Sam Hunter Saga: A Date With Destiny

It is a cold windy evening in late October, a time when the night slowly begins to creep in earlier and leaves crunch underfoot. I am returning home from my recent hunting trip, my quiver slung over my right shoulder and a nearly full game bag over my left. My bow I held loosely in my left hand, knowing that should something attack me the wicked looking hunting knife at my belt would be a better weapon to defend myself with.
I pad silently through the woods, the leather soles of my boots falling silently on the rain dampened soil, the scent of the recent downpour still lingered on the wind rustling through the trees overhead, making my silent footsteps all the more indistinguishable. I hum a quick tune as I walk, one barely audible over the wind, even to myself, as my expertly trained hunters eyes scan the foliage around me for tricks, traps or anything else out of the ordinary. I spot nothing more than a black squirrel darting along the branches of a maple not far from the winding hunters path I am following.
A sudden sound causes me to pause, a low gurgling cough, something odd about it catching my interest, and I decide it was best to investigate whatever was making the noise, for better or worse. As I step from my well worn path I increase my stealth, discarding my game bag hiding it in the cleft of a nearby tree, to retrieve later. As I approach the noise it becomes clearer, more defined. It is now recognizable as a human sound, much like a nagging phlegm filled cough, more mucus then anything else. I decide to press myself against a tree before I expose myself to whatever it is in the clearing beyond.
I slowly peek my head around the trunk of the tree I am using as cover, finally able to pair a sight to the noise. What I see horrifies me, and holds me in place, while my mind reels at what I am bearing witness to. Quickly I step out from behind the sturdy oak that had acted as my shelter, and approach the fallen, half dead form of Tasha, my sister. I can tell from the sound she makes, and my own hunting experience, that one of her lungs must be punctured, by what I could not tell, it was too dark out now to see the wound clearly.
Her eyes were clamped shut tightly, screwed up with pain and sorrow, tears spilling unchecked from the slightest opening at the edge of her eyes, down her freckled cheeks, to spill onto the moist ground already saturated with her life blood. As she hears me approach her eyes slowly peel open, revealing her beautiful brilliantly bright violet eyes, the sight of which always captivates me, catching my heart unawares and setting it off to beat in a frenzy. Her gaze lingers past me, unfocussed, before she swings her gaze to my face, and a small spark of recognition appears in her features. She opens her mouth, as if trying to speak, but to no avail.
Quickly I kneel on the soaked earth, feeling the warm liquid seep into the leather of both my boots and pants, and scoop her into my arms, cradling her upper body against my chest, headless of the crimson liquid splashing against my body. A single tear rolls down my face, falling from my chin to land in a swirling pool of blood on her neck.
“Sam,” she mutters. Forcing herself to speak even though it's obvious her death is nearing with every second. Her eyelids flutter, and she becomes more limp in my grasp, as if slipping away from me as I stare into her beautiful, ruined face, memorizing every exquisite detail. I shake her like your not supposed to shake a dieing person, and her eyes open once more, the luster leaving them, as her skin begins to lose it's peachy colour, greying before my eyes.




“Tasha, I'm here! Wh-who did this to you?!” I call out. Anger and sorrow choke my words, twisting them into animal cries of despair and pain. I cling to the near lifeless body of my sister, the most precious person in the world to me, finally noticing an arrow embedded into the ground next to where Tasha was laying originally. It was familiar to me even soaked in blood, with small tattered pieces of Tasha's flesh hanging from it's point, snapped in half, with its flights damaged and disjointed. It was one of father's arrows, the red stripe around the shaft just below the tip revealed it.
I look back to Tasha's face, just as she opens her mouth and a single word escaped from between her pale lips. “Father,” and with her message delivered Tasha slips into the void, escaping the confines and pain of her flesh, her soul free from the torments inflicted, never again to feel pain, to finally be at peace. Forever more to feel the embrace of the dark void, the peace born of loneliness and solitude.
I clutch her corpse, tears stinging my eyes, leaving twin waterfalls of sorrow in their wake. I mumble incoherent words, as I rock back and forth, stroking Tasha's hair. My sorrow seems limitless, as I lose sense of time, distance and reality itself seems to slip through my grasp, joining my beloved in the void of darkness. I do not know how long I rock as such, with thoughts of madmen floating through my mind, suicide looming over me, nor do I wish to try to recollect the time I spent in that state of pain and suffering. Somewhere deep in my insanity a spark reignites, a purpose driving me back to reality within moments of me taking my own life. I lift my head, once more devoid of this biting heartache, rubbed raw by it, leaving behind a raw, unbridled flame of hatred, anger and malice, all aimed at one person. I gently lower my sister's body onto her bed of leaves, before I rise, eyes shut. As I stand I lift my head and open my eyes. The flame of my determination burning just beneath their calm emerald surface.
Someone would pay dearly for this crime, and I knew exactly where to look. I leap forward, gathering my bow and quiver, rushing forward, running deftly through the woods, stirring not a branch as I travel, leaving my game bag discarded in the tree, it's existence forgotten. I cling tightly to my bow, with such pressure I create cracks in the hardened wood, splintering it. Some of these small fragments of wood pierce the callused flesh of the palm of my hand, drawing thin streams of crimson from my veins.
I arrive at the small wooden building before realizing it, not noticing my own haste as I fled through the forest, the bright light spilling it's warmth from the kitchen window, and the small stone chimney billowing thick black smoke from it's opening. Everything looks oddly normal after the brutal scene I had stumbled upon in the forest.
I calm my racing pulse before walking down the paved path and up the small front steps onto the veranda. I stand in front of the door a moment before pushing it open as silently as the rusted hinges would allow. I step inside the friendly happy atmosphere, which dies the moment I step over the threshold, seven pair of eyes swinging to me, roving over my blood drenched leather hunting attire. I stare out over them calmly, looking for one person in particular.
No one spoke a word, but their silence, coupled with the looks in their eyes told me they all knew something I didn't, and it was then that it hit me, and pain exploded from the base of my skull, before blackness enveloped all.

