Rain drummed steadily, cascading in a sheet of darkness. The towering structures that surrounded the city landscape were shadows in the void, paling in comparison to the destination ahead. Like silent stone sentinels, the spires watched from the cloud lines of a stormed night sky. Leaving no part of the city where one could escape their sight.
A faint light shined upon his armor, growing while he walked towards it; his preset destination taking precedence over the chaos that consumed the city around him. His chest piece bound in an abundance of dark leathers, glimmered sharply in the storm. The lightweight metal accents piercing the night’s façade. With moonlight cloaked behind clouds, the lone source of light beckoned from beyond the castle far in the distance ahead. The city’s window panes on either side of him merely brought creeping darkness.
The boots moved with grace, the rain parting from their embrace with each step. While the cloak danced with the slow sway of the wind, its black cherry hue made the rain appear black tears with each drop that fell off it. Even the debris amongst the gravel spiraled in an updraft, nearly grasping at the cloak itself.
Lightning flashed violently in the distance and for an instant, the war that consumed the city’s soul revealed its scars. Vile gashes ran like veins through vacant buildings, and the terraces along the rooftops echoed the ruin with shattered palisades. Within a moment’s pass, the broken city vanished, relinquishing to the darkness of the night.
Walking opposite his path, a being shrouded head to boot in rain-soaked grey ragged garb, slowly passed. Another Deathwalker. Shamefully, his head kept low when he walked by, but elderly presence is not masked well by just a garb. That man’s time has passed him by.
“You shall walk again.” Is what he, himself, was taught from the beginning. For him, twenty-six cycles came and went before he found his identity. And today that identity would come to life. “Heed the call of the voice, the lifeless will never reap what we sow.” One is born a Deathwalker, and remains such until one finds their path in life. Some found their calling in the early cycles of eighteen. Others – with a minimal success rate, found their paths near the end of their cycles. Rumors tell one as late as seventy-nine.
For those less fortunate, some enter and exit life never finding their purpose or their true identity. Never to stand before the pyres of Arias and claim their life’s purpose. They wander the streets ‘lifeless.’ The ceremony of rebirth, it is called, and has been a tradition since the dawn of the first Andescions. For that old man it is too late. However, on this day, it would be a new stage of alpha. Today would be the first day ‘he’ would truly be himself. Today would bring about change long needed.
The scene around him blurred to the background. The war had taken its toll, but today it mattered for naught. His alpha stage about to begin, perfectly in rhythm with the cadence of the rain. With every part of the bitter past to erase, a worthy price to begin anew. Today his own past would die, all he was, gone… to emerge reborn as what he would choose to be. For him, the decision was made long ago. For what becomes of this ultimatum however… was up for Arias to decide.
He pulled the cowl of his cloak tighter over his head, the dust mask styled after his cloak hid most of his features, but to all, he was still marked ‘lifeless’; a Deathwalker. Branded at his first birth, the mark of the Deathwalker was tattooed into the underside of his forearm. A constant reminder of what you are. Deathwalkers were the ones that had yet to be born again, in witness of the great pyres of Andescion. Born again under the name of their choosing, a long-held tradition in Andescion. Today would be the end of lifelessness, for today he would be born again anew. “For death is just the beginning.”
Before the ceremonial pyres lay Reyah’s Lace and the bridge that crossed her. At first glance, the eye was taken by soft lantern light illuminating the cobblestone path. The bridge wound serpentine over the river, upwards towards the hillside the castle rested on. Cliffside exposed the andesite stone that gave foundation beneath the castle. The further along the bridge he trekked, the more the fog’s veil lifted from what lay beyond.
Past andesite cliffs, the arena lay by the shoreline. The water below cast an obsidian mirror of the night’s sister moons. Across the river, the fires marking the arena ravaged hungrily at their fuel sources. Each pillar a symbol of the three factions that held dominion over the city. The rain was no match for their rage, each blaze roaring at the sky contentiously. Most of the Andescion people were already gathered. The ceremony of rebirth was the most sacred tradition of Andescion.
