Somewhere between Patia and Marlboro Keep..

[Roen]

"Kill me," the soldier croaked, swallowing his broken teeth. "Please, kill me!"

Grim as death, implacable as fate, the devil advanced and set his palms on the man's head consolingly, kneeling before the babbling, broken thing who sat on the bloodied turf, clapped in irons. The battle was brief, vicious, swift and decisive. It was everything a battle should be. The mind rape was much longer, unfortunately. "Not yet, little brother," the devil crooned, clad from head to heel in the raiment of war. "I've use for thee still, then I will commend you to Gaia." The soldier sobbed, burying his face into leather cuirass the Adversary wore. "Kill me," the man bawled, snuffling.

"Shh," was Roen's grave reply, smoothing the soldier's hair and patting the back of his head. "In due time, in due time."

It was a small village, or at least it used to be. Just like the others before it, and those that will surely come after, it was presented with a choice: Submit, or perish. Some had chosen to bend knee and pledge fealty, while others, like those who fought upon the field today, did not. Roen did not lament these losses. Now the village was put to fire, her stores confiscated by the slow moving army under his control, and her people put to death. Those who were felled by sword and sorcery were fortuitous in that they did not live long enough to be put to methodical torture, for the army brought with them crude instruments of woe and honed their mastery on dissenters. No quarter was shown, and many a man, woman, and child were subjected.

"Why?" The soldier finally gurgled, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek on the Dread Margrave's armor. It was cool against his burning skin, and though his stomach lurched with revulsion for the fiend, his soul nonetheless yearned for comfort. "Because it pleaseth me," Roen replied simply, his rich baritone even more soothing despite his horrible words. Braziers crackled and burned, rude alters were erected, and people screamed as the Knights of the Bloody Seer bent them backwards and carved out their still beating hearts. To the Bloody Seer was one heart offered, homage paid to the Fang-Eye, Matriarch of all, while a duel offer was made to Roen, The Dread Margrave, for he, like his Goddess, found the cloying odor most pleasing.

Sacrifices to divinity and those who aspired to divinity were not all that took place, however.

More still suffered at the hands of the Church of the Bloody Seer. With axes of cruel steel did the knights cut down trees for their stout wood, lashing writhing, babbling Terrenus citizens to their lengths and crucifying them on the bloody battlefield for onlookers to see and know dread. And while this may seem excessive, others were impaled on sharpened steaks, while yet more were hung from sturdy tree-limbs by their entrails for the carrion crows, who followed the thousand odd men and women of the army which moved south, to feed upon when the host left. All served as testament to a fiendish resolve.

The solider opened his eyes. Swinging from the rafters of an open barn were his commanding officers, and set before them, stabbed into a wooden steak, was the undeniable countenance of the mayor.

If the solider had but more bile, he would have wretched. Finding calloused hands on his face, the soldier felt his chin being lifted and soon saw for himself the face of paramount Evil in the land of Terrenus. It was a regular face, even handsome, with the deepest, darkest red eyes he had ever seen. The face was shaved irregularly, and had long, dark-brown hair streaked with silver tied back in a loose-fitting ponytail. Unable to do anything but stare and speak, the solider repeated himself lamely. "Kill me, please." After a time, the Devil finally consented. Sliding his hands to the sides of the solider's head, Roen began to squeeze.

After a time, the solider's pleas changed, and this, too, was pleasing to the Devil. "Please, stop! Don't! Please, don't kill me! Mother, mother, Odin, Gaia below, don't kill me!" His screams proved satisfactory. With a strangled cry and a screech that sighed into obscurity, the solider's head collapsed in the Dread Margrave's vice-grip, and Roen found himself wrist deep in a sizable amount of gray matter and blood. Dimly aware of sharp, prickly bones digging into the calloused pads of his palms, puncturing his skin and demanding blood, Roen frowned and threw the convulsing body away from him.

"Pray thee, moderate thy unseemly writhing, neighbor." Roen said to the body, flicking bits of bone and gore off his hands and reaching out. A crimson clad soldier came up to Roen with a towel and, after the Devil cleaned himself off, took it away. Taking one last look at the decimated village, his army, and the rising moon, the Devil called forth Loren Faust, Preceptor of the Roanist Order of Seer Knights. After some discussion, the seasoned knight raised his voice and barked his orders. Patrols were sent out, men fell to digging ditches and planting stakes, and preparations for camp were being set up.

Tonight, rest for the army on the bloodied soil. Tomorrow, well --

"We'll see when we cross the horizon. . ."

[Nox]

The battle was over. The awful finality of it leaving a smoky stain on the sky itself. The unfortunate village that had been the Devils latest conquest now lay in a heap of smoldering rubble. It was at this point that Bellanox broke away from her closest friend and employer,Roen, gathered up a few essential items from her tent and melted into the deepening gloom. Her destination? A small waterfall that she had scouted out long before the action started. There, she intended to take refuge from the battles horrifying yet inevitable aftermath.

As a fighter, Nox was ruthless, brutal and efficient. The screams and groans of the dead and dying only served to heighten her enthusiasm for the fight. But even as vicious as she could be, the lanky Carpathian had no stomach for torture. Fortunately, Roen turned a blind eye to her habitual retreat and concentrated instead upon the task at hand. While the disturbed Gypsy trudged off to her prededignated "happy place". The dark of the forest gave comfort, soothing her psyche much like the cool hand of a loving mother caresses the forehead of a fevered child while the nocturnal chorus of the forest sang lullabies to comfort a bruised soul.

Only once on her path did the agonized screams of the devil's first interrogation victim reach her ears. Shoulders tightend, her dirt smudged face flinching before setting into a scowel of utter distaste as she quickened pace. Luckily her long legs ate up the distance. Within the hour, Nox sat quietly on a moss covered rock beside a small but warm fire contemplating the current turmoil that was her life. Wondering at the strangeness of a creature hunter such as she, acting as the left hands of the devil.

[Modulation]

"Is something troubling you, madam?" Standing at the edge of the small camp, Rallen observed her bad mood. Better known as Captain Lumiere, he stood at a full 7'2", and was encased in a large suit of black armor. He was one of the Roanist knights - a subcommander. His men were currently on patrols, two-to-three men per group. Only Rallen himself was alone, and for good reason...it would take an army to destroy him. His armor had been fortified against magic, psionics...it was thick, very heavy, and crafted by some of the best blacksmiths in Patia. As much as it was fortified against magic, however, there were also enchantments which helped him move silently, or to keep up in speed with the rest of his men. This man was formidable.

Could he be called a man anymore, though? It was difficult to tell if there was much man left. Most of his vitals ran on, or were supported by, machinery. He had no real limbs or eyes to speak of, even. Still, as tortured as this man had been, he had survived. Rallen had a goal, and a purpose. And their current march tied into that. The battle was too easy, unfortunately - it meant that many people were lying dead. He had no taste for killing innocents - but none were a match when they presented a blade.

The only reason he was standing here unarmed right now, sword sheathed and shield on his back, is because he had been observing Nox for a while. It didn't seem a woman would get involved with the matters of the Bloody Seer lightly. Besides...she seemed alone. And he had no taste for digging graves, or torturing victims. Too much suffering...he was a man of battle. Hopefully, though, he wasn't intruding on anything. It didn't seem like he was, but he didn't want to be wrong. Ever a gentleman - it's why he hadn't snuck much further than he had. For that matter, some people could be rather disturbed by the lack of shattering noise from the armor.

