Oriseambar stood just a few dozen meters from the yawning darkness that occupied the aperture of the Dhaugruz’s foot in the easternmost parcel of the Vesgeriath Woodland. An ivory fort erected two centuries after the hordes of slaves marched into the Veinways of the gloomy mountain range slithering about the northernmost lands of the great continent of Vhalleryon. A fort of hexagonal proportions standing on an already steep land, with a deep mote filled to the brim with azure waters with a glint of all the warm shades of dawn thanks to the overflowing of iuboron matter forming the base of spells, the first line of defense against those on the other side of the gloomy mountain and the horrors lurking in the forest behind.
Further beyond the rivulet occupied moat, on the rising land betwixt the moat and sharply turning, six-sided walls stakes protruded from the frozen, black earth decorated furtively with snow. And at the highest point of the moderate hill started the ivory base of the wall. A wall of unctuously cohesive granite gleaming magnificently like the scaled hide of elder dragon kind, and just as sturdy against the tools and spells of war. On the top, meticulously placed, small cubicles grew forth the thick rail offering protection and the chance to safely hurl spell, arrow and stone against the rushing forces of the enemy.
An enemy like the revenants who distorted forms hung on the stakes in the blackened, frozen earth or circled in the rivulet, slowly burning as Iuboron matter slowly consumed their degraded forms that began anew their decaying into nothingness.
The few legionariir posted atop the pentagonal towers on each sharp corner pinched their nose and cursed the dead for their foolishness. A not so truthful foolishness as the pale figure of Grimslaukh stood in the shadows of the ghastly trees, his listless eyes glancing while wicked forms amassed behind him. “I’ll take half. You all take the rest.” He turned and spoke to the horror from times before the children of Deossos were elevated into proper forms.
An amorphous horror of a fluid state wrapped around a haphazardly sculpted together frame of welted bones of those who felt brave – foolish – enough to venture into the parcel of the Black Goat with a Thousand Children. There they lost themselves in the maze of illusions, their minds slowly degraded into nothingness while their bodies were slowly devoured by these amorphous children who shared the remains of their preys betwixt each other.
It gave out a sibilant, guttural sound answering Grimslaukh whose cold, dark gaze remained on the fortress only a few hundred meters from them. “Do not worry child. I shall leave bodies for your kin.” He answered with a genial smile that sent made the bones in the opaque liquid rattle. They watched and sensed their surroundings as Grimslaukh walked towards the southern gate. They watched as the wind sweeping across previously halted in its relentless march before their liege, the snow melted not from heat but from the steps whose sound vanished in the moment of their birth.
“Time to instill the old fear into the young.” He murmured in the hard shadow of the great Yuhar gate. Yuhar one of the strongest wood processed carefully as these trees born from the union of nekrotic and naultic matter – the primordial matter of Nature itself. Life and death, flames and ice, change and stasis in perfect harmony in a mundane vessel of nature – that was Yuhar. But before Grimslaukh, this balance was thrown in favor of nekrotic matter, and the light hazel tinted gate crumbled at the blink of his tired eyes.
And through its crumbling form, the few dozen legionariir who were alerted to the white specter before the gate watched bewildered as the protection that could withstood the onslaught of thousand beasts, the tools of war and spells of destruction crumbled not even into just pieces of ruin, but dust. They could not help but shiver as they stood before Him, before the second greatest shadow of Dusk, of Time that does not halt to the whims of mortals – not even the great Elhyrissiar whom they swore allegiance.
“Just the halft.” He repeated to himself as he walked through the arch devoid of the once proud gate, keeping his promise as the half of the fort’s personnel laid down onto the ground, their eyes closed with light extinguished under the heavy curtains. Few of the half leaned against the wall as they rushed down the stairs, as they glanced one last time onto the walking white and mildly dark form staring vacantly, everlastingly. And the rest watched as their brothers and sisters extinguished, but were denied passage to the gray city where they shall finally rest peacefully.
Fear froze their bodies like the cold draught breezing, permeating through the fortress, breaking through relentlessly the windows of the headquarters, through the residence of the local tribuniar whom was promised great glories when war arrives, yet he found nothing but the coldness of dusk, the grasp of death itself. The final twilight descended on the fortress, and the children of the Black Goat followed, their joyous sibilant and guttural cries echoed for hundreds of kilometers, mingling with the final throttles of the once brave and ivory legionariir of the nineteenth.
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Oriambal, promised to stand against the onslaught of the Host for weeks, for months even fell within minutes before the might of Dusk and all its horrors as those who fell by the will of Grimslaukh rose onto their feet, their forms distorted and withered by the energies of time and dusk. Their souls ceased their beseeching of Grimslaukh, to release them to their promised rest, and now waited devoid of joy, of anger, of despair and were filled to the brim with the gentle void in service of Grimslaukh, The Great Emissary of Twilight.