Through carved stone arches, he made his way towards the middle of the pyres; a podium with dozens of other Deathwalkers up ahead. Some of the others that came forth this cycle he recognized, in spite of their donned armors. One in particular was covered head to boot in golden enameled armor. He was renowned for being one of this cycle’s most promising tributes. Even one of the guilds had showered him in gifts for his favor. Gold was never much my style anyway. He found himself gazing up at the nearest pyre while he walked up to the other Deathwalkers, fascinated by its unrelenting flames. The rain had let up a bit, but the fire had not.
Climbing the final flight of steps, a glimmer of two chakras caught his eye. One at each hip, an adversary would find easily enough, but they were put there to distract from the two on her back. Clever.
She wore a braid of black wound tight in a silver string, which almost reached the circular blade’s tip at her left hip. Her choice of arms was a mix of light leathers, designed for ease of maneuverability. Fastened to her shoulders were two metal clasps, the sigil of three locked swords emblazoned inside, which held the cape that followed her. She was one of the ‘Devote of Blade’ he knew.
They crossed paths, he caught her glance for a brief moment, but long enough to get a good look at the warrioress. Her eyes swam pools of forest green, evenly soothing and enticing. In the span of a blink, the moment passed and she was gone… He finished his ascent.
The stage before him may have been beautiful once, but countless cycles of bloodshed had stained the grounds before him. Supposedly over four hundred cycles had passed since the ‘Great Guild Wars,’ yet here the scars remained. The ceremony of rebirth had changed once the ‘guilds of three’ took control of Andescion. They presumed tributes from the lesser guilds and households. One was free to be born again anew, however the guilds of three expected recruits in return for their ‘peace.’ A price not many disputed. A price none argued openly and lived to tell the tale. But most importantly the city lost its protector.
Andescion, four hundred cycles prior, was a metropolis, a titan unrivaled across all of Melacalya, revered across the seas. The city had lived through countless ages of what was known as the ‘Silver Cycle,’ a time of peace and prosperity when an abundance of guilds, ranging from a few three to thousands, lived in harmony, working together in unity. The ceremony of rebirth marked the beginning of one’s true life, representing complete and utter freedom, of any binds. Despite the ‘ideal’ times at hand, it is said that times of peace makes for weakness, laziness, carelessness.
Through greed, lust, that strand of chaos was allowed to build. Peacetime set into a dawn of war. Friends and allies became targets and enemies. Not long after, the light that had once blanketed the city faded into darkness. The fight for control over the city was bloody. By the end of it, three guilds emerged with the most control over the major sectors of the city. One by one, the other guilds bent the knee to their might, and it was decreed that each cycle, during the ceremonial rebirth, the lesser guilds and households would pledge their allegiance anew to one of the guilds of three.
There were rumors of something fouler at play, some dark use of eneryia, but it seemed more of a scapegoat for the guilds of three versus the reality. This struggle for power lost Andescion any favor of the wisps, of Arias. The eneryia had slowly decayed from the city ever since.
Many guilds attempted to rise up and challenge the three for control. Some even getting close enough to nearly overthrow one. Despite victory at the apparent doorstep, rebellion was always struck down by the other two guilds. For none of the lesser guilds had the numbers to take on any more than one of the three guilds. Time pressed on, organized rebellion became less frequent, less effective, till finally all for naught. Guild houses faded entirely.
In result of the bloodshed, the stage here was marked as a neutral ground of armistice and had been this way for many a cycle. The guilds of three may have declared a peace, but that did not keep them from each other’s throats more oft than not.
Clad in rusted war-torn armor, one of the guild leaders came forth to the center of the display. His helm was hard to turn away from, leaving all to the imagination. The slit went from eye to eye. For where it met at the middle, a third slit crept downward. The darkness that crept out of it made the sight demonic.
All eyes were on the guild leader. Even the metal pieces themselves dared not strike a sound. He looked around before revealing the guild leader within; Daven Croxron, better known as ‘The Reaver.’ It was The Reaver that led the Andescion Legions, and Daven Croxron that held court in their stead. Which of the two was here tonight, only the wisps knew, but they would all see soon enough. No matter which persona came before them this eve, both were well skilled with the war hammer he held in his left hand.
