Claustrophobia

Sackcloth. Stinking, rancid, sacking, damp and mouldy. The taste is repulsive. Stuffed into my mouth, I can hardly swallow without wretching. Can barely breathe. Every intake seems to choke in minute hairs from the sackcloth, just enough to make you cough violently, stomach clenched.

Head seems free enough, can turn it, but something is strapped hard around my chest. Also restricting breathing. Some stray pin pricks of light shine through like divine torches from the heavens above, but not enough to make any recognisable forms. Just shadows. Angular vapid trails that pace up and down, occassionaly kicking me for fun.

Hands are numb. Tied to something behind my back. Something very strong. Something embedded and unmoveable. I move my fingers but it doesn't register. I feel amputated.

They wanted to know where the goods where.. they beat me hard.. soaked and choked me in blood, whose blood was that? Why soak me in blood? I thought it was my own at first, I held myself waiting for the pain to come. But it didn't, there was no wound on me, not that I could tell. Yet blood freely swam through the sacking and into my eyes, my mouth, congealing everywhere, I could feel lumps of it clinging soggily to my skin. My lashes fused for a while..

*another blow to the head*

The darkness opens up once more. Like a purse being unzipped. These fronds of light, heaven sent, twinkle in, and dance on my brain. Looks like I took it in the face that time. One of my eyes won't open any further.. so for now, the rays only come in from one side. What was I saying? I never talked. The goods location is still safe. They're not getting that stuff. I worked too hard for it. Its my ticket out of this sodden place. It's mine, for the Hosts sake! Sshhh! some chatting.. strain to hear, through the clothing...

Something about time wasting, something about no gold, no nothing, something barely audible about moving out.. or moving on...

Panic rising in me, I want to scream at them, perhaps I'll share the goods? perhaps we can make a deal? I was told there were some gems in the stash, they can take the gems, and any gold, I only wanted the pottery artifacts, they'd reach a fair price in Sharn. I wriggle as much as I can to get their attention.

*another blow to the head*

The familiar dull pulse of my own laboured breath rings around the inside of my darkened prison. The light is so pale. So distant. My eye is completely closed now, and I can feel blood trickling, warm and throbbing, it must be my own. One too many hits to the head. Funny though, I can't feel much pain. I guess my posture has numbed most of my limbs, and my sensory isolation has turned my bodies defenses inwards. Breathing is about the only thing I have left to concentrate on. That and my family... imagine their faces when they learn of my demise. How could I have done this to them? I thought myself so clever, agile and skillful, that I could escape all consequences, and look where its gotten me..

Somethings happening, movement, a strange curdling sound. My breath quickens, as I hear feet scatter away, they're running fast. Theres some sort of commotion. I twitch in place. Its silent. Perhaps they've left? If only I could feel my fingers, I could perhaps get one hooked into the cloth and loosen the binds? Perhaps if I edge down a little, this will free up enough room to squirm a hand free?

There seems to be some suction, cold yet burning surround my feet. Ahh! whats that? Its creeping over me. Burning. It feels as though my clothing is being removed, but not dragged off, more dissolved. The heat, followed by the cold. Oh my Host!, Lord of the Sovereign Host!, WHAT IS HAPPENING!!! Cold and cloying, yet intense heat travels up my body.. I can feel my binds shifting, sort of loosening, if only I could feel my toes, or my legs I could wiggle them free, my knees have come apart. I shift in the place I have been seated for this ordeal. And I can feel my arms coming free! The rolling motion of this suction seems to be encroaching like a scarf unfurling around my neck. I suddenly feel the intense heat of a scald settle on my cheek. White hot, then tacky cold. My arms are finally free! As the saturating mass envelopes my face first the sacking bag, then seeps through, my eyes fill up with bright flourescent gloop! The pain is precise, and acute. I reach forward to pull this off me, to wipe the burning quiensence from my face but it suspends me, rather than liberating me. I'm being lifted off the ground. Burned inside some suffocating coccoon. I can feel it seeping down my throat.. slowly, exploratory, carving a way into my lungs and stomach.

I feel the doors closing, darkness creeping in, I feel the radiant heat, but the light is fading fast. Perhaps its time to go, after all. The choking has stopped, I managed to drink the stuff down it seemed to lessen the trauma. My arms now feel heavy, my legs light, I was being turned in and around, possibly upside down, my eyes could see, the sacking had gone, but only the pitiful light seemed to dance blurry on my scorched lenses.

My greed, is my shame. My downfall. My last breath, shall rise and be expunged from this mass, shouting the name of my family, carrying the last tone of my love to them. My mother. My lost father. My sister, how sweet she is. And my close brother, Taerl.....

The ooze settled itself to feed. The little halflings body was but a small meal. But having had two fully grown human brigands already, it only needed a small meal to satiate itself. Budding season was upon the ooze, so nurishment was needed to nip off a dozen tiny fledgling oozes and keep them growing.

Androse the Giant

The cheek of a deer exploded, as a steel tipped arrow rifled through the animals head. The lolloping corpse crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. No sooner had the carcass hit the sodden floor, than it was being raised up into the air, like an offering to the Gods, held aloft by colossal hands, nurturing the fallen beast. The hands began to dance around the deer's injury, teasing and moulding in a fashion, slow and steady, firm but gentle. It was as if the beasts head was made of clay and it was being restructured and renewed. A long brooding chant echoed around the vicinity, as the hands enveloped the head, tunnel like, in a finger to thumb grasp. From within the clasp, a darting tongue lapped about and tasted its surroundings. The mammoth palms peeled away gracefully, and the deer shook its head, twitched nervously, and bolted for cover. It was as if not a scratch had been inflicted upon it. The hands came to rest by a man's side, contented at a job well done. The hands belonged to a giant sized fellow, only known to a few as Androse.

Fade swung down from the branch she was perched on, to survey her kill. Still proud at the accuracy of the shot, and hungry for some food after so long going without. Still wary, she would dart between tree to tree, using their trunks as cover. As she approached the small clearing where she expected to find a culled deer, she found only flattened grass, sprinkled with blood. Even the arrow had gone, nothing but a few tufts of raven feather left where the flights had been shredded upon entry. While her mind puzzled over where her quarry had gone, her stomach audibly yearned for the meat lost. The darkened forests of Caerwyn yield very little berries or fruits, the nearest morsel of nutrition coming from minute shoots that the boars like to eat. Perhaps its the soil, or the foul swamps that hinder the spread of fruit bearing foliage? No matter what, Fade had spent best part of this afternoon, stalking a suitable deer, picking the right moment to strike, and now, she would go hungry. Large tracks near the kill site, suggest something enormous dragged the fallen beast away, surely Ogres and Trolls wouldn't be this far south? Besides the freshly laid tracks didn't give off the scent of a dark largekin. It was more human, pungent in its own right, but not acrid. Fade took out a spare coiled bow string and started gnawing on the core to satisfy longing for something to chew. Besides, it comforted her. And with string in mouth, she bounded up into the tree canopy, to find a place to rest. Perhaps she'll hunt tomorrow and have some luck?

Androse had a gift. Bestowed upon him at birth. It was a gift of growth, although tiny and vulnerable at birth, he grew throughout his childhood at a rapid rate. When it was noticeable, the stigma of witchcraft was bestowed upon him and his family, and they were forced to leave their home to seek refuge in the forests. His mother frail and his father long dead, it wasn't long before Androse was alone in the forest, and still growing. His life was gentle, his soul carefree, his heart captured by the spirit of the forest and its dwellers. Long gone where the times when he wished for human companionship, humans had spurned him and only seemed to bring trouble. So he spent his days nurturing the wild, learning about its medicinal qualities and applying them where he could. Big as he was, he seemed to be able to live off mere scraps the forest would bestow upon him. A few bowls of boiled and mashed groosebush root would last him a few days. He wasn't disfigured in any way, he wasn't grotesque as such, just outsized. Combining salves he would pumice all day, Androse found he could mend injury quite easily, by channeling his growth through his hands and into fallen animals. It pleased him so much, his reason for carrying on, alone, but content. "Guardian of the darkened Vale" he like to call himself. However recently, more and more animals were being struck by sharp branches with glinting metal leaves. These evil spears from above were raining down almost daily and he had trouble keeping up with the amount of injuries caused. He suspected a dark tree spirit summoned by Orcs, probably. His utopian dream of arboreal harmony was bound to be attacked by the darkness sooner or later. If only he'd prepared for it.

Icy cold dawn arrives and shards of sunlight twinkle through the canopy to wake Fade. Her stomach is also aroused, and begins cramping on a regular basis. Nimbly clambering over tree top she spans a wide arc, always alert, looking for any movement below. A flutter of birds swoop by, as Fade spied a rather plump rabbit nuzzling around a clearing of vegetation. With bow drawn she moistens the string with her tongue, tasting her prey roasted on an open camp fire. Her arrow nocked silently, the bow whispers to her as she draws it back. A clean kill, a head shot will ensure no suffering. Fade squints and looses the arrow at her potential meal. Outrage befalls her moments before the arrow strikes, when an enormous hand is thrust forward sheltering the rabbit, a flesh built cave to hide in. Fade's arrow digs into the hand but richochet's off to the side, with only a mild scratch to show for it. In mere moments, the hand has scooped the rabbit away, and only the ghost rustling of a bush is left behind. Fade tries to follow this protector, but although heavy on foot, he seems to be light on tracks, and soon the trail goes cold, across a stream. Fade drinks deeply to quench her thirst and stave off her hunger once more.

Androse is sure a dark imp stalks the canopy top, he can see it made visible when it moves. His imagination begins to spiral wildly out of control and he conjurs up armies of these tree borne imps slaying all the forest fauna. This makes him angry, an emotion Androse has not dealt with since the death of his mother. These imps will not plague this forest. He decides he will hunt the imps down, at night, climbing the trees if he has to. He fashions some rope shoes to help with trunk climbing and gathers up his wooden tools to use as weapons if he has to. Androse waits patiently for night.

Fade is weakening, she can feel it, her bow is heavy and cumbersome, her feet slip where once they would hold fast. She needed food desperately. Perhaps a night hunt was needed? Whatever it was guarding the beasts of this Vale, she needed to catch it off guard so she could survive. Dropping to low canopy, trunk jumping, Fade made silent progress through the trees. Her elvish vision making the task a lot easier since any life would shimmer and glow slightly. At last, she spotted a badger making its way to a ground swell, no doubt a place where it has caught mice and other vermin before. As best she could, Fade squirmed around a gnarly oak, to get into a firing position.

Clambering heavily through the forest came a small troop of orcs, four in total. No doubt scouting for flesh themselves. They showed no concern for the forest, chopping at anything that dared get in their way, clearing swathes of foliage and hacking away chunks of trees, leaving only resin seeping wounds behind. The Orcs spotted something high up in one of the trees. It was unaware of their presence. They were over-exited and foaming at the mouth about the prospect of a feed. This kill looked like it could feed their clan hut for a day or two. Slowly and noisily they approached the tree, assembling at the rear and forming a body based platform, climbing one onto the others, to reach. They thought to try and pull it out of the tree and savage it on ground rather than clumsily fighting it in the canopy itself. The Orc on top, reached forward and attempted to grasp a limb.

Fade quivering with deprivation, was pulling her bowstring again, but without the strength to gain full extension. Her mind was focussed on exerting every ounce of will she had left, to make the strike. The badger waddled into the clearing, and Fade let the arrow loose, expelling all her hope behind that arrow. She must eat soon. The arrow struck the badger behind the ruffled collar and it yelped as it choked for air. Twitching and squirming for a moment till its life ebbed away. Fade closed her eyes in relief, this kill will save me. Tugged back into reality, something grasped her leg brutishly. She immediately thought it was the protector and his huge crushing hands. She fell backwards from the canopy and hit the ground hard, blacking out.

The Orcs had hit her twice on the head again just to make sure she was out. They wouldn't kill her yet, they wanted to keep her flesh succulent and fresh, till they manage to drag it back to the clan tent. Perhaps they'd have some of the flesh on the way though, it had been a long time since they felt pulsing blood gush down their gullets. They started to strip the leather Armour from her body, licking at the wound on her head, to taste the crimson nectar and to fuel the excitement of the catch. Taking a crude blade they raised it to chop a leg off at the knee, they could satiate themselves with that for the journey and claim it was lost in the confusion of the melee.

A big hand clasped the raised blade from behind and crumpled it as if it were a dock leaf. A mammoth kick landed on the back of the surprised Orc, snapping the spine and stomping it to the ground, crushing it dead. A wooden spoon with its handle sharpened at one end was jabbed into another orcs throat, it staggered backwards and squealed like a stuck hog, gurgling to its grave. One of the Orcs fled in panic, whelping loudly. Finally, another huge hand descended from above, and wrapped its fingers around the skull of the remaining Orc, the fingers began to grip hard, like a five pronged vice. The hand applied pressure steadily and calmly with almost mechanical precision. The Orc's head was crushed and contorted, until the inner contents spilled out readily, through whatever broken gaps where made to its outer shell. With a snapping motion, the five fingers released their grip and shook themselves clean, spraying the bloodied matter and fluids around. Androse the giant sighed in relief that the carnage was over. He looked down at the prone figure, Armourless and he saw that she was as vulnerable as any injured animal in his forest. This was no dark imp that plagued the area, this was an emaciated elven girl who was in some desperate need of help. Androse smeared a salve over his palms and gently placed his large hand over her head, massaging it, in very tiny circles. As he raised his hand away, he could see she was stirring, so he quickly gathered her Armour together and with the corpse of the slain badger, laid them neatly beside her. Looking around for a suitable gap in the flora, Androse disappeared off into the thick forest depths.

As she lazily regained her sight, Fade caught a glimpse of the protector, the owner of those massive hands, a gentle giant who seemed to have saved her from these foul orcs. Woozy and unsteady she pulled on her Armour, grabbed her bow, and saw the dead badger laid out like an offering of peace. To Fade, it was a meal fit for a Queen. She hurried off into full cover as soon as she could. Making her way to a shaded mountain crag with enough tree cover so that she could light a campfire and start preparing and roasting the meat. She devoured the meal greedily, but with the satisfaction of knowing that it was blessed by the protector of the forest. Whoever he may be.

The following day, no splintered attacks came from above to fell the beasts of the forest. Androse nodded contently as he went about his business. As nightfall approached he went gathering Shan moss for some poultices he needed. Bent over, busy stripping stones clean, Androse didn't notice the Orc pack hurriedly crossing the stream behind him. They'd spotted him. And what a meal he would make for the clan. Word had reached the Orc hideout, when the surviving Orc arrived back and told tale of a huge fleshman, who laid waste to the others with his bare hands. The chief rallied his warrior caste and sent them out to find this fleshman and cull him. Before Androse could react, the Orcs were upon him. Two either side, dragging his arms down with two more clambering up his back, biting and slashing at his shoulders and neck. Androse jostled from side to side to shake the clawing fiends, but there were too many of them, overpowering him despite his size and innate strength. Deep bleeding gashes in his back were weakening his grip on consciousness, bruised and battered his legs and arms began to buckle and fold, until the giant man was sprawled out face down in the mud. Orc teeth still snapping at his body, clubs and blades still pounding and raking his skin. How the mighty have fallen.

A blazing sprite seemed to shoot past high above the fighting. It erupted into a plume of sparks falling to the ground and igniting all dry material. Another burst and more sparks. Just enough to worry the orcs and cause them to flee in fear. Androse rolled over on to his side, parts of his clothing burning slightly, fizzling in the pool beneath him. Down from a high treetop leapt Fade, two more flame arrows smouldering in her back mounted quiver. Androse moaned. Using all her strength Fade managed to roll Androse into the muddy waters covering him in thick peat based bog. Androse become a little more lucid, his eyelids flickering momentarily, his body shaking in shock. Fade splashed muddy water on to his face and silently gestured for him to stand up. Androse didn't think he could muster enough strength to get up, he was still bleeding heavily. But after a stumble he rose more determined and tottered about on his feet. Fade pushed him towards a dense area of forest, where a large oak tree stood. Androse bumbled about and staggered in that direction and the little elf girl encouraged him with her boot. He wasn't sure whether he was awake or it was some kind of dream. But the pain was real. Before he made it to the thick stumped tree, he could see the elf girl flitting around the tree trunk. Fade was stripping great wads of bark off the tree whole. As tall as she could make them. Her blade carving into the tree just enough to take the top layer of bark off, that would hold fast as a single intact piece. Again and again she did this, stacking up quite a pile of thick bark strips. Androse fell forward and collapsed against the bare trunk, he managed to twist his body round to see the elf enclosing him in these strips of bark. Initially he began to panic, but Fade touched her lips with her fingers in a hushed gesture, and calmed the battered giant man. Fade danced around him, panelling him up against the tree, and covering him with the bark strips. She daubed wads of mud in between to make the strips stick to him. Once he was encased completely, she unfurled some bow string from her belt pouch and began to tie the covered man to the tree itself, grafting as best she could the "tree man" to the tree. She jumped up over Androse and into the canopy of this bold arboreal resident, where she cut leaves rapidly and dropped them on top of Androse, covering any remaining body parts that could be easily seen. Once he was hidden, she bounded across to other trees and climbed high to gain a vantage point.

Androse wasn't totally comfortable, and he wasn't quite sure what was going on. His wounds were still bleeding, the pulsing pain he felt in all his limbs told him he was in a bad way. He kept zoning in and out of lucidity, he couldn't willingly stop himself from moaning to cope with the pain. Spooked but not dissuaded, the Orcs returned tentatively. They split up and scattered more, searching the area as they moved, to determine what sort of sorcerer conjured these flaming projectiles. They expected the fleshman to be still laying there prone and bloodied. They were enraged to find he wasn't. Sniffing the air, desperately trying to gain the fleshman's scent, they paused when they heard a muffled moaning coming from a dark forested enclosure. Cautiously they investigated the noise. The Orc at the tail end of the party dropped to the ground silently, an arrow protruding from his face. Unaware, the remaining orcs were lured onwards towards the siren call of an injured victim. This time two orcs fell in rapid succession, arrow borne whispers flashed by and stuck the first in the throat, and the second in a soft point of his armour under the arm and into the ribcage. The two remaining orcs turned and panicked. Weaving back and forth trying to search out the source of these lethal projectiles. They crouched low and leapt around, the moaning now haunting them, stalking them. In terror, they reeled backwards and knocked into the large oak tree. The slender dark figure of Fade dropped out of the canopy and landed softly like a cat on all paws. The moaning behind the orcs grew louder and more constant. The dark figure approached them menacingly. The orcs panicked again, and rushed forward to attack. With a swift motion, Fade parried the blow and took his arm off at the joint, with her razor sharp dagger. Knocking him to the ground as he stumbled past in pain, she landed a side kick on the second advancing Orc sending him reeling back towards the oak tree. Turning to face the back of the first Orc, Fade sunk the dagger deep into the base of its spine and pushed downwards disengaging its pelvis. As the other Orc hit the tree, Androse howled and toppled forward snapping the bow strings, releasing him and bringing his full weight to bear down upon the orcs body. A jet of blood spewed from the Orcs mouth as its internal organs were crushed and chopped by its own skeletal shards.

Androse shook his head clear, the caked mud had helped stem the bleeding, and his natural ability to regenerate had began to reinvigorate him. He knelt down, catching his breath and pausing to look at the elf who saved him. She walked towards him, kissed his bloodied cheek, and without a word placed a wad of Shan moss in his large protective hand. He closed his fingers around the precious gift, cherishing the offer. She turned and walked slowly away, increasing the pace until she was running, fast enough to bound up into the canopy. And she was gone. Androse never saw her again. But every year he would pay tribute to her by culling and eating a badger in her honour.

Fadewyn Moon

Fadewyn Moon, an aspiring bow maiden and blade mistress. Her Elven beauty masking her sometimes unpredictable but determined ferocity. Her tenacity to pursue and overpower with skill or brutality sets her aside amongst her peers. Take arm with her, and she will serve you loyally without question. Take arms against her and some say the scorn of a begrudged elf can be unimagineable. Attuned with beasts and forest, she will not hesitate to heal as best she can, but also slay with cold precision and logical calm. For the most part, 'Fade' is a polite and pleasant elven girl, with a sly demeanour that can be unsettling, but once you know her is almost reassuring.

Neriak

As I stumble through the dark, a brilliant indigo light draws me. Having spent months wandering through the forests of Nektulos, and finally emerging into the blazing dry sunlight of the Commonlands, I've gripped the starched mountain pass and hugged the dry pumice to emerge into the forest bowl known as the Darklight. Meandering past pocked craters and river gouges I finally cross the bridge over Innoruk's Scar, and behold the stories were true, the City of Hate, Neriak stands before us!



Luckily the Teir'Dal have also annexed a part of Neriak for Foreign Quarter so Ogres have free passage through to these slave areas, so I pass by the Teir'Dal Dread Guard easily, yet I feel their hatred towards me almost seep out of their armour. In Neriak I will always be an underclass, to be used and abused at their whim. They have a busy forge, creating more and more of the necessary equipment to kit out their ranks and furnish their city with ornamentation worthy of the palaces of Maj'Dul.



Delving deeper into the Nerian warren, you come across the Spires of Innoruuk, built to whorship the God of Hate himself. Their architectural beauty just amazes my simple Ogre tastes, I'm almost overwhelmed by their craftmanship.. dominated by it.



Have to keep hurrying, so that the Dread Guard patrolling this area keep their attention on other things.. I'm followed for a while by an Asari Guard, he seems very suspicious of me.. luckily he was distracted for a moment by a gathering of floating imps, kept as living gargoyle ornaments I think, they haunt most of the halls of this mighty place.





The Teir'Dal have constructed a place for the appreciation of their arts, the Nightsong Opera House, a three teired building of enormous beauty, I could stand and stare at it for many days...



but the guards are tracking me now. The Haunting Sirensong drifting out from the building lulls me into a sleepy state and I almost topple off the edge of a precipice.. this city is not very forgiving of bumbling fools... trip or stumble too near the edge and you will plummet hundreds of feet down onto stalagtite spikes. Even the Frostfell celebrities are not immune to a good spiking.



At the end of the warren, is the mighty Darklight Palace, flanked by the House of the Teir'Dal family D'Morte.



And Vampires. I had to make a quick retreat, fending off these biting shrews.. I don't understand why they are tolerated, the Dread Guard doesn't venture this deep..



For all its beauty there is always a price to pay, and I for one am willing to pay it. For the God of Hate, Neriak take me as one of your own!

Gore Bloodfeud

Warforged Blademaster.

Jellied flesh and broken bone slip and slide off the Adamantine plated thick set body. A constant flow of blood seemed to trickle across the surface making the contstruct glisten and shimmer in the twilight. Assembled and given life in the great Forge of House Cannith, this Fleshcleaver was birthed through magics thought impossible, its sole purpose to dismember fleshed opponents. Many Warforged were created as generic battle machines, kitted out with all manner of combat accessories to enable them to face other similarly equipped 'forged. However, behind all battle hardened 'forged troops were soft fleshed Masters conjuring their orders of war. Gore was assembled to strike hard at these fleshed leaders. His Adamantine plates could pierce and shred flesh even without the bladed weapons of Valenar blood steel they were adorned with. His body coloured with scarlet to ensure maximum fear in his enemy. Blood would run constantly over his thick skin. The warband Gore was assigned to, became known as the Strikeforge, a collection of fleshcleavers designed to act as strike troops in battle, dropped in behind enemy lines and afforded the purpose of stripping flesh from bone, spilling blood and cleaving the minds of the fleshed ones who control the 'forged armies. Taking out the Masters slowed the advancement of the conjured troops. Each warband would be assigned a single master, one who would remotely control their position and combat goals. Always fine tuning the strike, adjusting the kills. After the demise of Cyre towards the end of the Last War, Strikeforge found itself decommissioned.

Fleshcleavers were deemed far too dangerous to be allowed into normal circulation. Many were dismantled. Some without the tight control of a Master were found to have turned renegade, following other less controlled Masters, even following other rogue 'forged units as if they were fleshed leaders. Gore was lucky, he was traded to a small outpost requiring his strength primarily as a work unit. The Master he was assigned to, didn't care of his blood soaked past, he was only concerned about how much lumber he could chop or stone he could split in a days work. Culling trees or stone did little for the Fleshcleavers state of mind. Battle tremours would take over him, and he would decimate houses and vehicles sub conciously. The tremours grew more feirce and darker, uncontrollable, his basic instinct, to cleave flesh, had come back to haunt him. A dark day indeed came about as Gore surfaced from a tremour having slain six fleshed workers. Blood trickled past his eyes as he realised what he'd done.

Immediate deactivation was demanded. As they assembled around him to dismember his body and unhook his mind with dispelling magics. Something inside him engaged. His inner core split slighty. The tremours that took six lives had only been a taste of what power could be unleashed with a Fleshcleaver unhinged. Gore collapsed in a pool of blood. He rested. The bodies would noticed with the coming daylight. The blood would run into the water supplies and give away his position. He would require a new Master. Someone who could command the Fleshcleaver mind. Someone who could contain a killing machine that walked a fine line between dutiful service and tremour induced chaos. Gore would search out such a Master. Eternally.

Tegana Soul

Born deep in the Hoarfrost Mountains, secure inside the dwarven settlement of Soranathold facing out onto Mirror Lake, the young girl was raised under the religious guidance of her mother. The girl was baptised in snow as Teghannarak Soularath, the Soularath family were well respected for their jewel and armourcraft amongst the skilled trades folk of the Soranath Clan. Indeed the elaborate breastplates made by Teghannarak's father were almost legendary amongst the other dwarven clans in the Mror Holds.

Teghannarak enjoyed a relatively peaceful childhood raised in a time when the dwarven clans had put axe and blade down and settled their differences with diplomacy and negotiation via the Iron Council. Almost coddled by the Church of the Sovereign Host, Teghannarak dutifully took up the ecclesiastical duties that were asked of her. Gentle of spirit, she would spread her divine inspiration amongst the clan with much enthusiasm, however, she considered the robes of the Church most drab, so she took to wearing off cuts and experimental pieces of Armour that her father had forged. She would often find herself in the forge, excitedly trying on new shining plate. She became interested in her apparent strength to carry such weight on her shoulders. And led to quite a trivial contest between other dwarves to test their strength with a baton. Flailing the baton and beating a sheet of steel plate, to measure ones power in the diameter of impression made. Teghannarak always felt blessed with power in her heart and in her hefty arms. The Hosts will surged through her.

Although her direction was intended to take up the cloth and preach, Teghannaraks divinity usurped her destiny and edged her more towards channeling her good into a combatant guardian of all dwarven kind. Against her mothers wishes, she enrolled for cleric duties, that combined over enthusiastic preaching with defensive combat practice. It seems her fathers blood flowed more readily in her than her mother had anticipated. Adventure seemed to beckon to her, at the end of her training as a battle cleric. More than she realised. It broke her mothers heart, and steadied her fathers hammering arm, as he beat Teghannarak's coming-of-age set of Armour over a melancholic anvil of loss.

Leaving the clans and the Hold, equipped with youthful exuberance and her fathers Armour she made her way to the fabled City of Towers, Sharn. A place where magic and industrial machines come together. A place where all walks of life converge and mix in equal parts. It was time for Teghannarak the dwarven girl to adopt an identity befitting an adventurer in such a cosmopolitan and multi-cultured city. She mixed with the city life for a while before gravitating towards the not so respected academic institute known as Morgrave University. Street talk and rumour guided her towards this temple of skewed knowledge and intrigue. She shortened her name to allow the non-dwarven tongue to speak it easily. Her appearance to most was one of a hefty swollen lady in shiny Armour, so her name had to diffuse the prejudice. She took the name Tegana Soul. Hopefully retaining enough similarity to her true name as to do honour by the Host to her family name and her clan.

Bewitched by the city and the University, Tegana swiftly took up the challenge of preaching the way of the Sovereign Host and yet learning more about the history of the city and the different races and their cultures. Never had her eager mind had so much diversity to feed upon, using her divine teachings as fuel she began settling in to academia paying her way with research opportunities that seemed to come her way without her trying. Several of these 'opportunities' involved some exploration of lands further afield, as well as a lot of book work. More and more, her direction was almost being guided unknowingly into harsher and more dangerous expeditions. And Tegana thrived off the excitement it presented. Her jewelcrafters eye had caught a liking for the artifacts that were being revealed in these so-called research outings. The most recent expedition had her praying in battle Armour on her way to the lands of the Giants, Xen'drik, to a city called Stormreach....

The Intruders

He'd heard there was trouble coming. There was a anticipation of it buzzing through the ranks. Several in the higher tiers of his tunnelling community had been barking about these intruders, skilled killers tripping early warning systems, smashing their way along lengths of the warren. He'd been trained for this. Since he was a skinling. His claws had been sharpened beyond everyday use. They were like Troglodyte razor teeth. Over the years he'd learned to be careful of them. You get used to it. His immediate clutch leader, was a Scale Shaman named Zanc'Tul, and he had been busy readying his skull magics all morning. The defending snapper troop had been posted at a choke point in the warren, designed to throttle any intrusion. There were many trappings pre-set to slow the overworld killers down. Acid jets, firey tormentors, warren gates with multiple combination keys, ambush points with treasure bait. All set to hamper, slow, and wither away at the intruders physical and mental health. Shan'Zal was ready for them. He and his fellow snappers, were on high alert.', '

Zanc'Tul was very agitated, and was yelping orders almost faster than his muzzle could deliver. The normally damp air had become drier somehow, it made Shan's scales tighten uncomfortably so. Shan tasted the atmosphere with a whip of his elastic tongue. He could taste a hint of burning flame oil, scorched overworlder and panic scent. His tiny earpockets suddenly registered a clattering of exploding wood splinters and metallic ringing. The trouble was almost here.

Zanc'Tul climbed onto the top of several supply boxes, and ordered Shan and his snapper fellows to brace the heavy door. If the intruders breach the locking mechanism, they would snapper charge them, with the Shaman clutch providing mindfear and skinboil support from the rear. Shan set himself up behind three of his clutch. The locking mechanism was being tampered with from the other side. The clutch was restless, they knew trouble was here. They started chanting the clutches warsong, rasping and rythmic, the snappers swayed at the doorway, claws and teeth exposed and baying for overworlder blood.

The door opened with a swift jolt, Shan and his snappers looked up in surprise, these overworlders were very tall. He could see there determined eyes peering from metallic slits just above a wall of steel. Perhaps three overworlders filled the doorway. They were shouting. The snappers charged at the wall, clawing at it with a screech. Zanc'Tul was already focussing mindfear and directing it at these giant intruders. Arrows were whistling past Shan's head, and he saw one embed itself into the Shaman's chest, ceasing his magics, and causing him to stumble down from his box temple.

Shan launched himself forward with two other snappers trying to replace the fallen ones at the door line. His claws set, his mind focussed on the kill, he would rip their legs away from them, for his clutch's fallen. His Koboldian instincts were in full flow, time to tear overworlder flesh. An arrow found his skull and split it apart with ease. His leathery body, folded into a limp mass, landing on top of two snapper kobolds already slain. His blood oozed into a single pool of reptilian death, that stained the boots of these overworlders, as they ungracefully advanced forward. Smearing Shan and his snapper squad across the warren floor.

Three abreast, the shield wall had been a success for most door breaches. With steel locked against steel, man aside man. Jarrik, Karitas and Balak stood their ground against the kobold horde. They inched themselves forward, every other moment, lowering the protective shield to swipe downwards and slay lizard after lizard in front of them. Karitas hollered "hold the line!". Balak grunted, as a Shamanic spell of fear attempted to seize his mind, he shook it off, gritting his teeth and bearing his shield stronger. Fayde, a bowmaiden, was letting loose arrows bewteen the walled mens heads. Accuracy was key. She spotted the Shaman's, registering each one, before delivering arrow after arrow to break their spells and take them down. Jarrik shouted "Advance!" as he co-ordinated a shielded shuffle forward, trampling lizards underfoot. Locking their shields tighter, to prevent the hordes slashing claws from getting through. Fire, stone and spell was having a hard time seeping through this sheet steel fortress. Jarrik turned his head and smiled at Karitas, Balak grimaced and winked at them both. Karitas nodded, and took great pleasure in shouting "Break and Charge!!!". The mighty wall peeled away, three shields seperating, and launching into the remaining kobolds. Shield bashing their way forward the three men ran full pelt at the pockets of kobolds whelping at such a sight. The bowmaiden stepping through the door, screamed "FOR THE VALENAR!", fizzing arrows left, right and center, picking off the shamans and their wounded. Jarrik sweeping kobolds off their feet with his uppercuts. Karitas freezing them where they stood, with his sword "Ice". Balak, slamming his shield against them with such force that their stunned skulls fractured and caved in.

The intruders have indeed arrived, and theres no stopping them.

A Matter of Protection

Rasping her tongue against the bow string, to slightly whet the nocking point, Fayde's keen eye could sense approaching humans. The air shimmered liked a still rock pool that had just been defiled by rampant pond skaters. Human odour also betrayed their stealthy tricks and tactics. She could visualise the airplay of their bulky forms writhing back and forth, attempting to remain in the shadows. Before her next thought, an arrow whipped from the arched weapon, almost singing as it clipped the shimmer just above his elbow. This winged ruffian dropped his crude dagger to the floor in surprise, and as the pain registered on his face, realised his stealth play was over.

Scooping his iron blade from the floor with his other hand, he made a charge at Fayde. No time for another arrow. Fayde whipped her bow updwards and slapped the horned tip against the brigands face, it carved a small trough across his already maddened features. She slammed her elbow into the bridge of his nose, sounding a satisfying 'crack', upon which she performed a tumble into the corner of the room and leaped from a crouching position up onto a high stack of crates. In desperation the brigand threw his dagger at her, it lodged moments away from her in the wooden wall behind her. A quick lick of the hair string, and she nocked another arrow. Stumbling forward spraying the floor with facial blood, the hairy rogue managed to claw at her feet before she loosed the feathered stake. He yanked both of her feet suddenly and she fell backwards, hitting her head against the wall and dropping her bow to her side. She kicked one foot free, and tried to pry him off her. But with every movement she made in this prone position, brought him closer to her as he climbed her body like a lizard on an ivy encrusted tree. Fayde struggled for her Rapier, but it was splayed out to the side, and she had most of her weight on the scabbard. His hands curled around her neck as his heavy blood saturated body entombed her arms in a heavyweight hold. Gasping for air, as his grip tightened, she spat in his broken face. A last act of defiance. Before the encroaching darkness took her away to peaceful eternal sleep.

He smiled visciously, his teeth jagged with half broken crowns. Blood endlessly gurgling from his mouth and his fat purple nostrils. He was almost laughing at her demise. As his head came cleanly off. A shining gauntlet grasped the twitching neck stump and yanked the decapitated carcass off her. A rather regal gentleman stood before her clad in the most noble suits of armour she had ever seen. "Caldovan, at your service my lady". He winked. And smiled. And turned to swing his sword and cull another of these rogues in the process of silently creeping up on him.

Fayde grabbed at her bow to steady herself. She used it as a crutch to heave her gasping body back up onto the crate. A burst of flame spouted from the left, she only just caught it in her peripheral vision. She crouched instinctively to avoid being singed. "Saphina, at your service sister". A small halfling sorceress grinned at her momentarily, before focussing on controlling more flames exuding from her slight but nimble fingers. Fayde felt she was amongst friends, ones who could protect her, so she smiled inwardly, and licked her bow string before letting loose a hail of arrows.

The Curse of Fade was lifted

A mighty conjurer telepathically connected with Fade's Elven senses on a higher plane of existence. The mystic promised a cure for her curse, but only after a physical and spiritual purging, could this remedy be applied. With some in trepidation, Fade agreed to be metaphysically transported to the conjurer's shelter. The thought of being able to breathe fresh forest air without the metallic twang from behind the helmet was enough to make her almost giddy. She slipped into the ethereal atmosphere for little beyond a second and appeared before the mighty conjurer with a jolt of her soul that shook her nerves for one moment. She clasped her bow tighter as if only it could protect her now. The conjurer was soft spoken and looked remarkably younger than she'd first expected.

The purge must begin before we can lift the curse. Quickly she shed all her equipment, removing the helmet to reveal the grotesque sight of her almost naked decapitated body. She trembled as deposited her bow, her only source of comfort through the years before. Her last vestige of self. The kind conjurer waved a little, with slight of hand, and Fade dropped to the floor asleep. She dreamt of nothing, in fact the purge itself seemed to be one big black hole with no escape. Emptiness. No sooner had she forgotten who she was, lost in some macabre wilderness, then she was wide awake again. Fully clothed in rough leather, it took her a moment to readjust. She could not remember her name. Who was she?

Another slight of hand from the conjurer and she was climbing steps, re-learning everything she had once known, her archery skills tingled in her fingertips, she smelt the sweet smell of the yew and fresh sap covering of her bow, she could pinch the fibres from her bowstring and remember how to nock arrows in rapid succession. She was overcome with empathy for the animals of the world, she longed to call her forest mate Bara the Brown Bear, she longed to comfort him with her song again. As incredibly dizzying as it was, it was also reassuring that she could feel the seasons mature within her, climbing her body like rampant ivy, as the conjurer dropped his hand to his sides, the process was done. Fade had become whole again. She clutched her face, picked up a potion bottle and peered within the reflection. Her beautiful face was there again, shining back at her, almost luminescent. she could see her nose if she crossed her eyes. She danced. The conjurer chuckled.

It was to tears of joy that she said her farewell to the conjurer, reseating her arrows, and adjusting her armour, she was ready again to face the world, with all its dangers, but this time she could hold her head up high, this time she could smile at those she loved and grimace at those she loathed, and her enemies filled with darkness and hate would see the elven piousness on her face as she filled them with arrows of justice.

The conjurer, his name was Kai, and she vowed to name her firstborn after him, in memory of his deeds that day.

The Distressed Bard

No sooner had I entered the city today than I had an almost manic lady chattering away at me about Guards being slaughtered in the Commerce District near the gate to the Docks area of Port Cruces.

This lady named Trill, was an inexperienced bardic singer, who seemed to be shaking like a leaf. She said there are adventurers amongst us who are slaying Cruces guards without remorse. She mentioned two names who she claimed she has seen perform these acts of murder. They were a gold clad blade warrior called Lanan Rift and a small arcane user named Zephyr. Trill apparently stumbled onto the fray whilst she was heading to the Docks to take provisions over to Dulce. She was most upset, claiming they had even chased her around the city Commons area.

Trill said, when she asked Lanan for an explanation he had gloated over the kill, allegedly claiming he was weeding out the weak guards from the strong ones - making the city a safer place - and that the whole populace of Port Cruces should thank him.

Obviously I was concerned about this news. I tried to calm her down. But she seemed to have lost all faith in anyone with a blade in their hand. She scurried off in the direction of Curces Outskirts presumably in hiding, for fear of her life.

Now I cannot claim to believe her one way or another, and Bards do have a way of elaborating to make things floral, but it does seem very strange that there have been a much increased amount of attacks on the commoners and guards of Port Cruces, and now we have allegedly seen Adventurers themselves claiming kills for the amusement value. I myself managed to pin a couple of Elite Belen Soldiers as they ransacked the Commons area the other day. The place was alive with glowing columns of blue light, and strange blue glowing orbs. The air was rank with arcane trickery.

I believe it is time to stand up for the good and the honourable, and make Port Cruces a safer place. Do not let your malaise turn against the goodness of the city! Use your adventuring skills for the good of Amon.

Abe's Grief

Abe had seen his wife murdered in front of him. Her attacker was shrouded in magic that gave him no substance. Abe had seen this nebulous thief drag his wife to the ground, the shadows had tugged at her hair, and then plunged something into her, something sharp, something fatal. He was beyond control, as he approached her limp body he tore a limb from a local bench, it would make a basic cudgel, normally he would never have had the strength to dismember a town seat, but he was riding a wave of desperation, the surf of adrenalin, at this point in time he could do anything his body mustered. Except save his wife. Like a dervish possessed he twirled around her body, as if performing a rite of passage with a piece of gnarled and splintered wood. He was making a vain attempt at striking the veiled terror that had run his wife through. His tears were distributed evenly in a circle, almost anointing the ground where she lay. Her deathbed was stone, hard, cold and unforgiving. He was the priest administering the last rites. He was the husband, broken inside, longing for her touch again, waiting for her smile to make everything seem all right. As his metabolism slowed and his energy seeped into the cracks in the paving slabs, he slowly withered, like a beanstalk in the sun, with a heavy pod. His final slump was one of extreme gentleness, as he enveloped her body with his. Drive the sword again, he pleaded with Amon. Take me with her, I want to go with her. His age crept up on him whilst he was unaware. He wanted to die so badly, his heart was already a shattered vase, his soul ached to be with his wife again.

After what seemed like an eternity of sorrow, someone must\'ve pulled Abe off her, and cleared up and sorted him out, because he awoke from his grief ridden stupor in his house, with other town folk milling about organising things, clearing things up and generally nattering away with each other in some strange language Abe didn\'t understand. The language appeared to be casual speak, not fear encrusted hatred of all things living, especially all things transparent. He waited for it to all go quiet and he vowed he would find the one who did this to him. As old as he was, he would live to see his wife's assailant be brought to justice. Even if it meant absorbing arcane magic himself to remain on this world.

Abe could hardly get on with life again, he just existed. His thoughts constantly on that day, and the proceedings. When news reached him of a strange man in custody of one of the local clerics over at Lunas, he was empowered to get dressed and go out and see this mans face, see if he could recognise the shape of his features and match those against the mouldings of air on that fateful day. He travelled like a balloon on the hottest air. Swift and with an agenda. He approached Lunas with the posture of a hungry animal.

With tears of hate welling up inside him, he approached a group of citizens encircling a wiry elf in dark clothing. He recognised Sister Ann Bright, the cleric, as she poured scorn and accusation down on this dark traveller, he recognised Fade Moonbow, an elven ranger girl who seemed to always be at Sister Ann's side and he recognised Aahz an oddly built man with raw power in his gate. The robe Aahz wore seemed strangely big and effeminate for his completely manly build. But still it added an air of righteousness to him. As he studied the darkened elf he could see the flare of hate encircle his head like a halo of fire. He could almost taste the blood of his wife melting over his tongue. The size of the offender seemed appropriate, the hooded face, with protruding features almost made him retch up bile as he fit the pointed features to the space in his memory where the transparent killer had been. When he found out that this man had his wife's necklace on his possession, Abe was fuelled from within, as a spark of bloodlust lit his bonfire of hatred. This man, whose tongue danced around excuses and whose lies exuded from him like a green suffocating mist, this man, killed his wife, for that he was certain.

Before anyone had noticed Abe was lunging forward with the power of a forest bear, his fingers would crush this demons windpipe before he would utter another lie. Before he would silently kill again for trinkets and baubles. The blood in his veins on his forehead, pounded out a war dance for Abe to follow, like a child after the smell of Woodland taffy. He would engorge himself in this mans blood, like that child in the sugary sickly sweetness. A strike to the mans head was all he could muster before Fade and Aahz stepped in and restrained them both. The dark clad elf shrugged it off, like he\'d seen much worse. Abe's age rapidly threw a shroud of tiredness around him, he could hardly breathe, he was so bitter the air could not feed his hatred with enough oxygen to carry on. With his body empty like that of a flannel wrung dry, he bowed his head, and he cried for all the times with his wife, he will never have again. It was time to wait for the judge to arrive. This elf would be tried in a court of law.

The Trial Of Unen

Fade was summoned to a place she had seen before, yet knew not where it existed. The courtroom smelled of oaken floorboards and antiseptic magic. Gathered before her was a motley crue of adventurers and townsfolk. There was rushed jury assembled across the floor, consisting of Grant Welter, Seril Tylnessa, Vurag and Bugdush Kibird. Alongside Fade was Aahz and Abe, an old commoner who seemed to have eyes that dealt pain with their looks. Sweetblade escorted everyone in, and she held the defendant, an elven man of unknown origin called Unen Zyrustafer. The judge was a Cruces Guard of high ranking, who would sometimes step in as relief judge. The trial began with Abe\'s lament, how he saw this man attack his wife, kill and rob her, and then attack several other commoners. He was quite clearly in a very distressed state, tears would roll down his face and then dry off to the intense heat of his anger as it burnt his skin the colour of fresh blood. Fade felt for this man deeply, he was an old man with few years left, yet those last years would be filled with loss and torment and grief. A sad end to a short human life. The judge asked pertinent questions and interjected when the cloaked elf tried to explain himself out of turn.

Abe recanted how he\'d been clearing his old adventuring equipment out of his house and had emptied a vial of old potion into his mouth to see what it tasted like, to see if he could recall his adventurers spirit. This vial held an arcane fluid that could alter the eyesight of its taker and make invisible slightly less so. Little did he know it would be so crucial to his identification of his wife\'s murderer. He was attracted at first by the disassociated splashes happening around the town\'s water gullies. A hint of intruder setting the hackles on his neck alive with motion and dread. He saw Unen cajole the Belen guards who descended upon the town, leading them forward from his dissipated state. He\'d seen him over his wife, stripping her amulet from her half cocked neck. If he was twenty years younger he would have simply ripped the mans throat out and would have asked for immediate execution for himself. Fade noticed his tired eyes, tired of seeing over and over again the death of his most treasured companion. Briefly his eyes shut, as if to block out the pain and embrace the void. Fade patted him on his back in a feeble attempt to comfort him and also to let him know he\'d done the right thing, this was a task for justice and she knew Amon would not let evil prevail here.

Next to speak was Unen himself, a sly wily fox of an elf, shrouded in black hood and bound leather body. At night, you could almost believe he would be invisible without the need for any magical assistance. Unen addressed the court as he would another vagabond on the highway, with malice and covert cunning. He explained that he was in the forest area because he\'d been chased by some adventurers from Castle Hyde. They\'d attempted to detect evil within him using a magical spell and he feared for his life. Utilising his powers of slight of hand and illusion he was able to slip into the shadows of the forest like a snake slithering through the toes of its prey. Whilst ducking in the shadows, he\'d heard a commotion around the entrance of Port Cruces, there seemed to be Belen guards heading that way, with blood on their minds. He followed as he was naturally curious. Inside the town he saw the slaughter of the commoners, and he picked his way through the bloodied streets, stumbling upon a lady strewn out on the pavement. As he tumbled slightly he saw a flash of gold in the pink bloodied water below. He picked it up. It was a fine amulet if he ever saw one. He was admiring the beauty of such a piece, when he turned and saw a man crazed running towards him with was seemed to be a wooden club of some sort. The man was howling like a moonstruck wolf. Immediately Unen fled for the comfort and anonymity of the forest. In the panic, another man attacked Unen, unexpectedly. This man turned out to be Kristof. Yet more events unfolded and Vurag took Kristofs attack to be the cause of this slaughter, so Vurag joined in the melee. Confusion ensued. Unen scrabbled out as best he could. He still had the amulet in his possession. It was simply a mistake. He was there at the wrong time, with the wrong intentions and now he had to prove his innocence. Fade struggled with the dark elf\'s story, something about his ways seemed to leak deceit through the pores of his very pale skin. Like this was familiar territory for him, like he was used to such interrogation.

Fade had been given Sister Ann Brights notebook of events, and was there as proxy to tell the facts that her holiness had written down. Sister Ann\'s character could not be brought into question, Amon smiled upon her and she would always honour the truth. Fade mentioned that Unen had shouted comments across the city streets after the attack was over. He\'d said that the \"slaughter at the Port was a success\", he\'d taunted Vurag with \"look at your peasants now Vurag\" and finally he\'d closed the taunt with \"that was for you\". Unen tried to deny these comments, and then wormed them around his finger like they were string. He said he was just commenting on how it seemed the slaughter at the port had been successful, and that he was in outrage that Vurag\'s peasants had been murdered so viciously. There was a gleam in his eye as he held the jurors gaze and played with them like a magician does a coloured knotted scarf.

Unen was led out of the court, after much consternation at one point Unen being reprimanded by the Judge for disrespect. The juror\'s had to make up their mind. They\'d been given all there was.

Fade knew he was guilty. Her elven senses hadn\'t let her down in so many years, but the Human court would not allow such intuition to become the basis for a court case. The comments seemed too spiteful, he\'d been seen by the bodies picking them clean like a vulture pecking the last strips of flesh from the ribcage. He used the powers of darkness to shift through the city unnoticed and he reaped the golden medallions he knew he could sell as ill gotten gain. Fade was sure he was guilty. The other jurors bashed the decision around the room like a drunken fist fight. Declaring the verdict seem to prompt the other jurors to place their hearts where the facts led them. Unen was found guilty of the charge of murder by 6 of the people attending, to 1 against. The one protestor, Seril, proceeded vehemently to called the court a sham, and lit up a torch in defiance of the majority decision. Short of contempt of court, the Judge calmed the situation and arranged the punishment. It was deemed that 7000 gold pieces be paid by Unen to the families of those who have lost their loved ones. It was also deemed that he lose the ability to progress in the monastery where he gained his monk training for at least one season. Reducing his skills by a seasons progress in one foul swoop.

Unen was returned to the courthouse and upon hearing the verdict of guilty and his punishment, he proclaimed that there was only one option left to him. \"Japanese suicide\". Fade couldn\'t not source what the word \"Japanese\" meant, but it seemed to describe a culture of some sort, perhaps a Belenese sub culture? She knew exactly what suicide meant, and she did not want his blood on these sacred floors, in front of Sweetblade and the judge, so she braced herself to restrain Unen if she could. It looked like Unen was fumbling for what seemed to be a potion of some sort from his hidden waist pouch, but then he lunged forward and struck the Judge across the chest with a martial blow. The judge reeled backwards in shock, having little time to raise his sword. For that moment, if Unen had been quicker of mind, he could have laid waste to at least two or three of the people in that court before anyone would react to stop him. Fade reached behind her, and unsheathed both vile rapiers, if Unen was going to attack, she would be ready to protect Sweetblade at least. Vurag spun his Great Axe into swinging position, and Seril unguarded his sword. In a few short blows the darkened man was slumped in a pool of defiant blood. Thick, yet evasive, it trickled through the cracks in the flooring. Still he was trying to escape. His corpse was removed swiftly, and he was resurrected somewhere far away from the town of Port Cruces. His punishment served.

Abe collapsed in a heap, and sobbed. No matter what has befallen that mysterious sneak, he could never bring back his Gerty. His life was over. A time of waiting to die was upon him. As the jurors left the chamber, Fade picked up a small piece of rag from the floor, it was a cutting from Unens dark tunic. Through the fibres in her fingers she could feel the torment of that elf. He had been raised as a monk, with Amon in his heart. Yet there was a dark side to his nature, a side that longed to hide away, translucent as dragonfly wings. He was in a constant battle between monk and stealthy thief. Perhaps an assassin in the making? She crumpled the cloth and tossed it into the fire. The light of the flame exorcising the cloth from its evil past. She hoped this trial would do the same for the one they call Unen Zyrustafer.

Abe's Misery

Gertrud was a rotund and cheerful lady, going about her business in Port Cruces always with a whistle upon her lips. She was content with her life, after a harsh upbringing as a child in a household with 14 others, she was often neglected, often left to her own devices to find entertainment and amusement in simple things. Her outlook on life was one of appreciation. Everything that happened to her was usually moulded into a positive experience one way or another. She was wed to a strong man named Abe, he was a stocky well built fellow, who used to be able to carve up an oak tree with a small hand axe, and the fire would be blazing for a month. Time had been kind to Gertrud, since her thirtieth season she really hadn't aged at all outwardly, except for the foxglove daub she used to cover her grey hair, it gave it a purple sheen that she liked. A graceful colour. A stately shade so that she could jolly along in life and expect a smiling respect from the people she met.

One morning whilst out selling her basket woven items to anyone who would consider them, she was sidetracked into a long conversation about removing sap stains from thick cotton garments with her two friends, Edin and Marig. During this domestic discussion, Gert was astonished when she felt a cool breeze pass by behind her. It was almost like one of old farmer Deans Cows had sneezed but silently, behind her. She shivered out loud and although the other ladies were aware of it, they both shrugged at the odd gesture Gert had just involuntarily performed. The cloth cleaning cackling continued. Gert had never been much of a spiritual girl, she'd always seen nature as nature with no hidden spiritual basis behind it. "Cows were Cows" she always used to say. But if she ever did toy with the idea that there were forces beyond her control, she would chat the Cows saying to put paid to any fears that might arise. Magic was for Mages, washing and cooking her husbands tea was for old Gerty. This breath of dark wind that shook her so, had sown a seed of doubt in her mind. Uneasy, she tried to listen hard to the ongoing conversation, but the seed was growing, fast and strong. She could feel the small shoot of fear climbing in her body. A flower of panic. That was about to bloom, fear that spread its petals over her face and made her scream into the plants bud of hate. Gert's panic allowed her to almost slow time down, as if every lip movement of Edin's was a lifetimes drawl. No sooner had she spotted the flash of light from Marig\'s expensive gold tooth (something of a luxury for Commoners in these parts) than she felt something clasp her hair, her beautiful purple locks, something tugged hard on her hair. She wheeled around to see what was caught in her hair, and she saw nothing. But her hair was being tugged hard now, so much so that it knocked her off balance, falling to the floor, trying to arch her back like a good turned Lunas bow, she fell to the floor all crooked.

Looking up, with her chin resting on the hard stone paving, she saw the hidden darkness, she saw it using the laws of nature to lay open the hatred that lurked around these parts. The hatred that has her held tightly by a clump of her hair. The water in the gully, splashed about at regular intervals, making foot size impressions, with a crown of a splash, moving around her, moving around them all. She could just see Edin's lifeless eyes blink their last blink as the blood trickled out of her mouth and bled into the water, pink as carnations. She caught sight of her Abe, running so fast towards her as if he would collapse any second, his eyes were bulging wide, like the lids were peeled back so far he'd lost them. His tender mustachioed mouth was gaping open and a loud bellow was filling the atmosphere around him. He'd seen something terrible. He'd witnessed something so horrible that his eyes would remain stretched open for all eternity. Gerty felt a fumble in the arch of her back, like someone was pressing down hard, and she was pulled tighter as the necklace was ripped from her neck. A warm shaft of fluid spilled over her back and down the sides, she felt an odd queasiness as a dagger was plunged into her back, it clanged on the stone floor as it exited her stomach. She knew she'd seen the hidden danger that was lurking in the background of everyday life, she knew for that she must pay with her life. She knew she loved Abe more than anything this world could offer her, and sleepy, she now knew the darkness. She prayed for some peace and some light....

The Curse of Pray

Pray Morningblade was a good man, his sense of all things right and proper and his un founding belief in the one true God had led him onto a path of worship. However, this path was not one of placid teaching, not one of spreading the word and nurturing the flock. From an early time in his ecclesiastical life, he knew God wanted him to purge the world of those who had not fully made the transition from death to afterlife. His time as a minister was troubled with impatience and tension. His temper was too quick to begin to understand the faithless, his will was too strong to just give sermon after sermon and expect people to take notice. He had to cleanse the land, he had to use his gifts with a sword and a divine shield to expunge the rotting dead that still walked this land, they were clueless and hateful, they had lost their way unable to decide what was life and what was death. These lost souls were so desperate to find their path to the afterlife that they were easy prey for true evil. They could be cajoled and coaxed into performing work for any evil soul that could trick them. They required light. A Paladin\'s light. A shining force so bright and so powerful that it could set them free from this stinking malaise that is their purgatory.

So Pray took up the Lords challenge, he trained hard in the ways of the Paladin, soaking up the ability to turn undead by instilling the will of God within their sodden souls. In his early years he lost his mother, perhaps this single fact moulded his fiery temper and his stone like emotions - but good was to come of it. His father was comforted by an elven lady, who could sing so sweetly that his pain dissolved into her chorus. Years passed and his father and the elven songstress fell in love and married. Pray was unsure of himself through this time, although with the marriage come a time when the elven step mother brought into the Morningblade family her previous children. There was one child, Fade Moonbow, who seemed to give hope to Pray whenever he was lost in a faithless wilderness of teenage angst. Fade was a spritely beautiful girl with the ability to bestow happiness and joy to the darkest of situations just by smiling. Pray took to his step sister, as a kindred spirit. Both fuelled each others desires to be better and to maintain all that is good and holy in the land. Pray was but a season of maturity when Fade left, without word. She had participated in some elven celebration, and the next day she was gone. Her bow and some belongings gone. Pray was devastated. He called on the power of his true God to give him strength to search out his sister and no matter what had happened he knew he could make it right. Pray brooded with his skills for another season, until he felt he was ready. His moment had come. The undead would be saved, and he would scout for his treasured sister.

Many moons passed as Pray wandered the land, purging deserted churches and hidden crypts. Wherever he went there were tortured graveyards and diabolic dungeons to irradiate with the light of good. All the time he was questioning everyone he could about his sister, where was Fade? Where had she gone? Finally he had word of her in a city not far from a den of evil that was to be his nemesis. He hurried to meet her, to greet her and to find the answer to the gnawing question of why she left without a word.

Pray met many folk, including a lady of the cloth, Sister Ann Bright, who allegedly had adventured with Fade on many occasions. All professed Fade\'s good nature and expertise with a bow. All seemed uneasy when mentioning her appearance and none of them knew why she left. Pray wandered the streets for days on end. With no sign of Fade. Until he met a short gnarled man in the forests, who happened to take notice when Pray described Fade to him. The short man said she had gone to Hyde Castle to purge the darkness with her light. Pray was excited by this, at last a definite place, and a place where he may also do some good. To fight the wrath of evil side by side with his sister was all he could ask.

Deeper into the Castle Pray went, there was indeed a force unknown in these walls, Shadows and Zombies kept Pray busy almost constantly, like a knife through treacle he slowly cut them down releasing their tortured souls into the void of the afterlife, guiding them almost with his blade and his shield, thrusting them back to where they should have walked before they lost their way. The strangest sight to behold were the wererats, grotesque creatures obviously conjured from the remains of harmless vermin, something terrible, something perverse and evil was at work with the corpses in this place. There was no sign of Fade, sometimes Pray could hear the swish of an arrow in the next room, or the growl of her forest mate, but when Pray had made it to the room, it was empty, as empty as his soul felt now - with the prospect of ever seeing his sister again draining away like the oily blood of the wererats he\'d slain.

A dark moment hit him like a carriage full of fresh melon, he could hear a girl whimpering, it was like a whimper no one in their right mind would ever want to hear. Like a hushed howl, immediate and ever so demanding. The girl was under slow torture of some sort, Pray was sure of that. She needed help, it could be Fade! Pray burst in to a room that seemed so low lit, that even the vermin bumped into each other. It was dank and heavy, you could smell rotting flesh but only as a pleasant after waft over the true insipid smell of pure evil. The girl was whimpering louder now, and she actually mentioned his name ... \'Praaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyy\'. Pray\'s armour clinked as he shuddered to the call. He cast a holy light around himself, in order to see the grotesque innards of the room. His sword at his side, was actually tracing a pattern in thick mulched blood. He looked in shock to see his armoured legs had been covered by this gorey substance. He panicked, and started to shuffle around in the sleuce of carnage, trying to hear the direction of the moaning, faster it became, almost chanting his name now. He bounced with a resilient clang off one of the suppurating walls, wading through the bodily pulp was becoming more and more difficult, from the edge of his visored vision he could see things moving, like the floor had taken on form and shape but just out of normal eyesight range. In a desperate attempt he turned the undead, no-one from beyond the grave would harm him now, as he finished the mantra the spell kicked in and some of the floors substance sloshed about and slooped away - however, the girls moan become more stressed, more pained, in a corner of the room he spotted her, he threw himself forward to shield her body from the evil, if he could, he landed down near her legs, he was knee deep in the broth of blood, as he passed his hand over her face, her eyes opened. Green eyes of hate. She wrapped her dead legs around his waist, and something from behind him clamoured onto his back, a dark shroud of skin wrapped around his helmet obscuring his view, his last swing with his sword cut into the undead girl as far as he could tell, the blade meeting the usual resistance of backbone. The elasticised skin around his head ripped off his helmet like it was glued to it, he managed to half turn to see a room full of men, with eyes as red as the blood that spurted down his neck, two sharp teeth delving deep into his veins, the red eyes, closing in, the light of being, draining away, a baptism of blood... Fade... where are you?

The Curse of Fade

Fade was a most beautiful elven girl, her natural visage typified the elven race, everyone would comment on it, everyone from dwarf to Orc could appreciate it. She was blessed, some would say. As she grew and nurtured a desire to protect the good from the terrors of these uncertain times. She took up the bow, and she indulged her passion for the living breathing arched wood that could seal the darkness in light. Dark things shuffled in the twilight, they colluded and plotted against her. One particular nightwitch begrudged the perfection in Fade's face. This hag managed to take possession of a lock of Fade hair, from the claws of an aspiring demonic werewolf, some epidermal skin attached to the hair, gave the dreary sorcerer enough source biological material to concoct a curse to bring Fade's enlightenment to an end.

It was during an evening celebration of elvensong, when Fade danced amongst the most handsome of elven men, that the hag laid down her shrouded curse. As soon as the curse had taken hold, Fade's head disappeared from view. Her beauty vanished. As the startled onlookers stumbled to a halt, Fade was a headless body prancing carelessly among them. Some let out yelps of fear, some shouted curses of their own, a bedevilment lay before us. Fade stopped and stared at the moonlit reflection in the elven fountain of life. Her heart dipped into the water and floated away. She threw a woolen cape over her head and fled to her house, to collect all she could carry, her bow taking pride of place as her crutch to carry her burden away from these beautiful people. Since then, she has been reviled as a creature of evil, even though her true nature is one of pure good. She stumbled into ShadowRealm, and was befriended by a Sister of the Light, a young cleric girl, who went by the name of Sister Ann Bright. Her purity lifted Fade from the darkness of headless monstrosity, and she was brought before the divine misttress Sweetblade. Since her bow was still sturdy, Sweetblade conjured an archers helm, for Fade to wear to cover the shame of the curse. Fade's tears now drip silently behind a metallic prison, but her search to retrieve her identity and blessed beauty will never end.