~xXx~


When I awake I first discover the excruciating pounding just behind my eyes, an ache in my brain that just would not fade. Then I tried to open my eyes, only to make then pain double in intensity, and to discover that I could not open my eyelids, could not force them to part from the flesh of my cheeks. I continued to try, putting as much effort into the cause as I was able to, until I felt a warm liquid seep out of the corner of my left eye, roll down my face until it reached my mouth. At which point I flicked my tongue out to catch the liquid, before immediately spitting it back out. Blood.
As I processed this in my mind, I finally registered the pressure of a cloth against my face, covering it from the bridge of the nose upwards, pulled tightly against the skin painfully so, much like a bandage. I try to reach up with my left hand to probe at this bandage and see what grievous wound it covers, only to find that both my wrists are bound to my sides. I growl in frustration and begin to thrash about in place despite the growing stream of blood from my left eye. I heave myself forward, trying to pry myself loose, only to discover my legs are shackled, and attached to what I assumed to be a metal spike driven into the wooden floorboards.
My thrashing has gained me attention, and I hear one of my brothers, my captors, shouting. After a few moments I hear father raise his voice louder than the first voice, cutting him off mid tirade, followed by a meaty smacking sound, as if he had slapped the original shouter. I wait for someone to enter the room, and for a few minutes all I hear is silence, and my own heartbeat. But after what feels like an eternity, but could not have been more than five minutes I hear the door open. I can immediately tell who it is. My youngest sibling, Nick, enters the room, his usual limping gait betraying his presence.
“Nick, what's happening? Why am I tied up? Where am I?” I ask, finally managing to spit out the words, after a few false starts, each word feeling like acid being poured down my throat, though I forced myself to speak clearly and concisely.
I can tell by the length of time that Nick remains silent that he is hesitant to tell me anything, afraid of the punishment that will surely come if he helps me in any way. But after nearly a minute of silence, when I was beginning to fear he was not going to answer me I heard a muttered reply, three simple words, with a world of impact.
“The Smoking Hut,” he said, his bad leg dragging along the floor as he began to leave, but before he could exit the room fully I call out to him once more, a tone of pleading in my voice.
“Nick, can you get me some water please,” I heard no reply, not that I had expected one, and as the door swung shut behind Nicks back I began to think. His three word reply had given me much information. My family had many smoking huts, which we would use to smoke and treat the meat we would gather while hunting, after skinning it at the house. We would bring the dead animal here, or to one of the other huts, and prepare the meat, cleaning it, stretching it, removing anything that looked contaminated, or bad, and finally smoking it to preserve it for winter. We had about thirty such huts strewn about the forest around the house, in order for many of us to b busy preparing the meat, instead of lazing about at the summer house. We had a few around the winter house, but less, as we tended to overstock ourselves for the colder months, in order not to have to hunt in the snow.
But there was only one such hut we called The Smoking Hut. It was largest, and located in the exact center of both our homes, making it the easiest to access all year round. It had many rooms for salting, storing, and cleaning the meat. From the smell it seemed I was held within one of the storage rooms, one recently emptied for the purpose of holding me.
I heard muffled voices outside the door, from the sound of things it was two of my sisters, probably Paige and Bridget. The door opened and they entered, their voices dieing away as they saw me pinned to the wall, and bleeding. When they walk straight up to me I wonder what they intend, but it appears Nick passed on my request after all, as they raise a pitcher of water to saturate my burning throat. A momentary bliss overtakes me as the cool liquid glides down my throat, filling it with wondrous moisture. Once I drank my fill, and the pitcher was significantly emptier I clear my throat and attempt to speak, finding with satisfaction that my voice is once more under my control, and that words no longer burn as they leave me.
“Undo this cloth, and let me see where I am, please, I can bear the darkness no longer,” I plead with my sisters, hoping that their compassionate nature will convince them to aid me, to allow me that one small comfort of being able to see my surroundings. I feel, rather than see, them conferring with one another, whispers passing from their lips to each others ears, words not meant for me to hear. After a while Paige clears her throat as well, and with shaky words replies.
“W-we can't do that, if we take the bandage off... you-,” Her voice trailed off leaving the sentence unfinished, not that I had heard passed the first half of her sentence, the words we can't filling my ears, and blocking out the rest of their words. Left over anger, and frustration boils over, and I blow up at these two innocent girls.
“Why damn it!? What's beneath the Bloody bandage that's more important than my eyes?” I shout, struggling once more with my bonds, causing them to hastily back away from me, in fear of what I might be able to do. I manage to loosen the strap on my left wrist when Bridget calls out to me.
“Stop! We can't do it because if we did you would bleed to death, the cloth is the only thing keeping you alive right now,” She spoke quickly, as if knowing that I should not know this news, and that my anger might increase. But it has the exact opposite effect, calming me down instantly. I lick my lips, as I let my ragged breathing calm once more.
“Where is the wound, that this needs to cover my eyes?” I ask, my voice as smooth and as calm as a pond of water, masking my seething emotions, the whirlpool that consumes my being. I swallow the growing lump in my throat, awaiting their reply.
“It's your eyes... they... they were removed,” As Paige's words hit my ears I exhale sharply, falling limply into my bonds, the only thing preventing me from falling onto the floor. I shake my head in disbelief, how could anyone do something so cruel to a person, let alone their own son. Then it hits me, never again will I be able to enjoy a hunt, never again will I be able to use a bow. I weep, my body shaking with the giant convulsive sobs, the overwhelming depth of my sorrow astounds me, but I embrace the numbing sobs, it lessens the pain, though only a little. I raise my head, and aim it in the general direction of my sisters, my stark white hair pouring over the cloth, falling haphazardly over my face.
“Release me, I must speak with father,” even to my own ears my voice is alien, so strong and commanding, so powerful it startles me to hear, and had my eyes worked I would have blinked in shock. I lift myself in my bonds, preparing to shout my words if need be, but the sheer tone of my voice willed my sisters to obey. I smile slightly as I feel my wrists being released, the cord no longer digging into the tender flesh there. I rub feeling back into them, while my sisters unlock the shackles on my ankles.
I reach out a hand to use as a guide, only to have both hands taken, one by each of my sisters, one placing a knife in my hand, my hunting knife. I smile, feeling it's familiar weight and shape brings me back to better times, and for a moment I escape into the past, reliving my first hunt, how father had shown me how to take down a full grown buck with a single arrow, and how, if it still lived, to give it mercy by plunging the sharp knife into it's heart. Thinking about father became painful, remembering what he did to both me and Tasha. I grit my teeth as Paige and Bridget lead me towards this man, knowing my vengeance is near at hand.
As we walk down the hallway I can feel my siblings join us, Nick leading the way. I draw strength from their presence, and having them all so near calm me, filling me with resolve. I slam my foot into the wooden frame of the doorway leading to the main room, where a voice calls out to me, obviously my father.
“Nick, learn to pick up your feet,” He called out, mistaking the sound for Nick's limp foot slamming into the doorway. I let out a small grim smile, which only grows as I hear my father's chair scrape across the wooden floorboards, and his curse as he jumps to his feet. I stand as straight as I can, looking as proud as someone being lead by two little girls can be. I have no clue as to the location of my father, not knowing if I am staring at him, or past him. I wait to let him speak first, which is when I hear his deep throaty chuckle.
“Why do you girls help my lost son? He who has fallen from purity,” father asks of Paige and Bridget, who's hands tighten on my wrists as their bodies tense. I scowl, as best I can with the upper half of my face covered. I wrap my arms around myself, placing my hands on those of my sisters, smiling at them. I make them release my arms before I approach the man who killed Tasha.
“Why did you do it father? Why kill Tasha?” I hear many gasps, and realize my whole family had gathered to watch the match between myself and our father. I grip my knife tightly in my hand, waiting for my moment, when he least expects me to attack. As I stand waiting father laughs again, and spits at my feet.
“You know why, your incestuous love had to stop, and you are my heir, I could not kill you. Besides, boys are so much better at finding another to love, had I killed you Tasha would have killed herself to be with you, her twin. Oh and your eyes were a punishment, good luck hunting without them,” loathing and contempt filled his words, plunging icy daggers into my ears. Cold sorrow entrapped my heart, as I realized that this was all my fault. Had I only spoken before about my past...
I look up at the man who calls himself my father, and I stand defiant, blood trickling from my empty eyesockets, leaving crimson tears on my face. I begin to tremble, both from sorrow, and outrage. I grip my head in my hands, barely avoiding stabbing myself as I do so. I scream in rage, dropping to my knees, and begin pounding the wooden floorboards. I fall onto my chest, all my siblings standing shocked, unable to move, both from fear of father, and from fear of me. I stand once more, and with a shaky voice speak once more.
“This is my fault, I never told you, mother never wanted me to tell you... I should have told you, like I told Tasha...” my words a mumbled stream, barely following their own winding path as they tumbled from my mouth. I sigh and stop speaking.
“Should have told me what?” Sneered my father, confidently striding towards me.
“I'M NOT YOUR SON!!!” I shout, putting all of my emotions behind my words, letting their meaning sink into everyone before I jump across the table, using my empty left hand to push off of it, propelling me towards the spot where my fathers footsteps had stopped. I scream savagely as his elbow connects with the side of my skull, as the weight of my body drives the point of my blade home, between his ribs, plunging into his shrivelled, blackened heart, ending his life in moments.
As father dies I pull myself away from his corpse, my head wound freshly opened, and pain encompassing my being. I know I will not survive, my head is bleeding too much for me to continue to live. So I reach out to my adoptive family, needing to explain to them before I leave them forever.
“When your parents were having Tasha, the very day she was born, your mother found me, in the woods outside of the cabin. She decided to take me in, and raise m as her own. She never told father.
The summer before she died, about four years ago, she told me everything, and I confessed to her my feelings for your eldest sister, which until that point I knew were wrong. When she told me my past I was overjoyed, but she made me swear never to tell anyone, but I broke that promise and told Tasha. So we began to have a relationship different from brother and sister, we became so much more... until father ended all that in a single day. I'm sorry I never told you.” I speak without pausing, knowing that I might slip into the void at any moment. I reach up and touch who I believe to be Joshua, the next oldest after myself.
“Josh your in charge now, look after your family. I know I will.” And with my final parting I lay my head onto the blood drenched wooden planks and let the growing blanket of darkness take me to my true love, in the bright heavens above.

Atop a solitary hill, bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, stood two men, facing one another. Between the two the air seemed to crackle with the built up energy that permeated the area. The two men themselves shimmered with an aura of power, ribbons of energy floated lazily from them, casting vague shadows in the half light of dusk. The pair of fighters slowly closed on one another, a fist flying forward, only to meet the palm of the others hand and be turned aside. Using the momentum of the turn the man who had punched swung a leg up, kicking the other male across the chest, the flat of his leg connecting and knocked him back a step. Before he could recover the man again set upon him, lashing out with both fists and feet, striking the backpedalling figure several times. Then the fighter defending began to laugh, his hand a blur as he lashed out and caught the faster man by the throat; propelling him towards the ground, pinning him there beneath his knee.

The larger man reached out his left hand, palm glowing with a pulsing crimson light and grasped the hilt of a sword that materialized within his grip. Smiling devilishly the man plunged the blade down at his captive only to have his blade stopped by a wall of shifting steel in the form of many serrated daggers, each roughly the length and width of his forearm. Growling the man jumped away from his pinned foe, deflecting the onslaught of blades that had greeted the arrival of his sword. Switching his weapon into his right hand the warrior raised his gaze from his opponent to the man walking towards them. Scowling he stabbed his blade into the soil, and motioned at the newcomer. His opponent lithely regained his feet, and walked over to where the swordsman stood.

“Ezrion, Simon, the Warlords call for you,” called out the approaching elderly male, face deeply wrinkled, his sleeked back hair still mostly black, but with a dusting of grey around the roots. He waited respectfully while the brothers gathered their weapons, and donned the armour both had removed before they sparred. They followed the servant down the hillside, leaving behind the faintest tinge to the air – along with new gouges to join the numerous old scars in the dirt.

The brothers remained silent as they descended from the hill, both of them slowly evening out their breathing, though neither showed any other sign that the were tired from the fighting. A camp came into view of the trio. Prominent in it was the only tent, the one in which the seven Warlords held conference. The path to the tent was unobstructed, allowing the three men to see that the Warlords stood outside of the tent, none of whom looked too pleased to see the Arbusa brothers. Ezrion cracked a smile as he approached, and inclined his head to the seven figures before him. None of them moved.

Just when sweat started to form on Ezrion's forehead Lust sauntered forward. She leaned her face in close to his, fingernails trailing along his stubble covered jaw. Her mouth merely centimetres from his ear she whispered to him. “Next time, don't make us wait.”

“Of course not Warlord, no offence was meant.”

“I should hope not lover, else tonight you sleep alone.” Came the reply, her perfect lips curling into a smile, her words hinting at humour, but Ezrion could only feel relief. The Warlords hadn't done anything to openly oppose their chosen champion, for fear of making him appear weak, but he had expected something... more extreme. Ezrion glanced over and saw Wrath, his burly arms crossed across  his chest, coated in so many pale scars that from this distance it looked almost as if Wrath was indeed a Caucasian male, instead of one of the darker skinned races of the nether. Wrath stared at Ezrion's brother, red eyes literally burning with hatred, the small flames licked at his brow, singeing what little eyebrow he had left. Simon for his part seemed indifferent to the larger mans stare.


This contest of wills showed who truly held the power in this writhing army. Though the Warlords commanded the legions the Arbusa brothers contained more power than the seven did together. There had never been doubt in the brothers minds, that should a fight break out between themselves and the Warlords they would see the seven dead.

A hushed silenced had filled the area, all eyes on the nine figures, each one leaking power from them, creating a writhing sea of colour above the assembled crowd. A bark of laughter shattered the silence and Pride stepped past Wrath. “Gentlemen, if you would convene with us, we would like to begin this fell gathering.”

Ezrion glanced once more at his brother, who nodded, almost lethargic in his movements. Ezrion yawned once, before gesturing that the seven enter first. Ezrion followed close behind, Simon taking up the rear. Ezrion dropped into the nearest chair, which creaked under his weight, and looked around at the seven commanders of his uncles army. As always he disliked most of what he saw. The two women, Lust and Envy, being the only exceptions. Lust had Ezrion's mind, body, and soul; and Envy was jealous of that, and so the two women were always at each others throats. Occasionally they would manage to cooperate and corner the warrior, and the thoughts of those encounters brought a smile to lighten Ezrion's face.

Lust caught his smile, and winked at him, before turning to face Greed, who now spoke of the disposition of their forces. The siege would be swift, the keep they fought to take was a nearly impossible location to hold: the centuries had taken their tole on the ancient fortress, and as such it was nearly in ruins. Ezrion leaned back in his seat, and nodded absently as Greed continued on demanding various titles, tribute and other things for himself, most of which was ignored by everyone else, minus Envy who sulked in her chair. When he claimed that he would take control over most of the legions to engage the enemy chaos erupted within the tent. Ezrion gritted his teeth in annoyance.

