There are six seats of the D'Efro Council of Lords, and all were filled save three. There was the High Lord's seat, more of a throne, really. It was stonemade, high-backed with a cushion upon its seat. Aegnor knew it was for the comfort of the High Lord as these meetings could take days, and this one had been no different. Aegnor had slept for two days and as the old dwarf had called for a Closed Hand meeting as soon as Aegnor's head had hit the pillow, the Lord's of D'Efro had deliberated his and his charges lives.

The seat had a dozen steps and at their feet were five other chairs that were equidistant apart. The chairs of the Lesser Lord's were wooden constructs, looking more comfortable than the High Lords own, and done in the colors of their respective House's. Each chair, wood and stone alike, had carvings of past wars against the Endarkened; grotesque images that left the beholder nauseated. Aegnor, of course, knew the trick behind it and wasn't affected, or so he'd tell himself as he stared at those images.

It was just the seven of them along with small contingents of retainers, elsewhere at the Kyw'nithe, a keep recently discovered in the last twenty years. It's name was Finger's Hold, roughly translated. It was a castle a few hours ride by horseback from the High Lords fortress.

The First Lesser Lord was a druid human, Gerahn Longstride. Gerahn had been vital to the efforts twenty years ago, they all had, but Gerahn had sacrificed almost as much as Aegnor had. The First Lesser Lord was an athletic man, tall and broad-shouldered, whose eyes looked like ghosts of themselves, sightless and unnervingly accurate at tracking Aegnor as the half-elf proceeded to take his postion before the congregation, to plead his case and that of the girls' beside him.

The First Lord had runes branded across his face, down his eyes, a pact that gave him foresight and prophesy in exchange for his own. It had been a hard choice, then, but it was one Gerahn had seemed to accept as time passed. He wielded twin long knives, their aura something dormant, sleeping.

The second seat seat to the right of Gerahn's, was one of the three empty seats. It was a seat meant for Aegnor, long ago.


The Third Lesser Lord, seat to the left of Gerahn's was an elf man, Anies Blackthorne, who Aegnor had grown up with; they had been friends up until Aegnor's father had made a pact with the Endarkened, releasing a being that was millennia old to exact its revenge. Things like that, apparently, ended relationships.

It did, however, start mass killings of elves.

It had been a hard twenty years, for all races.

Anies was like most elves, tall and lean; beautiful in all the ways that tugged the poets heart. Aegnor couldn't see it. What he could see was eyes the color of honey, light and gold with hate, a look reserved for Aegnor only, the half-breed had learned.

Aegnor was used to being hated by others of his elfin blood. After all, who had ever heard of a half-elf king? It simply wasn't done. It was an abomination to the rules of the land.

And perhaps it had been, considering everything that had happened. That will happen.

Anies was armoured and armed, unlike last time. A calvary saber made of starsteel, forged by a master blacksmith. It was a cold weapon to look at it with all of its simplicity, the lack of design and embellishment giving it an aura of menace. It was a weapon made to kill. It suited Anies' unbendable will and single-mindedness. Aegnor recalled the words spoken by the two men, outside Aegnor's room when the half-elf had awoke to thundering knocks.

'I see you have yet to replace me. Could that be what this is about? You want me back?'

'Silence! You have one last chance to convince us to spare you, before I will be allowed to end your miserable life, are you sure you want to ruin it so quickly for the two of you?' Anies' tone was cold, anger creeping at the edges of his voice. 'We have better things to do here than argue about this, not when our brothers are busy fighting the nest you kicked.'

Aegnor felt his body go still, 'You mean....?'

Before he could speak again, the Druid spoke. 'Yes, the Eye's of Kru'ul are fighting on your behalf. The twins are quite capable, Tysu'a, have no fear. You should be concerned with yourself and this child.'

The Druid looked at the girl, wincing as he seemed to struggle with looking away; gasping for breath, the First Lord struggled for several seconds to regain his composure.

During that time, Anies rose to his feet, shouting, 'What have you done, you darkspawned heathen?!' His hands gripped the sword at his waist, a tool of unyielding power in its master's grip.

He had barely rose from his chair before a large voice boomed out, 'Enough!'

High Lord Hourdrith Stonebeard had spoken and it had been done, though the Druid was in the beginnings of coming to his senses.

'If it had been an attack, I would have been targeted as well. Put aside your hate for a minute, Lord Blackthorne, and let us put this behind us so we may help our brethren.' The dwarf's voice could hardly be contained in the halls of Kyw'nithe. 'Aegnor Fellfire, we have deliberated your fate and, while we are two short, there has been a general consensus made...'

His voice trailed off as the doors opened once more. Everyone in the room tensed save perhaps Stonebeard himself.

Two men strode into the room, armoured boots and metal plates clacking and smacking against each other as they walked in, standing beside Aegnor and the girl. They bowed at the waist towards Hourdrith. The twins of Kru'ul, Matthias and Thomas Whitestone, had arrived.