[Morgan]

Down…

…down…

…ever downward, she fell.

Time wrapped its elusive arms around Morgan and cradled the mercenary until she was but a child once again. A recent rainfall had muddied the grounds of her village and, while most of the children were playing games or running through the streets terrorizing the locals, Morgan was learning how to fight.

“Again!” Hector shouted, the flat side of his sword striking hard against young Morgan’s backside as she stumbled forward, clumsily trying to keep her grip on the heavy sword he had given her before she fell face first into the mud. His boot rested between her shoulder blades and pinned her to the ground. Morgan wriggled beneath his weight and Hector allowed her enough room to twist herself onto her back.

“Learn to control your anger, Morgan, or it will control you,” he told her as she seethed in anger. How much she had learned in just the four short years since he had met her, he thought. She was eight, then, and just as wild and ornery as she was now. Even then, she showed the capacity for a soldier’s mind when he and his men were patrolling the borders of Langley Keep and had stumbled across a ragtag group of boys who, with their wooden swords, were playing ‘Soldiers’.

One of the boys had captured Hector’s interest almost immediately. The boy’s hand constantly adjusted a too-large bone helm over his head while barking orders that separated the boys into tactical units before commands were issued to attack the opposing group of unorganized children. Upon their advancement, the children yelped in fear as the child with the too-large helm bore down on them and, with a battle cry that caused even Hector to quirk a brow, demanded their heads even as they cowered and surrendered. When it was over, the boy removed his helm and thrust it triumphantly into the air and his unit celebrated their victory. Hector chuckled when he realized the boy-with-the-too-large-helm was actually a girl with a tangled mass of curly, brown hair.

“Let me up,” Morgan scowled, her hands clutching his boot as she tried to pry it from the top of her chest.

“Learn to control your emotions, Morgan; your anger, rage, frustration.” His words knotted Morgan’s brows furiously across the fore of her skull while her lips pressed together in a firm line that stabbed at her face and made her appear much older than she was. Defiantly, she turned her face away from him as he spoke. His voice commanded that stern tone of a father tutoring his son and, though she didn’t let on, she was listening.

“You must learn to harness them so they can work for you, not against you. Even your fear can become your weapon,” He regarded her coolly before he released her. Morgan quickly scrambled to her feet, her back facing him to hide tears that blazed a trail to cool her burning cheeks.Her shoulders slumped forward and she trembled.

“Morgan,” Hector started. Perhaps he was too harsh with her, he thought, as he watched the child stand there shivering.

When she spoke, it was a voice far too livid to belong to the twelve year old child that stood before him.

“I___fear____nothing!”

Enraged, she swung her body around, pivoting her weight on the ball of her foot as she drew the sword in a wild arc over her shoulder. Again, Hector averted her attack and used the child’s own momentum against her to send her sprawling …

…down…

…down…

…ever downward, she fell until Time released her from its faithless embrace.

Her head hit hard against the mossy stones of the forest floor, stunning her. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and her tongue swelled where her teeth bit deeply into the tissue. Pride rode swiftly on crimson steeds to stain her cheeks in its wake and the mercenary struggled to rise, unsteadily, to her feet only to fall swiftly onto her back as her legs were kicked out from under her.

The tops of pine and poplar trees towered over a horde of brutish faces that laughed as they spiraled above her. A hand, heavy with fatigue, reached up to swipe the beads of sweat that threatened to spill over into her eyes.

“Why, this isn’t one of his soldiers,” one of the men laughed as he motioned two of the others to lift Morgan to her feet. They had disarmed her and bound her wrists behind her back. Brown eyes flickered across her surroundings and then quickly rested on the speaker’s face. Her claymore, carelessly discarded, lay not two feet away from her she noted.Laughter croaked like the black carrion birds that circled the bleeding trenches where the Dread Margrave’s army triumphantly claimed their wretched spoils. She had followed them here; these soldiers of Roen’s.

“Where’d you say you found her, Karl?”

“Found her fighting near the granary,” Karl spoke up, “She killed Collin and four others.” Spittle seethed angrily from the corners of his mouth as he stepped forward. Tears welled in his eyes as he recalled the horrors he had watched, “Slaughtered them, Dale, and their families!”

Karl spat on her. Her face remained stoic.

Dale moved to stand in front of her now, his hand patting Karl’s shoulder as he stared at her.

A crooked smile creased Morgan’s face.

“What, you find humor in this man’s grief?” Dale questioned her. When she didn’t respond, he struck out at her with the back of his hand, hitting the side of her face.She spat blood from her mouth before turning her head to stare at him.

“You wear the colors of Roen’s men,” she spoke to Karl, a note of ridicule hinted in her voice, though she kept her eyes set on Dale’s. It was true; their armor gleamed beneath the light of the twilit sky and their deathly shades of red and black reminded Morgan of clotted blood.

“It was a ruse, one that you fell for, woman. Roen’s losses may have been few, indeed, but we scavenged the bodies of his slain men and took their armor,” he answered bitterly as he stroked the stolen armor he wore. It was his turn to laugh as his voice took on a mocking tone while he pranced about in his ill-fitting suit of armor that once belonged to a Roanist knight, “The Dread Margrave wishes to speak with you.” Dale began to laugh as he watched the antics of his companion who was recreating the scene of his encounter that brought Morgan to their encampment.

“The Dread Margrave! The Outsider! The Crimson King!” Morgan laughed, too, as she all but whispered the final sobriquet, “The Devil.” It was a cold, bitter laugh that held no joy and stopped just as abruptly as it began, “These are your names for him!”

Dale swung around to face her, the meaning of her speech hitting him hard while his breath unfolded in hot streams that accosted her face, “And yet, you answered him. You came, here, to worship your ‘Crimson King’.”

“No,” she answered, “Roen’s no King of mine.”

Dale grinned, the corners of his mouth twitching as he licked hit lips nervously. He knew he was wasting time talking to the woman, but she held a curiosity about her that, while it sickened him, made him want to know more about her. Those eyes, those hauntingly beautiful brown eyes; how he longed for them to look at him with passion burning within and begging him to make her his. But, no, he saw none of that. He saw nothing but the reflection of his own self staring back at him and when he asked why she came, knowing it was a trap, he wanted those narrow lips to tell him she was there, for him. Morgan could sense this. When she spoke, she captivated him, drew his eyes nearer her mouth so he would cling, with silent eagerness, to every syllable that she uttered.

“To bring you to your knees.”

His eyes widened and before he could react, the fore of Morgan’s skull collided against the bridge of his nose. He yowled in pain, his hands fumbling to survey the damage done as he bent over. His companions, frozen with shock, stood there gawking at their leader before they could react. It was too late. Morgan had managed to roll away from them and towards the abandoned claymore they had discarded. Kneeling, she quickly freed herself of her bonds. Weapon in hand, she stood, the tip of the claymore drawing a grating, gasping sound against the ground that struck a sordid chord of longing in the men’s hearts.

Oh, how they longed for their deaths to be quick!


Twenty minutes later, Morgan returned to the field where Roen’s army had made camp. She handed a soldier a long, wooden box that had been tucked beneath her right arm, “Give it to your Knight Commander. I expect payment by sunrise.” The soldier accepted the box and stared at the mercenary as she retreated behind the folds of a tent.