Taking off his helm, eyes and hair black as the night sky, revealed themselves. His face was scarred, but that failed to hinder his features. He wore them instead as trophies. One was said to have been from a weapon forged with eneryia, a concept that could not be fathomed here in Andescion. It was said that one kiss from the blade could leave a scar brother only to a lightning strike. By judging his face I’d dare say it’s true enough.
In a raspy tone, the leader spoke. “There are lifeless that walk amongst the living. They walk our streets and bear no name.” Daven stalked the row of Deathwalkers before him with a slow tick of pace. His speech was to the Deathwalkers, but he spoke with eyes only for the Andescion people.
“They do not lead their lives, rather their first lives lead them. They are left to hopelessly dwell on doubt, fear, and confusion. Never learning the path they could walk.” Daven paused for a moment. The stillness in the air would be enough to drive the rains upward to escape the tension.
When he finally began again, he grabbed hold of his hammer with both hands. “They never get to hone their skills, and test their might…” His voice rose in crescendo, the war hammer in his hands vibrating faintly. A tremor began to form around him, faint, attenuated to a hairline... At first. Yet chillingly real, when the ground beneath began to cave to his will.
“The Legion’s quest this cycle will bring you closer to the wisps than ever before. For this cycle, we journey into the Cascadial Forest to claim ‘Eneryia’s Kiss.’ The blade forged by Arias herself.” The gathered audience stirred to the mention of the eneryia blade. The gilded Deathwalker nearby disguised his piqued interest poorly.
“The wisps mean for us to claim it and wield it, just as the ‘first’ have, cycles ago.” Daven eyed the Deathwalkers for the first time. “Pledge yourselves to our cause, bring forth the favor of the wisps to Andescion. Come bring Arias home.” The pyre behind Daven moved gracefully. “Those that wish to be reborn anew - those that seek to bring Andescion in a new age of prosperity – a return of the Silver Cycle!” The magnitude of his voice was rivaled only to the reverberant hammer in his hands. “Step forth and be reborn!”
With those final words ringing through the crowd, The Reaver lifted his war hammer for all to behold. Shaft clenched tight between both hands; it took seemingly all his strength to lift it. When it reached its climax, the head of the hammer breathed in standstill, the light of the pyres illuminating the glyphs inscribed. Could it be? Unfathomable no more…
The Andescion Legions’ leader brought the hammer down, the pyre behind twitching violently from its wrath. The ground around him caved in a circular fashion, sending a shockwave heard for leagues away. The cloud of dust and stone fragments the hammer kicked up spiraled around him in a swift tornado, promptly dissipating into subservient skies. The rain cowed by the eneryia’s lash.
The gilded Deathwalker was the first to step forward, with seven more Deathwalkers following one by one. The Reaver made his way to stand face to face with the gilded Deathwalker. He pointed the head of the hammer directly at the gilded Deathwalker’s chest plate. “From dark of night I give unto you new life. When the Andescion Legions call, of whom answers?”
The gilded Deathwalker had leadership in his voice, certainty, determined confidence. “Ellec Skygazer, answers the call of the Andescion Legions, ser.” The Legions fit him kindly. With nothing more than a silent nod, Daven Croxron moved to the next Deathwalker.
He was a dissimilar display from the gilded Ellec. This one in particular looked young, at most twenty-one cycles. He carried rustic plate, old war-torn mail from battles not his own. Where he got it, none could say, but his first birth had brought him little value. “You there, to what purpose do you come before the Legions?” The Reaver keeps his Legions well armored. This one stands no chance.
“I come before the Legions to learn the way of the smith, ser.”
Daven Croxron gawked at the utter irony of the matter, grabbing part of the mail hanging off the Deathwalker’s shoulder. “You had best make plate better than this if you wish to make armor for the Legions, Deathwalker.” The Andescion Legion soldiers behind Daven laughed at the pitiful display. The Deathwalker himself merely bowed his head in dismay, stepping back into the fold without a word of reply.
This was far from uncommon. He may have spent many a cycle choosing that fate. All for naught. Not many Deathwalkers had the valor, or audacity, to come before the pyres again after rejection. He likely would never be seen again here. He may never know rebirth or be called upon by his true name. They will call him ‘lifeless’, like all the others.