They were also human, standing at average heights with blond hair that was kept closely cut against their heads. Their eyes were deep oceans of blue, vast and endless, and just as merciless as the waves that sunk whole ships. They had been born under the star of Kru'ul, chosen by him from the marks on their foreheads: a simple enough diamond pattern that was deep green in color.

Kru'ul was an elder god from a time before the Endarkened. He was still worshipped by small communities of people in isolated areas.

Aside from their eyes and hair, that was were the similarities ended. Matthias was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man with a platinum colored beard that reached to his neck and thick enough to give the old dwarf a run for his money. He had laugh lines around his eyes and the slight tug at the corner of his lips suggested he smiled easily. He carried an assortment of wands about his waist in a utility belt, a few pouches had been sewed on to hold various bottles of liquids to the left hip while the right was adorned by a longsword, just as plain as Anies' own. The menace wasn't there, but something alien radiated from the longsword.

But when that smile came from those eyes...

Aegnor suppressed a shudder lest he be seen weak, though he couldn't help but wish they hadn't shown up.

Thomas was leaner, and was known to have a mean streak. Looking into their eyes, Aegnor could see it; could see the endless nightmares that could be inflicted by the twins. Such was their god's nature, however. Thomas had a bow packed away, slung across his back, a quiver at his right hip. A hand-and-a-half sword strapped along his spine, almost hidden by the bow. It was also plainly wrought, their alien aura matching the longswords own.

'We have finished our task the Traitor had set against us, High Lord.' They spoke in unison, their voices angelic and pure; matter of fact and uncompromising. 'We have come in answer to your call of a Closed Hand meeting. We apologize for being late.'

Again, they bowed, awaiting for judgement.

The High Lord pondered them, fingers stroking his beard. 'In light of your actions in stopping this nest our accused disturbed, you will be forgiven for your tardiness. Do not allow it to happen again.'

The dwarf gestured almost dismissively, the twins taking their seats across from each other and stared at Aegnor.

'Now, without further interruptions,' the smooth voice of the Druid spoke up finally, addressing the whole room as he looked at Aegnor. 'You have brought us an interesting dilemma. It is known that dark-touched are born from Endarkened mating with humans, or if a dark-touched had a Guardian in their genealogy, such as yourself, Sir Fellfire.'

Compassion touched the druids features, an almost pitying expression that Aegnor found himself hating.

'That is the only reason you are allowed to stand before us, as a former Lord and Prince, but also as a Guardian, perhaps one of the last.' The Druid finished, sitting. 'Our decision is that you will be forgiven, on the price of the girls life. Should you refuse, you will made to watch and then be slain yourself.'

Aegnor took a second to gather his thoughts before speaking.

'What wrong have I done by rescuing this girl? A slave who was to be sacrificed to become an Oracle? Do we even know what an Oracle is? The last time the Traitor started, my father used my mother as a vessel for Him, offered Him my soul and body for dominion over this world.' He looked past the Druid, staring at the dwarf. 'Should I have allowed her to suffer the same fate? Or whatever fate lays in store for her? I would go back and take all their slaves away if I could.

'What have I done wrong by killing those vile creatures who threaten our lives every day they continue to exist? Our infighting has caused us to lose focus of the greater threat, them. You ask me to take this girls life so callously, threatening me with my own as way of compliance. You forget who I am, Druid.'

Wafts of smoke hissed from the scabbard at his hip, the unicorn sword responding to Aegnor's anger. The smell of brimstone slowly filled the air as the half-elf continued.

'I will not kill her, for I believe that to be their plan. His plan. She is marked for Him. When have we seen a female dark-touched? All the males are sent North, even the Guardian's couldn't get the infusion to work with the women volunteers. Why is she different?'

One of the twins spoke up, 'Yes, Sir Fellfire. That's exactly our point. Why is she different? She would be able to reproduce dark-touched with Him, much like your mother, only she would be able to able the... taint He brings in.'

'You would do well to not bring my mother to this discussion, Lord Thomas.'

'Be that as it may,' Lord Matthias allowed his own voice to be heard. 'You would do well to remember your position, Aegnor. We are all friends here, but you have brought unspoken evil to our doorstep.'

'Enough of this talk. He has refused. Allow me to carry out the task, High Lord.' Anies rose from his seat to face Lord Hourdrith, bowing with a fist to his heart, hand on his hilt.

The dwarf actually seemed to consider the idea before making another gesture, a sign to Anies to wait. 'I am curious about Aegnor's defense in this. You know all know as well as I that he does little for  no reason, let alone risk his life for it. If she is thay important in his mind, allow him to speak his thoughts.'

'What?! You would hear this traitor out? Allow him to convince you his innocence? His tongue is forked, my Lord.' Anies was outraged, his anger breaking the rules of conduct. 'Have you allowed your mind to be clou-'

'Before you allow your own tongue to talk itself out of a head, still your tongue, Blackthorne.' Gerahn spoke, his eery gaze staring the young Lord down. 'The High Lord has spoken and so it shall be done. Aegnor, if you would, answer the Fourth Lord's question.'