When he was sure she wouldn’t be returning, he carefully removed the wooden lid and peered inside then flashed a quick glance in the direction of her tent then back to the bloody contents of the box. Surely, she was aided, the soldier thought as he tried to count the box’s contents.

Surely, he thought, then gave up counting at twenty and slipped the lid back into its place.

[Isolate]

Metal on his knuckles. His left fist made contact with the soldier's cranium, accompanied by a gratifying crunching sound. The blow had left a large dent in the back of the man's helmet, forcing him to remove it if he wanted to prevent his skull from being crushed. The soldier turned and swung his blade, but the concussive force from the spiked fist had made him dizzy and inaccurate. Bastion swatted the blade away with his outstretched palm, offsetting the soldier's balance.

Flesh on his knuckles. His right fist came roundabout and connected with the base of the soldier's skull. The man cried out and dropped to his knees, writhing in pain. He made no effort to resist.

Stone-faced, Bastion paced around his kneeling opponent, until they were face to face. He fixed his gaze, cold and unwavering, on the man for a moment before he spoke. “Get up.”

The soldier seemed confused. He let his head loll to the side, attempting to look up at Bastion's face. It appeared as if he was struggling to keep his eyes from closing, perhaps forever.

When he said nothing, Bastion repeated himself. “Get. Up.” Something resonated in his low, gruff tone then. Something sinister, unabated, eternal.

Whimpering and shaking uncontrollably, the soldier attempted to lift himself to his feet. He stumbled once, crumpling into a heap of metal. Bastion waited patiently, still as death apart from the slight breeze that caressed his cape, a reminder that he was still alive. The soldier managed to regain his footing, but it was clear he wouldn't be able to stand for long.

Blood on his knuckles. An all too familiar sound, sick and wet, reached Bastion's ears. He closed his eyes for a moment and growled lowly, resting his hand within the soldier's brain matter. This moment was not out of pride or enjoyment, but out of acceptance, of recognition that he owned this darkness, and this darkness owned him.

Dropping the lifeless body, Bastion removed his knuckle weapons, clasping them to the leather straps at his waist. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a civilian women darting behind some nearby trees, periodically casting a gaze over her shoulders as if she was being pursued. He turned to face her in her escape. He knew that she was weak. He knew that, within a few moments, he could be upon her. He knew that they were far enough away from the main battle area for questionable deeds to go unnoticed.

Even still, he did nothing but watch, making no attempt to stop the woman. As she passed out of sight, he noticed a few soldiers come fumbling through the underbrush, obviously in hot pursuit and eager to claim their prize.

After he had watched them all disappear, he took a moment to consider his lack of action. Perhaps a normal man would have done something. An evil man would have gone after the woman and taken her for himself. A good man would have stopped the soldiers from chasing her, using his status to come up with a convincing enough excuse to dissuade them from their intentions. But Bastion had done nothing. He had let them pass without so much as a word.

If not a good man or an evil man, then what kind of man am I? he thought, clenching his jaw and allowing his eyelids to rest. He remained standing there for but a moment more, and then spun on his heel and began heading back towards what would soon be a military encampment.

[Nox]

The small fire by which Nox sat popped fitfully as the pitch in the burning wood ignited and burst to life in a succession of mini explosions, the dancing flames casting fearful shadows across her pensive features. The sound of it brought a feeling of "home" to the gypsy girl. The camp, the fire, the leafy canopy, the occasional winking of stars. All of it took her back to a simpler time.

Unfortunately, her own form of peace was short lived. The spell broken by a familiar scent that wafted by. For though super enchantments might give a fully armored knight the ability to silently follow a gypsy in the woods, it would do nothing to mask the smell of said armor nor the engrained stink of the padded garments warn beneath it's plates. It was the smell of metal, oil, rust and sweat that have him away. It was not unusual for the Devil to have Nox followed when she went off alone. For her protection, of course. Though most had the good sense not to impose upon her private musings. Thus she was not surprised when he appeared at the edge of her camp. The real surprise came when the steele encased imbecile actually spoke.

"Only the appearance ovf uninvited guests." She remarked in an unfriendly tone.

A small disgruntled sigh soon followed, the bosses words echoing through her memory. "Be nice, Bella. One of these ' tin cans' as you call them, just might wind up saving your ass."

A growl of forced tolerance died in the sounds of popping pitch as she poked at the fire with a handy stick before continuing. "Vas there somethingk that you vanted, Sir Knight ? I vouldn't vant to be responsible for keepingk you from your post."

That was about as nice as Nox ever got when it came to most people.

[Modulation]

"At the moment, my post is in these woods." He had no padded garments, nor garments of any kind - the armor was him, and he was the armor. No rust was within it - he cared for himself well. It was the metal itself, the oil from the fires, the blood from the soldiers, which gave him away. Rallen did not know it, being that he barely had any olfactory sense altogether. However, he saw the woman tense up, and he was familiar with that. "There are reports of men slaying the soldiers and taking their garb, entrapping people in these woods and doing horrid things...as much as you are independent, it's not wise to trust anything you see out here if you insist on being alone, madam."

"And I don't believe the Dread Margreave would be pleased if something happened to you out here." Sitting down against the tree, he stayed at the edge of the camp. He would come no closer, since he wasn't welcome in the first place. But, his duty was to patrol the woods, and protect his fellow men and women. Lady Nox was one of them, whether she cared to believe it or not. As long as she worked with Sir Roen, Rallen was partially responsible for her welfare. And besides...this area of the woods was a good central spot. It would allow him to receive the messages from the psionicists in his unit. Only they were exempt from the wards on his armor - should they betray him, he would be at their mercy. But they were Knights of the Bloody Seer...and they would be more likely to kill themselves than their Captain.

His sword was stuck into the ground by his left hand, and his shield was over his right arm. "I don't ask anything of you, madam. I shall not even be a bother - but you must understand that this, too, is part of my duty as a knight. I shall be off as soon as my assignment has changed." Rallen was preparing a watch...a vigilant guard duty. He would not fall asleep, because that would require eyes, or less discipline than he had. Instead, he would fall into a state of half-sleep...listening for reports, or being ready to act upon an attack at a moment's notice. However, if she wanted to talk with him...he would be more than willing to answer her questions.

[Lews Therin Telamon]

The drums of war had sounded and at last the relentless march had begun, and so had the show. The two opposing forces met on the battlefield, and from their struggles a terrifying dissonant harmony came into being, a concerto of carnage and maleficence. The Knights of the Bloody Seer served as the maestros, keeping the tempo as the blades met their opponent’s flesh and crooned their dark melody, lulling them into sweet perdition as they artfully cleaved flesh from bone and guided, by hand, the souls of the departed into oblivion. The screams of the dying served as a bittersweet harmony, whispering sweet little nothings in the ears of those remaining as the felled rejoined the earth.

Horrific, and yet utterly beautiful the staccato rhythm of weapon meeting weapon, measuring their wielder’s will to live punctuated the melody, adding life, color. Some would have argued that war was not fit for anything but death, but the crimson-armored Dragon heard the melody and recognized it’s beauty. And celebrated the truth: War served for two very important purposes: To protect those whom he held dear, and more importantly to honor the Crimson King and the Bloody Seer.

“For the Bloody Seer!” the deep, velvety voice of Sir Reinhard Paendrag, the Dragon called out into the field and was met by both mirroring words and wordless cries as he charged into the field, followed by the few men whom had chosen to join the Idenist as he charged into the battlefield and began to lead a tune of his own.

