Ominous silence reigned over the snowy mountains of Taruz Bekular. Like the calm before a storm the gentle breeze blew past Alastor’s ankles as he rubbed his hands against each other, the woolen gloves unable to keep the stinging cold away from his brown skin, gnawing at his fingers like hungry wolves at the sheep’s carcasses.
A tense atmosphere announced his enemy’s arrival. Just like his twisting stomach told him whenever food was poisoned or rotten, an uncomfortable feeling beset him, the hair on his arms stiffening in response and a wave of goosebumps sweeping over his skin.
Through the violent, obscuring blizzard a black man wearing just a brown coat stomped across the snowy plateau, heading straight towards Alastor’s direction as a faint pulsating magic aura unveiled his identity as the northerner’s target.
“Are you Kushtar the Craftsman?” Yelled the heavily armored Alastor beneath his red-feathered helmet, the snow drowning out most of his voice yet the approaching man stopped in his tracks, startled by the sudden sound of his name.
Smiling at the confirmation of his target, Alastor unleashed his own magic aura which whipped through the sky as some pebbles were flinged off the mountain’s peak into the sand valley below and the blizzard intensified, the snow flakes whizzing past the mage’s eyes as he squinted at the man presumed to be Kushtar.
The latter remained unfazed by the raging aura as he calmly pulled down his hood, revealing his strong masculine features and the long-braided strands of black hair which dangled behind him in five hanks, the three innermost entangled with alluring diamonds and other emeralds.
Opening his mouth the strange arrival from the south revealed large, white teeth, Alastor not smiling back and keeping his grim expression as he reminded himself of his master’s words to never underestimate an enemy even if the target was a mere human terrorist.
Carefully approaching the man who mirrored the warrant almost identically, Alastor grabbed the carved light brown wood of his bow, tracing the runes engraved into it as he recited prayers and incantations to strengthen and ignite his holy weapon.
Suddenly a dart appeared before his eyes as he evaded the lethal tip by mere centimeters, his cheek being slashed open and the first drops of hot blood gushing out of the wound as he drew the string of his bow without an arrow inserted, eyes wide and heart promptly pounding at the unexpected intrusion into his personal space.
But Kushtar was gone, even the faintest trace of his magic aura had vanished exactly as the attack occurred, the northerner’s bowstring still pulled back without any missile on the thread.
Scrutinizing the area, Alastor couldn’t grasp any clue as to where his opponent might have fled to. His eyes widened, not at his enemy’s ambush but at the dread what would happen if he told his superior, Aklys, that he had failed miserably in containing the peril.
Shuddering at the mere thought, Alastor refined his senses as he analyzed his vicinity and there he was!
Gaze shooting upwards, the mage pointed his weapon at the approaching man who promptly accelerated and crashed into the ground, squashing Alastor’s foot beneath his tremendous, inhuman weight.
Deeming the man to have previously escaped into the sky and out of his vision, Alastor clenched his teeth, suppressing the excruciating pain and preventing it from numbing his brain.
The snow-covered ground below Alastor was tainted crimson as torrents of blood gushed out of the crippled, shattered foot, the last bones of it dangling loosely from the stump leg.
Standing erect in the smoke from the collision, Kushtar loomed in the middle of the plateau at Taruz Bekular's peak. His deep, rumbling voice carried above the snowstorm: "Exsecutor in the Prime Patriarch's service. Why did he send a recruit to duel me? Tell me, youngster."
The heavy accent was enough to devalue his mocking but Alastor was too busy activating a rune on his brown forehead, the black ink protruding from his rough skin, one side of his face burned and scarred from years of harsh training.
His whole face was covered in runes and sigils, the procedure of engraving them amongst the most painful things a human could experience and the young man had been forced to perform it when he was barely 13 years old, an age generally proclaimed to be the boundary between childhood and adulthood.
The profusely leaking blood diminished to a trickle until fully stopping as the southern enemy raised his eyebrows in amazement at the church’s lackey’s resolve, not instantly closing the distance between him and his injured ambusher.
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Clapping pejoratively, Kushtar stepped through the crunching snow as he mocked: “Impressive! Quite impressive indeed for someone working in the demons’ name.”
Glaring at the approaching melee fighter, Alastor softened his posture and dashed backwards before sliding his hand along the stone, pieces of it crumbling out of the rock in the form of arrows as they levitated in the air before the short man grabbed them and drew them into his bow, aiming at the cocky terrorist.
But before releasing them he felt his knees buckle - no - only his right leg, the same which had been wounded moments earlier.
Alastor smiled through gritting teeth as he murmured: “Poison, ha! You’re really crafty you scum!”
The left side of his face suddenly ignited in a raging inferno of blue flames as the Exscecutor lifted his hand and pierced his visage right into the flames, the squelching sound of smashed flesh and the sizzling sound of burning skin tearing through the sky, the heavy storm still cladding the world around the duelists white.
Ripping his whole arm out of his own head, Alastor screamed in agony, the intrusion of himself right behind the procedure of ‘rune engraving’ on the scale of pain, before gulping down a vial he had grabbed inside his own skull.
