The stone road continued beyond the horizon. Cutting through a snow-filled valley, and onto the harsh mountainous landscape of what he knew to be The Gravelands. ‘The Gravelands,’ he thought, his skin shivering and breath conjured a cloud of frost as he breathed beyond his helmet. ‘Disgrace of a name. Lastwall sounded better.’
He knew the Province of Lastwall would be a tragic end to a thriving state. It was ruled by two fair ladies who served as the sword and shield of Vigil, its capital. Kalabrynne, The Sword, and Gwyndria, The Shield. The two held their hands in marriage under the name Iomedar. All before The Radiant Dawn, a spell conjured by the - then captive - lich, Tar-Baphon, incinerated Lastwall. Killing off Gwyndria.
His hooves trudged through the heavy snow, coated by his black carapaced plate armor with the stalks and signifiers of his allegiance. The six-bladed compass on his right pauldron swayed with the cold heft of each of his steps, only two blades colored in red, marking his rank as Hellknight.
Both greaves moved with calculated precision through the harsh tundra that Gozreh - God of Nature - decided to erect, much to his dismay. The knight burrowed his gauntlets into his endless side pouch, conjuring a parchment calendar with singed edges on each of the 12 pages. Days, weeks, months, Xed out, revealing that today was the 24th of Arodus, the Eighth month in the 4720th year post-Absalom’s Reckoning. Summer.
’Why is it snowing?’ His infernal mind bickered, yet after a prolonged breath, the knight ceased his attack on the natural world.
His breaths after climbing up and down the valley weren’t troubled. Steady and slow as it was, the uphill battle to reach The Gravelands was nothing to the knight. Atop the large hill, where even the stone road is not beaten at all, the horizons foretold a story.
Where snow traverses down the hill, the rough patches of visible mud are inked with black decaying ichor. Spots of brown earth can be found throughout the plains overlooked by this valley, but the reign of the hazardous necrotic wastes is just beginning here. And they spread with horrifying speed.
He breathed deep, as he felt the familiar choking sensation of an air he wasn’t supposed to breathe. He inhaled it in the Hells, where his current Master saved him from utmost doom; he inhaled it there, on the desecrated lands of Black Magic. As the air traveled his wind pipes, it clung onto the inner edges of his infernal body, every instinct of his telling him to not cough, and he withstood the necrotic assault on his lungs. He exhaled it all, every remnant of decay leaving his body, yet he knew he had to endure it.
He shifted his arm to meet an empty scabbard, one of two on his hip. ‘I envy your ability to survive without oxygen, Lizard.’ He thought to himself. He ached for a response atop the deadened hill, but the only sound breaching through his visor was the whistling of the cold foul wind. His Master couldn’t respond freely within his mind, that he knew, but the moments of silence would always be ones of grace were they to be broken up by his voice.
The voice of a Battle-Brother. The bond they share between them as two crusaders is one of endless campaigns. Both swore on the same day that they would fight back anarchy, slice the head of discord, and lay the everlasting seeds of law and order as one. Both meant it. Yet now the two were separated by circumstance, each following their crusade to bring order and topple anarchy. One against Tar-Baphon, the other against a shard of a God.
The Hellknight scoffed at the empty scabbards on his waist. He didn’t remember the last time he lost any of his weapons. He wagered it was stuck to a monster’s carcass. He veiled his eyes with their lids, sending a wave of hellfire through his entire soul. He felt the incinerating wave pass through his innards, through his mind, and ending at the tips of his gauntlets. He opened his arms and then his palms, as from the bottom of his gauntlets a streak of fire erupted from each. One finger after another was wrapped around the living blaze, as both streaks of fire cooled and turned into silver weapons. Weapons he attuned to his very soul. Reckoning and Absolution. Reckoning, The Long Blade, was a gift from his late husband, made by the knight’s father-in-law. Absolution, The Shortsword, was always its sidearm and companion, delivering quick and righteous retribution.
The two streaks of fire now made weapons sat in the heating gauntlets of the knight like a familiar spell. He flourished Reckoning, letting the handle escape and twirl on the sides of his wrist before catching it with his palm anew. The weapons - though the knight wouldn’t admit it - made his being warmer.
