Longing for emptiness

2 Years ago, in the majestic halls of Sytris...

The grand halls of Sytris stretched out for a hundred yards in every direction. Workers quietly scampered across the ceiling, around the marble pillars of the seers hall, faced with the continuous task of repainting the sprawling frescos that adorned every inch of the massive cavern.

The female servants of the Shivilahala greeted the tall blood-elf guest with the same respect and authority that they greet all guests with, ushering him to the preparation area, and taking his travelling equipment and weapons from him. He looked at them with some curiosity as they moved swiftly and gracefully. One of the two pricked her finger while washing his feet, immediately placing it behind her back, and using only her uninjured hand for the rest of the preparation.

"My being a blood elf… it doesn't put you at unease?" he asked.

"Our Shivilahala, the blessed one, looks upon all with equality - you are as welcome here as any." Replied the two priestesses, simultaneously.

The blood elf chuckled. "Surely she doesn't believe that - treating namegivers equally is one thing, but there are many kinds, and they are far from equal."

The priestesses did not respond, instead handing him a simple black robe, which he placed over the multitudes of thorns protruding from his body with a practiced ease. They gathered up his things and cleaned the area around him carefully. He watched with interest.

After a moment, a voice, young and melodic, spoke up from within the halls.

"Eiriendal of the Queen's House, if all namegivers were not equal, then who would judge which was the best?"

Eiriendal bowed deeply, and the two priestesses faded back into the recesses of the hall, their faces towards the ground.

"Shivilahala," he said, proudly, " I thank you for your respects. You know my name, and my purpose, therefore, as you are a great seer of fate, I assume that you know what I am here to ask?"

As though concealing smoke was being blown away, the Shivilahala Sytris drifted into vision. She wore a simple piece of golden cloth draped from shoulder to tail, and was adorned with inscriptions in various colors of inks all over her small body. She walked towards the elf, but did not look him in the eye.

"Why lift a seed in the air, when time will do it for you?" she said, a strange, forgotten T'skrang melody in her words.

Eiriendal looked uncomfortable for a brief moment.

"I see." he said, clearing his throat in preparation, "I have come with a question burning in the hearts of many of the great wood. Will you hear it?"

The Shivilahla wandered away, coyly reaching out to a pillar, and running her hand around it's adornments as she went. As she re-emerged from the other side, moving like a cat. She scrambled up the edge of the pillar, as far as a young girl might, perching several feet from the ground.

"Hearts of the wood? This should be good. Ask." she said playfully.

Eiriendal took an uncomfortable look around, but no one was near.

"The Therans come soon," he said, his voice filled with gravity, "this I know from my own sources. What will the great slayers of dragons and dethroners of kings do to my people when they arrive?"

The Shivilahala leapt from her perch, her countenance changing. Filling her short height to it's fullest with grandeur and ladyhood, she strode upon him angrily, her beak just a hair's breadth from his nose.

"You know surely what lays in store. The great queen will never be dethroned, she who has so many favors owed, and calls so many at her fingers. You will all die - or be enslaved, I suppose, before she sees her throne emptied at the hands of the any outside her will. This much is so obvious that I assume you will rephrase your inquiry."

The elf seemed shocked, and slowly parsed her terse response. Meanwhile, the Shivilahala seemed to revert to her catlike playing, and skirted around the column again.

Though she wasn't visible, he spoke again.

"What must I do to ensure what is best for my people?"
The quiet words echoed through the halls, repeating the question time and time again.

The Shivilahala's voice seemed to float into the room.

"I see… counsel sought will always be repaid for those who walk the path." the words were almost sung.

From around each of the pillars an image of the Shivilahala appeared, each various in some way. They chanted in unison, some voices coursing in pain and agony, some seemingly in pleasure.

"You chose to burn the heart of the wood down so that no evil would nest in it's bough, or take shade beneath it's leaves - in so doing, the heat of the fire burned from you what happiness and joy there was to be found in living."

The images of the Shivilahala lunged at the elf, who froze in a panicked fear. They grasped at his clothes and hair from all directions, almost climbing onto him as they each continued.

"To travel without a guide is folly, and for my heart is without a path, what hope is there for my soul?" she said in perfectly pronounced elven.

Eiriendal's eyes went wide.

"These were your words, weren't they. Yes… as a young man your heart was still new, and the pain so great. You sought release through words, the words you destroyed in a dwindling campfire before anyone might read them, and have you cast out alone. Perhaps this should have been your question, not some feigned and fading altruism for the Mighty Bloodwood."