------

Swiftly as it had begun, the concerto had ended, brought to an abrupt halt as the final soul had surrendered and the man referred to as the Dragon inspected the battle field with cold, tired rust-colored eyes. A colossus amongst men, Reinhard stood at seven feet in height weighted nearly 300 lbs., although not an ounce found in his body could have been attributed to fat. It had not been due to his impressive build and his habit to charging headfirst into the battlefield that he had become well known by his comrades in arms as Sir Dragon.

He was certainly not the only warrior to take charge and act with disregard for his own safety in name of the Seer, but he was one of the eldest. At 77 years old, Reinhard Paendrag still found himself in the battle field, clad in his crimson armor and with sweat running down his bald pate and disappearing beneath his neat black beard. Bringing Elayne’s Tears, his well-worn battle hammer to its loop in his belt, the man rested his remaining hand against its head in a pensive gesture as he eyed the man his fellow knights had brought before him.

“M-mercy, milord!” The soldier sobbed openly. “C-clemency.” The figure wept and groveled at Reinhard’s feet.

“The battlefield is no place for mercy, son. Tell me, have you prayed to your gods for mercy?” The old man asked with pointed disinterest.

“Burn the Gods! I’ll convert, I’ll pray to your Seer, to whomever you see fit!” The man disentangled himself from the soldiers holding him and wrapped his arms around one of the Dragon’s armored legs.

The man narrowed his eyes and shook his head in an attempt to disentangle the mess of a man before him. Flashing his teeth at the man in a twisted rictus of a smile, Reinhard moved his one real hand from his hammer’s head to the man’s, patting it lightly. “Burn your Gods, hm. . . Yes. . . I think I can convert you just well. Anselm! Alonsus!” The man nodded toward the Dragon and each grabbed one of the kneeling soldier’s arms as he set pace toward one of the rude altars that had been erected.

Waving his metallic hand dismissively toward one of the braziers. Walking toward the man with a slow, determined walk as he reached into his belt and brought out a red bladed athame, inscribed with orange runes up and down. With another wag of his metallic hand toward the soldiers, Anselm gripped the man’s hair tightly and yanked him backward, exposing his chest into the sky.

“You wished to be converted? Just as well. With your final moments, I forgive you for your servitude to the heretic gods, and I will purify you!” The old man raised his arm and sunk the athame into the man’s chest with a sickening crunch. As the screams of the man lit up the room, reminiscent of the melody of war, a small, set grimace appeared inside of the man’s face. Dropping the athame and reaching into his chest, Reinhard ripped the soldier’s still beating heart and tossed it into the brazier.

“May the Seer and the Crimson King enjoy your servitude, whelp” The man said in his disinterested voice and dismissed the other two men just as a wracking cough took him over. As sudden as it came the coughing went and the man wiped the corner of his lips with his metallic hand. Dropping to one knee beside the burning brazier and the body, Reinhard closed his eyes and fervently prayed.

This wretch's last moment was given to serving the gods. . . May my last moment still be far away so I may still serve the Seer.

[Roen]

Pale, lilac eyes watched the exchange with equanimity. The Advocate, a title typically reserved for the Outsider's most trusted, capable of servants, eavesdropped on the conversation occurring between Bellanox Fatalis, the most favored of the Dread Margrave's minions, and a knight of inconsequential rank. Born and raised in the dark, gloomy halls of some foreign ruler's castle, the Advocate had learned at a very young age that one could gain much from listening outside barely-open doors and peeping through keyholes. Eavesdropping, he had long ago concluded, was a habit borne from a very well-spent youth. When the gypsy's face darkened however, the Advocate knew it was his duty to intercede on Captain Rellen's behalf. He stepped into the light of Bellanox's fire at that point, his presence announced by all the subtleties and fragrances of a man wearing full plate armor.

"Subcommander Rallen," the Advocate said with depreciating calm, his voice at the certain juncture between boyish sorprano and manly baritone. "I've been looking for you. You're a surprisingly tough man to find." He smiled a sad little smile of forced mirth. "Your reports are accurate, though I am loathe to admit that some of our own have started to pursue a few minor extracurricular activities. A few rapes and robberies, I'm led to believe. Your task is two-fold, Milord Rallen; flush out the impostors and kill them, and chastise those of our own who aren't sated enough by the pleasure of the Dark Queen. A stout switch is in order, I think. Make sure you apply it to them once you have removed them of their arms and armor, of course."

Pherrond Twinnborne of House Tor'Ana. His name was the most anyone knew of the Advocate's past, barring the devil himself. No history within any chapter house, no eye-witness accounts, nothing. Only two things were certain about the Advocate; he had no tangible rank, and if he did, it was above that of whomever questioned it. He was a recluse if nothing else, and handled the small, immediate details of ruling the sizable army. While the Preceptors, their Commanders, and subsequent falling ranks ruled their own, the Advocate had authority over every chapter. It was an authority seldom used, but one he now felt compelled to exercise. What Rallen didn't know was that Bellanox, ever the willful creature, could have Rallen shortened by a head if she were to carelessly disapprove of the knight within earshot of the Dread Margrave. Roen, Pherrond noted with disdain, was too concerned with the happiness of his strange, long-legged bodyguard. To save the knight, which Pherrond had taken an instant liking to, the Advocate lied glibly and gave him orders that would keep him out of trouble for the most part. As for Bellanox Fatalis, there was no need to lie.

With an abnormal aversion to meeting the gypsy's eyes, Pherrond inclined his head and spoke in the most reasonable, charming way possible. "Bellanox Fatalis," the Advocate said with genuine respect, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "The Dread Margrave pines for the pleasure of your company and is loathe to have you so far out of reach." Pherrond finally lifted his eyes, that self-same sad smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "He has charged me to come get you. He also says that he has a beef stew simmering just for you in his pavilion." He paused, his pale brows furrowing together in a way that Roen himself might have envied. "The Dread Margrave is a vegetarian, you know," he said, more as a side note than anything. "I think it's a peace offering." He shrugged, the plates of his pauldrons shifting on his shoulders. "Will you come?"

He glanced at Subcommander Rallen. "And aren't you going?"

- - - - -

Roen, Dread Margrave of the Bloody Seer, Crimson King of Patia, Outsider of the Realm, and future Emperor of Terrenus was feeling moody. Of course he wouldn't call himself moody, at least not out loud, but he had the good sense to realize that he was, in fact, in a foul disposition. It made for talking to him almost impossible. Loren Faust, Perceptor of the Roanist Order, threw up his hands and left in a fit after the first few minutes of the Dread Margrave's antics lest he throttle the fiend. Sorgi Osprey, Perceptor of the Idenist Order, took a bit longer, but ultimately followed his Brother-Knight's path out the pavilion. Sorgi only had so much patience, after all. It was only after he was left alone to his own devices that the devil found time to reestablish himself and come off the pinnacle of moodiness he had been clinging to for the passed hour or so. He stirred the pot of beef stew situated in the corner of his tent, smelled its contents, then forcibly removed himself from the simmering concoction. It was perfect, and he would ruin it if he tampered with it even further.

His pavilion was neat, if bare, possessing all the necessities and requirements a Knight-Commander needed. A table to write on, a seat to sit at, a quill to write with, and parchment to write upon, and a map to plan with. He needed no fire for his own burned within, and had no need for a bed for he felt not the need to sleep. His dread-black sword was stabbed in the ground in negligence, his grimoire, a book containing everything from Warp incantations to his Spells laid chained and discarded under his table, and his armor was placed on a mannequin somewhere near the back. It was a depressing place devoid of any and all trappings of power, and he was quite fond of it. Peace reigned within, a devil's respite. Unfortunately, it would not, could not last.

