Yelena

When Yelena entered the monastery’s Great Hall with Agathae, she turned the heads of each warrior assembled in silence before the macabre altar set above the frozen hearth. She gulped as she met their steady gazes, and a few of the older ones turned away from her in disgust. Her own form followed her in the Hall’s stained windows, reflecting her silver chest plate, greaves and gauntlets, and the dark blue cloak that trailed behind her. She did not balk at the looks afforded to her. This was just life. People couldn’t help behaving the way they did. Tell yourself something enough, and you believe it.

Even as this thought strangled her mind with its sheer futility, she kept a firm hand on the hilt of the sword affixed to her waist.

She eventually found Dimedrious amidst the supplicant crowd and drew her weapon, planting the blade firmly before her to match her compatriots. She nodded to Cynthia, and felt a sense of relief wash over her as she looked upon both her and Di’s faces, whose smiles of greeting were actually genuine.

"Look who finally decided to show up," the kneeling dog-man scoffed sarcastically.

She ignored his tone. "Anything?" she asked.

He gave a wry cough. "Bleh. Just a few twitches, nothing substantial."

She followed his eyes up to the creature the assembled monks and warriors gazed upon: the mummified form of the Wailing Prophet, clad in a simple robe that hung loose from her right shoulder, exposing her decayed flesh that barely clung to her skin. Her rotted hair cascaded down her grisly form, framing a face that bore two sunken eye sockets and a gaping, withered mouth. Presently she was shaking her fingers in movements almost imperceptible to mortal eyes, and her dried lips trembled as though she were about to speak at any moment.

Yelena still felt a deep coldness run through her skin to behold her - an artifact from The Everloft’s Tenth Layer itself.

The signs were there, and Proctor Azran had assembled everyone to hear the Prophet speak. He sat right beneath her, head bowed and wings tucked away in supplication, his beak moving every now and then as he tried to interpret her every twitch.

She suddenly felt another pair of eyes bore into her, and glanced back in the cold direction of Virtir. Of course it was her that was snarling more than any others: the eyes of a Yok’ra were the reptilian slits of the very same serpents whose blood ran in their veins. Yelana furrowed her brow and met the snake’s gaze head on. She held the attention of Virtir with such ferocious determination that some of the acolytes began to feel the tension that was forming between them. Then, finally, all eyes flew to the corpse above the mantle, for a groan that was little more than a whimper began to emanate from her fetid mouth.

Instantly the cold of night permeated the room, weaving between the pews and creeping across the bones of the assemblage. Azran’s eyes were upturned like he was possessed, and Yelena felt the Wailing Prophet’s chilling voice seep into her steel-encased bosum:

"Yarruk!" the prophet called from her black throat, and her voice was a whisper that echoed in the consciousness of the collective souls that huddled together before her. "Death shall stalk the alleys of Yarruck."

Her neck produced a sickening snap and her head flew to the roof, a howl of pain emanating from her black throat. Then she fell silent, her head lolling to her side.

Proctor Azran did not share the collective shudder of the assembly as the Prophet’s cries left their minds. He rose, gave one flap of his feathered wings, and flew into the air above them.

"One team shall be the Prophet’s hand," he said, in a voice that Yelena believed to be covered in threads of silvery honey. "Yarruck will not lose a single life on this day. Who will rise to make the journey?"

He was met with a barrage of raised swords and solemn declarations of honor and glory that each warrior would bring the monastery. But one voice – the howl of the wolven warrior kneeling next to Yelena – pierced through them all.

"Aye!" Dimedrious shouted. "The Fangs of the Wolf ask to heed the call of our lady. Does any brave soul wish to challenge us?"

The team all stood with him: Yelena, Agathae, and Cynthia – each a different hybrid like the rest. But more loyal than any Yelena had ever met in her life. She brimmed with pride to look upon Proctor Azran and the rest of them, resplendent in her armor, and show them that she was ready to defend her homeland.

She needed this now more than ever.

"Is that so, Dimedrious?" Proctor Azran asked, considering the request. "It has been some time since I have let you off your leash, I suppose."

"Every dog needs a walk now and then," Dimedrious responded with a smirk. "Even a caged bird knows that."

At the gasp that seethed through the crowd, Azran only gave a hearty laugh, wiping his beak in the aftermath.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"At times, I don’t know whether to hang or honor you, cousin," he wheezed. "Do your warriors stand with you?"

Almost immediately the company members raised their blades in the air.

"Aye!" Agathae roared, her feline ears twitching with excitement.

"Aye!" Cynthia shouted, her voice nothing more than a shrill squeak from her squirrel-human Tilonxeel throat.

But as Yelena thrust her own sword into the air to stab out her declaration, another voice thundered over hers.

"I dispute that one’s claim!"

It was Virtir who rose to make the accusation. Yelena knew before she even turned to face the vicious serpent’s eyes. They were boring into her like spears, and Yelena cast her eyes to the floor, feeling shame rise in her throat. Then Dimedrious spoke:

"Disregard it, Proctor," he growled. "Jealous snakes can find their own prey."

"Jealous?" Virtir bellowed. "Your emotional attachments to the girl blind you, dog. Must I again remind the assembly of the circumstances of this creature’s birth? She is a curse on us, and I am done with allowing this charade to continue. I will not allow her to potentially maim the innocents of Yarruk."