He breathed the plagued air anew, his legs twitching for the crusade ahead of him. ‘It’s time, Tar-Baphon,’ his mind spoke as his eyes opened, the cursed landscape stood unchanged. “For you to face the Godclaw.” His voice whispered, sending a cloud of frost at every exhale of air.
The Godclaw. Five divine beings of order and power held the ground beneath every Hellknight of his order. Abadar, The Lawmaker. Irori, The Master of Masters. Torag, The Protector. Iomedae, The Inheritor. And Asmodeus, The Dark Prince. All held lawful principles that every knight, every crusader, and all potential soldiers wanted to uphold. From now until the end of pandemonium. These five gods gestalted into one entity that all these Hellknights called The Godclaw.
He closed his eyes again, the inner machinations of his soul begging for the rightful judgment of Abadar. The justice of Iomedae. The orderful mastery of Irori. The protection of Torag and knowledge of Asmodeus. With each prayer, his soul sparked with flame, yet once he reached Asmodeus he felt the fire turn physical, and hellfire ignited the snow around him. His greaves now met stone instead of flakes of powdered snow. That was his sign.
His left hoof charged behind the right as he started the descent. Like a mad horned beast, the Hellknight stormed his way down the hill, his swords flanking each of his sides. His hooves moved faster and faster as he made his mad dash into the befouled and cursed terrain that marked the beginning of Tar-Baphon’s unjust rule. As he crossed the border, the visitor must pay his tithe, as upon trespassing, the land rose to defend itself. Four dark and translucent silhouettes of humanoids ushered from the darkness on the ground 100 yards ahead of him as they let out a maddened screech. The adrenaline coursed its way through his body, as he started to yell amidst his charge, his two swords pointed as one at the first shade he charged at.
In the blink of an eye, the Hellknight’s blades cleaved through the first shade in his path, his rampage continuing as his hooves beat. Were he to go further with the momentum he’d arrive embedded into a sheer mountain. With a sudden jolt, he implanted Reckoning into the dirt. The blade shrieked as it hit stone, dragging across a few feet before the friction with foul earth stopped his acceleration, to a halt. His armored form was uncharacteristic in its agility, as he slid to face the other apparitions within a breath. The three shades in front of the hill he had just descended moved with sharp, unnatural, and contorting awkwardness. “This is your defense, Baphon?!” The knight’s deep rugged voice echoed from the mountains surrounding him. “Come, meet Yenlar Riek, your doom incarnate.” He dislodged Reckoning from the befouled land, pointing it at the nearest shadowy adversary.
The ghost’s shriek pierced the air as its brethren joined its cursed song. Yenlar, hearing it plain and clear, knew that to regular humanoids this chorus would implant the seeds of doubt within them. Both his resilient mind and his physical body laughed at the attempt of terrifying that which weaponized fear. Two shades, befuddled by the knight’s resolve and sudden laughing fit, charged him.
A flurry of incorporeal hands battered the knight. He dodged the first set of attacks and immediately hacked at another phantom attempting to flank him. In less than a heartbeat he realized he was surrounded. The last phantom conjured a spectral bow that fired thrice at the flanked knight, only the last arrow managing to find purchase inside his plate. He bit one side of his forked tongue at the stinging serrated pain, feeling blood flowing down his armor, but that was his only reaction.
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“Ha! Face death again, meet the Godclaw for me!” He bellowed as his blades slashed the air around him. Reckoning and Absolution turned astral as Yenlar found the correct slicing method to dispatch even ghosts, the blades now translucent as each sword matched the incorporeal. Yenlar’s strikes were deliberate, calculated, and deadly. One shade was felled by a slice to the midsection and a stab at his head. The one flanking him was dispatched with one decapitating strike with Reckoning. The two shades shrieked in unison, their forms becoming more and more glassy as both met their doom, both now patches of unclean but breathable air.
Yenlar’s eyes shifted within his visor to meet the last assailant, his head turned too, a breath later. The shade held their bow as stout as a dwarf, but as soon as Yenlar’s helm faced it, it sank back into the ground in retreat, clamoring on its way down.
