she felt her weight lift from the ground. The huntress had a crushing grip on her as she effortlessly climbed higher along the wall. Before the others could attack, Willow writhed within her hold, ripping her nimble frame free of the clutched paws and slipping out to the ground. She turned and for only a fraction of a second, she saw the huntress in all her prowess and glory. A woman with the face of a lion, sharp flashing teeth, long protruding claws upon feline feet and hands. Suddenly, the huntress craned her jaw wide, roaring out a ferocious burst of raw power. The sheer force of the cry thundered through the air, slamming into Willow’s head with excruciating might. Her eardrums screamed under the pressure, her sight flashing white behind her lids in a blinding flash. When the feral roar ended, sound slowly lingered back to Willow’s ears. But the flash had been so bright in its shine, that her vision only darkened in sightless depths. Sith’s panicked howl told her that she was not the only one affected by the aftermath of the cry. Although nerves shook her core and a subtle fear drifted into her mind, Willow surged her willpower, straining her ears to hear the attack she knew was coming. It was to her left that the sound of skin ripping and fabric tearing came, followed by a heavy grunt of pain from Bor. She heard his weapon cleave through the air and collide with the huntress. As the feline hissed viciously, Willow blindly struck her blades towards the noise, trusting in her instincts while her sight failed her. Another venomous hiss as her blades thrust into flesh told her she had hit her target. But once again, claws pierced deep into her sides, fangs splitting the skin of her shoulder as her weight retreated upward.
“Garvana!” Pellius’ voice called from the distance, “It is me! Here, turn your back!”
“Pellius?” Garvana called in confusion, “Is that you?”
Willow growled fiercely, ripping herself free once again, dropping heavy to the ground. She swung her blades wildly in the hopes of finding the prowling huntress. But without sight, she had no way of avoiding the clutches of her claws as the feline tore her from balance, slowly dragging her deeper into the smothering darkness of the hall.
“Bor!” Willow screamed, “Over here!”
His thundering footsteps rumbled the ground beneath her feet, his mighty battlecry roaring, his charge nearing ever closer. She heard the air spilt as his weapon craned wide, Willow clenched her teeth in anticipation, greatly fearing that he would instead collide with her. As it hit, she merely felt the furred body around her shudder in pain, a bestial hiss expelling from its maw. As the huntress dragged her further away, Willow was fed up with the infuriating game of cat and mouse. Instead of dextrously slipping free once more, she turned her daggers in a backwards grip. A screech of diabolical might shrieked from her lips, as she plunged her blades back by her sides, stabbing deep into the torso of the huntress. As the noxious magic of the ruby dagger seethed through its body, the unholy ire surging through its veins, the huntress drew a last staggered breath. The compressing grip of the feline’s claws loosened, the sharp points sliding from Willow’s skin as she collapsed to the ground. Taking no chances, Willow fumbled to her knees, finding the huntress’ neck by feel and quickly ending any chance of recovered life.
“Bor,” Willow called, “She’s dead.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his footsteps pacing in sightless guard.
Willow felt out for where his voice came from, finding his forearm, squeezing tightly in a reassurance more for herself than for him.
“I am sure,” she replied, “We must find the others. Do you know anything of the huntress’ magic? How long will our sight be gone?”
“I do not know,” Bor said, slowly guiding her forward, “We shall have to wait it out, and hope she was the only one of her pack guarding this hall…”

A few minutes of agonising blindness, and the flickering light of the fireplace came into view. Although furthest from the huntress, Pellius and Garvana had faired worse than Bor, Grumblejack and Willow. Not only had they lost their sight, but their hearing had been silenced as well. As Willow looked over Pellius, she saw the slow trickle of blood from his ears and eyes. Instinctively, she grabbed her own, and there too was the sickly wetness of crimson harm.
“You were lucky to escape her unscathed last time,” Bor said quietly.
She simply nodded through the shiver that racked her spine, not allowing herself to think on what could have been. After cleaning her own, Willow moved to Pellius, wiping away the blood from his cheeks. The tenderness in which she stroked the fabric cloth across his skin had her heart race in a way she dismissed without thought. He merely watched her, eyes filled with a strange emotion, searching her face in the same way she searched his.
“We must continue,” she said abruptly, turning from the moment, breaking the odd connection, “The labyrinth awaits.”
As she dropped her pack and dug through its contents to find the candles she had brought, she felt the warmth of his hand caress her neck where the newly knitted flesh from the huntress’ bite still ached. Wordlessly, she pulled free the candles, handing one to him without looking back into his eyes.
“From what I can gather,” she said with utmost professionalism, handing a candle to each of them, “The ritual to pass through the labyrinth contains three aspects. A lit candle, silence and sightlessness. I assume it allows us to pass through the arcane walls of the maze.”
A confused whimper came from her side, Sith’s large head rubbing up against her. Willow turned, and her brow dropped deep into a frown.
“How do I get you to hold a candle?” she said, almost laughing at the absurdity.
With a strange idea and nothing to lose, Willow carefully pressed the candle into the furred flaming mess of his back. As wax does within fire, the candle melted into his fur, standing upright as it began its slow journey to liquid state. She laughed aloud when she saw the wick light itself by the flame.
“It may work?” she chuckled.
Sith huffed his indignity, shaking his shoulders in protest.
“Are we ready?” Willow asked the others, lighting her own candle.
Once all five flames were lit, the group stood in procession, Willow leading the way, Pellius close behind her. Looking out into the opening of the Garden of Serenity, it was as peculiar and beautiful as the last time. The thick moss and vines still covered the fieldstone brickwork walls, the lingering motes of light still drifted easily through the air, and the lush litter of colour sprouted in flowers and bulbs across the scene. Staring out into the labyrinth, Willow still felt the strange ethereal grace, as if the gardens lay not solely upon the material plane.
They held onto one another’s shoulders, taking a final breath before closing their eyes and beginning their passage forward. In the lead, she walked slowly, counting each as she went. From where they started, Willow had guessed about ten steps distance to the large unendingly tall wall in front of them. Holding her candle raised with her eyes closed, comforted by Pellius’ firm hand on her shoulder, she stepped timidly passed her tenth step. The strangest sensation came over her as her steps continued and her body met no barrier. She continued, walking forward in slow and careful steps, ears keen for any sound of disturbance. After a few moments, she was suddenly pulled forward, a wall rushing to meet her face. They had been flung somewhere deeper into the labyrinth, lost within its winding paths. Quickly turning, she saw Pellius, eyes wide with a small sheepish smile tilting his lips.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she scolded, looking over the group to make sure they were all still there.
“Yes mam,” he smirked.
She rolled her eyes before closing them once again, continuing forward through the arcane ritual. After she had counted a hundred steps, the air strangely seemed to change. Thinner than before, the bizarre winds of the twisting jungle dissipating. Willow opened her eyes warily, a long single path coming into view.
“I think we are at the centre,” Willow said quietly, blowing out her candle as the others opened their eyes and took in the surroundings.
At the end of the passage lay a single flame, burning in a white vapour, contained within an ancient structure much like the eternal flame atop the Mountain of the Phoenix. As they slowly neared what appeared to be a courtyard, weapons drawn and at the ready, they saw that this flame was not unguarded. Two figures stood flanking the far exit to the yard, stern faces painted with duty. On the right, a man dressed in nothing more than simple robes and a sash. His face held tell in the form of gentle wrinkles of wisdom and age, closely shorn soft speckled grey tinting the sides of his dark washed hair. No emotion lingered on his face, only a calm tranquil grace of acceptance of what was to come. Willow knew that he was indeed the leader of the Serene Order, known only as the Master of Serenity. To the left was a woman, a face and elegance so impossibly beautiful, only marred by the obvious lameness of her left leg. Shining golden locks adorned her head in a braided crown, glistening bronze skin glowed beneath the impressive set of glorious armour, painted with the livery marking her as an Oracle of Mitra. They said nothing as the Forsaken approached, their faces stoic and their fate sealed. Willow eyed the flaming basin as they marched forward, not sensing anything like the ward she had on the flame by the phoenix. She was concerned that this flame, just as the other, would offer healing aid to those of Mitra’s faithful. So as she neared, she carefully lifted the festering broth of unholy water from her pouch, keeping her movements hidden. As they arrived at the opening, the flame sweltering between them like a protective barrier, Willow lifted her chin high. Giving them no time to react, she swiftly hurled the vial into the eternal fire.
“May Mitra’s flame never burn again,” she said coldly.
As the sound of the flask shattering ricocheted throughout the walls of the Garden of Serenity, the ground beneath their feet trembled. The flames hissed in agonising protest, as the feral brew simmered and sapped the life from the fire. As the scarlet flicker dimmed and the burning was quenched, a thundering shudder reverberated throughout the land. Suddenly, the sky haemorrhaged a deathly blood red. A crimson mass leaked across the expansive sky, throbbing with rancour, a foreboding omen of the hours that were to come. A deafening shatter of glass echoed from far to the north. From across the courtyard, the woman’s eyes only seemed to sadden. She said nothing, steeling herself against vengeance or wrath. The monk made no show of reaction, bar the slightest tilt to his eyebrow. His gaze though, locked to Willow’s. Before she could blink, he flew forward, faster than she had seen any human move. Suddenly he was in front of her, a simple effortless flick to the wrist and he had returned to his original place, her ruby dagger in hand. Her eyes flew wide in shock, and she could have sworn she saw the barest hint of a smirk lift the corner of his lip. A monotone incantation came from the woman’s lips as a torrent of hundreds of flashing blades began a fatal dance around her. Willow lifted her sheathed dagger from her calf, breathing deeply as she locked gazes with the monk.
It was Bor’s ferocious battle cry that began the slaughter. Each of them charged forward, weapons raised with death in their eyes. Willow launched towards the monk, slashing her blades trying to follow his waltz of battle. He was more nimble and freeform than any monk she had seen, truly a master of his craft. She lunged forward, narrowly missing his torso as he effortless struck the pommel of Pellius’ great warhammer, sending it flying further into the labyrinth. Sith snarled and let loose his flaming breath in a torrent towards the monk. From the corner of her eye, Willow saw Pellius run himself into the flurry of blades that surrounded the oracle. She watched as the shreds were torn from his flesh, the cuts and gashes opening up as they pelted him with an unrelenting onslaught. Yet he reached for her, his hand rippling with feral black tendrils, sickly pustules craning for her skin. On contact, the bronze tinge to her once gleaming face turned a festering viridescent. Suddenly, infectious lumps raised across her skin, bursting veins of oozing liquid unfurled across her arms and legs. Pellius had infected her with some kind of corruption; a plague with instant manifestation. Willow knew he had the ability to do so, but seeing it so close, chilled her to the core. Bor’s mighty swing cleaved deep into the chest of the monk, as Sith’s great fiery maw latch onto his side, flaming fangs tearing the flesh from the bone. Garvana’s arcane might rippled through the air, colliding with the barrier of blade in an illuminated battle of wipsing magic. As Garvana surged her will with a sonorous call to Asmodeus, the blades vanished from sight. As the oracle watched her defence fall just as her comrade had done, she turned from the courtyard and made for the quickest retreat that her lame leg would allow. Pellius, battered and bleeding from the flurry of blades, pulled out his longbow and drew an arrow. As he loosed it, it sliced through the air, landing true directly in the back of the oracle’s skull.
Calling forth her divine healing, Garvana saw to the worst of Pellius’ wounds, as Willow quickly retrieved her dagger from within the robes of the monk. Once her profane blade was securely back in its sheath, she turned to Pellius.
“Are you alright?” she asked, genuine concern across her face.
“No more than a few scratches, my lady,” he winced.
Despite herself and the serious nature of their position, she smiled.
“I fear we have much more to face,” she replied, pointing further north out of the exit to the courtyard, “The cathedral is just beyond.”
In the distance, a towering spiral of stairs led the way upward, craning far into the mountain where the ominous cathedral lay atop in blackened silhouette. A sun of crimson blood rose behind the mountainous peak, as the mighty Infernal Lord stood in his blinding glory, watching their righteous crusade.

It was a long and slow climb to the top, the stairway of a thousand steps taking its tole on the already fatigued group. But as they climbed and the cathedral neared, it was sheer adrenaline that had their steps quicken. By the time the crest of the staircase was merely twenty feet away, a sound of rippling wings shuddered though the air.
“What it it?” Garvana asked, looking out into the midday sky.
“Nothing good,” Willow muttered, speeding up her pace, reaching the large entrance to turn eye to the southern clouds.
It came slowly into view, a flock of what seemed like birds, growing ever larger as they neared. When the figure appeared in blur behind them, Willow realised that they were not birds, but hippogriffs. At a count close to one hundred, her eyes widened in worry and frustration. Behind the thundering flock of horse-like eagles, craned an amazing intimidating sight. A storm giant, riding on the back of a roc. The thirty foot long bird creature soared with ease and agile grace, as the immense giant laughed with glee. He wore a metal helmet embellished with great wings, clad in massive full plate armour, and a grin from ear to ear.
“Spread out,” Pellius commanded, “Far enough that his lightening cannot reach between us.”
It was unfortunate that Grumblejack had not understood exactly how far that distance was supposed to be. As the sky rumbled and flashed with rippling lightening, a terrifying bolt of electricity tore through the air, striking Pellius first and ricocheting off Grumblejack and Garvana. Willow heard the grunt of pain, but kept her eyes locked on the sky. The hundred hippogriffs broke off from the charge towards them and soared directly for the township of sanctum. The Forsaken had no time to think on their men in the city below, as the melodious laugh came from the giant’s rumbling chest.
“How could such tiny things, manage such terrible acts of villainy?” he laughed, “No matter, once you’ve had a taste of my lightening, you shall rue the day you ever turned to such deviltry!”
As a massive jolt of lightening erupted from the sky, it flashed downwards, focussing its searing might upon a single point. Each branch of frayed electricity pierced into Sith, searing his heavy fur and skin beneath the flames. He howled as the waft of burnt flesh swept along the fierce breeze. As soon as he was close enough, Willow let loose a flurry of her profane blight while Garvana called forth the pellets of flame, the miasma of greasy darkness smothering the canvas of sky as the flaming eruption of fire blazed. Willow had not noticed the second roc that flew behind its pair, before it craned down sharply and latched on to Bor, snatching him from the landing. It lifted back high into the sky, the raging orc slashing his vicious greatsword with untold ferocity to get free. The roc and the giant soared downward, landing atop the crest with a trembling shudder. The colossal sword within the giant’s grasp swung forward and cleaved with tremendous might. Willow dove from its path, quick enough to escape harm. But as she turned her head, she saw that Grumblejack had not been near swift enough. The terrible weapon cleaved through his flesh as easily as it did through air, slicing though his waist and out the other side. The two halves of the ogre fell in a crumpled mess to the stone floor. Willow used the distraction to roll under the wing of the great roc, thrusting her daggers into the joint of its bone. It cried out in a high pitched squark, before lashing out with its immense talons in an attempt to grab hold of her. Though quick for it’s size, it was no match for Willow’s dextrous speed. She slipped from its grasp and tumbled underneath, launching upwards in another ruthless attack. Lightening rained down from the sky, exploding in flames and sparks as each bolt collided with either the ground or the flesh of the Forsaken. Garvana thundered in fury, reaching her hands out in an eldritch perch, as matte black void flames curled from her fingers. She forced her hands against the roc’s flesh and let the tenebrosity of the fire sap the essence of its life.
The giant let out another vibrant chuckle, his hearty laugh echoing across the valley. Although they were fighting for their faith, their god and their very lives – he was thoroughly enjoying a good fight. In any other case, Willow might have laughed along with his cheerful glee. But as he turned his roc to face Pellius, who was standing very near the edge of the cliff, her heart stammered in her chest. The roc hooked its talons into the creases of the stonework floor and launched forward in a mighty sprint towards him.
“NO!” Willow screamed, throwing herself at the roc with her blades flashing.
At the same moment, Sith lunged forward, his ferocious bite latching on to the feathered flesh. Willow’s daggers plunged deeply into the side of the roc, directly between its massive ribcage, striking it in the heart. The enormous bird cried out as it fell into the floor, skidding to a halt. But even as he tumbled forward in a titanic crash that shook the mountain, the giant was undeterred from his fun. He continued his charge forward, his mighty greatsword held at a strange angle. Pellius steadied his stance and swung forth his own weapon with tremendous might, bludgeoning the oncoming giant in the skull. Still, it was not enough to slow him. He laughed gleefully, though his chest wheezed as it filled with blood, lifting his sword to the side as if holding a putter. With a swing so great, the gust of wind it pushed forced Willow back a step, he descended in an underarm curve – punting Pellius off the side of the mountain and down the thousand foot drop.
“PELLIUS!” Willow screamed in fury.
Her heart thundered in her chest, so heavy it was as a chunk of stone was ricocheting back and forth between her ribs as her eyes watched him fall from view. Seething anger surged through her veins, hatred and heartache fuelling the venomous fire coursing within her. As she gripped her blades so tightly that the metal slightly warped, she felt the need for vengeance burning and searing brightly. The giant would taste her ire and face her wrath. As he fell to one knee and struggled for breath, bracing himself upon his weapon, a venomous voice slithered into her ear. It spoke in Infernal, and as the sound graced her hearing, the explosion of profane venom erupted from her chest.
“Give him to me,” the deliciously harrowing voice rasped.
With her heart alight and torn asunder in unison, Willow clenched her teeth in a macabre grin. As she threw herself forward, both daggers in a backwards grip, she flew with frightening speed.
“He’s yours,” she rasped.
All of her might was forced into her legs, as she leapt high into the sky, blades above her head. She screamed on descent, a mournful cry of retribution and dolour, craning downward in a hurtling blur. At the last moment, the giant turned, looking to face his demise. Her blades sunk deep into the flesh of his neck, as the weight of her jump propelled them deeper into his skin. As her feet hit the ground, she shrieked a feral sound of otherworldly terror, violently spinning her blades and carving their path out of his skin. It was in a shower of crimson mist that she panted her rasping breath, the ground shuddering as the giant collapsed upon the stone.
Garvana lifted her hands and looked deep into the blood red sky. Blackened sleek tendrils slithered from her fingertips, malicious coils that snaked out to the ground, rippling in articulate patterns as they sketched a long line of circle around the giant. As she spoke, the venom painted itself into five sharp points, forming an inverted pentagram beneath the corpse of the once mighty creature.
“We give thee, prince of the nine layers of hell, this vessel as sacrifice! Take thy gift! Consume his glory and soul, as token of our unwavering and eternal devotion!”
As her words rang out into the echoing atmosphere, the ghastly lines that carved in blackness along the stone floor began to convulse. In a frightening tremor of profane grace, the lines split open into fiery cracks, hell’s portal manifested. As the blood of the giant seeped along the floor, and the sickly crimson collided with the cracks, the portal began to devour its corpse. The red was pulled into the crevasse, suctioning the body deeper into the flaming pits of hell, until there was nothing left of the giant bar a smear of blackened blood upon the stone. With a wicked quiver, the lines dissolved to nothing, as a chorus of foul cries echoed from the township below. Willow turned south and watched the grace of hell take over the land. Fifty hippogriffs remained of their numbers, the others lost to the blade and hunger of the bugbears guarding Sanctum. As the infernal might sweltered, the transformations began. The golden feathers morphed in a festered shed, sable plumage sprouting to course their bodies. The beaks and talons of the passerine beasts bled a vibrant crimson, as scaly growths spread along their necks and legs. As they lifted into the air, circling in frenzy, their cries crooned in a song of maniacal cackles.
“They are ours,” came Bor’s voice from the left, “He has given them to us in reward.”
Willow’s eyes merely drifted in the circular flight of the savage creatures, her mind in a daze, her heart cold and still.
“He’s alive!” Garvana called, standing along the edge of the landing.
The words struggled to comprehend in Willow’s mind, warring against the dimmed drone of heartache for perch. When they finally registered, a spark of hope lit. She ran to Garvana’s side, and strained her sight to the base of the unending staircase. A limp form of ebony armour lay below, strained movements as he pushed himself to his feet. A whimper escaped Willow’s lips, her heart fluttering in her chest. The painful ache that had settled there slowly eased as she watched his staggered walk, making his way to the beginning of the long climb.
“Retrieve him,” Garvana commanded the nearest hippogriff.
Following its decent, Willow smiled with joy as she saw the large creature swoop low and clutch him in its talons. As it neared and dropped him to the landing by their side, she ran to him. The usually pristine pale skin of his face was marred by blackened char and smears of red, grazes and wounds opened along his flesh, thick blood pooled around his lips. Willow reached to lay her hand along his cheek, and for a moment, she merely stared into his hazy eyes. With a thundering heart beat, she smiled. His wheezing cough spluttered blood along his chin, bringing Willow back into the present. She scrambled through her pack to find the wand of healing that Garvana had made for her. She pressed the wooden end against the centre of his chest, repeating the incantation over and over, until the light returned to his eyes. The wounds pulled together, the flesh knitting and weaving upon itself, as each cut and gash were healed. Once his chest began to rise and fall at its usual speed, Willow hushed, pulling the wand away. She watched him and waited. As his eyes opened and his gaze found her, a drifting warmth came across his face.
“Willow,” he whispered fondly.
“Are you alright?” she asked worriedly.
He smiled, “Yes, I am fine.”
A small smile tilted her lips, as she merely stared back into the deep wells of his gaze. Suddenly, she frowned and in frightful speed she slapped the back of her hand across his face.
“Do not do something so stupid again!” she snapped, lifting from her perch to stand over him.
“What?” he laughed in disbelief, rubbing his cheek and straining to a seated position, “What is it I did?”
Willow turned from him, but before she could storm away, his firm grip latched onto her hand and yanked her back down to his level.
“What is really the matter?” he asked, a sly tint to his words.
She stared again, consumed by his dark eyes as they returned to their usual dastardly shrewdness. Her breath came in short ragged bursts, her heart trembling in its rapid pulse. Her reply came with the twisted patronisation that she knew only he would recognise. For there was more between them than the words they were willing to speak. And so she answered, a coy smile on her lips.
“The knot must hold…”

minderp
2016-09-21, 12:07 AM
The scarlet light shined down from the canvas of sky, casting an ominous irradiance over the defiled lands of the Vale of Valtaerna. The grand entrance to the Cathedral of Mitra Made Manifest was a baroque wonder of the world. The gateway was not carved by the hands of men, instead crafted by tasked archons who had adorned it with the iconography of a thousand martyrs and saints. But even as the life-like figures all bowed in obeisance before the great and undying light of Mitra, the crimson venom of effulgence cast the scene in a pallid and foreboding tenor. The way the red seeped into black along each crevice in the carving, brought forth an omen of the demise that was to come.
Standing upon the stone landing, the Forsaken gazed towards the grand structure. Although the sight was rapturous and immense, Willow’s eyes drifted towards another. She had known that Garvana’s connection to her Infernal Lord was strong and true, but the thunderous crevasse that she had opened was nothing like she had ever seen.
“I did not know you could open the pathway to Hell,” she said quietly, a tinge of awe creeping into her tone.
Garvana’s eyes lifted to her own, a warmth of wonder dancing across her sight.
“Nor did I,” she replied, “Yet I when it was time, I knew exactly what it was I needed to do.”
Willow smiled, marvelling over the thought, “He is pleased.”
They shared a look for a moment, an unspoken bond of lifted hearts. When Bor called them over, they took up formation under the towering entrance to the cathedral. Willow eyed the marble doors, immaculately crafted and intricately detailed. When she found no holes for locks, she figured the cathedral doors were built to bar no one entry. Only the righteous dwelled within this sacred domicile, and each would defend their home under the watchful eye of Mitra with their very lives.
Garvana spoke a rasping infernal incantation, shuddering the air as she summoned forth a foul shapeless mass of quivering flesh. A lemure, the lowest form of devil kind. A pathetic and monstrous creature that once filled the ranks of the legion of the damned. Willow had read about them in the ancient tomes outlining the known hierarchy of hell, but she had never seen one in the flesh, she had never imagined something so grotesque. With a face of disgust, she looked to Garvana in question.
“There is sure to be an ambush on the other side of this door,” she shrugged, “Better this foul creature than us.”
She could not fault the reasoning, but Willow was sure to give the stench of the beast a wide birth. While one of it’s twisted limbs reached for the door, the Forsaken prepared to attack. As the marble block creaked open, a flaming javelin split through the fiend with devastating power. Six more legion archons launched forward in ambush, the stone tile floor trembling beneath their feet. Suddenly, the air rippled with arcana as they conjured images of themselves, filling the grand hall with what appeared to be over twenty archons. It was then, that Willow realised exactly why they were called the archons of legion. Each set of glistening gold armour shimmered in the torchlight, moving in perfect unison, precise and practiced in the assault. As the Forsaken charged over the threshold, a menacing gloom pulsed throughout the chamber. Fire and steel clashed in battle, charred flesh and righteous cries, cascades of crimson sweeping through the air to paint the floors in a fatal work of art. Willow dove through the fray, slashing her blades between the layers of armour, gritting her teeth against the flurry of torn flesh along her skin. Each sweep of her blade was accompanied by the strenuous grunts and arcane incantations, a melody of carnage playing its deadly tune. At times her daggers cut through air, the magical images of the archons vanishing upon contact. Each hit was a frustrating chance, so she relished each time that her blades found solid flesh. Bor charged forward, thundering steps towards the archons, his mighty weight colliding with such force that he thrust the first archon back into the two behind him. Pellius’ warhammer shattered the golden chest plate of another in a terrifying blow, a tremendous heave expelling from his throat. Willow could feel the raging fire within him, the sanctity of the holy ward guarding the cathedral warring in protest again the rush of the infernal blood through his veins. Mitra’s divine temple repelled against him in a furious force, his intrusion into the sacred site a blasphemous sin against the god of light. Its wrath so venomous, it seemed to be pushing Pellius to become reckless and careless in his advance. His eyes blazed in scarlet frenzy as he charged into the centre of the oncoming archons, swinging his hefty weapon about, heedless of the blows he endured along his path. As his craning arc took one archon to it’s knees, Sith snarled and crushed the armoured steel inside his frothing maw. One by one, the archons fell. As the last of them cleaved his flaming sword in a twirling dance of death, Bor thrust his vicious blade in a two handed grip, tearing through the archons neck. The crash of his armour shattered the stone tiles beneath him, before like the others, his body vanished from sight.

For a moment, the Forsaken could pause. Before them stood a great open hall covered in frescoes depicting countless saints in Mitra’s service. The ceilings rose seventy feet tall ending in ornately vaulted panels adorned with art that only be called a masterpiece. It showed Mitra always faceless but ever present. It showed Mitra as the light of the sun, the wrath of the fire and the warmth of a mother’s love. It expressed more eloquently than a library full of books on theology, the true meaning of what it meant to worship and revere the great god of light and life. It was as Willow caught her breath that she looked to the north, only now noticing that the far end of the chapel was closed off by a towering wall of blazing flame. Even as she looked at it, she knew this was no ordinary arcane fire. The wall blazed with such fury and vivid brilliance, that its magic shone in visible furling tendrils of holy light. Willow felt it’s warning, pressing against her chest, as strong as any physical force. As it lingered in menace, she looked to Pellius. The flare had not calmed from his eyes, the anger and fury of his blood still eagerly pushed through his rasping shallow breaths. She watched him clench his eyes shut, fighting for control of himself. As the others checked over the large chamber, Willow carefully approached his side.
“Are you alright?” she asked quietly.
His eyes flicked open to hers, his gaze penetrating and piercing, as if it was not only him looking back at her. For only a moment, she saw the raging beast within, hungry and devouring. With a flicker, the fire retreated, a guarded expression steeling his eyes.
“Of course,” he said dismissively, turning away from her.
She knew not to press him further, yet she kept a wary eye on the him even as she ceded to his judgement of control. She looked to the hall and saw the doorways on either side of her. Four doors ahead of them, two archways behind them. With a quick scan, they saw that both archways led to rooms that held descending stairways to the lower regions of the cathedral. It was the impressively complex locks on the doors within the hall that had Willow’s curiosity piqued. She had not seen such elaborate locks since the ones at her family manor in Farholde. While the others argued over which way to go, Willow slunk to the closest eastern door. Kneeling silently, she listened for any sound or scuff on the other side. When she heard the gentle sound of pacing footsteps, she soundlessly signalled the others. As quietly as she could, Willow slipped free her tools and slid the fine pick into the mechanism. As the lock clicked open, the footsteps within stopped. With a warning look to the others, she replaced her tools with her blades and stepped back. As she swung the door wide, a blinding light of white flashed across her sight. For only a moment, she saw the vision of a fiery and dignified woman. Bronzed lava-like coursing skin, vibrant copper hair wrapped in a twist, her slim frame layered in elegant sturdy armour.
“Finally!” she yelled.
As the bright light pulsed, the woman’s image imploded into an ethereal form, a single blinding mote of light. Sith charged into the chamber, frothing from the maw, his sharp teeth eager to devour the luminous blur. Before he could reach her, he rebounded against a wall of unseen magic. Willow recognised the strange barrier, a wall built of pure force, an arcane structure of impassable strength. Thinking quickly, she pulled free the scroll of teleporting divination, reaching out to grab hold of Pellius’ arm. As she recited the enchanted words, a searing flash of flaming power simmered against her skin, seconds before the otherworldly portal ripped her through. She was flung out into the chamber, directly behind the menacing light. Arcs of sizzling lightening rippled from the mote, scorching and charring flesh and bone alike. Garvana followed Willow’s lead and teleported herself and Bor to the other side of the light, appearing from the abyss and stepping forth into battle. Surrounded by the Forsaken, under the onslaught of furious attacks, the light was beaten down. With its last wisp of life, it sent out a venomous pulse of searing heat, a divine grace of devastating purpose. As its glow was snuffed, the blazing arcana rippled against the bare flesh, blistering in torrid burns and welts. Willow cursed, looking to her once pale skin, now littered with weeping vesicles. She lifted one of the healing vials from her pouch with delicate fingers, drinking it down and sighing in relief as the burn simmered to still.
The chamber was clearly meant to house the visiting emissaries, it’s finery of a more rich and lavish taste than that which decorated the rest of Valtaerna. Gowns of gossamer silk and jewelry of fey amber hung within the cabinets, rare and exotic pieces of fine craftsmanship. As Willow sifted through the dresser and desk, she found a sealed letter from an Azata woman named Brigit of the Brijidine, expressing concern about Asmodeus’ agents in Talingarde. Willow had heard of the Brijidine only in ancient tomes and books, having thought their presence in her homeland a mere myth. She took the letter within her pack, along with a few of the finer pieces of jewelry, before sealing the chamber behind her.
On the opposite side of the grand hall was another intricately detailed door, barred by an impressive lock. Willow listened close, but heard no sound from the room. As she carefully tested it, whomever had last left the room, had left the door unlocked. The chamber was far simpler than the last, no elaborate decorations upon it’s walls, no beautiful gowns hung within its closets. Only simple robes of white, trimmed in golden lining. The robes worn only by the Lord-Abbot. These were the private quarters of Earnan MacCathlain, the head of the Order of Saint Macarius. There was only one peculiarity that sat within the drawers of the desk – the family bible of the MacCathlain line. Intrigued, Willow flicked through its pages, arching her brow as she found his person journal within the last pages. The words written in celestial outlined his plans for saving the Vale of Valtaerna.
“With the departure of the Phoenix,” Willow translated aloud, “The blessed Ara Mathra has retreated to the Holiest of Holies and has called forth a conflagration no mortal nor devil nor even angel can cross. I know some of the men believe that this reveals him a coward. But I know the truth. He must survive or all is lost. If even one of the three sacred flames survive, then all can be rekindled. The Order of St. Macarius will weather this storm and emerge all the stronger for it. No one suffers more than he. I see this. He agonizes that he must remain here and guard the Undying Flame. Cowardice? Hah! Who amongst us is strong enough to do what he does now? It would be base anger that drives him to slay the evil doers that assault us. Instead he has taken the victory from them. They cannot win. The slaughter of Saintsbridge has earned them nothing but damnation. Only a saint could pierce the flame! I’ve tarried here too long. I must return to my prayers. Soon the ghost-martyrs will rise I will take back Valtaerna. Beware sons and daughters of darkness, I come for you!”
For a moment, silence greeted her words. Her own mind churned over the implications of his written confessions, seeking the information they so desperately needed.
“Ghost-martyrs?” Garvana asked, breaking the quiet, “Have you heard of such a thing?”
“Only a saint…” Willow whispered, unaware her thoughts had come out from her mouth.
“What is it you are thinking, my lady?” Pellius frowned.
Her eyes shot to his, her brow pulled tight, “I am unsure. We must see what else the cathedral houses, perhaps we shall find more there…”

Eyeing the flaming wall, they made their way to the eastern stairwell, where a small shrine lined with slender candles still burned upon its altar. A carving above it in celestial words identified it as the shrine of the Beneficent Sun. A place where devotees could offer prayers to Mitra’s aspect as the comforter and healer. Before descending, they checked the western chamber, where a similar altar sat, marked as the shrine of the Shining Lord, for prayers to Mitra’s aspect as a great warrior and a leader of the nation of Talingarde. As Willow stepped down the first stone stair of the spiral case, she heard a familiar roar of frustrated excursion. A great shatter of stone and splinter of wood echoed throughout the grand hall, as Pellius craned his warhammer in frightening outrage, destroying the simple shrine to the east. His thundering footsteps ricocheted off the walls and he stormed to the western shrine. Bor and Garvana paid no mind to his anger, passing Willow as they descended to the lower level. It was worry for his sanity that had her watch, wary to avoid the showering mess that ripped through the air as his weapon collided with the second shrine. As the last of the splinters littered the floor, he exhaled a gust of furious might. His control was slipping, Willow knew by the way his eyes flared burning scarlet, raging free from his command. She watched his chest rise and deflate, his frown pulled deep, the strain of the war within him painted across his face. Only after his breath sighed did Willow speak.
“Pellius…?” she said quietly, taking a small step towards him.
“Do not question me,” he warned, avoiding her sight as he marched passed her towards the stairs.
Anger flared within her chest, her eyes narrowed as her cold voice cut like a blade.
“I will do so if I believe you cannot hold dominance over your temper. Are you in control?”
He stilled his descent, slowly turning towards her. A mix of emotions danced across his face, most of which Willow could identify with ease. She knew his lack of control was something he abhorred, to the point of shame and frustration that creased his forehead. She knew he detested that she would have the audacity to call him out on it, told by the arch of his brow. But most of what she saw in his face, spoke of him hating that she knew him well enough to understand how precarious his grip on his control was. She did not need his answer. Gently, she shook her head and gave him a small hint of smile, a show of her understanding.
“Come along,” she said quietly, passing him along the stairs, “The sooner we clear this place out, the sooner we can be rid of it…”

The empty room below them was little more than a landing for the spiral stairway. Adorned with murals showing the procession of priests carrying the blessed dead to be interned in the ossuaries below. It was from here, though their bodies lie, their spirits joined with Mitra in the undying lands. As Willow eyed the murals, intrigued in their intricate carvings, she found an inscription in celestial hidden amongst the engravings.
“In our darkest hour,” she read aloud, “The martyrs shall answer the tears of the blessed.”
“Ghost-martyrs?” Garvana asked.
“It would seem so,” Willow replied.
She turned from the wall, warily looking over the archway that lead the path further into what she now assumed was the catacombs of Valtaerna. The chamber was stacked with old records and carefully catalogued books and scrolls. These were the records of the Order of Saint Macarius. They kept records of the deeds both great and small of every full member of the Order. Willow knew these records would be a priceless treasure of the church, and the loss of such long records would be a devastating blow to the faithful.
A great open tome sat upon an altar, long lists written in celestial lining its pages. As Willow looked its contents over, she skimmed the lists all those who have been interred within the catacombs over the years.
“There is a rule for being laid to rest here,” she surmised from the writings, “In your lifetime, you must have cast at least three divine spells from Mitra. Every single bone in the ossuaries here come from a divine spellcaster of Mitra.”
“That many priests?” Bor grunted.
“Mitra is the god of divine healing,” Garvana shrugged.
“There must be hundreds here,” Willow said, eyebrows raised as she flicked from page to page.
“Enough,” Pellius commanded, “We must continue, we are lingering for too long.”
Willow knew he was right, so she turned from the tome, eyes scanning the stacks of books and scrolls. With a smirk lifting the corner of her lip, she commanded Sith to light the room with his unholy breath.
“Firith,” she rasped.
As they stepped into the far hallway, the great hellhound opened his jaw wide, smothering the record in blazing fire. As the pages burned and white parchment coiled in charred black, a deathly howl sounded throughout the passage. Suddenly, three ghostly hands slithered through the stone walls, reaching out to the Forsaken, casting a sickly aura of cold menace in the chamber. As their spectral blades carved through living flesh, Pellius grunted in agony. The life seemed to be sapped from his skin, a pale white wave washing over his face. Willow plunged her dagger through the heart of a phantom, her physical blade passing through the air with ease. It was only the magic that encompassed her blade that seemed to carve through the creature. It sighed a mournful cry and vanished. In retaliation, the two remaining ghosts cleaved their blades towards her. She managed to avoid one, but even as Bor’s venomous sword spilt the phantom in half, the second blade carved deep through her shoulder. It was with a malicious chanting that Garvana’s mace shimmered in arcana, transforming into the feral shape of a scythe, slicing through the last of the ghosts. Willow felt her breathing quicken, the strange sensation of her very essence having been drawn out through her wound. Bor pressed his hand firmly on her back, summoning his strange magic, returning her vitality to its usual form.
“Be wary,” he said, turning to the passage, “They may not be all of them.”

As they began their journey through the labyrinth of the catacombs, Willow hushed the others and strained her ears. The faintest sound reverberated through the air.
“In our darkest hour,” the celestial chant echoed, “The martyrs shall answer the tears of
the blessed.”
Those that could hear it, looked to one another with wide eyes. They continued carefully, reading the inscriptions upon the walls, careful to not disturb the fragile state of the chambers. As they came across the first open room, they entered quietly. The shrine within was one commemorating all those who had sacrificed themselves for the ideals of Saint Macarius, and the life of the order’s founder and first martyr. The shrine had a small marble statue of Saint Macarius, dressed in a traveller’s robe pinned with a plain wooden holy symbol. Clearly a militant cleric, was carved carrying a mace with slips of chainmail exposed under his robes. Every inch of the the shrine was adorned by bas reliefs showing the deeds of Saint Macarius; how he discovered the Vale of Valtaerna and became the first priest to solve the riddle of the sacred flames. The story depicted told of how Macarius came to the Vale, drawn here by the whispered words of an angel of Mitra. He found Valtearna uninhabited by men but illuminated by a strange light atop a mountain. He climbed the Mountain of the Phoenix and faced the great fiery beast itself without fear. He pledged that he and his followers would forever guard this sacred vale. Thus did he appease the Guardian Flame. He found the way through the labyrinth and placed his hand in the Beneficent Flame and was restored. The images conveyed that before the flame he had suffered from some unnamed affliction, a thorn of the flesh. Macarius pledged that he would share his gift of healing with all in need. Thus did he appease the Beneficent Flame. Finally, Macarius found the Undying Flame in a cave beyond the labyrinth. There he communed with Ara Mathra. The angel asked him the true test and he answered it honestly and correctly. He pledged that his Order would bind its fate to the Flame Undying. And Ara Mathra became his teacher. He died a martyr and was interned within the catacombs. He waits for his chance to again serve.
“Speak here to him for even now,” Willow read, “He listens.”
She had of course learnt of Saint Marcarius in school, and over the years of her youth, read many stories of his great deeds. Yet, no book could compare with the detail in which the carvings depicted his life. Even Willow, who had always scoffed at his stories, could not contest the awe inspiring nature in which his people revered him. With a heart a touch heavier, she moved through the chamber and back out into passageway. Above the entryway to the next chamber hung a carved plaque marked by the celestial number one. Within lay rows of bones, ancient frail heaps of marrow, older than any Willow had seen. The inscription identified the room as the First Ossuary of the Blessed, the oldest bones in the catacombs. They showed evidence of their great age, being so fragile as to be paper thin. The Forsaken retreated from the chamber, leaving the remnants of the past souls untouched.
Passing through towards the unmarked chamber after the ninth, they turned the corner to face a makeshift campsite, guarded by the last of the disciples of Saint Marcarius. The six holy warriors and four brothers of the order stood ready to fight the Forsaken. Garvana unleashed an unholy torrent of blistering wrath, profane venom sapping the life from the priests. It was with great ease that they cut the guards down, one by one they fell to the blades of the Ninth Knot. It was almost pitiful, how out-skilled and outclassed the Mitran’s were, but Willow felt no remorse as she plunged her dagger deep into the neck of her oncoming attacker. As the last priest gasped for air, he lashed his words with his final breath.
“His judgment cometh and that right soon, serpent…”
Bor’s blade slashed his words from his throat, in a cascade of blood he fell into his death. Looking further in, Willow saw that the chamber they were in was a kind of waiting room. For the next chamber began the infamous Trials of the Worthy. Upon the walls were scripted tennents of the Order, warning to those who would undertake the perilous path. Willow translated the celestial writing aloud.
“Give not into greed for it rots the soul and withers the vine, amongst the humble shall ye find the worthy. Despair ye mighty! For by your power and arrogance have ye fallen into darkness. Not amongst the lords of the earth but amongst the servants shall ye find the worthy. Beware thy enemy for he stalks you like a wicked serpent ready to consume ye with fire. The worthy knows his foe – his ways and tongues. Amongst those unafraid to speak the enemy’s name shall ye find the worthy.”
Warily, Willow stepped forward into the chamber. The room was adorned with countless intricately carved figures bowing before the glory of Mitra. On the southern wall were the great lords of humankind, kings and dukes, knights and warriors. On the northern walls were the peasants – a farmer, a smith, a merchant, a fishermen and a shepherd. On the eastern wall bowed the priests in all their regalia, from humble friars all the way up to the great Cardinals, princes of the church. They all bowed in obeisance before a great Mitran sunburst. Centered in the eastern wall just below the sun was a small niche. Upon the niche lay a silver and sapphire holy symbol not dissimilar to the one Willow saw hanging proudly around her husbands’ neck, worn by the Knights of Alerion. The thought of her righteous and proud husband had her brow rise. It had only been shy of two years since she had seen him, yet it felt like a lifetime ago. Once, she could pretend that life and faith were simple things. She could carry on it her façade as the trophy wife of the hubristic knight. Things were no longer that simple. Eyes raking over the murals, Willow knew she would pass the Trials of the Worthy. She would not succeed under the guise of honesty and purity, for she was far from either. She would succeed because she was smarter, more cunning and perceptive than those that envisioned the evaluation.
“Greed…” she mused, leaving the sapphire untouched.
Taking the words of the warning literally, she looked over the servants within the carving. Around the image of the shepherd she saw the finest hint of an outline, a button that could be pressed. As she clicked the stone inward, the mechanism unlocked the door to the next room.
“How did you…?” Garvana began.
Willow smiled, pushing the chamber door open, “Amongst the servants shall ye find the worthy.”
Walking through the silent halls, deeper into the catacombs, they came across a chamber filled with drifting white fog. Although no breeze blew in the heart of the cathedral, the feathered mist danced upon the air. As they neared, Willow saw Pellius and Garvana shiver in a strange chill. Waving her hand out to clear the haze, she saw in the centre of the fog, sat what appeared to be a little girl, utterly silent. Willow kept her hand tight on her blades as she slowly began an arcing circle behind the child, Pellius mirroring her movements on the opposite side.
“Who are you?” Garvana demanded.
The girl said nothing, merely shaking her head gently before rising from her seat. Suddenly, she opened her mouth wide, and a terrifying blast of divine energy ripped throughout the chamber. The blast tore against Willow’s eardrums, such holy white power sweeping through with venomous fury. No sound came from her mouth, yet the nothing was so loud it was deafening. A brilliant flash of blinding light fulminated from the girl, before her true form was revealed. An angel, as beautiful and graceful as any story would write her. Six glorious pale feathered wings grew from beneath the back of her robes, flowing flaxen locks of waving hair, glistening golden skin shimmering in the torch light. She said nothing, raising her flaming sword with a sad smile upon her face. A blazing rune of red glimmered on her forehead, pulsing as she glided forward to cleave her weapon. With preternatural grace, she danced her blade through the air, gouging deeply into Willow’s side. As Pellius roared in infernal hatred, his mighty warhammer swung wide to collide with the angel’s chest. Willow leapt in behind, using his distraction to plunge both of her daggers through the divine flesh, tearing through her silken robes. Strangely, her blade of steel passed through the woman, leaving no trace of blood or wound. Her ruby dagger tore a different path, searing the skin as it ripped through and left blackened venom in its wake. The angel cringed in silent agony as the shadowed wisps curled across her torso. The dark magic the ruby radiated seemed to seek out the angel, Asmodeus’ touch devouring the holy grace. She twirled in a vicious spin, carving her own blade through each of their armour, her wounds having little affect on her elegant movements. Her flaming sword struck out towards Willow, its point clawing through the leather plate on her chest. Willow was swift enough to move from the fatal blow, the blade narrowly avoiding her lungs and heart. As the blood poured from her own wounds, she struggled to dive out of the way of the onslaught of attacks.
Pellius cried out his wrath, calling forth his festering magic and reaching out for the angel. His hand rippled with infectious disgust, weeping pustules and blisters, colliding with her skin and eagerly spreading along her flesh. As a sickly green washed over her features, the Forsaken took the chance and swarmed. Each weapon tore shreds from the angel, blood misted feathers littering the floor beneath her, still she did not seize her assault. It was only as Willow’s blade pierced her through the back, striking her in the heart, that her eyes widened and her sword slipped from her fingers. As it clattered to the ground, Willow withdrew her blade, collapsing heavily to one knee. The angel fell, soft and graceful to the stone floor, before her limp body vanished from sight.
Further down the passage they found a chamber containing a shrine to the perhaps the greatest devil hunter the Order of Saint Macarius ever produced – Saint Angelo called the Wise. Although Willow cared little for the glorious victories that the Order claimed, she could not deny the flutter of her heart as she devoured the history and information contained within the catacombs. This was better than finding a rare book she had not read, the illustrations set in stone provided detailed accounts that no author could do justice. The murals carved into the walls of this chamber told the story of the bold divine. Saint Angelo was a cardinal of the Mitra faith and known as also a powerful spellcaster. In his time, more than a hundred and fifty years ago, he led a campaign to destroy every devil on the isle of Talingarde. To his knowledge, he had succeeded. Within the shrine they kept a tally of his accomplishments, and the number of devils he slew was truly terrifying. One hundred and eight, ranging from the smallest imp to his greatest victory against a pit fiend known only as Hekkazar.
“Saint Angelo travelled the world extinguishing the fires of hell,” Willow read aloud, “In his time he captured many tools of the wicked. Most he destroyed but a few he could not unmake and so he saw them safely put aside. Behind the Angels in Iron they are forever kept safe.”
“Tools of the wicked?” Garvana remarked, a sly grin on her lips.
“Perhaps they are the relics Brother Thrain mentioned?” Willow replied thoughtfully.
“It’s the Angels in Iron we should be worried about,” Bor said.
Willow turned to him with a coy smile, “Such prices would never be left unguarded.”
“Come on,” Pellius snapped, “I have had enough of this history lesson. Let us be done with this place.”
It could great control for Willow to refrain from pursing her lips. She understood his hardship to be within such a place, a towering structure throbbing with the grace of Mitra’s light, repulsing unendingly against the very blood that coursed through your veins. Yet, the scholar within Willow was its own fiery force to be reckoned with. Her eyes soaked in the details upon each wall, cataloguing as much as she could as they passed through each chamber and onto the next.
When they came across the Second Trial of the Worthy, they entered a room decorated in a grand mural of a great king ordering the building of shrines and temples to Mitra. At his command knights, architects, masons, stone cutters and laborers worked tirelessly to glorify the Shining Lord. Above the king was another inscription in celestial.
“Attend my servants!” Bor read aloud, “Who is a greater lord than I?”
Willow frowned, looking towards him with scrutinizing eyes. He had never revealed his understanding of the celestial language, merely played along when she had translated each time for the group. But even as the suspicion flared, the intrigue of the riddle within the room was far too strong to ignore. She looked to the mural, eyes focused on the king.
“The Shining Lord…” Willow mused.
“Portrayed as a tyrant?” Bor scoffed, “I thought he was the lord of charity?”
Willow shook her head gently, “Not a tyrant, but a ruler. One of the three aspects of Mitra. The Shining Lord is a god of kings and conquers, the god of righteous might and great civilizations. Though he bids that those with power use it for the greater good. Waste it on the weak and useless.”
As she spoke, her eyes drifted over the carvings. Once again she was drawn to the servants, yet it was only as she looked over the engraving of the word, that she noticed the outlines around the letter e. Carefully inspecting it, she saw the mechanism and pressed it inward. A subtle click of a lock deactivated the pressure plate trap set by the exiting door.
They continued through the chamber, passing more ossuaries filled with fewer and fresher bones, until they came across a barren room decorated with only a single plaque. As they approached, the chanting silenced.
Who is thy enemy? Who is the lord of the nine? Know him as he knows himself or be consumed with fire.
The answer to the third trial, was one that each of the Forsaken knew intimately. Though, they would not call this entity their enemy.
“Ashmodai!” each of them rasped in Infernal, passing over the threshold.
It was then that they saw the head of the Order of Saint Marcarius – Earnan MacCathlain. A tremendous sight to behold, with powerful arcana he had grown to the size of an ogre, his ornate white robes draping from his immense figure. Sounded by a vicious cycle of spectral blades, that tore through the air in a barrier of venomous wrath. He stood within a chamber dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and study, simple carvings of priests and acolytes in scholarly pursuits. Bookshelves lined the simple chamber, tomes and scrolls layered high within them. At the far end of the room, a glass coffin sat atop a table, the encased bones laid with clear affection for the dead. Willow knew they had found the remains of Saint Marcarius himself.
MacCathlain wore a look of stoic determination. He was ready to fight with his life to see the deeds of the Forsaken at an end. As they charged forward, Willow was swept with a wave of terrifying fear. It ached within her bones, convulsed her fingers and clenched tight on her heart. It was sheer willpower that allowed her to continue her advance. She knew the incredible terror to be an arcane enchantment, but still she could not deny it. A blast of holy fire rippled from MacCathlain’s fingers, soaring towards the group and splitting from itself to streak out at each of them. Willow cried out as the blaze seared her flesh, diving behind the cover of the stone wall. Garvana’s rasping voice echoed throughout the chamber, her infernal incantation ripping open cracks in the floor, the pits of hell raging open beneath the priest. He writhed in agony as the blackened tendrils formed into claws that lashed out at his legs. The sweltering flames burned beneath him, but Willow heard Garvana curse as MacCathlain levitated into the air, out of the reach of the blazing cracked portal. Pellius launched a flurry of arrows from the rear of the chamber, his eyes ablaze with rapturous hellfire, his rasping baritone chanting a throbbing tune that lingered in the air. A white light exploded from the priest, flashing in a blinding shine, followed by a torrent of searing heat that bypassed armour and scorched the flesh hidden beneath. Sith snarled viciously, sending a wave of flame into the chamber, charring the white robes that drifted through the air. Pellius paused from loosening another volley of arrows at the cleric, raising an armored fist above his head.
"I call!” he roared in Infernal, “Hear me! To the one that slays this contrived failure, his soul may they keep. Come forth now!"
The air quivered in a sickening shudder, as monstrous humanoid mix of insect and reptile appeared beside him. Twitching limbs and fanged mandible, the blood red skinned creature rasped hungrily, "I claim this kill for the Xill!"
Clutched in it’s feral hands were crude bows and grotesque swords; it began to fire tainted arrows towards MacCathlain. As a fearsome surge of white light erupted again, Willow knew they had to do something, if he could keep them at this distance hidden behind the walls, his elaborate arcana would prove too strong and they would surely face their deaths. The searing heat of wave after wave that he gave off was slowly wearing her down. The blisters along her skin screaming in protest as she moved, the burns weeping in sickly fluid. She had to get closer, she had to find a way to plunge her dagger through his neck. She watched as Garvana grabbed hold of Bor’s hand and rushed her enchanted words, vanishing from sight and reappearing behind MacCathlain. Bor’s landed upon the glass coffin, his hefty weight collapsing through as it shattered and destroyed the table. As their weapons sought contact, Willow leapt on the distraction. She gritted her teeth against torturous onslaught of his blade barrier, refusing to be overcome by the immense pain as they tore bloodied shreds off her skin. The hellfire beneath her had no effect, the claws vanishing from sight as she passed through them. She saw her opportunity as MacCathlain turned his head towards Bor, unknowingly baring his neck to her. She leapt from the ground, both blades high over head, chthonic wrath screaming from her chest. As she craned through the air, a wave of sheer terror swept through her, more horrifying than anything she had felt before. But not even such fear could slow her decent. Her blades plunged deep into his flesh, the weight of her decline tearing downward through his shoulder and chest. As she landed in a crouch on the stone floor, and the bladed wall still ravaged her limbs and skin, the fear proved too much. Tears flowed from her eyes, and tremors overtook her body, she could do little but tremble beneath him. Suddenly, as Bor’s blade tore through his back, the onslaught dissipated. MacCathlain fell from his height, his body shrinking to return to it’s normal size. The blades vanished, and the fear released its hold on Willow. Her chest wheezed as she struggled for breath through the blood pooling in her lungs. As the room quieted, and only the sound of panting breath could be heard, the vile Xill clambered forward. MacCathlain was not dead, Willow could see his chest still rising and falling, and she watched with disgust as the Xill approached and propelled a feral tendril forward from its mouth. With its revolting limb attached to his body, the air quivered around them. In the blink of an eye, the creature and MacCathlain’s body vanished, his clothing remaining behind as it sunk to the floor. Garvana rushed to Willow’s side, summoning her infernal healing, rasping incantations that infused divine warmth through her blood. Willow felt the wounds along her flesh knit together, the heavy liquid draining from her lungs. As the cracks of Hell closed beneath her, and the agony eased to an ache, she could finally breath restful sigh. From her count, they had only one more force of Mitra’s elite to deal with; Ara Mathra, he who stands in light.

After a brief moment to catch her breath, Willow finally looked around the chamber surrounding her. The chamber was carved in murals, identifying it as the private library of Saint Macarius. Stacked on each shelf and in alcove were the founder’s private books and records. They were the secret annals of the Order. Willow rose from her seat, eager to devour the knowledge held within. As she sifted through book after book, towering stacks of writing and dictation, she found one book in particular of great peculiarity and interest. It had no title and written entirely in some cypher that seemed to be a variation of the celestial tongue. The book had several strange illustrations that appeared to be star charts. Willow took the curiosity within her pack and continued her search. Pellius stood by the door in vigil, eyes afire in watch, listening intently for any oncoming defenders. Bor stood by the other doorway, more relaxed in his guard, but uninterested in the lore contained within the library. It was only Garvana who shared her enthusiasm, sorting through the mess upon the eastern walls. Although she could not read the words written in celestial, when she came across and tome illustrated with three sacred flames, she knew she had found something of great importance.
“Willow,” she called, holding the tome open, “What does this say?”
Willow put down the scroll she had been reading and skimmed the pages of the tome.
“It is the Book of Undying Flames,” Willow said, “It reads that any one of a pure heart who places their hand in the fire of all three flames, will become a divine spellcaster of Mitra. It is for that reason that the Vale is known as perhaps the most sacred place on this plane to Mitra.”
“That explains why there’s so many bloody priests here,” Bor scoffed.
Willow chuckled as she returned to the tome she had been reading, as she flicked through its pages, she realized she had found Saint Angelo’s journal. He had recorded the time when he had constructed the legendary vault, the one that housed the dark treasures he could not destroy. Willow read through the passage, a sly smile lifting her lip.
“The vault is sealed with the names of the first,” she translated aloud, “The
teacher, the founder and the maker.”
“The first?” Garvana asked, “Are they referring to Mitra?”
Willow’s mind reeled to remember where she had heard the phrase, brow clenched tightly, mouth slightly agape.
“Praised be Suchandra,” Willow recited, eyes widening, “Praised be the First.”
“Suchandra?” Bor asked, arching his wide brow.
“The phoenix, the inscription on the temple doors said those words.”
“Who is the teacher?” Garvana sighed.
“Ara Mathra became his teacher,” Willow recalled, “Saint Marcarius was the founder, and they believe that Mitra was the maker of all that is good.”
“Or the maker is Saint Angelo,” Pellius added from the doorway, “He was the maker of the vault.”
“This is true,” Willow frowned, “Let us hope we do ourselves no harm by guessing wrong.”
Pellius pointed further down the long passage way, “We shall find out soon enough.”

The Angels in Iron were awaiting them within. Two shining shiver angels of living metal, outfitted in robust iron armour, steel molded into immobile immense wings that craned from their backs. They both held mighty halberds, held mirrored across their chests. They stood in front of a circular door, gleaming steel embellished with ostentatious runes, intricate carvings in decorative fashion. An inscription in celestial hinted warned those of the danger within.
“By the four names,” Willow read at a whisper, “Cursed be he who unleashes what is bound within…”
Metal beams lay across the centre, strengthening the structured entranced. It was clear that no might nor magic would break through the door. As the Forsaken lingered by the threshold of the room, the golems remained motionless. As Pellius took a tempting step into the chamber, they crossed their halberds over the door, menacingly barring entrance. He retreated, and as the guardians uncrossed their weapons and returned to their vigil, the others followed.
“The priests must have had a way to get passed them,” Pellius frowned, “The vault was created over one hundred and fifty years ago. There must be a set way to identify who can enter.”
He walked briskly back to the library, where the Lord-Abbot’s clothing still remained upon the floor. Eyes raking over the garments, his brow pulled into a frown as he picked up the modest wooden holy symbol and turned to Willow.
“Are wooden symbols not a sign of poverty?” he asked, mind churning, “Worn only by those who could not afford something more lavish?”
Willow frowned, unsure where he was leading her.
“Yes, but some priests that regard the Beneficent Sun wear them as a show of humility and modesty. What is it you are thinking?”
Pellius smirked, a proud smile, “And were the statues of Saint Marcarius not carved with him wearing a wooden sunburst?”
It took a moment for Willow’s mind to follow, but as it clicked, she found herself grinning.
“After you,” she offered, indicating towards the vault.
As they approached, he held out the wooden symbol, steeping over the threshold with great confidence. As he did, the angels remained motionless.
“Suchandra!” he boomed, “Ara Mathra! Macarius! Angelo!”
The words echoed throughout the chamber, ricocheting off the stone walls. Slowly, the sound of mechanical locks shuddered. The great door to the vault craned inwards and opened wide. Willow used the magic of her circlet to conjure the image on a wooden starburst on her chest. Unsure if the arcana would be enough, she timidly stepped over the threshold. When the golems made no move to bar entry, she walked to Pellius’ side. As the others followed suit, Willow and Pellius entered the grand vault together. What they found, made her heart beat heavy within her chest. The chamber was lined with bookshelves of Asmodean literature and lore, alcoves of items confiscated from the Infernal Lord’s temples and shrines. Quickly, she stowed as many of the tomes and books as she could fit within her pack, a childish smile of glee gracing her face. Garvana opened an ebony chest that sat by the entrance, pulling free a silver chalice, engraved with scripted runic words.
“The Chalice of Audrelius Vestromo,” Bor read aloud, “Gaius will be pleased.”
To the far left end of the vault stood a large frame-like object, covered in a white sheet, as if the very sight of it had repulsed those who visited the vault. To the right sat an altar, smothered by a similar pale cloth. As Pellius pulled the sheet from the altar, amidst the wave of dust and dirt, he revealed a dastardly blade. Made of black iron, graven with infernal glyphs, searing brands of reddish runes. The pommel and hilt of the sword were missing, the tang of the blade wrapped in leather, so it would still be able to be wielded. Bor stared down at the menacing weapon with hungry eyes. His hand reached for the blade, and as his fingers gripped the tang, his eyes flew wide. He looked to Pellius in question, his frown furrowing deeply.
“Did you not hear it?” he asked.
Pellius cocked an eyebrow, “Hear what?”
“The blade,” he said with a tinge of awe, “It wishes to be remade…”
As the others marveled over the fiendish weapon, Willow’s gaze was drawn to the last object hidden under white fabric. She strolled forward, unable to resist the strange sensation drawing her forward. She gently reached for the sheet, dragging the material to the ground. As it fell, an ornate mirror was unveiled. The frame was made of bone and black obsidian, wicked furling patterns carved along each length. It appeared only as a decorative piece fit for the palace of hell. Yet, Willow could feel the darkness radiating from within. With her unblinking gaze locked to her own reflection, she drew her dagger free. She slashed her palm and flung the blood that spilled across the gleam of the mirror. Slowly, the vision began to change. Blackness swirled and coiled within the image, sable mist danced along the glass, as two pairs of ebony eyes faded into view. Willow’s curiosity kept her attention locked on the mirror, she had never seen an artifact such as this, yet she knew exactly what she was looking at – two bone devils, bound within a stygian mirror. Suddenly, a spine tail launched towards her venomously from the mist, rebounding off an unseen barrier. She did not flinch as it impacted, she merely raised an eyebrow. The other devil hissed viciously, chastising his companion. As they seemed to really look at her, both devils looked away, as if in deference.
“Skaerabus and Skraeth,” Willow said formally in Infernal, reading their names from the inscription upon the frame.
Strangely, the pair seemed to bow, ever so slightly.
“Sith-mar ilith…” they rasped in response.
Her brow dropped into a frown, her head quirking to the side. She had not been called that before, yet the familiarity seemed as if she knew why it was right for her to be called so. It was answer that seemed just out of reach, it lingered on her tongue, so near to her and yet so very far.
“Why do you call me,” she asked curiously, “Name-less one?”
The devils said nothing, only the sly grins that slipped upon their sharp toothed maws gave any hint of further knowledge. The merely bowed again, avoiding her eyes. As she stared into the mirror, her own reflection a pale trace above theirs, her mind churned with intrigue.
She knew who she was… did she not?

Dravda
2016-09-24, 01:30 AM
Bookmarking! I love a good campaign journal, and your writing looks stellar from the little bit I did read. Unfortunately, I can't delve too far, as I'd like to play this myself one day. :smallbiggrin:

minderp
2016-09-27, 12:45 AM
Bookmarking! I love a good campaign journal, and your writing looks stellar from the little bit I did read. Unfortunately, I can't delve too far, as I'd like to play this myself one day. :smallbiggrin:

Much as i'd like to insist you read everything, because i very much enjoy my own stories, the campaign is too good to ruin! Highly recommend playing it. :)

minderp
2016-10-09, 02:50 AM
The ache of sorrow lingered in a mournful cry that drifted across the stale air. The dead sighed, a dolorous and forlorn whisper. As the blood spilled had seeped into each crevice and fracture upon sacred lands; the dead did not rest and the saints did not waver.
Within the legendary Vault of Saint Angelo, in the lowest depths of the heart of the great cathedral, Willow gazed deep into the stygian mirror. She wondered how long the frame had been hidden and locked away within the chamber. It was Saint Angelo the Wise who had built the once impenetrable vault, to store the relics of Infernal worship that he could not unmake. And yet, more than a century had passed since his time.
“How did you come to be bound within this mirror?” Willow asked.
Even though she could assume they had been bound for more than his time, the two shadowed figures of the bone devils trapped within took their time and mused upon their reply.
“Great arcana and binding words,” they responded.
Willow arched an eyebrow. She knew to be prisoner within a mirror such as this, they were forced to answer all questions honestly. However, the mirror did not force them to answer clearly. The story of how they were captured and bound was a mere curiosity to her, there were other more pressing questions that she wanted answers to. Paired with the intent of her question, was the knowledge that to smash the mirror, would be to release the beasts within.
“I would suppose you wished your freedom,” she rasped in Infernal tongue, “If I was to grant it, what would you offer in return?”
A chorus of feral hisses came from the image, though by clouded faces, Willow could not tell if they were eager or angered. The dominant one hushed his companion, inclining his head to Willow.
“Nine years of service,” he slithered.
“Service?” she asked, a slight lift to her lip, “And what does your service entail?”
Their reply was halted as Pellius stepped up beside her, his broad shoulders and large height casting a menacing shadow across the mirror. His hand gripped her forearm gently as he met her gaze with a look of warning.
“We will think on the offer,” he said, to her as much as to them, “For now, what do you know of the wall of fire in the cathedral above? How do we overcome it?”
“We can feel it from here,” the other devil rasped, a solemn gleam to his tone, “Pious yet vicious. It will only be pierced by a saint…”
“Pierced by a saint?” Garvana repeated, “Is that not what MacCathlain wrote?”
“The bones!” Willow said in realisation, “Saint Marcarius’ bones!”
Pellius frowned, looking to her in question as the smile spread across her face.
“How did I not see it before,” she said, shaking her head and striding out of the vault.
As she spoke, Pellius threw the white sheet back over the mirror, shutting out the sight and thought of the devils within.
“MacCathlain did not realise he had given us the very key to opening the way to Ara Mathra,” Willow continued, “He wrote that the wall could only be pierced by saint, and he meant it, literally. The bones of Macarius are the most ancient and holy of relics, you can feel the radiating light that glows from them.”
When she made it back to the library, she carefully sifted through the shatters of broken glass and splintered wood to find the preserved bones beneath. Delicately, she lifted the skull from the debris, eyes wide as she gazed upon it.
“If I am correct,” she said quietly, “It is the Order’s very founder that will be it’s undoing…”

As they left the mirror behind for collection upon completion of their mission, the Forsaken made their return to the grand hall. The blazing wall of flame rose from the stone floor to meet the arched peak of runic carved ceiling. It sealed the chamber within, pulsing in terrible might, white glyphs of divine power unfurling in rapturous tendrils. The heat radiated throughout the hall, the warmth turned burning with each step forward they took. Willow lifted the skull of Saint Marcarius high over head, and as Garvana’s words guided her shot, she hurled the bone towards the fire.
“FOR THE GLORY OF ASMODEUS!” she cried.
As the skull soared through the air, a shudder of anticipation rippled throughout the room. With eyes wide, they watched as the bone was engulfed by the flame. Suddenly, the wall trembled. As if siphoned through the surrounding stone, the flame was drawn into the ether, vanishing from sight. With a confident stride, the Forsaken approached the open star shaped chamber. It was then that Willow saw a figure bathed in gold, kneeling in the centre by the base of last undying flame. Ara Mathra; their last conquest of the vale. Slowly, he rose from his perch and turned to face them. A foreboding sight to behold. Standing a head taller than Pellius, adorned in gleaming gold plate armour, holding an immense golden morningstar. The long flow of his hair shined in hues of honey and sand as it fell upon his shoulders, his shimmering bronze skin radiant and aglow, gleaming gold feathered wings draping from his back. He stood in majestic valour, shoulders back and stance firm. Yet, in the flickering light of the luminous fire, Willow could see the tears that welled within in his eyes. She knew not what he wept for, but as his gaze met hers, she felt the distinct impression that it was not for the many men and women who had lost their lives at the hands of the Forsaken. He looked to her as if she were a lost soul who had succumb to the darkness, a child who knew not what she was doing. He looked to her, as if he wept for her.
By the pervaded fire light, the Forsaken cried out their wrath, charging forth to meet their nemesis in battle. The angel’s wings spread wide in glorious birth, oscillating gracefully as they lifted him into the air. In blaze of searing white light, he sent forth a frightening beam of energy. So blinding that Willow had to clench her eyes as she dove out of its path. Looking to the others, she saw Bor charge forward with the vicious Hellbrand in his grasp, as Garvana found shelter behind one of the large pillars. As her gaze found Pellius, she saw him hunched over, clutching his eyes in agony. He had not been so swift as the light had soared towards them. From behind the cover of a stone pillar, Willow sifted through her back, pulling free the vial to cure arcane blindness. With a quick look towards the angel, as she saw him distracted by Bor’s venomous onslaught, she ducked out into the fray towards Pellius.
“Quickly, drink this!” she yelled as she reached him, shoving the vial in the mouth.
As he gulped down its contents, Willow pushed him backwards behind the flanking stone block. A second beam of light flew towards her at terrible speed, scorching the leather upon her back as she dove out out of the way. Keeping one eye on the battle, she stood guard while Pellius’ sight slowly returned.
“Can you see?” she asked hurriedly.
“Yes,” he rushed, “Thank you.”
“Come on!” she called, leaping out from the pillar and diving into the fight.
The angel flew high above them, sending torrents of fire and white light in an unrelenting rain of magic. As he swerved to the left to avoid Garvana’s explosion of flame, Willow saw her chance. She sprinted at full speed towards the pillar closer to him, springing off her heel, landing one foot against the marble and propelling herself off towards him. He had not seen her jump, so she managed to leap forth and carve both daggers into his calves, dragging deep gashes as her weight dropped back to the floor. Still, no sound came from his mouth, even as his lip curled in pain. He swooped low and arced out his great morningstar, pummelling Willow in the back as she retreated from beneath him. He hit with such force that she was knocked clean off her feet and sent flying through the air. As the breath was wiped from her chest, she covered her face as best she could before her frame crashed heavy into the nearest pillar. She felt the shatter of a few ribs within her cage, the sharp lash of agony driving in her sternum, but she had no time to rest or weep. She forced herself to her feet and watched as Bor, Pellius and Ara Mathra traded brutal blow for blow. The angel was a graceful and talented fighter, he soared through the air with marvellous skill, giving little chance for his ground-bidden foes to reach him. Each time he dove, he would carve the flesh and paint his sacred hall in the blood of the wicked. Pellius roared in frustration, pulling free his fearsome bow and whispering to it viciously.
“Ara Mathra, I swear to the Lord of the Nine that I will slay thee!”
“DEATH TO THOSE WHO HAVE WRONGED ME!” the bow’s voice lashed.
Each arrow that struck true tore through the armoured flesh with vengeance, but Willow could see the raging fire within Pellius’ eyes blazing uncontrollably. His hands trembled in fury, as if they abhorred at the thought of killing such a foe at a far; as if they ached to devour the life of him by ripping the flesh from bone themselves.
Ara Mathra’s mighty weapon swung down from its height, a thundering echo as it collided with Bor’s chest. Willow knew the sound of shattering bones, and as he rounded for a second and third swing, the chorus of splintering sang out. Willow ran behind him, slashing out her blades in a desperate attempt to bring him down. As he simply soared higher, she screamed out in exasperation. Her mind reeled as she lunged out of the immense morningstar’s curve, torturous shuddering from her bone ribs within, she could see no way to lure him lower. But from the entry to the great and holy chamber, came a temptation he could not resist.
“ASMODEUS!” Garvana bellowed savagely, “LORD OF THE NINE! PRINCE OF HELL! LEND ME YOUR GIFT! I AM YOURS!”
A feral pulse trembled in the air, the ground beneath her opening up in blazing cracks of hell. Rapidly she transformed into a twisted version of herself. Her skin bled crimson and scaled, her tongue split and forked, her hands tore violently apart into claws. A nimbus of hellfire swarmed around her, convulsing as she screeched towards the angel.
“You, will be my gift to Him!” she shrieked.
As she let loose a fulmination of chthonic terror, Ara Mathra could not deny the bait. He soared towards her, stoic duty upon his face, cleaving his golden morningstar through the chamber. Willow charged forward with every ounce of her strength, blades by her flanks, teeth gritted against the agony. As his mighty weapon struck Garvana across the side of the head, Willow leaped into the air with her blades above her head. She plunged them into his neck, ripping them free to swirl in a dance of fatal grace, slashing them up and under his chin. Garvana screeched an unholy and unnatural cry, thrusting her claw out with furious power. The claw ripped through the golden armour of his chest plate, tearing through flesh falling mere inches from his heart. With one last gust of effort, through a wheezing chest and blood that seeped from his mouth, he swung his mighty weapon. It first crushed Willow’s shoulder in an agony so acute that she felt the entirety of her body convulse, splintering and destroying the bones along her joint. Yet his glorious morningstar continued, carving behind him into Garvana, the force of the impact along her chest so great that it pummelled her against the stone wall. It was a single arrow that slit the air as it passed, sailing through to pierce directly into Ara Mathra’s neck. Only as he fell to his knees, as the scarlet paint gushed from his wounds, that he spoke in choked and sombre voice. The angel’s lips parted, and his prophetic words seeped their way deep into Willow’s soul.
“It will be the son, that brings your doom…”
With a hand that trembled in wrath, she lashed out with her blade, carving through Ara Mathra’s throat. The light vanished from his eyes, but before his body slumped to the floor, Garvana’s callous transformation overtook her. A terrifying shriek let loose from her throat, with ferocious intent she gripped his arms and ripped them free in a shower of crimson cruor. In rage, she waded through the slaughter to stand by the last of the undying flames.
“His fire shall bathe the divine,” she rasped venomously, tracing rushed patterns through the air with crooked fingers, “And all shall know his glory, his wrath and his vengeance!”
A profane gust of malicious energy swarmed from her hands, its blackened curls unfurling towards the great white flame. Willow watched in wary awe as the tendrils wrapped themselves around the fire, the might of hell desecrating the sacred inferno. The baleful arcana compressed the bright light, seeming to squeeze the air from the flame, depriving and starving as it funnelled. In a shudder, the holy radiance imploded, leaving only slender trails of white smoke in its wake.
As Garvana collapsed to the ground, her body slowly morphing back in strenuous effort to her normal size, a solemn gloom pervaded the grand chamber. As if the saints that watched over the cathedral sighed, the losses they had suffered and the fate they had feared, now coming clear into reality. The Order of Saint Marcarius was at an end. By the hands of the servants of the Prince of Darkness, the destiny of the nation of Talingarde was sealed.

Kneeling by the ancient basin that once housed the undying flame, Willow sat with closed eyed, deep in prayer. She did not relish the slaughter of thousands, she did not feel pride with her hands doused in their blood. The crushed bones within her body were slowly knitting themselves back together, as Garvana’s healing hands had mended the worst of the damage. Though aching and sore, she silently spoke to her fearsome Infernal Lord, and only savoured the completion of their mission. Merciless she was not, nor unfeeling in her share of guilt. But she had carried out her master’s orders, she had been successful in the tasks that were given. The death of the mighty angel of Mitra was indeed a great victory, his influence no longer inspiring the masses of the faithful. Yet, as the others saw to their own wounds and made plans of their next move, her mind churned over his demise. He had looked to her as a child. She could see in his eyes that he truly believed she was a naïve victim, lead astray by the lure of deviltry. Part of her chafed at his arrogance, thinking she blindly followed the darkness, rather than leading the way to vanquish the light. But part of her knew his beliefs held a trace of truth. She was following Cardinal Thorn’s orders, receiving no explanation or inclusion in his greater plan. She wondered if he thought her smart enough to dissect and figure his motives, or if he thought her daft enough to follow unnoticed and unquestioning.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a familiar voice spoke from behind them.
“Well done, my lords,” Tiadora said, lacking all trace of her usual sarcasm.
Turning her head, she saw the beautiful woman, dressed in a gown of deep red that creased as she bowed to the Forsaken.
“I am pleased, and the master is pleased. He sends his regards.”
Willow stood from her kneel, strolling towards the devil showing as little weakness as her weary limbs could manage, eyeing the bag within her grasp. As she passed the velvet pouch to Pellius, Willow’s eyebrow arched as he opened it, revealing what had to be at least fifty thousand gold worth of tear shaped sapphires.
“Alas, that there is still more that needs doing to complete Asmodeus’ will,” Tiadora continued, “With the coming of spring, the Fire- Axe moves his horde against the city of Daveryn. Your army, what remains of it, is needed there. You are needed there. Our master Cardinal Thorn instructs you to depart this place and find passage to Daveryn to rendezvous with the army of Sakkarot Fire-Axe. You may even help personally with the sack of the city if you wish. Once Daveryn is ashes we will speak again.”
With that, the air rippled as she vanished from sight.
“We must return to Ghastenhall first,” Garvana said, “And deliver Prince Gaius his chalice. We have until the break of spring to arrive in Daveryn.”
“Indeed, I have much need to restock my supplies,” Willow said with pursed lips, “I am down to merely three vials of healing, and my armour has sure seen better days.”
“And what of our men and the bugbears?” Garvana asked.
“We cannot forget that the phoenix escaped alive,” Pellius said thoughtfully, “Though his word bound him to leave, it did not bind his silence. He is sure to alert the king’s army. We cannot leave this place undefended until the dawn of spring.”
“It will take months to move his army through the winter,” Bor added, “But it is sure to be headed this way.”
“Or towards Daveryn,” Willow said, arching her brow, “I cannot imagine Sakkarot’s feral horde has stayed quiet over the winter.”
“We must prepare for either,” Pellius nodded, “Hekkarth and Shagaroth can remain here with our men until the winter passes and they can make the return to Fire Axe’s camp.”
“Perhaps we utilise Shagaroth,” Willow offered, “His band are trained as scouts, from Sakkarot’s recommendation they are good at what they do. Perhaps we send them to scout the king’s army and return to him with an update?”
“Good thinking, my lady,” Pellius agreed, “It will be valuable to know just how close they are.”
“And what of the others Willow spoke of,” Garvana asked, “Those we bypassed within the labyrinth?”
Bor smiled, a feral and malicious grin, “Burn it. Trap them within and set it all alight in hellfire…”

They set orders for their own men to ransack the cathedral, retrieving all of worth and setting the rest to the flame before following them on to Ghastenhall. The Forsaken had no need to wait for spring to arrive, their newly gained league of hippogriffs would suffice as transport through the sleet speckled skies. Once they had gathered their belongings from the mayor’s manor and strapped them within the airborne beasts talons, they took to the skies upon their backs. As they craned high above the valley that was Valtaerna, Willow looked down upon the blood stained lands. Her heart sank slowly as the view passed across her sight. So much destruction, so much desolation. The ruins were a testament to their victory, a once loved and joy filled home of harmony and peace – now a hive of only sorrow and death.
The journey to Ghastenhall that took three days by foot, took only a single day and night by sky. As the sun disappeared behind the horizon on the first eve, they made camp by the shelter of an overhanging rock within the Tarrafyrn Valley. As the hippogriffs hunted in the surrounding forestry, the Forsaken sat by the campfire, huddled around the radiating warmth. Garvana was the first to excuse herself for the night, retreating to pray in solitary. Pellius rested with his back upon a smooth stone boulder, his arms draped around Willow as she leaned back upon his chest. Once Bor bid them goodnight and disappeared behind the fabric fold of his tent, Willow sighed her exhaustion. For a while, they merely sat in silence, while her mind turned over the events of the last few weeks. They had not made mention of celebrating their victory of the annihilation of the Vale of Valtaerna, and Willow assumed she knew why. She guessed that even among the dastardly and fiendish natures of the Forsaken, they were still creatures of conscience. Just as she, they did not relish in the slaughter of innocents, but they were tied to their fate and strong enough of will to do whatever need be to see the glory of their Infernal Lord reign supreme.
As the sounds of quiet orison chants were replaced with whispers of slumbered breaths, Willow spoke with a soft voice, still gazing into the flickering of the campfire flame.
“Have you regained control of… yourself?” she asked.
“No need to fret my dearest Willow,” he replied casually, “For now, I am fine, it is nothing to be concerned of. Though I must admit, I am glad to finally be free of that place.”
She frowned, turning herself in his embrace to look him in the eye.
“This is no trivial manner, Pellius,” she said whispered forcefully, her brow pulling tightly, “I am concerned for you. You were reckless! Heedless of the danger, eager to fight with little care for yourself!”
“Is that not what I am?” he asked bitterly, lip curling as anger set alight his eyes, “A set of armour to be thrown headfirst into battle? I am sure the cardinal would weep if I were to fall; one less to contest his dominion.”
As Willow sighed, her gaze searching his face, she watched his slowly anger fade.
“Maybe someone else would shed a tear though,” he said quietly, lifting his hand to trace his finger along her cheek, “Few understand my... gifts, and even fewer recognize the toll they take.”
For a moment, she simply stared into his eyes, the firelight casting the deep wells around his lids into blackened shadow.
“I see the price you pay…” she whispered, “I know that you pay it for the glory of our Father. But I am selfish, Pellius. I do not wish you to pay it with your life.”
At that, a small smile lifted the corner of his lip.
“But you know it may come to that, my lady. And I know it is a price you would pay as well, were it asked of you.”
As she gazed at him, conceding to his point, she smiled gently.
“Let us hope,” she sighed, “We are strong enough to only need ask it of others…”
He laughed softly, “Let us hope, my lady.”
She turned back towards the campfire, leaning against his chest, laying her head comfortably under his chin. Though he claimed to be fine, she could still feel the churn of unspoken thoughts within him. Of course, he was not the only one with worry on his mind. As the ceaseless onslaught of battle had finally come to a temporary end, Willow’s own mind had found time to return to the curiosities and puzzles that had been plaguing her. There was still much of herself that she did not understand. She knew her upbringing had seen her walk the path of secrets, she had always believed the only secrets were her own. Yet, as she truly began a real life of servitude to her Infernal Lord, the more secrets seemed to be unveiled.
“Do you…” she asked carefully, “Do you know what is it to be… nameless, within the ranks of Hell’s hierarchy?”
“I can not say that I have ever come across the title,” he replied, “Though I must admit, I am no savant on the topic. Perhaps Garvana may be able to shed some light on it further? Bor even, given his past.”
“No,” she huffed quietly, “I do not wish to speak of it to them. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Why do you ask?” he questioned curiously, “The mirror?”
Willow exhaled slowly, having forgotten she had not been alone in the chamber.
“They called me Sith-mar illith…. Nameless one. Yet, they seemed to recognize me, cast their eyes downward in… deference.”
“A peculiarity to come from the inquisitors of the devilkind,” he mused.
“This is not the first time this has happened,” Willow continued, “Even in our meeting with Dessiter of the Phistophilies, the fiend appeared more familiar with me than he had right to be,” she sighed again, shaking her head gently, “It sounds absurd, I know this. But I have never failed to read someone well, and there is more going on than I can decipher."
“I apologise, my lady, that I do not know more. Perhaps it is wise to put aside your reservations and ask the others.”
Willow stared into the simmering sway of the campfire, watching the tendrils of flame unfurl against the canvas of night.
“No,” she repeated, “I suppose I will find out more in time. If it is entwined upon this path we follow, it will be revealed one way or another…”


Dusk had fallen heavy over the city of Ghaster when the Forsaken landed in the fields of the Silkcreek Homestead. The surprised few men and women they had left behind greeted them respectfully, fear once more returning to their eyes. Bor ordered the hippogriffs to disappear into the forest, to return once two weeks had passed when they would begin the journey east to Daveryn. Willow ordered the fires to be lit and a bath to be drawn, while she made her way to her chamber to unpack her belongings. It was in the quiet of the candle lit bathroom, as the warmth of the steaming bath encompassed her body, that she finally felt her mind ease. Winter was not yet at an end, but the cold months had felt like the longest she had seen. As time trickled by and the water lost its searing simmer, a few of the candles flickered and faded. As the light in the chamber dimmed, her mind turned towards the coming days, and the peculiar offer she had dismissed as unimportant until now. Prince Gaius had offered the vampiric curse as reward for return of his ancient chalice. She had thought her answer would have been simple, she had never thought of the transformation of vampirism as something she would consider. Yet, in darkness of the barley lit room, she knew herself to be already comfortable within the shadows of night. What would it mean to be part of them? A soft knock at the door broke into her thoughts.
“Enter,” she called.
Pellius quietly stepped through the door, sealing it closed behind him.
“Care to join me?” Willow offered, arching an eyebrow.
He smirked, eyes raking appreciatively along her flesh beneath the water.
“The servants inform me that dinner is served,” he said, almost apologetically, “And as our last meal was before dawn this morning, I fear my hunger for food may take precedence for now, my lady.”
Willow laughed softly as she stood from the bath, accepting the towel he held out to her. As she stepped free from the water, walking to face the mirror while she wrapped herself in the cloth, his reflection appeared beside her as his dark promise rasped by her ear.
“For now…” he warned.
As the shiver that traced her spine forced her lips to grin, she turned to look into his eyes, thrilled to see the spark of desire returned to his gaze. Over the months in Valtaerna, they had not truly been together. For Willow, the thought of sharing in amorous delight within the valley, was to lay with him upon the bones of the dead and bathe in the blood of the innocent. She knew not his reasoning, but he had seemed to share in her lack of want for carnal satisfaction. But standing in the darkened chamber of the Silkcreek Homestead, eyes tracing over the candle light glow upon the deep wells of his cheekbones, her need for his touch swelled. As her eyes lit with lustful intent, the corner of his lip lifted into a sly grin.
“Dinner first, my lady,” he said quietly.
She pouted playfully, but nodded in agreement. He chuckled at her response, opening the door for her and ushering her through. As they returned to their bedchamber and she wrapped her hair in an easy braid, she turned to her closet and put aside amatory thoughts as her mind returned to where it was before he had entered the bathing chamber. As he sat upon the bed and she dressed in a simple pair of thick black trousers and a blouse, she turned to him with a speculative look.
“Have you thought on Prince Gaius’ offer?”
“Of course,” he replied, unlacing his battle-worn boots, “I have been pondering his offer for sometime. At first I thought it would be such a simple choice, for why would anyone wish to willingly submit themselves to the forces of the undead?”
“Why indeed,” she said quietly, retrieving his leather shoes from the closet.
“Yet the more I dwell on it,” he continued, inclining his head in thanks, “The more it seems we would have to gain from such a transformation. Not only the physical prowess and mental fortitude, but imagine unending time to perfect crafts, learn new knowledge and enjoy the world we are rebuilding right now. The power we could control... but I am ahead of myself. You must be asking for a reason, yes?
“I had not given it a great deal of thought,” she said truthfully, “Though, it is tempting, the night’s call already beckons me. But, I fear my path leads elsewhere. How are we to know what choice is right?”
“Perhaps it is simple,” he smiled, “The more time we are here, the more we return the natural balance to Him…”


The sun arched over the mountains, greeting the day with the early touch of dawn’s warmth. They dressed and left the homestead early for the market district, seeking to replenish their supplies and replace their worn out gear. Willow’s armor had managed to hold, but the rips and tears of the leather had only been roughly sewn together. A single good blow to the chest would have seen the plate ripped to shreds. As they tallied their spoils and treasure, they realized just how much wealth they had gained over the course of their last few missions, more than enough for each of them to spend on their desires.
The morning spent strolling casually through the streets and stalls, was a much needed change from the strenuous battle and planning that had taken up their time of late. The house staff had informed her of the current fashion within Ghaster, and Willow was delighted to find reason to dress up once again. She wore a vibrant burgundy frock lined with slim black lace, knotted her sable locks high on her head, and sported clashing green fabric buskins. She meandered through the markets on Pellius’ arm, feeling a light frivolous joy for the first time in months. As they purchased mundane items along with their own individual curiosities, they returned to the manor for a short lunch. Willow had a list of rarer trinkets that each of them wished to seek, and after changing into her new black leather set of armor, she made her way alone to the dockside underground market. For her, she did not have any items in particular in mind. Though it would have been easy to spend her small fortune on the decadent glittering jewelry layered upon the tables, it was a simple ring she found undeniably alluring. A plain gold band, imbued with the power of invisibility. The merchant was a shrewd looking elven man, rounded sunken eyes, with a thin lined moustache that pointed fiercely from his cheeks. Willow was surprised that he offered for her test out the ring, as if he had no worry that she could or would escape with it.
“The command word is Vystrynivvi,” he said with a dark elfish lilt.
“Enshroud?” she arched an eyebrow, translating the elven word.
The vendor’s eyebrows rose slightly as he nodded, as if surprised that she spoke the elven tongue. Willow slipped the ring upon her finger, sensing its strange magic swirl along her hand.
“Vystrynivvi,” she recited.
The familiar shudder of arcana rippled across her flesh, as she felt the transparency take hold. She smiled, amazed once again by the power of such a spell.
“Ryvhstri to dismiss,” he said, his sight following her every movement, as if he could see through her guise.
“Ryvhstri,” she mirrored, the elven word for reveal.
As her image reappeared, he nodded, reaching for a small decorative black box as if he knew that she would indeed be purchasing the ring. Willow laughed at his confidence, but could not his fault assumption. As he slipped the ring into the holder and wrapped the box in thin black canvas, a row of ebony cloaks hung on the back wall of his stall caught her attention. The strange material appeared almost translucent, shimmering gently as the breeze feathered through the underground chamber.
“What are the they?” she asked, a slight frown upon her brow.
“Shrouds of the Daywalker,” he said, following her eye and dropping his voice low, “Hide the vampires from the sun.”
“Hides them?” she asked, intrigued in the notion, “As in, the undead can walk amongst us in the sunlight?”
He sniggered, raising his brow “They already do…”

The frosted chill of wintered night made the ride on horseback to the Barcan cemetery a slow and staggered trudge. The four of them pulled their woolen coats tighter as their horses waded through the layers of snow. They craned open the marble door to the Vestromo mausoleum, stepping inside the chamber to seek shelter from the heavy fall of sleet. Willow eyed the strangely large interior, surprised to find it less of a tomb and more akin to a waiting chamber decorated with sarcophagus’. Bor held the fire lit torch high, its glow only radiating a mere five feet of their surroundings. Even before they announced themselves, Willow could hear the scuttle of hidden feet, and feel the eyes of many upon her.
“Prince Gaius Vestromo!” Bor summoned, his deep voice echoing throughout the chamber.
“You return,” came the familiar voice from behind them, his approach eerily unheard, “You have something that belongs to me, I presume?”
“Indeed,” Bor replied, casually turning to face him.
The vampire prince was standing uncomfortably close, his movements preternaturally still, his eyes piercing like blades into Bor’s. The corner of Willow’s lip quirked as the large orc was forced to take a step back to retrieve the prize. He pulled free the shining silver goblet, inclining his head as he held it out.
“The Chalice of Audrelius Vestromo,” he offered.
It was only then, that Willow saw the vampires’ callous smile. He took the chalice within his hands, and bowed low in the ancient traditional show of respect. With no words, he strolled to the middle of the chamber. The spawn hidden within the shadows rushed about in an unheard command, dragging an unconscious human man with them. Willow watched in curiosity as they drained his blood and funneled it into the chalice. When it was full, Gaius lifted the cup to his lips. As he drank deep, Willow’s eyes widened as his pallid skin whitened, the dark wells beneath his eyes swelled and smoothed. As he finished the contents, his tongue darting out to consume the remains of the crimson upon his lip, he smiled a devilish grin. He appeared far younger than before, rejuvenated by the ancient arcana within the chalice. Willow found herself drawn to his gaze, the once aged lines upon his face now seemed softer, giving him a more distinguished look. She found him incredibly handsome, in that dastardly way that she always suffered an attraction to.
“You have my gratitude,” he said formally, eyebrows raised in regal might, “And in regard to my offer, I ask now. Do any of thee wish to partake in my gift of the night?”
A sense of anticipation rippled throughout the chamber. With unsure feet, Garvana stepped forward.
“I will accept,” she said quietly, a worried excitement to her tone.
Prince Gaius beckoned her forward with a gesture. She walked towards him with trembling steps, eyes avoiding his gaze. She seemed to reach for the chalice, but with a gentle hand he turned her head, baring the column of her throat to him. His two fangs slithered from his jaw, and in a swift and fluid movement, he drove them deep into Garvana’s neck. After only a moment in his grasp, she fell to the stone floor as her consciousness slipped away. Without looking down, he rose his brow in question to the others.
“Will she be alright?” Bor asked with slight suspicion.
“She will awake tomorrow evening with the falling of the sun,” he replied uninterestedly, “And what of you?”
“I will decline,” Bor said formally.
A single nod and he turned his sight to Pellius. Although he seemed to war with indecision, with a small apologetic glance to Willow, he stepped forward. Gaius beckoned him forth, standing tall, arms clasped behind his back and unmoving in his formality. Pellius turned his head, eyes closing as the teeth pierced his flesh. As his body slumped to the ground next to Garvana, Willow’s mind reeled in indecisiveness. She had thought over the many implications and consequences of his offer, yet was no more sure of her decision. She had told the others of the peculiar cloaks she had found, giving them way to transverse the day time almost unaffected by the burning light of the sun. Though they would be fairly useless vessels, it would suffice that they would at least not die upon the sunrise. To be undead, was to be powerful. Yet, the very meaning of it was to be soulless. She did not know if she was ready to lose her soul to the darkened abyss of hell. The only sure thing she knew was that she was destined to be by His side. As her soul would serve in Him in hell, so too would her body serve in life, or in death. As his gaze turned upon her, she understood the rapturous allure of the night.
“And you?” his question slithered, as if he could read the temptation within her.
“You will be alright to get us back to the manor?” she asked Bor.
“Yes,” he said easily, eyes alight with unspoken thought.
“Thank you,” she replied, turning towards Prince Gaius.
She nodded softly, politely waiting for his summon. He inclined his head and gestured for her to come forward, his fangs glistening in the torchlight. His unblinking gaze pierced deep into hers, as she slowly walked toward him. When she reached the slumbered bodies of Garvana and Pellius, she found her eyes unable to withdraw from his sight. He held out his hand in offering, which she accepted without thought. The touch of his hand was colder than ice, no blood running through his veins, no life beneath his flesh. He guided her steps over the bodies and brought her mere inches from his face. Gently he raised his fingers to her chin, guiding her head to the side, a seductive gesture of intimacy that had her breathing hitch. It was the strangest sensation that had her blood revel and recoil in unison. As his fangs plunged through the column of her throat, and his cold lips graced her skin, she felt no warmth of breath accompany his bite. As he pulled the velvet scarlet into his mouth, she gasped. Her body lit with venereal elation, the blood coursing through her veins in a rush. She drew her lip into her mouth to stop herself from groaning, as the blissful agony raced through her and built into a teetering crescendo. Suddenly, it became all too much. Her mind hazed, and her limbs slumped, her sight swarming in blackness. As she felt his embrace release, she knew she was falling. Yet she did not feel the hard collapse against the floor, she felt only the darkness; she felt the night devour her whole.


A sharp pain shot through her head as her eyes fluttered open. The ceiling of her bedchamber came into view through clenched lids, the blinding light from the window beaming upon her. Bor’s hefty chuckle roused her from her sleep, drawing her sight to him as he opened the drapes.
“Wondered when you’d wake up,” he chuffed, “Sun’s just dropped. Garvana is already awake, chucking up the remains of yesterdays dinner.”
Willow dragged her legs to the side of the bed, stiff and sore limbs still covered in her winter gear. She clenched her eyes tightly, trying to relieve the pressure within her skull.
“And Pellius?” she asked groggily.
Bor pointed behind her with a laugh.
“Still out cold. But breathing. Not sure if that’s a good thing.”
Willow turned and saw him, watching his chest rise and fall, his brow pulled tight in a painful frown. She tried to stand, but felt her knees buckle as she fell back to the bed.
“Ugh,” she moaned, “I didn’t know it would hurt like this. I feel as if I’ve drank enough liquor to fill a cauldron.”
“You look like you have,” he chuckled, “There’s stew in the kitchen, feel up to eating?”
The thought of food made her stomach churn, her throat trembling as she clasped her hand over her mouth.
Bor laughed again, “I’ll take that as a no.”
As her stubbornness prevailed, she forced her legs to listen, pushing through the fatigue and walking herself to the vanity. He had not been exaggerating when he had told her of her appearance. Deep black bags hung under her lids, her cheekbones drawn tight and gaunt, her skin a sickly pallid white. She sighed in exhaustion, lowering her head.
“Will you have the servants draw me a bath?” she asked in almost desperation, “I think I need to drown myself for a while.”
Bor grinned as he turned for the door, “Sure, Willow.”
“Thank you,” she sighed, “And thank you for getting us back here. I hope it was not too much trouble?”
“Horses did most of the work,” he chuffed, before casting a last look over Pellius, “He’s heavier than he looks though.”
Willow chuckled as he closed the chamber door, regretting the rumble as her stomach convulsed. She slid into the cushioned stool of the vanity, dropping her head into her hands. Her whole body felt frail and ill, even her hands shook as they struggled to hold the weight of her head. After a few minutes in utter stillness, the nausea seemed to settle. She dared not move, unwilling to tempt it to return. When the soft knock on the door came, and pummeled into her head much like a hammer, she shuddered in revulsion.
“What?!” she snapped.
A frightened and quiet voice came from the other side.
“S-sorry Mistress,” stuttered the young servant, “I-it is just, your bath is ready.”
Willow exhaled, a long and heavy breath.
“Thank you Clarha,” she said, “That will be all.”
The hurried scuttle of retreating footsteps sounded down the hall, as Willow lifted her head to her reflection. Slowly, she forced herself up from the vanity, retrieving a simple pair of warm clothes before delicately making her way to the bathing chamber.
As it always did, the water worked wonders. Though she still felt as if she had not slept in months, the aching in her limbs eased with the burning sear of the steaming broth. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift as her body floated in the embrace of the warmth.

After an hour, when the water had cooled and the pink in her skin begun to vanish, she dressed and returned to her room. Pellius had not moved, his face still troubled in deep slumber. Willow walked to his side, tracing her finger along his cheek, watching the frown on his brow deepen. She knew not if they had made the right choice. The consequences of their actions would prove a struggle; they had researched the many dangers of the transformation, simple things that they had never needed to worry about. Immersion in running water, the inability to enter someone’s domicile without invitation, and of course – sunlight. As she watched his face, and felt her lips smile in affection, her mind turned to the more peculiar of the changes. Vampires had no reflection. In fact, each book had described their inability to stand mirrors of any kind. What an odd thing, she thought. It had not been something she had considered; it did not seem of enough import to warrant attention. But as she made her way back to the vanity, sitting upon the seat and gazing at the image of herself, the worry did enter her mind. She did not understand why the transformation had not taken place yet. Each scripted account told of immediate symptoms, the change happening completely over the one night they fell into unconsciousness. Yet, her skin was still warm to the touch. Her stomach still hungered for cooked food. And her reflection still stared back at her. On impulse, her tongue searched her front teeth. Her eyebrows flew high as her tongue found two raised areas of gum. She arched her lips and saw the smallest points of fangs above her canine teeth. She frowned, unsure of whether they were simply growing or if she was able to move them. As if a child, learning a skill her body could do naturally, she craned her mouth wider. She pushed, and slowly the fangs lowered and lengthened. They glimmered in the candlelight, deathly sharp and pointed, slender and sleek. Strangely, she found they quite suited her. With a subtle pull, she retracted them back into place. An odd sensation came over her, the sickness returning. But with a clearer head she could determine something more afoot. The vampiric curse was swarming through her blood, yet it was met at every turn by something else. She knew not how, but she was sure her soul remained with her. It was her soul that opened her up to Asmodeus’ will. It allowed her to hear him, speak to him, connect with him. And although she knew that to be undead was to be soulless, she could feel it within her, refusing to leave her vessel and fighting the curse every step of the way. She stared into her reflection, only now noticing the peculiar way her image shimmered in translucency. It was only a mere hint, but it was enough for her to surmise what was happening. She would bare the transformation of vampirism. Her reflection would vanish as the curse grew stronger, and perhaps the other symptoms would emerge over time. But her soul was not weakening, it felt determined to remain with her. Perhaps it was locked with her, by the binding words of Thorn’s contract. Perhaps by her Infernal Lord’s will. Perhaps He would claim it only when he was ready. But as her eyes scanned over the way her wet hair molded to her skin, the petite arches in her collarbone and the highrise of her cheeks, she frowned in worry. If she was correct, she would never again see herself. She stared for a time, unmoving and eerily still, as her mind memorized the details of her face. The thought of waking up one morning and seeing nothing but the room beyond, made her realize why vampires would be repulsed by the very sight of the mirror. She chastised herself and knew her to be pathetic as small tears threatened to well in her eyes.
She heard the gentle groan of Pellius from the bed, but her sight would not draw away from her reflection. She heard him rise from the sheets, and his slow careful footsteps bring him closer to her.
“My lady?” he asked gently, “What is troubling you?”
“It is nothing,” she replied in a quiet voice, “Nothing of import.”
As his image joined hers upon the glass plate, she watched as his hand caressed her chin.
“If it is troubling you Willow, then it is of import.”
She smiled, his care and worry forcing her to shake her head.
“I never thought of myself as vain,” she laughed sadly, “I never believed I prized beauty above valour and might. But the thought of never seeing my own reflection again…. frightens me. Is that childish? A foolish dread?”
“Your beauty will still be there, Willow,” he replied warmly, lifting her chin to face him, “Only now, it will be undying and eternal. The world will still marvel at your splendour.”
Though his flattery was softly spoken and blatant, she appreciated it all the same.
“And though you may not be able to gaze upon it again,” he smiled slyly, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips, “I will.”
At that, she couldn’t help but grin. As he released her chin and began to gather his clothing, Willow’s sight returned to her reflection. Slowly, her brow dropped low.
“Do you feel it?” she asked, “I have never felt my soul, that sounds absurd. But, I can feel it warring with the vampiric curse. We were supposed to be undead, were we not? Yet how can one truly be undead if one’s soul refuses to leave?”
He paused for a moment, before turning back to her.
“I do not know,” he frowned, sighing in exhaustion, “I am sure it will all become clear soon enough.”
“Oh Pellius, I am sorry,” she shook her head, forgetting he too would be feeling the effects of the curse, lifting herself from the vanity and walking to his side, “All these questions and you’ve barely woken. How are you feeling?”
He smiled a weary smile, “I have felt better, my lady.”
“The master of understatements,” she chuckled softly, “I believe I shall head down for dinner, do you feel up to it?”
“I am unsure if my stomach will hold,” he said warily, “But I suppose I should try…”


It was a long and arduous week that saw a slow decline in Willow’s health. She was dying. She could feel it in the very core of her being. The blood of a mortal that once coursed through her veins with vigour and life, now churned sluggish as it dragged along its path. The vampiric curse grew strong within her, its’ will pulsing with venomous intent. She could feel death, inching ever nearer, its endless clutch taking hold.
Mirrored in Pellius and Garvana, she saw the same dark wells that hung beneath her heavy eyes. She was not alone in her withering journey. She was dying, and so too were they.
Yet, even as Willow lay weakened and fatigued hidden in the layers of fur within her bed, she could feel the gradual change overcoming her. Her sight was sharp and crisp, the darkness no longer shadowing her vision, the night coming alive in bright hues of greys.

As luck would have it, the merchant selling the shrouds designed for vampire spawn had found the winters snow too heavy to transverse to return to his homeland. With the shrouds, they would at least be able to withstand the fire of the blazing sun. She had questioned the man of the specifics of the blackened ash cloaks, and he was clear in explanation that although the undead would be able to survive the light, they did not grant immunity to the harsh glare of the bright star. They would be able to walk amongst the living, but they would never again be able to gaze upon the sun.

As the turned their gaze towards the east, they began the next chapter of their journey. The would march to Daveryn, and meet the Fire-Axe once again. One more victory, one more step towards hell's embrace...

minderp
2016-10-09, 02:54 AM
A cold breeze drifted softly against the rolling hills of white dust and feathered mist. The sun lifted from beyond the mountains, lighting the speckled green that broke through the last grasp of winter. With a week until the dawning of spring, the Forsaken began their eastward march. They chose to ride on horseback, leading their small retinue of men across the lands of melting snow and ice. The hippogriffs circled high overhead, watching the progress as the men trudged through the harsh terrain. Along the journey, they passed desolate towns and quiet villages, either ransacked by bugbears or deserted by conscriptions of the kings’ army.
Willow sat tall in her saddle at the head of the march, always by Pellius’ side, eyes always scanning the horizon. Although she knew the king would have to still be at least two months from them, the paranoia was impossible to ignore. They could face down divine beings and vile daemons, but an army that size would overwhelm with ease and outnumber them by countless leagues.

The bright morning dawned as they crested the hill by the outskirts of Daveryn. But even the shining sun was overshadowed by the littered expanse of ruin and fire that was once the city view. Sakkarot had clearly not waited for their arrival. Smoke and ash lingered above the scene, a cloud of destruction that shadowed the husk of a town. Pellius instructed Rajiu to stay with the men, keeping out of sight until they returned with further orders. The four of them kicked their mounts into a canter, striding through the burning hollow of the Angleton region. As they slowed to a trot by the broken entrance to Bandlethyn, a carob furred bugbear approached from the gates.
“Fire-Axe bids you welcome,” he grunted, “He awaits you in the the City Hall.”
Without waiting for their reply, he turned on his heel and returned through the gate. Willow looked to Pellius, awaiting his command.
“Do you know this city?” he asked her.
“I once did,” she nodded, “The city hall is in the centre of Duward to the east.”
“Lead the way if you will, my lady,” he replied.
Willow hooked her heels into her steed and set off through the gates, following the main road that she had travelled by coach once upon a time. Although, the scene she rode by now, was nothing like the bustling streets of the once great trading port of Daveryn. Far travel from the centre of the city, the paths and streets fell a deathly quiet. Their large plazas and markets were silent and lifeless. Hearths stale and cold, stores and taverns, once boisterous and busy, now desolate and quiet. They strode passed buildings that were nothing more than crisp shells of their former glory, blackened char coating the jagged stone that remained. It was apparent that only thanks to a heavy rain the previous evening, the majority of the raging fires were extinguished. All that remained within the outer rim of the city, were ghosts and ashes.
As they drew closer to the centre of town, the savagery begun. Sights of barbaric horror were to be seen everywhere. Bodies impaled on spikes, strung from ceilings and pinned to the walls. Most still wore the tattered remains of armor and livery of Talingarde and House Daveryn. Entrails and bloodied bones littered the streets and hung from the doorways in gruesome decoration. Flocks of crows and hordes of scavengers feasted on the newly dead. Everywhere that the bugbears camped, they built great bonfires from what remained of wrecked homes and shops. Ogres, trolls, goblins and giants moved amongst the detritus and debris searching for spoils and survivors. As the Forsaken moved through the repugnant crowd, turning sight from the atrocities that the feral army of brutes were partaking in – the league of eyes followed them. It was clear they were not unknown within the horde of the Fire-Axe. It was clear, that they were feared. A sure sight of foreboding menace they would have been. Clad in robust and wicked ebony armour, strapped with malicious blades and arms of steel, midnight steeds adorned with the five pointed star of the Lord of Darkness.
Willow kept her head high and her face cold as ice, as she rode her steed towards the city hall. Sith prowled protectively by her left, snarling in warning to the feral beasts, the fearsome warhound’s blazing coat of flame a perfect mirror to the simmer of her firesilk cloak as it undulated in trail behind her. Pellius sat tall in his saddle by her right, a proud regal might to the tilt of his chin, looking every bit the infernal commander that he was. Willow heard the whisperings from the shadowed array, that spoke of the Fire-Axe’s unholy allies and elite servants of darkness. Such an odd thing, she thought, to be feared by beasts so inhuman and heinous. These were mindless brutes who knew only savagery and bestial blood-thirst. Although the utter revulsion she felt grew the further her mind wandered, and the more of the foul creatures she passed, she kept her head high and continued her march onward.

Entering the grand city hall of Daveryn, they saw the Fire-Axe once again. Sitting atop the gleaming throne, flanked by his lieutenants and allies. He struck an impressive figure, no longer squeezed in ill-fitting stolen knight’s steel, now clad in a black suit of infernal armor. He truly looked the part of the dread bugbear tyrant of the north. The city hall was crowded with bugbear lords, ogre chieftains, hill giant thugs, scampering goblins and even a frost giant jarl that stood uneasily beside the Fire-Axe. As the Forsaken entered the hall, all eyes turned to them and a sudden silence cast over the room. Sakkarot rose from his throne.
“My lords!” he bellowed, “Welcome to Daveryn! With your skill at throwing open gates, I had hoped to have your aid. But it seems this city could not wait to fall beneath my killers’ blades!”
A clamorous yell and chorus of bestial howls came from the assembled throng. Willow stepped forward, inclining her head respectfully while arching an eyebrow.
“Your impatience is not unexpected,” came her rejoinder, “I fear men of all races and kinds have the same problem with achieving their goals, prematurely.”
As Sakkarot threw back his head in laughter, their barbaric audience and most of the Forsaken did the same. Garvana stepped forward, either having ignored or completely missed the jab, as she lowered her head in respectful greeting.
“It is good to see you, Sakkarot my friend,” she said warmly.
He grinned his toothy maw towards them, “And you all too. Come, we have matters to attend to.”
Once again, they met within a chamber deemed a war room. Desks littered in parchment maps and scrolls, lists of names and places, thin daggers pinpointing past and present victories. They stood within the mayor’s chambers, much finer than the accommodations that the horde had procured in their last battles. Fire-Axe commanded fine wine be taken from the larder of the duke, and for his lieutenants and underlings to clear the room. Willow couldn’t contain her laugh as the thick red wine was poured for them into decorative golden goblets that the bugbears clearly did not realize were purely for garish show. As Sakkarot took the remainder of the bottle for himself, he turned to them as the door closed and they were left alone.
“Are you here on a mission?” he asked.
“I suppose now the city is already taken,” Willow responded, “We are merely awaiting our next orders.”
“Huh,” he grunted in agreement, “Aren’t we all. Well I have one for you, if you’re interested. The Duke of Daveryn has escaped me. It’s possible he’s just gone. He may have had some magical means of leaving the city, so it may be a fool’s errand. But I suspect not. Duke Martin famously hated wizards. I suspect he’s holed up in the city somewhere, but so far my killers have failed to find him. I would love to have him dragged before me in chains. It would be good for morale.”
“Duke Martin,” Willow frowned, “Yes, I think I remember him. Beady little man? Little daft in the head?”
“Ha!” he laughed, “Accurate description. Other than that, enjoy the city. I care not what you do to this place. I’ll be rid of it soon enough. There are pockets of resistance here and there I’m told. You are welcome to deal with those however you see fit. Or you can simply loot the ruins. I’ll warn you though, my killers are thorough. If you want the best treasure, you’ll have to find places they can’t get. Ah, look at me. Lecturing you like you were whelps. You know all of this.”
He took a long swig of wine, leaning back into his chair.
“I hear great things of your mission in Valtaerna,” he said, sounding more relaxed, “Night-mane and the head takers reported a mighty victory.”
“It was a grand feat,” Garvana agreed proudly.
Sakkarot chuckled as he looked to Willow, “Hekkarth said you even let him build a pyramid of skulls.”
“Yes,” Willow said, her lip curling, “Your brutish warriors proved competent.”
“Competent?” he laughed, “Such a compliment, little one.”
Willow shook her head as she smiled. He took another drink from his bottle, his beast-like features taking on a look of melancholy.
“Truth told, that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. This city was so easily taken because the Duke was an idiot and it was lightly defended. The baron of Westkirk revealed a secret entrance from the sea caves to the palace. Anyone with any sense would have collapsed it as soon as my army drew near, but Duke Martin imagined he could escape through it if things got bad. I have captured a hollow city. Most of the army was missing. They mass in the south under the king’s banner. Thanks to you, Shagaroth and his band have confirmed it. An army marches towards me led by King Markadian himself. It is an army I cannot hope to defeat on the open field. Do you know anything more of this?”
“We received the same report as you,” Pellius replied formally, quite comfortable sitting by the head of the war table, “We only surmised that it would be headed this way. And it seems, we were correct.”
Sakkarot slammed his fist upon the table, anger furrowing his furry brow.
“What is Thorn’s plan to deal with the king’s forces?” he growled, “He must have one! Yet whenever I speak to the devil-harlot Tiadora all I get are sneers and japes. Do you know Thorn’s mind? What does he intend?”
Willow reached out and put a soft hand on the bugbears forearm, her voice calm and reassuring.
“We must trust in our master,” she said softly, “Have faith that he knows the next move, and that all the pieces are falling into place.”
“Faith?!” he barked, “Ha! I am sick of simply being guided by faith. I feel as if I am being led to the slaughter!”
“There is more going on than the eye can see…” Garvana began.
“I was supposed to be victorious against the armies of Talingarde!” he snarled, “I was supposed to crush them! That was always the plan! I was only to lose to…”
He stumbled upon his words, searching the faces of the Forsaken, suspicion paired with a strange longing in his eyes.
“To who?” Garvana asked softly.
The large bugbear frowned, clearly troubled greatly and unsure on whether to continue. Willow gently squeezed his forearm, drawing his sight to her.
“It is alright,” she said, “You know us to be the Ninth Knot, brothers and sisters in arms, only working to insure our Infernal Father’s reign. Our loyalty will always be to the Infernal Lord, before all others, the cardinal included. You can tell us…”
He sighed, a bestial gust of frustration, before slowly dropping his head.
“When Thorn found me,” he began solemnly, “I was dying, poisoned and weak. I had been outcast from my tribe and branded across my chest with a giant slash from a shaman’s obsidian blade – the mark of the defeated and the banished. I was cast out into the ice to die alone and unmourned. Thorn took me in, healed me. He drew the poison from my wound. And with his magic, the scar of the outcast was remade into the Asmodean star. He marked my flesh and my soul – I was then and forever bound to the Cardinal and to the Lord of Hell.”
He looked up from his lap, a harsh acceptance coming over his brutish features.
“Do not think me a victim. Willingly I gave myself to his service. What did I have to lose? All that remained of my old life was death and disgrace. Thorn set me upon another path. The Cardinal said that if I would but serve him, he would give me all I wished for. He has been true to his word. He has made me mighty amongst my people. He has erased the dishonor of banishment and given me a new name. He has bestowed me with mighty gifts. I am most famous for my axe, true enough, but even more than that, he gave me this.”
He reached up and remove an iron circlet, much like their own, that had blended into his black fur.
“This crown of iron,” he continued, “It makes me wise and wary. I am able to speak to my people with authority. It makes me truly worthy of being a king.”
As he replaced it upon his head, it once again faded from view.
“But there was always a price. In time, I will face an army not of Talireans but of those under the banner of Asmodeus. And when I face that army, I will lead my force to utter destruction and defeat. All those who chant my name and honor me now, I will betray. My killers have become like my children, and upon the altar of war, I will sacrifice them for the glory of Asmodeus the most high.”
Willow’s eyebrow arched, his words confirming her prior suspicions.
“That is how he plans to endear the Asmodean faith upon the Mitrans,” Willow commented, “Have them become the victors, the saviors.”
“Yes,” he nodded, “But with the might of the King’s army heading this way, I do not see how it is possible. Do you know any more? Thorn has to have a plan!”
“I do not know what information is mine to share,” Willow said carefully, “But I can tell you, we have not been idle while you have conquered the mid lands of Talingarde.”
He huffed a slight laugh, raising his eyebrows in question.
“Can you say nothing more? To put my mind at ease?”
She smiled, “I will leave it to your mind to decipher. But I will add, that along our travels we did spend eight long months within the halls of pestilence, to retrieve the gifts that dwell in the abyss…”
“The archdeacon?” he frowned, before his brows shot high in understanding, “His gift?”
Willow merely smirked in response.
“What of you after?” Garvana asked, “Surely you are not to be sacrificed along with your army?”
Sakkarot shook his head, “I will go to the Throne of Iron far in the north. I will serve there for the rest of my life at the side of Thorn. My time of glory will be over. Then begins my time of service to pay for what I have been given.”
He drew another deep drink from the bottle, emptying the wine from within.
“I enjoy every day of my dominion. I savor every moment of my prize.”
With a scowl pulling his brow tight, he threw the bottle against the far wall and watched as it exploded in a shatter of glass.
“But I know,” he said bitterly, “It will not last.”
Willow watched the shards of green crystal slide down the the stone walls encompassed in foaming red liquid. As the mess pooled at the base of the wall, her mind churned.
Her voice grew quiet and solemn, “Nothing ever does…”


Bor left the group to give instruction to their men, while the others sought out accommodation for their stay within the ruins of Daveryn. Sakkarot had offered them shelter within the city hall, but Willow had recoiled at the thought of sharing space with the leagues of brutes, not eager to sleep under the cover of blood and gore smeared walls.
Most of the regions surrounding the great city hall were overflowing with bands of bugbears and goblin wolfriders, filled with the booming raucous of brutality, howls of beasts that echoed through the morning sky. The three of them strode upon horseback through the vile streets further through the city to seek a somewhat more peaceful place to lay their heads.
It was in the district of Tythers that they found a row of manors that had been left relatively unmolested. The region was known as the religious district, containing the homes of the head’s of the church and one of the four great cathedrals of Talingarde; the Cathedral of Mitra Beneficent. It was only the bugbears innate superstition and distrust that had kept the region as intact as it was. The few brutes who were brave enough to enter, spread word of holy guardians that protected the church, striking fear to keep the rest of the horde far away.
By mid afternoon, their own small force had followed Bor’s lead into the city. Pellius designated barracks for their men, while the four of them took up residence within the nicer of the homes that remained mostly unscathed. Before dusk fell that evening, they decided to face whatever dwelled in the grand cathedral, none of them keen to rest while the threat of divine guardians loomed so close by. Together the four of them approached the white marble building, eyes and ears strained for any sign of movement. The structure was marvelous in its architecture, an impressive edifice; every inch covered in intricate decoration that celebrated an endless procession of saints and heroes of the Mitran faith. Familiar aphorisms written in both common and celestial adorned the stonework.
“The sun may set and winter may come,” Willow read from above the arching doorway, “But always there will be another dawn and summer will return triumphant.”
Great flying buttresses, stained glass windows and a mighty facade that completed the cathedral. It was truly a place of awe and reverence for the exaltation of Mitra. Pushing open the hefty marble door, Willow’s brows rose in amazement. It appeared as if the place had weathered the sack of Daveryn completely unaffected. Though it hadn’t been dusted in a few days, it was as if a congregation could file in and start their prayers without a moment’s pause. The golden fixtures and sacramental vessels were still neatly positioned on the central altar. Unlike most Mitran temples, that were embellished with art and pieces of silver, this one housed older artifacts from the time where most religious paraphernalia was largely made of gold.
The Forsaken quietly stalked into the vast hall, weapons at the ready, eyes searching the shadowed corners of the chamber. The echo of Pellius and Bor’s heavy footsteps ricocheted off the smooth walls, but no further sound could be heard. The farther into the church they drew, the more paranoid they became. Even as they reached the grand altar at the head of the hall – no guardians swooped down to defend their sacred home. While the others searched the side rooms and nooks, Willow scanned over the dais. It was only through deep seeded suspicion, that her eyes noticed the faintest of outline of a recent footprint pointed out from beneath the altar, in the fine layer of dust that coated the floor. Silently, she lowered herself into a crouch. As she lifted the azure sheet that fell from the platform, she found a well concealed panel, that formed the shape of a cellar door. There were no locks or traps upon the plank, just a subtle crevice, wide enough to latch a finger into. She signaled to the others and quietly tucked the cloth atop the altar. With a silent countdown, Pellius threw the door wide and Willow slid herself into the small reliquary with her daggers held tight. What she saw crouched in the corner, had a small smile grace her lips. A man, dressed in musty white robes, startled wide eyes staring back at her. She moved with swift grace, tumbling behind him and gripping his shoulder, blade held firm to his throat before he had any chance to react.
“Cardinal Ignatius Mark,” she greeted, a voice far sweeter in contrast to her hostile actions.
“Who are you?!” he trembled in her grasp, “What do you want?”
“Not a great deal that you can offer I’m afraid,” she scoffed.
“I have no gold!” he whimpered, “I have nothing! Just take what you will from the church, I will not stop you!”
“How gracious of you,” she laughed.
As Garvana and Pellius stepped down into the small chamber, Willow smiled towards them.
“Lord Albus,” she said darkly, “You’ll be pleased to meet his eminence, the great cardinal of Mitra, Ignatius. One of the most important and influential men in Talingarde…”
Pellius grinned as Garvana brandished her weapon threateningly.
“You have information,” she rasped, “What you have to share may just save your life.”
“Never!” he cried, a strange bravery piercing through his fear, “I am a devout and loyal servant of Mitra, I will never aid such villainous scum as you!”
Willow pulled the blade tighter around his throat.
“It is a pity,” she said quietly, “For you, anyway. We have ways of making you talk, and some of us are dying to see it through.”
Willow smiled at Pellius’ hungry gaze, his hands itching to delve back into where his talent truly lay. Though he did not revel in the infliction of pain itself, he relished the art that was tortuous interrogation.
“He is all yours, my lord,” she said callously, pushing Ignatius towards him.
With a wicked grin and a single hand, Pellius gripped the cowering man by the robes, dragging him back up the wooden stairs and into the hall. As he cleared the altar with the swipe of an arm, he lifted Ignatius and slammed him upon the dais. Willow had no desire to watch the torment take place, trusting in Pellius’ skill to retrieve any useful information, and Bor to guard his progress. She made her way back to the manor with Garvana, as the slow procession of darkness brought the night forth.

“Have you… have you had any strange dreams of late?” Garvana asked.
The pair had set themselves up in the parlour of the estate, their servants having lit the hearth to soften the last of winter’s chill. Willow sat by the fire wrapped in lengths of warm fur, legs draped over the side of the arm chair as she sipped on a fragrant cup of exotic tea found in the kitchen stores.
“Strange?” she asked lazily, “What kind of strange?”
Garvana turned her head to see if they were alone and out of reach of the servants’ ears.
“Strange, as in, peculiar. Things you had not imagined before.”
“You may have to be more specific,” Willow frowned.
“I…” she began slowly, “I have been dreaming of a hunt. Being part of a hunt. But, I am not myself. I am in the shape of another… in the shape of-
“- a wolf?” Willow finished for her.
“Yes!” she said, eyes wide, “You have had similar dreams?”
“I have,” Willow said quietly, “Though I know not what they mean.”
“Do you suppose it has something to do with the curse?” Garvana asked.
Willow shrugged, “I can only guess.”
“Have you…” Garvana continued, “Have you had any… urges?”
“Urges?” she laughed, “Oh, I have urges alright…”
“Willow!” Garvana sighed, “Not like that, I mean… hunger urges?”
“For blood?” she frowned.
“Yes, I… I have found myself staring at the throats of those who are bare. I have been experiencing these, urges…”
Willow’s brows rose, “I do not think I have, though I am unsure how that all works, or when it is we are to start… feeding… from the living.”
“I had never noticed how thick the veins upon Bor’s neck were…” Garvana whispered.
Bursting into a fit of laughter, Willow grinned with adolescent glee.
“Oh what a pair you two would make,” she laughed, “Both brooding in mutual misery, and the sex!”
“Willow!” she called in indignation, though her grin simmered her anger.
The two of them giggled childishly as they sat back into their cushioned chairs, trying to muffle their excitement as Bor and Pellius entered the room. Willow winked at Garvana, ignoring Pellius’ quizzical look. Excusing himself politely, he retreated to the bathing chamber to clean the worst blood from his hands and change into more comfortable attire.
“I suppose the Cardinal did not live through the interrogation?” Garvana asked Bor, blatantly ignoring Willow’s childish grin.
“He lasted long enough,” Bor shrugged.
“And what did he have to say?” Willow queried, still unable to lower her smile.
“Pellius will give you the full report,” he said, pulling the cork free from a bottle of wine as he relaxed back into one of the armchairs, “Knew a fair bit about a lot.”
“Very insightful,” Willow joked, rolling her eyes.
He smirked, taking a long swig on the bottle. It was only a short time later that Pellius returned to the parlour, dressed in loose fitting pants and a long shirt that was unbuttoned low enough to bare his collarbone and throat. As Willow eyed the firm muscles that joined his neck to his shoulders, she felt the strangest sensation drift through her mind. Arousal was nothing new when it came to eyeing him freshly bathed, his wet tousled hair falling free from its usual sculpted groom. But it was more than that; it was hunger. She felt the sharp points of her fangs quiver, as they tried to lower and flare. She felt a strange need threaten to overcome her, an odd impulse to bite deep into his flesh. She suddenly knew the urges that Garvana had been speaking of. As he drew closer, the need only strengthened. She shook her head and rose from her seat to distract herself, walking to the glass cabinet and pulling free a bottle, pouring two glasses of the fine brandy. When she turned to face them, she noticed that there were only three seats in the parlour. Almost reluctantly, she indicated for Pellius to take the chair she had been in, handing him a glass as he sat and sitting herself upon the armrest. As he spoke, she forced herself to ignore the rapturous need that began to burn inside her.
“The cardinal had much to say,” he began, “He told me of what remains in Matharyn, now the king is campaigning across Talingarde. The High Inquisitor, Lord Solomon Tyrath, has been charged with the defense of the Castle Matharyn and the Old Palace while the king is away.”
“Ugh,” Willow scoffed, snapping out of her slight daze, “Yes, I remember him. The man wouldn’t know a joke if it slapped him in the face. But he was always fearsome, he is a great threat and a very powerful man. We should be wary of him when we finally take the city.”
“This is what the Cardinal said,” Pellius nodded, “Moreover, he insisted the king takes the security of his daughter Bellinda very seriously. This is no surprise, but apparently he has paid an immense sum of money to have a golem of solid mithral constructed to defend the Adarium. He said there are other lesser golems in the Adarium, but all together they pale before this monster.”
“Golems,” Bor snarled, “I hate golems.”
“He also spoke of the king’s surprise ally,” Pellius continued, “He has been in communication with a powerful creature of living flame, named Brigit of the Brijidine.”
“The one we found the letter from in Valtaerna?” Willow queried, “This does not bode well for us. She’s known as the queen of fire beneath the mountains, and is revered as a goddess amongst the Iraen. For years I thought her only a tale, her glory has been spoken of for generations.”
“The cardinal said that by convincing her of the eminent threat of Asmodean followers, Markadian hopes to gain the Iraen’s aid in the war. Already an Iraen delegation awaits within the Adarium.”
“This is not good,” Willow frowned.
“He told me that the king’s second in command,” he continued, “Is the masterful elven general, Vastenus Barca. As the cardinal believes, he is one of the great tactical geniuses of this age.”
“Barca?” Garvana questioned, “Perhaps he may be of use to us? His loyalties may not solely lie with the Markadian line?”
“It is possible,” Pellius nodded, “But he has served the king since before this Markadian‘s reign began.”
“We should think on it for later,” Willow agreed.
“Lastly,” he finished, “And possibly more directly relevant, he spoke of Polydorus the Seer; the only wizard in Daveryn of any note. His tower apparently guarded bizarre magical defenses.”
“The tower of Polydorus?” Willow asked, “Did we not hear the bugbears speak of it? Those that near get rained in magic, so it lays untouched. Perhaps the seer remains within it?”
“It is most likely,” Pellius said, “We should see to it while we search the town. By the sound of it, it matters not if it tomorrow or next week, the beasts cannot get to it.”
With matters concluded, he sank back into the chair and drank down the last of his brandy, savoring the taste for a moment, as he let his eyes slowly drift close...

minderp
2016-10-09, 02:55 AM
“Do we know where we are going tomorrow?” Garvana asked.
“The docks,” Bor grunted, “Bugbears are afraid of ships, sea and sailing. Best bet is the docks haven’t been touched.”
“Indeed,” Pellius said, standing from his seat, holding his arm out to Willow, “We shall search the docklands tomorrow after dawn. For now, I will bid you two goodnight.”
Willow stood and took his arm, following him through the manor as they climbed the stairs. It was the realization of their close proximity that had her feelings of irrational need and hunger return. It took every ounce of willpower she had to restrain herself and keep her feet continuing forward. When they reached their bedchamber and he released her arm to walk forward, beginning to strip his shirt off, she whimpered as her fangs plunged down and tore her lip. As he pulled the fabric over his head, and her eyes followed the pale flesh of his back to his neck, she trembled with aching need. She had never felt such a peculiar and overwhelming sensation, something unlike anything she had ever experienced before. He craned his head to the side, stretching the muscles along his neck to release the built up pressure and tension. It was as the muscled clenched and flexed along his throat, that the groan slipped from her lips. He turned to her, his bare chest strong and firm, his wide shoulders broad and toned. Quickly, she spun away from him, clasping her hand over her mouth.
“Willow?” he asked worriedly, walking towards her, “Are you alright?”
“I am fine,” she rushed, swiftly stalking passed him towards the dressing room.
As she thought she was free to hide within the small chamber until the feeling passed, a firm grip on her wrist wrenched her backward. With ease, he pulled her around and forced her to face him. For only a moment, her eyes found his, before they flew to the bare column of his throat. She whimpered aloud, her fangs throbbing in ache, her lips struggling to keep them within her mouth.
“What is the matter with you?!” he demanded, frown furrowed deeply, “Tell me, now.”
Her eyes painfully drifted back towards his, and upon seeing the clear command within his gaze, she could do nothing back obey. Slowly, she let go of her lip, allowing her fangs to stretch to their full length. It took a moment for him to understand, but as it clicked, his forehead smoothed as his sly grin lifted. As he chuckled, the movement clenched and retracted his neck, drawing her sight rapidly back to its target. A rasping growl of a hiss expelled from her lips, as she struggled to keep control of herself. His eyebrows rose at the sound, and his grin only widened.
“It is merely the bloodlust,” he said casually, “It will pass. You can still consume food, so it is not imperative that you consume blood. Either way, we will find you someone to feed on tomorrow.”
Willow ‘s temper flared, chafing against the idea of being denied what she so desperately desired. She knew how easily he would overpower her if she tried to take what she wanted, so she prayed that he would feel the same need when presented with a willing and eager host. As he turned away from her to finish undressing and preparing for sleep, she silently undid the buttons of her high necked blouse. She stripped the shirt free and dropped it to the floor, her black corset cinching tightly on her waist, with her neck, chest and shoulders bare to the cold breeze drifting through the window. Although her skin felt the chill of the wind, the bloodlust swarmed in heat through her veins. She waited, slowly unlacing the strings of the corset, until finally he turned back to her. As he did, and her corset followed her blouse to the ground, she saw exactly what she was looking for. His fangs plunged from his mouth, his eyes alight with fiery hunger, an aching need coming over his face. For a moment, he hesitated. As if he abhorred the idea of either allowing her to feed from him, or allowing himself to feed from her. But the bloodlust must have been coursing through him as it did her, for he stepped forward with complete dominance and seized her in a frightening grip. Her breath came in short ragged bursts, her limbs trembling as the anticipation ached within her. With one swift plunge, he drove his fangs into her neck and quickly drew the blood from her veins. Her head flew back and she cried out in blissful agony, as he drank deep from the two slits on her throat. She felt her own hands clawing to gain perch, digging into his skin as she pulled her head upwards. A rasping hiss blew mouth her mouth as she found his neck, sinking her fangs into the column of his pulsing throat. As the scarlet warmth flooded her mouth, she whimpered in euphoric ecstasy. She had never imagined the taste of blood to be so sweet. She greedily gulped it down, drawing as much as she could between each breath. They held each other crushingly tight, mouths locked to their throats, groans of enraptured delight breaking the strange silence that had come over the room. Willow’s head began to spin, her legs weakening as she felt herself falling further into his embrace. As the pair slowly sank to the floor, knees intertwined and hands and nails clutching skin, she felt her sight darkening. Suddenly, the agonizing pull from her neck ceased, as she was torn from her hold on his throat. Haze clouded her eyes, hands trembling and knees straining to hold her weight. His baritone voice came through the fog.
“Too, much,” he growled, dragging her from her knees, throwing her towards the bed, “Too much.”
She felt her weight falling through the air, floating almost, as the soft caress of the mattress met her back. Her legs were lifted from the floor and dropped atop the bed, when his heavy weight fell next to her, shaking the padding beneath them. He drew her close, the heavy breaths tearing through his chest, mirroring her own. Slowly, the haze began to clear. Her acute senses sharp to feel every movement he made, every turn his blood made through his veins. As the strength slowly returned to her limbs, she was unable to stop herself from climbing atop his body. She slid her thighs on each side of him as he rose to meet her, his hands wrapping around the bare flesh of her back. As his lips met hers in a languid dance, she sighed deeply into his mouth. She felt utterly exhausted, in the most wonderful of ways. But as his kiss deepened and his hands searched further; the simmering fire within her built to frenzied roar, only matched by the one within him. Her touch became almost desperate. Hungry, aching, starving for more of him. With one hand in frightening grip in her hair, the other crushing her waist, he threw her to the side and his weight crushed her beneath him. As he thrust her head back to bare her throat, and his frustrated growl rumbled as he forced himself to keep from biting her again, he ripped her belt and trousers off in a single tear. When she saw the blazing inferno within his eyes, she knew it would be a long time before the night came to an end…


The beam of dawn sun light slowly traced its way across the room, eventually finding her still form as she stared into the mirror. As the fierce glare had burned harshly against her pale flesh, she had sealed the blinds and sat by glowing candlelight. Willow’s gaze pierced the glass plate, as a cold chill settled deep in her spine. There was no reflection staring back at her. She sat upon the cushioned stool, directly in front of the vanity, yet she saw only the chamber behind her. She could feel the tears that had welled in her eyes, as she pictured each arch of her bone structure, each dip of her lip line, each smooth swell of colour along her completion. She knew every detail of her face, pristine skin and deep red swirling eyes. Yet, she saw nothing. She could only pray that she would not forget herself.
She had awoken early, sore and sated, held tightly within Pellius’ arms. Yet, when she had risen from the bed, her legs had only been mildly stiff, the aches of her flesh only meagre and minimal. There had been nothing gentle about the previous night. The riotous way in which they had sated themselves should have left her almost unable to walk. But bar a few discoloured light bruises and a tender stiffness of the legs, she felt refreshed and eager to get moving with the day. She had checked over her neck by feel, yet the marks of his bite had completely disappeared. Somehow, she was healing faster. While he slumbered unaware, she had checked over Pellius’ throat and found no evidence of the night. If it weren’t for the slight smear of blood along the floor and pillows, she would have believed that it had all been a rather lecherous dream.
“Is something troubling you, my lady?” Pellius yawned, dragging his legs to the side of the bed.
“Nothing important,” she dismissed, unwilling to voice her thoughts.
As she looked to see him in the mirror, her brows lifted. He too, cast no reflection upon the glass. She turned to him, unable to control her grin as she eyed his glorious naked form.
He arched his brow to her, a sly smile on his lips, his hair as much a mess as hers.
“You are rather chirpy this morning,” he said, slowly strolling to her, bending down to gently kiss her on the cheek, “I was afraid I had actually been too rough last night. That is a first with you, I assure you.”
Willow grinned a mischievous smile, “Certainly not. Though, it seems as if something has changed, I feel nothing of the consequences of last night.”
“Nothing?” he asked, a harsh reprimand of warning in his tone.
She slowly arched her brow, “… nothing.”
His grin turned dastardly, “Alas, I will have to try harder next time.”
Willow quivered in excitement and premature anticipation at his dark promise. As he chuckled and turned to gather his clothes for the day, she thought over the peculiarity of the bloodlust and feeding.
“You do not suppose,” she asked awkwardly, “That each time we feed will be like that, do you?”
His hearty laugh echoed through the chamber, “I’d hope not, that would be quite troublesome. Not every meal would wish to follow through with the things we do.”
Willow smirked at his answer, but couldn’t shake the worrying frown.
“What will it be like?” she asked.
He turned back to her, a reassuring smile upon his lips.
“It will be like all other meals. Some nicer than others, but all much the same. There will be no sex involved in your meals. Well, most meals.”
He chuckled at his own joke, but Willow could not bring herself to follow.
“Pellius,” she said quietly, “I am serious. If it is not usually like that, then what is it like? And why was last night the way it was?”
“You did not enjoy yourself?” he asked skeptically.
“Of course I did,” she snapped, waving a dismissing hand, “But please, explain it to me.”
He sighed, pulling his loose trousers on before walking to her and taking a seat by her side.
“I had a contact in Cheliax who was afflicted by the vampiric curse, and he lived a very normal life. Well, normal as a vampire can be. When we met over dinner, he would simply feast on the servants. He knew enough to know when to stop to keep them alive and able to continue their duties. There was no desire for carnal satisfaction, they were merely food. Last night was probably more than just simple feeding. When the bloodlust takes hold, you can end up in an uncontrollable frenzy, that is why it is imperative to feed regularly. I had assumed as we are still coming into the transformation and can still tolerate food that we would be safe from it for a while longer. But perhaps paired with another uncontrollable need, the bloodlust manifested in unison.”
Willow smirked at his insinuation, but understood his meaning clearly. It was an intimidating prospect, the knowledge that she knew little of something so vital as feeding herself. Soon, she would not need the intake of food. Soon, she would crave only the blood of sentient beings.
She thought on the hazed memory that she had, vaguely remembering he had been in control enough to stop them when they had begun to go to far.
“You stopped us,” she said, “You said we had taken too much.”
“Yes,” he nodded, tracing his fingers over her neck where the bite marks should have been, “You can drain a vessel completely. If you keep drinking, they will fall unconscious and eventually die. We were drinking far too much; we could have easily killed each other. Though I am unsure whether that is possible. I have never heard of two vampires being able to drain each other, as they are usually undead, and the undead have no running blood to drink.”
“Undead,” she repeated, still getting used to the idea, “It is a strange thought.”
He smiled, leaning forward to lay a gentle kiss on her forehead before standing from the chair and returning to his morning ritual.
“You will get used to it,” he said easily, “You do not have much choice any longer.”
“No,” she said softly, turning back to the empty mirror, “I suppose I do not. It has already truly begun. Do you know what I will miss? The dawn rise of the sun. Moreover, I will miss the setting at dusk.”
“My lady,” he said gently, “You are focusing on the negatives. Think not on what you are losing, but rather all that you are gaining.”
“I am not focusing,” she shook her head, “I am merely longing. The cycle of the world has always been a fascination. Mitra speaks of the sun rising to usher away the darkness, yet the darkness will always return. It is a fitting metaphor. We are the darkness, come to usher out the ways of the Shining Sun’s light.”
He returned to her side as he lifted her chin to his sight.
“Then, my lady,” he smiled, “I shall find a way to bring the sunset back to you…”

Clad in full armour and weapons, dark and menacing steel of black, they prowled the streets of the ruined city. Bor had been correct in his assumptions, superstition and fear had kept the bugbears from thoroughly looting the warehouses along the docks. They searched through the cold buildings that were left stale and silent, and strolled along the quiet boardwalks that lingered over the sea. The treasures they found were not piles of golden and silver coins, but strange curiosities and peculiar rarities. Willow found a small trinket, shaped like a paint brushed, imbued with strange magic that painted small creations into life. She had never been particularly skilled with a paintbrush, so as she tested the trinket and tried to paint a small blade, she ended with a crooked and jagged chunk of steel. She laughed as she threw the chunk into the pile of debris that had amassed by the door, slipping the brush into its box and stowing it in her pouch.
They spent most of their day scouring the harbor in leisure, collecting the strange contraptions and various trinkets, pocketing a small fortune of wealth along their travels. As they decided lastly to search an abandoned alchemists hut, before turning in for the evening, Pellius dragged the jarred wooden door open. The side of the shop had been hit by something large as it had thundered passed, the eastern wooden wall lay in splinters along the floor. As Willow toed through the room carefully, her slight frame putting little pressure on the destruction beneath her feet, she eyed a row of untouched potions along the far wall. As she picked her way delicately along the debris, she felt the distinct crush of glass and liquid beneath her foot.
“Get out!” she cried, instinctively diving from the wreckage towards the door.
The ruins rumbled with forceful arcana, a great blazing inferno rippled from beneath the wood, flaring high from the sides of the debris. Willow was quick enough to tumble passed the others, narrowly avoiding the reach of the searing lick of the flame. Pellius was not as lucky, his hefty solid armour slowing his escape, the brunt of the fire scorching his flesh and clothing. As they retreated swiftly, a trembling pulse shuddered the ground beneath them. It was a vial of alchemist’s fire that had crushed and released, its unchecked rage blazing within the wooden hut, the tremendous heat melting the other vials upon the shelves. In a catastrophic explosion, the wood blew apart, an array of coloured beams in different hues and tones swarming high into the sky.
“Is everyone alright?” Willow panted as they watched the magnificent inferno from afar.
“Mostly,” Pellius grunted, bright red skinned patches upon his hands and face.
“I think that is enough for one day,” Garvana huffed, “That was far too close for comfort.”
Pellius scoffed, “Agreed.”