“Enough of your petty squabbling! We do this by the books, each warlord takes his, or her, legion in. Wrath, Pride, and Greed attack the main gate, while Envy and Gluttony attack the weaker, probably less defended western gate, Sloth and Lust will take their forces to assault the east gate, while my brother and I slip past all the fighting and eliminate those in command, as well as anyone we consider a threat.” Ezrion growled, punctuating his first statement by slamming his fist onto the table. Above his head a small thunder cloud rumbled in agreement. Startled Ezrion looked up, just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Holding back laughter Simon got to his feet and blew the cloud apart, applying a small amount of power to ensure its destruction. Ezrion grumbled, and turned back to the gathered Warlords. He saw many of them restraining smiles, giggles and laughter. Rolling his eyes Ezrion stood.

“We're done here.” With that said he turned his back on the group and walked from the command tent.


* * *





Ezrion and Simon stood beside a collapsed tower, it's crown shattered, the broken fragments of the stone used to build it providing cover for the brothers while they waited. They had been crouched in the tower for several hours, having snuck into position the night before. They now waited for the assault to draw the forces within towards the gates so that they could sneak over the wall unseen and unopposed. Both the Arbusas were becoming sore, their legs cramping from the positions they were stuck in.

Simon was twirling a small ceremonial knife in his hands, too decorated to be used in real combat, it was more a sentimental symbol to the young warrior. Ezrion sat on his heels, absentmindedly poking at the broken shaft of a scythe that lay in the ruined tower, the Greek symbol of Omega etched into the wood, directly above where the shaft was fractured. Both men were growing impatient, and neither looked forward to having to spend another night camped in the destroyed battlement.

A loud concussion reached the warrior brothers, who as one stopped fidgeting and lifted their heads. Turning to his brother Simon grinned and began stretching his aching muscles. Ezrion followed suite.

“Time to get to work, and about bloody time too.” Simon grumbled, sliding the dull, decorative knife into his left boot. Standing he nodded at Ezrion, and the two Arbusa brothers, the chosen champions of the Chaotic Legions, made their approach to the stone wall before them.

Once they had clambered over the two looked around, a mist of powerful energy coating their eyes, aiding their vision in the shadows cast by the tall watchtower. This tower had clearly been raised as a replacement for the one that laid sprawled against the wall below, the blocks of stone unworn, showing no cracks, mortar intact, no vines creeping along the grey surface. The two males placed their backs against the tower, as they gazed into the keep, peering at it's fading white walls, the ragged tapestries which once depicted great emblems of the knightly order that resided here.

Ezrions gaze fell onto the gate, just as it opened, the hinges creaking so loudly that even from their vantage point the two men heard it. Out stepped a series of men, each dressed exquisitely, marking them as either high ranking soldiers, or civilians unfortunate enough to have paid a visit to the Order. Ezrion noted how each man wore a pair of swords at their belts, seemingly ignorant of their presence, signifying the mens acquaintance with the weapons.

Gesturing Ezrion informed his brother of the men, who nodded. With no warning both mens heads snapped to the men below, each of whom began to radiate with energy, each wielding enough power to rival one of the Warlords. Ezrion's face suddenly split into a smile. “Finally! Something for us to kill. Let's go to work dear brother.”

“I'm right behind you.” Words exchanged the brothers dropped the twenty feet from the top of the wall to the courtyard below, allowing their power levels to spike, drawing the attention of the ten white clad sorcerers. Hissing they reached for their weapons, spreading out into a crescent as they approached the brothers, knowing full well who they were. The invading pair of warriors stepped away from the corner they found themselves in, and drawing on their power, created their own deathly instruments; Ezrion a sword nearly the same size as himself, while Simon became coated in a writhing armour of daggers. Simon chuckled, as he began to spin in place, making complex gestures with his arms and legs, his weapons flying over his body, connecting with one part only to be sent off once more, a beautiful dance of control, finesse, and death.

The cracked flagstones beneath the men's feet began to vibrate, as the twelve men drew on their power, tainting the air with a kaleidoscope of colours, making every breath taste like rust. The man furthest to the left of the Bishops snarled, and threw himself at the two warriors, flames leaping from his blades, scorching the flagstones, heat waves rippling through the coloured air, lending a surreal atmosphere to the combat. Without breaking stride Ezrion hefted his massive blade, swatting the charging man to the side, throwing him nearly fifty feet. The man soared through the air, to collide with the edge of the keeps wall, bending unnaturally with the impact. He fell in a heap onto the ground. A red stain spread across the pristine white of his robes.

The nine remaining Bishops began to back away from the menacing figures before them, neither of whom was even so much as sweating. The Demon Brothers continued forward. Ezrion loosened his grip on the huge sword, and began to spin it rapidly. Reaching maximum speed the elder Arbusa released his weapon, which shot forward like a bullet, piercing straight into one of the Bishops, sending him flying into the far wall. Another loud concussion blasted the ten remaining figures, a plume of dust swirling up from the destroyed remains of the southern wall.

Seeing that one of their opponents was now unarmed three of the robed swordsmen rushed forward intending to rend Ezrion limb from limb. However as the lead warrior past Simon he stepped between him and his comrades, allowing the three to surround him. Without pausing Simon began to attack. His daggers flew from his hands, none missing, each one at least nicking one of the warriors before him. Each wound was instantly numbed, the nerves in the area destroyed.

The Bishops went on the defensive, creating barriers of wind by twirling their blades in front of themselves. Watching their motions Simon waited, before launching one more dagger, which passed easily through the weakest part of the barrier, piercing the defender in his heart. The other man shook his head, and retreated back to the relative safety of his comrades.

“Ninety-nine left...” Simon mumbled, eyeing the dagger still embedded within the dead man, the others having all returned to him, due to the energy infused within each blade. However the dead mans power was acting as a counter, effectively blocking Simon's connection with the weapon. Meanwhile Ezrion was duelling the Bishop who had run past Simon. Both combatants carried  a sword in either hand, though the one in white had many more wounds than Ezrion, who's left shoulder oozed blood steadily. Both brothers converged on the man, battering against his defences, both physical and magical, until he lay broken at their feet.

Turning back to their remaining foes both brothers smiled, a ghastly grin their teeth a bright counterpoint to the gore smeared on their faces. They took a step forward, and the Bishops flinched backwards. Ezrion's arm healed as the men watched, leaving no trace of the wound. Glancing at Simon, who nodded, Ezrion began to build up energy, causing himself to float inches off of the scarred surface of the cobblestone courtyard.

“Stop!” Commanded a woman's voice. Caught unprepared for this Ezrion released the energy prematurely and a wave of power flowed from him, pushing back all the rubble, as well as blowing away any loose stones underfoot. Looking up to the roof of the keep the invading brothers saw a woman garbed all in silver. However unlike the men before them she wore armour, which shined brilliantly, the suns radiance hitting it perfectly.


Upon seeing their Champion the Bishops faces became tranquil, and each sheathed their blades in their own stomachs, eyes fixed on the woman above, each one transferring his power to her. Seeing this her expression turned sorrowful. Shutting her eyes the woman visibly calmed herself. Opening her eyes she jumped from the roof of the keep, landing on one knee in front of the Arbusas. Reaching behind herself the woman pulled out her weapons: a thin whip with a small metal spike at its head; and a scythe, the shaft being only as long as her forearm. Standing she turned so that her right side faced away from two brothers.

Ezrion and Simon began to spread out, moving away from one another in order to come at the woman from both sides. Before they could get into place the female warrior lashed out, the metal tipped whip whistling through the air to strike at Ezrion’s face, leaving a shallow gash across the left half of his face. Recoiling from the sudden attack the elder brother reached a hand up to his face, the gauntlet clad fist lightly probing the wound. Snarling Ezrion counterattacked, a blazing sphere of energy launching from the touching tips of his outstretched swords.

The silver clad Champion leaped over the blast, landing behind Simon. Simon, for his part, reacted immediately; daggers flying from his hands, being kicked from his feet. All were deflected from their intended target by a barrier, one which the female did not seem to need to concentrate on to keep active. She backed from Simon’s reach, and slashed with her scythe. Simon smirked, for she was too far to reach him. As she swung the shaft of the scythe lengthened, the blade growing proportionately. Eyes widening Simon dived from the path of the weapon, watching as it easily carved through the stones that a moment before he had been standing on.

Ezrion launched himself forward, seeming to hover over the ground as he rushed towards the female opposing him. He struck her with the flat of his swords, sending her flying straight through the wall that the brothers had climbed over to gain entrance into the keep. Ezrion knew without looking that she wasn't beaten yet.

Before the brothers could attack once more the main gate was breached, and the armies of Greed, Wrath, and Pride spilled in, slaughtering those defenders who still stood. Ezrion caught Wrath's attention, and pointed towards the breach, before he and Simon took off in that direction.

The two men passed through the new rubble, to stand nearly exactly where they stood before the battle began. They could not find the woman who they had been fighting but a moment before. Turning both men cast their gazes onto the remnants of the ancient fortifications, hoping to catch a telltale glimpse of shimmering silver. Try as they might however they did not find her.

Crying out Simon fell, many of his own daggers piercing into his mostly unprotected flesh. He seemingly had lost control of the power needed to maintain their precarious balance on his body. Ezrion barely had time to wonder what caused it when he felt his own energy levels receding, becoming sealed inside his body. Eyes widening the elder brother looked to his now empty hands, the symbols tattooed upon his palms no longer glowing with the energy that normally infused them. A flash of silver caught his attention, before a steel boot connected with his chest, knocking him flying backwards.
Hitting the tower Ezrion lost his breath, the wind being knocked out of him. As he fell the female's whip flashed towards him, and wrapped around his torso, constricting around him. With a flick of her wrist the Order's Champion flung Ezrion away, to land inside the destroyed turret, next to the broken scythe he had been fiddling with earlier. Seeing it Ezrion's eyes flashed, but he did not immediately take it. He rolled onto his back, resting one hand on the broken shaft of the scythe.

Simon was not idle during his brothers beating. He rose to his feet, removing the daggers from him, those he could safely extract, and limped towards the back of the woman. Without warning her scythe snaked out and struck at his shoulder, piercing through the front and emerging from behind him. It retracted, bringing the wounded warrior with it. Simultaneously the whip had again ensnared Ezrion, and was dragging him by an ankle towards the steel clad female. He was lifted until he hung upside down in front of her, blood trickling from various wounds on his upper torso.