Yenlar inhaled and exhaled as the shades that attacked him evaporated into nothingness. The clouds of frost were no longer present even through the cold that pierced his Hellknight Plate. His hand released Reckoning as the blade hit the ground with a loud clang, reaching to meet the horns of his helmet. With the sound of a buckle releasing his helm from his armor, he revealed his form to this befouled land.
His face was sanguine-skinned, gaunt, and slim. From both sides of his forehead sprouted two char black horns that sat and hovered above his hairline, which slicked back and traveled to his upper back. A Hellspawn. Humanoid as he was, his family line was cursed by the Hells, and he soaked it with this visage.
He shook his head upon meeting the filthy air of this place, his black hair whirling around his head. He halted his movements after three shakes, looking into the helmet. A visage of a faceless abomination colored black, to match his plate. Horns twist and turn like a flamberge upwards to the heavens, only the visor being distinguishing.
It was a gift. From a creature that doomed him. He hated this helmet, with every fiber of his being. His gauntlet attempted to mold the steel as he tightened his grip. No avail, it was magically altered by the powers of the Hells.
Yenlar was doomed by a Rogue Devil he thought to be his mentor. Saved by the Lizard turned Inevitable-Aeon. The one he called his Battle Brother. Yet the Hells are Yenlar’s origins. They are the reasons he adorns the visage of The Damned. The horns, the hooves, the forked tongue, the sanguine skin…back then he endorsed it when the Hells gripped him. Now it is him that grips The Hells. Whereas The Master of Blades was chosen by all Five of the Godclaw, Yenlar was heralded by one. The Dark Prince, Asmodeus. The Ruler of Hell. The Master of Blades interacted with each of the gods once. Communing with Iomedae, earning Irori’s mark, signing a deal with Asmodeus, getting Torag’s favor, and convincing Abadar to meld his form to an Aeon’s. Yenlar wasn’t as lucky.
He took in whatever he could from the Dark Prince, getting a pass as his being was no longer damned, outwitting the Prince to mold Yenlar’s Infernal soul to his own will. And thus he did, imbuing his arsenal with the powers of the Hells, his soul now beckoning the Hells.
Forever will he be indulged in Hellfire.
His golden eyes blinked thrice at the mask-turned-helm before the foul landscape reminded him of his mission, as he donned his helm anew. Yenlar scoured his surroundings, his head turned to see that this valley was surrounded by hills and mountains, and the stone road led north, flanked by frosty mountaintops. Yet, at the foot of the snow-covered hill, what hadn't set in during his adrenaline-filled charge were two swords embedded into the plagued earth.
With disregard to his weaponry, Yenlar’s plate scuffled towards the half-sunken weapons, crouching at the curvature of the hill that marks the border. As he inched closer toward the swords, he realized a skeletal hand gripping the handle of the leftmost sword. His mind conjured his weapons to his hands, Hellfire sprawling through his being as both killing machines burned their way from the killing site to another potential fight.
Every nerve in his body yelled at him to be ready. Skeletal remains, in Tar Baphon’s land? The necrotic wasteland? It’ll either rise to fight him or lead the way to the Tyrant’s throne, depending on whose side he’s on. The messenger would die were it up to Yenlar. The knight took his swords and readied them at the implanted weapons, waiting for the slightest hint of movement as he stood completely still, only his breathing bobbing his chest.
…
Yenlar waited a dozen heartbeats, alert to all sources of doom that might fell his quest to destroy the anarchic tyrant…yet the skeletal hand never stirred. His hands moved back to his sides with haste, as though commanded, as his gauntlet let go of Absolution and, with the utmost care, went to touch the bones. Yenlar could feel the warmth of the skeleton even through steel carapace armor, his brows furrowed at the dichotomy the body exhibited.
That sent his mind to seek answers. Every possible knowledge of the religious, skeletal remains, and temperature regarding thereof, yet nothing yielded results. Skeletons don’t get warmer the more they stay above ground, especially not in this frostbitten terrain. The works of magic have to set in for that prospect to be achieved. What spell meddled with skeletal remains?