'I... have given considerable thought to this, myself, my Lords.' He hated thinking of his mother that way, but he had never known her, either. It had felt almost silly to defend someone he hadn't known in life. 'My father had prepared my mother, prepared himself. As my father was an acolyte of the Traitor, he had some resistance to that taint, but my mother did not.

'This girl has a natural immunity to it as all chosen by Him do. Most dark-touched are some throwback to a generation where they were needed most. We have all but bred them out of our bloodlines. I would have to visit the Scrolls of Ascador and further research besides to confirm a lot of what I will be speaking of, my theory, but as Lord Thomas has said, she would be a concubine to the Traitor. She was made for that reason alone.

'I do not think she is tainted by Him, however, but by more of a Her. That is why she is different. She has to live, for all of us,' Aegnor's voice echoed gently in the silence.

The Druid was the first to speak, as was his right, 'We do not have what you require here, but I have read them, during my time at the North.

'During the zenith of His power, His Empire, the Traitor had a Queen, one who stood next to him with equal power. It also talked of an Oracle, a female servant who whispered of the past, present, and future. She was largely why He was so successful. He rewarded her by executing her for heresy when she foretold of His Fall.

'I suppose it could be possible that He could bring this Oracle back, but why? Surely she would want him dead.' The Druid, long-winded as ever, concluded.

Aegnor stared at Gerahn for a long second, allowing a few more seconds to process the information before speaking again.

'He is too arrogant, too confident, to believe she would turn against Him, and we would have no hope of controlling such power. We can teach her to be one of us, make her a Guardian. Let us turn their weapon against them, one more time. We know I played a role in the blight twenty years ago, but let's not allow this girl to be used like I was. Let us give her the tools to fight back, to give her a chance to fight back, like I was given.'

'And who do you propose is enough to train her? Our High Lord? Or would ask one of the twins? I cannot. What I did for you, was because you had been chosen by the unicorn, Klak'nik.'

A hand touched the spiralled hilt of his sword, a gesture made on the subconscious to assert comfort. He felt pain in his heart at the mention of his friend, however; a pain that cut through the simmering anger, that allowed him to put his reasoning mind forward.

'I would, of course, First Lord, should that be allowed.' Aegnor spoke with more confidence, his voice growing bolder. 'You are right in that I have brought this problem before you without much of a plan, but allow me to travel North, to teach this young girl the history of my, our, people.'

To everyone's surprise, High Lord Hourdrith spoke, 'Let this be known, the words I speak are as a dwarf to a half-breed, to brothers in arms. I have seen you all grow together, and apart. It is clear we have a larger problem at hand, but to one we have no answer; or, have reached a stalemate in our answers. I, for one, am not opposed to this.'

He raised a hand to forestall any outbursts, a slight smile pulled his lips upward, perhaps for the first time in two decades, before it turned serious once more. 'Lords, pass your judgement. I recede the order of their death, though it may still be reached as an answer.'

The First Lord spoke, 'Allow the half-breed to continue his life in the North, and she will not be our problem, should this prove disastrous.'

The Third Lord, Anies, spoke, 'I say we proceed with the order of execution. It is the safest and surest way to see to swift end of the Traitor's plan.' His words seethed through clenched teeth.

The Fifth Lord spoke, 'He may live, but we send word of their circumstance to our Northern brothers. They need to be armed with that knowledge, as well as decide for themselves to take them in, though if what the Druid says, they will have people who may be able to help.'

The Fourth Lord, 'Yes, I am in agreement with my brother, Lord Matthias. They will be better able to judge this... problem.'

The High Lord spoke once more, his voice final, 'Aegnor Fellfire, you will be escorted to the North to ensure your safe arrival. I will not force anyone to do this, so I will ask for volunteers amongst the men, as well as one of you to lead this mission. The twins are exempt from this, their hardwork deserves reward. Anies, Druid, I care not. Decide before I do.'

'I have no issue, my Lord.' The Druid inclined his head as he addressed the elder dwarf. 'Anies is needed here, if you are to give the Whitestone brothers leave. We both know I am no good in a fight.'

'So it is decided. First Lord, you may choose your volunteers. Keep it small, you'll need speed to get there before Dead Winter. You leave an hour before first light.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning went smoothly as far as these things go. Lord Gerahn had decided upon a dozen men to escort Aegnor and the girl. Most were elves of no particular allegiance, the rest were elven druid apprentices. Gerahn Longstride had, perhaps, saved the Druid way of life single-handedly and was well-respected by elves and men alike.

The elven warriors carried shields on their backs over the black cloaks. The shields were black as well, golden open hand displayed against the black metal; under that, a golden hand would also be woven onto the cloaks.

The druid apprentices wore black robes over their clothing, the same open hand shown on the front along the neck of the robes; the golden thread made a collar around the neck, coming to form cupped hands at the upper back of the robes; a small eye rested in those eyes, the design woven separately from the rest.