Simon reached down with his left hand, lifting his leg, letting the scythe blade take his weight, hissing against the pain, to draw the small knife from within. Screaming his fury Simon drove the knife between the plates of her armour, catching her off guard, and penetrating her side, brushing against the bone of her lowest rib. She reacted as any person would, releasing both her weapons, she pulled the knife from her side, and slapped Simon across the face, her steel gauntlet tearing through his skin easily. Ezrion fell, but was on the ground for only a moment, before he bounded to his feet, and revealed that he was holding the broken scythe shaft by plunging it into the woman's throat, and yanking savagely to the left.

Blood fountained from her neck; as the serrated, fragmented piece of wood sliced her jugular vein. Turning in place groped at her neck with one hand, eyes bulging with terror and pain, while reaching out with her other hand. This hand closed around Ezrion's collar, and pulled him to her. He gripped her in his arms, but not roughly. He gently leaned her against a wall, and feeling his powers return, slowed the bleeding.

“What is your name warrior?” He asked quietly.

“A-Amelia.” Came the sputtering reply. Ezrion nodded and set about healing her neck.

“Rest easy Amelia, today is not your day to die. Just surrender, you will be treated fairly. You won that right.”

Looking up into his eyes Amelia could see the sincerity in his words, but did not understand why. She had nearly killed both brothers, had brutally wounded the younger of the two. Yet this man was saving her, of course he had inflicted the wound first, but they had been locked in combat, each trying to kill the other. She smiled weakly up at the mercy of the elder Demon brother.

Ezrion looked into the sky, blinking in surprise. Against the background of white clouds stood a figure, cloaked in black, a long scythe in his right hand, the Greek symbol of Omega etched into the clouds behind him. A chill laughter echoed in Ezrion's mind, as the figured turned away.

“Death is inevitable. Struggle all you like, I will have you.”

“But not today.” Ezrion stated under his breath, smiling slightly. He turned his head as Simon approached, no wounds visible on his body. Together the brothers lifted the defeated enemy of theirs and walked back to the Warlords, keen to see this battle officially ended.

An explosion rocked the night, sending chunks of pavement into the dark sky, illuminated by the fires raging in the streets. Gunfire rang out, causing the small squad to pause in the courtyard of a apartment complex. The Sergeant raised his right hand, and motioned the squad forward again. Quickly they crossed the street, seeing no sign of anyone else. They arrived at the entrance to their target, and two men approached the doors, planting breach charges on the doors.

The Sergeant nodded, and the two men blew the charges. As the doors were demolished another pair of soldiers, Corporal Alexander Hansen and Private Joe Smith, pushed past the first, rifles up. They entered the building and began to search out their target, the rest of the squad taking up positions to cover the entrance.

Alex turned to his partner, and nodded. The other turned the corner and advanced, the Corporal covering his back. Once Joe was safely in place Alex moved up to his location, laying a hand on his shoulder. Together they moved to the door at the end of the hall. Alex pressed himself against the wall to the left of the door, Joe on the right. The Corporal nodded and the Private turned the handle, pushing the door open just enough to allow them to shove it aside and barge into the room.

As one, the two men pushed through the door with their weapons at the ready. Both men dove for cover, Alex in the doorway to the bathroom, Joe in a closet, as gunfire ripped through the space the men had been in a moment before.

Alex's comm buzzed, and the Sergeants voice barked at him. “What's the situation Corporal?”

“Nothing we can't handle Sarge; but watch your back, there may be more of them.”

“Copy that. Rendezvous when you have the package.”

“Yes sir.” The Corporal let his hand drop from his ear piece and motioned to get The Private's attention. He reached into his belt and pulled out a flashbang. Joe nodded, and slid further into cover, protecting his eyes from the grenades blinding flash. The moment the device detonated the two soldiers popped out of their cover and opened fire. Three bodies dropped, one still moaning, on the ground. Cautiously, they advanced onto him, rolling him onto his back with their boots.

Joe took aim at the man's head, but Alex rested a hand on his rifle and lowered it, shaking his head. The Private nodded and the two turned from the injured man. They approached the far room in the apartment, most likely the bedroom. As Joe went to open the door a hole was suddenly blown into it, and the Private was sent flying backwards, his chest ripped apart where the shotgun blast had hit him. Alex cried out for his downed ally, and opened fire on the remains of the door, blowing the already weakened structure from it's frame. Beyond, lay a pair of corpses, one of whom still held onto a shotgun.

Alex dropped next to Joe and felt for his vitals. He found none, and closed the other's eyes. The Corporal reached into the Private's jacket and removed the tags he wore around his neck, he then rummaged around in Joe's pockets, until he found what he sought. A small folded photograph of the man's wife and two year old daughter. Silently, the Corporal placed these into one of his own pockets as he rose to his feet. Entering the room the Corporal noticed that lying tied and gagged on the bed was the man they had been sent to retrieve. Alex drew his combat knife and sliced the bindings on the man's wrists.

“Mr. Prime Minister, you're in good hands now. Let's get you out of here.”

Turning Alex activated his comm, signalling to his Sergeant. “VIP is secure, moving to your location.”

“Negative Corporal, maintain your current position. Under heavy fire, can't risk the VIP.”

“Understood sir, will wait for your signal.”

Alex turned his attention back to the Prime Minister. “Looks like we'll be stuck up here for a while, sir. My CO is cleaning up the lobby, it shouldn't take too long.”

The Prime Minister nodded, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his eye with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Alex took up a position near the doorway, keeping an eye out for any more hostiles. He held his rifle up as he peered out the window, searching the streets below for any signs of combat. He saw nothing but a few smoking cars. Alex backed away from the window, unclipped his magazine, checking his ammo, tossing aside the empty clip, and pulling a new one from a pouch at his belt.

Suddenly the Corporal's comm is active again, and the Sergeant's voice breaks through to him. “New plan, your team is to escort the VIP to the LZ. We'll keep the tangos off your ass. LZ's the rooftop of the building across the alley behind us.”

“I copy. Moving to your location.”

Alex motioned to the Prime Minister. “Time to get you home sir.”

The Prime Minister rose to his feet, and nodded. Alex removed his pistol form its hip holster and handed it to the Prime Minister. He then turned on his heel and lead the way to the hall. He checked around the corner, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Satisfied the Corporal walked out of the suite, and the Prime Minister followed. Alex approached the stairs and heard gunfire from below. He held out a hand, palm open and thrust forward, stalling the man behind him. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and cautiously began to descend the stairs. At the turning he waved the Prime Minister forward, and the two ran down the remaining steps, ducking behind the makeshift cover the rest of the squad was using. The Sergeant nodded at both of the new arrivals.

“Where's your partner?”

Alex shook his head, and patted the pocket where the Private's belongings now rested. The Sergeant hung his head a moment. He snapped to and barked out orders.

“Men we're going to make a push to the rear entrance. Hot Shot, you're runnin' with the Corporal now. Let's move out!” As one the squad began to retreat behind the stairs, using them as cover. The Sergeant motioned to the Corporal.

“Best get a move on.” Alex nodded and pointed at Hot Shot, then gestured behind them.

“You take point.”

The trio made it safely through the rest of the building, and across the alley. Once safely within the target building they made their way slowly up the stairs, Alex in the back, Hot Shot still taking point. They encountered no resistance. They reached the rooftop without incident. Alex set off a flare and tossed it onto the centre of the roof. They waited for the helicopter to arrive. As it approached the stairwell door burst open, and hostiles poured out, guns blazing. Alex and Hot Shot returned fire, moving into defensive positions. The Prime Minister dropped down behind Alex.

Hot Shot was overrun and gunned down, but he managed to pull the pin on the frag grenade at his belt, blasting several adversaries even as he died. Alex glanced back at the helicopter as it landed, and shouted at the Prime Minister to get to the chopper. As the Prime Minister ran Alex stood up, firing like a madmen at those who approached his position. He ducked momentarily, long enough for him to reload, but during that period of time he had become surrounded.

The Corporal backed towards the helicopter, and banged his hand against it, signalling for them to take off without him. The pilot nodded, and took to the air, leaving Alex caught in the crossfire. Alex shut his eyes and held out his arms, waiting for quick pain that accompanied death.

After several minutes Alex opened his eyes, and saw a single man standing with a pistol aimed between his eyes. The man smirked, and pulled the trigger, ending the Corporals life.

A Bard's Ballad







A leaf falls slowly from an ancient oak, listing to the ground. Suddenly the leaf is blown to pieces, and in it's place is a village, slowly burning amid the cries of pain being wrenched from the throats of dying warriors as they valiantly try to defend their homes. Fleeing the burning village is a continues stream of women, children and those too old to fight.
The land is churned up by the boots of the fleeing villagers, who run unknowingly into their deaths, as more of the fiendish creatures who ransacked their homes spring up from all sides, and butcher without discrimination. A shadow falls upon the land, as if a giant being has risen to block out the moon itself. Upon the giants head rest four cruel twisting horns, and a pair of blood red eyes stare upon the scene, full of a savage joy, and gleaming with malice. A chill laughter pours from the beasts throat, and then utter blackness blots out the world.

Lan jolted from his bed, eyes wide, heart pounding. He rushed to the window, checking for any signs of the foul army he had just witnessed. The only sound he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears, the only sight was the darkness of night. Slowly he sank back into his bed, and calmed his breathing.
Trembling from the force of his nightmare, Lan quietly stood and went into the kitchen, pouring himself a drink of water from the pitcher resting on the counter.  Wiping sweat from his brow Lan leaned against the window frame staring out past the only street in the village, out into the woods that encircled them. He smiled lightly, realizing how foolish he had been. The armies of the Foul King had not been seen in this land for nearly seven centuries, why would they have returned now.
Sitting at his small wooden table Lan continued to nurse his drink, once again under complete control of himself, it had been a nightmare nothing more. The logical side of his brain knew it had been nothing but a side effect of the story telling and the ale from the night before, celebrating what the villagers called Freedom Day, but was known by the rest of the kingdom as the Feast of King Emland, he who sealed the realms, trapping the Foul King and his armies in the abyss. Since that day the land of Vesmora had known an era of peace and prosperity not known since the beginning of time.
The village of Stonehill never felt this prosperity, being but a small dot on the world. The men there worked hard to scrape a living from the hard rocky hill, for which it had received it's name. Most men worked the mines, in hopes of finding precious minerals in the bowels of the earth, few succeeded. Those who didn't work the mine's did the other necessary jobs to run a village; farmers tended their fields, bakers baked fresh goods for the next day, cobblers mended broken footwear.
Lan passed by many of these people daily, following his well worn path towards Elbert's forge, where he worked as the blacksmith's assistant. It was gruelling work, but he enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment that came when he saw his finished work. However Lan felt no challenge as Elberts apprentice, never making anything harder than a fence gate. He grew tired of the small village he had grown up in, and as most every teenager did, felt the need for adventure.