Then, his mind pieced it all together. Yenlar’s mind sent him back to 4716 AR, just a few months after his initiation to the order. Part of the learning process of The Order of the Godclaw is to respect those who died protecting the keep of the order, Citadel Dinyar, up at the cruel mountains of Isger. There he watched a Signifer, the casters of the Hellknight Orders, perform a burial rite upon a fallen Hellknight, covering his remains with embalming fluids as he weaved a spell. One that made bodies protected from undeath.
Yenlar’s mind hummed in agreement and he couldn’t help but unknowingly flex his face into a smile at his religious ‘forte’. Yet his keen eyes noticed something even stranger about one of the swords. He could see the handle of the buried blade turn glassy when viewed from a certain angle. He dropped Reckoning as well as he drew his head closer to the remains as the cold whistling wind drew past his face. When he went to grip the sword, moving the skeletal hand aside, the weapon felt…lighter. Absolution wasn’t as long as this sword, even when a part of it was embedded into the earth, meaning it could be either a bastard sword or a longsword. To his hands, its weight classified it as neither.
He gripped the handle tight, sword still buried, only to hear a slight crack at the handle. His grip left the sword, looking over to see the damage he had caused to the weapon. This handle isn’t supposed to withstand such a strong grip.
’Is this weapon ornamental or designed by idiots?’ His mind conjured with his common calm demeanor. ‘If the handle couldn’t sustain this much pressure it means it’s either hollow or damaged.’ The first stood more intriguing to the knight. The pommel of the sword was slightly dislodged after his tight grip had almost destroyed the handle, and thus he removed it. What he hadn’t expected was the length of the pommel that leads into the hollow channel that is within the handle, as he unearthed a secret compartment within the blade.
With gingerly curiosity, Yenlar gripped the sword and pulled it from the ground. Feeling as though gravel had all but encased the blade, Yenlar pulled harder but not hard enough to destroy the handle. As the dirt-filled blade pointed skywards, the empty channel within the handle dropped two pieces of folded parchment.
Now an assortment of fallen weapons at his greave, he let the blade drop, crouching and picking up the two fleeting pieces before the wind could.
The first was a detailed map of The Gravelands, with no additional details as regards anything of notice, other than cities and landmarks. Identifying where he was was as easy as reading Diabolical to Yenlar, and the closest city was named Opulence, to the northwest. ’Five hours away,’ he estimated, looking over at the legend and scale, as well as a magical hourglass that foretold hours. ‘For anything to stand here…I commend the Knights of Lastwall.’
The second was a note, it was damp and warm to the touch, as though it was covered by the embalming fluid, yet the parchment wasn’t harmed at all.
Kalabrynne Iomedar aid you in the quest you are about to be dispatched on.
You are to travel from your outpost in Opulence to Ravounel. Being the closest to the border, Knight Paladin Yvren, you and your two companions, Bishop Ulin and Marksman Brunn, are to meet a certain Lady Decour in Kintargo. The Capital of Ravounel.
Show her the hidden insignia in your armor and she will supply us with all the necessary equipment we have asked The Bellflower to aid us in.
Iomedae be your sword, Head Paladin Juren. 8th of Erastus, 4720.
He scoffed at the pretty language of the letter.
‘Outpost in Opulence? Just what I needed. Recently written too, about a month ago.’ He stashed the two pieces of parchment in his bag of holding, but not before looking at the map to find his way through Opulence.
The stone road will bend when flanked by two forests, he must pick the leftmost path to reach Opulence proper and not endanger himself with petty undead.
But he knows he will have to fight the enemy head-on. Bull charging was always Yenlar’s strong side, ever since he gripped the Hells and the Hells haven’t gripped back.
His head craned to meet the visage of the valley, mountaintops filled with snow, hillsides showing patches of green amidst beautiful snow. Yet inside there was only dread. The earth was physically dying here, animated into an abhorrent state of endless necromantic decay. And this is just the beginning of these lands.
Yenlar chuckled at the prospect. The knight knew that the foe was greater than any he had faced before. The Whispering Tyrant was the epitome of undeath incarnate, and he knew the one weapon that could best even gods.
Zeal.
If The Master of Blades - his own true Battle Brother - holds zeal in his heart and defies the anarchic powers of a shard of a God…Yenlar had to match it.
Zeal was his faith in the Godclaw. Zeal is his strongest weapon.