It was on the return trip through the outskirts of Tythers that a scuttle of boots upon gravel pricked Willow’s ears to the east. She stopped in her tracks, signaling for the others to continue as they made move to stop along with her. Willow quietly crept back to the intersecting roads they had passed, peeking down the eastern shadowed alley. At the far end of the passage, she saw a man dressed in peasant’s clothes scampering in a hurry around the corner. She felt herself grinning, the temptation of the chase too delicious to ignore. She quickly signaled Pellius, telling him to continue on for her to meet up with them later at the manor.
“Vystrynivvi,” she whispered, activating the arcana within the ring on her finger.
Her skin rippled as the invisibility took hold, running on light feet down the cobblestone road in pursuit of the mysterious man. When she reached the corner he had turned down, she slowed her steps, prowling silently ahead. She followed him through the winding back streets of Tythers, eyes sharp and keen, stride soundless and sleek. When he finally came to a stop, he looked around warily to be sure he had not been seen or followed. Willow smirked as he bent and lifted the metal grate to the sewers, before he lowered himself down. She waited until his soft footsteps echoed away before silently following him into the passage. Tiptoeing by the right of the putrid stream, she tracked him by the sound of his steps, winding through the underground system of tunnels. She stilled to a halt as she rounded the corner and saw him pulling aside a cluster of hanging vines that fell from the grate above. He carefully pulled a hidden lever, one so well concealed that Willow was unsure if even her keen eyes would have been able to find it. As he hefted his pack on his shoulder, a doorway opened inward and he stepped through. She heard the lock click as the door closed behind him, and quietly crept forward in approach. Her fingers traced over the lever as she strained her ears to listen to the cavern within. She heard the chatter of a group of men, restless jabs and rumbling laughter, the sound of a band of mercenaries.
“Aint got much this time, Brueder,” grunted a voice in a thick slang, “Tythers been cleared out. New group in town, aint bugbears, they human. Don’t look like the type ya wanna cross. Got passed ol’ maggie’s an’ got outta there.”
“They workin’ with the bugbears?” Breuder responded, “And the bugbears haven’t eaten them?”
“Seems if they scared of the humans,” the man replied scandalously, “They steer clear of ‘em!”
As the other men began to speculate on who the new visitors were, Willow silently lifted the lever, quickly stepping through the doorway. She knew their eyes could not perceive her, though she was still cautious to keep her movements slow and utterly quiet.
“Barney ya ****,” whined one of the men, “Ya left the door open again.”
Barney, the scout that had led Willow to their den, rose from his seat and sighed. He took a few clips to the head as he trudged to the door, passing directly by Willow, who had flattened herself against the wall. He pushed the door until it clicked shut, pulling on the handle a few times to make sure it had closed. When he returned to his seat, Willow took the time to look around the small chamber. At quick count, there were roughly twenty men and four women lazing about the room, dressed in tattered stained clothes and roughly worn scuffed boots. Either holstered to their hips or resting by their sides were short swords and daggers of shoddy and poor quality. Sitting at the head of the rabble, was a man who looked more like he should have been behind a desk in an office rather than crouched within a hidden chamber in the sewers. Dark and tousled hair, slight rough stubble on his chin, keen and shrewd blue eyes. With a finely made curved blade strapped to his belt, a somewhat dusty satin button up shirt, Willow figured he was the leader and the one they called Brueder. As she watched him laugh easily with his men, she was struck with an idea. There was opportunity to be had, though she knew not what he could offer her yet. She drew her blade from its sheath and silently crept along the outside of the chamber. As she approached him from behind, his brow furrowed, noticing something was wrong – a few seconds too late. Taking lead as Switch would, she swiftly wrapped her arm around him, drawing her blade tightly to his throat. As her invisibility vanished and she rippled into sight, the men let out startled and stirred shouts.
“Woah woah there missy,” Brueder chuckled hastily, staying his men with his hands, “There’s no need for any rash actions.”
Willow grinned towards the crowd, knowing her point had been well made. She released him, spinning her blade in her fingers. She traced her hand along his shoulder before pulling the nearest wooden stool towards her, turning to face him and sitting, leaning her elbows casually upon her knees.
“That’s quite the introduction,” he laughed, hushing his band and dismissing their worry, “Quite the skillset you’ve got there too. I’d be guessing you’re running those new folks in town.”
She smirked, “You’d be guessing correctly.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “Don’t claim to know your business, but I hear you guys got the bugbears running scared. You working with the Fire-Axe?”
“Perhaps,” Willow shrugged, “And you? You’re quite content hiding in the sewers?”
“Well no mam we ain’t,” he chuckled, “But here we’ll stay ‘til the army clears out. Figure they’ll be here only ‘til they find somewhere new to go. You guys, you got a mission. I respect that. And I don’t want to get in your way. Me, I’m just a business man. My family did business before anyone ever heard of House Darius. And we’ll still be in business when they’re long gone. My stock and trade is information. All sorts of useful information. I could help you in ways you don’t even know.”
Willow cocked her head to the side, amazed at his easy and casual demeanor.
“I am listening,” she grinned.
“Daveryn,” he continued conversationally, “This is town is chump change. This isn’t what you want. You got your eyes on the big prize. Am I right? You want the crown and that means Matharyn.”
Her eyebrow arched high in intrigue.
“My name is Anton Breuder, cousin to Nicholas Breuder. Nikki, he’s based out of Ghastenhall but he’s got his fingers everywhere. He’s got people in Matharyn right now. You play ball with me, I’ll introduce you to them. I’ll set you up. The Fire-Axe took down Daveryn real easy. Let me assure you, the capitol is a different matter. They will defend Matharyn to the bitter end. You need people on the inside and I can provide that. You kill me,” he said with raised eyebrows, “And you’ve proven that you easily could – you get nothing. What do you say? You want to make a deal?”
With her blade still twirling in her fingers, she couldn’t help but grin. She liked his confidence, she found nothing more pathetic than cowering. She had heard of Nicholas Breuder, though she had never met him. His men had been the ones to put her in contact with Switch, so very many years ago. She smoothly sheathed her dagger, leaning casually back against the wall.
“This deal of yours,” she said lazily, “Do you require anything more than keeping with your life? Safe passage through the city?”
He lips lifted into a smirk, “No thanks missy, rather stay here. The bugbears’ll leave eventually.”
“Then you’ve got a deal,” she shrugged, looking over the room, “I’ll have my men bring some food stores, rather pitiful what you’ve got here.”
“Much appreciated mam,” he nodded in thanks, “What we do have is some real Cerulean whiskey. Hey Sammy, fetch a couple’a glasses.”
The small man muttered his protest, but disappeared through the doorway and returned with two dirty tumblers. Brueder wiped the worst of the dirt away with his shirt, filling the cup with the dark liquid from the shining blue bottle he pulled from his side. When he held it out to her, she eyed it suspiciously with a raised eyebrow.
“Missy,” he chuckled, taking a showing sip from the glass, “I’m not so eager to die that I’d try poison’n you. You’d probably have my head clean cut off before you fell down.”
She conceded his point with a grin and took the glass he offered.
“Say, you folks staying round for a few days?” he asked, “Can probably help ya with your search. Us boys know a thing or two about the town.”
“I am not entirely sure how long,” Willow shrugged, “But I’m not one to turn down information.”
“Girl after me own heart,” he chuffed, “Right then. Well for the best looting you’d wanna go to Seaward.”
“There’s not much left after today,” Willow admitted with a laugh, “Most of it went up in flames.”
“Ah,” he frowned, “Well then, speaking of fire, ‘spose you know of ol’ Polydorus?”
“We’ve heard mention of him,” she replied.
“Right, you’d know the Seer has a tower named after him. Well he’s still there, throwing spells and fire at anyone who gets close. The other tower is in Duward, the Sable Tower, where the ducal regalia is stored. It’s all still there. There’s a camp of bugbears around it, but they haven’t gotten in yet. Beats me as to why, though we see ‘em go in, and only half of ‘em come out.”
“Interesting,” Willow commented, “Yet not unexpected. If the entrance takes more than brute force, they’ll be there until they wither themselves away to nothing.”
“Think you’d probably want to know that Harbold is still alive,” he said scandalously, as if the name warranted a dramatic response.
Unfortunately, Willow had not heard of him before, so the theatrics were lost on her.
“And he is…?” she asked.
“One mean ugly scarred son of bitch,” Brueder scoffed, “Captain Ricon Harbold, a die hard watch captain. Known for having the most elite and least corrupted squad in Daveryn; Harbold and his heart-breakers. The word about town is that he’s the one leadin’ the resistance.”
“Resistance?” Willow inquired, “I have heard only little of it. What do you know?”
“Heard reports of bugbears bein’ murdered in blind alleys, by somethin’ other than other bugbears. Apparently, they found an ogre head impaled on a iron spike.”
“And do you know where Harbold is hiding?”
“Think it’s somewhere in the sewers,” he shrugged.
“Anything more specific?” she droned.
“Sorry mam, when they show up, my boys don’t stick around.”
Willow threw back the last of the smooth whiskey, declining his offer for another.
“Lastly,” he finished, “Tandongate Prison in Cliffward is still secure. It’s been held by the warden, Arnon MacAnders. Ain’t no one breached that wall yet.”
“Well,” she said, leaning forward into a crouch upon the stool again, “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll send my men along this afternoon.”
With a grin, she ripped her dagger free and pounced to his side in the blink of an eye, her blade pressed firmly into his neck as it forced his head up against the wall. Though startled and caught unaware, she appreciated the sly smile that lifted the corner of his lip.
“Think of turning on me,” she warned, her voice rasping with wicked sin, “Or your men think of taking more from mine than they offer – and next time, I wont be so nice…”

minderp
2016-10-11, 07:08 PM
The shadow of dusk enveloped the silhouette of ruins as the twilight hours began. The sun hid behind the horizon, still warming the air with it’s trace of light. The flutter of stars slowly peeked from beyond the soft blue canvas of sky. As night slowly approached, Willow welcomed it from atop a teetering spire, legs hanging over the edge of what once was a simple tower of stone. The remains of the building had been left shattered and broken. Most of it’s walls had collapsed, the spiral staircase cracked and split, yet still sturdy enough to climb. It was from high above the city that she sat in silence and gazed out on the desolation of Daveryn. Most nights, she made her way here alone, to simply sit and watch the night encompass the city. She would wait, hidden in shelter as the sun fell below the mountains, before appearing as dusk came once again. It was no vision of sunset, but the arrival of twilight still held some comfort.
Tonight, she had heard the soft sound of following footsteps far behind her. It took her only a few streets to recognise the familiar stride. She was not worried, merely curious as to why she was being tailed. And so, she sat atop the stone wall, and waited to be approached.
“Do you need something, Garvana?” she asked, as the quiet steps climbed the stairs.
“Huh,” she huffed, “So you knew I was there?”
Willow smiled, still gazing across the city, “You thought you’d catch me unaware?”
“Not really,” she grouched, “But I had hoped.”
Willow turned her gaze down the spiral case, chuckling as the less than nimble woman picked her way up each cracked step. When she reached the top, she frowned, unsure how she was going to lift herself the ten feet to the wall’s peak. Willow hooked her legs tightly along the jagged stone brick and leant down, offering a helping hand up. With a few grunts of effort, the scuff of scuttling feet and a hefty chuckle from the pair, they managed to manoeuvre Garvana up to Willow’s side. The stone wall they were sitting on was quite slender, only wide enough for one as small as Willow to sit comfortably. Garvana held the wall tightly in her grasp, a look of worry as she balanced precariously atop the stone.
“This is what you do every night?” she balked.
Willow laughed softly in response, “Yes, what did you think I did?”
“Something a little more scandalous at least!” she grunted, “I thought maybe you’d taken a lover in the Fire-Axe’s rank.”
Willow grimaced, but laughed at the accusation.
“Or perhaps,” Garvana continued, raising her brows, “The Fire-Axe himself?”
Cringing at the thought, Willow shook her head.
“Nothing so vile I assure you. Though he may be mighty and fearsome, he is a tad too bestial for my tastes.”
Garvana nodded in agreement, “I would think I would like them a little less hairy.”
Willow grinned, turning her gaze back to the scene of ruin. They sat in silence for a time, simply watching the last light in the sky fade to blackness.
“Were you merely curious as to my whereabouts?” she asked eventually.
“Well,” Garvana began, “No. I… wished to speak with you alone.”
“About?”
A heavy sigh came from her chest.
“I have had much time to think of late, and my mind continues to return to the numbered runes I saw on the tombstone of Murphy Massidan.”
“And have you come up with anything?” Willow asked.
Garvana frowned deeply, “Many things. Yet none seem to fit. The best I have is that the numbers correlate with infernal letters, yet no matter how I arrange them, they speak nonsense.”
“Have you considered,” Willow speculated, “That you do not have all of the pieces of your puzzle?”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled gently, “Perhaps you have not gathered all of the numbers. Perhaps you have been given only a taste to entice your appetite for more?”
Garvana’s brow dropped lower, as she looked to Willow in confusion.
“How can you be sure? I could simply have missed something.”
Willow chuckled softly, “Perhaps. Because I cannot be sure you do not possess them in entirety, just as you can not be sure that you do.”
“You’re just as cryptic as the damn numbers, Willow,” she grunted.
At that, she laughed.
“Be patient Garvana. Whomever revealed the sliver of information, may plan to release more when they feel you are ready for it.”
“I’m ready now,” she grumbled, “But I suppose you are right. I shall wait, but I sure wish they’d hurry up.”
“That is not how you be patient Garvana,” she laughed.
Another sigh accompanied her laugh, but the two of them sat in comfortable silence as they spied the wandering linger of torchlight, marking the patrols of the bugbears below them. After a while, Willow’s mind turned to her own curiosities, though she was willing to speak little of them. As her thoughts turned to her family, she realised she knew little of Garvana’s own past.
“Will you tell me of your family?” she asked.
A guarded expression wiped the casual smile from her face.
“Why?” she frowned, “What do you want to know?”
“Relax, Garvana,” she chuckled, “I am merely interested. The only mention of them was long ago in Thorn’s manor, and that was only a brief glimpse. I will tell you of mine, if you wish. But I remember little of House Forthwise.”
Garvana sighed, “I am sorry, it is just, I do not speak of them for I think I wish to forget.”
“It is unwise to ignore your past,” Willow said quietly, “For it has a way of finding you and making you remember.”
Staring out across the expanse, Garvana inhaled deeply.
“My mother was a magnificent woman,” she began, “Countess Hervella of House Forthwise. Strong and proud, elegant and dignified. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was my world. She was everything that family meant.”
“Did she pass?” Willow asked gently, a slight frown on her brow.
“Yes,” Garvana nodded solemnly, “When I was very young. I remember little else from that age. Only the day my world fell apart. Father came home one night and told us she had been killed in a carriage accident, and I did not see him again for weeks.”
“Us? You had brothers and sisters?”
“Only a brother,” Garvana said bitterly, “I believe he still works for the throne.”
“And your father?” she enquired softly, “I remember as much to know he died in the fire.”
Garvana’s lip curled, “May he rot in whatever afterlife he resides in.”
Willow felt the bitterness seething within Garvana, with venom enough to know the hatred had not dimmed over time.
“Did he kill your mother?” Willow guessed, softening her voice.
“He may as well have,” she spat, “Abandoning your wife and the mother of your children, he may have well been the one to light the pyre.”
Willow was infinitely curious to learn more, but remained silent as Garvana smouldered with loathing. After she clenched her eyes tight and calmed her anger, she sighed again.
“I was sixteen when I found out the truth,” she said quietly, “The coward could not even tell me himself. It was my first time in court, and once the chaperone had his back turned, Welsey Armitage began to tease me about it. Consorting with the dark powers. My mother had been caught in a summoning ritual in communion with hell. And so the witchhunters had captured her, tried her, and burnt her at the stake. My father kept it secret, keeping us from court until the years had passed and he had restored our name. I could never look at him the same. He should have defended her; he should have fought to keep her alive! He should have died for her!”
She gritted her teeth in anguish, contempt for her father swarming her face.
“And yet he did nothing. He stood with the Talriens, he watched her burn. I am told he pleaded his own innocence profusely, begged for pardon, and did not shed a tear for his beloved.”
She turned to Willow, agony and tears in her eyes, “How can someone claim to love another and stand by that kind of atrocity? What is so terrible about consorting with darkness, when the woman loved you, married you and bore your children?”
Willow knew not what to say. She did not know how to respond, how to comfort Garvana in something that pained her so.
“I do not know,” she replied quietly, “It is a sin against Mitra. And that is apparently enough to nullify the love once felt.”
Garvana wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, scoffing at herself.
“It would seem even now; I have tears to weep for him. Though they are not of sadness, they are of resentment. I do not remember what happened that last night. I hated him, I despised him. I was so angry at him. I had spent years knowing the truth, and yet I had never confronted him. Until, that night. I could not control myself any longer. It was the anniversary of her death, and he went about his day as if it were nothing! I remember the seething hatred; I was filled with rancour. And as the sun dawned the next day, I awoke in the ashes of the Forthwise estate.”
“And the scar?” Willow asked curiously.
“I do not know,” she shook her head, “I awoke with it seared into my flesh. The first I knew of it was the townsfolk screaming in terror at the sight of my back. Of course, the court did not believe that it had merely suddenly appeared. So I was tried and convicted for heresy, amongst other things.”
“Will you tell me more of your mother?” Willow asked gently, “Did you ever suspect she was of the Asmodean faith?”
A curious look of thought lingered in her eyes, as Garvana turned her sight back to the darkened city.
“Now I look back, it makes more sense. Before I knew the truth, I found a sealed letter hidden in the lockbox beneath my bed. I did not understand it then, the words were strange and confusing, my mother speaking to me from beyond the grave. The letter burnt with the rest of the manor, yet I still remember the words as if I were reading them aloud. Never deny the power inside you, or the greatness you deserve. You are strong, my daughter, stronger than you know. Promise me, that you will never doubt, nor sway from what you believe is right. Promise me, that you will never bow to others and that you will always take what you rightfully deserve. Promise me, that you will always follow His path…”
As the words lingered between them, Willow reached out her hand to gently grasp Garvana’s shoulder. When she turned her head and they looked into one another’s eyes, Willow smiled.
“She would be proud of you, Garvana…”


Upon the dawn of Wealday, the indentured servants of the Forsaken grew restless. They had little to do within the wrecked city of Daveryn, most choosing to stay hidden in their barracks to avoid braving the raiding patrols of bugbears and beasts. When Willow heard word of yet another fight that had broken out between their men, she sighed in frustration.
“You would think they would be glad for the respite from fighting,” she groaned to the others, “Useless fools. We need to give them something to do.”
“Perhaps we should send them searching for the Duke?” Garvana offered.
“They’ll probably just get themselves killed,” Willow scoffed.
“Still,” she shrugged, “It would keep them busy.”
“Jurak!” Pellius beckoned, calling forward the guard from the other room, “Gather the men. We have a mission for them.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, bowing his head to avoid eye contact, before rushing out the kitchen door.

Together the four of them entered the large hall by the manor where their men had gathered, taking their place upon the small podium under the sea of fearful eyes. They stood and looked out over their small yet not insignificant force, with cold and hard faces that spoke of no room for weakness. Willow stood by Pellius’ side, arms clasped behind her back, head held high. Each time they gathered their retinue, she marvelled at the natural command Pellius took, his graceful yet merciless approach paired with the icy promise of dark retribution. He stood ahead of the others, silent and still as he looked each member over. When he spoke, his voice lashed like a whip, clean and cut commands that were impossible to ignored.
“It has been almost a year since most of you have joined us,” he began, his voice cold as ice, “And what have you done? What have you accomplished? It is true, there a few among your number who have proven at least not a complete burden. Your guard of the Horn of Abbadon was, at best, adequate. Your besiegement and and assault upon the Vale of Valtaerna was successful, only due to the large force of allies we provided, your own performance – at best, adequate. You have been rewarded. You have been rewarded with more gold than any of you could have hoped to accumulate in your pathetic lives. And when it comes time to lay low and respite, what do you do?”
His eyes flared a vibrant crimson, his voice lowered to a terrifying rumble.
“You fight amongst yourselves like feral scum! You conduct yourselves with as much tact and class as the barbaric horde of bugbears! I have had enough! You cannot be civil? You cannot simply take and enjoy this brief recess between our battles? Then we will give no respite!”
As Pellius seethed, convincingly enough to have Willow believe he was truly disgusted in their men, she took over the address.
“The former Duke of Daveryn has escaped the clutches of the Fire-Axe,” she said formally, head held high, “He is believed to be hiding somewhere in the ruins of the city. You will be split into teams, each with the same mission. It is our hope that at least this way, some of you may prove useful. Your mission is simple. Find the duke, and return him to us. Those who return successful, will be spared the punishment for misconduct.”
“Each group will be given a map,” Garvana continued coldly, “And sufficient gold, for a few well placed bribes. We shall send Raiju to watch over you, and report on your progress.”
“You have five days to find him,” Willow warned menacingly, “If you have not found him by then…”
“Enough!” Pellius snapped, “You have your orders! Now, GO!”

The warmth of spring eased the cold breeze that blew along the slight hills of outer Daveryn. Striding across the farmlands upon horseback, hidden by shroud from the fatal shine of the amber star, Willow relished the wind as it rippled through her hair. While their men had set off through the city, the four of them had decided to search the humble farmlands that surrounded the ruins. When they entered the Angleton region, they came across a peculiar scene. A band of bugbears and goblin wolfriders camped far from a lone manor. Two hundred yards of barren land surrounded the estate, only littered by the bodies of bugbears peppered with bolts. The Forsaken slowed their steeds, approaching the largest of the brutes in camp.
“What have we here?” Garvana asked, brows tall in question, “You there! Tell me, what’s going on?”
The bugbear’s lip turned up, his feral growl rumbling in warning. The other in his band clenched their weapons tighter, eyes narrowing upon the Forsaken. Willow laughed, shaking her head as she pulled free a small velvet pouch of gold and tossed it towards the creature. As he caught it and the metal clinked in his hand, his growling ceased.
“Now,” Willow smirked, “Would you tell me what is going on here?”
“Bunch of hummies locked up in the house,” he grunted, “Rushed it yesterday, lost four of me brothers. We was thinkin’ of tryin’ again, but these others are all empty, much easier.”
“Humans?” Willow repeated, eyeing the large manor.
She pushed her horse forward a few steps towards the estate, spying the silhouettes of crossbowmen upon the tall stone brick walls. With straining eyes, she could barely make out the insignia marking the grand abode.
“House of Veryn,” she mused, “Of the Barcan line.”
“Do you know who lives here?” Pellius asked.
“I believe it was the Baroness Vanya,” she said thoughtfully, “If I remember correctly, she was one who apposed Darius rule, but was of course overthrown. She could prove useful…”
Willow pushed her horse forward again, sitting tall in her saddle, raising her voice loud.
“HOUSE OF VERYN!” she called, “WE CALL FOR A TEMPORARY TRUCE, A PARLEY! WE SEEK AUIDENCE WITH THE BARONESS!”
They stood upon the crest of the hill, awaiting response from inside. After a few moments, a sultry female voice called from the walls.
“Come forward slowly! Only the four of you! I have fifty veteran soldiers at my command and by the gods, we will fight to the death if you charge this manor!”
The Forsaken moved their steeds at walk, approaching cautiously, eyes peeled to the walls. As they reached the large reinforced wooden doors, the silhouette of a graceful feminine figure peered down towards them.
“You lead this rabble?” she called down, “Most excellent. I am the Baroness Vanya of Veryn, rightful duchess of Daveryn, deposed by the damned Darian usurpers. And who might you be?”
“I am the Lady Willow of House Monteguard of Matharyn,” she replied regally, “And I believe we may something to offer one another.”
The baroness’ outline paused, before retreating from the walls as her voice lingered down.
“If you can promise to be civil and not steal the silverware, you can come in and we can discuss terms…”

Stepping inside the great hall of House Veryn, was akin to stepping into a manor estate that was surely not surrounded by burning city ruins and leagues of monstrous bugbears. The shining marble floors were clean and polished, the candles still tall and lit, the finery still draped upon it’s walls. Upon entry, they saw that instead of the fifty guards the baroness had boasted, her number sat only closer to twenty.
As they entered the vestibule, a beautiful woman dressed in fine violet silk that complemented her long roped ebony locks, gracefully began descending the ornate staircase.
“My lords,” she said, her elegant tone smoothing her words, “I am the Baroness Vanya of Veryn. It is a pleasure to finally meet someone within this atrocity with a touch of class.”
Willow inclined her head, “Likewise, my lady.”
“So,” she clipped, coming to halt a few steps above them, “You seek audience. Well, here I am. What have you come to offer?”
Willow’s eyebrow arched, “Perhaps you have somewhere more suitable for us to commence our discussion?”
The baroness raked her shrewd gaze over Willow, calculating and keen, before nodding.
“Right this way,” she said, continuing her descent, leading them to the eastern wing.
She opened the door revealing a beautifully adorned chamber, embellished with a large fine oak writing desk and an arrangement of six elaborately carved and covered chairs. They took their seats as she called for wine to be served, and once the servants had returned, she turned her gaze towards them and motioned for them to begin.
“You have a splendid estate here, my lady,” Garvana said politely, “And it is most impressive that you have weathered the sack of Daveryn so well.”
“My dear,” she sighed condescendingly, “I have been in enough negotiations to know when someone is being unctuous. Be done with the pleasantries, what is it you have come to me for?”
“We come under the banner of parley,” Willow said simply, “For we believe a deal could be mutually beneficial. We could offer much. Simple safe passage from the city, if that is your wish. Or an alliance. For when the noble ranking of the country falls, we will need strong houses to rebuild it.”
“The country falls?” she repeated, raising her brows, “You have that much faith in the bugbear horde?”
A slow smile came upon Willow’s lips. She was unsure where Varyn’s loyalty lay, but her instincts told her that when offered an alternative, it would not be with the king. In a slow deliberate movement, Willow pulled her Asmodean pendant free from behind her chestplate. She watched the baroness’ reactions carefully as the pendant fell upon her chest. It was only the smallest hint, but her brows rose slightly.
“So you are with them…” Varyn said quietly.
“The line of Darius tried to rid the country of the mighty Infernal Lord,” Willow said viciously, “We would see them and their pitiful sun god wiped from the land like the stain upon it that they are. I said we would need to rebuild the noble hierarchy; we would rebuild it with allies whose faith was true.”
The baroness eyed Willow curiously, before looking over the others.
“I have always revered the Lord of the Nine,” she replied, “For his true doctrine of might makes right.”
“It is the way of world,” Garvana nodded, “The strong must rule the weak.”
“We offer much, do we not?” Willow said, brow arched high, “What is it you would offer in return?”
“I have my veteran soldiers that I would put at your disposal,” she responded regally, “The allegiance of my house, and of course, my skills in any negotiation you may need.”
“And what would you require?” Garvana asked.
“I would have thought it would be obvious,” she said plainly, “You will of course speak to the Fire-Axe on my behalf and get rid of the filth attempting to siege my manor.”
Willow couldn’t help the small smirk that lifted her lips. Her attitude and blatant wit were things Willow saw mirrored in herself. As the negotiations continued, she saw a real potential in the alliance.
“I will require to be left alone for the hour of midnight tonight,” Varyn said formally.
Garvana frowned in suspicion, “The hour where the veil is weakest between our worlds. Who is it you will be speaking to?”
The baroness’ brows rose in indignation, “That, is none of your business.”
The conversation continued, as the Baroness Varyn bargained with the Forsaken. Once the terms had been settled, she arched an eyebrow at the four of them.
“As a show of good faith, I will reveal something to you. If you will follow me.”
They were led through the opulent hallways towards a hidden door within the library. As they followed the baroness deep into the darkened basement, they stood in awe as she lit the candles that lined the base of a grand altar. The enormous stone block was adorned with the unmistakeable iconography of hell. Leering devils cavorted with mortals across it’s face, sickly black blood stained with age leaked into each crevice and seam, carved infernal tongue in runic script.
“By blood and devotion to thee,” Willow rasped in translation, “O Lord of Hell, are we preserved forever.”
“It is a blood altar, though I presume you know this,” Varyn said formally, “A ritual can be performed once a year, to keep the living young and vital. I will not go into the details, unless any of you are interested, but I offer the altar for your personal use.”
Willow eyed the marvellously carved statue, a strange longing settling deep, for her own altar within her past home of the Monteguard estate. As she looked over the intricate stone, an odd thought came into her mind.
“The undead do not age…” she said quietly to herself.
Though the words were not for her, the baroness scoffed her reply, “Not all of us are so lucky…”
As they commenced their new partnership, Willow eyed the curious woman. Strong, stubborn and shrewd. An asset, worthy of their service. Slowly, they were building their foundation for the reinstatement of the lands’ rightful leader and lord. Slowly, they were paving the way, for the mighty and undying Prince of Hell.

It was late that night that one of the bands of the Forsaken returned to the manor. Although they had not managed to capture the Duke of Daveryn alive, they had brought his desecrated corpse, still donned in his house livery. Though his face had drained of all blood and colour, Willow recognized his thin crooked brows and sunken beady eyes. They called for Sakkarot’s lieutenants to return the body to the Fire-Axe as confirmation of his death. As their five successful servants piled most the wealth they had found in a horde upon the chamber’s floor, Willow was pleased to see that it was her own underling Cassandra that lead the group. They piled useless things; silver candelabras stolen from churches, brass rimmed metal pulled from decorative doorways. The only thing of real note was the impressive amount of liquor they had procured.
“Is that all?” she said, arching her brow at one of the men.
The tall muscled brute in front of her, stared back into her eyes, seeming to question his own answer. Smartly, he decided against blatantly lying to Willow, pulling out another bottle of fine elven wine from his sack. She knew he was concealing more. They all were. But she cared little for their pathetic trinkets and few pieces of gold and silver.
“You have done well,” she said plainly, looking down over the five of them, “As reward, you may return to your barracks and rest. Do not tell the others of your success. It is their punishment to continue the pointless search, while braving the city and its inhabitants.”
“And they will continue,” Pellius said sternly, “Until we are ready to leave Daveryn. Now go, get out of my sight.”
Cassandra made show of bowing low to her masters, making eye contact with Willow before inclining her head and turning for the door. When they had cleared the room, Willow retrieved three of the bottles from the stack of piled treasure.
“Nine bottles of Viander Vino,” she smirked, “Two bottles of Harper’s Malt, two Gattletale’s and four bottles of Crystalshine?”
“Out of all the things they could find,” Garvana frowned, “I wonder why they would focus on so much liquor?”
Willow turned to the others with a wicked grin, “I propose that tonight, we drink. We have come far and achieved so very much. And for now, we are merely biding our time until we must continue and return to our missions. I, for one, think we should use this time and celebrate.”
Bor laughed a hearty chuckle, mirroring her grin, “I strongly agree!”


The four of them lounged in the parlour of the manor, dressed in simple and comfortable clothing, easy conversation flowing. It had been a long time since they had found time to relax in each other’s company, to simply sit back and rest, to simply laugh. Garvana had used a small arcane trick to summon a playful melody from the ether, that drifted through the halls in cheerful song. After quite a few drinks, Bor even accepted Willow’s invitation to dance, the large brute stumbling over his own feet as she twirled beneath his arm. They laughed in companionable joy, lighthearted fun that carried on throughout the night. As the drinking continued, the four of them recalled their most impressive and memorable battles.
“No!” Bor laughed, “I believe Garvana’s greatest one was the dragon! When she exploded into that red creature, and just caved in his head!”
“Oh, you were so ugly like that,” Willow giggled, “Like an overgrown turnip!”
“Hey!” Garvana frowned, though she could not help but laugh, “I looked mighty and imposing!”
“Yes!” Willow exclaimed, “A mighty and imposing overgrown turnip!”
The four of them burst in laughter, grin’s wide and intoxication high. Garvana turned to Bor, a look of humour tinting her flushed cheeks.
“For me,” she said with slightly slurred words, “My favourite was that guard you crushed through the arrow slit back in Balentyne!”
“Oh that was disgusting!” Willow called out, grimacing through her giggles.
“I do not know how you made him fit,” Garvana said with feigned seriousness, “He should not have fit. It should not have been possible. But you did it. I am unsure whether to congratulate you or hope you never try that with me.”
“Garvana,” Willow said, arching her brows, “Look at the size of him, he would be used to getting big things to fit where they shouldn’t…”
The two men threw back their heads in laughter, yet Garvana simply frowned towards her. While she stared, Willow bit her lip to contain her giggle, bursting into a fit as the shocked looked dawned when Garvana finally picked up on the insinuation.
“I didn’t mean-…” she stumbled, “No, I don’t want you to- I mean-…”
The hysterics continued as Garvana fumbled through her words and her cheeks shined a crimson red. Willow quickly rose from her chair, scuttling to Garvana and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. As the blush only intensified, Willow giggled her way back into her seat.
“Alright, alright,” she grinned, “I will leave you alone now, Garvana.”
Bor took a long swig on the Harper’s Malt, before turning his gaze to Willow.
“Yours was that storm giant,” he smirked, “Such a little vicious thing, you were wroth with him after you thought he’d killed Pellius. You soared through the air with your broken heart and massacred him in one foul swoop!”
“Excuse me,” Willow said in joking indignation, “I was not broken hearted, I was merely inconvenienced.”
“Inconvenienced, my lady?” Pellius laughed, “When I came back up, you were so livid with me, I thought you were going to throw me back down!”
The others let out a great guffaw as Willow simply grinned.
“I should have,” she sniggered, “Would have saved me the trouble, next time you go trying to die like that. So inconvenient.”
Willow winked as he faked outrage at her reply.
“Well,” she said to him, “Your own would have to be the duel with Sir Valin. Glorious and heroic, fighting as my chosen champion. Like a legendary tale from a novel!”
“Oh come on, Willow,” Bor groaned, “That’s not how this game works.”
Willow held up her finger to silence him.
“It was truly magnificent, a great show of your battle prowess, your unwavering bravery, your endless might and sure to be fabled strength…”
Bor and Garvana groaned and whined, though Pellius’ brow arched high, awaiting the rest of her words.
“And then, we faced small balls of ooze…” she smirked as the chuckles began, waving her wine glass dramatically, “And you fell asleep and missed the action…. twice…”
The laughter exploded from the room, as Pellius merely grinned with his brows raised.
“And even though I kicked you,” she continued, “Repeatedly. You continued to snooze and let me handle the rest. My champion…”
As Bor and Garvana roared with laughter, Pellius stood from his seat, a sly grin on his lips.
“You, my lady,” he said darkly, slowly strolling towards her, “Have had far too much to drink.”
As he stood over her, he looked down with the dark promise of retribution in his gaze. He bent low to her, eyes piercing into hers as she leaned forward to bring her face inches from his.
“That mouth,” he said quietly, “Is getting far too loose. Let us see if we cannot find a better use for it...”
Without warning, he grinned and gripped Willow by the waist, lifting her from her seat with ease as he flung her over his shoulder. Her glass went flying from her hand, shattering against the wall, the remains of the red liquid splashing along the white stone.
“Pellius!” she laughed, writhing in his grip, “Put me down!”
As the others chuckled, he turned back to them with a grin.
“Goodnight to the both of you,” he said in mock formality, before heading for the stairs.
As he began the climb to their bedchamber, Willow grinned mischievously as she saw her chance. Using the wooden railing as leverage, she propelled herself upward with her hands, forcing her chest up and over his shoulder. As he struggled to hold his balance and his grip on her at the same time, she slid herself down and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, bringing herself chest to chest and face to face. She grinned sinfully as she stared deep into his flaring crimson eyes. She spoke a wicked rasp as her fangs slithered low and she traced her tongue along the lobe of his ear.
“Tell me… of these other uses…”

minderp
2017-01-23, 07:46 PM
“I will never surrender to the likes of you, vile serpent!”
“Then your death is your own doing,” Willow growled viciously.
A blinding ray of rippling light was hurled towards her, tendrils of searing white unfurling through the air at frightening speed. With eery grace, Willow slipped under the beam and out of its path.
They had entered the Tower of Polydorus, scaled it’s winding case of stairs and infiltrated the guarded home of the infamous wizard. The aged man had been too preoccupied with Bor’s brash entrance to notice Willow slip passed unseen. And so she had taken the opportunity as it had presented itself. She had leapt from the shadows with her blade flashing and drawn it tightly to his throat. The wizard would have held much information; he could have proved quite useful to the Forsaken and their goals. But even surrounded on all sides by four powerful foes – he spat in the face of surrender. He tore himself from her grasp, grunting against the pain of her blade slicing the layer of flesh along his throat, hands tracing intricate patterns in the air as his magic exploded throughout the room. Great clashes of vibrant hued arcane might shattered against the skin and armour of the Forsaken, tearing through the wooden furniture and blazing the stacks of parchment and books. As the curve of Pellius’ mighty swing came cleaving downward towards the wizard, Willow turned her head to avoid the cascade of scarlet that showered through the air.
“Well,” she pursed, as the wizard’s body fell limp to the floor, “That could have gone better.”
“You’re telling me,” Garvana huffed, patting out the embers upon the lengths of her hair that had swelled in the wizard’s blast of arcane flame, “Why don’t they ever just surrender?”
“Because there’s a horde of bugbears in the city,” Bor shrugged, “Why would they trust our offer?”
Willow shook her head as she checked over the limp form for signs of life. When she felt no pulse nor breath, she turned her attentions to the chamber. She strolled towards the writing desk by the far wall, skimming the details of the open tome upon it’s wooden plank. As she flicked through the pages, her brows rose, realising she was reading the journal of Polydorus.
“He was waiting for the Duke,” she said aloud, “He had means to transport himself away, but he was awaiting the Duke’s arrival, sure of his survival.”
“Would’ve been waiting a while,” Bor scoffed.
She chuckled, lifting the book from the table and continuing to peruse its pages. Willow knew that Polydorus had been known as a great seer, one of the highest regarded in the land of Talingarde. Though even that title held little weight amongst the Mitran church and its faithful. Magic had always been looked upon with suspicion, witches and wizards shunned from a society so heavily entrenched in it’s religious ways. Only the divine powers of Mitra’s blessed healers were regarded with warmth and welcoming. Polydorus had recorded his motive for awaiting the Duke. When Fire-Axe’s horde approached, he had promised Duke Martin that if he could get himself to Polydorus’ tower, then the wizard would teleport him to the safety of Matharyn. The Duke had laughed in his face, believing his defences and military prowess would safeguard the city. It had been only two days later that the city had fallen. And so Polydorus had remained in his tower, awaiting the Duke, set on keeping his promise in hopes of changing the way wizards and magic users alike were viewed by the Talrien people.
Willow stowed the journal into her pack to read later, before she continued sifting through the mess of parchment and paper. Hidden under the heaped layers, amongst ramblings of sorcery and musings of fate and time, she came across a curious scrap of untanned hide. Black jagged writing carved along it’s skin, as if the words had been etched by a claw.
“The Stormborn King,” Willow muttered to herself.
“What have you found, my lady?” Pellius asked, stepping along side her to see the leather clutched in her hands.
“A letter,” she frowned, “Most curious.”
He skimmed the letter’s contents, brow pulling low, “Do you know of this, Lord of All Eagles?”
“I believe I have heard of him,” she nodded, “Only old tales of a great winged beast that dwells in the Caer Bryr.”
“What does it say?” Garvana asked from across the room.
“To Polydorus,” she read, “Seer of Daveryn, Unwinged but wise. Behold, I the Stormborn King need your counsel. I have taken Chargammon’s whelp, the black dragon Jeratheon Knightsbane. He foolishly tried to lay claim to my dominion and by talon and thunderbolt did we humble the night hunter. My heart speaks to slay this monster and see his evil forever removed from both earth and sky. Still, I worry this would bring the wrath of his sire. So I send to you. What say the stars? Will the death of Jerathon invite disaster or will it bring only justice and relief? I await your word. I remain the Lord of All Eagles and the Stormborn King.”
“Chargammon and Jeratheon?” Garvana repeated thoughtfully, “I saw their names only a moment ago…”
She quickly returned to the heavily laden bookshelf, retrieving a quilled book bound in reddened leather. Her brow furrowed as she flicked the pages, lifting as she found the passage she was looking for.
“Yes, here they are,” she said excitedly, “Chargammon and Jeratheon, two of the five greatest dragons in the land of Talingarde.”
Willow’s curiosity piqued, as her feet swiftly took her Garvana’s side, her eyes scouring the page.
“An elder wyrm,” she said warily, “The vilest serpent in a nest of vipers.”
“Perhaps recusing his young would gain us his favour?” Garvana offered.
Willow scoffed, “We are just as likely to gain our own deaths at his hand for the deed. The black dragon is the most wicked and foul of them all. He answers to no one; he lives by no code nor moral. He knows only the death and destruction of his own whims.”
“I think it best we avoid interfering,” Pellius said seriously, “We do not need to draw his eye.”
Garvana ceded their point with a huff, slipping the book into her pouch. As Willow smiled towards the eager and enthusiastic woman, the strange script written upon a thick tome caught her sight. An odd twinge of familiarity sparked as her eyes drank in the runic letters. She strolled to the shelf on the eastern wall, careful hands lifting the tome from its casing. The words were carved in a peculiar variation of the celestial tongue, much like the undecipherable words written in the book they had found in the private library of Saint Marcarius. Opening the tome, she grinned to find the script written in common tongue.
“Pellius,” she called, strolling to his side, “Take a look at this. It is a cipher, written by Bedemus himself! Do you remember the book we found in the cathedral of Valtaerna?”
“The one we could not translate?” he asked.
“The very one,” Willow nodded, “If I am correct, we can use this to translate it! Bedemus is a truly remarkable scolar, his work transcends on from this plane to many others. How curious we would come across this here…”
As they continued their search of the wizard’s tower, they found many curiosities and oddities. Looking around the wizard’s impressive collection of lore and literature, Willow’s heart sank at the thought of the savage bugbears burning the lot to ashes.
“We should send for our men,” she said to Pellius, eyes scanning the rich wealth of knowledge held within the stone walls, “Order them to remove the books from the tower. I wish very much to see this knowledge preserved.”
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied cordially, “Such should not be left to the carnage of war…”

The warm spring sun arched high over head, signalling that noon was upon them. The last of winter’s snow had melted over the prior passing weeks, its water churning with the heavy layers of ash upon the ground, coating the cobblestone in a sickly blackened sludge. Looking down in displeasure, Willow thought of the endless task each night, cleaning the soot stains from the leather of her boots. It was lucky, she thought as she made her way through the mess, that she had people who endured the task for her.
They headed east towards Goldenhall, searching the ruins of buildings along their way, finding little save scattered coins and charred belongings. As they meandered through the once vibrant district, now a burnt husk of its former glory, a peculiar sight unfolded. A lone intact building, wedged between the scorched beams of two others that had not faired so well. Though it was not only its condition that made this strange mahogany bricked structure seem far out of place. Its curved awnings and furled tiled roof was unlike any that had stood along the merchant district before it. The metal beams held an eery golden shimmer as if magic itself danced along their surface. In its arched doorway stood a man of deep ebony skin, standing almost as tall as the seven foot high arch, with piercing crystal blue eyes that radiated from under his hooded gaze. As Willow’s distracted footsteps took her slowly towards him, he grinned a knowing and sultry smile.
“He is awaiting you,” his deep baritone lilt crooned.
She found her sight transfixed to his figure, his words barely penetrating her mind. When they did register, she found herself unable to reply, merely inclining her head in response. She heard the muffled words of the others, the scuff of their following steps behind her. But she paid them no mind as she approached him, eyes locked to his as he stepped aside to allow her entry. Curious, she thought. Though she found her mind too preoccupied to think on it further.
“Dravith,” she rasped to Sith, ordering to him to wait outside.
The waft of spirited and heavy incense smothered her nose, its strong scent clouding her vision. She stepped over the threshold, as if stepping into another realm. Beaded charms and smoking string tied herbs hung from the walls. Splashes of effervescent colours hung in drapes and ribbons from the ceilings, wooden carved symbols strung with twine from ornate hooks that dangled from the roof. The air fogged by trails of slender smoke, drifting from embers that burned in sealed clay bowls, creating a curtain of white mist that sheltered the inner chamber from view. Cautiously, Willow’s quiet steps pushed through the haze. She waved her hand to clear the pale sheet, revealing a round table draped in silk of ruby and scarlet. At the head of the table sat a man of small stature, a face wrinkled with lines of age and wisdom, speckled ashen hair combed slick to his scalp. As his sunken eyes of hazel found Willow’s line of sight, his pointed grey moustache lifted into a smile.
“Ah yes,” he said softly, “I have been expecting you.”
Willow did not speak, she only smiled and looked on curiously. He slowly pulled an odd deck of cards from his robes, placing the neat pile upon the silk. There were four vacant chairs surrounding his table, one of which Willow instinctively approached. She was too distracted to notice Pellius pulling the chair out for her, but with eyes locked on the aged man, she sat and simply waited for his direction. After the others took their seats, the man finally spoke again.
“You have a question,” he said to Willow, rearranging his thick parchment cards, “You may ask it.”
Though she frowned, her mind seemed to know it’s answer.
“Tell me,” she said softly, her eyes still searching his, “Of Adrastus Thorn…”
As a small intake of breath was heard from Garvana, the corner of the man’s lip lifted as if Willow had spoken the exact words he had expected. He lifted his cards from the table, retrieving specific ones and shuffling them in his fingers. He held them out to her, face down.
“The suit of tomes,” he said, “Select a card, young one.”
With unsure hands, Willow reached for the centre card. As her fingers lingered along its edge, she changed her mind, reaching instead for the card on the far left. She drew it from his hand, turning it over to reveal a strange picture of a pained man, an arc of blue lightening connecting to his head from the finger of a god.
“Ah, the vision,” he nodded, “Intriguing. If it chooses to reveal itself in the harrowing, it will have much to divulge to you…”
Willow watched carefully as he returned the cards to his deck and his eyes glazed over as he shuffled them methodically.
“The past…” he said ruminatively, dealing three cards face up.
“The present,” dealing another three, “And the future.”
As he dealt his final card – his brows rose.
“The cards speak of a feigned knowledge, no – an ignorance of knowledge. It reveals something of a great power, or of great truth, hidden or hiding. The present; speaks of wisdom and intellect, strong enough to see a things true worth, even beyond the layers of shrouded time. The past? Ah, yes! The mountain man, a true match. It is a conflict. The future holds an unavoidable conflict with that no longer in his control…”
He nodded his head to himself, in clear understanding of something not visible or perceivable by Willow. Nor the others, judging by the looks on their faces.
“Can you tell me no more, wise one?” she pressed, “What of this truth or power? What of the power out of his control?”
He smiled, lifting his gaze to hers.
“That is all the cards choose to reveal at this time.”
As if dismissing her from his presence, he turned to Bor expectantly, brow arched high.
“And what of you?” he questioned, “What do you wish to ask?”
For a moment, Willow thought she would be given a peek into the enigma that was the solemn troubled orc. For a moment, he seemed as if he would ask something of his past.
“What of the king’s army?” he asked, a guarded expression clouding his face, “How do we defeat it?”
The harrower’s head tilted slightly, almost as if he was disappointed with the question he had been asked. If Willow would guess, she would have said the man seemed as if the disappointment was due to a clear missed opportunity.
“Let us see then…” he began.
Willow was only half listening as the aged man drew his cards and spoke their explanation. Although she heard of an enslavement and a force that may still intervene, she was far too busy musing over the riddled answers she had received. The past was no more clear than before. The present could have been interpreted as the Forsaken, found imprisoned and awaiting death; Thorn saw their potential to become what they were now. It was the future that was truly intriguing. A conflict of that which he no longer had control. There was an array of options that could have fit the bill, yet there was one she could not ignore. The Forsaken themselves…
“The cyclone,” the harrowers words broke into her reverie, “An unnatural force, guided somehow, as if by the hand of gods. Opposed by the paladin, through hardship and foolhardiness.”
“By the gods?” Bor repeated.
“As if by them,” the harrower corrected, “The cards are not clear in their meaning, the cyclone is in an opposed position, it is an unnatural force that will guide its way…”
The aged man turned his gaze to Pellius, a small sly smile upon his lips, as if he knew something of him that was unknown to the Forsaken. His eyes seemed set to tempt and entice, as if they were daring him to ask the question he knew lingered on Pellius’ tongue. The two men simply stared at each other, before Pellius lowered his head in what seemed like defeat.
“Will I ever be free of the Knot?” came his solemn question.
In unison, Bor and Garvana raised their brows, confused or shocked by his words. Willow’s did not raise, they pulled tight into a frown, her eyes searching the room as if expecting someone or something to appear from the shadows. It was a dangerous thought to speak aloud, no matter how recently the same thing had been drifting through her mind.
“Intriguing,” was all the harrower replied, pulling selected cards from his deck.
As Pellius drew a card from the offered hand, the others awaited the reading with bated breath. Unaware or uncaring of the suspense; the harrower leisurely laid his hand.
“Ah,” he said finally, “The hourglass. Its position represents fate, or the will of the gods. And the mute hag aligned here – a true match. It speaks of bonds more powerful than words. A blood pact, a contract, a knot; it is brother against brother. The present is misaligned; it is a driving force that urges you to push onward for strength. As for the future, look here, the owl. It is wisdom that holds all together. It is the bond that keeps each piece from falling. But it is near the great constellation, far too close to the edge; it may be broken yet!”

Left with more questions than they had answers, the four of them thanked the strange harrower and rose from their seats. As Willow reached the curtains last, and the others exited the building, she paused at the threshold.
“You have another question for me, do you not child?” he asked knowingly, “One of a more personal nature…”
Slowly, Willow turned to face him. Her brow arched as she simmered the temptation to delve too far into the elusive and complex world of harrowing.
“You may ask,” he said with a small smile, “But you may not find the answers you seek. The art of harrowing is never clear cut and plain. The answers are always left open to your own interpretation. You can only hope you interpret them correctly.”
She stared at him, mind racing with indecision. The question she would ask would be one that could reveal a key part of her own past and future. The harrower simply awaited her reply patiently.
“Willow?” called Pellius, peering his head back through the doorway.
“Continue on,” she said to him, “I will follow shortly.”
With a curious look of intrigue, he inclined his head, turning from the door way. Willow waited until he was gone from view before she returned to her seat by the circular table. After a sharp intake of breath, she met the harrower’s gaze once again.
“Why did my family betray me?” she asked quietly, “Why did they turn me in?”
“Ah yes,” he smiled slyly, “That is indeed the question your heart longs to ask. Let us see…”
He fanned the cards within in fingers, drawing specific ones into a slender pile by his right. Once he was done, he lifted the small pile in offering to her.
“The suit of stars,” he rasped, “Select a single card.”
Again, she was unsure of which to take. With little to lose, she closed her eyes and reached for them, drawing one from his grasp. As she held it out to him, his brows rose ever so slightly.
“The eclipse,” he mused, “A card of self doubt and lack of purpose. Though whether theirs or your own is unclear. This card will have much to reveal if it chooses to appear in the harrowing…”
He dealt his nine cards, eyes glazing over as he meticulously placed down each one. When he had finished, he slowly nodded his head.
“The rakshasa!” he crooned, “A true match! The card speaks of a domination, one who is forced against their will. Though by what, or whom, is not for me to say.”
He frowned at his second row of cards.
“The beating, though it is misaligned and too far from the left lying star. It speaks of a relentless assault, spanning farther than a lifetime. If the card had revealed itself to another, it would signify the breaking point. But you, I think not. Still, his parallel position to the jester warns of impatience. Do not rush, beware the foolhardy course. Not all is as it seems. And the veil, a second true match. Your family have been fooled by illusions and false promises, it is their lust for gain that have served them into imprudence.”
Delicately arranged words that spoke in riddles of romantic story. Yet, Willow found no answers in his musing.
“Why is it the eclipse does not show itself, wise one?” she frowned.
“Perhaps,” he said softly, “You are not ready for the knowledge it holds.”
As Willow opened to mouth to speak, he halted her with a gentle lift of his hand.
“That is all,” he smiled, “The cards wish to reveal at this time…”

It was later that afternoon that the four of them found themselves wandering through the streets of Argentyne on route back to their camp in Tythers. As they turned down the cobblestone road into a slender alley, a shortcut they had discovered in their travels, they were greeted by a grotesque and ominous scene. A head of a large ogre, freshly cut from it’s body, impaled upon an iron spike. In a flash, they had their weapons drawn upon approach.
“It has not been there long,” Pellius surmised, “The blood is fresh and red.”
Sith’s deep growl of warning sounded a moment before a scatter of footsteps from the far end of the alley had them look up to see the silhouette of a man escape around the corner. Without warning, Garvana took off into a run in pursuit.
“Garvana!” Willow growled, “Do not be so rash!”
Having either ignored or not heard Willow’s words, the woman clad in heavy steel armour, loudly disappeared around the corner.
“Damn her,” Willow cursed, eyes scanning the rooftops, “Quickly, go after her! It could be a trap, I’ll follow behind. Vystrynivvi.”
As the illusion rippled across her flesh and vanished her from sight, Pellius and Bor nodded, running towards the sounds of loud clanking of armour.
“Sith, tithmirr Pellius!” Willow commanded him to follow.
The mighty warhound growled his understanding, leaping into a frightening sprint, keeping close on Pellius’ heels. Willow kept pace with the others, remaining a few feet behind, her footsteps light and her sight sharp. As they rounded the corner towards a blind alley, Willow lost sight of them as she slowed her steps to strain her ears. On instinct she flattened herself to the barely standing wall of a charred building, seconds before a group of more than twenty men barreled out from the surrounding buildings. Most wore ragged and soiled uniforms, stained by soot and dirt, as if they hadn’t been washed since the fall of Daveryn. The others wore the rags of peasants, craftsmen and dockworkers, townsfolk with little martial experience. As they flooded passed Willow unaware of her presence, she watched them close off the opening to alley and aim their crossbows in practiced efficiency. These were not a band of elite warriors; these were simple guards, foot-soldiers and men.
“FIRE!” bellowed a masculine voice, unseen from the far end of the long alleyway.
As they let loose their first round of bolts, Willow leapt into action. She lunged for the closest guard, carving fatally through his flesh with ease, gracefully spinning to follow through and down the one to his right.
“SITH!” she roared her command, “NESSITH MIRR FIRITH!”
As her terrifying dance of death continued, her blade cleanly slicing through the horrorstricken outclassed lines of men, Sith snarled and prowled back towards her. With a howl of a pure ferocious beast, he craned his maw wide, funneling a torrent of searing fire that rippled hungrily towards the ranks. As the heat neared, Willow crouched low with a grin to spring herself high into the air, feeling the flames lick her flesh as she soared above them. As she descended, the chorus of agony cried from the procession of guards, the sounds of suffering and torture melding with the smoldering crackle of fire. A single wave of flame was enough to kill or incapacitate all but one of the soldiers. The lucky man who managed to skirt the edge of the flame looked on in soul wrenching dread. He turned and fled, not a sound escaping his lips. As Willow quickly sprinted into the alley, she saw another league of mirrored numbers guarding the far side of the pass. At their centre stood tall man with wide broad shoulders, roughly cut sable locks, matching the thick protruding hair atop his lip. He was no peasant nor simple guard, this man stared down his demise with military prowess. As a small pellet of flame launched high into the air, the sound of Garvana’s laugh had a cringe of distaste ripple along Willow’s spine. The bead soared towards a soldier standing in the front rank. As it collided with his chest, the inferno fulminated outwards in scorching and scalding copper flames. The fire raged around him, furling in tendrils of fiery wrath, blistering flesh and igniting fabric. The ranks of twenty men were set ablaze in a luminous shatter of sweltering scarlet flames. As they fell, Bor stepped towards their leader, in a slow and tauntingly confident pace.
“You dare challenge us?” he growled venomously, “You wish to burn and die like the others? Or do you wish to bleed?”
Fear washed over the man’s face. Fear in its purest form; the knowledge of his own death a certainty. For a moment, Willow thought he may overcome it and stand fast against them. But she knew fear to be a powerful thing. When it took hold, when it found you clutched within its grip – hope and bravery were inutile.
The man convulsed in panic, the terror morphing his once arrogant face, his feet struggling to move beneath him. As Bor took another step forward, he finally found the initiative to run. His scream came deep from the pit of his stomach, his steps launched him towards the crossroad, stumbled and staggered stride. Yet, he was not fast enough to escape. Bor lunged with strong muscular legs, his vicious greatsword swinging wide, cleaving the fleeing man in a single stroke. The only three surviving men from the back ranks wasted no time. As their captain fell, they split and fled.
“Sith! Tith-lashh-mirr,” Willow commanded fiercely, “Pishnisti mer vitish!”
The warhound growled his assent, bounding in chase after the men.
“Bring one back alive?” Pellius queried, a slow grin sliding upon his lips.
“What?” Willow frowned, “Do we not need one for questioning?”
At that, his grin only grew.
“You do realize… the hounds jaw is filled with flame, right my lady?”
“Oh!” she laughed in realization, “Right…”
When the rumble of Sith’s returning footsteps could be heard, Willow could not help but grin. As he trotted back to her, proud of his quick and efficient catch, she laughed at her own foolishness.
“Hirr mer trath,” she chuckled in praise, stepping out of the way as he dropped his smouldering prize.
“Who is he?” asked Garvana, standing over the leaders body.
“Captain Ricon Harbold would be my best guess,” Willow said, turning to her while running her fingers through the simmering fur upon Sith’s side, “The head of the resistance. Brueder mentioned he was hiding in the sewers beneath Argentyne.”
“Do you suppose there are more of them?” Pellius asked.
“Perhaps,” Willow shrugged, “Though it is doubtful. They would not have thrown away so many men here if they had more in reserve.”
“Agreed,” Pellius nodded, “But perhaps we should be sure. Will you command Sith to track their scent?”
Willow smiled, eyes scanning the ground.
“It will be faster if I follow their steps,” she said, pointing to the heavy clear prints leading out of the north pass, “Frightened men have no time to cover their tracks.”
Pellius smirked, nodding his head, sight still on the body of the captain, “Do you wish to be accompanied, my lady?”
After whispering the command to activate her ring, Willow crept slowly and unnoticed to his side.
“My lady?” he asked, turning to where she was with a frown.
She leant forward until her lips were an inch from his ear, “They shall never know I am coming if I follow alone…”

minderp
2017-01-23, 07:48 PM
Evening hung drearily over head, darkened skies tinted with the last red glow of sunset, as Willow returned once more to the manor. She had indeed found the hideout of the resistance. A hidden chamber within the sewers – bare and deserted. The men that had once taken refuge there, now either death or long gone. She had looked through what they had left behind; dwindling rations, filthy straw mattresses, the last crumbs of hope for the men of Daveryn.
She passed the guards stationed by the front door to manor, inclining her head to their greetings. As she stalked through the parlour, her steps slowed, catching sight of Pellius’ men. The dwarf was ordering them about, watching them shrewdly as they carted weapons through the house and out of the rear door.
“Thorangir?” she called, approaching from behind.
“Mistress,” he said, turning on his heel to face her.
His warm smile faltered for only a moment, as his eyes spied the bloodied mess that covered her completely, from leather to skin.
The corner of her lip lifted in a smile, “Is something wrong, Thorangir?”
“No, mistress,” he said smoothly, “Not a thin’.”
Willow slowly arched an eyebrow.
“May be a bit bold, mistress,” he continued gruffly, “But should I get yer a bath drawn?”
Both brows shot high although she laughed in response.
“That would be a fine idea,” she smiled, “Though I shall warn you, that mouth of yours may get you in to trouble one day.”
“Oh it already does, mistress.”
Willow chuckled at his dour and brash disposition.
“Have you seen Pellius?” she asked.
“Master Albus?” he frowned, “’Bout half an hour ago, he left out front. Not since then I’m ‘fraid. Course, did not ask where he was goin’.”
“Of course,” Willow nodded, a sly smile playing on her lips, “Do you drink tea, Thorangir?”
“Tea, ma’m?” he asked warily.
“Yes, tea,” she said patronizingly, “Grown into leaves, brewed in water?”
“Ah, yes,” he frowned, “Yes mistress. I do in fact.”
“Good,” she smiled, “Then go and brew a pot, and meet me in the parlour. I shall change and return there shortly.”
“Mistress?” he questioned, his frown deepening.
Willow sighed, “Thorangir. Go and brew a pot of tea. Then take said pot of tea, find two cups, and meet me in the parlour. Is that understood?”
“Yes, mistress,” he nodded, though his frown did not lift, “Right yer are…”

After Willow had changed out of her armour, slipping into simple slacks and blouse, Thorangir finally managed to return with tea. After pouring both cups, he simply stepped back out of the way, unsure what to do.
“Sit, Thorangir,” Willow ordered, “Drink the tea.”
“Ah, alright. Yes, mistress.”
“Relax,” Willow said gently, “I simply wish to talk with you.”
“Yes ma’m,” he nodded, awkwardly sipping from the slender tea cup he had chosen.
As Willow delicately sipped from her own, much more suited to the task, she found herself giggling at the ridiculous image before her.
“Would you rather a brandy?” Willow offered.
“No, no ma’m,” he rushed, “Tea’ll be just fine. It’s just, mistress, if I may just ask yer, what is it yer be wantin’?”
Willow smiled warmly, resting herself back into the chair, lifting her feet to tuck them in beneath her.
“I simply wish to talk, Thorangir,” she said, “I do not know much about you, save the small conversation we had on the return from the mines.”
He frowned again, “’Fraid there’s not much else ter tell, mistress.”
“Nonsense,” she said, waving a dismissing hand, “Tell me of your home before Cheliax. Pellius tells me you were not born there?”
“Ma’m, its not much of a tale-“
“-Thorangir,” she interrupted sternly, “Just tell me.”
“Right mistress,” he nodded, staring into his teacup uncomfortably, “Well. Lived in small mount’n town in Isger. Raised as a shepherd I was. Tending the hill pastures and the like. But like all the others, learned ter fight early for the constant raids by goblins and hobgoblins and sometimes giants. Long time ago now, Cheliax noticed the town. Right good spot for trade caravans. For the protection they gave, town was required sendin’ ten children each year to serve the state. I was one, given ter the Chelaxian army. Got good trainin’ as an infantry soldier. Then they saw me knack for mechanics, so they trained me as an engineer.”
He paused for a moment, looking up to Willow.
“Yer sure yer want me ter keep goin’, ma’m?” he asked skeptically.
“I am sure,” Willow smiled, inclining her head, “Continue.”
“Right, well. Was years in the army, then was given this special assignment. Promoted ter sergeant I was, as head of a contingent of guardsmen sent ter protect one of the temple's diplomatic missions. Ship was damaged in the storm, and well, yer know the rest, ma’m.”
“The diplomatic mission,” Willow queried, “Was it the first time you had met Pellius?”
“Yes ma’m,” he nodded, “But course I’d heard of ‘im.”
“Heard of him?” Willow asked, arching her brow.
“Yes ma’m. Master Albus, he’s well known in Cheliax, ma’m.”
Willow grinned, “I am sure he is. What was he like?”
“Like, ma’m?” he asked hesitantly.
“You knew him before Talingarde,” she replied easily, “Was he much the same then?”
“Beg yer pardon, mistress,” he frowned, looking down once again, “But I don’t think its my place to say.”
Willow’s brow rose slowly as she watched the reactions of the dwarf carefully. Though she would have loved to push him further, she knew it would only cause trouble and dissent in the ranks.
“Very well, Thorangir,” she replied finally, “Thank you for your company.”
He quickly rose from his chair, giving a swift bow before scuttling forward to gather the empty cup and saucer from Willow’s side.
“Should yer be wantin’ that bath now, mistress?” he asked.
She smiled fondly, “Yes, that would be lovely.”
“Right yer are,” he nodded.
He hurriedly made for the stairs, pausing as he reached them. Slowly, he turned back to her.
“He is…” he said quietly, thinking hard on his choice of words, “Wiser, ma’m.”
Again, she smiled, “Thank you, Thorangir.”
For a moment, while looking into one another’s eyes, they shared simple understanding. As he inclined his head and scampered up the stairs, Willow thought over his words. From the brash and handsome young man that Pellius had been, held within the bars of Branderscar – he had indeed grown wiser. Just as she, it seemed he too had learned the valuable lesson of humility. Though it was not the lesson they would have taught in the school of Mitra’s guided teaching. Having been beaten, been used and betrayed. Willow found that these things did not lower her view of her own importance. These things did not teach her to be humble or modest. In fact, they had taught her the opposite. That she could be tricked and deceived if she did not learn to be greater than all others. She needed to be stronger, smarter, faster. She need to be more cunning, more clever, more canny. But most of all, to be one step ahead of all of those around her – she need to be wiser.

It was just shy of midnight when Willow heard the familiar heavy stride of Pellius returning to their chamber. She was still awake, curled up in the arm chair by the bedroom window, reading the rough translation she had made of the first chapter of Bedemus’ writings. Although his musings on the inner working of arcana was truly fascinating, she had abstained from sleep for another reason.
“My lady,” Pellius said quietly, closing the door behind him as he entered, “I am surprised to see you still up. Is there something troubling you?”
Willow smiled gently as she watched his reflection in the window, turning to see him unlacing the buckles of his sturdy chestplate.
“No,” she said softly, “Not a great deal. Just a curiosity that seems to have left me restless.”
She placed the book upon the windowsill, rising from her chair to aid him in his undress.
“Is this something I may help you with?” he offered, turning to allow her access to the straps on his back.
“Indeed,” she replied, “For it is you that I am curious about…”
His low rumbling chuckle had her smile as it always did.
“You wish to know where I was this evening?” he smirked.
“No,” she smiled, “I know better than to question your nightly endeavors. I receive only vague dismissals when I do…”
He chuckled again, taking the plate from her hands and setting it aside by the bed. He turned to her, his sleek eyebrow arched in question.
“Then what is it you wish to know, my lady?” he asked, a subtle sly warning to his tone.
Though she appreciated his dark and seductive allure, she found her brow creasing into a frown. She looked up into his eyes, serious enough to see his grin falter.
“What is it, my lady?”
She paused for a moment, her mind churning over suspicions and heavy thoughts. Delicately, she reached up to grasp the circlet from atop his head, pulling it free as it rippled into sight. He did not move to stop her; he simply watched her with clear curiosity. She lifted her own from the nightstand and took the pair of them into the dressing room, shutting them away into the vanity drawer. As she returned to the bedchamber and closed the door behind her, Pellius’ brow rose.
“An explanation, my lady?”
“I am plagued with suspicions of late,” she sighed, sliding atop the bed, folding her legs beneath her, “I fear holding such a gift gives too much power of sight to the gifter…”
“Intriguing,” he replied, continuing to remove his armour, “And what is it you wish watching eyes to not see?”
Again, she sighed.
“Today…” she said quietly, “With the harrower. Your question was… unexpected…”
“It would seem as if you have had similar thoughts, Willow,” he shrugged, “Is it not wise to keep our options open and source what information we may?”
“Pellius,” she said sternly, “It matters not what thoughts I have had. I have kept them unsaid for a reason. Speaking such a thing, in front of the others… it borders on insubordination.”
“Come now, Willow,” he scolded, “Surely you have seen what will become of us. Thorn’s entire plan hinges on throwing Sakkarot to the wolves! We are bound to him! We are locked by word and infernal contract to obey his every command!”
“I am not unaware of this, Pellius,” Willow scowled, “But is it wise to speak of want to free ourselves from his service?”
“He is willing to sacrifice Sakkarot!” he said fiercely, “And the beast is no threat to him! What do you think he will do with us when he is sure we are too powerful for him to contain? It shall be our heads on the guillotine next!”
“Have you not pondered on the arrival of the harrower?” she scowled, “The mere coincidence he was there? He could have been sent by Thorn, to test our loyalty! He knows of our growing strength, and if he wise, he will be paranoid of our growth!”
“All the more reason for us to seek a way to be free!” Pellius growled.
Willow shook her head in frustration, “I am not disagreeing with you. I am simply warning you against such rash voice. My thoughts are indeed aligned with your own, but we must be more cautious in our approach. Thorn must not get word of rebellion. He must believe us always the loyal and unwavering subjects he wishes.”
Pellius exhaled deeply, sinking into the bed beside her.
“And if we remain quiet for too long?” he asked, “Do we just wait while he plans our demise?”
“We will be ready for him,” she reassured, “I am unwilling to lay down my life simply for him. I will serve the Lord of the Nine until the last breath is taken from my chest, but I will not do the same for any other.”
“You realize that in itself sounds like insubordination…”
Willow felt a small smile lift her lips, “It is only that, if the authority truly deserves his place. As for now, we must continue to serve faithfully.”
“Of course,” he nodded distractedly.
“But please, Pellius,” she said quietly, lifting her hand to turn his face towards her, “Keep your thoughts quiet. I wish not to see your head taken early, I quite like it where it is…”

By early morning the following day, the group of their men they had sent to seek word of anything worth their time left in the city, returned once more with news. Within Duward, the Sable Tower still remained untouched and surrounded by a camp of bugbears and goblin wolfriders. Willow found it curious that they had not yet simply brute forced their way into the tower, to reap the rewards of the Duke’s Regalia held within it’s stone walls. So they travelled by steed through the charred and cluttered streets towards the eastern district. As they approached, they did indeed see the fabled tower, its surroundings crawling with a small horde of bestial bugbears and mischievous goblins. They slowed their horses as they drew close, sitting tall in their saddles, under the watchful eyes of nearly forty creatures. Willow withdrew a small silken pouch of gold from her cloak, kicking her mount forward confidently towards the largest of them, the one who looked as if he was in charge.
As she threw the pouch towards him, she pulled her horse to a stop.
“Whadda ya want?” asked the chestnut beast warily.
“I wish to know why the tower still stands,” Willow said coldly, “What is it that is stopping you from seizing it?”
“What’s stoppin’ us,” he growled, “Is some trap up top. Blasts anyone who gets close.”
“Blasts?” she asked in return, arching an eyebrow, “What type of blast?”
Acting as if the humorous type, he made an explosion theatric with his hands.
“Boom!” he called, laughing to the others around him.
As the others chuckled their savage laughs, Willow’s lip curled as the hellfire surged into her eyes. As she spoke, her words were dripping with a venomous unspoken warning.
“What type of blast,” she seethed, “Did it burn like fire, or sear like lightening?”
She watched the ripple of fear that overtook him, the smug grin dropping from his chin.
“Lightnin’,” he said quietly, “Was white and shot down all of ‘em that entered.”
“Better,” Willow replied, relaxing back into her seat, talking more to herself than to him, “Let us see if we cannot extinguish this lightening.”
The bugbear growled under his breath as he turned back to his brutes, “Hope it’ll see ya burnt like all ‘em others…”
Paying little mind to the malice of the horde, Willow hooked her heels into her steed and returned to the others.
“If the animal is to be believed, the top floor is guarded by an arcane ward or trap that uses lightening. They have not yet found a way around it.”
“Sounds like our kind of thing,” Garvana smiled.
“Raiju,” Willow beckoned, gracefully dismounting from her saddle, “Guard the horses. Be sure not to let any of them get eaten.”
He nodded, gathering her reigns in his hand, “Right, mistress.”
The four of them made their way along the cobblestone path, watched by the bitter horde, accompanied by a chorus of low hisses and growls. As they entered the tower, they saw the once grand entrance, now bare save the muddy footprints of large beasts. The walls held shadows of time, blank spaces where Willow could only assume once hung golden plaques commemorating the past and present Duke’s of Daveryn. Anything of worth had been stripped and looted, so they continued on towards the winding stairwell and scaled to it’s top. Sitting high above the ruins of the city was a slender hallway that led to a circular chamber, from the top of the stairs they could see the glass case housing the magnificent ducal regalia. Her eyes scanned the scattered procession of charred and scorched corpses along the stone brick floor. As they approached the arched entry, Garvana’s rasped arcane incantation stilled their steps.
“Evocation…” she mused aloud, “It is indeed a powerful trap.”
As she pointed upward, Willow’s eyes followed her direction towards the centre of the ceiling. A strange cage of curious metal, housed a large chunk of raw sapphire.
“How does it activate?” Bor asked.
“I do not know,” Garvana frowned, “There is residual charge in the crystal, but it seems almost… dormant?”
“Perhaps it used all of its power killing the bugbears,” Bor offered.
On impulse, Willow drew her waterskin from her pouch, gently throwing it high into the air towards the glass case. Suddenly, a flash of blinding white pulsed from the crystal, rippling torrents of blazing lightening. Before the waterskin’s decent had time to begin, it was utterly obliterated, leaving behind only a single puff of smoke and the wafting smell of burnt hide.
“Perhaps not…” Bor amended.
A parlous and hazardous plan began to formulate inside Willow’s mind as she eyed strange contraption.
“Garvana…” she said slowly, “Do you think your magic could dispel it? If only for a time?”
Garvana’s frowned pulled tighter on her brow.
“Yes,” she said charily, “But not for long. No more than mere seconds, twenty at best.”
“And you can cast that spell that allows me to walk on walls?”
“Yes,” she frowned, “Why? What is it you are thinking, Willow?”
Willow grinned mischievously, “That if you would allow me a few seconds, I could reach the ceiling and disable the trap.”
“And if the magic is too strong?” she balked, “You’ll be burnt to a crisp!”
“It shall be worth the risk,” she chuckled, “Do you not think me capable?”
Garvana rolled her eyes, “Of course you are. But this is strong magic, Willow! I do not know if I can even shield it for a moment!”
“Then what are a few spells worth?” Willow smirked, “I shall be ready, after you cast I will await your word.”
“Are you sure of this, my lady?” Pellius asked with concern.
“If I fail,” she reassured, “I assure you, I shall not dally inside.”
Bor grinned at the idea, “If you make it, I’ll give you that last bottle of Gattletale.”
“Oh,” Willow laughed, “And the deal is sweetened.”
“Enough,” Garvana clipped, “You are not taking this seriously, hold still. I shall prepare and cast. I will hold the arcana at bay for as long as I can, but be quick, Willow.”
A grin slid Willow’s cheeks higher, “I always am.”
She gave her pack for Pellius to hold and checked over each of her lockpicking tools on her belt. When Garvana nodded to indicate her readiness, Willow bent her knees and waited. As the rasping words came out of her mouth, the anticipation thickened the air. Willow should have been nervous. She should have been scared. Instead, she was riddled with excitement, it might have been said in something akin to a deathwish.
“NOW!” Garvana bellowed.
Willow sprang forth into the room, gripping hold of the impossibly thin ledges of the stone bricks, lifting herself towards the ceiling. She moved as fast as her hands and feet would take her, scrambling up the side of the wall until she preternaturally slid across the ceiling.
“Hurry Willow!”
As she skidded to a halt by the curious container, with one hand clinging to the stone ceiling, she pulled free her picks. The strange contraption was of such a foreign make, that for a moment a shadow of doubt seeped into her mind. No, she thought, this would not best her. As her eyes scoured the mysterious crooked pins joining the crystal to the outside caging, she saw the delicate slender metal rods that aligned the sleek miniature sceptre within it’s centre.
“Willow!” Garvana yelled, “I cannot hold it much longer!”
With her heart pounding in her chest, and her blood coursing through her veins, Willow’s brow clenched tighter. Her thoughts churned through the hundreds of books and tomes she had read, the mechanical manuals of arcane traps she had spent countless hours skimming. Suddenly, the solution seemed to simply appear in her mind. A single piece of bizarre fabric was tied in between each metal pin. The material was woven with a steel wire, jutting upward from the bottom of the cage, soft stains of burnt metal along its fleece. If her guess was correct, the fabric acted as a catalyst, amplifying the tiny bolts of lightening that rippled from the crystal. Garvana’s final warning came screeching to her ears, Willow took her most solid pick and jammed in into the middle of the fabric, shattering the metal and ripping the pins from their joints. As Garvana called out a cry of utter exhaustion, letting her enchantment release, the crystal shuddered with electric pulse. A low rumbling sounded from the shimmering blue, followed by a lash of frightening power. The crystal convulsed again in a crescendo of flickering sound, as if it was preparing its fatal scorching ray; it was then that Willow panicked. She had no time to run, she had no time to get out of it’s way. If she had been mistaken, the furling torrents of pure lightening would carve through her flesh and leave only charred skin and bone in its wake. As time seemed to slow, Willow watched the small flickers of lightening shoot from the crystal. A loud outburst of flare ripped through the air, as the arcs found no fleece to guide their path. The white blaze, drawn to the metal of the cage, surged to its bindings and blasted the metal cage. As the crystal fizzled, and the rods and pins were melted away, Willow sighed in relief. It was clear that the heat had burnt away all mechanics of the trap. Although she could not see it, she felt the arcana dissolve, leaving behind only a remarkably large chunk of sapphire.
“It is, gone?” Bor called from beyond the doorway, before his face poked through, “You’re alive?”
“I think I am,” Willow laughed.
“I see the magic is gone,” Garvana said, glazed eyes searching the room, “Very well done.”
As they entered the chamber, Willow did not drop from her perch. She eyed what remained of the metal cage, seeking a way to retrieve the sapphire itself. She drew her blade from it’s sheath, angling it in, trying to lever the cage open in vein. From below her, she heard Pellius clear his throat. As she looked down to him, she grinned. He held out his adamantine dagger, a sly smile upon his lips. He tossed the dagger high into the air, and her hand whipped out deftly to snatch the dagger by the handle. It took a time, but the strange metal carved through the steel cage, allowing her access. She looked to Pellius, who remained watching her progress, and she smirked. She dropped the dagger towards him, brows raising as he managed to deftly catch it before it hit the ground. The sapphire was far greater than it had appeared trapped inside its hutch. Uncut and raw, the sapphire held an earthly beauty, like nothing Willow had seen before. It was far larger and heavier than she had anticipated, leaving her little option save gripping it and falling to the floor. There was rarely anyone more suited to the task, she landed gracefully in a crouch, the shining sapphire in her hand.
“That must be worth a fortune!” Garvana said, eyes hungrily locked to the crystal, “I wonder how much we could sell it for.”
Willow frowned, fingers clutching the sapphire tighter.
“We cannot sell it, Garvana,” she said forcefully.
“What?” she replied angrily, “Why in hell’s name not?”
Willow shook her head, sight tracing over the sharp and jagged shimmering edges.
“Some things are worth more than gold,” she said wistfully, “When the war is over, we will have countless to spend and horde. Something of such beauty is a rarity, not a simple trinket or tool. This is something that must be preserved.”
Garvana huffed her protest, but seemed to realize it was no fight she could win. As she turned to aid Bor in retrieving the ducal regalia, wealth from the chamber they would indeed be selling, Pellius smiled as he drew close.
“It is fitting,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” Willow asked, arching her brow.
“It is a gem of surpassing beauty,” he whispered, “Much like yourself, my lady.”
“You already know,” she replied, her tone low and sultry, “That flattery will get you entirely everywhere…”
With their packs and bags teeming with treasures, the Forsaken descended the stairs of the tower, opening the entry doors to the sight of the forty bugbears blocking their path.
“Oi,” growled the leader, “We found the place! We get ‘alf of the loots!”
As Willow’s brows rose and her mouth opened to speak, Pellius lifted his hand gently to silence her. He stepped forward, his heavily armoured chest wide and proud, truly a menacing sight to behold.
“And what is it you think?” he rasped viciously, a deathly challenge to his words, “You are going to take it from us? Well then, you are most welcome to try.”
As Willow watched the doubt and dread wash across the horde like a wave, she found her lips pulling into a malicious grin. The bugbear leader, for all of his brawn and bulk, was not a complete fool. He stared Pellius down for only a moment, before he turned and pushed his way through his warriors.
“Come on,” he growled, “Easier pickin’s elsewhere…”


As their four weeks in the ruins of Daveryn drew to a close, there was only one district they had not scoured and searched. Cliffward had always been known as the slums of the city, the run down area looked much the same in the wake of Fire-Axe’s assault, just as it had when the city was thriving. Crudely built houses of mismatched timbers and broken tiles, unpaved filthy dirt roads, cramped streets filled with shattered debris. A place for the unfortunate and impoverished to dwell. There was little within the shantytown that held enticement for the Forsaken. Little, but not nothing. With the rest of the city exhausted of interest, they turned their sights towards the Tandengate Prison. Known as the second worst prison in Talingarde, large enough to house over a hundred captives. Brueder had informed Willow that it remained secure, it’s guards still holding the gate, its prisoners still trapped inside. As the four of them flanked by Raiju and Sith approached the large gatehouse – what remained of the Daveryn soldiers were ready to meet them.
“Identify yourselves!” called a voice from atop the wall.
The words came from a tall man, greying locks clasped tightly in the nape of his neck, clad in silver steel armour marked with the highest ranks of Tandengate.
“Surrender!” Garvana bellowed, “And you will be taken and treated under the rights of prisoners of war!”
The aged captain smiled, holding his arms out to his guards.
“What do you think, men?” he called, “Shall we lay down our arms and surrender?”
The soldiers lining the walls drew back their bows in response, launching a flurry of arrows towards Garvana. As the metal tips clanged against her steel armour, the captain smiled.
“You have your answer…”

They, as the other failed rebellions within Daveryn, should have taken the offer. It was a frightening slaughter; guards dying to the smoldering flames and sharp edges of keen blades. They stood little chance against the wrath of the Forsaken. And so they died, in waves of crimson blood, as did all others who had challenged the infernal bound servants. As Willow wiped the blood from her blades, standing amidst a sea of massacre – a deafening crack lashed their air.
“Villains!” cried a celestial voice, seething with righteous fury, “Know that thou shall answer for thy wickedness!”
From atop the blackened stone gate, Willow looked down towards the centre of the courtyard. She knew what she saw was their ramification. Two glistening beings of pure gold, draped in the heraldry of heaven, guided by the unstoppable quest of vengeance. Both wore solid plates of glorious golden armour, proud and regal stances, the grace of higher beings about them. Their hair glimmered in the soft touch of the bright sun, draping by their shoulders and undulating as if the air around them blew a constant gentle feathered breeze. Their skin shimmered a glistened gold that shined almost bronze, full of life and light, rich and gleaming. The one to the right held a weapon of fabled might, a great mace of enormous size, embellished in intricate carvings and battle worn scars. Willow recognized the livery he wore; he was one of the infamous astral devas. The one to left carried no weapon she could see, yet grasped in his hands he carried a magnificent trumpet, made from a single piece of solid golden ore. She had read of his kind too. Lithe and beautiful, he hovered upon powerful wings of glittering gold, brandishing his instrument as if it had slayed more fiends than any weapon. He was known as a trumpet archon; a race of creatures that served as the messengers and heralds of heaven.
It took no more words for Willow to surmise who they were. She had feared that this meeting was set in fate. Friends or allies of the great celestial guardian known as Ara Mathra. They were here to reap his revenge; they were here to exact his retribution…

minderp
2017-01-23, 07:51 PM
The soft rays of afternoon sun spread lightly across the courtyard, uncaring as it passed through air that was heavy with venomous loathing and hatred. Though the skies cared not, the blood that churned and tempers that flared were heightening. The rancour draped over the firmament in seething fury, tension pulled impossibly taut, as if the fabrics of forbearance were unravelling with each moment that passed. The Forsaken clutched their blood bathed weapons, keen eyes unblinking as they surveyed the impending battle. Willow stood upon the top of the prison gate wall, both blades held in a crushing grip, staring down towards the entrance, watching the two angels slowly ready themselves. A quick glance to her right found both Raiju and Bor atop the wall, leaving Garvana and Pellius below. Sith’s rumbling snarl, his feral hiss of warning, told her he was directly below her on the cobblestone path. With slow and deliberate movements, Willow stepped to the right upon the edge of the wall. Eyes locked with the maul-bearing golden being, she stepped off the edge and dropped gracefully to the ground below. In a slender waft of dirt, she slowly lifted from her crouch, spinning her blades between her fingers. A sudden and familiar fiery wave of profane malice pressed against her skin, smouldering and seeping through its layers, furrowing deeply into her veins. She could feel the Pellius’ wrath, she could feel his burning anger, his blood aflame with vicious abhorrence. His eyes blazed a brilliant scarlet, his jaw clenched his teeth as tight as his hands clutched his mighty warhammer. His maleficence fed the fire within Willow’s chest, the thrumming beat of his infernal pulse, urging her hunger for celestial blood.
It was a sudden explosion of frightening speed that saw each of them simultaneously launch in battle. The Forsaken charged forward to the angels, flashing steel with deadly intent. Pellius launched himself towards the one on the right, cleaving his warhammer with terrifying might, only to have it blocked by the crushing gold of his targets’ weapon. Garvana growled a vicious incantation, shaking the ground that surrounded them, ripping open cracks of infernal flames through the earth. Sith snarled a savage growl, pouncing forward to let loose a torrent of blistering flame from his maw. Willow somersaulted underneath the craning swing of the great maul, springing upward with her blades, tearing them into celestial flesh. Her keen sight and aim had managed to plunge the point of her dagger through the seams of his armour, deep into his torso, forcing a grunt of pain to expel from his chest. As the foreboding trumpet blew its inspiring melody, the beings responded in kind. The archon used his magnificent wings to lift into the air, painting intricate patterns with his fingers, calling on Mitra’s aid to heal his wounded comrade. The flow of blood was sealed upon the side of the armoured angel, Willow cursed and leapt backward, as he turned to face her. For a moment, the jovial enjoyment had disappeared from his face, as if he was insulted by the unexpected idea of a fiend drawing first blood. Willow knew she had earned his ire, in the way he hefted his weapon with a further air of vengeance. Though she was nimble, she failed to be quick enough to dive out of the path of his frightening maul. The slim flanks of leather armour that wrapped around her waist offered little protection from the impact of his swing. As the tarnished and battle-worn metal of the maul’s head crushed into her back, Willow felt the crippling pain shoot upwards along her spine. The weight of the weapon continued to force her forward as it crushed along his mighty cleave, her slender frame no match for the angel’s brawn. A sudden rush of divine arcana shot from the maul, tendrils of pure and holy white light rippled through her armour and into the innards of her flesh. With the impact having knocked the wind from her lungs and the agony pulsing so heavily, she had little left to resist the righteous onslaught. The momentum of his attack had her flying through the air, as the magic unfurled along her skin. Her limbs and bones became rigid, her breaths heaving through a constricted chest. As she crashed into the ground, she felt the enchantment take control. She was immobilised. Frozen, unable to move, fight or defend herself. It was a true and honest fear that crept deep into her mind, of a type she had never encountered before. Even as the celestial beings turned from her, discounting her now that she was contained, a fierce panic set in. Her mind still churned, her eyelids blinked rapidly, and slowly the breath could be drawn in and out of her lungs. Yet, she had no control over the paralysis of the rest of her body, each leg and arm lay limp and sprawled among the dirt.
“RAIJU!” Pellius commanded, lunging forward with his attack, “Get to Willow!”
With the left side of her face pressed into the ground, her vision clouded by dirt and grass, she strained her right eye to see the battle. She saw the back of Pellius’ blackened armour, as he moved around into a defensive position in front of her.
“NOW RAIJU!” he snarled.
Suddenly, two rough hands hooked themselves under her arms, lifting her from the ground. It was fortunate that she was only of a slender weight, for she seemed no burden or trial to drag across the courtyard, the large oni unbothered by the task. Sith withdrew from the fight, quickly running to Willow’s side, standing over her protectively. He growled a warning to Raiju, baring his teeth as he dropped Willow heavily against the stone gate. In utter frustration, she watched the others carve their weapons mercilessly towards the two celestial beings. Suddenly, the pair called out a rumbling incantation in unison. Bor, Garvana and Pellius had unknowingly grouped themselves together, close enough for the angels to sync their attack. With raised arms, an arc of white light beamed between them, tendrils of arcana morphing into thousands of bright blades. The magic swarmed to form a dome of razor sharp fury that encompassed the Forsaken, trapping them in, lest they face the walls of keen and serrated wrath. The two angels flew to the top of the gatehouse, casting spells with incantations utterly foreign to Willow. The paralysis slowly began to lose its hold, yet she could do nothing but watch as Garvana grabbed both Bor and Pellius by the shoulders and rush her arcane words, vanishing them from sight. In the blink of an eye, they had reappeared behind the maul-wielding angel upon the gatehouse, wasting no time to launch another attack. The angel propelled himself high into the air as Pellius swung his hefty warhammer, crushing it into the golden armour, taking the breath from the archons chest. But as before, the trumpet baring being used his divine power to heal his wounded companion. With a sigh of sheer relief, Willow finally felt the enchantment cease. As life and mobility returned to her body, she swiftly got to her feet. High above the small clearing, completely out of reach, the angels circled their prey.
“Get under cover!” Pellius called to the others, “We need to get them down from the skies!”
As they quickly made their way towards the door into the stone gatehouse, both angels suddenly disappeared. Straining her ears, Willow could still hear the faint flutter of wings.
“They’re invisible!” she called, backing up under the cover of the arched entry, “Be on your guard!”
As she heard the thud of the door close above her, she activated the power of her ring, backing up silently further under cover as her skin morphed translucent.
“Dravith, fivv shilli,” she whispered to Sith, commanding him to find cover and await her word.
For a time, there was simply silence, bar the sound of beating wings. For only a moment she felt the wind brush across the skin of her face. Willow remained flattened against the wall, shielded by magic from view. She waited by the lower door to the gatehouse, remaining perfectly still with all of her focus on listening intently. The sudden sound of the creak of a door had her eyes whip to her right.
“Willow,” Pellius whispered, “Where are you?”
As the flutter of wings still lingered in her ears – she remained silent.
“Willow?” he whispered a little louder.
Still, she did not say a word. As his face came into her sight, she watched indecision war across his face, and she was unsure whether he would be daft enough leave the safety of the gatehouse. His brow pulled tight as he exhaled sharply. Although the look of determined heroism was certainly endearing, Willow cursed his foolhardy bravery. As he moved to step out of the doorway, she leaned silently towards him.
“Stay inside,” she whispered as quietly as she could.
She could not help the small smirk that grew as he failed to hide the look of relief that came over his features.
“Where are they?”
“Somewhere above,” she replied, “Get inside.”
He nodded curtly, sealing himself inside the building, leaving the door open a crack while they awaited any sign of the celestial beings.
It was a fair time later, that they finally gave up waiting. Willow ordered Sith out into the courtyard, ready and waiting to pounce should the angels have showed themselves. But as the blazing hound prowled forward in eager anticipation, nothing was there to meet him.
“What do you think?” Willow asked, after the others had emerged from the gatehouse.
“They shall return,” Pellius replied seriously, “Such creatures do not take their tasks lightly. They shall not return to the outer sphere until success or death takes them…”

With the skies clear and the apparent retreat of their foes, the Forsaken continued inside the prison. They were met with no resistance, all of the guards having been slayed in the battle for the gate. What they found inside the prison was little more than squalor. Prison conditions were never luxurious or sanitary, but the Mitrans had always kept their detentions to a certain standard. Though the sack on Daveryn had left the guards and captives in dire straits. Prisoners starving, befouled and desperate. As the Forsaken roamed the soiled stone hallways of the dark and wretched building, they held count of over one hundred forgotten and abandoned captives. In groups shy of twenty, Pellius gathered them together and offered them the same deal.
“You may serve us,” he commanded fiercely, “You may pledge your loyalty to us. You will follow our commands and obey our orders. We will not be questioned. In return for obedience – we offer you freedom from this prison, food and shelter. Those of you who do not wish to serve, may remain. But you will remain locked in here to die.”
It came as no surprise that not a soul chose the later. While Pellius and Bor saw to the release of the prisoners, Willow continued to the halls where the captives destined for Branderscar were kept. The far end of the prison where the bars were thicker and each captive was separate for one another, for fear and punishment of their dire sins, great enough to have been sentenced for death. There was only a single man held within the cells. A man clearly foreign to the lands of Talingarde, enveloped in countless profane tattoos, words written in an unknown language. He sat in the corner of his cell, seeming unbothered by his situation or condition, straight backed and still. Even as Willow approached his cell, he remained silent and simply looked on with an impassive expression.
“You do not look as the others in this prison do,” Willow commented, eyebrow arched slightly, “You are no peasant nor petty criminal.”
“The lady is observant,” he said, no trace of emotion to his words.
If the statement had come from any other, she would had known it was a remark dripping in sarcasm. Yet this man showed no sign of enough interest to bother with such a thing.
“You have overheard our offer, I suppose?” she asked.
The man gave a slight nod, saying simply, “I shall refuse. I shall not swear allegiance to you.”
Willow’s brow rose further.
“And may I ask why not?” she enquired, “You would rather stay here to die?”
“I cannot swear an oath while another remains.”
It was then that she realised where she recognised the diabolical hint to tattoos. Long ago she had read about a cartel of assassins from a far away land, though she could not recall why they painted themselves in such a way.
“A contract?” she asked, “You serve the Nine Knives, do you not?”
Ever so slightly his brow rose, the first sign of emotion he had shown, as he looked Willow over more shrewdly.
“I do,” he said warily.
“Is it what brought you to Talingarde?”
He nodded carefully.
“For one to hire the Nine Knives, it must have been a target of immense power,” she mused, a strange notion forming in her mind, “For it is a far stretch for anyone to hire you for anything less than nobility…”
“And who is the target of your contract?” asked Garvana, walking in from the next room.
Willow smiled, for she knew the answer they would get.
“I shall not reveal that,” he said plainly.
Pellius’ heavy stride echoed down the hallway, Bor’s brawny marched along side it. As they entered the cellblock, Willow inclined her head. She took the warden’s keys from Pellius and returned to the cell door, speaking as she unlocked and opened the weighty cage.
“I shall be candid with you. We are not simply after prisoners to serve us. We are under a contract ourselves, one of a different, yet similar, kind. I have a feeling you and I are aligned in our intentions. Our end goal is quite simple. Overthrow the reign of King Markadian and his beloved Mitra.”
“The king?” the assassin asked, shrewd eyes telling of the thoughts in his mind, “Your mission is to kill the king?”
“It is,” Willow replied, raising her chin slightly.
At this, he remained quiet.
“I believe I am correct in assuming your target is the king,” she continued, “And I offer you this; a chance to fulfil your contract.”
While awaiting a reply, Willow walked into the cell, looking around at the filth with disdain. She returned her sight to the assassin, eyebrow arched in expectance and question.
“I would choose that,” he nodded, “What is required in return?”
“You will serve us,” she replied firmly, “Perform well and we shall hire your services.”
“I shall not commence any further work until my contract is fulfilled.”
“Acceptable,” Willow clipped, “But, everything comes at a price, freedom most prevalent. The repercussions of unpaid dues are most fatal.”
“Understood,” he nodded.
Willow turned to Pellius, her brow raised.
“Very well,” he said, “We have more immediate tasks to see to, but you shall get your chance.”
The assassin nodded again. Willow continued forward and unlocked the crushing manacles around his wrists and ankles. She moved with an air of calm, though she kept her senses keen for any trace of unexpected movement. When none came, she stood and stepped back.
“And what may we call you?” she asked.
“I am Irfan,” he said, his tongue rolling his sounds, “Ifran Al-janbiya.”
“Very well, Irfan,” she replied, turning for the door, “Let us see if we cannot get you fed and bathed…”

The sun fell below the horizon as dusk came to the ruins of Daveryn. The Forsaken returned to their manor, retiring to the parlour after bathing and changing, to recall and recount the numbers of their newest recruits.
“Do you trust him?” Garvana asked, sinking back into the cushioned armchair.
“Ifran?” Willow replied.
“I do not trust him,” Garvana frowned, “He is unreadable. I am still unsure of his intentions.”
“I trust his contract on the king,” Willow smiled, “Though little else. He owes no loyalty to us, he said as much. Though if what I know of the Nine Knives holds true, he will not betray us while our goals align.”
“What do you know of them?” Pellius asked, looking up from his catalogue of their men.
“Little,” Willow shrugged, “I remember that the Monteguard’s hired their numbers long before their move to Talingarde. The contracts were fulfilled as stated, gold was exchanged and all remained civil. Well, as civil as assassinations go.”
“Are they an Asmodean band?” Garvana questioned.
“I do not believe so,” she replied, gently shaking her head, “Though I remember not who they serve. Perhaps my memory fails me, but I may have read that they serve only the hierarchy or order of hell.”
“Even so,” Garvana frowned, “I think we should keep a close eye on him.”
Suddenly, the air rippled in the parlour, the floor shook beneath their feet – before a fearsome sight appeared. Tiadora, dressed in complete infernal regalia. An armored black corset wrapped in ebony and scarlet barbed metal, crimson flanks of unidentifiable leathers that fell to the ground draped in veil around her waist. Her sable hair weaved in an intricate braid that pointed high towards the sky. And hung from her neck was a glistening ruby pendant, carved into a five pointed inverted pentagram. This time, she did not travel alone. She appeared flanked by nine of the fierce and beautiful erinyes. Each of them wore matching steel corsets, embellished in sadistic thorns and spikes, painted in sanguinary decoration.
“Greetings, Ninth Knot,” Tiadora said ardently, “The Cardinal Adrastus Thorn, your master and mine, sends his greetings. Have you enjoyed your stay in beautiful Daveryn? I hear you’ve been quite the tourists, travelling across the whole span of this metropolis. Tell me, have the local been friendly?”
“Their hospitality is unrivalled,” Willow replied satirically.
Tiadora smirked, “Victory over Talingarde and the culmination of your vengeance draws near, and yet still there is one final errand that must be done. It is time for King Markadian, called the Brave, to die. You shall be our chosen assassins.”
The erinryes let out a piercing cry of gluttonous thirst for blood, swarming about Tiadora upon their eldritch outstretched wings.
“Even now, the king moves towards Daveryn at the head of an army, easily numbering twenty thousand strong. He is surrounded day and night by his mightiest and most loyal knights. Attacking him a camp is folly. But the king does have a weakness. He has not marched to war with his beloved daughter, the Princess Belinda, heir and last scion of House Darius. She is watched over by a relatively small honour guard at the Adarium.”
“He left her behind in the palace?” Willow asked sceptically, “I know the Adarium is heavily guarded, but it is hard to believe. Perhaps the rambling of Ignatius held some truth?”
“Perhaps it is in your purview to infiltrate and slay Belinda,” Tiadora continued, “But that is not our aim. The princess is merely a teenage girl and of little consequence by herself. Instead, your mission is to endanger the princess. Everywhere the king of Talingarde goes, he bears with him a magical pendant. If his daughter is ever endangered, the talisman signals her peril. With but a word, he can return to the Adarium. He will teleport into his sanctum beneath the palace, eager to save his daughter. Your mission is to first proffer the gravest peril, and when it strikes the Adarium, you are to be in that sanctum and awaiting the king’s return. And when he appears, destroy him. In one swift stroke, you will decapitate the House of Darius. With his death and the death of Belinda, there will be no ruler of Talingarde. The Fire-Axe will defeat the army here in the ruins of Daveryn, and then Talingarde will be ours.”
Willow’s brow pulled deep into a frown, mirroring that of the others. She knew not what they were thinking, but she assumed their thoughts were following the same path that hers was.
“What peril could be so great that Markadian would risk sacrificing the country for his daughter?” Willow asked with suspicion, “He is nothing if not honourable.”
Tiadora’s twisted grin lifted the corners of her lips. It was a sinister vision, one that seemed to loosen the illusion of her humanity.
“What peril indeed,” she proceeded, “What peril could be so calamitous that the king’s most trusted servants would call him away from his campaign to save the kingdom? It can be no simple threat. It must be a threat of legend. Thorn has pondered this problem long and decided there is only one threat in all of Talingarde of worthy stature – the elder wyrm Chargammon the black!”
“You cannot be serious!” Garvana balked, “Chargammon? That is suicide! Is there truly no other threat we can seek?”
“The princess is not alone,” Tiadora warned, “Trusted knights and priests of Mitra guard her and see to her safety. These retainers will not raise the alarm unless faced by a truly impressive and overwhelming threat. Chargammon fits the bill such as nothing else. Even if you slip in and slay the princess, the king will simply be told of the tradgedy. No we need him to rush to her aid. And that takes a threat like Chargammon. Our master has long researched this and found no other way. I would trust his judgement if I were you.”
“How is it we are to gain the wyrm’s aid?” Willow questioned.
“The master is confident you will think of something,” Tiadora dismissed, “The dragon will not be moved by gold or gift, it is likely he will require service of a kind. Chargammon’s sunken throne is easy enough to find, but it is a fool’s errand to enter unbidden. Chargammon slays all who enter without his warrant; and he gives warrant to no one. Still, Thorn has confidence that you will find a way. This is your mission. Gain the dragon’s assistance and then kill the king.”
“Chargammon’s spawn,” Willow recalled, “What was his name, Garvana?”
“Oh! Jeratheon! Yes, that may be our way in!”
“It is a possibility,” Pellius frowned.
“As I said,” Tiadora continued, arching her brow, “You will think of something. There is one more trifling matter. After the king is slain and his palace lies in ruins, Thorn bids you find a book. Perhaps it will be in the sanctum or perhaps it will be in the king’s personal chamber. It is the Liber Darian – a large bound volume containing the chronicles of House Darius. Fetch it and then break this seal. And then your labours will be done and you shall be rewarded for them.”
“You may sense that this may well be your last mission for the cardinal. Soon the armies of Talingarde will be broken and their leadership will be shattered. Thorn has always known that Talingarde stands because of four pillars. The first pillar was the Watch Wall Balentyne keeping the northern border secure. It burned by your hand. The second pillar was the Order of Saint Macarius. You extinguished their flame. The third pillar is the Knights of Alerion. They march to their doom against the Fire-Axe. And now the final pillar will fall by your hand – the House of Darius.
“Are there really no other members of the House Darius that will step forward for the throne?” Bor asked warily.
“Only cousins and relatives by marriage,” Tiadora replied, “The king and the princess are the last surviving direct descendants of the Victor. With their death, the House of Darius will effectively be destroyed.”
“Of all of Thorn’s servants no one has done more than you to see the triumph to its conclusion. Do not think you will be forgotten when the rewards are given. You will be princes of the realm. The great game enters its last phase. Soon Talingarde will be ours!” She bowed low to the Forsaken, “May fortune favour you, my lords. And know that the Dark Father watches your every deed…”


“How should we proceed?” Garvana asked.
“Rescuing Chargammon’s spawn may be the right course,” Willow frowned, “But it does not guarantee us his aid. It may be enough to entice his curiosity though, perhaps at the very least allowing us an audience.”
“I agree,” Pellius nodded, “Though how we make the whelp talk to his father on our behalf is another trial entirely.”
“He does not need to vouch for us,” Willow shrugged, “A great black wyrm knows treachery and deceit better than anyone, even Jerathon would not dare rouse his ire with a lie. As for us, if he chooses not to eat us upon entry; we simply use the truth.”
“And the Stormborn King?” Garvana asked, raising her brows, “How do we deal with him?”
“The same way we deal with everything else,” Bor grunted, “We kill him.”
“Yes,” Garvana drawled, rolling her eyes, “But how do we find him?”
“We know the thunderbird dwells in the Caer Bryr,” Willow began.
“The Caer Bryr is a very large place to search,” Garvana huffed in interruption.
Willow pursed her lips.
“We know he dwells there,” she continued, “And I believe we have means to find him. Were not a band of our newest recruits Iraen?”
“Yes,” Pellius frowned, “A number close to twenty of them.”
“They are people of the Caer Bryr,” Willow explained, “Whether they have lived their lives in Daveryn or not, it is likely we will find one who has information on the aerie.”
“Very good, my lady,” Pellius nodded, “May I leave that information for you to source?”
“Of course,” she smiled, inclining her head, “If I believe we need a more heavy handed approach, I shall summon you.”
It was a quick and malicious grin that, as it always did, made her tremble slightly. It was only fleeting, his devilish charm surfacing only to buried swiftly beneath the seriousness in which he approached planning their next move. Willow rose from her seat, strapping her daggers to her thighs and collecting a map of the Caer Bryr, before making her way to the adjacent manor that housed their men. They had needed to expand their property to allow their recently swelled numbers room to stay. Though the adjacent manor had not been left in such pristine condition, the men and women once locked within prison cells, seemed quite content with their upgraded accommodations. The men on guard greeted Willow with respectful words and eyes widened with fear. Although she was simply dressed in black trousers and a plain blouse, she mused that perhaps it was the confident and poised way in which she carried herself, that kept the men sure to be afraid. For all eyes followed her as she entered the newly converted barracks, yet only a bare handful of them would linger as hers found theirs. As she looked around, she was glad to see most of their recruits had been bathed and clothed, clutching chunks of cured meat and only slightly bruised fruit from the outer fields of the farmland. Although they looked to her with fear, there was a strange appreciation in their gazes.
The Iraen prisoners were not hard to find. They sat huddled together, seemingly unaware or unbothered by the others around them. As Willow’s approach came to their attention, one of the men stood to meet her.
“Do you speak common?” she asked in a broken turn of their language, “I’m afraid I speak only little Iraen.”
“I do,” the man nodded.
“And you are?” Willow questioned.
“Kalshi Aribi,” he replied flatly.
“I assume the conditions here surpass those of your previous accommodation?”
As the man stood to his full height, Willow’s eyebrow lifted as she surveyed his features. He was quite handsome, high arched cheekbones above his slender angular chin. An androgynous softness to his face, paired with a natural look of emotionless expression.
“Indeed,” he replied blandly, “We thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
“I come seeking information on the whereabouts of a thunderbird that lives in the Caer Bryr,” Willow stated, “Known as the Stormborn King and Lord of All Eagles. Do any of you know the location of the creature?”
With little change to his face, he looked her over for a moment before turning back to his group. They huddled once again in their circle and spoke rushed words in Iraen, too quick for her little knowledge of their language to understand. When he turned back to her, it was with the same indifferent expression.
“The scout Ashiki knows the place,” he said, pointing to the small woman huddled by the rear of the circle, “She will mark it on your map...”


With the location of their target in hand, the following morning the Forsaken sent word to Sakkarot of their departure and took flight towards Ghastenhall to restock and seek further information. After travelling the skies for a passing three days, they arrived by moonlight at their farmland estate, weather-worn and exhausted. As the baths were drained and a hastily thrown together dinner was eaten, they retired to there chambers for a welcome rest upon soft sheets and furred rugs. After the sun had risen, Willow set off through the city streets of Ghaster, dressed in a bright frock of virescent blue that wrapped around her waist into a signature looped knot. She made her way to the Library of Ghaster once again to meet with Brother Thrain. She paid the small silver fee and entered the grand building, strolling through its halls until she found the familiar hunched figure.
“Brother,” she called politely, smiling to him as he looked to her, “I apologise for the interruption. It is just, I cannot seem to find anything pertaining the scholar Florence Dimitri. Would you be so kind as to point me in the right direction?”
The aged man chuckled gruffly, “As luck would have it, I am holding a symposium on her works this evening. Would you care to join me in the lower lecture hall after dusk this evening?”
Willow smiled and inclined her head, “I would be delighted, brother.”
He nodded swiftly and turned back to his books. While she awaited the fall of night, Willow made her way to the others, to join them in their perusal of the market stalls. They had put together a list of potions and wands that would aid them in their attack on the great thunderbird, along with protection from the acidic breath of the black dragon. The day was spent in easy relaxation. They dined along the water front, freshly caught archerfish fillets steamed to perfection, and toasted thick red wine to their continuing success.
Bor opted to return to the manor, rather than accompany Willow to see the Mitran priest. Pellius and Garvana joined her return to the library, descending the winding staircase to the familiar chamber. As Pellius pushed open the great door and held it wide for her to enter, she smiled to see the familiar face awaiting her.
“Brother Thrain,” Willow greeted warmly, approaching with her arms open.
“Ah,” he said, embracing her fondly, “Young Willow. It is good to see you.”
She returned his kind hold, “And you too.”
“I did not think I would be seeing you so soon, my dear,” he commented.
“I did not know I would be returning so soon,” she chuckled, “We are simply travelling through.”
“And you thought to pay me a visit?” he smirked.
“More than simply a social call I’m afraid,” Pellius interjected.
“Ah yes,” Brother Thrain said, turning to him, “Young Master Pellius, and Miss Garvana.”
Pellius grasped the brother’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Pleased to see you are well, brother,” Pellius said cordially.
“Speaking of well,” Willow said dryly, “How goes your mission? I’ve heard word of an illness spreading as far as the capital.”
“Successful so far,” he nodded, indicating for her to take a seat with him upon the wooden pew, “It is a most vicious thing, quicker to spread than expected. I would keep well clear of the Red Quarter, if I was you.”
“A warning we will heed,” Willow replied, sending a fleeting smirk towards Pellius.
“And what of you, child?” Thrain asked, “Where are you next headed?”
Willow’s smile faltered for a moment, a slight crease in her brow.
“What do you know of the great wyrm Chargammon the black?” she asked finally.
The brother seemed to understand her sudden change in disposition.
“He is nothing short of a plague on the land,” he said sombrely, “Far worse than any disease. What is it you must do?”
Willow laughed bitterly, “We must seek him out and gain his aid.”
“Quite the feat, should you succeed.”
“Do you know of his spawn, Jeratheon?” Willow asked.
“I have heard of him,” Thrain nodded, “An adult dragon, roughly a century old, if I remember correctly. You must seek him as well?”
“We know he has been captured by the Stormborn King,” Garvana said, “We are hoping that rescuing his spawn will gain us an audience.”
“Quite a risk,” the brother commented, “But perhaps it may be enough to inspire his sire’s intrigue.”
“Do you know much of the thunderbird?” Pellius queried.
“Enough to know he is an ancient and powerful creature. I believe we have a few tomes that chronicle some of his history, I shall aid you in finding them if you wish it.”
“I would appreciate it,” Willow smiled.
As they continued to converse of the currents missions and events, Pellius and Garvana chose to return to the main library in search of further information. When Willow found herself alone with Brother Thrain, her mind turned to a curiosity she had not been able to silence.
“May I ask you something?” she said quietly, “I am unsure if you will answer, but it has been plaguing my mind of late.”
“You may ask, child,” came his response.
“The Cardinal was once known by another name,” she said carefully, “This much I surmised myself... He was once Samuel Havelyn, was he not?”
A small smile came upon his lips, as he withdrew his glasses to rub his eyes. When he looked to her, she saw the weariness within his gaze.
“I knew,” he sighed, “You would be the one to figure it out eventually.”
“That is who you knew him as,” Willow said softly, “Before the pyre.”
He lowered his gaze and sighed a deep exhaustion.
“Yes, but I believe Samuel truly died as Adrastus Thorn was born.”
Willow cocked her head gently, “Will you tell me of him? Before it all came to be?”
“No, child,” he said heavily, “It is not my place. What the cardinal wishes you to know, he will tell you himself. Or you will find out in the same way you figured this much.”
Although she was disappointed, and burning inside with hunger for more information, she settled her intrigue and accepted his answer.
“Curiosity is a devil of a thing,” she sighed.
Brother Thrain chuckled, “Do not lose that, child. The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled…”

minderp
2017-01-23, 07:52 PM
Among the more expensive of their purchases within Ghaster, was a wand imbued with the strange magic of teleportation. Although Garvana, Pellius and Bor were all born with natural talent to wield magic, they unanimously voted that Willow was the one with skill wielding arcane wands. And so they stood together in the parlour of their manor, dressed in armour and set with weapons, ready to attempt quick travel to the marking made on the map of the Caer Bryr. Willow recited the incantation that Garvana had taught her, holding the wand into the air with the slightest nervous tremble of her fingers. Suddenly, they were ripped through the otherworldly portal, far from the safety of their living room. It was a sensation much like the dimensional portal she had used often. Only this one was much more powerful. Her head span at a furious speed, flashes of bright light sprinting across her vision, so fast they seemed to meld into a myriad of fluorescent colours. It was like a rope had been tied to the insides of her body, and her skin and frame were simply forced to follow their path and momentum. In a moment that seemed like a heartbeat and an eternity at once, they were flung out of the portal, struck with the dense humidity of a rainforest sweltering in the highest heat of spring. It took some time to recover her vision completely. Her sight faded between the bright lush green surrounding her and a hazed blackness that rolled behind her eyelids. When the fog finally cleared and her eyes were able to focus, she frowned. Her best guess would indeed put them within the Caer Bryr. But where they were in relation to the aerie they were seeking was a complete mystery. Looking around, she was greeted by the rich and thriving emerald and carob shrubbery that sprouted across the sheltered floor. The rainforest was teeming with life; the impenetrable shield of the flourishing canopy, the verdant grass and glistening moss, the blossoming array of coloured flowers that reached above the prospering low growing mushrooms. The verdure bathed the forest floor, swelling in wrapping tendrils and roughened vines that caressed each aged oak that craned into the sky. Flashes of fawn and umber traced the foliage surrounding the grand trees and spires, painting the canvas of jungle in uncountable shades of brown. Willow lifted her face to the treetops, unable to resist the small smile that appeared as the soft touch of rain drifted upon her skin.
“For one so comfortable in the paved streets of the city,” Pellius said quietly, “And confident in the intricate intrigue of court – you do seem quite at home in the wilderness.”
Willow could not help but smirk as she looked to him, grinning further as she saw his disdain as the water crept between the seams of his armour.
“It is beauty,” she shrugged, helping him attach his cloak a touch higher upon his chestplate straps, “Pure and natural beauty. The forest does not have a will nor have any other intention than to grow. The circle of life here is simple. The strong trees will outgrow the weak. They will soak the sun for themselves, yet in turn their roots will feed the life that dwells beneath it. If it were not for the strength of the few that reach the top, the whole forest would suffer – or cease to exist entirely. It is a true hierarchy; the natural way of the world…”
Willow reached for a blossomed amber flower beside her, tracing her fingers along the edge of its petals, looking to Pellius with something akin to embarrassment.
“… and it is beautiful,” she whispered.
He smiled then, staring deeply into her eyes, lifting his hand to trace her chin.
“Come on you two!” Garvana’s voice boomed from further into the forest, “We haven’t got all day!”
Willow laughed and shook her head, leaving the flower to continue blooming upon the tree. As they move out of the cover of one of the larger oaks, they saw what they were looking for; a grand spire, much like the ones that surrounded the Horn of Abbadon, yet with a single and noticeable difference. This spire matched the description that the Iraen scout had given Willow; a tall stone spire that faced the east, carved with a large cave opening, close to one hundred feet in the air. They stayed under the shelter of the forest while they formulated a plan.
“We cannot decide how to proceed with no knowledge of what awaits us above…”
“Willow,” Pellius scolded, “He is known as the Lord of All Eagles, you will be spotted for sure.”
“One of such little faith,” she chided, “I shall not enter, I merely wish to see what we will have to face.”
“I cannot deter you, can i?” he sighed rhetorically.
“Of course not,” she chuckled, throwing her heavy pack towards him, “I shall not be long, stay clear out of sight until I return.”
“And if you do not?” he asked, arching his brow.
Willow simply grinned in response, “Vystrynivvi.”

With Garvana’s magic entwining her fingers, the climb to the top was almost effortless. Although she felt silly climbing at an achingly slow place, she knew better than to rush her ascent and risk being heard. As she neared the top, she slowed her breathing to a controlled rhythm, moving as silently as possible. She could hear the squawks and cries of dozens of eagles above her, echoing outward from the deep and dark cave. As she reached the crest of the entrance, she waited and simply listened. No alert seemed to be raised, no swooping predator had seemed to have spotted her. Slowly, she lifted her head over the edge to peer into the cave. As her eyes settled and she looked into the dimly lit cavern – a deep frown pulled her brow. She scanned the scene, noting exactly how many creatures she could see. When she eventually returned to the others on the ground, she smiled.
“It seems we may have an opportunity,” she said thoughtfully.
“What is it?” Garvana asked, “What did you see?”
“Pellius,” she began, “Do you remember those gigantic eagles that attacked us in the Horn of Abbadon?”
“Of course,” he nodded, “Most of them fled after the first of their number fell.”
“Do you remember…” Willow continued, “Infecting one of them with that disgusting plague you can summon?”
“It survived?!” he balked.
“At least long enough to infect all of the others,” Willow commented, “Including the Stormborn King…”
“Truly?” he asked, a touch of pride to his tone.
“This presents us with an unusual opportunity,” she continued, “While he is indeed weakened, he is no less of a mighty threat. Perhaps instead of facing him in battle… we simply take the dragon off his hands.”
“And why would he just give him to us?” Garvana laughed in disbelief.
“Because we were sent here by Polydorus himself, to collect the dragon as the stars indicated. And just as all good Mitrans, we could not turn from their plight! So in turn for his trust, we shall cure their plague and save them from the slow and torturous deaths.”
“Cure them?” Garvana balked, “Why would we do that?! We want him dead!”
“No,” Pellius shook his head, “We do not need him dead, what we need is the dragon. It could work. You would, of course, need to do the talking my lady.”
“Something I am quite accustomed to,” Willow winked.
“This is crazy!” Garvana scoffed, “We’re going to trick the thunderbird by healing all of his flock, and then just walk out with a dragon?”
“Correct,” Pellius and Willow said in unison, before chuckling with one another.
“This is crazy!” Garvana repeated.
As Willow hefted her pack back onto her shoulders and turned for the spire, she smiled at the unconvinced and skeptical woman.
“No crazier than any other plan we’ve ever had!”

Slowly and loudly, the four of them clambered up the side of the grand mountain face. They made no attempt to disguise their ascent. They chatted easily along the way, commenting on the beauty of the lush green canopy, the way it appeared as a rolling sea of emerald from their high vantage point. This time, as they pulled themselves over the protruding stone edge, flocks of keen and piercing eyes were upon them. The rough stone cavern stretched deep within the heart of the mountain, surrounded by a jagged edge that circled the room, occupied by a count higher than thirty giant eagles. No longer the regal beasts they had once seen soaring through the skies. Each bore the decaying and weeping mark of the plague. Festering boils lathered in putrid rot, the stench of dying flesh lingering heavy in the stale air. It would have been an unbearable smell if not for the forty foot open cave mouth. In the centre of the cavern stood a thick spire that reached high towards the ceiling. On it’s top was a ragged nest of branches and leaves, surrounding a bird far larger than any other Willow had seen. More than twenty foot tall, with glorious feathers in an array of the colours of a stormy sky – flashes of sapphire, bronze and amethyst. Trickles of blazing lightening danced along its wings, as the wind that surrounded the creature swirled in constant lashes, billowing rapidly as it followed each arc of white light.
“Lord of All Eagles!” Willow bellowed over the rushing howl of wind, “Stormborn King! Please, pardon the intrusion and allow me to introduce myself! I am Willow, and I come here at the behest of Polydorus the Seer!”
She bowed politely, awaiting his response. For a moment, it seemed as if she would not receive one. Only silence greeted her, as his keen eyes surveyed the Forsaken.
“Enter!” he finally replied, in a strange squawking voice.
Willow smiled cordially and inclined her head, stepping deeper into the cavern. As she approached, the harsh winds surrounding the great thunderbird seemed to quicken their frightening speed, forcing her steps to strain. When she was close enough to see the entirety of the cavern, with the furious gale ripping her hair from its tie to allow her long sable locks to fly free, she stilled and looked up to the eagle. At this distance, she saw the effects of Pellius’ feral disease. Though his feathers were a stunning myriad of vivid hues; each layer seeped with the same festering rot. As she made her observation of this noticeable, she gasped in something that appeared to be shock and sympathy. When she flicked her eyes back to his, widened with apparent distress, the wind blasted her forcefully. A cry of angry shrieks came from the flock high above.
“I apologise for my discourteousness, my lord!” Willow called, bowing her head, “I truly did not mean to offend!”
Slowly, the wind lessened to a gentle breeze, as a sharp look to his brood silenced them.
“Unwinged one,” the grand eagle said, “You say you come from Polydorus! What say he?”
“My lord,” Willow began, “Polydorus has received your letter, and was most concerned. He spoke of the great tragedies that he foresaw, should your talon be the one to slay the villainous Jeratheon Knightsbane! He has tasked us with the retrieval of the sinful fiend, for him to deal with, as the stars read!”
His unblinking glare devoured Willow’s confidence slowly, the scrutiny within his gaze unlike that of any before him. Though he showed no sign of believing her words, he showed nothing else in contrast. Another chorus of caws, as if each eagle was bickering his opinion.
“Why did he not come himself?” the king asked.
“His great skill and wisdom were needed elsewhere,” Willow said seriously, “His efforts are focused on aiding the king while the land is plagued by war.”
While the eagle considered her words, Willow dropped her brow into a deep frown.
“My lord,” she said carefully, “Please forgive my bluntness, but I cannot help but notice the grave sickness that afflicts you and your brood. I could not forgive myself if I were to simply complete my task and leave your offspring to their fate.”
Followed by a chaotic chatter of screeches, Willow looked back to the Garvana, indicating for her to step forward.
“My companion is a healer,” Willow offered, “She would know a great deal of the illness, perhaps it is even in her capabilities to cure it?”
“I believe it so,” Garvana nodded, “If you would allow me to try, my lord.”
Suddenly, one of the eagles flew from his perch, guiding himself down on tattered and rotted wings. The stench wafted with each beat of his feathers, yellow ooze and putrefied flesh fell in drops upon the stone floor. It was clear to see how close to total decay and death he was. He cried something towards the thunderbird, lowering his convulsing head as if in offer. For a moment, the Stormborn King simply cocked his head, listening to the chattering of his entire flock. Willow could only surmise they were arguing for and against what she assumed was the eagles sacrifice. With a swift and commanding cry, the great bird silenced his brood as he did his forceful wind.
“Do as you will,” he said sternly.
Watched intently by all eyes, Garvana approached the dying beast. With a rasping incantation, she traced patterns in the air, ushering the wisped arcana towards him. As the healing magic settled within the eagles’ feathers, the wounds began to close. The leather skin around his beak pulled taut, washing away the scent of death from his face. The gleeful call that bellowed from his beak was enough to make even Willow truthfully smile. He launched himself into the air on spritely and healthy wings, crying out with renewed vigor, echoed by a chorus of delighted and mirthful avian exclamations from the others. When the excitement settled and the restored eagle returned to his perch, the thunderbird commanded attention once more.
“You may heal the others,” he agreed.
Willow inclined her head with a smile.
“We would be honoured,” she said, “But our healer must rest first. It is a taxing and strenuous process for her, she must prepare over night.”
The thunderbird nodded curtly, “You are welcome to rest in my aerie.”
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Willow said carefully, looking around at the filthy conditions of the plague-ridden cavern, “We would prefer to camp below.”
She continued as his eyes narrowed upon her, “We are creatures of the land, my lord. Such heights are most disconcerting for us.”
He settled, nodding and screeching in way that she could have sworn was a laugh.
“Before we prepare camp, my lord,” she recommenced, “I desire to see your captive. We must be certain we have the appropriate gear to contain him on our travels.”
“You are welcome to continue as you please, unwinged one.”
He indicated towards the rear of the great cavern, far into the dark and shadowed hollow. Pellius was quick to her side and she strolled behind the grand pillar, deeper into the cave where her sight adjusted to the lack of natural light. It was there, that she saw him. A long serpent-like beast, glistening ebony scales layered along his flank, hissing green acid that dripping from his caged maw. He peered through thin slits, shining emerald eyes that watched in wariness as she approached. The massive dragon lay upon the scratched stone floor, his jaw clamped tight in a curious metal muzzle that kept it sealed shut. As Willow drew closer, she could see the chafed and raw skin surrounding the steel, torn into shreds as the dragon had attempted and tested his escape.
“Dragon,” Bor rasped in draconic, “How ashamed your sire would be to see you so defeated.”
Willow’s brow slowly arched, knowing well what Bor was trying to do. The dragon knew better than to trust them, yet perhaps if he had an indication that things were not as they seemed, he may have cooperated long enough to facilitate his own escape. To the best of their knowledge, the Stormborn King did not speak draconic.
“This is quite the contraption,” Willow called aloud to the thunderbird, “I have not before seen anything like it. Where did it come from?”
“Forged by the dwarven men that dwell in the nearby mountain,” the grand eagle replied.
“Most impressive,” Willow commented, moving closer to the sable serpent, surveying the contraption, “It is made of mithral, is it not?”
“Indeed,” he nodded.
“May we keep the device attached when we depart? It is far greater than anything we have envisioned to keep his maw contained.”
“You may,” the thunderbird agreed.
As Willow stepped forward once more, Jeratheon suddenly lashed out towards her with his clawed foot. With nimble movement and swift reflexes, she lithely slipped out of his reach.
“Cease!” she growled in draconic.
As she heard the rumbling hiss behind the metal mask, Willow’s eyebrow rose. Sure that she was out of the thunderbird’s view, Willow used the arcana of her circlet to flash her eyes a hellfire red.
“Silence!” she hissed in return.
The rumbling slowed to a sizzle before curious eyes looked her over. Willow stared back at him for a moment, but dared not risk anything further. She turned from the beast and looked to the others.
“Do we require any further information?” she asked in common, tilting her head to Pellius.
“No, my lady,” he said cordially, “I believe we have all that we need.”
“Very well,” she smiled, turning to the thunderbird and inclining her head, “If you do not mind, I believe we shall set camp and return on the morrow, my lord…”

The harsh humidity of the great rainforest lessened as the sun dropped below the shade of the canopy. They had found a spot hidden from the eyes of the aerie, far enough for their words to not travel upon the wind. As they finished erecting the tents and the others settled by the fire, Willow returned from her scout of their surroundings. Although there were many creatures that called the shrub-land and marsh home, none seemed more than curious by their proximity.
“I was unconvinced we could succeed this way,” Garvana huffed, frowning towards Willow, “I did not think we had a chance to convince the thunderbird.”
Willow smirked, standing by the firelight as she unstrapped her sheaths, “She of little faith.”
“No,” Garvana protested, “I simply forget how convincing you can be.”
“Quite convincing indeed,” Pellius agreed, brow arched in suggestion.
“Hush,” Willow chuckled, dropping her armor into a pile atop her pack, “We must discuss tomorrow. We are truly not prepared to transport a dragon. Much less a one that spits acid as he breathes…”
“The mithral chain is ingenious,” Bor appreciated, “It is far too unlikely that the young beast has strength enough to break it.”
“It is not enough to move him,” Pellius frowned.
“We must somehow bind his wings,” Willow scowled, “He cannot be allowed the freedom of flight, we will never keep him confined if his wings are free.”
For a time, the four of them remained silent. Churning minds that scoured potential plans and flaws, inventive thought running loose within their heads.
“Perhaps it is that simple…” Garvana offered, “We seek more of this mithral chain, and we bind his wings with it?”
Willow laughed at the absurdity of the simplicity. Yet, save the task of fitting the chains to the wings – she could not fault the idea. After much further discussion, no better plan came to mind, so they agreed to make a swift trip to Ghastenhall at dawn before setting upward for the thunderbird’s nest.
“What of Chargammon?” Garvana asked quietly, eyes glazing over in the slow descent into sleep.
“What of him?” Willow asked, staring into the dance of the flickering flame.
“What do we say? How do we convince him to aid us?”
“It is as Tiadora said,” Willow yawned, “He will most likely require some great service. We cannot know what the great wyrm desires; we shall find out soon enough. That is, of course, if he does not eat us on sight…”

By the time the sun had returned to sky, the Forsaken had once more reached the crested edge of the Stormborn King’s aerie. As Garvana began the arduous task of curing the eager birds, the others approached Jeratheon. When Bor stepped forward, armed with the flank of mithral chain, the dragon reared up as best he could, slashing forward with his feral claws. Willow peered towards the thunderbird carefully. As she saw him distracted by the commotion and excitement of his partly healed flock, she saw her opportunity. The cavern echoed the clamorous sounds of ecstatic cries and thundering feathered wings, muffling her steps along with her words. She held her hands up to the dragon, a fierce command that pierced through her eyes, as she slowly stepped closer. When she drew a mere few feet from the dragon’s head, she whispered carefully chosen words in draconic.
“If you wish to be free of this place,” she breathed, “Then you must cooperate.”
As he reared back once more, she rasped more forcefully.
“Or we will leave you to this fate, to die the shameful death at the hands of these mere birds.”
“Your sire,” Bor punctuated, “Would be disgraced by such a thing.”
Willow quickly looked back to the thunderbird, relieved to see him still preoccupied and unaware. As she turned back to Jeratheon, she watched him slowly lower himself. His shrewd gaze was locked to her, unsure yet curious and intrigued.
“Help us, help you,” she whispered.
The beast slowly lifted his long neck, tilting his head in inquisitiveness. A slow seep of virescent acid ran along the metal cage that housed his jaw, as it reached the edge, it dropped onto Willow’s shoulder. Though she heard the crackle and hiss of her leather shoulder plate, followed by the feeling of a burning rush as it’s remains seared her flesh, she simply remained motionless and unblinking in her gaze with Jeratheon. Intrigued eyes continued to watch her, as he slowly lowered himself down, allowing Bor access to his wings. Somewhat more compliant, he did not make the task of securing him easy for Bor and Pellius. Willow had to clamp her teeth tightly to stop herself from laughing aloud as they struggled. It took a time, but eventually they had both wings bound by the mithral chain, just as Garvana finished her healing – ending with the Lord of All Eagles himself.
“You have our appreciation,” the eagle said regally, “I wish you fast flight and safe travels.”
“We thank you, my lord,” Willow replied with a bow, “For the glorious capture of such a vile beast. Polydorus and the people of Talingarde are most grateful.”
As the Forsaken took hold of one another’s shoulders, Willow reached out and laid a hand on the black dragon’s back. She lifted the wand with her other hand and smiled as she rasped the arcane incantation. The otherworldly portal opened, and tore them through, vanishing the aerie from sight. As they spun in the mystifying vortex, they were thrown out of the realm and dropped heavily upon the forest floor, far from the thunderbird’s nest. Willow had pictured a secluded place in the Caer Bryr, a clearing to the south of the spire that she had seen in her scout the previous night. Although they certainly found themselves in a clearing, wet and soiled marsh ground beneath their feet – the area seemed somewhat different than she had remembered it.
“Are you alright, my lady?” Pellius asked.
“Yes,” she replied, shaking her head to clear it, “Just a tad disoriented.”
“Shall we proceed?” Garvana asked, indicating to Jeratheon.
“Indeed,” Willow nodded, approaching the captive beast, “I shall unlock the muzzle, but if you cannot stay your acid and remain civil, I shall relock it and we will escort you to your sire personally – caged like a pathetic dog. Is that understood?”
Though he looked insulted, the dragon slowly nodded. Willow approached his side, trying to exude an air of confidence, appearing unthreatened by the large creature. She pulled free her tools and set about unlocking the elaborate contraption. The dwarves were known for the amazing craftsmanship, and the piece in front of her was no exception. Though it took her longer than she would have admitted, she eventually found the right pin to loosen the hold. After clicking the mechanism inward, she pulled the top of the cage back from his mouth so it sat around his neck like a collar. As soon as his jaw was free, he spoke in a deep resonant growl.
“Fools! I am Jeratheon Knightsbane, the son of the great wyrm Chargammon! Free me now and I will ask my sire to spare you when he arrives. He is doubtless on his way now!”
“Save it, serpent!” Bor snapped, “Do you think us imbeciles? We have taken you from the thunderbird’s capture, only because you are the spawn of the great black!”
“Free me!” he roared, a rolling temptation to his tone, “I have a great hoard of treasure in my cave! All of it is yours if you will but free me!”
“Silence!” Willow snarled, with venom enough to still the large dragon, “It is not gold or treasure we seek. We seek audience with Chargammon the black.”
“You, you wish to speak with my sire?” he balked, taken aback from his pleading and threats, “You must know he’ll destroy you? He kills anyone who enters his lair!”
“We wish a word with him,” Willow replied, “That is all.”
“Then you have a death wish!” he recoiled.
“We will free you, under the proviso that you return to him and state our intentions.”
The dragon seemed to grimace at the thought, but with the promise of freedom, Willow knew he would take the deal.
“I will,” he agreed.
“Swear it!” Garvana insisted viciously, “Give us your word that you will abide by it!”
Although Willow knew that a black dragon’s promise held little weight, a breaking of his word would bind them with reason to seek revenge if he reneged.
“I give you my word, I will speak to him on your behalf.”
As Willow nodded for Bor to proceed in untying the chain, she tilted her head to Jeratheon.
“I do not claim to know how bound you feel by your word,” she said quietly, “But be warned. To us, your word is all you have. Break it…”
She used the circlet to bleed her eyes a fiendish scarlet, the fierce fury of hell warping her features, “… and the wrath of it shall find you.”
The curious creature did not answer, he simply eyed Willow with the same intrigue, a slight fear to his eyes, as if he was unsure what to make of her. Once the chains around his wings were free, he stretched them to their full length. With a swift look to the Forsaken, he propelled himself high into the air, crashing through the dense foliage of the forest canopy. With enormous might, he drove himself into the sky. As the ebony scaled beast faded into the distance, Pellius stepped toward Willow.
“Do you think he will do as we bid?” she asked, watching the shadow upon the clouds.
Pellius scoffed as he smiled, “It matters not, we will march on the great wyrm’s sanctum regardless. If he chooses to punish us for entering, no word from his spawn shall save us…”


They allowed Jeratheon enough time to return to Chargammon’s lair off of the west coast of Talingarde, resting in the cover of the forest for a lunch cooked upon their campfire. Knowing well how quickly a dragon his size could cover such ground, they assumed that mid-afternoon would be a suitable time to journey to the barren island. Once more they grouped together, trusting in the strange magic of teleportation. They were ejected from the portal, crashing painfully into the jagged rocks upon a stone cliff face. The skies here glowed an oppressive grey, winds tearing upon flesh and fabric in a relenting howl, rain battering down in a thundering chorus against the rock. The seas crashed against the cliff, scraping clean the debris and dirt, ripping free shards of stone with the power of the restless unending current. The inner island was dominated by three jagged short mountains rising from the chaos of the shattered rock. Lashed by wave and wind, little grew on the island. The grim bare rock bore little soil, scrubby and battered scraps of desperate plants feathered along the expanse, struggling to grow in the harsh and unhospitable conditions.
“Can anyone see any kind of entrance?!” Willow called over the crying wind.
“None!” Garvana answered.
“Which way do we go?!”
Bor frowned deeply, eyes scanning the island.
“There is no sign of life,” he loured, “No signs of habitation.”
“Then we head east!” Willow shrugged, “Towards Talingarde…”
It took them close to an hour to find any sign of a cave entrance. After struggling to climb the peaks and valleys of the rocky terrain, Garvana had used her arcane tricks to allow them ease of travel. It was as they walked along the eastern cliff face, they saw the funnel of the water current channeling into a hidden crevice under the lip of the stone. With arcana still coursing through their veins, they clung onto impossibly thin ledges and climbed beneath the rock. Before they descended, a sudden blur of movement caught Willow’s eye. A flock of ebony and muted green drakes were swarming from the shadows of the rocks.
“HALT!” Willow snarled, “WE ARE HERE FOR THE GREAT WYRM CHARGAMMON! STAND IN OUR WAY, AND WE WILL CUT YOU DOWN!”
Slowly, the drakes retreated back into the shadows, bright and wary eyes watching the intruders. With a final look towards them, Willow swung herself underneath the cavern top and clung to the ceiling. Below her lay a large open field shaped almost like a bowl, sheltered on three sides by stark grey peaks. Where most of the island was bare of vegetation, here great masses of thorny vine and creeper form large tangled briars. Here and there, a few eldritch and vivid colored flowers bloomed. The entire garden reeked of the sickly sweet scent of decay. The odor of rotting fish and blooming flowers commingled to create a strange, almost otherworldly aroma. It was like stepping onto another world – primeval and inimical. The Forsaken climbed along the ceiling, weaving in and out of jagged stalactites, grateful for the arcana that kept their fingers clinging to the damp and slippery stone ceiling. As they passed through the circular chamber, they followed the caverns through its winding labyrinth of caves and crevices, until they found the grand opening to a dark and putrid water filled chamber. The cavern was adorned with uncountable bones, many human in shape, but some far larger than the greatest whales of that in fabled tales. The murky water smelled of death and decay, and stretched the length of the cavern and further than the darkness would allow them to see. As the Forsaken dropped to the floor, the room hung in an eery stillness. Before she spoke, Willow looked to the others, knowing that it was entirely possible it would be the last time she may see their faces. When she met eyes with Pellius, she felt the intense connection that they had formed, as it swelled heavily it her chest. Despite the dire and desperate situation they found themselves in – she smiled. She had lived more in the two years with them, than she had in the entirety of her past life. She had served her lord and master with more devotion than she had ever thought possible. And she knew, if she were to die here, she would continue long into death to serve faithfully. So she smiled, before turning to face their perilous task, with a heart filled with infernal righteousness.
“Mighty and magnificent one!” she bellowed into the grotto, her voice strong although her body shook, “Please pardon our rudest of intrusions! We humbly beg a word with you!”
Suddenly, the water trembled, as something of unfathomable size surged the liquid below. In a thundering eruption of festering water, the great serpent exploded from the surface, and unveiled himself in full glory. His wet scales glistened in sinister ebony, rippling green reflections shimmering against his slick skin. A legendary beast of almost fifty foot, rising up from the shallows, with claws almost the size of Willow entirely. His eyes blazed a venomous scarlet, his glare held an evil almost palpable. Never before had Willow stood in the presence of such a being, his will and hunger for chaos so devouring it seemed to crush upon her frame like a suppressing weight. She could sense at no hardship, that they were one wrong word or insult from being slaughtered for daring to invade his domain.
“Have your lives proven so worthless, sub-creatures,” his dark and sonorous voice rumbled, “That you have come here to offer them to me?”
As if a wave of pure and unadulterated terror erupted soundless from the wyrm’s words, Willow felt her lungs clench tight as a furious trembling overtook her body. A fear unlike that which she had ever known, clawed at her chest, viciously seeking to sink its teeth into her soul. A perfect horror that desired only to devour and consume. But as she heard the screams of Bor and Garvana as they fell to the floor paralyzed in fright, Willow knew she had no choice but to fight. Surging her will, she clenched her teeth and drew the fear within her, meeting it with her resolve much like the clash of steel upon steel in a deadly conflict. By her side, Pellius stood tall against the crashing torrent of emotional agony. Willow knew not how he fought it, but his strength seemed to bolster her own.
“It is clear, your greatness,” he replied calmly to Chargammon’s question, “That more than enough of our worthless race have done so.”
The great wyrm did not spare even a glance towards their fallen members, malevolent piercing eyes unblinkingly locked on Willow and Pellius. He tilted his enormous head upward, sniffing the air and recoiled in disgust.
“You stink of my son,” he hissed, “You must be the fools who inflicted the worthless coward on me once more.”
The water behind the grand beast rippled in swirling current, as Jeratheon emerged from beneath, his head lowered to his sire. It was then that Willow saw the shattered remains of the dwarven muzzle in pieces along the eastern wall of the cavern.
“To do such a deed, you must want something,” he growled, “Speak! Why do you seek audience with the great Chargammon?”
“We seek revenge on Talingarde, glorious and fearsome one!” Willow snarled, “We seek a terror so great and powerful, it will strike fear in the hearts of the Mitran people! And only one such as you could be so fearsome!”
“Why should I bother?” he spat viciously, “Within my lair, I am all powerful! None threaten me!”
“And it is true of all lands, you are all powerful! But now, the land of Talingarde needs a reminder of just how powerful you are, great fearsome one! The land is plagued by war against the savage from the north, and ravaged by contagion of the baneful Tears of Achlys. Yet it is not enough, their suffering is not enough – the Mitran’s still have hope of salvation! Their king still leads their armies – and with it, he leads their faith that they will survive. We ask you, oh mighty and terrifying one, to attack the city of Matharyn and devour King Markadian’s daughter, the Princess Belinda!”
Chargammon listened silently as she spoke, keen and penetrating eyes seeing everything that her words did not say. For a moment, he simply gazed at her, with a glare so vile it forced her stomach to quiver and recoil.
“If I slay the princess and the king still lives,” he hissed, though his tone was more of intrigue, “Surely he will seek vengeance against me. Why rile such a hornet’s nest?”
“It would not matter, your magnificence,” Willow impressed, “None could ever hope to be as powerful as you, none can threaten your greatness!”
The thorns that grew from the dragon’s protruding brow arched.
“You make a fine case,” he hissed, “But you must think me a fool if you think I’ll attack the Adarium for nothing… No, before I slay your princess, you must answer my errand with an errand of blood of your own. I too have an enemy who has long pained me. I too have a rival I would
see destroyed. South of here almost two hundred and fifty miles, where the Ansgarian Mountains and the Caer Bryr end, is the isle of the pathetic reprobate, the dragon Eiramanthus. The fool is a copper wyrm who has long thwarted my plans and mocked my efforts. He thinks himself superior to me because he is beloved by so many. He believes that he is my rival! Hah! He is a bloated, decadent fool! He sits on his island and laughs at me, while he copulates with his three non-dragon concubine-whores!”
His grimace of disgust quickly morphed into an implacable fury, his vicious crimson eyes erupting with malice.
“You come groveling to me for aid?!” he roared, “First you will aid me! I want him broken and decapitated. I want him purged from this world! You will burn every book, shatter every statue, slaughter every consort and lay waste to his entire island. I want it made into a desolation! I want every passing ship to marvel at its ruin! Do this for me and I will aid you.”
Willow bowed low, deeply and respectfully before she answered.
“We swear this, terrible and fearsome one!”
“NOW GO!” he snarled.
Suddenly, the hold that kept Bor and Garvana paralyzed loosened its grip. They swiftly stood, heads bowed low, trembling limbs and staggered breaths. Willow and Pellius bowed again before turning towards the exit, knowing well that once dismissed by the great wyrm, they needed to disappear from his sight before his hospitality wore thin.
As they rushed for the entrance, they were followed by a terrifying and truly malicious warning, “And if Eiramanthus still lives, return to me only if you wish to die…”

minderp
2017-01-23, 07:55 PM
Darkness hung amongst a humid and cloud feathered sky, a warm night ushering in the idea of an early summer come to Talingarde. Even though the moon lingered high above, signalling the pass of midnight, there was no silence nor slumber in the Silkcreek Farmstead. The Forsaken had gathered every tome, book and scroll that pertained any and all information on the copper wyrm Eiramanthus. They clustered around the parlour lounged in cushioned chairs, hunched over wooden tables, compiling anything they found useful. After their sixth hour, and the depletion of their resources, they each yawned in succession.
“Alright,” Pellius said, rubbing his tired eyes, “Willow, will you recount what we have learnt?”
Willow sighed heavily, flicking back to the beginning over her notebook, straining her sight upon her hastily scribbled handwriting.
“We have gone over it three times now, Pellius,” she yawned, “Must we revise again?”
“Yes, my lady,” he exhaled, “We must. We are at the very least to face an ancient copper dragon, and three foreign consorts, whom we know little about. We must be as well prepared as we can.”
“Very well,” Willow conceded with a moan, “May I summarise? Or do you require explicit detail?”
He chuckled in response, shielding his yawn with his hand, “You may summarise.”
“We know he is a copper dragon of a possible ten centuries,” Willow read aloud, “We know he resides on a crystalline island off of the western coast, known as Straya Avarna – old draconic for ‘jewels I could not part with’. We know he is a planar traveller, and a collector of rare curiosities. And we know that his three female consorts reside on the island with him.”
Willow closed the journal and fell back deeper into the armchair.
“That is it,” she shrugged lazily, “There is nothing more than tales of his travels, nothing that will aid us.”
“It is not enough,” Pellius sighed, “We are entering his domain blind.”
“What more can we do?” Garvana yawned, “There is nothing more we can learn from the books, we would need to go there to see it for ourselves.”
“Just waltz right in and tell the dragon we’re just having a look?” Bor laughed.
“Just here to scout the place,” Garvana joked, “Pay us no mind, carry on as you were.”
Suddenly, Willow was struck with a curious thought.
“That is not such a foolish idea…” she said quietly, brows pulled tight.
“What?” Bor laughed, “I think you need to sleep Willow.”
“I think we all do,” Garvana chuckled.
As the pair giggled and sunk lower into their chairs, Pellius looked to Willow as he always did. He knew her mind was turning, he could read it on her face. He knew she had an idea forming.
“What is it?” he asked softly.
“The dragon is a collector,” she said thoughtfully, “He values rare finds and objects not easily sourced elsewhere…”
“And…?” Pellius urged.
“We have something of the sort.”
“What are you thinking, Willow?”
She frowned, quickly jumping up from her chair and heading for the stairs.
“Willow?” Pellius called.
While her mind raced with possibility, her feet were swift in guiding her to their bedchamber. Entering the room, she found what she was looking for, sprawled across her writing desk. As she retrieved it and quickly descended the stairs, she returned to the parlour, met with confused and tired eyes.
“Willow,” Pellius sighed, “It is late. Will you share your thoughts?”
“This!” she exclaimed, holding up a simple notebook.
“Your journal?” Garvana asked, frowning deeply, “Why would the dragon be interested in that?”
“It is not my journal,” Willow scowled, “It is my translation of the Codex of Bademus the Stargazer. I finished it a few nights ago.”
“I’ve seen you scribbling in it,” Bor frowned, still just as confused, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It is a truly rare find,” she impressed, “Bademus is one of the great Stargazers, known across the realms for his work, not simply the material plane.”
“And you just want to give it to him,” Bor scoffed, “And then what? Attack him while he’s reading? We’ll be no better off than we are now! He is sure to be suspicious of such a gift!”
“We will not attack him,” Willow said, shaking her head, “We will sail to the island as travellers and like-minded scholars. We do not just bare a gift, but we seek to share the lore we have gathered. Such a collector is bound to have a glorious library. Perhaps we have come with an offering in hope to visit such a thing. We go there, and then we return with the information we have gathered and can truly prepare, the dragon none the wiser.”
“And you think it wise to deceive an ancient copper dragon?” Garvana asked warily.
“I do not think attempting to kill a dragon is wise,” Willow chuckled, “But that is what we must do regardless of wisdom. If the plan works, we will better know what we’re up against. If you have a better plan, I am all ears, Garvana.”
“That is enough for tonight,” Pellius nodded, “Let us sleep and look at it with fresh eyes. We can convene in the morning and discuss it further…”


When they did awaken and meet in the dining room for breakfast, it seemed as if each of them had furthered their plan. They would journey to Farholde and secure a small ship, sailing the seas towards the southwest, under the guise of a group of traveling scholars seeking the knowledge of the realm. They would leave behind Sith and Raiju to await their return, while their company of men continued the slow march from Daveryn to Ghastenhall. With the Mitran army marching towards Sakkarot’s horde, their time was swiftly disappearing. Knowing well how little time they had, they quickly agreed on the plan and made swift work of packing their bags. By the time the noon sun had crested overhead, they made for Farholde without delay.
Upon arrival, it was simple enough to secure a small ship from the dockyard, though Willow was happy to personally front the extra gold to find one with a closed cabin.
As the sun began its slow afternoon descent, they had put the small ship to sea, and watched the docks of the city become a blur in the distance. Although no great sailor, Bor was competent enough to guide them safely southward towards Straya Avarna.
The voyage was slow moving along the crashing waves and coursing currents of the Talrien coast. It was a long and rocky three days before they passed the southern edge of the Caer Bryr, watching the land morph from dense emerald forest into sparse and flat grass fields. After what felt like weeks aboard the small vessel, a glimmering illusion appeared on the horizon. A peak of violet and sapphire crystal, coating the expanse as far as they could see. As they neared, the crystal grew taller and more ragged, the suns light glistening across the terrain in an extraordinary phenomenon that could have been an otherworldly portal into a foreign and magical land. The shimmering sparks of colour danced upon the water playfully, shining upon the hull of the ship, the dark oak wood in complete contrast to the luminous array of lights. As they saw a small inlet in the formations, Bor called out warning.
“Hold fast!” he called, “The current is too strong, those crystals grow along the reef! We’ll be shipwrecked if we try to enter!”
“What can we do?” Pellius called in question.
“We’ll have to walk on the water and guide her in by hand! Garvana! Take the helm!”
Quickly swapping positions, Bor cast his arcane charm upon the Forsaken, fastening two lines of rope to the railings before jumping overboard. Willow had not quite gotten used to the sight of a two hundred and fifty pound orc walking delicately atop a body of water. She walked to the bow and leaned out to watch their progress, scanning beneath the shimmering turquoise water, marvelling at the rich swell of coral-shaped crystal. Strange fish in a wild riot of colour danced beneath the surface, circling the thriving reef along with curious and alien sea creatures that Willow could not describe if she tried.
“The island is closed!” a soft and musical voice crooned, the sound echoing off the great crystal walls that flanked them, “And the reefs are dangerous! Turn back or imperil your own lives!”
“We come to see the great Eiramanthas!” Willow called out in reply, “We are simple scholars, who have brought him a gift of rarity, in hopes of gaining his audience and sharing in his great knowledge!”
“A gift?” came the intrigued voice.
From below the glistening sea, a stunning ebony haired woman appeared. As she lifted herself gracefully atop the waves, Willow marvelled at the aquatic beauty. She had the torso of a woman, save the long and slender gills along her neck, yet from her waist she was a sleek orca with a long and curling tail. Her eyes shined a crystal blue, shimmering much like the water she so elegantly moved through. Willow recognised her as one of the agathion, an elusive and foreign cetaceal.
“You bring Eirmanthus a gift?” she asked warily.
“We do,” Willow said cheerfully, “A most rare find! The Codex of Bademus the Stargazer!”
“Bademus, truly?” she asked excitedly, a brilliant smile lighting her face, “Oh my beloved will be so happy! He has been searching for it for decades! Come! I will guide you to shore!”
With the cetaceal’s help, it was an easy task navigating the coral and crystal reef. She guided the ship to the dock and waited for the Forsaken to disembark.
“Now stay to the path,” she said in a motherly tone, “Venture into the crystalline garden at your own peril. My beloved is likely in his domicile, the great dome. He will be so pleased you have come!”

