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Anlyth, an elf and Paladin of the Kingdom of Slaethia, lay alone in her bed. The chilling void of the empty sheets next to her pierced her heart, intensifying the ache from her partner’s absence. Although she understood he was fulfilling his obligations as the General of the army, it brought her scant solace.

In a society where no one died from old age, traditional marriage became uncommon; such unions no longer made any sense after their world aligned with Völuspá’s moons. However, this did not mean that similar commitments were absent. Contractual unions, for example, required a hundred years of mutual commitment and devotion to one another’s goals. The two had been together for the last three hundred years, having surpassed two such contracts, with the prospect of continuing for another thousand years.

Though now, the hours without him stretched endlessly, each moment in bed feeling longer than the last.

Anlyth sighed, tossing and turning in bed as the howling laughter from the evening’s festivities began to wane, leaving only the muffled chuckles of inebriated soldiers stumbling back to their tents. The triumph from just days ago felt distant, with nightly celebrations continuing unabated—an orchestra of wild merrymaking and indulgence, playing out under countless eclipses on this dark moon. And who could blame them? Aurelia, the vampire who had once been the terror of their kingdom, was now a captive, subject to their whims.

Elves, dwarves, humyns, and gnomes—the pillars that had rebuilt the kingdom—were preparing to parade this malevolent monster back to their homeland. That, at least, was the wish of every citizen of Slaethia. However, as usual, politics complicated matters.

By tomorrow’s end, with the arrival of two champions, she would be handed over to the Ascended Empire, where her true ordeal would begin. This was the Empire’s desire, their decree, sending a stark message to all nocturnal horrors: every feral fiend and forbidden race capable of breeding such soulless abominations—vampires, werewolves, lizardmen, orcs, goblins, and many more—would be eradicated in the name of the ascended god’s divine mission.

Even those who sympathized with such vile creatures, like the beastkin, would not be spared.

Rising gracefully from her bed, Anlyth draped herself in a cloak, a mere whisper of fabric that scarcely shielded her from Völuspá’s glow, only for another eclipse to bathe her in darkness. Her armor stood ready, but tonight, she had a different agenda. Initially, she intended to surprise her partner, to reveal the mysteries hidden beneath the cloak. However, those desires had shifted.

Emerging into the embrace of the eclipse, Anlyth was met with a biting cold that seemed to grip her very marrow. She half-wondered what life was like on other moons—did they bask in frequent hours of daylight from the distant sun, or did Völuspá’s glow intensify the closer one got? She shelved those musings for now. Amidst the chill, a shadowy suspicion wormed its way into her thoughts: her partner, perhaps ensnared in the depths of inebriated merriment with his officers.

“Surely not,” she silently argued with herself. He wouldn’t have abandoned their shared warmth without significant reason.

“Should that man be lost in the company of ale, officers, or—gods forbid—another’s embrace, he will rue the day,” Anlyth whispered fiercely, stepping forward into the crisp night, resolved to seek out Ezad.

Upon entering the command tent, Anlyth was met with an unsettling sight: her partner, Ezad, was conspicuously absent. The tent, usually bustling with at least one on-duty officer, now stood eerily vacant. Chairs were overturned, hinting at either a skirmish or a swift exit. With a heavy heart and rising apprehension, Anlyth quickly returned to the night’s embrace, seeking clarity.

“Well now, Anlyth, aren’t you a sight to behold! I can hardly believe me own eyes, seein’ that lovely behind of yours runnin’ around without a lick of armor on, love. Ain’t ye a bit of a tease, ye are?” Gimona, the cheeky dwarf woman, chided with a smirk.

“Not now, Gimona. Have you seen Ezad?”

“Och, so that’s the game ye’re playin’, dressin’ up like that, are ye?” Gimona chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“The command tent is vacant,” Anlyth declared, her tone underscoring the gravity of the situation.

“WHAT IN THE NAME O’ THE GODS?!” Gimona roared. “Do ye think we’ve been breached? Do ye think the dungeon core’s been taken? Sweet mother of mercy, I hope not.”

Anlyth’s voice carried a hint of anxiety, yet her determination was unmistakable. “Ezad secured the dungeon core within a dimensional ring to keep it hidden from the Empire. We need to find him or any of the senior members to ascertain if we face an imminent threat.”

“I’ve ne’er laid eyes on that man wearin’ a ring,” Gimona retorted skeptically.

“Uh, yes…” Anlyth shifted her gaze, momentarily uncomfortable. “The ring isn’t exactly... conventional.”

“What in the name o’ the gods does that mean?”