When a knight was permitted to enter his room with a container full of hearts, the devil tried to dismiss him with a flick of his wrist. He had allowed mercenaries to tag along with the army, and paid them well from their bravery and prowess in battle. Five silver per vanquished foe was the running rate, hearts being the proof of deed. A container full of them was well enough, he supposed, but he gave strict orders that he was not to be intruded upon when it was time to pay. That was Osprey's business, the Perceptor of the Idenist Order handling the more mundane matters such as food and coin distribution. "Pay the man his due and send him on his way, Sir Knight," the Devil said brusquely, turning his back on the young man.

"She," the knight corrected, turning on his heel. Roen's head might have rolled off his shoulders if he turned it any faster to pay heed to the intruding knight. "Hold on," he said, stopping the knight in his tracks. "A moment, Sir -- " He groped for the man's name.

"Grigor, Milord. Sir Grigor ac Patia."

Roen approached Sir Grigor and took from him the container of hearts. He gave it a shake, looking inquiring at the Corbinist Knight. "Did you count the contents? How many? What did she look like? How tall was she? What weapon did she wield? Well, come on, man, speak! You can speak, can't you?"

Grigor ac Patia waited patiently. He was a young knight, but Roen -- well, the Knight-Commander was eccentric to say the very least. The knight waited until the devil exhausted his supply of questions before supplying their answers.

"Yes, Milord. Just shy above twenty, Milord. She looked just fine, Milord. She was about my height, Milord. She wields a large sword, Milord. Yes, Milord, I am capable of speaking. Yes, Milord, she was comely enough. No, Milord, I did not insult her by asking if she had help. Yes, Milord, I know where she is. No, Milord, --" And so it went on, and on, and to Grigor's credit, he did not once think of slitting his own throat to free himself from the monotony of answering question after question. When at last Roen was satisfied, Grigor ac Patia was sent on his way, and Roen, all awash with curiosity, slipped out just after him and instructed the guards, who flanked either sides of his tent flap, to go with man to apprehend Morgan and bring her back to the Margrave's pavilion. Saluting smartly, they did just that. After they left, Roen went back inside and waited impatiently.

He checked on Bellanox's stew in the mean time, unable to help himself from adding a few dashes more of seasoning..

- - - -

Segregation was frowend upon by the Dread Margrave, but the Perceptors of both the Roanist and Idenist order were adamant in seperating the army's camp from the riffraff the Knight-Commander allowed to tag along. Supervised by the knights but relatively left to it's own devices, the Mercenary Camp (which consisted of more than just men and women looking to ply their sword for money) was a far cry from the neat, orderly tents pitched by the orderly knights. That didn't mean the camp was a cesspool of iniquity, but neither was it a pargon of ingenuity and skill. The three knights, two Roanists and one Corbinist, were given a wide birth by the thieves, whores, and mercenaries who occupied to shabby little town of tents and borrowed buildings as they journeyed to Morgan's tent.

"Hello?" Sir Grigor asked, standing outside Morgan's tent. It was probably the best way to go about the tedious business, he surmised. He was always a level-headed individual. "May I come in?"

[Modulation]

"Thank you, Sir." Standing up, bowing, he took his sword up from the ground. Right now, he was communicating with one of his men. "Can you pinpoint where the reports of the last outbreak occurred?" "The last I heard, Captain, Sir Bastion was cutting down the last of the resistance on this edge. It's not far from your position." "Thank you, Owens. Continue scouting the forest until directed otherwise. Turn every leaf over, and verify name and rank of any soldier you come across. Repeat that amongst the other groups. Sir Bastion and I should be able to handle a few unruly men." "I'm on it, Captain." He always had a link open to Owens, who managed the reports from the other men. You could say Owens was the communications expert for the group Rallen led.

He didn't realize he'd been standing still as he was turned away from the pair. "My apologies, Sir. I was merely verifying a direction. I shall rendezvous with one of the men in the area on the double." Again bowing, he made his way back through the trees at a jog. It had been a while since the Advocate had ever appeared before him directly. But Rallen had a feeling there was a reason to why he would change the orders now. Perhaps something to do with the Lady Nox. However, that was not his concern anymore - direct orders were more important than any duties he took upon himself on part of the Margreave. Besides, if she was safe with anyone...it was Sir Pherrond, the right-hand man of Sir Roen himself.

It was about fifteen minutes at the jog he was keeping, but Rallen made his way out of the copse of woods, to where Owens had directed him. This was an area of concentrated fighting. One thought hit Rallen suddenly - Sir Roen was a vegetarian? He never knew that. Shaking it off, Rallen began to look for Sir Bastion. A fellow Roanist, and even the same age, Rallen considered him an equal in battle and strength. They rarely met on the field of combat like this, so this was a rare opportunity. Spotting him from afar, Rallen called out. Considering he outranked him, it was well within the Captain's power to request this. "Sir Bastion! What's your report on the current situation?"

One could only speculate on how the Steel Knight and the Bloodletter would work together.

[-Malice-]

Glory is a coveted thing; though it may not be bought, merely earned.

There are many places that yet bear war's scars, many lands whose boundaries shift with the waxing of the moon; and though this plagues many nations, the cost is inevitably the same, no matter whose head holds a crown. Heralded by a devil's hand, this force had found Terrenus, as readily as a man might his feet, and engulfed the once peaceful province of Patia; pillaging its people and purloining its wealth, as though it hungered like a dog longing to be satiated. As the scent of death drifted across the fields, however, and crows feasted on the slain, the beast's belly swelled for a time, and its servants rested around the remnants of a village turned to ruin.

Swords had flocked to the blood-flecked banners of the Seer, their lives fuelling a storm still finding its strength, and as the sanctity of a secluded forest grew violated by hastened footsteps, so too did reality tremble; shaping an orifice through which another such blade was born. Resembling the dark and sombre blue of a blushing bruise, this vortex of energy sent leaves scurrying for shelter and infused the air with the smell of smouldering flesh; though the monster that emerged from its depths did so unscathed by the ravages of its burning breadth. Ushering the creature beyond the borders of space, and even time, this wormhole had transported a malevolence from the soil of Ayenee, and unleashed his inhuman appetites upon a realm yet ripe, a kingdom that had never suffered the crushing weight of his schemes.

Armoured from toe to torso in a resolute bulwark of, what appeared to be, steel as dark as midnight, a veritable juggernaut leapt from the weeping wound; muscled beyond belief, if not plausibility, and standing several skulls above most men at an imposing six foot eight. Whilst this was but a pale shadow of his standard stature, it would suffice for now, and so even as his boots grazed the ground with their presence, his limbs shifted within their shell; adjusting to the properties of this realm and familiarising themselves with their potential. As fate would have it though, his impressive, albeit secret arrival had intruded upon the endeavours of six soldiers, whose desires even now had a woman pinned against a nearby tree. Judging by the peasant garb that lay in forlorn tatters about her body, and the primal way in which they continued to undress her, this woman was but moments from being savaged by scoundrels; a feat that had perhaps distracted them from the sudden arrival of a stranger in their midst.

