Krognar was a land of dead hills and mountains of rotting flesh. Once those hills were green and their mountains mesas of earth, lush with trees and bushes that were cousins to those of the savannah. A forgotten clan once lived in these long forgotten lands but both were transformed into the horror that now watched over the western seas.

Castles made of the once earthy mesa stones were built all around the land yet they all carried more than stone. Under an endlessly black sky, red and grey walls of old flesh supported the ancient castles. Growing up from below like an infestation. Rotting yet supporting them while they drained the once green hills of all their colours. No sun had been seen in these lands for ages, and the sky was bursting in twisted thunder forevermore. A storm that was cast as an eternal wall to surround the land, and to make sure that no orc would ever set foot on the lands of the far west ever again.

An Ogre stood on an outer wall that faced the western seas. His eyes went sharp under his rusted bronze helmet. It carried old black fathers at its top, while his eyes were hidden behind bars and a trim that went around it all. Like all the other Ogres, he wore an armour humans would not forge for their armies, but their slaves and the arena. Nothing that the forgotten clan of proud smiths would have created.

Finally his eyes spotted the thing on the distant horizon beyond the storm. Black Sails with golden wings on them. A big ship, decorated with the golden insignias of the western realms. It had been long since the last and he knew their mother would be happy to hear it. “Sails!” he yelled and made some of his brethren run up the high outer wall. They all stared at it for a moment longer before one of them yelled the orders. “Inform Third-Fist! And let the stormcallers know! Mother would not approve should they sink!”

More than one Ogre ran off to follow the orders and all to different directions.

Soon the Stormcallers, apprentices of their Mother, were informed and the storm made one open path. One way of guiding calm sea towards the lands of Krognar, for the distant ship to follow. A tunnel of gigantic waves that seemed frozen in time like one long cave of water to reach the rotten lands. Salty droplets rained down from them, yet the waves remained frozen in place. Both an invitation and a threat while the ship slowly carried on towards the white cliff and its harbour.

The harbour was once hammered directly into the once white stone and made a circle out of the cliffs that watched down at every ship that dared to make landfall onto the dark lands.

Ogres started to line up on the longest of the white stone piers. All of them standing proud and tall, their big blue rusted bronze axe just as tall next to them.

Soon another Ogre arrived. His face was not hidden, but instead shown in pride. His head was bald and would have looked like almost all ogres if not for the many tiny runes that were tattooed over his head and one of his tusks. Ancient signs that once were used when he was crafted into being. Only few of them were hidden by the bushy white beard that went over his cheeks, yet not all the way down to his chin.

Unlike his warriors, little skin was shown, most of him protected by an armour of black layered leather. Some pieces of it were strengthened with bronze plates, and those were full of old tales and battles. Plates on his shoulders made him even wider and were layered between a silverplate, lamellar leather and grey fur that went into the edges of the old torn red cloak behind his back.

In the centre of his studded, layered black leather was one big round bronze medallion that showed a symbol of the long forgotten clan. A lion head, that became clouds of fire. Now resting on a man who was meant to forget the roar inside his twisted chest.

Yet despite how it might have once looked, rust had deformed the ancient colours of his armour, like it did with all the bronze the Ogres carried. Making it a far more twisted blue than the shine it once carried. A fitting adornment for a dead clan.

He walked past the lined up Ogres, inspecting them all before his eyes turned to the last in line, who wore a blue instead of a red feather on his helmet and a bronze shoulder that looked like a lion. Next to his axe he carried a lit torch just as proud. “Everything is ready, Warlord!” He said with a straightened back.

Warlord Third-Fist just grunted at that. “Mother is informed?”

“Runner Tenth-Foot is on his way to her!” The answer came just as quickly and the Warlord nodded. “She probably knows already..” He grunted and turned to face the lined up Ogres from the side. He had his hands behind his back and his bronzen legs fairly widespread before he spoke. “Shak Aruk my soldiers!” He yelled over the pier and brought one fist to his chest.

“Shak Aruk, Warlord!” They answered all at once and brought their own free fist to their chest in unison while the other remained on their standing axes.