“Lan! Lan wait up! Lanloran, slow down!” Lan jerked his head up from the patch of road he had been staring at as he turned to face the one calling his name, though he already knew who it was. Stomping towards him were his childhood friends, Marissa and Julian, the later of the pair looking uncomfortable as he hung back from the confrontation. Lan smiled at them, until Marissa slapped it off of his face. Rubbing his face Lan stumbled backwards, throwing up his left arm to ward off any more blows.
“Cut it out Marissa, what did I do?” Lan cried from under the protection of his arm, daring to glance at the pair in front of him through his fingers.
“You know perfectly well what you did, leaving us high and dry yesterday while you went off with that petty Elizabeth! You know she only likes you for your looks,” came Marissa's reply, surprising Lan with the venom in her words. He opened his mouth to say something in his defence, knowing that no matter what he said it was pointless. However he never had the chance to speak his piece as Marissa turned and practically ran off, bow bouncing off of her back. With a single pained looked Julian turned and followed after her, his leather moccasins making no sound as he ran down the street.
Lan stared after the pair in utter confusion. Surely Marissa wasn't jealous, was she? Lan shook his head and turned back towards the forge. He entered the open walled building, donning his leather apron, and approached Elbert. The blacksmith smiled at his apprentice, and pointed towards the plans in front of him. Lan walked up to the designs, his eyes widening when he saw what they were. Weapons. The military was in need of new swords, spears, shields, and all sorts of other equipment for their new recruits. Lan flashed a toothy smile, and prepared himself.
Watching the pair from a short distance away stood a short man, reasonably muscled, his face disfigured by two crossing scars on his left cheek. He had the look of a fighter, matching with the military uniform he wore, marking him as a corporal. However the lyre strung on his back betrayed the image of this soldier. He studied the pair, his eyes following Lan as the boy worked the bellows, filled the water buckets, hammered the steel. A lip curled up into a smile the stranger took his leave, making no sound as he went.
Lan slumped into his usual seat in the inn's taproom, watching as the miners slowly trudged in, nodded at those he recognized. In front of him sat a bowl of steaming stew, and a slice of fresh baked bread. The apprentice smiled, feeling his mouth salivating from just the smell. Lan ripped a chunk out of the bread, and dipped it into the stew, letting it soak up the juices, before popping the piece into his mouth. Sighing with satisfaction Lan dug into his food, devouring it in moments. Pushing his bowl forward Lan leaned back in his chair, eyes shut. He began to hum a tune, one he knew, but had never heard before.
Scowling Lan focused on the melody he continued to hum, trying to place where he could have possibly picked it up. Unknown to Lan a man sat and watched him, a smile spreading over his face as Lan progressed through the song. Finishing the song Lan stopped humming, and only then noticed the complete silence inside the taproom, all eyes fixed on him. Feeling uncomfortable Lan rose to leave. As he approached the door someone called his name.
Lan turned and found himself facing a man he did not know, but who seemed to be a part of the military, judging from the uniform he wore, and the way he held himself. Lan waited patiently for the man to say something. Instead the man just shook his head, and gestured for Lan to leave the inn. Lan cocked an eyebrow at the strange man then, shrugging, left. Turning he realized he was being followed by the same man.
Lan became worried now that he was being followed, and decided to take a detour to try and lose his pursuer. However as he turned to check behind him he noticed a glowing aura coming from the man, like golden tendrils twisting from the man's body. Transfixed by the sight the young man was incapable of running away, worse yet was the fact that he seemed to be the only one who noticed.

Gasping the apprentice blacksmith clutched his stomach, falling to his knees. A painful heat was blossoming within him. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the radiance of the aura of the approaching man. Lan reached a hand out towards him, and the warmth travelled to his outstretched hand. He stared in awe at his own hand as the air within his grip began to shimmer. Lan's hand spasmed, and the skin across his palm split, releasing a spume of blood, and a small fragment of crystal laced bone.
The blood swirled around the bone, the open wound in Lan's hand closing itself, leaving a small black line. As he watched runes formed on his hand. He could not understand them, but he knew they were important. A flash of emerald light drew his attention back to the bone fragment. However now it wasn't merely a small fragment of bone, it was a foot and a half long flute. It was a dark red in colour, nearly crimson, with designs of emerald stone tracing through it. It touched Lan's newly acquired scar and a rush of energy flowed through him. The youth was thrown into the air, the flute clasped tightly in hand.
Crashing to the ground Lan groaned, and rolled onto his side. “Wh-what in the abyss was that?”

“That was your awakening, boy. Now get up! It's undignified to lay about like that.”

Lan looked up and noticed the man from the tavern. Eyes widening Lan scurried away, crawling backwards on his hands. Sighing the man grabbed Lan by the collar, and pulled him to his feet. Lan took a deep breath and steadied himself. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the man before him. “Not here, wait til we get to your house. You can ask me whatever you want there.”
Without much choice Lan lead the stranger to his house. Once they were both inside the younger man shut the door, and dropped into the closest chair, the flute still in his hand. He looked over at the man. “Okay, first question: who are you?”

“My name is Sebastian Kelvin. And you are Lanloran Issander, the reason I'm here in Stonehill.”

“Me? But I thought the military was here for equipment?”

“They are, but the reason I am here specifically. I'm like you.”

Lan's brow creased as the man said this. “Like me? How?”

The man gestured at the flute. “We are both awakened.”

Lan scowled at the man, not understanding his answer. It was then Lan noticed the lyre on the others back, inlaid with precious stones and goldenwork. Lan's eyes bulged, the piece had to be more expensive then everything he owned put together. Lan licked his lips, looking back up at the man. “What does it mean to be awakened?”
The soldier chuckled. “Now your asking the right questions. To be awakened is to have found your link to the either, the realm of magic. To access this realm however requires a focal point for your powers, in your case, the flute in your hand.”
Lanloran's jaw dropped. He shook his head slowly, eyes on the floorboards. He couldn't wrap his mind around what this man was telling him. He

Ezrion sat upon a throne of bones, surveying his surroundings with disdain. He sighed, and stretched his long arms over his head, feeling his elbows cracking in the process. Sighing once more, this time from the release of the built up pressure, the demon lord stood. He stood tall over the skeletal throne at his back, his thin frame compact with muscle. He stood taller then most men, at nearly six and a half feet. He wore ceremonial black enamel armour, etched with his house insignia on the chest. A long black cloak flowed from his shoulders down to trail on the blistered ground behind him.

Stepping lightly over the remains of the enemy legions Ezrion stalked towards his father, the general in charge of Hell's legions. Salmathor stood tall, his waist length blond hair surging behind him in the strong head wind. He looked much like his eldest son, the major difference being Ezrion's dark mane of hair. The demon lord stood next to his father, looking out over the battlefield below them, spotting the enemy camps instantly.

Ezrion's upper lip curled back into a snarl as he stared upon the forces of his foes. He watched at they erected command pavilions, tents, and other shelters, all glowing faintly. Ezrion watched the angels for a moment longer, before turning to his father, clearing his throat. Before he had a chance to speak however, Salmathor raised a hand, and simply nodded. Ezrion smiled devilishly, and turning on his heel sped off in pursuit of his brothers.

Simon and Micheal were exactly where Ezrion thought they would be, the Harem pavilion. Rolling his eyes Ezrion pushed through the entrance, walking into a nearly physical barrier of perfumes and incense. Ezrion wafted a hand in his face, coughing once, catching the attention of the mass of writhing flesh on the cushioned dais at the other end of the tent.

“Brother! Join us!” Exclaimed Simon, pulling his face free from the breasts of the woman who straddled him long enough to speak. Ezrion snorted, as Simon once more dived into the embrace of her flesh.

“I cannot Simon. We have work to do, the three of us.” Ezrion replied, a small smirk on his face. Micheal emerged from beneath three different woman, and Ezrion's brow shot up, surprised with his brother's dexterity. Handling one woman was a challenge for any man, even ones as powerful as themselves.

Simon groaned, and not from the pleasures of the flesh, but from the thought of interrupting it to do work. He removed the woman from his lap, smiling at her and motioning that he would be right back. Micheal disentangled himself without a word, the man dressing quickly. Ezrion left the tent, waiting for his brothers outside.

As his brothers exited Ezrion nodded, the twins looked like polar opposites in their battle garb, possibly on purpose. The mute brother, Micheal, wore a metal mask over his face, chains dangling from his well muscled limbs, attached to rings on his back. He wore chain mail greaves, covering the leather pants he wore beneath. The handle of a great axe protruding over his left shoulder. A leather vest finished off his armour.

Simon on the other hand wore nothing on his head, and very little in the way of clothing, however he was completely covered by the sheaths of his daggers, of which he carried a minimum of one hundred everywhere.

The three brothers began to walk towards the cliff edge, not hesitating to walk straight off of it. Simon began walking on a bridge of daggers, the blades positioning themselves in perfect locations as he walked. Ezrion's cloak shifted into a pair of giant black wings, carrying him along. Micheal simply floated forward.

