Aperio let herself fall through the white nothing. While she was not certain what this place was, she knew it was just as much hers as her Void, its warm touch just as calming to her mind as her Void's cold, black emptiness. And my weapon came from here. And armour, too, now, I suppose.
There was one very important distinction between the two spaces, however. Her Void, in its usual state, was cut off from the world. It was isolated, protecting and cleansing the souls of the mortals that died. This white abyss was not divorced from the world.
Aperio could feel her aura pierce the thin veil that separated her from the outside, her senses spreading further than they normally would without her focus. She could see the group she had left behind, talking to one another. Could see the [Grandmaster] pace rapidly in front of her desk as she read a note that bore the sigil of the Terenyk family. She could even see Roots — the tree somehow looking back at her with an invisible smile on its nonexistent face.
There was something else the All-Mother could see, however. The extra drop that had caused her emotions to overflow and her to finally tell her closest companions what had happened to her. Aperio could see the armies, just like Lord Terenyk had said, marching from cities and countries she did not know towards Ebenlowe. She simply knew it was their destination.
A part of her regretted what she had said; that she had openly announced her life as a slave. Her failure. Seeing the people march on the city that was rapidly becoming her new home extinguished those thoughts.
She would have to tell the world sooner or later regardless, now that her secret was finally out. Of course, she would have to apologise for her outburst, but she simply had had to speak her mind. The anger still flowed through her, the tiny voice at the back of her mind continuously yelling that she should show them the pain she had to live through.
That idea was rejected immediately. Aperio might have been angry, but she would never force her will, or her physical self, on someone. All she wanted was to live her life in peace, but to do that she would have to stop people from marching on the city she wanted to call home — would need to force her will on the mortals despite her wish not to do so.
Were they not slavers, Aperio might have considered something else. But once someone disregarded the life of others in a way she had always considered worse than death, they lost the last bit of good will the All-Mother might have extended.
A thought was all she needed to pierce the veil of the white abyss and appear far above one of the masses of people marching towards Ebenlowe. Her wings spread behind her, keeping her in the air with lazy beats as she directed her gaze at the people below.
While at first she had assumed it to be an army of angry mortals, Aperio now saw with horror that they had people in chains in their midst, branded with markings she knew all too well. The slaves were forced to draw carts filled with equipment and food — all of which was undoubtedly something they themselves would never get to use.
The All-Mother gripped her weapon a little tighter, drawing on her well again. She could kill them all — wanted to — and they would be unable to stop her. It would only take a thought to burn them all; to stop them from defiling her creation with their presence.
Her anger caused her mana to arc across her skin and feathers, leaving silver trails in the air. A few of the mortals below began to notice her, undoubtedly feeling the change in her aura. They started to shout, pointing in her direction even though Aperio was sure she was nothing more than a tiny dot to their eyes. Or they somehow can see as far as I can.
She doubted that as she was only able to make out the details of the people below her through her aura, the distance too great even for her eyes. Maybe they can tell where the source of an aura is? Aperio thought, before she shook her head. It doesn't matter.
Aperio stopped beating her wings, tilting herself forwards and folding them close to herself as she dove down. The air rushed past her, pressing itself and her dress against her body and sending her hair whipping behind her. The mounting pressure did not bother her, nor did the deafening crack that echoed through the air as she sped herself up with a small flex of her mental muscles.
A toothy grin spread across her face as she sensed the mortals panic; felt their hearts beat faster and breath quicken. They feared her — knew that they were powerless — and she enjoyed it. They would not force their will upon anyone, especially not her. She would strike them down just as she had done with their traitorous Gods.
Aperio tightened the grip on her weapon as she increased her speed yet again. The army below was the object of her anger, but she would still offer them a chance. Much like the followers of Natio and Vigil that had marched on the house of healing, she would let the people themselves decide their own fate.
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Keyno ignored the commotion that started around him, instead pulling the cart further along the gravel road. Of course he had felt the change, how could he not? The cold crept into his bones, the pressure making his already laboured breath even harder. But he also knew that if he stopped his work the pain would be worse.
He, like most around him, spared a quick glance upwards, trying to spot what their handlers were shouting about, but was unable to see anything. What he had no problem noticing was the deafening crack that washed over him, the noise leaving his ears ringing.
Keyno felt a pressure settle onto his mind, followed by a burning pain spreading across his back where his [Mark of Servitude] had been etched into his skin. The shouts and cracked whips of his handlers did nothing to spur Keybo on, and neither were they necessary, as his body resumed its task without his input. Not being in control did not mean he could not feel the ropes cutting into his skin, it only meant that his wounds would be worse as neither the magic nor his Lord cared how he felt — just that he did what he was told.
When he had gotten the message that Vigil had died, there had been a sliver of hope that the cursed magic keeping him chained to his Lord would fade. That notion was quickly squashed, however, as the mark on his back was as dark and scarred as it had ever been and he was soon ordered to pull this carriage. Bidden, and forced to obey, his participation in a war his Lord wanted to start against something that could kill Gods would also, no doubt, result in his own death.
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He did not have a choice, and he was long past the ability to care. Keyno had accepted his place in the world long ago, his only chance at freedom a change of mind from his Lord or divine intervention that, while more likely now, was probably not going to come. Hoping would only lead to more pain, and Keyno did not want more pain. All he wanted was to do his duty well enough to earn some food and a good night's rest.
