Dark clouds gathered over Luth-Astaril, garlanded by the verdant green and dawn golden beams of the Illius on the closing 27th day of Seintrua in the 1266th year of the First Age. Heavy downpour of translucent blue and green cascaded upon the alabaster streets, forming shallow rivers washing away dirt and blood, cleansing the corpses of cultists, citizens and legionariir without a hint of prejudice. In the eyes of Nature, they were all the same – remnants of civilizations’ horrors.
Long gone were the days of the grand capital of the Elhyrissian Empire when the good citizens could walk freely, ailed only by the fear of the next day; when children could reenact their favored tales in the tender shadows of the trees, in the soothing glow of the Illius tempered by the enchanted marble. When the polished edifices, shops, forums brimmed with life, with joy or in the worst case were poisoned by the jealousy of wives and husbands, by the envy of children not by the shadowy grasp of the wicked cult.
Spreading lies amongst the folk of the uncaring draevhei living still within their walls, where peace and joy reigns unbroken. About the Legion whose gilded members strolled the city’s upper levels since their own homestead was invaded, who slowly retreated to protect those who enjoyed the luxuries of their lives even whilst the common and honest folk toiled in fear, anger drawing them into the embrace of the Beautiful whom promised them a fair world of equals.
A promised world much alike of what The Beautiful had taken from them, a truth buried away from them, both by the officials sworn to protect them in times of troubles who deemed it unnecessary for the folk of Luth-Astaril to be aware of the threat looming over the capital, and by the cult whose members wore frivolous garments found only on the Maerhiost Circle’s members. Whose corpses neatly fitted besides the legionariir whose numbers slowly dwindled as the years passed since the peaceful days.
Isocrates often found himself longing for those days. Days when he could saunter peacefully around the streets; greet each neighbor and friend without the fear, the anxiety that they shall be no more or worse. Or days when the most he had to worry about is the searing pain of his slender muscles after hours of working in the quarries or practicing maghia.
He missed the channeling of his mana through his anima veins; groaning as he wanted to will the tools to lift up themselves into the air and strike against the dark walls that seemed to sweat like those striking against them to reveal the hidden natural treasures buried in their bellies. The overwhelming thrill he felt the first time he budged the handle of his small pickaxe still lingered in his mind as the memory of euphoria stirred him often still, the warmness soothing him back to the sweet dreams.
And most importantly, he missed his arm rotted away by the primeval winds of dusk, devoured within a moment eked into his mind through the agony of his flesh breaking down into a black mass; bone pulverizing itself as nekrotic matter gnawed through it. Though he did not regret saving his comrade who would have taken the brunt of it if not for his timely intervention. Still, hearing the healer that nothing they could do would bring back his lost limb filled him with a cold, gnawing terror in his stomach which numbed his one remaining arm and legs as he laid in the soft embrace of the sheets with the cold, sturdy ground beneath while the silken ceiling fluttered faintly as the warm air breezed through it.
From what he gathered after calming down and hoping to find an answer was that the spell of the ancient nekros reached beyond the physical, it not just brought an end to her flesh, skin and marrow but also extended towards the possibility of his arm being grown back to its former mundane glory. A spell much beyond the capabilities of novice and even expert magusos. An intermingling of dusk and time spell of utter depravity only those mortals could cast who forego the erudite study of all other aspects. Similarly, the spell that could have reconstructed the possibility of his flesh, bone and skin growing back stood in the same semi-divine realm as he learnt after two weeks of ceaseless searching and studying tomes of dawn and time.
In the end he made piece and accepted the offer of an artificial arm embedded with arkhaine crystals which would tap into the arkhaine point of his lost arm, and was simply glad he and the others survived that encounter. “Aeson whence the Illius rises, enemy pours forth!” For now, his regret had to wait for the peaceful days hidden behind the blinding glare of the Illius. His artificial arm whirred, the gemstones along the filigreed surface lit up as his mana and inscriptions flowed through it whilst thunder cracked on the galvanized gold and from the palm bearing the insignia of the Deos of Thunders and Storms bringing forth change, a purple streak struck forth towards the fancily dressed cultists dropping from the sinister portal swirling in the dim shadows, struggling for a mere moment on slippery ground as a shallow river flow beneath their soles.
Reaching its destination – a demikin cultist with a large bow drawn and arrow on the brink of release – it violently burned through textile and the thick fur; tore through hardened, smooth skin and softly sturdy flesh of a vibrant shade of pink. The thunder’s own screaming as it branched towards two more cultists drawn out their last momentary screams before their sizzling forms fell onto the ground. Then its sporadic tendrils struck against the thin layer of rain flowing downwards in the sloping alley towards the legionariir clashing against the cultists who leapt forth the buildings surrounding the Anterhil Square. With a bit more focus, he halted the march of thunder from claiming further victims even amongst their own ranks.
He heaved a content smile while enjoying the rush of euphoria under the colorful statue of Anterhil, the namesake of the square on the middle district. An ancient hero of the Empire who battled against one of the great children of the Nightscale whose horrific reptilian form stood across with its hideously long jaw stretched open, and in any other day he would have complimented the stonemason who even hewn out the black flames of dusk pouring forth the jaws. But not on this day where the pungent, acrid odor of death lingered in the air as blood mixed with rain down on the even level.