He could smell the fear on her, could taste it upon his tongue as if it were a thick and palpable thing; and below this pungent odour came other fragrances as well, from the sweat upon her assailants' brow, to the metallic tang of blood on their blades. A battle had been fought recently, the Warlord could feel it in his bones, and now these men sought to plunder a bounty more precious than they could ever imagine. Virginity was a powerful thing, in magic if not some circles of society, and so even as the first of them bent her over, as if she were an animal primed for mounting, he crossed the distance between the companions with swift and measured strides; approaching behind the biggest of the soldiers without so much as a sound. The man in question, a plump but stocky southerner from the slop houses of Weland, would have been quite disconcerted by the way in which the stranger's armour neither impeded their movement, nor betrayed their new position behind his back; but the opportunity to perceive such things was stolen, the moment a cruel and obsidian gauntlet erupted through his chest.

Cradling the man's heart in his hand, as though it were a child, the figure allowed his victim a brief and horrified scream, before he tore it from their chest and, almost too casually, popped the delicacy into his mouth. A thin trail of blood dribbled down the pallid and supernaturally handsome features of the juggernaut, as Weland's son clattered to the dirt and alerted his friends to the warrior's presence; though not before the fiend's merciless jaws had savaged the morsel within his maw, savouring its chewy texture. When their comrade tumbled, however, felled forever by the barbaric butcher, the hole where he had stood in their troop was filled by a glimpse at the monster's visage; affording them a fleeting look at their doom. Purple hair fell like a polluted waterfall down toward his shoulders, framing his attractive face and striking a harsh contrast between its porcelain slopes; but it was the eyes that held their attention longest, two pupil-less pits that seemed to drain the light from the sky, and the warmth from their flesh.

Eventually, their surprise turned to anger though, and five gallant fools, brimming with bravado and an easy victory earlier in the day, charged headlong towards a being as immovable, and considerably older, than the mountains that towered above them, far off to the east. The Warlord's motions were simple, his stance impassive, and yet he swept aside each and every blow they made with the ease of a knight dispatching an ill-trained bandit; disarming one and then burying their weapon hilt-deep in another's head, as clumsy attacks failed to even strain the millenia of experience he possessed. Cries of anguish echoed through the woods that afternoon, announcing not only the arrival of the seasoned swordsman, whose boots had trod the stars, but foreshadowing someone far more sinister as well, as another silhouette appeared in the midst of the crackling portal; while a monster bore down upon a maiden, and promised torment, in place of salvation.

In the darkness of war, there are at times no mercy, and no remorse; but no matter the intent or the zeal that fuelled it, there was always Malice.

[Isolate]

An endless black abyss drifted through his consciousness like a vulture circling high above its sickly prey, waiting patiently for it to succumb. Obstinate and irrevocable, it weaved between memories, swallowing every vestige of his happiness. It clung to the interior of his skull, ensnaring his thoughts in a web of compliant sorrow and leeching off of their essence. It was everything and nothing, concrete and amorphous, radiant and lackluster. Yet, in all its protean resplendence, it retained a single, glaring flaw. This nemesis, this parasitic void, was entirely contingent on his willingness to suffer, to capitulate and allow the darkness to recapture every moment of his agony. He knew this, and yet it remained, engulfing him.

With each pained step he took, Bastion delved deeper into his past. Instead of releasing himself from torment, he only prolonged it, leaving himself at the mercy of his regrets and the disquieting remembrance of loved ones lost. For him, there was but one salve to spread on this aching wound: death. With each stroke of his blade, each connection of his fist, he felt at peace. Only when lost in the solace of unabated rage and focus was he ever able to forget the oblivion of his thoughts. The cries of the men who lay at Bastion's feet did not fall on deaf ears out of cruelty alone. No, they went unheard because Bastion was not about to let the incessant screaming of another pained soul infect him. Not then, not in the only moments that he could remember what joy felt like.

His introspection was abruptly disrupted by a voice, calling in the distance. Without slowing his pace, Bastion drifted his eyes to the right until he was just able to identify the vague outline of a hulking form. Rallen... he thought, sucking air in through his teeth and flicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He'd met the semi-mechanical warrior on a few occasions, but not for more than a fleeting moment. They'd never spoken, and Bastion had hoped to keep it that way. He'd never formulated an opinion of the subcommander; all he knew was that Rallen was in a position of authority, which earned his instant disapproval.

There had been many instances where Bastion's prowess in battle had been recognized by his superiors. On several occasions, he had been offered high-ranking positions that would better accomodate his methods and skills. Not once, however,had he accepted these offers. If he had, he would probably be Rallen's equal, but the thought had never even crossed his mind. Bastion had a problem with most anyone who held a position of authority. The very idea of claiming ascendancy over another,regardless of strength or ability, caused him to boil with a certain type of rage reserved for just such matters.

Sir Bastion! What's your report on the current situation? The question was rattling around his rather unstable brainpan, jarring his senses and forcing him to gnash his teeth unconsciously. Oh, how he wished for nothing more than to tear this man apart with unbridled fury, to rend him helpless and show him how invalid his command truly was. When he was begging on his knees for mercy, he'd ask him how it felt to be exposed, to come out from hiding behind the mask that was rank. Then he would kill him before he could answer.

Somehow, though, Bastion prevented himself from doing so, quieting the demons in his stomach. He assured himself that he was still a soldier, that he must uphold his purpose even though it was not something he believed in. He closed his eyes for a moment, surrounding himself with an all too familiar inner darkness. There, behind his eyelids, was the portrait of a man, gray-haired and veiled in light. Years of separation had caused this image to become blurred and distant, but the memory behind it had not, and would not, fade.

In the eyes of the Knights of the Bloody Seer, Bastion's mentor had long been discarded as a valiant soldier who had served his purpose, and nothing more. That was all he would be remembered as to them, but not to Bastion. When Bastion longingly praised his mind's depiction of this wizened champion, he recalled the only person who had ever shown him empathy, who had cared for him, who had given him the tools to be human. These feelings had long turned to ash and been cast to the wind, but the memory of the man who showed them to him was something that would never fade. That man had provided Bastion with a purpose in the form of the Bloody Seer and, though Bastion did not accept this purpose as his own, he carried out his mentor's wishes out of love and respect. Some part of him remembered this love, and it allayed his agitation.

Passively, he turned his neck so that his head was facing in the general direction of his superior officer. He made no eye contact and spoke in a half-whisper, loud enough to bridge the gap between them but quiet enough so that Rallen would have to strain his ears to hear him. "I am uncertain of what situation you are inquiring about...sir." There was a purposeful delay before Bastion credited the man with a title of respect, accompanied by the stentorian rumble of his gruff discontent. Praying that this man had not been sent on direct orders to accompany him for some ludicrous mission decreed by an even higher authority, Bastion continued walking.

[Modulation]

"The current situation here, Sir Bastion. I see but one soldier, in the midst of flames and fury. Though it seems things are well in hand." Walking up, taking a quick pace to catch up with the other knight, Rallen walked beside him. "There have been reports of men becoming unruly, and forgetting their duties. Abandoning the battle for sins of lust and greed. Other men, hiding in our midst." Captain Lumiere, as he was dubbed, was in a position where he was because he had no longer contented himself with being a lone warrior. Men won battles - armies won wars. "And, if you were done bloodying your fists here, I would be glad if you were to assist in finding these men and clearing their ranks." Something stopped him, though, as a frantic call came in. "Captain! A large energy signature has been reported just north of your position, in a vortex pattern. It appears to be a portal." "One of ours?" "Definitely not. The entry sent ripples throughout most of the unit. My guess is that the bulk of the other Dagothians in the army will have felt it as well." "I'm on my way now."