Lost in the Crowd Trilogy
book 1:
One in a Million
Book 2:
Against All Odds
Book 3:
Lucky Streak










































This is living. Standing perilously on the edge of a twenty three story tower, balancing only with the help of a flimsy harness secured to the stairway railing, a barrette .50 sniper rifle slung over your shoulder. The feel of the wind whipping about your hair, the sounds of traffic so far below, so far in fact that the cars appear no more than ants. Yes, this is living.
I click the on button on my wireless headset, connecting myself to my employer, a well paying man in the building opposite, who needed security of the highest calibre, for reasons he wasn't inclined to say. For the amount he was willing to pay, I didn't ask. As I hear the channel open, I say a simple sentence to him. “I'm in position on the rooftop.”
This is a little off, as the angle I stand at is more off the roof than on it, but that little detail was unneeded. This man was my employer, but no friend. I received no communique back from him, saying all was in readiness, but as I checked on him through the fibre optic scope on my rifle I could see why. He was busy in a meeting with a pair of surly looking fellows, with large automatic firepower. I whistled under my breath as I study these two goons, they were big. However I had received no order to fire, the preordained signal had not been given, and so I waited, patiently, like any good sniper.
As I am waiting two things happen, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching my rear, and I see another man step into the room with my employer. I can tell immediately by his dress that he is mafia, and that the two goons are his men. I cast a quick glance at the camera set up beside me, watching the doorway at my tail. I don't see anyone in it, and quickly turn back to my scope.
Finally the signal is given, and all three men are marked for death. I sigh, aiming first for the big guy on the far left, squeezing the trigger once to unleash his death. Before the bullet has even connected a second shot is on it's way, heading for the second crony, ending his life with a gurgled yelp as the bullet pierced his throat. The third man fired a shot from a concealed sidearm he had hidden in his left hand, which until that moment had been behind his back. I curse lightly under my breath, firing a shot at the man, one I knew would go wide of it's intended target, instead clipping his shoulder.  I quickly swing my rifle toward my employer, noticing that he is unharmed, and quickly bring my sights back onto my target.
Taking his chance the mafia boss runs from the room, down the office building's hall way, weaving expertly through the panicked crowds of innocents, leaving a trail of blood as he goes. Again I curse, as a small bead of sweat drips into my eye. It was down to a game of chance. Would I be able to hit him, or would he make it to his car first. The odds seemed decidedly in my favour, but lady luck has her mood swings. But that's fine, I prefer to play the long odds.
I scan ahead of my target, looking for an opportune place to take my shot, spotting the turn up ahead, where he will be running straight away from me, towards the elevator at the opposite end of the hall. I smirk, and line up my shot straight down that path, waiting for him to run straight into my killzone. That's when I hear the crunch of a boot on the rock strewn roof behind me. I curse my luck, turning only my eyes to check the camera, as I hear a voice behind me.
“Drop the weapon and put your hands behind your head.” I roll my eyes, a single police officer stands behind me, and aims a standard issue handgun at me. I slowly lift my left hand away from the rifle, right hand still firmly clasped onto it, finger resting lightly against the trigger. Finally Target number three runs straight into the center of my sights, and I squeeze the trigger once more.
Before officer Dumbass could shoot, I turn, throwing myself into a roll to his left, closing the distance in moments. I come to my feet in front of him, where a well aimed palm strike to the jaw knocks him onto the roof, out cold. I sigh, shaking my head and clucking my tongue. So much for NYPD. The sound of sirens pulls me from my reverie, and I walk over to the edge again, my rifle hanging over the side of the building, held on by the same wire supporting me. I pull it up, and check on my target, spotting paramedics covering his body in a white sheet.
I smile as I turn my sights back to my uninjured and apparently unflustered employer, who I swear had the edge of a smile creeping onto his face. He was met by a woman at the elevator, who clicks his wireless on, speaking to me through him. I press my hand against my receiver, to make sure I hear what she says.
“Payment has already been transferred to your account, Mr. Zeke, and we thank you for your services, we will recommend you highly in the future.” I smile, and begin to pack up my gear disassembling the rifle, to store it away in a brief case designed to hold it, and to disguise it from metal detectors and x-ray machines. I stand, and unhook myself from the stairwell railing, clicking the on button on my headset once more.
“A pleasure working for you, and please, call me Zander. Mr. Zeke sounds too... old.” I reply, flashing a bright grin out over the street below. Without waiting for a reply I unhook the small headset, and toss it off the side of the building, making sure it was the opposite side that the shooting took place. I look over at my camera, which I had set up three days before, and nod. I turn away and head down the stairs, unafraid of the evidence being traced back to me. The camera had been stolen from the police impound.
By now you probably have a bad impression of me, but I assure you that will change. The three 'men' I killed were in fact not men, at least, not human ones. They were all lycans, one of the many packs in New York city, who were known around town as the Blood Fang gang. My ex-employer had recently discovered the fact that they were not human, and was preparing to expose them, and have them wiped out, which was the cause of this visit. I sigh, doubting that I will hear from him again. Lycans don't like to lose members, but he will keep their secret, that's the only reason he hired me.
I, Zander Z. Zeke, kill the immortals, vampire, lycan, dragonkin, you name it, I slay it. I am a Spectre, one of the humans chosen to defend the rest of mankind from the shadows. Secretly watching over the world, protecting our way of life from change. I am the last. There are no others like me, so I fight alone, a battle I can not win. I only prolong the inevitable.
One would think fighting the immortal at sixteen would be difficult right? It's not, not when you know what your doing. Most things you know about vampires are wrong, they can travel outside in the daylight, albeit with a lot of sunscreen, and garlic juice only gives them mild indigestion, though, supposedly, some of the older vampires are deathly allergic to it. Your basic stake still works of course, only foolproof method to make sure that your average undead stays dead. Silver works too, but holy water, forget that stuff, all that does is wash them, and trust me, you don't really need to clean a vampire when they are trying to drain you of blood, they will get real messy, real quick if they catch you.
Now let's get back to me. I'm your average teenager, medium height, athletic build, defined muscles, almost shoulder length light brown hair, impossibly messy, apparently brilliant blue eyes, though I see a dark shade of grey in the mirror, and a couple of piercings here and there. Nothing to look at, mostly due to the baggy clothing I tend to wear, which draws less attention, which is the point. I am a Blender, meaning I am well adept at the Spectre ability to remain, on the whole, unseen in a crowd.
An ability I am putting to good use at this moment to sneak out of the office tower I had recently stood upon. Once back on ground level I walk away from the building, calmly, and quietly, as if what was happening behind me did not interest me, nor concern me, a practical business man, who is off to some important business meeting. A small proud smirk escaped my firmly place facade, and nearly ruined the whole effect, as a young female police officer glances me over. I smile at her, and wink playfully, causing a giggle from her, and a scowl from what appeared to be her supervisor, who then turns to her and begins to lecture her. I slink silently away.




I walk down the street, now nearly two blocks from the incident site, no one even glancing at me anymore. I ditch the case in a nearby trash can, my fingerprints never being on it,  having been wearing gloves the entire time. The case and gun will lead them in two separate directions, to two of my fall guys, company’s I have set up, that have no connection to me, but have every connection to any evidence I leave behind. Nothing is traceable back to me.
Taking a quick look around myself I remove my suit jacket and tie, handing them off to a homeless gentleman, along with my gloves. My teacher has taught me well the need to blend in, and wearing that suit in this area would have not been a good idea. With one last look around I step into the alleyway, and disappear. I always hate entering the dens of the immortals, especially when they know I'm coming, when I'm on a hunt it's different, I have a purpose, and drive. Whereas entering here under these circumstances, well let's just say this should be interesting.
I look back at the street, spying the homeless man being mugged for the items I just gave him. I cringed and wince, feeling both the pain of the beating, and the guilt for having caused it. Blinking I look closer at the muggers, who are smiling directly at me, which is when I feel the vibrations from their bodies. I had not been able to before, or merely assumed it was from the other immortals around me, but these two were definitely immortal, and lycan by the feel of it. Each species has a different vibe to it, vampires feel like bongos being played, lycans and other wolf kin feel like a base drum being played in your skull, and the dragonkin there's is the weakest sound, being, oddly, the most human. They feel like a small leather tribal drum. And right now I felt a lot of base going on.
Gulping, I turn away from the mugging to see Blaine Silvermane, Lycan pack leader for the Black Claw, and his lackeys, Claw, and Fang. Creative aren't they? I nod wearily to Blaine, he and I have history, and he really dislikes it when I step foot on his territory. But he owes me a favour for saving his life. And I'm calling it in. See this pack likes humans, for the most part, and dislike all other Lycans, wolfkin, and generally all other immortals. Which is part of the reason we get along so well.            
Well so one day I'm just walking through central park, on my rounds, when I hear wolves fighting. But I can feel the vibration, and I know it's no ordinary wolves.

The final bell rang and students flooded from the doors, milling in the parking lot, many making their way to their bus's, but others waited along the curb, either for parents, friends or the next wave of the yellow transports. It was a beautiful day, the temperature perfect for shorts, which many of the students wore. No one is expecting what comes next. On the roof of the school stand four men, each of them carrying weapons in their hands. One of them was backing away from the other three. Smiling he turned and ran to the edge of the building, jumping off of the top of the three story structure. The other three men chased after him, however only one of them jumped after the man. As he fell he saw people scattering, some screamed as the one he chased landed among them.

Landing the man rolled, a pair of fanged pistols in his hands. He aimed at the other man, who in turned jumped into the crowd, running to a nearby bus, which was pulling away from the scene. Cursing the pistol wielding man chased after him, firing shots at him, scattering more students. The man he fired at pulled out his SMG and jumped on top of the bus, landing on his side. He fired back at the black clad male, putting holes in his trench coat.

The man in black ran into the open, to avoid any of the bullets hitting the students. The bus had stopped, due to the gunshots being fired at it, many of which had hit the roof, causing some damage. Finally one of the bullets hit the man laying on the bus, who dropped his gun, and swearing jumped off of the bus, landing amid parked cars.

Ezrion, the man in the black, called out to the teachers, telling them to take the students back inside. He didn't wait for an answer, and turned towards where his target had fallen, pistols raised and ready. Motioning with his left hand he encouraged the bus drivers who had yet to leave to do so. They readily pulled out of the parking lot, the wind of their speedy departure sent ripples through his cloak. He saw his target between two rows of cars, smiling like a maniac.

“Remember fools you brought this upon yourselves!” After shouting this he doubled over, his shirt ripping along the spine as his body seemed to bulge outwards. Ezrion cursed, and backed up, pressing the release mechanisms on both pistols, the magazines falling to the ground. He swept his arms back and under his coat. A small black portal melded with the flesh of his back created new clips, these ones larger than the ones from before. Pulling the reloaded guns out again Ezrion switched them from semi automatic to full auto. He pulled the triggers, releasing twin streams of continual fire, each bullet connecting with the creature forming across from him.

“Heh, you'll need something a little stronger than that to stop me!” Snarled the giant beast. A massive clawed hand swung at Ezrion, however before he could connect a loud gunshot was heard, and the creature staggered back. Ezrion looked up at the rooftop, seeing what he expected, a sniper stand set up, Renzenku crouched behind it, eye to the scope. Saluting Ezrion turned back to the monster. “Good enough?”

Growling the creature barrelled forwards at the black clad male, but stopped, guarding his face with his arms as bullets pounded at his side. Solomon stood off to the left, a RPD light machine gun in his hands, firing non-stop at the beast. The weapon ran out of ammo and Solomon cast it to the side, pulling a grenade launcher from beneath his grey jacket. Squeezing the trigger he fired off the explosive shot at the beast, catching it square in the chest.

Solomon reloaded the weapon, and fired it again, this time hitting the creature in the face. However this did nothing more than enrage the beast, who then swept his clawed hand across the parking lot, smashing both Ezrion and Solomon away. Mid air both men began to fire, Solomon pulling out a pair of model 1887 shotguns. Hitting the concrete neither man stopped firing, both unloading more ammo into the hulking creature.

