Humans. They are a dangerous species. Mother and Father always warned us to be wary of them. Not of their swords and magic but of their mind and mettle. When one meets a Sierrask they know within seconds of what to expect of us. There are those of us whom do not fit the mold as well as others but we were not molded by chaos and blessed by order as humans are. Some laugh in the face of death, others grow furious and fight, and the rest flee. To vary wildly like they do from one another seems more a curse than a blessing but they make do as is evident in my people’s expulsion from lands we once called our own.
However this is the nature of our world. It is but a grand coliseum, we mortal races fight and die in the hot sands stained red for our own spits of land to call our own as our gods throw down blessings and condemnations for their own benefit. I am not as devout as I should be, especially as my tribe’s Xar’ja but my doubts are my own and I stand proud regardless of the truths my memories. These memories however aren’t all burdensome, they have given me much needed wisdom and guidance for us in our time of need like now.
My people had needed a new place to live and these ancestral memories of mine had shown me of a place we had once called home when our race was strong. In reality the place we had found was in ruins, but a simple outpost of a long fallen empire. To us nomads, weary of travels and finally finding a place to call home it was a treasured sight. We came to it two dozen strong and barely a third of that as warriors but this place was enough for us. If only I had known the dangers that surrounded it.
Barely a fortnight since we settled in we were besieged by undead. First it was stragglers, a few here and there wandering too close for comfort. Then slowly but surely they began to funnel in, their shambling steps having too much purpose for coincidence. We sought to purge this filth before it consumed us, our strongest shields staying behind while the sharpest spears went for the heart. It wasn’t difficult to find where they were coming from. Though dangerous, the undead were not a problem for those use to traveling unseen. So few creatures ever bother to look up when their feet are planted on the ground and these stalactites make for excellent traversal. We are no strangers to hardship, scales and muscles do not grow strong in times of peace but death itself halts growth entirely.
Once we found this city of undead, a tomb of forgotten families belonging to the most arrogant of races nothing went right. The restless creatures converged on us, some no longer shambling but sprinting for us like a starved spider about to be upon its next meal. Thankfully whatever reanimated their flesh was not contagious though a bite from a corpse was still a nasty thing. They kept coming, always finding us like moths drawn to a flame. We lost Karse to leapers, one catching his tail and the rest falling upon him like flies in his momentary distraction. Ulma was next cleaved in two from a giant mound of flesh, an abomination stitched together from many creatures to make a monster of meat and madness that hefted an axe of sharpened bone. Fire could only do so much against such a creature even with my magic so we ran. It was only Zralen, Iad and I left. We knew going in we weren’t going to have a simple way of it. We just hadn’t expected to take losses so quickly. When we heard the lamenting wails we understood how out of our depth we were.
We had stumbled upon The Sorrows. It was but one lonely creature but it was enough to send chills up my spine. Once this thing was a powerful knight and clad in gleaming silver armor and crimson cape on their back. Now it was covered in rust, red stains of the lives it had taken and cloak frayed from both time and travel. Worst of all was the large green blade it carried, etched with necrotic runes and embodying the power that they held. Just being in its presence made one feel helpless and sluggish, as if one had given up and resigned to die with nary a peep. The morose creature sniffled, its back tense and shoulders shaky in its eternal lamentations. My brothers told me to run, Khol and Xur rushing forward to keep the Weeping Knight at bay. I had come because I thought my treasured knowledge could help them dispel whatever evil resided here. I was not meant to fight like they were.
Khol, scales blacker than a starless sky, was the fastest of our group and his furious strikes showed it. He held a spear and it danced with the grace and training he was taught by our elders. It bobbed and weaved, teasing the eye with slow and hypnotizing movements before striking fast and hard. Xur was encased in red as temperamental as he, always hot headed and ready to dive into the thickest of troubles had the twin blades gifted to him from his father. Where Khol’s movements where methodical and precise Xur was savage and instinctual, these two were the embodiments of the argument regarding practiced skill vs raw talent. The point was moot however, as my god had shown me our futility.
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[Analyze] [Partial Failure]
Kadicus The Unyielding
Class: Weeping Knight
Race: Elf
Subtype: Undead
Level: ???
Status: Despair II, ???
Xur of Nuirik
Class: Blade Dancer
Race: Sierrask
Level: 17
Status: Despair III
Khol of Nuirik
Class: Sentinel
Race: Sierrask
Subtype: Lesser Sierrask
Level: 19
Status: Despair III
Xar’ja Natala of Nuirik
Class: Seer
Race: Sierrask
Level: 6
Status: Despair III, Greater Paralysis
Greater Paralysis.
I couldn’t tell them even if I wanted to. Not only was this enemy so far above us I couldn’t see his basic strength I had shamed myself by falling into its trap. The runes underneath me had flared to life when I tried to back away. Weeping Knights were meant for slaughtering lesser creatures, those that ran could not. That’s not just what my status told me, but my cursed memories did. They fought furiously, yelling and spitting insults at the knight in our tongue, a foreign hissing and guttural thing to those who were not blessed by our god of balance.
Then I heard the quiet voices of my ancestors, others who had an end as abrupt and brutal as the one coming to meet me. Heads were up, chins high in pride, their voices told me to calm my heart and witness their bravery. As Xar’ja it is our burden to carry the memories of those before us and both Khol and Xur were worthy of a death not left obscure by time against an enemy just out of their reach. I prepared myself as well, reciting the chants one granted to the dead and dying to have them return to the great light and be reborn again in the great dark.
Khole was weak from blood loss, the many cuts he had acquired were finally catching up to him. Each thrust of the spear was slower than the last. Xur had also lost a blade, the claws still gripping it tightly even without the arm attached to it. Still they fought the Weeping Knight, we didn’t have the choice of coming back in failure, others depended on us.
The lunge was too strong, Khol over extended himself and tarnished gauntlets latched onto the polished wood. Xur rushed in to save him and got that same spear for his trouble, the knight having shoved the spear out towards the serpent trying to save his comrade. Khol didn’t even have the time to roar out in rage before that glowing green blade lopped off his head, the black scales glistening in the glowing lamplight for a few brief moments before rolling off into the shadows. A screech of pain and sorrow emanated from the knight, as if it was the one who had just lost its brothers. I will see you soon.
Its steps were coming closer and yet I could not move. Still the thing sniffled, wiping away nonexistent tears from its faceplate as it dragged the sword with it. Those gauntlets were cold as they came around my neck and yet my heart was calm. If I didn’t have the memories of my ancestors I doubt I would be this accepting of my death. I could see it draw up magic, a miasma leaking from the black slits of its faceplate, forcing me down and to drink it in. My mind grew hazy and I let myself be taken into the darkness.