Stepping into the island of Straya Avarna, was much akin to walking an unknown and peculiar world. A place of unfathomable beauty. The island was adorned with great crystalline formations, at once natural, but also too balanced and deliberate to have formed by happenstance. Strange plants mingled and grew amongst the fragile monuments that arose each way the eye could see. The animals were unlike that seen anywhere else in their world. Four winged birds glowing with blue radiant light danced amongst the crystal glens. Six-legged lizards that seemed almost carved from crystal themselves fed on the living stone. Unidentifiable petite creatures crawled, flew and oozed amongst the island’s alien features. It was like something out of a mad poet’s storybook, where every beast is invented anew upon each turning page. With each step, the marvel only escalated. Willow found her eyes in constant motion, seeking and consuming each amazing curiosity, struggling to keep the look of bewilderment and wonder from her face. As she strolled through the grand crystalline world, she suddenly felt a large hand grip her arm and pull her backward.
“Careful, my lady,” Pellius smirked.
When she looked down, she saw the jagged and sharp rebellious crystal that had migrated from its garden to grow upon the path. If she had stepped on it, the razorsharp points would have sliced clean through her boot and deep into her foot.
“Oh,” she grinned sheepishly, “Thank you.”
“It is a truly a glorious sight, is it not?” he said, offering his arm to her.
As she accepted it, she smiled, “It is. Truly, it is just magnificent. I have never seen anything like it. It is… magical…”
It was a strange thing, meandering along the paths, at once relaxed and alert. Although she found her thoughts lost in the beauty of Straya Avarna, the knowledge of the danger they were in was ever present in her mind. She knew how to keep up a rouse, she knew how to act the part she needed to play, it was not necessarily a bad thing that she was so taken with the island as it leant heavily to her story. Yet she did not let herself forget that they walked uninvited through the domain of an ancient dragon. But she smiled, as she followed the winding paths of crystal, resting leisurely against Pellius’ shoulder.
In the distance, far to the south of the island, the white dome reached high above the crystalline growths. It was clear that the great copper dragon dwelled within the glorious building, yet the labyrinth wound in ever curving paths, and they had no clue which direction they needed to head to reach him.
As they crossed an ornate bridge made purely from crystal, that craned elegantly over the passing sapphire lake, they came upon a great structure adorned in glistening emerald frescos. Depicted across its walls were strange scenes of multi-armed gods and bold inhuman heroes engaged in battle against wicked animal-headed demons. The tiered tower rose four stories high and was capped by an elaborately eaved roof that ascended to a fine point. Thousands of wind chimes hung from the eaves that drifted an enchanting but eurythmic tune. The four of them strolled along the path towards the building, in awe of the foreign beauty it illustrated.
“Do you suppose you could sneak in and have a look around, Willow?” Garvana whispered.
“We are visitors,” Willow smiled, “We shall not sneak, we shall knock.”
Approaching the large stone doors, Willow rapped on the door firmly. The soft sounds of shuffling came from inside, before the door opened to reveal a man of small stature, jagged rocklike skin with bright crystalline spikes for hair. He stared at Willow with an emotionless gaze, eyes glazed in a vision much like the reflection of glass.
“Yes?” the man asked.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted politely, “We are visitors to Straya Avarna, here to see the great Eiramanthus. Is he in?”
“No,” he shook his head, vibrating the crystals that protruded from his hairline, “He is not here. You have come to the Temple of the Consort in Red. The great Eirmanthus resides in his dome to the far south of the island.”
“Oh,” Willow feigned, “The Consort in Red? We have met Setia Swims-the-Sea-of-Stars, such a glorious beauty, but we have not had the pleasure of meeting the Consort in Red. May I ask, who she is?”
“Shakti the Redeemed,” he answered, “The Rakshasa Goddess.”
“Ah, thank you,” Willow smiled, “Is it possible to meet her? We would be most honoured.”
“The Consort in Red’s meditation is not to be disturbed,” he said simply, no force to his words.
“Very well,” Willow inclined her head.
With an assumption that the man had little care or little capacity to care, she decided to push her luck further, “And the third consort? Where may we find her?”
“The Garden of the Consort in Green is directly south of here,” he answered.
“And will you tell me about her?”
Before he could answer, a crystalline figure appeared behind him, an oread of much larger and sturdier size. His eyes were of a fiercer shimmer than the other, a forceful shrewdness to his gaze.
“If you are here to see Eirmanthus,” he said, a clear dismissal to his tone, “Then make haste for the dome.”
Without waiting for a reply, the large man closed the door in Willow’s face.
“Well,” Willow smirked, turning back to the others, “Shall we?”

With no real hurry, the Forsaken continued to explore the island, mapping out each section in their minds as best they could as they passed. As the labyrinth guided them towards the south, the scent of fragrant greenery lingered across the pass, the sounds of life abundant chittered and sang out. Rounding an enormous sapphire crystal point, the shining colour of emerald green feathered their view. A serene and tranquil forest glen, brimming with curious and alien flora and fauna. Brightly coloured birds in an array of iridescent feathers and beaks fluttered upon a mix of eldritch and eccentric petals and braches, peculiar insects with a dozen legs and eyes crawling upon leaves and ferns. No two plants were alike, no two colours mirrored, each piece of exotic flora unique in its growth. The glen radiated a mysterious arcane breeze of luminous mist and spores, an otherworldly glow that danced upon the wind. It was the most beautiful place Willow had seen, something as if out of the Fey realm from the storybooks she had read as a child. Though the roots of each plant grew from the brightly coloured soil, it was as if they grew from another world.
In the centre of the forested garden, stood alone a graceful elder cheery blossom. Yet as they stepped into the glen, the tree moved and parted. It was not as alone as it had seemed. A woman, with skin of red wood bark that formed in long arching antler-like branches, scattered in vibrant blushing blooms of petals and stems. She moved towards them, through the brush with preternatural grace, a calm quiet aura about her.
“Who are those that enter my garden?” came her question, in a voice as soft as a whisper upon the breeze.
“You may call me Willow,” she smiled, “And these are my colleagues and friends – Pellius, Bor and Garvana.”
“A pleasure to meet you my lady,” Pellius bowed deeply.
“I am Sakura Yoshi-Mune,” she breathed, “You are here to visit Eiramanthus? It does seem you have become lost.”
“We are here to see the great dragon,” Willow nodded softly, “But we have been fortunate in finding our path has led us here. This place, this garden… it is beautiful. I have truly never seen its equal.”
Though her bark-like skin was coloured a rich mahogany, Willow could have sworn she saw a blush creep upon her cheeks.
“I thank you for your kind words,” she flushed graciously, “I do not receive many visitors, it is always a pleasure to share it with those who appreciate it.”
“It is remarkable,” Willow smiled, eyes tracing the myriad of fresh hues, “I know not what half of the verdure is, yet each piece is as stunning as the last.”
Willow turned to the Kami with a curious expression, “You are the Consort in Green, I presume?”
“Yes,” she breathed, “That is what they call me.”
“We had the pleasure of meeting Setia Swims-the-Sea-of-Stars,” Garvana said softly, “She is the Consort in Blue, correct?”
“Setia?” the kami exhaled, “Yes she is, but I am surprised you caught her. She often disappears deep into the sea, for days at a time.”
“Why does she do that?” Garvana asked curiously, “Is she unhappy here?”
“No, I do not think so,” Sakura sighed, “I suppose it is just as it is with all of us. It can be lonely, being so far from home. Perhaps she seeks the company of those more akin to herself, the sea creatures that dwell beneath the surface.”
“Where is it, you call home, my lady?” Pellius asked, his voice silkily charming.
The kami sighed wistfully, “A land very far from here.”
“And is it this beautiful?” Willow asked, motioning around her.
“Yes, even more so.”
“You miss it,” Willow said sympathetically.
“I do,” Sakura nodded, “Though, now this garden is my home. Besides my dear Eirmanthus, it is now my greatest love.”
“I can certainly see why,” Garvana smiled.
“May I ask you of the others on the island?” Willow questioned, “Though we have been here a few hours, we have only met Setia and yourself. We attempted to visit the Temple of the Consort in Red, but we were sent away by a few curious crystalline men.”
“The crystalline guardians,” Sakura breathed lightly, “The care for the island and maintain it. Though, they seem to avoid my garden, they are not much for talking.”
“And the Consort in Red? The graphic illustrations on the walls told of a truly legendary battle. Will you tell us of her?”
“Shakti Shabara,” Sakura sighed, “She is a Rakshasa from a far land, she spends most of her time in meditation.”
“My lady,” Pellius frowned, “It is clear to me, why they would call you the Consort in Green, and Setia the Consort in Blue… but why do they call her the Consort in Red?”
Sakura seemed to ponder for a moment on her answer.
“She has come from a troubled past,” was the only answer that came.
“May I ask of it?” Pellius queried gently.
“I am sorry,” she said, “It is not my place to speak of it. Perhaps when she has finished meditation, she will tell it to you…”
It was a fair time they spent talking to the graceful and humble Kami, sitting amongst the flourishing undergrowth, surrounded by tiny sprites that danced along the edges of the verdant greenery. As the conversation turned to the curious collection of trees, ferns and flowers, Willow found herself frowning. She watched the woman light up in excitement, talking to and about each tree as if giving it the chance to boast and explain itself. She was a creature of nature, a guardian of her garden, yet the very soul of it. She had left her home and everything she had known, for the love of a great copper dragon. She lived a life of solitude, waiting patiently for the moments in which he could spare to be with her. She longed for her homeworld, and yet, she remained. Though gentleness, softness and enamored were not usually traits Willow admired in other people; Sakura was an exception. She understood exactly what Willow loved about nature. She understood the circle of thriving life, slow death and fresh rebirth. As she listened intently to the Kami’s softly whispered words, she sighed. For a moment, she had thought that maybe they could have spared her. Maybe they could give her an ultimatum of death or exile. But as she spoke of her loneliness, her answer to Pellius’ question was enough to set her fate.
“It sounds as if you are alone, my lady,” Pellius frowned, “Would you not leave? Would you not return to the comfort of your own world?”
“Oh, no,” Sakura pressed seriously, “I could never leave my beloved Eiramanthus.”
“He must be quite a man,” Willow said, struggling to hide the coldness in her voice.
Sakura was too captivated by the thought of her love to notice, with soft eyes and excitement in her voice – she smiled.
“Oh, he is!”
“My lady,” Pellius said to Sakura warmly, in much the same tone he usually spoke to Willow, “I have a gift for you. I have carried this with me for quite some time, not knowing what to do with it. But I believe you will appreciate far more than I can.”
As he reached into his pack to retrieve his gift, Willow’s brow arched.
“It is called a feather token,” he continued smoothly, turning on his charm, “And it holds a beautiful secret. Here.”
He handed her the feather token, letting his fingers trace along her barked skin for a moment. Sakura looked upon the feather, in slight confusion but much delight, not knowing what to do with it. Pellius chuckled, his usual endearing rumble.
“Place it in the ground,” he instructed with a smile, “And watch.”
The woman did as she was told, gracefully floating to a slender patch of grass, before placing the feather upon the ground and delicately pushing the coloured dirt around it. Suddenly, the soil shuddered slightly, before a sprout pushed free from the earth. It shot upward and grew rapidly, its trunk widening as leaves and branches blossomed from its bark. When it finally slowed and finished its ascent, Sakura let out an exclamation of glee.
“It is a grand oak tree,” Pellius said smoothly, “They are native to our homeland, and grow far in numbers that count in the hundreds of thousands!”
“It is perfect!” Sakura grinned, swaying around the large trunk, “It is beautiful!”
“Much like you, my lady,” Pellius crooned, inclining his head.
As the Kami blushed once more, Willow had to struggle to contain her rolling eyes. Though she would never admit to such petty emotions, she could feel the taste of jealousy lingering on her tongue.
“You flatter me too much,” Sakura simpered.
“We should be off,” Bor said curtly, “We have business with the dragon.”
“Oh,” she said softly, a sadness tinting her eyes, “I understand.”
She turned back to Pellius, pulling a cherry blossom flower free from her shoulder.
“Please, take this. As a token of my gratitude.”
Pellius accepted the gift and bowed low to the Kami.
“Thank you, it shall ever remind me of you.”
“If you find yourself staying for a time,” she said warmly, “Please, all of you, feel free to return anytime.”
“Thank you, Sakura,” Willow said cordially, inclining her head, “It has been a pleasure.”
As the others turned to leave, Pellius gave one last bow to her, his charming smile alight. As Willow held her scoff inward, she felt Bor’s elbow nudge her shoulder. His knowing grin was enough for her to outwardly roll her eyes before leading them out of the garden, in pursuit of the dome.

It was a process of elimination that led their steps towards the great white building, following the paths along trying to determine which trails they had already taken. Each turn held its own curiosity, each crevice and hollow filled with strange life that spoke of otherworldly wonders. As they finally found the most southern path, the way to the massive dome appeared in the distance.
“Think you can out do a dragon?” Bor chuckled, brows raised.
“What ever do you mean?” Pellius asked, feigning ignorance.
“Think she’ll up and leave him for you?” he laughed.
Pellius grinned slyly, “Worth a try.”
“I thought she would be a little fragile for your tastes,” Willow teased.
“Delicate though she may seem, my lady,” Pellius replied, eyebrow arched, “She can handle a dragon…”
“Perhaps,” Willow smirked, “Though if she is used to the satisfaction of a dragon, you may leave her a tad… short.”
Although Bor and Garvana laughed, his grin only widened. As fingers traced the line of her chin, he leant in close to her ear.
“Jealous, my lady?” he whispered, “Seeing it on you, is strangely satisfying in itself.”
Willow scoffed in response, laughing as she turned to him, an intense gaze that mirrored his. She chose not answer, simply grinning in a way that said more than her words could.

minderp
2017-01-23, 07:57 PM
A great three levelled tower of glistening white stone rose from the surrounding of the crystalline garden. The white was capped with an impossibly smooth domed ceiling upon the highest level, the grand structure a true marvel of craftsmanship. As the Forsaken approached, a mountainous door of thick and sturdy red wood blocked their path. Upon the door was an intricate script engraved deep into the heart of grain.
“Would I trade three kings’ crowns for the dark earth of her wilds?” Willow read aloud, “Would I trade war’s red renown for even one of her smiles? Would I trade five thousand ships for her vast sea white with foam? Would I trade a thousand worlds for a fine day spent at home?”
For a moment, they simply stared at the writing.
“What do you make of it?” Garvana asked Willow.
“It is a riddle,” she smiled, cocking her head slightly.
“It is?” Garvana asked, confusion crossing her face, “Are you sure it is not simply an ode to the dragons loves?”
“See here,” Willow pointed, “Each line has an oddly capitalized letter. Each line contains mention to a colour and to a number.”
“And what does it all mean?” Pellius frowned.
“I have no clue,” Willow shrugged, “Three, dark and a D. One, red and an E. Five, white and an F. Perhaps we are missing part of the puzzle.”
As they pushed the great wooden doors wide open, Willow found herself grinning. Stepping into the grand white marble tiled room, they were indeed greeted by the missing piece. A chessboard painted upon the floor, flanked by sets of giant kings and queens, large enough for only one the size of an ancient dragon to wield. As Willow stepped forward, wrapped in curiosity, she eyed the scene with intrigue. To the left was a rank of shimmering white crystal pieces, carvings of abstract designed creatures, dressed as knights and the like. Upon closer inspection, it was clear the beings were not human in form, though what they were seemed far beyond Willow’s comprehension. To the right, was an almost identical set, carved from pure ebony. Though it appeared as a normal chess set, if not grand and sizeable, there was a single peculiar addition. A single queen, standing alone to the south of the board, sparkling in a carving of crimson garnet. It was the discovery of the red stone that had Willow’s mind turning.
“Bor,” she beckoned with a grin, “Would you care to take a risk with me?”
“What is it?” he asked warily.
“Can you try to move the red queen?”
Skeptical though he was, he marched across the chessboard, grasping the edges of the piece. He heaved with all his might, yet barely managed to disturb the queens rest.
“No chance,” he huffed, “It aint moving.”
Willow frowned deeply, churning her thoughts for a solution. When it finally came to her, she laughed at its simplicity.
“Red queen!” she called loudly, “To one E!”
All eyes watched the inanimate red stone, as suddenly it sprang to life. The exotic creature twirled her grand gown, flaring the solid crystal as if it was light as a feather. She lifted into the air, hovering gracefully above her solid garnet base, before floating across the room towards the white square. Her base followed directly beneath her, stopping as it reached the tile. As she slowed her movements and descended back to the ground, she twirled her gown once more before she resumed her position became rigid. Willow could not hide the creeping smirk that lifted her lip as she sang out to the other pieces.
“Black queen to three D! White queen to five F!”
Both crystal queens twirled their robes in perfect unison, lifting into the air exactly as the first had, gliding to their squares upon the board. When they settled back into their natural positions, the floor beneath Willow’s feet began to shift. She swiftly jumped back, a mere second before the chessboard melted away to reveal a grand winding staircase that descended into the ground below.
“What have you found?” Pellius said quietly, arching his brow.
Willow grinned, slowly approaching the stairs to peak down the long shaft. With curiosity swarming through her veins, there was little anyone could do to stop her creeping steps down the stairs. She heard the others following closely behind, as their voices turned to whispers. The stairs were made from a strange alabaster, soft yet firm, echoing the sound of Pellius’ armoured boots. Willow’s scuffed leather was barely heard as she descended, gentle footsteps muffled along the stone blocks. As she reached the bottom of the spiral, her breath caught in her throat.
“This,” she laughed, frowning deeply, “Was not part of the plan.”
The small chamber was filled to the brim with glistening treasure. Endless stacks of shimmering gold and silver foreign coins, piles and boxes of immaculately carved silverware, shelves filled with trinkets and oddities of all manner of origins. Shining gems and rocks reflected sharp rays of coloured lights across the chamber, casting the stone walls in a kaleidoscope of swirling hues. Left with much the same feeling she had endured throughout her journey along Straya Arvana, Willow was in complete awe of the marvel. She had never seen such wealth complied in one place. She had read stories of warriors and heroes that had bested a dragon and reaped in its wealth. But the fiction could not have lived up to the experience of seeing it in person.
“The dragons horde,” Garvana breathed.
As the overwhelming sight took a moment to settle, it was a deep and rumbling hiss that broke Willow’s reverie.
“Free me!” the feral hiss sounded.
Willow’s head snapped to the edge of the chamber, to see Bor’s hand caressing the glass edge of a case. Trapped within the crystalline vessel was a battered skull that floated within its confines. The empty sockets of its eyes glowed a venomous green, shadowing its case in a eery and malicious emerald wrath.
“Free me!” it hissed once more.
“Do not touch it!” Willow snapped.
“It is a demi-lich,” Pellius warned, “Barely contained. You would be wise to step back, Bor.”
“NO!” snarled the skull, “You must free me!”
“And who are you?” Willow asked coldly.
“I am the Nameless Tyrant!” he roared, “And I will grant thee immortality, if you will but free me!”
Willow frowned, a spark of recognition in her mind. She struggled to remember the details, but she knew she had heard stories of the fearsome demi-lich. Terrible tales of destruction and desolation, horrific deeds of death and total devastation. As Bor continued to stare hungrily towards the foreboding skull, Willow stepped towards him and laid a gentle hand upon his forearm.
“Do not do it,” she warned quietly, “Nothing good can come of releasing it.”
“FREE ME!” the skull screeched, “OR I WILL DEVOUR YOU ALL!”
Bor looked to Willow, a strange longing within his gaze. She could have sworn it was desperation that lingered in his eyes, but as the expression closed coldly once more, he nodded to her softly. He steeled himself and stepped back from the case. The tyrant roared in fury, but the Forsaken simply turned their backs to him.
“What do we do now?” Garvana whispered.
“We have three options,” Pellius replied quietly, “We take what we can and run, we use what we can find and fight, or we leave it and continue on as before.”
“It is not a misdeed to discover the dragons’ horde,” Willow hushed, “If we take nothing, we can still see our plan through.”
They wore mirrored frowns as they contemplated their options, nervous unrest as their thoughts were accompanied by the wail of the encased skull.
“We have invested a great deal of time into this plan,” Willow impressed, “Yet we have not learnt enough to see us through. If we leave now, we have trinkets and gold, but are none the wiser of our target. We must persist!”
“I agree,” Pellius frowned, “Though I don’t think it wise to deceive the dragon of our find, it is likely he already knows of the intrusion.”
“I will not lie,” Willow smirked, “I simply happened upon the answer.”
“What are riddles for,” Pellius smiled with a shrug, “If not to be solved.”
Leaving the glittering horde behind and untouched, they climbed the stairs and returned to the large vaulted chamber. Willow found herself holding her breath as she stepped into the room, almost expecting to be greeted by the teeth of an ancient copper dragon. When no teeth pierced her skin, she exhaled deeply in relief.
At the far end of the chamber they found a clear crystal staircase that led up to the second floor of the great white building. As they ascended in single file, Willow entered the floor first, eyes alight to see the vast collection of books, tomes and scrolls layered perfectly along the shelves lining the walls. As she stepped in from the stairs, she saw another large inscription on the wall.
“Touching a dragon’s library without permission is HARMFUL to your health,” Garvana read aloud.
“Come along,” Willow said quietly, “We must find Eiramanthus before we explore any further.”
They left the impressive collection behind, continuing up the stairs without delay. When they reached the top end of the spiraling glass, they entered a pristine chamber, polished to a shine that sparkled in a soft glimmer much like the air of arcana. To the left was a flourishing cherry blossom that grew from a single patch of violet soil. To the right was a small pool of water that glowed and swayed a brilliant sapphire blue. On the far wall was an unfathomably detailed mural of a multi-armed goddess, resting peacefully in deep meditation. And in the centre of the chamber, standing at an immense height staring down at those that entered, was a great copper scaled dragon.
“Ah, guests!” Eirmanthus called, his deep resonating voice rumbling in jovial lightness, “And uninvited ones at that. That means you are either thieves or dragon hunters. Tell me, friends, which one is it today?”
“Neither,” Willow chuckled cheerfully, “My apologies for the intrusion, great one. We are travelling scholars; vagabond wanderers some would call us.”
“Well,” the dragon smiled, keen eyes looking over the Forsaken, “That certainly make a nice change. I should ask, who are those who have wandered into my home?”
“My name is Willow,” she replied cordially, “This is Pellius, Garvana and Bor. May I say, it is a great honour to meet you.”
“I suppose I should be flattered,” Eiramanthus chuckled, “I so rarely get guests native to my home plane. All I get are planar travelers. After a few centuries abroad, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re locals though, the accent sounds Talirean.”
“Locals is a loose term,” Willow joked, “A few of us hail from Talingarde, our latest travels have brought us from there actually.”
“You know, it’s funny,” the dragon mused, “I live right off the coast of Talingarde, but I haven’t visited it in... oh, two hundred years. Tell me, how is the old isle getting along?”
“Oh men are always the same,” Willow shrugged in dismissal, “Fighting from the north, conquest and battle in the name of gods; much the same as it has been for the last two centuries. It was actually in Talingarde that we came across our reason for being here.”
“Really?” Eiramanthus asked, arching his scaled brow, “And what reason would that be?”
Willow grinned in feigned excitement, dropping her pack to the floor and sifting through it. When she pulled free the three tomes, she held them out to the dragon with glee.
“A time ago I happened upon a coded text, a strange celestial-like script that I could not crack. It was only a few short weeks ago we found this! The Codex of Bademus the Stargazer!”
“Oh, how marvelous!” the dragon exclaimed, using his massive claws to lift the book from Willow’s hands, “What a find! And this? You wrote this?”
“Yes,” she beamed proudly, “I have worked on decoding it for many hours and finally finished the last of it on our journey here!”
With surprising grace, the large creature flicked through the pages of Willow’s writing, following each page of the foreign text along with it.
“Amazing!” he called, distractedly turning from them to pace the room, “Such revelations!”
“I know!” Willow said gleefully, racing in excitement to his side, completely aware of how petite she was under the shadow of the enormous beast, “See here! He speaks of the veil connecting the spectral layer via density and not via force as he once thought!”
“Fascinating!” he replied.
While she watched the great dragon enraptured by the tomes contents, Willow saw her opportunity. As he continued to flick from page to page, she quirked her head slightly.
“Oh,” she said sheepishly, smiling in awkward innocence, “I forgot to mention… I am truly sorry, it was a complete accident, I was just so excited! And I just love riddles, and it was just there.”
While she rambled, the dragon seemed to only be mildly listening to her speaking.
“I may have… solved your riddle and discovered your horde…”
Slowly, the dragons flicking ceased. He turned his enormous head towards her, fierce and shrewd eyes now truly looking at her. Willow knew her loyalties and any readable auras were morphed and muted by the arcana within the ring she wore, but as his devouring gaze took her in – she felt the sweat line the back of her neck.
“I am truly sorry,” she said sweetly, widening her eyes, “My curiosity always gets me into trouble. I had no clue I was opening such a thing, I was merely intrigued by the words and then the chessboard, and it seemed to just… happen.”
For a moment, the dragon simply glared towards her. His large nostrils flared, as he drew in a deep scenting breath. As if tasting each smell upon his nose, his eyes softened ever so slightly.
“Well,” Eiramanthus said, “Since you did not take anything, I suppose there is no harm no foul. I should be impressed that I have the pleasure of such curious guests.”
“It is not the first time her curiosity has landed her in such a situation,” Garvana joked, appearing to try ease the tension.
The dragons large head turned towards her, shrewd eyes evaluating his guests with a furthered query.
“And you, Garvana was it?” he asked, “What is it that you seek?”
“Knowledge, my lord,” she replied, inclining her head, “It is always my pursuit.”
“And you?” he turned to Bor.
“I am merely the lady’s servant,” he said humbly, eyes downcast.
The dragon seemed to accept his answer as he lastly turned to Pellius. The tall wide shouldered man did not look much like the standard of a scholar, he looked as always a noble and battleworn soldier.
“What is it you seek?” Eiramanthus asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
“We bring this gift in hopes of gaining admittance to your grand library,” Pellius said formally, “It is told to be one of the greatest collections on this plane. Bademus may be the lady’s pursuit, but my desires span far greater than simply him.”
The dragon’s gaze lingered for a moment, long enough to find Willow gripping the pommel of her blade. She was wary and ready. Suddenly, the immense dragon’s skin rippled and shrunk, forming into that of man. He was tall and regal, slender framed with a brilliant flash of copper hair that tousled from his head. Piercing blue eyes that blazed in contrast with his crystal white skin. His face was handsome, young and full of jovial vitality, with mischievous painted clearly in his features.
“Well then,” he inclined his head, “You have come all this way, let me show you my pride and joy…”

Stepping into the shelved chamber, was a delight that Willow could not describe. Her eyes raked greedily upon the vast knowledge that laid upon the walls in rows and stacks, her childlike excited running unleashed within her blood. She saw Garvana step towards the shelf closest to her, but the dragon’s warning stilled her steps.
“I would not touch it if I were you,” he cautioned.
He walked towards the bookshelf upon the far wall, reaching behind the stacked tomes to pull free a hidden curious contraption. As he rasped a quick incantation, the mechanism’s light faded. From beside her, she heard Garvana’s rushed enchantment she usually used to read the auras of surrounding magic. As the words left her lips, the dragon’s head whipped towards her, eyes ablaze with suspicion.
“Please pay her no mind,” Willow chuckled gently, “She means no harm. She is simply obsessed with the mastery and study of magic. She does everywhere we go.”
“You are very inquisitive creatures, aren’t you?” he replied with a smile.
“Too much so,” Willow grinned, “We make terrible houseguests.”
The dragon chuckled, his charming face made all the more handsome by doing so.
“You are welcome to peruse my collection at your leisure,” he said, inclining his head.
“Do you have anymore of Bademus’ works?” Willow asked excitedly.
“Yes,” he nodded, “But I am afraid it is only his younger work. He has far surpassed it now.”
“Will you show me? I would very much love to see them.”
“Of course,” he replied cordially, “This way.”
He led Willow to a grand doorway that opened into a cramped archive, filled with uncountable scrolls and parchment, layered upon teetering stacks of books and tomes.
“This is the section for lore I deemed too esoteric for the main library,” the dragon explained, “Over here are the works of various stargazers and constellation readers. Bademus resides here…”
As Willow entered the overwhelmingly tight space, she was surprised to find they were not alone within the library. A strange figure, draped in great robes of a shimmering otherworldly material, stood hunched over a pile of tomes written in a language Willow could not begin to translate.
“Thank you,” she said distractedly, eyes locked on the peculiar figure.
She stepped towards the the being, feeling a frown pulling down her brow as she was unable to determine what kind of creature it was. As it noticed her approach, it turned towards her, strange blank white eyes staring back at her. Upon seeing translucent grey skin that shimmered as if water swarmed beneath its surface, and four elongated arms that draped almost the entire way to the floor, she had even less idea than before. The odd creature suddenly lifted two of their arms, holding them in a crooked mirrored position just above their shoulders. Figuring it was some kind of greeting, Willow did her best to copy with her own. Upon her attempt, the creature simply frowned.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she laughed, holding out her hand for a hand shake.
The creature recoiled from her offered hand, with a look of disgust rushing across its face.
“What are you doing?” it asked, in a voice that seemed to appear from the ether, sounds that did not come from his lips.
“Oh,” Willow said, shrugging gently, “It is a customary human greeting.”
The strange creature gave no more show of emotion as it simply copied her, holding its hand out on a straight arm. As Willow gently gripped its four fingered hand, it looked on with curiosity.
“I am Willow,” she smiled.
“I am,” it said, followed by a series of clicking sounds and whistles.
Willow chuckled softly, “You will have to forgive me if I do not attempt to repeat it.”
“That is best,” it said plainly.
“May I ask what is it you are reading?” she queried.
“This?” it replied, sudden excitement flaring, “I believe at last I have found a solution to Vargat’s,” he whistled loudly and clicked his tongue, “Conundrum. The transpositioning of irradiant vectors is transcendentally possible! You see, its been here right before us all along. Consider the Halooth and Vandrissial Vorniths. Child’s play I know. But when considered in the light of this text by,” he made a sound much like the clearing of his throat, “Then see, it is possible to conceptualize the fundamental axes of eternity. You need only frombotz the kintoozler.”
Willow’s eyes glazed over slightly, confusion clear in her face. She smiled politely, as he spoke and nodded along with his words.
“He is talking about planar travel through technological means, mam,” Bor said from behind her.
“Well, in the barest of simplicity, yes,” the creature scoffed.
“Fascinating!” Willow grinned, ushering Bor over, “This is Bor. He has a passion for planar travel, don’t you Bor?”
“Yes, mam,” he answered politely.
Willow was impressed that he managed to keep his eyes from rolling, and that she managed to continue the conversation without laughing. Though the creature spoke words she hear, she was no closer to understanding a single thing it said. Willow could feel the eyes of the dragon watching the exchange intently, seeming to access and observe them astutely. As Willow excused herself from the conversation, she returned to the stack of tomes that Eiramanthus had indicated. She listened closely to the conversations around her while she perused the thick heavy pages.
“My lord,” Pellius addressed him, “May I have a moment of your time?”
“You may,” the dragon replied, arching his fire red brow.
“With the island of Talingarde in the beginnings of turmoil, we have worry that the great black wyrm Chargammon may take advantage of the peoples weakened condition.”
Willow felt herself frowning at the line of questioning, having never spoken or planned to mention the great dragon. It was a dangerous game of deception Pellius was playing.
“Chargammon?” Eiramanthus asked skeptically, “The blackheart barely leaves his barrow anymore. Why would you suspect such a thing?”
“We of course hope such a calamity never comes to pass,” Pellius replied seriously, “But if it were, do you have any advice? What defense could we use against him?”
“Distance,” was the dry reply that came, forcing a responsive laugh to burst from Willow’s lips.
With a small chuckle at his own joke, the dragon seemed to brush off the question.
“Do not worry of the poor old beast,” he sighed, “He is alone in this world. He betrays all who would call him friends. That is the reason he can’t kill me. In a one on one fight, no doubt he’s more powerful. He is considerably older. But we never fight one on one, do we? I have friends, allies, consorts. Oh, speaking of which... have you met my girls?”
“Two of them, yes,” Pellius nodded, “Setia and Sakura, such lovely creatures. We were unable to meet with Shakti. We were told she was in meditation.”
“Ah yes,” he smiled fondly, “She spends most of her time that way. I can escort you to meet her if you wish?”
“I would very much enjoy that. The marvel of illustration on her temple speak of glorious battles and victories, it would be an honour to meet one who venerates war in such a way.”
Eiramanthus eyed Pellius with unreadable eyes, before slightly tilting his head.
“Venerates war?” he said curiously, “Yes, I can see you as the like. Tell me, is it Gorum you revere?”
“Among others,” Pellius replied in misleading honesty, “Gorum for his joy in battle, Calistria for her taste of vengeance, Desna for her will to always explore…”
“And Irori,” Willow added, looking up from her tome with a smile, “For the constant yearn and will to seek knowledge.”
“Interesting,” Eiramanthus smiled, “Very well. If you wish it, I shall take you to meet my beloved Shakti.”
“Would you mind if I remain?” Willow asked with slight desperation, “It is not often I have the chance to scour such rare and inconceivable lore.”
The dragon simply smiled, “It is what brings most of the guests to my home. You are welcome to remain.”
Willow thanked him sincerely as the others grouped to leave, watching them exit as she returned to the great stacks. When they were out of sight and she could no longer hear their disappearing conversation, she returned the writings of Bademus to its home. Instead, she went in search of a different topic. As she traced her fingers along the scripted codex, she found her way to a section of the library that contained gods and deities worshipped by mortals. It was there that she found tomes and books written about her infernal lord Asmodeus. Among the writings was a curious tome filled with the ramblings of an eccentric scholar, musing upon a race of beings known as Axiamites. He wrote of the Axis plane, unmarred by the struggle between good and evil, simply dedicated to the universal law and perfect harmony in order. Willow found the writings fascinating. With the book in hand, she found her way to a secluded nook within the grand stacks, sinking into a luxurious chair in the far corner. She tucked her feet beneath her and spent the following hours completely and utterly engrossed in another realm.

It was late in the evening that the others returned to the library. Willow had read her way through a substantial number of tomes and books, riveted and captivated as the time passed unnoticed. When she heard the muffled sounds of footsteps and chatter, she quickly withdrew her feet from beneath her, arranging herself in a more respectful manner. As the dragon led only Pellius inside the archives, he arched his eyebrow to her.
“You have enjoyed your time here?” he asked, eyeing the large stack of tomes beside her.
Willow could not help but grin, rising from her seat, “Very much so, thank you.”
As she gathered the books to return them, the dragon simply smiled. Rasping a quick incantation, the books flew from her hands and made their own way back to their rightful places.
“Clever,” Willow commented, arching her brow.
“It is a helpful trick,” Eiramanthus smirked, “A curious collection of reading you have amassed. Bestiaries, lawful outer sphere planes and fey fairytales…”
She chuckled, realizing how strange her tastes would have seemed. She had begun with a purpose, to collect information on the rarer and lesser known lore of her Prince of Darkness. Though, as she had began reading and searching the collections of unheard books and untold stories, her mind had taken her elsewhere.
“You cannot tell your mind what it should wish to explore,” she shrugged with a grin.
“Indeed,” replied the dragon, intrigued eyes locked with hers.
“Come along, my lady,” Pellius interjected, “Eiramanthus has been gracious enough to allow us to stay the evening.”
“Oh, that is very kind, thank you,” she smiled, “I do not think I could stomach another night aboard the ship just yet.”
As the dragon inclined his head, Pellius offered his arm. Before Willow accepted it, she bowed to the dragon.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said warmly, “It has truly been a marvelous and beneficial day.”
“You are welcome,” Eiramanthus replied, sapphire eyes shimmering in the torchlight, “If you’ll excuse me, I shall retire for the evening…”

The crescent moon hung over head as Pellius and Willow strolled through the crystal gardens towards the Temple of the Consort in Red. It was magical, the way the moon beams ricocheted off the sharp shards of crystal, reflecting glistening coloured rays back into the night sky. As the cloud passed, the bright flushes of ever-changing hues played and dance across the shifting breeze. All around them was a mysterious world of wonder, shrouded in layer of mist that waltzed atop the rolling crystal expanse. The sounds of nocturnal life rustled and burrowed in alcoves, the soft sound of distant wind chimes lingered in a crooning tune of gentle melody. Resting her head on Pellius’ shoulder as she meandered through the winding path, she could not shake the warmth that pulsed in her chest. It was the most romantic scene she could have imagined. Of all the souls she could have shared it with, she was glad it was him. When she felt she soft kiss of his lips on her forehead, she sighed as her heart ached. Moments like this were not meant for her. There were a myriad of things she believed she was destined for, but a fairytale romance, with moments spent in complete companionable silence had never been part of her future. It was very likely that one of them would not make it through the coming weeks. They were to face and fight beings of great legend – dragons and kings. Slaughtered by their own hands. It was foolish to believe that they would make it through unscathed. it was foolish to think they would all survive. And so as they strolled, arms entwined and heads resting against one another, she chose to enjoy the brief pause in time and hardship. She slowed her steps and looked up at the fierce and unstoppable man of dedication and determination. She looked into his eyes, and truly saw the wariness and exhaustion that lay behind his charming and confident smile. She took his face in her hands, watching the dancing light flicker across his pale skin – and she kissed him, as if she would never kiss him again…

minderp
2017-02-04, 01:37 AM
The deep sea stirred in great unrest, thundering waves rising high and crashing heavily upon each other in a battle of liquid fury. White foam flew from the fray, whipping furling currents in an unrelenting torrent of tide. The small wood ship was battered and bruised as it fought the wave of force, ploughing through the ever-changing direction of the seas path. The morning sky was dark and smothered in dense and vengeful cloud, pouring its contents as if crying a hurricane down from the abyss of the atmosphere. The unstoppable rain made the return journey to Farholde a slow and strenuous one. There was no sleeping aboard a ship that rocked and swayed, threatening to topple over and capsize with every surge of the ocean. When they finally turned their vessel inward, trying to guide its path into the dockyard, it was a relief to all who held fast to its railings. Stepping upon solid ground, Willow felt the tension ease in her limbs. While the dockhands helped tether their ship, she quickly made her way along the pier, glad to be away from the churning turn of the sea.
They had planned to head towards the marketplace as soon as they returned, yet none of them were eager for anything but rest in a stationary bed. They used the transporting arcana once more, teleporting themselves to the safety and comfort of the Silkcreek Homestead.
“How did mission go?” Raiju asked, greeting them in the parlour.
“It was successful,” Pellius reported formally.
“Good,” he nodded, “When do we leave?”
“After a bath,” Willow scoffed, dragging her tired legs through the chamber towards the stairs, “And a long sleep.”
“Have a seat,” Pellius instructed Raiju, “I will fill you in…”


Although clean and relaxed, wrapped within the silk sheets of her bed, Willow found sleep evaded her. Her mind was not interested in the soothing temptation of slumber – her mind was churning with details and worries. Fed up with tossing and turning, she rose from the sheets, tying her nightgown around her before making her way to the writing desk. With the curtains pulled shut, she had no worry of the sun’s harsh light burning her glistening pale skin. As she retrieved her journal, she frowned with thought of the sun. She had forgotten how much she had missed the feeling of the bright morning rays upon her face. Everyday she had worn her shroud, its magic encompassing her fragile skin from the wrath of the blistering ball of light. It had become routine to wake early before dawn arrived, bathe and dress, clothing herself within the magic of the cloak before setting out into the day. It was a curious feeling. The sun was ever present, an uncomfortable annoyance, as if her skin was in a state of constant light sweat. It was not during the day that she noticed; it was when she retired each evening and removed the shroud that her skin felt as if it had been gently suffocating throughout the daylight hours. She had become used to the sickness low in her stomach. It did not leave her anymore. Though she continued her duties with a face of confidence, she felt the sickly touch of death that surrounded her. How curious, she thought, that one could be so alive and yet so very close to death. The transformation of the vampiric curse was far slower than she had thought. The idea of simply dying one day soon, only to reawaken, was severely unnerving.
“I thought you would be fast asleep by now, my lady,” came Pellius’ voice, snapping her mind from her thoughts.
She had been so far away within the morbid illusion of the transformation, that she had not heard his approach.
“It seems I cannot sleep,” she shrugged, “There is simply too much on my mind.”
“Anything I may help with?” he asked gently, entering the chamber with his armour layered in hand.
“I do not think so,” she smiled, “It is the same questions and curiosities as always. A great foe we must defeat, an infallible plan we must create, and a great black wyrm we must grovel to.”
Pellius smirked at her answer, “Is that all?”
“Not the half of it,” she chuckled.
“We will go over our plans later,” he reassured, “For now, we may rest our bodies and our minds.”
“That is easier said than done.”
Pellius smiled as he finished arranging his armour on the shelf, strolling leisurely to the liquor cabinet and pulling free a bottle of thick red wine.
“What were you thinking of just now?” he asked, pouring two glasses for them, “You were lost in thought.”
Willow sighed as she accepted the offered glass, watching the burgundy liquid as she swirled it around the crystal.
“In the dragon’s library,” she began, a small frown pulling on her brow, “I found a book on the chronicles of a thousand year old vampire prince. He spoke of the transformation from human to vampire. Most transformations take mere days to come full cycle, and most are reborn as spawn, or as thrall’s of their maker. Yet his transformation was much like our own. Slower, and drawn out. It was months before he finally died…”
As Willow’s thoughts continued, her mouth ceased to speak the words that ran through her head.
“And?” Pellius urged, making her realise she had stopped speaking.
“That is what frightens me,” she said quietly, “We are to… die.”
“And be reborn,” he smiled, “Into something greater.”
“Reborn… and that does not scare you?” she asked, eyes of telling despair looking back at him.
“No,” he shrugged, “It is a chance. We are fortunate enough to be able to foresee our deaths, and be promised a life that continues passed the demise of our flesh.”
Willow frowned upon his words, she could see the benefit clearly, but the thought of having to die for it seemed a great and heavy weight to bear.
“Why do you suppose it is drawing out so?” she asked.
“We have no way of knowing,” he answered vaguely, “What did the book say?”
“He mused that stronger willed creatures inadvertently fought the transformation,” she recalled, “The will of the soul too strong to simply submit to the curse.”
“Perhaps that is your answer. For it takes immeasurable will for a mortal to stand against the tide of a nation, all for what they believe and know is true.”
Willow smirked at the thought, “You make us sound like heroes.”
“Not heroes,” he smiled, shaking his head softly, “We are harbingers of true order…”


While they used their day of peace to plan their attack on the inhabitants of Straya Avarna, they sent a pair of their servants to the city with a list of items and precautions to retrieve. Knowing how short their time was, upon the return of their purchases, they made for Farholde before midnight had arrived. The docks were sure to deserted that late into the night, but Willow was still acutely aware that the sight of a fearsome and fire-blazing nessian warhound was guaranteed to raise trouble. Much to Sith’s obvious disgust, Garvana used her strange arcana to shift his form into that of a simple steed. Although his flaming coat was not visible, he still left a trail of scorched paw prints along their path. Among the more curious purchases they had made, Willow had demanded a flank of fireproof material to wrap around the great beast, to shield the wooden ship from the worst of his inferno. When she tied the sheet around his torso and fastened it in a knot around his neck, he huffed an unimpressed growl. Willow grinned in response, whispering into his ear that he was still a mighty and fearsome beast, even with a bow atop his head.
The storm had finally passed over the north-western end of Talingarde, leaving the seas still and calm as they casted off into the night. As they made their way towards the grand island, the winds blew hard from the north, pushing the ship along with ease. Although Willow was dejected at the idea of another few nights upon the swaying waves, the alternative was far less tasteful. When she had mentioned the lack of need for the ship, now that they knew the location of Straya Arvana, Garvana had cautioned her sternly. While upon the island, she had detected a strange lingering charm upon the crystal, that warded it from intrusion through the means of teleportation. She had told them of the enchantments effect – a misdirection with no guarantee of the arriving location. Only the most confident and practised wizards were likely to be successful at such a task. And so they had boarded the ship once more and Willow found herself leaning upon the railing, staring out to sea as she urged the aiding wind to push them along even faster than it was.

When their three days at sea had come to end, and the glittering expanse once more lingered upon the horizon, the Forsaken were prepped for battle. As the crystalline reefs appeared beneath them, Bor cast his mysterious magic that allowed them to walk atop the water. Both Bor and Pellius stepped out onto the ocean, guiding the small ship towards the pier, eyes peeled for the glorious aquatic consort. There was no hiding their purpose this time. Each of them wore their full sets of armour, blood stained weapons and sharpened blades strapped to their legs and backs, expressions of cold determination painted on their faces. Willow held her blades tightly in hand, searching the tide of sapphire for any sign of the coastal guardian. As they neared the pier, the soft voice crooned from beneath the waves.
“You’ve returned,” Setia replied cheerfully, peering up above the surface.
When her eyes locked to the enormous hellhound aboard the ship – her face of delight morphed into sheer fury. Before she could dive back under the water, Willow swiftly leapt over the side of the ship as Pellius dropped the rope tethered to the hull, both of them charging across the surface towards the consort. With her blades flashing, Willow carved them outward, tearing deeply through scales and flesh. Pellius withdrew his frightening greataxe from its hold, as his thundering steps trembled the sea beneath him. As the consort splashed white water that showered the lagoon, he cried his petrifying wrath and cleaved his mighty weapon across her back. Setia let out a screech of agony as she retreated under the swell, swimming with utter grace as merely a shadow in the dark blue surf. As she launched herself upward with her sapphire trident, Willow dove out of its path, narrowly avoiding the forked weapon. Suddenly, the water beneath them began to move, coursing with vicious might in a vortex of untold speed and power. Though Willow was nimble enough to launch herself out of its grasp, Pellius was not near quick enough. The water churned a ferocious maelstrom, dragging him under violently, as he called out in frustration and panic.
“PELLIUS!” Willow screamed.
She kept to the edge of the vortex, struggling to keep her footing as it wildly lashed in turmoil. She tried desperately to grab hold of his arm, but lost her grip as he was ripped further down into the frenzied whirlpool. As Willow snarled in frustration, Bor dragged the ship quickly to the pier, Garvana and Sith leaping to the safety of the stone. Raiju flew high over head, his curved blade drawn while his keen eyes searched the water. The churn of the vortex wailed as it spun and thrashed about the heavily armoured man, slowly widening its girth as it chaotically twirled, dragging Pellius further down and far passed where they could reach him.
“Garvana!” Willow cried, “Dispel it! Banish it! DO SOMETHING!”
“I am trying!” Garvana roared in exasperation.
“TRY HARDER!”
Standing upon the stone pier, Garvana could do little but cast furiously, sending waves of white feathered arcana rippling across the glistening lake. Vexation took hold of Willow, leaving her screaming in fury, unable to do anything. The Consort in Blue was hidden well beneath the surface, and Pellius was drowning, being battered and beaten by frightful currents. Willow cursed her ineptitude. She could not risk rescuing Pellius, for she would only be caught within the maelstrom herself to drown along with him. She could not swim beneath the water and hunt the cetaceal, for she knew it would be a fatal mistake with her severe lack of fins or tail. She simply had to bide her time, and await her opportunity. The sapphire lagoon abruptly began to rumble beneath her feet, as if the temperature had soared and the sea had set to boil. A grand dome of white, rose from the centre of the lagoon, filling and swelling to the point of breaking. Willow’s eyes widened as she watched the sphere, backing up instinctively as it only continued to grow. With no where to hide standing alone atop the shimmering lake, she slowly exhaled, bracing herself for impact. The white frothing bubble suddenly erupted, in a collision of glistening ice shards and sparking lightening. A shockwave of pure power propelled itself outward, fulminating a crashing tsunami of raw elemental essence. As it swiftly approached Willow, she leaped into the sky with every ounce of strength she had, attempting to soar over the brunt of the force. It seemed as if time slowed, Willow’s graceful limbs spinning through the air, her slender frame launched high above the cresting water. She felt the wave pass beneath her, the lightning burning like sudden flame across the bare skin of her arms and neck. Feeling the flesh smoulder and scorch, she gritted her teeth as her slow descent began. As her feet collided with the hard surface of the enchanted water, she watched the wave of destruction pass by and continue outward. One by one it ploughed into each of the Forsaken, the ice shards ripping shreds of skin from bone, yet freezing the bleeding wounds instantly in an agonisingly cold blizzard. When the wave of force reached the ship, the small wooden vessel stood little chance. Splintered shards of the plank flew through the air, the hull exploding in a shower of glorious proportions. When the torrent crashed into the crystal, the magic seemed to strangely dissipate – leaving the island unscathed. As each of them was swept from their feet, Willow could only pray that Pellius had been spared, trapped within his cage of coursing water. Though Raiju’s skin was raw – his will was not shaken. As the consort lifted her head from the water, he charged towards her through the air, swinging his blade with practiced efficiency. Willow sprinted towards her, but before she was in reach, Setia disappeared below the swell. As she contemplated diving into the sea after her, she heard Garvana’s rushed incantation. She focused on the frenzied vortex that was slowly making its way deeper into the great ocean, and she cast a loud and booming chant. Suddenly, the swirling ceased. With all eyes on the still waters, Setia saw her opportunity. She thrust her trident high as she leaped from the sea, plunging its blades deep into Raiju’s side. The oni cried out in agony as a blast of lightning arced from the sharp points, sending white furling traces directly through his veins. As she retreated once more, the water where the vortex had been rippled with life. Pushed to the surface by the magical enchantment, Pellius appeared – blood trickling from his mouth as he struggled for air.
“Get to shore!” Willow yelled, eyes following the shadow beneath the water.
As she watched his utterly exhausted body limp towards the pier, she backed up slowly herself. Pellius had almost made it to the shallows when Setia appeared once more. With a look of imperishable ire, the cetaceal opened her mouth wide, letting loose a cone a blistering ice. The blast of frosted fury slithered in unfathomable speed along the water, turning each drop to a hard and frozen sheet of ice. When the storm of white vengeance reached them, Willow lunged out of the way. As she moved, her eyes watched the terror unfold. Pellius was no swift and nimble man at the best of times. But as he hauled his barely movable legs towards the solid ground of the shore, the blizzard consumed him. The ice shards pierced deeply into his flesh, the incredible cold sapped the last of his strength, the force hit with such might that it swept him from his feet. Willow’s heart clenched and froze, turning a bitter ice itself as she watched him fall. She saw him die, she saw the life vacant within his eyes as he fell limp into the shallow water. Anger. She felt such anger. There was no sadness that gripped her heart, it was a cold and simply hatred. The vile taste of choler overcame her completely. She struggled to remember Bor dragging him to the shore, she barely noticed Garvana rushing to his side. There was a moment where she thought she saw Garvana breathe an arcane breath deep into his lungs, bringing him back from the teetering edge of death. A moment where she saw him grasp Garvana’s shoulder in panic when he awoke. But the anger and numbed hatred was too strong. She remembered only spinning her blade into a backwards grip and awaiting her moment. When it came, when Setia-Swims-the-Sea-of-Stars lifted her head once more, Willow pounced with every bit of seething fury that swarmed beneath the flesh of her skin. She leaped forward into a run, dismissing the enchantment as Bor had taught her, and dove into the sky with her dagger primed and ready in a two handed grip high over head. As she descended, her blade plunged deep into the cetceal. The weight of her fall propelled the dagger forward as they crashed into the sapphire lake. A cloud of red painted froth exploded from the white foamed sea. The lithe creature cried out underwater, crimson dancing along the current as it flowed from her wounds – but still she was not done. She thrust her trident clumsily towards Willow in anguish and desperation, little coordination left. Though it was truly harder to slip and dodge within the grasp of the lagoon, Willow managed to avoid the worst of the attack. It was then that the malicious incantation could be heard. Garvana’s voice echoed throughout the crystal shielded hollow, her feral words met by feral intent. Slick black tendrils rippled from her fingers, oozing in festering hunger, furling towards the cetaceal. Finally, Willow saw the first sign of fear from the glorious Consort in Blue. Willow reached out and ripped the coral necklace from around her neck, before Setia swam with all her might, in a desperate attempt to escape. Yet she was not fast enough, her reflexes slow as the blood loss only worsened, weakening her will and strength. As the tendrils enveloped her; her wet sleek skin was set ablaze in a sickly firestorm of green and black billowing flames. The savage arcana devoured the first consort whole, leaving not a single trace behind…

For a time, Willow simply floated along with the current beneath the water, allowing it to push and pull her as it willed. Her breath rested lightly within her chest as she closed her eyes and simply moved within the sapphire seas grip. The anger had simmered; the hatred had seeped from her soul as the crimson shadow had seeped through the waters. It was a slow procession that brought her thoughts back to her. Pellius had died. Though, she had seen Garvana bring him back to life, much as she had done to Willow upon the battlefield of Valtaerna. Willow had expected to feel joy and gratitude at his return. She had expected to feel relieved that he was still counted among the living. Yet all she felt was a cold numbness that dulled her senses. Was death always to be such a presence in her life? Was death to be the lovers cold shoulder that forever haunted her thoughts? The worried calls of the others, muffled by the barrier of the heavy sea tide, brought her back to herself. As her name was called with more force, Willow lazily pushed her way to the surface.
“You are alright?” Garvana frowned.
“Yes,” she answered simply, moving through the swell towards the shore.
“Are you hurt?”
Willow sighed as she trudged her way through the shallow waters, “I am fine, Garvana.”
As her sight found Pellius seated upon a boulder shaped crystal, breathing heavily through a wheezing chest, she found her lips pursing.
“And you?” Willow asked him, strange eyes looking him over.
“I am alright, my lady,” he nodded with a small smile.
“You must not make a habit out of this,” Willow replied, arching her brow.
His hefty chuckle forced a torrent of coughs from his chest, making Willow smile despite herself. As she sat herself upon the edge of the pier, she removed her boots and tried to squeeze the soggy mess of water out of them. With little to no luck, she sighed and strapped her feet back into them.
“How do we proceed?” she asked, looking up to the others.
“Pellius needs time to recover his strength,” Garvana said seriously.
“I do not,” he said sternly, pushing himself to his feet, lifting his head.
Though he tried to look spritely and well, his trembling legs deceived his words.
“And I have little magic left,” Garvana continued, “We cannot face the dragon in such a state. It would be suicide.”
“You want to rest here?” Bor balked.
“Of course not,” Garvana scoffed, “That would also be suicide.”
Pellius looked out to the shattered remains of their ship, “Well we cannot return to Talingarde, what other option do we have but to continue?”
“We must teleport to our estate,” she shrugged.
“Did you not say how dangerous that would be?” Willow frowned, “I thought you said it was impossible from the island?”
“Not impossible, just idiotic.”
“And you wish us to try?” Willow laughed.
“Your skill with the wand has not failed us yet, my lady,” Pellius smirked.
“Not yet,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
Looking over the Forsaken, Willow conceded that they indeed needed to rest. They all bore the scorched and bruised remains of the cetaceal’s wrath, and with two more consorts and an ancient dragon to contend with, they needed to be fresh and limber for the fight. She sighed, pulling the wand from her water-soaked pack. As they gathered close once more, Willow closed her eyes and focused on the image of their sanctuary, the parlour of their farmland estate.
When the incantation pulled them through the otherworldly portal and threw them into the lush surrounds of a stately chamber, it did not take long to realise the magic had gone awry. Though they indeed found themselves in the parlour of a richly appointment manor, it was not the one they had claimed as their own.
“What’s going on here?!” grumbled a deep and unknown voice, “Who are you people?!”
Willow’s head shot to the side, surprised to see two vaguely familiar figures shoot up from their seated positions around a small oak table.
“General Vastenus!” Willow said quickly, “I am sorry, we have apparently become lost, our magic has misdirected us here!”
“Who are you?!” he called, “Guards! Intruders!”
There would be no talking their way out of this. Covered in wet and blood soaked armour, in the presence of a vicious nessian warhound and a crimson skinned oni mage, there would be no convincing the general that they meant no harm. As the thundering footsteps barrelled from beyond the door, Willow quickly looked to the others. Pellius swiftly held the door shut as the guardsmen attempted to push their way in. In panic, Willow knew not what to do. They could not take on the entire army by themselves, which is what she surmised they would have to do were they to remain. For General Vastenus was King Markadian’s leader of the righteous crusade. They had landed themselves in the very centre of the Mitran army’s camp. As the voices beyond the door yelled for further aid, Pellius looked to Willow in rushed question. They had an opportunity that they would not likely come across again. They could kill Vastenus and wipe out a top commanding force of the assault. They could take the offer that so easily presented itself, weakening the army from the inside. Yet as the seconds ticked by and the general drew his sword towards them, Willow hushed her hunger. If the army was left with no leader save the glorious King himself, their plans for him to desert the army for his daughter would be put in jeopardy. Would the king choose his daughter over the guaranteed loss of the war? It was far less likely than the alternative.
“Get out of the way,” barked a foreboding voice from outside the chamber, “I’ll handle this!”
With only seconds remaining before they had no choice, Willow made a snap decision.
“Get together!” she cried.
She prayed they had listened swiftly, grasping hold of one another as she recalled the incantation and transported herself from the chamber. Just as the mystical blur of arcana enveloped them, they saw the door explode inward in shatter of splintered wood, forced by hands that glowed a bright and flame-like blue. Suddenly, they were ripped from the scene, and thrown into the safety of their own chamber.
“Damn this thing!” Willow snarled, throwing the wand towards Garvana, “Next time you can do it!”
“Where we where I think we were?” Bor laughed, “Did we end up in the camp of the Mitran army?”
“Yes,” Willow scowled, “It is absurd! Of all the places for the magic to send us! Into the general’s meeting! How ill-conceived!”
“We could have killed him,” Garvana mused, a slight disappointment to her tone.
“Or we could have ended up back in Brandescar!” Willow growled, “With our bodies on the pyre!”
“None of that has come to pass, my lady,” Pellius soothed, laying his hand upon Willow’s shoulder.
“But it could have!” she snapped, “How foolish! All of our work could have been for nothing! More than two years work, destroyed in the blink of an eye, because of that damn thing!”
“Enough!” Pellius commanded, clenching his fingers into Willow’s collarbone, forcing her to cease her rage and listen, “It was an unfortunate mistake, but we have avoided any further repercussions. We were not captured, and they are none the wiser of our plans.”
Willow exhaled slowly, allowing the sharp pain to settle into her bones. She knew not how he understood exactly how to calm her, but as she revelled in the lingering ache, she was very glad he did. When he released his grip and she unintentionally sighed at its loss, he simply smirked knowingly.
“It was not a total waste,” Bor interrupted her haze, “They were going over troop movements. I saw where their men are stationed. They are roughly five weeks march from Daveryn.”
“Only five?” Garvana frowned, “Then we have little time to waste…”

They retired to their chambers early that evening, having revised their plans for the following day and opting for a long rest before they set out once again. As twilight ushered in the passing of dusk, Willow returned to the bedchamber wrapped in a towel, her freshly cleaned hair free of the smell of saltwater and blood. When she entered, she saw Pellius hunched over the writing desk, a deep frown a permanent fixture on his brow. As she closed the door behind her, he snapped his book shut and turned to her with a feigned smile.
“Your bath was enjoyable?” he asked cordially.
“It was,” she replied, arching her brow.
“Very good, my lady,” he inclined his head, doing his best to guide the book into the desk drawer unnoticed.
Whether he realised it or not, Willow clearly saw his attempt at secrecy, but chose not to point it out. Instead, she simply continued into the chamber, hanging her towel over the armchair as she began to change into her nightgown.
“Do you wish to talk about it?” she asked softly.
“About what, my lady?” he replied.
“About today, Pellius.”
“What about it?” he shrugged nonchalantly, “We were successful in our first task, and we shall also be successful tomorrow.”
“Pellius,” Willow sighed, slipping the silk over her head and slowly walking to his side, “You do not always have to appear strong and infallible, you don’t always have to be alright.”
“I am fine, my lady,” he reassured, though his eyes spoke more than his words would, “Your concern is touching, but misplaced.”
She looked to his face, reading how closed off and unwilling to talk he seemed to be. Yet she knew well how confronting the reality of death was. She sat beside him and chose her words carefully.
“To have seen the otherside and return is not a weakness,” she said gently, “It is a strength, for now we know what awaits us. But it alright for it to have shaken you. It would shake any mortal.”
“I am fine, Willow,” he said shortly.
“Pellius,” she sighed, “It may help to talk about it, it may help you process it all. I know how strange it all was for me… Tell me, what did you see?”
He looked to her, unreadable thought in his eyes.
“I do not wish to speak of it, my lady,” he replied finally, “But I know now I have been given another chance to continue to succeed. The gates of hell have not opened to me yet. And while Asmodeus wills it, I will remain here and fight in his name.”
It was a slender slip of an answer, but Willow could tell it was all she was going to get.
Pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, she sighed, “And so will we all…”

minderp
2017-02-04, 01:38 AM
It was a bright morning of gentle sun that greeted them as they arrived in the parlour, dressed and ready to return to Straya Arvana. The plan was simple. They would wager that the Consort in Green was resting in much the same position that they had found her upon their first meeting; entwined with the elder cherry tree at the centre of her garden. They had no time to waste, no time to procure a second ship and squander days upon the sea. They had little choice but to roll the dice, and chance that the magic of the wand would see them true to the crystalline island. Much to her dismay, Willow was once again tasked with the use of the curious and troublesome arcana.
“We must remember to be quick and efficient,” Pellius instructed, “We mustn’t waste our energy on the consorts. Eirmanthus is our main target. We will not be able to retreat again. It will be our only chance, if we wish to retain the element of surprise.”
“But we must deal with the consorts first,” Garvana insisted, “We cannot risk them coming to his aid.”
“Agreed,” Pellius nodded, “But we need to be quick. We must all be ready to fight.”
As they lay a hand on each others shoulder, linking their bond of transportation, Willow closed her eyes and inhaled a deep and mellowing breath. With the image of the elder tree fixed in her mind, she exhaled. She rasped the arcane incantation, wand gripped in one hand, dagger clutched in the other. The grasp of the otherworldly portal promptly took hold, pulling her through the turbulent void and propelling her forward into the unknown. The ride through the vacuum was far more strenuous than it had been before. They were torn across the unseen expanse, hurled into a chasm as their bones were stretched within their limbs, forced to collide with battering winds of chaotic tempest. The grip of Pellius’ hand began to lose its hold, his fingers sliding from their grasp on her shoulder. Panic rapidly overwhelmed her, as her senses screamed in protest, as if they knew the dire fate that would await them were he to slip. Though no sound came from her mouth, Willow shrieked in a surge of willpower. With her mind, she reached out and seized control of the wild raging arcana, steering its course forward. With no knowledge of how, she commanded the path towards the island home of Eiramanthus, narrowing her thoughts with utter conviction to the fragile garden of his second consort. Suddenly, the were thrown from the vortex violently, crashing heavily into the coloured soil of the forested glen. As the world spun around them and slowed to an unsteady sway; they saw the Consort in Green as they had wagered – entwined around her beloved blossom. With not a moment to lose, the Forsaken leapt forward and demanded bloodshed.
With the element of surprise and the absence of the disadvantage of water – both of the remaining consorts fell swiftly. Though Sakura had shown them nothing but kindness, they knew well that she would have given her last breath to warn the great copper dragon of their intentions. With steeled hearts and ferocious blades, they ended the fight forthwith, eliminating the two planar beings in rapid succession.
As the enchanting magic that encompassed their valour dwindled with each second that passed, they entered the dragon’s domain without delay. In hand Willow carried three glorious pieces of jewellery. The first was turquoise coral necklace lined with glistening sea pearls larger than any found on the shores of Talingarde. The second was a beautiful necklace of exquisite amber and darkest ebony wood strung upon a delicate strand of mithral. And the third, a beautiful band of entwined golden wires layered in blazing fire red opals. All three were personal gifts from the dragon to his consorts. When they stepped into the glistening white dome, where the great copper scaled Eiramanthus turned to greet his guests, she threw the three necklaces at his feet.
“YOU MURDERED THEM?!” the beast roared in fury, “You murdered my beloveds to get to me?! Bastards! Monstrosities! You wish to fight a dragon, eh? Then a fight you shall have!”
A ferocious wave of terror blew from the copper beast as he stretched his body tall to his full height. He roared, the mighty sound trembling the walls of the great white dome. Willow had not sensed the frightening aura before, though she would have to be daft to not realize the extreme power of the ancient wyrm. He let loose what he had been shielding them from; the raw fury of a dragon scorned. As the dragon reared back to lash out his great clawed foot, Willow ripped a dagger free from its sheath and threw it with all her might. Eiramanthus growled in pain at it struck deep into his shoulder, piercing through the layered scales to sink beneath the flesh. Suddenly, the crashing torrent of bitter terror swept throughout the chamber. Willow felt the swarming dread slither across her skin, as if thousands of unseen tendrils wrapped along her flesh and seeped deeply into her core. Her limbs seized in panic, her heart thundering in her chest, her mind spinning in the embrace of trepidation. As the thought to flee the presence of the grand and fabled beast overwhelmed her mind, a single strength within Willow repelled the idea. Upon trembling legs, she clenched her teeth and surged her willpower. She drew from deep within her, reaching for the fury to rise to the surface and come forth to meet the dragon head on. As Pellius roared a breath of pure malice, Willow felt his dark and infernal glow encompass her. It was the push that she so desperately needed. His throbbing drum of infernal wrath was much like a song of battle that called and demanded his comrades to arms. As she spared a glance to the others, she saw that they to felt his urging, allowing the inspiring ire to lift them from the grip of terror. Willow paced her footsteps, circling wide around the dragon, watching his next move fixedly. Eiramanthus snarled a livid cry, unleashing a rush of blistering acid. The acid was thick and vast, as it sprayed its venom towards the Forsaken, showering most of them in its festering broth. With Raiju flying high in the air, and Sith following Willow’s lead to the rear of the great beast, they were safe from the flow his anger. Upon contact of the others, it smoldered and seared open flesh, melting and decomposing steel and leather. Garvana hissed in agony as she launched a pellet of flame towards the dragon in response. When the fire impacted, it exploded into an inferno of billowing scarlet flames. Though the glistening copper scales of the mighty dragon were charred black and crisp, he leapt into the air upon rasping wings, hovering a few feet from the ground. Raiju chanted an incantation in a curious and unfamiliar language, opening his mouth wide to shroud the dragon in shards of cutting ice and frozen clouds of turbulence. Flanked from beneath, Sith breathed the flames of hell from below, in an onslaught on all sides by vicious and baleful arcane mass. As Eiramanthus began to beat his wings faster, rising higher in the tall domed chamber, Willow charged from her rest, and leapt into the air with her blades flashing. She propelled herself upward, carving her blades into the side of a low hanging leg, dragging them deeper and forward with the weight of her descent. The dragon roared as he retracted his back legs and pushed himself high into the dome. As Willow fell, she tucked into a roll as best she could, and simply relaxed her body against the impact of the ground as it hit. When she sprang up from the white tiles, she watched the dragon latch on to the domed ceiling and swing himself downward, hanging from the eaves much like an enormous bat. Willow cursed under her breath as she looked to the others. The had little means of reaching him so high in the dome, and the great copper dragon would of course be wise enough to realize it. They needed to lure him into a smaller room, one whose ceiling rose only high enough to still allow them reach.
“You are quick to assume we have killed your consorts,” Willow called loudly, trying to by them time, “And not simply captured them…”
“You come to me covered in their blood,” Eiramanthus growled.
“Do you think they would come with us willingly?” Willow scoffed.
The dragon gazed at her with venom in his eyes, before he quietly spoke.
“I’m listening…”
“We are at an impasse,” Bor said, seeming to follow Willow’s thought, “We have no choice. We are tasked with your death, by the command of the terrible Chargammon the Black. We can see no alternative.”
For a moment, Bor’s words seemed to truly perplex the copper dragon.
“You’re actually working for that old wyrm?!” he balked, hanging from his perch, “Ye gods and greasy green gargoyles are you mad? You must know the blackheart is going to betray you!”
“What other option do we have!” Bor snarled, “It is your life, or ours!”
“You can return my girls,” Eiramanthus suggested, in voice dripping with malicious warning, “And then leave my island, and never return.”
As the Forsaken slowly backed up towards the staircase, Willow scowled her answer.
“That is no option…”
Swiftly, they retreated for the library together. As Pellius reached the staircase first, he waited for Willow as she sprinted across the chamber. She heard the thundering sound of the dragon dropping to the floor, shaking the ground as she ran. Pellius brandished his weapon menacingly as he waited for Willow to pass. When they made it to the library floor, they quickly healed the worst of their wounds and awaited the dragon’s decent. The sounds of distant chanting drifted down the stairs as a billowing wave of mist rolled down each crystal step. The stairwell was blocked by the curious and clouding fog, that simply lingered in white undulating haze. Though the others held fast with their weapons ready, Willow backed up instinctively.
“That is bad mist,” Raiju frowned, lifting himself into the air as he withdrew from the touch of the fog, “Muddle your brain.”
As they chanting suddenly ceased, Willow continued her retreat backward. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as she felt the presence of eyes upon her. With her daggers tightly in hand, she spun around quickly, preparing to attack or defend. In the far end of the ceiling, she saw a carved portion of the stone missing, the enormous head of the great copper beast peering through.
“Behind us!” Willow cried, as she lifted another throwing blade from its sheath and hurled it towards him.
Raiju was the first to respond, already floating in the air, his curved sword drawn and gleaming. He flew through the air at a frightening speed, cleaving his weapon with his charge, unheeded by the torrent of acid that the dragon let loose. With blistering skin and corroding armour, the scarlet skinned creature slashed his sword with might and finesse. As the blade hacked through the dragons eye, he recoiled in agony. As his immense neck collided with the newly carved stone of his opening, it shattered the ceiling in a cascade of cracks and splits, fracturing beneath the weight of the ancient wyrm. With his head trapped in the ring of stone, he was unable to fly free of the collapsing floor. As shards and chunks of heavy stone rained upon them, the Forsaken rushed to dive from the wreckage. The foundation crumbled in a great flourish of debris, as Eirmanthus plummeted to the library floor. Though Willow had met some peculiar beings, that acted in ways far passed her comprehension; the copper dragons’ next response simply topped them all.
“How can you tell that a crab is drunk?” he grinned, an intense arcane charm drifting to the Forsaken’s ears, “He walks forwards…”
Willow suddenly felt the temptation to laugh, as forced giggles rippled from her chest. To her left, she saw Bor, Garvana and Raiju fall to the floor in uncontrolled laughter. To her right, she watched Sith, in a curious frenzy of rasping sniggers. From across the room, she saw Pellius grinning in easy laughter, as she as well struggled to contain her giggles. The joke itself, was a fairly dull one. But the enchantment she felt that enforced its punchline was almost too much to control. Yet as she watched the others, overcome with laughter, she knew she had to fight it. With a grin on her face and chest that convulsed with giggles, she launched herself towards Eiramanthus. As Pellius followed her lead, laughing his way in an unsavoury mix of gleeful amusement and frightful rancour – they flanked the dragon and lunged to attack. Their blades tore through the glistening scales and devoured the flesh beneath. Willow carved each blade into the hide in a vicious and fatal onslaught. Even as Eiramanthus cried out and heaved for air through blood filled lungs, she did not relent. She screamed her fury and laughed in forced glee as she slashed her daggers repeatedly. With a cackle that made her blood chill, Pellius hefted his greatsword and cleaved the head of the dragon off in a single foul swoop. As the great beast fell to the floor, the white tiles trembled beneath their feet. A cloud of dust and debris flew from the ground, his weight violently shaking the dome causing books and tomes to fall from their shelves. When the cloud settled upon the immense carcass of the copper dragon, the Forsaken were finally released from the enchanted laughter. Together, they breathed a shared sigh of exhausted relief. As Willow slid her daggers into their sheathes, sinking back against the wall in fatigue, a sudden slow clap sounded from the stairwell. As the source of the sound neared, she ripped her blades free again and span towards the noise. The others did much the same, alert and wary, raising their weapons – preparing to continue the fight.
“Once more, it is well done, my lords,” a charming and rasping voice crooned.
Crimson skin shining in radiant contrast to the velvet ebony of his formal robes, a crown of protruding horns layered along his skull, rows of sharp pointed teeth smiling in a wicked greeting – Dessiter of the Phistophilus stood before them.
“Though I am afraid,” he continued, bowing low and respectful to them, “That this grand victory will be short lived.”
Willow did not lower the threat of her daggers as her brow arched in question.
“And why do you say that?” she asked coldly, shrewd eyes locked to his.
“It is my unwelcome and solemn duty to inform you,” he replied, seeming unbothered by Willow’s menace, “That you have been betrayed.”
“By whom?” she replied cautiously, narrowing her eyes.
“When this mission is complete,” he told them gravely, “I know for certain that you will receive an invitation to visit Cardinal Thorn in his secret fortress far to the north. He named it the Agathium, the place of agony, in parody of the great palace of the House of Darius – the Adarium. He will summon you to his throne, and there, he will destroy you.”
Willow’s eyes shot to Pellius, connecting in a glance of intense realization. Slowly, Willow lowered her blades, though she did not sheath them.
“Why would he do that?” Garvana asked Dessiter, though Willow surmised she already knew the answer.
“Paranoia has seized his mind and driven the Cardinal to madness,” he replied grimly, “He has grown to fear you. He is terrified that you rise too quickly and someday soon you will supplant him. With every victory, with every deed, he sees the future more and more clearly. It is a future where he is no longer master of the Knot of Thorns.”
“How do you know this?” Willow asked suspiciously.
“I have heard it from the lips of the master himself. Even now, he sets the trap. If you go to the Agathium at my dear sister’s invitation, you will die.”
“Sister?” Bor frowned.
“Tiadora,” he smirked, “We share a bond… uncommon amongst devils.”
“And you would see us kill your sister?” Willow questioned, arching her brow, “You would well know that if we defy her request, she is bound to try to bring us there by force – dead or alive. Her death sits easily with you?”
“She will not truly die,” Dessiter disregarded, “She will simply return to hell. Tiadora is bound by spell and oath to the master. As long as he lives and possesses control of her, she will do his bidding. I doubt she bears you any true malice. She is simply following orders. But if you could free her from Thorn, she could be a useful ally.”
“Why should we trust you?” Pellius frowned.
“A just question, my lord,” he replied, inclining his head, “In this time of treachery and dark maneuvering, you should trust no one. I come to you with counsel and a warning. Tiadora has already given you the clay seal. When you break it, she will visit you once more and when she does she will offer to take you to the Agathium. If you do not believe me, then by all means, go…”
He shrugged simply, holding out his hands, “In a way, though you do not trust me, I am trusting you. There is nothing stopping you from betraying me to Cardinal Thorn besides the truth of my warning. No, if I wanted you dead, far easier to do nothing.”
He smiled, looking between Pellius and Willow.
“But you know my warning is true, don’t you? You can sense your master’s growing distrust of you. Once he appeared to you in person, did he not? Now he sends only proxies. Why would he do this unless fear of your magnificent power builds up within him? The truth is that he was worried about you since you held the Horn for eight months. That worry turned into genuine fear when you slew Ara Mathra. And now you are poised to gain the service of Chargammon the Black. Who can blame him for being a little nervous.”
“Why do you help us?” Willow asked curiously, “What do you stand to gain by aiding us?”
“I care not one with which of you rules Talingarde,” he said simply, “I would see my infernal master restored to the prominence he deserves and I fear that the Cardinal Thorn is no longer capable of the deed. He is beset by doubts and gripped by fears. This is not the manner of an Asmodean conqueror. In you, I see an alternative. In you, my lords, I see a band far stronger than Cardinal Thorn ever was. You will complete Thorn’s plan and return Talingarde to the hands of my master! You will be lords of a new realm where my master is honoured above all other gods!”
“That is a mighty and devout sentiment,” Pellius commented, though his cold tone betrayed his warm words, “But it seems you are not telling us everything. Why do you doubt Thorn?”
Dessiter smiled to Pellius, as if he had been expecting such a question and could not wait to share his answer.
“Bronwyn of Balentyne was truly a beauty without compare,” he began theatrically, “She was so beautiful, she captured the heart of a Cardinal of the Church of Mitra.”
“Samuel Havelyn,” Willow interjected, her mind churning upon the suspicions that started to clear into facts.
Dessiter looked to her with shrewd eyes, seeming once more surprised at her knowledge of hidden and shrouded truths, yet he nodded.
“Samuel became obsessed with her,” he continued “And she, alas, fell in love with Samuel’s brother, Lord Thomas of Havelyn. Such a tragedy. They had one child before Bronwyn died in childbirth – a son named Richard. That child has now grown to manhood and become a paladin. Cardinal Thorn should be hunting this paladin to the ends of the earth. But he cannot bear to murder his nephew, the last remaining vestige of his beloved Bronwyn’s blood. Yes, Cardinal Adrastus Thorn is Samuel Havelyn, but it seems you already knew that. And though he never forgave his brother Thomas, even sending you to kill him, he has also never stopped loving Bronwyn. It is love that clouds his judgment. Love has made him weak. The Paladin greatly threatens our plans. He has left the side of the king and quests to destroy the Tears of Achlys. He rebuilds his band and hunts my master’s followers from one end of Talingarde to the other. And yet, Thorn does nothing!”
“We have met Sir Richard,” Willow frowned, “It was he and his band that tracked us to the Horn of Abbadon. We struck him down, yet curiously they were equipped with a targeted spell to bypass the shielding of the Horn. Do you suppose Cardinal Thorn intervened?”
“It is possible, my lord,” Dessiter nodded, “He has done his best to shield the paladin from the fated death he must meet.”
“What would you have us do?” Garvana queried.
“You honour me, O great lord,” he bowed low, “By asking my counsel. Complete your mission. Slay the King. But refuse the summons. Instead, you must find the Cardinal’s heart. Perhaps you have guessed by now, that the Cardinal is not a living man. By the might of my master, he is reborn – a lich. Like all liches, he is bound to a phylactery. While that survives, Thorn is undefeatable. Find it and you will be able to finally defeat the Cardinal.”
“Find it?” Garvana frowned, “You do not know where it is?”
“Cardinal Thorn keeps that secret, my lords. I cannot say now where it is, but I promise you, I will not cease to search for it. If it can be found, I will accomplish the deed.”
Willow slipped her daggers into their sheaths, a frown across her brow as she strolled to the side of the debris scattered chamber, as she leant against the wall.
“You know we are bound by contract,” she said curiously, “You know we are sworn to do him no harm. You have a way around this I suppose?”
“Ah, yes,” he smiled slyly, “Now we come to the crux of the matter. It is true that you are bound by the Pact of Thorns. To break an oath to my dark master is a serious matter. Even if there are no repercussions while you live, when you eventually die, well what did the contract say? Let they who violate this compact suffer all the wrath of Hell unending? Not pleasant to be sure. But fear not. I have found a loophole…”
Willow’s brow rose slowly, as she awaited his answer. When it didn’t come, she exhaled sharply, frustrated eyes looking him over.
“And that loophole is…?” she scowled.
“My lords,” he inclined his head once more, “Know that if it were up to me, I would tell you immediately. However, I am bound by my dark lord to first demand a task of you. Within the Adarium is a powerful enemy of my lord – Brigit of the Brijidine. She moves against us. Slay her and then I shall rid you of your burden. When the king and Brigit are dead, we shall speak again.”
“Thank you,” Garvana replied, “Your service is appreciated.”
“You honour me too much, my lord,” Dessiter bowed low, “We will speak again soon. And know, that the Dark Father ever watched your deeds…”

After the commotion settled, the Forsaken saw to the remaining tasks awaiting them upon Straya Arvana. With the dragons’ enormous body limp within the library, Willow and Pellius quickly made their way to archives to assure they were left unquestioned and alone. As they opened the doors, painted in the blood of the grand beast, they saw the same peculiar visitor stood within the stacks. Willow was amazed it had not overheard or observed any of the battle that thundered in the domed chambers, but as it turned to them, its clear eyes quickly took in the sight of them and it instinctively called forth an incantation of ethereal blades that swarmed around it.
“We mean you no harm,” Willow said sternly, keeping her daggers within their sheathes, “We have no quarrel with you. But the dragon Eiramanthus is no longer. You are welcome to take the tomes that you are studying with you, but you must leave this place, now.”
The curious creature eyed her for a moment, wariness slowing each movement it made.
“NOW!” Pellius growled viciously.
Wordlessly with hastened hands, it gripped the small pile of tomes from the desk, slamming its fist into a bizarre contraption on its chest. With not a sound, it vanished from sight.
“Do you think it will be trouble?” Pellius asked suspiciously.
Willow’s brows rose as she considered his thought.
“No,” she said quietly, “If it does return, we shall be long gone from this place…”


Eimranthus’ treasures were far more than they could simply carry; extensive amounts of gold and silver, vast piles of curious and rare objects and trinkets, dwarfed by the countless collections of books and tomes. They wished not to leave any of the possible wealth behind, yet were faced with the arduous task of it’s retrieval.
“We cannot teleport it out of here,” Garvana frowned, “And we haven’t the time to sew it all into fabric.”
“We would need a very large ship to transport it all,” Bor mused.
“And we would need men to man it,” Willow added.
“Do we not have over a hundred men making their way to Ghastenhall right now?” Pellius offered.
“They should be almost there,” she nodded, smiling at his thought.
“And what else do we have for them to do?” he continued, “Save lounging around amounting to nothing.”
“Surely amongst their number there is to be a few who have had experience with sailing the seas?” Willow suggested.
“Surely,” he smirked.
“Then it is settled,” Garvana agreed, “We will send the men to retrieve all we leave behind.”
As they took all they could carry in their packs and pockets, Willow was quick to ensure she collected most of the elegant and lavish jewellery. Among the treasures she refused to leave to the men, was a flank of material that glimmered in curious black and silver, as if the ebony silk was made from sparkling motes of light and wells of darkness. She knew that they would be headed for the grand city of Matharyn soon, and planned to visit the high court seamstress to commission the silk to be made into a glorious gown – one fit for a queen.

Before the sun made its decent into dusk, the Forsaken returned to the dark and foreboding hollow of the great black wyrm. They were not foolish enough to teleport directly into his flooded grotto, instead appearing in the scalded rock cavern of his entrance, with the head of the great copper dragon beside them. As they approached the opening of Chargammon’s domain, Bor dragged the bloodied skull with him.
“Great and mighty lord!” Willow called loudly, “We have seen your errand through to its end! We present you the severed head of Eiramanthus!”
From the festering broth that encompassed the cave, the fearsome wyrm lifted its head into view. As he rose and stretched to his full height, the terrible beast laughed. It was a dark and brooding hiss that would have chilled the spine of even the bravest men. A sound more feral than a thousand savages in feast. Though it seethed its way into Willow’s skin, sickening her to the core, she could only surmise that the wyrm was pleased.
“It has been a long time since I have feasted upon the flesh of a princess,” Chargammon hissed, “So be it. Tonight is the new moon. One month hence, at the moonless midnight – I will gorge upon the flesh of House Darius.”
“We thank you, great one,” Willow bowed low, “May the lands of Talingarde forever remember you as the greatest terror, and be struck with the unrelenting horror that you wield!”
“Oh,” he snarled with petrifying malice, “They will!”
The ferocious beast turned his head to the rear of the cavern, where Jeratheon cowered in the shadows.
“Weak and wretched thing,” Chargammon rasped, “Come forth!”
For a moment, it seemed as if his spawn would stand up to his sire, raising his head in defiance. Suddenly, Chargammon growled and lashed out, biting Jeratheon upon the raw spot on his neck where he had been chained by the thunderbird. The ebony dragon yelped in pain and recoiled in terror. His sire seized the opportunity and pounced with frightening speed, pinning his son against the grotto wall. For a brief moment, it appeared as if Chargammon may rip his own son’s throat from his neck. But instead, he spoke.
“You are my greatest failure!” he hissed with utter venom, “My greatest shame! To be captured by filthy birds and rescued by men. I should snap your neck and eat your wretched heart! Death is better than you deserve and it is a mercy I shall deny you. Instead, I sentence you to a century of servitude. For one hundred years, you shall be slave to the subcreatures who saved your worthless hide. Obey their every word or I shall see you suffer as you deserve. Get your carcass from my sight!”
“Father, please!” Jeratheon begged in protest, “No!”
“YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME!”
Chargammon lunged towards the young dragon, snarling and snapping his teeth in bitter warning. With pure terror in his eyes, Jeratheon fled from the chamber without so much as a glance behind him. The great black wyrm hissed in distaste, before settling his unnerving gaze upon the Forsaken.
“He’s yours now,” he hissed, “Treat him as he deserves and return him to me in a hundred years. Now leave, sub-creatures. Return not to my dominion. I will not spare your lives a third time…”

With the promise of the great black wyrm, the Forsaken left the malevolent caverns in haste and returned to the sanctuary of their estate. While they had been gone, their leagues of men had finally arrived in Ghastenhall. Pellius was quick to take command, setting the servants to their mission and preparing them for their journey to Straya Arvana. When he spoke of the crystalline island, a wave of worry and wary came upon their men. They had all heard of the great Eiramanthus, stories and ballads of the ancient beast off the shores of Talingarde. Were he alive, they would have right to worry. As Pellius retold the tale of the death of the legendary copper dragon, the air changed. Some showed sheer disbelief at his words, some showed renewed fear towards their masters. But most were simply eager to get their hands on the vast amounts of uncountable wealth. Their orders were followed by a terrifying warning, spoke in a resonating and venomous tone. The magnificent wealth would bring only the most grievous repercussions were they to think of thieving or mutiny.
After plans had been made to procure a large ship the following morning, the ranks of the Forsaken took rest for the evening. When Pellius returned to the bedchamber that night, he entered to find Willow dressing in her armour, having packed the last of her belongings into her bag.
“Eager to return?” he chuckled, arching his brow in question.
Willow smiled, a strange unease sitting low in her stomach.
“You realise we do not leave until tomorrow eve, my lady?” he asked.
“You, do not leave until then,” she corrected quietly.
“Where is it you are going?” he asked, though he seemed to already know her answer.
“I shall be heading to the city early,” she said vaguely.
“May I enquire what for?”
“You may enquire,” she smirked, tightening her breastplate, “But you know I would not be entirely truthful.”
Pellius smiled, as he inclined his head and leant upon the door frame.
“You have unfinished business,” he said in understanding, “But, my lady, do you think it wise to seek closure unaccompanied?”
“Wise?” she laughed, “Not at all. But, it must be done this way.”
“You know that we would aid you?” he said softly, “You know that we would help you, we would see you through and ensure your vengeance?”
Willow sighed gently, strapping the buckles of her sheathes closed.
“I know,” she exhaled, “But I must do this alone.”
“Will you promise me something?” he asked, walking towards her slowly.
“That depends entirely on what it is.”
He stepped closer, lifting her chin with his finger as he looked deeply into her eyes.
“If the threat is too great,” he said seriously, “If it is too much for you to take on alone… allow me to aid you. You are not alone in this world, Willow. You have allies, friends… lovers…”
As the worry lingered in his gaze, as his words at once warmed her heart and chilled her core; she suspired.
“I will not make a promise I cannot keep,” she said truthfully.
Though disappointment was clear as he looked at her, he simply smiled.
“Then do not promise,” he said, “Just remember it.”
With her hand reaching to caress his cheek, she stretched up high onto her toes to press her lips to his softly. When she pulled back, her face hardened as she moved out of his grip.
“There is an inn called the Brighthorn in the eastern side of Wayburn,” she said formally, “Find the bartender named Castian. I will send word in a few days when I have completed my task.”
Without waiting for his reply, unable to face a further good bye, Willow commanded the wand and strode through the ethereal portal. As the rasping arcana flung her forward, she stepped out into the shadowed caress of a familiar burned and abandoned temple. As she looked around the remnants of the Asmodean shrine, the memories flooded her mind. So much of her life had changed with the discovery of these walls. It was here that she had first found her Infernal Lord’s touch. It was here that she had met the cunning and conniving man that had thrown her world into utter and blissful turmoil. It was here that she had discovered that there was something about her, something unlike any other woman she had met. In these walls she had truly met herself. She had uncovered her way forward in the world, she had discovered that she was to walk the way of the wicked.
Her steps to the open door way were slow and deliberate. Her mind played over the long journey that had seen her come full circle. It was fitting, she thought, that she had returned with another plan to eliminate the princess. Though this time there would be no poisoned drink, no shadow in the night, and foremost, no failure. This time her assassin would be the foulest creature that roamed the land. He would not slip in unnoticed or hide his approach from the eyes of others. He would bring with him a wave of such terror that men would turn from their own god in hopes of saviour. And there she would be – victorious. Though her motives had changed, she would be ready to complete the plan she had created so long ago – to extinguish the Markadian line.
Looking out into the moonlit night, Willow saw that the overgrown forest had not yet managed to completely hide the grand city of Matharyn from view. As her eyes searched the expansive metropolis on the horizon, she felt the wicked grin creep high upon her lips, and the anticipation thud loudly in her chest.
With a heart full of hunger for the taste of vengeance, and the will to see it complete, she whispered into the night, “I’m home…”

minderp
2017-02-12, 03:17 AM
The scuff of smooth leather footsteps rasped along the cobblestone streets, darkened alleys shadowed by a cloud filled night sky, torchlights casting struggling yellow glow eerily across the slender hovels. The city was quiet, most of its inhabitants trapped within the grasp slumber, only the wretched and inebriated still walking through the winding corridors as midnight approached. A slip of a figure, hooded and cloaked, quietly prowled within the shadows of overhanging awnings. Willow made her way through the backstreets of Southburn, with a flank of silk to shield herself from the worst of the stench. It was the southernmost borough of the city, and for Willow, the easiest access to the great metropolis of Matharyn. Southburn had always been counted amongst the most miserable, yet not because the people here were poor. Indeed, there was plenty of work to go around. It just happened that the work done there was universally unpleasant and foul. Industries, such as the tanneries, the butchers and the slaughterhouses were, by royal decree, clustered in Southburn. There the great winds that swept from the east could blow the stench west and out to sea. The clouded sky threatened to let loose its harbored showers of rain, the strong winds blew with force through the streets, billowing Willow’s black cloak behind her. As she reached the bridge that opened into the Bayburn district and continued her silent march north; the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She knew someone was watching her. She did not let the caution show in her movements, she simply continued forth with her senses acutely aware of her surroundings. Though she heard no footsteps, nor saw any casted shadows, she knew someone was following her. How long had they been tailing her? The stench in Southburn had clouded her sense, she had little will to focus on anything save getting passed the foul smell. Had they followed her from beyond the city? As she turned down a familiar alley, completely shrouded from light, she whispered the command word to activate her ring. She swiftly sealed herself against the wall. There she waited in utter silence. For a moment, she simply paused and listened. She heard nothing bar the sounds of distant workers; bakers awakening to start their morning chores, fishermen dragging their catches from the dockyards. As she remained where she was, she frowned, beginning to doubt her suspicions. Though the vampiric curse had heightened her senses, allowing her vision to see clearly in the swarming darkness of night – she saw nothing. As she slowly pushed off from the wall, to peer around the corner of the building back into the main street, a rough hand clamped around her mouth and dragged her forcefully back into the shadows. Although the last time she had roamed the streets of Matharyn, she would have been easy prey for the scum who prowled at night – she was no longer the same weak and delicate nobleborn girl. With eery grace she slipped from the attackers grasp, ripping her daggers free as she twirled beneath the outstretched arm, pouncing forward to thrust her blade. The assailant was ready for her move, parrying her blade with his own, to lunge forward with his other. Willow was too quick to be struck by his attack, lithely swerving her body as the dagger plunged into where she had been a mere second before. She darted to the side, leaping forward with both blades carving one above another. The shadowed figure evaded her leap with ease, ducking under her swing and striking out, piercing their blade into her thigh. Though she gritted her teeth against the pain, she saw the opening her opponent had unwittingly given her. She deftly shifted her weight to her injured leg, throwing her other forward, in a crunching kick to the jaw. As they flew backward and clamped their hand to their mouth, Willow heard a familiar grunt of pain. When the attacker leapt to their feet and lunged towards her, she felt the grin come across her face. They clashed weapons again, meeting each strike for another, slicing skin and tearing armour. As Willow lashed out with one blade and pirouetted to slash the other, she felt the second tear deeply through flesh.
“You’re getting too slow,” she laughed, through rapid breaths of exertion.
Suddenly, the assailants’ onslaught heightened. Their movements quicker, their strikes more vicious, a terrifying advance to their attack. As Willow struggled to block and respond to each hit, the grin dropped from her lips. With each furthered thrust and strike, each seeking the fatal blow, she began to doubt her assumptions. Her mind raced with the possibilities and implications. Over the two years she had been working for Thorn, how many different people had they provoked? They had riled the ire of the men and women of Balentyne, sons and brothers of those they had killed. They had unknowingly seen the wrath of a great silver dragon against Baron Vandermir, one of the ancient Barcan line. They had betrayed and banished the feral and fearsome Vetra-Kali, they had slain the divine Ara Mathra, slaughtered the people of Valtaerna, and assassinated the great Eiramanthus. Though, Willow doubted the chosen weapon of vengeance of those creatures would be a swift death in the shadowed night. Suspicion flared as she growled her anger, surging the boiling blood within her veins to a furious pique, returning her attacks and thrusting herself forward to meet the onslaught. Perhaps, she thought, Cardinal Thorn had seen fit to try and eliminate her early. For here, she was alone. There was no one in this city that would come to her aid. If they knew who she was, they would wish the assailant well in his mission. Suddenly, the attacker vanished from sight. Willow thrust her blades into where he had been standing, but only carved through the emptiness of the shadows. She bent low and span around slowly, keen ears and eyes alert for any sound or movement. She had not noticed a thing until a bludgeoning weight barreled her into the wall of the building. A firm hand pressed the side of her face into the sharp edges of the rough stone wall, while a crushing weight kept her body caged and immobile.
“Are you so paranoid,” the familiar masculine voice slithered in her ear, “That you have forgotten how to have fun?”
As his other hand traced the shape of her waist, Willow could do nothing but laugh.
“A simple hello would not have sufficed?” she smirked.
She felt Switch’s gleeful grin as his teeth raked over her neck.
“Not nearly as enjoyable.”
When he bit firmly into the flesh of her neck, Willow gasped aloud. It was a curious sensation. His teeth were far sharper than she remembered, the points stinging as if traced with an acidic linger. As she reveled in the agonizing bliss of his dominating embrace, she felt him draw in a deep breath. Suddenly, he gripped her hair and ripped her backwards, spinning her to face him. As he held her tight and pulled her towards him, his crushing grasp constricted in her hair. She looked into the dark wells of his eyes, overcome once more with the unending depth of darkness they held. As his other hand latched onto to her waist and his nails struck deep into her side, her mouth parted as she whimpered. A slow grin lifted the corners of his lips, as he looked to her with a strange curiosity.
“I did not think it had been that long,” he rasped with intrigue, “But so much has changed. You’ve been busy…”
Willow chuckled as best she could in his unrelenting grip.
“You thought I would remain idle and await your return?” she grinned in a breath.
He simply smirked at her, “One could only hope.”
While he looked at her with curious eyes, as if seeing something she could not, Willow grew tired of him ruling their game. Slowly, she traced her hands along the sides of his thighs, dragging them inward towards the buckle of his belt. His brow arched as she leisurely unclasped it, eyes locked to his as she pulled her weight downward. Though he did not release the grip in her hair, he watched her with eyes alight in amorous excitement, allowing her to lower herself to his waist. As she pulled his trousers loose, she dragged them to his knees. When she was sure he was sufficiently invested in her exploration, she grinned a sinful and mischievous smile. Without warning, she yanked on the pants with all her might, forcing him to lose his balance and reflexively let go of her hair. She sprang up and shoved her shoulder into his stomach, still holding his pants as the force thrust him backward. With her grip on his pants, he had no way of regaining his balance as he fell heavily to the cobblestone ground. She was swift as she jumped forward, sinking her knees into the joints of his shoulders, effectively pinning him to the floor.
“You are right,” she grinned deviously, “It is far more enjoyable…”

“How did you find me?” Willow asked, walking unhurried through the deserted streets, “Surely you have not been watching me this entire time?”
Switch smirked, “I have my ways.”
Willow rolled her eyes, playing down the intense curiosity that swarmed through her mind.
“Should I ask why you have returned to the city?” he enquired casually.
“You could,” Willow chuckled, “But you know I wouldn’t tell you.”
“You do not have to,” he replied with an arched brow, “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Truly?” Willow scoffed, “Then please, enlighten me.”
Switch looked away from her, eyes scanning the city skyline.
“You come for revenge,” he said quietly.
“That is a very vague sentiment,” Willow commented, arching her brow in return.
“You have not figured it all out yet, have you?” he mused, “You come for answers.”
A coldness came over Willow’s face, guarded suspicion flaring in her chest.
“Do not fret,” he chuckled, “I will not interfere.”
Willow frowned as her steps slowed, looking to the dark and mysterious man.
“You know a great deal more than you are letting on,” she said accusingly.
“Of course,” he laughed, “You will learn no lessons if you are simply given all the answers.”
“Yet I can be better prepared with more information,” she countered, “Why do you not tell me?”
As they reached the overpass that led into the region of Wayburn, Switch guided her under the bridge into a concealed chamber beneath. After closing the door behind her and lighting the hanging lantern, he casually lifted himself to sit upon one of the stone railings that ran the length of the chamber.
“Where is the fun in that?” he sniggered.
He simply grinned towards her as Willow scowled and looked about the curious room.
“You are infuriating,” she pursed.
He laughed as he grabbed hold of her and pulled her closer.
“And yet you cannot help yourself but find me irresistible,” he said smugly.
“I find you,” she growled, tearing herself from his grasp, “Repulsive.”
Suddenly, he flew from his seat, driving Willow backwards into the adjacent stone brick. As her lower back collided with the stone edge, she grunted in pain, yet the weight of him forced her to bend further backward over the railing. With his chest flush, and his face merely inches from hers, he scoffed a scornful laugh.
“We both know that is a lie,” he rasped, a strange and savage warning to his tone, “You’ve never found me repulsive. You’ve never been able to deny me, and you never will.”
Willow could barely breathe as his weight crushed her lungs, she looked up into his eyes, panting ragged and strained air. What she saw swarming in his gaze was something that sparked an unquenchable flame within her. Possession. Hunger. Need. It was not the look of a man who simply yearned for the touch of a certain woman. It was the look of a beast, claiming hold and dominion over what was rightfully his. Willow knew she should have been outraged at his audacity and presumption. She should have thrown him off of her, carved her blade through his throat for daring to assume he had any right to her. But she didn’t. A strange glint of familiarity flickered within her, urging the fire on, fanning the flames of passion further into her soul. She felt the sharp points of her fangs slide from their rest, glimmering in the fire light. As Switch’s wide and consuming eyes watched her fixedly, she lifted her head to his neck and plunged the fangs deep into his shoulder. As the swelled blood melted into her mouth, a strange sensation enveloped her body. Euphoria, bitter sweet elation. She had barely drawn in more than a mouthful before the trembling began. His blood was nothing like any that she had tasted before. With others, her thirst seemed unable to be quenched, throwing her into a frenzy of hunger. The small mouthful of his seemed to swarm through her system in a rapid onslaught. She felt invigorated, energized and enlivened. She felt stronger and faster than ever before. With a bare mouthful, she felt more alive than words could describe. As her mouth dropped and her fangs slid from his flesh, she lowered her head to look at him. To say the grin he wore was a smug one, would have been the greatest understatement. When she opened her mouth to speak, he smothered her words with his lips. He kissed her, commanding her to reply in turn, to follow the dance of his tongue. She had no means of resisting, she could not muster a denial or a fight. For a moment, she was simply his. As he abruptly released her, chuckling as he allowed her up from the stone railing, she had to shake her head to clear it. He turned from her, far passed pleased with himself, a renewed swagger to his step. The racing thoughts through a hazed and unclear mind had Willow frowning as she regained her breath.
“Unfortunately,” he said with a knowing grin, “I have matters to attend to tonight. So this, shall have to wait for another time.”
As he straightened his shirt and wiped the blood from his neck, he returned once more to the all professional assassin.
“This tunnel leads to the underground market,” he said plainly, “Find a man called Ricket, he runs the underground, tell him I sent you.”
When he turned to leave, Willow had finally collected herself enough to laugh at the curious situation. She shook her head as the giggles took hold, forcing Switch to turn back with his brow cocked.
“What is so funny?” he questioned.
She smiled and looked up to him with a look of slight disbelief.
“Who are you?” she asked curiously.
Switch grinned, slowly stepping towards her. He gripped firm hold of her chin and dragged her face to his, pressing his lips possessively against hers. When he pulled back, he spoke few words before he vanished from her sight.
“One who knows you,” he whispered, “Nameless one…”

The plan for her first night in the city of Matharyn, was to scout the grounds of the Monteguard estate. She had wanted to discover if the secret passage along the waterway of the River Danyth was still accessible. But as her mind reeled over the words that Switch had left her with, she decided it would be folly to attempt such a thing with so much distraction and lack of concentration. She made her way to the Wayburn district, the northernmost borough known as the traveler’s quarter. Visitors from all across Talingarde coming to visit the capital either on business or on a pilgrimage to see the great Cathedral, found ample inns and accommodations of all sorts within Wayburn. It was the best place for Willow to stay, as her late entrance would be unnoticed while the nightlife of Matharyn carried on into the morning. She found rest in a simple inn called the Steep Moon Tavern. As she thanked the barmaid who brought the provided dinner, Willow grimaced at the food. It was what appeared to be stewed watercress with sausage made from an unidentifiable meat that had clearly been sitting on the stove since mid-afternoon. Though she wore the garb of a traveler and the enchanted face of another, Willow was still wary that she was within the grand capital, and the same place she had been exiled from. So she had chosen to keep herself hidden in the company of commoners, seeking only a private room where she could sleep in safety and solitary.
When the morning sun rose through the paned glass window, Willow awoke with it in agony. As the bright rays of light touched upon her skin, it seared the flesh that lay exposed. She leapt from the bed and dove for the shelter of the wooden planked wall beside the windowsill. She delicately reached for her shroud, wrapping it tightly around her neck. With the healing potion she retrieved from her pack, she mended the worst of the burns. She cursed the cheap inn for their lack of curtains, she cursed Switch for leaving her so distracted she didn’t notice, and she cursed herself for her own stupidity. As she returned to the corner of the room where the sun failed to reach, she frowned as she watched her skin knit itself together. Though the potion had done its job, it had left the searing scars as it always did. Though the magic within the curious liquid was enough to staunch the flow of blood or simmer the blistering heat of scalded skin; it left the scars behind as permanent reminders. Yet, as Willow sat huddled in the shadows, she watched the scars melt away. She knew when the vampiric curse took hold, she would inherit their ability to heal faster, to cure even the most horrific skin legions. As she watched her skin rapidly smooth, she frowned. To complete the transformation, she was required to die, though she knew not when this was to happen. Sudden worry crept into mind. She had neither a coffin to sleep in, nor the safety of allies to protect her while she passed through the phase of death. Right now she did not have time to see the transformation through. She cursed herself once more. She desperately needed to hurry.
By day she ventured back into the tunnel beneath the bridge, slipping in unseen by the cover of invisibility. When she reached a stone wall, barring further entrance to the passage, she frowned and cocked her head. Upon the stone were crude scratches and curious markings, that seemed simply the result of an inebriated mans late night inspiration. When she looked closer, Willow recognized a strange pattern within the marks. They appeared in the same order and placement as the locks within the abandoned warehouse in Farholde. On a hunch, she pressed the points that met in the same order that she had done so before. The stone shuddered slightly, before the largest of the cracks split and opened the two slabs outward, revealing another passage within. Following the underground tunnel deeper into the underbelly of the city, the sound of voices drifted in from around the far bend. As she grew closer, the unseen brand on her sternum began to hum. She could feel the presence of not one, but two other Serpents. Willow passed the bend into a large and bustling chamber. Groups of men and women crowded in corners, market stalls filled with curiosities and oddities, hooded robed beings shaking hands. As she entered, she felt the drum in her brand pulse, as the man to her right made eye contact with her. Though she was not as surprised or alarmed as the first time, it was still peculiar to see the invisible glow radiating from below his sternum. He said nothing to her, simply inclining his head and continuing his conversation with his associate. When she continued further into the chamber, she felt the pulse again.
“Secrecy is our greatest ally,” rasped a familiar voice, in that foreign language only members of the Black Serpents understood.
“As we strike from the shadows,” Willow replied in turn, smiling as the woman approached her, “Isilynor, it is a pleasure to see you.”
“And you, young Lady Willow,” she smiled, looking her over with shrewd eyes, “You are looking well.”
“I would say the same,” Willow chuckled, “But you are wearing a face far less appealing than the last.”
The shapeshifter appeared to her as an aged woman, not long for the realm of the living. Willow did not quite understand how she recognised her, for she had never seen the face before. Yet nonetheless, she instantly knew it was the same peculiar being as before.
“How do you know this is not my real face?” Isilynor asked, arching her brow, “You may have just insulted the face I was born with.”
Willow could not help but smirk, “No. With charm like yours, your face would be one that would have men sink their own ships in hopes of drowning for you.”
The decrepit looking woman laughed a hearty and throaty chuckle.
“Willow, I’d like you to meet Dimgol Jargonhiher,” she indicated to the stout dwarf to her left.
“Pleasure to meet you Dimgol,” Willow rasped in greeting, inclining her head.
The dwarf simply stared at her, a permanent frown on his brow.
“Can he not understand me, or is he simply that rude?” Willow pursed.
The elderly lady laughed again, “He doesn’t understand you. Though I would not put it passed him to simply ignore you anyway. Needs a severe lesson in mannered discipline. He hasn’t gone through the initiation yet.”
Willow grinned, repeating herself in common.
“Aye,” he slurred in thick dwarven accent, “Nice ter meet ya. Yer Switch’s lass, aye?”
“His lass?” Willow replied with a laugh, “I was his apprentice, yes.”
“Oh aye,” he nodded, “I see yer now.”
“Are you here on pleasure, or business?” Isilynor asked.
“A touch of both,” she shrugged, “Though I am down here on Switch’s suggestion. Do you by any chance know where I can find ‘Ricket’?”
“Through that door,” Isilynor pointed.
“Thank you,” Willow said with a smile, “If you’ll excuse me, I am fairly pressed for time. It was lovely seeing you again.”
“And you,” she replied, before switching to the foreign tongue, “Stay hidden, Serpent.”
Willow inclined her head politely, “Always by the shadows…”

As the afternoon passed and evening came to the city of Matharyn, Willow made her way through the backstreets towards the Golden Bow. It sat upon the highest point of River Danyth’s edge, lining the shore upon a great rock face that shielded Kingsill from the brunt of the western winds. With her ring shrouding her from the moonlit night, Willow crept along the coastline, climbing the rocky shores towards the secret entrance to the Monteguard Manor. As she found the familiar markings hidden upon the windswept boulders, she slowed her steps to a crawl. She picked her way silently across the rugged terrain, eyes peeled for anything out of place. When she located the fraudulent rock face, she smiled. She carefully shifted the surrounding rubble until she found the intricate lock, disguised impeccably well as another cluster of rocky debris. Although she remembered the sequence she had been taught so very long ago, she gave her parents the benefit of the doubt that they were smart enough to change the combination. Instead, she lifted her tools from her pack and carefully unlocked the panel from inside the mechanism, avoiding the poison dart trap that hid within the cliff face above. She pushed the panel free, senses keenly aware of her surroundings, as she stepped into the open tunnel and sealed it behind her. She had no need for a torch, for her sharp eyes could see perfectly in complete darkness. She crept in utter silence through the tunnel, slowly making her way deeper, careful to avoid the set traps as she passed. When she finally reached the other end of the winding passage, she approached the door to the Monteguard’s secret sanctum. As she checked over the handle, she frowned to see the poison dart eroded in it's trap. It looked as if it had remained untouched the entire time Willow had been gone. With careful hands she disabled the trap and unlocked the hidden door. As she pushed on the stone panel, she felt it jam on its hinge, as if it to had remained closed for the years that had passed. Stepping through into the library filled with countless volumes of forbidden texts and lore, Willow felt the frown burrow deeply. White sheets lined with layers of dust clothed each of the great bookshelves, an undisturbed film of caked dust across the sandstone floor, utter darkness consuming the room. Willow crept through the chamber between the shelves, leaving slender footprints as she passed, frowning to see no torches lay within the sconces. She listened intently as she prowled through the deserted chambers beneath the manor house. As she reached the main cellar that held all of the hidden pathways to the rooms beyond, she found it was the only one lit by torchlight. As the flame burned upon the wooden stake, freshly alight and burning low, Willow guessed it could not have been lit more than a mere hour before. She looked around the once grand cellar, and continued to frown further. Once, the Monteguard’s cellar would have been the envy of the greatest wine connoisseurs in the country. With collections from all regions and realms, the rarest stock that had been procured through the decades. Now, the supply was dwindled and scarce. As she continued up the stairs, the foreboding and curious scene only continued. Though the main library was full and ordered, the room held tell of disrepair. The carpets were scuffed, the grand rugs askew, the paned windows smeared in dirt and dust. Though the rooms that she passed were certainly kept liveable, they were far less than the impeccable standard the Monteguard household had forever kept. The guest chambers were left with unmade beds and untended plants. Even the number staff sleeping in the servants quarter had cut down to nearly half of their number. When Willow approached the greeting chamber, she saw the flicker of fire from beyond the door. With silent steps and quiet hands, she opened the wooden door. Two empty bottles of wine lay tipped on their side upon the small table, the stench of stale liquor and cigars wafting throughout the chamber. And there, sitting in the high backed chair, hunched over his knees staring deep into the fireplace, was her father. Though set in her anger, and primed for revenge; Willow’s heart sank to see him. He was but a shell of his former self. His skin hung on his gaunt figure, hollowed eyes of tired exertion, pain and numbness clear in his face. He looked the picture of a broken and vacant man. Though childish, her first reaction was to run to him, to pull him close and hope he embraced her in return. At the thought, she seethed in resentment. She knew not what trickery was afoot, she knew not what game he was playing – but she would play no part in it. Steeling her heart with the iced touch of remembered betrayal, she swung the door shut with a loud and echoing thud. As she turned the key and pulled it free from its lock, she saw her fathers back stiffen. Slowly, she walked into his view, though he did not look away from the flames. As she slowly lowered herself into the adjacent armchair, cold eyes took in his stature.
“Why must you torment me so?” he sighed, a sullen and defeated breath.
“Torment you?” Willow scoffed, “Was my simple existence a torment?”
He roughly grabbed the glass of wine in front of him, throwing back its contents in a single gulp. Clutching the glass in his fingers, he exhaled sharply.
“Will you never leave me alone?” he whispered, “Will you never leave me be?”
“I have little patience left for your games,” Willow growled, “I have no time for this pathetic show. You cannot face your actions? You cannot look me in the eye?”
Suddenly, he cried out in anguish, hurling the glass at the wall passed Willow’s head. As the shattered remains erupted along the wallpaper, leaving behind the shadow of burgundy stain, he shook his head in forlorn sorrow.
“Every night,” he sobbed, “A different story! Every night… can you not allow me to grieve? Will you not even give me that?!”
“Enough!” Willow snarled, with venom enough to force his sight to her own, “You threw me to the wolves! You betrayed your own daughter! Give me one reason I should not slit your throat right here!”
“My daughter,” he wept, with eyes of bitter suffering, “Were you really here, I would offer my throat to you willingly.”
His words struck a chord deep within her heart. She had always known how to tell a lie from a genuine truth, and as the dejected man stared mournful eyes towards her, she believed his heartbreak was genuine. Who did he think she was? Who had been visiting him each night? In the time that she had been gone, what had happened to the charming and lively Duke of Keldenryn, Bartley Cassidus Rebold Monteguard? With an aching heart that urged her to follow her instincts, Willow lifted herself slowly from the armchair. As ginger steps took her to his side, she reached her hand to lay across his cheek. When she made contact, and the warmth of her skin collided with the cold press of his jaw – his eyes flew wide. He snapped his head to look up at her, only now truly seeing that she was indeed standing in front of him.
“Y-you live?” he stammered, panic and joy swarming across his face, “Willow?! Please tell me that is really you!”
He sprang up from his chair, frail arms grasping at her through trembling limbs. She knew not what to make of his actions as he pulled her close and held her there crushingly tight, in an embrace so potent it was as if he would never let go.
“My girl,” he sobbed into her hair, “You’re here, you’re alive!”
For a moment, Willow simply allowed the man to weep his relief, though she was still struggling to understand how it could be so. As he held her close, her mind was spilt with two vastly contrasted emotions. On one hand, she wept on the inside. Her heart thundering in her chest in sheer solace, unsure as to how to proceed with her father and yet entirely willing to hear him out. On the other hand, the furious hatred teemed within her. This was the man who willing gave his daughter up, who betrayed his own, for hidden gain and truths. Though she could forgive even the most dire of sins – betraying one you love surpassed it all. As the anger fought the heartache, she pushed the feeble man away firmly. He dropped back into his seat, a spark of hope that twinkled in his iris as he gazed at her in disbelief.
“… why?” was the only question she could muster.
A sadness of regret and shame came over his face, as he sighed a long and morose breath.
“Sit,” he indicated to the chair beside him, “I suppose I have a lot to tell you, I must be honest with you, I have wronged you more than I can ever expect to be forgiven for. The very least I owe you is the truth.”
Slowly, Willow found herself moving to the armchair, lowering herself with a clenched heart and cold eyes.
“I am sorry,” he began.
“No,” Willow cut him off viciously, “You do not simply get to say that. Sorry is for when you spill wine on a friend’s rug. Sorry is for dropping your fork at dinner. Sorry is NOT for betraying me, sending me to the slaughter! Your daughter, your own flesh and blood!”
He looked to her with sunken eyes, a small and sad smile on his lips.
“My daughter, yes,” he said quietly, shaking his head softly, “My flesh and blood… no…”
The words came as a shock, a sudden revelation that forced her heart to shudder in her chest.
“W-what…?” she stammered, disbelief and panic pulling her brow low.
“Please,” he pressed earnestly, “Sit down. Allow me to explain…”

“Three decades ago, your mother was informed by the healers that she did not have the strength to carry a child. Barren, they called it. We had waited many years to conceive, we had tried so very many times, but alas, we were fated to fail. By the time we had come to accept it, we gave up the ideal of continuing the family name, we gave up the illusion of family and children. We had each other, but that was all. It was on a journey towards Ghastenhall that it all changed. We passed through the small region of Yammerfield, or Hammerfield,” he sighed, “Forgive me, my memory fails me. But the small farmland had been beset by a curious illness, killing most of its inhabitants much as the plague is doing so now. I remember wrapping our faces in silk and kicking our horses faster to clear the area before we too were struck down by the sickness. It was then that your mother heard it. A baby, crying out from the empty hovel. I have never known your mother to turn her head for anyone, not even me. But she did for this child. She rode back to the peasants’ house, holding the silk over her face and simply walked in – fearless, heedless! And when she returned, she held the babe in her arms. The child was perfect. Hazel eyes that glowed red in the sunlight, shining white skin and a head of sable locks; all in perfect mirror to your mothers own. That is where we found you.”
Though the thoughts swarmed her mind in an unrelenting vortex, she could not speak. Discomposure held the words from escaping her lips.
“We continued on to Ghastenhall, with a surprise for our friends there. We were vague on the dates and chose to travel further across the land than we were planning to, returning to Matharyn with you. With our daughter. The priests and healers labelled you a miracle. And you were. You were our miracle…”
He looked to her with eyes filled with love, with warmth and fondness – the way a father should look to his daughter. But after all that had transpired over the years, it was not enough.
“And then?” Willow scowled, “That is it? I am not yours so you decide to send me to the pyre?! And what, now you have had a change of heart?!”
Bartley smirked as he wiped the tears from his eyes, “Ours by birth or not, you have your mothers temper… and her patience.”
“I have had enough!” Willow growled, “Just tell me, why did you turn me in?!”
Her fathers gaze softened, though fear lingered in his gaze.
“I was told to…” he said quietly, “I did not have a choice. Know this, child. If I had any say it, I would have stood by you.”
“Told to by whom?!” Willow snapped, “Whose orders could be stronger than the loyalty to the daughter you supposedly loved?!”
Wide eyes lifted to her own.
“His…” he breathed in terror.
Willow frowned, curiosities and suspicions flying free within her mind. Asmodeus wished her to fall? He wished her to be captured, to undermine the will and work she did in his name? Yet she could not ignore the realisation, she could not fault the repercussions of the actions, having led her to achieve more for Him than she had ever been able to in her simple city life. As the thought bounced around in her mind, it suddenly seemed to make a portion of sense.
“There is more,” her father said softly, interrupting her spiralling thoughts.
“What else?” Willow asked dubiously.
Bartley pushed his way out of the chair, using his timid limbs to straighten his stance. When he offered his arm to her, Willow could not help but frown.
“I will tell you of it,” he shrugged softly, though she could see the hurt in his eyes, “But I know you would rather see it for yourself.”
For a moment, she hesitated. Unsure where the answers to come were to take her, unsure if she was willing to accept anything further. Yet, she was unable to completely resist, with the temptation and curiosity swimming freely within her. As she accepted his arm and rose to allow him to lead, she saw the small joy return to his face.
“When we found you,” he continued, “We searched the house for any information to identify you. Of course, we were not planning on using it to find you alternative relatives. We were hoping to destroy any evidence of your birth, so it could not be traced that you were not our own. Instead, we came across a journal. It was the log of a wandering priest. He had taken rest at the farm town on his way through to Valtaerna. He wrote that at the appearance of the full moon, an angel arrived on the doorstep. There in the celestial beings’ hands was a baby. Skin of pale white, hair of midnight ebony, eyes of hellfire red. The angel tasked the two peasants with the protection of the child, urging them to utmost secrecy. Commanding that the child be kept safe, and above all, its existence kept secret.”
“Wait,” Willow frowned, shaking her head, “An angel? That is absurd! You would have me believe I am the child of a celestial? A child of heaven?”
“No,” he replied, opening the hidden door way in the library, offering her lead into the cellar, “I would not imply that. What you are is a mystery, even to us. The journal continued to say that the priest was moved by the arrival of the being, and chose to remain long enough to see you through the first stages of your life until he was sure you would be healthy and live well. It was not long after that the strange illness took their lives. He wrote of the suddenness in which it came upon them. By morning they were well, by evening they were moments from death.”
As they reached the landing of the stairs, he walked ahead of her and opened the wall into the musty and dust ridden office. Brushing off the layered grime and soot from the family safe, he twirled the familiar combination and pulled free a wary leather bound journal.
“The priest left a plea in his final entry,” he recalled, flicking through the pages towards the back, “Beseeching the one who found the journal to raise the child as the angel had wished; in utter secrecy and safety. Though we were not doing it by the words of the archon, we followed his orders nonetheless.”
As he handed the journal to Willow, and she read the words that had been written long ago, she felt her heart whine in sorrow. Who was she? What was she? Her entire life had been a lie. The blood that ran through her veins was not the singing pride of the noble Monteguard line. The blood in her veins felt foreign in her skin, it felt wrong and ill-fitting. Everything she had known about herself was a simple falsehood, orchestrated by a being of good and purity. What did she really know about herself? As the thought sunk deep into her mind, like the weight of a sudden boulder that dragged upon her soul – she slumped back against the wall. Her father watched her in worry, agony in his face as if he felt the pain as keenly as she did. Family. It had ever been the most important thing in her life. And yet, as she looked to the man who had raised her, fed her and clothed her; he was simply a merchant of opportunity.
“Why raise me to be Asmodean?” she asked him quietly, a cold emptiness to her voice, “Would it not have been easier to simply allow me to be of Mitra? Why raise me into a life of further secrets?”
“You figured it out on your own,” he smiled, as if the memories of her younger self warmed his thoughts, “You came to us when you were only a small child, and told us that He had found you, that He spoke to you. You called Him your friend.”
Willow frowned deeply as the recollections came in brief flashes through her mind.
“I think, I remember,” she said distractedly.
“We had never shown you the shrine in the other room. We were not planning to, yet like everything else you did, you found your own way. You were six years old when we first found you sleeping by the base of the statue. You told us that you didn’t remember how you got there, or where you were. But you felt safe by His feet, how could we tell you no?”
“What happened?” she asked hesitantly, unsure she wanted further answers to cloud her mind, “Why did He tell you to turn me in?”
The joyous face of times passed seeped from his hollow cheeks, as a bitter resentment took hold.
“He said that you were to walk a path to a life of glory, he told us you must fall to truly rise. We could not deny him. You were our daughter, but you were always His. You gave yourself to Him long before he demanded it. When the whispers started, we tried to ignore them. We tried for so long, but it was futile. We did not know what we had truly done until we heard word of your arrest…”
“What do you mean?” Willow asked in confusion, “You were not in contact with Switch?”
“Switch?” her father frowned, “I have never heard that name.”
Curiosity appeared amongst the uncertainty and perplexity.
“We thought we had killed you,” he whispered, tears returning to his eyes, “We heard of your escape, so we were granted hope that you had survived and it had not been all for nothing. But then the days continued to pass with no word. No sightings of you, no whispers, no rumours. You had simply vanished. Two years. And there has not been a day gone by that I have not thought of you. That I have not tortured myself for what I had done to you. I would have killed myself long ago… but it was a mercy I did not deserve.”
“What did you do?” Willow asked, “What did He have you do? How did you turn me in if you have not met the man who executed the plan?”
“We were told to travel into the forest down by Fell Valley,” he said quietly, eyes downcast, “And find an old temple. There we left a sheet of parchment upon the broken altar… with the three words that have haunted my waking days and sleepless nights for the last two years…”
When his voice trembled and his words ceased, Willow steeled herself against his answer. As he hung his head in remorse and regret, she denied him the chance at silence.
“What did it say?” she rasped, unwilling to relent.
He looked up into her eyes, and with a breath of repentance he whispered, “She is ready…”

After a time spent in silence, they returned to the main floor of the Monteguard manor. When Bartley suggested they wake her mother, she was unsure if she could endure anything more.
“It is enough for one night,” she sighed, “I need to… process it all.”
“Please,” he whispered, “Please Willow. Just simply show her you are alive.”
“I cannot,” she lashed, turning from him, “I cannot do this. I need to leave.”
“Please Willow!” he begged, “Please! She has stopped eating, she has not left in the house in more than a year. She does nothing but weep. Please, just speak her to her. If only for a moment…”
Willow clenched her eyes tightly, fighting back the tears, refusing to let them flow as they wished. She was utterly lost. Though she had played the nights events over in her mind an uncountable amount of times as she had approached the manor, nothing could have prepared her for what she had found. How could she have known the story would be told this way? How could she have guessed that her past would be fabled so? She had pictured taking the lives of her parents in payment for their betrayal. She had imagined savouring the sweet taste of vengeance. She had dreamed of sating her wrath in a shower of crimson gore, painting the walls of the manor red; the colour of her hatred and ire. Yet, as she stood in vestibule of her childhood home, she felt her heart thud in strenuous ache. If she believed the tale that her father had told, then they had not betrayed her. They had simply obeyed their master, followed his word and his guidance. And she could not fault them for that.
“Please Willow,” he breathed.
A long and painful sigh fell from her lips. She opened her eyes, unable to retrain the tears any longer. With not a word, she turned for the stairs and slowly climbed to the beat of her trembling heart. As she listened to the scuff of her feet upon the hard wood steps, her mind recalled the memories of her mother. Had she been wrong all these years? She had seen her parents as disloyal and lazy in their devotion to Asmodeus. She had seen her parents lack of faith and dedication as sheer blasphemy grown from indolence. Had they simply been trying to protect her? Attempting to shield them from him in fear of losing her? In the end, as the Lord of the Nine always did, he commanded them to his will. If it was Willow that he was after, she had indeed handed herself to him willingly. As she reached the grand doors that housed her parents bedchamber, she exhaled sharply. She turned the doorknob slowly, stepping through the frame upon legs of tremors. When she saw the frail form of a withered woman upon the bed – her heart seized. Her mother had waned and wilted, her slender stature having almost halved in size, her skin loose and slack upon her bones. Though she lay in the rapture of slumber, there was no rest that greeted her. The lines upon her brow pulled tight relentlessly, as red and swollen eyes held closed. It was clear that she had spent a great many hours weeping before retiring to the agony of sleep. With the sound of her father approaching the door, Willow’s soft steps slowly brought her to the side of the bed. She sat and sank into the cushioned mattress, tearful eyes looking over the aged woman. Gently reaching out a hand, she traced her fingers along the side of her mother’s weathered face.
“Mother…” she breathed, in a choked and painful voice.
As her eyes flickered open, Willow felt the tears fall along her cheeks.
“No,” her mother shuddered, violent weeping taking hold.
Willow dropped her hand and simply stared back into the eyes that had watched her grow. When her mother ripped herself to the other side of the bed and began to wail in misery, Willow’s heart thundered in her chest.
“Mother,” she rasped.
“Begone foul spirit!” her mother screamed, “Do not do this to me again!”
“Anithara,” her father said softly, “It is not a dream…”
Slowly, the wailing ceased. Her mother shakily turned towards her, eyes wide of disbelief.
“No,” she whispered, “It cannot be…”
As the tears continued to flow, Willow sat straight backed with her head high. She tried to remain cold and distant, but as her mother reached for her, her strength fractured. She could not deny the woman that raised her. Though not born of her blood, Willow was her daughter by bonds that surpassed the power of bloodlines. When Anithara embraced her, weeping her heartfelt apologies into Willow’s lap, she held her tightly through the sobbing. She was not heartless. She was not unfeeling. She did not revel in her parents misery. She pitied them, for they loved her more than she could ever love them. It was a harsh and grim realisation when it sang true in Willow’s mind. These broken beings had suffered, a long and unending torment of guilt and grief, and all she felt was pity. She wished them no more anguish or sorrow, she wished no more tears to be spilt on her behalf. But she could not love them as they did her. She was not a creature of love. Though she knew not her origins by word or tale, she did not need to be told. She was a being of hell. She was a force of Asmodeus’ will…

minderp
2017-02-14, 06:33 PM
The start of the crescent moon hung along the eastern edge of the sky, casting soft shades of grey and white upon the clouds. The warm spring breeze coasted gently through the winding streets, feathering along the top of trees, stirring the freshly fallen leaves in a soft melody of rasping glide. Willow sat atop the sandstone brick railing of the balcony, dangling her legs freely over the steep drop below, staring out across the city view. It was clear from up there, why Matharyn was known for more than one reason as the City of Light. Though the Mitran centre of the country, the Lord of Light prevailing in steadfast devotion, it was the night spectacle that also earned its name. The curving expanse lifted in glorious hills and low dwelling valleys spread out in a grand arch. When evening came to the city, and the fires were lit from within the houses and homes, the scene illuminated in a glorious shimmer of thousands of flickering lights. From her vantage point in the Monteguard Manor, the highest point over the River Danyth, Willow could see the entire city on display.
She held a crystal tumbler within her fingers, sipping the harsh whiskey unhurried, allowing her mind to rethink and recoup with the limber caress of the liquor. As she heard the barest sound of scuffed leather whisper upon the stone behind her; she smiled.
“I had wondered when you would visit,” she said quietly.
“Have you longed for me?” Switch replied smugly, though he sounded disappointed to have not surprised her.
“As much as one longs for a sharp pain in the skull,” she smirked.
Switch laughed, a dastardly and rumbling sound.
“You are still here,” he said conversationally, seating himself beside her, motioning to the manor behind her, “And the place is not bathed in blood. So I take it that your return was received with welcome?”
“Welcome?” she scoffed, “That is an odd way to word it.”
He simply grinned knowingly, though he did not comment further.
“Is there any point in asking?” Willow questioned half heartedly.
“Asking what?” he shrugged, reaching for her bottle to take a long swig from its neck.
She sighed, “Who you are? What your orders were? Who gave them? How you continue to find me? Why you continue to find me…?”
He chuckled in response, shaking his head, “That is a lot of questions for one who does not know whether to simply ask.”
Willow exhaled a long and arduous breath.
“You will not answer truthfully,” she sighed, “Even if I was fortunate enough to guess correctly.”
“There are some things we must accept need to remain unspoken,” Switch replied, “I will defer to the judgement of the Assembly, but there is no harm in asking…”
“The Assembly?” she frowned.
Though he simply grinned knowingly, it was clear he would not mention it further. She looked to him, curiosity heated with intrigue, a vicious hunger for knowledge and truth.
“Who am I?” she frowned deeply.
“You are Willow,” he answered sarcastically, “Has your reunion addled your mind?”
Willow growled in frustration, “Then what am I? What do you know of my birth? What do you know of my origin?”
“Ah,” he smirked, “So you do know…”
“Know what?!” she snapped, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“More than you think,” he sniggered, leaning towards her and whispering conspiratorially, “We should not be talking about you…”
Willow sighed, holding out her empty glass to him. He laughed, pouring her another tall sip of whiskey, before taking another for himself.
“Is there anything you will tell me?” she asked with lacklustre, sipping the strong brew.
Switch watched her, his black eyes swarming with amusement. He reached out to grab hold of her chin, but she swiftly slapped away his hand. He laughed again, though the sound was far darker than before, his intense gaze betraying his calm cheer. He simply watched her, the savage possession clear in his eyes. Though it appeared for a moment as if he would lash out and seize her, he simply grinned.
“I heard that the Monteguard’s have left Talingarde in fear of the war,” he continued, “The word is they fled by ship early this morning, after clearing out more than half of their manor staff.”
“It is easier this way,” Willow shrugged gently, “Their presence complicates matters.”
“I am surprised you did not simply kill them,” Switch commented with a touch of a frown.
“Killed for obeying their master’s word?” Willow scoffed, “Loyalty should be rewarded, not punished.”
“Loyalty?” he chuckled, “You are far more forgiving than I would have imagined. Are you a changed woman? One of love, forgiveness and family?”
Willow looked to him, shrewd eyes attempting to see through the light-hearted façade he paraded. She knew he was not simply who he pretended to be.
“It was not by their hand that I was betrayed,” she rasped quietly, “It was by yours…”
“Betrayed?” he repeated, arching his brow, “That implies disloyalty or a broken promise. You were deceived, because those greater than you knew it must be done. Deception is not simply a game that you alone play at…”
Her frown pulled deeply into her brow, her mind churning over plots and ploys filled with lies and untruths. Although she knew far more than she had before her return to Matharyn; what did she really know? Switch reached out a gentle hand, flicking her bottom lip with his thumb.
“What is wrong, sweet Willow,” he crooned softly, “Did I break your fragile heart?”
As a cold and harsh laugh cawed from her throat, he dragged her face towards him.
“Or did He?” he whispered menacingly.
The words rebounded through her head, as a single thought fought through the haze into clarity. With her frown releasing its grip, her eyes returned to his, an acceptance and understanding within them.
“My heart is His,” she replied with seriousness, “To do with as he wishes.”
A subtle amazement came over his features, as he withdrew his hand from her chin. His curious gaze searched her face, and seemed almost impressed with what he found. He slowly reached into his pocket and withdrew a small scroll, without blinking or releasing eye contact, he held it out to her. She placed her glass tumbler atop the wall and accepted the parchment, ignoring his piercing gaze as she unrolled it and read the contents. As she saw the name scrolled in cursive, the deep frown returned.
“This is a contract?” she asked.
“Indeed,” Switch rasped, tilting his head as he watched her.
“You wish me to believe that some one in Matharyn wishes the High Cardinal Vitallian of Estyllis of Mitra dead?” she laughed in disbelief, “Is this a joke?”
Switch raised his brows, “You will not accept the contract?”
Willow arched an eyebrow, “I did not say that.”
“I never specified that each contract has to come from a client in Talingarde,” Switch shrugged, “Contracts come from all regions, so do targets. This one just happens to be here in Matharyn. I can give it to someone else if you wish…”
“No,” Willow smiled wickedly, “I will accept the contract. Are there any specifics?”
Slowly grinning his appreciation, Switch shook his head.
“Only that he must die,” he rasped, “I shall leave the details up to you…”

On the following day, Willow organised the staff of the manor, setting tasks for each of them. She sent word to her contact in the Brighthorn with details for the expected arrival of the Forsaken. After the house and been cleaned and returned to the standard long held by the family, she had the servants prepare the guest chambers, and arranged new outfits made to exact specifications. They were welcome gifts to her allies; to those she called friends. For Garvana, she had four dresses made from various silks and velvets in dark and muted hues, with matching camisoles of satin. She prepared appropriate jewellery to compliment each one, laid out upon the grand oak dresser, sets of matching earrings, necklaces and bracelets. She was careful to select ones that were not too floral or feminine, ones that held the strength of a dignified woman in her prime. For Bor, she arranged a few sets of sharp jackets and loosely tailored pants, with low cut necklines to be worn in a casual sense of formal. She knew he would be uncomfortable in outfits too elaborate, so she opted for simple and trim. And for Pellius, she commissioned two colonial style coats, gold lined buttons, upon flanks of midnight black and navy blue. She acquired a few sets of fine lined slacks and white button up shirts, along with new leather belts and polished black boots. Lastly, she laid out three pendants, one upon each of their beds. She had contracted the pendants made from obsidian, carved with a cleverly hidden symbol woven between intricate design; the runic mark of the Forsaken.
“Is everything to your liking, mistress?” Atwood asked cordially.
Standing within the opulent dining room, Willow looked around the grand chamber. She smiled as she turned to the aged man. Atwood had been the chamberlain of the Monteguard Manor for almost as long as it had stood. He was one of the few people that Willow truly trusted. For her entire life, he had watched over and cared for her. He knew all of the Monteguard’s secrets, including knowledge of the blasphemous collections that dwelled beneath the main residence. His family had served the noble house through countless generations. Though once, his ancestors bore wretched wings and crooked tails, Atwood held little trace of his tiefling bloodline. Breeding with humans had dwindled the connection, leaving the slight man with simply sharper teeth than those around him. Without studying his face intricately, he would be easily passed by upon inspection. He looked to her with a rare fondness. They had always been close, and though he was merely a servant, Willow had always seen him as simply another grandfather.
“Yes, Atwood,” she answered, “Everything is satisfactory.”
“If I may say so, mistress,” he said, inclining his head, “It is very good to have you home.”
Willow looked to him, sad to see the way age hunched upon his posture, the lines heavier in his face. Knowing that they were alone within the chamber, she approached him and embraced him warmly.
“It is good to see you, old friend,” she said quietly.
His aged face eased, as he smiled towards her, “My you have grown, child.”
Willow chuckled softly, “It has been a long few years.”
“And you are not the young girl you were when you left.”
“No,” she said faintly, looking to the painted portrait of her younger self, “I am not.”
“These guests of yours, mistress,” he said carefully, “Do you trust them?”
Willow frowned for a moment, before she returned her gaze to him.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “They are a tad brash, but they are worthy allies. I have learned to trust them with my life, much as they trust me. We have achieved much together, and we have suffered in the same fate. You need not worry, Atwood. Treat them as honoured guests.”
“Of course, mistress,” he inclined his head, “I shall, as always, defer to your judgement.”

The sun slowly began its descent, as Willow walked the long hallways of her childhood home. With older eyes she looked upon the glorious statues and paintings with a wiser and more appreciative mind. She saw a beauty in the serene landscapes, and a cleverness in the way her parents had subtly decorated the place to celebrate their Chelaxian ancestry. As she strolled through the eastern wing towards the library, she did not notice her feet leading the way of their own accord. When she found herself within the hidden wine cellar, she realised where she had been heading. She approached the rough stone wall beyond the largest of the barrels. With a trembling hand she reached out and pressed the secret stones in order. The wall shuddered, as if the mechanism had rusted in disuse. Slowly, the two halves of the wall pulled open, revealing the shadowed chamber beyond. With a timid stride and weary legs, Willow stepped forward. It was a curious sudden fear that slowed her approach, feeling as much the child as she had been the last time she had looked upon him. She bowed her head in deference as she stepped into the large pentagram upon the floor. She kneeled, remaining still in perfect obedience, as if she expected Asmodeus himself to suddenly appear before her. With careful eyes, she looked up to the overwhelming effigy.
A golden statue immaculately carved in intricate detail formed of her terrifying Infernal Lord. The largest towering devil; razor sharp scales layered in flanks along his skin, eldritch angular horns crowning his head, serrated talons protruding from each finger and toe, a thickened tail with a blade-like barb and long sharpened teeth hanging from his roaring jaw. As she felt her heart beat fasten, racing until it thundered in her chest, she could have sworn the carved runic patterns along the floor pulsed swiftly. She felt a force drawing upon her flesh, beckoning her forward. With no will or want to resist it, she gracefully rose from her subservience, quietly following the force. As she reached the towering statue, she saw the timeworn patch upon the glistening base. It was there, that she had spent the majority of her free time as a child and throughout her young adult life. It was there that she had joined with her Prince of Darkness for endless hours in prayer. And it was there, that the undeniable driving force beckoned her to. With slow movements, she pulled free the laces of her shoes, dropping them upon the stone floor. As she stepped upon the altar, the cold surface of pure gold met with the heated warmth of her skin. She sank down to her knees, reaching out a ginger hand to trace her fingers along the strong scaled leg of the statue. It was from that angle that something caught her eye. Wedged in between the rippling pleats of the golden cape that the carving wore, was a book that she had long forgotten. Willow pulled the tome free from its hiding place, and smiled nostalgically at the infernal script along its cover. It had long been her favourite reading, the chronicles of a brave and terrible paladin of Asmodeus. In the name of the mighty Infernal King, the warrior had quested far across the material planes, in a mission to bring order and rule to human kind. Though clearly embellished for the sake of story, Willow had long dreamt of pairing with such a man, to fight alongside him in his infernal crusade. She laughed as she opened the tome and found a picture she had drawn many years prior. Though her talent surely never lay in artistic pursuits, she could not help but laugh as she saw Pellius’ likeness in the depiction. As the words captured her attention once more, she sank down and leant against the statue, reliving the great tales of hell’s fury.