Third-Fist nodded in appreciation a few times before he spoke once more. “Let us greet our guests properly!” Some dark grins were seen under the helmets. “We will make sure that mother can greet them. No blood will be spilled until that!” The grins vanished. “Do you understand?!”

“Yes, Warlord!” they answered in unison and Third-Fist turned to look how close the ship was. Slowly it was finding its way through the tunnel of time frozen gigantic waves yet its sails were wet and heavy from the salty rain casted by them.

Third-Fist squinted his eyes as he could see some pig skinned faces on that ship. They would be close enough to smell and see the rotting flesh now and he knew that panic might follow. “Make the sign.” He grunted to the Ogre with a lion shoulder.

There was no answer but a nod before waved his torch towards the harbour's edge. From there another torch waved, and beyond their sight another until the Stormcasters towers were informed. The furthest waves of the sea tunnel started to crush down again and slowly but unstoppable the rest found their way towards the harbour. Now they couldn’t turn around anymore.

Third-Fist smiled as the distant sound of panic turned to their ears and they entered the harbour. The ship started to take its place next to the pier and its insignias were easier to see. Like its sails it was painted in black yet decorated with a colour that was meant to resemble gold. A sigil of the golden sun was painted between a constantly repeating wave symbol. Its figurehead was the only thing that carried more colours and showed a naked woman with pointy ears. Her lower half turned into a fish. The far west called them Mermaids, the Ogres named them Naga. Her hair was painted in black and her skin in a whitish pink before it turned to silver fish scales that twisted into two tails. Each of them ending with a fin on each side of the ship. Her eyes carried a different silver and Third-Fist hated the look of it. Yet he was not here to hate their decoration, but greet their sailors. Once the contrast of black and gold took hold in the harbour, not even the distant storm seemed to dare a sound.

On the railing three faces showed up. All of them pigskins and without tusks. All of them ugly beyond Third-Fists belief. And all of them decorated in pure and utter arrogance. There was a word for those creatures, and they had made sure that all but their old clan had forgotten it over the ages.

Humans.

The one in the centre was a young woman, almost a child, probably forced to this journey like the last. She was adorned in many things that were meant to impress. And yet the human attire had changed since the last time they were here. Instead of a shining dress she wore the leathers of a sailor, yet far more decorated, as symbols of her house and the distant gods adored the reddish leather of her Jacket. It was open and showed white folded cloth beneath it. An attempt to be pretty. Yet Third-First's attention rested on the two knights next to her.

They were protected by dark plate as they had been a hundred years ago, yet their gear had changed as well. Evolved. His eyes went over the sharp edges of their shoulders and he wondered if they were just arrogance or had a purpose in battle. The same thought he had for the long sailor's coat that they wore over their armour, chained together by a golden chain in their centre.

All their hairs were wet from the journey below the waves, yet the blond girl in their centre still had tried to turn hers into a fashionable crown of gold that waved over shoulders.

He huffed a few times and saw the panic in each of their eyes. He smiled over to the torch Ogre before he looked back up. They all had learned that ugly language and so it was his time to speak. “I am Warlord Third-Fist! And I assure you that our Mother wishes no harm but to see you!”

They seemed shocked to hear him speak their tongue and the young women in their centre couldn’t find any answer.

Third-Fist had seen it a few times over the centuries. Even though their adornments and ships had changed, the creatures they called humans never did. She wasn’t here by choice, but by some stupid plot against her family. Some play to get rid of her in the nastiest way possible. It would have almost been a shame, if they wouldn’t be such ugly beasts.

One of the knights next to her leaned down and whispered. “I think their so-called ‘mother’ is the Lady we are meant to see.” She nodded and looked around the harbour and what she could see of the dark land and rotten flesh.

“I…I don’t want to go..” she whispered back, pleading with the old knight.

He sighed and looked down at Third-Fist who simply stared back. From the Warlord he looked back at the sea, which was a wall of storm once more. Panic took hold in his old eyes for a second before he smiled back at the girl. “We shall protect you M’Lady.”

Third-Fist sighed, for he knew what was to come. All the Ogres did for they all had seen it over the ages time and time again.

“My Lady wishes to greet yours.” The old knight yelled over to the Pier.