“Um, perhaps we should consult a soldier currently on duty,” Anlyth suggested, eager to refocus. “It’s possible we’re jumping to conclusions. They might have witnessed something that sheds light on the situation.”

As Anlyth and Gimona navigated the encampment, it quickly became evident that an unusually large number of sentries had abandoned their posts. While a handful might stray during festivities, the absence of twenty guards was alarming. This stark realization cemented Anlyth’s suspicions: they were indeed under siege!

“We need to find Craycroft,” Anlyth said with a heavy sigh. “This predicament might be beyond what we can manage alone.”

Gimona shook her head. “That old codger brought a Way Stone with him. Uses it to nip back to his tower every night—prefers the cozy comfort of his own bed over any damp tent and scratchy bedroll, he does.”

“Then my path is clear,” Anlyth reluctantly declared. “I shall assume command of the army until either Ezad or a senior officer is located. Gimona, strike the Wailing Drums. We stand under threat.”

“Aye, Anlyth. I’ll get right to it. And what will ye be doin’?”

“Our foes often comprise necromancers, vampires, and other shadowy entities. It’s imperative that I safeguard the remains of our departed to ensure they aren’t manipulated as tools by these adversaries.”

“It’d be better to burn the bodies, it would.”

“It would,” Anlyth replied, her voice tinged with sadness, “but violating a body before its rightful rites unsettles the departing spirit. I’ve seen my share of restless phantoms and tortured souls; I wish to see no more.”

~

Gimona Grimmail took off with urgency, allowing Anlyth to manage her matters. Despite her compact, sturdy dwarf legs, she moved at a remarkable pace, driven by surging adrenaline. The once vibrant fires of the camp had dimmed to mere embers, yet her objective remained clear: the Wailing Drums. The need to awaken the entire camp was paramount.

As Gimona dashed towards the drums, an unshakable sensation hinted she might confront adversaries before reaching her destination. A smile crept onto her face, embracing the thrill of the moment. After all, tonight was an opportune time to be a Monster Slayer!

While Gimona regretted leaving her axe behind, her confidence remained steadfast. She was no mere dwarf that needed a blade for protection. And she proved it when she sensed an impending attack. The almost imperceptible disturbance in the air hinted at the deceptive approach these detestable beings preferred. Their assault was laughably amateurish! With reflexes honed by experience, Gimona’s hand shot out, seizing the assassin’s wrist and stopping the dagger mere inches from her throat.

With a nimble twist and yank, the shadowy assailant was airborne for a moment before crashing heavily onto the ground. Without hesitation, Gimona’s boot came down on the attacker’s face with the might akin to a mana crystal’s explosion. A concussive wave emanated from the strike, yet the camp’s inebriated soldiers, lost in their alcoholic haze, remained oblivious, their snores uninterrupted. Gimona couldn’t suppress a chuckle. The scene reaffirmed a belief she had long held: humyns and elves simply couldn’t handle their pitiful excuse for ale.

In her urgency, Gimona’s eyes darted to where the vampires had previously been staked. Her heart plummeted when she found the spots empty. Just a minuscule amount of blood could mend their grievous injuries, making them formidable adversaries for the encampment. To exacerbate the situation, the General’s absence meant the army was without its commander amidst an apparent siege. But Gimona was resolute in her determination to prevent a disaster this night. She surged forward once more, aiming for the Wailing Drums. The only sound capable of rousing an army from its alcohol-fueled escapades was the haunting resonance of that drum.

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Yet, her momentum was suddenly thwarted when a cluster of dwarves, groggy and irked, emerged from their tents, disgruntled by the disruption to their rest.

~

Anlyth dashed toward the Repository Tent, her heart pounding with growing apprehension. The trailing end of her cloak occasionally flirted with the wind, cheekily revealing her exposed rear. If a necromancer had indeed breached their defenses, that tent would be their prime target.

To her immense relief, the guards outside remained steadfast, an embodiment of resilience. Ezad’s foresight in choosing only the elite to guard the fallen shone through in this crisis. While their commitment was unwavering, Anlyth caught their lingering glances. As she neared, she drew her cloak tighter, a shadow of a smirk forming, silently warning them against any mention of her current state.

“Has anyone seen the General?” Anlyth demanded, her voice stern and authoritative.

“Aye, Paladin Knight Anlyth, ma’am,” one of the guards responded. “General Ezad is presently inside the Repository Tent, in consultation with a priestess. But I must note, his demeanor struck me as… peculiar.”

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Anlyth instructed, “You six, fall in with me,” addressing the guards. “I suspect the enemy has breached our lines. Stay alert and expect the unexpected!”