There were outcries of derision at Virtir's statement, defiant voices that rang throughout the hall and a few hands that flew to the swords at their sides. But it was a display, Yelena knew, nothing more – for she also looked around and saw the slightly nodding faces, sunken eyes in the eyes of the scarred hybrids who had fought beside Yelena on the battlefields of their snow-blasted home. They knew the story – all of them, and so they met her gaze with fear or turned away entirely. They said nothing, and their silence betrayed them.

Yelena looked passed them all to Proctor Azran who also stood silent below the now vacant Prophet. His sharp crow eyes darted from Diemdrious to Virtir, who fumed at eachother like school children ready to clash. Then his eyes settled on Yelena and lingered. He was waiting for something. She knew it.

"Impudent scale-face!" Dimedrious roared. "I’ll have your tail for that."

But as he drew his greatsword and Virtir readied her rapier to meet his strike, Yelena came between them both. She looked at her commander and her focused eyes stayed his blade. He huffed as his feral bloodlust abated.

"Di," she said calmly. "It’s ok."

His breath came in short, guttural bursts, and his gaze shifted to Proctor Azran’s netural expression. He bowed his head and sheathed his blade with a snarl.

Then Yelena turned to Virtir, who looked on her with a strange mixture of rage and fear. She looked at her, and the hatred that burned for her in those eyes was like a mirror into Yelena’s own soul.

"Sister Virtir," Yelena said. "I know the stories that you have heard, that all of you have heard, but I am not your enemy. I have fought alongside you all and would give my life to shield your own. I am a sword that shall fight when called to do so. I am the blade of our Prophet, and if it is her will that I remain here, then here I shall remain."

The Wailing Woman did not stir, though the assembly waited.

"You are a beast born of shadow," Virtir said, her face merely inches from Yelena’s. "You will destroy us one day."

Yelena felt it, then: the thing that stirred within her. The desire to reach out. A pulling at the very core of her being that rippled down her sword arm and begged her, pleaded with her to direct its energies through her limbs. To strike. To destroy.

Class Ability: Searing Strike

Activate?

She shook the thought from reality, ignoring the onyx letters as they scratched themselves into the air beside Virtir. She would not yield to their suggestion. Amarata wanted her to show her loyalty. Her honor.

She had to be better than that.

"If you doubt my loyalty, then join us," Yelena finally replied, unfazed. "And if I display any hint of treachery, take the head from my shoulders."

There was silence then, broken only by the hushed whispers of some of those at the back of the hall straining to hear the details of the conversation. Some of the newbies were still itching to see a fight.

Virtir’s eyes wavered but stayed centered on Yelena’s. For a moment, she thought the snake would just kill her then and there. She already had her hand on her rapier, and Yelena was certain she could draw it across her neck before she even twitched her fingers towards her longsword’s hilt. Then the snake took a sharp intake of breath, sheathed her weapon, and bowed to Proctor Azran.

"The Band of the Viper request to join The Fangs in this campaign."

"Approved," Azran said, with an almost imperceptible smile appearing under his beak. "May the Prophet bless you both. Adjourned!"

With that, the members of the assembly all stood as one, bowed, and filed out of the room. Virtir’s men went last, waiting at the door for their fearless leader. They respected her, Yelena knew, because she had proudly declared the thoughts that swirled in their own minds. Maybe they had planned this from the start. Virtir did not move away, did not give a single inch, but stared her down with the eyes of a predator.

"If you harm a single hair on one of my own, monster," she said. "I’ll tear out your cursed heart and feed it to your little doggie."

Yelena said nothing. But neither did she flinch at the serpent’s stabbing tongue that uttered her words. When she left, Yelana felt Di’s reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"You didn’t have to do that," he said. "I would have relished the prospect of grilled snake for dinner."

She smiled and ruffled the fur on his claw. Then, as one, The Fangs of the Wolf bowed to their Proctor and Prophet before leaving for the world beyond the Hall.

"Don’t think on it, Lena," Agathae told her as they opened monastery doors and headed for the stables. Her twitching whiskers never failed to amuse Yelena, and almost involuntarily she allowed herself a chuckle of good cheer.

"They don’t know you like we do," Cynthia agreed. Her squeaking voice cut through the cold that assailed them as she spoke. "They’re just afraid, and fear makes people stupid."

She spared a look back at Dimedrious, who was trying not to let his gaze linger on her. It was cute that he tried to hide his affection – so like a puppy. A well-armed, tough-as-nails puppy.

Yelena met the smiles of her companions with a silent nod as they made to mount their steeds. She knew what Cynthia said was right – that word ‘fear’ had been bandied around plenty during these days. It was by this point synonymous with the villagers that populated the desolated townships of Averix’s Northern Hemisphere. They practically lived every day in the shadow of their fears – mutable and blood-curdling – and placed their hope in those like her of the monastery. She reminded herself of this as she rode with her company through the snow, and the great iron gates of the monastery parted before them. Fear had been a word - an excuse - that she’d heard plenty of times.

But she grimaced as she remembered the look on Virtir’s face as she had said one word in particular.

Monster.

She’d heard that word plenty of times, too.