This continued with two more rejections and three additions to the Andescion Legions: Clydas Windborne, Allia Moxe, and Ovaria Moxe. The two sisters of note were quite the deadly display. Their decisions were unanimous, where one went the other was always at her side. A fool’s errand to trifle with either.
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A piercing screech penetrated the atmosphere; while wide-eyed heads searched the skies, Deric Ullystrom took the floor. He walked with a gentle swagger that made the heavy armor he donned move with the grace of leather. From shoulder to toe his armor embodied the appearance of a wyvern. His metal plate complimented by leather utility belts and clasps, favored by rangers alike.
It was said he wore no helm into battle, for it would interfere with his senses. He certainly had the scar to prove it. His right eye was blinded in mortal use, a consequence of his lack of helm, but it was rumored he could still use the eye to see through the eyes of his soul binds. Even his hair seemed to fall about him like spikes from the great beast. Without so much a glance at the Legions, “For those looking for… a different skillset, the Devote of Blade offer a unique embrace of eneryia.”
Seemingly further off, another screech echoed across the air. The crowd stirred. With futile curiosity they searched frantically to find the cause of the distress. He is bringing something bigger this cycle, but what… Deric Ullystrom’s eyes began to glow a deep blue, mesmerizing to look at… The screeches grew louder, drawing closer to the thunder-crack of its cry.
The Devote leader looked up in the sky, an arctic aura dipped in both light and dark hues crept out from his eye level, while a ball of darkness stirred in the night overhead. The crowd gazed up in turn. So small and still, it could have been a distant meteor. It’s moving far too fast – and growing exponentially in size!
Slowly but surely, that death ball took shape. The closer it got, the more fury seemed to stir in Deric’s eyes. The shape expanded its cloaked silhouette into three large shards. Beginning to reveal itself, massive black shards on either side glossed over like obsidian. The darkened glossed objects spiraled down towards Deric at a tremendous tempo - those shards are wings. The fire in Deric’s eyes lashed out, the wyvern’s wings unfolded above him, revealing the magnificent beast, bringing the descent to an immediate halt.
The scales on the wyvern were darker than the void it came from, tipped with deep blue, as if dipped in the blood of an ice hydra. Deric and the wyvern moved as one. When he stepped forward the wyvern landed behind him, with dominance for all to behold. “Those who wish to bind their souls to the great beasts of the world only have to step forward to learn the way of the ranger.”
It was a sight to behold. His soul bind to the wyvern was greater than the bond of the Moxe sisters. “The wisps have given us eneryia to be one with them. Through the ranger’s mark, we will bring about Arias’ return. I give you the means to bind your will to the greatest forces’ nature has to offer. If you are deemed worthy to be a ranger, you may learn to wield such might.”
A dozen Deathwalkers stepped forth this time. Deric eyed them down from his place, picking one out of the crowd. He then walked up to the Deathwalker with his wyvern in tow. “Do you know fear, Deathwalker?” The Deathwalker had the look of promised valor, and a backbone lined with steel no doubt.
“I know no such trait, ser.” He kept his eyes locked on Deric, steadfast where he stood.
Deric, unfaltering in his gaze, gave answer. “From the depths of the forest, I give unto you, new life. Death becomes you, Deathwalker. To whom, breathes life anew?”
“I am Libel Felrose, and I come to learn the way of the ranger.”
Deric took a few steps aside while he spoke. “Not all who come before the Devote have the blessings of the wisps. Not all are borne of the gift: ‘eneryia.’ The mark of the ranger is far less easily obtained. What deems you worthy, I wonder? Let me see you through my real eyes.” Deric’s eyes began to glow again, the wyvern coming to life at once. It craned its neck within inches of Libel’s face, searching through the libraries of his conscious. Libel stood steadfast, with the beast approaching ever nearer, baring no fear to the naked eye. The wyvern was incredibly close, one could feel the razor rows of teeth prickling the hairs of their skin. The stench of its last meal oozed in the atmosphere around them.
The wyvern’s eyes flashed for a split second and without any hesitation, the wyvern snapped at Libel’s head, its teeth clenching around the neck bones. The movement was so fast the two Deathwalkers that stood next to Libel’s corpse had no realization of what they just witnessed, nor the blood that splattered them.