Willow had not noticed the hours crawl passed as she silently delved into the realm of literature. It was the sound of scraping stone that awoke her from her trance, as the walls parted and Atwood appeared in the cellar.
“Please pardon the intrusion, mistress,” he bowed, “But I thought you would wish to know that your guests have sent word of their arrival.”
Willow swiftly closed the book and lowered her legs to sit up straighter.
“Very well,” she said hurriedly.
“I shall leave to retrieve them at once, would you like the servants to begin dinner preparations?”
“Yes, thank you Atwood,” she nodded.
“Very good, mistress.”
As he departed with a low bow, closing the walls behind him, Willow let out a breath that she had not realised she was holding. She slipped the book back into its hiding place and swiftly made her way back to the main floor. As she climbed the stairs towards her chamber, she felt the peculiar sensation of nervousness creep into her stomach. Though she chastised herself for it, she could not help but feel a small anxiety at the thought of letting the Forsaken into a piece of her past. She knew they would not find the Monteguard Manor in anything less than approval, yet she was still at unease. Their arrival would mean she would need to give some kind of explanation as to how and why she had returned. It meant she had to share a portion of truth with them, and ultimately reveal part of herself. When she returned to her bedchamber, she exhaled sharply. She looked through her brimming wardrobe, passing over layers of lace and satin, pushing aside the bright hues of greens and gold. When she came across a gown of fervent crimson, her fingers lingered over the silk. It was a dress she had commissioned long before the complications of war and battle, even before the years of her married life. She had seen an illustration of it in a Chelaxian book, a high priestess of Asmodeus adorned with scarlet silk upon the Days of Wrath celebrations. Willow had pictured herself wearing such a thing one day. She had pictured herself in a world where devotion to the Lord of Nine was not only accepted, but cherished. It seemed fitting for her to wear it the night of the Forsaken’s arrival in Matharyn. Here, they were going to eradicate the true orchestrator of the Mitran faith. Here, they were going to put an end to the royal Markadian bloodline.
She dressed her hair in a coiling braid that sat atop her head much like an ebony crown, leaving her skin bare and flushed, applying a simple coat of carmine to her lips. As she slipped into the soft silk, she laced the ties around her waist, threading the sash that wound along her side. As she stepped in front of the large ornate mirror, she could not help but smile. Though her reflections was clear and invisible, her flesh no longer reflecting in the glass sheet, she could see the clothing perfectly. When she had commissioned the gown, she had been slender to the point of frail, appearing a child in a woman’s dress. But as she stood and admired the dress’ reflection, her figure filled it out in exactly as a woman should. The silk clung to her waist tightly before falling over the heavy layers of tulle to the floor. The neckline draped across her collarbone, in a softened touch that breathed the slightest air of indecency. Down the left side of the gown, it split as she moved her legs, revealing a dark weft of sable netting beneath. To truly complete the look, she selected a piece of jewellery taken from the dragons horde. A torque lined with ebony gems, that twisted and wrapped around her throat, centred by a single glistening ruby. She did not simply appear like a priestess of Asmodeus; she appeared much as an infernal queen.
When she heard the front door swing open, she left her chamber strolled along the hallway to the head of the stairs.
“Welcome, my lords,” Atwood bowed, as they entered.
Slowly, Willow lifted the long length of her dress slightly and descended the staircase. As she met eyes with the others, she smiled.
“My lady,” Pellius said, appreciative eyes looking her over.
“It seems you have upgraded accommodations since we last met,” Garvana frowned.
“So it would seem,” Willow replied sardonically, arching her brow.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she lowered her dress and gracefully approached them. Though his face held unreadable emotions, Pellius stepped forward and bowed to her, gently placing a kiss on her wrist.
“Welcome to the Monteguard Manor,” she presented.
“Am I correct in assuming that if you are here,” Pellius said in intrigue, “The prior lords of the manor, are not?”
As Willow began to answer, Garvana’s sharp tone cut her off.
“Is he to be trusted?” she scowled, pointing to the chamberlain.
Willow looked to Atwood, a slight smirk on her face as they shared a look of understanding.
“Atwood’s loyalty has never been in question,” Willow replied, almost a touch of pride to her words, “He has served the Monteguard family longer than any of us have been alive. He has my complete trust.”
“Thank you, mistress,” Atwood bowed, “To serve you is an honour.”
Willow inclined her head warmly, before returning her sight to the others. When she looked over their travel-worn clothes, tired and weary faces, she smiled.
“Atwood will show you to the guest quarters,” she said cordially, “You will find a change of clothes and hot water already in the baths. We shall discuss the rest over dinner in an hour.”
Though the confusion and caution were clear in their faces, Atwood ushered them towards the western wing. As Pellius turned to follow, Willow laid a gentle staying hand on his forearm.
“I apologise if it was presumptuous of me,” she said softly, “But I have prepared your stay in my quarters… if you wish to stay alone, I can easily have the servants prepare a private chamber.”
Pellius frowned gently as he searched her eyes.
“With you will be suitable, my lady,” he said, inclining his head.
“Very well,” she said politely, turning for the stairs, “Follow me…”
When they reached her quarters, she sealed the door closed behind him and escorted him through the private parlour and into the main bedroom.
“The bathing chamber is through that door,” she pointed, “The dressing room is to the right, and the balcony is out the glass doors through there.”
“Willow,” he frowned, placing his pack down beside the dresser, “Why do you seem so nervous?”
“Nervous?” she dismissed, “Do not be foolish. I am not nervous.”
He stalked to her, grasping her hands as he looked into her eyes.
“Then why are your hands shaking, my lady?” he questioned, tilting his head, “And why do you ask me if it alright if we share a bed? Have I not shared your bed for the last two years?”
Willow held her breath as she looked to him. Deceiving him was pointless. He knew how to read the thoughts in her eyes, and understand the words before she spoke them. She exhaled sharply, pulling from his hold as she paced the chamber.
“There is much to tell you,” she began, “And I am unsure exactly how, or what to tell you.”
“You know I will listen,” he said softly.
She sighed, shaking her head gently.
“Perhaps it is best if you freshen up first,” she said quietly, “I will get some wine. I think, I shall need it…”

“They are not dead,” she sighed, sipping heavily upon the red in her glass, “They have returned to Cheliax.”
“Your parents?” Pellius frowned, “They were gone when you returned?”
“No,” she said softly, “They were here.”
“You simply allowed them to leave?” he asked in disbelief.
“It is…” she began, “Far more complicated than you think. Than I thought, than I could have ever thought. There is so much that I did not know, so many secrets, and I have only unravelled the slightest hint of them.”
“I am sorry, my lady,” he frowned deeply, “But I do not understand. You have been seething and craving your revenge for so long, yet you simply let them live?”
“They had done no wrong…” she replied, “They had only followed orders.”
“No wrong, Willow?” he balked, “They sent you into a death trap! They betrayed you!”
“No…” she smiled sadly, “They didn’t. I was, deceived… but never betrayed. They were not the orchestrators of my downfall, just simple pawns in a great game. They were merely, messengers, if you will.”
“Messengers?” he scoffed, motioning around the luxuriant chamber, “It must have been someone truly powerful to treat such people as mere messengers.”
“It was by the word of Asmodeus himself…” she whispered, eyes downcast, “They were told that for me to truly rise to greatness, I must fall and truly know the bitter despair of failure. They were instructed to leave a note signifying that I was ready to take on the beginning… of a journey of growth. They simply made the choice, knowing that I would be arrested. They had no more a hand in what followed than I.”
“They are hardly innocent,” he scowled.
“It was not them that summoned the guards, it was not them that whispered my guilt to my husband. It was him, it was all Swi-”
She froze as she realised she was about to reveal Switch’s hand in it all. Pellius knew she had kept another lover, though they did not speak of who he was. She had never truly revealed anything of him, only saying enough to establish that Willow was not jeopardising their missions by fooling around with someone she shouldn’t. Though technically she could not say the same of herself, she never felt their liaison put the others in harms way. Revealing his part in her downfall only raised more questions, ones she did not have answers to. Somehow he knew who, or what, she was.
Though Pellius’ eyes narrowed at her words, he simply remained silent.
“My point is simply,” she said quickly, “That my parents did not believe they were sentencing me to death. Quite the opposite, they thought they were truly allowing me to live. To live right, by Asmodeus’ will. When I returned, I planned to devour them. I planned to slit their throats and watch them slowly die. I thought I would surprise them while they slept, fat and happy in their beds. But I did not find happiness. All I found was heart ache and sorrow. I found two truly tormented souls, broken and crestfallen souls. They believed they had unknowingly sentenced their daughter to death. Once I had gone, the whispers of our infernal father ceased. And then nothing. No word, no contact; nothing. The guilt and blame took complete hold. I do know how much of their minds truly remain after the torment they have lived over the last few years…”
“I could not kill them,” she said quietly, “They had only followed orders, His orders. I could not bring myself to kill them – so I forgave them. But I could not have them here. I could not have them in the very city we plan to attack. I do not know what I feel towards them anymore, I do not know what they deserve, but it is not death. Not by my hand, or by the maw of a black wyrm. So I sent them away…”
“And they did not ask you to come along?” he sneered.
“Quite the opposite,” Willow said with a small and sad laugh, “The begged me to give up the life I know now and return with them. They pleaded. But, of course, I could not. They do not know what it is we are doing. They do not know what we are to achieve. But they are broken souls, I do not know if they will ever be who they once were…”

After an hour had passed, Pellius buttoned up his new coat, and offered an arm to Willow. As she accepted it, she guided him through the hallways to return to the balcony of the main stairs, as they began to descend, he looked up to the large doors on the eastern side of the upper floor.
“They are my parents’ chambers,” she said quietly when she saw him, “Please do not enter them. Though they have taken most of their belongings, I do not wish what remains to be disturbed.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he nodded politely.
When she guided them into the rich and formal dining room, she found Bor and Garvana awaiting them. Garvana wore the vibrant emerald frock that Willow had commissioned, with loose sleeves to soften the hardness of her muscular frame, and tight ruching around the waist to give her the appearance of one. Bor had attempted to dress for the occasion, wearing his new slacks and shirt, but still appeared as much the rough orc as he always had.
“It is a grand manor,” Garvana said cordially, “In an amazing location. I have never been to the Golden Bow, I’ve only ever heard stories of it.”
“I am glad you approve,” Willow smiled, inclining her head in thanks as Pellius pulled out her chair at the head of the table, “I take it your rooms are adequate?”
“Adequate?” Bor laughed, “I’ve never stayed in something so posh.”
“I will take that as a yes?” Willow questioned with a laugh, “And the clothing? I had it made to order so it should fit well.”
“Yes,” Garvana beamed, “It is lovely.”
“And you look splendid in green, Garvana,” Willow grinned, “Or maybe it is simply that you look splendid in a dress, rather than hidden behind bulking steel.”
Garvana blushed heavily, “Thank you.”
“I would like to prepose a toast,” Willow said proudly, lifting her glass, “To us. To the Forsaken. May the rest of the world never know our names until it is far too late!”
Though the others cheered and raised their glasses, Garvana looked around the room in clear suspicion. She lowered her glass and slowly sipped from it, eyes locked to the golden haired servant that placed her entrée in front of her.
“Marianna,” Willow beckoned, “What is it we are eating tonight?”
“Entrée is baked pheasant with pinenut and leek sauté, mistress,” the deferent woman said quietly, eyes downcast, “For main we have braised darkfin with artichoke and blue cheese. And for dessert, we have organised a surprise for celebration of your return, mistress.”
“A surprise?” Willow arched an eyebrow, “Very well, Marianna, carry on.”
When she left the chamber, and Willow sipped upon the light and clear wine, Garvana leaned in with a deepened frown.
“You trust all of them?” she whispered, “We may speak freely in front of them?”
“You may,” Willow smiled, “The ones that remain have been hand picked by me for the surety of their loyalty. Most have been with the Monteguard’s for generations. They are well trained in keeping their eyes and ears shut.”
“But why would they serve you if they know your parents betrayed you?” Garvana asked.
“And where are your parents?” Bor frowned, “Did you kill them?”
Willow looked to Pellius for a moment, before she sighed heavily. She knew she needed to explain the outline but was far more relucent to do so when the others knew so little about the inner workings of her mind, and even less about her past.
“They have returned to Cheliax,” she said simply, “I was mistaken in my understanding of their actions. Asmodeus has his way of controlling events to play out the way he wishes. I have simply been part of a move that I did not foresee. Sending them back to Cheliax, to escape the war and the horror we are bringing to the city, it keeps matters simple.”
While her answer was vague, it seemed enough to satisfy their curiosity.
“And it is not more obvious that you are here if they are gone and the manor continues to be occupied?” Garvana frowned.
“A manor house needs to be tended to even when the masters are away,” Willow shrugged, “And besides, we are upon the Golden Bow. We do not simply receive visitors up here. Did you not see the guards at each gate along the road? I know we are in the centre of the city, but it is the best place for us to hide.”
“And when we need something, we simply walk out the front door?” Garvana scoffed.
“I would never trap myself in with only a single way out,” Willow smirked, “Come now, let us enjoy a nice dinner and after I shall show you why I am so content hiding here until Chargammon arrives…”

When dessert arrived from the kitchen, each dish was accompanied by a separate servant. Upon each plate was a perfectly circular sphere of the darkest cocoa blend, smooth and glistening, as if simply floating along the plate. In practiced unison, the plates were served and each servant withdrew a small ornate jug filled with steaming melted chocolate. In a true show of marvel, they poured the liquid over the domes, and suddenly the domes dissipated to reveal a small intricate tart hidden within. Willow could not help but laugh as Garvana’s eyes flew wide, instinctively rasping her arcane incantation to determine what magic was at play. When her frown indicated as Willow had assumed, that nothing but fine gourmet artistry caused the illusion, she sank back into her chair in wonder. Marianna was ever the professional servant, the smallest arch to her brow at the rude and curious table manners of the bewildered woman.
“Tell Gregor that we are pleased,” Willow commented to the servants, “His creation is marvellous.”
“Thank you, mistress,” they bowed in unison, before swiftly exiting the chamber.
“You grew up with this?” Bor grinned, “No wonder you hated sleeping in a tent.”
Willow laughed, “I was raised in a life of privilege, but I did not appreciate it then. It has taken tents, and a lot of bloodshed, to make me realise what I was given. It is fun to play at the lady of the house…” she paused, with a frown pulling tightly, “But I am unsure if I could return to such a… simple life.”
She stared at the immaculately arranged dessert. It was a truthful and harsh statement, that resounded deep with her. After all they had been through, after the unrelenting onslaught of battle, the contestant vigilance and tireless fight; how could she return to this?
“I apologise,” she said quietly, placing her fork upon the table, “I seem to have lost my appetite. Please, continue. I must excuse myself for a moment.”
Pellius was quick to pull out her chair, as she placed her napkin upon the table and stood. She inclined her head to him as she departed through the large ornate doors that led to the ball room. Slowly, she strolled across the gleaming tiles, finding her way to the great marble bench along the southern wall. As she sat, her mind twisted and churned, curious thoughts of a future that had not yet come to pass. They still had much to achieve. There was still so much fighting and repelling against the tide of battle. But when it was all said and done, what were they to do? Were they supposed to return to their lives before? The home of Matharyn that she knew would never be the same. It would be better, she knew, for the Lord of the Nine would reign supreme. But was she supposed to return to a life of parties and balls, nobles and commoners, everyday life? How could she? After crusading against legendary beings of light and good, how could she simply return to the stagnant life of an every day human? Or would there never be an end to the battle? Would there always be a foe to fight, a force of good rebelling against the hierarchy of hell? Would she want that? If there was no end to her struggles, no end to the turmoil of the great war between good and evil, chaos and order? In the days and years that had passed, in her service to Cardinal Thorn, she was given no time to consider the aftermath of their strenuous campaign. But as she sat dressed in the finest materials, layered in the rarest of jewellery, seated within the grandest and most opulent of manors; was that all she was to know after the fall of Talingarde?
“My lady?” came Pellius’ voice to break her spiralling reverie, “Are you alright?”
Willow smiled cordially and stood from her perch.
“Yes,” she said politely, “I simply needed a little air. Perhaps the decadent food is too much too quickly.”
He approached her slowly, soft eyes reading her face.
“Food does not pull that line upon your brow, Willow,” he said knowingly, “It is usually worry that does. What is wrong?”
She scowled at his ability to read her emotions so clearly, but she smiled as she looked to him.
“I am alright,” she reassured, “My mind is simply being given to much time to think. Idleness is not my forte.”
“I could not imagine it so,” he grinned slyly.
Willow laughed softly as she looked out around the richly appointed ballroom. As she did, she sighed, her smile faltering.
“There are so many memories in the house,” she said quietly, “And yet, I am forced to rethink them. What I thought I truly understood, what drove me and inspired me in spite… I have come to believe I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?” he frowned, “What do you speak of?”
Though her thoughts were wrapped in the words of her parents, Willow’s gaze lingered upon the grand piano, as her mind recalled the endless nights spent listening to one of the servants play ballads and tunes of Chelaxian war tales.
“It does not matter,” she shook her head, “It is things I must decipher on my own.”
“Willow…” he began.
“Do not worry,” she hushed him, “If I need your help, Pellius, I assure you I will ask for it. Come along, I suppose it is time I give you all a tour of the manor, and its secrets…”

While the table was cleared and the servants bustled in hurry, Willow led the three of them towards the main library. The Forsaken were silent as they observed the grand portraits of the past members of the Monteguard house, pausing momentarily to behold the surpassing beauty of the sculptures and statues that lined the hall. When she opened the great double doors to the repository of literature and lore, the smell of parchment and paper greeted them.
“I see where your fascination of books comes from,” Bor commented with a laugh.
Willow rose her brows with a grin, “You do not know the half of it.”
While they followed her through, with searching eyes of curiosity, she escorted them towards the most northern shelving.
“If you need to go this way, and I am not accompanying you,” she said quietly, “Look for Bitholemu Herragreen and his works on hidden truths of the shadow plane.”
She reached behind the heavy tome and pressed the wooden panel firmly. The entire shelve slowly retreated into the wall and opened inward, revealing the cast iron spiral stairs that disappeared below into darkness. Willow lifted the ever-burning torch from the library wall and began to descend the stairs, with the others following closely behind. When she reached the underground floor, she heard the muffled whispers of the others as they stepped into the large wine cellar.
“You may help yourself,” she chuckled, “The supplies have dwindled of recent years, but you will still find much here that you cannot find anywhere upon Talingarde soil.”
As she slowly wound her way through the large barrels towards the hidden sitting room, her eyes lingered on the temple chamber wall. She was willing to share the existence of the escape routes and forbidden lore within the underground hollow, but to reveal the shrine was to reveal a part of herself. She looked away, quickly walking to the other wall and pushing the hidden buttons to open the disguised door. As they entered the small chamber, she led them through the orderly office and silently continued through it to open the way to the library.
“What is this?” Garvana asked, eyes wide.
“The Monteguard’s collection of forbidden lore,” she explained, “When the Asmodean purges began in Talingarde, the head of the house was given special recompense for his service to the state. We were given the chance to denounce Asmodeus, and embrace Mitra. Rather than face a pointless death, the family agreed. But not all was surrendered to the fire. When the manor was built, every carpenter, labourer and builder were either shipped back to Cheliax or killed to keep the underground chambers secret. The Mitrans never knew of its existence. So the family stored the forbidden lore and relics here, giving up only texts and tomes that they had copies of. It is possibly the greatest collection of Asmodean lore left on Talingarde…”
With eyes of wonder, the three of them slowly spread out among the overwhelming stacks and shelves. She watched Garvana gingerly stroke her finger along the spine of an infernal tome, holding her breath as she took in the sight. Willow could not read the emotions on Pellius’ face, he seemed cold and closed off, as if deep thoughts ran through his mind. And Bor simply strolled through the passages, a slight frown on his brow.
“You are welcome in here whenever you wish,” Willow said cordially, “I ask only that you return the books to where they belong, and read them only within this library, the sitting room or your own chambers. Please do not leave them lying around the house. The staff will pay no mind to what you are reading, but most of them do not know the existence of this hall.”
Willow walked to the far end of the chamber, smoothing her hand over the stone brick wall.
“There is one more thing,” she called, gathering them together, “This leads out into the cliff face of River Danyth. You may leave and return by this if you wish, but be sure you are not seen of followed. If you do not think you can return without being tailed, or you simply do not wish to walk, send word to Castian and the staff will send someone to collect you.”
Willow deftly unlatched the hidden poison dart trap, making a visual show of how to do it, pressing in the hidden panel to open the brick wall and reveal the shadowed black tunnel.
“And do not forget to reset everything when you return.”
“How do the Mitrans not know it is here?” Pellius asked suspiciously, finally speaking.
“The Monteguard manor was once the only house on the hill,” Willow recalled, “When the Iraen fell to the Barcan line, the Golden Bow was little more than a great hill that shielded the old palace from the force of the great winds from the western seas. When the Monteguard’s arrived with the Victor to conquer and overthrow the Barcans, they were awarded much land and right to build prominence in the city. And so they built their manor upon the grand hill, with words to watch vigilantly over the palace. Over time, they sold portions of their land to other noble houses, forty three of them to be exact, that wished to mirror the Monteguard’s statement. This manor was built by Asmodean hands, it and its secrets stand as testament to that.”
“Where do you pray?” Garvana asked, innocent eyes still marvelling around the chamber, “I would have thought such a grand manor would house a shrine room…”
Suddenly, Willow felt a vicious suspicion and possessiveness overcome her. She stared harsh and shrewd eyes towards the muscular woman. Though Garvana intended no harm in her questioning, the implication of her words rasped within Willow. It took a moment for her to simmer her thoughts. There was no need for raised suspicion, there was no need to remain hostile and protective against those who stood within the chamber. She trusted them, and she knew she could trust them with the knowledge of the shrine. In fact, she knew there was no one in Talingarde more likely to appreciate the marvel for what it was.
“Come with me,” she said quietly, raising her brows high.
She led them back through the chambers until they returned to the grand cellar. She slipped between the barrels and approached the large rough stone wall. With a straight back and tension holding her figure, she exhaled slowly. Revealing what lay beyond the wall, was akin to revealing part of her soul. Slowly, she lifted her hand and pushed the stones, carving the inverted pentagram into the stone. As the stone scraped along the floor, the two halves parted once more. There he was, standing tall and fierce, towering over those who approached by slow and careful footsteps. Willow carefully stepped into the runic circle upon the floor, kneeling down and bowing low in subservience to the mighty statue. As the others followed suit, she felt a spark of warmth light in her heart. She slowly rose, stepping closer to the shrine before turning back towards them.
“This,” she said proudly, “Is the Monteguard’s greatest secret. You are welcome to use the ritual chamber for meditation and prayer. But I cannot insist firmly enough, you must keep the doors sealed.”
“What is this made from?” Garvana breathed in wonder, studying the intricate runes along the floor, “I have never seen such a thing.”
“It is crystallised ruby,” Willow smiled, “Melted with arcane flame and mixed with mithral glass.”
“It is a summoning circle, yes?”
“Yes,” she nodded, a firmness to her voice, “As I said, you may use the chamber for prayer and meditation, but please, do not touch anything.”
As Garvana’s eyes lit up with amazement, gazing up at the foreboding and terrible figure, she nodded her understanding in silence. Bor strolled to the east of the chamber, eyes trailing over the curious concoctions that lined the shelves. As Willow’s warning rang out, Pellius withdrew his hand from the bloodstained altar. The cracked marble table told tale of its countless use, dark mahogany tendrils of past sacrifice. When Willow watched him, she saw the sudden bloodlust that flourished in his face. He too, felt the ever nearing change of the vampiric curse. He too, felt the siren song of the bitter thirst for blood. As she watched him, she saw the linger of sickness, unfocused eyes as his breathing grew laboured. Quietly approaching him, she pulled on his arm gently and ushered him to the side of the chamber.
“Are you alright?” she hushed.
When she drew close, she saw the sheen of sweat that formed upon his brow, his pale white skin a hollow and ghostly green.
“I think there was garlic in the pheasant,” he grimaced, “It is strange, food has begun to taste as if hinted with ash, no drink seems to quench the aching thirst. And when I wake from sleep, I am more tired and drawn out then when I lay my head down.”
“I know,” she smiled, “I feel as if I have not slept in weeks.”
With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“I was unaware that dying would be such work,” he grinned.
As Willow chuckled, the motion thundered in her stomach, a sudden weakness and fatigue dragging upon her chest. Her legs trembled as she struggled to keep herself upright. Her lungs wheezed as she fought with them to draw breath.
“My lady?” Pellius said gently, swiftly reaching out to support her unstable weight.
“I am fine,” she dismissed, pushing through the symptoms to lift her head and hide her struggle, “I am simply tired.”
She turned to the others, “You are all welcome to move about the manor as you wish. I ask only that you do not enter the eastern chambers on the upper floor. If you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the evening…”

The beginning of the crescent moon hung along the edge of the sky, casting shades of grey and white upon the encompassing clouds. As Willow lay wrapped with the silken sheets, torches doused and blinds shut, the realm of slumber was kept out of her reach. She could feel it. She could feel death upon her. She knew that when she closed her eyes, she would not awaken with the drawing of living breath. As she heard the chamber doors open and seal shut, she recognised the familiar stride. Thinking she was asleep within the shadowed room, Pellius walked softly upon the floor, placing the books he had borrowed upon the bed stand. While he moved about the chamber, she simply listened. She could hear his beating heart, and if she strained, she could hear the faintest sound of blood coursing through his veins. The simple thought of it forced her fangs to slide down, her limbs tingling in anticipation, her hunger surging untold.
“You are awake,” came his voice, after the sound of Willow’s ragged breathing began, “You cannot sleep, my lady?”
He turned to her, his loose fitting shirt hanging low upon his collar, his firm throat bare to her. With no way to stop it, a groan of restraint slipped from her lips.
“Willow?” he said slyly, raising his brow as he prowled towards her.
“I can feel it,” she rasped, “I can feel the curse taking over.”
“So too can I,” he breathed, eyes alight as they raked over her silk covered figure.
“I do not have the strength to contain it,” she strained, clenching her eyes shut to shield his bare skin from view, lest she leap upon him and drain him entirely.
She felt the touch of his warm hand trace along the outline of her stomach.
“Then do not,” he whispered viciously.
“No,” she snarled, “I know it is coming to an end, I can feel it. I will not awaken alive tomorrow.”
“You are sure?” he rasped.
When she looked to him, she felt her pupils convulse and dilate. She could feel the sickly paleness to her skin, she could feel the insatiable hunger seething inside her. Slowly, he sank down into the bed, leaning over her with eyes of enrapture.
“Leave me!” she growled, “I cannot keep control much longer.”
His lips lifted into a savage and sinful grin, two sharp fangs glistening in the smallest touch of light, as his rough hand gripped her throat and pulled her face towards him.
“Then let it go,” he breathed wickedly his own bloodlust fuelling his words, “Sate your living self one last time, and reawaken as something far greater.”
Willow trembled in his crushing grasp, bright eyes livid with ravenous desire, limbs swarming with desperate need. Though eager hands slowly reached for him, it was as it always was; on his terms. With a frightening strength, he lifted Willow into the air and slammed her chest against the heavy oak headboard. As she felt his weight push against her, his grip on her throat pulled her neck backward until her back was flush with his chest. He turned her head and forced her to bare her throat to him. She felt the sharp points of his fangs drag along her flesh.
“If you are correct,” he breathed, warm air feathering along her sweat-drenched skin, “Then this will be the very last time I may feed on you. It is a shame… for you have such beautiful skin…”
With far more control than she would ever have been able to muster, Pellius slowly sank his fangs deeply into her flesh. As he drew the blood from the slits on her neck, she whimpered in blissful agony, feeling his other hand achingly slowly trail lower down her body. Though she urged him to move faster, to be rougher and wild; he simply continued his infuriating slow pace – never releasing his paralysing grip on her throat. When his hand had almost reached exactly where she needed it so desperately to be, he veered it away just as slowly. With fangs that throbbed as they plunged from her jaw, she growled her utter frustration. His dark and dastardly laugh as he released his drink from her neck, sent violent shivers along her spine that stilled her bodies defiance. His words crept deep into Willow’s mind, leaving her powerless and quivering in anticipation.
“You have given me one night,” he breathed, rasping into her ear, “Then it shall be the longest night of your life…”

minderp
2017-02-14, 06:35 PM
Flickering tendrils of fire cast eery rays upon the stone wall, light that danced in menacing sway across the pulsing fabric of the heavy drapes. The soft breeze drifted through the darkened chamber, in a warm touch that grazed cool and pale skin. Slowly, dry eyes crept open. Willow lay upon the cushioned mattress of her bed within her quarters of the Monteguard Manor, silk sheets and heavy rugs tucked in beneath her. Though she was awake, she felt the curious sensation that held her body. Her frame lay in perfect stillness. Her chest did not rise and fall, her heart did not beat. Even her limbs were far more comfortable in their resting state. As she remained where she was, she began to understand the feeling of death, or undeath as it were. When a frown pulled tight upon her brow, she instinctively drew a deep breath inward. It was a peculiar feeling, though her lungs inflated and deflated as she exhaled, the air simply withdrew from her chest much like a paper bag. She clenched her knuckles, simply to test their movement. She wriggled her toes in the same way. Though they moved much as they should, it was the same and yet so very different. Slowly, she pulled the blankets free and lifted herself into a seated position. Though the chamber was barley lit by a single torch, she could see as clearly as she would in daylight. She could hear the soft footsteps of someone walking the carpeted corridors beneath her on the lower floor. She could hear the drip of the water tap in her bathing chamber, as if it rang beside her ear. The overwhelming sensory experience had her close her eyes tightly, to try to sort through the mess of her head. When she calmed her mind and simply allowed it to drift, the curious lack of a heartbeat truly rattled her composure. With unsure hands she reached down by the side of her mattress, pulling free the thin blade that she always kept hidden close. With intense eyes watching the blades trail, she dragged it firmly across the palm of her hand. She felt the cold metal keenly as it sliced through the flesh, yet as the skin parted, it left a clean path. No blood poured from the deep wound, no red nor crimson swelled from beneath. Slowly, she watched the peculiar flanks of skin pull together, as it closed and sealed itself. As the seconds crawled by, she saw the layers of flesh knit together, before the cut became undetectable. Instinctively, she exhaled sharply. She dropped the dagger upon her nightstand, standing from the bed upon unsure legs. She had no mind to notice she was dressed in nothing but a silk nightgown, as she stumbled through towards the bathing chamber. She turned the faucet full pelt and splashed the water roughly upon her face. With shaking hands and droplets of water running down her neck and chest, Willow felt an uncontrollable need surge within. A blistering urgency exploded in her chest, as her fangs plunged down and began to throb and quiver. She felt the innards of her stomach clench and twist, churning in feral hunger. As the furious bloodlust overtook her mind, she paced the chamber in restless unease. Back and forth her feet took her, as her head flustered in turmoil. She had never experienced such an overwhelming desperation. She had never known it was truly possible to crave something so much. As the sound of footsteps sounded upon the upper hallway, Willow had no means of controlling her actions. She prowled upon light feet towards the doorway and swiftly passed through the private parlour. As the footsteps neared, she swung the door wide and recoiled from the blinding light of the well lit hallway.
“Master Pellius!” Atwood bellowed loudly, as his image came into view, “Niritta!”
He stood in the centre of the long hallway with confident staying hands held out in front of him. As she smelled the scent of living blood swarming in his veins, the bloodlust flared to a vast and burning height. She could not stop herself as her feet prowled towards him. Though she heard the distant sound of running and hurried footsteps, she could focus on nothing save the gushing blood that coursed through the firm muscle upon his throat.
“Control it Willow,” Atwood growled forcefully, “You need to control it!”
His words barely registered in her mind, as the ravenous need seethed in tortuous fury. She hissed viciously as she slowly stalked towards him. Suddenly, Pellius appeared at the head of the stairs, with a face of determination and fierce resolve. Willow stretched her mouth wide in a savage threatening hiss, the need for blood forcing her lash out at him in menace.
“Restrain her if you will, Master Pellius,” Atwood instructed firmly.
Willow heard the words, but could not make sense of them. She knew nothing save the dire need to devour. She was enraptured and possessed by the thirst. As Pellius’ stride brought him closer, she was captured by the scent of his thick and flowing blood. She launched herself towards him, sharp nails like claws sinking deeply into his flesh, snarling in barbaric hunger. He was brutal in his seizure, crushing hand latching on her arm tightly, lifting her effortlessly as he pulled her tightly against him, forcing her fangs away by her head with his other hand. Willow may have been easy to grab, but she had never been easy to keep hold of. She deftly slipped from his grip in frightening speed, leaping upon him apace, latching her claws into his shoulders as she plunged her fangs deep into his neck. She managed the barest of tastes before he ripped her from him and threw her into the wall, shattering the glass framed picture in a shower of shards and fragments. Willow snarled viciously as she ripped a long shard from deep in her torso, darting quickly up from the floor. Before she had time to recover, Pellius lunged towards her, grasping her by a fist full of hair, swiftly lifting her and slamming her into the ground. He sank his knees into her back, crushing her with his weight. Though she snarled and thrashed with predatory ferity, she was not strong enough to shift him. She hissed a furious rage, the frenzied bloodlust screaming its revolt against the denial of her prey.
“Niritta, quickly,” came Atwood’s voice from afar, “You know what to do. Master Pellius, please hold her still.”
The hazel haired woman appeared in Willow’s vision. When the scent of another drifted to her noise, she began to thrash anew. With a strong and unrelenting grip, Pellius wrapped his hand around her throat, with his other still clenched tightly in her hair. If Willow had needed to breathe, she would be a few moments from losing consciousness at the crushing force of his controlling hands. Even in the unbreakable grip, Willow could think of nothing save sating her undeniable hunger. Niritta lowered herself to her knees, pulling her long locks to the side to bare her throat to Willow. Slowly, Pellius guided her forward, allowing her access. When she felt her fangs pierce the woman’s delicate skin, she whimpered in ecstasy. She gulped the velvet scarlet as it flowed into her mouth, greedily devouring the sweet and soft flow of the warm liquid.
“Slowly, mistress,” Atwood’s calming voice crooned, “Slowly. We will not deny you. But you must take it slow.”
Somehow, whether by his soothing voice or by the blood that began to sate her hunger, she understood his words. Though she could not bring herself to release her mouth upon Niritta’s neck, she nodded her understanding.
“Good, mistress, very good,” Atwood said quietly, “Niritta?”
“I am fine, sir,” the woman said softly.
“You may let her go, Master Pellius,” Atwood instructed.
She felt Pellius look to the aged man, and she saw Atwood’s gentle nod. Slowly, he released his frightful grip on her throat, leaving sickly white marks where his hand had been. He gently lifted his weight from her, standing ever ready to commence his control were it needed. Without breaking contact on her throat, Willow crawled towards Niritta, dragging the slender woman further into her grasp.
“Slowly, mistress,” Atwood soothed.
Willow gently traced her hands over the bare flesh of the young servant’s neck, in something akin to a caress, as she fed and sated the simmering thirst within her. Slowly, the hunger dissipated. Willow dropped Niritta from her grip, languidly falling into a heaped stupor beside her. The young woman carefully rose to her feet, pressing a flank of linen to her neck as she bowed respectfully and retreated from the hallway. Gentle and firm arms scooped her up from the floor, as Pellius held her tightly to his chest. Willow’s limbs felt weak and fragile, as they dangled from his embrace with a leisurely sway. As he turned for the bedchamber, she finally awoke enough to realise what had happened. She strained against the lethargy and lifted her head to look towards the butler.
“H-how?” was all she managed to stammer.
He simply smiled knowingly, inclining his head, “You are not the first Monteguard to be taken by the vampiric curse… Sleep well, mistress.”


When the confusion and sated haze finally wore off, the evening had grown far passed midnight. As Willow’s eyelids flickered open, she felt the incredible weight of shame shroud her mind. She had never before acted in such an uncontrolled show of savagery. She had launched herself towards those she called friends, with the clear intent of draining them dry. What would she have done, if Atwood had not been so prepared?
“Ah, you awaken,” his tired voice said, as if summoned by her thoughts, “Are you well, mistress?”
Sitting in a chair pulled by the side of the bed, Atwood wiped his fatigued and reddened eyes, standing to attention once more. It was clear, he had remained by her side the entire time she had been asleep.
“Do you require more to drink?” he questioned.
“No,” she said quietly, dragging her weary body into a seated position, “I am fine, Atwood. But I must apologise, i-”
“Please, mistress,” he silenced softly, “There is no need.”
Willow looked to the frail aged man, frowning deeply as the shame lingered.
“Do not be sorry. For you have nothing to be sorry for. It is my fault, for not being as swift as I could have been. I knew you would rise tonight, but I naively assumed I had more time.”
“You knew?” Willow frowned.
“Yes, mistress,” he smiled gently, “I have guided a few through the transition in my time. I recognised the signs upon your return. Paler skin, fading appetite, longer teeth.”
Willow grinned at his words, yet frowned as she realised her fangs still hung from her mouth. Upon seeing her worry, he simply continued to smile.
“They will retract in time, mistress.”
“And the girl?” Willow asked, “She is alright?”
“Niritta was once a vampire’s thrall, though she has long been cured of the curse. She was more than willing to subject herself to it again in your time of need. Strangely, it seems the bite has had little effect, save leaving her a little light headed.”
“And Pellius?” Willow asked warily, surprised to see him not by her side, “I do not remember him leaving…”
Atwood looked upon her with wise and understanding eyes, though he did not comment on her worry.
“Master Pellius has retired for the evening. He was looking quite unwell, it seems the curse shall take him in quick succession to you, mistress.”
“Where is he?”
“He has taken rest in the guests quarters, to allow you time to yourself to recover, while he passes through the transition.”
“Oh,” Willow frowned, sounding far more disappointed than she had intended to reveal, “Very well, Atwood. Thank you. And I do apologise for trying to… eat you…”
The aged butler grinned, a rare show of sharpened teeth, “I do not believe the ancient and decrepit blood in my veins would have tasted very fresh, mistress…”


Settling in to the state of undead, took far longer than Willow had expected. She felt awkward and inelegant, as though her bones could not keep up with her movements. She was faster than before, more agile and quicker on her feet. Her senses were sharper, her smell, sight and hearing keener, her reactions swifter. And yet, as she sprinted through the grassed lands of the Monteguard estate, she found herself stumbling and struggling for balance. She had remained in her deceased state for three days and nights, leaving her limbs stiff and sore after so long unmoving and static. While both Pellius and Garvana moved through their deathly transition, and Bor took time to rest and unwind, Willow was determined to master her new form.
The grounds of the manor were vast rolling hills of lush emerald grass, adorned with draping willow trees and high reaching oaks. The garden stretched in stunning expanse, row of pruned bushes and blossoming flowers, small sanctuaries embellished with fountains and weather-worn stone benches. By the cover of darkness, as the crescent moon lingered overhead; it was the perfect setting for Willow to stretch her legs. She ran through the winding trails, leaping over the trimmed garth, ducking and darting under the low falling branches of the largest trees. As her stride grew more confident, she quickened her pace. She swept along the verdant terrain, as silent as a whisper yet as fast as a howling wind. She grinned as she leapt high into the air to clear the peak of the topiary, sailing above it as the breeze tore through her long rippling ebony locks. When she had exited the manor, she had planned only to lightly run for half a mile before returning. So she had dressed in simple loose fitting slacks and a blouse, leaving her armour and weapons behind. But as she delved deeper into the shadowed caress of the Monteguard’s land, she found her mind eagerly hunger for more. She ran through the shrubs, lightweight and unhindered by jewellery and finery. She let her hair fly free from its usual tight and practical braid, the wind lashing it into unruly disarray. The lax clothing she wore, slick to her front as it billowed behind her and fluttered softly against the skin of her back. When she reached the edge of the grounds, arriving at the steep cliff side of River Danyth, she slowed her sprint to a stop as she toed along the crest. It was curious, that she had ran for the better part of an hour, never needing to stop or catch her breath. For there was nothing to catch. Even as she paused along the fringe of the tall descent, she did not heave or pant with exertion. A laugh came bubbling from her chest as the peculiar situation floated through her mind. For a time, she simply stared out over the coursing river, eyes trailing over the glorious view of Kingsill and the old palace. Though tomorrow she had much to do, wound tightly in steel and leather, or layered and draped in fabrics and jewels; for tonight, for a moment, she could simply be free.

The moon had begun its descent as Willow strolled her way back through the gardens towards the manor. Following the twisting paths that she had spent so much of her younger years exploring, her mind was far away with thoughts of her birth and beginnings. As she rounded the bend that led into the topiary labyrinth, a shadowed figure suddenly appeared, stopping her in her tracks.
“How strange to find you so… bare…” Switch’s devious voice rasped.
Willow could feel his eyes trailing over her figure. Suddenly, she was completely aware of how unarmed she was. Although she had begun to believe he meant her no harm, the malicious glee in his voice sparked a fierce and instinctive warning.
“You really have nothing better to do?” she asked disdainfully, hiding her trepidation behind confident words, “Do you pine for each moment you can steal with me?”
Even in the blackness of the shade that cast from the tailored bushes, she saw the feral grin that lifted his lips.
“Each and everyone,” he replied, prowling towards her in stalking unhurried steps, “Though I had never dreamed to find you so unguarded, so unprepared. No blades, no armour… no breath…”
Willow arched a slow brow, keeping a strong face as he approached, her mind churning in any possible escape. As he slowly drew his blades from their sheathes, she felt herself holding her breath in preparation to run.
“I have never liked the smell of undead,” he rasped, stepping closer, “Yet strangely, on you, it is almost… inviting.”
“Consider the invitation withdrawn,” Willow scoffed, piercing gaze locked with his.
Slowly, he stepped closer again, chuckling as it brought him mere inches from her face. As he looked deep into her eyes, consuming her with simply his sight, she waited patiently for his attack. She knew running now would be folly, for he was too quick to allow her to pass. She could not hope to overwhelm him with brute strength, for he far outweighed her ability. She would have to wait and bide her time until the perfect moment arose. He slowly lifted his blade, pressing the point lightly into the centre of her chest. He spoke, as he slowly dragged the dagger downward and split open the front of her blouse.
“It is deceiving,” he whispered, “How innocent you look without all the effects. You look much like you did when we first met.”
“I was a child,” she laughed coldly, “And you were a predator.”
At that, he leisurely pushed the blade forward, far enough to pierce through the skin. As a whimper of delighted pain escaped her mouth, his eyes lit up in amorous glee. He opened his mouth to speak, but Willow gave him no time. With fast and ferocious movements, she reached out and gripped the blade by the handle, twisting it from his grasp as she dropped low and pulled to the right. Using her weight, she thrust the blade from his hand and leapt up to meet him. He gave her not a moment of celebration before he lunged towards her, faster than even her vampiric eyes could track, one hand gripping her wrist and the other around her throat. With a terrible force, he pushed her backwards, slamming her back into the topiary behind her. She felt the sliced branches and twigs pierce through the flimsy material, stabbing deep into her cold flesh. With the blade still firmly in her hand, he simply held her there, staring deep into her eyes.
“I am still the predator,” he whispered, a dark and possessive promise to his words, “And you will always be my prey.”
With wide eyes that revealed the terror in his statement, Willow’s mouth parted slowly. She had never truly understood Switch’s part in her story, and though she had little clue now, a spark of realisation surfaced.
“What do you want of me?” she rasped, “What will you do, if I ever stop fighting and simply allow you to have me?”
A strange mix of emotions swarmed through his black and feasting eyes. There were things she recognised; hunger, carnal craving, feral possessiveness. Yet if she was not mistaken, there was a touch of sadness. It was there for only a moment, before his depraved and sinful grin returned.
“You will never,” he whispered, “And that is why it is so much fun.”
A slight lessening to his fierce grip, he leant forward slowly, pressing a deceiving and delicate kiss upon her lips. For a moment, she felt herself sigh into his embrace. A languid contentment came upon her, a calm comfort within his tender caress. But as she returned his affections with the trace of her tongue, she felt the curious sensation of arcana brushing against her flesh. As her mind fought the enchantment, she felt his grasp on her loosen as he sunk further into the kiss. She saw her opportunity, suddenly ripping herself free, veering to the left of him to spin and slip up behind him. Her movements were faster than they had ever been, too fast for him to see or predict as she launched her weight forward and shoved him into the topiary with the blade pressed firmly to the back of his neck. As she grinned, quite pleased with herself, he proved once again that she knew little of the extent of his tricks. He vanished. Simply disappearing from her grasp, without a spoken word or subtle movement.
“You will never stop fighting,” came his rasping voice from behind her.
She swiftly span on her heel, frowning deeply to see him standing behind her, leaning casually upon the stone archway to the labyrinth.
“What are you?” she growled in frustration.
His dastardly grin appeared in clear delight. Though she stared piercing and shrewd eyes towards him, she knew there was no chance of an answer.
“Come along,” he smirked, ignoring her question, “It has been four days since you accepted the contract. The client grows restless…”

With only a few hours before the break of dawn, Willow and Switch ran through the streets of Cathsill. Under the cover of darkness, the pair slinked through the back alleys of the winding region, making their way to the largest building upon the immense hill. It was known that the High Cardinal lived in towering three story estate, a palace only rivalled by the Adarium itself. It was not surprising, as Matharyn was truly a city that honoured their church as much as they did their royal family. Though Willow had passed the grounds many times while she had lived in the city, the grand mansion’s size could not truly be appreciated until it was seen up close. As they perched upon the tall stone brick wall that surrounded the estate, Willow surveyed the scene with calculating eyes bordered by a pulling frown. She did not have the time to search each and every room, as she had heard many times that there was rumoured to be close to one hundred chambers with the palace. For a moment, she simply watched the slow patrol of the guarding soldiers. When they saw a small statured chambermaid exit the grand chateau via the kitchen doors, Willow saw her chance. With the leisurely patrol rounding the far corner, she dropped from the great wall with Switch in close pursuit. Knowing well that the power of invisibility hid her approach, she was swift in her silent run, quickly wrapping her hand around the chambermaid’s mouth and dragging her back into the bushes along the edge of the gated wall. With great disdain, Switch retrieved the chamber pot the girl had been emptying, stashing it into the shrubbery beside the entrance. With quiet words and malicious eyes, Willow warned the maid to silence.
“Where is the Cardinal’s chamber?” Willow whispered.
The frightened maid stammered as she fought to hold back her frightened tears. When Willow pushed her dagger tighter into her throat, the woman began to tremble in her hands.
“I cannot not tell you,” the woman breathed, “I will not tell you!”
Eyes flashing crimson with feral warning of a soaring temper.
“I will not give you another chance,” she rasped viciously, “Tell me where his chamber is or I will slit your throat.”
As the war of indecision plagued the frail woman, true terror widened her eyes. Willow waited for her answer, blade held tight in preparation to silence any scream. Suddenly, as Switch strolled to their side, the woman’s eyes darted to his. As he reached out a tender hand, tracing it along her cheek, a calm look of enrapture overcame her face.
“Tell me dear,” he whispered sweetly, “Where are the High Cardinal’s chambers? And how do I get there?”
As if she was unaware she was held within the grasp of a blade, she replied as if to a lover, the woman blushed as she answered.
“The top floor,” she hushed, “In the very centre, follow the main corridor through the great hall, he sleeps in the bedchamber in the third door to the right.”
“And may we enter?” he breathed.
“Yes, of course,” she blushed.
Willow frowned, unsure exactly what he had done or how he had done it. Though her flushed complexion and fluttering eyes were peculiar, her next action was utterly baffling. With a slight nod as if she was agreeing to an unspoken command, she grabbed hold of Willow’s hand that held the blade and thrust it through her own throat. In shock, Willow released her hold on the woman, dropping the limp and bleeding form to the ground. She looked to Switch with wide eyes of fear and repulsion. She had known him to be sadistic and callous, she had known him to be a cruel and depraved creature. But as the cunning man simply smirked and scoffed at her unsettled composure, she realised just how little she knew of him. Willow had never heard of magic so strong that it could compel an innocent to simply take their own life. It was with renewed worriment that she looked upon him. She had become comfortable around him; over time she had grown contented knowing that her skill had begun to match his own. But as she watched the life bleed from the frail woman’s throat, she felt she had grossly underestimated his strength.
“Lets go,” he said coldly, “You have little time and I will not aid you again.”
As she slowly inclined her head, turning from the body, she shook her head to clear it. No matter how callous, she still had a contract to complete.
After scaling up along the cast iron pipes, the pair reached the top floor window that housed the grand staircase. Deftly unlocking the glass aperture, they climbed through and swiftly prowled their way through the long and winding hallways, until they reached the grand arch that opened into a high vaulted chamber. Though it was late into the night, edging ever closer to morning, the large hall was not unoccupied. A small rank of pious knights stood in unwavering vigilance around the various entrances to the chamber. They wore large and embellished sets of glistening silver armour, marked with the livery of the grand High Cardinal Vitallian of Estyllis. These were the elite order of Knights Templar, tasked with the protection and safety of one of Mitra’s own. Even shielded by the shroud of invisibility, Willow still did not wish to test her steps by walking through the hall. With a silent signal to Switch, she retrieved a vial from her belt pouch and drank its contents. The potion contained the same curious magic that allowed her climb and scale the walls with spider-like efficiency. She pressed her hands against the passage wall, feeling the strange hairlike fibres along her fingers cling to the stone. In utter silence, she climbed high, passing through the ornate hall, over and out of sight of the unaware guardians.
When she entered the third door to the right, she saw it opened out into a large and luxurious sitting room, lit by only a few candles. To the far end of the chamber was another archway, one that revealed an elderly man deep within the grasp of slumber. Though eager to simply walk forward and take his life as he slept, caution kept her still by the entrance. Quietly, she peered through the doorway, eyes wide and thankful that she had listened to her instincts. At the eastern side of the chamber, hidden from view of the door, was an arrangement of fine tailored chairs and a small silver rimmed table. Sitting upon the armchair closest to the wall, was a glorious being of light. At first glance, Willow thought the rumours were true. The High Cardinal was guarded by an angel of Mitra, wings of pure white light that hung from his shining armour, eyes that glowed a radiant sapphire. For a moment, Willow’s resolve faltered. As she saw the mighty flail clasped to his belt, battle-worn and sturdy, she considered her dissolving options. As she watched the being for a time, she frowned. He was relaxed in the armchair, reading from a tome at an unhurried pace by the light from a single candle. As he reached forward to sip from his ceramic cup, cursing under his breath as he burnt his lips on the hot brew, Willow quirked her head. Upon further inspection, she realised he was not an angel of light, but simply a human with celestial blood. An aasimar, a man born with partial heavenly ancestor. Though his strength and power were not to be underestimated, he was not the tremendous threat that Willow had assumed. She considered eliminating him first, but swiftly dismissed the idea. If she was correct in her assumption, the glowing of his eyes granted him the ability to see through her shroud and disguise. She could not risk revealing her cards before she had played them. And so she moved with eery grace, unheard steps as she prowled through the shadowed chamber, using the decorative furniture as cover. As she entered the bedchamber, she had not noticed that Switch had vanished from sight, no longer trailing behind her. Her attention was focused solely on her approach of the sleeping man. As her steps brought her to the side of his opulent four poster bed, she looked over his face. For a man so worshiped, for a man so revered; he was simply only a man. As Willow drew her ruby blade from its sheath, her eyes narrowed upon her target. Calmly, she lifted the blade to the running vein of his jugular. By habit, she exhaled slowly. As she thrust the blade deep into his neck, her head suddenly whipped to the archway.
“NO!” screamed the aaismar, “What have you done, serpent?!”
As his blazing eyes glared with vile hatred, Willow knew he truly saw her. He did not see the face she wore by the work of the arcane circlet; he saw her for who she truly was. With profane might seething through her limbs, she tore the blade in savage wrath across his neck, severing his head from his shoulders.
“HEINOUS FIEND!” he bellowed, “YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”
As the sound of thundering footsteps trembled the tiled floor as the knights ran toward the room, the aaismar charged at her with vengeance contorting his face. Willow ripped the scroll from her belt, hastening the arcane incantation. As the vortex of lurid light flashed before her eyes, she could not stop the grin that lifted her lips. The magic gripped hold of her frame, echoing his final vicious words as it tore her through the portal.
“I WILL FIND YOU, SERPENT!”

minderp
2017-02-14, 06:36 PM
As the sun rose over the eastern forest that encircled the city of Matharyn, a dense cloud of black smothered its light. When the city awoke, it cried in forlorn ache for the loss of one of its most treasured members. The streets of Cathsill were flooded with mourning souls who travelled to pay their deepest respects to the church and the family of the late High Cardinal Vitallian of Estyllis. In every door way and window, drapes and sashes of solemn black were hung. Every man wore garbs of ebony, every woman wore veils of sable. The mighty bells of the Cathedral of the Shining Lord played their sombre tune, in grief and in honour of the passing of their Most Holy. As even the sun struggled to lighten the skies or the hearts of the people, Matharyn was truly a city in mourning.
“They say the High Cardinal passed away last night,” Bor said conversationally as he entered the main library to find Willow curled up in the inglenook, “A peaceful death in his sleep. Old age apparently.”
Although he spoke easily as if simply informing Willow of the news, his shrewd eyes deceived his calm.
“Truly?” she said lightly, not looking up from her book, “Such a shame, I did not think he was that old.”
“Neither did I,” Bor smirked, “But when your time is up…”
Willow felt the corner of her lip turn up as she smiled.
“May I help you with something Bor?” she asked, lowering her book.
“Perhaps,” he shrugged, “Last night I had been reading through the journal of someone I assume is your ancestor, Istarn Gharshfell Monteguard?”
“Istarn the Tormentor,” Willow smirked, “I am sure you have found much in common with him.”
“Indeed,” he sniggered, though his sly gaze did not waver, “I wished to know if you had anything else on him, because I couldn’t find anything more. But when I went to your quarters, the doors were open and the rooms were empty.”
“And?” Willow arched her brow.
“And your armour and weapons were gone,” he replied.
“Were you worried for my safety?” she drawled condescendingly.
Bor chuckled, a feral grin upon his lips, “Not at all, Willow.”
“Where is your line of questioning heading, Bor?” she asked, “Do you wish to know what I was doing, or whom I was with?”
He laughed, shaking his head.
“It is curious, that’s all. You disappear into the night, and by morning the High Cardinal has died in his sleep.”
“Are you in mourning?” she pouted, “Will you weep for your loss?”
He simply grinned, raising his brow.
“No,” he chuckled, “I shall simply sleep with one eye open…”

When the three days came to an end, and Pellius and Garvana had finally awoken, the scene played out far more civil and organised. The servants of the Monteguard house had been chosen wisely for their infallible dedication to the family and their allies. Pellius and Garvana were assigned a willing host to feed from, ready and waiting for their eyes to open once more. While Atwood saw to Garvana’s awakening, Bor and Willow observed Pellius as he rose from the clutches of death. Though Willow knew if Pellius was to turn upon them, she would be rendered powerless, Bor’s strength gave her confidence. With a willing meal waiting for him, Pellius drank and sated his bloodlust before it had time to take hold. She sat alone by his bedside, as he slept through the fatigue and heavy weight of gluttonous feeding, while she read more upon the consequences of the vampiric curse. When his eyes opened, they found her slowly, a small frown pulling on his brow.
“Strange,” he rasped, through a dry throat, “I can hear the others in the house, I can hear their hearts beating. But when I listen for you, I do not hear a thing…”

Allowing time to recover from the strenuous transformations, the Forsaken took time to rest. When night approached, and Willow rose from her daylight slumber, she frowned to see that she woke alone. After bathing and dressing, she went in search of Pellius, entering the basement library to find him sitting on the floor. Surrounded by various stacks of books, he leant upon the podium, while Garvana stood straight backed reading from an open tome. She laughed to see him so relaxed, engrossed in the lore that the library held.
“What are you doing?” she chuckled.
He smiled, looking up to her amidst the layers of parchment.
“We are sorting through the tomes,” he shrugged, “We should be able to replicate these books and restore the faith in time. It is truly advantageous that your family have kept the library a secret after all these years.”
“Do not throw anything out,” she instructed, arching her brow, “Though some need not be public knowledge, I do not wish to lose any of it.”
“Of course not, my lady,” he chuckled, inclining his head.
“When you have a spare moment,” she smirked, “I’d like a word with you.”
He slowly closed the tome in his hands, arching his brow in return.
“I have a moment now,” he said in a low and suggestive voice.
“You can not even wait until leave the room?” Garvana recoiled.
Willow laughed as Pellius grinned and slowly approached her side. When they left the chamber and Garvana’s rolling eyes behind, Willow escorted Pellius through the cellar and up through the spiral stairs. As they reached the main library, she accepted his offered arm and chuckled at his intrigued grin.
“I was wondering,” she began slowly, almost a shyness to her words, “If you’d like to join me this evening. I suppose you have met Niritta, the Chelaxian servant?”
“I have,” he replied, arching his brow.
“She served the Monteguard’s in Cheliax, those who remained when my great grandfather came here. She has an unusually beautiful voice. Well suited to the upper soprano ballads of Chelaxian tales. She used to sing for the family at their gatherings. I have asked her to sing for us tonight…”
A smile split his face, a true eagerness lighting his eyes.
“I would very much like that, my lady,” he said cordially.
“Very well,” she nodded, “I shall tell Niritta to prepare.”
Though she wore a satin gown of deep mahogany, it was far simpler than she would usually wear to a night of music and song. When he noticed her frown as she looked to her dress, he chuckled softly.
“You look beautiful, Willow,” he reassured, “You always do.”
Although she laughed at his flattery, she appreciated it all the same.
After time enough had passed for the young maid to retrieve her music sheets and prepare the large chamber for a small private show, Willow and Pellius entered the ballroom. The staff had arranged a pair of finely made armchairs, high cushioned backs made from the softest velvets. They sat around a small oak table, topped with an ornate and glistening silver tray, containing two crystal wine glasses and a bottle of thick vintage red. Though wine no longer provided the linger of inebriation, Willow had always enjoyed it for the taste. One of the servants poured their glasses as they sat, bowing before quickly disappearing from the chamber. Instinctively, Willow leaned towards Pellius, placing her hand upon his knee. Niritta entered the chamber, bowing low and respectful before taking up her position at the head of the piano. With skilled hands, she slowly began the introduction to a sombre tune, heavy notes that bellowed through the high ceiling chamber. As her fingers danced along the keys, Pellius leant in close to whisper in Willow’s ear.
“She starts with my favourite song!” he commented, arching his brow, “She must have a good ear.”
Through out her accompaniment, Willow could not help but simply watch Pellius. Although the music was beautiful, songs that spoke to the heart; his unwavering rapt attention was far the more interesting show to watch. His instinctual breathing followed the climbing notes, sinking low in his chest as the song descended. He mouthed the words as she sang them, closing his eyes tightly as the stories turned to bitter sorrow. All the while, Willow sipped from her glass, feeling the aching emotions that played upon his face. When the last notes lingered in echo through the chamber, he swiftly stood from his chair, marching towards the piano. For a moment, Niritta’s eyes were filled with muted fear, hidden behind her well practiced professional face. As he bowed and offered his hand to her, Willow almost laughed. She had never seen him display such respect to one below his station.
“Shelyn has blessed your hands and your voice,” he said truthfully, “Truly exceptional.”
“Thank you,” Niritta bowed, “You honour me too much, my lord.”
“If I may?” Pellius asked, indicating to the grand darkwood piano.
“Oh,” Niritta frowned, momentarily taken aback by his question, quickly recovering with a bow and an outstretched arm, “Of course, my lord.”
As he inclined his head, he slowly moved to the head of the grand instrument. His eyes traced over the keys as his fingers lingered in a caress. He pressed a few solid notes, familiarizing himself with the piano once more. As the notes began a deep and rumbling bass and feathered high into harmony, he fingers slowly began to play a song. As his voice joined the mournful melody, Willow fixed sight was drawn unbreakably to him.
“It is hard to fathom that things can ever get better,” he crooned softly, solemn words resounding deeply from his chest, “I have been drowning too long to believe that the tide shall turn. I have been living too hard to believe that things can get easier. I forever try to shed the pain from the lessons I have learned…”
As his fingers plunged the keys down, the thundering ballad trembled with the weight and intensity of his words. His deep and baritone voice bellowed with fierce and mighty truth.
“And if I see the King, I swear to the Lord I will slay him! Take it from me, for I swear I will let it be so! Blood will run down his face when he is beheaded! His skull and crown on my mantle is how I will let this world know…”
Slowly, as his words drifted and the melody slowed to an aching crawl, he looked up from the piano. With a gaze filled with untold tenderness and passion, he looked to Willow, as the last words softly slipped from his lips.
“How much I love you…”
Though her heart did not beat, it clenched tightly all the same. She simply held her glass her to lips, frozen in the moment, unable to respond. There was no blood to flush to her skin, although she still felt the blushing heat her cheeks.
“I apologise,” Niratta swiftly bowed, eyes wide in shock and fear, “Please excuse me and forgive my intrusion.”
It was the servants aburput exit that had Willow’s mind finally reassemble enough to snap her from her paralysis.
“You play quite well, Pellius,” she said calmly, although her mind raced and rattled inside her head, “I knew you could sing, but I was unaware you could command the piano.”
She heard the words of a cordial answer, though the exacts did not register. She slowly stood from her chair, unable to reconnect eye contact. The repercussions of his words were uncountable. She had only one set of rules when they had begun; that her heart was not hers to give. But as his words delighted her and lifted her cold heart from its rest, she knew she had failed in her one edict. Worse still, she had led his heart to the slaughter. As she lowered her glass to the table, she did her best to ignore the way her hands shook. She turned to him, a polite smile plastered on her face.
“Thank you for you company,” she inclined her head, “It has been a most pleasant evening.”
She gave a short bow, before hurriedly walking towards the large glass doors that opened out onto the terrace.
“Willow?” Pellius frowned, pushing up from the chair.
Without another word, she quickly threw open the doors, marching across the marble tiles and racing as she descended the stairs. As she reached the cobblestone pathway that led into the gardens, she rasped the command word to activate her ring, feeling comfort in the embrace of unseen arcana. She heard her name being called in worry from the terrace, but she could not turn to face him. She simply ran into the night, heavy layers of fabric draping through the thorns and bushes, tearing the soft sheets to shreds. When she reached the stone bench that surrounded the most southeasterly fountain, she collapsed back upon the seat, heart crushed by the weight of agony. That night, she simply remained stationary in the cold touch of darkened shadow. It was only as the sun began to trace the horizon that she was forced to make her return to the manor. As the terrace came into view, she shook her heavy head. She was unwilling to face the quandary that awaited her. She was unwilling to lie, and tell him she did not feel the same. But she could not tell him the truth; those words, however true, felt akin to the greatest betrayal of herself. And so slipped through the quiet halls as dawn approached, silently entering her parents’ chambers. With no sound nor sight, she pulled the blinds shut. She fell into the cushioned bed, knowing sleep would bring no comfort, hoping things would be easier come tomorrow.


As dusk came to the city of Matharyn the following night, the Forsaken gathered in the main parlour, to plan their attack on the Adarium. With their knowledge of the palace in short supply, they had need to reach out to their contacts in the city, and source what information they could. Their two main leads lay with the Baroness Vanya of Veryn and the Breuder family. Upon leaving Daveryn they had cleared safe passage from the ruined city and instructed Veryn to return to her holdings in Matharyn. As part of the Barcan line, she had attended court upon personal invitation form the royal family, and it was likely she had either seen the inside of the Adarium, or at least knew of it. For the Breuder family, Anton had pointed them in the direction of his cousin Nicholas. In exchange for safety and supplies, he had assured the Forsaken with promise of connections within the city. Willow knew of Nicholas Breuder. When she had lived in the city of Matharyn, she had used him and his men for simple things such as hired muscle and smuggling contraband. It was Nicholas that had initiated the connection between her and Switch. Though now, she was unsure exactly how that had come about, it seemed not by the coincidence of fate as she had first thought.
As they arranged their evening, Willow smiled to Pellius, a cordial and amicable warmness. Though she continued on as if nothing had happened, she felt the closed wall building within her. She was quick to pull out her own seat before he had the chance. She sat herself on the opposite side of the room as they leaned over the table. She was never rude, nor cold, simply distant and seemingly busy.
Willow sent word with Atwood to the Baroness, telling her to expect them late that evening. As the sun disappeared below the western edge of the horizon, the Forsaken made their way through town, towards the barbershop that fronted the Breuder’s business. Walking through the solemn streets, they looked much the part of grieving residents. Willow and Garvana wore gowns of black, long layered shawls that matched the netted veils they draped across their faces. Pellius and Bor wore thick black bands around their arms, tied in a curled tuck that held a long sable ribbon. As they approached the small barbershop, Pellius opened the door for Willow, allowing her to enter first. When the bell upon the doorframe chimed, a small stout man strolled in from the backroom.
“We’re closed,” he grunted, “We ain’t do women either.”
Willow pulled back the veil over her head, allowing the magic of her circlet to dissipate and reveal her true face. As the man’s eyes widened in fear and shock, Willow slowly smirked.
“Hello Marcus,” she said quietly.
“M-mistress Willow,” he stammered, “I-I thought you were dead?”
Raising her brows at his rudeness, the others entered and sealed the door behind them.
“I am,” she answered dryly, “I have little time for pleasantries. We’ve come to see Nicholas.”
“Course mam,” he nodded quickly, stumbling over his feet as he rushed to the backroom entrance, “I’ll let ‘im know!”
“Seems he remembers you well, my lady,” Pellius smirked.
Willow grinned, “He would want to. At our last meeting, I promised to skin him alive if he made another lewd pass at me…”

When Marcus returned, he ushered them through the back rooms and into the adjoining building. As they followed the hallway, they were led into a dimly lit and smokey chamber, where three men sat hunched over a table. When Willow stepped into the room, Nicholas Breuder stood from his chair.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Breuder laughed, coughing the smoke from his lungs, “Maybe Marcus ain’t gone dull after all. Never thought I’d see your pretty face again.”
Willow’s lip curled slightly as she eyed the small man. He roughly the same height as her, with receding slicked back greasy brown hair, that had looked as if it hadn’t been washed in the entire time she had known him. He grinned a feral smile full of missing and cracked teeth that clenched the foot of an embered cigar.
“I could have lived a long and happy life without seeing yours,” Willow satirized.
“As charming and mannerly as ever,” he chuckled, “So, who’ve we got here?”
“Friends of mine,” she introduced, “Pellius, Bor and Garvana. This is Nicholas Brueder, Anton’s cousin.”
“Anton?” Breuder frowned, before his eyes narrowed as realisation dawned, “You’re the girl Andy sent the message about? You’re those guys?”
“If by those guys, you mean the ones who found your cousin hiding in the Daveryn sewers,” Willow droned, “Then yes, we are those guys.”
“Huh,” he grunted, twisting the cigar within his teeth, “Makes sense I guess.”
Willow was not interested in asking for an explanation to his words.
“We need information,” she said sharply.
“What do yer want to know?” he asked, raising his brow.
“We need a way into the Adarium,” she sternly, “We need maps, we need the layout.”
“The Adarium?” he grinned, wafting smoke from his teeth, “Setting yer sights high these days.”
“Do you have a way or not?” Bor growled threateningly.
Breuder simply puffed upon the cigar, blowing a stream of thick smoke in the orc’s face.
“Sure do,” he smiled, “Matter of fact the boys just got their hands on blueprints for the place. Aint sure what we was gonna do with ‘em. Could be fun to see what you do.”
“Good,” Willow clipped, “We need them without delay.”
Brueder grinned towards her for a moment, though the irritation at being ordered about was clear in his eyes. Slowly, he blew a cloud of smoke into her face. With Willow’s lack of need to breathe, she was unfazed by the dense sheet of foul white. But she was never willing to tolerate such contumelious behaviour. Faster than eyes could track, she ripped her dagger from between the folds of her dress, carving it through the air at frightening speed. With perfect precision, she sliced the cigar in half, sending the ember flying into the bricked wall. The foot of the cigar slowly dropped from Brueder’s lips to the floor, his face frozen in his grin, though the irritation in his eyes swiftly morphed into intimidation.
“Without delay,” Willow repeated, leisurely returning her blade to its sheath.
“Right yer are,” he nodded, looking back to the men around the table, signalling them to retrieve the blueprints, “Afraid I aint got anythin’ more on the Adarium. Aint no public place now is it.”
“We need to keep informed on the word around town,” Pellius instructed, “Our presence here is to remain secret, but we must know what is going on in the streets.”
“Right,” he nodded, “The boys know the goings on. Talk to ‘em if you wish.”
A young wretch of a child scurried through the chamber, handing Brueder the rolled parchment with his eyes downcast. As he scampered back into the other room, Willow could not help but smile.
“Is there anythin’ else?” Breuder asked, still grinning, though with far less enthusiasm.
“I do not believe so,” Pellius said, turning to Willow, “My lady?”
“One more thing,” she said slyly, arching her brow, “I need your men to spread a truth through the city. I need them to make it known in each region of Matharyn, from every farmer to every priest, every man, woman and child.”
“What do you want them to say?” Breuder asked warily.
“That the High Cardinal did not die naturally in his sleep,” Willow rasped, “That Vitallian was not near old enough to die from age. He was slaughtered. Tell them that a force of bitter darkness found its way into his chamber and slit his throat as he slept. Tell them, that if Mitra could not save even him, that if Mitra would turn his back on the holiest of holies, the most pious and devoted; what possible hope do they have…?”


Between the amount of information they gained that night, they were far better prepared for the infiltration of the Adarium. The thugs working for Breuder had provided the blueprints and Baroness Vanya had filled in many details of the rooms she had visited. She had also given them information that proved the ranting of Cardinal Ignatius, the cowering man they had discovered in Farholde, held much truth. The Adarium was in fact guarded by magically created automatons. They had known of the furnace golems, just shy of twenty foot tall constructs, built to look like gigantic men clad in black iron armor. Each donning large grate-covered opening in its abdomen, that housed its roaring fire sweltering within its innards. But it was not these arcane creations that had the Forsaken worried. It was the existence of another, crafted from the illustrious rare metal; quicksilver. With little comprehension of how such a thing was even possible, they set plans to seek out the fabled creator of the mithral golem come morning.
After a quick return to the manor, they decided to follow up on a strange curiosity they had uncovered. Breuder’s men were filled with rumours and tales of the city of Matharyn. Much of their banter was useless, but as one of the thugs had mentioned his discovery of an old and decrepit Asmodean temple in the sewers, the Forsaken listened intently. With a crudely drawn map of the underground system, they prowled the dark streets by the soft light of the shrinking moon. It was in the deepest part of Arynsill that they found what they were looking for. Once, a great dwarven bridge connected Haldynsill to Arynsill, but it more than a century ago it collapsed and most of it crumbled into the sea off of the steep teetering cliff side of Cambrain Bay. The great stone blocks that remained had since been hollowed out, and a line of heavy stone buildings now tracing the route of the bridge.*It was known that long ago, Arynsill was the site of the old Iraen capital. Current residents of the region were still forever digging up small bits of pottery and stone arrow-heads in their gardens. Every once in a while, someone found something of tremendous value, or genuinely arcane mystery. Such magical items could be quite dangerous, as they had been buried for so long that the original magic had degraded, leaving behind unstable remnants of past and obscure arcana.
It was behind the rows of stone buildings, hidden within the rubble and debris of the bridge, that the Forsaken found the entrance to the sewers. Nature had taken back its land, rippling vines and tendrillar blankets of stems and leaves had overgrown the rock-strewn ruins. Dense and soiled moss coated the harsh grey blocks, mushrooms sprouted in the crevices and cracks, nets of climbing foliage covering the ancient paths. Hidden beneath the sea of green was a rusted and brown metal grate. When they looked closer, it was clear the vines that had once held the grate shut, had been torn free to allow someone entry. Upon quiet feet, the Forsaken slid through the hollow, engulfed by the putrid stench of rotting and reeking waste. Willow grimaced as her feet sunk into the wet and loathsome shallows, wrapping a sash around her face to shield her from the worst of the odour.
For the better part of an hour, they followed the winding sewers deep underground, retracing the thugs steps. Just as he had told them, they eventually came upon a curious hole in the wall. The panel of stone that had once sealed the tunnel, had long ago been broken from its hinges, revealing a secret chamber beyond. Without a map and direction, it would have been impossible to find, a chamber lost in time held within the deepest part of untended gutters. Slowly, the four of them climbed the small stairs, stepping through the archway and into the long hall. The harsh stone brick walls told of slow and steady decay. Dirt and grime festered along the grout, fragments and shreds of once glorious banners hanging from rusted hooks, mould and moss clustered around the doorway. The Forsaken carefully trod through the debris, quietly moving through the chamber, hands resting on the pommels of their weapons. When they reached the far doorway, the hall opened out into small square chamber.
“Turn back now, if you value your own lives,” a manic and threatening voice echoed through the room.
“Show yourself!” Garvana demanded, pulling her great mace free from its clasp.
“I will do no such thing!” the voice laughed harshly, “You shall not heed my warning? So be it. Rise, my children!”
Movement stirred from the shadowed corners of the chamber, slump figures waking from their rest. Rotted flesh, corroded bones and tainted souls hastily collided to form and rise from the state of death. With crumbling limbs and ramshackle movements, the putrid forms advanced on the Forsaken. It was a swift and befouled battle that ensued, diseased shreds of rancid flesh showering the chamber, weeping froth of festering innards cascading in a vile spray that rained upon them. As the last of the wretched creatures fell strewn in pieces to the floor, the floor beneath them trembled. From deep within the pits of the temple, the muffled sound of thrashing chains shattering stone reverberated through the chamber.
“Fools!” the voice hissed, “You wish to die? Then come forth and face my glorious wrath!”
A vicious chant began, arcane words drifting from the crack beneath the ancient door. Pellius charged forward, his face contorting with rage as he hefted his leg and slammed it into the door, obliterating it in a shower of wooden splinters. The Forsaken swarmed through the opening and out into what appeared to be an old prayer chamber. At the head of the room was an ancient altar, decayed and fractured, worn stains of black blood streaking down its front. Standing atop the stone, was a man draped in shredded and filthy robes, brandishing a scythe that glowed an eery translucent blue. He looked a moment from death, gaunt, malnourished and sick, skin swathing upon visible bones. Though the chamber hung in the eery scent of death and decay, it was him that the foreboding menace pulsed from.
“Taste the bitter sweet touch of death,” he crooned, “Get them, children! Feast upon them so they may rise among your number!”
The necromancer swayed his hands in centrifugal motion, summoning forth his vile arcana, forcing more rotten bodies to rise from the ground. As Pellius and Bor charged forward, the man launched his hands into the air, inciting a torrent of flames to explode throughout the chamber. Willow weaved her way through the flames, ducking under the attacks of the heinous abominations as she passed. From the doorway, Garvana began a callous incantation, rasping words spoken in an almost inhuman brutality. Suddenly, a streak of searing flame that blazed violet, shot from her fingertips. The chamber was shaken with diabolic fury, profane ire hurtling towards the necromancer. Though he floated above the altar, when the flame hit, he was pummelled by the force. He crashed into the wall and slid down, falling out of sight behind the dais. While Bor and Pellius slaughtered the foul creatures, Willow raced towards where the man had fallen. With sinister grace, she leaped forward, scaling the dais to land upon the stone altar. Though the great block beneath her feet trembled under her slight weight, she struck down with her blades, carving through the gaunt and tired flesh. Though scalded and charred, the necromancer still lived. From deeper within the temple, a frightening roar of feral savagery sounded. The reverberation of thrashing chains intensified, as if what ever was held within the pits, fought more eagerly to escape.
“NO!” cried the necromancer, as Willow unleashed a flurry of fierce attacks, “Come to me, children! Save your master!”
Though the dead remaining turned to obey his command, with missing limbs and collapsing bones, they were not near quick enough. Pellius charged forward, using sheer strength to pull his great weight atop of the altar. As Willow leapt down beside the necromancer, he pushed himself up from the floor. He drew two wands from his shredded robes, pointing them threateningly towards the two intruders who faced him.
“You will rue the day you tried to face me,” he growled.
As the arcane commands left his lips, Pellius cleaved his weapon and shattered the wand pointed towards Willow. Abruptly, the other let loose a pellet of white flame, erupting into an inferno centred between Pellius and the necromancer. Willow dove from the fires path, but could do nothing save watch as it engulfed the two men. The scent of burning flesh wafted from the blaze, the vivid scarlet flames billowing to the ceiling. As the chorus of chains and vicious cries echoed from beyond the room, Willow turned and watched through the shroud of flame to see the fighting end. The necromancers eyes widened in fear, his mouth rushing desperate words of arcane power – but it was not enough. With one foul swing, Pellius shattered his jaw, ripping the decaying and weakened flesh and bone from his face. It was an abhorrent display of sheer force and strength. The necromancer, and the remains of his children, fell to floor by the consuming hunger of death.

Curious and apprehensive eyes looked to one another, as the Forsaken approached the barred door to the rear of the chamber. The rumbling had not ceased, the chains still thrashed, the creature within still roared in venomous fury. It was clear that what was held below, was a fearsome and ferocious threat. Slowly, Bor pulled free the large plank that held sealed the door from the outside. They followed the tunnel as it wound deeper and further underground. When the lash of a chain forced the stone around them to shake violently, the clutched their weapons tighter. The passage opened wide into an ancient and decrepit chamber, high vaulted ceilings covered in low hanging stalactites, cracked marble tiles littered with sharp stalagmites. In the centre of the vast room, trapped within a ritualistic pentagram carved into the stone floor, was the largest devil Willow had ever seen. Bristling with terrible spines trailing its arching back, adorned with a crown of feral cutting horns, immense and terrifying boned wings wide and outstretched. Rising to a horrifying height of almost ten feet, the ferocious devil towered above them. Clutched in his hand, he wielded a whirling barbed chain, each link larger than Willow’s head. He leered towards them, malicious black eyes full of hatred and wrath. Though he was fearsome in mere sight, it was the grin that slithered as he spoke that truly awoke the terrible fear within them.
“He told me you’d be coming…”

Braininthejar2
2017-02-15, 06:35 PM
Hmm. Is there a way to make the font look bigger on my end? With this type of narration, a wall of text is tiring to read at this size.

Braininthejar2
2017-02-18, 09:47 PM
Finished reading book one. Much can be achieved by rampant abuse of hats of disguise :p

Why wasn't the fortress on full alert after the first intrusion, when the two guards had to be sedated?

Loved the interrogation scene at the inn.

minderp
2017-02-21, 10:50 PM
Finished reading book one. Much can be achieved by rampant abuse of hats of disguise :p

Why wasn't the fortress on full alert after the first intrusion, when the two guards had to be sedated?

Loved the interrogation scene at the inn.

Hats of disguise are disgustingly amazing lol.

Will have to ask my DM about the full alert... or not, because then he'll pick up more discrepancies and make things harder. :P

Interrogation scene was super fun to play. Our DM sprang it on us and took each of us into a seperate room and we were forced to simply guess what the others would answer. Was actually terrifying lol.

:)

Braininthejar2
2017-02-25, 07:57 PM
It is cruel to tell you this after so much writing, but the autocorrect seems to have pulled a couple tricks on you. I think it made Vethra an archdeacon among other things, but more tricks lurk among the text

minderp
2017-02-26, 05:02 AM
It is cruel to tell you this after so much writing, but the autocorrect seems to have pulled a couple tricks on you. I think it made Vethra an archdeacon among other things, but more tricks lurk among the text

He was an Archdeacon of Pestilence, according to our DM.
Though I'm sure there would be mistakes, its not a professional story lol.

Braininthejar2
2017-02-26, 05:30 AM
Ah. In that case, you might have called him anarchdeamon once. :smalltongue:

I'm up to the start of the ritual, and so far I'm impressed with how smart your party is

minderp
2017-02-26, 06:17 AM
Ah. In that case, you might have called him anarchdeamon once. :smalltongue:

I'm up to the start of the ritual, and so far I'm impressed with how smart your party is

Oh man, if our party appears smart, i must have embellished the story a whole lot lol. ;)

Braininthejar2
2017-02-26, 02:58 PM
I've seen some mistakes, like "past-passed" or muscles sore from lack of inactivity. As a fanfic author, I can only tell you that I know the pain; I have experienced many a time the impotence of proofreading.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OonDPGwAyfQ


Oh man, if our party appears smart, i must have embellished the story a whole lot lol. ;)

Well, after reading the Inquisitor part, it occurs to me that you failed to utilise the Horn to its full potential. I understand your reluctance to sacrifice minions - they needed to last, and you wanted to avoid morale problems. But from a typical adventure point of view, you're the boss encounter there - the rest of the dungeon exists to soften up the heroes and delay them, so you can buff and armor up - not meet them at the front door in your night gowns. :smalltongue:

(also, I would have expected the treant to do something by that time - did the GM forget about him?)

(also, who managed the ritual on the nights where you were all in town?)

Braininthejar2
2017-02-26, 06:02 PM
Also:

"Fifty shades of Grey 4: Whipping Willow"

minderp
2017-02-27, 06:56 AM
Well, after reading the Inquisitor part, it occurs to me that you failed to utilise the Horn to its full potential. I understand your reluctance to sacrifice minions - they needed to last, and you wanted to avoid morale problems. But from a typical adventure point of view, you're the boss encounter there - the rest of the dungeon exists to soften up the heroes and delay them, so you can buff and armor up - not meet them at the front door in your night gowns. :smalltongue:

(also, I would have expected the treant to do something by that time - did the GM forget about him?)

(also, who managed the ritual on the nights where you were all in town

This was actually the problem we had. The group got bored with waiting for the intruders to make it through, and continually raced to meet them. We are actually the worst at being the defenders. Infiltration and brute force are definitely more our forte.

Treant and a few others were disregarded as some of our group were getting sick of the Horn and starting to get crabby and frustrated.

Thought i mentioned that Grumblejack took care of the ritual, but it was kind of shrugged off so everyone could be included in the going to town fun.

Also, if the Fifty Shades of Willow thing bothers you, you should probably stop reading... :P

Braininthejar2
2017-02-27, 08:22 AM
He should have let you control the dungeon monsters, like a reverse scenario with him being the adventurers.

What happened to the hydra, the wraiths, and the golem? were they ever of any use?

What happened to Trik and Trak?

Did the DM fudge the roll for your antipaladin, or did he really win the duel by the skin of his teeth?

Did your wizard leave the party permanently?

If I were to defend it, I would have probably put a cauldron of something hot in the ritual chamber, to pour down the stairs in emergency. Also, someone should really teach Grumblejack to exploit reach with flight. :smallbiggrin:

I think I've spotted two mistakes. One of the flashbacks mentions Ezra Thrice Damned being beheaded - but he was only Twice Damned then - he didn't become Thrice Damned until he returned as undead.

More importantly, your lighthouse side quest mentions the baron's possible reaction - but he's already dead at that point.

As for Willow's private life, I just couldn't resist the pun :smallcool:

Okay, onto the next book.

minderp
2017-02-27, 05:57 PM
He should have let you control the dungeon monsters, like a reverse scenario with him being the adventurers.

What happened to the hydra, the wraiths, and the golem? were they ever of any use?

What happened to Trik and Trak?

The DM did, each encounter we began as whatever minions we had in each area, as well as our own PC. But some of our players are very easily bored and distracted, and it got to the point where no one was having fun. They wanted to do the massive damage they could as their own PC. The DM just ended up glossing over alot to move the game along and ensure everyone was still having fun, not just me, because i'm easily entertained by pathfinder lol. Trik and Trak were never to be seen again, which still irks me, because their return would have been good for the story.



Did the DM fudge the roll for your antipaladin, or did he really win the duel by the skin of his teeth?
By the very shred of skin lol. By memory (though it was more than a year ago), he had to use a Hero Point.



Did your wizard leave the party permanently?
Yeah, our player moved interstate.



I think I've spotted two mistakes. One of the flashbacks mentions Ezra Thrice Damned being beheaded - but he was only Twice Damned then - he didn't become Thrice Damned until he returned as undead.
I'll have a look, he was barely mentioned in game, apart from the initial meeting in the treasure chamber. Was another victim of bored players, so he was forgotten. I'm still convinced he was supposed to rise up and try to take over the ritual himself, but the DM glossed over it for the other players.



More importantly, your lighthouse side quest mentions the baron's possible reaction - but he's already dead at that point.
I'll definitely look into this. Sometimes the sidequests happen out of sync and i slot them in story wise where they fit, as i do them alone with the DM so the others aren't bored listening to the "Willow Show".


Super rad that you're reading the stories. I appreciate the feedback. :smallbiggrin:

minderp
2017-02-27, 06:16 PM
Also, newest chapter. :)


Shadows clung to the crevices in the jagged stone that lined the walls, shapes and patterns cast by the light of a single simmering flame. Hidden deep within the underground, compressed by the heavy weight of foreboding dread, surrounded by the ruins of a time long passed. As the decades had gone by, the stone had formed into tapering structures, from the ceiling the salts dripped and hardened into rough and protruding stalactites. Eyes of feral and savage glee gazed upon them, black as night and cold as ice.
“Who told you we were coming?” Pellius asked suspiciously.
The towering devil’s grin slid higher upon his cheeks, creasing the skin of his eldritch face.
“You know exactly who,” he rasped, his deep and resonating voice echoing through the chamber, “And of course, here you are.”
The beast looked to Willow, devouring eyes of barely restrained hunger.
“The Nameless One…” he smirked.
He looked to Bor, “The Renegade…”
He arched his brow towards Garvana, “The Prophet…”
Finally, his gaze came to rest upon Pellius, “And The Fist…”
The Forsaken stared towards him, frowns of suspicion and intrigue upon their brows.
“Prophet,” he growled, flashing his eyes at Garvana, “You have the power to free me.”
“I do,” she replied coldly, narrowing her sight, “But such a thing always comes at a price.”
Though his lip curled with distaste, he motioned to a curious of collection of items strewn within the pentagram.
“You may take these,” he snarled, “Along with your lives…”
Garvana brow rose high as she stared down the terrible fiend.
“How did you come to be trapped within this circle?” Willow asked, tilting her head curiously.
Suddenly, his fearsome chain lashed out, carving chunks from the stone inches above her head. Though she was not a stranger to outbursts of vicious fury, the proximity and precision of the hacking stone had her shudder in reaction. His feral grin seethed with venom as he looked to her in ferocious warning.
“It is impolite to ask such a thing,” he gritted through his teeth.
Though Willow felt the blazing heat of hell’s embrace while standing in the presence of the terrifying horned devil, another pulsing drum thundered in the chamber. Garvana screeched a savage cry, calling upon the Infernal Lord to encompass her figure. Her skin bled a seething scarlet, her muscles swelled and expanded, her height rising higher. Two jagged horns shot from her skull, long sharp teeth fell from her lips, talons extended from her thickened fingers. When she spoke, her voice deepened into a feral hiss.
“You wish freedom?” she rasped, “Then you shall receive it, in return for your name.”
A malicious growl rumbled from the devil’s chest, surging anger and ire spiralling far from his control. His chain suddenly lashed in a whirlwind of fury, lunging towards Garvana. Though its links simply ricocheted off the steel casing of her armour, it wrapped viciously around her leg, coiling in a crushing embrace. With terrifying strength, the fiend yanked violently on the chain, tearing Garvana from her feet as she crashed into the stone floor. As she was dragged towards him, Pellius and Bor leapt into action. Pellius drew his weapon from its holster, thrusting its handle into the enormous fist that gripped the chain. Though he pummelled with all of his might, the fiend’s hand barely flinched. Bor grabbed Garvana’s arm, heaving as hard as he could; but found himself unable to stop her drawing further towards the devil. As the fearsome beast reached his free hand for Garvana, Willow snarled.
“Stop this infantile display!” she seethed, with enough venom to draw the devil’s gaze, “Are we no more than a pack of savages? Can we not simply converse like civil creatures?”
Though his gaze remained upon her, his hand continued its path to grab hold of Garvana by the throat.
“It seems some of your number are more uncouth than your words,” the devil rasped.
Slowly, he lifted Garvana high into the air, ignoring Bor and Pellius’ attempts to free her. As he turned towards the centre of the pentagram, holding Garvana almost fifteen feet in the air, Willow stepped forward.
“Release her!” she snarled, eyes flashing a menacing crimson.
The fiend returned his head towards her, raising his brutish brow in intrigue.
“As you wish,” he grinned, throwing Garvana’s enlarged body into the floor, cracking the stone under the weight of her collision.
“Killing me will not free you!” Garvana snarled.
“No,” he grinned, “But it will be much entertainment watching you suffer, it will be some time until you eventually die…”
“This is foolish!” Willow snapped, “You think we would be tempted by mere gold and trinkets? I do not care to know your name, but you know there is much you could simply tell us in return for your freedom.”
As the devil ignored her words, Bor roared in anger. He threw himself forward, leaping into the air in an attempt to grab hold of the fiend’s carmine scaled neck. Quicker than eyes could follow, the fiend’s tale lashed out and swung wide, with might enough to throw Bor backward into the wall.
“Stay out of this, renegade,” he warned viciously, “I will deal with you later.”
“You will deal with me now,” Bor growled, standing from the floor, drawing his blade in threat.
A hideous glee lit the devil’s face, a hunger for bloodshed being given right to unleash. As he turned towards Bor, venom dripping within his gaze, his grin slithered higher in thirst.
“ENOUGH!” Willow screeched, looking over all of them with frustration, “This is pathetic! Pointless fighting will give us nothing but carnage! You wish your freedom, and you think this is the best way to get it?! We draw our blades, and either you die or we do! I will not die for such a pointless venture!”
“Ah,” the fiend crooned, “Wisdom. Very well, let us settle this traditionally, by the old way.”
“A trial by combat,” Pellius agreed sternly.
“It is the old way for a reason,” Willow scoffed, shaking her head gently, “Brawn against brawn, no room for acuity, leading to pointless bloodshed.”
“Words of the weak,” the fiend rasped harshly.
“On the contrary,” Willow replied, arching her brow, motioning to all of them, “A wise mind leads while the muscle merely follows.”
“The greatest generals of hell lead by force!” the fiend growled angrily.
“No,” Willow laughed harshly, “They did not get where they are by simply wading through the carnage. They choose their battles. They know which weapon is best suited to which fight; whether it be words or blades.”
As a moments pause lingered in a slow breath from the devil’s chest, Willow watched the scene in intrigue. Garvana remained on the ground, under the crushing weight of the fiend’s foot. Though she appeared ready to launch into defensive battle, a curious frown of doubt pulled upon her brow. Pellius stood to the side of the chamber, his mighty greataxe held tightly in hand. Though a warning of tempered fury clenched his teeth, his unwavering control held it in check, as he allowed Willow’s attempt to converse with the fiend a chance. With a seething hatred, Bor held his threatening stance, ready and eager for the opportunity of mighty contest. Yet, it was the fiend’s curious reaction that had Willow awaiting his response with bated breath. Though she would prefer to dissolve the conflict and simply talk to the devil, knowing well the secrets he held and knowledge in which he could divulge to them; she knew it was a futile attempt. The horned devil was not a being of words and diplomacy; he was one among the deadliest of the archdevils’ warriors and able commanders of lesser fiends. His kind spread the rule of Hell wherever they walked. The greater devils were trained, forged, and reforged to be among the most lethal, merciless, and obedient warriors in the hierarchy of Hell. They were beings of pure battle and bloodshed. What she was asking him to do, was to go against the very nature of what he was created to be. So it was, that she felt a portion of pride as she watched him battle the logic of her words, to hesitate for even a moment as he finally dismissed them in anger.
“Enough of this!” he roared, “I will not succumb to your silver tongue! Choose, renegade! Do you wish weapons, or fists?!”
Bor grinned a feral joy, brandishing his vicious blade, “Weapons.”
“Very well,” the devil seethed, looking to Willow, “The rules of conduct shall be presided by the wise one, of course.”
Willow arched her brow as she looked to Bor, conceding to his eagerness as she curtly nodded her agreement. The fiend finally released Garvana from the heavy weight, slowly prowling in preparation to attack. Garvana swiftly stood, escaping the pentagram as she joined Willow and Pellius to watch the duel unfold. The chain lashed relentlessly, tearing shreds of flesh from Bor’s arms and legs, while his blade plunged deep into scarlet scaled skin. It was a terrifying display of raw and brutal violence, bloods of black and crimson spraying the stone in a sickening portrait of sheer strength. Bor lunged forward to strike the fiend, without care for defence as the talons of the beast clawed across him. As he leapt towards him with his vicious blade carving mighty devastation, the devil struck out with his feral thorned tail, striking him directly in the stomach. As the sadistic point of the tail withdrew from his skin, it left ebony tendrils of searing wrath in its wake. The blackened wisps spiralled along Bor’s flesh, painting trails of seething malice. Though he paid it no mind and continued his relentless onslaught, the malevolent furling wisps pulsed in savage glee. While they clashed weapons and traded bestial blow for blow, Willow honoured the tradition and remained silent. She watched the duel with wide eyes of authority, knowing she must accept the result of duel without question. Bor had entered the barbaric act with full understanding of how it would be played out. Only one of them would leave alive, and there would be no intrusion or aid from those who watched. As the blades hacked and barbs tore, the blood continued to cascade. With a fearsome and feral cry, Bor threw himself forward with his blade. The edge of the sword thrust through the chest of the fiend, as his chain swung with the last muster of his strength. As it collided with Bor’s skull, it ruthlessly ripped chunks of skin and hair from his scalp. Though his eyes rolled back in his head, he screamed a savage wrath and propelled his blade further through the chest of the devil. As seconds passed, and the sounds of wheezing breath ricocheted off of the chamber walls, the fiend finally fell to his death. Slowly, his limp body slid down the length of the sword, until his collapsed atop it in a thundering slump that shook the stone beneath their feet.
Garvana was quick to Bor’s side, calling forth the divine healing to repair the worst of the wounds. She growled as she fought the will of the dark tendrils that wrapped around Bor’s torso like spiralling vines. With a push of willpower, she surged the arcana through her white and shining hands. Though his eyes had closed, Bor suddenly choked upon the blood that had pooled in his throat, coughing up slick and coagulated crimson. After he hurled the contents of his stomach to the floor, he slowly stood upon his trembling legs. While Pellius helped steady Bor, Willow approached Garvana’s side, a deep and disappointed frown clenching her brows.
“You cannot be so brash,” she scalded, “You must learn to show more respect than that, Garvana. You could have killed one of the Knot, with your loose and irreverent tongue.”
“He did not die,” came her bitter reply.
“Yet he could have,” she snapped, “Because you could not keep your ego in check!”
Willow turned from her, shaking her head as she looked over Bor. His sheepish grin had her smile fondly despite herself.
Bor chuckled through a rasping throat, “Tougher than he looked…”

Leaving behind the bloodstained chamber, the Forsaken moved about the ancient and abandoned temple. While Garvana and Pellius decided to speak with the necromancer’s soul for more information on the fiend’s presence, Willow took time to slowly peruse the other chambers that linked the lost place of worship. As her eyes scanned the decrepit and rotten debris that once decorated the halls, she listened to the summoning in intrigue.
“Who was the devil in the lower chamber?” came Garvana’s stern question.
“I know not who he is,” an ethereal voice wailed.
“Who summoned and imprisoned him?”
“The woman did…”
“Who is she?” Garvana growled in frustration.
“She, who searches…”
A brief silence met his words, before Pellius intervened.
“What does she search for?”
As his question lingered, Willow strolled to the archway, to peer into the main chamber. Just as she saw the limp body of the deceased and withered necromancer, she watched his frail bones lift and point a trembling finger towards Bor.
“She searches… for him…”
As the enchantment released, withdrawing the arcana from his vessel, the life vanished once more from the mans body. He slumped to the ground, returning to the bitter embrace of death.
“For you?” Pellius frowned, “Do you know who would be searching for you?”
“No,” Bor growled, crushing his brow firmly.
“Someone from your past?” Garvana offered, though her voice was laced with suspicion.
“I have never been to Talingarde before now,” Bor snarled, beginning to pace the length of the chamber, “At least I cannot remember being here!”
While Garvana soothed his temper, Willow returned to her exploration, an eyebrow arched high in curiosity. It vexed her to no end that Bor’s past remained so shrouded; although she had spent much time with him, she knew so little. As her feet guided her further through the doorways, she smiled as she mused on the devil’s words. The Prophet, The Renegade and The Fist. They were fitting names; well suited titles. Garvana, the eager student, inspired teacher and proclaimer of the will of Asmodeus. Her devotion to his will and his way was passionate and absolute. As she moved through the journey of devout and pious servitude, her reverence for Him only grew. Then there was Bor, the being who escaped Hell itself. The soul condemned to eternity in the misery and torture of the walls of Nessus. The one who treacherously denied his fate, and commanded a second chance for himself. And Pellius; the judge, the jury and the executioner. The enforcer of Asmodeus’ retribution, the leader of his crusade, and the last cleaving blade before death. He followed the Infernal Lord’s word, and endured to ever serve his ambition. Finally, there was Willow. Nameless. The being she adored and served, her true master and her only god – referred to her as nameless. Her cold and still heart seemed to clench in ache. Was she truly so worthless? Was she so low in His eyes that he denied her even a name? Was he ashamed of her? Willow laughed at her self-importance. The Lord of the Nine had no time nor want to think so much of her as to be ashamed. She was nothing, compared to him. She was so insignificant, perhaps she did not deserve a name. Willow’s curious exploration of the temple had morphed to a heavy bitter resentment. She scuffed her feet along the stone, kicking piles of rocks and rubble, a metallic taste of animosity on her tongue. Her temper continued to rise as her mind wound in circles over the implications of the devil’s words, when out of the corner of her eye, a peculiar scrap of parchment caught her attention. On slow feet, she approached the torn and decaying paper, frowning as her eyes traced its edges. It was an ancient scroll of some kind, written in a script Willow could not decipher. Though torn shreds of parchment were missing, she could see slight similarities to the written dwarven language. Though, if it was once a dialect dwarven, it was long lost and forgotten.
“What is it?” Pellius asked from the doorway, frowning to see Willow crouching in the corner of the mould rotten chamber.
“A scroll of some kind,” she shrugged, “Though I cannot read it.”
As the others entered, Bor cast a curious spell, enchanting his eyes in a mystical cyan sheen. His brow furrowed tightly as he read over the peculiar words.
“It is too decomposed,” he commented, pointing towards certain symbols, “I can see useless words, like he and priest and decree. And there, the word Ashmohdah.”
“Another term for Asmodeus,” Willow guessed.
“Makes sense,” Bor nodded.
Willow quickly pulled free one of her scroll cases from her pack. With cautious hands and soft grace, she rolled the decrepit parchment carefully, sealing it safely within the wooden case.
“It would be worth looking into restoring it,” she said, placing it tightly upon her belt for safe keeping, “It is fascinating. These rooms look almost dwarven, and so did the language. Do you think this was a functioning temple that far back? Before the Markadians, the Barcans, and the Iraen?”
“Makes sense,” Bor repeated with a throaty chuckle.
“It is curious,” Willow mused, forgetting her wallow of prior thought, “Dwarves usually serve dwarven gods, beings of steel and battle. Though I suppose it is not unfathomable that our Lord’s touch seeps that deep, even into the underground cities and their inhabitants…”

As they wound their way up through the chambers of the temple towards the surface, Pellius pulled Willow aside quietly.
“I have a favour to ask, my lady,” he said softly.
As he placed his hand upon Willow’s arm, she instinctively pulled away. They had not spoken since her abrupt departure the evening before; she had not mentioned where she had slept the daylight hours away, and he had not asked. As she smiled a polite smile, she saw his chest deflate in a sigh.
“What is it I can do for you?” she asked cordially.
Though a small frown of disappointment pulled upon his brow, he continued mannerly.
“I have need of an arcane scroll,” he said quietly, “One to read the magic of an object. It must be far more powerful than what we have access to currently, for the magic seems to be shielded by something. I assume your contacts in the city can procure such a thing?”
“Is there a certain spell you are looking for?” she asked, arching her brow.
“There is one known as Analyse Dweomer, I believe it shall suffice.”
“Very well,” she inclined her head, turning from him, “We have a few hours left before dawn, I shall meet you back at the manor.”
“Willow…” he sighed, reaching for her hand.
“Is there anything else you need?” she questioned sharply.
As he looked into her eyes, an expression of frustration contorting his brow, she broke contact and swiftly turned to exit the shadows of the chamber.
“I’ll return before dawn…”

When the morning sun lifted over the horizons edge, Willow entered her quarters to find Pellius sitting by fireplace, lost in thought as he watched the sway of the flickering flame. As she closed the door behind her, contemplative eyes found hers. Though his lingering gaze told of unspoken thought, she quickly looked away and rummaged through her pack for the scroll case.
“Not an easy find,” she said conversationally, “But here it is.”
As she held the scroll out to him, he simply kept his eyes on her. Willow knew he wanted to talk of other things, she knew his mind was far from the parchment she held in her hand. But she was not willing to face such things, her own mind was compressed with confusion and fixed within the turmoil of uncertainty. Though inside, she felt the guilt weighing heavily upon her heart, anger was all that would surface outwardly.
“Just take it, Pellius,” she growled.
A slow sigh expelled from his chest, as he roughly grabbed the scroll from her hand. Willow forced out the aching regret as she watched the dejection play across his face. She turned towards the door, pausing as she placed her hand on the brass handle.
“I still need you to cast the spell, my lady,” he said softly.
Willow closed her eyes tightly, holding her breath by instinct before she could compose the polite smile on her face. She moved to the chair on the opposite side of the small table, retrieving the scroll from his hand.
“What would you like it cast upon?” she asked.
Slowly, he reached up to his hair, slipping free the circlet that rippled into sight as he withdrew it. With an arching brow, he held it out to her.
“This…”
Curiosity sparked fiercely as she tenderly accepted the silver crown. She had long wondered of the circlets true intentions. Suspicion had flared as the secrets of Cardinal Thorn’s past had unravelled, his paranoia and growing distrust of the Forsaken had led her to believe he would have initiated more than a blood contract for control. But she had never thought to delve deeper into the mysterious gifts they had been given so long ago. With no needed words to explain Pellius’ request, she held the circlet and rasped the scripted incantation. Suddenly, she felt a curious foreign knowledge drift through her mind. Her eyes glowed an ethereal blue, as a pulsing arcana surrounded the circlet.
“Oh,” she breathed quietly, “Do you see it?”
“See what, my lady?” Pellius frowned.
“I can see the charms, I can… read them.”
“What do they say?” he asked warily, in a deep and stern tone.
Willow frowned as she focused her mind and tried to understand the arcane whisperings in her ear. Magic did not come naturally to her. Though she had used countless scrolls and wands, she had never felt the touch of enchantment try to communicate with her directly. It was hard to comprehend the words that were not spoken, but impressed.
“There are many enchantments upon this,” she said quietly, narrowing her eyes as if better to see, “The gem holds strength of mind and will… the circlet is teeming with illusion… but there is something else…”
“What is it?” Pellius scowled in impatience.
“Some kind of tracking,” Willow guessed, “Some kind of locating…”
As the words slowly began to make sense, her brows rose as her eyes flew wide.
“It’s an enchantment to weaken resistance. There is a second piece to these circlets, a talisman. Whom ever holds the talisman is granted greater strength to scry the weakened wearer of the crown…”
“So he’s watching us?!” Pellius snarled.
“We knew this,” Willow soothed his anger, “It does not mean he watches every moment, it simply allows him a far better chance to do so if he chooses.”
“And you’re alright with this?” he balked, “It does not bother you?!”
“Of course it does,” Willow scowled, “But it is nothing more than we suspected.”
“We should destroy them,” Pellius seethed, ripping the circlet from her hand.
“If he does not already know of our plans…” Willow began.
“How could he not?” Pellius interrupted, “Do you think he did not watch our conversation with Dessiter? Do you think he simply believes we are loyal servants following his word?”
Willow frowned as a curious thought came into her mind.
“Perhaps he does not know of the conversation,” she said carefully.
“That is extremely naïve, Willow,” Pellius scoffed.
“The fiend offered us the alternative of betraying him to Cardinal Thorn,” Willow frowned, “Insinuating that the Cardinal did not already know of his words. He may have been wise enough to shield the talk from watching eyes and listening ears…”
“I do not think we should take the chance,” he shook his head gently, “I will not wear this again. I will not grant him such a gift.”
“Do as you will,” Willow shrugged, “I suppose we should tell the others, and allow them to make up their own minds…”

The sound of crackling flames echoed off the rough stone walls, breaking the silence that drifted peacefully through the underground chamber. As the sun fell to allow the darkness of the following evening to arrive, Willow sat with her back resting against the leg of the large golden shrine, her eyelids drooping lazily as she traced the words of a book she had read many times over. Surrounded by the comforting presence of the infernal sanctum, her mind was at ease, in a scripted stupor of the tales of old. When she heard the stone scraping upon the floor, she looked up from her book as the walls opened.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Garvana said, smiling as she entered.
“Did you need something?” Willow replied, closing the pages before rubbing her tired eyes.
Though she smiled politely, Garvana’s frown was pulled tight along her brow.
“I do,” she said carefully, “Have you heard the name Larris Hamble?”
“Lady Hamble?” Willow recalled, tilting her head, “Yes, if I remember correctly, she was a lower noble, from Hamiltyrn in the east I think.”
“Was?” Garvana asked warily.
“She died, not long before I left Matharyn.”
“Do you know where she was buried?” she enquired hopefully.
Willow scoffed, “There are more than fifty cemeteries in the city. She was a countess, not high enough to have a private burial ground.”
Garvana sighed a frustrated breath, “Alright. Thank you.”
“May I ask why you wish to find her?” Willow questioned in intrigue.
Shrewd eyes looked to her, before Garvana pursed her lips tightly.
“Her name was revealed to me upon waking.”
“More numbers?” Willow smirked.
“I hope so,” Garvana frowned, “It is infuriately slow.”
“Patience, Garvana,” Willow smiled, “They shall reveal themselves in time.”
As the woman huffed her annoyance, she nodded and strode from the chamber. When she turned to seal the walls behind her, a voice halted her hand.
“You may leave it open, Garvana,” Pellius’ deep and courteous voice said.
With the book clenched in her hands, Willow swiftly stood from the dais and made quick work of returning the tome to its shelf to the side of the chamber.
“My lady,” Pellius smiled, inclining his head, “You are well this evening?”
“Indeed,” she replied politely, “And yourself?”
“Very well,” he smirked, “Now I have finally found you.”
Willow laughed softly, though the sound was painfully fake to her ears.
“Unfortunately,” she said regretfully, “I must beg leave, I have much to do.”
She inclined her head and gave a small polite bow, before quickly walking passed him towards the stairs.
“Willow…” he sighed heavily, “You cannot spend the rest of your life avoiding me.”
She closed her eyes tightly as her steps halted, when she turned to him, she wore a forced and easy smile.
“I am not avoiding you, Pellius,” she replied, “I simply have much to do…”
“Enough Willow!” Pellius snapped viciously, “You cannot even look at me without that fake smile on your face!”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Willow scowled, “I have simply been busy, as I am now…”
“ENOUGH!” he seethed, stepping towards her threateningly, brandishing his finger in her face, “If you cannot be forthcoming, if you cannot be honest, then at least be silent! Do not lie to me! I deserve better than that from you!”
Willow flinched as his words lashed like blades across her soul. Though his words were harsh, she knew with the deepest understanding that they were true.
“Yes,” she breathed, sadness dragging upon the wells of her eyes, “You do. You deserve so much better than that. You deserve so much more than I can give you…”
“No!” Pellius growled in anger, gripping her wrist and wrenching her towards him, “You do not get to do that. You do not get to play the self-loathing, self-pitying, self-scarifying heartbroken maiden. After all we have been through, after all we have shared; you owe me more than that!”
“And what do I owe you?!” Willow spat, ripping her hand from his grasp, burning eyes of vexation locked in his ferocious gaze.
“THE TRUTH!” he yelled vehemently.
Standing mere inches from her face, Willow felt the anger and savage rage that coursed beneath the surface of his skin. His eyes blazed in hurt, a fierce desperation and frustration, morphed into barely contained outrage. A cold and spiteful laugh sounded from her throat, though she knew well there was no humour in either of their words.
“You have to hear it from my lips?” she rasped coldly, “You wish me to speak the words you so desperately want to hear?”
“I want you to be truthful,” he fumed though gritted teeth, calm and controlled words forced out of bitter lips, “With me, and with yourself.”
Taken aback by his words, Willow’s mind raced with worry that clenched tightly in her chest. She could not stop the tears that began to shine in her eyes, as she saw the painful truth of his own heartache. She could not bear to face him, she could not bear to listen to the misery that trembled his voice; the misery that she was the sole cause.
“I cannot,” she replied coldly, turning her face away from him.
“And why not?” he snapped in utter frustration, “Why can you not simply admit the truth?”
A slow sigh fell from her lungs, as her heavy heart whined in sorrow, the strenuous weight of her troubles clear along her face.
“Because I do not know it,” she said quietly, looking to him with anguish in her eyes, “You are asking me to be something I am not. I can never be that faithful wife or lover. I am supposed to give up everything that I know, the greatest advantage and tool that I have? And for what? To stay in your arms and live a happy and long life? Am I supposed to become virtuous and lay with you, and you alone? Because I cannot promise that. I cannot deny the only thing about me that I truly understand…”
“I am not asking you to deny yourself!” he growled in dismissal, “I am asking you to face the truth!”
“The truth?” she scoffed, though the tears threatened to fall along her cheeks, “The truth is that I do not know if I can ever return the feelings you have for me.”
“You already do!” Pellius scowled harshly, his lip curling in rancour, “You know you do!”
Frustration and anger took hold of the bitter sadness that held Willow in its clutches.
“I do not even know who I am!” she snarled, “I know nothing! I have lived my life surrounded by people of light and charity, found by the darkest and most fearsome of them all! And then thrown to the wolves, not only by those who raised me, but by HIM! The one I served, the one I worshiped! He feeds me to the waiting jaws of death, and expects me to simply survive! And if that was not enough, not more than I can possibly handle, he forgets to mention that I was brought to this world by a damned angel!”
Her words pulled Pellius’ frown low, as he recoiled in confusion.
“You were what?” he balked.
She marched to the large glimmering statue of their Infernal Lord, reaching into the folds of the hard metal cloak, pulling free the bound journal that belonged to the wandering priest. With bitterness lacing her tongue, she threw the parchment book towards him.
“A secret!” she shrieked in anger, “Another damn secret! I cannot deal with anymore! I cannot cope with another truth!”
With slow and cautious movements, Pellius turned the pages of the journal, skimming its contents.
“The last page,” Willow sighed, trying to simmer her building fury.
As he flicked to the end of the book, and slowly read the scripted words of her past – his eyes went wide with realisation.
“Everything I thought I knew was a lie,” she said softly, her voice wavering in resentment, “I am not a Monteguard. I am not even Talrien. I do not even know what I am. The only truth that I can not refute… is that I am His.”
She felt the tears that welled in her eyes finally unleash, falling slow shimmering drops down her cheeks.
“I told you when this began that my heart was not mine to give,” she said with a burning sadness, “It has never been mine. I cannot give it to you Pellius.”
“And why not?!” he growled, frustration and rage warring with his words as it grew too much to withhold, “You say those words, and yet you do it anyway! Can you look at me, truly look at me, and tell me you feel nothing?!”
Willow laughed gently, shaking her head as she let the tears fall.
“On the contrary,” she whispered, a pained smile gracing her lips, “I look at you, and I feel everything.”
On tentative feet, she stepped closer towards him, reaching a tender hand to caress his cheek.
“I feel the strength in your determination. I feel the devotion in the way you serve. I feel the joy in how you succeed. And I feel the agony, as you suffer. That, is why I can never love you. For I will only bring you nothing but unending suffering.”
In defeat and resignation, her hand dropped away as she turned from him, ashamed by the sob that trembled in her throat. She heard his slow steps beside her, feeling gentle fingers wipe the tears from her cheek, his voice as soft as a whisper.
“And if I wish to suffer through eternity with you?”
His question tore upon her heart strings, the bitter turmoil of uncertain doubts and aching need thundering in her mind. Slowly, his finger traced her chin, guiding her sight towards his. As she looked to him, it was with eyes dancing an array of emotions. Sorrow, heartache and hope. When he lowered his head, Willow had little control over her actions. She lifted her face and met his kiss, slow and heartfelt, she brushed her lips against his. As they met, she battled between the indescribable need to fall further into his embrace, and the desperate need to flee. His hand slid into her hair, caressing her head as he kissed her deeply, a soft and yet firm declaration of dominance. As he pulled back slowly from the joining, staring deeply into her eyes, she laughed softly as she rested her forehead against his.
She whispered, a breath of dolorous bliss, “Then you are the greatest fool.”


The bright sun blazed in the sky, lighting the city of Matharyn, warming the soft breeze that drifted through the cobblestone streets. Though outside, the markets and shops were filled with wakeful people and creatures, the heavy drapes shielded Willow’s bedchamber from the scalding burn of day light. A swift knock on her door woke her from the restful slumber. Tired eyes slowly opened, blinking lazily until the knock sounded again.
“Mistress,” Atwood called loudly.
Slowly dragging her tired legs from their entwinement within Pellius’ embrace, she dropped them to the side of the bed, her hands pulling her nightgown around her shoulders. She walked in lethargy to the door, pulling it open as she shielded her yawn with her hand.
“Yes Atwood?” she sighed.
“I apologise to wake you, Mistress,” he bowed, “But there is someone to see you.”
“Here?” she frowned, shaking her weary head to clear it, “Is it important?”
“I believe so, mistress,” he nodded, “She comes baring something I think you will find most important.”
“She?” Willow replied warily.
“Yes, mistress.”
Willow exhaled tiredly upon reflex, looking over her nightgown.
“Do I need to dress?” she frowned.
“I do not believe so,” he said, a small smile lifting the corner of his lip, “Your guest looks a little worse for wear herself.”
“Very well,” she droned, “I shall be down in a moment.”
Atwood bowed low as Willow closed the door and turned back to the bed. Pellius had risen from the sheets and pulled on his loose trousers and shirt.
“Curious,” he frowned.
“Suspicious,” she scoffed.
With tired arms, she dropped her silk nightgown and quickly retrieved her ebony robes from the armchair. After quickly wrapping her long raven locks into a braid upon her head, Willow swiftly made her way to the entrance with Pellius in tow. As she descended the stairs, her brow arched high at what she saw.
“Traya De Marco,” Willow said, “You’ve returned from the dead.”
“Not as dead as was believed,” she replied.
The sorcerous gave a small sly grin, as she inclined her head in greeting to Willow. She wore robes of mahogany, lined with charred and tattered burns, smears of black soot wiped along her olive complexion. Though her appearance was surely a peculiarity, it was the long steel that she held in her hands that had Willow’s brows rise. Shrewd eyes looked to the vicious sword of profane and malicious might; it was Hellbrand, the sword Bor brandished in his foul and righteous crusade against good.
“Explain yourself,” Willow demanded.
“I have made my peace with him,” Traya said solemnly, holding the sword out to her in offering, “He has met the repercussions of a broken oath, and paid the price due.”
“He is dead?” Pellius asked in anger.
“He is,” Traya nodded, “It was always to be his fate.”
Willow eyed the woman with intrigue, slowly reaching out to accept the unholy blade. With it clutched in her fingers, her mind churned in thought. With calculating eyes, she looked over the slender woman, coming to a hesitant decision. Though Pellius glared his ire towards Traya, Willow stepped back and motioned for the sorcerous to enter.
“Will you organise tea in the sitting room, Atwood?” Willow requested, leading the way to the eastern chamber.
“At once, mistress,” he bowed.
Willow opened the large double doors, grimacing at the harsh rays of sun that shone through the open windows. Though bright and burning, she ignored the simmer and gracefully continued, sitting in the large chair best shielded by the drapes. Traya followed quietly, eyes scanning the chamber as she took up the seat Willow indicated in offering. Pellius kept his face cold and hard as he walked to stand behind Willow’s chair, arms crossed over his chest in clear disdain. For a moment, they sat in silence, simply eyeing one another. Atwood returned with a silver tray carrying an ornate ceramic teapot and three cups and saucers. He poured the brew, then politely drew the blinds closed and swiftly retreated from the chamber, sealing the doors behind him.
“Well,” Willow said in expectation, “I believe you have a lot to explain…”
“I suppose I do,” Traya sighed, “I do not know where to start.”
“The beginning,” Willow said plainly, “You did not die in the Horn of Abbadon?”
“No,” she said quietly, “I was trapped, and gravely injured. But not dead, like you had all assumed. Someone had dragged my body into the chamber with that deceased cretin, the minatour. I called out for hours, but no one came, and i could not move for my legs had been torn to shreds by those feral hounds. And then, the Horn collapsed around me. For a time, I had hope that someone would find me. I had hope that Bor would fulfil his promise to me. But when three days had passed, no food or water, trapped under the mountain of ruin; I knew he had turned his back on me. So I called out, to any god that would listen. I called out for help, but mostly, I called out for vengeance. On the fourth day, a devil came to me. He offered me freedom, he offered me revenge.”
“Revenge for what?” Willow asked curiously, “You knew what you were doing when we took the Horn, you knew what we planned. You were risking your own life by serving us.”
Traya scoffed quietly, shaking her head.
“I did not ask for his promise. But he gave it to me. He gave me his word that no harm would come to me, that he would keep me safe. And yet, there I was, trapped within the very place he swore to protect me from. Hope had me thinking he would return; he would sift through the rubble to find me. But he didn’t. He simply left, leaving the thought and memory of me behind with the ruins that you had made.”
“I knew he felt something more for you,” Willow commented slowly, “For him to vouch for you, allow you deeper into our plans than any of us were comfortable with. But I did not know he vowed such a thing.”
“It was an oath,” she laughed sadly, “And he broke it. The devil gave me a chance for vengeance. Though the cost was high, I had nothing else to give.”
Although Willow felt Pellius’ pulsing anger from behind her, she did not feel the same hatred. She felt Bor’s loss keenly, she had known him throughout almost the entirety of her journey of servitude to her Infernal Lord. Yet, she knew well that ones’ word was ones’ bond. When all was said and done, if your oath or promise meant nothing; then how could anyone form a bond of loyalty and trust?
“How did you find us?” Willow frowned, “There is barely a soul alive that knows of our plans, let alone our whereabouts.”
“Not easily,” Traya scoffed, “I have been tracking you ever since, all over these damn lands. You have proved most elusive.”
Willow grinned, inclining her head in understanding.
“But I fear I have not entered the city quietly,” she grimaced.
“Did anyone follow you here?” Willow asked in warning, narrowing her eyes.
“I do not think so,” Traya said quickly, shaking her head.
“You do not think so,” she questioned with fierce menace, “Or you know so?”
With quick hand gestures, the vision of the sorcerer vanished in a flash. Within a moment, she reappeared before them in her seat.
“I know I was not,” she smirked.
Willow eyed her for a time, looking over the weary weight of exhaustion upon her shoulders, and the black dirt and soot rubbing off of her clothes onto the plush velvet chair.
“Very well,” she said, coming to a decision, “For now, you may stay. I will have the servants arrange a suite, and perhaps a change of clean clothing, for you. We will of course have more questions, but perhaps it best we do so over dinner.”
“Thank you,” Traya sighed in relief, a small smile of gratitude upon her face.
Willow placed the Hellbrand upon her chair as she stood to open the door. After informing Niritta to prepare the guest chamber, Traya followed the servant to the western wing. As Willow turned back to the room, she saw Pellius’ stern and unimpressed expression.
“You are far too trusting, my lady,” he said quietly.
Willow smirked as she walked back to the chair, lifting Hellbrand from the cushion.
“I do not know if I trust her,” she said contemplatively, “But, it is best to keep your enemies close.”
She traced her fingers lightly along the vicious blade, lingering over its sharp edge. She had no use for such a large and bulky weapon, but she knew who would. It was well suited to the dark and fearsome man that led the charge along their journey by righteous might and unwavering devotion. She smiled, holding the weapon out to Pellius. Though anger still clenched his brow, he grabbed hold of the sword with a firm hand. Curiously, his brows rose as delight softened his face.
“Yes,” he breathed, eyes alight with an eager hunger.
“Yes, what?” Willow asked, arching her brow.
His eyes shot to hers, a strange passion aflame lighting the scarlet of his stare. Though she was intrigued to question him further, she could not help but feel enamoured by his lustful and hungered gaze. Slowly, she stepped forward, bringing her face close to his.
“It looks as if it was made to be in your hands,” she whispered, desire lifting her grin.
As she brushed her lips to his own, he grinned a sly and satisfied smile.
“It was…”

minderp
2017-02-27, 06:18 PM
While the servants prepared dinner and Traya refreshed herself within the guest chamber, Garvana returned to the manor after a day spent exploring the cities graveyards. When Pellius and Willow told her the news of Bor’s sudden death, she took it in a wave of fury. With a look of anger towards Willow for allowing Traya to stay within the manor, she stormed to her room in a rage, slamming the doors as she passed. Willow sighed, retreating to her quarters to bathe and dress for the evening. She wore a gown of solemn black, choosing to forgo jewellery and decoration, with her long raven locks tressed and set in gentle waves. As she smoothed cassia oils over the ends of her hair, she felt her frown pulling tightly on her brow. She would miss Bor, his brash attitude and sardonic wit. She had not foreseen his demise, she had not expected him to fall so soon. Though she knew they were all likely to face their deaths at the hands of beings primed with vengeance or retribution – she had not imagined it would be the sorcerer that brought about his downfall. She understood betrayal. She understood how it could consume a person, their thoughts, their actions and their time. He had given his word, and he had broken it. The Lord of the Nine was swift with his punishment. Bor had been given a chance, allowed to escape the very pits of hell that he was returning to. And he had failed in the most basic of ways. Misleading deceptions were one thing, but to speak untruths by swearing an oath that you were not planning to keep; it was worthy of a swift and brutal death.
“Mistress?” Niritta called, “Dinner shall be served shortly.”
“Thank you, Niritta,” Willow answered, returning the vial of oil to the shelf, “I shall be down in a moment.”
Upon instinct, she turned to the mirror to see her reflection. She sighed, seeing only the gown of mourning cast back at her. She pulled free the blanket from the armchair, throwing it over the mirror with her lip curled in disdain. It was with a churning mind and a heavy heart that she descended the stairs and made her way to the dining room. As she reached the door, she saw Pellius pacing the hall. Before she spoke, he looked up to her, vanishing his burrowed frown. He held out his arm in offering, guiding her in to the chamber before pulling out her seat at the head of the table. Willow inclined her head to Traya as she sat, glad to see the sorcerous looking rested, and far more respectable than before. Clean and shining chestnut locks, tied high into a bun atop her head, dressed in the emerald frock she had been provided. She was close to a head taller than Willow, but held a similarly slender frame, delicate wrists and arms with long yet slim legs.
“I trust your chambers are adequate?” Willow asked cordially.
“Very,” Traya nodded, “I want to thank you again, for letting me stay.”
“It is not yet clear how temporary that stay shall be,” Willow said, arching her brow with a small smile.
“I thank you for it anyway,” Traya smirked.
When the servants entered and hurried about with their trays of exquisite cuisine, Willow felt a lump form in her throat. It was not that she could not eat the food, it was simply that it no longer held any taste, let alone any enjoyment. Although she found the idea repulsive, Atwood had conjured a plan of a brew; fresh blood mixed with the heavy red wine. As she grimaced at the thought, she could not fault his execution. With the partnering of the two, she could taste and enjoy both of the burgundy liquids. As the plate was placed in front of her, her will to remain a gracious host won out. She gracefully sliced the tender meat and feigned her way through the meal. After only a few mouthfuls, Pellius placed down his knife and fork, standing from his chair.
“It seems I have no appetite,” he said plainly, before throwing a harsh glance towards Traya, “I think I shall see to Garvana.”
Willow merely nodded, attempting to keep her eyes from rolling. As he marched from the chamber, he slammed the door as he exited. Willow sighed, placing down her cutlery, having lost all motivation to continue eating.
“I apologise,” Traya said quietly, “It seems my presence here is truly affecting them.”
“They shall be fine,” Willow dismissed, “They have lost a friend, today. I, have lost a friend today. It will take time to process. I do not disapprove of what you did. It is merely a shame that it had to come to a head like this.”
Traya nodded gently, slowly pushing her food around on her place.
“So tell me,” Willow said, lifting her wine glass and relaxing back into her chair, “The devil who came to you, who is he?”
Traya arched her brow, a smirk upon her lips.
“I know you would well understand these things,” she said easily, “You know I cannot betray the contract.”
Willow smiled, finding a respect in the woman’s fealty.
“Though my curiosity is rampant,” she scoffed, “I will accept it. It is simply, we have had dealing with a few devils over the past few months, and I am intrigued to see how far they would go to interfere.”
Traya smiled, but said nothing more.
“How did he die?” Willow frowned, “You are a pyromancer, are you not? He was immune to the touch of flame…”
“It was part of the contract,” Traya replied, “His boon was granted by his lord, but having broken an oath, the boon was rescinded. He was burned alive, much as he will be in death.”
“Fitting,” Willow nodded solemnly.
Traya shrugged gently, “The devil thought so.”
“You are not Asmodean,” Willow commented, a frown of inquisitiveness forming, “Well you were not when last we met. You called out for aid, for a chance… and He answered. Where does that leave you?”
The sorcerous frowned herself, exhaling a heavy breath.
“I do not know,” she sighed, “I signed my soul away, for the chance at revenge. And I have it. Now, I do not know what to do. I know what awaits me after death… but there were no instructions for life.”
Willow smiled a true smile, “There never are. None of us truly know. We simply follow where our hearts and loyalties lead us. And they lead us into glory for the Lord of the Nine.”
Soft and careful footsteps sounded outside of the chamber, cushioned by the lush carpets that ran the length of the hallway. As Traya began to speak, Willow held a hand up to silence her. The door to the western wing opened wide, as Garvana stormed into the dining room. Tears shone in her eyes, heartache and loss painted on her face. Her hands trembled in fists as she approached the side of the large darkwood table.
“Who do you serve?” she rasped, her voice cracking with intensity, “Say his name!”
With widened eyes and raised eyebrows, Traya looked to Willow for approval.
“SAY IT!” Garvana snarled.
Willow slowly nodded her head, awaiting the sorcerous’ words.
“Asmodeus…” came her soft reply.
As if the word itself was a tender comfort, Garvana unclenched her hands and sighed a breath of sheer exhaustion. She frowned, flickering eyes scrutinising the small woman. As thoughts and emotion battled across the plane of her face, she lifted her head as she seemed to come to a conclusion.
“Hail Asmodeus,” she whispered, before turning from the table and retreating from the chamber.
With her brow pulled tightly in a frown, Traya looked to Willow.
“She may be a tad zealous and intense at times,” Willow smiled, “But she means well. She cherishes and idolises the Dark Lord above all else. If he has seen fit to grant you vengeance and take Bor’s life as payment; she will not contest or question it.”
“Unwavering devotion,” Traya commented quietly, a curious frown upon her brow.
Uncertainty was not usually an ailment Willow suffered from. When a decision was to be made, she threw all of her cards in, following her instincts whether a rash action or drawn out decision. She knew her instincts were usually correct, she was always a good judge of character. She could read lies as they played upon people’s faces, she could smell a deception as it weaved in intrigue. Watching the sorcerous had her frowning, as she could see nothing but truth. Slowly, Willow stood from her chair, placing her napkin upon the table.
“Follow me,” she instructed, taking her crystal wine glass with her, “I wish to show you something.”
Traya was quick to stand from her chair, wiping her mouth with her napkin before swiftly scuttling to keep up with Willow. She led her through the long hallways towards the library in silence, opening the way as she considered the repercussions of what she was about to do. A few short weeks ago, she would have seethed and recoiled at the idea of opening her only place of safety to any save herself. But she knew well the struggles of serving a god so hated and despised by those around you. She knew the presence of Him eased the struggles, calming the turmoil of the outside world.
“Where are you taking me?” Traya asked warily, as Willow opened the bookshelf to reveal the spiralling staircase into darkness.
Willow laughed, “If I wanted you dead, you would be already.”
She pulled the torch free from the library sconce and slowly descended into the cellar, with Traya’s hesitant footsteps following behind. When she approached the wall, she looked to the sorcerous. With sure hands, she pressed in the stones, tracing the inverted pentagram. When the two walls scraped open, the blazing ever-burning torches inside cast the immense figure of the statue in an eery and foreboding glow. Every time Willow lay her eyes upon it, she felt her heart clench in blissful fear. As she turned to Traya, she smiled. Wide eyes of awe looked upon the golden monument. A terror simmered with wonder as she stepped forward upon timid feet.
“You have a lot of searching to do,” Willow said gently, “Perhaps you will find your answers in prayer and meditation. I have always found this chamber comforting. Being in His presence, under the towering eyes of this shrine, it has always seemed to instil in me the vastness of the universe – and the reality of my place in it.”
“It is… overwhelming,” Traya breathed.
Willow smiled, “The Lord of the Nine is. He is everything. But, you will discover that yourself. You are welcome to use the chamber, I ask only that you seal it behind you, and do not touch anything.”
With no response coming to her tongue, Willow smirked in understanding. She remained for a moment, simply watching the sorcerous, revelling in the wonder that danced through her eyes.
“Oh, I forgot,” Traya frowned, reaching into her pocket, “His body burned, yet this remained unscathed. I thought you would want it back.”
She held out the obsidian amulet that Willow had commissioned for the Forsaken. Bor had worn it around his neck as he had first appeared from his chamber, and Willow had not seen him take it off for a moment since. She took the pendant in her hand, wiping the soot from the cracks of the intricate patterns with her thumb. She would miss him, his brutish grin and dry sense of humour. But as she looked to the sorcerous, she smiled.
“Keep it,” Willow said, tossing the blackened metal towards her, “His death is the beginning of your new life. You would do well to always remember that.”
As she turned to exit the chamber, she paused with a frown.
“There is one more thing,” Willow said reluctantly, “If you will be staying with us, you shall find out sooner or later, perhaps it is best to get the surprises out of the way…”
Though it seemed a battle to draw her eyes away from the pendant, Traya looked to Willow in curiosity. She gently opened her mouth wide, allowing her fangs to slide down and glisten in the fire light.
“Oh,” Traya said, eyes flying wide, “Uh, alright…”
“Do not fret,” Willow grinned, her sharp teeth flashing, “We will not eat you.”
“We?” she asked, frowning deeply, “All of you?”
“Yes,” Willow replied, giving a light shrug, “Much has changed in the past year.”
“What, what is it like?”
“It has its perks,” Willow chuckled, arching an eyebrow, “The taste of cooked food is definitely not one of them.”
Traya laughed despite herself, “You are very gracious to eat for my benefit.”
“That I am,” Willow grinned, retracting her fangs before tracing her tongue over her teeth, “Would you wish to turn, given the chance?”
Traya frowned again, though it was with less worry and more uncertainty.
“I am unsure,” she said quietly, “I shall need to think on it. Today has been an eventful and… strange day.”
Willow laughed, turning from the woman as she made her way towards the stairs.
“With us,” she chuckled, “It only gets stranger from here…”

Closing the bedchamber door behind her, Willow sighed a long and pointless breath. That in itself frustrated her. She had no need to breathe, yet it was a habit she could not break. She found no comfort in the long expelling of breath from her chest, she simply watched it deflate and sink. With her glass still in her hand, she found her feet pacing as she marched from one end of the chamber to the other. She was so absorbed in her thoughts; she did not notice Pellius sitting by the small table to the far side of the suite.
“You showed her the shrine?” came his question, waking her from her spiral, “You are far too trusting, my lady.”
Willow looked to him, eyes of frustration and pent up vexation, shaking her head in response.
“I have long known to trust my instincts, Pellius,” she said quietly, “And they tell me to trust her.”
“You do not think you are being too rash?” he scoffed, “You chastise Garvana at every opportunity for her impulsive actions, and yet you simply allow that woman in and show her around like old bosom companions.”
“Enough,” she sighed, shaking her head, “I do not want to argue this with you.”
“Then do not argue,” he shrugged, though his words were harsh, “Simply listen. Simply think of your actions, Willow.”
“My actions?” she laughed, “Your departure this evening was ill-mannered and childish, storming off like that! I expect that from Garvana, but I expect better from you.”
“She killed Bor!” he shouted angrily, “And you invite her to dinner! Tell me, how am I supposed to act?!”
“Bor brought his fate on himself!” Willow growled, “He swore an oath, his word upon his lord, and he broke it! Pellius, he was killed by fire! Asmodeus withdrew his protection to allow His will to be done, by her hand!”
Pellius laughed, a cold and harsh rasping sound, “And if I was killed? Would you welcome my killer, feast with them and converse over wine?”
“Would you break your word?” Willow countered viciously, “Would you swear an oath and abandon it?”
A gentle sadness came to his face, as he looked deep into her eyes, his hand slowly reached for her cheek.
“I would,” he breathed, “For you…”
Willow’s sight lingered for a moment, trapped within the heart wrenching rapture of his gaze. She sighed, sinking into his hand as she shook her head gently against it.
“I would never ask that of you,” she whispered softly.
She pulled away from him, turning towards the dressing room.
“Willow…” he sighed, stepping as if to follow.
“Don’t,” she shook her head, “I need to be alone for a while.”
“I-
“Pellius,” she exhaled, pausing by the stone archway, “Just leave me be. We can discuss it tomorrow until your heart is content. Right now, I need some time to think…”

After the consumption of three entire bottles of wine, Willow felt nothing but ill and bloated. Sitting upon the stone ledge of the balcony, looking over the glistening lights of the rolling expanse of the city, she groaned a regretful and uncomfortable sigh. The curse of vampirism had not yet proven to be anything save irritating. She was destined to never look upon her reflection again, she was denied the delicious tastes of food and drink, and she could consume liquor endlessly with not so much as a light-headedness. She knew there was more to the curse, but as she gripped the dark bottle by the neck, she was struggling to find a positive in the mix of denials. Eventful, that had been the word the sorcerer had used. Her own day had certainly been eventful. Her year, her decade, her life had been eventful. She knew she was simply whining, but as she allowed the last drops of vintage red wine to slip from the bottle, she fell into her wallowing. In frustration, she lifted the glass bottle high overhead, and threw it with all her might into the sky. But before it has made its journey passed the ledge, a swift hand lashed out and caught it mid-flight.
“Are we having a tantrum?” rumbled Switch’s voice in delight, “I do love your tantrums.”
Willow scowled, a frown pulling her brow as he rippled into sight beside her.
“Must we do this now?” she drawled, “I came out here to be alone.”
“And you have been, for almost three hours,” he said sardonically, “Staring off into the distance like a mournful painting.”
“Enough,” she sighed, “What do you want?”
“What is the matter, sweet Willow?” he crooned in his slither of a voice, “Trouble in paradise?”
“Enough!” she growled, turning to look to him, “What do you want, Switch?”
“What I always want,” he shrugged, grinning mischievously, “To appear at the most inconvenient time. To ruffle feathers and cause trouble, to make you doubt yourself.”
Willow could not contain the laughter that bubbled through her chest.
“I think that is the first true thing you have ever said to me,” she grinned.
“And even that was a lie,” he winked.
“What do you really want?” she asked, shaking her head with a smile.
“To give you this,” he said, throwing a heavy pouch of clinking gold towards her, “The contract was completed, the client was satisfied.”
Willow swiftly caught the pouch with one hand, casually dropping it beside her. What did gold really matter? As they drew closer to their goals of overturning rulership of Talingarde, coins and wealth seemed far the lesser venture.
“You’re not going to count it?” he asked, arching his brow.
“Would you dare cut me short?” she smirked.
His chest rumbled as he chuckled a deep and rasping laugh, “Never.”
Although she smiled, she sighed a heavy breath, looking out over the city expanse. Spiralling thoughts of intrigue danced through her mind, ever seeking their partnering answers, always seeming so far out of reach.
“Why am I nameless?” she asked softly, a frown touching her brow.
“Your name is not one to be spoken…” he whispered in reply.
Such cryptic words only raised more questions. Willow felt dejected, her confused heart still and un-beating, enclosed within her chest. Yet she still felt the way it craved the knowledge and understanding she was denied.
“Why?” she scowled, “Why can I not simply know?”
“Perhaps you will in time,” Switch smirked.
She growled her annoyance, yet knew it was futile to ask anything further.
“If you will not tell me mine, will you tell me yours?” she asked, tilting her head in curiosity.
“I have told you it before,” he shrugged, “I shall not speak it again.”
“Jonathan Cadwell Swichlem,” she scoffed, “I do not believe that.”
His brows rose slowly, “You have a sharp memory.”
“And a tendency to distrust any words that leave your mouth,” she laughed, “No, you are not a Jonathan. You are something else.”
“And what am I?” he grinned.
“A mystery,” she smiled, “And a scoundrel.”
Although he laughed at her words, he simply declined to comment further. As the leaves danced along the soft breeze, Willow stared out over the glistening lights of the city, watching the dark night sky caress the horizon. She felt Switch’s curious eyes searching her face, though she knew not what he saw. As a few moments passed, she finally gave in and looked towards him.
“What is it?” she asked tiredly.
“You look older,” he frowned.
Again, Willow felt a laugh escape her chest.
“What a brilliant observation,” she replied in sarcasm.
“You look tired,” he said softly, a crease of unease along his forehead.
“I am,” she chuckled darkly, “To all hell, I am. Does it worry you? Do you stress that I am not sleeping well?”
“I do…” he said quietly, casting his eyes down as if the admission shamed him.
“What?” Willow scowled, rubbing her eyes in frustration, “Leave it be, Switch. I have little patience left for your games.”
“Games?” he huffed a laugh, dropping his act of concern, a resentment tinting his cheeks, “It is a game I play only with you.”
Willow exhaled a slow and controlled breath, calming her temper as it threatened to erupt in words from her mouth. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. The past few days were supposed to have been restful; the calm before the storm as it were. Yet they had been more strenuous and draining than hours of fighting men and angels. She had been forced to truly look inside herself, and face what was there, whether she was willing to or not. As she watched the curious weight drag Switch’s usual smug grin into a deep anger, she clenched her eyes tight and sighed.
“Do you love him?” he asked coldly.
“What?” Willow balked, taken aback by his question.
“The warrior,” he said bitterly, curling his lip, “Do you love him?”
A harsh laugh sounded, as she slowly shook her head, “What a question to ask.”
“Is he everything you pictured in a man?” he growled, anger and hatred contorting his expression, “Tall, handsome, brave…”
“Enough!” Willow snarled, “What is this?”
“A simple question, sweet Willow,” he said quietly, bitterness crushing his tone.
As the turmoil swarmed like a vortex in her mind, feelings of anger and confusion dancing together like a battle between armies of emotion. She could not muster an answer, for even the light-hearted banter of her reply seemed drenched in petulance. What a pitiful and meagre thing, she thought, to be so overwhelmingly distraught over. As her eyes closed heavily, and her chest deflated in emptiness, she heard the barest sound of scuffed movement behind her.
“Am I to never know the taste of your flesh again?” his sultry words rasped in her ear, as smooth hands slid around her throat.
His grip slowly tightened, as a curious sensation sliced along her skin, as if sharp talons grew from his fingers. As one cutting point traced down her collarbone towards her chest, the breath she had drawn hitched in her throat. Her eyes shot down to watch as the skin split open, stinging viciously in terrible ache, by the keen edge of a bestial claw. It was not a simple hardened nail of a man, nor the talon of a devil. It was something else, something larger, more akin to the claw of a dragon. As its path tore through the fabric of her dress, continuing down her centre and along her stomach, she whimpered in renewed fear and in lustful desperation. When it reached her pelvic bone and simply lingered, she trembled in terrified anticipation.
“Will you deny me?” he whispered, sharp bursts of hot breath in her ear, sending chills that traced her spine.
With his chest flush to her back, his feral tongue glided gently along the length of her ear while the hand around her neck compressed its grip. She slammed her lips closed to supress the groan that sounded in her throat. Though she despised her body for betraying her calm, it arched to meet his brutal touch. The skin that had split ached in torturous suffering, yet rose to push his talon deeper in sinful masochistic desire. She felt his wretched grin slither onto his face as he lifted his hand high enough to refuse her wish.
“Say it!” he growled fiercely, “Tell me! Tell me you cannot deny me!”
Willow’s mind repelled against his command, she hissed a savage breath as her fangs plunged down into view of the soft light of the moon. Though her mind was stern and loyal, she cursed her traitorous body that begged and pleaded for more.
“Say it, Willow!” he snarled, “He can have your heart, but your body belongs to me…”
Her mind erupted in defiance, a futile attempt as his lower claws spread wide, all five of them shearing through flesh as he dragged them lower to her thighs. As he slowly began to carve his way higher, back along the tops of her thighs, her lips clamped tight to muffle the cry of carnal pleasure.
“Say it,” he breathed, “And I will give you what you want…”
It was his choice of words that sparked a flame of rebellion. Though his verbal attempt at ownership of her body was laughable, it was not what burned the defiance brightly in her mind. Willow would not graciously accept the scraps she was given; she would take what she wanted by force. Though she did not try to dispute that her body craved his savage embrace, she played along by desperately scuffing her heels on the stone ledge, as if to get better perch to further his touch. He chuckled, continuing to trace his claws along her thighs, pleased with his dominating stance. When she found grip on the ledge, she grinned mischievously. With an eery grace and dexterous agility, she propelled herself using every ounce of strength she could summon. She flipped her body high into the air, his claws plunging deeply into the flesh of her legs, as she used his grip on her throat to leverage her swing up and over his head. She sailed through the air, the black sheet of her shattered dress rippling in billowing waves. His hand around her throat reactively released its grip as he was thrown forward by the weight of her descent. With elegant and deft movements, she landed on her feet behind him. As he regained his balance, he spun on his heel towards her, in perfect time for her leap forward. As her weight collided with him, he crashed backward into the stone railing as her legs wrapped around his waist, while her hand quickly drew the blade from his sheath and forced it against his throat. When she brought her face close to his, his sight widened in vicious and devouring hunger. Though his eyes had ever pierced in wells of unending black, as he looked to her now, they blazed a brilliant emerald green.
“I will never say it,” she whispered with a wicked grin against his lips, staring deep truths into his gaze, “I am not yours, I will never be. You can only ever have me for as long as I wish it…”
Though the consuming hunger of his eyes did not dim, the intensity of his stare held her captive, as his brow arched high. When he spoke, he failed to shield the severity of the truth with his usual snapping wit. A feral possession seethed in his gaze, reigned in only by the barest of measures.
“I have never been any good at sharing…” he growled, lifting her weight as he turned to sit her upon the edge of the stone railing, ignoring the blade that pressed into his neck.
“Willow?” came Pellius’ concerned voice from inside the manor, “Are you alright?”
She arched her brow to Switch, a devious grin lifting her lips.
“You do not have a choice,” she whispered.
As Pellius heavy footsteps drew near, Switch’s gaze flashed a venomous green. His eyes narrowed in an unspoken warning that said she had not heard the last from him on the matter. With barely a second to spare, he crashed his lips viciously to hers in a feral dominating caress that slashed the flesh of his neck upon the blade, before he suddenly vanished from sight.
“My lady?” Pellius called, stepping out onto the balcony, “Is everything alright, I thought I heard-”
His words faltered as he saw the state of Willow. His eyes looked over the blade in her hand, the torn shards of her dress, and trailed the length of her scarred chest and stomach. To his credit, he simply arched an eyebrow in question. Willow could not help but laugh in reply, standing from the ledge and slowly walking for the door.
“Should I ask?” Pellius questioned darkly.
Willow grinned as she stopped beside him, lifting on her toes to place a kiss upon his cheek. She chuckled as she spoke and made her way towards the dressing chamber.
“I do not think,” she teased, “That you would approve of the answer…”
Suddenly, his hand latched on tightly to her wrist, forcing her steps to halt.
“You would kiss me with the lips that have just taken his?” he breathed viciously.
Before she had a chance to reply, he ripped her forward to face him.
“You would touch me with the hands that have just caressed him?”
His eyed blazed with feral rage, swarming with furious jealously and disgust, yet paired with dark and ominous desire. Slowly, he prowled towards her, forcing her to follow until her back ran in to the harsh stone wall of the manor.
“You would allow him to take you,” he growled venomously, a terrifying promise of retribution to his words, “While I lingered in the next room?”
As Willow’s body trembled in fear, carnal terror and excitement racing through her veins as if blood coursed its path – she knew better than to speak or attempt to justify her actions.
“I have been patient,” he breathed in choler, “I have been understanding. I have never told you that you were not to take another lover. I have never denied you your debauched and sinful satisfaction. Yet, I would have thought you would show me the respect I deserve.”
As his ire grew, and his minacious presence spread in a wave that licked her flesh in warning, Willow felt herself pressing further into the sharp edges of the stone wall. She felt small under the crushing weight of his intimidating gaze.
“You speak of suffering,” he seethed, “Is this what you meant? You will forever rouse the jealously in me, and force me to retaliate and forever induce my wrath?”
Her chest quivered, as her unnecessary breaths began to tremble. She clenched her teeth together to stop the whimper that quivered in her throat.
“This is how you want it to be?” he rasped, eyes flashing with acid, “Then so be it.”
For a moment, he simply glared down at her, the only physical contact being his crushing grasp on her wrist before he released it. The anticipation ached within her, terrified and delighted to await his next move.
“Take off the dress,” he commanded in a controlled voice, a baleful warning to his tone.
With an unrelenting lock on his gaze, Willow did as she was told, still clutching the blade as she slipped her arms from her tattered dress and allowed it to drop to the stone floor. She shivered as the cold chill of the night breeze drifted along the sweat that lined her delicate frame. She stood in only the light slip of fabric that was once her nightdress, though now the large tear in its front rendered it to a simple flank of silk.
“That one too,” he ordered quietly.
Slowly, she slipped it from her shoulders, allowing it to follow her gown to the floor. He simply watched her, dark eyes that burned a vivid scarlet, with an intensity that she had not seen before. She had never felt so exposed. She trembled beneath him, fingers grasping the handle of the dagger, sharp points of the stone digging into the bare flesh of her back. With wide eyes, she watched his hand reach for hers, guiding the blade to her own throat. He stepped forward, gradually forcing his weight against her as he crushed her back against the rough and tortuous wall. With calm and controlled movements, he forced her hand to drag the blade gently along the skin of her throat.
“This is what you want?” he whispered darkly, “This is what you crave?”
His savage and menacing glare had her hand quivering against her neck. Her legs shifted in restless lust that coursed through her limbs and threatened to overwhelm her senses. She felt the infernal pulse that surrounded him, drumming like a beat of wrathful demand. The waiting only heightened her excitement, the impending dread a frightening and intoxicating device. His dark gaze only grew more sinister, as a lecherous grin slowly lifted his lips.
“I told you once,” he growled, “That I am not a man of forgiveness; I am a man of retribution. And you, Willow, seem far too eager to seek punishment. You asked me why I had not taken a wife in Cheliax, and I told you I had not found someone who could entice my fascination for long. You make me fight for you. You infuriate me to no end, for I cannot simply command your obedience.”
His eyes flashed a wrathful scarlet, as his fierce anger struggled to remain contained. “Maybe that is why you entice me so…”
He thrust the blade higher, forcing her head to snap back into the jagged stone, as the cold slither of his hand traced down along the flesh of her stomach. As his eyes glinted in sadistic promise, Willow felt a true and paralysing fear chill her spine, urging the searing lust that burned within her soul.
“It seems I have been too lenient with you,” he whispered, a merciless assurance to his words, as his hand forced its way lower, “Let us see, if I cannot teach you why you should fear my reckoning…”

Braininthejar2
2017-02-28, 08:15 PM
chapter 22. Wow, the vampire lord really dropped the ball there - revealing such a critical weakness to powerful villains he had just met.

minderp
2017-02-28, 10:36 PM
chapter 22. Wow, the vampire lord really dropped the ball there - revealing such a critical weakness to powerful villains he had just met.