Each one in their retinue carried a ring on their first finger, including the First Lord, though he was allowed more extravagance. Being the humble Druid that he was, the First Lord disliked even wearing that.

Lord Gerahn was shirtless, though decent enough to have decided to wear a vest made of deer-leather, dyed a dark brown; his breeches were made of the same leather, skin tight. Druidic tattoos shown against the bronzed flesh of the man; in that flesh, muscle had been sculpted from it. Truly, a man in his prime. Long, dreaded locks hung loosely behind Gerahn's back, doing nothing to hide those sightless eyes. The brand's running down both cheeks looked angry. The First Lord carried his staff, a stave of a gnarled root from an ancient tree long seen from this world. His long knives were at their usual place astride his left and right hips. Smaller trees had grown at the ends of the staff, almost comically.

'Perhaps not so humble, are we, Druid?' Aegnor asked.

The Druid graced Aegnor a small smile, before signing to the half-breed to be silent, his expression turning businesslike.

'These are going to be a long three months, Sir Fellfire. You are lucky I interceded on your behalf, before Anies could claim you. He would have killed you, and her, out there.' The Druid's voice turned soft, barely loud enough for Aegnor to hear. 'I have Seen our journey, last night. I know you have little regard for the fates, but you will listen to me as we travel and heed this as your first, and last, warning. '

That would explain the redness around the First Lord's eyes.

'Of course, First Lord,' Aegnor bowed, and thought that perhaps the First Lord was right.

It would be a long three months.

He had managed to sneak in the first time, but now he and his ward were to go in through the gate. Aegnor knew he'd be recognized and didn't plan on hiding himself; the lord of this fortress and he were old friends from the Endarkened invasion twenty years ago. The girl would be harder to explain, and the reasonings Aegnor could think of would not satisfy his old friend. He simply did not know enough about this coming war, should one even be happening, but surely there must have been a reason for the Endarkened god to whisper to him, to show itself to him.

While the dark-touch -such as her purple eyes or his own ear; the left ear having been cut, the scar blackened and cold to the touch- couldn't be glamoured or hidden, there were more than a few instances of others outside the Forest having been dark-touched, enough so that two walking together would be seen as merely odd, especially down here in the South.

He looked back at the Forest, regretting the loss of his horse; regretting the loss of many things.

'Up, girl. We are leaving,' his voice was distant, cold; his eyes meeting hers for a second in which she quickly scurried to her feet.

Aegnor would have no arguments; though he supposed the Endarkened were cruel masters. Shaking his head, he doused the small fire with the leftover water he had heated in order to make an ointment for her small cuts, though as he had been watching earlier it looked like she might not need it.

He, however, needed sleep.

An hour later saw them to one of the many small, country roads that connected to the main traveling road from the main fortress to the other four, smaller fortresses as well as to many small villages and farms that dared to try to forge a life for themselves this far south. Patrols were often down into the countryside of the fortresses; many outposts and barracks had been built along roads and in those same villages and farms. The roads were well maintained to allow people to travel to and from the fortresses for festivals, such as Spring and Fall festivals. Occasionally there would be a farmers market held throughout the year, lasting about a week. The outer laying villages and farms were a day, sometimes 3 days, ride away from the main forest.

He had been careful to avoid such places as they had traveled, not wanting to expose himself or the his charge until they had arrived; he truly did not want to stay longer than the day he allowed for himself already.

Their trek on the road to the main fortress of D'Efro saw them pass many farmers and merchants making their way along the road; a few carts and wagons were being pulled with whole families, though their appearances' were dirty they looked none the worse for it, and it wasn't long before he could see the D'Efro fortress.

The Southeast gate had a small line to enter, a small retinue of guards hung around, loosely looking through bags, packs, barrels, and various other containers that were escorted in. Each guard that went through the belongings of their people, a smaller person -male and female alike- took tally of the belongings that were given to them.

A guard and his clerk looked him and the girl over, the clerk frowning in disappointment and moved on to another group while the guard spoke to them.

'What's your business here?', came a deep voice from within the helmet, hazel eyes looked at the half-breed with a distrustful look, but maintained a professional stance despite how rogue-ish Aegnor probably looked.

'I have business with your lord, Hourdrith Stonebeard.' Aegnor said, giving the soldier a small salute, 'I am known to him as Aegnor Fellfire.'

The soldier froze, staring at the half-breed again before bowing, 'My apologies, sir! Please, allow me to escort you to see Lord Stonebeard!'

The soldier saluted smartly and began walking, followed shortly by Aegnor and his companion; for her part, he noted she merely watched, eyes wide with fear and not a little bit of curiosity, which was slowly winning over the fear he could tell; briefly he wondered if she even knew how to speak. They followed the young soldier through the wall, as that would be the quickest way for them. There were all kinds of shortcuts through the walls if one knew where to look. All soldiers were required to memorize these pathways. Despite the amount of forces that would be arrayed throughout the farmlands, there still a considerable size of soldiery within the walls and town, as well as the fortresses themselves. In truth, almost everyone had done time on the walls of D'Efro, or gone through some training. It was required, even the women knew how to wield a sword and could fight; the children were taught self-defense, though that was just to build a foundation for them for their older years. They never fought, used mostly as runners or couriers. Make no mistake though, the children wielded small swords or daggers, sometimes small crossbows, and knew how to use them if only basically.