The sextet of knights, battle-scarred and seasoned from myriad wars, assumed a stance of readiness, their zeal palpable. Their salutes signified their unwavering allegiance, leaving no doubt in the Paladin’s mind about their preparedness for the looming conflict. Drawing her blade, Anlyth braced herself and ventured into the tent. The scene within was the manifestation of her gravest apprehensions.

Her beloved stood beside the vampiric nemesis, the very scourge who had once laid waste to her realm. A name, whispered in fearful tones, haunted the nightmares of Slaethian children: Aurelia. For the populace of the Kingdom of Slaethia, her name invoked paralyzing dread, yet there she stood, challenging all present with her mere presence.

Anlyth’s heart splintered as she witnessed her once valiant partner, now ensnared by the very creature they had sworn to vanquish, the unmistakable signs of necromancy etched into his very being. The man she loved, reduced to a mere shadow of the leader and partner she once knew, stirred a torrent of anguish within her. Tears blurred her vision, and her sword wavered in her grip, the weight of her grief threatening to pull her under.

The monstrous seductress had ensnared him, and Anlyth realized the scale of the calamity that awaited them this night. She made a solemn vow: she would ceaselessly battle the vampiric fiend until her partner’s soul was liberated and he could find eternal repose in the afterlife. Facing the fiend, though fraught with peril, was her unyielding obligation; for her love, her kingdom, and her sacred oath as a Paladin.

Yet, the act of her initial capture was nothing short of a marvel. Without Craycroft’s guidance and might, Anlyth questioned whether a second victory was attainable. Aurelia, the vampire, met Anlyth’s gaze with a malicious grin, her ivory fangs glistening menacingly. Anlyth’s attention was momentarily captivated by the pristine priestess robes Aurelia donned. However, in an unnerving display, the robes seemed to disintegrate, giving way to a gown as dark as a moonless night. It was a garb more befitting of a lavish soirée than the blood-soaked terrain of a battlefield. Yet, as Aurelia stood there, she resembled the embodiment of a nightmare—as if her very attire was forged from the purest, darkest sorcery.

Anlyth had yearned for this rhythm, now finally resounding and reverberating deeply within her soul. Unyielding cadence pulsed through the night, conjuring an ambiance thick with anticipation and unease. Soon, the drum’s resonating sound was joined by a haunting scream—a banshee’s war lament. Ethereal and chilling, the shriek cut through the night, sending shivers down the spines of all who heard it. Seemingly endless, the cry served as a melancholic anthem, signaling impending doom. As the drum’s rhythmic pounding merged with the banshee’s spine-tingling wail, an aura of imminent peril was crafted, jolting the entire encampment to readiness. Warriors all around, roused from their inebriated haze, suddenly became lucid, primed, and poised for the confrontation that awaited.

While the initial onslaught at the dungeon’s remnants had taken the vampires by surprise, neither faction emerged unscathed, both suffering grievous losses. For Anlyth’s side, the grim reality was stark: Aurelia possessed everything needed to forge her new legion within the confines of that tent. The canvas shelter lay strewn with the lifeless forms of comrades, a somber tableau of those who had once fought valiantly alongside Anlyth. Though merely a fraction of the forces outside, their potential resurrection by necromancy loomed as a dire threat. Anlyth knew the peril of engaging necromancers; every fallen ally could tragically turn against them, weaponized in death.

Gimona burst into the tent, her expression twisted with fury as she confronted the General and the vampiric princess. “Hey now, what in the blazin’ hells is goin’ on here? General, what the devils are ye doin’ with that blood-suckin’ wench?”

Anlyth’s gaze snapped to Aurelia’s gown, noting its sudden change. The fabric seemed to pulse with life, reacting defensively to Gimona’s accusations. It shifted and undulated subtly, the sleeves twitching as if bristling with latent hostility. A chilling, oppressive energy filled the air, the malice from the gown palpable, as if the very atmosphere had turned leaden, pregnant with impending violence.

“Gimona, weren’t you the one sounding the Wailing Drums?” Anlyth queried sharply.

“Well now, lassie, I had a few of me lads sort it out,” Gimona replied, but her voice lowered to a mutter, “Still don’t see where that dimension ring could be on that man!”

Anlyth’s eyes blazed with fury as she glanced from the smiling vampire back to Gimona. The unsettling calmness of the vampire, paired with her malevolent grin, sent chills down Anlyth’s spine. She feared Gimona might have inadvertently revealed too much. Despite potential missteps, the situation demanded decisive action.

With unwavering resolve, Paladin Anlyth summoned her divine powers. As she spoke her incantations, her arm was bathed in a radiant light, emanating purity and strength. “In the name of the heavens,” she declared, her voice resounding with authority, “may sacred luminescence be my beacon!”