Hayden Stormcaller -protagonist
-blond, spiky hair, shoulder length, Lighning Tribe
-Son of the chief
-left eye Dark Blue, Right eye is pure white
-Tribal lightning tattoo on his wrists, two zigzagging lines that wrap around the wrists, with a storm cloud on the back of each hand, a bolt striking the lines.
-Left ear is ripped, and pierced, top half bitten off by a werewolf, though he doesn't know that
-Kind, caring and sensitive, without a mean bone in his body, however he is stubborn and will fight to protect what he believes to be right.
-slightly under six feet tall
-Tribal shaman
-19

Celeste Ivory, otherwise known as Ivory Fang- love interest
-Waist length purple-black hair, werewolf
-Matriarch of a lycan tribe
-21
-Bright Green eyes

Zachariah Smith-human blacksmith

Vincent Shnyder-villian

Kira Akuma- alternative love interest (Hayden and Kira have a thing for each other, but Celeste wants Hayden)



























The camp slept quietly, the smoke from the longfire long since wafted away. Yet one tent still emitted a stream of black smoke, curling from it's open entrance. Within resided the tribes shaman, who was busy in a complicated ritual. He cast a pair of bones inscribed with runes, scowling at the result. Picking up a wooden bowl the man slit his own wrist, allowing the blood to flow freely into the bowl. He stemmed the bloodflow, and mixed in a bundle of prepared herbs. Raising the mixture to his lips the Shaman drank deeply, emptying the bowl in three large gulps.
Inhaling the incense laden smoke from his brazier the Shaman entered into a trance. Hayden, the Shaman for the Lightning tribe of the plains, floated free from his flesh, and ascended into the air, riding the storm clouds above. Hayden looked down upon his tribe, and smiled, before spotting a circle of darkness closing in around them. He watched in horror as a pack or wolves, larger than his tribe itself swept through their campsite and killed everyone in sight. Hayden was trapped in his trance state, and could do nothing but watch as the wolves stalked towards his fathers tent. He shouted voicelessly, invoking the powers of the storm to strike down upon the invading killers.
Hayden awoke with a start, back in his tent. He jumped to his feet, pausing as he spotted a pair of brilliant green eyes watching him from the open entrance flap. Hayden slowly grasped the haft of his axe, hoping to not draw attention to the movement. A low growl made the teenaged shaman pause again. Without warning the wolf launched itself at Hayden, leaping towards his face, knocking him to the ground, and biting off the top of his left ear.
A cry of pain was wrenched from the man, before the heavy wolf pawed his face, clawing it open, and leaving a trio of gashes down his face. The Wolf then seemingly gripped his head in it's forepaws and bashed it against the ground, repeatedly until Hayden's vision began to fade. With one last hit the teenager passed out, blood pouring from his head, appearing dead like the rest of his tribe.

Outside his tent the wolf pack gathered together, shifting into human forms, hands and faces covered in blood and gore. The men smiled viciously, casting about for more victims. Then the wolf with green eyes shifted, into the naked form of a woman. She was coated in the least amount of blood, but commanded the others. She snarled at the men, and made several hand gestures. And with that, the pack vanished back into the woods.

The Cyrstal Challice: Adrox's Labyrinth


Rumbling laughter poured forth from the open tavern doors, as a cloaked male entered the room. Silence followed in his wake, as did the stench of decay. Every patron stared at a face so pale that in the flickering torchlight it appeared translucent. Mouths hung agape, mugs of ale hanging forgotten in numb hands half raised towards parched lips. A gloved hand shot out from under the pitch black cloak of the man, a small pouch clutched in his fragile appearing fingers. He swept his gaze across the room, drawing shivers from those unfortunate enough to meet his eyes. For there were no eyes in his sockets, only twin churning pools of emerald fire.

The figure untied the pouch, and upended it, releasing its contents onto the floor. Every eye followed the descent of the object with rapt attention. An echoing thud was heard, followed by the sound of shattering bone, as a bleached skull collided with the floorboards.

“I seek a man,” said the cloaked stranger, thick greasy strands of his white hair hanging over his face, masking the mans eyes. “You will tell me what you know of him, or you will all join my friend here.”

With a gesture at the skull an audible intake of breath filled the room, as the bone fragments fused together, rising slowly from the wooden floor, which split, revealing the rest of the skeleton. The spine attached to the now repaired skull with an slight pop. The necromancer pressed his thin lips together in a gruesome approximation of a smile. “Now, who's willing to talk?”



Light filtered through the rustling branches overhead, and the sound of children laughing announced their presence to the two men standing across from each other. They stood within a stone encased circle, each stone bearing an etched rune on it's surface. They slowly traversed the perimeter of the circle, their eyes never leaving each others faces. One of the men paused, and clasped his hands together, a small ball of flame conjured between them.

A smile adorned his features, as he hurled the flaming orb at the other man, a second trailing the first by a few seconds. Without delay the other male smacked his hands on the ground, wincing as he does so, and a wall of bones appeared between himself and the flaming projectiles. They explode against it's surface and shower sparks onto the dirt below.

The two combatants resumed their pacing, one trailing fire from his palms. The other held his arms outstretched, palms facing the dirt, small skeletal creatures crawling free from the soil. His head twitched to one side, as a flaming bird flew at him from across the arena. He ducked beneath it, a half decomposed eagle rising from beneath the ground to give chase. He smiled tightly, green mist seeping from his fingertips.

Suddenly both men stopped, as a mob of teenagers ran towards them. The group stopped outside the circle of runes, knowing full well that they were what protected them from the sorceries being unleashed within. They watched eagerly, hoping to see more magic being preformed by the two older males. However they were disappointed when the two men exited the rune circle, deactivating their spells as they did. The two men clasped hands in a firm shake and walked off.

Delvium and Astrid watched as their fathers walked off, smirking as they did so. The two friends dropped from the tree they had been watching from and raced towards a hollowed out oak tree nearby. They reached inside and pulled out their runegloves. The rune gloves were an invention the boys had made, consisting of a sturdy, rune encrusted metal band that rested below the wrists, attached to a leather glove with a rune stone imbedded within the palm. The glove was fingerless, though the thumbs were covered, and along the backs of each finger lay a thin piece of flexible metal, also covered in runes, that bent and moved with the motion of the fingers. Inside the gloves was a small syringe directly beneath the runestone, giving the boys access to the energy within their bodies.

These gloves not only allowed the boys to use their powers outside of a circle, but also acted as an amplifier to their abilities. The teens had never showed the devices to anyone, deciding it best to keep it a secret. The two friends quickly donned the gloves, both wincing as they inserted the needles into their hands. Instantly both boys bodies began to leak power, streamers of coloured energy flowing from their hands. Astrid, the necromancer's son, had green mist floated from his fingertips. Delvium the pyromancer's son, had blue flames trailing from his fingers, unlike his father, whose flames were red.

“You ready?” Astrid asked his friend, who was absentmindedly admiring his hands. He looked up when Astrid spoke and nodded his head. The two boys backed away from one another and took up fighting positions. Delvium launched an early offensive move, much like his father, a small ball of flame flew through the air at Astrid, who conjured a skull and threw it to intercept. The flames consumed the skull, but both stopped all forward momentum and fell to the ground. The Boys smiled at each other.




“They work! They really work!” Yelled Delvium, staring at his hands once more. Astrid took the opportunity to create a bone serpent around his ankles, yanking the other boy from his feet. Delvium landed with a loud oof, and jumped back to his feet, flames flying from his splayed hands, gushing out towards Astrid. The smaller teen gulped and threw his hands into the air, a wall of flesh and bone rising before him, taking shape into a massive creature he couldn't name. It hefted a large tree limb like a club and charged at Delvium, ignoring the fire coating it's leathery decayed hide.

Delvium lost his nerve when the creature neared, and bolted away, screaming and  shooting fireballs at the creature the whole time. Astrid, after straightening from being bent double laughing, released the spell; letting his minion return to death.

The sun sets over the ruins of the Jedi temple on Dantooine, casting the settlement of Khoonda into twilight, the residents retreating into their homes for the night, resting up from the days celebration. It had been ten years since the Exile and Jedi master Vrook repelled the mercenaries led by Azkul from the planet. Since then the people of Khoonda had known a decade of peace, allowing the small settlement to thrive and grow into the size of a small city, wrapping nearly completely around the ruins of the old Jedi temple.
The once small landing pad had grown in size, now capable of holding multiple spacecraft, with only two vessels currently. The small spaceport is shrouded in darkness as proper night sets in, until several floodlights bathe the landing pads in light, casting elongated shadows off of cargo crates, stacked from unloaded ships. A pair of old patrol droids guard the entrance to the spaceport, however a skilled climber could easily scale the rocky cliff face to the west of the landing strip, and pass the security checkpoint unnoticed.
A figure was currently doing this, creeping over the lip of the wall, stealthily making their way through the darkened spaceport, sneaking from one cluster of shadows to the next, keeping low to avoid being spotted. The obviously male figure was approaching one of the two vessels currently docked in the spaceport. It was the local cargo ship, owned by the cities government, used to transport both goods and people off world, and back. The Freighter was a bulky ship, designed not for appearance but to carry heavy payloads. Her boarding ramp was lowered, but the door was closed and, presumably, locked.
The other vessel belonged to an off worlder who had arrived earlier that day, but had yet to depart from their ship. Unlike the freighter this starship was meant for combat, with twin mounted laser cannons, and a fully stocked missile bay. Hidden beneath the belly of the ship lay a turbolaser battery, custom fitted to the ship by her owner. The figure, a starship thief, snuck closer to the freighter, heading towards the lowered boarding ramp. Two steps up the ramp a spotlight flashes on behind the man, flooding the thief in its light. A helmet filtered voice calls out behind the man, “Turn around, slowly now, hands where I can see 'em.”
The male did as he was instructed, the humans facial features finally becoming visible in the light attached to the shoulder plate of the other mans armour. His dark brown shoulder length hair was tied back in a ponytail, pulled back from his overly large forehead, a pair of bushy eyebrows over pale green eyes, which never rested on one object for long, moving constantly. The thin slash of the man's mouth was curved down in a frown, his hands held up above his head, and out to the sides slightly, elbows bent. He sighed. “So you finally caught up with me again. Ho long has it been since the last time we did this, hmm Tryval?”
The armoured man didn't immediately reply, however he lowered the Blastech Blaster pistol in his right hand, a highly customized piece of equipment designed specifically for the man who held it. Holstering his weapon Tryval reached up and unclasped his helmet, pulling the durasteel shell off of his head, revealing his shaved, tattooed head. The male Zabrak had a deep crimson colouring to his skin, and a crown of horns on his head, nine in all, six of which forming a semi circle, with three more running down the center of his head. His facial tattoos were somewhat subdued, barely noticeable on his darkly coloured skin.
Smirking Tryval took a step forward, scratching at the stubble growing on his chin, finally speaking, his voice a deep, rich baritone. “Nearly a year since you gave me the slip on Ord Mantell, old friend. You're bounty is ever higher now than it was then. You've gotten sloppy recently Dorian.”
Dorian, a well known ship thief and all around scoundrel, merely shrugged unable to hide the smile that took over his features. “Thought I'd let you catch up a bit. What now, you gonna turn me in to the hutts Triv? I though you didn't work for those slimy slugs.”