The locals had dark skin, naturally and from years training under the sun; their usual dark hair often times bleached from the sun -more and more, the children were being born with blonde hair. They were all lean and hard with muscle, their shoulders broad. Personally, Aegnor enjoyed his years here; enjoyed the laborious tasks, and as he breathed in the air, he allowed a small smile.

It was a place he felt at home, despite the horrific connotations it held for his memories. That, and he didn't know if he would make it back in one piece. Truly, Aegnor felt that he hadn't. His body hurt all over, and his legs hurt to hold him up. He hadn't been in a brawl like that in a long time, hadn't pushed himself so hard in years. The magic was taking its toll on him, but he was so close.

And so, bone weary and soul-scorched, legs shaking with the effort to propel his body forward as the girl and escort trailed ahead of him before stopping before a large door, in which two more guards stood at attention, pushed it open to allow them entry into a rather large study and stood in front of the lord of the fortress, Hourdrith Stonebeard, the last dwarven King.

The girls scream had broken something inside her throat, the warrior knew having heard the break at the zenith of such a noise, and he feared that even that split second of sound had alerted the dark-spawn below them. He moved quickly, allowing his magicks to disperse around him; the conjured shield and armor, translucent to the human eye, started to swirl with the dark magic within him. The blade of the unicorn sword in his hand had stopped smoking, the purple blood becoming nothing as he slid it back in the sheathe.

The dark magic that ensorcelled his body hid his presence, or more to the point, allowed him to blend in with the forestry around him, as cursed as it was. It was why the guards had been lapse in their vigilance, not that they were expecting him to be here of all places. However, not matter how he hid himself, the Endarkened God would feel the death of its followers, of its ilk, and soon the real hunt would begin.

And to think, he had spent all that time avoiding being caught by those pursuers so many hours ago.

Dusk was falling now, the sun quickly hiding its eye from the world to allow its sister moon to reign. He had long since abandoned his veil lest he be too weak to fight, though allowed his conjured armor to return. Besides, they all knew at this point.

He felt the rage from the bowels of this earth, felt the trees shudder in response; felt the girl slung across a shoulder like so many potatoes stir and murmur -noise he quickly quieted. The half-breed had been running for a few hours still, dead sprinting through the forest heedless of the dangers. Twice he had to dispatch two patrols, allowing the forest to take the bodies. The branches had taken their pound out of the half-elf as well, scoring scratches across his bare flesh as he ran.

Stopping, the intruder allowed himself a small break, quickly drinking the remaining water he had before setting off again. He knew he was close to the border of the forest, close to open country and road. They wouldn't be able to catch him then.

So close, so far.

He stretched his legs out, lengthening his stride. He could feel them behind him, giving chase; their war drums a desolate sound that echoed in his bones, a horn that bellowed through the trees, shaking the leaves with its singular note of death; he heard the baying of dogs, a sound that left ice in his veins.

So close.

Again, the baying came, closer again and to the left; the sound was off, bouncing off the trees as the sound echoed around him. Three hunting parties, at least eight per party led by those dread-hounds. Another round of baying and then silence.

He imagined he could feel their breath on the back of his neck, and that's when he heard it, too late though as one of the hounds overcame him.

It came from his right, crashing into him with a snarl. A war veteran, as well as being elvish, the tracker rolled with the blow, having lost the girl in the crash, and came up with a viciously elegant dagger that gutted the hound as it tried to pounce upon him.

Creatures as ugly, if not more so, as their Endarkened masters. They stood as tall as his stomach, heavy with muscle; their fur was thick and often matted, fetish items and other Endarkened ritual paraphernalia twisted in the dreads of their clay-red fur. They were intelligent, vicious animals with fierce yellow eyes, fangs as long as daggers and claws like shortswords. They produced venom through their saliva glands and their claws oft times were sharp enough to slash through most metals as well as some weaker magical armors and wardings.

He found the girls body, still unconscious, and bent to pick her, left arm wrapping around her waist, when he felt himself being watched. He paused in his movements, moving his head around to search for his stalker.

Or, as the case may be, stalkers.

Upon looking around, the other hounds had caught up to him, panting grins as they licked their lips; ropes of saliva dripped onto the forest floor, sizzling lightly. He was caught, though their masters were still some distance away-- still if he didn't solve this quickly, he'd be outnumbered and outmatched. He was fast, adept at his craft, but a score and a half of Endarkened would make quick work of him.

Touching the black-horn hilt at his side, he felt the purity of the unicorn's power intermingle with his; both magicks caressing each other beneath his skin like lost lovers. He had been chosen so many years ago, found worthy in the eyes of his former companions, and he would be damned to die here, cut to pieces like some dog.