With hearts pounding and stifled screams escaping clasped hands, it all happened in an instant. The wyvern released the corpse. The quartz white teeth the beast had borne before were replaced with warm blackened blood dripping from its mouth. May you find peace in Oblivion, Libel Felrose.
Deric stepped back in front of the wyvern impassively, gazing at what was Libel Felrose. “Fear cuts deeper than the sword. That Deathwalker could not hide his fear from this beast, nor any that one may come across on your ranges.” Libel’s corpse finally hit the ground with a squished thump. Deric searched amongst the Deathwalkers again. With the same level of gusto, “This cycle we mean to bind more wyvern to the fold. We require souls worthy of their manifestation. I ask you again, what deems you worthy?”
“I renounce my life as a Deathwalker, to be born again, ser.” One of the Deathwalkers from the far corner of the row caught everyone’s attention. She stands with prowess like the last one, but her voice screams the call of a leader. She was clad in darkened leathers with grey furs, and a deep blue cowl she wore around her neck that matched the ocean depth of her eyes. Her hair, long, dark, like the leather she wore, was tied back from her face.
Deric Ullystrom with his wyvern made their way over to her in unison. “To whom may I call, that wishes to breathe life anew?” The wyvern peered over Deric’s shoulder to gaze at the Deathwalker, but she paid it no mind, if it weren’t there at all.
“I come before the Devote of Blade, to be reborn; Farrah LaCroix. I will bind the wyvern you seek.”
Deric cocked a half smile. “It is one matter to be able to soothe a beast, it is another to bend it to your will. It is a whole endeavor entirely to meld your wills as one, binding your soul with such creatures.” His eyes began to glow. He stepped back allowing the wyvern to gaze at her. “We shall see if you have the mark of the ranger.”
The wyvern curiously moved about her, staring her down within inches of her face. Each breath the wyvern took, tiny beads of condensation accrued on Farrah’s leathers, while the smoke dissipated from its mouth. The wyvern gazed into Farrah’s eyes, its jaw widening slowly in front of her, exposing the razors of blood-soaked teeth it had used moments ago to tear the last Deathwalker apart. A low rumble of a growl came from within the beast. The Deathwalker beside her stumbled backwards and fell. Farrah took a step closer, continuing to stare the beast down, her face within a hairline of the near dried blood on its teeth.
The wyvern slowly closed its jaw, taking a step back, while at that same moment Deric returned to consciousness. “From the depths of the forest, I give unto you, new life. The Devote await you, Farrah LaCroix.” Deric glanced over at his pyre, where his fellow Devote stood at the ready. “You have much to learn to strengthen the gift you were given, but you shall not be the only contender for the bind of a wyvern.” His gaze met the eyes of one of the Devote in particular. Her facial features gave no reaction, save for the slightest glow in her green eyes. The chakra-armed warrioress.
Deric made his way over to the next Deathwalker, the circuit continues. This time there were five rejections, with five new initiates. No more fodder for the wyvern. Deric made his way through the rows, paying no mind to any that dared not step forward. The final initiate was one of note, Dustin Silverwood he called himself. Bearing mostly an array of leathers, complimented by steel pauldrons, his display seemed nothing formidable. That was, however, until the wyvern knocked him backwards and Dustin managed to quickly recover his footing, somehow managing to maintain eye contact with the wyvern. Perhaps the only reason he is still alive.
Stillness overtook the stage once more when the guild leader Lessiel Rhyne made his way to the forefront. A long black jacket that reached the midway of his boots flapped with the beat of the pyre behind him. Small intricate glyphs glossed along the edges whenever the fire illuminated them. His skin was pale milk, but almost none of it was seen, save for his face. Even still, his shoulder-length black hair covered a good portion of it. Every part of his attire was a different shade of ebony, from the obsidian boots to the charcoal accents on his torso.
There was something surreal about the way he walked, as if the ground he tread was released from all laws of physics and gravity. The loose pebbles beneath his step would hover for a split moment, till he moved forward and instantaneously, the life was cut from them and they would fall back to the surface. With cryptic grace.