That chance was taken from him as the coldness that had started to seep into his very being turned into a sharp pain that pressed on his mind, quickly followed by something impacting the ground in front of his Lord's army with such speed that it sent him, and quite a few of his fellow slaves, flying into the cart they were supposed to pull.
Keyno groaned as he slowly removed himself from the sacks of armour and provisions, wincing slightly as he tried to put weight on his arm only for it to give under him. It only lasted for a moment, however, as a pleasant warmth began spreading through him, one that quickly removed the pain and coldness from his bones.
He had no time to take in the pleasant feeling of the healing magic as it turned into a scorching heat as soon as it reached his back. Keyno knew better than to scream as he grit his teeth and continued his climb out of the wagon. Why his Lord decided to waste his precious healers on him, he did not know, but he would not waste the goodwill shown.
The first thing he saw once he had finally managed to free himself of the sacks and errant pieces of armour were the people strewn across the ground. Whatever had fallen from the sky had done more than simply knock over a few slaves, seemingly impacting the others even more than those as low as himself.
How?
The thought quickly vanished from his mind as his eyes stopped on what appeared to be a winged Elf standing in front of his Lord's army at the edge of a crater he was sure had not been there before. Silver lightning danced across her skin and flared wings, the weapon in her hand brimming with a power he did not recognize but could nonetheless feel. Every time it moved even the tiniest bit, Keyno thought he could catch a glimpse of something beyond. Death.
"Your Gods are dead," the woman announced, her voice slamming into him like her earlier landing. "Free the slaves and leave, or die."
Keyno averted his eyes at her words, knowing that his Lord would never part from his prized slaves. He could already feel the mark on his back burn itself deeper into his flesh, the searing heat the fore-bearer of a command he would have to carry out no matter what.
Before he went to actually carry out the orders he was sure would come, Keyno looked over his shoulder as he picked up a fallen sack of provisions, trying to catch a glimpse of the Elven woman once more.
Whatever deity she served had given her more power than he had ever felt, but standing against an army seemed foolish to him. Especially so when he considered that his Lord was blessed by Epemirial herself. The Goddess of Duty and Loss might have odd Domains, but was still considered one of the stronger deities.
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Lord Jinto Sheltan could feel the presence of his Goddess. Epemirial was watching, the stranger that had attacked his army seemingly extraordinary enough to warrant her attention.
He had to admit that her entry was quite grand and the power flowing from her was nothing to scoff at, but he still trusted in the gift of his Goddess. His hand closed around the small black and white pendant he had had been given by Epemirial herself, the comforting warmth of her power giving him the resolve he needed.
Some of the like-minded Gods may have fallen, but he knew his Goddess was stronger than they had been. She had played them, letting the naive deities take the fall for her. Jinto's family had long been the instruments of Epemirial's desire, and he knew all that and more.
"Stand up, soldiers!" he shouted, moving his hands away from the pendant so that he might manipulate his [Slaver's Bracelet] to get his property to move. "Don't let a bit of magic deter you! Epemirial is watching!"
The men and women in his army quickly got to their feet, some shouting while others banged their weapons against their shields. He himself grabbed the sword by his side, an heirloom long passed down his family line.
The blade, too, had been a gift from Epemirial from ages past. Only one in his line could wield it and they would be the rightful ruler of the house — the only one that could make new [Eternal Slaves]. Jinto caressed the blade as he set his eyes on the woman that dared bar their way, the ancient runes engraved upon the metal glowing a faint yellow at his touch. You will make a fine addition.
"Death it is," the winged Elf declared, breaking the ground as she disappeared with another crack.
Lord Sheltan had no trouble telling where she had gone, the screams of his men quickly echoing across the field as they were ripped apart by the Elf. No matter, he thought to himself. They're expendable. His plan would work whether they were alive or dead.
What did cause him worry, however, was the fact that his slaves had not yet performed the task he had ordered them to. His bracelet had taken his mana and indicated that the command had been conveyed, but his slaves were still helping each other up and meekly putting his provisions back into the carts.
His advisers had told him that they were facing someone vehemently opposed to slavery; that whoever they sent had a way to disable the [Mark of Servitude] was a possibility. He had not truly expected that to be the case but, in the end, it also did not matter.
The Elf might be able to slice his army apart, throw his soldiers like dolls or burn them, but she would be powerless in the face of a true Goddess.
Jinto grabbed the pendant and ripped it from his neck as a wave of mana washed over the battlefield. He watched with wide eyes as his slaves simply vanished, leaving only himself and his soldiers. Less bodies was bad, but the plan would still work.
He poured every bit of mana he could into the pendant, his eyes never leaving the winged fury that had started to rip orbs of light from his soldiers. A shiver ran down his spine every time she plucked a shining sphere from one of his men. He knew without a doubt that whatever she was doing to his servants was a vile magic. It won't matter.
Clasping the by now scorchingly hot pendant to his chest, Lord Jinto Sheltan lowered himself to his knees. Even when the Elf appeared in front of him, stopping him from completing the motion as her hand burrowed into his chest, he did not stop his silent prayer. Even when he could see his body fall limp, the pendant floating above his corpse, he did not stop.
Only when the pendant flashed with magic, and his almost frenzied need to complete his chant vanished, did he realize he was firmly held in the hand of Death and his prayer ceased. What was left of his mind began tearing itself apart as it tried to make sense of what had happened. A quiet chime that came from everywhere and nowhere dragged the last remains of his attention to the notification that appeared before his eyeless self.
You have died. Your sacrifice has been accepted.