“Not me?..” Third-Fist joked in orcish and made the Ogres around him laugh darkly before he returned to speak the human tongue “And I guess she is afraid when she looks at my home.”

His words made the knight grow silent, and was echoed by nods of the young lady. “May I come aboard?” The knights shared a look yet before either could answer their lady answered and tried to do in pride. “You may!”

With a hint of panic the knight looked between his lady and Third-Fist and once again was cut from his words as Third-Fist answered. “I come alone, if that eases your..brave..brave knights.”

Another round of dark chuckles came over his warriors while the old knight glared in a mix of shame and anger.

“Bring them close.” He ordered with a dark voice in orcish and the Ogres closest to the ship started to take hooks from the pier. As they brought them to the ship to drag them close some cutlasses were drawn on that ship, yet the young lady ordered her sailors and knights to peace. Whatever was promised to her for this journey, she really tried. At least more than so many before her. Yet her fate would remain the same.

Once the ship was close enough to the pier. Third-Fist waited as he stared over to the young lady.

“Let him come over!” she told her knights and even though their looks spoke of panic, they obeyed and soon a plank made way for Third-Fist.

He looked at it for a moment. Wooden and thin. He then smiled at the lady and nodded at the Torch Ogre to bring their plank instead. It was made of wide big planks that were strengthened with dark rusted metal. They just threw it over the one the humans had given them and with his hands folded behind his red cloak, the Warlord walked over onto their ship.

His weight alone made it move for he was twice as high as even the tallest human on board. Far more in the case of the young lady. All of them took a few steps back as he boarded them.

He jumped from the railing onboard and glanced around the now rocking ship. Time truly had changed the humans of yore. Few swords of ancient past remained among them, and those only carried by the few knights under their leather coats and dark plates. The sailors instead carried what would be known as cuttlasses and few of the knights even had strange mechanical things of gold and wood on their belts. Flintlocks, yet Third-Fist had no Idea what they were or could do.

His glare ended at the young Lady. He kneeled down before her, and still towered her as twice as high. The knights had their hands at their swords yet she remained brave as he spoke. “I know what effect my home might have on those who come from lands of beauty.” He said calmly in his deep dark voice. “So allow me to guide you through it safely, so that your quest may succeed.”

He spoke with a rough accent, and his words were chosen like in days of legend, yet the young lady made a little bow to his words and even offered her hand. Only two of his fingers took her hand, for he was that much taller.

“Don’t touch her!” the young knight yelled and got the glare of both the old knight and the young lady, while Third-Fist just smiled darkly at him. Another thing that never changed when they arrived. “I offered it, Sir Kendal!” she scolded him and made him look from her stare to the other knight. Then he bowed and put his old decorated sword away once more. “I’m sorry, M’Lady.”

Without a word she moved to face Third-Fist again, her hand still in his fingers. “Please, Sir. Tell me your name and lead on.”

“I am Third-Fist. Warlord of these lands, and general over our Mothers Armies.” He made the slightest hint of a bow and waited.

She bowed back once again. “I greet you, mighty Warlord. I am Lady Ariana Marie Portfall and this is my Knight Captain, Sir Raimond the Fair.” The old knight made a small bow before she continued. “We were sent by Magister Aurelian to seek word with your Lady mother.”

She was doing so much better than so many of her predecessors, Third-Fist thought and then stood up. He remained a little hunched so he could still hold her hand with his fingers. “Then it is an honour to guide you to her tower, Lady Portfall.”

Slowly he guided her over the railing, the plank and onto the pier where the cold eyes of his man stared down at her. Sir Raimond barked some orders to the rest on the ship and then followed them with a regiment of ten of their plated knights.

Down at the pier Third-Fist spoke orcish to the Torch Ogre again. “She wants them alive. Bring them to the cauldron as we are gone.” The answer was a firm nod and a fist on his chest.

“Your Language..” the young lady spoke as they now slowly walked past the line of Ogres to the end of the pier. “I don’t think it has ever been taught among my people. How come that you speak ours?”

“Our Mother taught us.” He said with a smile down to her. “She taught us many things about your people and your land, Lady Portfall.”

“Like Manners.” She answered with a smile of her own. “I really appreciate that and to be honest with you, Warlord, I would have not expected that.”