He rushed a dread-hound, pulling free the unicorn sword and cutting the dark-spawned beast in twain; using the momentum of his slash, he flicked his blade to send the blade slicing into one of the other hounds that had jumped towards him at his rush, dismembering the front two legs at a diagonal slash before bringing the blade around to behead the creature, and took off at a run. The girl hadn't left his grasp with the rush, even through the cuts that killed two of the dogs.

Three dead; three more to go.

With that, he slid the sword into its sheath as he ran, summoning his own magicks this time.

Dark energies coalesced around him, seething beneath the thin layer of magical armor. He shaped his will, his voice deep and low as he incanted, his words giving his magic form and purpose. The magical armor ****, seeming to barely contain the power beneath it; abysmal power seeped through the cracks, pouring over it and out like smoke, or a thick mist.

As he felt the miss of fangs on his heels, a small misdirection ward that saved the ankle tendon and his own life, he cleared the forest; almost stumbling as he felt relief hit his soul, filling the very fiber of his being.

Still, they wouldn't give up.

He jumped a few steps into the clear countryside, a plain of grass that hit his shins, flipping backwards to crush the spine of the dread-hound that had missed him; his lips twisted into a feral grin and he allowed the dark mist of energies to explode from the magical armor, the armor pieces being used as shrapnel to inflict injury upon his pursuers. With that, however, the dark mist swirled around him to cover a small area of a few dozen yards.

He came through the other side of the mist, panting as he spurred himself onward, his prize in hand.

Behind him, he heard the yelps of the hounds as they breathed in the dark mist; the magic murmured into the tendrils of mist would choke and suffocate those that entered it within moments. It would seep through their skin, their pores, and orifices to render them helpless as babes, soaking up their lifeforce and using it to prolong its own life. The yelps soon stopped, and he turned back, more than a hundred meters away now.

The parties were just converging upon the mist, cautiously approaching. He murmured to himself, vocalizing the mists secondary function as they surrounded it. They didn't know he was gone, that he stood, watching.

Soon the mist started to collapse, seeping into the ground; as it did so, the mass of it flattened, spreading out to cover the ankles of the Endarkened warriors.

The one they called Tysu'a turned as the screams began and took off; his long legs and elven blood allowing him to cover the ground fast.

It would still be days before he reached the nearest village, a week still before he reached his actual destination.

He closed off the distracting thoughts, focusing his mind and will to the task at hand.

Getting away.

The unholy voice that had so whispered in his mind left his soul cold; his mind numb, all mental faculties halting for a brief second until a sense of urgency pulled him forward.

Giving rise to another Oracle? But no, those had been the exact words spoken to him so many years ago. Had the entity decided to torment, to taunt, him so? Hair began to stand on its end as he felt the dark workings of the Endarkened Magi'y, realizing that the time to ponder such things was long past. He steeled himself, gathering magic around him, pulling it close to his skin like a layer or armor; he forged his will, gathering more of his magicks to his right hand, twisting it into a disk to act as shield. His left hand pulled free the black-hilted sword at his hip.

It was as if light had finally broken free, as if it had finally found the floor of this cursed forest. It was more than that, though, as the cold terror that had gripped even him receded to the fringes of his mind, of his awareness. Warmth flooded through his body, the ice in his veins melting; the fear in his heart giving way to calm, a sense of heightened awareness.

The warrior took in lungfuls of air, feeling the crisp, cool air of the north; smelling the forest of Lyra, allowing the noises to wash over him in a way he hadn't felt before.

It was a rush of energy, a flux of magical power that reinforced his magical conjuring's.

It was pure, simply.

The trees and their many arms and legs recoiled away from him, or to be more accurate, the sword. A faint glow came off of the magical blade, allowing a reprieve from the darkness that had so clouded his mind and vision. He felt his own stomach twist as he gripped the handle, his magicks swirling around the blade as if curious to the new power that was so alien, so pure and light compared to itself. Soon the magicks seemed to compromise with each other and mixed together like old partners, the light and dark dancing against each other in ever rotating swirls.

The power of the sword came from the horn of the unicorn it was forged from. The magicks of the both sword and sword-bearer were intertwined from a bond of friendship, of comrades in arms; the soft light was almost melancholic, speaking of the great sacrifice made in order for the man to be alive today.

It was not the same sacrifice mentioned by the voice, as the Undyth were the dwarves that had fallen in the beginning days. Instead, the man's friend, a unicorn with a blackened horn, had sacrificed itself so that the half-breed may live. It had been a dark and terrible day, and a longer night.

As if in response, the soft glow brightened, causing small shrieks as branches recoiled away, burned from the pure light.

Readjusting his grip, he trod onward.

As he continued his path towards the cave entrance, he noted strange sounds, though familiar. Soon he came to a cliff that looked down upon a village There had been wards placed along the cave and written in the winds around the entrance. Tonight, however, those wards had been let down to allow those within to go without, and vice versa.