Could have been lulling the villains into a false sense of security, or simply resigned to the fact that his unending life was slowly withering without the power to create more than mindless spawn.
The Chalice was no use in any hands but his, and he was already without it and had no way to get to it.
Trusting the villains with the knowledge of his dwindling power (and the dwindling supply of strong warriors) was a show of faith i suppose. Whatever his motives; it worked lol.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-05, 07:17 PM
He could have given you the mission without revealing that he's incapable of getting competent underlings.

Anyway, finished 23. You're crazy. Or very good at embellishing.

minderp
2017-03-06, 02:20 AM
He could have given you the mission without revealing that he's incapable of getting competent underlings.

Anyway, finished 23. You're crazy. Or very good at embellishing.

Crazy. Actually crazy. Didn't embellish Seeking Valtaerna at all. Didn't mean to pry so deep, but Willow whole heartedly shares her intense and overwhelming curiosity with me.... Lol. It is, frustratingly and dangerously advantageous.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-06, 06:07 AM
What was your new assassin doing during the battle? This guy is like a smarter Grumblejack.

If pathfinder oni are anything like the 3.5 ogre mages, then he was the perfect companion for such a scenario - an invisible, flying heavy hitter with SLA's to handle crowds, versitality to be quickly deployed where needed, and regeneration to sustain him through the lenghty battle - and in the end his presence could have made all the difference .

Braininthejar2
2017-03-07, 09:56 AM
1 Ah, the problem with impressive bosses is that they often literally hit like a truck. I experienced this problem as a GM in other campaigns. It looks like the giant was the closest you got to a wipe.

2 For a team going there with an intent to fight angels and a phoenix, you seemed slightly underpepared to handle fire and airborne opponents.

3 It looks like you decided to leave Grumblejack dead. Was he not useful enough to spend a diamond?

4 Did you rest in between or did you really do the whole cathedral in one go?

5 Indiana Jones would like to know how did you all figure out that the name of Asmodeus must be invoked in infernal.

6 When you left the valley by air, leaving the remaining bugbear and cultist forces to possibly be crushed by the royal army in spring, what happened to your beloved 600 pound dog?

7 I expected a rogue to want to become a vampire. a full caster, not so much.

minderp
2017-03-07, 11:42 PM
1 Ah, the problem with impressive bosses is that they often literally hit like a truck. I experienced this problem as a GM in other campaigns. It looks like the giant was the closest you got to a wipe.

It was almost a TPK. But it was a super fun fight to roleplay, what can i say? I'm a glutton for punishment.



2 For a team going there with an intent to fight angels and a phoenix, you seemed slightly underpepared to handle fire and airborne opponents.

Unfortunately, the unprepared for fighting airborne opponents is STILL a recurring theme in our game...



3 It looks like you decided to leave Grumblejack dead. Was he not useful enough to spend a diamond?

At the time, our party didn't want to waste the diamond in case we needed it for a PC. And from there... i think he was forgotten. WoTW is an awesome idea for ruling minions and armies, but its hard to actually put into action. We were actually just talking about this, we're given awesome beasts and wicked NPC's, but it is hard to find ways to use them that doesn't completely slow down the game. It was decided that unless specific to story, we don't use any of the cohorts in combat.



4 Did you rest in between or did you really do the whole cathedral in one go?

Straight through, no rest. There was nowhere for us to rest, if i was actually the one assaulting the cathedral, i'm not really going to just go for a nap...



5 Indiana Jones would like to know how did you all figure out that the name of Asmodeus must be invoked in infernal.

That would be my ridiculously cryptic head... the others call me the Wizard of Puzzles; +50 to solving puzzles, riddles and rhymes. -50 to how to open a can with a can opener.
"The worthy knows his foe – his ways and tongues. Amongst those unafraid to speak the enemy’s name shall ye find the worthy.” Enemy being Asmodeus, his tongues being Infernal. It is likely, though i don't remember exactly, that i figured it out and told the others. Sounds better for story if they all understood



6 When you left the valley by air, leaving the remaining bugbear and cultist forces to possibly be crushed by the royal army in spring, what happened to your beloved 600 pound dog?

He ran really fast... :P



7 I expected a rogue to want to become a vampire. a full caster, not so much.

I know... we had a long discussion, and our caster... well... he is very impulsive. He likes the new and shiny. When we asked why, he just said that it sounds cool.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-08, 07:25 AM
WoTW is an awesome idea for ruling minions and armies, but its hard to actually put into action. We were actually just talking about this, we're given awesome beasts and wicked NPC's, but it is hard to find ways to use them that doesn't completely slow down the game. It was decided that unless specific to story, we don't use any of the cohorts in combat.

Ah, that explains how you died. :smallbiggrin:

A massive battle is exactly where you use all your resources (getting the weaker ones killed, so they don't clutter the narrative - I think thinning out the cohorts was one of the points of that battle.)

Believe me when I say, I know the problem from my own experience - I'm currenly DMing a single player campaign based on Baldur's Gate series. The idea was that the protagonist, being very special, will be the player, and the rest will be NPCs like in the original game. But since they're colorful NPCs, fun to roleplay, I somehow ended up with this:

http://i99.photobucket.com/albums/l309/braininthejar/Sealia%20group.jpg

Braininthejar2
2017-03-08, 08:43 PM
And so I enter the uncharted waters - I don't know that part of the campaign.

It seems I've missed the part when Pellius freed his old underlings. when was it?

The tarot guy seemed a bit random. I can't quite piece together why you reacted to him like you did.

Also, my words about Raiju being an upgrade over Grumblejack proved prophetic.

minderp
2017-03-10, 07:01 AM
Ah, that explains how you died. :smallbiggrin:

A massive battle is exactly where you use all your resources (getting the weaker ones killed, so they don't clutter the narrative - I think thinning out the cohorts was one of the points of that battle.)

Believe me when I say, I know the problem from my own experience - I'm currenly DMing a single player campaign based on Baldur's Gate series. The idea was that the protagonist, being very special, will be the player, and the rest will be NPCs like in the original game. But since they're colorful NPCs, fun to roleplay, I somehow ended up with this:


Knowing it was a meatgrinder kind of encounter was why we just ploughed only through the specific combat we did. We had more or less forgotten about using cohorts by then. Either way, some of them are still left, just off doing minion business (out of sight lol.)

Lol wow, how on earth do you remember all of the personalities?



And so I enter the uncharted waters - I don't know that part of the campaign.

It seems I've missed the part when Pellius freed his old underlings. when was it?

The tarot guy seemed a bit random. I can't quite piece together why you reacted to him like you did.

Also, my words about Raiju being an upgrade over Grumblejack proved prophetic.


Pellius' underlings is a still to come one day when the side mission is actually set up. I will slide it in the story when we actually play it. Don't ask to much, it's a sore spot for a completionist like me...

Harrower was the DM getting a Pathfinder Harrowing card set and wanting to test it out. What reaction were you referring to?

And yes, hence the lack of comment on my behalf. He is absolutely Grumblejack 2.0...

Braininthejar2
2017-03-10, 09:14 AM
Harrower was the DM getting a Pathfinder Harrowing card set and wanting to test it out. What reaction were you referring to?

Finding an untouched, obviously magical house in the middle of a plundered city, walking in to chat with the owner, and leaving peacefully.

I have a DM who is a professional fortune teller and sometimes uses tarot to determine random events and such. Also uses them in adventures: Imagine coming to a fortune teller as a character (who had his memory magically wiped, and is unaware that he's being sent there as a "manchurian agent" ), getting asked to draw a major arcana from the deck, and actually drawing Death (in tarot, it stands for 'transformation')

minderp
2017-03-10, 11:42 PM
Finding an untouched, obviously magical house in the middle of a plundered city, walking in to chat with the owner, and leaving peacefully.

I told you Willow shares her insatiable curiosity with me... lol. And sometimes (though so scarce it is usually shocking to even us) we can talk through situations without killing everything we see. :P



I have a DM who is a professional fortune teller and sometimes uses tarot to determine random events and such. Also uses them in adventures: Imagine coming to a fortune teller as a character (who had his memory magically wiped, and is unaware that he's being sent there as a "manchurian agent" ), getting asked to draw a major arcana from the deck, and actually drawing Death (in tarot, it stands for 'transformation')

There is entirely too much left open for interpretation for my liking in regard to tarot/harrowing/fortune telling. I need puzzles with exact clues, and clear right or wrong answers. None of this 'take from it what you wish' lol.

minderp
2017-03-14, 06:49 PM
The putrid stench of sulphur thickened the air, as smouldering flame danced along the harsh and jagged rock. Fire that burned in a malevolence so fierce it was almost sentient. A volcanic wasteland, a vast plane of true terror and desolation. Further than the eye could see, the expanse of battered and burnt rock, jutted along the endless horizon. The searing heat was indescribable. So hot, it scorched a frozen chill of bitter torrid fury. Such a pain was unfathomable, yet against her skin; it felt like home.
Willow’s sight drifted slowly to take in the panorama of the barren desolation, seen from the highest point of the distant mountain. She saw the marsh that covered the land, though no plants or life grew. The filth formed by a cascade of countless foul arteries of strange fluids hurling their contents in a seeping wave that drenched the land. She saw the mountain of erupting lava, coursing across the stone and iron landscape, seething in venomous rage intent on consuming all in its path. She saw the three spired tower, blackened metal strips of razor-sharp spikes, striking out into the flaming inferno of the sky. And she saw the city, a dense and vile clustering of spiralling citadels, domiciles of the infernal warlords and the endless legions of Hell. A haze clouded Willow’s mind, her thoughts unable to register, her own voice muted within her head. She simply followed her vision without question, obediently trailing the path that it took her. It plunged deep into the blackened rock, through the crushing force of solid stone, until she surfaced in the abhorrent tide of flowing waters. She rose from the loathsome liquid, eyes alight as she scanned the curious details of her surroundings. A magnificent, yet twisted mockery of a mortal palace. She drifted through the abominable rot of coursing water, following the sewers that wound through the streets. It was no city she had seen before; feral and savage creatures roaming along fire-laden paths, grotesque beings oozing their repugnant secretions as they passed. Atrocities of buildings made from severed limbs of unidentifiable creatures, moulded with streaks of iron, flesh and bone. In the distance, a mountainous citadel formed from uncountable links of chain, wheezing a melody of grinding speech that shrieked in cries of agony. And towering above them all; a wretched iron spire, taller than any mountain upon the material plane. Willow’s vision suddenly leapt towards it, racing through the hideous scenes of carnage that played along the streets. When she arrived at the grand and terrifying spire, she saw the horrendous tower for what it was. A place of pure misery and torture. Each portion of the iron was carved in gruesome scenes of barbaric torment and depraved depictions of horrid slaughter. Surrounding the base of the vile tower were unmoving ranks of soldiers. Though, these were no normal soldiers; these soldiers were some of the fiercest that even Hell had to offer. Impeccable lines of meticulous stance – foul devils layered in scarlet scales, bearing oversize eldritch bone wings and tall twisted horns shattering from their skulls. As her sight drifted towards them, they paid her no mind. They remained in their eery stoic vigils, venomous scarlet eyes alight and waiting. Slowly, Willow’s vision drifted through the legions, leading her far passed the tower of iron and deep into the shadowed forest that surrounded the grounds. Decaying bodies hung from the branches of trees that bled a vile crimson sap. Mutated shrubs that bore poisonous thorns grew in thick scatter, embellished with shreds of torn and withered skin. As she broke out passed the shelter of the weeping jungle, her sight guided her towards a towering wall that encompassed the grand and heinous palace. When she neared the enormous steel gate, the two halves of the doors screeched as they began to open. When the barest crack appeared between them, a vile ooze of scarlet liquid seeped from the opening. Suddenly, a sordid tsunami of vermillion gore crashed through the gates, relentless waves of blood surging forth as they were unleashed from within the palace grounds. As the vile fluid eventually drained; the doors opened wide in horrific welcoming. Slowly, Willow’s vision drifted through the opening. The stone and steel stained with the sickening hue of vivid red, yet the grotesque paint was not what drew her eye. Her vision turned, following the path of the colossal wall, as a thundering sound suddenly erupted from stone. Screams of tortuous agony, cries of unending suffering, shrieks of enduring torment. A chorus of anguish, unshackled by the drowning suffocation of the blood that had filled the palace grounds. From the harsh and desolate earth, the blood began to fill anew, rising once more to silence the screams. It was then, that Willow’s sight was guided closer to the wall. What had appeared as simple bricks and chunks of stone and iron, were not that at all. They were souls. Once living entities, once creatures and people. Now, their bodies were devoured and their souls remained as damned and wretched vessels, purified of weakness and rebellion within the forges of Hell. They formed the building blocks of Hell’s infernal structures, condemned to live out eternity in the relentless company of endless and eternal suffering. As she drew closer, she saw the crushed and contorted shadows of men. Slowly, the heart wrenching cry of bitter despair that wailed from a single soul became her focus. Her vision gradually turned towards it, drifting closer to the wall, as the glimmering ethereal glow came into sight. She saw the inconsolable spirit, she saw his everlasting torment. It did not know she was there, it did not sense her presence. All it knew was agony, terror and suffering. As the foul floods of velvet gore rose again to suffocate and smother the wretched soul, it shrieked in horrifying fear. The red liquid began to consume it, drowning out the sounds of its cries. Before it encompassed it completely, the vision changed. A familiar face; two eyes filled with sheer terror and pure misery. They looked to her, and as they saw her a moment before the blood enveloped them – they wept.
Willow’s eyes flew open abruptly, as she threw herself from the silk sheets, an agonising ache seizing her chest. Her skin stung in venomous pain, as if she had bathed in a brew of acid. Harsh breaths tore through her chest, though they did little to calm her erratic mind.
“What is it?” Pellius called in worry, leaping from the bed to grasp the sword he kept near.
As her eyes filled with bitter tears, she fell to her knees upon the floor. Pellius quickly stormed through the bedchamber, searching for the cause of her alarm, before swiftly returning to her side.
“What is wrong?” he asked worriedly.
“I saw him…” she breathed, choking on her words.
“Who?” Pellius frowned, dropping his sword and lifting Willow’s face in his hands.
With widened eyes, and trembling lips, she looked to him.
“I saw The Wall…” she whispered, “I saw Bor…”

As the sky dimmed in the arrival of dusk, Willow, Pellius and Garvana gathered in the sitting chamber of the Monteguard Manor, resting by the flickering flames that simmered in the stone fireplace. Though the taste was no comfort, Willow sipped steaming tea from the small ceramic cup, for the simple routine brought its own solace. Her limbs and joints ached in cruel exertion, her muscles tight and drawn from the strenuous travail of the harsh reprimand Pellius had enforced upon her the night before. She had collapsed in delightful enervation, her first hours of slumber a blissful stupor enveloped in the dragging weight of sinful fatigue. But then, it had all changed. As her mind trailed its way back through the infernal journey of her dreams, she had to clench her eyes shut to avoid its enticing ruination.
“My lady?” Pellius voice said softly, interrupting her spiralling thoughts.
She looked to him with eyes of heavy strain.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, a curious worry to his voice.
“Yes,” she sighed, relaxing her limbs that had clenched tight along with her thoughts.
He stared into her gaze, knowing eyes of understanding piercing through her veil of strength. He knew her too well. He could read the way her brows failed to release its frown, the way her bottom lip found its way between her teeth, the way the dark wells hung lower under her lids. Though the previous night he had looked to her in a far different manner, his eyes of concern looked to her now in troubled affection. It blossomed a small smile upon her lips, a soft hand reaching to rest on his forearm.
“Are you two quite done?” Garvana drawled, rolling her eyes.
Willow laughed despite herself, “Quite.”
“Good,” Garvana huffed, “Now, what are we going to do about this sorcerous?”
“I trust her,” Willow shrugged, “She had no reason to return Hellbrand to us, she had no reason to return at all. But she did. She tracked us across the country to fulfil her task, and when it was completed, she could have gone anywhere in the world. And she chose here, with us.”
“That does not seem suspicious to you?” Garvana scowled.
“No,” Willow said truthfully, “It seems determined and dedicated. If we are to have another aid us, they are traits I would require.”
“But she killed Bor, Willow!” she growled.
“By the will of our Infernal Lord,” Willow insisted, “I feel his loss keenly, but who are we to question the Lord of the Nine?”
“I am not questioning him,” Garvana frowned, “It is just, hard to take in. Pellius, you have been quiet, what do you think?”
Though the frown on his brow did not lessen, he shook his head gently.
“Willow speaks the truth,” he conceded, “It seems as if Traya was entitled to her vengeance, though I do not know if I can simply trust her…”
“Well we must come to a decision,” Willow sighed, “We have two days before we infiltrate the Adarium. We must either include her in our plans, or we must turn her away. I think it would be foolish to cast off the opportunity to utilise her talents. What we are expected to do is nonsensical enough, having a pyromancer on our side will certainly aid our chances of success…”
“I suppose you are right,” Garvana huffed, “But how do we know she is not going to betray us?”
“To whom?” Willow scoffed, “I have heard of the massacre in Wayburn. It was not only Bor she slew with fire. In her quest for revenge she killed more than twenty bystanders, erupting the market place in a blazing fury. She has made no friends of the Mitrans. She could have done the same to this manor, yet she chose to knock…”
“Alright,” Pellius sighed, “Let us see how she fairs in the Adarium, perhaps she may prove useful. It will be a trial of sorts. If she passes; she will be allowed to join us. If she fails, well, she’ll be dead…”
“Agreed,” Garvana nodded.
“Very well,” Willow said, sitting up straighter in the cushioned armchair, “I will let her know. But, before we depart… I have something I must ask the both of you.”
She exhaled a heavy breath, eyes downcast as her brows pulled tightly in a frown.
“Is there…” she began cautiously, “Is there a way to petition hell for the release of a soul?”
“What?” Garvana balked, shrewd eyes looking to her, “Why?”
“Is this about the dream you had?” Pellius asked, arching his brow.
“Yes,” Willow said quietly, “Though I did not tell you about it in full. I did not just see Bor in The Wall… I was guided to it. It was as if someone was showing me exactly where his soul is residing in utter torment…”
“What do you mean?” Garvana questioned, “Who would show you that?”
“I do not know,” Willow said, shaking her head gently, “But seeing that place… Seeing where he is set to spend the rest of eternity…”
“What was it like?” Garvana whispered, eyes wide in morbid curiosity.
Willow slowly looked to her, unable to give words to such horrors.
“Worse,” she breathed, “Worse than anything I could have imagined…”
“It is not impossible to petition such a thing,” Pellius interjected, a cool and calm authority to his voice, “Though unorthodox, a devil of a sufficient rank would be able to arrange it… for a price.”
“I would pay it!” Garvana growled firmly, curtly nodding her head.
“How do we go about it?” Willow frowned, “Do we even know such a devil?”
“Perhaps some of us might…” Pellius said, a curious fire to his tone.
Strange and harsh eyes looked to her, for merely a moment before Pellius leashed his temper. Though it was a swift change between his calm composure; it was not swift enough to evade Willow’s sight.
“Perhaps Dessiter of the Phistophilus,” Garvana offered, “Do you suppose he could arrange such a thing?”
“It is possible,” Pellius answered cordially, looking away from Willow, “Though I am unsure exactly how much power he wields, or whether we should seek such a thing.”
“Who do you speak of?” Willow asked quietly, suspicious poise in her tone.
“No one in particular, my lady,” he replied politely, though his bitter tongue betrayed him.
Willow felt her frown deepen, as his curious reaction sparked uncertainty within her mind. There was only one being she could think of, though she truly had little knowledge of exactly what he was, let alone the actual power he wielded.
“Perhaps it is best we seek the advice of the bone devils within the mirror,” Garvana offered, “We know the cost of asking them.”
“The cost?” Willow frowned.
“They cannot ask more of us,” she replied cryptically, cold eyes looking to Willow, “When they have decided to recall their debts…”
“Debts?” Willow scowled, “What are you referring to, Garvana?”
“Nothing,” she dismissed, turning to Pellius, “If they cannot tell us who, they can point us in the right direction.”
“Perhaps,” Pellius answered, a frown pulled low upon his brow.
“I shall leave you to speak with them,” Willow sighed, standing from the chair upon weary legs, her mind hazed with fatigue, “But forgive me, I must excuse myself.”
“Where are you going?” Garvana frowned in suspicion, “What is wrong.”
“Nothing,” she laughed, before looking to Pellius with an eyebrow arched high, “If it is alright with you two, I simply wish to rest for a moment. It seems I did not find enough hours to sleep…”

As the morning sun threatened to reveal itself from beyond the horizon, Willow found herself wandering the quiet halls of the Monteguard Manor. Slow steps trailed the heavy rugs that lined the floors, as her eyes drifted over the stern and refined portraits of those who had come before her. When she had walked the halls as a child, she had been awestruck in admiration for those depicted in the thick oil paint. She had cherished the tales and deeds of each individual. She had been proud to be born of the grand House Monteguard. Yet now, she walked the quiet halls with a vacant heart. She was not one of them. These men and women of the strong and indomitable bloodline were strangers to her. The human couple that had raised her, though they raised her with love and protection, were only her parents by deceit and opportunity. Even with the truth revealed, they did not shun her. They had made it clear that she would always be there daughter, that she would always be a Monteguard in their eyes and their hearts. But when all was said and done - she did not know who she was. Now, the manor that had been home, the only home she had known; seemed empty and vain. The heavily embellished décor felt tacky and overdone, the gold lined paintings felt superficial and fraudulent. The home she had once known was no longer the safe haven that it had always been. Slowly, her feet guided her towards the ballroom, her hands pushing open the large oak doors with little lustre. The solid heels on the bottom of her shoes clicked along the marble tiles, echoing throughout the empty and enormous chamber. As her unhurried steps strolled into the centre of the ballroom, she sighed a weighty breath. Once, this room had been filled with the richest and most prominent members of the noble ranks. Every year before the Royal Gala on the Vernal Equinox, the Monteguard family would be the last to host a vibrant and lively masquerade ball, catering to hundreds as they opened their manor to the elite of Talingarde. Each year, Willow would dress in something more elaborate, a gown that pushed further limits and boundaries than the last. And each year, the music would grow louder, the drinks would fill deeper and the revelry would continue later into the dawn hours.
After escaping Branderscar, Willow had been sure she would follow the path of vengeance, claiming the name and house of Monteguard for herself. She had envisioned completing her righteous mission, handing the lands of Talingarde to the mighty Asmodeus, and picking up her life where she had left it – though she would be wielding it with power that far surpassed her former self. She gazed upward towards the lavish and immense chandelier, lit with more than a hundred long-burning candles. Such a resplendent ornament was wasted upon the eyes of none, the future she had foreseen seemed pitiful and barren. With a meandering stride, she walked to the western corner of the vast chamber, where the grand piano lay silent. She trailed her fingers along the gleaming darkwood, until her hand found the runic carving along the rim of the lid. With rasping words, she smiled nostalgically as she read the incantation. With no pianist trailing the keys, the soft sound of harmonious notes began to play. The melody was slow and gentle, a quiet piece of sorrow and sadness. The enchantment upon the piano had been the envy of the other nobles when it was unveiled to them so many years ago. As if the music knew what lingered in your heart, it always played the songs best suited to the listeners mood. Now, as Willow stood with her fingers tracing the runic words – it lulled a tune of mournful yearning.
“Dawn is almost here,” Pellius’ voice whispered softly behind her.
She spun in surprise, frowning deeply at his sudden presence. Had she been so caught up in the music that she had not heard his approach, had her mind been so distracted in self-pity?
“You will burn if you remain by those windows much longer, my lady,” he commented, a small smile upon his lips.
Slowly, the frown lifted as a soft laugh took its place.
“I shall not be too long,” she smiled, “I was simply…”
She knew not what to reply, for she herself was not sure what she was doing.
“Listening,” she sighed, her lips dropping in disquiet.
“We must retire soon,” Pellius insisted gently, “We must be well-rested and prepared for the Adarium this evening.”
“I know,” Willow replied quietly, “I will be there shortly.”
As Pellius inclined his head cordially and turned to retreat from the large chamber, Willow returned to the piano, her hand stilling as the song changed to a tender and heartfelt air. The sounds of his heavy leather boots echoed in slow withdrawal, as she felt her unbeating heart shudder.
“Pellius,” she said quietly, turning to face him.
He ceased his steps and looked to her, his brow raised in question.
“Will you dance with me?” she asked softly, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth.
“Dance?” he frowned.
Suddenly, the music picked up, fastening its notes to croon a ballad of ludic and playful desire.
“Yes, dance,” Willow laughed, slow steps prowling towards him, “It is the dawn of the day we finally kill the king of Talingarde. And I do not wish to greet the sun with the harsh taste of worry and fret…”
As she reached him along the eastern edge of the grand ballroom, her eyes lit a vibrant scarlet passion.
“I wish to meet it with bold defiance,” she rasped, “With amusement and pleasure.”
“And there isn’t another you would wish to meet it with?” he scoffed harshly, resentment creasing his brow.
“Pellius,” Willow drawled, though her eyes of delight did not dissipate, “Covetous malice with promise of reprimand may be entirely enticing, but a brooding and bitter sack of sadness?”
She stepped close to him, lifting her head to stare into his gaze. Her fingers splayed along his firm chest, slowly trailing upward along his broad shoulders.
“I want you,” she grinned, a playful flitter in her eyes, “And I want you to dance with me. Must I declare my undying love for you each time I wish for your affection or attention?”
Though the intensity still widened his stare, he slowly gripped one of her hands and pulled it outward, sliding his other around her waist. With complete control, he led Willow forward to the chiming beat of the music, guiding her sway along the marble tile. Together, they waltzed along the large ballroom floor, Willow’s easy laugh fluttering from her lips in enjoyment. For a moment, as the music drifted through the vast chamber, her mind was free of the strenuous weight of turmoil. As the music veered and the echoing notes slowed to a close, he released her waist and twirled her around, her raven hair billowing along with her velvet dress. He suddenly wrenched her towards him, clasping his arm around her back as he held her weight and tipped her backward in a deep lunge. As her back arched in his grasp, her dress was pulled taut along her torso, dragging the neck line low enough to reveal the sharp lines of her collar bone. His other hand slithered along the centre of her chest, pulling the lace ties of her gown open, baring her white flesh from beneath.
“You have your wish,” he whispered darkly, an ardent and wicked flare in his gaze, “But I also wish to see in the Shining Sun… as the light of hope lifts for the last day of its kings life, I wish to make an offering to the orchestrator of his downfall…”
An ominous and impassioned grin spread along his face, as his hand grasped Willow’s throat, lifting her lips to his own. The music began a drumming and sensuous beat, the keys of the piano playing a sultry tune of seduction and craving.
“I wish to honour and venerate our Infernal Lord,” he breathed, “In the most fitting way I know how…”

When a sharp knock rapped on the door, Willow’s eyes fluttered open.
“The sun has fallen, mistress,” Atwood called loudly.
“Thank you, Atwood,” Willow yawned.
As she heard his soft footsteps trailing away from her quarters, she turned amongst the sheets, bringing herself around to lay upon Pellius’ chest. Though his brow furrowed, and his tired eyes refused to open, she could tell he was awake.
“It is time,” she said quietly, tracing her finger along his chin.
“Alright,” he sighed, turning his head from her reach, “I shall be up in a moment.”
Willow smiled, eyes trailing over his broad chest and shoulders. She could not stop the small chuckle as she traced her fingers over the harsh claw-like marks along his flesh; the ones that were not there before they had retired for the evening. As she watched his stubborn chin defy the early hours of night, she felt a slow and strange worry seep into her mind. What they were going to do come midnight, was far more dangerous than anything they had attempted before. They were to infiltrate the very home of the royal family, intent on sacrificing the princess in order to kill the king. There were sure to be hundreds of guards and knights, immense constructions of fire and steel – each and every being they were set to encounter would have been willing to die for the chance to save their beloved leaders. And they were only four. Though they had grown vastly in power, strength and skill; they were still only a number of four.
“Will you promise me something?” Willow asked quietly, lifting herself higher onto his chest.
“That depends what it is,” he yawned, hazy eyes turning to see her.
She slid atop him, dropping her legs to either side of his hips, bringing her face closer to his. She looked to him with eyes of deep affection, tinted with a touch of distress. They searched his face, seeking something that would still the uncertainty and discomposure within her chest.
“What is it, Willow?” he frowned, lifting a hand to caress her cheek.
“Tonight…” she said quietly, “Do not… die.”
“I was not planning on it,” he scoffed lightly, arching his brow.
“You know what I mean,” she frowned, “Do not be rash and charge in unaided, do not throw yourself at whatever comes our way. Let me aid you, let us aid you. Do not sacrifice yourself by allowing your wrath and hatred to consume you completely.”
“There is power in hatred,” he commented gently, softly tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, “For it inspires anger and ire. It allows the blood to boil and surge in charged bouts of strength and will.”
“And it also forces you to act like a martyr,” Willow scolded, “You lose your sense and it overwhelms you with brutal force and sheer stupidity.”
Pellius laughed a hearty chuckle, a smirk lifting his lips.
“And you are saying you are not one to succumb to fury?”
“Well I need to remain controlled as well,” she scowled, “Pellius, please. I... I cannot lose you, I am not willing to lose you.”
Though his gaze softened, she could see the workings of his mind flash across his eyes.
“You would not simply replace me when I am gone?” he laughed, though the sound was tainted by bitterness.
She could not help but smile at his words, lowering her head to press a soft kiss to his lips.
“No,” she said softly, arching her brow, “That would not be as much fun. You promised me I could torment you for an eternity… and I will forever hold you to that.”

The cold wind lashed through the rippling waves of raven locks, as Willow’s steed galloped through the empty streets of Matharyn. The moonless night shadowed the paths in heavy darkness, the barely lit streets glowing by the flickering torchlights that lined the main roads. The four of them rode upon horseback towards the western dockyards of Bayburn, with hurried pace they kicked their mounts faster, passing the staggered remains of townsfolk leaving the inns and taverns upon closing. Those who lingered in the street were quick to scramble out of the way, some saluting and bowing their head in respect and reverence. It was not the hurry in which the Forsaken moved through the streets that had the people bowing; it was the glistening steel that Pellius and Garvana wore. Shimmering silver plates, bold and dignified crests, draped in royal blue livery that identified them as part of the Knights of Alerion. Both of them wore the gleaming sapphire pendants, carved in the shape of the Mitran sunburst. Even the weapons they wore strapped to their backs were embellished with the holy symbol of the Shining Lord. It was a curious sight for Willow. Pellius was of a similar size to her husband, a similar build and broadness, the same tightly clasped locks of gold and fair. As she rode closely behind him, she was struck with the true similarities they shared. With a long and loose Mitran amulet dangling from her neck, rocking against her torso, she had a sudden shudder of revulsion fill her stomach. As if he could sense her distaste, he chanced a glance back towards her, his tall and regal brow raised in question. She could not help but grin as the similarities seemed to vanish. Where her husband was a man of soft features and an almost feminine grace – Pellius bore harsh and strong lines to his face, a chiselled chin and angular cheekbones. Even the slight tilt to his eyes formed the masculine lines that made him such an arresting figure. As he saw her lips lift and eyes alight, he cast her a wink before he returned his face to the road.
As they pulled on the reins and slowed their steeds to a halt, the four of them quickly dismounted. Pellius tossed his leather reins to Willow expectantly, to which she rolled her eyes and fastened his beside hers along the post. She was dressed in the simple garb of a squire; loose fitting white pants worn over her leather armour, with a long robe baring a bright sun on its flank. The circlet she wore morphed her facial features slightly, lending aid her dress and disguise. She was quick to follow Pellius and Garvana’s hurried steps down along the pier, arriving in time to swiftly scale the plank and board the small vessel.
“As fast as you can, madam,” Pellius impressed, “It is a matter of life and death. We must reach the Adarium before midnight!”
“Yes, sir,” the woman leading the cruise nodded, eyes of warm reverence gazing up at Pellius, “We will move as quickly as this old ship is able, sir!”
“Is everything alright?” one of the rowers asked worriedly.
“Yes,” Pellius frowned, though his voice was tempered with concern, “But when we get there, you are best to get to the safety of your homes as soon as possible.”
“Oh,” the man stammered, “Y-yes, sir.”
As the men rowed the oars with new vigour, the immense spectacle that was the Adarium came into view. The large structure of colossal size stretched far along the horizon, a grand three levelled building towering over the surrounding yards of garden and lush greenery. Littered along the expanse were a dozen stone structures of a smaller size, separate barracks and quarters, much like a town of its own. As the barge churned through the water, and the grand pier grew closer, Willow exhaled a quiet and calming breath. Though she was the quickest thinker on her feet, their plan could not work with her at the helm. The Knights of Alerion was a venerable brotherhood of knights dedicated to Mitra’s service. A predominantly male order, though certain exceptions were made in cases of sternly built and strong willed females. Garvana could fit the exception seamlessly, but a woman of Willow’s size and stature in the ranks of the knights was unheard of and truly unbelievable. More commonly, the women served the order in other ways. Chambermaids, healers and personal attendants. They had chosen to impersonate the Knights of Alerion for two very specific reasons. Firstly, the order was led by no less august a personage than the King himself. Markadian V called the Brave, was the highest ranking member of the Knights of the Alerion. His dedication was one of the reasons the order was so highly respected and recognized throughout Talingarde. Very few men or women, noble or commoner, would dare question the word of a Knight of Alerion. Secondly, the order was something Willow was intimately familiar with. She knew exactly how they wore each layer of their armour, she knew how they addressed one another, she knew the chain of command. She advised the Forsaken in as much detail as she could remember, guiding their arcane disguises to perfection. What she could not aid them with, was how to respond to prying questions. For in her station as a lowly attendant, her place was to be seen and not heard.
Their plan had been simple. They needed only a way into the palace, far enough to allow them to find the sanctum and await the kings arrival. As the barge pulled into the pier, a small man dressed in royal livery made his way down the winding path towards them. As Pellius quickly thanked the woman running the vessel, he hurriedly waved down the man who shuffled his pace to greet them.
“Good evening, sir,” the servant began, “How may-
“There is no time for pleasantries,” Pellius interrupted, “It is of vital importance that we enter the Adarium at once. Who is left in charge here?”
“My lord,” the servant stammered, “This is highly unusual-
“We have sighted the great beast Chargammon the Black headed this way!” Pellius growled in impatience, “We have no time to waste! We must see to the safety of the princess!”
At the mention of the fearsome horrors name, the blood drained from the man’s face. With skin a sickly pale green, he trembled upon his response.
“Now man!” Pellius snapped, “There is no time!”
“Y-yes, sir!” he stuttered.
In terrified panic, he turned on his heel and ran back up the winding paths towards the castle. The Forsaken followed in the fastest run they could muster, closely on the heels of the servant. As the neared the entrance, they saw a set of broad marble stairs, flanked on each side by rows of columns supporting a great stone roof. Every inch of stone covered by carvings showing both the glory of Mitra and the great military victories of Markadian I called the Victor. Blocking entry to the grand structure, were two bronze doors that stood more than twelve feet high. On either side of the glistening entrance, were two everburning torches ensconced upon the walls, burning a vivid and radiant royal blue.
“In there,” the servant rushed, “Find the captain of the guard! I-I will go and muster the other guards, they must be warned!”
With no further words, he raced around the side of the entryway, scuttling as fast as his legs would take him along the garden lined path. The Forsaken looked to one another, taking a final breath as they approached the bronze doors. Willow caught Pellius’ eye as his hand reached for the door, with a look of mutual understanding, she nodded. As his firm hand touched the bronze, it swung open gently, so perfectly balanced as to not make a whisper of sound as it opened. With a stride of fierce authority, Pellius stepped over the threshold and entered the Adarium, speaking the words that the Baroness Vanya had instructed.
“Mitra, my heart is thine,” he said quietly.
As the rest of them followed suit, the immense and immaculate front hall opened out before them, appointed in regal marble and beautiful bronze fixtures. In times of joy and revelry, it could have held a great number of guests and entertainers, though now it was silent and empty. To the sides of the chamber were two open doors that led into large cloak rooms clearly meant to be staffed by a pair of servants. In the time of crisis and royal absence, they too were empty and vacant. As the Forsaken stalked through the grand entrance, they saw two elegant spiral staircases flanking an ornate archway that led into the room beyond. From where they stood, they could see the marvel of a myriad of blue lights dancing from a fountain in the centre of the far chamber. Though Willow could not tell its cause until she grew closer, she smiled as she watched submerged glowing stones radiating subtle shades of pale light that rippled through the flowing water, casting rays of illuminated glow that played upon the sapphire marble walls. As they stepped into the ethereal chamber, they saw four knights standing in vigil. Veteran warriors, marred by the scars of battle and experience, silent and stoic in their guard. As Pellius and Garvana walked through, the oldest of the knights struck his hand to his forehead in salute. Willow was pleased to see Pellius salute him in return, following through with the clenched fist across his chest in Alerion greeting.
“I am Sir Pellius,” he inclined his head, “But I have no time for delay, we must speak to the captain of the guard at once. We have most dire news.”
“What is it, knight?” the guard asked, “It is a late hour to awaken the captain.”
“Chargammon the Black is headed this way,” Pellius said urgently, “We sighted him over the western coast, he will be here before long. We must hurry!”
Again, the colour drained from the man’s face, a true terror widening his eyes.
“Of course,” the knight nodded, “But, I need the password before I can escort you through.”
Suddenly, Willow felt a worry drift through her mind. They had but one password, and it was not meant for use to pass anything but the protections barring entry to those not pledged to the Mitran faith. For a moment, Pellius hesitated. It was enough to see the knight rest his hand of the pommel of his large sword, brow slowly raising in suspicion. With nothing to lose, Willow bowed herself low and subtly drew her daggers from their sheathes.
“Mitra, my heart is thine,” she guessed, eyes downcast, preparing to pounce.
It was made instantly apparent that she had guessed wrong, as the knights drew their swords in unison. Having not noticed Willow’s preparation, she launched herself to the side of him, striking out in vicious fury. She carved her blades through the seams of his armour, tearing through flesh as she withdrew them, only to plunge them in once again. As he carved his sword towards her, Willow leaped backward, but was not quick enough to evade his keen blade. It tore though the white fabric of her garb, hacking against the black leather beneath. As its impact knocked the wind from her chest, she growled her irritation and lunged forward to strike back. The craning swing of Pellius’ blow slashed against the armour, his vicious weapon seeking blood from its prey. Garvana charged towards one of the other knights, her mace imbued with dark tendrils of wrath, the savage spikes dripping with malice. Traya backed up through the archway, tracing arcane patterns through the air, before a flaming torrent of fire erupted from her fingertips. It expelled outwards, encompassing the sorcerous and the two knights who were unfortunate enough to be within its reach. The cries of pain echoed through the chamber, as the smell of burnt flesh wafted from the scene. As her words rushed another incantation, she stepped back once again into the archway.
“The witch!” bellowed one of the knights, “She is retreating!”
Suddenly, the veteran knight that was carving his blade towards Willow changed his course. He swiftly turned his back to her, before attempting to charge towards Traya. Willow saw her opportunity, thrusting her blade deeply into his back. As he growled in pain, he wrenched himself forward, taking Willow’s blade embedded within him. Traya had no where to run, shielding her face with her arm as his mighty sword hacked deeply through the skin. Willow pounced forward, feeling a feral grin light her lips as she leaped into the air, striking her buried blade with her boot, propelling it through his ribcage to strike at his heart. As he dropped, she ripped the blade free, diving under the swing of another. While Garvana matched the knight blow for blow, Willow rolled to the side to avoid the carnage. A swift and subtle whistle caught her attention, as she saw Pellius rounding on another. She sprinted towards him, leaping over the fountain as she watched his rapturous and sinister assault. He lunged towards the knight, a single had spread out as it latched onto his challengers face. As Willow swiftly slipped in behind the man, she marveled at the paralysis that overtook his frame. Pellius held him fiercely, lip curled in loathing, dark and minacious arcana seething from his hand. With slick and deft movements, Willow slid her blade around and tore it through the rigid mans throat. As Pellius dropped him from his grasp, his eyes met Willow’s. Alight with cruel and merciless thrill, she grinned towards him before prowling back into the fray.
The last of the guards fell in a blaze of flame, stumbling forward into the glorious fountain, showering the marble floor with hissing waves of churning water. When the sound ceased, and the chamber fell silent, they looked to one another.
“What shall we do with them?” Traya asked, looking to Willow.
“Do we wish to continue with our disguises?” she replied in question.
“They at least allow us to get close,” Garvana offered.
“Then we hide them in the closets of the cloakroom,” Willow shrugged, “But we cannot leave the blood painted along the floor for anyone to find.”
“I shall see to the mess,” Garvana nodded.
Willow grabbed the closest guard by the boot, heaving all her might against his heavy weight, with little progress.
“Give me a hand?” Willow chuckled, looking to Traya.
Between the two of them, they managed to slowly drag one of the knights into the cloak room, shutting the body away from prying eyes. As they turned to return to fountain, Willow frowned at the streaking stains of vivid blood leading to the wooden closet.
“I’ll deal with this,” Traya insisted, “You see to the others.”
Willow smirked as she inclined her head, slow steps taking her back to the chamber. As she stepped into the illuminated room, she saw Garvana on her knees, casting curious spells that wiped the scarlet from the marble.
“If you see yourself above cleaning,” Pellius rasped harshly, lifting the limp body easily over his shoulder, as a fierce command lashed in his tone, “Make yourself useful, scout the other chambers.”
At his snapping order, Willow felt her brow rise of its own accord. For a moment, her stubbornness kept her feet unmoving. As his eyes widened in intensifying hostility, he arched his brow, as if daring her to defy him further. With the corner of her lip lifting in mischief, she walked on silent steps towards the other archways. The first chamber was a side gallery, no doubt intended to entertain guests, though now the furniture was boxed and draped in linen. Though empty and bare, they remained impressive with beautiful illustrations carved in Ansgarian marble depicting the faith, wealth and power of the people of Talingarde.
“Should we bar the front doors?” Traya asked, looking back towards the impressive bronze slabs, “The greeter said he would rally the other soldiers. Is it not best that we prevent them from attacking us from behind?”
“Indeed,” Pellius nodded, “That is a wise precaution.”
Between the strength of Pellius and Garvana, they hefted the lone bronze bar that lay beside the opening, dropping it firmly into the craning hooks upon the doors. With a twisted smile, Traya waited for them to move away, contorting her fingers in union with her sparking incantation. Suddenly, rippling arcs of lightening flew from her fingers, piercing into the solid metal. As the arcs blazed a blinding white, the shatters of arcana ignited the bronze base. Slowly, the browned metal melted, seeping into the cracks and crevices of the ornate doors, secreting in between the seals of the frame. Rasping words formed tendrils of bright white around her fingertips, before shards of ice and winds of cold blew towards the door. In less than a few breaths, the bronze had been burnt, melted and set.
“Impressive,” Willow smirked.
Traya simply smiled, inclining her head in turn.

As they continued their exploration, Willow moved through the chamber towards another archway. When she peered through the wide opening, she saw an opulent shrine room, dedicated to the Markadian line. A statue of the Victor took center stage, but on the side walls, there were images of each king that had reigned since. Markadian II called the Learned, depicted as a wise man with arms filled with scrolls. Markadian IV called the Zealous, carved in picture of a man deeply bowed in prayer. Markadian V called the Brave, standing tall with his mighty sword by his side. The most curious of it all, was a truly rare and unseen image of the troubled king, Markadian III called the Mad. Though Willow had heard the stories, even living her entire life in the city of Matharyn she had never seen an image depicted of him. It was said that the king had been taken with insanity, by the hands of the dark servants of Asmodeus. They had corrupted him, tainted his mind and his thoughts, until one day he climbed the highest spire of the Adarium and fell to his death. It was his demise that sparked the ire of the Mitran people, guided by the royalty and church, for the Zealous to begin the purges of the Asmodean faith. Willow had always found the story quite perfect – too perfect. Though the faith of the Lord of the Nine had ever been hidden and shrouded in Talingarde, it had coexisted along side an array of other religions before the fall of the mad king. What a perfect excuse his madness was, for the faithful of Mitra to eliminate their enemy and turn the people of the land against Him.
“Daria Aeterna – Donec Omnia Lux,” Willow read aloud, the words carved prominently beneath the Victor’s statue.
“What did you say?” Garvana frowned, stepping beside her.
“On the wall,” Willow pointed, “It is some kind of celestial, though I do not recognise it.”
Garvana rasped her enchanted words, her eyes glowing an eery and ethereal blue.
“Darius Eternal,” she translated, “Until All is Light.”
Willow smiled as she turned from the pious and reverent chamber.
“They have right to revere the light and fear the dark,” she whispered, “For tonight’s lightless sky will bring with it the horror greater than any nightmare they could imagine…”

minderp
2017-03-14, 06:51 PM
As they moved further into the grand palace that was the Adarium, they opened the ornate chamber doors to reveal a long and opulent hallway, lined with doors and archways, each flanked and adorned with countless portraits of members of the House of Darius through the years. They passed paintings of lesser cousins and distant relatives they recognised; Sir Valin Darian of Farholde, Duke Martin of Daveryn and Bronwyn of Balentyne. As they moved through the hall, Willow silently crept ahead and listened intently beyond each door, quietly scouting each room before they passed. They passed a portrait of the beautiful Princess Bellinda, fair of skin and fair of hair, with eyes of fresh eagerness and innocence. Nearing the end of the hallway, there were portraits of the Victor, Markadian II, Markadian IV and the current serving king. Looking over the portraits, Willow was struck with an odd thought. Conspicuously absent from the long line of lineage, was even a single portrait of the late Queen Aria. Willow knew that she had died in childbirth with the Princess Bellinda, yet she would have thought they would revere the queen with at least as little as a portrait upon the wall. They reached the far end, their path blocked by two shimmering steel doors, appointed with a large crest of the Mitran sunburst beneath a golden crown. By the sultry script of Baroness Vanya, they knew beyond lay the kings quarters. To the left of the doors was an archway to a chamber that contained a single elaborate stairwell that led up into the higher levels of the castle. To the right, was another wooden door, much the same as the others that lined the hallway. With quiet steps, Willow approached and listened. From the other side she heard the soft shuffle of fabric, though she could not tell if it was the sway of fabric dress or the ruffle of sheets. Placing a silencing finger to her lips, she indicated to the others, looking to Pellius in question. With a loud and commanding stride, he moved to the wooden door, rapping his knuckle against it firmly.
“Just a minute,” grouched an aged voice from the chamber.
With the sound of rustling sheets followed by quiet hurried steps, the door opened to reveal a man of at least six decades, dressed in a fine night gown wrapped tightly around his waist.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked, shrewd eyes looking them over.
As a spark of recognition surfaced, Willow bowed low formally.
“Grand Sage Thatch,” she greeted respectfully.
The others quickly followed suit.
“What is it?” he sighed, “The hour is late.”
“We must find the captain of the guard, my lord,” Pellius said sternly, “We have dire news that cannot wait.”
“What is so dire that it cannot wait until morning?” he frowned.
“We have brought word that Chargammon the Black is headed this way,” Pellius said ominously.
The aged man’s brow rose, as his piercing gaze met Pellius’. For a moment, he simply stared towards him.
“We must see to the princess’ safety, and yours of course, my lord!” Pellius added, though the words were rushed and stammered.
As the aged man’s brows rose, Willow swiftly intervened.
“We are flustered, my lord,” she pressed, “The black wyrm has turned his gaze upon us, such a day none of us thought we would see! We cannot delay any longer!”
Though he seemed to accept her answer, his hard eyes looked down upon her.
“Does your attendant always speak out of turn?” he asked Pellius harshly.
“She is apparently yet to learn her place,” Pellius scowled.
“What does it matter right now?” Garvana stressed, “We must continue to the captain, urgently!”
“If it is true,” Thatch frowned, “Then why did the knights not escort you directly to the captain?”
As the seconds stretched and Pellius remained silent, Willow felt herself holding her breath.
“They ran!” Garvana rushed, “They ran to muster the other guards!”
Thatch’s eyes narrowed, as suspicion and distrust contorted his brow. With deft movements he stepped from the doorway and slammed his door shut in their faces.
“Damn it!” Traya growled, reaching out to grab hold of Willow and Garvana’s shoulders. As Willow recognized the incantation she rasped, she reached out and grabbed hold of Pellius’ arm. In the blink of an eye they were thrown through the vortex of ethereal grace and stepped out into the bedchamber, directly behind the fleeing wizard. They wasted no time to launch into action, ripping free their weapons and carving out into the tired flesh. As his blood showered the stone, his eyes flew wide in true fear. Upon his last breath, he spluttered an incantation that vanished him from sight, leaving only the painted scarlet where he stood.
While Traya listened for any further disturbance by the door way, the others riffled through the wizards belongings for anything that may have aided them. Amongst other curiosities, Willow found his neatly scripted journal. Though most of the pages were filled with ramblings of a noble courtier, it was the last few entries that she found the most peculiar.
“Why am I here?” Willow read aloud, “The princess needs no instruction with magic! Such power! How could a nineteen year old girl wield such might?”
“Curious,” Garvana frowned, “What do you suppose she is?”
“Apparently more than a simple brat,” Willow scoffed.
“Enough of this!” Pellius snarled suddenly, “Enough of this charade!”
With a curling lip he dispersed his saintly disguise, revealing the ebony armour beneath. His eyes flashed a vicious crimson as he stormed from the chamber towards the steel doors of the kings chamber. With quick steps, Willow followed his leave, sighing a frustrated breath.
“Pellius,” she soothed, reaching out to gently grab hold of his chin, forcing his sight to her own, “You must control your anger. We are barely in the doorway.”
“This facade is foolish!” he growled, “We are running out of time.”
“This facade has allowed us in arms reach of our enemies,” Willow countered, arching her brow, “Keep your temper in check, there is much we must yet do. We must proceed with caution.”
Though her words simmered the raging crimson that blazed through his eyes, his expression contorted with disdain.
“Then you may proceed,” he rasped snidely, mockingly bowing to her.
She simply rolled her eyes as she turned to the steel mass, looking over the intricately designed lock and handle.
“Are they always like this?” Traya chuckled, leaning towards Garvana.
Garvana heaved a deep sigh, “Always.”
When Willow was sure there were no traps or concealed tricks, she pulled free her tools and set about unlocking the impressive fortification. Though it took her longer than she would have admitted, she was finally successful in disabling the lock, carefully unlatching the large door. Stepping into the chamber, they found the entry to the king’s private quarters, flanked by two small guard chambers. By the appearance of the entry, one would have called the king a humble man. Even though now in times of war the guard rooms were empty of men, they appeared simple and plain, unassuming chambers with simple bunks and modest decorations. There was only a single thing that signified the grandness of the chambers beyond; the draping brocade curtain of vivid blue, embellished with the same crest as the door – the emblem of House Darius. On slow and cautious feet, Willow approached the shining blue and pulled the fabric aside. What opened out before them, was truly the opulent quarters of the King of Talingarde. The bedchamber itself was almost larger than the entire top floor of the Monteguard Manor. To the left of the chamber, sheltered behind an ornate and intricate archway, was a bronze bath large enough to fit four people. To the right was a personal library, filled with only a small portion of tomes, far less than it was fit to accommodate. In the centre of the vast chamber was an enormous four poster bed made from the rarest purpleheart wood. Along the walls stood a matching desk and immense wardrobe, and a full length mirror sized for a giant. Though the rooms within the king’s quarters were opulent, they were vastly empty. The shelves lined with no trinkets, the wardrobes emptied of finery, the drawers holding no jewels nor gold. It was clear that most of the king’s possessions were either with him on campaign or in storage.
The chamber was not completely empty of curiosity. On the eastern wall, stood an immense door carved from shimmering blue metal, with a dire warning written in runic words.
“He that violates this shrine,” Willow whispered aloud, “Shall gain nothing but ashes, nothing but death.”
“Ominous,” Traya scoffed.
“There are runes here,” Willow said quietly, eyes trailing along the seams of the door, “Garvana, can you see what they are?”
With a whispered incantation and eyes that glowed, Garvana’s lip trembled as she back away from the door.
“It is a powerful ward,” she breathed, “If it is triggered, it will let lose a beam that will disintegrate your soul. It is foul magic, that will burn and tear your skin apart as shards of flesh until nothing is left but ash…”
Though a fear trickled through her mind, dancing with a trace of self doubt, Willow would not stop it from allowing her entry. Slowly, she grew closer to the door, keen eyes searching the runes for the sketched pattern she was looking for.
“Do not touch it!” Garvana scalded, stepping further out of the arcana’s reach, “Are you mad?”
“This could be the sanctum,” Willow said distractedly, fixated on the runes, “We must search every room…”
Though Pellius stood by her side, Traya and Garvana disappeared behind the stone wall of the bathing chamber. With eager wonder and a subtle certainty guiding her fingers, Willow reached out tenderly to mar the chosen symbol. As her finger wiped the black ink from the stone, she closed her eyes and awaited her fate. When no ray of blazing malice devoured her soul, and no burning seared her flesh, she slowly unclenched her eyes. With a timid hand, she reached out and lay her fingers upon the steel handle. Carefully, she turned the arched handle and pushed open the door. With a deep and heavy sigh of relief, she straightened her back and turned to Pellius with a mischievous grin. Garvana and Traya appeared from their hiding, as Pellius looked to them with his brow arched high.
"Ye, of little faith,” he derided.
With the proud gleam in her eye, Willow entered the small chamber to find a humble shrine room. Gleaming marble coated the walls, but little more than a statue and prayer mat decorated the room. Each step that she took was careful and cautious, approaching the shrine with eyes peeled for any loose stones or pressure plates. The marble statue was an intricate depiction of the three faces of Mitra. The Shining Lord wearing a carved crown, The Beneficent Sun lit by stone rays of light and The Fire Undying encompassed in chiseled flame. It was caution that kept her curious hands by her side. She searched the shrine by sight, narrowing her eyes upon a slender crease in the side of the altar. Just as the door, small detailed runes ran along the side of the seam.
“Garvana,” Willow beckoned quietly, “Can you see this one?”
Again, her eyes flamed in blue shimmer, widening upon revelation.
“It is far more sinister,” Garvana shivered, “It is a ward that will unleash a malicious necromantic enchantment that drains all fluid from the body. It will continue to siphon the life from a person until the skin withers and cracks, before it finally succumbs and crumbles to dust…”
“Nothing but ashes, nothing but death…” Willow recited in a whisper.
“You cannot touch it,” Garvana insisted harshly, “Would you risk something like that?”
“Someone must,” Willow scoffed in reply, “The king has gone to vast means to secure what is inside. No one cares for gold this much. It must be something of invaluable nature.”
“This is foolish!” Garvana growled, “You will get us killed, and you do not even know what for!”
“I am not asking you to risk yourself,” Willow replied bitterly, “If you feel the need, you may await outside.”
With pursed lips, Garvana strode from the chamber. While Traya remained out of sight, Pellius looked to Willow.
“There is no point in both of us risking ourselves,” he said sternly.
“Of course,” Willow replied, though her brow arched of it own accord.
His gaze held a confidence in her skill, though it was in contrast to his slowed steps that took him out of harms way. As he reached the chambers door, he looked back towards her and nodded firmly. With rolling eyes, Willow returned to the side of the shrine, searching the runes once more. It was by far the most complex design she had ever seen. Curved runes that looked intimately similar, lined in perfect rows of staggered symbols, written in a language she could not comprehend. She had only her prior knowledge of arcane script to aid her, to draw familiarities from the ancient and mesmeric font. With less surety than before, she reached a trembling finger towards the symbols. She held her pointless breath in ritual to steady her hand, before wiping the black ink from the altar. After a few moments, she slowly released the breath she had held, exhaling her alleviation. With deft fingers, she unsealed the slick board and pulled free the contents of the shrine’s secrets. What she held in her hands forced a true smile to light upon her face. The Liber Darian; the Mitran holy text that included a complete family history of the House of Darius. As Willow slowly flicked through the parchment sheets, her eyes flew wide in rapid and insatiable curiosity. Meandering steps returned her to the doorway, where she pushed the door open absentmindedly, her sight enraptured by the tome.
“It is done?” Garvana frowned.
“No,” Willow satirized, though she did not look up, “I am a withered husk.”
“Willow,” Garvana sighed.
Willow smirked, flicking to the following page. As her eyes traced the words listed upon the parchment, her mouth fell ajar.
“Princess Bellinda…” Willow stammered, looking up towards the others, “Is the daughter of Antharia Regina.”
At her words, Garvana and Traya mirrored her response. Though Pellius, not born of Talingarde, frowned in only slight recognition.
“I have heard that name,” he mused, “But I am uncertain as to where…”
“The fabled silver elder wyrm of the North,” Willow said warily, turning the tome for him to read himself, “She is Queen Aria. Well, she is the myth of Queen Aria.”
“The princess is a dragon?” Traya stumbled, shaking her head.
“So it seems,” Willow nodded, turning the book back towards herself.
“Perhaps Chargammon’s meal will be more than he bargained for,” Pellius commented darkly.
“Perhaps…” Willow said quietly, before her eyes strained once more, “Oh, I cannot believe I did not see this coming.”
“See what?” he asked cautiously.
“What Thorn’s plan was,” Willow laughed, “We could add someone to the lineage of House Darius and thus create a missing scion who could assume the throne without a crisis of succession. This must be what he is planning.”
“It is clever,” Pellius replied.
“Terribly clever,” she frowned, flicking further through the pages.
“How can we use it to aid us?” Garvana asked, turning to Pellius.
“Currently we have little use for it,” he frowned, “We must play out our part and follow Dessiter’s advice…”
Slowly, Willow turned over the page to find a curious passage written by the Victor himself.
“King Jaraad, last ruler of House Barca,” she read aloud, “Appealed to his finest seers in his last days to know the future. All in one accord, they predicted disaster in the upcoming battle. In desperation, he called out to the darkness and the darkness sent him a mighty gift – the runeblade Hellbrand. Though Hellbrand reaped a great toll in sacred blood it was not enough to spare Jaraad from his destiny. He died and Hellbrand was captured. Though it could not be destroyed, it was broken in three. The blade was stored in Valtaerna, the pommel was given to the great dragon Eiramanthus to hide deep in his vaults, and the hilt was bricked up into the Throne of Talingarde so that it would never be unguarded. May it never again see the light of day…”
“Where is the throne?” Pellius rasped, a fearsome hunger deepening his voice.
Willow felt the grin lifting her lips.
“Here,” she answered softly, a sultry delve to her tone, “Years ago the king moved it from the old palace. It resides here in the great dome.”
“Good,” he growled savagely, “We will seek it once our business is concluded.”
Willow’s brow arched high, “It is not long until midnight. We cannot remain here after Chargammon attacks, there will be nothing left to search. We must retrieve Hellbrand and make haste for the sanctum.”
“We do not even know where it is!” Pellius scoffed, “How can we make haste?”
“I assume it is down there,” Willow chuckled, pointing to the corner of the chamber towards a well concealed panel in the stone work, slipping the great tome within her pack safely.
Slowly, his eyes traced the seams of the opening, a building eagerness erupting within his eyes. Willow stepped beside him, a wicked grin upon her lips.
“Let us go,” she whispered sinfully, “The reforged blade awaits…”

Returning to the richly appointed entry chamber of the Adarium, they found the two spiral staircases that led towards the Great Dome. With hands of the hilts of their weapons, they slowly climbed the ornate marble steps, entering the grand open chamber divided by a ten foot high partition. The great dome rose more than eighty feet, lavishly adorned with stained glass windows that honoured the revered Darius and Mitra. It was more akin to a cathedral than a gathering place for royalty and their courtiers. In brighter days, the opulent hall would have been filled with revelry and laughter, the elite of Talingarde meeting to praise and pay homage to their royal family. But now, in the time of war and worry, there were no courtiers or social functions. Instead, the chamber was vacant and silent. Although, as they rounded the grand marble barrier, they found the hall was not nearly as empty as they had thought.
“I’ve waited for you,” boomed a resonating voice of ire, “My brother said your road of woe and wickedness would lead you here…”
Sitting in wait upon the king’s throne, was a glorious man that blazed in a column of white and righteous fire. The flames burned a divine and magnificent glow of blinding light, encompassing a regal winged man dressed in blessed and holy glistening armour. Though much of his features were morphed by the swaying flame, he wore a look of pure ire that fell heavy on his blazing brow. Beside him, were the familiar figures of Maul and Clarion, the angels that had confronted the Forsaken within Daveryn, primed for revenge of Ara Mathra’s unanswered banishment.
“My name is Ara Zandra. You banished my brother from the world he sacrificed so much for. Your journey ends here upon the throne you would steal. Righteous vengeance is mine.”
With his words rebounding throughout the large chamber, the three magnificent angels launched into battle. Ara Zandra leapt towards the towering ceiling, glorious white wings of sheer fire beating rapidly as they stretched almost fifteen feet wide. Suddenly, he drew in the blazing flame that surrounded him, casting it outward with a blinding flash of white light that erupted in searing flames throughout the entire chamber. Willow cried out in pain as the burning light seared her eyes, clasping her hand across her sight as she continued her charge forward. When the burning simmered, she blinked her watering eyes and focused them upon the trumpet wielding archon. It was he that had undone their work, the last time they had met. Every blow the Forsaken had dealt to his more brash counterpart, he had healed the wounds and renewed the vigour and strength. Would he sacrifice himself to heal them once more? Or would he waste his time, healing himself as she pushed upon him with relentless fury? Calling aloud the command word she had been taught, the arcane boots she wore lifted her feet from the ground. Though she had never truly flown before, she found the drifting sway a simple matter of balance. Fortunately, balance was something she had in abundance. She pushed upward, levitating higher and more confidently, with her blades drawn and an eager grin upon her face. As she moved, she felt the dastardly venom fulminate and fill the chamber with dripping malice. Pellius seethed in profane frenzy, his eyes alight with bile and hunger, his teeth showing in a feral and savage grin. This fight, belonged to him. As Maul charged towards him, a righteous gleam in his eye, Pellius did not try to block or parry the attack. He simply braced his thick and muscled legs, taking the onslaught in his stride. As the flaming sword carved through metal and flesh, a sudden vibration racked the Great Dome. An enchantment, a dire and baneful charm, a destructive force that sought to devour undead flesh. It wrapped its bitter tendrils around Pellius’ waist, bleeding from the cuts and crevices that the blade had travelled. For a moment, Willow’s heart seized in her chest. The pale complexion of Pellius’ face grew whiter, a sickly green tinge overtaking his skin. But the ire that urged him ever forward, was simply too strong to be overwhelmed. With a furious cry of savage wrath that sparked alight the amorous and sinful delight within Willow, he surged his hatred and repelled the vicious enchantment. When he launched his assault, it was one of no grace nor finesse; pure and unadulterated choler. He hacked his blade with a barbaric and merciless onslaught, slashing with sheer ferocity, devastating blows that sheared bone from limb. As his final swing cleaved towards the angel, he cried out an inhuman gust of wrath. The shower of crimson gore sprayed the white marble in a splash of fatal decoration. The angel wailed his anguish through a blood filled mouth, before he fell to his knees at Pellius’ feet, looking up with scornful and fear-laden eyes. Slowly, as Willow raced towards Clarion, the image of his counterpart drifted from sight. With a terrifying promise, Pellius looked towards Ara Zandra.
“In the name of the undying and eternal Lord of the Nine,” he seethed viciously, “I smite thee! I shall take thine head from thy shoulders! I shall claim it for Asmodeus!”
While his sinister and malign words hung in wicked oath, the blazing angel snarled his untempered anger. With slow and deliberate movements, Pellius withdrew a potion from his belt and swiftly downed its contents. Slowly, his feet lifted from the ground, as his immense and intimidating presence rose into the air.
Willow soared towards Clarion, his angelic trumpet sounding loudly as she approached. With grace and elegance, she moved through the air with lithe agility, carving her blades in fierce attack. She knew she could not complete with Pellius’ prowess, but she needed only to take down the one being that could heal the others. As Ara Zandra turned his eye upon her, Clarion morphed his saintly trumpet into a mighty blade of flame.
“I have this,” Clarion called aloud, his deep bellowing voice stern and sure, “You deal with the fiend.”
Though her blades were swift and precise, his armour was too thick to penetrate. Without the distraction of another, she could not move quick enough to pierce the delicate points of his weakness. His mighty blade cleaved towards her, searing the flesh as it tore shreds from her skin. Though the burning pain throbbed in agony, she gritted her teeth and launched towards him again. It was arduous and taxing, a dire dance through the vast space among stain glass windows of the Great Dome. Under the watching gazes of glass depictions of Mitra and Darius, she endured the angels blazing attacks, leaping forward as she struck out towards him. With a swift glance to the other end of the chamber, Willow saw Garvana huddled by the wall, hands clamped over her eyes in suffering. Traya stood protectively by her side, launching wisping arcana towards the fray, rasping feral words of incantation. As her sight caught Pellius, she felt his enraptured attention inspire her onward. He moved through the air, venomous hatred contorting his face. Suddenly, an explosion of white light erupted from the angel, the same as before, but with far more potency. Willow was shielded from it by the swing of Clarion’s blade, but Pellius had no such protection. It seared his eyes, the round wells weeping with white secretion, his sight taken from him in blazing torture. Though blinded and burnt, he was not deterred. It was as if sheer abhorrence urged him forward, guiding his vicious blade. For a moment, even Clarion looked on in uncertainty. It was a single mistake, that he would swiftly come to regret. Willow pounced on his moment of distraction, darting forward with her blade, plunging its ruby tip through the archons exposed neck. As she tore it free, she watched the colour seep from his face, gushing from the puncture in his throat. Slowly, the life faded from his eyes, as his image drifted from sight.
Pellius snarled a cruel and savage cry, brandishing his weapon with utter and consuming malice. While Ara Zandra launched an arc of flame that tore a long line between Pellius, Garvana and Traya, Pellius simply allowed the scalding flame to hit him, his ears keen to follow the sound of the celestial chanting. While the angel’s back was turned, Willow saw her chance. She pushed through the air at frightening speed, her eyes locked on the joint of the wing that arched from his back. Before he had a chance to move, she thrust her blade deeply into the solid flesh, ripping it free in desperate hope to sever the rasping wing. As he grunted in pain and clenched his teeth, he turned his wrathful gaze upon her. When he raised his longsword that blazed with righteous and billowing flames; there was no where for her to hide. Though she plunged herself downward, the blade lanced through her leather armour, tearing deeply through the flesh beneath. When the second hit came, she felt the bloodless wounds rip open under the sheer strength of his swing. He attacked with enough might to throw her backward through the air, grasping desperately to the last threads of undeath. The tortuous cry that expelled from her mouth was overshadowed by the strenuous grunt of exertion that Ara Zandra bellowed. It was loud enough to rattle the glass windows, and loud enough to allow Pellius precise realization of his location. A frightening sound echoed throughout the chamber. A call filled with seething rage and bitter wretched glee. It was Pellius, as his sword thrust towards its kill. With more power than she had seen him muster, he cleaved his blade in untold wrath. Three times he slashed his sword, relinquishing his control completely to the feral depths of frenzied rage. Three times, he carved his ire through the sacred flesh of the blessed angelic being. Ara Zandra could not withstand the might of such an onslaught. As a mournful cry fell from his lips, his body erupted in an inferno of brilliant white. Once more, the forces of good had attempted to stop the Forsaken. Once more, the beings had been cast back to whence they came.
Though her fragile frame trembled in enervation, her mind and heart were alight in thundering pride. She was in awe as she looked to Pellius. As his vicious rage simmered to a gentle flame that shone from his eyes, she slowly guided herself through the air towards him. His vision returned unhurried, as he slowly regained his composure and leashed his furious temper. Cruel and callous eyes looked Willow over, as hers glowed with lustful avidity. When she spoke, her voice strained against the crushing weight of agony that convulsed her limbs.
“You were brilliant,” she rasped at a whisper, guiding herself closer towards him, looking up into his gaze merely inches from hers, “I have never seen such might…”
He stared deeply into her eyes, the seething rage dancing across his sight, as he battled to keep it contained. She was entranced, captivated by the wild chaos that warred within him. A gentle hand lifted to slip around his neck, forcing Willow to wince as the movement ripped tender skin along the torn flesh of her torso. His brow rose in dark amusement, as the corner of his lip lifted in a smirk.
“You were brilliant,” he replied in satire, “I have never seen you take such a beating…”
Though the feathered chuckle strained the cuts along her chest, she grinned a sinful smile. With a soft touch, Pellius reached both of his hands out, surging a curious arcana as he pressed firmly against her chest. It was a dark and morbid feeling that drifted through her still veins. A menacing sway of bitter and vile magic, that somehow healed the dead and white flesh upon her bones. When the wounds had closed, and the skin smoothed once more, she looked to him under a hooded gaze. She traced her fingers along his chin, but before the lustful words left her lips, Garvana’s voice pierced her enraptured trance.
“Is this really the time or the place?” she scoffed.
Willow laughed, turning her face towards the woman.
“Not at all,” she grinned.
With slow guided movements, the pair returned to the marble floor of the bloodstained chamber. The four of them approached the grand dais that housed the immense throne. Ara Zandra had been correct in one thing. This, was the throne that they would take from the hands of the Mitran faithful. This was the throne they would hand to their Infernal Lord. Before they had a chance to speak, Traya began a rasping incantation. She transformed herself into a creature of earth, burrowing herself beneath the stone chair. With a look of perplexed confusion, Willow awaited her return. Suddenly, the rippling eruption of dirt resurfaced. In its formed hands, was a cruel shaped hilt of the darkest ebony. It was the final piece of Hellbrand. In offering, the elemental held out the hilt to Pellius, its curious form bowing towards him. His greedy hands snatched the piece, eagerly striking it against the base of the blade. With a gust of tainted fury, pulsing in seething infernal grace, the weapon reforged itself. A grin slithered across Pellius’ chin, the fearsome blade clasped tightly within his hands. Lightening suddenly rippled in flash through the night sky, a bellowing clap of thunder trembling the fortified walls of the Adarium. Under the violent shaking of the stone, the glass murals above cracked in rippling fractures. As the skies thundered in applause, Pellius lifted the weapon high overhead. He laughed, a nocuous and malevolent glee; the sound of a twisted and heinous fiend. That night, the moonless sky offered no light to the fair people of Talingarde. For the true servants of darkness were here, and they were primed to change the fate of the land forever…

Braininthejar2
2017-03-17, 06:56 PM
Eyes locked with the maul-bearing golden being, she stepped off the edge and dropped gracefully to the ground below. In a slender waft of dirt, she slowly lifted from her crouch,


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwUilIo036g

minderp
2017-03-18, 12:50 AM
Eyes locked with the maul-bearing golden being, she stepped off the edge and dropped gracefully to the ground below. In a slender waft of dirt, she slowly lifted from her crouch,

Haha! Perfect!

Braininthejar2
2017-03-18, 05:42 AM
Yes, not preparing for flying opponents does seem to be a theme. Some sort of flight would have helped you a lot in the lagoon too.

Also, we're back to Willow being crazy. :smallbiggrin:

I'm dissapointed by the red consort not appearing in the story - she was initially sold as the strongest physical fighter of the three, and then she died and we didn't even get to see how she really looked like, beyond the murals depicting her.

I assume the assassin in the jail was a new player that never really caught up?

Also, did Pellius use three different weapons (hammer, axe, sword) through the adventure, or did I misread something?

What happened to the sealed lich skull? You don't mention taking it, and I don't think you'd let your minions haul it with the rest of the treasure.

minderp
2017-03-18, 06:52 AM
Yes, not preparing for flying opponents does seem to be a theme. Some sort of flight would have helped you a lot in the lagoon too.

Also, we're back to Willow being crazy. :smallbiggrin:

I'm dissapointed by the red consort not appearing in the story - she was initially sold as the strongest physical fighter of the three, and then she died and we didn't even get to see how she really looked like, beyond the murals depicting her.

I assume the assassin in the jail was a new player that never really caught up?

Also, did Pellius use three different weapons (hammer, axe, sword) through the adventure, or did I misread something?

What happened to the sealed lich skull? You don't mention taking it, and I don't think you'd let your minions haul it with the rest of the treasure.


Red Consort was killed in a single round before she had a chance to do anything. Was hard to write a scene that lasted all of 6 seconds.

Assassin is a cohort that is given in the campain. He's one of many that we've had to side line. I had actually forgotten about him. We're about to fight the king... and he's off looting elsewhere lol.

Pellius has five thousand weapons. He changes what he uses in each battle. It is hard to keep up with.

Lich is now locked away safely, i thought i wrote that we took it with us. There's often too much to remember to mention lol.

FocusWolf413
2017-03-18, 04:36 PM
This is far too enjoyable to read.

I need Jesus Pelor.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-18, 04:39 PM
Feels out of character to welcome Traya to the mansion, regardless of what she had said. You've always put your teammates before your hirelings. What happened there anyway? Did another player drop out?

Also, how does resurrection work in Pathfinder? because at this point it gives me a Final Fantasy vibe - death is easily reversible, unless it's a part of the plot - then it's final.

Why do you still need a spider climb potion as a vampire?

minderp
2017-03-18, 05:04 PM
This is far too enjoyable to read.

I need Jesus Pelor.

The Sun Father's light doesn't shine here... :P

minderp
2017-03-18, 05:18 PM
Feels out of character to welcome Traya to the mansion, regardless of what she had said. You've always put your teammates before your hirelings. What happened there anyway? Did another player drop out?

Also, how does resurrection work in Pathfinder? because at this point it gives me a Final Fantasy vibe - death is easily reversible, unless it's a part of the plot - then it's final.

Why do you still need a spider climb potion as a vampire?

Had a player meeting to address issues of players being bored of the campaign. Was even an option that we'd just give up on this campaign and play another, while the DM and i continued for the sake of story (i enjoy writing this far too much to give it up).
So our DM gave everyone the chance to change characters. Bor opted to change out, and chose Traya as his replacement. So, Willow was more lenient towards Traya, because a new character is unplayable if the others refuse to let them in lol.

Yeah that about sums death up in Pathfinder. Impossible for a peasant to change, but for a 14th level party? No issue.

We're following the WoTW recommended path of the vampire. We're not true vampires yet. We dont have spider climb naturally. We're more blood thirsty, have no constitution score, are more powerful, but dont have the full repertoire of vampire abilities until the next few levels.

https://the-way-of-the-wicked.obsidianportal.com/wikis/vampire

Braininthejar2
2017-03-18, 05:57 PM
Ah, I skimmed through it, but didn't remember details - I assumed that if you're properly undead now, you must already have the full package. (edit: I thought you were going the "get vampire benefits instead of levels until you match the LA"route - 5 feats for a template is really a lot)

No, I didn't mean peasants - I meant things like you not resurrecting Bor, or the Mithrans not resurrecting any of the high priests you've killed.

Also, if memory serves, "quicksilver" is mercury, not mithril. Or is it different in Talingarde?

minderp
2017-03-18, 08:47 PM
Ah, I skimmed through it, but didn't remember details - I assumed that if you're properly undead now, you must already have the full package. (edit: I thought you were going the "get vampire benefits instead of levels until you match the LA"route - 5 feats for a template is really a lot)

No, I didn't mean peasants - I meant things like you not resurrecting Bor, or the Mithrans not resurrecting any of the high priests you've killed.

Also, if memory serves, "quicksilver" is mercury, not mithril. Or is it different in Talingarde?

Five feats is not a great deal for a rogue, and we were offered the chance to retrain certain feats granted we had the time and coin. Was perfect for Willow, she already had half of the feats that vampire template gives you. But for a cleric... again why i thought it was a peculiar idea for our cleric to become a vampire.

Bor, because the player changed characters, and in story Asmodeus claimed his soul. As for the Mitrans, all of the high enough cleric are off to war. I asked my DM about it, when Willow took on the mission to kill the High Cardinal, and he said Willow would know that there was little to no chance that they could resurrect him.

The mithral golem has a second state, which is his quicksilver form. Whether they are the same, my knowledge check rolled lower than Willow's. :P

Braininthejar2
2017-03-18, 09:34 PM
Well, the term quicksilver comes from our world - because mercury looks like silver, except it moves.

As for Bor... If I were the GM, I'd probably give him your old wizard instead (she's finished whatever dead end mission the cardinal had dumped her into, and with some meddling from the devils, found and rejoined the party before consulting Thorne about it. - with the levels she gained since the Horn, the player would have plenty of space to respec her as he liked. ) But that would require some separate idea for how to kill Bor for good. Perhaps have the cornugon in the temple drag him to hell or something.

As it is... It still feels weird that the Knot, having no friends but each other, would not straight kill the sorceress for killing one of their own. But the second part of the update handled it much better, and with the introduction of her own pact, the Pact of the Knot would keep them from killing her - she's an asset in an important mission now, and their loyalty to Asmodeus takes precedence over their loyalty to each other.

(actually, wouldn't that in itself free you from the pact regarding Thorne? If the devil can produce a solid proof that the cardinal has fallen out of favour, wouldn't it be enough to void your loyalty to him simply because loyalty to Asmodeus takes precedence? I'm not an infernal lawyer, but if you could summon one to get a second opinion, that might be helpful.)

After how you initially introduced your vampirism, I was expecting the "has to keep reminding herself to blink to not creep people out" approach to undeath, but you seem to have decided for the opposite, crying, laughing, and eating food. Much simpler that way. Also, the "vampire has no reflection, but her clothes do" introduces some comedy to the otherwise grim situation.

When you went from cutting the high priest's throat to cutting his head off, I initially thought it was to teleport it with you, so he'd need a better spell than raise dead to come back.

minderp
2017-03-18, 09:47 PM
and their loyalty to Asmodeus takes precedence over their loyalty to each other.
This is why they haven't killed Traya. Asmodeus allowed her to kill Bor with the very thing (fire) He gave to Bor as a boon (fire immunity via damnation traits). Loyalty to him and his wishes trump their anger and loyalty to each other.



When you went from cutting the high priest's throat to cutting his head off, I initially thought it was to teleport it with you, so he'd need a better spell than raise dead to come back.
I hadn't thought of taking his head with her lol. She cut off his head for that reason though, because you need something greater than raise dead to attach the head again.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-19, 02:14 PM
hmm? 3.5 raise dead could cure decapitation, as it did all other wounds - it just couldn't replace missing parts, so you had a problem if a piece was gone. Did it change in Pathfinder?

Some thoughts for the encounters ahead, (probably irrelevant, since it will be over by the time you read this)

1 The disguises could be used one last time to backstab the king when he arrives - even if he knows all his knights, you could wear the faces of some of the castle guards. Also, if you locate the place where he emerges from the sanctum, a well cast wall of stone could separate him from whatever retinue he arrives with, making the fight much easier. ( you don't seem to have taken your cohorts with you - you could have instructed them to wait for the dragon and then fly in on hippogriffs to support you.)

2 So, the king's ex is a dragon? Is she actually dead, or does it mean you have another dragon to slay (possibly before she drops in uninvited at the least opportune moment)?

3 If Chargammon really gets more than he's bargained for, perhaps it would be good to see if he's been weakened enough for you to finish him off - if you're conquering the island, that's one less monster to challenge your authority later, and one more hoard to plunder. Might cost you your new dragon steed, but you don't seem to be using him anyway.

4 Speaking of hoards. with the amount of treasure your minions have to haul after you, it might be more practical to just take over one of the lairs and make it your permanent base. Though being a vampire might complicate things, I think I like the copper's island the most - a very nice location where you can relax in beautiful gardens or the library, and possibly ambush planar travellers who didn't get the memo that the previous owner is dead. There is probably some key that lets you get around the teleportation ward.

minderp
2017-03-20, 01:46 AM
hmm? 3.5 raise dead could cure decapitation, as it did all other wounds - it just couldn't replace missing parts, so you had a problem if a piece was gone. Did it change in Pathfinder?

Some thoughts for the encounters ahead, (probably irrelevant, since it will be over by the time you read this)

1 The disguises could be used one last time to backstab the king when he arrives - even if he knows all his knights, you could wear the faces of some of the castle guards. Also, if you locate the place where he emerges from the sanctum, a well cast wall of stone could separate him from whatever retinue he arrives with, making the fight much easier. ( you don't seem to have taken your cohorts with you - you could have instructed them to wait for the dragon and then fly in on hippogriffs to support you.)

2 So, the king's ex is a dragon? Is she actually dead, or does it mean you have another dragon to slay (possibly before she drops in uninvited at the least opportune moment)?

3 If Chargammon really gets more than he's bargained for, perhaps it would be good to see if he's been weakened enough for you to finish him off - if you're conquering the island, that's one less monster to challenge your authority later, and one more hoard to plunder. Might cost you your new dragon steed, but you don't seem to be using him anyway.

4 Speaking of hoards. with the amount of treasure your minions have to haul after you, it might be more practical to just take over one of the lairs and make it your permanent base. Though being a vampire might complicate things, I think I like the copper's island the most - a very nice location where you can relax in beautiful gardens or the library, and possibly ambush planar travellers who didn't get the memo that the previous owner is dead. There is probably some key that lets you get around the teleportation ward.

Not decapitation. Raise dead isn't high enough level to reattach a head.
1. You'll have to wait for the story to find out what we did.
2. We don't know if the King's ex is still alive. There's been no sight or word of her for over a century.
3. Refer to question 1. :P
4. The dragon's island ward comes from the crystals themselves. We thoroughly explored the idea of using it as a base, but as getting to it requires teleport and my ridiculous ability to roll 98-100 which sends you off course (seriously, almost EVERY roll i've rolled 98-100 and the ward gives you a +50 to fail) it seemed a terrible place for us to get back and forth.
Also, the minions are hauling treasure, so they actually do something in story. We had mass stretches of time that had them sitting around twiddling thumbs.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-20, 08:57 AM
Not decapitation. Raise dead isn't high enough level to reattach a head.

You sure it works that way? That would make raise dead work or not, depending on how the DM described a particular kill...


We had mass stretches of time that had them sitting around twiddling thumbs.

Isn't there any job for a couple dozen warriors in a war-torn country? Surely there is someone who could pay for extra protection - and it would let the officers practice keeping the grunts in line.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-21, 12:18 PM
I know what your minions can do for you.

Kidnap people.

It would serve your general purpose if devout (but otherwise unimportant) mithrans started disappearing from the neighbourhood - and now you're undead enough to have a blood drain attack - gorging yourself just before an important battle to get a couple dozen extra hit points can make a huge difference.

Just make sure they don't store them where you live - such activities tend to attract mid level adventurers. (leave Genji to oversee the operation - he's powerful enough to handle minor trouble, and if he realises he's just become a boss battle, he can turn invisible and fly away to notify you before he can be killed. - also, see if you have some redundant magic items you could use to arm him)

Am I ranting too much? I'd love to GM this campaign one day, but I've never had a gaming group stable enough to last through a campaign that long.

FocusWolf413
2017-03-22, 05:37 PM
Now I'm up to date... dang.

Can we get builds for the party at some point? Including Bor.

minderp
2017-03-23, 05:22 AM
I know what your minions can do for you.
Kidnap people.

Problem is our missions take us all across the country. We have no where to store them that we return to often enough to be useful.


You sure it works that way? That would make raise dead work or not, depending on how the DM described a particular kill...
.

Wording on the spell is vague. DM ruling says decapitation is too hard for the weakest revival spell to work.

minderp
2017-03-23, 05:23 AM
Now I'm up to date... dang.

Can we get builds for the party at some point? Including Bor.

Next chapter is almost finished. :D

Builds are doable. How much detail would you like?

FocusWolf413
2017-03-23, 03:23 PM
Next chapter is almost finished. :D

I love you. You're good at writing. I'm very impressed. Please write up the next campaign too.



Builds are doable. How much detail would you like?

Levels/archetypes, feats, stats. And you said there was a rebuild at some point? Might want to mention what changed. And I've been having a hard time figuring out Bor. Barbarian? No, he has spells. Barbarian/Scarred Witch Doctor/Eldritch Knight?

You guys are what, 15th level now? And do you use the background skills system?

minderp
2017-03-23, 04:10 PM
I love you. You're good at writing. I'm very impressed. Please write up the next campaign too.


Haha! Thank you! :D
Definitely will!



Levels/archetypes, feats, stats. And you said there was a rebuild at some point? Might want to mention what changed. And I've been having a hard time figuring out Bor. Barbarian? No, he has spells. Barbarian/Scarred Witch Doctor/Eldritch Knight?

You guys are what, 15th level now?

Will email the guys and find out the details/changes.
Also, Bor was a god damn mystery. I still have no clue what he was. Definitely multi classed somehow lol. Barbarian and Oracle maybe?
Yes, 15th level after the Adarium.
As for Willow, i didnt make any changes to her. She was always amazing. :P

Braininthejar2
2017-03-24, 09:55 AM
Just please, put some spaces between paragraphs. Much easier to read that way :)

Jimmah
2017-03-27, 07:45 AM
No, I didn't mean peasants - I meant things like you not resurrecting Bor, or the Mithrans not resurrecting any of the high priests you've killed.


I play in Minderps group - Bor/Traya.

Just to answer a few questions/queries:

Bor could not be resurrected due to a certain deal he had made (and backed up with in game feats). The feats are very powerful but are also nasty should the character die. You can look them up on d20pfsrd - 'Damnation' feats.

As an explanation for changing characters for those following the stories - Our party was extremely melee heavy (Anti-Paladin, Rogue, Barbarian & Cleric) and as such we were struggling for ranged & magical support after our Sorcerer left. This had become very apparent over the last couple of large encounters. I also made the mistake with Bor of creating a character based on a cool miniature I had painted. I didn't put much effort into his back story or character and as such I found myself losing interest quickly with a PC that I had no real connection to and was also becoming superfluous in the one thing he was good at - combat.

After talking to the GM I decided to swap characters to Traya for a couple of reasons :

1.) Bor had actually made efforts in game to recruit her and had formed a bond with her
2.) She had the basis for a back story which gelled with things that Bor had said/done
3.) It provided a fairly epic scene where Traya could be introduced without any awkward character swaps

As an aside it also created some interesting RP opportunities as theoretically Bor had broken a 'contract' and as such the results were completely justified. It boils down to how seriously your PC adheres to Asmodean law and LE in general. Lets just say not everyone was as diplomatic as Willow :)

Garoop
2017-03-27, 08:11 AM
Hi folks, I DM for Minderp's group.

Just popping in to say hi. It's good fun to read her stories, even for me, as it provides me with an interesting new perspective on things. And it's awesome that she can expand on our campaign in such a detailed way.

In relation to the Mitrans raising all their people back from the dead - The Vale of Valtaerna housed the main healing order and was destroyed utterly by the Forsaken. The bulk of Militant healers are currently with the Mitran army, close to assaulting Daveryn. The Tears of Achlys is rampaging across the countryside devastating the populace. Combine all of this with the fact that Mitra produces comparatively few divine casters (compared to other gods) and you can see why it's not quite so simple for them. :)

Fear not though... they still have 1 or 2 tricks up their collective sleeve.... ;)

FocusWolf413
2017-03-27, 09:22 AM
To the members of the group who replied, thank you.

And to Minderp: Does Willow fail every reflex save?

Braininthejar2
2017-03-27, 11:20 AM
I play in Minderps group - Bor/Traya.

And who exactly was that first guy you played? we didn't manage to learn much about him.

Jimmah
2017-03-27, 12:43 PM
And who exactly was that first guy you played? we didn't manage to learn much about him.

I started out with a Swashbuckler called Mathias - but after a few sessions it became bluntly obvious that Willow could do everything he could do mechanically but better. They both had very similar skills (except Willow's were far superior because Rogue) and it became hard to justify why you would send the average guy to do the 'Rogue' stuff. I could have reworked him into more of a 'Fighter' build but the party was severely lacking in a damage sponge like a Fighter or Barbarian so I decided to make Bor instead.

A bit of inexperience there with the newer 'Unchained Rogue' and the Swashbuckler class in general. I should have had a good look at the Rogue before making a rogue-like PC.

I should sheepishly add that I am a chronic character creator and sometimes after I have made a PC I am particularly keen on, I lose interest in my current PC. Not a good flaw to have in a long campaign!

Hmmm... might be time to make a character... ;)

Braininthejar2
2017-03-27, 01:43 PM
The campaign proved that one can dictate the plot regardless of tier. :)

minderp
2017-03-27, 04:34 PM
And to Minderp: Does Willow fail every reflex save?

Lol! Reflex? It would be fairer to ask if she passes every reflex save. Then the answer would be, pretty much.
Why do you ask?

FocusWolf413
2017-03-28, 12:01 PM
Lol! Reflex? It would be fairer to ask if she passes every reflex save. Then the answer would be, pretty much.
Why do you ask?

Because every time there's a reflex save involved (breath weapon, fireball) it sounds like she's just ignoring the fact that her skin is gone.

minderp
2017-03-28, 05:31 PM
Because every time there's a reflex save involved (breath weapon, fireball) it sounds like she's just ignoring the fact that her skin is gone.

Oh.. i did not realise it came across like that. :/

I try to be creative with the explaining of reflex saves on area effects, for two reasons.

1. It is hard to write, and would be boring to write/read, 'Willow saves again, and takes no damage thanks to evasion', in almost every reflex roll.

2. When i write things like fireball, i picture an actual ball of fire exploding. Even if you're quick and save yourself from the brunt of it, you don't jump twenty feet out of the way and magically transport back to your square. You're standing in the same spot where the fire is raging, so you're going to feel the heat of the fire and the 'lick of the flame'. So even if she isn't actually hurt by the effect, she still feels it. I picture saving with evasion like holding your hand over a candle flame. You feel how hot it is, you can imagine how much hotter it could be were you to move closer, you can feel the tremble of the flame as the air moves. Her skin may not be 'gone' when she saves, but she can feel the small hairs on her skin burn away, and the heat searing the skin, but she is quick enough to move through the fire without actually sustaining any real damage.
An example of a hard one to write, was the bubble attack made by the Consort in Blue back in the lagoon of Straya Avarna. Its an actual bubble, or wave if you will, filled with lightening and and an ice storm. Willow passed her save, so technically she takes 0 damage. But how does she avoid a bubble, that passes through her five foot square and continues for another 30 or so feet? She leapt high into the air over the brunt of it. But its a bubble... its moves through every inch of her square... Picturing it, i can't see a way she could take no damage at all. So instead she takes no offical damage, no blisters on her skin from the lightening, no frost bite, no cuts from ice shards. But she feels the burn as the lightening ripples passed, she feels the grazes of the ice, the ache from the cold...


I have never written anything as detailed as the journal for this campaign. I've actually never written anything more than simple than small sagas, way way back in high school, more years ago than i'd like to admit. Still finding my writers legs on it...
Lol, be gentle. :P

minderp
2017-03-28, 06:11 PM
The next chapter! Da-da-da-daaaahhm!


The ebony canvas of sky lay silent, vacant of any trace of light, as the moon lingered else where, unseen. There was no sight to signal the impending arrival of midnight, just an eery and foreboding weight as if the hand on a clock repelled each second that passed. Within the grand city of Matharyn, upon the Western coast of Cambrian Bay, the Adarium slumbered through the darkest night of the year. The hallways of the lower floor were empty, no guards nor guests walking the stone passages. The only sound to be heard was the muffled steps of four villainous beings. The Forsaken quietly prowled through the regal corridors, returning to the king’s chambers, and once more entering the sacred shrine. Knowing how little time they had left, they hastened their preparation. Traya cast her enchantments, using curious magic to morph Pellius to almost double his size. When she rasped her incantation towards Willow, a peculiar sensation rippled along the pale white flesh. It was as if her skin was shielded by malleable stone. She could still flex her fingers and move with the same lithe grace, yet her skin was hardened and firm. When they turned their attention to the hidden door that lay in the corner of the humble shrine room, they breathed a readying breath as one. With determined chins and swift steps, they delved into the underground chamber. It was a burning wave of flaming heat that greeted their decent. The roughly worked stone walls seared flesh upon touch, the radiating pulse of fire billowing from further into the cavern. As the Forsaken turned to face the force of flame, they saw a woman carved of molten rock, sweltering in fire that danced along her skin. She rose from a pool of bright and blistering magma, a chasm of lava set within the stone floor, blackened char and burnt rock spreading from the fire. Her eyes glowed like embers, black as night and split with fissures of blazing lava. They glared towards the Forsaken, a righteous primal destruction, fire that consumed and fed from her ire.
“I am Brigit of the Brijidine,” she whispered in a voice that lashed like crackling flame, “Born of earth and fire. I have divined your wicked designs. The land itself now rises against you. How can you do anything but burn?”
There was no room for reply nor diplomacy in her introduction. Without further delay, she called forth the raw and primal core of her make, summoning two beings made from pure earth and fire. As the flames and eruptions pummelled towards the Forsaken, Brigit hurled a blazing mass of lava into the air.
“Watch out!” Traya cried.
Willow quickly stepped backwards, swiftly pulling free a scroll from her pouch, rushing the incantation to unleash a blistering swell of bitter cold towards the flaming being. As the ice crashed against the molten magma, a blacked char of hardened rock formed across its surface, though the raging heat simply seared in response and blistered in fury. As the mass of lava fell from the air, Garvana was hit by the splatter of scorching liquid. She screamed as the burning began and the flames caught upon her armour, dropping her to the ground as she thrashed in an attempt to douse the blaze. Pellius charged towards the Azata, heedless of the blazing heat that grew to a searing burn as he neared. A moment before he reached her, Traya timed a perfect release of a feral wave of acidic malice, fluid that seared the summoned beings. As the moving masses of fire and earth vanished from sight, Pellius brandished his infernal blade. Brigit snarled a lashed breath, launching another mass of molten lava towards him. Though it hit and showered his dastardly armour, he simply growled through clenched teeth and continued his terrifying approach. Willow watched as the ebony steel glowed a brilliant red under the frightening heat, embered beneath the flames that swayed across his chest and legs. Pellius was uncaring of the pain as he stepped towards her, slashing out his blade into the fire-laden woman. In place of blood, a spray of white hot lava flung from the wound to sear the stone as it cascaded along the wall. Using the arcana imbued within her boots, Willow lifted herself into the air, soaring across the room to hover high above the Azata, awaiting her moment to drop into the fray. As the blazing lava upon Pellius and Garvana cooled and began to set, Pellius found his feet encased and fixed to the stone floor. Though he could not move or evade the waves of flame that Brigit cast towards him, he continued his relentless attack nonetheless. Garvana however, was trapped upon the floor, searing flesh and burning skin pinned to the marble tile. Every second that passed hardened the rock casing, making escape less and less likely. When Pellius cleaved his blade forward, Willow dropped from the ceiling and struck out with her blades from behind. Though she hovered more than a metre from the pool of lava, she felt the soles of her shoes burning and softening, the leather close to melting under the pressing heat of the magma. Brijit cried out as the profane blades scorched her with dark malice, callous magic that devoured the pure and virtuous. She rasped an enchantment, glazing herself in a holy light, healing the worst of her wounds. But as her words echoed through the chamber, Pellius and Willow gave her no chance to recover. After the years of fighting along side one another, they seemed to understand and anticipate each others actions. As Pellius drew the eyes of the Azata with a roaring assault with his feral blade, Willow silently slipped lower and used his distraction to devastating ends. Together, they carved through the molten flesh, undoing all she had done in a few mere seconds. Traya raced to Garvana’s side, grabbing hold of the woman and using her rushed incantation to vanish them from sight, returning to the room beside the vacant casting of the stout woman. Suddenly, Brigit’s hardened black eyes widened in panic. She threw her arms wide, her tongue lashing in words that sounded like the blazing roar of flame. Her frame abruptly billowed in fire, an inferno of blistering heat, a firestorm that erupted from her and scorched everything in its path. Though the flames burned in sweltering waves, it was not enough to save the Azata. Traya appeared beside them, her fingers primed in crooked stance, laced with glistening crystals of white ice. Suddenly, she released her fingers, opening wide and unleashing a crashing surge of bitter cold. Shards of ice that tore through chunks of hardened rock, freezing cold that iced over the simmering swell of magma. Brigit cried out as the hardened rock slithered from the lava beneath her, slowly encasing her slender frame. As the blizzard pummelled against her blazing flesh, her face cracked in fractured rock. When the cold wind ceased, and the last shards of ice fell to the floor, Brijit of the Brigidine remained a husk of rock. After a moment, splits formed and rippled across the surface, before the being of fire shattered into uncountable pieces, falling into the waiting embrace of the lava beneath.


Though burnt and charred, the Forsaken turned their attentions to the large doors on the far end of the chamber. Their time was swiftly running out. They did not have the luxury of rest and recovery, they simply had to keep pushing through until they reached the king. That was all that mattered.
Though Willow searched the handles and creases of the marble doors, there was nothing more than metal and stone. Cautiously, she pushed open the door to reveal a large marble chamber. The grand regal tiles caked in a fine mist of white dust, undisturbed by the foot traffic of the palace. There was little in the chamber besides eight ornate stone columns, and a single circular pedestal centering the far end of the room. As Willow carefully stepped through the threshold, she saw carved depictions upon each of the stone spires. Images of knights riding into battle, priests kneeled in stoic prayer, noblemen feeding the poor, magistrates sentencing the guilty. They portrayed the eight Mitran virtues: honesty, honour, humility, compassion, valor, justice, piety and self sacrifice. Slowly, the Forsaken moved into the chamber, weapons clutched tightly in their hands, eyes sharp, keen and ready. As they made their way towards the pedestal, their steps were cautious - yet nothing more awaited them. Willow eyes trailed the wall that boarded the sight of the simple pedestal, another mural dedicated to the valor and strength of the Darian line.
“Be careful,” Garvana cautioned, “I sense a powerful aura in this place. This has to be the king’s sanctum.”
“What do you see?” Willow asked, her brow pulled low.
“It is as if the spirit of the king’s line still lingers here…”
As Willow shrewdly searched the dais by sight, seeking another baleful arcane trap, her frown deepened. By all accounts, the marble ring was little more than it appeared to be.
“Willow,” Traya beckoned, “Perhaps this will aid you.”
She swiftly rasped an incantation, twisting her fingers along with her words, as she reached out to press a finger upon the bridge of Willow’s nose. It was sudden that a piercing clarity came across her vision. Willow’s eyes brightened as she looked about the sheltered sanctum. She could see everything. As she looked to the Forsaken, their disguises vanished. She saw through the transformed armour, revealing the battered sets of steel they wore, beneath translucent images they chose to hide under. She saw each magical trinket they vanished with the power of illusion. And as she looked to the ceiling of the chamber, she saw what she knew was the four spirits of the prior king’s of Talingarde. Etheral forms, with no distinguishable features save the clear regal garb of House Darius. They did not seem to see the Forsaken, they did not seem to be aware of their surroundings. They simply drifted through the high reaches of the chamber, as if they existed partly here, yet partly somewhere distant.
“You were right, Garvana,” Willow said warily, eyes following the flow of the sheen forms, “It is the king’s line. They seem to gather in this place, to guide and protect their son…”
Suddenly, a horrifying cry sounded from the skies far above. A wail so filled with malicious feeding, that the hairs upon Willow’s neck stood on end. Even before the walls began to shake, Chargammon’s arrival was made clear, as the vicious and vile roar reverberated through the moonless night. Even across the bay in the slumbered city of Matharyn, the cry would have awoken thousands from their rest. As midnight came to Talingarde; so to did the foulest creature that graced its lands.
As the stone chamber trembled beneath their feet, the screams and cries of woe began. Though the sounds were muffled by the dense earth that encompassed the sanctum, the horror and pure terror was so great, they could feel the utter dread that was the calamity they had invited to the Adarium.
“Be ready,” Pellius ordered sternly, bracing his stance in preparation, “This is no time for deception. We must attack the moment the king enters…”
It was not long they had to wait. As the sound of ruin and destruction sang out like a chorus of desolation, Willow saw the peaceful spirits awaken. They began to quiver, slowly coursing in a graceful dance above the circular pedestal. As they chamber pulsed in throbbing arcana, she quickly whispered the command to vanish herself from sight. Swiftly sealing herself behind the cornered wall, she pulled free the crooked black wand from her pouch. The spirits churned in a blazing vortex, circling the dais faster than Willow’s eyes could track. It was fitting, Willow thought, that the vision formed by their pace appeared as a pious halo above the entrance of the King of Talingarde.
A blinding flash of white erupted throughout the chamber, a powerful charm of shielding that swept along the marble floors and stone walls. And with a rippling sight of trembling magic, the king and his retinue arrived. In a precise line guarding the front, were four hardened and stern knights. Dressed in gleaming banded mail, baring the royal insignia proudly upon their chests, draped it sapphire blue cloaks and sashes. Standing behind them to the right, was a frightening visage of a man Willow recognised as Father Dorian DeMascas – an Inquisitor of Mitra. Enlarged with arcana he stood almost nine feet tall, clad in thick banded steel, brandishing his powerful longsword aflame in blazing blue fire. In his other hand, he held tight an immense steel shield, marked with the elegant heraldry of King Markadian V. To the left, was the pious Brother Quintus of Austea, a dedicated and long-serving supporter of House Darius. Though he wore his longsword strapped to his belt, Willow knew he was not unarmed. He was a powerful cleric of Mitra, having served by the side of king for most of his adult life. And in the centre of the pedestal, standing tall and regal – King Markadian himself. It was more than the golden crown atop his head that marked him as the monarch. He held himself with the grace that only a leader could. His eyes glowed a sheer blue, his brow contorted with rage and worry. As they appeared before the Forsaken, they had only a moment to frown in shock that the hidden sanctum had been infiltrated.
“NOW!” Pellius bellowed, a snarling curl to his lip.
Willow released the magic of the malicious wand, launching a thick miasma of darkness towards the retinue. The blackness seethed in hunger, tendrils of raven wrath spiraling out and seeping deep into flesh and bone. Pellius charged forward, his vicious blade tearing through the rank of knights, his strikes vicious and bestial with no care for defense. Before the king’s guard had time to respond, Willow unleashed another torrent of sickly blackness from the wand, pacing backwards carefully as she awaited her opportunity to strike.
“You two!” DeMascas bellowed, pointing to Willow with his piercing eyes locked upon Pellius, “Take out that harlot!”
He threw out his hands in a forceful thrust, as they suddenly blazed in blistering fire. The flames launched forward in a tall and searing column, wide enough to to envelop Pellius and Garvana in its scorching inferno. As the two knights followed their orders and approached Willow with their shining battleaxes in hand, she dove out of their path and rolled to spring up behind one and plunge her blade into the spilt of his armour by his side. Traya unleashed a wave of blistering heat of her own, flames dancing across the flesh of the knights. The king rounded upon her, using his shield to cast aside the fires that raged. As DeMascas charged towards Pellius, he ran directly into the feral swing of Hellbrand, the hungry blade eagerly shedding his skin. Their steel clashed, two blades screeching together as their wielders traded brutal blow for blow. Markadian struck out with his sword, piercing Traya through the shoulder, as she scrambled backwards under the weight of his assault. Garvana weaved her way through the fray, her sight upon Brother Quintus, as he casted his blessed incantations and imbued his comrades with divine power and shielding. Her mace simmered with eery darkness, the unholy wrath of hell coiling between the pitted spikes.
The battle was chaos. A chorus of grunts and growls, the ringing of steel upon steel, blades carving, blood spilling, righteous cries and bitter screams. The movement became much like a vicious blur. Brother Quintus undid the progress of the Forsaken at almost every turn, casting his holy light in brilliant flashes of blessed white light that healed the wounds of his comrades, and devoured the undead flesh of his foes. But eventually, it was Willow’s profane blade that claimed the first kill. Will and strength sapped by the darkness, flesh burnt by the flame, it was the blade that thrust into his throat that felled the first of the knights. Though she ducked and dived under Markadian’s attacks, it was an eruption of raw and untempered fire that Traya summoned that seared the last ounce of life from the crisp corpse of the second. As Pellius and DeMascas heaved their weapons, righteous might battling as if it were a battle of god against god, Willow saw an opening she could not resist. Although her path took her through the knights blade that tore into her armour and flesh, she clenched her teeth and leaped forward to bring herself behind DeMascas. With his attention completely enraptured upon Pellius, Willow sprang high into the air with both of her blades, plunging them into either side of his neck. A sudden flash of blinding white light blazed behind her eyes as her blades tasted his blood. He snarled a sound of raging pain, grimacing as she ripped her blades free. It was a moment of lapse in his concentration that Pellius did not allow to pass. He cleaved Hellbrand with a mighty roar of frenzied ire, and in one swing, he carved the blade cleanly through the inquisitors torso. It took a moment for Willow’s sight to return, but as she blinked rapidly and the room returned, a sharp pain tore through her back. As the knight’s blade pierced her skin, he thrust the sword so far through that the tip pressed against the leather plate along her stomach. She cried out a feral sound of choler, darting forward as the blade withdrew, dexterously spinning on her heel to launch towards him. Although Garvana’s flesh was burnt, bruised and battered, her furious onslaught eventually brought the cleric to his knees. As she lifted her mace high into the air, vengeful wrath flaring in her face, the cleric did not simply submit to his fate. Although Willow had expected him to try to take her down with him, he used his last breath to enchant his liege with a wish of strength and valor. As the white and furling coils of arcana reached forward to encompass the king, the blackened tendrils of cruelty latched to Quintus’ skin a mere moment before her mace descended.
“Markadian!” Pellius seethed, clenching his grip upon Hellbrand as he prowled towards the king, “I smite thee, in the name of the Prince of Hell! I swear by Him that I shall take thy crown and thy throne!”
“Vile serpents!” Markadian roared, “Mitra will never allow you to take this land!”
As Willow’s blade was parried by the knight, she struck out with the other, thrusting it up and under his chin. Though Pellius launched himself towards the king, his brutal attacks were rendered moot. Markadian wielded his shield as if it were a beloved blade, as if it more an extension of himself, rather than a battered flank of steel. He blocked each vicious blow as they craned towards him, thrusting his shield out with strenuous might enough to knock even the large and mighty Pellius back a step. Suddenly, a pulse of feral and foreboding dread ricocheted throughout the marble chamber. Garvana rasped a callous incantation, fingers darting in eldritch patterns, as she lifted a small Asmodean pendant into the air. The metal pentagram ripped from her fingers, torn viciously into shreds before it transformed into a terrifying beam of spine-chilling malice. It launched towards the king with such spiteful horror, Willow felt her skin crawling with sinister ill. Markadian thrust out his shield with expert proficiency, clenching his eyes shut as the force of the power threatened to overwhelm him. He endured the brunt of the vicious beam, wielding his shield with the practiced might of trained warrior. Willow had never seen such expertise with a simple steel board. With clear prowess, he used it to deflect the horror of arcana that so ravenously charged towards him. As the vile and bitter malice was absorbed within the steel, he released his hold on it and cast it aside with a foul hatred pulling upon his brow. The shield lingered in the air for a moment before it contorted violently, ripping shreds down its own flank, collapsing in on itself before falling to the ground. Though Garvana screamed her outrage, the savage glee that blazed in Pellius’ eyes trembled in eager anticipation. Anger was too simpler a word for what consumed him. Rage was too passive. What encompassed Pellius’ heavy stride as he stepped up to the king, could be called nothing less than direful wrath. It was a beast that he kept leashed tightly within him, tempered down with fierce control and unrelenting command. Yet, as he charged towards the king, the beast was set free. The king turned to face Pellius’ advance. Though Markadian swung his blade and cleaved through flesh and bone, Pellius made no move to block the onslaught. With uncontrolled ire and feasting hunger in his gaze, he took the blows in his stride and threw himself forward. The sound that expelled from his mouth, was a guttural growl of inhuman fury. In three vicious cleaves of his blade, Pellius tore through the flesh of the king’s chest. As his final swing split the air, the bestial cry screeching from his lips, Hellbrand ended the last task of their contract – and carved free the King of Talingarde’s head.


The Forsaken moved quickly, checking each of their fallen foes for any valuables or life signs. As Garvana dragged the king’s limp and lifeless body towards the pool of blistering lava, Willow pressed her fingers against one of the knights throats.
“This one has a pulse,” she called aloud.
“Kill him quickly,” Garvana growled, “We cannot leave any witnesses.”
“Or perhaps…” Willow said slowly, eyes turning to Pellius, “We could persuade him to give us information?”
“There is no time,” Pellius said quietly.
Though he simply watched Garvana throw the king’s body into the magma, staring as the tender flesh burned to ash, Willow knew there was much hidden beneath his stoic face.
“Not here,” Willow said gently, “We can take him with us when we leave. He has just come straight from the head of the king’s army, we could use him.”
“And if someone finds him before we return?” Garvana balked.
“In the king’s private sanctum?” Willow scoffed, “The place most do not even know exists? There is also the matter of a great black wyrm attacking the palace. No one will stop to look in here!”
“We have no way to restrain him!”
Willow smiled, sifting quickly through her pack, pulling free a gleaming pair of steel manacles. She held them up to Garvana with a grin.
“You just carry them everywhere?” Garvana frowned.
Willow shrugged nonchalantly, a devious grin on her face, “You never know when you might need them…”

Returning to the king’s chambers, the Forsaken morphed their arcane disguises to that of the palace guards. From beyond the large ornate doors of the chamber, they could hear the cries of men and shouts of soldiers. When the clanking footsteps passed the door and ascended up towards the first floor, the four of them quickly stepped out and followed their path. Even the ground floor, which had been sheltered from the brunt of the great wyrm’s assault, was lined with cascades of blood and dirt trodden footprints. Many men and women had moved through this hallway, whether fleeing the mighty beast or charging to meet it. With swift steps, they four of them made their way up the stairs, with serious and stoic intentions on their faces. When they reached the first floor, the entered a cornered passage, blocked by a large set of double doors to the left, and opened to a continued hallway on the right. With quick and keen eyes, Willow looked over the door handles, seeing no traps or tricks. When the sound of approaching footsteps came barrelling down the lower halls, they swiftly stepped through the doors and sealed them behind. The large chamber opened out in front of them, bare of dressings and finery. It was clear by the timeworn stains upon the stone, that once this chamber held grand rugs and large framed paintings, with richly embellished decorations that marked the importance of the chamber. Now, the only thing that remained was far more sinister.
“The Pyres of Judgement,” Willow said quietly, eyes widening as she saw them.
Each standing more than fifteen foot tall, motionless in carved recesses in the stone, four constructs clad in charred ebony armor. Each bore a large grate-covered opening in its abdomen, housing a now still and quiet pit where burning fire usually raged.
“What are they?” Traya whispered, a worried frown pulling her brow, eyes locked to the nearest suit.
“They were built by Markadian IV the Zealot,” Willow replied quietly, hand grasping the pommel of her blade, “To burn alive heretics and the targets of his inquisition. I have heard of them, but I have never seen one. I did not know they were so… large…”
As Willow stepped cautiously forward, she watched the constructs with stern and focused eyes. Either the disguises they wore were enough to fool the frightening sentinels, or they had not been activated or awakened. Still, her steps were cautious as she continued forward, following Pellius’ lead into the chamber beyond. A large oak table that could sit more than twenty people stood centre of the large chamber. Though that, and countless ornate blue cushioned chairs, were all that lay in the empty room. As they turned their sights to the side chambers, a sudden thud trembled the walls and shook the fires in the torches ensconced upon the stone.
“We must hurry,” Pellius said sternly, quickening his stride towards one of the side chambers.
When they walked through the small archway, they stopped in unison at what they saw. It was a records room, filled with current maps of Talingarde, tables line with military reports and updates from the front. There were maps of every fortification within Talingarde shores. Estimates of troop numbers, conscripts from each region, defences manned and strengths lined out upon parchment. Though they knew the Mitran army would be assaulting Daveryn any day, it was possible they had already begun, the information could have been a vital advantage to Sakkarot Fir-Axe and his horde. Each of them moved into the chamber, scouring the piles of parchment and scrolls, seeking anything further than could aid them.
“Listen to this,” Garvana frowned, “The king believes he will have only one real chance to crush the marauders from the north. When they have defeated Sakkarot, he believes the north will be largely empty of savage beasts and foes strong enough to stand against them. After the battle he plans to push past the Watchwall and invade the north, once and for all bringing all of the land under one ruler. He writes, ‘We will turn this moment of crisis into a moment of triumph’…”
“He does not know that more than bugbears and giants roam the north?” Traya scoffed, “There are worse things than Sakkarot’s horde that dwell there…”
“I guess he does not know…” Willow commented distractedly, though her attention was held elsewhere, within the leather bound tome she grasped in her hands, “But he does know of the Knot of Thorns…”
“What?!” Pellius snarled, vicious eyes of suspicion and anger looking to her.
“He does not know a great deal,” Willow continued, eyes scanning the stern and confident penmanship, “But he has pieced together as much as that an Asmodean cult remnant is behind the kingdom’s troubles. He does not know is where they are based, though his inquisitors scour the land looking for a secret headquarters.”
“How does he know of us?” Garvana growled, “Have we been betrayed?”
“Sir Richard Havelyn…” Willow scoffed, “He has, and I quote, ‘been the greatest source of information on the Knot of Thorns’. He knows Balentyne was not simply a bugbear victory. He knows the cause of plague; he knows of the true source of the Tears of Achlys. He knows Valtaerna was not a raid planned by the Fire-Axe…”
“I should have killed him twice over!” Garvana hissed, “I should have taken his head!”
“Wait,” Willow interrupted, “There is more. He speaks of one lead to find the Asmodean cult. The great cairn linnorm, Nithoggr. It is said to guard a powerful artifact of both evil and Asmodean magic. One of his inquisitor’s called it the Devil’s Heart…”
Willow’s frowned burrowed tightly, as the particular words Dessiter had used returned to her mind.
“Dessiter told us of Thorn’s phylactery… he called it the Cardinal’s heart…”
“Do you think…?” Garvana gasped.
“It is possible,” Willow nodded, “It would make sense. We have heard of this Nithoggr, he was listed in that book of dragons we found in Polydorus’ tower. Was he not another of Chargammon’s spawn, the Strider-in-the-Dark?”
“Yes,” Garvana nodded, eyes widening in realization, “What better way to keep his phylactery safe, than to have an ancient linnorm guard it.”
Suddenly, the walls trembled once more, rattling the wooden desk with enough force to throw the glass ink pots from its top to shatter in pieces upon the stone floor.
“Take what you can carry,” Pellius commanded, “We must move…”

By the chorus of screams and cries, the Forsaken stalked quickly through the hallway. As they neared a row of wooden doors, Willow swiftly opened each one, checking the rooms for any further valuables or information. Most rooms were largely empty and vacant, yet when they reached the last door upon the first floor, adjacent to the marble staircase that bellowed with echoing snarls of savage wrath, Willow opened the door to face a curious sight. Eight tall and slender men, clad in furs and skins, weapons of sharpened crude steel and bearing shields of battered wood. They were warriors of the Caer Bryr, the savage and wild Iraen. All of them eyed her suspiciously, clutching their weapons tighter as their eyes darted from her to the open hallways behind her. She knew they did not see her for who she was, they saw a knight of Talingarde.
“What are you doing in here?” Willow snapped with authority, “Why are you hiding? Do you not know what is attacking the Adarium?!”
Slowly, the group parted, allowing a stunning yet savage woman to step forth. As if she had simply stepped out of the greenery itself, the leaf and bark covered woman walked with a clear command. Her blazing hair of brilliant copper, in stark contrast to the emerald and carob of her gear.
“This is not our fight,” the woman said coldly, looking Willow over with harsh eyes.
It was the uncaring response, and the clear disdain for the Mitrans apparently standing before her, that struck Willow with an idea. Within the letter they had found in the Cathedral of Mitra Made Manifest, addressed to Ara Mathra from Brigit of the Brijidine, it had been revealed to the Forsaken that delegations were sent to the pillars of the Mitran faith in truce and treaty. These members of the barbaric Iraen people, were here to negotiate a peace between them, to rise together against the darkness that threatened their land. The Iraen were a proud people. Their pride, would be their undoing.
“Your fight?” Willow snarled, “There are hundreds dying out there, and you remain in here like cowards, because it is not your fight?!”
The woman’s eyes flashed with bitter hatred, as she lifted her chin in indignation.
“I will suffer your insolence no longer,” she seethed, “I came to see your king, and yet he has chosen to not deign us with his presence! And now this!”
She turned to her warriors, a stiff and curt nod of her head, signalling them to follow. Willow stared vicious eyes towards her, as she stepped out of the way to allow them to pass.
“Cowards,” Garvana growled, following Willow’s lead.
As the barbaric warriors followed the woman swiftly down the stairs towards the exit, a thundering rumble overtook the palace. Paintings that hung from walls fell to the ground and cracked or split, torches fell from their holders, the doors creaked on their hinges.
“You may have just squandered the Mitrans chance at ever attaining peaceful relations with the Iraen,” Garvana smiled.
“We can only hope…”
Looking out the guest quarters window, Willow watched as lines of soldiers drew back their bows, firing a torrent of arrows up into the sky. The return they were given was merciless. A wave of putrid acid, a vile and viscous seething liquid, bathed the ranks with such ire it left naught but a searing meld of flesh and dirt.
“Enough of this,” Willow grimaced, turning her face away from the horrific sight, “We should leave. We have what we came for, it is not worth pushing any further. Chargammon will not hold back his wrath, no matter if he sees us or not.”
“No,” Pellius snapped, “We must see this through!”
“Pellius!” Willow growled, “It is suicidal! We have to get out of here!”
Without further word, Pellius turned and quickly made way for the stairs, bounding upward and disappearing beyond.
“Be damned!” Willow scowled, “I will not follow! It is absurd to wish to face that beast!”
“We shall wait,” Garvana frowned, looking to the failing integrity of the walls, “But if this place begins to fall, we will have to leave…”
Once more, it was not long they had to spend in waiting. As a foul cry of a dying beast echoed throughout the night sky, a terrifying crack sounded through the stone, as something rattled the very structure that was the Adarium. Within only a few moments, Pellius swiftly descended the stairs, blazing eyes wide in urgency.
“Quickly,” he commanded, eyes scanning the halls as the sound of distant cheer called from outside of the castle, “Our distraction is down. We must leave now!”
“Down?” Willow frowned, curiosity and wariness within her gaze, “What do you mean?”
“Not here,” he silenced, “Let us retrieve our guest and make haste…”

minderp
2017-03-28, 06:12 PM
The coursing vortex of the arcane wand hurled them through the portal, throwing them into the safety of the shrine room beneath the Monteguard Manor. The Forsaken landed with a heavy thud upon the carved stone floor, bloodied and bruised – but victorious.
“We did it!” Garvana grinned, pride bounding in her words, “We actually did it!”
“And we did it well,” Willow smirked.
“We have completed both of tasks asked of us by Dessiter of the Phistopilus,” Garvana said proudly, “The king is no longer, and Brigit of the Brijidine will aid him no more.”
“It is a shame the princess escaped,” Willow frowned, “And if the words of the soldiers are to believed, Richard Havelyn…”
“How did they escape?” Garvana scowled, “How did they destroy Chargammon?”
“Pellius,” Willow said, looking towards him, “What did you see?”
He had said little since returning from the highest floor of the Adarium. He had signalled to them that it was time to retreat, yet had offered little explanation. When she looked to him now, she saw his cold and calm expression hiding fierce anger beneath.
“I am unsure,” he replied, his voice level and emotionless, “His hide had been beaten and bruised by steel, there were hundreds of arrows piercing his flank. But then, the sky itself seemed to open up and strike him with great white meteorites of pure power. They tore through him. He tried to repel them with magic, but they cut through his arcane shield like burning steel through snow…”
“Who could be powerful enough to cast such a thing?” Traya asked warily, “We know the princess is the daughter of Antharia Regina… but she couldn’t possibly be that powerful so young?”
They looked to one another, none of them knowing what to answer.
“It is no great loss that Chargammon was destroyed,” Garvana commented finally, though her frown of worry still lingered, “We could not trust his word to only be involved in this one task. He would have seen us as a threat to his dominion…”
“Agreed,” Traya nodded, “The land is far better off without that vile evil around.”
“What of his spawn, Jeratheon?” Willow frowned, “He will no longer be bound to the word of his father. He is sure to turn on us or flee.”
“It does not matter right now,” Pellius sighed, his brow clenching tightly, “We have more important things to deal with before the whelp.”
“What do we do with him?” Garvana asked, motioning to the limp body of the unconscious knight.
“Restrain him,” Pellius snapped, cracks in his composure beginning to show as his scarlet eyes flared with anger, “I will deal with him come morning.”
“Restrain him with what?” she frowned.
“Perhaps I have something,” Willow chuckled.
She smiled as she swiftly moved to the eastern wall of the chamber, carefully pulling free the loose panel covered in stone. Hidden within the wall was a contraption of steel cogs and a rusted handle. Though it creaked with resistance, as it forced its way through rust that had formed through disuse, she wound the handle clockwise. All eyes shot to the ceiling, as the sound of rattling metal echoed throughout the chamber, and a callous device lowered from thick chains. A sturdy bar of steel that housed two sets of manacles descended from the ceiling, directly above the centre of the runic pentagram. As she retrieved the keys from their hook, she turned back towards Garvana.
“Will you lift him up?” she smirked, casually returning to the limp mans side.
With Garvana’s strong arms and Willow’s deft hands, they made quick work of stripping his armour off and securing their captive. Though Pellius watched them move with a clear intrigue, he remained silent. As Willow turned to him, she saw the blazing fire that still lay within his gaze. Though he turned his face away, she saw enough to know how he struggled to retain his control.
“I must rest,” he said curtly, striding towards the exit, “We will convene after dawn.”
Before anyone could reply, he had opened the chamber walls and disappeared into the shadows.
“I think we all should,” Willow agreed, though her eyes were still focused on his departure, “If Dessiter has spoken truthfully, Tiadora shall be arriving soon, and we must be rested and prepared. She is not going to take our refusal lightly.”
“Should someone guard him?” Traya asked warily.
Willow turned back towards them, a small smile upon her face.
“Those are not normal manacles,” she smirked, “If they are opened without the key, they will let loose a death charm powerful enough to devour his soul…”

Upon returning to her quarters, Willow found Pellius kneeling upon the carpeted rug, brow contorted and back rigid in deep meditation. Though her eyes lingered upon him for a moment, she quietly passed him and made her way to the bathing chamber. She stripped off her armour, battered by gashes and soaked in the blood of pious men. Once the large bath was filled with steaming water, she lowered herself in slowly, hissing as the boiling liquid seeped into the torn flesh of her skin. It was curious, that the water turned a fragile pink with blood of others yet none of her own. She had not quite gotten used to the way her pale white skin shred under the pressure of blades, but did not weep in crimson, it merely hung from her bones. Even as her eyes traced the path carved by steel, she saw the wounds close of their own volition. After she washed the last of the carnage from the black wefts of her hair, she rose from the water and leisurely dried herself with the fleece of a towel. On instinct, she turned to the mirror to see her reflection. Though the large blanket she had thrown over the darkwood framed glass still covered most of the image, she knew what she would have seen were it to be free, moreover, she knew what she would not see. She felt her lip curl in repulsion, it took all of her self control to resist smashing the large mirror. Curious, she thought, that she would despise an ornament with such vile hatred. She was starting to understand the myth of vampires, repelled by the very glass that refused to reflect them. With a bitter taste on her tongue, she turned from the mirror and strolled unhurried into the bedchamber. As her slow steps passed the simmering stone fireplace, a glistening ray of light caught her eye. Sitting upon the mantle, was a golden crown embellished with sapphire gems that gleamed in the flickering light of the fire – the crown of King Markadian V. A small smile lifted the corner of her lip, as she approached the regal diadem. For a moment, she simply eyed the crown, the single piece of metal that signified all they had achieved. For a moment, she simply smiled, allowing pride to swell in her heart.
“What were the words to that song?” she breathed, soft eyes of ardent flame turning towards Pellius, “The king’s crown upon my mantle…”
Though she saw the flint of recognition ripple along his brow, he simply lowered his head, as if he would force his meditation to further his calm whether it was willing to or not. Slow and prowling steps brought her behind him, her towel dropping to the floor as her hands traced the sharp lines of his shoulders. He had undressed and knelt only in his loose fitting black trousers, leaving his armour piled in the corner, his bare back shadowed in the deep wells of his muscles. She spoke, as her fingers trailed along his collarbone and dipped lower upon his chest, her lips pressing soft kisses that traced along his neck.
“And we have it,” she whispered, “We have his crown, and next we shall take his throne…”
Suddenly, a vicious hand lashed out and grasped her wrist. The frightening pressure was so strong she felt the bones buckle under the weight.
“Willow…” he rasped, a terrifying tremble to his tone, as if the words were a battle against his savage rage to speak, “I do not have the strength for your games tonight. If you know what is good for you… you will leave…”
He threw her hand away, as a bestial and staggered hiss sounded from his throat. Slowly, Willow rose from her crouch, deliberate steps guiding her in front of him. She saw the fury in his gaze, she saw the raging beast that threatened to erupt from beneath his control. It had been unleashed upon the glorious angels that had stood in his way, it had been freed and given right to devour the king. And now, though it refused to be shackled once more, Pellius fought for control over the sheer brutality that resided within him. It should have scared her, the sight of the enraged crimson that blazed from his eyes should have been enough for Willow to turn away. But she could not. She was drawn to the beast like a moth to the flame. Something within her awoke, a feral and hungry force that ached for the cruelty and terror he promised. Something that overtook the panicked survival instinct that told her to flee. It would not let her leave, nor would it let him maintain control. Slowly, she lowered herself down, until her face was merely inches from his. Her hand reached for his chin, as it guided his sight towards hers. As their gazes met, her eyes flashed a brilliant crimson in mirror to his.
“Willow…” he growled viciously, “You do not know what you are playing with…”
A sly and sultry smile spread along her lips, Infernal words fell from her mouth, as if spoken from a deep and once dormant part of her.
“Do you think I was not made to endure the worst of your torments?” she rasped, “Do you think I was not crafted in such a way, as to withstand the most cruel and callous vices of your wrath?”
She watched as the beast howled within his eyes, surging forward in frenzied hunger, thrashing against the constraints of Pellius’ control. Though he fought to keep it caged within his mind, Willow could see the fury growing, the vehemence flooding his composure. For a time, she had thought his ire had been intimately tied to the infernal blood that coursed through his veins. Yet, even now as the anger warred within him, his lifeless blood lay still. The vicious terror did not need a living vessel to thrive; it was part of him.
His hand lashed out and gripped her throat, as he stood from his vigil and forced her back towards the fireplace. As his devouring gaze flared like hellfire itself, the flames licked the bare flesh of her back.
“You think I would not hurt you?” he hissed, his face contorting with fervent rage, “You think yourself safe? You cannot fathom what I would do to you!”
For a moment, his grasp tightened around her throat, his teeth clenching and his hands trembling as he fought desperately for control.
“I know what you would do,” she rasped through the constriction, “And I welcome it…”
Upon her words, his fangs plunged down from their rest, ravenous yearning spiralling in his vision. But still, he would not yield to the frenzy. With a strenuous growl of exasperation, he threw Willow to the floor. He turned from her, crushing his eyes tight as he warred against the beast within him. The staggered breaths tore from his throat, as if the ritual of breathing brought comfort and control. Slowly, Willow stood from the ground. She watched him for a moment, eyes tracing the straining muscles of his back as they flexed under the arduous effort of retaining composure. She would not force his hand, yet she would not simply allow him to retreat into sullen mind.
“Do you think it fate that brought us together?” she said quietly, unhurried steps bringing her closer to him, “Do you think it sheer luck? I believe it was something else. Our Lord of the Nine rewards those in his favour. He gifts great power, great strength, to those that succeed in warring for his supremacy…”
As she reached him, her fingers softly traced the deep wells and arches of his broad back, her words as gentle as her touch.
“And with the gift of great power, he gives the gift of great control. Whether that be the will to withstand the aftermath, or whether that be a device to balance the dominant half. A vessel, that can endure the needs, the backlash and the fallout of wielding such power…”
Her fingers trailed along his shoulders, as she prowled a slow and careful pace around him, bringing herself to face him. As the raging beast snarled within his gaze, the strange force within her flared in response. She felt the pulsing need, the profane slither of infernal grace dancing through her flesh. Her hands moved along his chest, as she lifted up on her toes to bring her face closer to his. As her tongue delicately traced the shape of his lips, his eyes blazed a livid scarlet, as if in a final and vicious warning.
“Let me be yours…” she breathed.
It was as if time itself was still for a moment. The rippling inferno of flame within his gaze quivering with dark malice, the beast pulled taut against its leash, the force within Willow trembling in anticipation. For a single moment, it felt achingly like an eternity. But then, she saw it. The moment he relinquished control to the beast. Much as he had in his extraordinary battle prowess, he took her with no finesse nor grace. He launched himself viciously towards her, latching his hand to her neck as he lifted her and threw her violently against the side of the bed. Though she usually enjoyed the fight for control, the awakened part of her knew better than to question his dominance. Instinctively, she swiftly rolled to her stomach before he reached her, head flat against the mattress in a show of submission. Though it was almost indistinguishable from a snarling cry of a beast, she knew he growled in approval. As she his crushing weight fell upon her, pinning her down with no way of escape, she felt his fangs and teeth latch on to her neck.
It was that night, that the air between them changed. Though they had shared in the most intimate and cruel pleasures, that night was the first time Willow truly understood her place by his side. There was no gentle caress, nor loving tenderness – only raw and unrestrained savage passion. She allowed him to take her, to mark her, to unleash the very worst he had to offer. And though his torturous and bestial touch kept her slender frame in constant agony, she relished each ache and pain with blissful rapture. For that night, she gave herself to him. Though she did not truly understand the intricate moves that had brought them together, that night; she was his.

When dawn came to land of Talingarde, the bright sun rose amidst a blood red sky. Though the curtains were drawn and the dark chamber gave no signal of the passing of morning twilight, the Forsaken awoke as the sun slowly raised over the mountains. While Willow bathed and soothed the arduous aching from her limbs, Pellius returned to the shrine room to retrieve the information they sought. When she mustered enough strength in her trembling legs, she lifted herself from the bath, drying her bruised skin with gentle hand. Once she had dressed in a silken frock that glided against her tender muscles, she felt the hungered thirst for blood quiver in her stomach. It was fortunate how events had led her back home to the Monteguard Manor, for each of their staff were loyal and willing to serve even the most curious of requests. She found Enecus in the kitchen, the young Chelaxian servant, only a boy in her eyes though he would have been near twenty years old. When he looked to Willow, she saw the age of innocence within his gaze, bright eyes of a man barely into adulthood. Even while Willow had been a married woman living in Matharyn, he had always made it clear he would gladly fill her bed were she ever lonely. It was almost pity in which she looked upon him. Fresh faced, sheltered from the troubles of the world, oblivious to the reality of the changing land.
“Mistress,” he bowed, an easy smile on his face, “Do you have need for blood?”
“I do,” she smiled, though her eyes flickered to the hollow of his throat, the hunger gripping within her stomach.
“Very well, mistress,” he nodded eagerly, quickly dusting the flour from his hands, “Do you wish me to quickly bathe?”
Willow’s eyebrow arched, “I would hope you had done so this morning.”
“Of course,” he rushed, “It is just-
“It is alright,” Willow smirked, though the thirst rumbled through her chest, “Come along.”
As they returned to her chambers, he was quick to retrieve the small cushioned stool from within the wooden cabinet. He took his place upon the stool, pulling the dark locks of his long hair over his shoulder, baring his neck to Willow. With the willingness of his offering, the bare pale skin of his lean and open throat; the bloodlust surged forth and frenzied in her mind. It took the stern command of her will to resist simply leaping upon him and draining him dry. But this was something she had learned to deal with. She had been forced to feed each day, she had been forced to restrain herself and control her eager and avid hunger. It was this practice that stilled the trembling of her hands and kept her fangs within her mouth. With slow and graceful steps, she moved behind him and lowered herself upon the velvet couch. Her fingers traced gently over the long vein that ran along his throat, as she leaned forwards to seal her lips to his skin, a soft touch much like a kiss. In a swift and fleet moment, she plunged her fangs deeply into his neck. Though he tried to muffle the sound, she heard his soft gasp of delight. It was still a curious process for Willow. Pulling the blood from his throat, drawing the warm scarlet liquid into her mouth, sating the hunger with the sweet and delicate taste. She had learned that she could influence the victims experience, with soft pulls on their throat, they would become enraptured in a blissful state of lethargy. This state sweetened the taste on her tongue, it lightened the liquid as it slipped from their veins. Yet if she drew hard, if she tore the scarlet from the split, the enraptured state was far more sadistic. The victim would be held powerless against the agony of rapid blood loss, the taste would be bitter and robust, thick and dense as it coursed down her throat. Her touch was usually soft and delicate, her fingers instinctively gently tracing the neck and shoulders of the one who offered themselves to her. She had often wondered how Pellius and Garvana would feed. Would Pellius subject his victim to the callous and brutal torment? Would Garvana caress her victims throat in a tender touch? The act of feeding was such an intimate affair, at least for Willow. They had chosen to keep their feeding private and separate from each other, paying a portion of respect to the willing servants, as it was them that were left in such a vulnerable and enervated condition. As Willow’s fingers trailed through the soft locks of Enecus’ hair, she felt the heavy weight of his head, as he fought to hold it up against the languor.
Suddenly, the chamber door flew open, as a foreboding sight appeared in the threshold. Pellius, his clothes stained in painted dark and feral red, his brow contorted harshly above glowing piercing eyes.
“We must speak,” he impressed, a cold tone that spoke of urgency.
With a small inaudible huff of disappointment, Willow withdrew her fangs slowly, tracing her tongue along the small punctures. Though his eyes dropped in languid stupor, Enecus quickly retrieved the white fleece from his pocket, pressing it tightly to his neck. As he staggered to his feet, Willow felt the small smile lift the corner of her lip.
“Thank you, Enecus,” she said, “Go rest for a moment, Niritta can handle the kitchen work.”
“Yes, mistress,” he said in a weighty breath, “Thank you, mistress.”
The lean man rushed on uneasy steps towards Pellius, bowing low as he passed, closing the door behind him. Willow leaned back into the couch, a torpid sigh of contentment falling from her lips, as her soft gaze returned to the stern and serious man in her doorway.
“What is it?” she asked, frowning at the cold way in which he looked to her.
“The knight,” he said curtly, “He had much to say. Get dressed in your armour and meet me in the sitting room, we must hurry…”

Though the coarseness of her leather armour chafed against the aching flesh, Willow was swift to dress and strap her blades to her thighs, arriving at the sitting room to find Traya helping Garvana lace up the last of her heavy plate steel.
“What is going on?” Willow frowned, a trepidation lingering in her mind.
“We do not know,” Garvana replied, her own brow pulled tight, “Pellius informed us to be ready and meet him here.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Pellius strode through the doorway, clad in his dastardly ebony armour.
“Good,” he nodded, looking over them all, “You are ready. I shall explain the hurry. The knight was part of the king’s personal guard, he informed me that the king’s army is mustering to attack Fallingsbridge, to the north of Daveryn.”
“The north?” Willow frowned, “Was that not the most heavily reinforced and guarded part of Daveryn?”
“It was,” he nodded, “And it is. The attack was due to begin at dawn, leaving the possible hope that the king would see to the safety of his daughter and return before the start of the battle. Should he need it, we have information that could aid the Fire-Axe. Though he is an integral part of Thorn’s plan, his success in this battle is imperative for our success as well. We would do well to make an ally of him.”
“How have the king’s army been convinced to attack the north?” Garvana frowned, “Surely even a single scout remained alive long enough to tell the general of the state of Daveryn?”
“Perhaps he is the key,” Willow offered, arching her brow, “General Vastenus Barca… perhaps we were correct in our suspicion that he has not turned from the Dark Father, perhaps he is Thorn’s guarantee that the Mitrans will lose this war…”
“We should go,” Pellius said curtly, “We must ensure the Fire-Axe’s victory.”
“You may be being a tad impulsive,” Willow said gently, a small smile upon her lips, “Let us go, but let us travel to the overhang cliffs of Haverston. We will be able to see the north, the army and the upper city. If needed, we can teleport into the castle and aid Sakkarot if his defeat seems likely.”
Though his eyes narrowed only a touch, Pellius conceded her point with a nod. With no further delay, the group gathered together and stepped through the spiralling vortex that whisked them through flashing lights that curled in turbulence. When they were thrown upon the grass lands of the Haverston cliffs, a sea of carnage greeted their arrival. It was clear that the battle had raged in bloodshed as each hour succeeded dawn. Gatehouses crumbled, ramparts bathed in blood and gore, a ruin of stone and steel in scattered remains. Limp and bloodied bodies of man, beast and being alike, strewn about the expanse in a savage portrait of massacre. Of the tens of thousands that had awoken with the sun, only a handful still managed to remain among the living. But the worst of the bloodshed had began before the Mitrans had even broken through the gates. Thousands of men, knights and commoners alike, had died trying to pass through the gates of the Fallingsbrigde. It was an assault that was doomed to fail before it began. The story of their defeat was painted along the trail they took, their number of their dead lessening as they had finally broken through the gate, under the torrent of thousands of arrows, cauldrons of boiling oil, leagues of blazing fire. Once they had finally broken through and swarmed the gatehouse, it was there that they met the feral ranks of frost giants and trolls. Those that managed to survive the unimaginable waves of fatal wrath inside, were only met with fiercer and unfatigued beasts of destruction.
From their vantage point, the Forsaken watched the few ravaged, bleeding and bruised men of Mitra turn to one another amongst the waves of dead and decapitated ogres and giants. Even from a distance, the glimmer of hope in victory still lived within them. That was, until the doors to the throne of Daveryn swung open. That flicker of hope, was swiftly extinguished. The Fire-Axe himself took the field, leading his cadre of lieutenants and their personal warbands. They had saved the worst for last. Sakkarot had cleaved through the number of the Mitran army with expendable cretins and creatures, having watched the battle by the grace and safety of the duke’s housing. He had allowed the Mitrans to believe there was a chance they could fight the darkness, there was a chance they could win. And with one charge, he erased that hope with the sharp and flaming edge of his sword. Every hero left alive beneath the north gate died. Willow watched with eyes of blazing hellfire, a cold and merciless tilt to her chin. Those that died, were the ones who stood in their way. Those were the men that would never accept the Prince of Hell as the rightful and revered ruler of Talingarde. And for that, they were gifted with the bitter embrace of death. The army of the Mitran king had been defeated. As Tiadora had said to them, the four pillars held the Mitrans strong. All must fall to secure their victory. The first pillar, the Watch Wall Balentyne, burned to the ground. The second pillar, the Order of Saint Macarius, extinguished upon their holiest sight. The third pillar, the Knights of Alerion, had marched to their doom against the Fire-Axe. And now, with the head of the House of Darius vanquished and his army slaughtered; the final pillar had fallen.
She watched as the Fire-Axe raised the fallen Standard of St. Teonas that had marched at the armies fore. With his viciously infernal weapon, he set it aflame and thrust it high into the air. As the sounds of bestial joy and savage glee sang out in chorus through the empty skies of Daveryn, Sakkarot roared his fearsome and ferocious battle cry. He cried victory, loud enough for even hell to hear…

Garoop
2017-03-29, 08:18 AM
Because every time there's a reflex save involved (breath weapon, fireball) it sounds like she's just ignoring the fact that her skin is gone.

I think it's more the fact that she's so nimble her skin is quite intact.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-29, 01:34 PM
Hmm. The battle in the palace felt a bit video-gamey - as if you had a deal with the GM that the palace bosses stay in their spots and don't coordinate among each other, and in return you fight them straight and don't interrupt cutscenes.

I'm sure I'd do something more boring and effective with the king's fight at least. Which wouldn't have made such a good read.

The wand she had ordered on the black market just for the occassion came to life under her touch, sickly yellow light spreading along its length before shooting down the stairs, expanding into a cloud of viciously toxic fumes that spread through the lower level. The sounds of footsteps chasing her were replaced by warning shouts, and then the sounds of stumbling blindly. Someone screamed with pain, apparently having stepped in the fire pit, and his scream instantly turned into a violent caughing fit.

The king's priest would dispel it of course, but the item had more charges than any cleric had power, and every breath the knights took before he did would damage them in ways he couldn't readily heal. For a moment, she considered stalking back down the stairs, the swirling poison harmless to her undead flesh. But then she reconsidered, and reached for another wand, the spell covering the stone steps with a clear, slimy film. The Forsaken had no time to waste, but neither had the king - and with his daughter and his city on the line, everything he stood for compelled him to come up these stairs.

And now I feel like writing a campaign journal, which I have absolutely no time for... :smallsigh:

Also, does pathfinder have any protection from elements spells? - I don't remember any from your buffing scenes.

Did you get any good loot out of it?

minderp
2017-03-31, 12:41 AM
The wand she had ordered on the black market just for the occassion came to life under her touch....

And now I feel like writing a campaign journal, which I have absolutely no time for... :smallsigh:

Also, does pathfinder have any protection from elements spells? - I don't remember any from your buffing scenes.

Did you get any good loot out of it?

That's really good! You should make time. :P

Pathfinder does, i think they're actually called protection from energy. We didn't have any with us though lol.

A completed hellbrand was the main loot, the kings shield was destroyed, but Willow took it as a memento. It'll make an appearance in a future story. :)
The rest was the usual loot, nothing really memorable.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-31, 03:32 AM
Wait... so you went to fight a phoenix without protecting yourself from fire? :smalleek:

Good thing Bor had that idea with the egg.

It's not that I don't have the time to write, it's that I already have ongoing writing projects. I think I've sent you some link already :smallcool:

Eagerly awaiting the next part :smallbiggrin:

minderp
2017-03-31, 05:10 PM
Wait... so you went to fight a phoenix without protecting yourself from fire? :smalleek:

Good thing Bor had that idea with the egg.


Lol no we had fire resist for the phoenix, were not that unprepared. We just didnt have it against the Azata in the Adarium.

Braininthejar2
2017-03-31, 06:38 PM
Still good that he had that idea. From the reviews/journals I've skimmed through, the phoenix is considered the hardest boss in book 3

Garoop
2017-04-01, 06:11 AM
Still good that he had that idea. From the reviews/journals I've skimmed through, the phoenix is considered the hardest boss in book 3

You mean a giant bird with amazing defenses, automatic full revive, infinite long range flame spells/attacks that flies around the summit of a mountain at ~ 200ft above the ground is considered hard at mid levels??

Fair enough. :P

Braininthejar2
2017-04-10, 07:12 AM
are you on a break?:smallcool:

minderp
2017-04-10, 07:18 AM
are you on a break?:smallcool:

Lol, the next chapter is almost finished! Hard to find time between work and Mass Effect. :smalltongue:
But it is almost done, should be up in the next couple of days.

Braininthejar2
2017-04-10, 08:49 AM
You know that I know the feeling :smallcool:

FocusWolf413
2017-04-10, 10:07 AM
Did you learn nothing from Kaveman26 (blessed be)? Don't rush the artist.