“You are not the first in doing so, Lady Portfall.” He spoke as fine as he could, yet still his accent remained. A mixture of both an older version of the human tongue, as well as his old rough orcish coming through. “Many see, and let me speak true, smell our lands, and assume the worst.” He smiled the brightest toothy smile down at her. She responded with a far more trained smile of her own. “I admit it has been the same for us. May you excuse our misjudgement.”

“Of course.” He replied, his voice as dark as his grin, for their judgement was far from wrong.

Slowly they walked through the harbour and then up a tunnel that led into the cursed land. As they left the tunnel a wave of stinking rotting flesh caught their noses. Some of the humans were more visibly ill from it, while Lady Portfall took a perfumed piece of pink cloth from her belt and held it in front of her nose. She looked up to Third-Fist, clearly struggling to speak. “You…you must excuse us, we are not used to…scents like this.”

Some of the Ogres that followed them snickered darkly, earning them an angry stare from Third-Fist before his more friendly gaze returned to the young lady. “A side effect of our Mothers profession.” He said, which did not ease up the young lady. “Come, it is not far.”

They continued their path and he walked her to a big carriage. It was as big as a ship and was dragged by four gigantic tusk Rinos. The carriage itself was made of wood, had a strangely curved roof and looked far more human made than anything else. Lady Portfall looked over it intently to see why it made her think of home, yet there was no time to linger as Third-Fist whistled for two of his ogres to open the wide gate into the wagon.

Sir Raimond seemed more uneasy yet remained silent as they were guided inside and greeted by a festive wooden hall. It was filled with crudely made wooden benches and tables and half of them even made for the human size.

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The scent inside the festive wagon was far more acceptable as incense, made from different and strange herbs of the east, filled the room.

“Please, Lady Portfall.” Third-Fist said and guided her to two thrones at the tail end of the hall. One, made for human sizes and quite up, the other made for him, yet low enough that they might even see eye to eye after she would have walked up the many stairs. They were made of wood as well, but decorated with old runes and bones. Not of their clan, but their mother’s craft.

She smiled at Third-Fist and took the aid of his hand to walk up the many wooden stairs to finally sit down on the throne. Up there she nodded to Sir Raimond to do the same and the knights sat down. Yet still Third-Fist could see many of their hands on their blades and some on those strange technical things he didn’t know were called flintlocks.

Once they all sat down he nodded his men to do the same and one of them, the Lionshoulder, punched the front wooden wall two times. Slowly they then started to move and an uneasy silence was born inside the room.

Lady portfalls eyes turned around and met Sir Raimonds once more. His were determined yet uneasy, hers were slowly growing to fear. He smiled at her to reassure her and after a smile back she tried to ease up.

While the wagon screeched and moved on over a land they couldn’t see, the knight captain closed his eyes for a moment and whispered a silent prayer. The incense glowed brighter for a second as he did yet still they all remained silent.

Third-Fist eyes darted through the room and over the knights. The way their armour had changed still made him wonder, while the mechanical things on their belts were the true puzzle to him. They would offer a good fight and some of his men would die to them. Then his eyes went over to the young lady and he saw her fear. She did so well and yet it would all be for nothing. If anything it would have been a better death if they had just knocked her out at the pier, but their mother liked the game. Like a Savannah cat she liked to play with her prey. Sometimes to get news from her old lost home, sometimes merely for her twisted fun. This time however, he wasn’t sure. Their mothers feast was long overdue and even without those games and the feast they had enough problems already. He was meant to lead an army to the east and take back that accursed scroll, yet here he was. Wasting time for a game of pleasantries.

Despite some efforts of Lady Portfall there weren’t many words spoken and soon the rough road outside made room for clean obsidian as the cart drove up the circling big ways inside their mothers grand black tower. Once it had taken its long way up it stopped and after Third-Fist everyone stood up again. The incense was almost burned out by now. Something that usually didn’t happen so fast, but more than one prayer was whispered by the knights on the road.

“Please, Lady Portfall.” Third fist asked and offered his hand to guide her down again. With the same trained smile she accepted and was guided down the throne and to the wagons exit, and her doom.