A market day? He almost laughed at the notion of these creatures becoming domesticated, but upon seeing the roughly made buildings that were residential as well as industrial. He saw a smithy, a morbid interpretation of a tannery, as well as a few food stands that held strange meats and roots. And that's when he saw the slaves, the dozens of humans plowing fields, being whipped, or going about other tasks.

Whatever the reason, the warrior was glad for it and as he watched, breathing soft and easy as to not alert any who might be listening, he noted a group of taller Endarkened leaving and heading away, to the east, with a smaller body between them.

Perhaps he wasn't as late as he thought.

Sneaking down the gentle slope of the cliff, he followed from a distance; just close enough for his elfin ears to pick up their mutterings, though he quickly abandoned the effort lest he lose what remained of his sanity. Following some random Endarkened to some unknown location, with all other variables unknown as well?

Weighing options, he had the decision taken from him as they sensed him, or at least his sword, and turned, growling at him.

'Tysu'a!', one managed to snarl before having its head liberated from his body; the other two, no three, were set upon him almost immediately after. The slave they had been escorting just stood there, watching, dark green eyes emotionless; cold with indifference.

Was that fear?

All other questions faded as he twisted his body to duck beneath a swing from a crudely made sword, the longsword whipping out to lope the offending arm off, following the move to parry a mace from the second, using the flat of the blade to push it into the third, hitting it in the chest. He heard the air leave his lungs. A leg kicked out into the mace wielding Endarkened, taking it in the ribs. He cut down the third with a quick flick of his wrist, whipping the blade around again to lick at the side of the seconds throat, dark purple blood gushing from the lethal wound.

His shield vanished and he made a gesture towards the woman, whose body went limp as he put her to sleep. He caught her with his free hand, the unicorn blade smoking with the blood of the twisted creatures. Their armor had been useless against its edge, and had he been of mind, their weapons would have broken beneath the swords power as well. Still, they were dead and he was alive.

He lifted the small woman over his shoulder like so many bags of potatoes and took off, headed southwest.

It was time to leave.

Several minutes, perhaps an hour or two even, had passed before those guards were found by the Eyeless awaiting their arrival. Those shrieks of rage and fear from the mouthless monsters haunted him still, in the darkest corners of his mind that his subconscious even shied away from.

'Get up, you have been summoned, daetry.'

Andreth stared at the creature that spoke; the creature's voice was rough, the pronunciation of the words were broken and harsh. She had been born in captivity, nearly twenty years ago. Her parents had been captured, though had shortly died after she had been born. Or at least, she had never been allowed to see them, so she assumed they had perished. The life of a slave here was short. For a female, even shorter.

Andreth got to her feet -which were bare, scarred, and calloused- and exited the cage; a rusty prison with serrated bars. Black vines twisted angrily around said bars as well as the roof. The vines were sentient to some extent, she had come to realize, though as to their purpose, she did not know. The creature followed her out, closing the cage behind it. She barely felt the warm stone beneath her feet, barely felt the heat from the furnaces that seemed to glow day and night; the constant billowing of smoke through exit tunnels in the roof of the cave left layer upon layer of soot on the stone floor and upon the ceilings; bats and other detestable creatures she did not know the name of clung to the ceiling and stalagmites. Horrific monstrosities that, had there not been others like herself, other daetry, she would have been convinced she was the monster. There were not many daetry that lived within the caves, more having been kept in pens outside like livestock. Still, not many were gathered. A few dozen here, though she knew there were more cities like this within the cave she was in.

The creatures called themselves Shreyl'Kar, or Endarkened, one slave had told her. They stood as tall as any man, some reaching as tall as seven or eight feet. Other daetry call them ugly, or monsters, but this was the life Andreth had known and typically regarded her fellow slaves with a cold indifference. The Shreyl'Kar had dark skin, pulled taunt across their bones; some were wiry with too-long limbs; some broad-shouldered and barrel-chested; more could be mistaken for a man. A few, those of the tallest order, had limbs that seemed to have too many joints: they were the Eyeless, their word for them sent chills down her spine and was nearly-impossible for human tongue to replicate. Horns protruded from their skulls, twisting upward. Some curved away, some twisted around each other; some had none, other horns short or tall.

The Eyeless were an elite order of Endarkened, serving as priests for their god, or gods. She had only met one god, though the Eyeless seemed to hint at more. They were taller than the rest standing nearly eight feet, towering figures shrouded in black robes, their hoods keeping their features secret, but Andreth knew what hid in that blackness: A face with a lack of features save a mouth that would grin to reveal needle-like teeth. There were five at any given time -should one somehow die, another would take its place- and all wielded staves with a varying number of white-metal rings around the ends of them, save for one, which was reserved for their leader. These served as tools in which to wield the magicks of their faith.

