Willow's path; The Way of the Wicked - Campaign Journal

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Chapter 24 - Opening the Way - Part 1

Spoiler: Chapter 24 - Opening the Way - Part 1

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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]

Chapter 24 - Opening the Way - Part 2

Spoiler: Chapter 24 - Opening the Way - Part 2

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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]

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]

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]

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

Spoiler: Chapter 25 - Righteous Falling

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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]

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

Spoiler: Chapter 26 - Fire and Wrath, Part 1

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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]

Chapter 26 - Fire and Wrath, Part 2

Spoiler: Chapter 26 - Fire and Wrath, Part 2

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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]

And another one! :)

Chapter 27 - Ascending Advance

Spoiler: Chapter 27 Ascending Advance

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 28 - Desecrate

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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]

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.

[minderp]

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.

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]

Spoiler: Chapter 29 - Night's gift

Show

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]

Spoiler: Chapter 30 - Plunder and Pillage - Part 1

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 30 - Plunder and Pillage - Part 2

Show

“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]

Spoiler: Chapter 31 - To Bide One's Time

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 32 - Gold In Ashes - Part 1

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“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]

Spoiler: Chapter 32 - Gold In Ashes - Part 2

Show

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]

Spoiler: Chapter 33 - Errands of Peril - Part 1

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 33 - Errands of Peril - Part 2

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 34 - Travellers - Part 1

Show

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]

Spoiler: Chapter 34 - Travellers - Part 2

Show

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]

Spoiler: Chapter 35 - Quest of Dragons - Part 1

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 35 - Quest of Dragons - Part 2

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 36 - A Dish Served Cold

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 37 - The Manor

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 38 - Death and Darkness - Part 1

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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]

Spoiler: Chapter 38 - Death and Darkness - Part 2

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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]

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]

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]

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.

:)