As they stepped outside her heart skipped in fear as utter darkness greeted them. Only a few old brazier were lit and reflected their flames on the perfectly cast black walls. Beyond the braziers was a gigantic open gate that led into a dark throne room. It was decorated like the castles of yore, with a long red carpet that led to a throne as obsidian black as the walls themselves. Windows were in that room, yet still almost no light aside from distant lightning flickered inside.

Lady Portfal squinted her eyes and slowly in terror saw a figure on that throne. It was hard to tell for it was so incredibly thin and completely covered in black robes. Slowly Third-Fist guided her into the room while her knights followed. Ogres stood at the sides of the red carpet. Far more adorned than those outside. All of them adorned with a blue rusted lionshoulder and all of them decorated with the remains of a torn red cloak.

Next to the throne stood an Ogre adorned almost similar to Third-Fist. As a long dead lion's pelt went from his head over his shoulders and his back. All above a dark robe that once carried the signs of a shaman and now runes of their mother.

“Finally!” the Ogre under a lion cowl scolded over the dark room. Then he kneeled down next to the throne. “Guests, mother.” He glanced at Lady Portfall. “Quite young this time..” There was something vile in his whispers and after his words Lady Portfall could feel the sudden dark gaze from the black robe on that throne. She shivered and stopped before a twisted old womens voice echoed through the black hall. “Come and show me your face.”

Together with her knights she walked before the throne, now free of Third-Fists hand as he walked to the other side of the obsidian throne, mirroring the Ogre under the lion cowl on the other side.

The knights kneeled while Lady Portfall made an elegant bow before she spoke. “I am Lady Ariana Marie Portfall, sent by Magister Aurelian to bring news and seek such of your own.”

Silence followed the proud Lady’s words before the twisted old woman spoke from her black robe. “One hundred years…” her aching voice echoed through the hall and the tower as thunder and lightning answered her word in pain. “One hundred years…” she repeated as the boney trail of thin leathery wrinkled fingers tabbed on the armrests of her throne. “Almost to the day…is it not?” she asked the Lioncowl next to her.

“So it is mother. One hundred years.” He nodded.

“Almost.” Third-Fist added from the other side.

A dark twisted chuckle came from the black robe on the throne and echoed through the halls once more. The knights rose to their feet again and both Sir Raimond as well as Sir Kendall stood ready next to their Lady.

“Is there any reason why he lets me wait for ONE HUNDRED YEARS?!” The last words were screamed and answered by even the flames in the braziers. As if they feared her anger they darkened at her rising voice.

Lady Portfall breathed a few times, taking her pride. One of her knights was about to speak yet she stepped forth and took a finely crafted and decorated roll of leather from her belt. She kneeled over and offered it up towards the black throne. “I am sure he explains himself better than I could, but the republic simply has faced a lot in that time.”

Third-Fist stepped forth and took the leather, which made Lady Portfall rise again and smile at him. This time he did not answer with one of his own anymore.

He took a letter from the rounded leather and was about to hand it over to their mother, but she waved it away. “Later..” she hissed, “I am starving…”. The flames almost went out at her last words and her dark eyes flickered with a silver touch from beneath her robe. Lightning gave the room light for a second and offered a terrible hint of her rotten face.

Lady Portfall stood up and almost stumbled backwards to her knights. Sir Raimond caught her by the shoulder and held on to it. She spoke again, still hoping this could end well, still not accepting that she was set up for something terrible. “It would be an honour dining with you.” She said and tried to bury her fear under a smile. It didn’t work.

“We have done what we were asked, M'Lady.” Sir Raimond said, one hand on her shoulder the other on his Flintlock. “We should leave.”

Lady Portfall nodded. “Let us go.” she looked up to him. “Please..”. As they turned the Ogres stood before the open gate, yet the big wagon still remained.

Sir Raimond turned to watch the throne and twisted thunder struck outside once more. “You will let us leave. Now.”