A beam of divine light surged forth, but it unexpectedly struck the person Anlyth cherished most—her beloved partner. The luminous energy collided with him with the force of a roaring blaze, sending him hurtling backward. The aftermath was horrifying—a searing hole in his chest, his skin charred and smoking. Anlyth’s heart tore as she beheld the mark of her divine wrath on the man she loved. Tears streamed down her face, the weight of her choice crushing her, yet she believed it necessary.

As she prepared another spell, Anlyth’s attention was caught by the peculiar behavior of Aurelia’s dress. It recoiled as if sentient, shrinking away from the divine light. But it was not Ezad’s plight that kindled the vampire’s fury; it was something else, something unseen. This realization was abruptly cut short by a chilling touch at her ankle.

Looking down, Anlyth gasped in horror. What she had assumed to be a corpse was gripping her ankle. The reality of the necromancer’s dark magic became undeniably clear. All around her, the tent came alive with movement, as fallen warriors began to rise, their souls enslaved to undeath, creating a terrifying legion of the undead.

Amidst this chaos, Anlyth stood firm, fighting alongside her six knights and Gimona. The tent had transformed into a battleground, filled with the sounds of clashing steel and the moans of the undead. Every swing of her sword met decaying flesh; each parry thwarted a deadly grasp. Surrounded by relentless foes, the scent of rot overwhelming, Anlyth’s resolve never wavered.

Summoning her might, Paladin Anlyth unleashed her most potent spell—an inferno of blinding light and fire that spiraled outward, scorching all in its path. The protective enchantments of the Repository Tent strained and flickered.

The tent quivered, its spatial magic pulsing with distress under the strain of battle. Anlyth, focused solely on quelling the undead threat and ending the vampire’s malevolent reign, unleashed a torrent of spells. However, the barrage proved too much; the tent's enchantments began to falter, threatening to unravel at the seams.

As the spatial magic within the Repository Tent shattered, reality itself seemed to explode outward in cataclysmic chaos, merging abruptly with the world outside. Tents were hurled into the air, and soldiers tumbled like leaves in a violent tempest, flung about without mercy. Nearby, cages filled with beastkin clattered and rolled, contributing to the tumult.

This seismic shockwave violently collided with the fortifications of Elsternwick village, shattering them into fragments and reducing homes to mere rubble. Those cognizant of the unfolding calamity braced for the subsequent implosion, a dire consequence when a pocket dimension destabilizes. True to their worst fears, the shockwave surged back with the vehemence of a relentless storm, obliterating more structures and dragging both knights and villagers toward the epicenter of the catastrophe. The ensuing explosive cacophony reverberated across the realm, marking a moment of unparalleled destruction.

Reeling from the shock, Anlyth struggled to regain her bearings, amazed that she was still among the living. Over her, the steadfast dwarf Gimona Grimmail stood vigilant, her fingers clutching a barrier medallion. The lustrous glow of the magical talisman shielded both Gimona and Anlyth from the cataclysm’s wrath, a solitary beacon in the midst of utter chaos. Regrettably, the gallant six knights who had fought valiantly by their side were not as fortunate. As Anlyth surveyed the ravaged landscape, she clung to the hope that the malevolent vampire, Aurelia, had at last been vanquished.

To Anlyth’s horror, her deepest dread materialized before her eyes. Shielded by a dissipating crimson barrier, the vampire Aurelia danced amidst the debris of shattered tents, her voice lilting to a malevolent melody that seemed otherworldly. Her movements were a grotesque parody of an elegant waltz, contorted and chilling. She caressed her shadowy gown with unnerving tenderness, seemingly celebrating the devastation that surrounded her. Witnessing this macabre display, a cold chill raced down Anlyth’s spine, as she watched the fiend take delight in the havoc she had wreaked.

Emerging from the ruins of the razed camp, the soldiers stood resolute, determination etched on every face. Amidst the chaos, Anlyth, a pillar of strength, surveyed the devastation with an icy, unyielding smile. Now, her nemesis, the monstrous vampire Aurelia, found herself surrounded by an army united in their thirst for retribution. Although Aurelia’s power was formidable, she was not invincible. Anlyth was more than ready to demonstrate this, she vowed to extinguish the malevolent force that Aurelia represented. From then on, the young souls of the Kingdom of Slaethia could find solace in the night, free from the specter of Aurelia’s terror.

With a sorrow-laden whisper, Anlyth murmured, “For you, my love,” her eyes ablaze with divine fervor. The vampire had stolen her heart’s joy by slaying her partner, but vengeance would be Anlyth’s. In that pivotal moment, she felt an indomitable force rising within her, ensuring that no obstacle could deter her.