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His gaze seemed to follow the trail of corpses belonging to both cultist and legionariir. Folk whose faces seemed familiar, even from just a passing. Each laid peacefully, all gazing at the skies veiled beyond the gloomy clouds washing away dirt and sweat one last time; cleansing out the wounds which carried them into the embrace of the Solemn Shepherd. Then his attention sprung at the glinting long blade rising high and descending hastily to cleave through the soft garment and flesh of a vampyr cultist whose translucent, pallid blood graced the paved ground below. A blade which belonged to his superior, his tribuniar Hektrahd.
“In the name of dawn, when will their numbers dwindle into nothing?” Ephaias standing on his right asked, a question which often formed and lingered in the mind of Isocrates himself. Though in recent years his suspicion fell on the Order, sprouting from his belief that Hunra was not the only member tainted by the primordial essence of The Beautiful. And of course, from the pariah’s district who were easily swayed with faux promises of not so dissimilar to the Empires’.
Yet a decade passed and the number of cultists hasn’t dwindled, their attacks were still as frequent when he was elevated into the rank of Auxiliar. The question remained even as he and Luelia skulked around the capital, eliminated numerous hideouts believed to be used for initiations. No matter how many faernalist of the Beautiful they killed, it seemed to have no effect on the enemy’s number and morale.
“Only half a dozen remains.” Themmtryd asked, the true meaning of the question passing by her as she lifted her hammer and practically smashed the ribs of a cultists into soft powder blending with his blood. The sound, the death throttles shivered Isocrates as he watched the young orkh fell before his eyes whom he felt pity towards knowing full well the addictive, suffocating charm of the taeberossian overlord from personal experience. A victim of higher being’s politics.
Ephaias sighed whilst raising his hands engulfed in a translucent azure haze, forming tendrils wrapping onto and swallowing the spells aimed at their group. “Not what I meant.” The words passed by the dwarfs’ ears as she let out a lion’s roar filled with the thrill of carnage, her form disappearing in a haze of crimson when her hammer smashed shattered the hip of another, passing through like butter.
“Feel not bad for them my friend.” Skopas said as he glanced on Ephaias’s face reflecting the mental exhaustion smothering the thrill of maghia.
His blade easily pierced through the chest of another cultist whose corpse he pushed away with his large shield. Another leapt from behind, her crude blade bouncing off from his back plate brimming with a rich golden shade. With a quite meticulous and elegant motion, Skopas turned around swinging his sword which passed through her flesh and bone like a knife passes through butter, separating her head cleanly from the rest of her body.
Feeling the raging mana within him subsiding slowly, Isocrates turned and watched as Hektrahd lifted a vampyr cultist whose neck he simply snapped then hurled his corpse against a few others. Upon impact the disgusting creature’s form exploded, the force of it killing the three in one fell swoop. On the roof of the homestead casting its shadow onto Hektrahd he sensed the presence of a magus channeling their baleful mana.
He closed his eyes and for a moment darkness remained. Slowly the etheric outlines of the legionaries formed in golden dancing to the tune of battle with the wickedly mauve silhouettes of the cultists. His face contorted, grimaced as the multifarious twinging of flowing, forming mana coursed through his being as he extended the range of his detection. At the center of the roof, the tall outline of a wicked mauve silhouette appeared in the utter darkness, though only for a moment as thunder roared through the battle once more.
Not long after the demise of the conjurer, the battle reached its end. To the relief of Isocrates and Ephaias as the euphoria surging through them slowly shifted into agony from the overload of blistering mana of their surroundings within their anima veins. “How many did we lost?” Even with triumph lingering in the air, most with the exception of Themmtryd were low on morale as they gazed at the corpses of their comrades littering the square.
A place where once children played around, recreating the famed battles in the north, and the origin planes. Now it was a grim cemetery of oval and open grave of a dozen legionariir and cultists. Cultists whom his fellow legionariir recognized, Isocrates could tell from their disgusted, sorrowful and questioning expressions as they wondered what could have led their fellows down onto this path. Desiring no more to glare at this open grave, he turned and trotted carefully, stepping over the corpses with as much respect as he could. He halted behind Hekthrad who stood solemnly over the one who seemed to be the leader, the one who was struck down by the first lightning of Isocrates with a puzzled expression. One Isocrates feared he may one day cast if they not brought an end to the madness unfolding in the capital.
“I do not understand this.” Their superior murmured under his breath. “With all due respect, what?” Themmtryd was the one who proved brave and foolish enough to bring up the question which lingered in all their minds.
“Have you known him, Tribuniar?” He voiced the question as respectfully as he could as he stopped and stared into the vacant red eyes of the aevhe before their feet. For a moment, he too seemed to recognize the dead aevhe, though he could not recall the time and place, but he was sure it had to be recently.
Hektrahd heaved a sigh, his gaze pointed at the sky while his lips uttered silent prayers towards the Solemn Shepherd. “An old friend.” Isocrates noticed the façade of a proud tribuniar fall for a moment. “And an old comrade before I left the Order and joined the legion.” He offered a prayer too, then turned around without uttering another word, slowly searing from anger as he knew the where the source of all these troubles lay, yet could not utter it.
“Everyone, line up!” After a while Hektrahd masking his inner turmoil turned around issuing his orders. At once Isocrates returned in line with the others. For a moment he stared back whence they came before the ambush, and for a moment he noticed a drenched and furred tail of a cat scurrying into one of the alleys. His eyebrow raised as he noticed the faint waft of mana leaking from the little creature, though he paid little attention to it as they began their march leaving behind the grim scenery to the approaching magusos draped in black and white robes with a funeral veil dangling, masking their faces.