While he demanded, Lady Portfall stared at the wagon. Their hope of an escape if they could get it moving. It looked so humanly crafted unlike anything else here and slowly she started to realise the old signs on its wood. The way some of it was tilted as if crafted for another purpose and finally that it was upside down. “This was a ship…” she whispered in terror slowly realising the reality behind that. The old knight's eyes went over his shoulder and to the ship, widening in the same terror before he darted back at the Throne. An old leathery hand pointed from the robe at them. “Bring me the girl…” the twisted old womens voice ordered with a nasty echo.

In pure unhidden fear Lady Portfall looked back at the Throne while her knights started to stand around her. “Swords.” Sir Raimond commanded in a low voice and all of them drew their old swords. Runes of yore were crafted inside and they seemed to reflect the brazier's flame even more than other metal did. Especially more than the mirroring obsidian of the tower.

The Ogres around them all readied their rusted bronze axes while Third-Fist stood duty bound with the hands folded behind his red cloak once more.

“It is a shame really…” the twisted woman's voice echoed from the black robe again. “You would have been so much fun, oh fine lady…but I am so..very..hungry.” A dark rotten grin was seen beneath the robe. Teeth that were black in many places and skin that was as rotten as the one that was casted over the Isle.

Tears of panic ran down Lady Portfalls cheeks before Sir Raimond took word. “No fear, M’Lady. She shan’t touch you!”

Third-Fist had lost any hint of a smile and merely stared at the young Lady and her knights. There was no joy in this, yet it was his duty. “On your Command Mother.” He coldly stated. Both their Mother and the once Shaman next to her had a wicked rotten smile on their faces.

She licked her lips, revealing her snake-like tongue. “Just enjoy it my son.” She said with a wild pleasure in her voice. “You can almost taste it…” She continued and stared down with dark gleaming eyes from below her robe. “Their fear…”

“We shan’t stand this no longer!” Sir Raimond yelled up at the throne as he pointed his flintlock at her.

The dark hungry rotten mouth grinned all the wider and lightning struck outside the tower. “Oh do not worry…” Slowly she rose from her throne. Higher and higher until she floated above the throne. “You will not!” She screamed and flew right towards the knight captain. He shot at her making her squeal in pain and fall to the ground.

“Mother!!” The once shaman screamed and ran at her side. The other knights unleashed their own flintlocks at the Ogres around them. Flesh and blood spread on the black obsidian floor. More entered the room and still blocked the way out, yet they remained staring at the knights. Part of it was fear of another valley of bullets, not knowing that they only had one shot, the other part was the missing order.

After they had shot, the knights held their old shimmering swords in front of them. “By the sun and the sea!” Sir Raimond started chanting and the brazier's fire rose brighter. Reflected like golden flames at their swords. “By the stars and the deep!” The sun started to pierce through the clouds above the Isle for her first time in centuries. Its shine went through the windows and into the room, colouring it in a gold that was reflected like the brazier's fire on their shimmering swords. “I shall cast justice upon thee, witch! I shall end this charade of suffering and injustice and you shall wallow in fire and die by my hand!”

Both ‘Mother’ and the once shaman hissed at the entering sun while Third-Fist and most other ogres simply had to protect their eyes. Some of their flesh turned red by its warmth and light yet Sir Raimond continued. “For justice! For the Republic!” He breathed in before he screamed his last words into the now golden hall “And for the Lady!!”

“For the lady!!” the other knights repeated and started to rush at the throne room's entrance, Lady Portfall shivering in fear yet with new found hope among them, protected in their centre. They started to slice through the Ogres, many of them still blinded. A heat radiated from their swords, as did the sun's golden light. Wounds made by their sword looked like fire had burned through it. More and more they slashed their way through the room while Sir Raimond walked backwards, his sword ready and looking towards the throne.

“No.” The old twisted women's voice echoed behind them. “There is no escape here. You will not leave my domain!” slowly she rose again and started floating. Her long robe the only thing that connected her to the floor.

“Warlord! Bring me the girl!” She screamed while she looked down upon her fleeing guests.

His eyes tired and half lit at the scene Third-Fist drew an old curved sword from his belt. “As you command, mother.” He walked towards the knight captain and looked at his own old sword. Crafted in an age of honour. The sun lion proudly at its hilt. He sighed and brought both hands to it just before Sir Raimond rushed in for a swing from above. Blocked by a swing from below by Third-Fist their swords clashed and lightning struck outside, lighting the room in both its blue and the golden glow of the sun.