He continued walking next to Bastion for a moment. "Change of plans, Sir Bastion. Something just entered into the field north of here through a high-energy portal. We're the closest to it at the moment - reinforcements will arrive shortly, should it be hostile. And if it should, this would be the perfect opportunity to test your mettle against something other than farmers with spears." The last words, though they weren't meant to, suggested Rallen's distaste in fighting such people. Trained fighters and dissenting soldiers were one thing - but slaughter was another. Stopping now, though, he turned around and began to head towards where Owens had directed him. He hadn't given any orders to Bastion in the entire conversation...merely, suggesting a temporary partnership on the field. Rallen was not Sir Bastion's commander, because the brawler didn't answer to a commander other than in official rank and file. Therefore, he didn't see fit to order the man around.

It didn't take very long at all before he observed something horrid, beyond any imagining. A terror which spoke of something otherworldly...something that could destroy the realm at a whim. He saw the monster, and saw as it headed towards the woman. He aimed his right arm, and swept the flat of the blade down it with mighty strength, tearing the shield from its bolts and sending it spinning right at...whatever it was. "You shall not take her before you face me!" His chivalry, and the Code, would not let him see this woman come to harm. Protect the innocent. Be prepared to sacrifice one's life for the good of the Knighthood. Those were two of the rules he followed, after taking the Blood Oath. He had bent the rule of attacking something with its back turned - but by calling out, it would give fair warning. This would be a rough fight, regardless.

"Tell them to hurry with the reinforcements."

[-Atra-]

...Yes, there are numerous stories about the chaos caused by the tyranny of kings and devils. Those who have bellowed or whispered their names from the depths of sea, mountain, sand and air have known countless years of mayhem. Two who presently stir in the coiling calm; brought down from the heavens like hungry raven across battlefields were no strangers to such things. And now born they were into this world, from an abysmal womb that gaped wide, an unforeseen cavity that sprawled before the feet of travellers. Within her mind, so many dreams of old came flooding back in shapes reflecting the tumult of banners and spears accompanied by the clamour of bugles brave. She could remember bold ballads sung from triumphant lips seeking the horizons of landscapes that rose from the sun.

Barbaric lands and kingdoms immense, rumoured with baroque wealth, and picturesque as if the heavens had opened and revealed its ideal of paradise. Deeply profound new worlds were, filling her senses with newfound life and vales of blood... red, like cinnamon and myrrh incensing the skies above. Citizens fleeing in droves to avoid the suffocating might of a master's cruel harsh thumb, applying the pressure of law and justice? Alas, these hapless souls would never return to the salvation of their homes, for just as quickly as the winds could bring warmth, something was born unto this world, rolling its tawny billows over the gardens of green and fragrant lands.

Quickly as one could divine the terrorizing eyes of slumber, or determine the quickness of breath- a doorway from otherworlds had opened, hollow with illuminations of dawn and shadow. Spinning luminosity drawn towards its center, a helix created between time and space, tangibly pregnant with the infinite of what loomed behind the threshold. A profound abysm of teeming shadows gleaming with a glimpse of the world where they had come. An ever-changing energy vibrated from out the vortical, constantly spinning and weaving... a liquid-semiopaque doorway breaking upon the surface imageless but definable, resembling the indented prism of a kaleidoscope... from within this two figures came into plain view.

Malice elevated before her, behemothic from the orifice of blackness, already in pursuit of some sumptuous delicacy of flesh- her beloved devourer of innocence and hearts, preened for the banquet of pillage and plunder, nostalgic days of old. Yet, in her awakening into this strange place was a little unsure, almost sceptical, observing the advance with a glint of reminiscence in her flagrant stare searching past the leafing oaks with foliage of copper, flax and flame. Chin angulated to haughty stature before convening to another direction where the agonies surrounded the terrain in cloying disharmony of death and the dying passionately relishing- the sighing of oblivion. Spine-tingling, delightful and exhilarating music fluttered within her heart, a ghastly euphoria; the trumpets of damnation, becoming one with the trumpets of infinity. Moving through the woods with a quick pace, senses driving her to the captivating aroma of decomposition... a scent quite intoxicating to any necrotic partitioner of the 'dark arts'.

Ah, what a sweet embalmer of toxic influences gathered burlesque through the woods... a harangue of corpse-winds. It was a collision through the trees which tore her attentions abruptly away from the interest of torture. An unsanctioned soldier, war-torn with the madness of battle ablaze in his verdant-green eyes ascended upon her, his mark targeted towards the swan-like grace of her throat. No doubt he was a proud man, gifted with the sword by the manner which he held it. Conviction ablaze as if he was the burning hand of justice herself. A voice abrupt, yelling with guttural condemnation... "DEATH TO THE WITCH!!!", the soldier's mind adrift in confusion and panic having just witnessed the perils of some of his comrades. With his declaration, tarnished thoughts raced through his mind... 'what else could she be other than witch or harpy? What civilian woman would revere death such as this?' It was Atra's natural reflex that discovered the comfort of her hilt, a slender quirked brow bestowing attitude in retort to his statement.

Withdrawing the szabla swiftly across from her side, blade singing against sheath lip as it was extracted. Expedition diagonally unleashed across her naval, but she did not retort to this adjudicator for no sooner than his blade sung swiftly through the air, her momentum swiftly leapt into action. Right wrist snapping upwards 'en guard' defence, parrying the weapon with directive force; repositioning the slicing edge of her blade as it stroked along the inside of his blade, with cold affection. Taking a step closer, bringing her sword somewhat vertically, wrapping sharp edges around HIS weapon followed by forcefully directing the tip of HERS aggressively downwards towards the outside of his blade so that it slid efficiently along the outer edge to mid-blade. In addition to rapidly jerking against the cutlass, his weapon was forced from his hands and landed a few feet away.

Moving askance to stand between the soldier and his weapon, a cruel sarcastic smirk slid across her face, a conquering libation though he was hardly worth the celebration of glory. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind to run, she assailed him, a harbinger of death to which moments before he had attributed her with... sword hungrily piercing his abdomen. Using his weight and impetus against the soldier, she forced him rearward, a tottered trophy amongst the temples of Mars- a falling goliath amongst the stars. Boot heel pinned against torso applying pressure to near crushing feats whilst sword teased the weather-beaten leather tunic of his attire. Leisurely Atra sunk the blade in deep, akin to the rape of virginal walls where effluvia greeted the palate with vermillion wines.

Right hand unhurriedly twisting, missing the vital organs, purposefully, encouraging the screams to rupture the disquiet with electrifying sequence. His departure heralded the spectral ship to sail from mortal shore. A callous hand grasping around the soldiers exposed throat with left hand, crimson lips moving leisurely as it to grant the affection of her dark kiss but changing direction in its purpose to mock- his fate wasn't to be one of mercy. Whether it was by abhorrence alone or the poison which gripped her, Atra pulled him into thickets of the gathering fog, arabesque vista's clutching his body in the gloaming hues of mottled shades like horrors threatening to drag him back to purgatory. Only his blood-curdling screams would be heard. A cacophony in erupting through twilight shades... then an unnerving silence... and then again... those inciting screams of brutal agony tearing through the discord with incensed verse.