Braininthejar2
2017-04-10, 01:02 PM
I said I know the feeling. I'm an artist myself.

minderp
2017-04-12, 03:59 AM
The slow descent of the bright and blazing sun, revealed the tinge of blood that soaked the fabric of sky. Though the light still lingered across the edges of the land, the cold and bitter chill of sorrow and despair held tightly upon the expanse. As the light failed to remain above the city of Matharyn, so to did the hope and cheer of the Mitran faithful fail to bolster their resolve. Their pious king was dead. Their righteous army slaughtered. Their royal palace in crumbling wreckage. Mitra, their lord of light and life, had abandoned them. The souls of the fair city cried in mourning as they began to fall to the depths of slumber for the evening. Yet, not all within the city slumbered. Not all called for the Shining Lord’s guidance, nor felt suddenly forsaken by the Beneficent Sun. A few souls, had been abandoned long ago. A few souls, had been condemned long before the darkness came to Talingarde. Those few souls, had brought about the darkness themselves.
Sitting around the grand table within the meeting room on the upper floor of the Monteguard Manor, Willow and Traya sat in waiting. As twilight dusk approached, they knew their visitor would arrive shortly. Garvana entered the chamber, her head buried in a large tome bound in green stained leather, shuffling her steps as she made her way to the far right of the table.
“Have you seen Pellius?” Willow frowned, looking up towards the door.
“He said he will be along shortly,” Garvana said distractedly, not looking up from her book.
“We must discuss our plan before she arrives,” Willow scowled, “He is late.”
“I am never late,” his deep and baritone voice chuckled from the doorway, “I simply choose when I am to arrive.”
Willow smirked, arching her brow as she looked towards him. Her grin faltered as she saw he was not alone. Trailing behind him, was a withered and skeletal corpse, with sickening insect-like features, and long and vicious tail ending in a wicked and twisted barb. A bone devil, with slits for eyes that glared a vile hatred towards them. Though Pellius entered as if nothing out of the ordinary was afoot, the eyes of the others stared towards him in bewilderment. When he looked up from his entry, he asked his brow in question at the audience he received.
“Pellius…” Willow said slowly, her frown pulling low, “Are you going to introduce us?”
A sly grin came upon his lips, as he inclined his head.
“Yastrew, the Impure,” Pellius presented, in lashing satire, “This is Willow Monteguard.”
The fiend glared towards her, his malleable bone lip curling in venom.
“And is it house trained?” Willow rasped harshly.
“He is under my command,” Pellius replied, ignoring her rudeness, “Yastrew, do you wish to remain here, or return when I call?”
“The feast of souls upon this plane is far too tempting to refuse,” he slithered, his feral gaze flaring as he looked to Traya, “I believe I shall stay…”
“Just try not to break anything,” Willow drawled, feeling the creeping chill of distaste sliding along her skin.
The fiend looked to Pellius, an expression that said he would not be listening to the command of Willow. Pellius huffed a small laugh, as he shook his head.
“Do as she says,” he replied, “It shall not be long, dusk approaches…”
As Pellius made his way to the table, the air within large chamber suddenly changed. With a silent ripple of wavering arcana, Tiadora appeared before them, dressed in a gown of regal white, accompanied by all nine erinyes sisters.
“My lords,” Tiadora said respectfully, bowing to the Forsaken, “News has reached your master of your great victory. The king of Talingarde is dead by your hand. Truly, it is well done! Cardinal Adrastus Thorn, High Priest of Asmodeus in Talingarde, bids me give thee a message. He asks you to accompany me to the Agathium, so that he may congratulate you in person, and bestow upon you great reward and the highest of honours!”
She looked them over, showing no surprise to find them dressed and prepared in their armour, in the presence of a lone bone devil.
“Are you ready?” she asked, arching her brow, “Let us depart with all haste.”
Slowly, Garvana straightened her back as she turned to the woman and her fearsome retinue.
“It is an offer we will have to refuse, Tiadora,” she said coldly, “We will not be coming with you.”
“Why do you refuse this honor?” the woman pried, her brow arching high and regal, “Does fear so fill you that you cannot even face Thorn? Tell me, my lords, what have you done that makes you so ashamed to even speak with our master?”
Willow slowly stood from her chair at the table, lifting her chin as she spoke.
“Perhaps that is the problem,” she said quietly, in a calm and controlled voice, “The absence of fear…”
A slow and feral grin suddenly spread across Tiadora’s face. She laughed, a fiendish sound of diabolical glee. Slowly, her body began a heinous transformation. Twin tentacles stretched and grew from the crown of the woman’s head, thick tendrils birthing from her scalp, coiling in grotesque rhythm. From her waist bloomed a gown of writhing tentacles, that danced in the vicious joy of freedom. As her skin shifted in a translucent wave of sickly flesh, her scaled hands grew callous and harsh claws that craned in blade-like points. She grinned towards them, as her guard of erinyes cawed bestial and savage cries.
“Tell me why,” she rasped, her voice pitched in a high and piercing screech, “Tell me why you will not come before Thorn. Is there a message you would have me deliver?”
As the others stood from their chairs, eyes locked to the fiend, Willow slipped her hand upon her dagger.
“You will not be returning to deliver a message,” she growled, eyes flashing a brilliant red.
Her words had their intended effect. As if a silent word passed between the devil and her brood, the erinyes launched towards the Forsaken.
“Yastrew!” Pellius called, “Now!”
Suddenly, a blazing green ray launched from the devil’s hands, spiralling towards Tiadora. It greedily struck out for her, but a curious force stopped it in its path. An unseen shield that surrounded the tentacle mistress, absorbing the arcana as it sought to taste her flesh. She laughed a bitter and fiendish cackle, lifting herself high from the ground, her curtain of tentacles dancing through the air. The erinyes flocked upon their tainted wings, rising into the domed ceiling of the grand chamber, splitting into pairs as they pulled free the ropes tied to their sides, weaved and threaded from the very strands of hair that fell from their heads.
Traya shrieked an inhuman cry as she rasped a bitter and volatile incantation, sparks of lightening flickering between her fingers. As she opened her palms, the blinding white arc flew from her fingertips, coiling through the air until it first struck a sister with scalding white lightening, before arcing in chain reaction to each of them in succession. The growling wrath of the furies trembled the rough stone walls of the chamber.
As Tiadora moved in lithe grace, Pellius and Willow drew their weapons from their sheaths. Her curling tentacles suddenly struck out towards Pellius, the coiling mass too many and too much to escape. She grinned in savage and sickly enjoyment as her loathsome tendrils pulled on his flesh, caging him beneath her twisted body. Willow pounced forward, sprinting for the fiend with her blades gripped tightly in her hands, her steps swift and light. She launched herself upward, propelling herself into the air, carving her bloodthirsty daggers in elegantly dire onslaught. She thrust them deeply into the corrupted flesh of the fiend, tearing them free as she forced them out the other side. Tiadora screeched a terrifying cry, eyes blazing with indignation and sheer hatred, as she turned her gaze upon Willow.
Garvana roared a thundering enchantment, throwing out her hands to unleash a flurry of ice shards towards Tiadora. As the razor sharp pieces tore shreds from her skin, she lashed out viciously with her heinous claws. As Willow tried to throw herself out of the way, she felt the keen pain of slicing skin. Where the trails of flesh parted, it burned a venomous and searing poison. But she had no time nor mind to think on it, for she saw her opportunity and launched once more towards the fiend.
The erinyes hurled their detestable ropes towards the Forsaken, writhing black strands snaking towards them. Willow was swift enough to evade their grasp, but the weight of the heavy metal that guarded Garvana was also what slowed her steps. The blackened rope struck her in the chest, before it coiled around her suddenly, slithering across her torso, wrapping tightly as the horrific beauty yanked upon the crushing trap.
Caged within the tentacle mass, Pellius snarled a malicious breath of seething ire. The room pulsed with nauseating rancour, as Willow saw his hand reach out and grab vicious hold of single tentacle. Suddenly, he summoned his vile and putrid plague upon the fiend, white puss and boils forming along the fleshy tendril. As she convulsed in disgust, her cage of tentacles opening in revulsion, Willow struck out her blades again. She saw the weak unarmoured flesh of Tiadora’s scaled torso, grinning a foul smile of satisfaction as she heard the fiend’s cry of agony as her vicious blades pierced deep.
Surrounded by the hail of arrows, Tiadora drove herself upward and out of their reach. A swirling assemblage of coiling tentacles, gliding through the air above the grand oak table. Eyes of bitter loathing glared towards them, though the fiends gaze was locked upon Willow. She grabbed hold of a quivering tentacle, her eyes flashing a brilliant and fearsome crimson. With two hands, she tore the tentacle from her body, a shower of black blood cascading across the hard wood surface of the table. She shrieked, a piercing cry of wrath and anger, before she threw the severed tentacle towards them. As it collided, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble, the grey stone quivering as if it moved and slithered of its own accord. Dozens of black oozing tentacle erupted from the ground, lashing out to grab hold of flesh, clothing and bone. The dark and festering tendrils coiled around all within their grasp, climbing the legs of the table as they attempted to put it further into the stone floor. They slashed at Willow’s legs, but her steps were too quick to capture.
It had all happened so fast. In only a few short breaths, they had gone from standing before the sinister woman and her retinue, to the moment Willow heard the most dreadful incantation escape Traya’s lips. As the poison seethed through Willow’s dead flesh, Pellius pushed himself to his feet upon constricted and weakened legs, Garvana struggled against the strangling suffocation of the ropes, and Traya carved crooked patterns of slashing gestures with her fingers. Suddenly, Tiadora’s eyes flew wide. And then, an explosion of flesh and bone showered the chamber. Tiadora, the devil that had guided them with a brutal hand along their journey and path to the way of the wicked, fell in slumped heap upon the chamber floor – with an oozing mound of blood and bile where her head should have been. The furies quickly looked to one another, and without a word, they vanished from sight.
“What in hell’s name was that?” Willow breathed, eyes wide as her hands quivered upon her gripped daggers.
She turned to the sorcerous, a new fear and respect as she looked upon her.
“Did you…” Willow said carefully, “Did you do that?”
A small and sly smile was the only answer she received. The noise of hurried footsteps sounded from the hallway, before the meeting room doors flew open.
“Mistress!” called Atwood worriedly, a cruel thin blade clutched in his hand, “Are you alright?!”
As Willow turned to him amongst the carnage, she saw the entirety of the Monteguard Manor staff rushing to the chamber, armed with blades and kitchen knives. Though her brow arched at their presumption that they could aid her in such a way, she could not contain the chuckle fell from her lips as their eyes flew wide at the scene they were greeted with.
“Quite alright, Atwood,” she replied cordially, though she grinned as she wiped the blood from her face upon her sleeve.
“Ah,” he replied, recovering quickly from the shock, “Very well, mistress.”
His eyes scanned the room, a small frown upon his brow as he saw the blood and bone ruined carpeted rug.
“Shall I have baths drawn for you and your guests?” he asked, “While the servants and I see to this mess, mistress?”
Willow looked to the others, each covered in the sickly red painted gore of battle, dripping in the proof of their vicious prowess. She smiled, inclining her head to the aged man.
“I think that is a fine idea.”
“I think you are going to need a new rug,” Traya chuckled.
“I will have Enecus fetch one from storage,” Atwood replied, though his lips momentarily pursed as he eyed the remains of Tiadora’s infernal form, “And the body, mistress?”
“Burn it,” she snapped harshly, turning towards the doors, “Burn every last trace of it…”

As the last of the bloodshed washed from her skin, and Niritta retrieved her armour for cleaning, Willow braided her wet locks into a tight weave upon her head. She dressed in a seamless ebony gown of soft silk, that fell from her shoulders in a flowing sway of fabric. As she walked the halls of the manor looking for the others, her mind churned upon the implications of their actions. There was no more hiding their intent. If Thorn had not gotten word of their defiance before, he would know of it now with certainty. What else would he send to eliminate them? What other servants and powers did he have at his disposal?
She first made her way to the lower chambers, opening the shrine wall to reveal an empty and silent room. The shadow cast by the dark and powerful statue loomed across the ragged stone floor, its outline almost as unnerving as the image it portrayed. Willow strolled into the chamber, eyes tracing the ornaments locked within the glass cabinets. She smiled, as she unlocked the far case to add another to her collection. First, was the sapphire pendant, shaped into the Mitran sunburst. They had taken the life of Sir Balin, held captive within Cardinal Thorn’s manor, and they had walked away with his symbol of holy devotion in their hands. Second, was the brass horn carried by the soldiers that guarded the Watchtower Balentyne. Perhaps, if only the men and women of Mitra had managed to use them sooner, they may have been spared their fate. Third, was single link of marred silver chain, hurled from the carnage as the seal repelling Vetra-Kali from the world was shattered. Fourth, was the humble wooden sun, the holy symbol that belonged to the head of the Order of Saint Marcarius, Earnan MacCathlain. The same one that had fallen from his chest as he died. Fifth, were the three beautiful and personal necklaces, made from the rarest materials the planes had to offer, given as gifts by the great copper dragon Eiramanthus to his beloveds. Lastly, Willow placed the seared, ruined and crumpled shield, wielded by the late King of Talingarde – Markadian V. Though it was a testament to her feminine sentiment that she kept such things, she was not bothered. She was amazed to see how far they had come. And she knew she would look back upon the strange arrangement of trinkets and jewels, and remember the hardship and strenuous effort that greatness truly demanded.
Returning to the main floor, as she approached the sitting room, she heard the familiar voices of Pellius and Garvana beyond the door. Curiously, they were speaking in hushed tones, low enough for their words to be muffled by the large oak doors. As Willow opened the door and entered the chamber, their words silenced. Though they acted casual as they looked towards her, Willow frowned at the suspicious facade.
“What is going on?” she asked, brow arching.
“Nothing, my lady,” Pellius replied politely, “We are merely questioning what comes next.”
“And whatever that is,” Willow scoffed, “It is not for my ears?”
“It is not at all like that, my lady.”
Willow sighed, shaking her head gently as she strolled to the empty lounge chair and looked towards them.
“You two have been curiously evasive since before the Adarium,” Willow frowned, a wave of exhaustion coming upon her, “Whispering together, hushing each other as I enter. Just tell me, what is going on?”
As she watched their reactions, Willow saw Garvana look to Pellius for guidance. When he did not reply, Willow scowled in frustration.
“What is it?” she growled, “We have been in this fight together for more than three years! We have fought together, died together! We have only each other, no one else we can truly trust! We are alone in this country! And you would hide secrets between us?”
Again, Pellius remained silent.
“Pellius,” Garvana said quietly, “She is right. We have only each other.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked to Willow, though it was not the suspicion she saw that was intriguing. It was the barest hint of hurt, a flash that spoke of betrayal, before it was quickly covered once more.
“Pellius!” Garvana snapped, “Just tell her! We cannot keep it secret, she needs to know the fire she is playing with!”
As a frown pulled low upon Willow’s brow, her eyes searched Pellius’ gaze. For a moment, he simple stared back at her, thoughts swarming across his stale face.
“What do you truly know of your lover?” he asked coldly, a bitter lilt to his tone.
Taken aback by his question, Willow’s eyes flew wide, as a small laugh fell from her lips.
“Switch?” she balked, “You cannot be serious? This is over him? This, is simply jealousy?”
“It is more than jealousy,” Pellius seethed, “Answer me that, how much do you truly know of him?”
“What does he have to do with anything?” Willow scoffed, “What difference would knowledge of him make for you? I have never revealed anything of you or our mission, I have never jeopardised our cause.”
“But it is not only our cause I worry about,” Pellius sighed, shaking his head, “It is you. Do you know what you are doing? Do you know what you are risking?”
“Enough!” Willow growled, “Tell me the point, tell me what has you so worried, if it is not merely your ego speaking out.”
“We have seen the blade, Willow,” Garvana said harshly, “We know what he is. How could you willingly flirt with such danger, such power? It is a risky game, and I do not think you are prepared to pay the price.”
“What blade?” Willow frowned, looking between them, “What are you talking about?”
Pellius looked to her, shrewd eyes consuming her reactions, revelations surfacing.
“You do not know…” he said in realisation, “You do not know what he is.”
“What are you talking about?” Willow scowled in frustration, “Enough with the cryptic words. Just tell me what you know!”
Pellius’ cold eyes narrowed for a moment, before he sighed a breath of heavy weight, dropping his head to rub his tired eyes. When his sight returned to her, the suspicion was replaced by a subtle disappointment.
“The Blade of the Pale Kiss,” he began slowly, watching her closely for recognition, “The one you were holding when I found you on the balcony…”
Though she frowned, Willow’s mind retraced her memory, picturing the infernal blade she had slipped from Switch’s sheath. She had not thought anymore of it at the time, her thoughts preoccupied with carnal distraction, but Switch had vanished before retrieving it from her hand. Though she could envision the use it had seen that night, her memory was hazed by the events that proceeded, and she had thought no more on what had become of the blade.
“I later found it discarded on the floor,” he continued, the bitterness enveloping his tone, “I could feel the darkness that emanated from within it. It was no ordinary dagger, covered in profane glyphs, and arcane words engraved in the infernal tongue…”
“What did they say?” Willow asked warily, vivid intrigue churning in her mind.
His reply was tainted by rancour, “In his hands, all thy cruelties thrive…”
As Willow’s eyes went wide, the words seemed to feed the flame inside her.
“Belial…” she whispered.
Long ago, when she had spent her adolescent years reading the infernal texts in the Monteguard’s library, she had come across the words that had incited a rebellious fire within her. They spoke of an archdevil, a fiend of pure desire and deception, a sadistic being of endless lust and pain.
“It is not a surprise that Switch would revere Belial,” Willow said quietly, a small smile of carnal delight coming upon her lips, “He embodies the doctrine…”
Willow turned curious eyes upon Garvana and Pellius, as the door to the sitting room opened, and Traya entered the chamber.
“Why is this so concerning?” she frowned, as Traya took a seat next to her, “He is another servant of hell, how is that a threat?”
Pellius stared harsh eyes towards the sorcerous, seeming unwilling to continue in her presence.
“She has proven her loyalty,” Willow dismissed his suspicion, “I will not hide this from her.”
Though Pellius glared towards her, after a moment he sighed and looked to Willow.
“He is not merely another servant…” Pellius said darkly.
“He is much more than that,” Garvana said conspiratorially.
Willow’s frown deepened, her mind replaying flashing of her interactions with the sinister man, compiling the moments to amount to a true realisation; she had little clue who or what he was.
“I found mention of the blade in the library,” Garvana continued, “The Blade of the Pale Kiss is given only to the most powerful dark servants of Belial. To wield such a blade, this Switch does not simply revere the archdevil – he is an Infernal Duke in Belial’s service…”
Willow could not help the laugh of disbelief that rumbled in her throat. She shook her head as she laughed, looking between Garvana and Pellius as if they were gripped by insanity.
“An infernal duke?” Willow chuckled, “You cannot be serious?”
“Is it truly so unbelievable?” Pellius asked, his lip curling in disdain.
Garvana quickly turned and rummaged through her pack, pulling free a thick tome bound with raven timeworn leather. She flicked through the pages, opening it wide as she turned it towards Willow. As the sketched image came into focus, Willow felt the sudden trickle of fear and uncertainty creep into her mind. She reached out and grabbed hold of the book, eyes scanning the words scripted beneath. There it was, the very dagger she had held firmly in her hand. The blade she had pushed against Switch’s throat, the blade that had torn through her skin more times than she could count. Her fingers traced the cruel shape of the infernal blade, as her eyes read the words that confirmed the truth of Pellius and Garvana’s suspicion.
“What do you truly know of him?” Pellius repeated, shaking his head softly, “You do not know who he is, but do you know what he wants from you?”
“He has never asked anything of me…” Willow said distractedly, her mind in turmoil.
“Nothing?” Pellius scoffed, “Then he has not recalled his debt… yet…”
Willow looked up from the book, a scornful gleam in her eye.
“What were you expecting to hear?” she scoffed, “That I had given my soul to him? That I had sealed my fate by blood? He has never demanded and I have never given, nor offered, anything more than my body.”
“Though I am not entirely sure exactly what you are talking about,” Traya interjected quietly, “Perhaps that is the price he wishes you pay… not every interaction with devilkind is written and signed in contract…”
“What do you know of him?” Garvana pressed, “Willow, knowing this, is it wise to hide him from us any longer?”
“Hide him?” Willow laughed bitterly, “I have never hidden him. You have known the entire time that I have had another lover, and you have never asked! I have never lied to any of you! I have been forth coming with what I thought was prudent to share, but I am not inclined to go into details of my sexual experiences…”
She turned to Garvana, “I have told you he was a man from my past, you asked nothing more,” she turned to Pellius, “And you have never asked me of him. I have never lied to you. I have never betrayed you. I have stood by both of you, fought in wars with you… I have died for you. Do I really deserve this much distrust?”
“It is not you I distrust,” Pellius said coldly, looking to Willow with the curious anger in his eyes, “It is him. What does he want with you? What will he do to achieve his goals? Will you suffer at his hands, or will we?”
“Why must it be suffering?” Willow snarled, “We are fighting for the Prince of Hell! Is it not expected that his servants will aid us, is it surprising that they would seek to ally along with our victory? Dessiter is an agent of hell, and we have listened to his council and accepted his aid. Garvana, your Hesperian has given you private council before, and you are following a trail of infernal clues upon tomestones! We did not become suspicious of you and your motives! How is this different?!”
“He is an Infernal Duke, Willow!” Pellius growled, “Dessiter and Hesperian are low servants of darkness, there is no real threat in their presence! But an Infernal Duke? He does not need to simply aid a conquest of a single country! It is clear he would have his own motive!”
Willow exhaled an acidic breath of frustration. Though it vexed her to no end, his words held a logical truth.
“You do not know his motivations,” Pellius said coldly, “You do not even know who, or what you are…”
Her head whipped up, angered eyes finding his. As Garvana’s expression showed no tell of surprise, Willow’s temper unleashed within her mind.
“You told her?” Willow laughed scornfully, “I spoke of it to you in confidence.”
“She needs to know,” Pellius replied harshly, “For if it involves you, it involves all of us.”
Though she felt the betrayal of her trust keenly, she knew his words were truthful. She sighed, a pointless air that brought no release from her stale and stagnant lungs.
“Tell us,” Garvana said softly, “Tell us what you know. There is no more room for secrets Willow. We are locked in this destined path together, if we deceive each other, we will never remain strong enough to defeat all who are against us…”
Willow closed her eyes, the vortex of emotion and thought spiralling in the blackness beneath her lids. As she opened them again, she saw the anticipation and worry upon the faces of the Forsaken. Garvana was right. The path of her beginning was no clearer to her now than it had been years ago, only riddled with more questions and curiosities. The more she learned, the more she realised that Switch and her past were intimately connected. Perhaps their minds would see the truths for what they were.
“I met him more than a decade ago,” she began slowly, her eyes staring towards the dark shadows of the chamber, “Twelve years ago I think. I had need of an assassin, and Nicholas Brueder put me in touch with one. He sent word for me to meet him in an abandoned Asmodean temple in Fell Valley, long forgotten and left to the vices of the forest. We met, and he completed the contract with no trouble. He was… charming, and cunning like you would not believe. He was more vicious and callous than anyone I had met before; he was what I had imagined a true servant of the Dark Lord would be like. Yet, endearing and alluring as he was, I was a married woman. Back then, though my husband as a pious and devoted bore, marriage still meant something… I was faithful. Over the years Switch took on a few more contracts for me, and completed them with no issue or trouble. Then one day, I offered a contract on Princess Belinda’s life…”
Willow frowned as she recalled the details, a strange realisation forming in her mind.
“I had thought he had accepted the contract…” she said quietly, “But no agreement was actually spoken. No gold changed hands…”
“Would that not be something you would be clear on?” Garvana frowned.
“I was…” Willow replied, a devious grin lifting the corner of her lip, “Preoccupied…”
Though she frowned for a moment longer, as Garvana’s eyes flew wide and her expression turned to disgust, Willow laughed as she continued.
“And then I was arrested,” Willow said, the smile dropping from her lips, “They broke down my bedchamber door, dragged me before the inquisitor in my night gown, and threw me into the holding cell. At the trial, my husband spoke out against me. Someone had tried to blackmail him, they wanted gold in exchange for their silence. But Audric was far too honourable for that. Even if it meant he would be sentencing his own wife to death, even with the shame of tarnishing the Talrish name, he could not abide by such sins. He was given proof of the assassination attempt, and given evidence of my adultery. With a broken heart, he gave the word that condemned me. Though I hate almost everything about him, I still have to admire his conviction, to his faith and to his resolve…”
Willow trailed off into silence for a moment, staring into the darkness of the shadowed room, her mind replaying the agony within her husbands gaze as he looked to her when he stood before the magistrate.
“I knew it was Switch who had blackmailed him,” she continued, under the thoughtful eyes of the others, “Though at the time I could not make sense of it. He was smart enough to know how devoted Audric was to Mitra. He was not only a Knight of Alerion, he was a brave and vocal crusader for the Shining Sun. His faith would always come first, before family, before wealth – before me. Switch would have known the outcome of his attempt. But I did not see him again until Farholde. He offered me a chance to train with him, and join the Black Serpent Coterie. Whatever else he has misled me about, he was truthful in that. When I asked him what his motive was for betraying me, he revealed that my parents had paid a greater price for him to turn me in. I had thought he meant gold, wealth or status… but I was wrong. I had been wrong all along, about it all.”
Willow sighed, looking to the chair Garvana was sitting it, the light of the flickering flame in the fireplace dancing across her skin the way it had along her father’s the night she returned.
“When I returned to Matharyn… things were not as I had expected. My parents were not who they had been. They were gaunt and exhausted, wracked by torments of the mind so great it had eaten away at their sanity. I do not know if they will ever recover from the horrors that they faced. But when I found my father, he was a husk of a man, barely clinging to life by a bottle of liquor. He thought me a vision, a being come to plague his thoughts and urge him further into madness. He told me that if I was truly here, if I was his daughter come to reap her vengeance, that he would offer me his throat willingly. It was not until I reached out and laid my hand upon his cheek that he awoke. He wept. I have never seen my father weep. He was a broken soul, slowly wasting his way towards death…”
“He told me the truth. He told me that although I would forever be his daughter, I was not his flesh and blood. I was not born of Anithara Monteguard. He told me I was found alone in a farming village, a crying baby within a small house, filled with the bodies of dead Mitran peasants. My mother was barren, never to know the joy of baring children. And then she found me… raven hair as dark as hers, pale skin the same shade of white, and eyes that flared a muted red – much like those that she saw in the mirror. They took it as a sign, as a gift from the Infernal Prince. Their servants scoured the village, tasked with destroying any trace of the baby, so none could deny or refute the bloodline bond. They found a journal, on the body of a priest. It said that the baby, that I, was not a child of the peasants. They had given shelter to the priest on his way to Valtaerna, and in the dead of night a celestial being arrived on their doorstep with a baby in its arms.”
“What was it?” Garvana frowned, “An angel?”
“Of some kind,” Willow shrugged, “The details in the journal speak only of a being of light, divine and holy. It urged the peasants to secrecy, tasked them with raising the child, to keep secret and secluded from the rest of the world. The priest was humbled by the presence of the being, and so he stayed for a time, to watch over the child and see to its safety before he continued his travels to the vale. But he did not get that far. A mysterious plague swept the village, killing everyone over night – everyone but me. A day later, my parents journey to Ghastenhall brought them through the same village…”
“I do not understand,” Garvana shook her head, “If they were so joyous to keep you, then why would they pay Switch to turn you in?”
Willow smiled sadly, “Switch had said that my parents had paid a greater price… And they had. They were gifted a child; their prayers had been answered. And in return they were to give the child up when the time was right, though they did not know that at the time. They were dominated by the words of Asmodeus himself, they were told that they were to send word that I was ready. That in order for me to know true greatness, I first had to know true failure and loss. They resisted at first, and were punished for their defiance. But no one can deny the will of the Lord of the Nine for long. They obeyed him, and I was gone…”
“So they told this Switch to turn you in?” Traya asked, an uncomfortable frown on her brow.
“No,” Willow said, shaking her head gently, “They have no knowledge of him. They left a note, as they were instructed, that said simply she is ready.”
“And they raised you to be Asmodean?” Garvana questioned, her thoughts clear across her face, trying to fit the pieces together, “Delivered by a celestial, and they thought to corrupt you to the infernal ways.”
“No, actually,” Willow smiled, a small lift of her lip, “My father told me that they did not want to make life harder for me in Talingarde. Among the Mitrans, a child growing up in a faith that was shunned and condemned… they wished for me to have a normal life. And they feared the price they would have to pay, the strings attached to the gift they were given.”
“But you have said how you were raised Asmodean,” Garvana frowned suspiciously.
“Father told me that I… found my own way,” she said with a small tenderness, “I was only a child when they found me in the shrine room below the manor. I was not tall enough to reach the stone keys, but somehow I found the shrine. My father said he had thought I would be afraid of such a terrifying statue, but I apparently I told him that I felt safe by His feet. He said I gave myself to Asmodeus, long before he demanded it of them…”
Willow’s hand instinctively reached for the pendant that hung around her neck, gently tracing the outline of the pentagram as a warmness kindled her unbeating heart.
“What that does not explain,” Pellius said coldly, drawing her eyes towards him, “Is what Switch’s motive is. An Infernal Duke is not sent to tempt a child to the way of the wicked. One with that much power, is not sent as a jilted lover to blackmail a knight…”
“Indeed,” Willow nodded, though her eyes searched his bitter gaze, “I do not have an answer. I have never seen him as an Infernal Duke. It is, unnerving to think of him so. Though he was always one step ahead of me, he has never seemed that much stronger. He has always been powerful, stronger and quicker, quieter and more nimble… but never by much.”
“Then he has been deceiving you all along,” Pellius scalded.
“Perhaps,” Willow shrugged, though her eyes still watched with eager curiosity as Pellius seethed his obvious hatred, “I could not have guessed he was such a thing, an Infernal Duke, stalking the back streets of Farholde. He is connected in Talingarde, he knows the underground in each region, he has allies and underlings in each city. But he never seemed so powerful.”
Willow frowned for a moment, before cautious words fell from her lips.
“Well, that is, until recently…”
“What do you mean?” Garvana frowned warily.
“Here, in Matharyn,” Willow said, suspicious connections forming in her mind, “When I arrived, he found me before I had even entered the city. He knew what I was here to do, and he knew exactly what I was going to find. When I asked him of his reasoning, he told me I was deceived, because those greater than me knew it must be done. But I knew that something had changed, when I watched him force a Mitran servant to slit her own throat, using nothing but his words…”
“Mind control magic… that strong?” Traya breathed, a pale sheen of white coming across her face, “That is… terrifying.”
“His blood,” Willow said quietly in realisation, more to herself than to the others.
“You have tasted his blood?” Pellius asked, a fierce control to his words, though his eyes blazed a brilliant scarlet.
“What was it like?” Garvana asked in hushed voice, as if she wished to hide the question from herself.
“Like nothing I have ever known,” Willow replied, drawing her lip between her teeth, “It was, euphoric… agonising and terrible, but more powerful than anything I have tasted.”
“Enough,” Pellius commanded, “I have heard enough. You are playing with powers that you do not understand. There is always a price for such things, and I am surprised your wit has failed you long enough that you do not see it.”
“My wit,” Willow clipped, “Has not failed me. I have not given him more than I am willing to, and I will not. But, if he truly is an Infernal Duke, do you think he would simply forget his blade? Do you think he would simply discard such a thing, leave it in my hands by accident?”
Willow laughed a bitter rasp, shaking her head, “No. He meant you to find it. Though I cannot fathom why…”
“What will you do when you see him again?” Garvana asked warily.
“I will ask him,” Willow answered simply, “Though I know not whether he will answer.”
Garvana nodded, seemingly content with Willow’s answer. She stood from her chair, a small frown upon her brow.
“Excuse me,” she said cordially, “I will be in meditation for a while, I need to… think. If Dessiter arrives, send for me.”
Traya quickly looked between Willow and Pellius, making a swift decision to follow Garvana’s leave. When the door closed behind them, Pellius exhaled a long and steady breath.
“Can you not see the repercussions of this?” he asked quietly.
Willow slowly rose from her chair, moving across the room to sit herself beside him. She reached out a gentle hand, laying it upon his cheek as she turned his sight towards her.
“Is it really the consequences that trouble you?” she replied gently, “Or is it, that by giving myself to him, that I wound your pride?”
His brow arched at her accusation, but he chose not to respond.
“Is it both?” she rasped quietly, lithely lifting herself to slide and straddle his lap, gently pushing him back against the chair, “Hell’s servants are intertwined with our path, you know this well. He may be an Infernal Duke, and he may have his own motives, but for now his plans to not interfere or disrupt our own. You are worrying about things that have not come to pass. Shall I deny him? Rile his anger, seek his wrath?”
“The issue is not that you have not denied him,” Pellius replied bitterly, eyes of blazing crimson staring into hers, “It is that you do not want to. That you crave what he offers, and I do not know how far that craving will blindly push you…”
Willow felt a salacious grin lift her lips, as she pressed her chest against his, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck.
“For now, I allow him to take what he wants,” she whispered silkily, “But it is by force. For you… I give myself to you, I offer myself to you with no resistance. No question, no defiance. I do that, for none but the Prince of Darkness himself… and for you.”
She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, sighing as she felt the rough touch of his hands graze along her lower back, as he pulled her slender frame closer to him.
“Do not be threatened,” she breathed against his lips, trailing her fingers through his long strands of pale hair, “Do not be filled with doubt. I will not be led astray by promise of carnal pleasure…”
She grinned a lift filled with satire, “It is almost offensive that you think so little of my mind and strength of will…”

As the renewed slip of moonlight returned to the skies above Matharyn, the Forsaken waited in the sitting room, by the dim flicker of the fireplace. When the last ray of sun fell below the horizon, the air quivered around them. Suddenly, a fiendish being dressed in shimmering velvet robes layered over a formal ebony suit, appeared before them once more.
“Great and powerful masters,” Dessiter crooned, bowing low to them, “Word of your titanic and historic deed has already reached my ear. Congratulations seem too small a thing to offer to such mighty agents of my master, and yet I humbly offer it regardless.”
“It is a glorious day,” Garvana replied, standing from her seat to bow in return.
“And yet,” he continued theatrically, “As great as the deed of slaying the monarch was, it seems my praises have only begun. For you have also slain the azata high lady Brigit of the Brijidine. Let choirs of the damned turn their voices into a great cacophony of celebration. Tis is a day that will long be remembered!”
“Enough with the praise,” Willow said sternly, “We have upheld our end of the bargain, yet our hands are still tied. You have promised us a way out of the contract.”
“That I have, dark and fearsome lord,” he smirked, inclining his head to her, “With the destruction of Brigit, I am commanded to take you forthwith to an audience with my great master, the Marquis of the Fourth Misery, Member of Asmodeus’ Sixth Praetorian Legion, Gatekeeper of the Eleventh Infernal Portal, Emissary to this reality, the pit fiend, Naburus!”
His eyes scanned the four of them with a shrouded shrewdness.
“My master can be somewhat impatient so it is best not to keep him waiting, great lords. Will you accept this singular honor?”
Willow scoffed, “And we are to simply trust your words? We are simply to allow you to whisk us away, with nothing but your promise of safety? I fear I hear the similarity in an offer we were given earlier today…”
“You are far too wise to simply trust anyone, my terrible lords,” he smirked, “You would not have made it to this pivotal moment in Talingarde’s history if you were not. I can see the irony of my offer and past warnings, and it is a shame my dear sister met such a fate. But it is critical that you visit my my lord and master, Naburus, as soon as possible. For it is through Naburus that you can be released from the Pact of Thorns, without incurring the dreadful penalty should you break that contract.”
He turned a serious eye upon them.
“Dread lords, I beg of thee! Do not consign thyself to the conflagration of my master’s wrath. Come with me, and stand before mighty Naburus!”
Willow looked to the others, seeing the same wary and hesitation in their faces. But just as she, they knew they had little choice.
“What do you think?” Willow asked Pellius, reading the fine suspicion in his brow line.
“If Naburus has a way for us to be free of the Knot…”
“We must hear him out,” Garvana frowned, “For we cannot accomplish what we must while we are bound to the Cardinal.”
“The question is,” Willow said carefully, looking to Dessiter with shrewd eyes, “What it will cost us…”
“My fearsome lords-” he began.
“It will be a cost he will ask of us himself,” Pellius interrupted.
Dessiter inclined his head cordially. As Willow looked to the Forsaken, they seemed to arrive at an unspoken decision.
“Tell us of him,” she said to Dessiter, calculating eyes watching the creases of his fiendish face, “What advice do you have for dealing with the great pit fiend?”
“You are most prudent, dread lord,” he smiled slyly, “For it is no small matter to stand in the presence of the aristocracy of Hell. Firstly, never address Naburus by his given name. Instead, always address him as great one or mighty one. Equally, be careful to not address him as your master. If you announce Naburus as your master, then your master he will become…”
He raised his brows, looking between them.
“And though we all serve the same purpose, I can sense that you are not yet ready to bow before this emissary of our true master – the first tyrant, He Who’s Will Commands All.”
“Be not deceived. For some, it is a grave and dangerous thing to appear before so powerful an emissary of the Dark Lord. But also be not afraid. There is no danger to thee, my lords. For you are all true and faithful servants of Asmodeus. Surely there is nothing that you have done to earn the wrath of hell. Surely thou are above reproach…”
From the corner of her eye, Willow saw Pellius and Garvana share a look, before subtly glancing towards Traya. She knew what they were thinking. Standing before a mighty pit fiend, one guided by the direct word of Hell, would seal or break their confidence in the sorcerous.
“How is it best we dress for our audience?” Garvana asked, “I wish not to appear arrogant… or weak.”
“Now that is a real question, my powerful lord,” Dessiter mused, “If you were to appear weapons drawn in front of such a mighty and fearsome warrior of the Lord of All Evil, it could be perceived as a threat. Yet, appear too humble, and your weakness would be devoured upon arrival. I speak not for the whims of my tremendous infernal master, one who wields such power has right to pick and choose his caprice.”
Garvana’s brow pulled tightly in a frown, as she looked to Pellius for guidance.
“What will you wear?” she asked quietly.
Pellius’ tall brow arched as he gestured to the callous flank of ebony steel that he wore.
“You will have to give me moment while I change,” Willow said cordially to Dessiter, with a slight incline of her head.
“Of course, dread lord,” he replied with a small bow.
As she turned to leave the chamber, she saw Traya sitting upon the cushioned armchair, an uneasiness to her stance. Willow looked over the well-worn gown, the slight scuff of use, the smudged char that lined the wrists. When the sorcerous made no move to redress for the occasion, the corner of Willow’s lip quirked in a smile.
“Come with me,” Willow instructed, ushering her out of the room, “Let us find you something more appropriate to wear…”

Though she knew well that it would not be wise to keep the pit fiend waiting, she was not willing to present herself to him in anything less than impeccable dress. She escorted Traya up the stairs and into her chambers, quick to pull free the hasty braid she had twisted her hair into earlier that morning. She led the way into her dressing room, opening the doors to her ornate oak cabinets, eyes tracing over the flashes of bright and muted fabric.
“Oh yes,” Willow grinned, pulling free a gown of blazing scarlet, “This one is perfect.”
As she fanned the long wefts of bright crimson along her arms, she looked to Traya with a joyous feminine smile. The woman’s eyes flew wide, her fingers gingerly reaching to trace over the firm and molded boning of the compressing corset.
“It is… beautiful,” she breathed, “It must have cost a fortune, I have never seen something so detailed and, delicate.”
“It is yours,” Willow smiled, an easy shrug lifting her shoulder, “I enjoy the red, but the colour of flame is intimately appropriate for you.”
Traya’s mouth fell ajar, as her hands carefully accepted the elegant gown. It was a floor length flank of heavy scarlet silk, pinched around the waist in a woven knot that branched into the stiff leather bones of the corset. A high neckline, that curved in bending pleats that layered softly upon the collarbone.
“I-” she began.
“You need to get dressed,” Willow grinned, “That corset takes a long time to tighten.”
Traya nodded her head, wide and curious eyes searching Willow’s face for the deception she expected. But Willow simply laughed, returning to her wardrobe and splitting the rows to reveal the particular gown she had in mind. It was black, a silk so dark it shimmered like the night sky of a moonless night. It fell in a flurry of wefts of ebony, a flounce of layer upon layer that flared wide and drifted in harmonious stride. The dress itself was a twisting marvel of craftsmanship, but it was the bodice and peplum that truly outshone everything else in Willow’s immense wardrobe. An armoured corset, made from the blackest glimmer of steel, intricate shards interwoven between the material to form a decorative breastplate, fit for a woman of war-waging power.
Though they risked offending the pit fiend and their other company, the results of their delay spoke for themselves. After carefully coiling her own shining raven locks into a crowned braid atop her head, Willow turned to the sorcerous.
“It is a good fit,” she smiled, looking over the dress.
“A perfect fit,” Traya grinned, “Thank you, Willow.”
“Do not thank me yet,” Willow laughed, a sinister gleam to her eye, “You are about to step into the realm of Hell’s hierarchy, a beautiful dress and a pretty face will not save you. Be strong, Traya, or be devoured completely…”



Here is the first part, there's another to come, but i'm waiting on some information from one of the other PC's.
Enjoy! :smallbiggrin:

Braininthejar2
2017-04-13, 04:43 AM
Something I've been begging for for several chapters... some spacing?
It's a five pages long solid block of small print. :smallsigh:

minderp
2017-04-13, 08:28 PM
I got a little carried away with this one, there are two more parts to come. :smallredface:
They'll be up shortly! :smallbiggrin:




Something I've been begging for for several chapters... some spacing?
It's a five pages long solid block of small print. :smallsigh:

I will attempt to put more spacing in. I don't write (or read) them on this site, so i don't notice the strain of small print lol. Sorry! :smallsmile:

minderp
2017-04-13, 08:44 PM
Blackness, a heavy and foreboding nothingness. Connected only by the physical touch of each other, the Forsaken arrived at their destination and were greeted by the sickly stench of despair. The darkness surrounded them, pressed upon their frames, seeping into the pores of their skin. Then, suddenly, a blazing column of hellfire erupted in the centre of the blackness, flames screaming and writhing as if they were alive and in soul-crushing agony. Cast in shadow by the inferno of horror, was a dreadful wonder to behold. A being, a fiend, the pinnacle of devil-kind. Sitting upon a throne of shattered bone and blood, a beast of almost twenty feet tall, adorned with great wings of living shadow and flame. Hollows bore thick muscles clinging to his enormous frame, armoured over by dense, bladed scales that jutted in sadistic and callous points. He bore two single horns upon his head. But these were no horns seen upon a simple beast or brute. Wider than the pillars that stood by the entrance to most temples, charred and scorned, the blood-drenched ivory carved themselves from his skull, winding in an eldritch curve and sharpened to a point finer than a blade. A bestial visage, that disguised the true horror his eyes revealed. An insidious mind, a genius intellect given the full might and authority of Hell. When he spoke, the air of authority about his voice was palpable. Deeper than the resonating sound of the tectonic plates shifting, thundering in an inhuman and unnerving echo. His every word seethed with ancient and implacable hate.

“Who dares invade my sanctum?!” the ferocious pit fiend growled, in terrible fury that shook the blackness beneath their feet, “What mortal dares approach so close to the fires of hell?”
For a moment, the Forsaken simply stood in fear and awe before the mighty Naburus, his fiendish appearance a dark and terrifying omen. Dessiter was swift in his low and subservient bow towards the fiend.
“O’ great and immortal marquis of the fourth misery,” he groveled, “It is I, Dessiter of the Phistophilus, who brings these mortals before you. They come here, because they would do the will of our master upon the material plane! But they are unjustly bound by a contract, much abused by their former superior, the so-called Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. They seek justice and relief from the contract! They seek the freedom to do what must be done to remake Talingarde into a dominion where once more our master’s name is held in rightful reverence!”
The frightening visage of the fiend sneered towards them. By his side, were two snarling beasts of ice and malice, that watched the proceeding with keen interest.
“Is this so?” Naburus spat, “Do you cower behind this fawning mouthpiece? Come forward, and speak your case! I, Naburus, will hear your words!”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower than any sound Willow had thought possible. The sheer horror it incited, gripped hold of her delicate frame with a firmer grasp that any metal clutches.
“But know this,” he growled, “What is said in my court is heard not just by me, but the First Among the Fallen himself. Choose your words carefully mortals, lest you suffer for them eternally...”

Though she felt the fear clamped upon her flesh, Willow knew what the fiend needed to hear. Though the terror he incited in her soul quivered under his gaze, she gritted her teeth against the onslaught of uneasy sickness. With a feigned confident step, she walked forwards, lowering herself in a deep and respectful bow. When she lifted, she felt his blazing eyes of profane power upon her.
“Dark and mighty lord,” she began in a strong and confident voice, though tempered to remain cordial, inclining her head as she spoke, “Cardinal Thorn is beset by madness, and crippled by weakness. Mere hours ago, he unleashed one of his strongest servants against us, teamed with nine of his furies; risking the success of this mission for his own threatened station! And for what? The threat of our power. We have ever served him faithfully, and he has repaid our servitude with betrayal. It is not the first time he has shown himself to be unworthy and unstable! The very survival of the paladin, Richard Havelyn, is a sin against our Infernal Father! We know who Thorn was before his fall to darkness, we know who he became, and we know which strings of his heart attach to his weakness. Thorn protects his nephew from the fate he must meet! The paladin actively works against our fearsome Lord of the Nine! And Thorn allows him to survive! It cannot continue this way!”
As she spoke, the savage devils beside him leaned in towards him, chattering unheard whispers into his ear. Though it was unnerving and off-putting, Willow did not allow it to interrupt her conviction.
“He wastes his time with condemning us, while the country sits by and awaits his next move! He is allowing the Mitrans time to recover and regroup!”
“And you think you are more worthy?” Naburus snarled, his scaled lip curling viciously, “You think you deserve more recognition than he?”
“It is us that has seen and forcefully guided the plan through to fruition, great one,” Willow replied, bowing her head once more, “We were the ones who took down the four pillars of the Mitran faith. We were the ones who slaughtered the inhabitants of Balentyne and opened the gates for the bugbears! We were the ones who summoned the vile Vetra Kali Eats-the-Eyes, deceived him and banished him with his abominable plague in our grasp! We were the ones who saw it to the hands to feed upon the Mitrans! We were the ones who led the army of savages to butcher the Vale of Valtaerna! We were the ones to banish the phoenix! We were the ones who slew the celestial Ara Mathra and his brother! We were the ones who abolished the Order of Saint Marcarius! We were the ones who tamed the chaos that was the great Chargammon and secured his aid! We were the ones who slew the great copper dragon Eiramanthus! We were the ones who ridded the world of Brijit of the Brigidine! And we were the ones who killed the Mitran puppet monarch, King Markadian V!”
“Enough!” roared Naburus, a growl so filled with malice that Willow felt her resolve falter.
He stared a feral gaze towards her for a moment, vicious eyes of pure evil piercing the last shreds of her will. Though she had bolstered her own confidence by recounting their victories, it was a single look that dissolved her composure.

“Impressive,” the fiend said finally, “Clearly you have greatly served the cause of Hell. But tell me, Prophet,” he looked to Garvana, his roughly haired brow arching, “Has your master not succeeded as well? He aroused you from the slump of failure. He gave you such missions, and you were victorious. That is, exactly what his position requires. Why do you presume that your success is not his?”
Garvana stepped forward, swiftly dropping into a deep and reverent bow. As she replied, she spoke with her eyes downcast in deference.
“O mighty and fearsome one, he is a fraud. He can claim no victory over deeds he could not complete himself. Were it not for us, his plan would have failed long ago. Without us, the Knot of Thorns would have broken before it truly began!”
Naburus seemed to contemplate her words, with the whispers of his devils in his ears. He turned his fearsome gaze upon Pellius.
“And you, The Fist,” Naburus growled fiercely, “What of the lines of Darius and Barca? What fate would you decree for them?”
“If they are unwilling to heed our power,” he replied sternly, his words spoken with the might and command of a true leader, “Then they will be crushed by it. Their ruin is of their own fruition. We did not incite their blasphemy and insubordination against the Dark Lord, but we will be the hand that delivers His reckoning.”
Naburus’ great brow rose once more, as mused upon Pellius’ answer. After a moment, he turned his sight upon Traya, a harsh disdain coming across his face.
“What makes you think,” he seethed viciously, “You are worthy to stand among those who have achieved so much?”
Traya bowed her head to the fearsome beast, showing little sign of the terror she must have been feeling.
“Mighty one,” she said, “I have been in the service of the Dark Lord for only a short time. Yet in that brief blink of a moment, I have achieved more by the side of the Forsaken than an entire life time of self serving nothingness. I am, now and forever, locked with the path of these three. And I will be victorious with them, or be defeated with them.”
His devouring glare took in the sight of her for a moment, before it returned to glaze across them, like a wave of palpable terror that slithered dreadfully along the flesh.
“Great one,” Willow said once more, lifting her chin slightly, “We are servants of the darkness. We are devoted body and soul to the Dark Prince. I have never known anything with more truth or passion; that He must be restored to his rightful place in sovereignty and leadership on the isle of Talingarde-
“Yes,” Naburus seethed, a vicious grin lifting his bestial lips, “But, Nameless One, you are predisposed to think that way… the others have made up their own minds and come to this conclusion…”
Willow’s mind sparked alight at his words, desperately crying to ask him to clarify what he had said, though she simmered her fire and continued apace.
“Be that as it may, great one,” she continued, inclining her head, “I believe that Cardinal Thorn cannot be allowed to continue. Though he is debilitated by his weakness for the paladin, his madness has skewed his view of revenge, and has clouded his mind to see the greater picture of a land ruled by our Dark Father. He would kill every last man, woman and child on this isle. I, for one, do not believe it needs to be so.”
“You would not kill them?” Naburus growled venomously, though the sound was more of intrigue than of anger.
Pellius laughed harshly, looking to Willow with a bewildered gaze.
“Not all of them,” Willow replied, “We do not need more death. We need obedience, we need servitude. We need only so many to die that the others have no choice but to realize it is futile to resist the will of the great and undying Asmodeus. We need people to serve our new country, we need people to fear and rightfully acknowledge and respect our Dark Father. It is then, we will kill and make an example of any who dare speak against him. What good is an isle of land, ruled by the Darkest Of Them All, with no mortals to serve him?”

Naburus glared towards her, his fiendish advisors whispering into his ears. Suddenly, Naburus lifted a silencing hand.
“It seems,” he said in rasping growl, “That the leaders of the Forsaken are worthy. Be this as it may, a contract signed before the Master of All Contracts is not lightly thrown aside. Dessiter, have you reviewed the Pact of Thorns?”
“Intensely,” Dessiter bowed low, “O undying harbinger of despair.”
“And is there a way for these servants of Hell to be rid of their commanded loyalty to Thorn?”
“Yes, O lord of lash and longing,” he bowed once more, “There is a way that abides by the letter of the law. The fourth paragraph of the contract reads The Second Loyalty is to their master – He who is called Cardinal Adrastus Thorn, High Priest of Asmodeus in Talingarde. The wording is very specific. The loyalty only persists as long as Cardinal Adrastus Thorn bears the title High Priest of Asmodeus in Talingarde. If he were to be stripped of that title, he would no longer be granted the protection of the contract. He would be simply a man amongst men.”
The fiend arched his fur-ridden brow, “I see. Remind me, Dessiter, who granted the Cardinal Adrastus Thorn the title of High Priest of Asmodeus in Talingarde?”
“Why... you did, my most immolating master.”
“True,” Naburus mused, a fearsome and feral grin lighting his toothy smile, “So with a word I could remove the title of High Priest from Adrastus and bestow it upon another?”
“Your grasp of the finer points of the law remains as impressive as always, great guardian of the guillotine gate!”
“How could I do this?” he growled, a vicious gleam in his eyes, “Though I have not been entirely satisfied with the Cardinal as of late, I have had none formally petition me for the position. I would hate in this critical moment in Talingarde’s history to see so important a post remain unfilled.”
“It is a dilemma, most calamitous conqueror.”
With a subtle nudge from Pellius, Garvana stepped forward.
“I formally petition this, great one,” she said, bowing low to the fiend, “I petition for the position of High Priestess of Asmodeus in Talingarde.”
“You?” Naburus laughed skeptically, “And what makes you think yourself worthy?”
“I have served the Infernal King faithfully!” Garvana replied darkly, “I have killed in his name, I have slaughtered the divine and punished the blasphemous! I have waged His war upon the forces of good and holy, and I shall continue! I shall see Him restored to his rightful place! Revered, feared and worshiped as the one true god superior to all others!”
Suddenly, Naburus roared with the fury of a thousand centuries of damnation, a sound so filled with horror it forced a wave of fear to crash against the Forsaken.
“SILENCE!” he bellowed, “Silence, you sub-creatures and listen now to the words of Naburus, Marquis of the Fourth Misery! When I first came to this mortal plane, I listened for even one true prayer to the master of Hell. Finally, I heard one crying in the darkness. A dying fallen priest screamed out for vengeance and life. I gave it to him. I made him into what he has become. And how has he repaid this great gift? With disloyalty and incompetence. Now I renounce him! I strip him of the title of High Priest and award it to another. You, Garvana Forthwise, I name as the High Priestess of Asmodeus in Talingarde for the rest of thy life. Remember the fate of your predecessor as you execute this sacred duty! Further, I charge you to destroy Adrastus Thorn!”
His venomous gaze erupted in a blazing torrent of hellfire.
“Go forth, Forsaken!” he seethed, “And see that my will is done!”


The spiralling vortex of wisping black and white pulled them from beyond the cavern, and returned them to the sitting room within the Monteguard Manor. As they looked to one another, a shared sigh of relief lightened the weight that lifted from their shoulders.
“I believe congratulations are in order,” Willow smirked to Garvana.
“I believe they are,” she grinned, a joyous pride bounding from her face.
“Do not let it go to your head,” Willow satirised, “I shall not call you great one or mighty one anytime soon.”
“Your eminence or your holiness will suffice,” she replied, lifting her chin.
“That will absolutely never happen,” Willow laughed, shaking her head.
As Pellius and Garvana left the chamber, a small voice caught Willow’s attention.
“Willow,” Traya beckoned quietly, “I am uncertain what would come of it, but I do not think it would hurt to try.”
“To try what?” Willow asked, a frown lingering on her brow.
“There is a spell,” she said quietly, looking around quickly and waiting until they were alone, “I can recall a vision, a past event, an answer to question…”
“What do you mean?”
“Your… past,” Traya said with slight unease, “You wish to know the circumstances of your birth. The spell could reveal the truth…”
“Would I see the vision?” Willow asked, her frown deepening, “Or would you?”
“I would,” Traya replied, “Unless you can find a way to cast it yourself. Though I do not know if a simple scroll would suffice. It depends entirely on what was within the vision.”
Willow stared towards the woman for a moment. She had countless theories on her beginning, though she knew not if she was remotely close to the truth. She also knew, that if her suspicions were correct, the images the sorcerous would see could reap havoc upon the mind of a mortal only new to the workings of the infernal realm.
“You are willing?” Willow asked, “We have no true guide to know what you may see.”
“Yes,” Traya nodded firmly, “It will be good to find the answer, for it seems each of our lives and fates are intertwined.”
Willow laughed softly, “If you are expecting true and clear answers, you will most likely be disappointed. If there is one truth that is consistent with these things, it is that nothing is given clearly…”

The pair quickly made their way up the stairs towards Willow’s quarters, sealing the doors behind them. Willow retrieved a bottle of aged whiskey from the cabinet, pouring two short glasses, before returning to the ornate darkwood lounge that graced her sitting room. With the fireplace cracking wisps of crimson flame, the sorcerous closed her eyes and began a rasping incantation. Willow watched with eager curiosity, feeling her chest still and calm in its breathless state. She remained eerily unmoving, as Traya’s eyes opened to reveal clear white pupils. She could see the sway of white mist dancing across her vision, the arcane tendrils swarming back and forth, as the sorcerous’ brows contorted in rhythm. Suddenly, Traya’s eyes flew wide, a terrible fear paling her flesh. Enraptured in the trace, she began to shake, her limbs quivering in their once restful state. A look of pure horror gracing her face, sending her brows high, forcing a small and trembled whimper from her throat. Willow knew nothing of the kind of magic, she knew not whether trying to wake the sorcerous would do more harm than good. While she warred with indecision and panic, Traya suddenly went stiff for a moment, her lips parting as a desperate breath struggled to fill her lungs. And just as quickly, her eyes dropped shut as her body fell limp and back into the couch.
“Traya?” Willow said worriedly.
She was quick to her side, pressing her fingers to the sorcerous’ throat, relieved to find a steady, but slightly rapid pulse. She quickly fetched a glass of water from the side table, before finding the smelling salts in her dresser drawer. As she returned to the unconscious woman, she lifted Traya’s head and placed it in her lap, carefully holding the small perfumed sponge beneath her nose. Slowly, consciousness returned to the sorcerous. Her eyelids fluttered slowly, her chest rising and falling with staggered breaths. When her vision focused up towards Willow, her eyes flew wide in fear and suspicion. She carefully lifted herself, turning in the chair to move further away from Willow.
“What did you see?” Willow breathed, forcing the swarming intrigue to remain calm.
“I… I do not know,” Traya stammered, her brow pulling tightly, “I do not know if it was your birth… well… I do not know what it has to do with you… I do not even know what it was that I saw…”
Willow could not help the small laugh that escaped as she saw the rattled sorcerous stumble upon her thoughts. She was quick to the cabinet, pulling free the bottle of whiskey and a glass, returning to the couch with it held out in offering. Traya took the bottle without a word, only looking to her glass for a moment before taking a long drink from the bottle. As the harsh liquid burned its way down her throat, it seemed to calm the worst of her panic.
“Thank you,” she sighed.
“Tell me,” Willow said quietly, “What did you see?”
Traya shook her head slowly, “I am unsure. I saw… well, it started with a being. A, a perfect being. Androgynous, perfect and pure… but it was not alone. It was… interspersed, or merged, paired, with a blackness. An evil, not another being, but a shadow of… I do not know… it was, as if it was hell itself…”
Willow frowned, but listened intently, unknowingly clutching the edges of the cushioned chair.
“And then,” Traya continued, the fear returning to her gaze, “The being was bowed before an infernal palace, in front of a throne taller than any building I have seen… There was a shadow upon the throne, and as I looked to it…”
Her skin whited, a sickly paleness overcoming her face.
“I saw nothing but shadow,” she whispered, “But it was the most frightening thing I have ever seen…”
She trailed off in her thoughts for a moment, before she returned to the bottle to pull another long drink from its neck. She shook her head as if to clear it, before her sight returned to Willow.
“Then there was battle, I could not see passed the flashes of raw power and fury, but I watched the being fighting a bright light of holy force, a being of good and virtue. It defeated the perfect being, but I know not how or what… I do not know. I saw it destroyed.”
“What does that mean?” Willow asked, frustration pulling low upon her brow.
Traya shook her head gently, but her dark eyes of hidden suspicion stayed fixed.

“There was one final image,” she said quietly.
“What was it?” Willow questioned, brows raised in intrigue.
The sorcerous shifted her grip awkwardly over the brown glass bottle, swallowing another sip before she answered. She sighed a hitched breath as she looked back towards Willow.
“A dark chamber,” she recalled warily, “A ritual chamber of some kind. There were five, eldritch pillars in the centre of the room, circled by figures in black hooded robes. I could not hear anything, but it seemed that they were chanting something. Their faces were shadowed, but I could see the eyes of one of them. They were green… not a usual green, but a brilliant blazing green, like boiling acid…”
A vision flashed through Willow’s mind, brilliant vivid green eyes flashing in devouring hunger. She had seen them only once, for each other time black wells of unending depth had gazed back at her. Switch, he had only once lost his composure for long enough to fail to hide the feral blazing colour of emerald.
“What were the figures doing?” Willow asked, though her mind was distracted by the vicious maelstrom of thought.
As Traya’s voice stumbled on her reply, Willow’s focus returned. She looked to the sorcerer, eyes alight in untempered intrigue, a starving need for knowledge.
“What is it?” she pressed.
“They were circling some kind of… embryo.”
“Embryo?” Willow balked, her frown crushing low, “What do you mean?”
“It simply hung there…” she said uneasily, “In stasis of some kind…”
“Do you…” Willow frowned, tilting her head, “Do you think…”
“I do not know what to think,” Traya interrupted her words, “I do not know if I want to think!”
Slowly, with swaying movements, the sorcerous stood from the cushioned seat and turned for the door.
“I know I think I need to lie down,” she nodded to herself.
“Traya,” Willow stopped her, quickly walking to her liquor cabinet, finding the strongest whiskey the Monteguard’s owned, “I must ask you… Do not tell anyone of this. I will tell them, when I have had time to process it…”
As she held the whiskey out to the woman in offering, it was accepted and she was given a crooked smile and a laugh in return.
Traya winked as she left the chamber, “No one would believe me anyway…”


The sliver of moon hung directly overhead, signalling a dark midnight as it came to the land. As the intrusion of their fiendish guests had disturbed the Forsaken’s sleep rhythm, Willow found herself unable to find a grasp on slumber. Dressed is slip of silk nightgown, she slowly trailed the quiet halls of the Monteguard Manor, as her mind churned in unrest. She knew more than she ever had, and yet, she knew nothing. She had no answer to her question, she had no means to decipher the cryptic worded clues. She rubbed her red and tired eyes with her hand, shaking her head softly in hopes of clearing it. As she always did when her mind threatened to overwhelm her, she turned for the library, heading for some much needed time in prayer within the shrine room.

Opening the doors to the main library, she found that she was not the only member of the Forsaken that was restless that evening.
“What are you doing?” Willow laughed, surprised to find Garvana in her woollen nightgown, sitting cross-legged beneath a stitched tapestry of the land of Talingarde.
“Trying to scry Nithoggr,” the woman scowled, “But I cannot find anymore than spine of the world. Damn divination, why is it always so vague?”
Willow frowned, a wisp of recognition surfacing in her mind.
“Spine of the world?” she repeated, slowly entering the grand room to arrive by Garvana’s side, “I have heard of that before. But, I do not know where.”
Willow’s eyes traced the sewed outline of the country, her brow furrowing as she searched the northern coast.
“I think I have heard of it, part of that mountain range,” she said quietly, “In the Savage North. But it is a vast range, and there are many mountains, it could be anywhere.”
“That is the problem,” Garvana sighed, running her hand through her hair in frustration, “Nithoggr could be anywhere.”
“It is a shame so few have stepped passed the Watchwall’s,” Willow frowned, “We have little resources to scour.”
“What about Sakkarot?” Garvana asked, eyes alight with an idea, “Someone in his horde has to have heard of the cairn linnorm.”
“Hopefully one of those that have remained alive,” Willow commented.
“We should speak to him,” she said firmly, “It cannot hurt to ask.”
Willow’s thoughts turned to the great and ferocious bugbear. Though he was a brutish and feral bestial creature, his brash humour had always delighted Willow. She frowned, knowing well who he was sworn to serve.
“Perhaps it is best that we do visit him,” she said carefully, “If we are to destroy Thorn as Naburus commanded, it would be wise to remain allied with the Fire-Axe.”
“Would he turn on us once he knew?” Garvana asked warily.
“I do not think so,” Willow mused, a small frown upon her brow, “But it is best we give him no reason to. We can merely approach him as friends, and be truthful. A word, of warning…”
For a moment, the two of them simply stared at the tapestry, eyes scanning the terrain.

“You cannot sleep either?” Garvana asked quietly, expelling her irritation in a heavy breath.
“No,” Willow huffed, giving up her search as she leaned back against the wall, “My mind refuses to quiet.”
“As does mine,” Garvana smiled wryly, “There is much to think about.”
“Indeed,” she nodded, looking to Garvana with warm eyes, “The last few days have been… eventful.”
“That is an understated way to put it.”
Garvana frowned thoughtfully, “It is good to be free of the contract. Being under Thorn’s thumb had became a heavy weight to bear.”
“Yes,” Willow said quietly, “But in a way, you have traded one contract for another by accepting your new title…”
“I know,” Garvana nodded solemnly, “But it is not a duty I take lightly.”
“The consequences of failure are far more dire now.”
“But the reward will be so much sweeter,” she replied with a gleaming smile, “For now we serve our Infernal Lord by serving ourselves. When we succeed, it will be entirely our success.”
Willow smiled, sharing the pride that blazed behind the woman’s eyes.
“We have done well,” she said warmly, a strange tenderness encompassing her heart, “We have much to be proud of. We have come along way, since that first day we met in Branderscar.”
“We have,” Garvana agreed, her voice dropping low as she pulled the sleeve of her gown to reveal the runic mark seared into her skin, “It seems like another life time…”
Slowly, Willow lifted the silk of her sleeve to reveal her matching brand.
“It is a constant reminder,” she said quietly.
“You could heal it with magic,” Garvana offered, though her tone suggested she disapproved of such an idea.
“No,” Willow smiled, a soft pride to her words, “It is a good thing. I never wish to forget failure. I never wish to forget how far I have fallen. For it reminds me, each time I see it, just how far we have come. It reminds me what we have done in the name of the Lord of the Nine…”

minderp
2017-04-13, 08:56 PM
Far passed the break of dawn, the halls of the manor that stretched along the Golden Bow were a bustle of movement and noise. With their plan set to head towards Daveryn, the Forsaken packed their belongings and prepared to leave the relative safety of the Monteguard Manor. While the staff, who were not busy with the vampiric feeding, cooked a fine and hefty breakfast for the only living member of their group, Willow packed away the small vials of scented oils that she could not bear to leave without.
“Pardon the intrusion, mistress,” Atwood called from the archway of the bathing chamber door, “But I have come to see if there is anything else you need.”
Willow smiled, turning to the aged man.
“I believe I have remembered everything, Atwood,” she said, arching her brow, “Well, everything I can carry in a single bag.”
He chuckled, a soft and rasping sound.
“And you are headed to Ghastenhall after your stay in Daveryn, mistress?”
“Yes,” she nodded, lifting her pack as she walked passed him into the main bedchamber, “We have allies there that we must convene with.”
“Trusted ones, mistress?” he frowned, in the worried voice of a grandfather.
“Yes,” she smiled, chuckling at his protectiveness, “They are faithful servants.”
“Very well, mistress,” he inclined his head, “It seems you have a keen eye for loyalty. Your guests have proven most trustworthy.”
Willow’s hands paused as they folded her raven velvet cloak. She smiled as she turned to him.
“They are,” she said warmly.
“You are fortunate to have found such true allies in them. And they, are fortunate to have you, mistress.”
As Atwood slowly walked towards her, he smiled as he looked upon her with amiable affection.
“You shall have to forgive an old man and his sentimental goodbyes, mistress. But it has been an honour to serve you, and a pleasure to have you home.”
Willow slid her cloak into her pack, before she turned to him and held her arms out to embrace him fondly.
“You speak as if I shall never see you again, old friend,” Willow said quietly, laying her head upon the frail man’s shoulder.
“Perhaps, mistress,” he replied, pulling back from the hug to look down at her, “You are no longer the child I knew. You are a woman, destined for greatness. Your path may not lead you back where you have come from. But for my sake, I hope it does.”
Willow grinned, beaming as she looked into the wrinkled face aged with heavy lines of life.
“I will return,” she said wryly, “Who else will fill your life with the fun of undead bloodlust… and decapitated fiend corpses?”
The creases in his wilted skin compressed as he laughed heartily and showed a grin filled with sharp pointed teeth, “I am unsure how, though I eagerly await your attempt to best that one, mistress…”


The slashing winds of ethereal grace ripped against the flesh and fabric as the mysterious portal hurled them across the lands once more. It propelled them from its turbulent grasp, arriving through the cutting gale standing before the cracked and crooked wide double doors to the duke’s palace of Daveryn. When they appeared, the sound of screeching goblins pierced their ears. The small and vile creatures had been throwing a rotting severed hand between them, standing upon one another’s overly large heads, trying to knock each other over with the weight of the weeping fist. Pellius scowled in distaste, his lip curling as he looked upon the loathsome creatures. With a swift kick, he launched one of the critters that scuttled around his ankles high into the air, sending it soaring far into the distance behind the wreckage of a nearby gatehouse.
“Inform Sakkarot that we are here,” Pellius growled fiercely.
With ear-splitting high pitched wails, the group of goblins scattered and fled inside the palace doors. Willow could not help but laugh, arching her brow towards him.
“Filthy creatures,” he grimaced.
As they slowly made their way through the open doors, under a sea of glaring eyes and wary gazes, a booming laugh sounded from deeper into the chamber.
“You’ve been announced!” Sakkarot’s deep rumbling voice chuckled.
They walked through the narrow pass of the entry, stepping out into the main chamber of the large hall. The carnage that had become of the throne room, surged a wave of bile up into Willow’s throat. Corpses hung from the ceiling, gruesome portraits of blood and bone decorated the walls and floor, scavenged piles of limbs and bloodied weapons heaped in the corners. An array of battle-worn beasts and feral hungry creatures watched their arrival with barely controlled savagery. And in the centre of the heinous league, sitting upon the tainted throne, was the black-furred and fire wielding monster that led their kind.

“Sakkarot Fire-Axe!” Pellius bellowed, “It is in victory we come to see you! Word of your grand triumph has reached the city of Matharyn, well fought, old friend!”
“It is a glorious day!” the brute rumbled, grinning his vicious toothy maw, “A fine slaughter for the tales of history!”
He hefted his blazing sword above his head, and pointed it towards the charred banner that hung above his throne.
“Have you seen my prize?” he snarled joyously, “It is a fine prize!”
The Standard of St. Teonas, its edges crisp and crumbling, its flank marred by the blackened burns of infernal fire. As the Mitran king had led his army across the lands, in hopes of defeating the bugbear horde from the north, they had marched under the very same banner.
“A truly fine prize,” Garvana grinned, reaching out for a firm and masculine handshake, “It was well done, Fire-Axe.”
“It was a shame the King did not make it to the battlefield,” he rasped darkly, “But I hear he met his own death at the hands of other vicious warriors.”
“That he did,” Garvana laughed maliciously.
“Where’s the orc?” Sakkarot frowned, looking around for Bor before his eyes rested on Traya, “And who’s this?”
“Bor did not make it,” Garvana said regretfully, casting a harsh glance towards the sorcerous, “And this is Traya.”
“Congratulations on the victory,” Traya said respectfully, bowing her head.
“Enough with the sweet talk,” Willow interrupted, pulling free a bottle of the finest whiskey from her pack, “We do not come empty handed.”
She held it out to the bugbear leader, a sly grin upon her face. As he accepted it, his brows rose with his eager and feral smile.
“Come in, my friends!” he bellowed, “We have much to celebrate…”

As the raucous chorus of bestial cheer filled the gory hall, the Forsaken relaxed back into the chairs. Though the laughed along with the grizzly details of the Battle of Fallingsbridge, and they drank down the dark liquor that was passed upon the crude makeshift tables, they were not truly relaxed. Each of them were acutely aware that they were within a hall filled with terrible beasts, all loyal to Sakkarot, who was in turn loyal to their most potent and recent foe.
“Fire-Axe,” Garvana beckoned, calling his attention, “I wonder, have you ever heard of a great cairn linnorm within the savage north?”
Sakkarot laughed, “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Nithoggr,” Willow said ominously, “The Strider-in-the-Dark.”
At mention of his name, some of the brute’s recoiled in harsh growls and hisses, turning dark eyes upon her. Willow’s brow arched high at their reactions, as she slowly brought her cup to her lips and sipped the burning whiskey.
“I have heard of him,” Sakkarot replied, shrewd eyes looking them over, “I have never seen him myself, but it is possible one of the brothers have.”
He turned from them towards the far table.
“Shagaroth Night-Mane!” he bellowed.
From the shadows of the room, the eerily silent beast of blackness appeared, his sinister stride unheard as he approached. Sakkarot tilted his chin, signalling towards Willow.
“Ah,” the feral beast slithered his grin, “The vicious one.”
“Shagaroth,” Willow greeted coldly, “Have you heard of the Strider-in-the-Dark?”
The skulking creature curled his lip, looking down on Willow with menacing eyes.
“I have,” he replied quietly.
“We need to find him,” Willow insisted, “We know he resides in the spine of the world, but we have no time to search the entire north to find it.”
“You wish to find him?” the beast snarled a hissed laugh, “Are you so eager to die?”
Willow’s other brow rose, “What do you know of him?”
The black and silver furred creature grinned an uneasy and eldritch smile, as he pulled free the rough wooden stool next to her and straddled it backwards, resting his forearms upon its back.

“Few years back,” he began, beady black eyes of hatred staring towards her, “I was hunting with the Night-Mane’s, tracking a group of snow elves,” he grinned viciously as he explained, “Their scalps make the warmest fur for the long winters, and though their meat is tough and chewy, not much else lives up that way worth eating.”
“We cornered a few in the western mountains, about as far north as you can go. Tracked them for days, across Iced Death Valley, through the frozen gorge and out into the pine forest. We knew we were gaining on them, but each time we thought we were close enough, those snaking rodents would give us the slip. So we moved through the night, didn’t sleep for two days until we found them camping by the edge of the clearing at the most northern point of the mountains. The Spine of the World, is what they call it, the jagged peaks of the ice mountains, like colossal gnawed bones sticking out of the land. Nothing grows there. No trees, no shrubs. The wind is so harsh and heavy that even the snow cannot rest. It is a desolate plateau of barren rock. The elves fled into a great cavemouth, shadowed by the peaks. They sought shelter, but they had cornered themselves. We were preparing to ambush them, figured an easy meal…” he scoffed a harsh laugh, shaking his head, “But then, the sounds came. Slaughter. Not just killing or feasting. Real slaughter, screams and cries, snarls of savagery and pure evil… sounds of terrible slaughter. We changed our plan quickly, because not one of us was eager to face the creature within. We were going to wait outside and pick off the elves as they escaped. We watched a few make a break from the mouth, but they didn’t get far. The first we saw was a burst of fluid, black like night, but vicious. Not just deadly… it ate their skin, right from their bones. It melded their flesh and bone together with the rock of the cavern, their skin shrivelled and withered on their bones before it burned away. I saw only a single flash of black from inside… and we ran.”
“You ran?” Garvana asked, arching her brow.
“Yes,” Shagaroth hissed venomously, “I have never seen something so terrible. Never seen something so big… so we ran.”
“Do you remember exactly where it was?” Willow pressed, narrowing her eyes.
“I’ll never forget where it was,” he scoffed, “I remember, so I know never to go there again.”
“Could you mark it on a map?” Willow asked, pulling a parchment map of Talingarde from her pack.
“You still wish to fine the Strider?” Shagaroth frowned, in an expression of disbelief.
“We do,” Willow said plainly, arching her brow.
The sleek and feral creature grinned a sinister smile, as he tore the parchment from Willow’s hands and clumsily scrawled directions, “You shall make a fine meal for it.”
“I think I’d be rather tough and chewy,” Willow smirked.
A hissing laugh greeted her reply.
“Sakkrot, my friend,” Garvana said quietly, “There is something else we wish to discuss with you. Is there a chance we may have a word in private?”
Though his furry brow lifted crookedly, he grinned to the iron-clad woman.
“I always have time for the Ninth,” he nodded, standing from his chair, “Come…”

As they entered the war room, Pellius sealed the doors behind them. With a swift look around the chamber to ensure they were alone, Willow turned to Traya.
“If you will,” she said quietly to the sorcerous.
“What is this?” Sakkarot growled, eyes of suspicion narrowing upon them.
Willow halted Traya with a hand as she looked to the beast.
“What I have to say is not to be heard by others,” she said carefully, “She will just ensure we cannot be overheard by listening ears.”
Sakkarot gripped his flaming blade as his eyes shrewdly evaluated the risk.
“You must trust us, Sakkarot,” Willow pressed, “We mean you no harm.”
Slowly, he drew his sword from its sheath, and nodded towards her cautiously. Willow inclined her head to Traya, who began whispering a rasping incantation, as she traced delicate patterns in the air. Though they felt no change in the air of the chamber, Traya nodded to signal that the spell was active.
“I apologise for the paranoia,” Willow smiled to Sakkarot, “But it imperative that Thorn does not hear our words.”
Though he kept his blade firmly in his grasp, the tall and bestial bugbear listened closely to her words.
“We are no longer bound to the Cardinal by contract,” Willow explained coldly, “Hell has renounced him, and we have been charged to destroy him.”
“His title of High Priest has been rescinded,” Pellius said firmly, with a small glance to Garvana, “And given to another, more worthy servant of darkness.”
Sakkarot’s shrewd gaze followed their words, his brow arching as he looked to Garvana.
“His disloyalty has led him into madness,” Willow continued, “He is no longer fit to lead the crusade of the Dark Lord. We tell you this, not as a threat. But as forewarning. The Cardinal shall fall, yet perhaps, you do not have to. In the game of war, there must always be a loser. You have accepted that eventually you will be its chosen victim. But what if it did not need to be so?”
The bugbear frowned upon her words, watching her with thoughtful eyes for a moment. His lip quirked in a small and sad smile.
“I am prepared to accept my fate,” he said, with only the smallest touch of regret, “I knew what fate lay before me. And I would accept it once more if I was offered it again.”
“Before the Battle of Fallingsbridge, you told me you were sure Thorn would throw you to the wolves,” Willow scowled, “And your premonition was true. It is not only you he will, but it was us he had planned. It is that disloyalty that has condemned him. What binds you to him? For it may be what undoes your chains.”
“I do not wish to speak of it,” Sakkarot growled, a warning that told Willow she was dreading upon thin ice.
“I do not wish to rile you,” Willow said softly, “I merely wish to know if there is an escape for you. I see a great ally when I look at you, Sakkarot Fire-Axe. And I am not inclined to lose such an alliance to the madness of a traitor.”
Slowly, a smile filled with a strange and bestial warmness lifted his furred lip.
“I am bound to Thorn by more than words,” he said finally, sheathing his fiery blade, “While he lives, I remain in his service.”
Willow looked upon the beast, resignation in his stance. She smiled, though she sighed a small breath of understanding.
“Just remember,” she said quietly, “That when he falls, you are not without friends.”
Sakkarot nodded solemnly, clasping Willow’s offered hand tightly. As he turned to the others, Garvana stepped up with a determined stride, a fierce look of pride in her face.
“Fight well, Sakkarot,” she said, grasping his forearm, “And stay alive, my friend…”


As they arrived in the green and lush farmlands of Ghastenhall, the dwindling light of dusk cast the rolling hills in hollows of black and emerald. When they opened the door to the Silkcreek Farmstead, they were greeted by the points of swords and daggers.
“Oh!” Raiju laughed, grinning his toothy smile, “It is you! Come in, come in!”
The red-skinned oni laughed as he put away his curved blade, followed by the guards and servants who averted their fearful gazes.
“Good!” Raiju grinned, “Good you are back! Good you need Raiju to do something! Cannot stop the hound anymore, he’s eaten three of the men.”
“Sith?” Willow laughed, “Where is he?”
“Out back in barn,” Raiju frowned, “He almost burned down the kitchen yesterday.”
“It seems we have been gone too long,” Pellius frowned, looking over their servants with disdain, “What have you been doing?”
“Raiju has overseen three shipments from the island,” he reported formally, “Only one more to go. They left the port few days ago…”
For a moment, Willow listened to account of Raiju’s month, but grew quickly tired of the proceeding. She excused herself from them, strolling through the parlour and into the kitchen.
“I have heard that King Markadian has died,” said a voice, emotionless and unfeeling.
Willow turned to see a figure clad in dark armour, leaning against the kitchen bench, spiralling infernal glyphs painted along his flesh.
“Ifran Al-janbiya,” Willow greeted, arching an eyebrow, “You have heard correctly.”
“Then the contract is fulfilled,” he replied, nodding his head curtly.
She realised suddenly that the Forsaken had been swept up with the intensity and excitement of their mission, forgetting that the assassin was awaiting his chance to complete his contract on the king. They had left him behind, and fulfilled the deed while he remained and awaited their word.
“You are not offended or disgruntled that we performed the deed without you?”
“No,” the dark man replied, no trace of hidden anger or irritation, “It matters not whose blade claimed the kill. The contract has been fulfilled. That is what matters.”
For a moment, Willow watched the curious man. With a keen eye for deception, she frowned as she saw not a hint of it.
“And where does that leave you?” she asked, “The offer of employment still remains.”
“I shall accept it,” he said simply, “Do you have a target in mind?”
Willow smiled as she turned for the door, “Many. We will discuss the plan tomorrow. For now, you will have to excuse me…”

As she passed the frightened servants, she made her way through the kitchen door and into the small courtyard that held the path to the barn. Using her fingers, she whistled loudly, a high pitched piercing sound. When she heard the familiar howl, she felt the grin slide high upon her lips. Across the darkened expanse, a sudden blaze of hellfire appeared from beyond the red wood doors of the aged structure. A horse-sized eruption of flame began an excited and eager sprint towards her. Willow laughed as the fearsome and terrible creature leaped into the air, before arriving by her side a nuzzling her so hard it knocked her off her feet.
“Dorith skath Sith, hirr mer trath,” she rasped in a calming tone, greeting him with tender affection.
She grinned a joyous smile, running her hands through his blazing fur. As she got to her feet, looking upon the infernal hound with fondness, she saw the eyes of the kitchen staff wide in fear and awe as she patted the fearsome beast as if he were a pup. She laughed, soft words of promise whispered to him, assuring him that the next fight – he would be by her side once more.


Enveloped by the weighty embrace of slumber, Willow drifted through the morning hours of sunrise, hidden from the harsh rays that lit the farmlands of Ghastenhall. It was as her mind floated in and out of consciousness, a sudden wave of blissful agony seared along her flesh. When the burning smolder of flames licked the bare skin of her chest, her eyes flew wide. A thick blackness greeted her, its oppressive weight crushing her frame painfully as she strained her eyes to see. As she tried to move her arms, she felt a force of terrifying power wrench them back into place, holding her captive in its encompassing dread. It was as if the very darkness itself held her still. It stretched her limbs wide, pulling outward in a tightening and unbreakable hold. When the agony of her joints began to cry in protest, she felt a euphoric sigh fall from her lips.

As the sound ricocheted across the void of blackness, a callous and delighted laugh echoed back.
“The heavy white limbs and the cruel*red lips,” rasped a familiar voice darkly, “Like a venomous flower; thy teeth in flesh rips…”
“What do you want?” Willow gasped, as her words forced the darkness to wrench her limbs tighter, “What is this?”
“I had hoped…” Switch’s voice chuckled, “That I would not need to resort to such crude measures, but that warrior seems set to give you not a moment peace. Never mind him, he cannot guard you here…”
“Where am I?” Willow whispered, whimpering as the strain on her slender arms and legs forced her muscles to cramp.
“In your own mind,” he laughed maliciously, “Do not fret, sweet Willow, you are safe.”
“Safe?” Willow scowled through clenched teeth.
Slowly, a figure emerged from the darkness. His feral grin the first thing to glow amongst the black, the glisten of his raven eyes bright in a sheen of light.
“In a manner of speaking,” he grinned.
A sudden burst of searing unseen flame erupted along the bare skin of her back, coursing in fierce and blistering heat that tore through the bitter flesh. She cried out, snapping her head back in agony as the burning forced her to writhe in pain, tearing upon the crushing weight that held her limbs.
“What are you doing to me?” she growled.
His dastardly laugh caressed her ears in vicious glee.
“It is not what I am doing,” he smirked, “But what you are doing to yourself…”
“What?” Willow snarled, her lip curling in deep suffering.
“I have no power here,” he chuckled darkly, “I cannot make you feel a thing, I can merely make suggestions. And you seem all too willing to comply…”
With her lip drawn between her teeth to silence the groan that threatened to escape her mouth, she pushed all of her strength into freeing herself from the brutal embrace. As she tore her limbs against the force, they thrashed in protest as the darkness seemed to firm its grasp. As if in punishment for attempting to escape, the lick of scorching flame spread along her torso and unfurled along her legs. Though she knew the flesh was clean and unharmed, she felt the blazing fire upon her skin as if seared with sweltering embers. There was no stopping the guttural moan that expelled from her lips.
“Did I forget to mention?” Switch laughed malevolently, “That you also have no power here?”
“Who does?!” she snapped viciously.
“Your desires,” he breathed, eyes flashing with sadistic delight, “You are in a realm where only the truest desires of your mind and soul have dominance. You cannot fight them here; you cannot hide from them. You are powerless against their will.”
He reached out a tender hand, slowly tracing his finger from her lower stomach up through the centre of her chest. Though his touch was delicate and soft, the searing inferno blazed along its path.
“What you feel…” he said quietly, an all-knowing grin lighting his face, “Is only what you wish to. What you see, is only what you want to…”
Slowly, he turned his hand, growing bestial claws from the tips of his fingers. He carefully pressed them into her chest, dragging them down at an unhurried and leisurely place.
“You bleed…” he whispered, as she saw the crimson lines where his claws passed, “Only because you wish to bleed…”
Her eyes widened, her breathing staggered, as she watched the drops of red slide down her chest. Faster than her eyes could see, he reared back his hand and slashed his claws along the bare flesh of her stomach. What came from her mouth should have been a torturous scream of pain, or at least a snarl of bitter anger. Yet, it was a single gasp of encompassing bliss. Switch laughed a feral sound of dark enjoyment, as he retracted his claws and simply lifted his chin in satisfaction.

“Have you ever heard the last chapter of the ode to the Lady of Pain?” he asked, arching his brow, “I doubt you have, for it was never revealed in its entirety.”
“You wish to read me poetry?” Willow scoffed, rasping breath through thundering lungs.
“It is not a simple poem,” he chuckled, though his eyes flashed wide as her whimpers of agony continued, “Nor was it written by a mortal servant of the whore queen. It was written by a powerful fiend, not in worship, but in a desperate lust.”
With slow and unrushed movements, he reached to his side and pulled free a harsh leather whip from his belt. As he let it unravel from his hand, Willow’s breathing hitched in trepidation as she saw nine vicious tails, laced with thin metal thorns.

“The loves that complete and control,” he recited, a sly grin upon his lips, blazing heat within his gaze, “All the joys of the flesh, all the terrors that wear out the soul…”
With dire and cruel intent in his eyes, he lashed the whip across her torso, leaving slender trails of scarlet that wrapped around her back and along her stomach. She shrieked in anguish, as the whip licked her skin, flaming infernal rapture surging through her veins.
“What tortures undreamt of,” he continued darkly, grinning in merciless glee, “Unheard of,*unwritten, unknown? By the hunger of change and emotion,*by the thirst of unbearable things. By despair, the twin-born of devotion,*by the pleasure that winces and stings. The delight that consumes the desire,*the desire that outruns the delight. By the cruelty burns as a fire,*and torn flesh as the bite.”
With unrelenting fury, he lashed the venomous whip across her flesh, until the skin rose in rough welts and feathered cuts. She could not deny the cries of pleasurable suffering that rushed from her lips, the trembling of her chest as the aching need for more lingered in words upon her tongue. He lifted the callous whip in his grip, savage and depraved joy dancing across his eyes, as he struck out the leather and lashed across her thighs. As the pain flooded her soul; she felt tears glisten her eyes. Her head fell back, unable to hold its weight, as a contented smile grew upon her lips. Unable to resist, she bit down firmly on her lip as the callous whip laced along her legs.
“Thou lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes,” he whispered, curious and enthralled eyes devouring her reaction,*“And laughs with insatiable lips.*Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses;*thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses. Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle,*thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive;*in his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,*in his hands all thy cruelties thrive.”
Upon slow and deliberate steps, he prowled towards her. He wore the face of a curious predator, eager to seek and test his prey. Her eyelids were heavy, the soft panting breath falling from her chest in weary course. Her limbs sunk into the crushing grasp of the darkness; no will or want for release. Though the flesh upon her bones stung and simmered, she relished the ache with sinful glee. As he reached her, she lifted her head through the weakness, straining eyes flickering to find his gaze. When she did, she saw the scarlet blaze of infernal grace, and its eagerness to consume. In contrast to the cruel yearning in which he looked to her, he leaned forward and pressed a single tender kiss on either side of her neck.
“As of old when the world's heart was lighter,” he breathed, soft and heated breath feathering along her throat, “Through thy garments the grace of thee glows. The white wealth of thy body made whiter, by the blushes of amorous blows. And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,*and branded by kisses that bruise.”
His hand reached for her, gentle fingers slipping into her hair. Slowly, his hand clenched, ripping the strands of ebony locks in a brutal grip. She whimpered in delight, a soft laugh falling from her parted lips. He crushed his mouth to hers, snarling teeth raking her supple lips, his commanding tongue steering hers. He kissed her savagely, as if he would devour her were she to dare pull away. Though his lips demanded her obedience, she could not help the delicate and deplorable laugh that quivered from her throat. His kiss ceased, as his widened eyes flared with rage. Though the languid laugh continued to tickle her tongue, she felt the eager grin slide upon her lips.
“How does it end?” she purred, eyes of dark seduction staring deeply into his gaze.
Though he looked to her in vexing anger, his eyebrow arched as his lips slithered in smirk.
“I could hurt thee — but pain would delight thee,” he rasped, “Or caress thee — but love would repel. Only the lovers whose lips would excite thee, are the foulest serpents in hell…”

Willow sighed a lustful breath, as she slowly tilted her head in his grasp.
“And which serpent could possibly be enough for Our Lady of Pain?”
“None but the most powerful,” he smirked, “There a few beings in existence that truly understand pain as she. To be a masochist is easy, it is to submit willingly to the pain, both of the flesh and mind. But to embrace it, is to embrace a true power, for mastery of it leaves none able to wield it over you. A few rare souls who relish the pain, for the joy it brings to the wielder of the blade…”
Though his hand did not lessen the grip in her hair, his other slid around her throat, long fingers wrapping tight. With a crushing grasp, he lifted her from the encompassing possession of the darkness. His black eyes seethed with feral glee, his consuming gaze devouring her by sight. As his fingers compressed firmer, forcing her lips to part in order to draw an ounce of air, she whimpered in carnal delight.
“A servant like that,” he rasped hungrily, “Such a prize she would be. She would have the eyes of every foul serpent watching, waiting, eager to taste…”

“Every serpent,” she repeated, her voice straining against the crushing pressure upon her throat, “Including the Pale Kiss?”
Slowly, his eyes widened. He released his grip and dropped Willow to the floor. Turning his gaze from her as he smirked bitterly.
“So you do know,” he said coldly.
Willow laughed a harsh sound, rubbing her tender neck as she slowly stood.
“You expect me to believe you did not plan it?” she scoffed, “You would have me believe that you were simply so distracted, simply so enraptured that you left behind your blade by chance?”
Willow prowled towards him, eyes alight in sensuous ire.
“No,” she shook her head, “You knew he would find it. You knew he would discover the truth. What was it? An opportunity to flaunt your station? To bolster your confidence and parade your power? Why reveal yourself to him, and yet refuse to do so to me?”
His grin slithered in delight.
“I have told you,” he shrugged, calculating eyes playing in mischief, “I wish to appear at the most inconvenient time. To ruffle feathers and cause trouble, to make you doubt yourself…”
“And to make others doubt me?” she growled.
The sweet enjoyment sparkled in his eyes, as he saw her rising temper.
“Perhaps,” he grinned roguishly, “Though it is merely a benefit, not the sole objective.”
“Then what was the objective?” she scowled, “What do you hope to achieve? You are an Infernal Duke, and yet you seem to waste your time following me around? Surely you have something better to do?!”
“There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you,” he rasped darkly, reaching out a finger to trace along her chin.
She slapped his hand away, a bitter fury seething in her mind.
“Enough!” she snarled, “Tell me! You have shadowed me for more than a decade! Though it may not be long for an immortal, it is still longer than a simple enjoyment! And I know nothing about you! Nothing but lies! The only truth is given to me by those who have never even seen your face! I demand to know what you want from me?!”
“You demand?” he asked warningly, his brow arching in terrifying deterrent.
But Willow had become too infuriated, having had more than enough of his sinful games. Though she saw him with new eyes, a renewed fear now that she realised the immense stretch of his power, she was too far swept within the seething anger.
“I demand,” she repeated, a fierce defiance within her gaze, “I have played along for far longer than I should have. What do you want of me? Why do you always return?”
Though his dark eyes blazed with fury, his face remained unmoving in control. He scoffed a small laugh.
“Return?” he scorned, “I never leave.”
“What does that mean?” Willow growled in frustration.
He grinned at her anger, devouring the sight of her as he tilted his head.
“I was sent to determine if you were indeed the one we searched for,” he said darkly, “And I remained to ensure you were kept secret and away from prying eyes until the time was right…”
“What are you talking about?” she frowned, “Who was searching for me? And why were they searching for me?”
“I was to await the time until your soul was ready,” he continued, ignoring her question.
“Ready for what?!” Willow snarled, vexation tainting her features, “Who was I hidden from? To all be damned, just answer me!”
He laughed harshly, grinning gleefully at her annoyance.

“For a servant of Hell,” he said with a venomous promise of reprimand, “You seem to have forgotten your place…”
“Is that what you want from me?” she scoffed, “I am supposed to bow to you, now that I know who you are?”
He smirked a malicious smile, “You do not truly know, though, do you?”
“No… but is that what you want?” she asked, arching her brow, slowly stepping towards him, “Would you want me to fall to my knees and beg for your forgiveness? To apologise for my defiance, plead for punishment, oh great and powerful Duke?”
His cruel eyes pierced into her gaze, black wells glimmering with dark and sinful thought.
“Then the chase would be over, would it not?” she rasped darkly, “And I, would be lying through my teeth…”
He grinned, the sharp toothed smile telling Willow the truth of her words.
“You will find the answers when they are ready to be revealed,” he said finally, “Though I am not the one who will give them.”
“I suppose it is futile asking who it will be?” she scoffed.
“I suppose it is.”
“Were your orders to seduce me?” Willow asked, arching her brow in disdain.
“It was not an order,” he laughed in salacious delight, “Simply a delicious benefit.”
Willow felt herself frowning, shrewd eyes looking over his face. In the dark embrace of blackness, the shadow cast deep hollows along his eyes, giving his appearance a deathly and fearsome gleam.
“I have heard tell of the perfect being,” Willow said carefully, searching his gaze for truth, “A defeat at the hands of a bright divine force… and an embryo…”
His composure did not waver, his dark and sinister grin still fixed upon his lips. He gave nothing away as she pried further into the intrigue.
“What was that?” she asked, piercing eyes flashing with livid curiosity, “What is that?”
Switch simply chuckled, delighted by her frustrated need for knowledge.
As he spoke, his eyes flashed a blazing emerald green, “Fate…”
Another answer, replaced with another question. After a moment enraptured in her vexed thoughts, she returned her gaze to him.
“Among the vast amounts that I do not yet understand,” she scoffed harshly, “There is a single curiosity that I cannot fathom. Why you would reveal yourself to Pellius…”
Slowly, her prowling steps guided her towards him, looking into the unending darkness of his gaze.
“It is a far blunter move than I would have expected from you,” she said quietly, her brow arching in intrigue, “Your wish to irritate him is usually more subtle. Marking me in ways that cannot be interpreted as anything but what they are, a male marking his territory. The simple fact that he has never seen you delights you, that much is obvious. So, why would you leave behind your blade and reveal yourself? Surely your ego is not so brutish?”

For a moment, nothing but silence greeted her words, and a vicious gaze that glared towards her. Slowly, he stepped towards her, towering over slender frame, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck. He grasped tightly, pulling her head backward, angling her face towards him. His black gaze pierced her defiant strength, shriveling in submission beneath him. The intensity in his gaze was so fierce; she was terrified and enthralled in perfect harmony. Of all the things she had expected him to do, he did the only thing she could have never anticipated. He bent down, pressing a soft and tender kiss to her lips. Though brief and gentle, she felt the pulsing terror that ricocheted her heart in her chest.
“Would you believe me,” he whispered, warm breath feathering along her lips, “If I told you, that you are the reason I left it behind. Your touch had me paralyzed within its clutches, I did not realize it was gone until it was too late.”
His other hand slowly slid through her hair, a deceptively fond gesture, one that had the hairs on Willow’s neck stand on end and a cold and feral chill quiver along her spine.
“No,” she breathed against his mouth, “I am not foolish enough to believe that…”
For a moment, his eyes searched her gaze. An unhurried grin slithered across his chin, as his hand slid down and wrapped tightly around her throat. He lifted her into the air, crushing her neck between his strong hands. His eyes blazed a fiendish scarlet, as Willow saw the flash of a horned silhouette.
“That is why,” he whispered viciously, “The eyes of this serpent, shall be ever watching, waiting, eager to taste…”


** the original version of the poem used in the last scene is "Dolores" (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs), by Algernon Charles Swinburne. It is an amazing read, that has inspired Willow's character creation beyond measure. I have changed it slightly to fit the story/scene, but the original is perfect just as it is. You can read it here:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/45283

minderp
2017-04-13, 09:09 PM
I will put up the Character Builds as the players send them to me, exactly how they provided it. :smallbiggrin:


First up; the mighty and powerful warrior, the crusading Anti-Paladin of Asmodeus, ruler of the weak, leader of the strong, The Fist - Pellius Albus.




(with no items)

Level 15 Human (Chelaxian)
13 Levels Antipaladin / 2 levels Bloodrager (Archetype: Steelblood)

STR: 18 DEX: 15 CON: 16/** (Undead) INT: 14 WIS: 10 CHA: 16

Basics:
Wounds: 47
Vigor: 86
BAB: 15 (CMB: 21, CMD: 35)
Speed: 30ft/25ft in heavy armour
Initative: 6

Saves:
Fort: 17
Reflex: 11
Will: 11

Feats:
Power Attack
Combat Expertise
Step Up
Improved Disarm
Greater Disarm
The Bitten
The Dying
The Risen
The Initiated
http://paizo.com/campaigns/BigOMsWayOfTheWicked (Easy link to feat descriptions)

Skills:
Acrobatics 10
Appraise 2
Bluff 19
Climb 6
Diplomacy 20
Disable Device -
Disguise 7
Escape Artist 0
Fly 1
Handle Animal 7
Heal 1
Intimidate 15
Know Arcana 18
Know Eng 3
Know History 3
Know Nature 3
Know Nobles 3
Know Planes 5
Know Religion 19
Linguistics 4
Perception 23
Perform Keyboard 4
Profession Torturer 14
Ride 4
Sense Motive 23
Sleight of Hand -
Spellcraft 6
Stealth 4
Survival 4
Swim 6
UMD -

Armour
+3 dastard mithral full plate
+2 arrow deflection heavy steel shield

Weapons
Hellbrand (+4 unholy good-outsider bane greataxe)
+2 flaming longsword
+1 glaive
+1 shocking burst shortspear
Adamantine dagger
Cold iron throwing axe
Silver throwing axe
Oathbow (+2 composite longbow, +2 STR bonus)


Combat:
Built as an all-rounder in combat. Not specializing in any one weapon or technique, but always able to contribute at some level
Disarm and torturer skill to recover potential leads from enemies
Antipaladin touch of corruption and channel negative energy heals fellow vampires, while damaging living creatures

Social:
Built mainly as face/leader
Back up for most knowledge checks
Torturer and perform keyboard because evil campaign

minderp
2017-04-13, 09:20 PM
Second, the pious and devout cleric, the student and teacher of the ways of Dark Lord, the High Priestess of Asmodeus in Talingarde, The Prophet - Garvana Forthwise.



Female human, Cleric of Asmodeus 15
LE Medium humanoid (human)
Init +9;
Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +24

Defense
AC 40, touch 14, flat-footed 36 (+12 armor, +3 Dex, +1 dodge, +8 natural, +6 shield)
Vig 96
Wounds
Fort +8, Ref +9, Will +13

Offense
Speed 40 ft. (30 ft. in armor)
Melee +1 heavy mace +16/+11 (1d8+6 +2 trait fire damage on a critical hit with a fire attack) or
+3 morningstar +18/+13 (1d8+8 +2 trait fire damage on a critical hit with a fire attack)
Ranged longbow +9/+4 (1d8/×3 +2 trait fire damage on a critical hit with a fire attack)

Special Attacks
blood drain, disease variant channeling 4/day (DC 19, 7d6 plus 3 channel penalty), hell's corruption (7 rounds, 7/day), scythe of evil (7 rounds, 2/day)

Domain Spell-Like Abilities (CL 14th; concentration +18)
At will—master's illusion (14 rounds/day)
7/day—copycat (14 rounds)
Cleric Spells Prepared (CL 14th; concentration +18)
7th—blasphemyD (DC 21), destruction (2, DC 21)
6th—blade barrier (DC 20), cold ice strikeUM (DC 20), greater dispel magic, planar binding (devils only)D (DC 20)
5th—breath of life (DC 19), false visionD, raise dead, spell resistance
4th—blessing of fervorAPG (2, DC 18), confusionD (DC 18), communal protection from energyUC, restoration, unholy blight (DC 18)
3rd—aura sightACG, dispel magic (2), nondetectionD, protection from energy, speak with dead (DC 17)
2nd—bear's endurance, bull's strength (2), invisibilityD, communal protection from goodUC (2)
1st—disguise selfD, divine favor (2), fallback strategy, know the enemyUM (2)
0 (at will)—detect magic, light, read magic, stabilize
D Domain spell; Domains Trickery, Evil (DevilAPG subdomain)

Statistics
Str 21, Dex 16, Con —, Int 14, Wis 18, Cha 8
Base Atk +10; CMB +15; CMD 29

Feats
Alertness, Channel Smite, Craft Wand, Dodge, Extra Channel, Heavy Armor Proficiency, Improved Channel, Improved Initiative, Lightning Reflexes, Skill Focus (Spellcraft), The Bitten, The Dying, The Risen, Toughness

Traits
Arson, Asmodeus is with you, Oathbound, reactionary

Skills
Appraise +7, Bluff +3, Diplomacy +4, Disguise +13, Fly +6, Handle Animal +9, Heal +8, Knowledge (arcana) +19, Knowledge (dungeoneering) +3, Knowledge (engineering) +4, Knowledge (history) +6, Knowledge (local) +3, Knowledge (nature) +3, Knowledge (nobility) +6, Knowledge (planes) +11, Knowledge (religion) +14, Linguistics +15, Perception +24, Perform (oratory) +1, Sense Motive +10, Spellcraft +25, Stealth +4, Use Magic Device +13; Racial Modifiers +2 Perception

minderp
2017-04-13, 09:48 PM
Third, though she needs no flattering introduction, is the Nameless One - Willow Monteguard.




Female human unchained rogue, knife master 15

LE Medium humanoid (human)

Init +12; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +32

Defense
AC 27, touch 19, flat-footed 18
Vig 84
Wounds 55
Fort +10, Ref +19, Will +12; +2 resistance vs. good

Defensive Abilities
blade sense +5, improved evasion, improved uncanny dodge; Immune undead traits; Resist cold 10, electricity 10

Weaknesses
daylight weakness

Offense
Speed 30 ft., fly 60 ft. (good)

Melee
Main hand
The Ruby Kiss +2 unholy silver dagger +20/+15/+10 (1d4+9/17-20 plus 2d6 vs. good)
Offhand
Blade of the Black Serpent +20/+15 (1d4+5/17-20)
Ranged
mwk blowgun +20/+15/+10 (1d2) or
mwk shortbow +20/+15/+10 (1d6/×3)

Special Attacks
blood drain, sneak attack (unchained) knife master - (with light blade)+8d8/ (with anything else)+8d4

Statistics
Str 12, Dex 26, Con —, Int 14, Wis 12, Cha 20
Base Atk +11; CMB +12; CMD 31

Feats
Alertness, Combat Reflexes, Deft Hands, Dodge, Improved Critical (dagger), Improved Initiative, Improved Two-weapon Fighting, Lightning Reflexes, Stealthy, The Bitten, The Dying, The Initiated, The Risen, Two-weapon Fighting, Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus (dagger)

Traits
fiendish confidence, indomitable faith

Skills Acrobatics +26, Appraise +6, Bluff +30, Climb +24, Diplomacy +26, Disable Device +32, Disguise +28, Escape Artist +35, Fly +34, Intimidate +27, Knowledge (arcana) +7, Knowledge (dungeoneering) +6, Knowledge (engineering) +3, Knowledge (history) +3, Knowledge (local) +20, Knowledge (planes) +3, Knowledge (religion) +3, Linguistics +10, Perception +32, Sense Motive +27, Sleight of Hand +30 (+37 to conceal a light blade), Stealth +41, Survival +1 (+6 when tracking), Swim +10, Use Magic Device +26
Racial Modifiers +4 Bluff, +4 Perception, +4 Sense Motive, +4 Stealth

Tracked Resources
Opportunist (1/round) (Ex)
Wand of teleport (10 charges)
Wand of unholy blight (30 charges)
Winged boots (3/day)

Special Abilities
Black Market Connections (Ex)
Blade Sense +5 (Ex)
Blood Drain (1d4 Con, gain 5 Hp) (Ex)
Combat Reflexes (9 AoO/round)
Darkvision (60 feet)
Daylight Weakness
Debilitating Injury: Bewildered -2/-6 (Ex)
Debilitating Injury: Disoriented -2/-6 (Ex)
Debilitating Injury: Hampered (Ex)
Deft Palm (Ex)
Fly (60 feet, Good)
Gaseous Form (At will) (Su)
Hidden Blade +7
Hidden Mind (Ex)
Improved Evasion (Ex)
Improved Uncanny Dodge
Opportunist (1/round) (Ex)
Pressure Points (Su)
Sneak Attack (Unchained) +8d8/+8d4
Spider Climb (Ex)
Undead Traits





**NOTE**
I am still waiting on the details for Bor and Traya. Will post them when i get them. :smallamused:

minderp
2017-04-13, 10:12 PM
Also.... just in case anyone was interested, I made Switch. :smallamused:
And as i do everything that i bother to do, i went all out.



The Lords of Hell, the Dukes of Perdition, the Princes of Damnation, are the infamous nobility of the Pit, the captains of Hell’s armies, and the architects of unknowable strife. From among the endless armies of the Pit occasionally rise devils of exceptional evil, creatures that embody aspects of Hell’s nature, be it force, corruption, discipline, misery, or any of countless other vices. Forged through millennia of dutiful service, these fiends claw their ways to the ranks of greater devils, the apparent peak of devilkind. Yet, by some act of masterful corruption, these fiends garner the notice of the archdevils, and are recognized with a rare promotion in form and standing. At the hands of these greatest of devils such champions are reshaped into unique new forms and granted powers and authority beyond even greater devils. From that moment on they are among Hell’s masters, the elite of devilkind, the infernal dukes.

Skathos, The Silent Agony, was created in such a way. For a millennia, he was reforged in the deepest pits of Hell, to finally emerge a vile and vicious servant, and personal assassin, of the Lord of the Fourth.
Standing at a height of 6'8", in his most favoured form, he wears the guise of a tall and lean human man. With eyes as black as the darkest shadows of Phlegethon, his gaze disturbs even the most strong of heart and will.
He wears this face upon the material plane, for no mortal could bare to lay their eyes upon him in his true form, without his fiendish appearance devouring their last shreds of sanity.
When within Phlegethon, or in the presence of other devils of sufficient rank, Skathos reveals his true form. On lean limbs that morph like fluid between the color of spilt blood and gleaming ebony, creeps the being of sinister grace. A sneer full of needle-thin teeth gleam from an unmistakably fiendish visage. A pair of raven wings sprout from the back of the hairless humanoid form, fluttering silently like an assassin’s cloak. Though the blackened souless gaze remains the same horror between his forms, when he releases his disguise his eyes blaze an emerald green that shifts between the blackness of night and the seethe of boiling acid. Of all his vileness, it is the unsettling way the fiendish face of Skathos seems to hover above his body that truly unrests the faint of heart. His movements emit no sound, save the noises he chooses to make.

As the Infernal Duke of Desire, Deception and Sadism, Skathos employs his skills in the form of painful retribution and punishment, and demands and delights in masochistic servitude. All lesser beings are nothing but fodder to the desires of creatures such as Skathos, and should know their place. Pain is their state and eternal torment is their just dessert. Like the flames of Hell, pain destroys and purifies, revealing the truth that the sadist is the master, determining how the slave will feel, what they will learn, and if they should die. Following in the merciless commands of his master Belial, he hopes to spread his lessons of pain to all beings, even if it burns their souls to nothingness. It is not only inflicting the torments of the flesh that delight Skathos, but almost more satisfying are the torments of the mind.
Graced with a silver-tongue, the Duke's smooth and charming words are near impossible to deny. His requests are spoken with convincing grace, though there is no choice given in his question, no room for bargaining or defiance. There are few mortals in existence that could challenge his command. When his tongue is simply not enough to overcome a strong willed creature, Skathos will employ the use of his direful and seductive arcana, forcing his prey into physical and mental submission.
In service to the Lord of Pain and Suffering, Skathos enjoys watching beings being tortured. However, few things please him more than masochism, especially when the masochist has no choice but to harm himself. Being the creation of Archdevil Belail, Skathos was granted an array of weapons to inflict his horrid desires upon his chosen victims. "While it is fun to tear the flesh with one's own blade, it is euphoric to watch the flesh tear at itself..."


Titles - The Silent Agony
Alignment - Lawful Evil
Home - Phlegethon, Fourth Layer of Hell
Portfolio - Desire, Deception, Sadism
Domains - Charm, Evil, Law, Trickery
Subdomains - Devil, Lust, Torture, Rage
Favoured Weapon - Vicious Dagger
Symbol - A small blood-letting blade.
Sacred Animal - White Snake.
Sacred Colours - Red


Skathos, The Silent Agony CR 25
XP 1,638,400
Infernal Duke
LE Medium outsider (devil, evil, extraplanar, lawful)
Init +19; Senses blindsight 100 ft., darkvision 100 ft., see in darkness; Perception +50
Aura
unholy aura (DC 33)

Defense
AC 42, touch 30, flat-footed 26
hp 307
Fort +25, Ref +41, Will +34

Defensive Abilities
freedom of movement, improved evasion, improved uncanny dodge, uncanny dodge; DR 5/good; Immune charm, compulsion, enchantments, fire, poison; Resist acid 10, cold 10; SR 30

Offense
Speed 40 ft., fly 60 ft. (good)

Melee
Mainhand
blade of the pale kiss +40/+40/+35/+30/+25 (1d4+17/17-20 plus 2d6 vs. good and 2d6)
Offhand
bladed tongue +41/+36/+31 (1d4+12/17-20 plus 2d6)
Natural
2 claws +30 (1d4+5), tail slap +30 (1d4+5)

Special Attacks
omnicide, rake (2 claws +35, 2d6+11), sneak attack +15d6

Spell-Like Abilities (CL 20th; concentration +35)
Constant—magic circle against good, mind blank, overwhelming presence (DC 46), spider climb
At will—alter self, charm monster (DC 42), charm person (DC 39), detect desires (DC 31), dominate person (DC 42), greater invisibility, greater scrying (DC 36), greater teleport, knock, locate creature, mass suggestion (DC 43), true seeing, undetectable alignment (DC 31)
10/day—inflict pain (DC 39)
8/day—hellfire ray
5/day—destruction (DC 37), fire storm (DC 36), harm (DC 36), mind probe (DC 34), mindwipe (DC 42)
4/day—dance of a thousand cuts, mass charm monster (DC 45), modify memory (DC 43)
3/day—blur, darkness, dimension door, dispel magic, silence (DC 31), suggestion (DC 39), symbol of pain (DC 34)
2/day—plane shift (DC 36), power word kill
1/day—demand (DC 45), discern location, dominate monster (DC 46), dream, fiery body, mass inflict pain (DC 44), meteor swarm (DC 38), mislead, nightmare (DC 36), passwall, shapechange, statue, summon devil, symbol of debauchery (DC 45)
1/week—unhallow

Tactics
Before Combat
Skathos prefers to avoid the need for combat, utilizing his full contingency of mind controlling spells before the need to fight arises. He prefers to always have his prey forced into submission before his final and fatal punishment for having dared stand against him. With aid of his Charm Monster, Mass Charm Monster, Charm person, Demand, Dominate Monster, Dominate Person, Modify Memory, Suggestion and Mass Suggestion - it is unlikely that he is unsuccessful.
When a potent foe continues to seek combat, Skathos will begin by activating his 'at will' True Seeing and Greater Invisibility.
If given the opportunity, Skathos will activate his 'at will' Detect Desires, before enscribing a Symbol of Debauchery designed around his opponents most heinous and lustful desires. While entranced within the grips of desire, Skathos will once again force his prey into submission before ending their lives.
Failing the opportunity to inscribe his favourite rune, the Infernal Duke will fight, with all of the elegance and aptitude of one of Hell's greatest warriors.

During Combat
When combat begins, Skathos turns his eye on the few who manage to resist his constant Overwhelming Presence, Magic Circle Against Good and Unholy Aura.
Skathos is wickedly clever, and quick to change tactics to suit and match his foes strengths, and even quicker to exploit their weaknesses. Equipped with both a vast arsenal of frightening and vicious arcana, and a masterful martial prowess with his dual-wielded profane blades; Skathos has never known a true defeat in battle. Before he begins any melee, he is quick to activate his Dance of a Thousand Cuts, and utilise his Greater Invisibility to initiate Sneak Attacks against any foe he is able to.

Morale
As an Infernal Duke of Hell, Skathos will never bear the shame and humiliation of fleeing. He is not above activating his Greater Invisibility to heal himself, but he is never long from the fray. He will never surrender, unless commanded to by one he considers a superior. He will fight to the death.

Statistics
Str 32, Dex 40, Con 24, Int 22, Wis 26, Cha 40
Base Atk +20; CMB +35; CMD 61

Feats
Agile Maneuvers, Dodge, Greater Spell Focus (enchantment), Greater Two-weapon Fighting, Improved Critical (dagger), Improved Initiative, Improved Two-weapon Fighting, Iron Will, Light Armor Proficiency, Lightning Reflexes, Spell Focus (enchantment), Two-weapon Fighting, Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus (dagger)

Skills
Acrobatics +52 (+56 to jump), Appraise +7, Bluff +60, Climb +48, Diplomacy +47, Disable Device +51, Disguise +47, Escape Artist +57, Fly +39, Intimidate +66, Knowledge (arcana) +37, Knowledge (history) +37, Knowledge (local) +25, Knowledge (nobility) +27, Knowledge (planes) +33, Knowledge (religion) +32, Linguistics +12, Perception +50, Sense Motive +48, Sleight of Hand +55, Spellcraft +45, Stealth +69, Survival +9, Use Magic Device +33

Languages
Abyssal, Aklo, Celestial, Common, Draconic, Dwarven, Elven, Ettin, Giant, Infernal, Shadowtongue, Sylvan, Undercommon; telepathy 300 ft., tongues

Other Gear
armour of the thorned caress, blade of the pale kiss, bladed tongue, belt of physical perfection +6, hellfire halo, profane seal signet, whispering gloves

Special Abilities
Agile Maneuvers
Blindsight (100 feet) (Ex)
Damage Reduction (5/good)
Darkvision (100 feet)
Energy Resistance, Acid (10)
Energy Resistance, Cold (10)
Fly (60 feet, Good)
Freedom of Movement (Su)
Greater Spell Focus (Enchantment)
Immunity to Charm
Immunity to Compulsion
Immunity to Enchantment
Immunity to Fire
Immunity to Poison
Improved Evasion (Ex)
Improved Uncanny Dodge (Ex)
Mobility
Omnicide (Su)
See in Darkness
Sneak Attack +15d6
Spell Focus (Enchantment)
Spell Resistance (30)
Telepathy (300 feet) (Su)
Tongues
Uncanny Dodge (Ex)
Unholy Aura (Constant, DC 33) (Sp)
Wind Stance






Is it terrible he makes my heart flutter? :smalltongue:

overlordseamus
2017-04-14, 04:00 AM
I followed your advice and began reading at a later chapter. I regret this.
After reading the first chapter, i must admit, although your writing has improved tenfold, you should not discount your earlier work.
I am about to lose the following few hours starting from the beginning because i must know how it began, and i have a great deal of work to get done.
See you on the other side. :redcloak:

minderp
2017-04-14, 04:10 AM
I followed your advice and began reading at a later chapter. I regret this.
After reading the first chapter, i must admit, although your writing has improved tenfold, you should not discount your earlier work.
I am about to lose the following few hours starting from the beginning because i must know how it began, and i have a great deal of work to get done.
See you on the other side. :redcloak:

Lol! Thank you! The earlier stuff gets the point across, but each time i read a previous chapter i have a similar thought, "wow, did i really write like that?" Good to know people are enjoying them.
I'd apologise for taking up your time, but i'm not sorry. We all must turn to the darkside eventually. :smallamused:

Sometimes it is just SO GOOD to be the bad guy... :smalltongue:

overlordseamus
2017-04-14, 05:04 AM
Willow is so sassy.
She makes me a little, hot under the collar...

minderp
2017-04-14, 05:08 AM
Willow is so sassy.
She makes me a little, hot under the collar...


Oh dear, it gets so much worse. :smallbiggrin: :smalltongue:

FocusWolf413
2017-04-14, 10:43 AM
Thanks for posting the builds! They're very enlightening.

Wasn't Hellbrand a sword?

minderp
2017-04-14, 07:39 PM
Thanks for posting the builds! They're very enlightening.

Wasn't Hellbrand a sword?

Yes sorry i should have mentioned that. In my story and the written campaign Hellbrand is a sword.
But in game, my DM allowed Hellbrand to be a great axe, knowing the player prefers to play with one. Hellbrand was a sword but changed to an axe when it reformed in Pellius' hands.
My DM is very cool like that. He changes boons and treasure etc so we get more enjoyment out of the game.
But, since it is my story, i like Hellbrand better as a greatsword. :smalltongue:
Sorry for the confusion.

overlordseamus
2017-04-14, 09:13 PM
I am about to enter Valterna. And I must say, your recount of the campaign is very well written, and very well played. The group I played this with didn’t fare anywhere near as well. As per your previous comments, we were not lucky enough to have someone so cryptically inclined.

Some thoughts on the writing as I go.
- I enjoy the way you start each chapter, setting the time of day and the weather of the places you’re in. It sets the background well for whatever your party is about undertake.
- Was the relationship with Pellius planned/played out in session? Or just an add on to the writing? It gives the writing a lean to the emotional side, and really turns it from a campaign journal into a story. Either way, I enjoy the banter back and forth between you two.
- The interrogation scene in Alden Cross is great. Were you given time to hash out the details of your stories? Or put on the spot?
- I love the insertion of stories from your background. Do you make this up as you go? Or do you have her past mapped out already? Whichever, I love the unravelling of her person, details trickled in to explain who she is and was.
- You have an excellent way of making villains not seem like simple jerks. When I played, the group simply steepled their fingers together and laughed maniacally. Though we did not have a journal that required explanation. I think you’ve captured a truth, a woman deemed as evil, yet acting not in the interests of chaos or destruction. She’s a person with true internal struggles, fighting for what she believes as right. An example is her struggle with raising the hellhounds. An evil being would have no issue with killing three dogs to raise three loyal beasts. Yet Willow is upset by the idea of having to kill them, but she does it anyway, knowing what she gains from the transformation, and recognising what perfect servants hounds will be. When I played we certainly played the evil, but Willow seems to follow the lawful traits as well. It makes a very compelling read.
- Do you source the infernal words from somewhere? Or make them up yourself? They sound, very hellish.
- Teelee is a curious woman. What actually happened when she jumped from the top of the stairs in the Horn of Abbadon? You mention a thud in the distance, but nothing else?

That’s all for now, I will push on into Valterna and comment further.
But so far, I am thoroughly enjoying the campaign. As was mentioned in another comment, please write the next game as well.

minderp
2017-04-14, 09:56 PM
I am about to enter Valterna. And I must say, your recount of the campaign is very well written, and very well played. The group I played this with didn’t fare anywhere near as well. As per your previous comments, we were not lucky enough to have someone so cryptically inclined.

Thank you! :smallbiggrin: I love that people are reading the stories! And love it more that they are enjoying them! To the cryptically inclined, i am guilty as charged. I've mentioned it before, but the title Puzzle Wizard is well earned. The boys i play with reckon my mind explodes in excitement when presented with a puzzle. They tell me i have a similar face to the "I CAN SEE THROUGH TIME!'. :smallbiggrin:



- I enjoy the way you start each chapter, setting the time of day and the weather of the places you’re in. It sets the background well for whatever your party is about undertake.

Oh i love writing like this. Thats exactly what i try to do, set the scene rather than just 'the place is called this, then the party does' etc.



- Was the relationship with Pellius planned/played out in session? Or just an add on to the writing? It gives the writing a lean to the emotional side, and really turns it from a campaign journal into a story. Either way, I enjoy the banter back and forth between you two.

Haha! A little of both. Pellius was a flirt from the beginning. And the characters were a good mix of sassy and salt lol. We certainly dont play out the more 'carnal scenes' lol, but the banter we do. That would be awkward as i am the only girl in a group full of boys, and added to that is the DM is actually my partner lol. So we try to keep things as less awkward as possible, though the relationship between Pellius and Willow adds an amazing amount of salt to the gaming. Haha. :smallwink:



- The interrogation scene in Alden Cross is great. Were you given time to hash out the details of your stories? Or put on the spot?

On the spot. Thats why Garvana and Teelee were arrested. Their stories were too fantastic to be believable. All the questions and answers i wrote were what was actually said.



- I love the insertion of stories from your background. Do you make this up as you go? Or do you have her past mapped out already? Whichever, I love the unravelling of her person, details trickled in to explain who she is and was.

Again, a little of both. I can't make a character without a background. And i cant write a background without going into incredible amounts of details. A hometown and a reason to be in the campaign is not enough for me lol. Like i said in the beginning, i am obsessive.
Some of the stories and memories that i write are made up as i feel the need for them, the details are done on the fly. But the basic backstory is well and truly mapped out. Although, the further we go into the campaign, the further into new territory i go. My DM has the details of her past, and as the newest stories are written, i write the details he feeds me. I have no knowledge of her birth, (that will make sense in the latest stories), he keeps it secrets because he knows how much i love surprises and the like. It adds an amazing thirst to find out more.
When i write the story, if i'm making it up as i go, i check details with him and he lets me know if they fit into the story he has planned. It's brilliant. He's brilliant.



- You have an excellent way of making villains not seem like simple jerks. When I played, the group simply steepled their fingers together and laughed maniacally. Though we did not have a journal that required explanation. I think you’ve captured a truth, a woman deemed as evil, yet acting not in the interests of chaos or destruction. She’s a person with true internal struggles, fighting for what she believes as right. An example is her struggle with raising the hellhounds. An evil being would have no issue with killing three dogs to raise three loyal beasts. Yet Willow is upset by the idea of having to kill them, but she does it anyway, knowing what she gains from the transformation, and recognising what perfect servants hounds will be. When I played we certainly played the evil, but Willow seems to follow the lawful traits as well. It makes a very compelling read.

This is exactly what i try to do! I myself certainly do not consider myself evil, i'm more CG lol. But i try to write with an understanding of what LE actually means. Strict rules, unwavering beliefs and a little bit of crazy. We are not playing chaotic characters. We are lawful. Hell is not just an evil place, it is the epitome of law. I write (and play) Willow as a real person. She has her own code she sticks by, and she sticks by it no matter what.
With the Hellhounds, i am fanatically obsessed with dogs. Watch people be slaughtered in movies? Eh. Mention that a dog might die or get sick? I am crying for a week. When presented with the ritual, finding out that you had to KILL three dogs to get Hellhounds? I almost didn't do it. I almost couldn't role play it. When i did, i actually did it with tears in my eyes... lol. It took a lot of thinking for me to accept the idea. But it fit. Dogs are the perfect LE servants. They know their place, they are fiercely loyal to their masters, and they never seek to better their station. When trained, they follow commands perfectly. It was this reasoning that Willow could justify (and i could cope with) completing the ritual. But i wont lie, i did actually cry with each hound that died... lol.



- Do you source the infernal words from somewhere? Or make them up yourself? They sound, very hellish.

Lol, i make them up. I tried to imagine what Infernal would sound like. Hissing breaths from a rasping throat. :smallamused:



- Teelee is a curious woman. What actually happened when she jumped from the top of the stairs in the Horn of Abbadon? You mention a thud in the distance, but nothing else?

Haha! This, oh god, this. Soooo... Teelee was played by one the most impulsive players i've ever played with. He used to do all sorts of ridiculous things just because... well i dont know why lol, just because. Possibly because he liked screwing with people.
This particular instance, he had planned a brilliant thing in his mind. That failed miserably. He had Teelee jump off the top of the mountain and planned for her to be caught by her nightmare steed in mid air and look super cool and dramatic. But... he had negative acrobatics. And the steed, though bound to her and her commands, was a CE horse that despised her and everyone else. The player did this without any warning to the DM, so events just rolled out as they happened. So the nightmare followed her commands... to a point. He flew beneath her, barely. She landed with a massive thump on his back, but failed so terribly at the landing (i believe from memory it was a natural 1) that she simply slid of his back after being winded by the collision and she plummeted to the ground. Somehow she didn't die from the fall. But it was terribly close.
Teelee did not reveal her failing to the PC's. So Willow knew only that she saw her jump, and heard the landing lol.



That’s all for now, I will push on into Valterna and comment further.
But so far, I am thoroughly enjoying the campaign. As was mentioned in another comment, please write the next game as well.

Will do! Enjoy! :smallbiggrin:

overlordseamus
2017-04-14, 10:15 PM
...and added to that is the DM is actually my partner lol.
You make me sound like a teenage girl. Relationship goals much?

minderp
2017-04-14, 10:25 PM
You make me sound like a teenage girl. Relationship goals much?

Haha! Its pretty great. It works well for both of us. My crazy obsession gives him reason to put in more details, more effort etc, because he knows that someone is really going to appreciate it. And of course, i love the effort, i love the details.
But he doesn't put up with my crap. When i fail, i fail. When i succeed, i succeed. He's pretty good at not playing favourites. If an enemy sees me as a weak target and is inclined to go for me first, then thats exactly what they do. I get pissy, i get snappy, just like everyone else. But we keep playing. It also makes background story easier, (the assassinations for example) because no one else has to sit through 'Willow only play' and get bored. :smallbiggrin:

overlordseamus
2017-04-15, 12:44 AM
Your DM is a lucky man.

- The battle with Ara Mathra is my favourite so far. The descriptions, the attacks, the pauses for healing. Very well written.
- “Kneeling by the ancient basin that once housed the undying flame, Willow sat with closed eyes, deep in prayer. She did not relish the slaughter of thousands, she did not feel pride with her hands doused in their blood.” – This is what I was talking about. The difference between Lawful Evil and Chaotic. She has done what she must, but she sees the destruction of thousands for what it is – a massacre. Again, very well written.
- Either you are naturally suspicious, or you have a good sense for treachery. Trickling in thoughts of Thorn and his plans. Maybe it is that cryptic mind of yours, but you seem books ahead of yourself. How early did you figure out who Thorn was?
- Are the shrouds of the daywalkers part of the campaign? I can’t seem to remember. They would have made the choice to become a vampire much simpler. How do they work in your game?
- I also like your description of the slow transformation, the first night, the hangover, etc. How far along the transformation are you?
- The description of the horde is far better in Daveryn. Though the writing is better, it also shows the development of the bugbears as they have grown in experience. Excellent writing.

I was supposed to catch up on paperwork today. But I fear, I will not be doing that. This is far more entertaining.

minderp
2017-04-15, 01:10 AM
Your DM is a lucky man.
I know, i remind him constantly of this. :smalltongue:



- The battle with Ara Mathra is my favourite so far. The descriptions, the attacks, the pauses for healing. Very well written.
- “Kneeling by the ancient basin that once housed the undying flame, Willow sat with closed eyes, deep in prayer. She did not relish the slaughter of thousands, she did not feel pride with her hands doused in their blood.” – This is what I was talking about. The difference between Lawful Evil and Chaotic. She has done what she must, but she sees the destruction of thousands for what it is – a massacre. Again, very well written.
- The description of the horde is far better in Daveryn. Though the writing is better, it also shows the development of the bugbears as they have grown in experience. Excellent writing.

Thank you! :smallbiggrin:



- Either you are naturally suspicious, or you have a good sense for treachery. Trickling in thoughts of Thorn and his plans. Maybe it is that cryptic mind of yours, but you seem books ahead of yourself. How early did you figure out who Thorn was?

Very suspicious. I am unfortunately a very paranoid person. Though it helps me in this game lol.
The first mention of Samuel Havelyn in Balentyne was enough to set me spinning lol. Thorn and Havelyn being the same person was actually one of my first theories (to my DM's amusement) among about a thousand others. But it was Brother Thrain's comment "i served with the cardinal' that confirmed my suspicions. I'm that ar**hole that ruins every movie by figuring out the plot a few minutes in.



- Are the shrouds of the daywalkers part of the campaign? I can’t seem to remember. They would have made the choice to become a vampire much simpler. How do they work in your game?


I believe it is part of the campaign, but my DM changed it slightly. The original item is as follows:
Shroud of the Daywalker
Aura moderate necromancy; CL 9th
Price 18,000 gp; Weight 1 lb.

DESCRIPTION
This funeral shroud at first glance appears to be made of the finest
silk no doubt in some dark color such as black, burgundy
or deepest blue. However upon closer inspection, it reeks of
death and corruption.
When worn by the living, this shroud makes the wearer seem to be
undead. Nonintelligent undead cannot detect the wearer as if
cloaked by hide from undead. Even intelligent undead may fail
to notice you unless they succeed at a DC 11 Will save.
When worn by a vampire, however, this shroud has a very different
effect. The darkness woven into the cloak shrouds the vampire
and allows them to move about during the day. Instead
of taking damage from sunlight, they are only dazzled in areas
of bright sunlight or within the radius of a daylight spell.
Regardless whether living or dead, once per day, as standard action,
the wearer may call forth the darkness within the shroud
to make them invisible for up to nine minutes.

DM negated the invisibility, and the smell lol. It does not allow full protection from the sun, but it allows us to function normally. It allows a vampire to move through the sunlight hours, not necessarily dazzled, but unable to perform complicated tasks. Talking, walking, running, shopping etc is all fine. But fighting, climbing, tumbling etc, the light is too off-putting to allow concentration. So it basically makes us commoners in the sun light. It offers no extra powers or tricks.



- I also like your description of the slow transformation, the first night, the hangover, etc. How far along the transformation are you?

It goes in feats. Better explained here: https://the-way-of-the-wicked.obsidianportal.com/wikis/vampire

At the present moment, Willow, Garvana and Pellius are The Initiated.



I was supposed to catch up on paperwork today. But I fear, I will not be doing that. This is far more entertaining.

Haha! I think reading this is a far better idea. :smallbiggrin:

overlordseamus
2017-04-15, 05:12 AM
I did not think that vampire erotica would be enjoyable. But.......

overlordseamus
2017-04-15, 05:20 AM
Did you solve Eiramanthus' puzzle that quickly? It took my group hours of further exploration, and even then we had to use divination.
And what happened with your teleport in game? How did you end up in the manor with the General? Did the teleport go haywire?
Also, the island was excellent. Set the tone of an exotic and alien world well.

Jimmah
2017-04-15, 08:44 AM
Did you solve Eiramanthus' puzzle that quickly?

I can verify the time taken - we literally read the message on the door and then Minderp saw the 'Chessboard' and we all had to shut the hell up while she solved it right away. Think it took her about 2 minutes of real time :P

overlordseamus
2017-04-15, 07:08 PM
I can verify the time taken - we literally read the message on the door and then Minderp saw the 'Chessboard' and we all had to shut the hell up while she solved it right away. Think it took her about 2 minutes of real time :P

Puzzle Wizard

overlordseamus
2017-04-15, 07:34 PM
Well, i am up to date. And i must say, it was worth the time.
A few thoughts:
- The return of Switch is made all the more intriguing by the reveal of his stats. Is he one of your concepts? Or the DM? Did you source his stats from some where or make them yourself? Either way, with your permission, I'd like to use him in one of my games. If it was you who made him, you have a knack for evil character creation.
- The scene in Hell is especially well written - it had my skin crawling.
- To Jimmah, did you play out the character transfer scene? Or was it done behind closed doors? I am curious to know how a sorcerous beat a barbarian/what ever else he was.
- To Minderp, you are getting far better at writing the - ahem - 'carnal scenes'.
- "Garvana rasped a callous incantation, fingers darting in eldritch patterns, as she lifted a small Asmodean pendant into the air. The metal pentagram ripped from her fingers, torn viciously into shreds before it transformed into a terrifying beam of spine-chilling malice." - I like the creative descriptions of spells in the newest writing, the use of somatic and material components. Also, the traps in the King's Chambers and disarming them.
- In the latest chapter, your description of Naburus was excellent. Very well written. Did your DM put you all on the spot again? Did you play out the conversation or use diplomacy?
- The reunion with your hound was made all the more sweet now that i know your affinity for dogs.

And i am up to date. I eagerly await the next chapter.
Thank you for taking the time to write this, it is a captivating and enjoyable read.

minderp
2017-04-15, 09:28 PM
And what happened with your teleport in game? How did you end up in the manor with the General? Did the teleport go haywire?

I have mentioned it in another comment, my ability to roll high on a D100 is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous! I mean, so ridiculous that more often than not i roll either 98, 99 or 100. In one teleport i rolled 3 times, using Heropoints to reroll out of frustration. And i actually rolled a 100, then a 99, then another freaking 100.
With the general, first roll was a 100, causing a mishap.
Then following directly after on the reroll, i rolled a 99. So i heropointed. And somehow managed low enough to only end up with a Similar Area.
I am clearly cursed. But the party still insists that i roll, because hey, its entertaining. :smalltongue:



- The return of Switch is made all the more intriguing by the reveal of his stats. Is he one of your concepts? Or the DM? Did you source his stats from some where or make them yourself? Either way, with your permission, I'd like to use him in one of my games. If it was you who made him, you have a knack for evil character creation.
:smallbiggrin: You are more than welcome to use him.
Most of it i made up myself, using the stats of an average Infernal Duke as a guide for power level/amount of spells/feats etc. But i made him specific to a servant of Belial. So his spells are focused on mind control, lust, debauchery, and of course a little sadism. His base started as a salikotal devil, and i built on from there. His description is a mix of my own writing, the descriptor for an Infernal Duke and a build for Belial himself that i found on another forum. Used part of his description but changed it to suit Switch, Skathos if you will, paying tribute to the archdevil who created him. If you want to check that out, its here: http://www.enworld.org/forum/showthread.php?23546-Belial-Lord-of-the-Fourth-Hell



- The scene in Hell is especially well written - it had my skin crawling.

I like this scene too!! I believe i have captured the evil of Hell, but fear i need to write another scene, to capture the order and law. Stay tuned... :smallwink:



- "Garvana rasped a callous incantation, fingers darting in eldritch patterns, as she lifted a small Asmodean pendant into the air. The metal pentagram ripped from her fingers, torn viciously into shreds before it transformed into a terrifying beam of spine-chilling malice." - I like the creative descriptions of spells in the newest writing, the use of somatic and material components. Also, the traps in the King's Chambers and disarming them.

Thanks! This has been a focus of mine of late. Otherwise the battles and spells seem to meld into same-same territory.



- In the latest chapter, your description of Naburus was excellent. Very well written. Did your DM put you all on the spot again? Did you play out the conversation or use diplomacy?

We played it out. We were not allowed to use dice or skills. We had to convince Naburus ourselves. The DM set the scene so well, the dark and ominous cavern, the terrible threat that each and every word would be heard and judged, with no way for us to take them back. It was excellent!



- The reunion with your hound was made all the more sweet now that i know your affinity for dogs.

But doooooooooogs! :smallbiggrin::smallbiggrin::smallbiggrin:



And i am up to date. I eagerly await the next chapter.
Thank you for taking the time to write this, it is a captivating and enjoyable read.
Thank you! That is a very nice thing to say. And now, i shall go and squeee like the female that i am... :smalltongue:



I can verify the time taken - we literally read the message on the door and then Minderp saw the 'Chessboard' and we all had to shut the hell up while she solved it right away. Think it took her about 2 minutes of real time :P
But Jimmmmmmaaaaahhhh, puuuuuuuuuuzzles!!! :smallbiggrin:

Braininthejar2
2017-04-16, 02:41 PM
To someone who only plays 3.5 What is the difference between rogue and unchained rogue?

Also, from trying to read pathfinder rules, it seems that the immunity to critical hits is much more rare there. So less chance of Willow sharing the fate of lady Clementine.

minderp
2017-04-16, 06:50 PM
To someone who only plays 3.5 What is the difference between rogue and unchained rogue?

Being fairly new to playing Unchained (Willow is my first), I’m not the best candidate to explain it, but hey! I’ll try. :smallbiggrin:

Unchained: While much of the unchained rogue will be familiar to those who have played the*original rogue, there are a number of new class features that greatly enhance the power and flexibility of the rogue. Chief among these is the*debilitating injury*class feature. A rogue with this ability can severely hamper her foes, giving her a much-needed boost to her offense or defense, depending on the situation. In addition, with*finesse training, the rogue now gains*Weapon Finesse*for free at 1st level. This ability also lets her add her*Dexterity*to damage rolls with one weapon starting at 3rd level. Finally, the*rogue’s edge*ability ties into a new system called*skill unlocks. With this feature, the unchained rogue can master a small set of chosen skills, outperforming all those characters without access to such talents.

http://www.d20pfsrd.com/classes/unchained-classes/rogue-unchained/


As a personal note, I am terrible at remembering the changes. Perhaps it is my inexperience with playing RPG’s altogether, but I find it confusing to remember and put into play, I just end up forgetting to add the bonuses or use the rules specific to me.



At 4th level, whenever a rogue deals*sneak attack*damage to a foe, she can also debilitate the target of her attack, causing it to take a penalty for 1 round (this is in addition to any penalty caused by a rogue talent or other special ability). The rogue can choose to apply any one of the following penalties when the damage is dealt.
Bewildered: The target becomes bewildered, taking a –2 penalty to AC. The target takes an additional –2 penalty to AC against all attacks made by the rogue. At 10th level and 16th level, the penalty to AC against attacks made by the rogue increases by –2 (to a total maximum of –8).
Disoriented: The target takes a –2 penalty on*attack rolls. In addition, the target takes an additional –2 penalty on all*attack rolls*it makes against the rogue. At 10th level and 16th level, the penalty on*attack rolls*made against the rogue increases by –2 (to a total maximum of –8).
Hampered: All of the target’s speeds are reduced by half (to a minimum of 5 feet). In addition, the target cannot take a 5-foot step.
These penalties do not stack with themselves, but additional attacks that deal*sneak attack*damage extend the duration by 1 round. A creature cannot suffer from more than one penalty from this ability at a time. If a new penalty is applied, the old penalty immediately ends. Any form of healing applied to a target suffering from one of these penalties also removes the penalty.


As for Rogue’s edge, this gets very confusing. But Willow has unlocked Acrobatics, Escape Artist, Perception and Stealth. Again, I forget to apply the new rules most of the time. We use Herolab to play our games on, and the unlocks don’t show anywhere in the character sheets, so I forget they exist most of the time. Some of them have really cool and beneficial changes, some of them are pretty pointless.


Acrobatics
With sufficient ranks in*Acrobatics, you earn the following.
5 Ranks: You can move at normal speed through a threatened square without provoking an attack of opportunity by increasing the DC of the check by 5 (instead of by 10). You aren't denied your Dexterity bonus when attempting*Acrobatics*checks with DCs of 20 or lower.
10 Ranks: You can attempt an*Acrobatics*check at a –10 penalty and use the result as your CMD against trip maneuvers. You can also attempt an*Acrobatics*check at a –10 penalty in place of a Reflex save to avoid falling. You must choose to use this ability before the trip attempt or Reflex save is rolled. With a successful DC 20*Acrobatics*check, you treat an unintentional fall as 10 feet shorter plus 10 feet for every 10 by which you exceed the DC, and treat an intentional fall as 10 feet shorter for every 10 by which you exceed the DC.
15 Ranks: You do not provoke attacks of opportunity when standing up from prone.
20 Ranks: You double the result of any*Acrobatics*check when jumping and never fall prone at the end of a fall as long as you remain conscious.


Escape Artist
With sufficient ranks in*Escape Artist, you earn the following.
5 Ranks: If you take a –10 penalty, the time required to use this skill is halved; escaping a grapple or pin is a move action, and escaping a net,*animate rope,*command plants,*or*control plants*spell is a standard action.
10 Ranks: You can attempt to escape from any entangling effect as a standard action with an*Escape Artist*check (DC = the effect's save DC + 10). You can attempt an*Escape Artist*check as a move action to set the DC for a creature to escape from ropes or bindings; you gain a +10 bonus on the check if you instead attempt it as a full-round action.
15 Ranks: You can escape any entangling effect (as above) as a move action. As a standard action, you can attempt an*Escape Artist*check (DC = the effect's save DC + 20) to suppress a*slow*or paralysis effect for 1 round, plus 1 round for every 5 by which you exceed the DC. This action counts as purely mental for the purpose of being able to take it while paralyzed.
20 Ranks: You can escape being entangled, grappled, or pinned as an immediate action with an*Escape Artist*check (DC = the effect's DC + 10 or the attacker's CMB + 10). You can attempt to suppress a*slow*or paralysis effect as a standard action (increasing the DC by 10), a move action (increasing the DC by 15), or an immediate action (increasing the DC by 20).


Perception
With sufficient ranks in*Perception, you earn the following.
5 Ranks: You remain alert to sounds even in your sleep, and the normal DC increase to*Perception*checks when you are sleeping is halved. The distance modifier on the DC of*Perception*checks you attempt is reduced to +1 per 20 feet.
10 Ranks: The distance modifier on the DC of*Perception*checks you attempt is reduced to +1 per 30 feet. In addition, you gain a +5 bonus on*Perception*checks to notice or locate an invisible creature or object.
15 Ranks: You remain alert to sounds even in your sleep, and the normal DC increase to*Perception*checks when you are sleeping doesn't apply to you. The distance modifier on the DC of your*Perception*checks is reduced to +1 per 40 feet.
20 Ranks: You gain a +10 bonus on*Perception*checks to notice invisible creatures or objects. The distance modifier on the DC of*Perception*checks you attempt is reduced to +1 per 60 feet.


Stealth
With sufficient ranks in*Stealth, you earn the following.
5 Ranks: Reduce the*Stealth*penalty from sniping by 10.
10 Ranks:*Stealth*check penalties for moving quickly are halved, including the ability unlocked at 5 ranks, moving full speed, and reaching concealment after creating a distraction.
15 Ranks: If you attack after successfully using*Stealth, your target is denied its Dexterity bonus against all attacks that you make before the end of your turn.
20 Ranks: If you attack after successfully using*Stealth, your target is denied its Dexterity bonus against all attacks that you make before the beginning of your next turn.

http://paizo.com/pathfinderRPG/prd/unchained/skillsAndOptions/skillUnlocks.html



As far as i know, there's not a massive difference to the original rogue, they just remade it to ensure a rogue stays versatile. Though getting a sneak attack can take a lot of round and play sacrifice, when they manage to get one, it is worth the wait. And rogue's being the skill-monkeys, they are made even skilled-er-monkeys. :smalltongue:



Also, from trying to read pathfinder rules, it seems that the immunity to critical hits is much more rare there. So less chance of Willow sharing the fate of lady Clementine.
Lol, i had to look this up. But yeah lol, immunity to critical hits it usually a creature feat, as in oozes, swarms, incorporeal (if attack is made without the ghost touch abiltity) etc.
It's pretty uncommon for humanoids to have immunity to crits, but not completely unheard of.

Braininthejar2
2017-04-16, 07:19 PM
Humanoids no, but in 3.5 both undead and constructs are immune to crits (and thus sneak attack) by default - that's a big problem for rogues, especially in good guy campaigns, where undead bosses are common.

minderp
2017-04-16, 07:25 PM
Humanoids no, but in 3.5 both undead and constructs are immune to crits (and thus sneak attack) by default - that's a big problem for rogues, especially in good guy campaigns, where undead bosses are common.