Their mother spread her arms and spoke to the shaman below. “Bring your soldiers back First-Cast!”

“Yes mother…” he said with a rotten smile before he started to sing a twisted version of the oldest tongue from his throat. Thunder answered outside and slowly parts of the dark clouds entered the room and floated to his risen obsidian staff.

One half of the room was now casted in complete darkness, by the clouds and the other still glowing in the golden light of the sun. Third-Fist and Sir Raimond clashed at the edge of light and shadow. Both still fast for their age, yet both for different distant reasons. A true dance of swords and duty, of honour lost and hope to gather.

It was strange that a small beast like a human could even block his big curved black sword. He was close to enjoying the fight as their swords danced through the air. One swing after the other, yet there was no honour in a victory here. Only duty. While Sir Raimond roared with every swing of his sword bathed in sunlight, the old Warlord remained cold and silent, fighting from the darkness.

Slowly he started realising their mothers dark whispers above them and his eyes widened in panic. He turned “Mother no! We can do it! Trust us!” he was stabbed in the back by Sir Raimond. His sword pierced through his old rusted armour. It was far from deep yet the pain was immeasurable. Fire spread through Third-Fists back and he roared in pain as part of the dark half of the room was lit up by the light of fire.

As he was defeated yet alive the First-Cast pointed his staff into the room and the clouds began to seek the corpses of killed ogres. “Rise my brothers…” he said as his eyes grew empty and slowly their corpses rose again. Some of them were missing parts of their head, blasted by the flintlocks others had lost limbs by their swords. Those that were cut by the knights gleaming swords started to rise, yet soon burned from their wounds. They fell down again, making First-Cast flinch in surprise.

Third-Fist, defeated and in pain looked up at their floating mother. He listened to her whispers and knew what it meant. The young Lady’s fate would have been terrible enough if they would have caught her, but now the terror was only growing. He sighed and looked down. Defeated as their mothers voice rose higher and higher. Sir Raimond screamed once more “Justice!!” and used Third-Fists kneeling back as a jumping point to launch himself high enough and swing his golden glowing sword through the darkness and at the black robe. Just as he was about to slice through her the last words of her spell had finished and she dashed down into the ground. The old knight instead fell towards the throne and looked around the room.

It took him a while until he saw a black shadow that looked like her robe, beneath the mirroring obsidian floor. Only a reflection while nothing was there that could have casted it.

“There is no sun in my realm.” Her voice came from everywhere and echoed through it all. Slowly the shadows grew and the dark clouds rose thicker until the sun had vanished from the room once more. “You dare to invoke the stars yet you know not what hides in their shadow.” With the sun vanished even the Ogres sliced by the knights swords started to rise until they all unleashed a wailing scream. They launched themselves at the knights without any regard for their dead flesh. Sir Raimond watched in terror as he saw his brothers get slaughtered by the dead mass of Ogres. He was about to run back yet was greeted by Third-Fist’s hand around his neck. Still kneeling from the pain inside his back he stared at the knight, who echoed the Warlord's eyes with hatred and judgement. Yet he could feel the gigantic hands tightening grip. Air lost his lungs and he could hear the womens voice again. “You invoke the Deep, yet cannot fathom what lurks beyond.”

Lady Portfall stood in utter Terror between her knights as even the last of them fell to a mass of dead Ogres and their eternal service.

Tears clouded in her eyes and every hint of composure was lost to the horror. Slowly the shadow that was the Ogre's Mother rose from below her. It circled her legs and made her freeze in place as she could feel its cold touch. Soon it had circled her entire body and a ghastly face stared from the dark cloud at her. It came close and she wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to fight but the dark shadows held her in place. The face came close almost as if it would kiss her and she could smell the rot. Finally she could feel her breath leaving her body just before the face and the cloud vanished once more into the ground to appear behind Third-Fist. “Let him watch.” She commanded. Third-Fist turned with the old knight in his grip. He tried to free himself yet struggled as the Ogres wound was healed by the darkness.