Screams could be heard echoing throughout the cave and its systems from the various daetry being punished for their transgressions as her captor led her away from the singular cells, making a wounding route through the makeshift city. Smells of food wafted through the streets, the sound of a smithy; the grotesque beasts that the Endarkened used as mounts and their shorter, but stockier built, cousins that were used as work beasts patrolled around, some ridden by their master; the beasts of burden moving carts of dead bodies or precious metals, or other various things she did not look at too closely lest she be struck by those leading her.

As they rounded a corner, two more joined them, falling in front of her; she noticed the one behind her had fallen back a few feet more, allowing a safe distance between itself and her. They were in armor, crudely made, as well as armed with curved swords with wicked edges which hung behind their back; horizontal to the floor. They had spears in hand, long poles of twisted blue-gray metal with heads of a black metal -swirling patterns had been inlaid in the spearheads, on purpose or accidental, adding a strange beauty to the twisted weapons.

An escort?

She felt a sudden fear, her breath getting caught in her throat as a lump formed. Andreth was going to see the Endarkened Eyeless. Feeling her panic rise, Andreth quelled her thoughts; finding her cold place and allowing indifference to shield her from the terror.

Not many things terrified her here, in this place, but the Eyeless... They were fear itself.

She hadn't realized she had stopped until the one behind her struck her to the floor, growling in its language at her; the guttural sounds were harsh and sharp. It kicked her when she didn't respond fast enough and she scurried to her feet as the two in front of her stopped as well, looking at her.

Soon, they continued and she realized they were leaving the cave and out to the forest.

There was a faint rustle of clothes as the man jumped over a fallen tree, the dead leaves crunching beneath his weight as he took off running again; his breathing evened as he lengthened his stride. His hood had fallen from his head long ago in his mad dash for safety, he did not know if his pursuers were still behind him, and did not care to find out. The old tracker made quick ground despite the thick forest around him and found his destination before the moon had passed above him. Throughout his run back, he heard the faintest sounds of pursuit; his sharp pointed ears picking them up. That, and it wasn't as if his followers were scared about being found out. There was no one around here but himself, who was on a scouting mission on the rumors of strange happenings coming from this part of the Forest of Lyra.

Rumors which turned out to be true.

That being said, he needed to know more.

How lucky for me..., a dark thought came.

When he came to the copse of trees he had set up at before setting off, he was still out of sight of it when the smell hit him. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide fear for a brief a moment; a chill of dread crawled up his spine as his mind spun. The lack of sound hit his ears next, his ears would have picked up his horses snorting at this range. He could smell his horse; soon, he found it.

Or the head of it, at least.

He was already in the trap, he knew, but that did not mean all was lost. The true question was how they knew where he had been set up at. Perhaps a patrol? But that seemed out of the way for nothing. Obviously not entirely for nothing since they had found him. His horse had probably given itself a way, which was poor luck as his lungs were starting to burn with the exertion. That being said, he stopped in his tracks as the smell got stronger, mixed in with the dead horse; he knew that what was ahead would be dangerous --but that was known to begin with. Without thinking he had already drawn a short sword, simple in design though well-taken care of, as he called forth the battle energy that coursed through his veins.

His left hand was free and so he used it to form hand sign that would activate the minor enchantments on his garments --enchantments he had spent hours painstakingly threading into his clothes, pouring his magicks into them slowly over the years. The man didn't plan on a fight, as the scent was fairly old despite its lingering presence.

He got to the lean-to he had made himself the first day. Clearly, he had been gone awhile.

His pursuers had gotten ahead of him somehow, or perhaps there was another group which was a dangerous prospect. He shook his head to dispel the faint anxiety. No matter how long he did this, how many times he dove back in, he feared his own death. Did that make him a coward? Or perhaps was he a saint for persevering through it all? Either way, he would die in this duty for it was what he swore so many years ago.

The camp, if could have been called that to begin with, was ruined; the small fire pit he had dug had been built upon, which is what he smelled. The horse had been roasted over their fire, after they had torn off its legs. Likely cooked it alive. As his eyes scanned the area he found more evidence to that; found their feces.

He pulled a cloth from within his shirt, covering his nose and mouth with it as he bent at the knees to examine their waste. Clumps of hair and bits of bone and teeth stuck out, likely from the horse. He glanced around and found a stick to poke through the ****; bits of deer and gods know what else revealed themselves at his search along with some roots upon closer inspection.

A forward party then, coming from the south as to coming from the east like he and his pursuers; that makes said pursuers outer patrols. He frowned, putting the cloth away as he straightened. He needed to move on. Putting the sword away, he deactivated his enchantments and went a ways off from the site to a freshly dug patch of earth. He dug it up quickly with his gloved hands and pulled out his saddlebags. He quickly unpacked what would be needed and what could be replaced before placing it back, taking as much time as he could allow himself to blend it in. He carved a small symbol on a nearby tree, murmuring softly to enchant it.

The tree trembled as he ran a bloody finger along the symbol.

A small attack enchantment which would protect his saddlebag should anything find it.

He had picked up his shovel and, after getting the horse head, he dug a small grave for it and made a sign to ward off evil and to thank it for its life.