Although constructs are immune to just about EVERYTHING else, they aren't immune to crits or sneak. Same with undead, immune to all mind-affecting effects, bleed, death effects, disease, paralysis, poison, sleep effects, and stunning. Immune to any effect that requires a Fortitude save. Not subject to nonlethal damage, ability drain, or energy drain. Immune to damage to its physical ability scores (Constitution, Dexterity, and Strength), as well as to exhaustion and fatigue effects.
But critical and sneak are good! Lucky for Willow. :smallbiggrin:

Braininthejar2
2017-04-18, 04:22 AM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYhj6LRoJxo&list=RDGYhj6LRoJxo#t=160

minderp
2017-04-25, 08:16 PM
Sorry for the lack of posting, we've had a delay in playing due to sickness.
We're due to play again this Sunday, so there will be stories hopefully within a fortnight. :smallbiggrin:

overlordseamus
2017-05-06, 08:14 PM
A fortnight is a long time to wait. :frown:

minderp
2017-05-08, 06:26 PM
A fortnight is a long time to wait. :frown:

We have finally played again! Just about to start writing it up! :smallbiggrin:

minderp
2017-05-17, 07:26 AM
Finally, the long awaited next chapter!
Sorry for the delay, we're hoping to keep up a more regular playing schedule again, so hopefully the next won't be so far away! :smallbiggrin:



The dawning sun warmed the cold chill of night that had fallen over the lush green farmlands of outer Ghastenhall. The leaves shed the thin ice formations that spring’s darkness had brought, shining drops of water that fell to feed the shrubbery below. Though the sounds of early rising farmers herding their cattle still bounded along the empty grass plains, the number of them had dwindled over the spring. Ghastenhall had been the first region to be hit with the dreaded Tears of Achlys, and it was here that the worst of the sickness and death resided.
By the slow trail upon horseback, the Forsaken made their way along the dirt road towards the main city, eyes tracing the quiet expanse. As had become expected and fashionable, Willow and Traya wore silken veils across their faces, draping the fine fabric along the bridge of their noses and low along their chins. It was a futile attempt by the populace to shield themselves from the deathly plague. Though it offered no real protection from the vile and sentient sickness, it offered commoner and noble alike a naïve hope of preservation.
Willow had first seen them appear in Matharyn only days before they had left. Like most plagues, the first casualties of the sickness fell from the ranks of the poorest. With the lack of nourishment from hefty food stores and the brunt of the coldest weather by lack of shelter, the poorest of the fair city were always the first to fall. When the plague reached Matharyn, the veiled fashion had already infiltrated every street. The common folk wore flanks of harsh wool or scuffed linen around their faces, while the nobles and the upper classes took the chance once more to flaunt their station. Ghastenhall had always been the cultural hub of Talingarde, first in line with the raging change of trends and fashions. And so it was here that the veiled craze had truly taken off. Veils for women came in an array of vivid shades, embellished with intricate patterns woven in shimmering gold thread, or strung with glass beads in glittering hues. Veils for men were tighter fitting and threaded with much less frill, in colours of bold blues and greens.
Though of late, her mind and time had been preoccupied with the like of battles, gods and kings, Willow could not deny her affinity with the standard of dress. With spring’s arrival the colours had changed, gone were the dark and rich fabrics of winter, entering bright shades of blooming flowers and sprouting plants. Greens in emerald rich and smooth teal – pinks in soft pastel and glowing fuchsia – yellows in sun bright and warm honey. Trotting along upon her steed, Willow wore a long and draping gown of burned amber, a short sleeved dress with a collar that extended into a head wrap and finished in veil that softly reached across her lower face.

As usual, Pellius and Garvana shunned the need to follow the fashionable trends. Clad in their armour, looking much the part of wandering adventurers, they forwent the veils and opted to stride through the streets with their faces open to the warm spring winds.
“What is it we’re looking for?” Traya asked, peering over the mauve silk that draped along her face, “Potions?”
“And scrolls,” Garvana huffed, uneasily guiding her horse out of the path of a cart filled with the plagues latest victims, “We need to protect ourselves from the dragon’s breath.”
“I think we’ll need more than a few trinkets,” Traya scoffed.
What they knew of the fearsome Strider-in-the-Dark was not nearly as much as they would have liked. Yet, what they did know, was enough to instil trepidation within them.
“The dragon’s breath may be frighteningly powerful,” Garvana frowned, “But it cannot hurt to have even the smallest amount of protection.”
“I still do not like the idea of fighting such a beast,” Traya scowled under her breath, looking to the others with an arched and knowing brow, “For one, though the undead may not be at risk to much of its ways, some of us are still breathing… and would like to stay that way.”
“We may not have a choice,” Willow said quietly, moving her steed closer, “If there was a way to procure the Heart without encountering the Linnorm, the Heart would not be there…”
“There must be another way,” Traya sighed, shaking her head, “This is suicide.”
“Suicide is usually something we have a way of evading,” Garvana laughed.
“It may be possible…” Willow began thoughtfully.
“What may be?” Traya frowned, looking to Willow.
“There may be a way to slip in unnoticed. Perhaps while the dragon sleeps. If I am able to sneak through unseen… it may be possible to retrieve the Heart and escape before the dragon knows anything is afoot.”
“Now that,” Pellius laughed, “Sounds like suicide.”
Willow shrugged as an easy grin lifted her lips, “It may well be worth a try.”
As the soft clip of horse hooves echoed along the cobblestone streets, the Forsaken made their way through the town towards the marketplace, passing the tune of sickly coughs and wheezes as they went.
Tethering their horses to a stable post along side the Wellspring River, they continued on foot through the streets of Whitequarter. As the sounds of people and cheer grew, they neared the grand market square. The hours passed as they perused the fine and peculiar wares of the visiting merchants, filling their pouches with vials of curious potions and brews. After visiting the weapon-smith to purchase a new and stronger bow, the afternoon sun began its descent, as their casual and meandering steps brought them alongside the path of the river.
Suddenly, a familiar voice echoed in Willow’s head, loud enough to halt her steps.
“Barnabus Thrain of Ghastenhall sends greetings,” the gruff and aged voice said, “I know Sir Richard’s whereabouts and mission. I remain at the Great Library in Ghastenhall. Seek me there. Hurry.”
Willow frowned, looking to the others who had continued on as if they had heard nothing. As Pellius noticed her halt, he turned to her with a questioning look.
“You did not hear that?” she asked quietly.
“Hear what, my lady?” he responded with a frown.
“Brother Thrain’s message.”
“What message?” his frown deepened.
“It must have been a spell of some kind,” Willow whispered, looking around her with suspicion, “He said he knows the whereabouts of Sir Richard, and his mission.”
“What did he say?”
“To meet him in the library, with urgency…” she replied, “Curious…”
“Suspicious,” Pellius scoffed.
Willow took a quick look around before making up her mind swiftly.
“Tell the others,” she nodded curtly, turning back towards where she had left her horse, “I will meet up with you this evening.”
“Be careful, my lady,” he frowned, brow crushed in distrust.
“I always am,” she winked with a grin.
As she quickened her pace and wove her way through the throng of people, she made it to the side of her steed as a sudden cheer erupted around her.
“He has done it!” cried a man in elation, “Mitra has delivered the noble knight to us, and he has brought about the cure! Mitra be praised!”
Willow frowned, turning her head towards the tearful man, watching his delighted face radiate with pious joy. With swift steps and a feigned excitement, she arrived by his side.
“What is it?” she asked, the frown vanished by will, replaced with innocence, “What has happened, sir?”
“Mitra has saved us, my lady!” he gushed warmly, “The Shining Sun sent us our dear Sir Richard, and the benevolent and brave knight has found us a cure to the vile sickness! Cast off that veil, my lady! Mitra’s love was all we needed!”
“Sir Richard of Havelyn?” Willow asked, a feigned joy coming over her face, “Oh, light be praised… how wonderful.”
“The one and the same, my lady!” he laughed happily, “He has saved us!”
Willow smiled, inclining her head towards the man as she returned to her steed. It was with a new urgency that she lifted into the saddle, ignoring the momentary looks of shock as a noble woman mounted a steed unassisted. She swiftly dug her heels into the horse’s sides, ushering it quickly out of the busy paths and onto the main streets. Though the cure was no threat to them, actually aiding their cause by allowing the masses to recover in order to serve, it was a boost of morale that reminded the people that Mitra was not completely unaware of their plight. Sir Richard of Havelyn had been a thorn in their side from the moment he had made himself known. He needed to die. Not a legendary battle in the eyes of the light, he needed to be extinguished in the dark – to be forgotten by all.


She slowed her steed on arrival at the great Library of Ghaster, swiftly dismounting before tying her horse to the post. As she approached the large doors, she unbuttoned the flank of amber fabric from her face, before dropping the customary toll of silver into the decorative iron tray. After walking the halls for a few moments, she found Brother Thrain amidst a stack of musty tomes, his wrinkled face pulled into his usual frown as he sorted through the mass of literature. When she approached, he looked up as she drew nearer, his grumbled frown easing as he recognised her.
“Ah, Lady Clarentine,” he smiled, though the smile was barely a look of joy under the weight of his gruff demeanour, “Here for the symposium this evening?”
“Of course, Brother,” she responded cordially, “I would not miss the opportunity to discuss Fillius Isenhour’s work.”
“The usual time and place,” he huffed, nodding curtly as he turned from her.
Willow smiled at his abruptness, she was rather fond of the aged brashly tempered man. As she awaited the sunset and perused the halls of the library, she thought on the troubling problem that the paladin was. The prophetic words that they had heard since they had begun their righteous mission for the Dark Lord, were that the son would bring about their doom. For a time, Willow had thought the words were of the Shining Sun, the very will of Mitra standing against them. But as they had continued down the path of darkness, culling the faithful and dousing the light of the holy lord, she had begun to rethink their words. The son. The son of Thomas Havelyn, the nephew of the fearsome Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. Perhaps it was he that was fated to bring about their doom. It was him that escaped the dreaded Horn of Abbadon, it was him that rallied the King of Talingarde to his cause, it was him that seemed to appear along every step of their dark path. And now, he had quested in the name of the Lord of Light and cured the evil Tears of Achlys. What could his next quest be, and how would the Forsaken be able to stop him?

As the sun fell behind the horizon, Willow made her way to the familiar spiralling staircase that descended deep below into the basement lecture hall. As she approached the open doors at the bottom landing, she recognised the faces of Thrain’s guards as they nodded to her. A sudden thought arose in her mind as she saw them. Thrain had been with Cardinal Thorn long before the Knots had formed. If there was any who would stand by him, even while he strayed from his course into the disfavour of the Dark Lord – it would be him. And Cardinal Thorn was determined to eliminate the Ninth Knot. Was she delivering herself openly to his waiting arms?
As she stepped over the threshold, the men sealed the doors behind her.
“It is good to see you alive and well, child,” Brother Thrain said warmly from across the hall.
Willow smiled to him, “And you, my friend.”
Though she approached him casually, she felt the slight tug of wariness overcome her. She trusted him, though she knew not why. It may have been a childish folly, but she was eager and contented to add Brother Thrain to her very short list of true allies and friends. When she stepped to his side, he held his arms out to her. With only the slightest hesitation, she stepped into his embrace. When no blade pierced her skin, nor spell hit her flesh, she sighed quietly and returned his amiable hug.
“You have been busy, I hear,” the aged priest chuckled, pulling back from the embrace and indicating a seat to the side of the lecture hall, “Curious that after your word with the terrible Chargammon, he turns his eye upon the Adarium.”
“Coincidence, I assure you,” Willow smirked playfully.
“Of course,” he grinned, “And I have heard the unfortunate passing of King Markadian, another coincidence?”
“One of many,” she laughed softly.
“Ah, well it is good you are well young Willow. The word is of much destruction and chaos across the lands, the battle of Fallingsbridge bringing the defeat of the king’s army.”
“The bugbears fought well,” Willow nodded, arching her brow, “Though it seems they had the upper hand in the battle. For a strange reason, the army led by General Vastenus assaulted only the most well defended gate. Curious move on his part.”
“Curious indeed,” the brother commented, giving no tell of clue upon his face.
“You sent word of Richard of Havelyn,” Willow said with a frown, the easy smile dropping from her lips, “What is it you know?”
The priest adjusted his seat upon the uncomfortable wooden pew, his aged bones creaking as he shuffled to face her.
“It was a few days ago now,” he began, a worried frown pulling upon his lined brow, “That I received a piece of parchment that was being passed around amongst the priesthood. It spoke of a meeting actually here in this very room late at night. I was to tell no one but the faithful. How could I refuse an invitation like that?”
“You are, of course, the most faithful,” Willow chuckled.
“I am that,” he replied with a small laugh, “But, guess who was at that meeting? Not only your friend Sir Richard, but also the princess Bellinda. The heir to the throne of Markadian herself in this very room!
“So she did survive,” Willow frowned.
“Indeed,” he nodded, “She spoke for quite a while – very inspirational stuff. It seems she’s forming an army. She calls upon all true sons and daughters of Talingarde and Mitra to flock to her banner in this dark time. She’s gaining followers quickly. I would be careful around her. She seems... I don’t know... dangerous.”
“We discovered something within the Adarium,” Willow replied, her frown burrowing slightly, “Bellinda is not the daughter of a foreign fallen queen, well, not exactly. She is the daughter of the silver elder wyrm, Antharia Regina.”
“She is what?!” Thrain balked, shaking his head, “Truly? Until the other night, I had thought her only a childish brat. And it was her who slayed the black beast?”
“We do not know for certain,” Willow shrugged, though there was nothing relaxed about her reply, “Someone had the ability to open the skies and rain meteorites upon him. And to my knowledge, there was only the princess and Havelyn within the room.”
“Well,” he frowned, “Then I would advise caution around her. She knows all about us. Or at least a little. She spoke about the Knot of Thorns.”
“That is Sir Richard’s doing,” Willow nodded solemnly, “He was the one who informed the King and guided the monarch against us.”
“Then he must also be her source on the information,” he frowned, “She mentioned that there were nine knots and that the worst of those villains was the Ninth Knot who they think are likely the leaders. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way!”
Willow chuckled softly, though her brow raised as she knew he did not know how close his words were to the current truth.
“There were several things she did not know,” he continued, “Or was simply mistaken about. She never mentioned Thorn, she doesn’t realise that the Fire-Axe is part of the Nine, and she seems to believe that Chargammon was part of the Nine Knots. She specifically mentioned his death as slaying one of the Nine. I’ve no idea how you managed to convince Chargammon to attack the Adarium, but she seems to believe he was one of us.”
“The meeting concluded with Bellinda talking to Sir Richard more privately, but I overheard everything. Bellinda is sending Richard to Chargammon’s lair. First, she wants to see if there is any information there about any of his allies. And also she wants the dragon’s hoard. She believes the money could be of use in raising and equipping her new army. He has already sailed for the island almost a week ago. If he has a fast ship he may already be there.”
“Then perhaps we must make sure that he finds something there,” Willow said darkly, “And ensure what he finds means he will not be returning…”
“Very good,” Thrain nodded, before frowning and looking to Willow, “I tried to relay this information to Thorn, but he’s not responding to my seals. Has something happened to the Cardinal?”
Willow chose her words carefully. She would not lie to the man she considered a friend, yet his loyalty to Thorn could have proved an impassable obstacle. While the Cardinal still lived, and they still planned his demise, she would not test Brother Thrain’s loyalty to his life long friend.
“He must have much on his mind,” Willow shrugged, “It has been some time since we have heard word from him. Do not fret, we will take care of the paladin. I must thank you for letting me know. He has been most troublesome. Have you heard word that the plague has been cured? Havelyn found a way to overcome the Daemon’s Gift!”
For a moment, Thrain’s eyes narrowed slightly, as her evasive words lingered. Though, when she mentioned the Tears of Achlys, his mind turned from suspicion to curiosity.
“Impressive,” he grunted, seeming put off by the feat yet impressed by it, “Do you know how he managed such a thing?”
“No,” Willow shook her head gently, “I have only heard word of it on my ride here. We had heard he had begun a quest for the cure, yet we figured it was a futile journey. But he returned from wherever he was, in time to be by Bellinda’s side. Curious that he would be there at the opportune moment, that he would be there when Chargammon arrived. No one knew what we were planning. No one but the Ninth and Thorn.”
Brother Thrain nodded his head in thought, as the revelations churned through his mind. After a time, Willow sighed a small breath.
“I must go and inform the others,” she said with a small smile, standing to embrace the old priest, “We must head to Chargammon’s lair with all haste. I will keep in touch.”
“Stay safe, young Willow,” he said seriously, with a small affectionate smile.
She returned his smile, pushing down the guilt she felt at deceiving him, “And you, my friend…”


When she returned to the farmland estate on the outskirts of Ghastenhall, she called the others into the parlour to relay what she had been told. As she revealed the details of Brother Thrain’s words, she was met with a mix of emotions; anger, determination and suspicion.
“Are you certain the priest is not misleading you on Thorn’s orders?” Pellius scowled.
“I am certain,” Willow replied, a truth in her words, “I believe he was truthful. He has not spoken to Thorn, and he seems unaware of the conflict between us. He reached out to us because he trusts us.”
“Let us hope your friendship with him has not clouded your judgement,” Pellius frowned thoughtfully, “We must follow this up.”
“What of Sir Richard?” Traya frowned, “We cannot allow him to retrieve Chargammon’s horde.”
“We cannot allow him to live,” Willow scoffed bitterly.
“But we must seek the Cardinal’s Heart,” Garvana interjected, “We cannot pursue Thorn without it!”
“Thorn does not know we are after his phylactery,” Willow replied, “We need not worry, as long as we do not alert him to it.”
“If the goal is to conquer the country,” Traya added, “Then dismantling the princess’ army must take priority. She cannot get her hands on that much gold.”
“And the paladin must be stopped,” Willow said sternly, “If not for the trouble he has caused us, for the hero he is painting himself as. The Mitran’s are regaining their hope, we cannot allow this to continue.”
“Agreed,” Pellius nodded firmly.
“We need-
A screeching cry from beyond the parlour walls silenced Garvana’s response. The sounds of metal clashing, painful screams and panic from within the dining room had the Forsaken drawing their weapons and quickly heading for the doors.
“If those men are fighting again,” Garvana growled, “I will kill each one of them myself to set a damn example!”
With blades clutched in hands, they stormed to the dining room and threw open the doors. What they found, was not a mere squabble between the more rowdy of their men. It was a scene of carnage, straight out of the gates of hell. Six devils, each standing over seven feet tall, layered in bristling spines that protruded from their bodies in ever changing lengths as they struck out and retracted continuously. Slick wet skin of the darkest green, lined with bright blood that dripped between the hundreds of barbs upon their frames. As the doors opened, six pairs of hungry shining black eyes slowly turned towards the Forsaken. Bodies of their men strewn about the floor, pierced with punctures that littered across their flesh. Two men still stood, one cowering behind a table and another held in the grip of one of the devils. In a feral and bloodthirsty display, the devil grasped the man and yanked him closer, the barbs striking out in unison. The man was skewered through the face and neck, killing him within moments, as the blood poured in cascade from his skin.
It was not a fight the Forsaken could possibly walk away from unscathed. Each time they carved their weapons forward, their hands and wrists were bombarded by razor sharp spikes, barbs that tore shreds through flesh and punctured holes through their skin. But they had no other means of banishing the foul fiends. Willow leapt forward into the fray, slashing and slicing at the leaned muscled creatures beneath the guarding walls of spikes. As lightening flew from Traya’s fingers, it’s white blaze arced between the devils, searing the scaled flesh. Willow struck out with her vicious blades, thrusting forward with all her might, shrieking through clenched teeth as a barb tore straight through her hand. But she could not let the pain overwhelm her as she continued her onslaught, her eyes ablaze as the agony fuelled the anger within her. How dare these devils enter her home. How dare they think they had right, or might enough to take the Forsaken down. What was clear, was that they were here on Thorn’s orders. As she tumbled out of the path of the devils craning claws, she leapt forward with a callous swing and cleaved his bestial head from his body.
“You defy the will of the Lord of the Nine by attacking us!” Garvana growled fiercely, “You will pay for such insubordination!”
The snarling devil that launched his cruel claws towards her laughed, a feral and savage hiss.
“The Hamatulan Host will drag you to hell,” he snarled in the infernal tongue, “And you can complain to the Undying Lord himself…”
He lunged towards her, gripping hold of her shoulders and wrenching her towards him. Garvana struggled to free herself, but threw her hands up in front of her face as his blood ridden barbs struck out. As both hands were impaled upon barbs, she cried out in bitter agony, ripping them free as she reared back and plunged the spikes of her mace deeply into the creatures torso.
As the second last standing devil was swiftly dispersed by Pellius’ vicious blade, Hellbrand eager to taste the blood of any sentient creature, the last devil saw his chance to take one of them with him. He charged upon thin almost insectile legs towards Willow. He swiped his claws and tore shreds from her chest, before attempting to leap over her head and grip her from behind. Though her strength was weakening, and her consciousness began to falter, she was still quick enough to react. As he leapt into the air, Willow snapped her hand upward, gripping hold of his razor sharp tail and yanking him back to the ground with every ounce of strength she had. As he fell, his barbs shifted once more, plunging into flesh and ripping long and agonising lacerations along her arms, neck and chest. She screamed a frightening and feral cry of outrage, her eyes blazing a hellfire crimson. As the devils body crashed to the floor, she plunged both of her blades into his skull.

As Willow clung to the last shreds of undeath, her sight flashing with a mix of white light and utter darkness, the sprayed blood of the once living men riled the ravenous hunger within her. Suddenly, the thundering heart beat of a living being became the loudest force within her mind. Cold black eyes turned upon the poor soul that had managed to avoid the death that had met the rest of his men. When Willow saw him, his name vanished from her mind, his existence became nothing more than the blood that ran through his veins. In the blink of an eye, with a sound no more than a whisper, she appeared behind him. As her hands gripped his head and shoulders, her fangs plunged deeply into his neck. He had survived the battle, but he did not survive the aftermath. The only consolation he was offered, was a quick and painless death as the blood was drained from his veins. As his body slumped to the floor, the doors to the dining room flew wide open. The armed and ready ranks of the Forsaken guard charged into the chamber, led by the stern faced sergeant.
“My lords!” the man called, quickly scanning the scene of carnage.
When he saw the scattered remains of his men, and the still bodies of the barbed devils, he looked over the Forsaken and their wounds before bowing his head.
“We were not quick enough,” he said shamefully, dropping to one knee by Pellius’ feet, “It is my failing, I offer my life as punishment.”
“That would be a waste of resources,” Traya said dryly, shaking her head.
“Get up,” Garvana spat, “There is no need for punishment, you are naïve to think this was something you could have prepared for. Double the guard around the manor, this may be the first of many.”
“Yes, mistress,” he nodded curtly in all professionalism, before barking orders to his men, “Clean this mess up, take the bodies out back and burn them!”
The Forsaken watched their men work for a moment, before moving to the hall outside of the destroyed dining chamber.
“Gods be damned,” Willow cursed, flexing her fingers under the wincing pain of skewered flesh, “Thorn truly wants us dead.”
“He will keep sending killers until he is successful,” Garvana snarled, wheezing through a chest that had been pierced by dozens of barbs, “We must not delay any longer.”
“We must leave for Chargammon’s lair tonight,” Pellius said sternly, “The sooner we stop Havelyn, the sooner we can retrieve the phylactery and put an end to this pathetic betrayal.”
“What of Jeratheon?” Willow frowned, “His loyalty was assured only as long as his sire lived. With his death, there is nothing holding him to his service.”
“We best speak to him,” Pellius nodded, “Confront him now, rather than having him on our tail later.”
“Traya,” Willow beckoned, turning to the woman, “Will you send him a message and tell him we wish to speak with him?”
The sorcerer had been quiet since the last of the devils had fallen. It was only as Willow looked to her now that she realised why. She could hear the heart beating within the womans chest. She could hear the blood coursing through her veins. When death was upon Willow, she had turned on the closest living being, the bloodlust had overwhelmed her completely. The need for blood, the need to survive had become all that had mattered. What would have happened if Traya had been closer? Would she have turned on her ally, or remained strong enough to resist the call of the blood? It was clear in the wide eyes of the sorcerer that her thoughts were aligned.
“Of course,” she replied cordially, inclining her head, “At once…”

As darkness fell heavy overhead, after the Forsaken had healed the worst of their wounds, they made the quick ride through the farmlands to the edge of the forest that bordered their land. With their steeds tethered to the nearby trees, they awaited the black dragon. Though far larger than most beasts, Jeratheon was lithe and quiet for his size. The barest hint of flapping wings sounded before he dropped to the ground in a billowing wave of dirt and debris. While Raiju calmed the horses, the others approached the vile creature.
“You bring me dinner?” the dark and malicious beast snarled towards the horses, a feral grin alight on his maw.
“We bring news,” Willow said coldly, brows arched in distaste.
“What news?” Jeratheon hissed.
“Your sire is dead,” Garvana said harshly, wasting no time on pleasantries, “He was slain at the Adarium.”
The great dragon threw his head back, laughing a rasp of bitter and bile.
“If you believe that,” he grinned, “Then you are more foolish than I had thought.”
“We saw him fall,” Garvana replied, lip curling, “We saw his lifeless corpse.”
“He will be back,” Jeratheon hissed viciously, no question to his words.
“That may be so,” Willow replied darkly, “But the Mitrans do not believe it. They have sent a band of men to Chargammon’s lair to retrieve his horde.”
“They would not dare!” he snarled, “Vile sub-creatures! Have they no fear?! I will teach them true terror, they will pay for their insolence!”
Willow smiled as she looked upon the great winged beast, “How fast can you fly there?”
The answer she received was swift. Within seconds Jeratheon had launched himself high into the sky, disappearing within a blink beyond the cloud of dirt and dust he left behind.
“Shall we wait for him before we teleport?” Traya asked, a sly smile lifting her lips.
“No,” Willow laughed, “If he wants his revenge, he shall simply have to fly faster…”

minderp
2017-05-17, 07:27 AM
There were a few counted advantages that the Forsaken had over the pious paladin and his retinue. The Mitrans were unaware that anyone knew of their mission, they would not be expecting visitors to arrive in the desolate wasteland that was Chargammon’s dark and inhospitable lair, certainly not ones prepped for battle and slaughter. It was also their first time stepping within the home of the ancient black wyrm. The Forsaken knew the terrain, they knew the cavern filled with festering broth that Chargammon had called home, they knew where they were most likely to find the search for his horde. As they gathered together, linked by touch of hands upon shoulders, they knew exactly where to transport themselves.
Willow was not one to believe in fate. She was more prone to believe in serendipitous moments, things occurring either by chance or simply beneficial coincidence. Stepping through the spiralling vortex that transported them to the large open cavern, only to be greeted by two unaware familiar faces, was one of those moments. The last time they had seen the two, was as they had vanished from sight with the sanctum of the crumbling Horn of Abbadon. Sir Richard of Havelyn and Brother Carthus Donnigan.
“So,” Havelyn demanded harshly of his friend, in the moment before realizing the Forsaken were upon him, “Has that worthless wizard managed to dig anything out of his books yet?”
There was no time for a reply, it was then that the paladin caught the fearsome sight of the Forsaken, accompanied by the flaming vision of the Nessian Warhound. It was then, that the air in the cavern changed. All his questing, all his hatred, had led to this moment. Once before he had been presented with the challenge. He had stood before the same foes, primed for righteous vengeance and personal revenge against those who had slain his father. Yet, the last time, he had failed. He had succumbed to the onslaught, and had been transported away and revived by his surviving allies. But now, as the bane of his quest stood before him, he was offered his vengeance once more. Unfortunately for him, those that stood in his way were on a quest of their own. And their quest, was watched by the most powerful force of them all.

Havelyn screamed out a mighty battle-cry that echoed through the winding passages of the caverns, ripping his sword from its scabbard. The hatred he felt for the Forsaken overwhelmed his face, pulling his brow into a contorted scowl, his lip curling in a feral snarl. As he leapt into battle, his attentions were drawn to the greatest threat within the Forsaken, to the dark paladin that opposed and equalled his might in every way.
Pellius held Hellbrand clutched in his fist, blazing eyes of fire flaring as he looked upon the paladin. This was the moment he had longed for; this was the moment every dark paladin lived for. They were matched in strength and might. Though they shared much in similarity, it was the core belief in their hearts that so vastly differed. When their words of prophetic promise called from their lips, and the crisp metal of their weapons clashed – they begun something that was far greater than either of them. Both of their gods granted them power to wield in their name. This fight, was a battle of the beneficent Mitra against the unyielding Asmodeus. The air thickened, as the aura of good against evil collided in a thundering blast. With sturdy and malicious words, each of them swore to their divine that they would slay one another. Yet, there could only ever be one victor.
Surging forward upon strong and powerful legs, Pellius charged towards Havelyn, his vicious blade splitting the air as it travelled. Havelyn was swift in his defence, a shattering ring of metal on metal piercing the atmosphere. But the weight of Pellius’ swing was far to great to be cast aside. Hellbrand pummelled forwards, the force of its strike pushing Havelyn’s sword backwards and into the paladin with a grunting shatter. Retaliation was instant. Richard stepped back quickly, giving himself enough room to rear his weapon backward over head and carve it downwards, pushed by enough might to tear through Pellius’ defence, delivering a blow with as much brutish force. Their battle was set, and with the raw destruction they were causing one another with each hit, it would not last long.

Before the paladins met, Willow was lithe and swift with her movements. She knew what this fight meant to Pellius, and she would not interfere unless there was no other option. She would leave the pious Paladin of Mitra to him, but she would not allow Havleyn’s allies to aid him. As the first sounds of metal clashing echoed through the empty stench of the cavern, she darted forward, slipping behind Donnigan unseen. His attention was garnered by the horse-sized blaze that was Sith, as he pounced forward and his blazing maw snarled and charred through flesh and fabric. Willow was swift in his consequence for distraction. She plunged her daggers through the crease of his armour, deeply into either side of his neck. Garvana rasped a bitter incantation, holding the small metal pentagram between her fingers, offering it to the darkness. The ground around her trembled, small cracks opening in the stone to allow the twisting and curling tendrils of ebony to escape. Though their caress upon Willow’s skin was warm and welcome, they did not greet the priest in such a way. They clung to his flesh and greedily siphoned the white wisps of life from his veins. The combination made for a swift death. As blood poured from the seams of the metal, his skin and clothing caught ablaze. Willow ripped her blades free, pushing the priest backward into the festering lagoon of putrid still water, causing an eruption of steam and spray to expel from the surface.

As the billowing wave of water travelled across the stagnant lake, Willow turned to Pellius. His feral sword blazed forward, carving through with terrifying might, in a blow that should have been the last of the paladin. But as the blade collided, the air within the great cave shuddered. A blinding white light flared from the chests of the paladin and fallen priest, as the vision of golden shimmering wings encompassed them.
“Arise, champion,” boomed a divine and androgynous voice from the ether.
Suddenly, the weeping blood that fell from the paladin ceased and sealed. His chin lifted once more, as determination overtook his features. From the depths of the water, Donnigan’s body lifted to the surface, levitating slowly to bring him to his feet upon the stone shore. As sounds of thundering foots steps sounded from beyond the cavern, the rest of Havelyn’s entourage racing to aid their leader, Willow growled her fury, charging forward with the vicious intention of putting the priest back where he was. But this time, he was not interested in Willow or her snarling hellhound. He moved through the fray, simply accepting the onslaught of bladed daggers and flaming teeth, his sights set upon Pellius. It was a sacrifice, he gave his life once more, to do all he could to keep Sir Richard of Havelyn alive. With his last breath, he called upon the divine spirit of Mitra, channelling the glorious white light into his fingertips. As he reached forward and pressed the holy force into Pellius’ flesh, Willow’s blade pierced deeply into the back of his neck, before tearing free and drawing the last of his life with it. The white light swarmed along Pellius’ flesh, like a sentient force of good eager and hungry to purify and eradicate the evil within him. Though the skin on his cheeks sunk into hollows, the undead flesh shrivelled and clinging to bone – it did not deter or distract him. It would take more than the threat of death to stop him from slaying his nemesis.
Havelyn lunged forward, putting every ounce of might and power into a single thrust. It all happened within the blink of an eye. As the paladin’s sword coated in thick coagulated blood propelled through Pellius’ torso, Hellbrand descended towards to him. Garvana shrieked a feral incantation, summoning a thick miasma of darkness with her hands, hurling it to towards him. Traya called out for the flames of hell to reach forth and claim the blessed soul, billowing swirls of crimson and copper, wafting in the stench of brimstone.
All at once, the darkness and blazing fire light engulfed the paladin, Hellbrand cleaved downwards with terrifying might, tearing through the paladin’s shoulder and into his chest. In a cascade of charred and sickened blood that painted the stone of the dark cavern, Havelyn release his grip on the sword and fell to his knees. For a moment, the only sound to be heard was a deep expelled breath of defeat from Richard’s lips. With his friend dead by his side, and his mission once more a complete failure, he slumped in bitter despair. Bright crimson blood pooled from his lips, as he coughed through a wheezing chest. He looked up, staring at Pellius with emotion that enraptured Willow’s attention. It was the look of anguish, the look of despondency. He had failed, but moreover, Mitra had failed him. As if time slowed, the sound of echoing metal footsteps as Pellius slowly approached him stretched to a forboding song. With one hand, he pulled the steel sword from his torso, not making so much of a sigh as he tossed it aside. With slow and deliberate movements, Pellius lifted Hellbrand. It would be an honourable death, a soldiers death, a beheading. As the gleaming sword shone in the flickering light of the emerald torches, the infernal blade prepared to complete its hungered mission. Pellius’ lip curled, his brow contorting with vicious rage as he reared back and begun his frightening swing.

“Wait!” called a familiar voice from deeper in the cavern.
Pellius snarled as he pulled back from his sword’s decent, growling a low and malicious rumble at being interrupted and denied that which he’d been so eager to receive. The sounds of the approaching guard vanished, the cavern still and quiet as if time itself had stopped.
“Spare him,” Dessiter said with a small grin, appearing beside the defeated paladin, “At least for a moment...”
“Speak,” Willow clipped, narrowing her eyes upon him, “Quickly.”
Dessiter looked towards her, inclining his head.
“Richard,” he said with a patronizingly sweet feigned warmness, “It seems my associates are about to slay you. And who can blame them after all you’ve done to thwart their noble aspirations.”
Willow listened intently to the devils words, her daggers clutched in her hands, her mind churning in suspicion as she watched what unfolded. The appearance of Dessiter was never mere coincidence. His presence indicated once more that the game of pawns in Naburus’ plan was vastly more intricate that they had thought.
“My name is Dessiter, and I have been empowered by my master to extend you an offer.” “Never,” Havelyn whimpered, slumped upon his knees, little strength left behind his dejected words.
“Never is a long time, dear Richard,” Dessiter smiled, “You have failed at your mission. Talingarde stands on the brink of disaster. Would you see your nation delivered into the hands of monsters? You can still save your people, Richard, you just have to let go of your pride.”
Dessiter shook his head gently, speaking to the paladin as if speaking to a child, “Mitra has abandoned Talingarde and abandoned you. Tell me, if Mitra were truly so powerful, would you lie here helpless before my associates? No. You’ve followed a false god, dear Richard.”
“Mitra has forsaken Talingarde,” Garvana scowled viciously, “The sun was never powerful enough to shield the land from the chaos, and so it turned its back on us.”
“But you are in luck,” Dessiter chimed in, a light joy to his words, “My master is impressed by your skill in battle. He’s impressed by your doggedness and determination. He’s impressed by you, Richard. It is just that... you are working for the wrong side. You are working for a side that has already forsaken you. Tell me Richard, will you die here in this festering swamp like a dog… or will you rise once more?”
For a moment, the festering cavern hung in silence. Though Garvana seemed eager to aid Dessiter in his argument, Willow was still trapped deeply in the grasp of distrust.
“Will you accept our generous offer,” Dessiter continued, “And swear allegiance to a new master? I’m afraid this is a one time offer, Richard.”
He looked to the Forsaken with a sly smile, “And judging from the look on my friends’ faces, I’d say that time is quickly running out...”
It was a pitiful sight, the paladin crumbled in complete loss of hope and true and utter despair.
“You have no real choice,” Garvana said to him, “There is only one way to defeat the chaos, and that is the order of the Lord of the Nine. You must accede.”
“Mitra can no longer help you,” Traya said coldly, “Mitra cannot save this country. Only the most powerful being can, only the mighty Asmodeus can.”
Willow watched the paladin with true curiosity. She watched the torment warring across his face, she watched the aching indecision play upon his heart strings. More curious than that, she watched how he stared eyes of strange longing towards Pellius. It was as if he longed for the certainty and conviction that exuded from him. As if he longed for undeniable truth in the conviction of his god. As if he longed for everything that Pellius was. With his brow contorting in agony, he wept.
“Mitra,” he cried to the wind, “Why hast thou forsaken me?”
The ground beneath their feet trembled, a rumble deep within the earth. Suddenly, a dark wind moved amongst them, a palpable evil that swarmed the cavern. Sir Richard of Havelyn cried a forlorn breath, before his body slumped to the ground in a state of unconsciousness. It was clear to those eyes who saw, that he was a Paladin of Mitra no longer. He had fallen. “Gods in Hell,” Dessiter grinned, “I never get tired of seeing that!”
He turned to the Forsaken, “He’ll wake up soon enough, and when he does, Naburus would like a few words with the poor darling. It seems he is ours. I shall take him away, get him cleaned up and ready. I’ll return him to you after you have killed Thorn. You might want to decide by then what you are going to do with your own fallen paladin…”
Before he vanished with Havelyn in flash of brimstone, he smiled, perhaps the single most evil smile Willow had ever witnessed.
“Whatever it is,” he grinned, “I hope it is something really special...”


When the thick air in the cavern cleared, the sounds of thundering footsteps grew closer to the wide mouth of the cave. Willow rushed to Pellius’ side, quickly looking over the worst of his wounds. For a bare moment, their sight collided. She saw the disappointment in his eyes, the frustration and dissatisfaction at having to restrain from the killing blow. But she saw acceptance, he knew that true conversion of such a soul was far better than death. From her pouch she pulled free a wand carved from a single piece of darkwood, twisted knots filed to sharp points, radiating a subtle throbbing blackness. She used the dark arcana to heal the worst of his wounds, before the clambering of steel boots appeared just beyond the bend of the cavern walls.
“This way!” cried a deep voice.
Though the Forsaken took cover behind the jagged stone, they saw only a glimpse of a familiar man before a thirty foot wall of erupting colour flashed into existence around them. It was the same wizard that had transported Havelyn from the halls of the Horn of Abbadon. The Forsaken were trapped within the glimmering force, splashes of vivid hues, a myriad rainbow of sparkling arcana. Willow knew better than to approach the wall, backing up to the centre of their surroundings, eyes wide as she looked to the others.
“We have no defence in here!” Willow growled.
Without a word, Traya transformed herself into the mass of shredding earth, sinking low into the stone before disappearing from sight.
“Turn to gas,” Garvana growled, “We can escape over the wall.”
But as Willow looked to Sith, knowing he had no way to escape, she would not leave him behind.
“Go,” she said to Pellius and Garvana, quickly pulling free a scroll from the case strapped to her hip, “I’ll take Sith.”
“You cannot travel through it,” Garvana rushed, “You shall have to go up to the surface and then come back down.”
As Willow swiftly reached out and clutched hold of a fist full of fur, she nodded to Garvana as she watched them vanish into mist.
“Dorith,” she said calmingly, taking a pointless breath to steady herself.
As she read the incantation written upon the scroll, the two of them were torn through the vortex and spat out high atop the rocky mountains that housed the caverns beneath. The strong wind blasted into them, the salty seas crashing against the stone, showering them in brine and vapour. The skies above thundered in warning of the storm that was approaching the desolate isle, ricocheting bolts of lightening across the darkened canvas of sky. Within a breath, Willow pulled free another scroll, rushing the incantation to take her back down to the depths of Chargammon’s lair. Though she aimed their descent towards where the wizard had stood, they arrived to face much more than she had expected. Two rows of aligned soldiers, primed with bows and readied arrows. As luck would have it, Willow had arrived behind them, their sights aimed above the wall of colour, tracking the two mist forms that crept over the edge. These were no ordinary soldiers. They were Knights of Alerion, a specialised rank that usually charged mounted upon steeds, firing their fatal shots from horseback. But there was no room in the caverns winding passages for horses, and with their hastily donned mismatched pieces of armour, it was clear they had leapt into battle unprepared. As Sith caught their attention with a snarling growl that billowed small flames from his maw, the dozens of heads whipped towards her. There were a few faces Willow recognised, men she had seen before, serving with her husband, though she knew not their names. Only one of them she recognised, a lean olive skinned man, dark locks pushed back off his face – Taal O’mara, a close friend of her husband and family. When he saw her, the shock he wore lasted only a moment before the hatred and bitterness overwhelmed him.
“Harlot!” he hissed, quickly turning to train his sight on her.
Willow grinned as Sith roared with savage fury, unleashing a torrent of fire upon the ranks of knights. The flames coursed their way across the men, burning, scorching, blistering. As the first wave of arrows came hurtling towards her, Willow lithely darted out of the path of the majority of the splintered wood.
“Turn about!” bellowed the captain.
Almost faster than her eyes could track, the rank of knights moved with practiced expertise to change formation and aim each arrow upon her. Though they were fast, not all were fast enough. She danced about with her blades, tearing them through flesh in a flurry of slashes, felling the two who dared to move in her reach. As the others drew their arrows, a sudden eruption exploded from the stone beneath them. Traya, in the form of the earth itself, exploded into a vile and searing black and poisonous sludge. Large chunks of toxic earth were flung in all directions, hammering into the metal and steel worn by the knights. As the dirt collided with flesh, it seared upon the bones, melting skin and scorching muscle like meat. It was too much for most of the knights, the screams of agony a chorus that paired the crashing metal as they felt writhing to the ground. But as the acidic sludge flew towards the wizard, a strange shield that surrounded him, forced the dirt to part around him and fall inert back to the ground.
“Nessith!” Willow rasped, commanding Sith to attack the wizard.
As the great warhound pounced forward, the wizard’s eyes widened. As the magic surrounded his throat, he opened his mouth and expelled a booming word that carried the force of a thousand winds. The power within the word was so great, the air was thrust forward in a blurred vision, pummelling into the flaming chest of the hound. Though Sith whimpered against the pain, digging his claws into the stone to stop himself from being flung across the room, he did not shy from his approach. Once the force had passed, he leapt forward and craned his vicious maw wide, devouring the wizard in a few savage and snarling bites.
Only three of the knights remained standing, one of whom was Taal, furious and scowling, eyes blazing with hatred. They swiftly looked to one another, casting aside their bows and drawing their swords, hoisting them high into the air.
“FOR MITRA!” they cried in unison, before Taal cried on his own, “And for Audric!”
They charged towards Willow, screaming their wrath as they neared. But they did not get a change to taste vengeance, they made it only far enough to arrive by her before the ground erupted in a gigantic fist of stone, gripping hold of their burned and blistered bodies before closing itself and crushing them beneath its enormous fingers.


They took rest for a moment, surrounded by the stench of charred flesh and blood, to heal their wounds and recover their strength. While Pellius helped pull free the three arrows that had managed to pierce through Willow back, Garvana looked over the dead and Traya quickly scouted the great chamber.
“You knew him?” Pellius asked, nodding his head towards Taal’s crushed corpse, losing one of the arrows to pull it free.
“A long time ago,” Willow said quietly, “He was – gah, damn it – he was one of my husbands friends. Stood by his side at my trial, seemed to take it almost worst than Audric. Death is better than you deserve, traitor. Those were his last words to me.”
“Little does he know…” Pellius chuckled, wrenching the first arrow free.
“Curious to see him here,” Willow frowned, “I would have thought he would have been at Fallingsbridge. It makes me wonder if Audric was there.”
“Would he not have been?”
“That legion,” Willow said, talking of the deceased archers, “Were known as the Sun’s Arrow, in battle they are paired with a league called the Sun’s Shield. Mounted archers that surrounded knights with great shields and spears. They were part of the same battalion. Audric is a Shield. If the Arrows were not in the battle, it is likely neither were the Shields.”
“So your beloved husband may still live?” Pellius chuckled, tugging on the last arrow.
Willow winced as she scoffed a laugh, “It is likely.”
“Good,” he replied, pulling the metal head free from her back, “I should like to meet him.”
Willow arched her brow, looking over her shoulder to Pellius.
“And I should like him to meet with the end of my blade…”

After a time spent scouring the rest of the cavern passages, they found a small camp in the centre of a large and open cave mouth. It was clear by the strewn about pieces or armour, discarded metal plates still filled with half eaten rations and the low flickering campfire, that the knights had been at rest when they heard the call of their paladin. Huddled in the corner were twelve horses, tethered to a post driven into the stone, saddles and bags piled by their side. The steeds watched the Forsaken with warily interest, restlessly shuffle their feet, unease within the dark and foreboding chamber. Further into the caverns, they found a separate camp tucked away from the noise of the soldiers, one filled with tomes and books piled along the sides of the canvas tent.
“The books that Havelyn mentioned,” Garvana concluded, a frown on her brow, “I wonder what the wizard was hoping to find within them?”
“We can take them with us,” Pellius dismissed, waving his hand, “We must find this horde and move on from here.”
“We have searched the whole cavern,” Garvana sighed, “And it is no where to be found.”
“Not the whole cavern,” Willow said quietly, her brow pulled low.
“You have an idea, my lady?” Pellius asked, brow arched in question.
“The water,” Willow said slowly, “It was stagnant, still and putrid…”
“Of course,” Garvana said plainly, shaking her head in frustration, “Chargammon has been dead and Jeratheon has been with us.”
“If I was dragon,” Willow drawled, rolling her eyes at Garvana, “And I wanted my horde away from prying eyes, I would want it where it was hard to get to and kept close to me at all times…”
For a moment, wide eyes stared towards her.
“Beneath the water!” Traya said in realisation.
“Close to him,” Willow nodded, “Not easily accessed.”
“And who is volunteering to jump into that filth?” Garvana grimaced.
“For the treasures he has to have hidden there,” Traya grinned, “I am…”


Traya was not the only one willing to dive into the putrid water to search for the illustrious horde of Chargammon the Black. Though she protested at first, even Garvana was willing to delve into the liquid. One of the advantages of their slow transformation into vampirism, was that they did not yet share all the weaknesses that affected their undead kin. Though being completely surrounded by water had an unease settle in Willow’s stomach, she knew it was safe to traverse the lake. Safe, as they could be in the lair of one of the great fabled terrors the land had ever known.
After a time swimming beneath the surface, they found only two possible options. Hidden deep in the lowest part of the cavern, was a tunnel that led further out into what they believed was the surround seas. On the other side of the lower cavern, was a boulder larger than a house. It was far larger than anything they could move, even as the four of them tried in unison. Traya used her curious arcana to form into stone and tunnel through the walls, returning a short time later with a disappointed scowl on her face.
“It’s gone,” she growled, treading atop the feral water, “It is all gone. There’s nothing there save a few scratch marks!”
“Do we have the wrong place?” Garvana frowned.
“Or has someone been here before us?”
“Could Jeratheon have beat us here and retrieved it via that tunnel?”
“No,” Willow shook her head, “He is far too afraid of his sire. Someone else must have taken it when they heard word that Chargammon was dead.”
“Risky,” Pellius commented, arching his brow.
Willow scowled as she thought over their options. With an idea forming, she dove back beneath the surface and swam down to deepest tunnel. With keen eyes searching the harsh stone floor, she followed the passage out towards the sea. With no need to breathe, she took her time winding through the thorned coral, looking for even a single clue as to what happened to the treasure, or who could have taken it. It was a single piece of glistening gold that caught her attention. A single coin, resting atop the seabed, as if it had been dropped there recently. With the gold in hand, she wound her way back to the others, climbing upon the stone shore, cringing at the stench that had soaked into her hair.
“What did you find?” Garvana asked intently.
“This,” Willow said, holding up the coin, “On the floor of the sea at the foot of the tunnel. It could be coincidence, but it could be our thief.”
“How did they move that boulder?” Pellius asked sceptically, “And why did they put it back?”
Suddenly, a loud and vicious snarling roar sounded from deeper in the caverns, followed by the savage noise of slaughter.
“To keep that one unaware as long as they could,” Willow offered with a laugh, standing from the stone to greet Jeratheon.
When the black dragon stalked into the open cavern, he looked over the Forsaken with bitter distaste.
“You did not leave me much to eat,” he hissed, cold black eyes scanning the dead Mitrans around the cave.
“You should have flown faster,” Willow scoffed, arching her brow and crossing her arms.
His response was a snarling bite, snapping his venom dripping teeth towards her.
“Your sire’s horde is gone,” Garvana said plainly.
“An easy way to say you could not find it,” Jeratheon laughed venomously, “You did not think you would find it so easy?”
“We found where it was,” Garvana replied coldly, “Beyond that great boulder. But it seems we were not fast enough. Someone, or something, beast us to it.”
Though a small flinch gave away his shock that they had figured it out, he snarled his reply.
“Too proud to admit you could not move the boulder?” he hissed.
“It is not there,” Willow sighed in frustration, unimpressed by his attitude, “Something large enough to remove the boulder, and put it back, has taken it before we had a chance to get here. I would wager it was a large aquatic beast, brave enough to test the knowledge that Chargammon had been slain.”
“And what makes you so certain?” Jeratheon growled low in his throat.
Willow lifted the coin to his sight, “This.”
With a sense of smell far keener than that of a human, the beast drew harder through his flaring nostrils, his eyes flaring with hatred and anger as he recognised the scent of his father.
“Where did you find that?!” he hissed viciously.
“By the foot of the tunnel out at sea,” Willow replied, arching her brow at his great snarling head so close to her, “Laying atop the seabed, as if it had been dropped there recently.”
His dark eyes flared wide, as he threw his head back and roared a bestial cry of wrath. Without a word, he leaped out into the air, plunging below the water in a crashing wave of exploding water. The Forsaken looked to one another, as Sith growled his displeasure as the water hissed along his flames.
“Shall we await his return?” Willow asked.
“We do not know where he is going, or when he will come back,” Garvana frowned.
“But there is a camp already set up,” Traya suggested, “Food and supplies. I could certainly use a rest.”
“And if there was one place,” Willow laughed, “That we could sleep in safety away from the Mitrans, it would be here…”

When the sun lifted from the horizon, and the darkness of night was banished once more, the crashing sound of water awoke the Forsaken from their sleep. They moved quickly through the cavern, to be greeted by the foot of the large dragon pinning a creature to the stone. A man with skin and scales the colour of soft pale sapphire, long wet locks of white hair, and a long curling tail in place of legs. His scaled torso was torn and battered, seeping blue blood that pooled around him.
“Tell them, what you told me,” Jeratheon hissed callously.
“Please,” pleaded the merfolk, “Mercy, I beg of you, mercy!”
Willow stepped forward to the crying creature, drawing his sight towards her.
“You will find no mercy here,” she said coldly, “You will give us what we want, or your death will be far longer and more painful than it need be.”
“Please,” he whimpered, “Please…”
“Tell us,” Willow said calmly, “If you have information, it may be enough to spare your life.”
“Did you take the treasure?” Garvana demanded.
“Not I,” he wept, shaking his head, “It was our lady. The elder wyrm, Benthysara…”

overlordseamus
2017-05-19, 02:52 AM
Well worth the wait.

The battle between Pellius and Richard Havelyn was fantastic. Good against evil, righteous fanatics locked in a battle that transcended both of them. Brilliant.

FocusWolf413
2017-05-19, 07:43 AM
I love it. I love all of it. Just one thing.

Thou wasn't used interchangably with you. You was the formal version, thou informal. Slowly, we just dropped the word thou.

Point is, thou isn't the right word.

minderp
2017-05-20, 02:50 AM
Well worth the wait.

The battle between Pellius and Richard Havelyn was fantastic. Good against evil, righteous fanatics locked in a battle that transcended both of them. Brilliant.

Thank you! It was very dramatic to play, and super fun to write! :smallbiggrin:



I love it. I love all of it. Just one thing.

Thou wasn't used interchangably with you. You was the formal version, thou informal. Slowly, we just dropped the word thou.

Point is, thou isn't the right word.

Oh, thanks! I know little of their uses, i just wrote it as the DM said it. Would the right word simply be you?
Also, fascinating that you was the formal version, it seems so informal compared to thou. But i suppose that is because it is the one we use today so regularly. :smallsmile:

FocusWolf413
2017-05-21, 11:43 AM
Oh, thanks! I know little of their uses, i just wrote it as the DM said it. Would the right word simply be you?
Also, fascinating that you was the formal version, it seems so informal compared to thou. But i suppose that is because it is the one we use today so regularly. :smallsmile:

Yeah, you would be right. Thou is like you're talking to a friend. Even if it's informal as an insult, which doesn't make sense with who Richie Rich is as a person, it would be weird. But hot damn, that entire scene was thrilling.

minderp
2017-05-22, 04:24 AM
Yeah, you would be right. Thou is like you're talking to a friend. Even if it's informal as an insult, which doesn't make sense with who Richie Rich is as a person, it would be weird. But hot damn, that entire scene was thrilling.


Thanks for the info! :smallsmile:
Glad you're enjoying the story, am writing up the next chapter as i speak. :smalltongue:

minderp
2017-06-26, 09:17 PM
Sorry for the delay to anyone waiting, life has a way of always being in the way lol.
Finally, the next chapter! :smallsmile:
Hoping the following one should not be far off!


Flickering strays of light danced across harsh cracks of stone, lighting the arches of crevices, casting black shadow beneath them. The low burning flames of the campfire hissed as another shattered piece of wood was thrown upon the embers. Empty hollow caverns carried echoes of sound through their endless turns, most ends of the winding labyrinth still and cold, deafeningly silent. Chargammon’s lair was never an inviting place. Yet now, as most of its previous inhabitants were deceased or had fled the inhospitable land, it was more a silent graveyard than a domain of a legendary beast. But not all was quiet and deserted. In the centre of the foreboding caves, there were a few who still remained, clustered around a stolen camp, their loud and frustrated voices filling the caverns with the only sounds that echoed in the stone chambers.
“But it is not only one dragon’s horde,” Garvana grumbled, “It is two.”
“And you believe they will be an easy capture?” Willow scoffed, shaking her head, “You will simple swim in and slay the elder wyrm? The beast who lives and breathes in water? You will swim in your very water worthy full plate and valiantly slay both the dragon and the merfolk who revere her, and take both hers and Chargammon’s horde?”
“I did not say it would be easy,” Garvana snarled back, “But the prize would be far worth it!”
“Not easy, but near impossible!” Willow laughed, looking over Pellius and Garvana in their encumbering steel armour, “You two can barely swim as it is! What are you planning? To sink to the bottom and simply walk in? What happens when the final stages of the transformation manifest? We are trapped deep within the one thing that can kill us all without so much as a fight!”
“Can you not see the gain?” Garvana snapped, “We could use the gold to equip our men with the very best! We could outfit our men and transform them into an army!”
“An army of a hundred!” Willow laughed.
“One hundred and eighty four!” Garvana corrected indignantly.
“Garvana,” Willow sighed, “It is irrelevant. Our first priority must be the heart. The longer we wait to kill Thorn, the longer he has to prepare for our arrival. He knows we are coming for him!”
Garvana scowled, shaking her head.
“Pellius,” she said, looking to him for support, “What are your thoughts? Surely you see the benefit of retrieving the hordes first?”
Pellius frowned, the crease in his brow darkening as he thought on his words.
“The last dragon’s horde we raided held such vast treasures,” he said quietly, his eyes tinting with greed, “And he was far younger than Chargammon…”
“Pellius…” Willow sighed.
“But it would be a fatal mistake to underestimate Thorn,” he continued darkly, looking to Garvana, “If he does not already realise we have the location of the phylactery, he will figure out that we seek it in time. And once he does, he may well move it to avoid us getting to it. Without the heart, we have no way of truly destroying him. And if it is moved, I can not see us stumbling on its location again. We must act on this first.”
“Traya?” Garvana asked, turning to the quiet sorcerous with a small hope.
“The heart must take priority,” she said simply, “I wish my first meeting with Thorn to be on our terms, not when one of his minions greets us with a blade in the back.”
For a moment, Willow thought Garvana would continue arguing. She seemed unwavering in her opinion, set on fighting for her plan until the choice of the others was swayed. But she sighed, pursing her lips as she looked them over.
“Alright,” she conceded, “We will see to the heart first.”
“Perhaps you can tell Jeratheon if he wishes to retrieve his sire’s horde,” Traya scoffed, “Then he is welcome to do so himself…”

“We are still left with no way to get to the heart,” Garvana pointed out, “If we do not wish to fight the linnorm, how do we get passed him?”
“We do not know enough about him,” Willow shrugged, “We know nothing but old tales and rumours. How can we prepare an infiltration without anything more substantial?”
“Can you not scry him?” Traya asked Garvana.
“I do not know enough to get a clear reading.”
“What about with that wizard’s book?” Traya suggested, sifting through the pile of tomes, pulling out an ebony leather bound book, “There was an illustration of Nithoggr, perhaps you could use that as a focus?”
As she flicked through the pages quickly, she opened up the tome and turned it towards Garvana. A painted likeness of the fearsome creature sprawled across the page, white piercing eyes of evil, callous black spikes lining his long back. Garvana took the book and furrowed her brow. She traced along the picture with her finger, slowly closing her eyes as she expelled a steadying breath. Quiet enchanted words fell from her lips, as a soft wisp of blue followed the path her fingers were tracing. As her chanting echoed through the cavern, accompanied by the crackle and hiss of the flames, her eyes opened to reveal the glazed and clouded pupils beneath. Her chant ceased, as the vision she was given manifested in her mind. As she watched the reveal, she quietly described the images that flashed through her mind, in a calm and emotionless voice enraptured in divine arcana.
She described the bleak rocky high mountain range, monumental slate peaks jutting into the sky, higher and more desolate than any within Talingarde. She saw the cairn, not located on the peaks or slopes of the mountains, instead upon an elevated plateau shadowed by the giant bones of the land. The long stretched valley surrounding the mountains, sparse and desolate. The majestic, endless pine forest of the north retreating from the mountains, leaving only the occasional scrub and stunted bristlecone. Harsh winds sweeping through the slate, scouring and keeping it largely free of accumulated snow. Thundering rain blowing off the western sea, pummeling the grey stone, coating it in thick torrential falls of coursing water and ice. As her vision tunneled forward, her words described the unending surroundings of snow and stone. And then, the beast himself. Coiled around a pillar of stone, utterly still and silent. A serpent of enormous size, created of timeworn bone, jagged and cracked spines sharpened to points. She saw him lying atop a glittering horde of uncountable gold, silver and amber.
Slowly, the fog across Garvana’s eyes dissipated. She blinked rapidly a few times, before shaking her head gently and looking up to the others. For a moment, there was simply silence within the cavern.
“What do we do next?” Traya asked, in a soft and timid voice.
“We must prepare to meet him,” Garvana replied, wary eyes looking at each of them.
“We cannot fight him,” Traya balked, “It would be certain death.”
“He is enormous,” Garvana conceded, “He appears as great a threat as Chargammon was.”
“Then all we need is to call meteors down from the heavens,” Willow scoffed.
“Or throw a dragon of our own at him,” Garvana joked, “Even Jeratheon would not stand a chance at defeating him.”
Suddenly, a curious thought arose in Willow’s mind. Her brow furrowed, as her eyes widened.
“Perhaps we don’t need Jeratheon to defeat him…” she said carefully.
“What do you mean?” Pellius frowned.
Willow laughed in shock at the obvious revelation that surfaced.
“What is one of the main traits that define a dragon?” she smirked, “Besides the greed for their treasures?”
“They are terrifying?” Traya offered, rolling her eyes with a chuckle.
“They are territorial,” Willow explained, arching her brow, “What would rile a dragon enough to make him temporarily leave his horde?”
“Another dragon invading his domain,” Pellius realised, brows shooting high.
“Exactly!” Willow grinned, “We do not need Jeratheon to fight Nithoggr. We only need him to tease the beast and lure him away on a wild chase.”
“And you think he will be willing?” Traya scoffed.
Willow shrugged as the smirk lifted her lips, “Who said anything about willing?”

The midday sun blazed above the city of Ghastenhall as the Forsaken returned to their manor in the farmlands. They had given instructions to the black dragon to await word of their decision on how to proceed. Heading out on horseback into the city, Willow and Pellius made their way to the marketplace. With Garvana’s description of the barren lands of slate and snow, Willow searched for something more inconspicuous to wear over her shining black leather armour. In the tailor’s shop, she found what she was seeking. A long and loose cloak with a hood, made from fine white wool and the fur of a grey wolf. Should she have had blood flowing to her limbs, the warm the cloak offered would have been a necessity. But as it was, the colours of the soft cloak would offer perfect camouflage upon the rocky iced slopes.
As she made her way back through the marketplace, on route to meet up with Pellius to return to the manor, her steps took her passed a stall filled with arcane curiosities. The strange contraptions glittered with bronze linings and gaudy embellishments, but it was not the shining jewellery that caught Willow’s attention. It was a simple box of steel, fastened with a sturdy pin. As she moved closer to the unassuming box, she recognised the dense weight of lead that lined its interior.
“My lady has something she wishes to keep hidden from prying eyes,” said a smooth voice in a foreign tongue.
Willow looked up to the merchant, a lean man with dark olive skin and contrasting fair hair, sharp angular cheekbones and jaw.
“Perhaps,” she said easily, looking over the small box.
“The lead is double coated,” he said smoothly, “And it has the ability to shield even magical means of prying.”
Willow knew this already, but her fear was that what she was trying to hide was not merely some small insignificant trinket. She knew enough to know the heart of a lich was intricately connected to its owner, but she did not know if the connection was great enough to pass through the lead guarding the box. It was a precaution well worth the gold that the merchant was asking. She smiled as she looked to the foreign man.
“I shall take it…”

“It is settled,” Pellius nodded firmly, looking to the others gathered in the parlour of Silkcreek, “We shall inform Jeratheon at dawn, and head north to scout the place before he arrives there.”
“We still do not know how we are to get in there passed the dragon!” Willow scowled, “We do not know how long Jeratheon will keep him occupied. It may take us longer than we have to even find his horde.”
“We cannot know anymore, my lady,” Pellius smirked, shaking his head softly at her impatient frustration, “That is why we must scout first.”
“And if we alert Nithoggr to our presence before Jeratheon arrives?” she frowned.
“Then our plans change, but Jeratheon remains the distraction.”
“What if the heart is not in the horde?” Traya asked warily.
“I believe it will be,” Pellius dismissed, “It is wise to keep it amongst things that the dragon will personally defend.”
“And if it is not?” Traya pressed.
“Then our plans change,” Pellius sighed, “But we cannot plan anymore until we see the cairn.”
“Yes, but-
“Enough,” Pellius clipped, standing from his cushioned chair, “There is no point in arguing. It is growing late, we must rest. We will give Jeratheon his orders at dawn and then move north. We will complete our planning after we scout the area.”
Pellius gave a quick glance around, as if daring anyone to oppose him. When he heard no objections, he nodded his head firmly. He looked to Willow, offering his arm. She chuckled quietly to herself as she accepted it and stood from her seat.
“Good night,” Pellius said, inclining his head to the others, “Be ready before dawn.”
Together, the pair made their way up the stairs, entering the bedchamber they shared in a warily silence. As Pellius closed the door behind her, Willow made her way to the dressing room, but the open tome on her writing desk caught her eye. The creature of death and acid that awaited them, the painted eyes seemingly staring through the pages towards her. For a moment, she simply stared back at his likeness, feeling the creeping chill of forewarning seeping into her flesh.
“You are truly worried,” Pellius said quietly, a deep curiosity to his tone as he searched her face, “You were not this wary even when we met Chargammon. Yet, this beast truly scares you?”
Willow smiled softly as she closed the book.
“We wanted only to talk to Chargammon,” she replied, arching her brow, “Not to prowl in and steal from him.”
Pellius smirked, slow steps bringing him closer to her.
“Prowling,” he said, in voice deep and sultry, “Is what you do best.”
When he reached her, Willow grinned a sensuous smile, lifting her chin to look into his eyes. Suddenly, his rough hands gripped her shoulders, spinning her away from him. In contrast, his fingers slowly undid the fastenings of her gown, she spoke in a low and husky tone.
“But when I prowl alone,” she said, “I am silent.”
Though she enjoyed the feel of his firm hands tracing down her spine, her brow refused to release its grip upon her frown.
“If I am alone,” she continued, though her voice was softer and tinted with worry, “And I am discovered, I am dead. If we enter together, there is no question we will be discovered – and then we are all dead.”
She heard his soft exhale as he finished pulling free the laces. Gentler hands turned her back towards him.
“You know there is no point worrying until we see the cairn itself,” he said with a slight arch to his brow.
“I know,” Willow sighed, looking into his eyes.
She admired his conviction. She admired his ability to simply push the matter aside until all the hands were revealed. She lifted onto her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, before turning from him and returning on her way towards the dressing room.
“Oh, I had almost forgotten,” he said distractedly, “I have something for you.”
As Willow pulled her arms from the sleeves of the gown, letting it drop as she stepped out of it, Pellius retrieved a small paper wrapped package from his pack. Standing in the black petticoat and slip she wore beneath the dress, Willow eyed the package with intrigue.
“What is it?” she asked, arching her brow as she placed her gown atop the bed.
“A gift,” he said easily, holding it out to her.
With a small smile on her lips, she accepted the package, pulling the yarn string free and unfolding the paper. Inside was an ebony box lined in silk, adorned with intricate embroidered patterns. She shot Pellius a questioning look as she made her way to the dresser stool, placing the box and its wrappings upon the vanity. When she carefully lifted the lid, she smiled at what she saw.
“They are beautiful,” she breathed, “Thank you, Pellius.”
A pair a finely crafted gloves, made from the softest silks woven into the firm raven leather. With perfectly tapered fingers lined with curious black stitching in the shape of arcane runes, and long cuffs that seemed to expand and retract effortlessly. With a gentle touch, she lifted them from the cushioned box, sliding them on her hands.
“They are a perfect fit,” she smiled, looking to him.
With a sly look of knowing, he reached for her hand, closing her fingers into a fist. She frowned, but watched with curiosity as he forced her fingers to knock on the hard wooden vanity. It would have been a strange thing to do, if not for the fact that her knuckles did not make a sound upon the wood. Her eyes flew wide, looking to him quickly. He laughed at her reaction, and grinned as she tried again on her own and laughed at the lack of sound.
“What are they?” she asked, eyes wide in eager curiosity.
“Whispering Gloves,” he replied, “The fingertips are enchanted with a very small spell of silence. I saw them and thought you would get particularly good use out of them.”
“They are very clever,” she grinned, “And particularly beautiful.”
“They have another function too,” he said, nodding to the gloves, “If you press a finger to your lips, you can speak a silent word that travels only to the ears of someone in your sight.”
“Truly?” Willow said, turning her hands over to look closer at the runic embroidery.
She felt the grin slide upon her face as she lifted her finger to her lips. She looked to Pellius with eyes of mischievous delight, and whispered a few words that would make any woman or noble man blush. Pellius’ brow arched high as the words arrived in his ears. He lashed out and grabbed her hand, forcing it against her lips as he lifted her and dropped her backwards, crushing her firmly into the dresser. His own words reached her ears as his weight slowly descended upon her.
“And if you clasp them over someone’s mouth,” he rasped lustfully, “Their screams will never be heard…”


“You have decided?” Jeratheon hissed.
“We have,” Willow replied, unfazed by the dripping acid that fell from his jaw so close to her feet, “The elder wyrm and the hordes must wait. We have another more pressing matter to take care of, and we have a task for you.”
Though he hissed his disapproval, he narrowed his eyes upon her.
“We have to retrieve something from the lair of Nithoggr, the Strider-in-the-Dark,” she said firmly, brows raised in confidence, “You are to draw him out of his lair.”
The beast threw back in head in vile and hissing laughter, flaring his vicious teeth.
“You expect me to take on that creature for you?” he snarled.
“No,” Willow said plainly, ignoring the spitting sound of crackling leather as the acid that sprayed from his laughter seared its way through, “I expect you to create a distraction. Rouse his anger, and keep him from his horde long enough for us to retrieve what we need. In payment, I offer you a prize, taken from the linnorm’s horde.”
The savage creature lowered his head towards her, eyes of venomous green piercing into her, a fierce annoyance flaring warning in his gaze.
“Bait,” he snarled, lashing his teeth closed over the word, “You wish me to be bait.”
“I wish you,” she growled back, “To complete the orders you are given. Draw him out, and we will handle the rest.”
“No,” he hissed, daring her to face the wrath of asking again.
But Willow knew exactly how to gain his compliance. She did not need to force him, he would follow faithfully, for fear would keep him in line.
“You dare defy the command of your sire?” she asked with cold warning, “Was it not his word that bound you to a century of our command?”
She watched as fury overwhelmed his features. She saw his anger threaten to take hold and allow him to unleash his blistering breath upon her. But he did not. His fear for his sire’s wrath far outweighed the arrogance he harboured.
“Fine,” he hissed, “I will draw his attention. But then I am gone.”
“You have three days to get there,” Willow continued, returning easily to her calm and cold tone, “Do not be late. I assume you know where the beast dwells?”
“I do,” he rasped, hatred and resentment flaring.
“Good. Be there.”
The ferocious black dragon lifted his head, watching Willow for a moment. She believed in fear, she believed it was the greatest motivator of all. But for a moment, as his acidic gaze took in her worth – she felt the slightest tinge of doubt. Then he turned from her, lowering down to propel himself into the air. Before he took off in a cloud of dirt and dust, he snarled his last words towards her.
“Do not forget my reward…”

The black beast disappeared into the dawning sky, as the Forsaken led their steeds back towards the Silkcreek Homestead, to prepare for their arcane jump into the white wilderness of the north. Clad in fur and wool, they stood together and stepped through the otherworldly portal. Garvana guided their journey, primed with the vision of the edge of the pine forest, far below the towering slate giants. When they arrived, the battering winds blew a steady gale, as harsh rain pelted the iced slopes. Even as summer slowly arrived to the land of Talingarde, here there was no trace of the warmth from the sun, no lush green fields or flourishing life. Here there was only ice, snow and slate. High above them to the north, were the bones of the world. The description that Garvana had given could not have done them justice. With their size, it would be easy to describe them as the stone bones of a creature of unfathomable size, trapped in deep slumber beneath the ages gone of snow and ice.
“We must find shelter from this rain!” Garvana yelled over the thundering winds, “Can we use the overhang to avoid the worst of it?”
“Quickly!” Pellius called, “Over there!”
Steps were slow and heavy, pushing against the coursing air that seemed bent on denying them movement. After almost an hour, it was in the cover of two towering ice sheets that they found momentary refuge. Though the rain still poured down along the crusted ice, the wind simply wound around the walls and continued its unending billow.
“We cannot sleep here,” Traya chattered, shuddering against the cold, pulling her fur coat closer around her.
“We may have to,” Garvana frowned, “If we cannot find anywhere better.”
“I saw something roughly a mile back,” Willow suggested, wiping away the ice that had formed along her hair, “A mound of some kind. I could not see it very clearly, but I saw what looked like an old foundation to some kind of building or house.”
“It is worth a look,” Pellius nodded, dropping his bags and pack to ground, “I shall go with you.”
“I shall try and set up camp,” Garvana said, though her unsure tone mirrored the thoughts of the others.
Traya seemed relieved to have a reason to keep out of the rain, “I’ll help.”

Willow and Pellius trudged their way back through the ever moving snow and sleet, careful of their steps as the water flooded the slate and stone beneath their feet. When Willow spotted the uneven ground she had seen before, her keen eyes searched the surrounding land through the bristled pine forest. As they approached, Willow pushed aside the built up dirt and ice with her boot, revealing the base of what was once stone walls. Carefully moving atop the foundation, she found a board of rotted wood, a cellar door lost to time long ago. She pulled her hood lower over her face to shield it from the brunt of the hammering rain, crouching low to examine the cellar. Even with hands as careful as hers, as she lifted the door it crumbled between her fingers. There was a crevice hidden underneath, a tunnel that once would have been wide enough to fit a person. But now, it was filled with ages of dirt and debris, sealing off whatever lay beneath. She looked up to Pellius, seeing his frown pulled tightly.
“I have a shovel back at camp!” he leaned in close and yelled.
Willow nodded, but her eyes slowly drew to the towering spires of the mountains. She knew better than to think of sleep when they knew so little about what dwelled around them. From where they stood, they could see the slate dome that sat atop the iced plateau, the harsh rock building almost five hundred feet across merely a spec in the distance. Even as far away from it as they were, the stench of death and decay seemed to encompass the surroundings. That, was the Cairn of Nithoggr.
She stood from her crouch, indicating to the mountains and the dome as she leaned closer to Pellius.
“I shall scout the outside,” she said as quietly as the wind would let her, “And see if I cannot find another way in. I will be back before nightfall.”
Pellius’ frown lowered, but he nodded softly, “Be safe, my lady…”

It took three hours of painstaking march for Willow to reach the clear and barren plateau. At first impression, it seemed little more than a jumble of loose stone forming a massive circular pile. It was only as she drew closer that she saw it for what it truly was. A great earthen mound, buttressed by pylons of stone, with walls that were twenty feet deep at their shallowest point. To have built so massive and solid structure, there on the high and inhospitable plateau, was a feat of no less than legendary status. She knew dragons to be creatures of pride and place, but she struggled to imagine even a dragon having the patience and strength to construct such a place.
The flat iced land of the plateau stretched wide along the foot of the over hanging peaks, sheltered from one side by the mountains that towered above. The western winds bypassed the tall structure, forming an ever coursing tunnel of powering breeze that swept along the bare sheets of slate. Willow kept low in a crouch as she approached the enormous dome, eyes struggling to pierce through the endless rain that poured, the wet drops forced sideways along with the dominant wind. Though it made her perusal far more difficult, it offered the same shielded view to any who would watch her ascent. She did not wish to risk giving away their presence, so she found a small nook in the towering ice sheets to the side of the plateau, keen sight observing the dome. It was from here that she spied a curious bulge in the rocky formation, centered in the very top of the construction. A large boulder made from stone, that only slightly did not match color of the rest of dome. It was instinct that had her climbing the slate structure, with the aid of the curious magic that accompanied the vampiric curse, her feet and fingers clinging to the rock with spider-like ease. Though she could have scaled the dome in minutes, she was far more cautious in her climb, afraid of rousing the beast that dwelled within. When she reached the crest of immense structure, she felt a small smile tug upon her lips. Her instincts had been right. Though the boulder had to have been centuries old, in relation to the rest of the slate structure, it was a new addition to the foreboding home. It stood more than twenty feet tall, resting within a large crevice in the slate. Willow narrowed her eyes upon the surrounding slate, noting the deep scratches that littered around the boulder, giving her the impression that it had been shifted and moved countless times. She carefully circled the peak, trusting the magic of her curse to keep her feet planted firmly beneath her even as the storming winds ripped through her clothing. Along the northern edge of the boulder, she spotted a small cluster of crumbled slate nestled at the base. She crouched low, using silent and attentive hands to shift the slate free, quietly opening a small gap in the stone. Expelling a small steadying breath, she lowered herself down, peering into the cavern below. It was then, that she saw him. The fabled beast slumbering upon a glittering mountain of treasure and scattered bones. Nithoggr, the foul black serpent, the evil creature of death and decay. Where the single beam of light pierced the pitch black chamber, Willow saw the linnorm for what he was. A serpent, yes. But not raven scaled or ebony skinned. Made entirely from bones of bitter white, pitted and scarred with a thousand wounds and cuts. His head was crested with horns and bone spurs, that jutted from his skull like a great crown of death. The beast was coiled around an ebony monolith, an ancient and powerful magic that seemed to envelop Willow’s skin as her sight drew to it. But even that could not draw her sight for long. Watching the beast brought the undeniable feeling of dread into her chest. She spied trinkets and riches, but she was not interested in them. They had come for a purpose. They had come for the phylactery. Where would it be hidden? Where would she have hidden it? Within the walls of the chamber? Away from the beast, but safe within his home? No, Willow believed it would be deep within the horde, somewhere the beast would protect with every ounce of his viciousness. Yet, she believed it would not be in a simple case, for Cardinal Thorn would need somewhere to reform upon his rebirth. A box, or a coffin. She took the time to steady her balance, leaning over the hole in the slate, before scouring the horde with her eyes. There were chests and boxes aplenty. At a glance, she spied at least fifteen possible targets. From her vantage point, she could determine nothing more, needing to get down and amongst the treasure to find anything further. With a final look to the terrifying visage of the sleeping beast, Willow pulled back from the gap, carefully replacing the stones where she found them. She stood up upon the crest of the dome, rain lashing the flesh of her face, wind tearing the hood from her head and ripping her hair free. As the long locks whipped through the thundering gale, she looked out along the unending pine forests. The Forsaken had fought and faced some of the mightiest foes in the land, following the most risky and foolish plans. Yet, this could have been the most risky. It was a single thought that echoed in her mind, as her eyes traced the expanse. What is more foolish, she thought – facing the Strider in the Dark, or attempting to steal from him?

minderp
2017-06-26, 09:19 PM
It was a further three hours to traverse down from the plateau and return to find Pellius having finished digging through the old cellar doorway. When she arrived by the ancient site, she peeked into the tunneled hole, seeing the flicker of a campfire beneath. Carefully dropping down, she found herself within a small chamber, walls carved from rough stone in a place shielded from time.
“What is this place?” she asked Pellius, looking over the small recesses in the stone.
“Old,” he answered, standing from where he was unpacking his belongings, “Very old. It has been here possibly since before humans came to Talingarde. Look at these.”
He guided Willow to a crevice in the wall on the opposite side of the room, where Garvana and Traya stood. The recess housed a curious figurine, carved crudely from stone. Though it vaguely resembled a human, it bore a long slanted forehead, sharp angular features and tall antlers that grew from its head. Turning her head to look at the others nooks, it was clear that once they had been filled with similar carvings, though the long wear of time had taken its toll on the others.
“I have never heard of such creatures,” Willow said quietly, eyes raking over the statue, looking for something to spark recognition, “But so little is known of the north. Well, little more than it being inhabited by savages.”
“An ancient civilization,” Traya said in awe, “That would fetch a grand price with the right scholar.”
“Indeed,” Pellius nodded, arching his brow to Willow, “My thoughts exactly. But I fear to touch it, for it seems it may crumble within my fingers. It needs one with a gentler touch.”
Willow smirked, turning to the leather sack that Pellius carried. It was a curious bag that radiated arcana, a curious magic that expanded the inside of the bag immeasurably. Willow reached her hand in, pulling out a simple wooden box. She placed in on the ground, opening its latch to reveal the silk lining that comfortably housed three potions. Though Pellius had insisted that glass vials would be safe within the bag alone, Willow had always been more cautious. She quickly removed the vials and slipped them into her pouch, readjusting the silk to fit a single item. She returned to the figurine, using careful fingers to lift it from its rest and place it within the box. She shifted the silk around it, ensuring its snug fit before sealing it away.
“And that is why,” Pellius chuckled, “We wait for you.”
“Did you find anything at the dome?” Traya asked, a frown pulling her brow.
“I did,” Willow nodded, placing the box back in the arcane bag, “A second way in, direct into Nithoggr’s treasure horde.”
“Truly?” Garvana said, brows rising, “Did you see him?”
“Yes,” she replied, a slight chilled trepidation encasing her words, “The depictions do not do him justice.”
“They do not,” Garvana agreed, an understanding in their shared glance.
“So what is the plan?” Pellius asked, a firm charge in his voice, “Do we use this second entrance?”
“I think it is most wise,” Willow responded, nodding stiffly, “It is at the very top of the dome, an easy exit for Nithoggr. It is closed by a large boulder, but there is a gap in the stone large enough for a person to fit through. Though, if my assumption is correct, when Jeratheon appears, Nithoggr will use this exit and cast aside the boulder. It is the most direct opening to the outside.”
“And we what?” Traya scoffed, “Hide by the boulder and hope he does not see us?”
“I will hide by the top,” Willow shrugged, ignoring the snapping tone, “We do not know how long Jeratheon will keep him away, we need every second we can get inside that chamber.”
“Did you see the phylactery?” Garvana frowned.
“No,” Willow shook her head with a small laugh that held little humour, “It will not be that easy. The horde is far larger than we could have imagined. We have our work cut out for us…”

They spent the night in uneasy slumber, hidden from the barreling rain, listening to the deafening howl of the winds. This far north, there was not a moments peace from the ravaging weather. Even as inland as they were, the sound of the seas pummeling the stone edge of the isle could be heard as if they were atop the shore itself. When dawn finally arrived, it brought no change save the light of the sun. They had given Jeratheon three days to travel the skies to the bitter lands claimed by Nithoggr. And so they had at minimum another day and night to await his arrival. As the Forsaken rose for the day, they each had a different way to pass the time. Pellius had chosen to scout the surrounding forest, to find a few places of refuge, small nooks where he could hide should the dragon manage to catch his scent upon their escape. Traya refused to leave the safety and comfort of their camp, choosing to keep her blood warm in the hidden chamber, rather than risk the biting cold of the forest. Garvana was not content with the extent of Willow’s scouting, and so she took off early towards the dome, intent on finding more information on the cavern and its inhabitants. For a moment, Willow had thought on accompanying the stubborn woman, but decided against it. Close to camp there was an overhanging rock, complete with a slender shelf of ice, large enough to house her comfortably and shield her from the rain. From this vantage point, she could keep watch on both the camp and the northern mountains. She nestled in, pulling her fur and wool tightly around her, opening the tome they had found in Chargammon’s lair to the pages dedicated to the Strider in the Dark. There she spent the day, learning everything she could on the feral beast of death, watching his caverns from afar.

It was a few hours later, that a curious sight unfolded high along the sharp plateau. In a flash of brilliant colour, explosions of bright fuchsia and shimmering green erupted through the air, before something rippled into view. From as far away as Willow was, it was hard to make out what had appeared in the skies, but as she lowered her book and quickly pulled free the arcane lenses from her pack, she narrowed her eyes upon the curious descent, seeing a fur hood fall from atop what she now knew was a creatures head. A laugh tickled her tongue as she recognized the figure, falling from the skies and hitting the ground with an unceremonious thud, a spray of water shooting outwards as she landed. Garvana gathered herself, sparing a quick glance behind her before she sprinted the long haul towards camp. Though clad in heavy steel, the trip downwards was quick when it was run as fast and desperately as the woman had run it. Willow could not help the chuckle that escaped, watching the small spec of Garvana, sprinting through the wind swept slate. She strained her eyes to scan the plateau, but saw no more colours nor pursuing guard. She quickly grabbed her book and slipped it into her pack, deftly dropping from her high perch to the wet ground beneath. She skimmed towards the cellar, quickly jumping into the hole, to the obvious surprise of the startled sorcerous.
“Garvana is on her way back,” Willow said quickly, “And she may not be alone.”
Traya was quick to her feet, grabbing her fur cloak and wrapping it around her.
“What is going on?” she rushed.
“I am not sure,” Willow replied, dropping her back in the corner, checking the fastenings on her sheathes, “I saw an explosion of colour, spells of some kind I think, and then Garvana fall from the skies. She–
“Fell from the sky?” Traya balked.
“Yes,” Willow laughed, “I have no idea. But I can see no one chasing her, though she is running this way as if something is.”
“Have you seen Pellius?” Traya frowned, scurrying towards the exit.
“Last saw him heading west, about an hour ago. I have not seen him since.”
The pair scaled the rock wall, looking to the north, but seeing nothing amongst the arching lands. Willow returned to her perch, climbing along the jagged ice to see higher across the valley, spying the small image of Garvana still running towards them.
“If she keeps up the run,” she yelled over the wind, “She’ll be back within the hour!”
“What about the lair?!” Traya yelled, her frown pulling low.
“Quiet and still!” she replied, tracing the plateau with her sight, “I do not see anything!”

After Willow helped pull Traya up the ice and into the nook, they waited and watched the slow approach of Garvana, eyes keen for the threat she was trying to escape. As she crested the last hill towards the camp, Pellius returned from his own trek, brow pulled low as he spied the pair crouched in the alcove.
“What was that magic?!” he yelled, “Did you see it?!”
Willow swiftly stepped off and dropped from the perch.
“Yes,” she nodded, walking to his side rather than shouting over the crying wind, a humorous smile lifting the corner of her lip, “Did you see Garvana fall?”
“Fall?” he frowned, “Fall from where?”
“The skies,” Willow scoffed, “Just after the spells. She appeared from no where and fell to the ground. We’ve watched her return; she should be here any moment.”
Just as she spoke, Garvana appeared upon the hill.
“What happened?!” Pellius demanded.
Willow could not help but grin at her sheepish expression.
“It is a long story,” she dismissed, stalking passed them towards the cellar.
“If there is anything we have in abundance,” Willow commented, trying to hide her grin, “It is time.”
The woman scowled, shaking her head before dropping into the hole. Pellius shot Willow a serious look to silence the giggle that fell from her lips, before he followed Garvana into the camp. When both Traya and Willow dropped down, the three of them looked to Garvana expectantly. The woman ignored them for a moment, while she stripped off the heaviest pieces of her armour, wiping the ice from it that had formed between the funneling rain and cold chill of the wind.
“You will have to tell us eventually,” Willow sighed, though the grin still tugged at her lips, “I simply must know the story behind that amazing fall.”
“You saw that?” Garvana said, frowning in indignation.
“Of course,” Willow chuckled, “I spent the day watching the dome, remember?”
Garvana expelled a heavy breath, shaking her head before taking a seat.
“Should we be wary of anything tracking you here?” Pellius asked firmly.
“No,” Garvana huffed, “They did not follow outside of the dome, I think their instruction is to defend the lair, threats within it only.”
“They?” Willow asked, arching her brow.
Once more, Garvana sighed heavily.
“I found another entry into the caverns,” she began, “Not quite so direct to Nithoggr, but to the inside. Actually, there was dozens of them. A small network of tunnels, leading in every direction. I have no clue what carved them, but they were everywhere. I followed one for the better part of an hour, deeper into the cavern, but apparently picked the tunnel that lead up towards the entry. But, the entrance is not unguarded.”
“What did you find?” Traya asked, a trace of worry in her voice.
“Three stone guardians,” she said quietly, “One who looked much like that statue we found in here. But the other two were different. One was carved to look like it had flesh made from rough stone, no details on its face, just crude stone. The other, had the face of a canine.”
“And the three of them were together?” Willow asked, “I have never heard of such things. Except possibly the stone skin, could it have been an elemental?”
“No,” Garvana shook her head, “It was not an elemental. It was a guardian statue, one of good and chaos...”
Garvana described the powerful auras carried by the guardians. Imbued with the might of good and the wrath of chaos. They had shouted words of pure force towards her, words in an undecipherable language, words of chaos that punished those who repel against them. They had brandished archaic blades towards her, moving in perfect unison to destroy or banish the intruder of the cavern that they were bound to protect. The words had carried such might that they had rung a piercing wail inside Garvana’s head, blinding her senses and dulling her vision. She had tried desperately to dispel the foul magic, but struggled to understand her own words as they fell soundlessly from her mouth. Her arcane tricks had failed as the three had converged upon her, leaving her little choice but to flee out of the entrance. They blocked her exit with their raging swords, and so she had turned herself to gas to slink threw their offence. But she had not counted on the powerful wind that thrashed along the plateau. In the form of mist, she was swept away and forced high into the air, no way to fight its course that moved above the dome.
“The statues followed me to the exit,” Garvana continued, “I could not hear anything, but I saw the blasts of magic. If the wind had not been so strong, I would have been hit. But I could not fight the wind, it was moving to fast and pushing me too high… so I had to transform back…”
“Are you hurt?” Willow asked warmly, though the way she bit her lip to contain her laughter deceived her caring words.
“I am fine,” Garvana snapped, lifting her chin, “But I recommend we do not try getting in that way.”
Willow grinned, unable to stop the soft laughter, “Perhaps that is best…”

It was deep into the darkness of night when the Forsaken were shaken from their sleep. The ground trembled beneath them as Willow’s eyes flickered open, to see Traya who had been awake and on watch, standing by the overhead entrance, looking up with wide eyes. Footsteps, from the sounds of a dozen creatures, heavy and thundering, but slow and methodical pace. Willow quickly threw off her blanket, grabbing hold of her blades that lay by her side. The Forsaken were trapped. Enclosed within a small room with only a single way out. With a swift look to the others, Willow pulled free a scroll from her case and motioned to each of them. Though Garvana and Traya nodded, quickly moving to her side, Pellius shook his head firmly, gripping his blade defiantly. Willow rolled her eyes, signalling her impatience, yet he simply shook his head again. She scowled under her breath, but quietly read the words of the scroll and transported the three of them up into the hidden alcove she had spent the day in. Trepidation set in swiftly. Six curious shaped earth elementals, shaped in a form that vaguely resembled humans. They were slowly shuffling around the foundation that once housed a building, speaking in voices that crackled like grinding stone. As one moved towards the cellar door, Garvana stood from her crouch.
“What are you doing here?” Garvana snapped, “What do you want?”
Only one of the beings bothered to look towards her, at least, Willow assumed it looked towards her. Where its face should have been, was simply portion of rough stone with no features. Grinding stone greeted her, no words they could understand. Traya reached out and lay her hand on Willow’s shoulder, whispering an incantation under her breath. Suddenly, the rustling stone morphed to crudely strung together words that Willow could understand.
“Shelter?” said one of the stone shapes, in a questioning tone.
“Defilers?” growled another, in a more accusatory voice.
Yet, they did not attack, nor seem bothered by the presence of those who stood above them. Slowly, two of them sank beneath the surface, moving towards the centre of the cellar.
“Have we done something to offend?” Willow asked, assuming she had understood the magic correctly.
“Shelter?” repeated the being.
“Defilers?” chimed in the other two left above the surface.
As one of them leant forward and lay its hand upon the stone foundation, hovering for a moment as if listening to something Willow could not hear, points and clues seemed to connect and align in her mind. Defilers, they had said. To damage or mar a place or person. Perhaps, she thought, her assumption had been correct. The guardians Garvana had awoken, she had described one looking much the same as the creatures that stood before them. She made slow movements as she dropped to the ground, keeping her intentions clear as she slowly made her way towards the cellar. When she dropped into the small cavern, she heard the ground shifting as the other beings followed her through the earth, squeezing into the chamber with the two already there. But Pellius was no where to be found.
“Pellius,” Willow said carefully, a sudden worry now she was encased in such a small chamber with six massive earthen beasts, “I need the figurine we took. Quickly.”
For a moment, all was eerily still, as Willow’s panic began to rise. But just as she thought on her slender chance of possible escape, Pellius rippled into sight beside her. Though he looked to her in an uncertain glance, he pulled the wooden box from the arcane bag. He handed it to Willow, who slowly unfastened the latch and carefully opened the lid. When the beings saw the statue within the silk, a rumble of grinding stone that sounded much like growls filled the chamber. Willow slowly made her through the throng of elementals towards the crevice where the statue once lay. With cautious hands she lifted it from the box, replacing it where they found it, laying it on its side just as it had been. As she stepped back from the crevice, hoping her hunch had been correct, she returned by Pellius’ side and awaited their fate. One of the beings reached out its hand, touching the stone carving with an almost loving gesture. It paused for a minute, once again listening to something that Willow could not here. It turned to the others, speaking only a single word.
“Complete,” he rasped.
With no more emotion or reaction, they turned into the walls and disappeared beyond the stone. For a moment Willow and Pellius simply remained where they were, in silence they listened to the fading sound of crumbling rock.
“Very clever, my lady,” Pellius commented, brows still high and wary.
“Very lucky,” she replied, with a half hearted chuckle.
When Garvana and Traya returned to the underground chamber, they looked perplexed and suspicious as the spied the empty room.
“Are they gone?” Garvana asked.
“I believe so,” Willow shrugged.
“What did they want?” Traya frowned.
“Their statue,” Willow replied, indicating to the figurine back on its shelf, “I think they are accepting of us resting here, but not to touch or break anything. They were questioning if we were using the cellar for shelter or if we had come to defile the place.”
“They just left after you put it back?” Traya scoffed, “And we are expected to sleep soundly here tonight?”
Willow laughed, turning to the sorcerous with an arched brow, “And do you have any better ideas?”


As the sun lifted from the horizon and the Forsaken emerged from the cellar, the sound of enormous wings blowing gusts of air powerful enough to strip bristles from the pine trees caught their immediate attention. Jeratheon, the seething black dragon circled low over their position, battering them with waves of loose branches and pinecones. Willow looked up to the beast, pressing her finger to lips and speaking into the silence of the magic gloves.
“Wait until we reach the dome,” she said, pointing with the other hand towards the foreboding stone structure, “Then draw the beast away.”
The vicious dragon nodded stiffly, snarling to show he was still displeased with his part in the plan, before taking off towards the south to await their signal. With a last check of their gear and weapons, the Forsaken gathered together, hands upon each other’s shoulders. With a final glance to one another and a slow shared steadying exhale, the magic whisked them away, through the coursing portal and up to the iced plateau. It was there that they split up, Willow quickly and quietly scaling the rocky dome while the others found their own places to hide from the beast as he emerged from his slumber. When she arrived at the top, she lowered herself into a jagged crevice in the slate, lying flat upon the surface – ready and waiting to pounce. When the roar of the young black dragon echoed across the expanse, the hairs on Willow’s neck stood on end. The anticipation built within her, as she watched the boulder with enraptured attention. Jeratheon snarled out another frightening roar, the sound of his beating wings passing overhead, before he turned for the west and began to make his way out to sea. Suddenly, the boulder was thrown from its rest, barrelling down the side of the dome. Willow cursed under her breath, swiftly rolling out of its path, keeping as low as she could. It was then that the feral beast arose from the dome, glaring white eyes piercing the skies, his large nostrils flaring wide as he sniffed for the scent of his prey. As he took off into the sky, Willow felt the fear and repulsion slither along her skin, as he moved in absolute and utter silence. Once he had travelled far enough away, she swiftly pounced towards the gap, taking a deep breath into her still and useless lungs before taking the leap to jump down into the darkness below.

The small glimpse from above that she had seen could not have truly told the story of the piled wealth that she fell upon. Glittering gold, shining silver and smouldering amber filled the chamber. Heaped upon itself, spilling to the edges of the cavern, more wealth than Willow had ever seen in one place. This horde differed vastly from the carefully arranged prize of Eiramanthus. The copper dragon had garnered his wealth and treasures with pride, meticulously organising each section. He had grouped together matching piles of silver, boxes filled with gold, special trinkets upon their own pedestals. He showed respect and admiration for each individual piece, cherishing the story of its attainment along with the prize itself. But here, this was a horde fuelled by nothing more than greed. The legendary greed of a draconic fable. There was no order among his treasures, broken chests pouring their contents into the fray, scattered pieces of armour and silk torn between and buried beneath buckets of coins and the unbearable weight of metals. The bones of countless creatures scattered amongst the treasure told the fatal ending of any man or beast foolish enough to enter the great Strider in the Dark’s lair. There was no order or care here, just an insatiable need to collect more and add to the teetering pile of treasure.
It was hard to keep concentration on the task at hand. Willow had never considered herself possessed by greed, but standing in the presence of such immense riches took more self control than she would have liked to admit. As the sound of Garvana and Pellius dropping from above echoed behind her, Willow snapped out of her dream, shaking her head quickly as she scanned the room. While Traya waited above and watched for Nithoggr’s return, the three of them set out into the treasure horde to begin their search. Willow had thought long and hard on where the heart was most likely to reside. With her momentary vision of the horde, she had thought over all she had seen. She was sure it would be buried deep within the gold heaps, keeping it safe from accidental discovery or destruction under the dragons weight. She was also sure it would be disguised as something simple and unassuming. She had seen many chests big enough to serve as a coffin, but one plain wooden box stood out in her memory. She had only seen the corner of it, the rest buried deep within the mountain of coins. But from what she had seen, it fit every piece of her assumption. Her eyes scanned the horde, widening as she saw her target, laying at the foot of the great stone monolith in the centre of the chamber. Though she ached to inspect the curious pillar that radiated such strong and powerful arcana, she pursed her lips as she decided against it, keeping her attentions on the pine box. She deftly climbed the crumbling pile of gold, using all of her strength to sweep off wave by wave of coins from her goal.
“Are you sure this is it, Willow?” Pellius called, scrabbling atop the heap to aid her in clearing the coin.
“No,” Willow growled, hefting another wave from the box, “But it is the best guess I have.”
“You are usually right,” he laughed, giving her a wink as he pulled the corner of the box, shifting it further into the open.
She could hear the rasping incantations falling from Garvana’s lips, as the woman’s eyes glazed over in white magic.
“I think you are,” Garvana said, “There is something in there. Immensely powerful, a treasure of the utmost evil.”
“That sounds like it,” Willow chuckled, heaving more gold from the top.
“I HAVE LOST SIGHT OF HIM!” Traya called from above.
“Quickly,” Willow rushed, “We must not dwell here long.”
With another heave from Pellius, they had the wooden box half way out of the golden mountain, but not far enough to get it open. Willow heard Garvana skittering around the horde, throwing treasures into her bag, using her seeing magic to find the most powerful and arcane treasures amongst them. As she swept another cascading flood of coin from atop the box, she swore as only more seemed to fall from above it.
“Damn it to hell!” she cursed.
“Help me pull it!” Pellius commanded, heaving with the box firm in his grip.
As she made it to his side, they grasped a corner each and hauled backwards.
“HE IS COMING BACK!” Traya cried, terror shaking her voice, “YOU MUST HURRY!”
Willow and Pellius shared a look, swiftly nodding to one another. They gritted their teeth and pulled with all of their combined might, throwing themselves backwards. It was enough, and all at the same time, too much. The heaved the box free, but their momentum could not have been stopped. They were flung backwards from the wooden crate, skidding along the coin and bone, as the box sailed down the side of mountainous heap. Willow pounced up to her feet, scrambling atop the coin towards the box, unable to stop the smile that rose upon her lips. It was not a simple crate or box they had been hauling, it was a coffin. She flung the lid open, the wood smashing against the metal beneath, flinging splinters of wood across the horde.
“HOW LONG TRAYA?!” Pellius yelled.
“HE IS ALMOST HERE!”
The coffin was lined with soft silks and luxurious satins, cushioned paddings sewed into the intricate walls with gold threaded embroidery. Though the return of the beast was imminent, and Willow should have been crushed by fear and urgency – for a moment, she was calm and enraptured. Laying inside the box, were two glass vials filled with curious liquid, a silver pendant bearing the star of their dark lord, and small finely wrought golden chest. As if in a haze, alone within the chamber, Willow hands reached for the chest. With careful fingers, she opened the case and a fire of determination lit within her. Held within by sharp metal wire, was a withered and burned human heart, pierced by vicious iron thorns. This was their prize. This, was what they needed to fulfil their duty to their undying lord. The phylactery of the treacherous lich, the heart of Cardinal Adrastus Thorn.
Suddenly, time returned in a rush of spiralling vision.
“GET DOWN HERE, TRAYA!” Pellius yelled, “WE HAVE IT!”
“TOO LATE!” she screamed, utter terror echoing her words, “HE IS HERE!”
Willow clamped the small golden chest closed, head spinning to the others. She threw the box into her pack and started sprinting towards Pellius. As she passed, a calico sack filled with spilled amber chunks caught her eye. She scooped it up with her free hand, before leaping over a fallen chest in her way. Suddenly, the massive dome shook beneath them, the glittering mountain trembling as it scattered its sliding coin. A voice from above, filled with raw and devouring hatred and fury, a bitter sound that pierced a freezing chill along Willow’s spine.
“VA’ROKKA!” seethed the voice in consuming malice.
The ancient draconic word for thieves spat towards them, as Willow’s sight drew upward towards the crumbled opening in the dome. What she saw, forced her steps to falter. When hidden by shadow or obscured by pelting rain and snow, the beast merely seemed a gargantuan foreboding mystery. But as it descended upon them, its serpent bone body creaking as the osseous jagged matter glided together, Willow felt the truth of fear sink deep into her chest. Eyes that shined a bloodied crimson, seething with pure and unadulterated venom, glaring a hatred more vile than any that she had seen before. They had offended the linnorm in the most atrocious of ways. Instead of facing the beast in valour and honour, they had squirmed into his home and defiled his most precious and sacred place. They had dared to try and steal from him. For a moment, Willow’s feet were paralysed amongst the glittering coin beneath her. Though she heard the panicked and rushed footsteps of Garvana and Pellius charging towards her –for a moment, she could do nothing but cower beneath the approaching dragon.
The few seconds that followed, passed like years eternal. Willow’s hands felt weak as they fumbled in her scroll pouch, desperately reaching for the edge of parchment, dragging it free through the leather opening as the beast drew nearer. She felt the weight of Pellius’ hand grasp her shoulder, a second before Garvana’s did the same. She warred with her eyes to draw away from the dragon, words stumbling from her mouth as she stuttered the incantation. The feral creature’s maw opened wide as he plunged down from the ceiling, a hundred sharp and jagged teeth larger than her arms glistening in the rays of light from above. Time was counted in heartbeats, though none echoed from their chests. With one beat, the words finally whispered their way from her lips. With two beats, the beast’s open jaw lunged at her. With a third thundering beat, the maw snapped shut with the force of bone shattering compression. Yet it simply crushed through thin air. The coursing vortex of magic tore upon their flesh as it hurled them through the spiralling portal, dropping them out carelessly into the small cellar beneath the ground in the pine forest. As the three of them were thrown to the stone floor, Nithoggr’s ire was heard in a soul-crushing roar that shook the ground around them. They looked to one another, wide eyes struggling to exude relief as the shattering of rock and stone echoed across the frosted expanse.
“Do you have it?” Garvana rushed, flinching as another eruption of stone trembled.
Willow quickly pulled the clasp of her pack open, sighing a heavy breath to see the glittering gold chest within her bag.
“Yes,” she nodded, throwing a glance around the room, “But where is Traya?”
“She must have retreated to the manor,” Pellius said quickly, “I would advise us to do the same. Now.”
Suddenly, the earth rumbled as sounds of exploding stone and thundering blasts of enormous debris rained upon the slate valley. As they huddled together and the enchanted words sang in the small chamber, they were gifted with a final warning before the portal whisked them away.
“I WILL FIND YOU VILE SCUM!” Nithoggr roared in vicious promise, “AND MAKE YOU SUFFER FOR AN ETERNITY…”

overlordseamus
2017-06-27, 07:24 PM
Please tell me that Garvana actually did run off alone and return in such splendid and bright glory.
That indeed would make my day.

Once more, excellently written.

The final scene with Nithoggr was exceptionally tense. The dynamic in the cavern was set very well, the panic, the rush, digging digging, the prize, his return and your single second away from death escape.
Fantastic.

FocusWolf413
2017-06-28, 05:19 PM
Yes!!! I love how you end everything with a quote.

minderp
2017-07-03, 07:35 PM
Please tell me that Garvana actually did run off alone and return in such splendid and bright glory.
That indeed would make my day.

Once more, excellently written.

The final scene with Nithoggr was exceptionally tense. The dynamic in the cavern was set very well, the panic, the rush, digging digging, the prize, his return and your single second away from death escape.
Fantastic.

Haha, yes, i wrote it exactly how our DM described it to me. One minute the cavern in the distance was still and quiet, the next - colourful explosions of magic erupted in the air with Garvana falling from a great height amongst them. It was a very funny scene to play out.
And thank you, our DM did a great job at setting the scene, we were all hanging on to the edge of our seats lol.


Yes!!! I love how you end everything with a quote.
:smallsmile: Thank you! It can be a while between stories, so i need to keep you hanging on somehow. :smalltongue:

minderp
2017-07-11, 12:39 AM
And the next one! :smallbiggrin:


Wisping cracks that bellowed like lashing fire, ripping currents echoing in a battering flood like an ocean crashing upon stone, ear-piercing wails like the cry of a thousand souls. And then, silence. What had been deafening, had become serene and still. Where the atmosphere had been crushing in its oppressing weight, in an instant it had eased and relented. The Forsaken had stepped through the arcane portal, leaving behind the terror and deathly place that was the Cairn of Nithoggr, and stepped out into the safety and warmth of the parlour at Silkcreek. Garvana, Pellius and Willow appeared in the flame lit chamber, to see Traya pacing back and forth in anticipation. As she sorcerous saw them, she sighed in relief.
“You have what we went for?” she asked, wary of the servants within earshot.
“We do,” Willow nodded, dropping her pack upon the oak small table, along with the calico sack filled with chunks of raw and unworked amber.
“Leave us,” Garvana commanded the servants harshly, “We are not to be disturbed.”
The two women that had been cleaning the shelves in the parlour, had jumped back in fright when the three of them had suddenly appeared. They were quick to bow their heads and obey their orders, scurrying to the doors before sealing them closed behind them.
“You are unscathed?” Traya asked, looking over them.
“Barely,” Garvana scoffed, eyes wide as she shook her head.
“And the beast?”
“Furious and seething,” Willow replied, a small smile lifting the corner of her lip.
“Can he track you here?” Traya frowned.
“Not this far south,” Pellius said confidently, “Our scent shall vanish at the campsite.”
Willow chuckled as she unlaced the white fur cloak she wore, dropping it upon the leather couch, “Though we would do well to not revisit him anytime in the next century.”
“I had not planned to,” Traya smirked.
Willow grinned towards the sorcerous, before the smile faltered as her eyes drew to her leather pack. She approached it slowly, her lips drawing to a purse as she knelt down in front of the small table. With careful fingers, she unlatched the metal clasp, opening the flap to reveal the shimmering gold box hidden within. As the fire light pierced a ray along the shining surface of the box, hitting the carved patterns and reflecting it back in a spiral of glimmers along the parlour walls, the others fell silent in what could only be trepidation. With almost timid hands, Willow reached into the pack and pulled free the small yet heavy finely wrought golden chest, setting it down upon the table. She slowly lifted the lid, revealing the withered and charred human heart, pierced by razor sharp iron thorns.
“The Devil’s Heart,” she whispered, her fingers instinctively recoiling from the box.
For a moment, the chamber was quiet. The Forsaken simply gazed upon the decayed heart, curious eyes scouring the bloodless vessel. Though vile and repulsive, it did not seem the great artifact of evil that they knew it to be. It did not incite anger or fury, just a simple touch of pity. It was the heart of a soul so consumed in hatred, so enraptured in anger and vengeance, that its owner gave away every ounce of his humanity. And yet, as Willow’s mind curved along the dark and twisted story of Cardinal Adrastus Thorn, she could not help but see the similarities of their tales. Two souls condemned to death, rescued and given a second chance. Two souls battling to the last of their strength to see their almighty and undying lord reign supreme upon the mortal planes. Though they shared much, still they turned upon one another. She could console herself with the knowledge that it was his madness that had driven him to suspect disloyalty where none had lain. His unquenchable thirst for destruction and revenge had tainted his sight and forced him to see enemies among his own number, among his own servants. And it was for this, that he had to die. It was the unhealthy obsession with revenge even where it was not fit to be served. Yet, he had saved them. He had given them another chance at their vengeance, another chance to prove themselves worthy. He had lifted Willow from the furthest she had ever fallen, from the premature death, having accomplished nothing even worthy of note. He had paved the way for her victory, he had guided her to the path she was to walk in the name of the great Asmodeus. It was with a bitter turn of her tongue that she realized, his usefulness had expired.

“Do we destroy it now?” Traya asked quietly, interrupting the silence that hung in the room.
“Not until we are certain of our next move,” Pellius said sternly, “We must not give him a chance to recreate it. This is the one thing that will assure our victory, we must not play our hand until the time is right.”
As the metal clicked as Willow closed the lid to the small chest, a strange familiar smell wafted through the room. Suddenly, in flash of hellfire and brimstone, a beastly visage appeared within the chamber. Standing far larger than an ogre, scaled in crimson plates bristling with barbs and razor-sharp layered scales. Its massive head crowned with cracked horns, only matched in number by the vicious fangs that fell from its venomous maw. Two jagged wings draped from its back, leathery webs edged with sharp dagger-like bone-spurs. Clutched in its hand was a vile heavy chain of wrought iron, littered with hooks and barbs draped with caught scraps of flesh and stained dark by blood. The wickedness of fire in his eyes lifted his wry smile as he spied the Forsaken. In the blink of an eye, Willow snatched the golden box from the table, throwing it to the chair behind her as she backed up and drew her blades. As the others followed suit, the fiend did something that none of them could have expected.
“Wait!” he called out, throwing his hands out to halt them, “Thorn has sent me, but I do not wish to attack you. If you wish to speak, you must help me with three tasks. First, bring before me something I can kill. Quickly now!”
All eyes in the room narrowed upon him, blades primed to carve through flesh. But for a small time, none moved towards him.
“Jonah!” Garvana called aloud, as her slow steps took her warily towards the door, keeping her sights on the devil, “Get in here, now!”
As the young servant quickly entered through the door, the colour washed from his face as he saw the towering beast that awaited him. The loud thud of the door slamming shut seemed to crush into chest, as the terror overwhelmed the small man. Before he had time to turn to flee, the devil grinned in feral glee. He launched towards the poor soul and cleaved his vicious claws through the weak flesh in a shower of blood that cascaded throughout the chamber. It was with relish and joy that he devoured his victim, too quickly for even a cry to escape the lips of the man before he was splayed before the Forsaken.
The beast turned towards them.
“Now that you have seen me slay something,” the fiend grinned, wiping blood from his scaled chin with his forearm, “Would you all agree that you have been taught a lesson in bloody slaughter?”
Willow’s brow arched, as her mind slowly followed the devil’s curious behavior.
“Indeed,” she said in satire, “The harshest lesson.”
“Very good,” he smiled shrewdly, looking between each of them, “Lastly, all of you must prick your fingers and let me taste your blood.”
The other brow was quick to follow the first. Though the devil spoke with a casual ease, as if he were asking a mere question, Willow knew the power of a human’s blood to a devil. Yet she was undeniably curious. It was with eyes that narrowed tightly upon him, staring back into his deep and sinful gaze, that she sliced her finger with her blade, squeezing the bare taste of cold congealed and blackened blood, holding it out to him. His tongue lashed like a serpent, coiling around her finger as it slid across the dark taint. When the others offered the same, the devil turned to them with a sly and wicked grin.
“Delicious,” he rasped, with a prideful tone, “I have done as my master commanded me. I have found you. I have slain. I have taught you a lesson in bloody slaughter and tasted your blood. My mission is near its end. I must also report back and bring him his phylactery, but he didn’t specify when. I think I’ll get right on that in a century or two… assuming the master still survives.”
The fearsome devil stretched out, powerful muscle rippling beneath hard scale. He sported a toothy smile, clearly pleased with his own guile.
“It is my understanding that Naburus has appointed one of you the new high priest of Asmodeus. Is this so?”
“It is,” Garvana said warily.
“Hah!” the devil grinned gleefully, “Excellent. Send the Marquis of the Fourth Misery my regards when next you see him.”
“And whose regards are those exactly?” Willow asked, arching her brow.
As he spoke, the Forsaken slowly sheathed their weapons, though Willow refused to move any further away from the phylactery she guarded behind her.
“Ah, pardon my rudeness,” he said dramatically, inclining his head, “I am Zaerabos, Emissary of the Duke Zaebos, exalted and immortal lord of the seventh suffering. And you all need no introduction, I have heard much of your deeds and long desired to meet you. Lord Pellius Albus, The Fist. Lady Garvana Forthwise, The Prophet. Lady Willow Monteguard, The Nameless One. And the newest of your illustrious rank, Lady Traya DeMarco, one who is yet to earn her name…”

He looked over them as he spoke, clearly holding much more knowledge on the four of them than he said. But as he did, he smiled.
“Truly you serve Hell well, and I admire the many atrocities you have authored in your wake. I have just come from the Agathium. It is Thorn’s belief that you will be visiting him shortly. Is this so?”
“We have a few things to discuss with the master, yes,” Willow said slyly.
Zaerabos laughed, “No doubt it will be a grand family reunion.”
“While it is a pleasure to meet you, Zaerabos, Emissary of the Duke Zaebos,” Willow said cordially, with only a touch of acid, “I assume you have concocted a way around Thorn’s orders for a purpose, not merely a polite chat with new friends.”
The devil grinned as his sight drew to her, looking her up and down with a slight tilt of the head.
“The lashing tongue I have heard so much about,” he said quietly, before inclining his head once more, “You are correct of course. I have come to make a deal. As I said, I have just come from the Agathium, a place that I have spent much time. A place, you are planning to infiltrate. I know the location and layout of the cathedral, and I know much of those who dwell within its walls. I could provide you with much to arm yourselves with before you take on such a task.”
“Such things sure come at a high price,” Willow commented, arching her brow.
“Not a high one,” he smirked, “But a fair one.”
Zaerabos strung his great chain on his hip, clasping his hands behind his back in a relaxed position. He smiled, continuing easily as he spoke.
“I ask two things. First, Thorn possesses a silver amulet with something dear to me inscribed upon it. I will require a solemn oath that you will return the locket to me, unopened, unread and unscryed.”
“What is on this amulet?” Garvana frowned.
Before Zaerabos could answer, Willow replied for him.
“The means for Thorn to send him to us,” she said, a small smile lifting her lip.
The devil eyed her for a moment, an intensity in his gaze although his grin never faltered.
“The second thing I require,” he continued, “Is a place on the council of whatever kingdom you establish once you have taken control of Talingarde.”
“What would you want with that?” Garvana asked, her frown burrowing in suspicion.
“You are devoted servants to the darkest power of them all,” he said earnestly, “You are primed to overthrow a country dedicated to the enemy, and raise the Undying God-Fiend in his place. What servant of hell would not wish to be part of such a noble and legendary venture?”
“Quite a shining notch to add to your belt,” Willow smirked, “To have had a hand in such a thing. But what is it you could do for us upon the council? I see no fault in trading the amulet for information on the Agathium, but a long standing position of power in the running of Talingarde? What benefit would we gain from it?”
“I would make a fine assassin,” he said with a toothy grin, “Just be sure to be specific with your orders.”
“Specific, detailed and exact,” she scoffed.
“Precisely,” he grinned.
Willow turned to the others, brows arched high. She gave a gentle shrug as she spoke.
“If the information on the Agathium is as useful as he claims, I see no reason to not accept his offer.”
“I would add a clause,” Pellius said coldly, “That under no circumstance would you aim to do the four of us any harm. That any orders given or contracts taken, anything pertaining to one of us being harmed, the orders be made void. That your position on the council be valid only as long as your loyalty to us remains.”
“That is fair,” the devil nodded.
Pellius frowned heavily, shrewd eyes tracing over the fiendish creature. The distrust was clear in his face, but it seemed that he too could not fault the possible gain from agreeing with the devil. As he nodded, so too did Garvana and Traya.
“We have a deal,” Willow said, “The location of the Agathium, a sketch of the layout and everything you know about every person or creature, alive or undead, who resides within its walls – for a position on the council of the new reign of Talingarde, granted valid only as long as your loyalty to us stands, and the return of your amulet.”
“Unopened, unread and unscryed,” he insisted, arching his scaled brow.
“Unopened, unread and unscryed,” she agreed with a smirk.
“I have your solemn oath?” he asked, “On the Infernal Might of Asmodeus, facing all his wrath in consequence of breaking your promised word.”
“You do,” Willow nodded.
“And all of you?” he continued, looking to the others, “I have your oath?”
“Indeed,” Pellius said curtly.
“Yes,” Garvana agreed, though the suspicion still laced her tone.
“You have mine,” Traya nodded.
The beastly fiend grinned a large and glee smile, clapping his hands together firmly.
“Very good,” he chuckled, looking to Willow with dark and sinister eyes, “You shall not regret this…”

Zaerabos had been truthful, he did indeed know much about the Agathium and those who dwelled within its walls. Thorn had called his servants home and set them to defend him at all costs. Yet, if the devil’s information was to be trusted, Thorn was truly being consumed by madness and paranoia. Trusting no one enough to call them together and mount a true defence, scattering his forces within the chambers – giving the Forsaken an advantage that they would make fine use of.
The fiendish creature had warned them that frost giants had been called to guard the upper cathedral, including the monstrously dangerous frost giant king, Ingolfr Issox. He warned the Forsaken not to bother with words, laughing that the king was far too daft for treason. Always at his side, was Queen Ellisif. A much more cunning and intelligent giant, wise and crafty behind her humbled smile. Zaerabos revealed that she was not happy with serving Thorn, and if presented with the right offer it was possible her loyalty may be swain.
He spoke of a pious man, venomously loyal to Thorn, stubborn and unbreakable in his servitude. He warned them that Marcel Wolfram would die for the cardinal, that he would wield his mace Engelhammer, an artifact of hell itself, in Thorn’s name to the bitter end.
And lastly, he told them of a man who seemed to leave a sour taste in the devil’s mouth, described as a weedy cretin who reeked of death. A coward, who was sure to teleport and flee at the first sign of trouble. Yet one whose loyalties may very well shift with the changing winds. Grigori Shirkov, a necromancer.
With the crudely drawn map passed between hands, the devil gave a final grin to the Forsaken, before the white puff of smoke enveloped him. With a final drift of brimstone, he vanished.


The slow flicker of flame danced through the chamber, the soft warmth from the fire place drifting through the night air, thawing the cold chill that settled after the sun had began its slumber for the evening. Garvana had retreated into the fields to train with Pellius, echoing the clash of metal across the lands, accompanied by the strenuous grunts and sharply lashed commands. After counting the treasures they had pilfered from the great dark beasts lair, Traya and Willow remained in the parlour, resting in the comfort of the waltzing flames.
“Where are you from, Traya?” Willow asked conversationally, gently pulling the large amber chunks free from the calico sack, grazing her eyes upon the rarer and more perfect shards before lining them along the small table, “You are Talrien, yet I cannot pick the dialect. You have the manners and mannerisms of a noble born, yet I have not heard of House DeMarco...”
With the long flank of luxurious silk in her hands, Traya’s eyes narrowed, looking up to Willow. For a moment, Willow could see the suspicion and what seemed almost like fear in her gaze. But as quickly as it had come, an internal decision seemed to pass across her face. A small sigh escaped her lips.
“You have opened your home and shown me hospitality better than I have known in a long time,” she said gently, “So, good manners alone dictate I satisfy your curiosity.”
As she spoke, Willow put down the amber piece, leaning back into her chair and tilting her head slightly as she listened.
“Firstly,” Traya began, “You should know I bear you or the others no ill will, we were never truly enemies, and as you have seen by my actions, I am no devout Mitran.”
“That thought has long passed,” Willow smirked.
“However,” she continued, “Unlike you, I have come to this life not entirely by my own design, so you must forgive me as I have seen and done much recently that I would have never dreamed of in my past life…” A small smile lifted her lips. “Or perhaps I am deceiving myself and I have always been on this path, our patron seems to have a way of putting us in the right place at the right time. To break a true believer like Sir Richard is something I never thought I would witness, let alone provoke...”
For a time, the sorcerous stared away into nothing, thoughts dancing across her face like words written in a book, while Willow remained quiet and simply observed. After a moment, Traya refocused her sight on Willow and smiled, shaking her head as if to clear it.
“But enough of such serious matters,” she said with a slight lift, “You wish to know of my life and I have a suspicion that we are somewhat kindred souls. Forgive me, but I must make some assumptions about your life too. Like yourself, I am from a wealthy family, privileged and powerful. And I believe, much like yourself, I could think of nothing worse than simply being married off to a simpering fop as a trophy to be displayed at formal events.”
Willow grinned, arching her brow as she nodded gently in agreement, indicating for the woman to continue.
“I left Daveryn when I came of age - you should ask the Baroness for the juicy details, I am sure as there was quite the scandal at the time.”
“You hail from Daveryn?” Willow asked curiously, searching her memory for word of the noble house, “I have never heard of DeMarco of Daveryn…”
“No, of course not,” Traya chuckled, “I was forced to take my mothers maiden name when I left. I was stripped of my title. Perhaps you know of House Parvellyn…”
Willow could not stop the sudden laugh that escaped in shock, “Parvellyn? You are Trayania Parvellyn?”
She laughed in reply, sighing a heavy breath, “I was Trayania.”
The sly smile lifted Willow’s lip, as the pieces of the scandalous story seemed to fall into place, “Now that answers a few questions.”
Traya smirked, shaking her head gently, “Not that it matters now. The successes your... our ally has had...”
She drew her face away for a moment, a slight ashen tinge overcoming her profile. Willow knew where her thoughts were trailing; if her family had resided in Daveryn, it was likely they had died in waves of bugbears as they took the fair city. But she knew there was little she could say to appease her sorrow. It was a quiet moment, but when she returned her gaze it was filled with a stoic acceptance.
“Well,” she shrugged, far more nonchalantly than her eyes could muster, “I shall not be visiting with my family again.”
Willow smiled gently, nodding her understanding.
“I suppose it was fated that I got out when I did,” she chuffed.
“Did you ever marry?” Willow asked, “Before you left?”
“Marry?” she chuckled, “No, I have never been married. Well, I suppose you could say I am now...” She turned in her seat, gently pulling the shoulder of her dress aside to reveal a small pentagram burned into her skin. “I left home to escape being trapped in an unequal union, and I seem to have found my way into another.”
Willow laughed at her lopsided grin.
“At least it is one of my own making,” Traya said firmly, “I am confident at least that this union will prove exciting nonetheless.”

“So what of you?” Traya asked, bringing a lighter air to her voice, “I know much of your past, well at least that which traveled the vines of rumours among the nobles.”
“Most of that is likely rubbish,” Willow laughed.
“Most likely,” Traya grinned, “I am sorry to say, though terribly beautiful, your eyes do not quite light up the night sky.”
A laugh burst from Willow’s lips, a true and hearty chuckle that tickled her tongue.
“What are you saying?” she giggled, “That my black luscious locks do not cascade on an ever-blowing wind?”
“It is more like a gentle breeze,” Traya laughed, relaxing back deeper into the chair.
“What is you wish to know?” Willow asked, the grin still tugging at her mouth.
The sorcerous looked at her for a moment, curious eyes searching her face, as if considering how far to push Willow’s open and easy manner.
“What did you do to end up in Branderscar?” she asked, “I was long gone from home when it happened. I remember hearing word of some great atrocity, but no one spoke of what it was.”
A wistful smile fell upon Willow, as her mind churned back upon the lead up to her greatest downfall.
“I planned the death of the dear Princess Belinda,” she replied, a small chuckle following her words, “Though of course, I did not know what I know now. My plan would have been folly.”
“An ambitious idea,” Traya commented slyly, “What did you wish to gain?”
Willow laughed softly, “Ambitious, but daft and barely thought out. I had thought that by ridding the country of the heir I would weaken the monarchy, and when the time was right, I would have every member of the Darius line assassinated. My long term goal was short sighted at best. I had dreams of House Monteguard ruling the country, yet I had no real plan how to put them there. I was young, even though it was not all that long ago. I was… a child, playing with powers that I did not understand.”
Traya frowned, tilting her head slightly, “What do you mean?”
A sudden memory flashed through Willow’s mind. Hidden in the depths of shadow, clad in slick raven armour, blazing scarlet eyes of fire piercing like blades into her soul. His hand, greedily reaching for her throat. Her throat, offering itself willingly, almost desperately. As she blinked, she looked up at Traya, the easily smile gone from her lips.
“You mentioned before,” Willow said softly, “That you had not come to this life entirely by your own design…”
“You speak of the vision?” Traya asked quietly, a wariness coming over her features.
“Much more than that,” Willow replied, a defeated laugh expelling from her chest, “It is all connected. I have been playing with powers that I do not understand from the moment of my birth. Even now, I am still parading with more confidence than I feel…”
Willow sighed as she sat forward in her chair, delicately rubbing her eyes in an exhausted frustration.
“Have you thought anymore on that vision?” she asked curiously, looking up to the sorcerous who sat straighter backed in her chair.
“Do you believe in fate Willow?” she said quietly, looking off into the flickering swell of the fire, “Do you believe that all things happen for a reason or that we are simply acting out a grand play devised by the gods for their amusement?”
She paused for a moment as her sight returned to Willow and her eyes narrowed in dark intensity.
“I believe that what I was witness to in that vision...” she continued, “Well... I believe it was fated. I believe you are a being of true fate, and you always have whether you knew it or not. I do not pretend to understand what that fate might entail in the coming times, but my intuition tells me simply toppling this kingdom is barely the start...”
For a moment, Willow stared a blank gaze towards the sorcerous. Her words mirrored the very thoughts that had run through Willow’s mind. Whether fate was the correct word to describe such a thing, she did not know. But it seemed that every move she had ever made had been designed and crafted by one with the unending knowledge of how time would play out.
“The green eyes,” Willow said finally, in a soft and quiet voice, “I know who he is…”
“Those eyes have haunted my dreams,” Traya replied, grimacing at the thought, “I have never seen such… evil.”
A small laugh from Willow had her looking up, arching her brow in question.
“I have known him for more than a decade,” she responded, “Though it is clear he has known me for far longer. The same man who has seemed to have a hand in everything I have done. He was the assassin I hired to eliminate the princess, the lover I took while I still shared a bed with my husband. He was the one who set my fall from grace into motion, he was the one who trained me to become an assassin myself. He has been there, every step of the way. If your vision was true… he was there long before the beginning.”
“You have no clue what he wants from you?” Traya asked cautiously.
“He is an Infernal Duke,” Willow laughed, a tint of maniacal frustration in her tone, “One of the darkest souls crafted by the very pits of hell itself. His plans seem more complex and intricate that I could ever grasp. Yet, I am at the centre of this. I have dreamt of being a power far greater than my ambition could possible stretch, and there he is… always.”
As Willow looked up to Traya, she saw the curious smile lifting her lip. Her eyes were reading far more into Willow than she was comfortable with.
“What is it?” Willow asked, narrowing her eyes and slightly lifting her head indignantly.
“Forgive me,” Traya said, wiping the smile from her face, “I am overstepping my place.”
“What is it?” Willow demanded.
“It is simply…” she said carefully, “You have… feelings for him.”
At that, Willow laughed. She shook her head gently, expelling a long breath.
“I have many feelings for him,” she laughed, “Revulsion, hatred, anger, fear, disgust, abhorrence… And lust. Uncontrollable lust. An attraction far stronger than anything I could ever deny. We have a connection, completely volatile and eruptive. Yet, I crave it. I crave him...”
Willow snapped her head towards the sorcerous, piercing her with a flaming gaze of warning, “If you ever speak of this to anyone, I will cut out your tongue.”
Stunned silence greeted her words, then to her surprise, Traya laughed. Though her eyes widened slightly, she simply smiled back at Willow.
“I believe that you would,” Traya smirked lightly, “As distasteful as that concept sounds, you can be assured your thoughts are safe with me. I have no intention of betraying your trust.”
Willow’s eyes narrowed for a moment.
“I…” she said through pursed lips, “I apologise, though the truth of the threat still stands. I have never had someone to confide in… Trust is not something that comes easily.”
“That is clear,” Traya grinned, arching her brow, “But tell me… do you love him?”
“Love?” Willow laughed, falling back into the cushioned chair, lifting her feet and tucking them beneath her, “No. He is not a creature to be loved. I could never love someone, or something, I despised so much.”
For a moment, a calm silence lingered in the chamber, the sounds of the crackling flames whispering through the stone walls.
“You are not still troubled by the vision you saw?” Willow asked curiously, staring into the dancing lights.
“No,” Traya replied easily, “Who am I to judge you based on a vision? I have had a mountain fall on me during the banishment of a demi-god, I have wielded the raw power of Hell in the quest for vengeance, I have fought heroes of the realm and been victorious and I have grown in power far beyond anything I could have possibly imagined… How can I consider your conception stranger than my life?”
Willow laughed, conceding to the sorcerous’ point, unable to refute it, “Well, when you put it that way…”

When the sun rose over the mountains to the east, returning daylight to green and lush farmlands, the Forsaken rose from their slumber with it. They had almost everything they needed to complete their next task. They had an exact location of the foreboding Agathium, they knew exactly where Thorn awaited them. And in their hands was the means to defeating him. The heart pierced by thorns, the phylactery bound to him.
“How does one destroy a phylactery?” Willow asked, frowning as she watched Pellius pull the withered husk from its golden chest.
“With strength alone,” he replied, pushing aside the box to lay the heart on the table.
As Garvana and Traya gathered around the table, they simply looked at the decayed heart. Alone on the surface of the wooden plank, the dark and powerful artefact of evil seemed so much less. A human heart, shrivelled and burnt flesh wrapped in callous wire, long and thin thorns of charred metal piercing it from each side. It seemed only a swift breeze away from crumbling upon the treated wood. But Willow knew well how deceiving appearances could be.
She placed the leadlined box by its side, using careful fingers to lift the vile heart and arrange it inside the cushioned padding. The box was smaller than the golden chest, easier to carry with her as they traversed the city in preparation. Though they had a guard of almost fifty at the manor, she would not risk the Forsaken’s chance at success by leaving it in their care. As she looked to the small chest that had housed the phylactery, she was struck with an idea. Though she had planned to give Jeratheon a large chunk of raw amber as his reward for service, she found the golden chest a far more fitting prize. Finely made of pure gold, it reeked of death and darkness. Though it lay empty, it had held the heart for an age, its evil seeping into the layers of silk and clinging to the solid walls. Even without the sight of magic, Willow could feel the aura pulsing with dread as her fingers traced the intricate edges.
“Traya,” she said, looking to the sorcerous as she took the chest from the table, “Send Jeratheon a message, tell him to meet me in the fields at sundown.”
“Of course,” she nodded, before swiftly rasping an incantation, painting patterns in the air with her fingers.
“Thank you,” Willow inclined her head, before looking to the others, “I shall be heading into town shortly, does any one wish to accompany me?”
“I will,” Garvana offered, indicating to the piled treasure behind her, “We must find buyers for all that we took from the dragons horde.”
“Oh,” Willow frowned, “That reminds me…” She pulled a small curious shard of amber from her pouch, one she had found amongst the others, yet a peculiarity all of its own, “Will you have a look at this for me?”
The small shard of translucent amber housed an entire dragonfly delicately preserved within it. Upon its surface was an ancient rune carved into its surface, one that Willow did not recognise. Garvana took the shard from her, brow furrowed as the arcane words drifted from her lips and her eyes hazed in shimmering fog.
“It is an old friendship rune,” Garvana said, blinking rapidly as the fog cleared, “It strengthens an existing bond between a master and creature bound to him. It allows for the master to… well, effectively shield the creature from harm while transferring it to himself.”
“Bound to him?” Willow frowned.
“Sith, for example,” Garvana explained, “You could feed it to him, and if he was in danger, you could take the blow for him.”
“Useful,” Willow replied, taking the shard back as her brows rose slightly, “Are we keeping anything else from the horde?”
“This,” Pellius said proudly, pulling a jeweled crown from his pack.
As he placed it on the table, Willow’s eyes traced the metal workings of the hammered gold, admiring the settings of splendid but crudely cut emeralds.
“Another crown to add to your collection,” she chuckled, arching her brow.
Pellius lifted his chin with regal stance, “And many more to come…”

Dusk was approaching when Garvana and Willow returned to the farmlands, slowing their steeds to a trot as they pulled into the stables behind the manor. While Garvana had prowled the marketplace in search of buyers for their rare and exotic trinkets, Willow had visited the famed master jeweler on the southern shore, carrying her bag laden with amber. She had commissioned three pieces made of the precious stone; an intricate bracelet chained with rich gold, a short necklace set with three small but particularly beautiful shards, and a head piece much like a circlet, but with coiling gold that bordered the frame of her face and along the shape of her ears.
As the sun fell below the horizon, Garvana entered the manor to attend to her own matters, while Willow called for Pellius to escort her to the far northern point of their lands. They travelled together upon horseback, Willow sitting side-saddle behind him as they cantered deeper into the lush green grass that covered the expanse. As they neared the edge of the forest, their horse whined in unease, slowing its own steps anxiously. As it drew to a halt, Willow dropped from the steed’s back, unlacing the lid of the saddlebag and pulling free the small finely wrought golden chest. With confident steps, she approached the barrier of trees, her keen sight spying the seething beast within, long before he showed himself.
“Your prize,” she said loudly, staring through the dense cluster of branches directly into his eyes, “Taken from Nithoggr’s horde, in reward for your service.”
The sounds of snapping branches and torn shrubs echoed from the forest, as the fearsome black beast pushed his way into the open clearing. His eyes glared towards her, blazing with venom and bile, as he craned his neck to stand far over her at his full height. His great nostrils flared suddenly, as he drew air heavily into them, lowering his head to draw scent the chest.
“It reeks of him,” he hissed in vicious glee, before further smelling and tilting his head, “And something else… something far more wicked.”
Willow simply stared at him, letting no emotions pass over her face. She held out the golden chest, her reactions swift enough to tear back her hands as he swiped the chest with his great claw and snatched it from her. Clearly pleased with his gift, he tucked it closer to him as he sniffed once more.
“But I do not smell the vermin’s blood, you let him live?”
Willow let the corner of her mouth lift in a small smirk, “Killing him would have only wasted our time. We have what we went for.”
Jeratheon rasped a venomous hiss, “Pity.”
“We shall call on you again when your services are needed,” Willow said coldly, turning up her lip, “Until then, go prance around or hunt or something of the sort.”
A feral growl rumbled from his chest, while she turned her back and returned to Pellius upon the horse. As she accepted Pellius’ hand, helping her lift herself back upon the saddle, the seething ebony dragon pierced her with a savage gaze filled with threat.
“Hunt?” he hissed, “Be careful what you wish for…”

minderp
2017-07-11, 12:40 AM
The hour of midnight was ushered in by the faint rays of white from directly overhead, the glowing moon in the centre of the black canvas of sky. With the shining point of her ruby blade, Willow methodically carved the five points of the Dark Father’s star into the soft wood of the table. With a soft click of her fingers, Traya summoned a flick of fire that danced between her fingers, using it to light each of the nine candles that circled the star. As Willow turned and opened the clasp to the lead-lined box, Garvana began a low and rasping prayer in the infernal tongue.
“Lord of the Nine Hells, Master of Darkness, Prince of Suffering – we beseech you, accept this sacrifice…”
Willow pulled the withered heart from the box, placing it within the middle of the pentagram, before stepping back and allowing Pellius to take centre stage.
“Accept our offering as promise,” Garvana continued, “As oath, that we swear to vanquish the traitor, the being from which this heart came…”
Pellius pulled Hellbrand from its sheath, the dark blade glistening in the flickering light of candle flames. He pointed the vicious blade towards the heart, his brow contorted in concentration and determination, slowly liftng Hellbrand above his head.
“We swear to follow your word, your bidding, your wish. We swear to slay the treacherous Adrastus Thorn, we swear to reap your vengeance upon him, and deliver him to you bathed in blood. To you, God-Fiend, this we swear!”
As the frightful sword carved downwards towards the table, splitting the air as it thrust itself towards the heart, a sudden rush of blistering wind pulsed from the phylactery. A crack of lightening lit up the night sky, flashing brilliant light into the small chamber. With a gust, the flames upon the candles were urged higher and brighter, the slender fires now raging atop their waxed towers. Willow felt the touch of blazing heat upon her flesh, the caress of fiendish bliss pushing her onward. The way the eyes of the others lit up in exhilaration, it was clear they too felt the grace of hell. Pellius cried out a fearsome roar, as Hellbrand charged downwards, and a ripple flowed over his muscular arms like a wave of exertion. With a final push, the blade pierced the withered and charred heart, sounding an eruption of steel that ricocheted across the stone walls of the chamber. The blade pushed through the rigid flesh, carving downward with every ounce of might that Pellius could muster. The air in chamber chilled to biting crisp, a palpable feeling of battle, one will warring against another. Pellius roared, veins rippling along his flesh, white painting his knuckles as he crushed Hellbrand in his grip. Until suddenly – one will faltered, collapsing under the strain. A gust of wind expelled from the heart, extinguishing the flames around it. The sword slashed through the charred flesh with no more effort than pushing the blade through butter. The mighty swing followed through, and the immense strength of the swing shattered the table beneath into splinters that ricocheted off the stone floor. The withered heart fell, hissing a feral whine of piercing shrill, before its flesh slowly began to simmer and boil. A scream, one of pure wrath and fury thundered through the chamber, bringing with it a frozen wind that sapped the last ounce of warmth from the air. And then suddenly, there was nothing. Nothing save the sound of a simmering liquid, the heart melting into the stone floor, leaving behind only a trace of ash in its wake.

Under the last shadow of darkness before the sun rose once more, the Forsaken travelled through the churning portal, headed for the northern lands of Talingarde. Garvana had her eyes closed, visualising the location and description of the Agathium, guiding their journey through the vortex. With a shared sighed breath, they stepped out into the wilderness. With their only comparison being the windswept barren lands of Nithoggr’s domain, what they found themselves within was a truly peculiar paradise. Here, the ancient pine forest of the Savage North spread far and wide its in glory, its branches free of snow and filled with lush summer green sprouting pine needles. The first trace of sunlight shimmered along the petals of wild flowers that bloomed in an array of bright and brilliant colours. Buzzing insects drifted amidst the summer foliage, small butterflies with intricate patterns in a myriad of shades, birds dancing through the trees calling to one another in their soothing and lyrical songs. Geese, grackles, ducks and sparrows – even the occasional white snowy owls patrolling the high morning skies looking for small prey beneath. The soft sound of cloven hooves retreating away from where the Forsaken landed, the flash of white tailed deer scattering through the winding shrubbery. The forest was a paradise, flowing with life and natural harmonious wonder. Yet, when eyes drew to the north – they saw a sight blazing in misplacement and looking utterly incongruous. A structure of immense and intimidating vision. A palace of evil, a cathedral of darkness. Sitting atop the bending hill still covered in snow and ice, yet surrounded by the deep walls of a lush green valley. Baring black and red veined stone buttresses, decorated by leering gargoyles rising from the ice. A circular stained glass window of enormous proportions dominated the facade. In glass and stone, devotion to the great Asmodeus was shown clearly and unquestioned. It appeared more a cathedral meant for thousands of petitioners, rather than a subtle hide out for a condemned run away priest. Willow’s eyes widened as she marveled at the glorious construction. To her, the site spoke of a waiting faith. It suggested a day when the infernal faith of the devil god would no longer hide in secret, a day when pilgrims by their thousands would make the long journey to the hidden cathedral, to find it within the lost world of ice and paradise. It spoke of their future. It spoke of their grand crusade against the Mitran faith, their conquest of the isle of Talingarde.
For a moment, the Forsaken simple stared in awe upon the dark temple.
“Is this what temples look like in Cheliax?” Willow asked Pellius, in a quiet voice.
“Yes, some,” Pellius nodded, his brow arching slightly, “But only the largest of them.”
“It is…” Willow said slowly, feeling a rush of warmth flood her chest, “Intimidating… inspiring…”
Pellius gave a knowing smile, “You would like Cheliax, my lady.”
Willow smiled in return, unable to draw her eyes away from the dark edifice.

The sound of flowing water coursing along a stream and crashing gently upon the face of rock, signaled how close they were to the northern edge of Talingarde, the seas passing by while it was warm enough to remain thawed from the winter frost. It was along that churning sea that their failsafe and contingency plan anchored nearby. In secret, in the dead of the night as they had returned from Nythoggr’s lair, Pellius had ordered his guard led by Thorangir to the ship docked upon Ghastenhall’s shore. They had set sail, travelling as fast as they could, in the fastest ship money could buy – to the harsh seas of northern Talingarde. Within the hull, hidden beneath sacks of grain and wool, were three sturdy wooden coffins. It had been a risk, leaving Pellius, Garvana and Willow without the safety of their sanctuaries, but a risk they had to take. They could not infiltrate the Agathium with no where to reform should they have fallen to Thorn’s hateful onslaught.
They had told no one. For as they had spent their days waiting in Ghastenhall, they were weak and vulnerable. They had not simply waited in order to peruse the markets and sharpen their swords, they had waited for word of Thorangir’s arrival on the northern coast. And when it came, they had gathered together, walking through the portal – walking towards their fate.

“Will you scout the temple, Willow?” Garvana asked, “It seems far safer for you to go alone first, rather than us blindly approaching Thorn’s domain.”
“Of course,” she agreed, though her frown burrowed slightly.
“Tread carefully, my lady,” Pellius said quietly, “We do not know what Thorn has prepared for us. He will throw everything he has at us; he will do whatever he can in order to stop us.”
Willow cast a quick look towards him, nodding solemnly before she turned to the north and took off through the forest. She whispered the command word to her ring, feeling the subtle touch of invisibility tracing over her skin, as she quickly ran between the winding trees. She left no visible footprints as she passed through the shrubbery, finding her way towards the arching paths that led towards the great entry that grew nearer with each step. Her eyes scoured the ground as she ran, wary of any stone out of place, any markings in the earth to indicate a trap or ambush. As she began the climb along the black marble paths, she slowed her steps to a silent crawl, hearing nothing but the surrounding wildlife awakening. At the head of the grand pathway, stood an enormous set of double doors that rose more than fifteen feet tall. Every inch of the archway and marble door was adorned dark iconography, under nine great iron bands etched with devils dancing through briars. The servants of hell swirled through burning thorn bushes, bowing only before the great image at the top of the door – a shadowed figure, larger than life, a silhouette of a being topped by a great crown of thorns.
Though Willow was enraptured with the intricate carvings and hellish figure that watched over the entrance, the trepidation that pulsed within her kept her hands far from the door and her eyes scouring the etchings. Zaerabos had warned them of a trap, though he knew little of its details. Willow’s keen sight found the scripted runes hidden within the bordered illustrations upon the archway. They were carved along the entire stone structure, running delicately along the floor, in amongst the decorative tile. She knew not what kind of spell it would activate, and without Garvana to read the magic, she was clueless to discern it. For a moment, hidden within the shroud of invisibility, she studied the runes and searched for the one to deactivate it. When she thought she had found it, she made a point to memorize its sequence, before she turned her attentions to the glass window above. Using the curious arcana enchanted in the raven leather boots she wore, she slowly flew upwards, hovering beneath the oppressive visage of the Archstar. She was cautious as she leant closer to the crimson glass, straining her eyes to see through the frosted finish. With the aid of the torches on the walls, she spied five blurred figures pacing the large open main floor. As she flew to the east, she slowly cruised though the air, circling the immense building, searching for another opening or way in. When she returned to the entrance, she frowned. They were left with two options; smashing their way through the intricate stained glass windows, or facing the arcane trap and walking through the front door.
Willow dropped to the marble floor, retracing her steps swiftly as she returned to the others. When she arrived, she smiled at the small relief Pellius failed to hide beneath his stern demeanor.
“Well?” Garvana demanded, though it seemed out of unease rather than short-temper.
“We have only the front door or the windows,” Willow reported, “Neither is appealing. Zaerabos was truthful, there is a trap guarding the door, extremely well hidden. And breaking the windows would announce to the entire castle that we have arrived… and they are rather beautiful, it would be a shame to shatter them.”
“Beautiful?” Pellius laughed suddenly, shaking his head, “You are worried that they are too beautiful to break?”
Willow shrugged, a grin lifting her lip, “I like this place. When Thorn is dealt with, someone must keep this place from falling into disrepair…”
“Enough,” Garvana snapped, “Are you confident you can disable the trap?”
“Fairly,” Willow said honestly, “But it seems powerful. Thorn has gone to great lengths to hide the trap that well. I cannot see it being a simple lightening bolt…”


The morning sun had slowly begun to rise as the Forsaken made their way towards the great cathedral. The flames that danced along Sith’s furred hide lit the path in front of them, while Rajiu and Yastrew, the fiend Pellius had summoned, followed closely behind. When they arrived at the door, and Willow found the runes she had memorized, Garvana looked over the magic with her glazed eyes.
“It is a powerful trap,” she whispered, though any eyes watching would have clearly seen their approach, “A violent ray of death, one that disintegrates flesh and bone. Are you truly certain you can disable it?”
Willow hesitated for a moment, looking over the runes once more, making sure she was correct in her conclusion. As she remained silent, Pellius came to a conclusion of his own.
“Enough of this,” he said brashly, “I will not let a trap stand in my way.”
Before Willow could stop him, he steeled himself against the fearsome magic, striding forward into the caress of the vicious trap. Unfortunately, he had overlooked a simple matter. Thorn did not simply have a powerful trap and patrolling guards defending the entrance to his residence – he had also locked the front door. Pellius stepped forward confidently, hand grasping the glistening steel handle, continuing his movement directly into the marble doors. As his armour sounded a large clash against the door, the trap fired a frightening crack of green searing magic in a flash, striking Pellius in the chest. Though it did not sear his flesh the way it would have any other. Whether by sheer size of constitution, he was able to cast off the worst of the malevolent arcana. He stumbled backwards a few steps, frowning deeply as the giggle tickled Willow’s tongue. A stern look from Pellius silenced the sound, though her grin could not be held even as she bit her lip. With a smile on her face, she turned back to the door, confidently marring three of the runes in order, before pulling her tools free to see to the locks. She felt a sigh leave her lips as she grasped the handle and the beam of vicious light did not zap her the way it had Pellius. And as she opened the door to the grand cathedral, she felt the air she had drawn into her lungs wheeze outwards in awe.
The massive chamber that opened out in front of her, was a masterpiece of baroque architecture, a blissful retreat for devil kind, an unrivalled piece of artwork dedicated purely to the Lord of the Nine. The floor was adorned with marble tiles of ebony and crimson, arranged in intricate geometric patterns, polished to a glistening mirror shine. Two grand staircases rose on the sides of the chamber, leading up to a regal balcony that Willow stood upon, overlooking the enormous space. Ribs of black marble connected to broad pillars that support the weighty vaulted ceiling, that rose more than a hundred feet at the apex of the dome. But the ceiling, was more than a simple stone or marble roof. A sculpted mural depicting the frolicking of devils, all in subservience to the centre of the marvelous depiction. A magnificent king upon his ebony throne – red skinned, horned, infinitely wise and ultimately implacable – the First Among the Fallen; Asmodeus himself. The painted devil god smiled, as if he knew his victory was inevitable. The walls were richly decorated in almost unfathomable detail. Countless works of art, all united in their themes; the supremacy and power of hell, and the promise rewards to those who would but subsume their will to the greatest of all wills – immortal and undying Asmodeus.
Yet even as Willow’s wide eyes traced over the enormous expanse along the ceiling, they were distractedly drawn to the centre of the grand chamber. For it was neither empty nor unguarded.
“Finally!” the foreboding figure rumbled in a deep resonating bellow, “Warm blood to spill!”
Four frost giant warriors, and their king. But Ingolfr Issox was no mere frost giant, far more than that. As if drawn directly from a ballad of ancient days, as pure an example of the old blood that had been born on the island in a millennia. He was truly enormous, easily twice as tall as more typical giants. His body seemed almost carved out of deep compressed glacier ice – sapphire blue and iron hard. His breath steamed with primal hoarfrost, billowing in bursts of ice and shards, his great beard cascading down his face like an avalanche of icicles. And in his hand, he hefted a greataxe made of pure ice, far larger than any weapon she could have imagined, yet he moved it through the air as if it weighed as much as a feather. He was a vision of the ice titans of old, those who once stood in defiance of all the gods.