Third-Fist casted him to the ground before the Lady and the wall of dead knights. Empty eyes of dead Ogres stared down at the two remaining humans and slowly Lady Portfall turned. She coughed and changed. Her skin slowly deformed and her bones became weak. She watched her hand become that of an old woman and realised the curse that had been cast on her. Age. Slowly her body turned to an old woman and she screamed as she realised there was no turning back. A lifetime robbed from her. A young soul prisoned inside an old body. “Help me..” She pleaded at Sir Raimond before she held a hand against her chest where her heart had stopped moving. “M’lady!” the old knight screamed in Terror and kneeled next to her. He held her in his arms, embraced her for the last moments of her short life, for it was all he could do. At first she weakly clung to him, sought support in the terror, then she fell limb in his arms. Tears finally ran down the old knight as all his brothers and his lady laid dead around him. He screamed his defeat into the dark hall before it became a commanding voice. “Show yourself witch and I wi~” before he finished the shadow came from the ground once more. It turned and twisted until a woman stood before him. Her old body slowly turned younger. Her rotting flesh slowly returned to one of youth and her entire being changed back to one of prosperous youth. She wasn’t old and twisted any longer but young and once she spoke his heart pounded in fury for it had taken the face, form and voice of his lady “Thank you…” the Sorceress said with the sweet lady’s voice. “One hundred years was far too long to bear…” She kneeled before him with a dark grin that would have never been cast by his lady. “You can still be of use, oh fairest of knights.” She whispered and licked her newfound lips with a twisted snake's tongue.

“I will be your end…” he screamed as he still held onto the dead old body of his young lady.

“No.” She said with a dark grin. “You will not.” She rose to her feet again. Now her robe was revealing far more. Legs to be shown in pride and her chest almost freed from the cloth. A last dishonour to the dead Lady. “Bring him to the Chambers.” She commanded and walked back to the Throne.

He was about to turn and rush at her when Dead Ogres caught him and dragged him away into the darkness of the tower. His screams of loss and anger echoed like the skies pain outside.

Back at her throne she closed her eyes with a delighted smile. “Now we can finally discuss important things.” She said and snapped her fingers before pointing before her. Both Third-Fist and First-Cast kneeled down before her. “What is your wish, mother?” they both asked in obedience.

“Oh my sweet boys.” She said with her newfound face and a big dark grin. “You know what needs to be done.” Her last sentence sounded far darker than before. “How are our forces doing in the Bladelands, Warlord?”

Third-Fist glanced up and ignored the distant screams of the old knight as he was dragged deeper into the obsidian tower. “The tides are treacherous, mother. I might suggest we take the route through the savannah instead.”

First-Cast glanced in disbelief and anger at him. “That is his domain. It would mean war with him and his tribes.”

“Once he knows the scroll is ready we will have war with him anyway.” Third-Fist replied to him and looked back up to their old mother in her new young human body. “We must be smart. He is far closer to the Dragon and his clans than we are. So he must know and if he does then he has prepared for it.”

Their mother listened to his words with a hint of disgust as he was mentioned. “Would that mean we let those beasts of the Bladelands win? What message would that sent?”

“Exactly!” First-Cast agreed and stared back to Third-Fist who shook his head and just concentrated his words on their mother. “What do messages matter when the time of Ascension is upon us?”

Silence filled the throne room after that as only a hint of Sir Raimonds screams remained in the distance until lightning struck once more.

Their mother nodded. “You speak true my son.” she finally said which would have made many other Ogres smile. Not Third-Fist and not that day. “Prepare troops then. Enough that we can rush through the Savannah and into the Dragons realm.” She turned from Third-Fist to First-Cast. “And you my dearest boy, prepare the Callers. They will prepare the land for my arrival.”

“You will fight with us?” Third-Fist asked, honest surprise in his voice. Even First-Cast’s eyes spoke of disbelief.

She smiled darkly at them both below her. “You said it yourself did you not?” The knight’s screams were silent now and the storm outside struck once more. “The time of ascension is nigh. And I shall not linger and see him or some dirty orc achieve it!”

After that preparations were made. Another invasion on the land of the Orcs was about to be launched. Third-Fist knew there might be no living Lion left after this war was over. But no matter if they would win or lose it, it would be the last.