Somewhere beneath his brown cloak, Kushtar pulled out a fine, thin longsword exuding a red glow against the rush of white snowflakes. Amazed and flabbergasted alike by the display of self-harm from his ecclesiastical adversary, the black Craftsman dashed forward in a preemptive strike, utilizing the moment of weakness to his own advantage like only the best fighters would, ignoring things such as honor and gallantry to fight optimally.
Silently moving on the crunchy snow, the southern invader approached the Exsecutor who was still busy recovering from his self-inflicted injury, the mysterious vial stored in a bag and the leg violently squirming around on the ground.
Strangely enough, the man who had been so vulnerable moments before, ripped his head upwards, shrieking beyond the hazardous storm as several levitating arrows spun around his glowing body, waves of magic pulsating from the fierce soul’s carnal shell.
The Archer unloaded volley after volley as the missiles pierced through the quaking, tense air.
Kushtar however performed parries and swings in imminent sequence as his blade tore through the flakes and wind, dispersing anything in his wake as a ball of slashes formed around him, an impenetrable aura of death approaching the retreating northerner.
A drop of blood trailed down Alastor's burned cheek, the hot sensation painfully reminding him of his own mortality as he stopped the devastating barrage to focus on evacuation from his enemy’s path of destruction. The barrage from which Kushtar emerged unscathed, not a single wound adorning his muscular body. When it stopped, he loomed over the empty peak, glancing around suspiciously, rightfully expecting a surprise attack in the most pathetic, craven manner from the Caelian scum.
“Wherever you are, my little friend, I will find you,” the terrorist joyfully chirped, the obvious sadistic happiness which induced fright and menance in most foes, palpable even from Alastor’s hiding spot.
Kushtar casually strolled around Taruz Bekular, glancing around and playfully lifting little pebbles to search for his enemy who wouldn’t flee during such a crucial moment which could decide the future of the whole continent.
A quick glance down his own arms, revealed to the Craftsman his determination for the cause of his great mother Empire.
Spiraling up his dark skin were two wires with thorns attached to them, piercing his rough skin, forcing him to bleed eternally, the suffering and pain an endless form of power for Kushtar who depended on this cursed magic.
Further down his body, two giant bolts pierced his thighs, held in place by big beads on each side of the metal pipe. These devices of torment were implanted into and through his body to fuel his magic, as well as depleting the assassin of any sentiments or feelings of pain, effectively rendering him an emotionless machine of death, a harbinger of hell.
But his cunning assassin colleague from Regnium hadn’t been idle while Kushtar joked around, running his thick fingers through the braids which heavily lay against his back, the old scars beneath already numbed, the callous man tolerating any pain no matter how great for his nation’s advance.
The sound appeared before the pain, a sharp whizzing above the decreasing blizzard.
Kushtar’s brown eyes shot downwards at his bolted thigh, which was pierced by another bolt, a significantly smaller one but a terribly aching one. Protruding from his sanded skin was a thick ice arrow, the tip freezing his innards and clogging his veins at a rapid, highly alarming speed.
Suddenly he felt an intense magic approach him. Eyes darting upwards, he barely noticed two more arrows flying towards him, his body instinctually attempting an evasion which succeeded by the mere width of a hand, the missiles soaring through the air right beside Kushtar’s ears until they loudly clattered against the rock behind him, shattering at the solid obstruction.
Even though he prevented outright death, Kushtar learned a valuable lesson: Never underestimate opponents. The experience of the trails of quivering air palpable by him enough to actually ascertain that Alastor was a respectable menace who was going to slaughter Kushtar if the latter remained careless.
That’s why the southern troublemaker activated his magic, flinging himself into the sky before crashing into the crunchy snow behind a large rock, afterwards concealing his magic presence, contemplating about the best course of action against a long-range enemy whose position was unknown and obscured by the storm. Despite several possibilities to resolve the solution against the injured archer, Kushtar quickly ended up with one.
Should I retreat back to the imperial court? … Certain death.
Should I cross the mountain on an unnatural path? … Too much delay, won’t be on schedule, gonna miss the gathering.
Should I fight this Exsecutor headon? … Almost certain death. Either I have to fight tactically or ambush him somehow. But how - how could I - I …
A great idea slowly assembled within Kushtar’s mind who joyfully pulled out a small device from his cloak’s pocket and gradually imbued it with tiny, almost - hopefully - non-detectable amounts of magic.
But the battered church hound didn’t utilize the advantageous moment to attack and decided to remain in hiding, recovering from the brutal injuries such as a crashed foot or a poisoned wound which the antivenom was quickly expelling from the human’s bloodways.
Kushtar on the other hand couldn’t allow himself carelessness since he could be even described as more vulnerable than his northern adversary, considering the several protruding shafts from his exposed skin, the cloth of his garment tinted in a red color which slowly trailed down towards his feet, sullying his cloak in its wake.
Clenching his teeth, Kushtar delicately twisted the device, the two halves unveiling themselves as they separated, the gap between them a blurry rift in reality itself as it dazzled in the infinite colors of the universe, a strange aura emitting from the Void, as if anything that he watched within the ominous construction stared right back at him, even deeper, into his soul.
The terrorist gently tapped on the gift from his master and began counting as instructed beforehand: “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12,” he gasped and jolted upwards, screaming: “13!”
Arching into the sky, the object titled: “Doombringer” in the Empire of Kahaeim, soared towards the Heavens under the fascinated, almost childishly smiling Craftsman.