The forgotten legion

Prologue: The Coming Storm

In the dieing daylight a single man stood atop of a tower of pure radiant light. This tower stretched from the distant ground  hundred of leagues into the air, where the air began to become too thin to breath. The man heaved a large sigh as he turned his back on the world beyond the shimmering walls of his home among the heavens. His long cloak fluttered in the thin breeze common place in his heaven's throne. Under his cloak the man was surreptitiously rubbing feeling back into his bare arms, goosebumps standing out, prominent on his pale, flawless skin. His thin wool shirt did nothing against the winds, and neither did the flimsy loose fitting breeches he was forced to wear.
The man surveyed his surroundings, the rough pave stones, the glowing outer wall, the slightly taller tower in the center, barely large enough for the stairwell it contained. He snorted in the general direction it stood. He had never entered, only guarded it's entrance, but from what he knew not. He touched the hilt of the sword belted at his waist, wondering why he had been chosen by the Order for this task. Surely someone higher in the ranks than a mere foot soldier should have been chosen for this. He sighed, he would follow his orders, for he had plans of his own, and a new master, one more powerful than the Order. He shivered, again cursing the chilled breeze.
Though the man laughed at these thoughts, as the wind would not kill him, not now, after he had come so far. Victory was just within his reach, he could feel it, like a pool of water just out of the reach of a man dieing from thirst. The man's harsh laugh ended abruptly as he turned and saw the one person he had been expecting. He swallowed his fears, and approached, warily. He pushed his cloak back roughly and bent his knee, touching his forehead to the newly arrived guest's foot. Murmuring a rushed greeting, never looking from the boot clad foot. He had been taught about letting his eyes wander, and he did not want a refresher from his previous lesson, the marks on his back still were tender to the touch.
He lifted his head and stared into the black pools for eyes that stared back down at him coldly, the cruel sneer twisted lips, the hooked nose, all speaking of the power this man craved, yet could not grasp. As the man stared upon his master, for indeed that was what he stared upon, his master, he smiled inwardly, knowing that all their well laid plans were so close to fruition. He could have leaped with joy, but he forced himself to stillness, a rash move now could cost him everything.
He stood, and a seemingly warm smile spread across the thin red lips of his master, and he smiled back, neither of their smiles reached to their eyes, his masters being as cold as ever. He inhaled deeply preparing to deliver his report, as he had for the past several visits. Most of the information he passed was of little consequence, the problems brought before the Order, how the High Champions dealt with them, those who came to the tower, the reasons for their brief visits. To him there seemed to be no reason for anyone to come to this outpost, it had not seen action in quite some time, which was odd, considering it should be crawling with Blood Elves, and Shadow Stalkers, and the like. Instead it stood desolate and mostly abandoned, though he knew quite differently. He knew why men kept showing up, or at least suspected.
As he opened his mouth to speak his master raised an arm hidden within the deep sleeve of their robe, and one long spindly finger was held upright, cutting him off. He held his tongue, brow creasing with many unasked questions. This had never happened before. Had his time finally come? Would they take what was sealed within the tower, and use it's power to finally finish their long laid plans. He hoped so. He ran his tongue over his teeth and smiled, this time a greedy smile, betraying his hungry heart. His eyes glittered like the thousands of coins that flashed through his mind, coins he knew would soon be his.
He took a step forward and blinked in confusion as his foot never struck the paved surface of the tower. He looked down at his master, his mouth open in shock, as he was moved to open air. His terror filled eyes locked with the cruel black orbs hidden beneath the hood of their robes. He licked his lips, looking down at the ground, so far beneath, and spoke a single word. “Why?”
Suddenly a bark of hard cruel laughter escaped the cloaked figure. The mouth twisted again into a sneer. “You outlived your usefulness to my cause, and I shall dispose of you as the garbage you are.” Another bark of laughter followed this, as well as the sensation of being let go.
Shock silenced the man, no fear swept through him, no sadness, no sorrow, only confusion and disbelief. He could not understand, he had done nothing wrong, he had been more than faithful, and yet he was treated almost as badly as a member of the Freemen, those lawless scum. He looked down again as comprehension dawned. He was going to die. NO! I can not die yet! I can- And then His head hit the ground with a sickening crunch of shattered bone, and the wet sound of blood splattering stone.


The dark figure still stood on the surface of the tower, smirking as they looked over the edge, the figure lowered the hood of their cloak, and ran long spindly fingers through their long luscious black hair, a single braid began half way down the figures back, held together by a loosely woven red ribbon, dangling among the black curls of hair neatly arranged. The figure turned, their sadistic smile long faded with the mans cries, the useless fool did not even make a satisfying death.
The woman, who was quite beautiful, shut her large dark eyes, inhaling deeply the faintest traces of blood spilled far below. She rubbed her hands together, as if to wash away a stain, and open her eyes once more, bored and contempt for all things clear in her gaze.


Characters: Ezrion Arbusa, Wolf Knight-Lord of the Revenants
       Gedwin Arbusa, Revenant Knight  
                  Reyvan Talmore = brothers = Symon Talmore Merchants
                  Lily Wehton Runaway, Vagabond, prostitute
                  Myra Nilve Innkeeper
                  Alveric Edo'mon = married = Elysa Edo'mon Blacksmith, and wife
      Gunther Telamin, Ex Freeman
      Dren O'Thorne, Bounty Hunter


Villain:      Madeline Arra'Busina = Arabusina =Arbusa

Goddess of Light: A once considered holy goddess, blessed by all. Legends tell of her eternal fight with her brother, The Lord of Darkness. The legends also tell of how over the course of their eternal fight the goddess slowly became corrupted by her brother, glowing with a black light, only the Sun, which she created from a button on her dress, remained pure. So as Darkness began to reign over all, the original Order of the Light, a Saintly order at the time, Used all the power of the High Champions, and the High Lord, and sealed the two, Goddess in the Sun, Lord in the moon, being a gift he had given, being literally his own eye.

                 Knights of the Order of the Light: A knightly order devoted to restoring the goddess of light to her heavenly throne. Lead by an elderly man, Devotis Ordthar. This man has the smallest known Heart Stone, but it comes with a high price. His stone is cracked, and when he uses it's power the crack slowly spreads, slowly killing him. The knights of the Order come in various ranks: there are those who are mere soldiers, not a true part of the Order, then there are the Knightlings, those being trained to join the Order. Then the Lowest Knight classes, being Knight, and Watcher. Then there are the Archknights, then the High Champions. There are only ever ten high champions at a time, as they are the highest class, directly under the High Lord of the Order.

                 Freemen: Lawless criminal organization, led by a vicious man. Telmon Driad. The most wanted criminal in all the lands.

Creatures:  The Twisted: half men, who's Heart Stones were removed, twisting their features, breaking their minds and their wills, corrupting them to serve who ever holds their stone. They no longer look human, faces stretched, boils, long spindly limbs, jagged teeth. Half rotted corpses kept alive for their owners amusement.
                 Shadow Stalkers: Beings made of pure shadow, not all of them are malignant, some are quite friendly. They may take whatever form pleases them, and are almost insubstantial in the light. Though in the dark they blend with extreme ease. These beings have no heart stones, but can wield shadows for weapons.
                 Elves: The varied races of the Elves kind are quite easy to differentiate, as the wood elves tend to have fairer hair, and features, while the sea elves have deep blue-green eyes, and hair to match stormy seas, as well as the temperament to boot. Blood elves skin has been tainted by the blood they infuse into their being, making it much darker, as well they are usual built taller and wider than their cousins.
     Elemental spirits: Living embodiments of the elements, most are docile, and fear humanity, but some can be quite territorial. They range in shape and size from little orbs of condensed elemental energy, to massive creatures, birds and golems and lions, and other such animals. Some have even taken a more human appearance, and interact with humans daily. These beings have no heart stones, but can call upon the elements for aid. These elementals are quite similar to the Shadow Stalkers, but are much less intelligent, also limited to one form, unlike the Shadow Stalkers
      The Anlicari: Half human half animal mixtures, most of which rely on their base instincts to survive, though intelligence tempers their minds, creative a more vicious, effective killer. These creatures have heart stones, they can not use them. Some small settlements have been made by these creatures, but no human has ever survived setting foot in one.
     




How the Heart Stones work: Each person has a Heart Stone in their breast, just behind the heart, nestled between the lungs. This Heart Stone is filled with the inherent power of the being, created at the moment of birth. A person needs merely to send thought, or commands consciously to the Heart Stone through a special 'nerve' called the Power Vein. Once the command has arrived, the Heart Stone fills the person with incredible power, this energy allows them to do things that otherwise are impossible. Most people are born with a Heart Stone, though few are not, and those normally don't live past the age of ten.

Every Heart Stone is different, size shape color and amount of power stored within. No one knows what the power exactly is, a piece of the Gods who created the earth, Cosmic energy, vile black magic, etc... The larger a Heart Stone the less powerful the being who possesses it.

The Revenants: A group dedicated to defending the lands of King Couserdan, the great lands of Heldain. The Revenant Knights all wear armor decorated with the symbol of the land; a crucifix, with twin blades crossed behind it, wreathed in blue flames. Many of the knights use this symbol to mark other things of great importance, as well as to claim lands. Some go so far as to ave the symbol tattooed onto their bodies.

Their armor is all generally the same, whether they be a foot soldier, or a general. There is some small differences for different positions, mostly adding protection to vulnerable areas.

The Revenants have different ranks in their order as well, the highest of course being the king himself. Then the High Lord, High Knight-Lords, The Knight-Lords, the knights, then the military, and then the commoners who get drafted into fighting, if needed.



Ezrion's family crest: A silver wolf head, eyes of red flames, and a star, each point marked by a small tongue of white flames, on the great creatures forehead.