“That is all. You have done a fine work my friend.” As he stood before the disciplined dead, the eldest child of the Black Goat leapt from the wall, landed right beside him and once more uttered words of a strange, inhumane tongue. Yet whilst the raised dead listened vainly, confused by the distant language of Urhggoth. “Come my friends. We shall march towards south, your former home.”
**
A heavy thud, the clinging of heavy plates echoed through the silent square upon Augermil’s landing from his winged companion, Jaculus who still hovered in the air unsure where to land his massive form. “Beg my pardon good citizens of Vonschneithar for the impromptu arrival of ours!” His deep, melodious voice boomed through the square.
The elderly merkin, the widow of the recently passed village head proudly walked forward and bowed before the shield and blade of the Empire itself. “We are glad to welcome you, great protector of the Empire!” Her raspy voice easily cut through the heavy sound of wings flapping just a few meters before their head. “Though we regret not finding a place for your proud, majestic winged companions.” Her tired, genial gaze focused on Jaculus who lowered his head in understanding as Augermil looked back at him and gestured with his head towards the south.
Sigi watched, recalling the words of Priernuss and he felt a warm twinge of excitement and awe upon seeing the dragon heading not far beyond the precipices of the village. The tendons of his legs tensed, quivered lightly as he repressed his desire to follow after the majestic beast with shimmering, chromatic scales and thick, branching horns akin to an elks’ or stags of the forest southwards of their village. For the time being, he had to quench his curiosity of drawing his palms across the scaled form, the curiosity to liken them to Aurelithae’s whose scales he touched once in the land of dreams.
“Though I guess it is not a secret on what business we came.” Then his mind lurched back to reality upon hearing those words pour forth the muzzle of Augermil whose head was adorned with similar antler like horns. Words which awakened a cold scorching within his abdomen, one quelled by a deep sigh and Eadwald walking towards with an excited expression. One that matched most of the villagers, except for the few aevhei like their uncles Aelfsigior and Priernuss – and their mother Mirdbruil. Both stared at Augermil with worried looks, their eyes covertly brimming with suspicion.
“What is wrong?” He asked in a low-voice leaning lightly towards Priernuss. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, just greet mighty Augermil.” Now he looked a bit puzzled as he thought that maybe Aurelithae was wrong when she told him her uncle shall come for them, and that this bipedal dragon was someone else. But the question had to wait as he followed Amiriniel and the two carefully maneuvered through the crowd forming a ring around the southern square.
The two stopped behind Eadwald who stood before them, holding his body, quenching the shivers of excitement as he stood before Augermil, the one whom he heard almost a thousand tales, odes throughout his short life. All the recent years’ aches evaporated as he mustered his strength and greeted the senior warrior with a courtesy fit for one of the country side, of the far north where cold and dusk ruled. One of his dream came true as the two’s honed arms wrapped around each other in a firm greeting, and Sigi mischievously smiled when he noticed the faint tremble when his name left the muzzle of Augermil. It was like as if he stood before a proper dragon, brimming with awe and fear at the mighty presence.
Amiriniel was a bit more mature, calm when offering her greetings like a noble lady. Motions hammered into her by Mirdbruil for the past few years. Though she too felt a bit excited, but not as much as her curiosity took the better of her and she began to question Augermil about his brother, the Elhyrissiar. As he listened and watched beside her, Sigi noticed the faint sadness lingering in his words, regret and envy colluding with it whilst his eyes remained kind and bright with the joy of an older sibling.
“A fine youth.” Augermil said just enough for those near to hear as their arms locked firmly together. Sigi once more wrestled to not let his face contort at the force of the muscles honed for thousands of years, forged in even more battles. “You must be the boy my dear niece spoke about!” Then he said in a low-voice, though whether he smiled or not he could not tell. “With the gift of my lady!” At those words, Sigi could no longer keep his face in a genial, calm contour and looked inquisitively at the elderly draevhe.
“We shall have plenty of time for explanations. For now, know we are kindred spirits so to speak.” He nodded and smiled, though he was unsure of why, but felt a tickling cold wind blowing against his face as Augermil’s grip released. “Now, I stole enough of each your times. Please ignore my presence and continue your lives!”
As the silence came to an end amidst the murmurs of the villagers, Sigi rushed towards Augermil and spoke up in an excited tone. “Beg my pardon my lord, but could I come with you. I am quite interested in your winged companions.” Hearing those words as she approached, Mirdbruil’s calm, genial expression veiling her suspicions mellowed and the corners of her lips curved ever so slightly. “Of course, little Sigiwaer.” Augermil said, and now he could notice the definite smile, aimed towards kindred – a kindred of fates upon hearing the soft whispers of his lady, the Weeping Maiden.