Semblances, 'in sanguine fœdus' [a covenant ratified in blood], Atra worked at a leisured pace, art should never be rushed; only enjoyed- to revel on the sibilant red liquid adorning her hands as life escaped his body with faded breath. Death should never come on swift wings but instead sweetly adrift- for there was much reverence in the taking of a life. There is nothing more sacred than life. The defeated man pinned like a scrutinized insect on a bed of nails, sheathing szabla whilst her black eyes gazed over him while dipping in height to straddle his chest applying the constrictive force of leathered limbs in seductive decline. Silver armour digits roughly scathing his face as they reflected his death within the resplendence of their surface, cold mirrors frosted with his last breath. Rivulets of her black hair fell over diminutive shoulders hunched as she sat there devilishly astride, with gloating pride.

An intangible stroke of wind swept back the silken cascades from her face revealing the intensity of midnight eyes while his stared back, lifeless, seized in horror. Intoxicating it was to stare into the abyss, where she almost felt at home reflected within those frozen pits of terror as her left hand obscured his lips, to that of a muffle while her voice sung a soft lullaby of a vibrated hiss, honeyed poison softly ushered before dialogue was spoken... "Sssssssh!... Animus ut est phasmatis , est non vomica ut fio humus vel pulvis; portatur habito in cruor! Tamen est nex quisnam vindicatum panton , pro est a lex , non ultio ultionis... morior tamen unus ut totus vir mos sapor." ["The soul that is spirit is not cursed to become dirt or dust; it is carried to dwell in the blood! But it is death who claims everything, for it is a law, not punishment, to die... but one that all men will taste..."]

Right hand obtaining the knife lodged in the gulf of boot, lifted it to the firmament then forcefully directed downward greeting his lower intestine with cold steel. With an ample flick of the wrist in another violent incision made to lavishly scorch his cold flesh producing crimson streams. A dis-welcoming demise, 'Sanguis-Corvus', ribs sliced to the loins but not enough to kill the wretched soul, just enough to keep him conscious, alive and howling. Revealing the exposed cavity towards the heavens,then, rendering the inner costal cartilage and manubriums sluiced for the extraction of his prized heart... exhuming it, devouring it... Pandora’s Box forced to expose the treasures of frailty and hopelessness locked away within the trinket that houses the soul. Hands reaching inside... digging... in through the cavity, rotating within to the depth of wrists, enjoying the elation of guttural ambrosia of the internal organs.

Lungs forcibly extracted from widening orifice with a sickening wet then a loud audible 'pop'. A macabre sculpture crafted by sadistic hands, knife voyaging torso along the length of arms where flesh fell to the shape of crude ravenesque wings- a beleaguered butchery. Spreading the viscera outwards from the spine, peeling back flesh to disinter bone...then artfully manipulating the effigy of crude corrupted blood-stained wings, then the lungs brutishly exhumed from the slits in his back. Rivers of vermillion pooling around his body, an object itself that bore no real ritualistic importance other than an emblem of her own device. Purified in the Goetic tribute of metallic shimmers, blessing the earth in shamanistic salutation, baptized in the benediction of sacrificial rite to appease those who govern the land, above and so below, of all the liminal thresholds and crossroads.

An endearing respect offered in the solitude of her necromantic respect. A regard of ethic akin to her workings, and that all gnosis was sacred. However, the killing was not one of passion but one of necessity, to learn of this new land, by the connection of its blood and the life that was birthed from its mothers; to reveal all knowledge learned through his lifetime from birth to death, the revelations and tribulations. To dispel her lack of knowledge from the tenebrous darkness of this world’s culture she had to sink a little deeper into the bowels of perception to educate herself in regards to its secrets. Again diving into the body of the corpse to tear out the liver, knowing that blood was the base of life itself and the liver purified the blood. The only reason behind this act was to familiarize her mind and essence with the ways of the land and those who governed it through the experiences the soldier had seen and endured during his life. Even the dead have their stories to tell...

Sprawling out the bluish-cinereal pulp with the skill of Haruspicy (the study of organs for the sake of divination), mapping out the contents as an astronomer would the celestial luminaries. Entering a trance-like state although perceptions still remained alert about her, bestride with knife in hand and the soldier nothing but a broken toy shattered by her ruin. The carnage now was a black dream, one she was caught in whilst engaged in that heightened state of awareness, eyelids flickering before being completely to the darkness concealed behind ravenesque lashes, where figureless shapes formed before her. Coaxing her to join their throes of ritual and perversity. The incense of death caught in the breeze; of the aconite amid poppies that bloomed in the fields. Cupped hands imbrued with entrails; strands of tissue dangling between bloodied fingers, medusa-like with her arpeggio of serpents.

Dripping blood that fell in suspended animation only to bless the earth before rusting, drying upon the thirsty soil... a man must accept his fate, or be destroyed by it... from shore to crumbling shore. The soldier’s final thoughts racing through her mind, what she was... she didn’t really know for it was all the same to her and for the first time Atra questioned her own existence... sorceress, seraphim, born from Devils or from Gods, what did it matter? Be it from hell, heaven or the dimensions between, sowing all fanciful death as if it was a web: she had been the Queen of a mighty clan... yet a slave of none other than the madness which she had governed for lifetimes. Atrocity her bejewelled rosaries, dread her unholy laurels... blood... her glistening rubies inverted by a faith that fell so short of faithlessness. Sacrifice... a precious amulet that garnished her throat in an ornament of infernal flame, a curse, given by an ill-fated name and hatred that long burned upon her flesh. It all was for nothing....and for the first time, an expression of surrender stained her features...

Before necromantic mirrors she witnessed scenes, where dimly a dark voice spoke of schemes...

[Morgan]

And as Sir Gregor ac Patia was answering the Dread Margrave’s questions, another interrogation was taking place.

After Morgan had slipped the box into the soldier’s hands, she had retreated to her tent expecting to peel the metallic casing from her body and sink into the meager comfort of the simple cot that flanked the right wall of her tent. Instead, upon entering, she was disappointed to find an intruder.

“About time you showed up,” Tralik said as he stepped from the shadows and into the light of a lamp Morgan had lit and placed on the only other piece of furniture in the room.

“What do you want, Tralik?” Not a hint of surprise (or welcoming) could be heard in the woman’s cold response to her intruder’s presence as she leaned the claymore against the table. Unclasping the dagger from her waist, she dropped it onto her cot then began to work the various fastenings and catches of her armor before settling it into a pile nearby her weapon.

“We have a debt to settle,” he answered, his greedy eyes soaking in every inch of Morgan’s bared skin as she slipped into a simple gown that skirted just past her hips.

“I told you before, Tralik, my debts are settled. You'll get nothing from me,” she answered, sitting on the edge of her cot as she slid her hand through the curls that had become matted against her forehead.

“Oh, you'll pay...dearly,” he vaulted towards her, hands outstretched.

Morgan quickly rose to her feet, hand already clutching the grip of her dagger. Though unable to remove it from its scabbard, a well-timed backhand connected the flat edge of the sheathed dagger against the side of Tralik’s head. Annoyed, Morgan snatched him by the collar and forcefully dragged him along.

“Your life has been spared,” she seethed, “consider whatever debt you think I owe paid.”

"Hello? May I come in?"

Tralik tumbled out of Morgan’s tent and hit the ground face first.

A hard glare was cast upon the knight that stood at her tent before she waved her hand in an irritated fashion, “May as well.”

She wouldn’t be resting any time soon this night.