The frosted face lifted in a ravenous grin, brandishing his mighty weapon in a taunt to the Forsaken. Before they each had time to funnel through the door, the ground trembled as he stepped forward towards them. He opened his great mouth and roared with the fury of a howling blizzard. Icicles and frost suddenly formed in a sharp and jagged mass in front of his mouth, before he thundered a breath of pure might and forced the ice into an eruption that showered the entire balcony in white and sapphire snowstorm. Shards of ice ripped through flesh and clothing, the cold seeping the warmth from skin as the wind barreled into steel armour in an unrelenting torrent. At once, Willow activated her leather boots and flew high into the air above the giants, while Sith charged to the edge of the balcony, replying in kind with his dastardly hellfire breath billowing in searing flames. As the burning wave of fire reached the iced giants, a feral hiss of melting frost and cracking ice echoed off of the stone walls.
Traya rasped a curious incantation, transforming her pale white skin into shimmering copper scales, when suddenly her arms and legs expanded, her head swelled and her snout morphed forward as gleaming fangs fell from her lips. When the haze of the frosted mist cleared, a ferocious copper dragon stood in Traya’s place. Moving lithely, much like a serpent, the dragon slithered up the marble wall and perched atop the large ribbed pillar, staring down upon the chamber with glistening amber eyes. It roared in savage fury, rattling the windows and shaking the marble floor beneath them. A fearsome cry, so terrifying that the fear surged like a washed wave over the frost giants, a procession of widening eyes and whitening faces. And as Pellius and Garvana, one clad in dark and malevolent black steel, wielding the vicious flame drenched Hellbrand, the other clad in glimmering steel, hefting a black stained mace, reeking of the Dark Lord’s will – the imminent threat and promise became all too much. Terror took hold of one of the frost giants, his axe falling from his fingers and clammering to the floor. His steps unsteady as he began to stumble backwards, fear convulsing along his limbs. As he turned to flee, a blade of ice carved through his flesh, slicing him cleanly in half.
“Coward!” snarled Issox.
As the giant’s body slumped to the floor, white eyes of malice looked to the others, the king glaring a terrifying warning to the others. There would be no mercy for them from either side. They would face the Forsaken, or they would face his wrath. It was a threat that bolstered their resolve, colour returning to their skin, determination returning to their faces. The bellowed out their battlecries, two of them charging for the stairs as the last gathered a large chunk of stone from the floor and hurled it up towards the leering dragon. In response, Traya showered them in a flood of fire that rained upon the large chamber like a writhing storm of flame.
Willow soared through the dancing fire, craning in a long arch by the eastern side of the chamber, as Sith sprinted to mirror her on the opposite side, leaping over the oncoming giant to continue towards Willow’s target. The onslaught came upon the frosted being from both sides; the blistering fire of Sith’s bite paired with two pointed blades plummeting deep into his back.
Pellius readied his weapon, his brow contorting as he charged at full force over the balcony, launching into the air with his heavy descent aimed directly at the king. Hellbrand diving downwards, striking the enormous giant in the shoulder, tearing through the frozen flesh with shattering might. Though Issox grimaced against the flaming swords assault, a sadistic glee overwhelmed his face. He reared back his frosted axe, and as Pellius landed heavily upon the stone floor, the king cleaved viciously in an unending flurry of blows. For one his size, he moved in blurred haste, launching one attack after another with no intention of ceasing for breath. Pellius met his every blow with blazing fury, unwavering in his own rush forward, gritting his teeth as the iced axe clashed against the hellfire of his blade. Each time the terrible weapons met, a war of elements took over the battle. As the fire blazed through the ice and melted its onward journey, the ice fizzled and the cold consumed the light of the heat, dousing the potency with each strike.

Garvana stood upon the balcony, hands raised high above her head, holding her palms opened and wide.
“Those who refuse the will of the undying Asmodeus,” she rasped venomously, “Will taste his glorious and dire wrath!”
She turned her fingers to crooked eldritch angles, chanting in a deep and rumbling voice. A spark of flame lit between her splayed fingers, and as she thrust her hands together, pointing them towards the floor, the marble tile trembled. Cracks that ricocheted like strikes of lightening raced across the ground, surrounding the king and his warriors. A chilling laugh sounded from the balcony, as Garvana ripped her hands apart, as if yanking on an unseen cord. Blazing flames erupted from the cracks, the whiff of brimstone seeping into the chamber, as the dark fires slithered towards the iced flesh.
As the dark fire raged along the tiled floor, Raiju launched himself into the air above the fray, with his vicious glaive grasped in both hands. He charged downwards, arching the blade and thrusting it forward, hacking into the giant king with practiced and disciplined prowess. But his attack had brought him too close to the enormous beast of frost, in close range of his iced axed, in reach of his terrifying blow. The frosted blade tore through the air, hitting Raiju with the full force of his mighty swing, cleaving through his torso, splitting bone and flesh in a shower of crimson blood. As the scarlet being fell from the air, dropping into the swell of the flamed floor, the dark inferno consumed two of the giant warriors. The last standing guard released a gust of ice and frost, but his winter wind was cut short as Sith pounced upon him, the feral fangs of his maw sinking deeply into his throat – his breath silenced as the maw slammed shut.
A thundering clash rang out across the Agathium floor, the shimmering ice axe crashing against Pellius’ chest, the pummeling blows ripping strength from his limbs. Willow could see Pellius waning, his eyes glazing slightly as his lids dipped, his steps fumbling as he refused to pause in his assault. But so too was Issox, a blood of the darkest blue seeping from his wounds, his frosted breath drawing short and staggered. With a final push, Pellius launched another attack, crying out in furious wrath as he thrust his fiendish blade into the king’s stomach. Although his attack had indeed had its intended effect, surrounded by gushing blood as the blade tunneled deeper into his stomach – the king saw his chance. He turned his axe to the side, drawing it to the side as he hefted it backwards to prepare for his swing. When it came, it was with such raw power that the air itself seemed to funnel forward in a raging tempest. When the flat side of his axe barreled into Pellius, it flung the heavily armored man off of his feet, sending him skidding along the floor, his unrelenting grip on his sword ripping it free from the giant’s stomach, tearing the wound sideways. As an almighty thud sounded as Pellius hit the chamber wall, the giant king collapsed to his knee. Dark blood pooled from his lips, the panted frost breath freezing the liquid into icicles that broke away and scattered along the floor. He roared like a screaming wind, sapphire eyes blazing a fierce blue, as he slammed the pommel of his axe into the ground to steady himself as he began to rise once more.
It was then, that a familiar rasping chant slithered through the hall, a dark and ominous incantation that fell from the copper dragon’s grinning maw. As the king’s eyes drew to Traya’s resting place high above the cathedral floor, he pushed himself to a stand and began to straighten out, lifting his vicious iced axe. He did not get another chance to use it. Willow shielded her face from the cascading eruption of blood and bone as the king’s head split and exploded. The tiles were bathed in blood as the large fist unclenched, and the enormous weapon of ice slipped from his fingers. It shattered, into thousands of ice shards that showered the ground in a glistening chilled wave. The frost giant king slumped forward, the floor trembling under his weight as his headless corpse collapsed.

From the far end of the chamber, a soft grinding metal sounded, a curtain being drawn aside. Looking up from the sea of charred and bleeding corpses, the Forsaken brandished their weapons and turned to greet their observer. They faced a woman, a true beauty of frost giantkind – Queen Ellisif. Short for her kind, she stood only at a bare thirteen feet tall, with flawless skin like the smooth surface of a frozen lake. Long locks of flowing gold fell heavy upon her shoulder, braided in an intricate weave, decorated with glistening shards of gems. She wore a gown of finely tailored skins and furs, and a necklace crafted from the shields of would-be giant slayers. Intelligent eyes of blazing amber seemed to access those who stood before her. She arched her brow as she seemed to form a decision.
“What a fool my dolt of a husband was,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice for one her size, though her tone was of one who was used to being in command, “To charge such powerful servants of the High God Asmodeus. I would beg your forgiveness, but I see that he has met the eventual fate of all idiots.” She gave a sly smile. “Well done, champions of hell. I would wager from all the noise and commotion at your arrival that you are the Ninth Knot, am I correct?”
Willow slowly lowered her blades, gently sliding them into their sheathes without breaking eye contact with the Queen. She could see the truth in Zaerabos’ words, she was indeed far more intelligent than her husband. She was the brains behind the leadership of the frost giants, she was cunning and clever, and it was clear she was after something.
“You are indeed correct,” Willow replied, walking towards her with a slow but confident step, Sith prowling close by her side.
Willow did not miss the way the Queen’s eyes widened at the Hellhound’s approach.
“Ah, very good,” she said cordially, a smile across her face, “Thorn has spoken highly of you. He described you as highly dangerous foes and untrustworthy monsters who will do anything to get what they want. Rarely have I heard the Cardinal heap such praise upon visitors.”
The others marched forward, forming a line in front of the regal woman, almost like a barrier to prevent her escape.
“Ah, my manners have fled from me,” she said softly, a charming smile as she looked to Pellius and Garvana, before arching her brow as Traya in her dragon form approached from behind, “I am Queen Ellisif, high lady of the frost giants.”
“Garvana Forthwise,” she said proudly, not deigning to nod or bow, “High Priestess of Asmodeus in Talingarde.”
The queen quirked her lip, “Well met, High Priestess.”
“I am Pellius Albus,” he introduced in the strange language of giants, inclining his head respectfully, “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Ah,” she replied in turn, a warm almost sensuous smile looking upon him, “So nice to hear one with a cultured tongue.”
She looked to Willow with her brow quirked, before her eyes darted once more towards the fiery creature.
“I am Lady Willow Monteguard,” she said, almost a bitter sweetness to her tone, reaching out to trail her fingers through flaming fur, before switching to the language of giants herself, “And this mighty beast of hell, is Sith.”
The Queen did an excellent job of hiding her utter distaste and recoil, but not well enough to shield it from Willow’s keen seeing eyes.
“Yes, well,” the Queen said, pursing her lips slightly, “I would ask that it remain outside while we talk. As a show of good faith…”
Willow’s brow arched slowly, staring an unwavering gaze back at the frost giant queen. She rasped a low command in infernal, earning her a rumbling growl in response. She smirked as he bared his teeth to the queen, before begrudgingly following Willow’s command and slowly prowling to back through the chamber, turning back to them and waiting by the slumped body of the king.
“Thank you,” Queen Ellisif said cordially, though her eyes lingered upon the Hellhound, “It is a courtesy I will not overlook. Now, I presume that you are here to kill Cardinal Thorn.”
As if a wave passed over them, the bluntness of her question had one brow raising after another.
“Ah,” she smiled slyly, “I can see I am right. You are embarked upon a difficult and dangerous mission. He is downstairs imbedded in his fortress. There are traps, his lieutenants and worse.” She clasped her hands behind her back formally. “Of course, while I can not claim to know everything that Thorn has prepared for you, I do know quite a bit. If only we could come to some sort of arrangement, I would be only too pleased to help.” She looked between them, arching her brow. “I have told you what I can offer. What do can you offer me, Lords of the Ninth Knot?”
It was Willow who stepped forward, cold eyes as she let out a biting reply.
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to play a game of bids and guesses. You clearly have a deal mind. Name your price.”
The queen let a small smile lift her cheeks, as she looked over Willow with eyes only a female accessing the caliber of another could muster.
“Very well,” she said, dropping the coy act, “I require two things, and I will accept nothing less than a blood oath. As I assume by your past actions, you are planning to overthrow Talingarde, instating Asmodeus as the supreme. If this is so, I require the Ninth Knot to include me in the privy council, when a new king of Talingarde is chosen. Second, I require a guarantee that the traditional lands of the frost giants are returned to me.”
“Traditional lands?” Willow repeated, arching her brow, “That would be the entire lands north of the wall, am I correct?”
For only a fraction of a second, Queen Ellisif’s lips pursed, before returning to her formal stance.
“Yes, you are correct.”
“That is quite an ask,” Willow commented, “A great deal of land and power, for information that we may already have…”
The queen shrugged gently, dismissing Willow’s words nonchalantly, “It is land you have little need of.”
“There is but one problem,” Willow sighed, smiling sweetly as she turned to look up at the grand mural upon the ceiling, “I find myself growing quite fond of this place. And if I am correct, it falls directly in your proposed lands.”
“It would be yours,” the queen countered, “And if used as a cathedral dedicated to the God-Fiend, I would ensure the open passage of pilgrims. Though,” she smirked, “I of course cannot ensure the command of every being that dwells in the Savage North…”
“Of course,” Willow replied sardonically.
“Well then,” she said formally, “Do we have a deal?”
Pellius stepped forward, his brow furrowed low.
“You ask for an alliance,” he said sternly, “But I do not hear the promise of an ally. If you wish to represent the people of the frost giants, by garnering a seat upon the council of Talingarde, then I would expect a truce between our people. If we put the call for aid, the frost giants must respond.”
“Naturally,” she responded, without missing a beat, “And I would assume that such a thing goes both ways. If the frost giants called upon you, you would respond in kind.”
For a moment, the Forsaken and Queen Ellisif simply stared at one another, seemingly sizing the other up. With a swift nod from Pellius, Garvana and Traya nodded too. As the amber eyes drew to Willow, she tilted her head slightly at the queen.
“A seat on the new council of Talingarde, in addition to the promised aid of an alliance. The return of the traditional frost giant lands, marked by the great wall, excluding the Agathium and its surrounding land. And in return; all information you have on the Agathium and Thorn’s plans and defenses, along with your oath that you and your people will honour the alliance should the call be made.”
“Agreed,” Queen Ellisif nodded firmly, turning from them towards the northern end of the chamber.

She climbed the small set of stairs that led up towards a grand dais, the Forsaken following closely behind. As Willow neared the podium, a strange lingering heat of infernal power seemed to draw her forward. A blaze lit within her chest, the diabolic drum beating heavy in her ribcage, the touch of her fearsome lord pulsing in resonating melody. She knew what she saw was no ordinary altar, no simple stand in which to place decoration. Carved of the darkest black marble and lined in shimmering gold, decorated in infernal aphorisms praising the wisdom of the all-knowing prince, and cursing the heavens that dared to find him unfit to reign. A great golden star woven with thorns dominated the back plate, among legions of eternal candles that illuminated the ebony altar, bathing it in a pale glow that only added to its ominous presence. And centered upon the black slate, was a great bowl molded of pure gold, encrusted with precious bloodstones inset deeply into the black stone.
Willow could feel the laced strings of hell that twined around the altar, the deep connection it shared with their Infernal Lord. This was a true unhallowed site, a sanctified and blessed altar to Asmodeus.
“The truth is blood upon the altar,” Willow read aloud, reaching out to trace the infernal script carved into the black marble.
The queen stood to the side of the grand altar, lifting the small ruby athame from the black surface and turning back to the Forsaken.
“Will you, Willow Monteguard of the Ninth Knot, swear upon your blood and the High-God Asmodeus that you will adhere to the terms of our deal, and the promises you have made here today?”
Though it was hard to draw her eyes away from the profane altar, Willow gave a last look towards Pellius. With his inclined head, she turned to the queen and nodded solemnly.
“I swear it. Will you, Queen Ellisif of the Frost Giants, swear the same?”
“I swear it.”
The queen slashed the ruby blade along the palm of her hand, before holding it out to Willow. When she drew it against her own, a sudden rush of blazing wind seemed to fulminate from the altar. Her words and actions were being watched closely; she was binding herself to her promise and facing the wrath of the darkest should she break it. Though the blood did not flow from her wound as the blue blood fell from the queens – it did not matter. An oath sworn upon the blood was an unbreakable bond, for the living and the undead. She grasped the queens hand tightly, as unseen tendrils of infernal power tied an unbreakable link between them. As they released hands, the linking twine did not dissipate. And nor would it, as long as both of them still lived…

overlordseamus
2017-07-11, 07:31 PM
You managed both deals without slaughter, colour me impressed.
Though at present time it seems your deals are heavy weighted to favour both the devil and the queen.
I will be interested to see how you uphold/manipulate these deals.
Our party ended up refusing both deals. A few of the players refused to let the devil taste their blood - meaning no completion of his orders so no deal. And the queen.. well, one too many failed diplomacy rolls. Players would not hand over the north, and with terrible diplomacy, no chance at a lesser deal.


I actually laughed out loud when i read - "Unfortunately, he had overlooked a simple matter. Thorn did not simply have a powerful trap and patrolling guards defending the entrance to his residence – he had also locked the front door. "


Again, well done. Very entertaining to read.

Braininthejar2
2017-07-15, 05:45 PM
So, the paladin is out of your hair.

For lawful evil types, that was quite Leeroy Jenkins of you. I would have probably waited for the dragon, to hopefully get rid of them both at once.

I thought there would be some more monsters and traps guarding the lair... I guess the previous intruders cleared them out.

On to the next chapter :smallsmile:

Braininthejar2
2017-07-15, 07:40 PM
Okay, the scene in the linnorm lair was awesome. I didn't know linnorms fly.

Jimmah
2017-07-17, 11:25 AM
From d20pfsrd :


A linnorm’s body is serpentine and lacks wings, yet these dragons fly through the air with supernatural ease, accomplishing the feat as easily as a fish through water.

Just something else to fear :)

Braininthejar2
2017-07-17, 07:50 PM
From d20pfsrd :



Just something else to fear :)

So, they're like... common ancestors to Western and Eastern dragons?

minderp
2017-07-30, 03:36 AM
Okay, the scene in the linnorm lair was awesome.
Thanks! It was super fun to play out! Definitely one of my favourite encounters of the campaign. :smallbiggrin:


You managed both deals without slaughter, colour me impressed.
Though at present time it seems your deals are heavy weighted to favour both the devil and the queen.
I will be interested to see how you uphold/manipulate these deals.
Oh i have my plans, the wording of our deals was very specific, yet vague in all the right areas. It left a lot open to interpretation, at least on the Forsaken's behalf. When it comes time, you'll see exactly how sly Willow is. :smalltongue:



I actually laughed out loud when i read - "Unfortunately, he had overlooked a simple matter. Thorn did not simply have a powerful trap and patrolling guards defending the entrance to his residence – he had also locked the front door. "
I kid you not, Pellius actually did this. Frustrated, stubborn, and too proud of his amazing Fort save, he just said 'i stride through the door, the trap cant hurt me...'.
DM was like ".......... yeah. It's locked."
It was amazing.


Again, well done. Very entertaining to read.
Thank you! :smallbiggrin:


Sorry for the delay in chapters, life is hectic at the moment. Will be back onto it soon. I'm halfway through the next chapter, shouldn't be too long. :smallredface:

minderp
2017-08-25, 05:06 AM
Finally! It's here! :smallbiggrin:



Into the darkest blackness, slow and careful steps leading deeper beneath the surface, deeper into the abyss of retribution. Each stone brick of each hallway, carved into fine chiselled blocks, arranged with unerring perfection in the endless lengths of the dark and silent passages. By dim and failing torchlight, the sound of harsh steel, metal boots clicking against the aching stone, ricocheted back and forth in echo along the long and vacant hall, silenced by the approach of oppressive shadow.
The Forsaken pushed onwards, drowning in the trepidation that hung thickly in the air, wading through and fighting against a still current of their own fear. As they descended even further into the great cathedral, reaching the flat base of the cast iron spiral stairs, the walls arched out and widened into an empty crossroads. It was another hallway, but finally, this one seemed to follow the crudely drawn map they held in their hand.
The plan, was fairly simple. In essence, those who could not be turned from Thorn would be killed. Those who refused to bow to the Ninth Knot would be shown no mercy and be slain. Yet they were not so foolish as to believe that death was the best path to building their new kingdom. They knew there was strength in numbers. First, they would aim to convert Thorn’s subjects. But if a compromise could not be reached – the crushing fist of finality would not falter.

Willow’s soft steps were quiet as a whisper, she toed forward ahead of the others, shielded by the shimmer of invisibility, casting no shadow upon the walls. She moved with an eery grace, a preternatural elegance, an absolute silence about her as she stalked between the fading light.
Over time, her body had slipped deeper into the embrace of undeath. Its grip on her tightening slowly, almost imperceptibly, the changes morphing her physical self into one that lingered between the realm of life and death. Her chest no longer rose or fell, no air drew between her lips nor whistled from her nose – for the dead do not need to breathe. But the absence of breath, was an untold advantage when stalking in the mist of shadow, crawling through the darkened passage eyes unblinking. Unseen and unheard, she moved like a whisper drifting upon the breeze.
As she neared the corner of the open chambered crossroad, a subtle grinding of metal drifted to her ears. Her steps paused, ears keen and sharp, focusing on the clatter beyond. Footsteps, pacing back and forth, steel dragging upon something coarse, something like bone. Curious, her own slow and deliberate footsteps prowled towards the sound, flattening herself against the stone wall before carefully peering into the torch-lit hallway. A cold chill of ice traced the length of her spine, a sliver of frost sliding along her skin. She saw them, the long dead guardians of the dark palace. Six of the Grave Knights, skeletal figures dressed in dastardly black steel, donned with rusted spikes, stained with the darkness of aged blood. A shiver of white frost danced across the steel, ever melting and freezing in an ever-changing flow of winter. The tips of each spike seemed to shimmer along the heavy greaves and plates, icicles forming in small jagged structures, before thawing and dripping away, only to be replaced once more. Under the slithering ice, upon their chests remained long rusted and weathered bits of old heraldry. With squinting eyes, Willow realized they were reminiscent of some of the older and no longer used crests of the Barcan nobility. Her eyes traced along the lengths of their frozen great swords, and there too she saw the time worn maker’s marks that indicated they were of Ghastenhall make. Once, these frosted warriors of death were Talrien men.

Slipping in between the dead, slow and deliberate steps carefully prowled into the chamber, weaving her silent way towards the far side of the room. Willow trusted her silent movements, her preternatural grace to guide her unseen and unheard as she slinked into position. As she grew closer to the knights, she felt the curious touch of darkness slither against her skin. Strangely, to her the touch was soft and warming, almost welcoming. But she had no time to muse upon it. She counted in her mind, ticking away the seconds, waiting for the moment to ambush. When it came, the scene erupted into chaos as the Forsaken caught the knights by surprise. They charged from beyond the hallway, picking their targets and launching into battle, as they gave the armoured skeletons no time to prepare and ready their swords or shields. Willow leapt from the shadows, blades flashing as she thrust them forward, clean and precise aim piercing through bone. The keen metal spilt the dusted white bone, splinters ricocheting in cracking lines along the ribs, before simply falling into shatters. The solid sets of steel armour fell heavy to the stone floor, the pieces scattering apart, strewn about the room.
Suddenly, a sharp pain rippled through Willow head, forcing her hand up to clutch the side of her scalp. Her feet stumbled backwards, as a tight grip seemed to grab hold of her consciousness. Time slowed as a throbbing beat drummed into her mind. It clenched, crushing downward. And then she heard it – the whispers. The ones that tried to control. Her eyes flew wide, searching for the source of the voice.
She found him in the form of a dark skeleton. Though he wore armour that matched the others that fought around him, he was decorated with military stripes and pins, marking him as the one leading the Grave Knights. As her eyes drew to the blackened wells where his once stood, she was hit with a foreboding and sickening revelation. Only greater undead had the power to control the weaker of their own kind. And although not weaker, that was what she was; one of his kind. Though her flesh was still plump and smooth, though she appeared to even the observant eye a living breathing being – she was not. She was a corpse that still moved. A skeleton with flesh, a dead being that refused to move on from this life. She was undead, just as the withered and scarred skeleton commander was.
It was a thought that should have turned Willow’s stomach and weakened her resolve. And for a moment, it appeared as if it did. Time appeared to skid to a halt, the five other knights clashing their steel against the Forsaken, as the commander froze with his outstretched hand inviting and tempting Willow into his control.
It was then, that a laugh fell from her lips. It was soft and delicate – and cold. When she looked to the other Forsaken, blades and bludgeons flying through the air with blazing passion alight in their eyes – she simply laughed at the commander. They were no ordinary undead. They were powerful and unstoppable, and they had come to the Agathium, in the furthest reaches of the Savage North to eliminate a much more powerful undead than he who stood before her. She simply wiped her mind clear, closing it off to him effortlessly. And as time returned, she grinned as she watched Pellius turn his blade for the commander. In one great swoop he shattered the skull, fulminating white dust of ground bone throughout the chamber.

As the cloud settled over the shattered bone and frozen steel, they turned their eye towards the southern door, beyond which could be heard the mumbling of voices and clattering of wood and stone. They moved quickly towards the door, surrounding the entrance with their weapons drawn. As they flung the door wide and attempted to rush inside, it seemed Garvana and Pellius too felt a peculiar sensation that stopped their movement.
“What are you doing in here?!” cried a rasping voice in a piercing wail, “Who are you?! Huh?! Who are you?!”
A man jumped up from the wooden chair he was sitting upon, slamming his tome closed, pointing an accusatory finger towards the doorway as he backed up further into the chamber. Dressed in robes stained with dirt and scum, unbothered by what appeared to be blood and ink smears along the satin fabric. Scattered hair upon his head that had begun to bald in patches, leaving behind only tufts that stuck out on awkward angles. His wide bulging eyes flickered back and forth between each of those who stood at his door, from his desk, to his bed and back to the door. His fingers shook and convulsed, as the skittish man awaited his answer.
“You would be Grigori Sherkov,” Willow said coldly, arching her brow, “The necromancer.”
“We are here to claim what is rightfully ours,” Pellius said firmly, his chin lifting as his fingers readjusted on the handle of his weapon, drawing the man’s sight to Hellbrand, “The downfall of Thorn is upon him. He is no longer fit to lead the Knots, he is no longer worthy to lead at all. And those who stand with him now, will fall beside him.”
“Ah,” the necromancer nodded, wide eyes flickering chaotically as he rushed through his words, “You’re the Ninth Knot. Expected you weeks ago. Took your time, didn’t you. What kept you? What was the delay? Huh?!”
Willow’s brow shot high, as a sly smile came upon her face.
“Well?!” Sherkov snapped impatiently, “What was the delay?!”
“You would do well to mind your manners old man,” Pellius warned viciously, attempting to step forward.
“Ah ah now!” Sherkov shook his head and pointed finger vigorously, “You cannot enter! You cannot enter my private dwelling! You do not have permission!”
Willow’s brows lowered, as the curious suspicion swarmed through her mind. She knew not how he knew they were taken by the vampiric curse, nor how he knew they could not enter his dwelling uninvited. But the Forsaken had their ways around such things. She kept her intense gaze upon the necromancer as she rasped a bitter command in infernal towards Sith, folding her arms delicately over her chest. The enormous hellhound was quick to comply, pushing his way through the others as he easily stepped over the threshold and into the chamber. Traya followed Sith’s lead, whispering a quick incantation as each step inside transformed her slim figure into the bulking size and gritted earth of an elemental.
“Alright,” the necromancer grumbled, backing up further into the corner, flinching as Sith’s menacing growl snarled towards him, “What do you want?”
“You have one chance,” Pellius offered darkly, “Flee. Abandon Thorn and live to see another day. Or stay, and die here, now.”
“Not much of a choice,” Sherkov mumbled under his breath, sending a short longing look to the door on the far side of the room.
“Perhaps…” Willow began, arching her brow.
“No,” Pellius cut off her off coldly, brandishing his weapon, “Flee, or die.”
“There are a few things I must gather first,” the necromancer rushed, holding out his hands in surrender, “Under the bed. And then I will go, and you will never see me again.”
Traya, in her massive form, thundered her steps towards the bed. She grabbed hold of the corner bed post and easily swung the entire thing upward, revealing a small lockbox and a case filled with potions underneath.
“Hey you great brute!” Sherkov cried, running for his belongings, too outraged to be bothered by snatching things from a creature of earth almost twice his size, “Hands off!”
He quickly gathered up his belongings, turning a foul eye towards Pellius before a swirl of coursing magic vanished him from the chamber, “You have your wish…”
Traya dropped the bed, the wood splintering as it crashed into the stone floor. Suddenly, the unseen force that had held Willow at bay eased. She carefully moved into the chamber, pursing her lips as she looked around at the incomprehensible notes strewn about the chamber.
“Could have been a waste,” she commented, picking up the book he was reading and flicking through it, “He quite obviously knew his craft well.”
“And you would have trusted him?” Pellius scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “He was clearly utterly insane.”
“Yes,” Willow smirked, “But the insane ones are usually the most brilliant…”


They delved deeper into the dark temple, following its winding hallways, trying not to lose their way in the labyrinth of stone. When they reached a dead end doorway, Willow felt a curious stirring in the still veins along her limbs. The metal whined as she pushed the doors open wide, revealing a chamber filled with all manner of strange mechanisms – crystalline tubes, cabinets of esoteric machinery, bundles of black cable and shimmering wire, capacitors that seethed with dense black liquid. The peculiar engine hummed, reverberating with sinister purpose. Her careful steps were fueled by curiosity, as she toed her way into the cavernous chamber, eyes flicking back and forth between unending and indecipherable oddities. At four points of the of the mechanism where the wire and cords seemed to converge, were four glowing columns of blackness. They each hovered above their base, shimmering as if they were swaying in a breeze, liquid flowing down a stream. They were more than liquid, an inky blackness that seemed to consume and devour any and all light. As Willow stared with wide and enraptured eyes towards the darkness, her feet unknowingly crept her closer. As she neared a single column by the eastern wall, her mouth fell slightly agape. The blackness seemed to reach for her, a tendril of thick yet translucent darkness, stretching longingly towards her. Upon instinct, her hand lifted to greet the darkness, her fingers grazing along the utter blackness. Whatever she had thought would come of the thrumming alien device, a tender caress that lifted her spirits and hope was not on her list. The darkness seemed to stroke her skin, warming her cold and undead flesh from the inside out. She felt it coursing through her unmoving veins, she felt it pulsing and radiating from her still and unbeating heart. She felt more alive and filled with vitality than she had ever before, she felt an elation lift the solemn weight from her mind, she felt the worry and stress dissolve away. Basking in the radiance of darkness, her feet drew closer to the column, its blackness coiling around her flesh in a warm and almost lustful embrace. Still the warmth and elation grew, energy bounding through her limbs, bright and passionate activity surging with her.
“My lady!” Pellius’ voice interrupted sharply.
She felt his cold hand grip her forearm, his frown burrowing deeper as he felt the warmth touch to her skin. With a swift pull, he forced her backwards from the darkness, far enough that its dense and eery tendrils could not reach her.
“What are you doing?” she scowled, shaking her head to clear it.
“What am I doing?” he scoffed, “You were about to step into that damned machine!”
“Do not be ridiculous,” she sighed, rolling her eyes, “I was simply…”
She paused for a moment, realizing how strange and suspicious she must have looked from afar. A lopsided grin fell upon her lips as she coyly shrugged a shoulder.
“It did not try to harm me…” she said, looking towards the blackness, “It… embraced me. It’s touch was soft, and… invigorating. I feel stronger and revitalized! I have never known so much energy!”
“That is because that’s what it is,” Traya said warily, wide eyes staring at Willow, steps edging further out of the room, “Negative energy. Pure, raw, negative energy.”
“It is?” Willow frowned, tilting her head slightly.
“That would be why it did not harm you,” Garvana nodded in understanding, “Dark energy feeds the undead, but feeds from the living.”
“This device,” Traya continued, eyes of an arcane mage scouring the machine from the doorway, “It is somehow connected to the negative energy plane. Those columns, the blackness that wrapped around you, it is pure negative energy. I think that somehow, the dark energy is being harnessed, but for what purpose, I do not know.”
“Perhaps it is being used to interfere with scrying into the Agathium,” Garvana offered, her own steps taking her into the chamber, “It would explain why all of our searching turned up nothing.”
“Yes,” Traya nodded, frowning further as a thought passed through her mind, “It is possible. But curious, this technology… its similar to what was used in that crystalline case that holds that lich, the Nameless Tyrant.”
“Wait,” Willow frowned, looking to Traya, “I swear I have heard of this… of a time in the distant past, the Nameless Tyrant was said to have built a great machine, to build himself an army of undead. It was supposed to be his greatest achievement, the one thing that mortals could not counter. An army of the undying, who could be slaughtered only to rise again and again… Could this be that device?”
“It is possible,” Traya said quietly, eyes laced with a tint of panicked distrust, “I do not know what it does, but I do not think we should linger.”
“Garvana!” Pellius snapped suddenly, “Get out of there!”
Willow quickly turned back to the chamber, eyes flying wide as laughter burst from her lips. Garvana had stepped completely into the column of darkness, the tendrils swarming along her flesh, dragging her deeper into its blackened embrace. All that could be seen were the edges of shining metal, the pointed seams of her armour, and her feet that hung beneath the hovering blackness. As Pellius’ harsh command reached the woman, her face emerged from the seething dark, a clear understanding of the elation across her features. As all eyes were upon her, she simply smiled, completely unaware of the tension. Her eyes glazed and in her hazed stupor, she sighed in deep contentment.
“Get out of there!” Pellius chided.
She only laughed, shrugging her shoulder lazily at his concern, “What, why?”


The soft rattling of bone caught their attention, a rhythm of unhurried footsteps clattering down the hallways, drawing closer towards them. Weapons were ripped from sheathes, bodies turning on heels, eyes wide as weight sunk into deepened knees. Willow whispered her command, cloaking herself in the ripple of invisibility, backing up against the wall. The Forsaken moved swiftly into position, waiting in anticipation, fingers tightening their grip. Slowly, a meandering skeleton rounded the corner, carrying a pile of folded linen sheets in its arms. Its unrushed and casual manner did not change as it continued to move towards them, it paid them no mind as it moved to unobtrusively pass them. Willow lowered her blades, a small frown upon her brow. Suddenly, the sheer power erupted from Pellius, his flaming blade tearing through the hardened bone as if it were silk. The linen fell heaped to the floor, crumpled under the shattered shards of bone.
Willow rolled her eyes as he hefted his blade upon his shoulder.
“Perhaps a tad over kill,” she scoffed.
He shrugged as he chuckled deeply, his eyes searching for her for a moment before he strode forward towards the open archway.
When they approached the door that the skeleton had come through, Willow felt her eyes dragging once more. The chamber was filled with skeletons, all performing general chores and maintenance. She saw Pellius’ childish grin, shaking her head as he stepped forward, adjusting his grip upon the dark and dastardly Hellbrand.
As the bone crumpled beneath the sheer power of his swing, a shower of white shards exploding throughout the chamber, a shrill squeal accompanied the rattling shatter upon the stone floor. The rest of the subservient skeletons that moved through the kitchen had turned towards Pellius, screeching a piercing cry as one of their number fell. The shrill raced out of the chamber, echoing through the passages, ricocheting off of the stone walls. It was an alarm, one that would be near impossible to ignore. His flaming blade made quick work of the others, silencing the deafening sound, but not before it had reached its intended targets. As the last of the unarmed skeletons were shattered into shards of bone, the rushing footsteps of a dozen feet sped towards them. When the Forsaken emerged from the kitchen, they faced the entire league of Grave Knights, led by a dark and fearsome crusader. Clad in blackened steel that reeked of darkness, layered flanks of near impenetrable metal, a helmet barring two crooked horns of bronze. Marcel Wolfram appeared every bit the dark paladin they had been told to expect. A righteous and profane warrior, the determination and unwavering devotion clear in his piercing brown eyes. He spoke not a word as slammed the face of his helmet shut and raised his glorious mace, Engelhammer – the artefact of hell, steeling his command and signalling the knights to move forth and attack.
Unseen by the procession of knights, Willow flew up into the air high above them, watching as the dark paladin downed the contents of a potion. Suddenly, the familiar ripple coursed along his flesh, before the vision of him vanished from their sight.
“Coward!” Pellius snarled, stepping forward with his flaming sword, lip curling in disgust.
He steeled himself for a moment, eyes tracing along the line of frosted warriors, before he bared his teeth and let lose a terrifying cry of battle. All at once, he charged forward with his long blade tearing through the air, as the chamber erupted in bright and blazing flame. Garvana stepped forward with her arms outspread, eyes closing slowly as rasping words fell from her lips. She called forth the flames of hell, burning bright scarlet, tainted by sickening blackness. They rose from the cracks between the stone bricks, searing and scorching as they raced along the floor, blistering steam and boiling frost crackling as they melted the coursing frost upon the knights of ice.
Willow waited, hovering silently in the air, closing her eyes to shut out the chaos of battle and focus her mind. She listened for Marcel Wolfram, she listened intently for his heavy steps upon the stone floor. It was not long before she heard him, his shuffled steps moving to the side of the chamber, curiously quiet for one his size. She opened her eyes, gliding through the air above him, holding her daggers tightly. With every ounce of focus, she watched the clear air beneath her, visualising where the sounds corresponded to his position. When she was certain, she plummeted from above and plunged her blades downward. Though she did not see it, she felt the blades tear through flesh. She felt them collide with the harsh metal of his infernal armour, and pushed passed the seams and pierce deeply through the skin and muscle of his neck. She heard the grunted cry of pain as she drew them back and plunged them in once more, a crimson cascade of blood appearing from no where, flying through the air as it rained upon the stone floor beneath.
Her sly assault did not pass unanswered. She heard the splitting air a moment too late to completely avoid the craning swing of his dastardly mace. The sadistic hooked spikes tore shreds through her leather armour and skin as it pummelled into her upper thigh, ripping flesh from the bone as he wrenched it away. As the undead flesh hung in scraps through the grated leather, the dark figure once more became visible. With the stains of his own flooding blood coating his armour, drenched from his neck to his knees – he stared eyes of raw and untempered hatred towards Willow.

The legion of armoured skeletons moved in perfect unison. As one, they drew in deep winds of air, before violently expelling them outwards. The chamber rumbled under the battering of weighted ice and skin-splitting shards. The air turned a frosted white as a blizzard tore its unrelenting way across the Forsaken. Pellius bore the brunt of the onslaught, his white flesh shredding under the barrage, thought his mighty swing remained undeterred. But as the frosted horror moved through the chamber, Willow felt her heart clench in her chest. The dire winter drew towards Sith, eagerly seeking to douse the flames that fed his life force. Just as the ice was fatally susceptible to the heat of the flame, the flame was rendered almost helpless under the cold press of ice. As the blizzard moved towards him, Willow knew it would be enough to kill her faithful hound.
But she had given him the stone of alliance, the curious amber chunk she had found in the horde of the linnorm. She had recited and redrawn the friendship rune, offering the connection to her fiery hound, linking them by the bonds of arcana. From that moment, she had felt a strange connection with the beast. When she focused on him, she could feel him. She could sense his whereabouts; no matter how much distance had stood between them. She could sense if he was hurting; she could sense if he was wounded. She knew, if she were to try, she could shield him from harm were she to take it upon herself. And as the menacing cold siphoned the air from the flames upon Sith’s flesh, Willow clamped her teeth together to keep from sounding her worried cry. She willed the cold to seek her, she willed it away from the Hellhound. And suddenly, a surge of brittle ice slithered along her flesh, slicing through skin and sapping strength. A coldness crushed unbearably against her limbs, seizing her in place momentarily, long enough to give the paladin time to pummel his vicious mace into her side. As the ice dissipated and finally relented, she growled viciously at her hellhound, weaving through the air to avoid the onslaught of the profane spiked mace.
“Bassirr skathi ter grall!” she snarled, commanding him to retreat from the ice.
With a final blazing breath of flame, the hound snarled his displeasure and followed her orders, retreating back into the kitchen.
Once he was safe, Willow gritted her teeth and turned her full attention to the paladin. He was dark and dastardly, handsome in that I take myself too seriously kind of way that Willow always found attractive. Perhaps it was the sheer strength, perhaps it was the dark and solemn brooding manner, the ever present frown of distaste. It could have even been the fierce loathing in which he looked at her, the dark promise of retribution that he swore with his hateful gaze. And yet, as he swung his terrible mace and she lithely glided out of its path now that she could see him, she felt the drum of disappointment. He was slow, and brutish. His movements so practiced and rehearsed, he lacked the blazing temper that forced Pellius to leap out of his own control every once and a while. He lacked the burning heat that flared scarlet in Pellius’ eyes, he lacked the sheer and unbreakable determination fuelled by absolute stubbornness and righteousness. He was a dark paladin of Asmodeus, but he was weak.
The shattering of bone rang out through the chambers, the splintering, the cracking, the busting; the eruption of shards and fragments that littered along the stone. Pellius and Garvana had slaughtered their way through the remaining ranks of the Grave Knights. And with a final wave of blistering fire shooting from Traya’s fingertips, the last of them danced amongst the fire with his final frosted breath, cleaving his weapon in a great whirlwind that struck each of them in turn.
As the flesh tore and the blood poured, Willow once more dove towards Wolfram, her blades perfectly positioned to slip through the seams of his armour and eagerly devour the flesh beneath. As she dragged the blade along his throat, she gritted her teeth against the cruel and callous barbs that struck her back, the wicked Engelhammer savaging the flesh beneath the leather. She felt the thundering pulse of hell’s heartbeat in her mind, convulsing along her spine and down her limbs. As the metal spikes tore deeper, the pain became excruciating – and exquisite. She felt the agony seeping through her pores, she felt the infernal blessing of the dark weapon surging its horror and profane bliss through her flesh. She felt her unbeating heart shudder. With a sinful and unholy grin lifting her lips, she ripped her blade the rest of the way across his neck, before flying up above him through the raining splatter of blood, allowing the barbs to tear themselves free from her back. As she looked down upon him, she saw the staggering chest heaving through pooled blood for air. She watched him collapse to his knees, pulling back the face of his helmet as he fought the losing battle to breathe. Willow slowly turned her grip on her daggers, holding them backward in her hands, watching his struggle for a moment.
As the last of the Grave Knights were slain, the last breath of Marcel Wolfram fell from his lips. Willow soared downwards, both blades gracefully carving over her head and plunging together. When they collided with their target, the tasted their prize. They dealt the punishment for loyalty to the losing side.


Only a moment after Willow withdrew her blades and the dark paladin collapsed to the floor, a door leading to the north opened wide. In the doorway stood a short and hunched over woman, crippled with age upon frail legs and held up by a crooked walking stick. At first glance, she seemed a hag sprung from the piles of waste. But as eyes drew more closely to her, and blades were pointed in warning, it was made clear that she was far more. Dressed in ragged robes of roughly tanned hide, draped in a cloak of tatters and dust, hung with small eldritch talismans and idols – dolls of bone and hair, effigies of twigs and wax. Though she looked a mere gasp from death, her eyes held a world of dark and terrible knowledge.
“So you are here,” she nodded to herself, speaking in a heavily lilted tongue, looking each of them over, “As it was told. Come, young ones, we have much to discuss.”
Without waiting for another word, she turned from the doorway and hobbled inside. The Forsaken looked to one another, keen suspicion and distrust across their faces. Garvana picked up Engelhammer as the others slowly made their way to the chamber entrance. Willow peered inside, frowning to see a glorious banner with a flaming axe mounted on the rear wall.
“Come on now,” called the old woman, “I haven’t got too many years left in me, and I don’t want to waste them waiting for you to decide to enter.”
Willow frowned, eyes scanning the door and its frame for anything out of place, looking for the trap that was about to spring. But even as she looked, with eyes as keen as hers, she found nothing.
“My dear,” the woman chuckled, “If I was going to curse you, I would not bother with glyphs on a door. Too easy to see.”
Willow’s frown deepened, as her slow steps brought her into the chamber beyond. She was greeted by a curious sight. The room was spilt in two. One half made it clear that these chambers were ready and awaiting the eventual return of Sakkarot Fire-Axe. A bed made of piled enormous furs, a large weapon and armour stand, and a heavy chest burned with a silhouette of a burning axe. Yet the other side was decorated much like the old woman herself. Fetishes, idols and woven dolls. Bone strung from the ceiling, some animal, some human. Black crystals lined the small rickety dresser, curious beads and stones heaped in piles. And a small cot, made from weaved straw and fur, pushed into the darkest corner of the room.
“Do not be scared, child,” the old woman said sweetly, in a deeply condescending tone, “If I wanted you dead, you would not have known I existed.”
“Is that so?” Willow replied, arching her brow, keeping her sharp reply to herself, “You shall have to excuse the suspicion. You are the first… friendly, face we have come across.”
“Do not be so quick to judge, dear,” the woman responded, reaching out and patting Willow’s hand, “You do not know me yet.”
Willow felt her skin crawl as her temper rose at the indignation. She resisted the urge to backhand the woman, knowing well that a simple slap could be enough to shatter every bone in the frail womans body.
“Who are you?” Pellius demanded.
“Someone who could help you,” she replied, smiling bitterly sweet.
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“I know much of this place…”
“We have heard that before,” Garvana said coldly, “And I do not know if there is anything left that we need to know.”
“Do not be so rash, child. It could be your undoing.”
“Is that a threat?” she growled, stepping forward, clutching her mace.
“No, my dear,” she smiled, “A warning only. Do not turn away help before you know if you need it. It could get you killed.”
Willow could not help but admire the aged woman. She sat upon her stack of logs, surrounded by four powerful beings who stood covered in the blood of the enemies they had just slain. And she smiled, threatening them as if she feared nothing.
“What is it you want?” Willow asked, “And what is it exactly that you offer?”
“Your plans for this country,” the woman said, a slight frown creasing her brow, “You are going to destroy the Church of Mitra, yes?”
“Eventually, yes,” Willow replied, arching her brow, “Why? And who would you see in Mitra’s place?”
“I care not what else you do,” she waved her hand dismissively, “I care not who you put in his place – your devil-god, a bore or a pig, I care not. But I will see the Church of Mitra destroyed.”
“Our goals seem to be aligned,” Willow frowned, “But you have answered neither of my questions. What is it you want, and what is it you offer in return?”
“Not the brightest, are we my dear? I wish not for your coins and treasures, I wish only my revenge. I wish to see the Church of Mitra pay for what they have done. I wish them destroyed. And in return, I will help you do this.”
Willow bit her tongue, grinding her teeth together to stop from biting back.
Garvana scoffed, folding her arms over her chest, “And we are supposed to just trust you?”
“I care not,” she shrugged, “Our deal has been struck. While you deal with Thorn, I shall pack my things.”
Willow could not help but laugh at the woman’s assumption, once more impressed and soured by her insolence and boldness. She knew well that such an ingrained arrogance always came from somewhere, that a woman of her size and stature would need to be truly powerful to be so confident.
“Go on now, children,” she smiled, struggling up from her seat as she began to pack away her curious and grotesque belongings, “Do not keep me waiting.”
With frowns on their brows, the Forsaken slowly moved for the door. As they returned to the hallway, the old woman smiled as she closed the door behind them.
She nodded her head, “I shall open the spirit ward for you. Travelling companions are much more bearable with their minds in tact.”
As their unsure steps led them away from the chamber, the halted as they stepped over the bloodied mess of bone. Garvana frowned deeply, looking to Willow.
“What in hell’s name just happened?”
Willow laughed, shaking her head both in disbelief and in an attempt to clear it, “I have absolutely no idea…”


The winding hallways seemed unending, the sheer size of the underground temple awe-inspiring, countless chiselled hallways leading in new directions. The map they had been provided by Queen Ellisif, was vague and weak. Though it marked large chambers and quarters, they passed many doors and passages that she did not deign to script onto the parchment. But the Forsaken had long learnt the value of being thorough. As they passed, Willow slipped by each chamber, grazing her eyes upon the locks and frames, before giving her nod of assurance. Each door was opened, each room was given a cursory search and marked on the map for further exploration when their need for haste was not so great.
Neatly arranged guest quarters, empty prison cells, a professional torture chamber with an array of wonderfully crafted and wicked tools. But they had no time to stop and peruse such things.
With each passing chamber, Willow’s affinity with the sinister palace grew. The Agathium was truly a marvel of tribute to the Lord of the Nine. Each hallway, each wall, each room; in someway paid respects and honours to the Archfiend. Willow could think of no better place to centre their cunning and devious plans, no better home from which to corrupt and command the masses. It was perfect. Secret and hidden, not easily accessible, and already embellished with copious amounts of infernal regalia. And there was only one man, long passed his expiry date, that stood in their way.

As her eyes traced the outline of a set of large steel double doors, her fingers paused short of grasping the handle. She found no traps or triggers, she found no runes or glyphs, but painted along the edges of the steel door were the unmistakable scorch marks of burnt lightning. She silently traced the marks and showed the others, clutching her blades tighter, carefully reaching for the door handle. She counted their entry, before quietly unlatching and pushing the door wide. A room with no light opened out before them, a large chamber with taller ceilings than any of those before them. Though no fire hung in sconces upon the walls, the eyes of the undead could see clearly through the darkest shadows. The massive chamber appeared empty, simply a forgotten room closed off to await a use some time in the future, much like half of the chambers in the lower temple. Looks though, could be deceiving. There was a presence in the room. A wicked and foul presence, an aura of death and destruction, paired with the bitter taste of burnt flesh and fabric. So it came as no surprise that a voice drifted from the darkness, a sour malice that rasped in warning.
“Who are you to enter unbidden?” the voice hissed.
Willow pushed the door completely open, slowly twirling her blades in her fingers, grazing her eyes across the room. She heard the shuffle of the others behind her, searching the darkness in much the same way.
“The Nessian Knot,” Pellius answered firmly, “And I will not talk to shadows. I demand you show yourself!”
A lash of lightning struck out towards them, missing Pellius’ head by mere inches. It was not an attack; it was a warning.
“It is ever so rude not to greet your guests,” Willow said politely, making slow and deliberate steps along the side of the door, toeing just inside the chamber.
“It is ever so rude,” the voice growled, “To enter unbidden!”
Suddenly, an eruption of blistering light rippled through the air towards Willow, before a mirrored version exploded from the opposite side of the room towards Pellius. The full force of seething lightning struck the heavy steel that Pellius wore, while Willow lithely danced around the tendrils of light, before launching herself up into the air. As she soared above the doorway, a shrieking voice halted her path.
“STOP THIS NONSENSE!” Garvana cried, “Do you truly owe Thorn that kind of loyalty?! You would risk being destroyed for him!?”
For a moment, the lightning ceased and only silence hung in the chamber.
“Would you consider a deal?” Garvana said, in a calmer tone, lowering her mace.
“Speak, human,” grated the voice.
“We do not seek your destruction, only that of Adrastus Thorn. We would leave you unharmed, and ask that you left us in the same way. What would you ask of us, in return for a truce?”
Silence greeted her answer. But after a time, a strange sight unfolded. A small ripple of lightning danced along a solid figure, shimmering in the mirror-like shine of scaled bones. Slowly, two prodigious dragons of bone and lightning revealed themselves, clinging to the impossibly thin creases of the walls. They were formed of only bone, and plated scales that had shrivelled and fused with the thick ribs and spine of the dragon, coloured by lightning that danced freely along the harsh and grated bone. Two pairs of eyes, blazing like white fire were watching the Forsaken with vicious and keen interest.
“We do not care for mortal concerns,” the undead dragon on the left hissed, “Nor for the concerns of the dark lich. We wish release from this foul place, we wish to answer the calling of the Desert of Karadoum.”
Willow slowly allowed herself to float back to the ground, lowering her blades as she watched the waltzing lights dance in shattered patterns along the bones. As her feet returned to the floor, she slowly slid her daggers back into their sheathes.
“Freedom,” Willow surmised, “For sanctuary.”
“Agreed,” hissed the dragon of bone, a tooth-ridden grin snapping back at them, “So long as we do not meet again, while the lich still lives…”


Moving through the shadowed chambers, winding through the turning passages, finding their way further north through the hallways. And all at once, each path converged upon a single point. Each winding hallway led to a solitary passage, a long and dark walkway that stretched on for what seemed like miles. It was enough to instil the creeping chill of worry, the soft touch of fear tracing their spines, while the quiet seemed to project and echo even the slightest movements they made. In the deafening silence, Willow could hear the beating heart of the living that accompanied them. Traya, seemingly fearless and firm, stoic determination clear across her face. But the thundering beat of her heart betrayed her calm. Willow could not blame her. For even herself, feeling at home hidden in the blackened shadows, the cold chill of trepidation still slithered along the back of her neck.
Finally, the long and ominous hallway produced a feature other than the dark and oppressive shadow. A wall of shimmering white blocking the way forward. Slowly, the Forsaken approached. Creeping steps brought Willow closer, eyes flickering, searching the glistening white for a way through. But as she drew close, her mouth fell slightly agape, the hairs on her neck standing upon end. The wall did not shimmer, or glisten, or glimmer. It moved. Faces, hundreds of them – each with their eyes sewn tightly shut. The faces moved, as if they were alive, straining to break the string that weaved through their eyelids and forced their eyes shut. Souls in agony, trapped and blinded. As Willow watched, her stomach turning in unease, the wall slowly dissolved before her eyes. She stared for a moment, untrusting of what she had seen.
“The spirit ward,” Traya whispered, eyes wide, “The old woman, she mentioned that she would open the spirit ward for us.”
Garvana rushed her incantation, glazing eyes reading the arcana that lingered in the area.
“What was it?” Willow asked quietly.
“I do not know,” Traya replied, her clenched brow revealed her own unease, “Something evil. Something horrible.”
“It is too late,” Garvana frowned deeply, “The magic has gone, as if it was erased as the ward was released.”
“Come on,” Pellius commanded, growling his impatience, “If the map is correct, the throne room is just ahead. Be ready.”
He marched ahead of the others, passing confidently over the threshold where the ward had been. As he rounded the corner to the east, the others followed suit. But as they moved to follow the last length of the passage way, Willow’s curious eye caught something. The smallest crease, a line in the brickwork. It was barely perceivable, but it was enough of an irregularity to grasp Willow’s attention, halting her steps.
“Wait!” she whispered forcefully, gliding her fingers along the crevice, “Look…”
She heard the impatient sigh from Pellius, his hurried steps as he returned to her. She carefully slipped her thin fingers into the seam, splitting open the crease and pulling a remarkably well hidden panel free from the wall.
“What have you found,” Pellius breathed, a sly smile lifting his lips.
“If I was Thorn,” Willow replied in a whisper, “Would I wait proudly in my throne room? Or would I cower behind hidden walls and secret chambers?”
With the large panel open, it was simple enough to pull aside the brickwork wall, revealing what lay beyond. Darkness, total and utter darkness. So black that even Willow’s sight could not pierce the dense shadow, nor did the light of Sith’s flames move passed the threshold. Willow looked to Pellius, before looking to Garvana and Traya. She saw their trepidation, and she saw their fear. But she saw behind their eyes the same determination that pushed her first steps into the blackness. They would face this, as they had everything else – together.

Slow echoing steps sounded through the tight stone passage, like the gradual ticking hand of a clock, counting down their approach in heart beats. They pushed deeper into the abyss of night, blinded by a dense blanket of eery nothingness. The eyes of even vampires could not pierce the veil of darkness. Gliding hands along the stone walls, soft stumbling steps finding their way through. They walked for what felt like hours in the blinding dark. They stumbled onward, only the sounds of their echoing steps to guide them.
Finally, a glimmer of flickering light, a ray of flame dancing upon a brickwork corner. The glowing light shimmered upon the edge, peeking from beyond, luring those out of the darkness and into its embrace. As the gentle echo of footsteps neared the dancing light, eyes drew to the end of the foreboding passage.
Two wide double doors, charred the colour of blackened steel, a single carving along their flank. The Archstar, large enough to encompass the entire length of the doors – a warning, a promise, of what would be found inside. Thorn was supposed to be found in the throne room to the east. The map, and every detail they had been given pointed to the eastern chamber. But, Thorn knew deception well. And so too, did Willow. She knew what they would find behind the dark and infernal doors. They would find him, waiting, ready, blistering in madness and mania.
Willow steadied herself, her fingers reaching to grasp her pendant, tracing over the obsidian pentagram. With her teeth gritted, and her head held high, she shoved both doors open and faced her destiny.

The chamber before her opened out into an enormous hall, bathed in a sea of hell’s darkness, a wash of ebony and scarlet. Baroquely decorated in all manner of Asmodean iconography, the chamber’s sheer size barely lit by the hundreds of everburning torches and candles. Prominent upon the walls were scheming devils, infernal beasts, fiendish creatures – feasting, reveling and slaughtering all who stood against them. Great columns rose to a splendid vaulted ceiling adorned with a curiously abstract representation of the nine circles of hell. The walls were lined with niches, each one depicting a different order of devil, each paying homage to the towards the centerpiece of the dark chamber. At the far end of the room, upon a raised dais was a throne of black alabaster. The throne itself was marvel of infernal artistry. Every square inch, intricately covered with the malicious dancing language of hell. One could say it was akin to a holy text of Asmodean teachings made into a throne. One could say, it was a primer in the million ways that man may fall into hell’s service.
And sitting upon the throne, was the treacherous fiend himself, Adrastus Thorn. The dark lich no longer bothered with deception, showing himself in his true fearsome form. A being of cracked and charred bone, a rotted corpse now cleansed by flame of the mortal flesh. Draped in black tattered robes, he wore only a silver pendant of the inverted pentagram falling over a ripped and shredded cloak. Though at first sight he seemed an unfit and distasteful addition to the elegant throne room, there was an almost palpable aura of evil and purpose about him. This was no mere skeleton; this was the most powerful single agent of Asmodeus that Talingarde had ever produced. This was the man who saw the four pillars of the Darian regime and predicted how each might be toppled. This was the man who planned and perpetrated the fall of Mitra in the eyes of the thousands. This was the traitor, one who had risen highly through the ranks and then turned his back on the light of the sun god to fully embrace the consuming darkness of Hell. Yet this too, was the man who had raised the Forsaken to where they were, guided their journey to greatness, only to turn his back on them too.
“When you sat in Branderscar,” he said, in a voice formed of perfect hatred, “Watching the last minutes of your life tick away, who was it that saved you? Who was it who brought hope even to the forsaken?”
He stood from his sinister throne, lifting his chin as the wells of his eyes blazed a venomous and furious scarlet. His words lashed like blades, his absolute and utter loathing seethed like boiling acid.
“And this is how I am thanked?” he spat, opening his arms outspread, as if welcoming them to their doom, “When I am finished, my children, you will lament the hour you refused the Mitrans’ merciful ending. When I am finished, you will beg, for the mercy of death…”

overlordseamus
2017-08-27, 01:07 AM
Excellent! It is about time you exact your revenge. :smallamused:

The scene is set so very well. Your description of the infernal temple was amazing, quite awe-inspiring.
Looking forward to the fight!

minderp
2017-09-06, 02:20 AM
The big battle is here!!! FOR THE GLORY OF ASMODEUS! :smallamused::smallbiggrin:


Sometimes, silence is the most deafening sound of them all. It can be heavier than the crushing weight of a mountain, it can be denser than the blackest shielding fog. It can be frightening, when a chamber of great magnitude hangs in still and eery silence. It can be terrifying, when the eyes follow the movements of those eager to rip your flesh from your bones, but not a sound can be heard – nor a sound can you make. When your heart should beat, when the pulse of the throbbing muscle in your chest counts the seconds until your demise. But when it doesn’t? And silence is all that greets your ears? When you are seized and paralysed, unable to scream, unable to move. It was only seconds, and yet, it was the longest few seconds of Willow’s life.
She was held paralysed, blades in hands, feet dangling off of the ground as she had begun to launch herself into the air. It was then that something had gripped her suddenly, freezing her within time itself. Nothing moved behind her. Pellius, Garvana and Traya had been behind her only moments ago. Sith had been by her side until she had leapt into the air, and then – nothing. She could not move, she could not hear, she could do nothing save watch it unfold.
There was movement across her vision. One soul who glided along the marble floor, unbothered by the constraints of time. Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. As they had charged into the infernal bathed temple – weapons ready, appetites starving for vengeance and retribution – Thorn had risen from his dark throne. And with a flick of his wrist, time itself had stopped for him. They had been prepared for almost anything. They had expected servants of hell, mislead and mistaken in their service. They had expected rains of flame and waves of fire. They had expected the dead and the living to turn against them. But how could they have expected that even time itself would bend to his whim.
Willow watched helplessly, as crystalline arcana poured from his fingers, forging a great wall of ice between himself and the Forsaken. His mouth moved as if he whispered words of vile incantation, a wisping sphere of black swarming around him in vicious and vile darkness. Runes, blazing infernal glyphs surrounded him, scripting the shield that encompassed him. He threw his hands forward, contorting his fingers into anomalous angles, as he opened a slip of a gate to hell. What stepped through was enough to have hairs standing upon end, chills seeping down the lengths of spine. Two insectile creatures, two pairs of frozen multifaceted eyes that eagerly locked sights with Pellius – eldritch monstrosities that clicked fingers around great and glorious spears of ice.

It was utterly terrifying, watching the scene unfold with no way to interfere. How was one to protect themselves when time itself was against them? It was panic, true and terrible, that thundered in Willow’s chest. But just as all seemed lost, and their cause appeared damned, the sounds of ice cracking and teeth lashing raced to her ears. Time released her, all at once, sending her flying high into the air as if not a second had passed. Unsettled but undeterred, she clenched her teeth and grasped her blades tighter, flying upward to the ceiling of the great domed chamber.
Within seconds, the Forsaken had surged forward, Pellius and Garvana scaling the wall of ice, sheer strength hauling their heavily armoured bodies upon the solid glass. They were met with the first waves of blistering ice, a blizzard that barrelled over the great wall, slashing shards tearing through any flesh bare to them. Garvana was quick to answer with her own blazing swell of flames, sending forth the burning to encompass the frozen devils.
Sith paced impatiently below, snarling towards the devils, but keeping a protective eye upon Willow, following her from beneath as she soared through the air. As she passed over the large wall, the massive hound of hell scrambled atop it, the ice hissing and spitting as it melted beneath his flaming paws.
A hair-raising roar echoed from the entrance, as Traya’s limbs extended and her flesh hardened, transforming herself into a towering dragon, layered in ebony scales as black as night. She opened her fearsome maw wide and roared a furious gale, launching herself up upon prodigious wings, passing the wall and latching on to the chamber ceiling with ease. With a frenzied howl, she bathed the throne room in a sea of blistering acid, drowning the skeletal figure in her seething broth. As the charred bone seemed to melt and decay, Thorn simply threw his head back with a deathly grin and laughed. He cackled, a piercing shrill of a laugh, a maniacal sound of one teetering upon the ledge of madness. He chanted in a rumbling voice, pointing his fingers towards the perched dragon, before his commands became bellowing shouts. A sudden rush of uncountable slender blades appeared by the great dragon, thousands of sharp metal points that began to dance in a whirlwind encompassing Traya. She was pinned in place, unable to move without being shredded by the merciless barrage of blades. She roared once more, unleashing another flood of acid, sending the wave crashing upon the floor.
All at once, Garvana, Pellius and Willow moved to attack in unison.
Garvana held the terrible Engelhammer out to the sky, thundering her incantation in her booming resonating voice. She thrust the wisping white tendrils of arcana towards Thorn, hurling them towards him like shooting arrows. As each tendril struck, they collided with something unseen, exploding against a shield one after the other. They erupted in a blaze of white that lingered along the surface of a barrier, and seemed to siphon energy from within. The strange sphere that Willow had seen surrounding Thorn, flashed and flickered against the white, stuttering erratically until it simmered and blinked out.
As the white vanished, Pellius’ gaze drew away from Thorn towards the ice devils, before he leapt from atop the iced wall. He ripped a flask from his belt as he landed, pouring the contents down his throat. As the shimmering veil overtook his flesh, and he vanished from view, a dark and mocking laugh echoed through the chamber.
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Thorn sneered, his blazing eyes effortlessly tracking the unseen movements that Pellius made, “To be afeared of such utter cowards.”
As his taunting scorn lingered like a sour taste on the tongue, a flood of inky blue blood tore from the scaled chest of one the ice devils, cuts from a blade hidden within the ether. Garvana was quick to launch towards the other, her vicious mace awash in blackened hellfire, its vicious spikes tearing through frozen flesh.
Hovering high above the fray, Willow saw her chance. Distracted by the onslaught pushed upon his allies, Thorn’s gaze did not follow her descent. She soared towards the lich, flying just above the ground and out of the acid that bathed the floor. Fingers readjusting their grip, as trepidation threatened to creep into her still heart. Seconds like hours, she flew towards him, lifting her blades and steeling her will.
A blizzard of ice and shards clashed and shattered against the seething flames. Sith’s great maw unleashing the torrent of fire, as the iced wind funnelled from the snapping mouths of the devils. Two sides of the blistering palace that was hell itself. Both lethal and fatal, searing elements of force, each the weakness of one another. But it was neither alone that had the strength to overcome the other – it was a dastardly blade, unseen as it eagerly devoured the cold flesh, and hooked spike of a rancorous mace. Hellbrand was thrust deeply into the torso of the ice devil, sheer power tearing it out of the other side, in a gushing outpour of thickened blue blood. Engelhammer sailed through the air, colliding with the insectile throat, its terrible spike piercing the air pipe, shredding the hardened shell beneath the callous metal.

The chamber erupted in an explosion of bitter black flames, the marble floor swimming in ebony waves of eager fire. A scream, a ghastly and calamitous sound of terror. The skeletal figure of Adrastus Thorn lifted from the ground, rising above the blackened flood of flames, arms outstretched as he sang the scream of unadulterated rancour. With contorting fingering and eyes of endless malignancy, he thrust he hands together, before violently throwing them outward. Suddenly, an ear-splitting shriek erupted in Willow’s ears, a sound so vehement it shattered her concentration and threw her from the air. As she crashed into the sea of sweltering flames, she felt a crushing pressure in her chest, a destructive resonance reaping havoc within her. A pain, a keen and sharp stab, a frightening weight compressing like a clenched fist of enormous proportions. It was like being suffocated, throat clasped shut, building pressure of air unable to escape or release. And as her wide eyes searched for aid, she felt the reality of the terror. Pellius and Garvana had both fallen to their knees, grasping their chests in the same agony that held Willow. Sith and Traya howled against the pain in unheard cries, eyes shut tightly as if to shield from the blinding sound.
Willow watched on hopelessly as Thorn turned his full attention to Pellius. He laughed bitterly, every bit the sight of infernal glory, levitating above the blazing ocean of blackness.
“The Champion…” he sniggered, “The paladin… The Fist…”
Thorn slowly held his hand out towards Pellius, an open palm facing the ceiling, fingers outstretched gently. His hand morphed as his skeletal grin grew more sinister. Slowly, he formed a fist, before crushing his fingers together violently. Between clenched teeth, a muffled cry of agony. The seemingly impenetrable fortress of Pellius’ armour creaked, a screeching sound of surrendering metal, as the sheer force of the dark arcana battered against it.
“Your armour will not protect you!” Thorn hissed dourly.
The metal crumpled and bowed, thrusting deeply into the flesh of Pellius’ chest, in an attempt to implode what it held within. The pressure was unending, unimaginably strong and utterly terrifying. Yet, Pellius was not one to be beaten by such magic. Willow watched the profane fire blaze behind his eyes, the beast he held within unleashed and allowed free. It would be held by no enchantment, nor oppressed by no darkness. It was a darkness all of its own. Scarlet flames flared from his eyes, as he cast off the aching grip that Thorn had placed upon him. He growled, a thundering rumble of contempt, as he forced his hands to push back against the wave of oppression.
That moment – that sigh of frustration – was exactly Willow needed. A moment, a bare second, a diminutive lapse in concentration. In the breath of gap, she slipped from Thorn’s control, unnoticed as she accepted the blistering heat of flame and hid beneath its searing surface. While the battle of wills waged a war of untempered fury, Willow’s insidious approach ensued. She swam between the raven waves, scaling silently along the marble floor, her white flesh charring black as it melted amongst the scorching inferno. It was an agony, but nothing compared to the agony of failure. As she reached him, as she lay beneath the decayed and decomposed lich, she felt the moment linger on between a single breath.
Thorn reached towards Garvana – palm to the ceiling, hand outstretched.
“The Prophet…” he glowered.
“Weakness is a cardinal sin,” Garvana spat, clutching her hand to her chest, “Asmodeus has found you guilty, and we will exact his punishment…”
Thorn simply grinned, the hatred festering in his gaze as he clasped his bone fingers into fist. But Garvana simply smiled knowingly, closing her eyes and lowering her head to accept his wrath, and await his fate. The vile magic raced towards her, the thundering pressure eager to crush and implode. But it had no chance to take root in her chest. In a single moment, in a breath, Willow leapt up from the flames, two blades clasped in a back handed grip. As time slowed and she watched the blades seek their targets – she felt no hesitation or remorse. She did what she knew she must, she drove the point of one blade into the hardened bone of his skull, plunging it to the hilt, carving the other through the air with the intent to sever his head from his neck. It was this craning swing that moved with far for strength than she could have ever mustered on her own. The blistering winds guided her swing, urging her hand onward, forcing her blade to shatter the bitter bone and burst through the cracked spine to tear the skull from its body.
Finally, the blazing crimson that seethed in the hollows of the skull dimmed. The bone impaled upon the shimmering ruby blade. And suddenly, a wail cried from the abyss. A wisp of black ink seeped from the jaw of the skull. A soul – a foul and tainted soul. It stunk of bitterness, of a life ended and consumed in hatred and loathing. And it was free for only a mere moment. A sudden crack of a lash ripped through the chamber, a whiff of brimstone permeating the air before the blackness was grasped crushingly and wrenched down into the blazing fire beneath. And as the tattered robes sailed downwards, pulled by the weight of the falling bones, the flames subsided and the charred marble floor was once more revealed.

As the last shard of bone and the final drop of blood fell upon the tiled base, a deafening silence overcame the cavernous chamber. The taste of brimstone lingered upon the air, the charred dust that was once bone seeping into the cracks and crevices, as the tension drummed like a throbbing heartbeat. Slowly, Willow descended down, falling to her knees, slumping her shoulders in exertion, her white knuckled fingers trembling upon her tightly gripped blades. It was over. The man who had raised them up from the bitter despair of failure, crafting them into the triumph that they were, had been slain.
It was a curious quiet that came upon the Forsaken. The enormous form of Traya morphed once more into the slender human, dusting off the charred edges of her dress. Garvana’s chest thundered with unnecessary yet instinctual breath that tore from her chest, clasping Engelhammer tightly in her fingers. Pellius slowly lowered his flame-ridden blade, blazing anger thrashing across his face in silence, his terrifying dominance leashing it back under his control. He sighed, closing his eyes tightly.

Willow’s enraptured gaze stared at the shattered bones of the once great Cardinal Adrastus Thorn – his sunken robes heaped upon the fragments and shards, hollowed of substance and matter. Her blade still embedded in the skull, the cold pits of its eyes now empty and vacant. It was a slow and gradual warmth that enveloped her stance upon the floor, a soft caress wrapping itself around her. The taste victory fell upon her tongue like a sweet shimmer of glory. They were triumphant. They had succeeded in surpassing their former master, they had succeeded in taking his place upon the mantle of Hell. They would bow before no mere man, no soul who owed itself to another. They would bow only before the most powerful of them all.
Suddenly, a terrible and rumbling crack of thunder lashed in their ears, startling each of them out of the stupor. The great skyward boom reverberated loud enough to even penetrate deep underground into the sub-temple of the Agathium. Willow’s head shot upward in unison with the others, a crushing fear surfacing in her throat, as the thundering sound seemed to convulse tightly upon her heart.
“Come forth, Lords of the Ninth,” a voice of utter power whispered in their ears, a sound of terrible and endless wisdom, a seductive promise of unimaginable reward, “Come to me...”
The sound seized hold of Willow, in a crushing grip tighter and more constricting than anything she had experienced before. The drum of Hell’s beat was vehemently pounding from her chest, seeping heat viciously surging through her veins, desperate hope and amatory devotion taking complete control of her. She knew that sound. She knew it better than she knew herself. She had spent every day of her life begging to hear even half a breath of it. It was Him. The focus of her worship, the star in her darkened sky, the only one to truly command her heart and her soul.

Without question she rose to her feet obediently, hastily sliding her daggers into their sheathes, eyes wide in fear and anticipation. As her gaze met with the others, it was clear that they too had heard his call. Leaving the crumbled bones behind, spread amongst the sea of blood and carnage, the Forsaken marched together towards the surface. Though things appeared different, now that Thorn’s death had ended the darkness that encompassed the throne room, Willow had no mind to acknowledge it. She was desperate to seek the voice and follow wherever it beckoned her. As she led the way upward ascending the spiraling staircase, her steps became fumbled and scattered. She yearned to near him, she pleaded to hear his voice once more – she hungered, she thirsted, she ached for him. Her scrambling steps forward were ones of desperation and longing. And as she made it to the temple floor, scaling the arching stairways upon the great facade, she threw the doors to the Agathium wide open. There, thundering high above, the darkness churned upon itself. A blackened storm coursing its fury above the dark cathedral, clouds of ebony and raven ripping across the blue canvas. The light failed, the warmth sapped from the blazing sun, as the brightness flickered behind the spiraling black wind. Willow heard the others arrive by her side, necks craning to watch the maelstrom of the abyss dance above them. And as the light surrendered to the darkness, and the entire coast was cast into darkness – understanding set in. A fire lit within her stomach, a burning purpose and joy that blazed in flame. Overtaken by ecstatic revelation, it became utterly clear. The full measure of what they have done, what they had accomplished.
Though she had long believed that the Lord of All Darkness walked always by her side, standing under the terrible sky that opened like a thrashing gate to hell, she knew she had been right. He had watched their progress since the beginning, as it was said he watched all who walked the Way of the Wicked. He had been with them, along every step of their path. He had guided them, cautioned their tongues, urged them onward and oversaw their victories. And now, it was Asmodeus himself who commended their triumph over his failed champion Adrastus Thorn. He, who by his own weakness and failure, had proved his unworth.
With the blazing fire spreading throughout her body, the rapture and absolute bliss of basking in her Dark Lord’s praise, a blinding smile lit her face. She barely noticed the firm hand grasp hers tightly, until it squeezed and wrenched her away. Pellius pulled her in to his embrace, snapping her sight away from the sky towards his gaze. It was there that she saw it, the same joy and pride, blazing behind his eyes. She slid both hands around his neck, slipping her fingers into his hair as she lifted onto her toes to lean into his grasp. As he lowered his head, their lips met in a spark, a kiss of deep longing and shared exaltation. His grip grew tighter as he fell further into the kiss, his large hands spreading across her back and up behind her head, holding her tightly as if he feared she would fall away. She sighed into his mouth, tongue tracing his as the rest of the world seemed to fade and leave the two of them alone in the presence of the darkness.
The skies lashed in thunderous cracks, growing wilder and more furious in their motion, as the black began to seep with dark crimson. As the ground beneath their feet began to tremble under the rumbling weight of the growling sky, Willow felt a sudden surge of searing flame ricochet back and forth through her veins. She broke the kiss, eyes drawn high to the skies. Her hand slipped from Pellius’ neck as he released her, his face of awe drawing to the storm, allowing her slow and timid steps to lead her over the threshold and out upon the balcony that overlooked the darkened forest.
A frightening flash of lightning burned the sky, one that lashed upon Willow’s flesh like the tongue of a whip, as the heavens opened and unleashed. But as the liquid fell upon her in thousands of pummeling droplets, she saw that the skies had not gifted them water. The sky rained blood upon them. Red rivulets flowed down the black marble walls of the Agathium, like the devil’s own tears. Stains flooded the ground in the deepest crimson, streaming trails of scarlet coursing upon the fresh earth. Willow held her hands in front of her face, watching the endless red flow across her white flesh in beautiful sinister harmony. She laughed, a grin of pure joy lighting her cheeks, as she turned her face to the sky above. As the blood soaked her skin and clothes, it washed away the last traces of doubt left in her mind. She opened her eyes wide, smiling to see infernal shapes seethe and roil amongst the crimson clouds, written in blazing hellfire, dancing in profane patterns like a great processional of the damned. With the surging blood running down her face, Willow laughed in elation as she turned back to the others. She had never seen Pellius so proud. He beamed with the brilliance of self-admiration, he smiled with the joy of fulfilment and satisfaction. As his eyes drew towards hers, his smile blazed with purpose and pride. He stepped into the rain, holding out his hand to her. As she accepted it, she looked to Garvana, offering her other hand. Yet, Garvana simply hid beyond the reach of the rain, clearly overwhelmed in awe and wonder. Her eyes were wide, and although the pride shimmered along her sight, she seemed stunned by the immense power and grand spectacle that was unfolding in front of her. When their eyes met, Willow saw the flicker of uncertainty. She chuckled, letting go of Pellius’ hand as she slowly approached Garvana. She smiled brightly, reaching up with both hands, gently placing them upon Garvana’s cheeks. With the sheer joy surging through her veins, and the warmth of the blood gliding along her skin like a minacious caress from the Lord of the Nine, Willow leant forward and pressed a gentle kiss upon Garvana’s lips.
“He is pleased,” she said softly as she pulled back, grinning as she reached for Garvana’s hands, drawing her out into the crimson rain, “Be proud to have pleased him! Enjoy this, Garvana! High Priestess of Asmodeus!”
At that, she did grin. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sky, allowing the scarlet wave to wash upon her. Willow turned to the only one of them left, still untouched by the red downpour. Traya stood upon the threshold, observing the others, an unease in her posture as a wariness held her features. When Willow held out her hand in offering, the sorcerous gave her a wry smile.
“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?”
Willow grinned, “Only if you ask nicely.”
Traya laughed as she shook her head gently, trying to hide her disquiet.
“This is your moment, Lords of the Ninth Knot,” she smiled, inclining her head stepping back from the threshold, “Enjoy it.”
Willow watched her for a moment with curious eyes, before inclining her head in return. She turned to Pellius and Garvana, smiling fondly as she saw them both with their faces to the scarlet sky, reveling in the pleasure of their Dark Lord.
It was then, the deep and rumbling voice echoed from the clouds above, a voice of pure darkness, older than sin and wiser than all. It spoke to them, as the skies bathed the land in blood, as the path to true darkness was realized, as the Way of the Wicked was revealed.
“Thou art worthy. Go, now, and claim what thou hast earned… Talingarde is thine.”

overlordseamus
2017-09-14, 11:36 PM
I cannot find a better word than EPIC! to describe that chapter.
Was that the Time Stop spell in the beginning? If so, that was a fantastic way to describe it.
All around it was an excellent fight, very dramatic and cinematic in your writing style.

"In the breath of gap, she slipped from Thorn’s control, unnoticed as she accepted the blistering heat of flame and hid beneath its searing surface..."
"She swam between the raven waves..."
Very descriptive. Very visual. Excellent. My favourite sentences from the battle. Such a unique way to describe a flame spell.

"It was an agony, but nothing compared to the agony of failure."
This too, it evokes absolute desperation. Great work.

That last scene was terrible, in the best of ways. Spine-chilling, but excellently written.


Your writing is improving with each chapter, very eager to continue reading.

jonahtherogue
2017-09-15, 12:33 AM
a friend recommended this thread to me
ive just read your latest chapter and i am totally hooked
will be starting from the beginning and hoping to ignore the temptations of hell
wish me luck
:belkar:

minderp
2017-09-15, 10:52 PM
I cannot find a better word than EPIC! to describe that chapter.

:smallbiggrin: Thank you! It was a pretty epic fight!


Was that the Time Stop spell in the beginning? If so, that was a fantastic way to describe it.
Yes it was! That is so awesome that you were able to pick it up from my writing!


All around it was an excellent fight, very dramatic and cinematic in your writing style.
"In the breath of gap, she slipped from Thorn’s control, unnoticed as she accepted the blistering heat of flame and hid beneath its searing surface..." "She swam between the raven waves..." Very descriptive. Very visual. Excellent. My favourite sentences from the battle. Such a unique way to describe a flame spell.
:smallbiggrin: Thanks! There have been a lot of fire spells in this campaign and it is hard to come up with new ways to describe them so they don't sound too same-same. :smalltongue:


That last scene was terrible, in the best of ways. Spine-chilling, but excellently written.
:smallamused: I think Willow has finally taken that final leap off of the evil ledge...


Your writing is improving with each chapter, very eager to continue reading.
Thank you for still reading! And for the compliments, its very encouraging! :smallbiggrin:



a friend recommended this thread to me
ive just read your latest chapter and i am totally hooked
will be starting from the beginning and hoping to ignore the temptations of hell
wish me luck
:belkar:

Oh, that is so cool that someone recommended my ramblings!
Haha, good luck! And welcome! :smallbiggrin:

minderp
2017-09-18, 10:42 PM
Next one is up! :smallbiggrin:


The crimson skies seeped into a darkness, a black cloud of shadow that loured over the northern coast, its heavy weight oppressive and ridden with gloom. Vermillion streaks dancing amongst the ebony mist, merging and bleeding into one another. And as the blood finished bathing the land, it was followed by a flood of clear and cleansing water. The sky seemed to weep. It washed the scarlet from the hills and the walls, as if it washed the sins from the guilty. And once it had surged for long enough, the evidence of those sins had sunk deep into the earth, sealed away from all watching eyes. Like a convincing smile – one that hid the wicked truths.
As the rains washed away the blood from her pale and waxen flesh, Willow simply stared into the darkened sky above. She was awestruck. She had never wanted anything more than to please him. As far back as her memory stretched, she had longed only for his approval and acceptance. And as she sat upon the marble balustrade, legs hanging over the lush valley beneath – she felt a curious calm overcome her. She needed no further sign that she was on the right path. No further confirmation that she was walking with fate, following each step along the journey she had been destined for. For it was not only a calm that settled in her mind, it was a knowledge. An ancient truth, one she could not articulate into words. Facts and proofs of something greater lingering just out of reach, just out of comprehension.
“We must return inside, my lady,” a familiar voice said quietly in her ear, breaking her reverie, “We have not yet cleared the castle.”
Willow smiled, gently tilting her head to rest it against Pellius’ cheek, her hand reaching to caress his other. She felt his hands slowly wrap around her sides, his sturdy chest plate pushing against the soft leather that covered her back. She sighed, eyes tracing the fading crimson in the sky, as the clear rain fell upon her face.
“We have come far,” she said quietly, lowering her hand back into her lap, “Since that first night we found each other chained in that cell.”
“Indeed, we have,” he replied softly, “Though that seems a lifetime ago…”
“Who could have conceived we would end up here? Who would have believed that we would have made it so far?”
“No one,” he scoffed with a bitter smile, “That is why we were left to rot in that cell.”
Willow felt her fingers intertwining with his as they spoke, slowly tracing the flesh that bared in the slit between his glove and his gauntlet. As a thought entered her mind, she laughed, pulling back to turn to his face.
“I thought you were terribly handsome,” she grinned, “I was saddened and almost sorry that I was going to have to sacrifice you in order to escape.”
A devilish grin lit up his face.
“I thought you were beautiful,” he said sweetly, arching his brow, “And utterly mindless. A petticoat, in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Willow laughed with indignation, “I shall have you know-
“And then you took that dagger,” he said firmly, silencing her as the intensity in his eyes pulled her sharply into line, “And plunged it into the guard’s throat before he could cry out for help. You did not hesitate, you did not second guess yourself. You were utterly merciless.”
He lifted his fingers to grab hold of Willow’s chin, tilting her head back to force her mouth to greet his.
With darkness in his gaze, he whispered against her mouth, “And I knew from that moment, I wanted you for myself...”
He pressed a kiss against her lips, a firm and commanding caress, a staking of his claim. Willow fell into it, drugged by the seduction of his words, caught and unmoving in his unbreakable grip.
“When you two are finished,” snapped an irritated voice, “We have a cathedral to explore…”
Willow laughed against Pellius’ mouth, pressing another kiss to it before pulling away with a grin.
“Come along,” Pellius smirked, stepping down and offering his hand to help her back over the balustrade, “Let us find out what Thorn was hiding…”


With her wet hair woven back into a fresh braid, and both daggers held in her hands, Willow followed Pellius’ lead back down into the depths of the Agathium. This time, they moved through the halls with a new sense of purpose. They walked a faster step, with an ease and a confidence. They passed through the deserted chambers, working their way further north through the winding passages, back towards the fork that converged before the throne room. As they approached a gilded door, marked with the shining griffon, their steps slowed. Willow held her hand out to halt the others, as she toed towards the door, listening keenly to that which lay beyond. Footsteps, one pair of pacing footsteps, tracing from the left of the chamber to the right. A pause, followed by a single huffed breath, and the footsteps began again. Willow slid her blades into their sheathes, keeping her hands resting atop them as she moved to open the door. As they quickly prowled into the chamber, they saw the familiar face, curled lip clenched into his unimpressed scowl.
“Who are you?!” General Vastenus Barca demanded of them, “Has Thorn sent you?!”
Willow frowned, eyes quickly scanning the chamber, fingers lingering atop the pommel of her blades. A marvelous construction of a large four poster bed stood centre of the chamber, fine wood furniture and thick comfortable rugs adorned in careful placement. An open wardrobe filled with fine clothes stood in the corner, its drawers cracked open showing each container laden with noble finery. The family crest of Barca, sporting its full royal honours draped on either side of the chamber. And the dark haired viper himself, Talingarde’s greatest traitor. He held his scowl and upturned chin for only a moment, before his eyes seemed to look them over and his brow furrowed.
“Wait,” he frowned, “You are that group that so rudely appeared in the Cainstead Manor, covered in blood no less. Huh,” he pursed his lips, “I suppose that makes sense, you are Thorn’s men then. Well, very good. I demand an audience with the Cardinal! You will take me to your master now!”
Willow’s brow slowly arched of its own accord.
“Very presumptuous of you, Vastenus,” Garvana scoffed.
“I am Lord Vastenus of the House of Barca,” he seethed, thrusting his chin high, “And you will address me as my lord, you peasant scum! Now, take me to Thorn! I warn you, it will not go well for you if you disobey!”
Willow clutched the handle of her blade, a sickly sweet smile lifting her lips.
“I am afraid, my lord, that Cardinal Thorn is-
“Busy,” Pellius interrupted, casting a sly glance towards Willow, “He is far too busy to see you in the throne room. He will see you by the altar upstairs…”
“The altar?” Vastenus frowned, taking a shuffled step backward, “Why does he summon me there?”
It took only a moment for Willow to understand Pellius’ move, a passing beat of silence until she caught on to his plan, watching his fingers greedily clench the haft of Hellbrand. She turned to Vastenus, the softening smile still upon her lips. Yet when the words came out, they surprised even her. She had intended to lend her silver tongue to Pellius’ trial, a comforting word of encouragement, a believable lie with enough truth to gain compliancy. But when she spoke, the words were spoken in two voices. Her own simple command, and a beguiling sultry voice she had never heard before.
“It is alright,” they said, a dark and seductive rasp to their tone, “You can trust us.”
A flash of anger lit within Vastenus’ eyes, as his sight drew to Willow and their gazes locked. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, as the room hung in a tension of unease. A panic, an uncertainty. Unsure, troubled and riddled with doubt. Why would Thorn send so many to retrieve me? And who are they to talk to me so, damn peasant scum! And why to the altar? What could he want with me there? Is it a trap? Have I outgrown my usefulness?...
I took a moment to register that the thoughts she heard in her own mind, the emotions she was experiencing, were not her own. As she narrowed her eyes, levelling her gaze at Vastenus Barca, she could not resist the small laughed that tickled her tongue. She stepped to the side, indicating to the outer hallway.
“Accompany me to see Thorn by the altar,” she rasped, the uncanny pairing of voices, “You may lead.”
“Of course I shall lead!” Vastenus sneered, looking down his nose at them, “The betters always lead.”
He marched passed them, head held high as his wide stride quickly took him out of the chamber towards the base of the stairs. Willow shook her head as she laughed quietly in disbelief.
“What was that?” Pellius frowned suspiciously, “You have taken control of his mind… but how?”
Willow watched the pompous walk as a slow grin spread across her face. When she looked to the others, she saw a mix of confusion and worry.
“I do not know,” she replied, a small frown tugging at her brow, “But I am in his thoughts… I can hear his, and simply, insert my own…”
“But how?” Traya said, her frown deepening, drawing her line of sight.
“Well?!” snapped Vastenus from the base of the spiral staircase, “I will not tolerate being made to wait! Ugh, the audacity!”
Willow felt her lip curling, her distaste for the pretentious man heightening. She cast a quick look to the others, arching her brow in question. Though he looked at her with a strange curiosity, Pellius inclined his head towards her, indicating for her to proceed.
“It is about time,” Vastenus snapped, tossing his head back to march first in line up the stairs, muttering under his breath, “Some of us have real work to do, important meetings to attend. I suppose I cannot expect commoners to understand such things…”

The clicking of heels upon the stained marble floor echoed through out the cavernous hall of the infernal temple. General Vastenus Barca stomped his way towards the dark and foreboding altar, while the four of them followed closely behind. It was curious, that his mind focused only on the direct orders he had been given, clouded and unable to register the trails of blood and corpses of giants that he passed. When he stepped upon the raised platform, his steps slowed as they drew him closer to the infernal ebony construction. He turned his face to Willow, an impatient tick twitching his brow.
“Well?” he snapped, “Where is the Cardinal?”
Willow smiled sweetly, as the four of them spread to encircle the altar, Pellius stalking behind the finely dressed man.
“You did not think that the Cardinal would meet you in person, did you?” Willow scoffed, seeing from the corner of her vision Hellbrand be drawn from its sheath, “He no longer meets anyone in person.”
“What is the meaning of this?!” Vastenus growled, narrowing his black eyes, “Then how am I to meet him?!”
“Gaze into the bowl and you shall see,” the sinister pair of voices whispered, “Lean over the altar, and stare deeply into dish…”
With a flick of the long black hair that fell upon his shoulder, trapping the strands behind the pointed edge of his ear, the general huffed his annoyance as he stepped closer to the dark shrine. And as he obeyed her word, leaning forward and craning his neck to stare into the marble dish – Hellbrand was hefted into the air, and carved downward silently, with speed of terrifying might. A loud thud, a spray of crimson, before the flow began to flood the bowl. Rasping intoned words echoed from Garvana’s mouth, a bitter prayer of callous offering read from the sinister tome, a script giving the sacrifice by the infernal tongue. As her chanting ceased, a heavy presence weighed upon the chamber, forcing the blood that filled the bowl to boil and hiss. As a wisp of blackened tendrils seeped from the lifeless body, it was siphoned down into the seething liquid. All at once, the wisp, the simmering blood and decapitated head vanished from sight – accepted and taken like gruesome trophies of trade.
Hellbrand hissed, as the stains of its victim’s blood began to froth and roil. The blackened blade lit by flame, glowed a sudden brilliant scarlet, the profane runes carved along its steel flank blazing with infernal majesty. When the radiance dimmed, the sly and cunning grin had sprawled across Pellius’ cheeks. He stared at the damned blade, piercing eyes ablaze with understanding. When he looked to the others, and grazed his sight over the headless corpse slumped upon the altar, the corners of his grin lifted into a dastardly laugh.
“Come along,” he beckoned the three of them, stepping down from the platform and sliding Hellbrand back into its sheath, “Let us finish this…”

Delving further into the darkened depths of the great infernal cathedral, they were faced with no further threat. They found the glyphs that marked the cruel and sadistic trap that lined the doorway of the false throne, they found the fraudulent dark alabaster throne itself. They pushed deeper into the underground temple, retracing their steps back towards the hidden passage, eyes wide as the darkness receded and the carved brick steps were revealed. Hidden well by mere sight, formerly unperceivable in the arcane darkness, they found the blackened hallway lined with concealed doors.
The first room hidden beyond the masked passage was a barely furnished octagonal chamber. In the centre of the stone floor sat a small circle of plush velvet cushions, bright crimson in colour, arranged haphazardly upon themselves. As the Forsaken gazed upon the walls, a shared intake of breath drew. Each wall lined with small clay seals, impressed with the symbol of the Knot of Thorns, identical to the seals that the Ninth had broken on completion of each of their missions. Curious, that the walls were laden with broken seals, sorted in nine great columns, labelled under beautifully scripted infernal numerals. Willow slowly moved about room, reaching the ninth numeral with an inquisitive eye.
“Look at these broken ones,” she said quietly, carefully tracing the outside arch of the shattered clay, “There are five of them… one for each seal we have ever broken.”
“What do you mean?” Garvana frowned, “Why are they broken?”
“The ones we were given,” Willow explained, lifting two unbroken ones from the shelf, “They were half of a pair, like these two. We broke one after Balentyne, one in and another after the Horn of Abbadon, one after Valtaerna, and one after Chargammon. When she shattered one, its pair shattered here.”
“Look at the first column,” Traya indicated, brows raising, “There have to be almost forty broken seals.”
“The Avernion Knot,” Willow smiled, “Sakkarot Fire-Axe. Fitting that he would have that many. He was alone among savages, and yet managed to unite those beasts under one banner, with an exorbitant amount of infernal aid I would wager. Yet still, quite an extraordinary feat to have accomplished.”
“If you are correct,” Traya replied, pursing her lips slightly as she pointed to two intact and unbroken single seals, “Then he still holds a remaining seal, as does the Sixth Knot.”
“Do we know of the Sixth Knot?” Garvana asked Willow, a deep frown clenching her brow.
“Not yet,” Willow smiled, eyeing the clay token with a hungered curiosity, “But we will soon enough…”


With each room that advanced closer to the true throne of the dark palace, the more sinister and sinful the chambers became. First, a darkened hall displaying an intricate circle of summoning set into the floor. The pattern itself cut deep into the stone, and a strange alloy of unearthly metal poured into the groove, glistening the deepest crimson like a constant moving flow of sickly blood. The room itself a continuation of the baroque and diabolic decor of the cathedral above. The walls carved of entirely black marble, veined with aching red. A shining face not smooth, but instead buttressed with protruding beams of stone, every flat surface decorated with impeccable illustrations depicting scenes of devils, reveling in the corruption of mankind. And a single podium that rose up at the apex of the corrupt circle, laden with a sizeable and ancient tome of ebony leather.
The depraved sins committed within the summoning chamber still lingered in their essence: a blackness, an oppressive weight, a seething evil. And yet, it paled in comparison with the chamber that followed. A tall vaulted ceiling, a high ledge that circled the upper reaches of room, and a shimmering web of interlacing chains that formed an oversize chandelier. What was clear – by the drains cut in the floor, streaked by pooling trails of vermillion, still flaking with long dried wells of black blood – was that the metal contraption once had a heinous purpose. As Willow’s slow steps took her alone into the chamber, standing under the lattice made from hundreds of thin chains with barbed hooks and small blades, her mind could not help but envision its uses. She could see the long withered shreds of flesh that still hung from the barbs, she could see deep gashes from claws in the ledge above. And in the corner, a strange looking stool, of a shape no human could mount. This was a torture chamber, a playground, for Tiadora and her erinyes. Though she needed no confirmation, it awaited her regardless. By the peculiar shaped stool, she found a small writing desk, layered in parchment sketches of the chandelier fully stocked and writhing, the nine sisters frolicking in the chains, pulling and tugging upon the hooks, sinking them further into flesh. Though grotesque in taste, Willow had to admit they were quite skillfully drawn.
As she returned the parchment to the table, the slightest discrepancy in the stonework caught her attention. She knew that somewhere within the lower level of the Agathium lay a hidden vault. Lady Ellisif had told them as much, informing them that she had overheard Gregori Sherkov speaking of it to Thorn. The information had come with a warning, that one as paranoid as Thorn would surely guard his own vault with a monstrous and horrific waiting gift. It was a sentiment Willow needed no assurance on. She tilted her head, soft fingers tracing over the seam in the stone until she found what she was looking for – a crevice large enough for a concealed latch. With cautious hands she pulled the stone panel free, unveiling a hidden passage beneath, and a stonework ladder leading into the darkness. Willow grinned, unable keep the childish excitement at bay, as she slipped her legs into the hole and lithely dropped inside. She followed the dark narrow passage until she met the heavily reinforced door, sealed with an intricate and elaborate lock. Her eyes eagerly searched mechanism and handle, up and down both sides of the door frame, looking for the punishment Thorn would leave those who would take from him. When she finally found it, ebony runic glyphs carved and hidden within ebony slate – her fingers hesitated. It was complex, more complex than any she had seen before. The arcane writing scripted in a language that Willow did not speak. But she knew what to look for, she recognised the patterns and the shapes, the symbols and series. Yet this was no ordinary trap, though akin to the ward on the entrance to the Agathium, it was far more concentrated and convoluted. It was specific, it had scripted allowances and clauses, it had been designed to last an eternity and reap havoc upon those who dared defy it. It was with a furrowed brow that the answer finally came to her. It was not until she deciphered part of the arcane script that she put together two key words – silver key. Like the one they had found hung around Thorn’s withered neck. With more time, she could figure out a way to disarm and recreate it. But for now, she was content with trembling fingers pushing the key into the lock. As she did, she froze, awaiting her fate – awaiting her penance of failure. Yet the lock simply clicked open as she turned the key, the door creaking softly as she pushed it open. A small nervous laugh hiccupped in her chest, before she shook her head and sighed in relief. She was intrigued – she planned to spend a great deal of time studying the intricate trap. But her intrigue lasted only until her eyes caught sight of what lay beyond the door. Piled along the walls of the small chamber were twelve great and bulking chests of bound iron. Sitting atop one of them lay a crested box lined in luscious silk, stacked in the corner were two heavy bound iron boxes, and laying upon a glass cabinet was a small iron chest. With a quick peek at the contents, Willow was impressed by the vast amount of gold that Thorn had accumulated, although it was clear the chests once held far more – standing near the end of his grand scheme, much of his fortune had clearly been expended. Still, the great chests held a large quantity of coin, at a quick count by sight more than a hundred thousand gold. The crested box of silk held pouches of perfect gems: jade, sapphires, emeralds and at least thirty thousand gold worth of diamonds.
The two iron bound boxes were lined with lead, one containing a silver amulet engraved with the letter Z, and the other a single strip of paper that read in ornate infernal script Zaa’araZia’athra-Jez’arabel. Willow guessed what she had just found were the true names of the emisaary Zaerabos and the deceased Tiadora.

But there were three curiosities within the chamber that rendered the gold almost trivial.
The first, a finely made portrait of a woman of almost unimaginable beauty, a perfect specimen of humankind and feminine grace. A woman Willow recognised, depicted in an exact copy of a portrait she had once seen. Bronywn Havelyn of Balentyne. The same image found in Lord Havelyn’s private chamber in the watchtower so very long ago. It was with the subtle ache of pity that she looked upon the likeness of the woman, pity for a man’s unconditional and unrequited love.
The second, the secret held by the small iron chest atop the glass cabinet. When she unlatched and opened its lid, Willow found only a single ring sitting on a bed of red silk. A heavy signet ring, crafted of black iron, lacking anything in the way of value. But as she gazed upon it, she could feel it. An artifact of fantastic evil and untold power. She could feel the way it longed for blood, she could feel its eagerness and almost desperation to slip upon her finger. A temptation that she did not know if she could resist. As her fingers reached for the ungodly ring, she suddenly wrenched them backward and slammed the lid shut. It was dangerous, that much was clear. She wanted it far more than she should have, she felt a longing for it, and yearning for it – something that deeply unnerved her.
Yet it was the third curiosity that seized her attention completely. Laying atop the cabinet was a small black leather-bound book labelled in hasty olden cursive – Toppling the Four Pillars. It was a book written in Thorn’s own hand, laying out his plans for Talingarde in absolute and utter detail. As Willow flicked through the pages, lifting herself to sit comfortably atop one of the great banded chests, she marveled at the intricate and elaborate work. It was almost fifty pages long, and outlined countless thoughts and contingencies that never came to fruition. A thought persisted in her mind as she explored the curious workings of his mind – it was a shame that madness and paranoia had taken him, for he had been brilliant. He had foreseen it all, and had a back up for plan for every back up plan. He had designed a glorious narrative, seen it through to almost its end, and yet would reap none of its benefit.
“Did you wish for some tea to go with your rest, madam?” Garvana’s voice drawled, snapping Willow from her daze, “Perhaps some biscuits?”
Willow grinned, closing the book and slipping it into her pouch.
“What are you doing?” Garvana laughed, shaking her head before her eyes flew wide as they glimpsed the stacked chests, “More importantly, what have you found?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand gold worth of coins and gems,” Willow grinned, shrugging her shoulder playfully, “Give or take…”
Garvana laughed, scuttling into the small vault and casually lifting the lids of the chests to see inside. As she reached for the small iron chest, Willow swiftly dropped from her seat to reach out and place her hand atop Garvana’s.
“Be careful,” she said seriously, “I think there was a reason that Thorn had it hidden away safely in his vault.”
She pursed her lips for a moment, holding her hand in place. A frown pulled on her brow as she exhaled instinctively, pulling her hand back to allow the woman to see the ring for herself. As Garvana opened the lid, Willow felt the yearning return and tug upon her control. Just as her eyes gazed upon it, she snapped her head away in refusal.
“It is powerful,” Willow said through clenched teeth, “But I do not recognise any the markings on it, nor does it have a makers mark – it is some kind of dark artifact.”
“Powerful…” Garvana whispered, a sultry warmth to her tone.
It was enough to draw Willow’s eyes to her, her frown drawing down tightly.
“Garvana,” Willow said firmly, “We do not even know what it is.”
Her eyes glazed over in a misted white, enchanted words whispered from her lips. As she looked over the mysterious ring, she cocked her head slightly to the side, as if listening to words Willow could not hear. When the white faded from her vision, a sly smile lifted the corner of her lip.
“What did you hear?” Willow asked warily.
“Nothing,” Garvana smiled, as unconvincingly as one could be, her sight still locked on the ring, “It grants certain boons, in return for the slaying of certain beings. To bathe it in blood, is to bask in its protection…”
Willow scoffed as she shook her head in disbelief.
“Bask in its protection?” she laughed bitterly, “Can you not hear yourself?”
“I can hear that you fear power,” Garvana replied, raising her brow along with her chin, lifting the ring from its silk bed, “We have many foes to face in the coming years, the aid of such power will be invaluable.”
“Garvana!” Willow snapped, growling in frustration, “There is a reason Thorn had it locked away in here, and not using the invaluable aid of such power. Perhaps he did fear it. Perhaps he was right to fear it! We should leave it put until we have had time to research it, find out what it truly is.”
“Willow,” Garvana sighed impatiently, gripping the ring in a crushing fist, speaking harsh words between clenched teeth, “I am asking you to-
“You are not asking!” Willow spat, curling her lip, “You have decided what you are going to do, damned be the consequences, even if we are all to pay them for you!”
“It is a ring, Willow! Ugh, you have always such flare for the dramatic!”
“ENOUGH!” Willow snarled angrily, shaking her head before a slow and sinister calm came over her, “I will not argue with you in such a childish manner. If you do this, Garvana, then know that you do so against my wishes…” she turned from her, controlled steps taking her towards the exit, “And when the repercussions of your reckless actions come, you may find yourself standing alone to face them…”

minderp
2017-09-18, 10:44 PM
The soft crackle of the flame that simmered along the firewood, flickering bare light that danced upon shadows in the stone, a lingering warmth filling the sparse chamber. As Willow entered the newly converted sitting room, an empty chamber that Pellius and Traya had filled with chairs dragged from separate rooms, she smiled as she felt the heat of the fire place. Though summer time, the lack of sun over the northern coast of Talingarde had a drastic impact on the weather, a cold and bitter chill that seeped deep into the underground temple.
“Come, sit, my lady,” Pellius smiled, moving back upon the twin seat, offering his spot closest to the fire.
She inclined her head, avoiding eye contact with Garvana as she moved passed her and made for the seat. As she lowered herself down, she was struck with a sudden thought.
“The dragons!” Willow rushed, standing from her seat, “It slipped my mind, we have not freed them!”
“Sit down, child,” chuckled the aged woman in her thick lilted accent, curled up in the cushioned chair on the other side of the fire place, “I banished them on my walk earlier, while you children were playing in the rain…”
“You did what?” Willow grinned, shaking her head, dropping down into the chair, “You banished them?”
“It was easier that way,” she shrugged nonchalantly, “No loud racket of those bags of bones clambering down the hallway.”
Willow simply stared at the woman, her grin sliding higher as she mirrored her shrug. She was curious about her, drawn to the brash arrogance and yet acutely away of the danger she seemed poised to be. For now, she seemed an ally – their goals aligned, their objectives shared. But Willow would be sure to keep the withering woman in her sight.
“Tell me what you know of the Agathium?” she asked easily, watching the crumpled form of the woman and her wheezing chest, “You are quite familiar with it, you have been here long?”
Beneath the shadowed veil, a crooked grin of blackened teeth spread.
“I have been here a time, but it is barely a blink in my lifetime. Ask your questions, child, do not dance around your point.”
Willow’s brow slowly arched, as she leant back into the chair, tucking her feet beneath her and leaning against Pellius’ broad chest.
“What is this place?” she asked plainly, “If I am correct, it is the same dark sanctuary from the fables I read as a child – the palace of the Nameless Tyrant.”
“It is,” Sasha said simply, her shoulder creaking against the shrug.
“And the graveknights? Did he raise them?”
“He did.”
“What are they exactly?” Willow frowned, “They are powerful undead, but there is something different about them, they are more than just powerful versions of the skeletons that clean and dust…”
Sasha paused, a fleeting look of appreciation for Willow’s observant nature, before it disappeared once more behind the wrinkled scowl.
“They are more, in that, they are not mindless, child. They are powerful undead warriors, who still retain part of their soul after the transition,” she eyed Willow curiously, as if seeing something Willow could not, “It is a rare thing for an undead to do. Their souls are black and tainted, yet they linger, remaining connected to their armour. They will serve this place for an eternity. They know nothing but this.”
“Connected to their armour?” Willow frowned, “What does that mean?”
The ragged woman tilted her head to the side, “Do you know where you left their armour?”
Willow looked to Pellius, but saw the same question on his face.
“In the hallway, where they were slain,” Willow answered, narrowing her eyes, “Why?”
The sly grin slithered back once more, “A graveknight whose armour survives, will recall the consciousness back and rejuvenate in a matter of days.”
“How do we stop them?” Pellius glowered.
“Simply destroy the armour,” Sasha shrugged.
Willow paused as she watched the hunched figure, feeling the breeze of warmth from the fire finally thawing the frozen ache from her legs.
“You said they serve this place,” she realised, “Not that they serve Thorn.”
Again, the smirk lifted her creased lips.
“They have always served this place, child, and the will of its creator. And they will keep doing so until they are destroyed – such is there lot in life. Thorn convinced them to serve him, perhaps you can do the same.”
“Perhaps,” Willow replied, inclining her head, “And what of that strange machinery? What do you know of it?”
The sunken woman chuckled a short rasping and throaty laugh, “I do not know of it, I was happy to keep my distance. That was Gregori’s specialty. But you chased him away, didn’t you?”
“An impulsive decision,” Willow drawled, arching her brow towards Pellius.
“He was insane,” Pellius scoffed, “How could we have trusted his loyalty? When dealing with a madman you can only expect madness.”
“What did he have to with the machine?” Willow asked, ignoring Pellius’ bitter sneer.
“He was obsessed with it. Knew more about it than anyone left living and probably more than any of the still walking dead. He figured out how to manipulate the energy – but I do not know how,” she smirked again, her wrinkles gathering as she arched her brow, “You would have to ask him.”
“And the servants?” Willow continued, a slight frustration to her tone, “I suppose he raised them as well?”
“Such a quick mind you have,” Sasha jabbed sweetly.
Willow bit her tongue, sitting on the sour taste in her mouth.
“Perhaps you acted a tad hastily,” she said quietly to Pellius, lifting her thin brow.
“I stand by my decision,” he said stubbornly, though the sly tilt to his mouth said differently.
Willow sighed, shaking her head gently, “I wish to find him. I am certain I can convince him to our cause now that we have no master to contend with. He knows more about this place than any of us, and this place is far too perfect a prize to pass over. It is a perfect base for us, well hidden, well provisioned and well cared for. We could make this place a home.”
“It has everything we need,” Pellius agreed, a devilish grin lighting his face, “A grand atrium for worship, a masterwork torture chamber for play…”
A devious laugh fell from Willow’s lips, before she looked to others for their thoughts. She saw hesitation in Traya’s eyes, but it was the same reluctance that she had seen standing by the doorway to the grand entrance. When she looked to Garvana, her eyes flickered towards the blackened ring upon her finger for only a moment, before they returned to her face. There, she saw hope. Despite her anger, and despite herself – she smiled.
“It is a long way to travel though,” Willow frowned, “Once we take Matharyn, we would not get back here very often.”
“Perhaps I can link a magic circle between here and your family manor in the city?” Traya offered.
“You could do that?” Willow asked, eyes flying wide.
“Yes,” the quiet sorcerous replied, “There are many components for such a spell, expensive components, but with them I could do it. Travelling between here and the city would be as simply as stepping between them.”
“Wait,” Willow laughed softly, “We are getting ahead of ourselves. If we are to stay here, then that is a great idea, but if not it is wasted gold. We must plan our next move.”


“What was that book you were reading in the vault?” Garvana frowned.
Willow smiled as she pulled the book from her pouch.
“Toppling the Four Pillars,” she grinned, “The long and detailed plans of the late Cardinal Adrastus Thorn.”
“And?” Pellius urged, “What was his next move?”
“Slow down, my lord,” Willow smirked, arching her brow suggestively, “Allow me a little foreplay, if you will.”
“You are enjoying this entirely too much,” Pellius replied, arching his strong lined brow.
“Entirely,” she agreed readily, giving him a quick wink and a grin, “He recorded it all in intricate detail. It took me a few hours to sort through it, but I have marked the important paragraphs out. It starts here, with Gathering the Faithful and Building the Nine Knots. He has passages written on each us, Garvana Forthwise – strong but lacking guidance and control, Pellius Albus – cunning but blinded by superiority, Willow Monteguard – passionate but lacking discipline. There’s a list of reasons why we are suited to be the Ninth Knot together…”
“The second move was the Breaking of Balentyne – Destroying the Watch Wall. The first pillar must fall to make way for the invasion led by the Warlord of the Avernian Knot. The Warlord will raid the south, providing cover for our other activities… We must Acquire the Daemon’s Gift – somewhere in the Horn of Abaddon is hidden a lost vault that contains the fabled Tears of Achlys. We must gather the Tears and spread them across Talingarde. Between the war and the pestilence Talingarde will be much weakened and their faith in Mitra and Darius will be shaken… Destroying the Vale of Valtaerna – by wiping out this most holy site just as the war and pestilence reach their height, faith in Mitra will diminish further. Also the Vale of Valtaerna houses the Order of St. Macarius, the second pillar. Destroy them and extinguish their flame from this world… Assassinating the King – hire foreign assassins to slay King Markadian V, the Erebian Knot.”
“Hire foreign assassins?” Garvana frowned, “That really was part of Thorn’s plan?”
“He hired Ifran Al-janbiya of the Nine Knives,” Willow smirked, the journal confirming her assumption, “Who is now the last surviving member of the Erebian Knot.”
“You knew that all along didn’t you?” Garvana huffed, “You figured it out when you offered Irfan a chance to complete his contract back in Daveryn.”
Willow’s smile grew, but she returned her attentions back to the journal.
“With his death the only heir of the House of Darius, the third pillar, will be a teenaged girl who will not command much respect amongst the nobility… Destroy the Knights of the Alerion – By infiltrating the command of the Talirean Army, we will have the army formed to destroy the Warlord be led by one of our men – the Traitor. The Traitor will lead the army of Talingarde and the Knights of the Alerion, the fourth pillar, to disaster upon the battlefield... And lastly, The Scion Comes Forth. The Warlord marches towards Matharyn with his monstrous horde. The four pillars are fallen and the city seems doomed. And then who meets them upon the battlefield? An unknown scion of House Darius banished to the mainland who has returned in this dark hour, with an army recruited by the Sixth Knot, to save the island.”
“The Sixth Knot has an army?” Garvana awed.
“Let me finish,” Willow scolded, “The Warlord leads his army to destruction, into a waiting ambush, and is utterly destroyed by Talingarde’s savior. The Warlord is recalled to the Agathium. The Scion, our puppet, returns to Matharyn in triumph and vows to forever defend his homeland. The people practically beg him to have the throne. And which god does he revere?”
“Asmodeus,” Pellius and Garvana said in unison.
“Asmodeus,” Willow confirmed, a sly grin playing upon her lips.

“So that is what the Sixth Knot awaits,” Pellius nodded in understanding, “The signal to move forward.”
“But who leads that Knot?” Garvana frowned, “And more to the point, how do we gain the allegiance of their army?”
“Use the seal,” Traya offered, her sudden input reminding Willow that she was still in the room, “Use it to scry whoever holds the other half. They are linked intricately by magic – you could find the other half even if it were on another plane.”
“Good idea,” Garvana nodded, jumping up from her chair and quickly striding out of the chamber.
As Pellius’ cold fingers traced gently beneath her blouse and along the bare flesh of her back, Willow watched Traya with an odd curiosity. Though the woman held a strong and stoic face, Willow was long practiced at reading through such things. What she saw there was worry, doubt and uncertainty.
“Are you alright, Traya?” Willow asked softly, keen eyes seeking answers she did not speak.
“Of course,” she replied cordially, the worry retreating as an easy smile appeared, “Why do you ask?”
Willow was slow to answer, her gaze piercing into the hazel eyes that stared back.
“You seem a tad out of sorts,” she replied finally, “Is something bothering you?”
“No,” she answered quickly, putting a false laugh in her voice, “Nothing at all.”
“I’ve got it!” Garvana called from down the hallway, “I found it!”
It was a sigh of laughter, rolling eyes as she returned the chamber, quickly taking up her seat, holding the clay seal between her fingers. As she settled back into the cushions, she closed her eyes and recited the rasping incantation, the haze of arcana seeping into her sight. As the trance overcame her, the others waited in a shared quiet. Willow flicked through the pages of the journal, leaning so Pellius could read them as well, as he traced his fingers softly along her spine. Sasha stared into the flames, her crinkled lids drooping as the urge to sleep was doubled by the quiet sounds of flickering fire. And Traya simply watched Garvana, emotions sealed within.
“Strange,” Garvana said hazily, blinking her eyes to clear them, “I saw a man – dark hair, quite handsome – sitting at desk in what looked like a fairly nice room in an inn. The other seal was on the desk, and he was simply staring at it, frowning. He looked… worried?”
“Perhaps he is worried because he has not heard from Thorn,” Willow guessed, a frown tugging her brow, “Brother Thrane mentioned that Thorn had stopped responding to him, and he had not heard anything in quite some time. Perhaps the Sixth Knot is awaiting word from him, and it has not come.”
“Or he has failed to raise the army,” Pellius suggested.
“Or he knows Thorn is dead and is awaiting his fate,” Sasha offered, lifting her coiled hands in an arduous shrug.
“We will not know until we speak with him,” Garvana concluded, “Which I propose we do sooner rather than later.”
“I agree,” Willow nodded, pulling a quill and ink from her pouch, flicking quickly through the pages of the journal to find a blank sheet, “Thorn’s plan is still quite brilliant, I would be eager to see it through to fruition, but we have effectively destroyed the Knot of Thorns, we must see what we can salvage from it.”
Garvana scoffed, though her frown deepened, “Who remains among the living?”

“The First Knot, Sakkarot,” Willow said as she wrote his number and name, “We must visit him and fill him in. Though he may be saddened by Thorn’s demise, I am certain we can convince him to ally with us.”
Pellius nodded solemnly, “He knows his defeat is inevitable either way.”
“Lady Ellisif named Marcel Wolfram as the leader of the Second Knot,” Willow continued, “And Irfan still leads the Third Knot, even if he does not know it. The Fourth was led by, what was that elf’s name – Aiden? He led the the knot to their destruction in the Horn of Abbadon. Brother Thrane leads the Fifth…”
“Do you think he will join us?” Pellius frowned, “He has been allied with Thorn from the very beginning. Would he aid his friend and master’s killers?”
“I believe so,” Willow said quietly, a tinge of worry upon her brow, “I will go alone to visit him, and return with an answer one way or the other.”
“Is it wise to go alone, my lady?”
Willow smiled softly at the protective hand that he lay on her forearm.
“I think it is for the best,” she nodded, a smirk lifting the corner of her lip, “I am far more persuasive when I do not have to backtrack over what has spilled from the mouths of others. I do not foresee it going awry, but I shall be alright if it does.”
“And the Sixth Knot?” Garvana pressed, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees, looking over the list, “What is our plan?”
“We must speak with this dark-haired handsome man soon,” Willow grinned, “And find out what the status of this great army is.”
Pellius scorned harshly, “Why is it always dark hair and handsome?”
Willow laughed coyly, turning her quill to trail the feather along the side of his cheek, pushing aside the strands of ashen that fell from behind his ear.
“Do not fret,” she whispered sensuously, “I like them fair-haired as well.”
“We know you do,” Garvana drawled loudly, “Now can we please get back to this list.”
Willow chuckled through a sultry grin, “As you wish, Garvana. As I was saying, we need the status of the army. We cannot plan anything further until we know what we have at our backs.”
“Agreed,” Pellius nodded, “That needs to take priority.”
“Agreed,” chimed the others.
“Then that leaves us with the Seventh Knot and the Eighth. The late Elise Zadaria and her large foot cushion, the missing Trik and Trak, and the recently deceased traitor – General Vastenus Barca.”
“Trik and Trak know far too much,” Garvana scowled, “It is dangerous to leave them alive.”
“It is true,” Willow conceded, “But that is something we need to worry about when we have taken the city and revealed ourselves. For now, we have more pressing matters.”
“I’d like to skin them alive…” Pellius muttered viciously under his breath.
“In good time,” Willow laughed, shaking her head, “For now, we must plan our next move. I would like to speak with Brother Thrane and assure his loyalty before we move forward with the Sixth Knot.”
“You should contact the necromancer too,” Garvana suggested, “We need to know all we can about this place. Somehow, even through the purges, it has stayed out of the sight of the Mitran inquisitors. We need to know how.”
“Agreed.”
“What of you, Sasha?” Willow asked, a touch of intrigue in her tone, “What do you think of our plans?”
“I care not for such details,” the haggard woman said, waving a dismissing hand, “I care that the Church of Mitra burns, that is all. I am not bothered by the particulars of how you make it happen, child.”
Willow watched her for a moment, cold eyes staring into her blackened wells. She had never heard a more bitter truth. There was anger, but more so there was a starving need for vengeance.
“Very well,” Willow smiled, inclining her head.
“Let us rest for the evening,” Pellius concluded, “Tomorrow, Willow shall contact the Fifth Knot, while Garvana and I retrieve our cargo from the ship docked in the bay. We will reconvene when we all return, and discuss our planning further.”
He stood from the cushioned chair, offering his hand to Willow. As she accepted, rising from the seat after his firm tug on her wrist, he smiled to the others as he guided her out of the chamber.
“Until then,” he inclined his head cordially, “Good night…”


Grazing fingers tracing the hardened scarred flesh, a story written in patterns, aged gashes along a broad and sturdy chest. With the soft crimson silk draped along her back, Willow lay atop of Pellius, bare skin pressed against his as she languidly trailed soft kisses along the path of her fingers. It was had been a long time since she had felt this at ease. She felt free, she felt unshackled. She felt she had all the time in the world to explore every inch of his chest, his neck and his shoulders with her lips. Together they lay, in the good graces of their undying lord, serving only him and no one else. And they had earned a moment of peace, even if it was the first peaceful moment Pellius had allowed her that evening. He simply watched her beneath hooded eyes, observed her as her lips paid homage to every crevice and every corner of his chest. When she slowly moved upwards to the top of his neck, she followed his jaw line down to his ear. As her tongue traced the shape of his lobe, the small shiver that rippled across his chest was praise enough.
“There is something on your mind,” she whispered into his ear, her voice husky and sore from overuse.
“You are on my mind,” he grinned, his hands grazing over her thighs that fell over his sides.
Slowly, she kissed her way back around his jaw, finding his other ear with her tongue.
“But there is something more…” she breathed, “Something specific you want to ask me about…”
“And you know this how?” he asked darkly, digging his fingers painfully into the white flesh of her thighs.
A sudden tattered breath drew into her still lungs, as the pain throbbed throughout her system, and eased as she relaxed into its embrace.
“I can see it,” she whispered, a sound more like a sigh of pleasure, “In that small crease between your eyebrows. It only shows itself when you are too busy thinking…”
A rasping chuckle escaped her lips as he released his grip on one leg to smooth his forehead with his finger. She slowly lifted herself above him, placing a soft kiss upon the crease, before lowering back down for press her lips to his.
“What is it?” she smiled, carnal delight within her gaze.
When she saw the flash of uncertainty in his eyes, a frown touched her brow, as she lowered herself down to rest with her elbows on his chest, holding her head up.
“What is it?” she asked, her rasping voice turned stern.
“Vastenus,” he said finally, the crease deepening along his forehead.
Willow could not help the giggle, arching her brow.
“I know we lay in his bed,” she grinned playfully, “But do not tell me you have been thinking about him the entire time?”
His hand was quick to her throat, silencing her laugh as he pulled her forward and held her face close to his.
“The thought only just came to me,” he hissed, the corner of his mouth quirking in a grin, “As we lay here, and I saw the griffon hanging over the bedhead.”
He crushed his lips to hers, before releasing her throat and pushing her back down. The grin of excitement slid across Willow’s cheeks, as she returned to her rest upon his chest.
“What of Vastenus then?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, “You are not second guessing his death, are you?”
“Not at all,” he scoffed, folding his arms behind his head, “What I wonder, is how you managed to control his mind…”
“I am uncertain,” she shrugged easily, “But I knew there was a chance he would listen. And suddenly, I was in his mind, I was in control…”
Pellius’ critical gaze watched her for a moment, thoughts dancing across his eyes.
“I have heard some vampires gain the ability to mind control their victims, but most are those who were spell casters in their living years. It seems you, my lady, are an exception.”

“Can you mind control?” she questioned.
Pellius grinned in a dastardly glee, “I have always been able to, long before the vampiric curse.”
“Have you ever used it on me?” she asked, arching her brow.
A wicked laugh rumbled his chest, as he lowered his hand to trace his finger along her chin.
“I have never needed to,” he responded darkly, “You have always been so… willing.”
A sinister and sinful grin lit her face, her movements slow and deliberate as she lifted herself to press a soft and gentle kiss to his lips, as she grazed her lower self along him. When he raised his head to deepen the kiss, and she pulled back out of his reach – she saw the dark warning in his eyes, the threat that she so desperately craved. As the anticipation of his promise slithered silkily along her flesh, she found herself seized in his gaze.
“Will you be the Scion?” she wondered aloud suddenly, a curious pattern of thought emerging in her mind.
“The new king who leads the army?” he asked, a look that questioned her odd timing.
“You should be the one,” she answered, “We do not need a puppet whose strings could be pulled by anyone. We need a strong leader, a true ruler.”
“And you think I am that?” he questioned, resting back into the pillow, looking at her with an assessing gaze.
Willow smiled mischievously, leaning forward and readjusting herself to straddle his stomach. She gently took hold of his hands, bringing them to her face to press a gentle kiss on each of their palms. He simply watched her with an intrigued gaze, allowing her to lead them and cup them around her neck. As she spoke, she slowly guided them downwards: over the arch of chest, in the well of her waist, over the width of her hips.
“Talingarde needs a king,” she said in a dark and sultry voice, “With an imperishable will. A king who can command unquestioned. A king who can inspire fear and awe, who commands absolute obedience. A king unburdened by the weakness of mercy…”
As his hands reached the outside of her hips, she began the slow journey inward, as her gaze pierced deeply into his.
“A king with a cruel and callous hand, eager to discipline and punish, commanding enough to leave his subjects begging for more…”
Just as his fingers brushed their target, and Willow’s eyes had instinctively fallen closed, the muscles along his arms rippled in a wave that stop his motion. She had only a brief moment, in which her eyes snapped open and she saw the blazing heat within his gaze. Within a single breath, he had her by the throat and threw her to the side, relinquishing his weight upon her, caging her beneath him. His hand crushed her slender neck, his legs forcing hers apart, his lips skimming hers as his sight bore deeply into her widened eyes. And he held her there, frozen still for a moment. She watched the howling beast behind his eyes wrench against his leash, she watched the frightening control that seized him still. The promise of what was to come, almost more terrifying than the punishment itself. Slowly, his free hand followed the same path she had taken it before: over her trembling chest, along her sunken waist, cresting atop her hip and then her pelvic bone. His fingers lingered there, as his devious grin spread wide.
“Funny,” he said darkly, carnal delight in his gaze, “Talingarde sounds much like you…”


It was late in the afternoon, after the sun had begun its downward journey, that Willow finally emerged from the bedchamber. She had quickly dressed back into her blouse and loose pants that she wore beneath her armour, planning to bathe and redress when she arrived in their Ghastenhall manor. She was exhausted, in the most pleasurable of ways. Her steps were slow and languid as she went looking for the others to farewell, tired hands wrapping her hair into a loose and simple crown braid. She frowned as she failed to find anyone on the lower levels except a few skeleton servants that Pellius had missed. As she passed the one of the spiral staircases, she heard the echo of familiar brusque voices. She smiled, tossing her armour-laden pack over her shoulder as she scaled the stairs.
“Thorangir,” she said warmly, “Always a pleasure to see you.”
“And you, mistress,” the gruff dwarf smiled.
Willow looked over the arrangement of men standing around the stairwell, the strong smell of salt water wafting from their clothes, the sea breeze lick upon their stiff hair.
“The cargo is locked away safely in the vault,” Pellius said quietly, stepping to her side and giving her hand a subtle squeeze, “The armour sets of the graveknights have been locked away in the cells and we will post two on guard for their reformation.”
“Very good,” she replied, looking up at him with a mischievous eye.
“Good of you to grace us with your presence,” a curt and grizzled voice moaned.
“And good afternoon to you, Sasha,” Willow grinned, inclining her head towards her and Garvana by one of the towering statues.
“I am surprised she still has a voice after all that racket last night,” she grumbled under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear, before turning to Garvana, “Are they always that loud?”
A bright blush lit up Garvana’s cheeks, as her eyes quickly flickered to Willow and Pellius then back to the book in her hand.
“Four lengthy years,” she replied quietly, keeping her sight downwards, “And they have only carried on louder and for longer…”
A tickling laugh expelled from Willow’s mouth, her devious grin spreading across her face. She did not miss the small flush upon Thorngir’s face, or the badly hidden smirks of his men.
“On that note,” she laughed, “I believe I shall take my leave of you.”
Pellius nodded, an endearing smirk upon his lips, as he lifted her hand to place a gentle and cordial kiss upon her knuckle.
“Stay safe, my lady…”


The luxurious parlour opened upon the other end of the swirling vortex. Willow stepped in from the edge of wilderness, and out into the manor house on the outskirts of Ghastenhall. After the few shouts of surprise settled, and the staff recovered and calmed themselves, they were quick to retrieve her heavy pack and follow the swift orders for a bath to be drawn. She sent word with one of her men to the elderly priest, to arrange a meeting later that evening, while she retired to her chamber with her meal for the day – a young and ignorant scoundrel, a man taken by the presence of power, enticed by the pleasures of darkness. Though the rugged muscles tensed beneath her fingers, flexing in a wave as she gently drew the warm liquid from his throat – she felt nothing, save the sating of the thirst that had itched at her for a time. Even as his breathing staggered in amorous enjoyment, his erotic delight obvious in the sudden and uncontrollable whispers of ecstasy – she still felt nothing. The act of feeding had settled, no more exciting than consuming a meal of cooked food and cooled drink. When she had taken enough, she retracted her long fangs, tracing her tongue softly along the punctures in his flesh to clean and close them. She stood, carefully lowering his weary and faint head back into the cushioned chair, before opening her door and ordering two of the other staff to remove and relocate him to another chamber to sleep off the fatigue. It was curious, she thought, just how normal feeding this way had become. Yet it was dangerous for them. They fed on their own servants, revealing their dark secrets to many in the process. Where famed vampires of old had always drained their victims dry, silencing their possible voice – Willow, Pellius and Garvana mostly chose in favour of keeping their meals alive. Perhaps there was a middle-ground. She pondered such things, floating atop the steaming water, washing the sins of the night from her skin.

The mountains seemed to reach out and grasp the sun, drawing it behind them and dousing its light from the lands. As the street lamps were lit, and the doors were closed for the evening, the heels of Willow’s boots clicked along the well known basement stairs.
“Child,” came the warm familiar greeting, “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
“And you, my friend,” Willow replied, a smile gracing her lips.
Brother Barnabus Thrane stood by an aged oak table in the centre of the large chamber, dressed in his usual scholarly robes, a wrinkled smile creasing his face. Willow quickly made her way across the dusty lecture hall floor, greeting him with open arms and embracing him fondly. As she pulled back from the hug, her smile faltered.
“I wish I could be visiting on better terms,” she said softly, a small sigh escaping as she motioned to the wooden pew, “Please, sit down, I have much to tell you.”
“Is everything alright, child?” he frowned, following her lead, taking up a seat by her side.
Her brow furrowed, a small smile on her lips appearing after a moment as she thought on the answer to such a simple question.
“No,” she smiled sadly, “And yes. It is… a long story.”
She sighed, taking his hands in hers, wide crestfallen eyes that looked into his gaze.
“I must begin with an apology, for the last time we met, I was not completely truthful with you. Though I had not heard from the Cardinal directly in quite some time… I knew why he was not responding to your summons and your seals…”
“I suspected as much,” he nodded sombrely, “Though I had hoped I was mistaken.”
“I am sorry for the deceit, brother, but I could not risk it. I could not chance that you knew exactly what was going on, and that he had woven you into his web of treachery and insanity. At that time, I was still trying to figure it all out for myself.”
“What do you speak of, child?” Thrane frowned, “What do you know of the Cardinal?”
“Paranoia,” Willow sighed, releasing his hands to straighten her back and run her hand through her hair in frustration, “Utter madness. He became obsessed with betrayal and distrust, completely lost in mania. He saw enemies where there were none, he saw deception and disloyalty in his most faithful servants. He became so possessed by the notion of being betrayed that he cast aside his grand plan for Talingarde and threw his resources into defending himself against a phantom threat!”
Willow exhaled deeply, gently shaking her head.
“The Ninth Knot served him faithfully,” she said in a quiet voice, a seething bitterness on her tongue, “We succeeded at every impossible task he asked of us. We did not question his orders, we did not second guess his wisdom. We faced the unthinkable, and emerged victorious – we toppled the four pillars… for him! And that was our crime. We were successful, too successful…”
She looked up into his eyes, an aching anger simmered to a stare.
“He sent Tiadora and her erinyes to kill us.”
“What?” the aged priest said in shock, his frown burrowing tightly.
“When we defeated her,” she continued, “He sent the Hamatulan Host. When we defeated them, he sent a cornugon devil. He threw everything he had at us, yet never gave a reason or an explanation. He had condemned us for nothing. But he was never going to defeat us, for we knew he was going to turn on us, so we were prepared for his attack. We had warning…”
She looked away from him, with wide eyes that burned like embers and a cold smile that touched her lips.
“The pit fiend…”
As the words reached his ears like a venomous hiss, Thrane’s eyes shot wide, his breath hitching in his throat as his mouth fell agape.
“The one responsible for the rebirth of Cardinal Adrastus Thorn, and the one truly pulling the strings. He summoned us for an audience, and we cowered before him standing on the very edge of hell itself. He was terrifying… and glorious. The pinnacle of devilkind – twenty feet tall, wings of shadow and flame, monstrous horns of bone… and a mind of absolute sinister brilliance. He told us that when he first came to this plane, he listened for one true prayer to the master of Hell – and he heard one crying in the darkness. A dying fallen priest that screamed out for vengeance and life. And he gave it to him, he made him into what he had become. Yet Thorn repaid him with madness, disloyalty and incompetence. Hell renounced him. The title of High Priest was stripped from him and awarded to another, the Pact of Thorns was voided… and we were charged to destroy him.”
The silence that followed lingered in the empty hall, a fierce tension that clenched upon flesh like force. When Willow finally looked up from the floor, dreading the anger and distrust she expected to see in his eyes – what she saw lifted a heavy weight from her heart. There was no ire, there was no resentment. There was only awe, tainted by the hint of loss.
“And you were successful in that too?” Brother Thrane asked softly.
With a touch of pity in her sad smile, Willow nodded her head gently. He sighed, a deep breath of grief. Though they sat in shared quiet, after a time he placed his hand upon her knee.
“You are kind to consider an old man’s feelings, telling me this way.”
Willow let out a small laugh, shaking her head as she rubbed her eyes.
“That may be the first time I have ever been referred to as kind.”
Thrane gave her a slight smile, before his eyes dropped to the scratched wooden floor. Another moment passed, a few more exhales of calm as reality slowly set in.
“Were it anyone else who had brought me this news,” he said finally, “I would guess that the conquest was over before it had truly begun…”
Willow felt the slow grin lift her cheeks, “But you know me better than that.”
“That I do, young Willow,” he smirked, looking to her with a renewed sense of purpose alive in his gaze, “Tell me what you ask of me, for the Fifth Knot is yours…”


Clasping fingers desperately crushing in their hold, panic convulsing along the stretched limbs, fear and trepidation pulsing sweat from clamming palms. The churning portal tore at the shreds of fabric and flesh, pulling and pushing, heaving and wrenching. Pressure, terrible force that pummelled from all sides, feet thrashing for perch, clinging hopelessly to cold and unmoving fingers. And suddenly, a light. A gasp of freedom, a wisp of release. But no reward is given free. A vicious force thrust from behind, propelling the body forward violently, crashing and collapsing into hard solid stone.
“It is never as bad as the first time,” Willow smirked, stepping casually from the portal, watching the three frightened women heave for breath and purchase upon the Agathium’s terrace floor, “Come along, you shall feel better if you walk it off.”
The three women staggered to their feet, holding the marble balustrade to steady their spinning heads. But as their vision cleared, and the foreboding visage of the dark cathedral came into view, awareness abruptly returned to them.
“This way,” Willow clipped, opening the large marble door and stepping in, “Do not forget the cases…”
The three of them scrambled back to gather and pile the leather cases they had thrown upon arrival, hurrying to grab hold of a side of the large luggage trunk. As they moved into the chamber behind Willow, they tried their best to muffle the sharp inhales of breath, as the glorious vison of the infernal palace opened out before them. When the four of them glided down the arching staircase, they were greeted by a sea of intrigued eyes.
“Thorangir,” Willow beckoned, “There are two more trunks on the balcony. Will you have your men take them, and this one, down to the bedchamber?”
“Yes, mistress,” he nodded, excusing himself from Pellius’ side to bark orders at his men.
“And who have we here?” Pellius asked, arching his brow.
“Where is Garvana?” Willow replied in question, a sly smile playing on her lips, “I need a word with the two of you.”
She watched the slow descent of his brow line, as he inclined his head and turned to lead the way.
“Leave the boxes, the men will take it from here. The three of you will follow me.”

“Are you going to explain it now, my lady?” Pellius asked, leaning back against the stone brick wall in the side chamber Garvana had been reading in, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
“What are you planning Willow?” Garvana frowned.
She grinned, laughing softly as she stepped aside to motion to the three women. All three were dressed in finely tailored new gowns made from soft and rich materials, decorated in small but elegant jewellery, well bathed and well mannered. The first was a woman of gold and ashen hair, sun kissed pale skin and sapphire eyes. The second wore a natural crown of auburn locks, vivid green eyes and skin of burnt olive. The third had dark curls of the deepest chestnut, a pale pink completion that contrasted against bright amber eyes.
“Lord Pellius,” Willow said formally, with the barest hint of mocking, “This is Dorothea. Lady Garvana, this is Henrietta.”
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord – a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
Willow smiled, motioning to the third woman who curtsied low, “And this is Cordelia.”
“And what are they doing here, Lady Willow?” Pellius pressed, a smirk on his lips.
“They are to be our blood thralls.”
“Our what?” Garvana balked, her suspicious frown burrowing tight.
“Relax, Garvana,” Willow chuckled, “They know what is expected of them.”
She turned to the three women, each of whom now wore a trace of Willow’s sly grin.
“They will be our blood thralls. Each of one of these women understand exactly what that means. They will have two main duties, our primary source of blood, and when that is not required of them – Cordelia is an experienced laundress, and both Dorothea and Henrietta are trained lady’s maids. They will travel with us, using the latter as a guise. They also each know how to use a blade, well enough to look after themselves. Now, in return for their service, they will be well cared and provided for. They will be well dressed, well fed, well bathed and well paid. They will enjoy a portion of freedom when we return to the city. And in return for their silence…” Willow’s smile darkened, her fingers making a show of tracing along the length of her blade’s sheath, “They will be allowed to keep their tongues.”
Though the weight of fear and dread pressed upon their gazes, Willow could not help but think each of them held their ground admirably. She saw the eagerness to please, the desire for gain and reward. She saw the way they swayed in the fine fabric gowns Willow had purchased for them. She saw the way their eyes glimmered when they looked upon the elegant gems on their fingers that Willow had given them. She saw the relief in a promise of steady meals, padded mattresses and sturdy shelter, in a country ravaged by war and pestilence. In such a time, it was deal they would be foolish to refuse.


When the morning sun had stretched its limbs, rays of light brightening the rough seas of the northern coast, Willow waited upon the balcony, leaning forward on the balustrade. A stunning view of a lush green paradise opened out before her, teeming with life and vitality, blossoming in an array of flourishing hues. In her hands, she held the twin clay seal. In her pouch, she held the journal of Adrastus Thorn. She had read every detail inside and out, memorised every contingency, studied every option he had considered. His mind was brilliant – he was brilliant. Yet in the end, he was simply a tool. A tool to be used and discarded.
“I do not know why you would think we would simply allow you to come along!” Garvana laughed bitterly, her voice echoing from the stairs.
“I do not remember asking to be allowed,” came Sasha’s biting reply.
“Enough out of you two!” Pellius commanded, a painful sigh chasing his words as he appeared from beyond the grand doors.
“We cannot take that many with us!” Garvana argued, “The spell will not allow it.”
“The sorcerous is not coming,” Sasha dismissed, her slow and tortuous walk bringing her into view, “So there is space for one more.”
“Have you scried him today?” Pellius asked.
“Of course I have!”
“She is not coming?” Willow frowned, standing up and turning to the doorway.
She saw Traya, dressed in a simply robe and comfortable boots, empty handed and closed off. When she looked up into Willow’s sight, she gave a failed attempt at a small convincing smile.
“You are not coming with us?” Willow asked, slow steps bringing her back to the doorway, as Traya’s approached the threshold.
The sorcerous’ eyes lingered over where she stood – in much the same spot she had been when the heavens had flooded their fury.
“No,” she smiled gently, “I have some research to do here.”
Willow smirked at her attempt to dance around the truth.
“Are you certain? We could use your fire if things go awry.”
“I am certain that you will be fine,” she smirked, arching an eyebrow in the witch’s direction, “I am also certain that Sasha is able to conjure you your fire… and anything else wicked and able to remove skin.”
“I would believe it,” Willow laughed, turning back to the others, “Best of luck with your research.”
“Are we ready?” Pellius asked, an impatient hurry to his tone.
“Yes.”
“Indeed.”
“Good,” Sasha muttered under her breath, “Some of us have all the time in world to spare. And some of us do not wish to simply turn to dust in the wind waiting out here.”
The grin spread across Willow’s face, as she reached out and grasped hold of Pellius’ hand. He looked to her, nodding firmly with readiness in his eyes and determination in his chin. One by one they reached out and clasped hands, waiting as Garvana pulled the rolled parchment scroll from her pouch. As she read the rasping incantation, the turbulent vortex tore them through the portal, travelling for a time as if suspended in weightless space. Suddenly, they stepped from the spiral’s grasp, out into a well furnished bedchamber. Plush coverings, fine fur rugs, elaborate drapes and wall-hangings – but no person touches of a private dwelling. Only a man – dark and handsome – who had leapt from his chair with his sharp pointed rapier aimed in threat towards them. A knowing grin arose, as Willow’s graceful fingers held up the matching clay seal, her piercing dark eyes latching onto to his as she spoke.
“Hello… Sixth Knot…”

overlordseamus
2017-09-19, 07:40 PM
I know i have said this before, but i really enjoy your description of spells. The way you described the Dominate ability was very clever, and so is your approach to the introduction of new spells/feats/abilities.

If i was unaware you were retelling a game of Pathfinder, including XP and levelling characters, i would not know any different. It flows very well.

And as a side note, i am glad you have figured out how to include italics in your writing. It helps immensely with inflection.



I think it is safe to assume you have, i mean Willow has, a throat fetish... :smallredface: