~~~ 5th of Abadius, The First Month, 4715 AR ~~~

The profuse sweat dripped down his forehead and wet his bright brown hair. The endless heat of his surroundings made his breath heavier, and his skin nearly boil. Then, he raised the hammer unto the searing steel with a harsh clang, sending sparks onto his protective clothing. He previewed the heated metal, and it took on the shape of a blade.

He gritted his teeth at the sword. ‘It isn’t long enough,’ his medium-pitched voice bellowed in his head as he laid the blade on the anvil, raising the hammer with more rage and attacking the steel anew.

This process wasn’t a rarity for him, because to him everything needed to be perfect. His purple skin was used to the hot air around him, courtesy of his Hellish nature. The same nature that fed into his perfectionism.

There wasn’t enough metal in the sword to make the blade both long enough and hold its weight correctly. ‘If I curve the edges and lose a bit of width in the start…’ he thought before the door to the forge opened wide with a loud thud.

Molded steel in hand, the Hellspawn craned his head sideways.

A taller, muscular, and gruff figure stood at the door of his forge. Purple skin, blood-red eyes, black goat horns, salt and pepper beard, and a mullet to cover the back of his head. “Hey Dad,” The younger Hellspawn peeped out after a small silence.

The larger Cambion couldn’t resist a smile, looking at his creation. “Uvin, I swear to Abadar,” The older man bellowed through a paternal smile. “If you don’t go to your house right now, you’ll be fired.”

“I just wanted to make him a swor…”

“It’s your husband’s birthday!” The older man rebutted harshly, his face softening as he approached his son.

Uvin let out an exasperated sigh, knowing his lover’s current position, yet also knowing his father is right.

“He’s at work anyway, teaching Noble Miknar’s daughter how to spar. Look, Dad,” Uvin approached his father, putting down the heated metal on the anvil to rest.

His father shook his head defiantly, his horns nearly stabbing his sharp ears. “I know what you want to make, son.” His voice grew softer, the tone dropping to a gentle and understanding voice as he put a hand on his heating shoulder. “Go prepare the house for when he comes back, I’ll finish the sword.”

Uvin stared into his father’s eyes as his words danced in his ears. Today is his husband’s birthday, but Uvin wanted to make a gift for him himself. He knew his husband's reaction would be to blush, his sanguine skin turning redder and then mumble about ‘not needing to’ in his low voice. He loved seeing and hearing that. His work was rough, one of the only sparring schools in Egorian with a modicum of acceptance to all. It is run by a Cambion, and those businesses are looked down upon by the people of The City of Thorns, as seen by Uvin’s family business. Not to mention that as of late, Noble Miknar has been threatening his husband.

Uvin sighed with his eyes closed as his father’s hand was lifted from his shoulder. He took off the harsh smith’s gloves, extending them out to his parental figure as the hoarse man yanked them out of his hand. His father patted him on the shoulder blade twice, each pat felt like a punch. “Good. Tell Yenlar I said happy birthday.”

Uvin approached the entryway to their home with his eyes looking earthward. The wood was covered in moss, stonework cracked, and rain had all but destroyed parts of the decorated roof. The slums of Egorian were always dilapidated. Their house was situated in the worst part of town, but if they headed anywhere else within the city they would be stoned immediately. His red gown billowed amidst the winds as he approached the door.

Turning the key, Uvin realized that their future wasn’t there, in Cheliax. Both are celebrating 30 this year, and this place isn’t welcoming to either their horns or personalities. The inside of their house was always simple, common stone with an attempt at enhancing the living room with scabbards, swords, polearms, and shields lining the walls.

Uvin threw the key at the central table as he closed the door. He leaned on a nearby chair. The purple hellspawn knew his husband’s feelings about surprises. Last time he tried to invite everyone, Yenlar dissociated with utmost haste across the chaotic atmosphere of a party. From then on it was very clear that no surprise parties were to be held, at least for his husband.

He huddled over to their bedroom, a shared queen-sized bed, with two nightstands holding drawers. Atop Yenlar’s side was a small painting. Two Cambions, one sanguine skin with horns hovering above his long hair, the other hellspawn was violet. Small horns poking out of the forehead leading to a head of short brown hair. The two held each other in a smile, both garbed in white lavished attires, staring at the viewer. Both had a scabbard at their hip. Uvin smiled at the picture, a wave of warmth filled his being as he looked at the small painting. That was until he heard a knock on the door.

Smile still held high, he bellowed “Coming, dearest!” as his legs beat towards the door. “Guess who’s got…” he said, opening the door, only to be greeted by three figures, stunning him as he stared upwards at them. All three donned black spiked plate mail, whips by their sides, and at least two hid their faces with helmets. He couldn’t conjure a word, not only from awkwardness but the knowledge of what these people were.

‘H…Hellknights?’ He thought, attempting to look for any signifiers of their order. The two helmed paragons stood behind the helmless one, and upon his breastplate stood five whips forming a star around a circle of blood. The Order of the Scourge. The visage of the tall knight was one of a human. Short black hair covered his head and his brown eyes pierced the short Cambion as both stared endlessly into each other.

Uvin’s mind tensed, knowing what these horrors of mankind were capable of to achieve their goals, and what methods they used. A wave of anxiety inked its way through his blood vessels as he felt his purple face turn ever so white.

“Is Yenlar Riek present, sir?” The monotone low voice of the unhelmed Paragon of Order hummed smoothly in his ears.“N…no, but you’re talking to his spouse, Uvin Riek. Why are you here?” The Cambion mustered whatever inch of bravery he had in him. He had to find out why Hellknights were after his husband.

The leader of the detachment - at least that’s what it felt like to Uvin - stared back at his two guards. Both helms turned from the Cambion to their officer, as both shrugged. The unhelmed one turned his face back at the Hellspawn holding the door. “He mentioned in a letter sent to us that his business was at risk thanks to political corruption. We’re here to talk about the details thereof.” Uvin narrowed his eyes, his heartbeat with a rhythmic hymn that spelled wrath at the people claiming his husband’s actions.

“Look…who am I even speaking to?” Uvin’s rage held the better of him as Thrune’s agents came knocking on his door without any modicum of hesitation. The Hellknight didn’t budge. He didn’t flinch, Hells, he didn’t even change facial expressions once during their conversation. “Maralictor Myrav. These are Hellknight Junn, and Hellknight Kraan.” Myrav opened his palm at the two men. Both knights stood unchanged at their introductions.

Uvin sighed, with an exasperating wave overtaking his body. ‘I just want to have one normal birthday…why can’t my husband have that?’

The Hellspawn stared at his floorboards as thoughts about his guests soon formed, only to be interrupted by a familiar voice, beyond his entryway. “I see you’ve arrived.” The low hum of another Hellspawn’s familiar accent rang the air around Egorian’s slums.

The three knights and Cambion all looked at the sternguard of the Hellknight detachment. Sanguine skinned, slim face, char black horns adored the long hair of the other master of this house. “What a gift.” He murmured to himself, fixing the position of three scabbards on his waist and two on his back. His attire was simple, short, black and red finished with a tattered overcoat that was black with tinges of matte.

Uvin stared at his husband’s golden eyes, where blood red met celestial gold, with a sour and questioning expression. “Ybnaarl ivel,” Yenlar whispered as he stared back. Trust me, Uvin’s mind translated from Diabolical.

“Now, come in. Let’s talk about your Order’s specialty.”

~~~ 24th of Arodus, 4720 AR ~~~

The Gravelands ached every aspect of Yenlar’s body. His soul felt surrounded by foul magic, every bit of it attempting to lash out at his already exposed being, even through his soul-manifested carapace plate.

His body felt the discontent of the land towards his living form. He felt the ground beneath his greaves actively rebuke the metal that protected his hooves from the rusted nails below. Every force around these dying lands rejected this state of living matter that called itself Yenlar Riek. The steel encasing him was a familiar warmth and the two swords that he held both aided and ached the rejection of his being.

These weapons are him. The plate mail is him. They are the forces of his soul, his existence, his psyche melded into one gestalt being that were his armaments. When Yenlar’s soul escaped the Hells his body underwent endless tests held by one of The Master’s companions. During these unconscious tests, The Dark Prince murmured in his mind. Advising him to undergo a ritual so he could channel Hellfire as weapons anew.

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The gift of consent was then given to him, but much like The Prince advocates, Yenlar made the ritual under his terms. He vowed for order, he vowed to destroy discord with every swing of his two swords and he vowed that his might will only ever be raised for absolute and objective law. The Hells answered on these conditions, letting Yenlar take hold of his soul back, as he now forges a path for his own. Both the steel he dons every day and the steel he swings every day are his, and only his. No subjective devil shall murmur in his mind anymore, for his soul is to be judged by one God alone. The Lady of Graves, Pharasma. She who judges all mortal souls who are whisked away to death, and hers is the final verdict in all.

As he marched forward, the road ended at a fork. Two dirt roads split from one, both flanked by blighted forests, the trees’ leaves blackened by necrotic filth. A gnarled sign stands at the split, all its contents now reduced to endless scratching across the wooden post. ’Ghoul claws.’ He affirmed to himself. It was a guess.

He knew where each road would take him, only one side of this road leads to Opulence proper and if he ever wished to join the crusade for Lastwall…his journey mustn't be late via ghouls.

The armored menace took one look at the sign before staring earthwards as his head followed the leftmost path. Soon enough, his greaves marched anew.

The deeper the knight walked down the dirt road, the more he felt like the forest was choking him, alongside the disgusting air. The gnarled, dying branches of the blighted trees extended towards him the more and more he walked forward. Each ruffling of the dying leaves was a new threat that could be assessed, and practically killed given the circumstances.

This land couldn’t destroy him. Yenlar thought that the only threat that could kill him was himself. Only through a mistake; an error in tactics, bladework, choosing of enemy, or choosing of ally would his soul be sent back to Pharasma. Such is the way of every Hellknight. Yet if he is to challenge Tar-Baphon, The Whispering Tyrant, he could not make a single mistake.

The last stretch of the walk felt oppressive to him. An unknowing eye was held above his being, staring into his soul-made-manifest, and trying to grip at what seemed to be an intruder.

His helm didn’t move, but his eyes did as he scanned the innards of the forests flaking his sides. He noticed a flaw in an attempt of stalking, one silvery pauldron bobbing with a slow breath as the assailant’s helmet was visible. They measured him. ‘Breathing. They’re alive.’ He thought, his greaves keeping on the persuasion of his feigned discovery.

The bearer of the pauldron moved slowly, sticking to the dead growth to the left of the road, tracking the Hellknight through every step. Noticing a pattern, Yenlar’s eyes moved still within his visor to scan the right undergrowth for the same patterns. The dead oak’s color was no longer brown, but an ashened beige…which is easy to differentiate from the shoulders of a suit of studded leather. Then he realized he wasn’t being tracked. He was being hunted.

He halted. His greaves met the road with stillness as the two silhouettes both stood to watch, unphased. ’Fuck it.‘

“I can see you, the both of you.” Yenlar’s low voice rumbled through the forest, the myriad of dead oak trees absorbing the sound. The two silhouettes that stood at each side of the road, shifted in unison, as he knew what hand signs were.

“Hands in the air, Hellknight.” A masculine voice ordered from the left of the road, the last word of his sentence sneered out.

Yenlar chuckled at the slight. Sheathing his weapons, his arms moved to hold his waist.

“Else what, you’ll shoot? You need allies more than you need priests.”

“Listen to the people who have you surrounded.” A stern feminine persuasion snapped at him from the right side of the road.

He knew Iomedaen worship, he is an Iomedaen worshiper. If these people can communicate and can form an ambush in these lands it will be the former protectors of this place, The Knights of Lastwall. He knows they won’t open fire on innocents. Yet to them, he stands as the perpetrator of sin, with their lack of knowledge that Iomedae beats in his heart.

His lungs let go of all the air they had left, his arms moved to wrap around themselves, as his helm rose to the horizon and he breathed anew. Both figures chose to continue their hide-and-seek.

“I know of your outpost in Opulence. I know the mission some of you were sent on by Head Paladin Juren.” The two figures moved as one again, two of the same movement.

“How?” A feminine voice bellowed from his southwest. ‘Huh, missed that one.’ His helm turned to the voice, then he saw that he was surrounded, as four additional silhouettes honed from the southwest and southeast. Two from each direction. His posture remained all the same.

The knight held the silence. It was his to grip. They needn’t know of any escapades of buried swords, destroyed handles, and other menial details, no no. His infernal nature schemed about whether lying was as good a prospect as he thought. Concealing his borderline disrespect for the dead might hand him favors. Perhaps he met Paladin Yvnar as they were dying in Nidal.

But all of the strategic values of a lie crumbled under a mental sigh. ’What’s the point, they’re crusaders.’

“Burial site near the border. Hidden in your handle-channels. Stupid choice of positioning, under pressure your handle will break and…”

“We will not accept critiques of warfare from you, Hellknight.” The southwestern voice once again answered. “You snooped around our burial sites, and now enter our conquered nation to colonize it for yourself?” The hidden menace yelled.

Yenlar was befuddled. His brows furrowed under - what to him was - a stupid question, his crossed arms now looser. A loud chuckle roared at the tense scene, could be that all six - or more - have crossbows aimed at his head. He wasn’t scared. Fear is the fruit of uncertainty. Fear hasn’t gripped him since he swore the oath to The Measure and Chain.

Yenlar looked over both of his shoulders. “Me and what army? If The Order of the Godclaw wanted your lands we’d have more than one Hellknight.”

“Then why are you here?” The same voice commanded.

“Because I want to help you.” Yenlar’s sarcastic act dropped, as his forked tongue ceased its playing. This type of language isn’t in the lexicon of Hellknights. At least, it isn’t for them to use. Help is a word civilians use to get attention and shelter from ongoing attacks. Help is something guards say when they are incompetent enough to not apprehend a criminal. He knew from early on in his life that this type of language makes some people move…and some people snicker.

The road stood in complete silence from these words. Not even the silhouettes moved, only Yenlar’s chest and the arms that wrapped around themselves moved as he breathed with calculated precision. His eyes darted around to meet each humanoid within his gaze. The only two possibilities were for this silence to be broken by a hail of projectiles, a rallying warcry that will spur Iomedaens to attack Iomedaens…or a truce.

A whisper that ended on a low note pierced the deadened woods and right afterward, he heard steel rumble as one from the sides of the road. His instinct took the better of him as both arms went to extend themselves with Hellfire weaponry, but all figures moved from the sides of the road to walk upon it. Six knights, garbed in a mixture of plate and leather emerged from the dying undergrowths. All figures helmed, and all held crossbows. Crossbows they were stowing. The two figures to his front looked over at one of the southwestern knights.

Stepping forward to meet his gaze from up close, he saw the signifiers of an officer. Adorning a silver set of plate mail, a runed crossbow, and a scabbard of a longsword on the hip was all that was visible to him as he turned to greet their stature. His hands were once again crossed as he towered over the figure. The officer’s gauntlets reached for their helmet which was decorated with a silver sash atop their helmet.

With a dislodge of a buckle, flowing brown hair came spooled down, as the feminine visages of a human met his gaze. Long face, freckles, and one violet eye met his gaze. The other was brown. Her breastplate was embossed with channels and in the center stood the sunburst that shone on a sword, the symbol of Iomedae.

“You claim aid, Hellknight?” The crusader breathed as she moved her hair into formation with her armored vambrace, her left eyebrow - the one above the hazel eye - raised.

Yenlar knew they shared a goal. The Hellknight knew that the only way to defeat Tar-Baphon would be to combine the might of The Order of the Godclaw and The Knights of Lastwall. Yet he knew their trust in them was lacking at best.

’They never trust Hellknights’. He thought. ‘Even as we saved Drezen from demons, did they scrutinize our efficient techniques’. The Measure and Chain, the book and guideline of all Hellknights, stands to bring incorruptible order, law, and justice. By all means necessary.

They value ruthlessness. They weaponize fear. They are the endless legion that would do everything to decapitate anarchy and discord. They embody mercilessness, even unto themselves, for they enforce the law, and even they cannot hide behind it. Their tactics, values, and beliefs are not for everyone, and they know it. Yet they always. Get. Results.

“Yes.” The monotone low voice of the Hellknight commanded back. “Consider me the same as the invitation we gave to Drezen in their fifth, and final, crusade to end the demonic forces of The Abyss. I offer the same against your enemy.”

The Lastwallian looked at her comrades, the violet eye never truly moving, as each of her knights stood unwavering to both her gaze and his. As she returned her gaze to Yenlar her eyes held pity and a modicum of laughter. “Then why is there one of you, and not a whole crusading brigade?”

Yenlar chuckled, smirking behind his helm, shrugging at the incompetence of the question. “I’m all you need. If we wanted the land we’d attack you and Tar-Baphon. To destroy The Tyrant you only need me”

The Lastwallian chuckled at his face, and only after a few breaths did it turn into laughter. If Yenlar could ever feel shame, perhaps he would feel it then. In its stead he saw incompetence galore in the Lastwallian, disbelief in the same zeal he knew could, and was going to, destroy shards of gods. His towering height never wavered, as he saw her knights’ resolve quiver at his indifference to her mockery. ‘A fool.’

The crusader came back to her way after realizing her knights weren’t following in her laughing fit, an awkward impression left on her face. “I weaponize fear. Do not. Make me. Use it.” Yenlar threatened, his forked tongue lashing at the knight.

From jest, her mind went to anger. Brows furrowed with rage, face gnarled at him, gauntlets clenched and teeth bearing. “Don’t you dare come to my home and threaten me, Knight of Hell!” She bellowed, pointing her steel gauntlet at him. He stood unphased, underneath his helm did he raise one brow in indifference and pity at how rage clouded her judgment. ‘Fragile ego, paladin?’ His mind cooed.

“Hellknight Yenlar Reik.” He introduced himself amidst her seething. He heard the grinding of her teeth in her rage and saw the shift in the Lastwallian’s eyes that bore her drive at introduction. ’They need me.’

“Knight Paladin Bryann.” She spoke through gritted teeth. Bryann sighed, a modicum of anger leaving her system as she breathed out foul air. “This is squad Gold.” She gestured to the knights accompanying her. All stood nonresponsive to the introduction, yet none would aim their helm at his’. “I assume I’ll get an express ride to Opulence?” Yenlar inquired Bryann, finally uncrossing his arms.

He saw the doubt in her eyes, the doubt she had in him. ‘Incompetent,’ was the first thought his mind had about her uncertainty regarding people of his Order. She looked at the road ahead, her long hair dancing in the wind as she looked past her knights. After a tinge of thought, she opened her mouth.

“Yes. One wrong move, Yenlar,” She gleamed over her shoulder to meet his helm. “and your body will be sent back to your precious citadel.” His mind chuckled at the prospect. ’Wrong move? Sure. Shooting me would be one. It’d also be your last.‘