He looked around solemnly at the Deathwalkers that remained. He spoke no words, merely closed his eyes, allowing the scene to grow deathly quiet. A brief moment felt an eternity, in the silent embrace he created. He pulled a small leather-bound book from his jacket, softly letting it fall out of his hand. On descending to the surface of the altar, it gently came to a standstill above the impact. Resting peacefully above worn, wet stone.
Lessiel then raised both his arms slightly above his own figure, and the book steadily ascended up with them. The ground began to churn about him, the pyre behind dancing in tempo. You shall walk again… The pyre propelled violently up at the sky, grasping for air. The book unfurling itself before their eyes. Pages danced around Lessiel, his eyes still closed. The pyre grew… The pages unfurled… Something else is here…
Lessiel lifted his head to the sky, a dark shadow taking shape behind him. At first, it looked a figment of the fire blazing behind him, but… it’s too lifelike to be a shadow… that is… His Relinquisher came full form, Lessiel leveling his head, opening his eyes to face the Deathwalkers. The shadow creature was beyond petrifying, the embodiment of a score of rogues could not compare. The manifestation of darkness.
The book’s pages violently spun faster till it became a blur. The Relinquisher rotated forward through Lessiel, the pyre behind lashing violently at the sky, as if choking on the Relinquisher’s breath. It had no face but one could feel it staring through you. It feels so cold. It drew forward, towards the Deathwalkers, then abruptly the book’s pages froze still, the Relinquisher vanishing inside of Lessiel once more. Did that creature come from him!?
The book became one, descending back into Lessiel’s gloved hand. In one swift movement the book was back inside his jacket, while the pyre behind returned to its normal blaze. Nothing was spoken, but eight of the nine remaining Deathwalkers stepped forward.
Lessiel Rhyne walked an unwavering pace amongst the lifeless. His stare transfixed on his path ahead, but when he passed each Deathwalker, it was like an hourglass judging a grain of sand, deciding its worthiness to pass through the vial. The Shadowmancers definitely offer a unique skillset. Lessiel Rhyne drew closer, one could feel the cold aura about him. To the naked eye he stood alone, but one could feel the presence of his Relinquisher.
He stopped his path, his first choice apparent. With the cowl over their head, it was hard to make out any features of this particular pledge. Whoever it is, they’re easily the youngest here. Lessiel slowly let out his hand, lifting up the chin to see the eyes of his recruit. She pulled back her cowl to reveal a face that had seen more despair than her cycles should have permitted. Her eyes were heavy, but stern. She wore no smile, nor armor, but rather fashioned blackened leather boots and a small charcoal cape that was accented at the neckline by feathers of the raven. She couldn’t have seen more than six and ten cycles.
“Of whom is it that walks into rebirth?”
The child held her ground like any other that came before her, maintaining her eye contact while he spoke. “I am Rayna Loxrow, ser.” Her eyes traced above Lessiel; she can still see it… The Shadowmancer’s pyre let out a violent puff of flame.
“Arise from the pyre, Rayna Loxrow. You walk the streets alone no longer.”
The next three pledges were rejected in succession. He moved amongst the remaining Deathwalkers, coming to the forefront of one with no name or allegiance as of yet. One that did not step forward. The cold was more than just cold. It tastes of the void. Lessiel stopped before him without missing a beat. Oh Arias, he hears me.
“Of whom is it that walks into rebirth?”
I looked up, meeting his eyes with mine own. “I come before the city of Andescion, a Deathwalker, to emerge from the pyre, Six Deltanis.”
Lessiel studied Deltanis. Each word bearing cryptic weight, “The Legions do not interest you, nor do the Devote. Nor do you step forward to pledge your allegiance to learn the ways of the Shadowmancers. Do you not ‘lust’ for the power of the Relinquisher?”
Deltanis gazed at the shadow presence behind Lessiel. “Lust would only bring me ruin. I have no desire to call upon the darkness that dwells within me.” Lessiel seemed almost amused by that, though I don’t foresee it winning me an ally.
“The Relinquisher is not the only spirit the Shadowmancers call upon.” Safeera Vapelle made way from the Shadowmancer pyre. Her hair was cut at the neckline, red as embers. She bore no armor, rather she wore a blue leather dress, clasped at the mid-way of one leg by her leather utility belt. Pants to boot in charcoal to black, she kept a focused look while she made her way closer.
She unhinged a similar styled book to Lessiel’s from behind her back, and it began to glow softly as it rose just out of her hand. Cinders fell around her, the pages unfurling with haste. Her hair moved gracefully with the updraft, then suddenly all grew still. At that precise moment, it appeared.
Safeera glared Deltanis dead on, while two sets of wings unfolded from behind her. Each wing faded at the ends like the cloud of an apparition. She looked angelic, the light illuminating her – almost blinding to look, I cannot lose eye contact now. The creature emerged from behind Safeera, with pale grey skin lined with traces of gold in place of veins. It bore no facial features like the Relinquisher: This was something else entirely… From what realm did this come from.
“This is a Seraph.” Safeera glanced back at her creature. The Seraph’s arms extended like branches, the fingers toying with the air around it. “The wisps taught our kind how to preserve the creatures of this world long ago. I was fortunate enough to find her before she met her end.” The Seraph gracefully spun higher into the air. Safeera watching her every move, a glimmer caught in her eye – no, a tear. “She was the last of her kind.”
Safeera raised her free hand up with equal grace to the Seraph. At near finger’s touch the Seraph gradually made the descent, cascading with the elegance of a midsummer breeze. Within moments, the Seraph vanished inside of Safeera. “But through the Shadowmancers, creatures, like her, survive in spirit.” She did not shed another tear, but one could see the torment in her eyes.
Lessiel Rhyne stepped close to Safeera, turning to Deltanis again. “You breathe life again through our pyres,” He motioned across the stage. “…yet none of ‘this,’ appeals to you?” Deltanis said nothing, but kept his gaze locked on Lessiel. Lessiel took a step towards Deltanis, instantaneously his words became colder than the deepest depths of winter. “Or is it fear that imprisons you.” Lessiel turned away, continuing to one of the other Deathwalkers that stepped forward.
The adrenaline relieved Deltanis of his silence. The time is now if ever. “Through the Andescion pyres I depart from death, and through the flames of Arias I embrace new life.” Deltanis breathed in, taking two steps forward. “I pledge my allegiance to Andescion, in the only way I see feasible…” Deltanis stepped forward again, turning to the other Deathwalkers, his back to Lessiel, Safeera, the three guilds, the pyres. Sweat soaked down to his palms already.
“I ask you to not pledge yourselves to these three. For too long our city has bled for struggles of power. The balance in the fold has been tipped for far too long. When a Deathwalker dies, they should emerge anew in a fold that works for the greater good of all, without the fear of rejection.”
It grew deathly quiet. The crackling of the fires behind was Deltanis’ only reply. No warmth will come from them now. “There is no skill too great to be taught, no trait that cannot be learned. I call for a guild to accept the willing, to embrace all talents the reborn have to offer.”
One of the Andescion Legions grew tired of the insolence, speaking up. “Have you gone mad?” A bunch of the onlookers laughed with him. Deltanis did not look to see who spurted the retort, instead pressing on. I’ve come this far. They will learn. They will remember.
“The segregation of our city does naught to benefit our place in the realm, rather the guilds of three would rather hoard prodigies and use them to their own gain. I offer a return to our roots, the means to bring Andescion back to its former glory, into a new age of prosperity. I offer a rebirth for those that do not get chosen, a lantern for those that cannot find their way. You will not find forced paths here, learn the path you desire. You will not find any demands of tribute here either, come to me as you are. What I ask for is a willingness. A willingness to learn. A willingness to teach what you’ve learned, so one day all may find their path in rebirth. Too many souls wander aimlessly never making it to this altar, follow me and none shall get left behind.”
Deltanis looked amongst the Deathwalkers for some accordance – anything. The silence became unbearably loud, are they blind?! Then the pyres went out, everything grew dark.
I never heard him come up behind me… Deltanis struggled to open his eyes from his knees, the cold embrace of stone met him soon after. The warm blood began to soak through the hood, such drastic ranges of temperature all at once. Pressed against the stone, I hear him now. His gilded mail walked slowly past Deltanis’ line of vision… It all swirled to black.