Around Eiriendal the images vanished, and he fell to the floor, his face contorted in pain. Years of hiding his suffering from the Ritual of Thorns seemed to be undone with just a simple verse, long forgotten. The voice of the young T'skrang was heard again, seemingly echoing from afar.

"Despair? Now? Despair is meaningless while there is hope. And hope yet lives. A new wood is born, from the ashes of the great tree of life. You will usher it and welcome it, for it will be the undoing of all the wrongs you have dealt. You will see the fruits of the elven nation, but touch them not - for your thorns and your blood will taint them. You will see the joy, peace, and strength in the hearts of those who taste them, but you cannot share it - for you have nothing to compare them to."

Eiriendal desperately drew breath.
"How?" was all he could get out, his voice cracking.

The shivilahala's response was so faint as to almost be unheard, but the words found Eiriendal's ears above his sobbing breaths.

"Ply the land until you find a place as empty as your heart. From the ashes a new wood will rise to destroy the old. There and then the only hope will be in your hands." the words were infitely close to silence, but for Eirendal, as loud as thunder.



Moments later the only sound audible in the mighty chamber was that of tears striking the marble floor.

Sacrifice: Travar-style

In a darkened alleyway buried within Travar…

Two T'skrang stand over seven bodies scattered around a bloody ritual circle, poking and prodding the remains with short sticks. Several of the bodies were stacked one atop the other, blood pooling and running down the alley to the street. A pile of bloody, discarded robes and other clothing protruded halfway out of a tipped-over barrel in the rat-filled alleyway.

"They must have been adepts from around here." Said the taller of the two T'skrang.

The other just nodded, taking a loud sip from his squidichino.

A squat, Dwarven figure walked into the light at the end of the alleyway, and began to approach the scene.

"Hassala - we have company." said the tall T'skrang, motioning towards the figure.

"Hey," shouted Hassala, "this is business for the guard - make your way out, now." he motioned away with his free hand.

The squat figure stopped for a moment, peering into the darkness, before continuing his leisurely stroll towards them.

"I said -" Hassala started again, but was interrupted by the voice of yet another T'skrang.

"What you said was 'I am honored' to our guest, Hassala, and you too, Mak'kara." the decorated captain of the guard, Viras, stepped out from around the corner behind the Dwarven figure.

"Captain Viras, sir!" both the T'skrang saluted.

The Dwarf removed his glasses, folding them neatly, and tucking them into a pocket on his coat. He stepped forward over the bodies, right into the bloody runic circle. He reached down and picked up a small blade with a simple wooden hilt.

"Hey! Be careful not to disturb the evidence!" Shouted Mak'kara

"I could not do more damage than has already been done were I to be leading cattle through here. I suppose I have you to thank for that?"

The T'skrang hissed in response, retreating to near the captain.

"Captain Viras, I apologize, but who is this?"

"A specialist, and he is leading this investigation."

Before the two T'skrang could even fully become outraged, the captain put a finger to his beak.

"He is a representative of Mynbruje - and out honored guest. He specializes in matters revolving around cults and cultists - Help him where you can."

The two were literally crestfallen, and made their way back to the edge of the circle.

The Dwarf shoved a Trollic body off of the stack. It landed with a wet thud. "Help me with this, hold up his arm."

Hassala and Mak'kara did a quick rock, paper and scissors. Mak'kara lost.

He approached the Dwarf. "You want me to do what?"

"Hold this." said the Dwarf, shoving the arm of the bloodied troll into his hands. It was cold and somewhat stiff. Mak'kara gagged.

"And...Lift." said the Dwarf, rolling back his sleeve.

Without warning, he plunged his arm into the large gash-wound in the Troll's underarm. The squelching sounds were loud and disgusting.

Mak'kara looked on in abject horror.

"Lungs...intact… heart…" the Dwarf grunted, reaching shoulder-deep into the troll's upper torso. "intact."

He pulled his arm from the cavity and gave it a whip, sending blood all over.
"You can drop it - fetch the a towel from my bag."

Mak'kara stumbled away from the troll, and over to the Dwarf's bag, opening it to reveal dozens of serrated saws, measuring instruments, and a small cloth. He grabbed it and handed it to the Dwarf.

The Dwarf, looking the other way, absent-mindedly fumbled his blood-soaked hand all over Mak'kara before finding the towel and whipping it up. He brushed his arm off with it, squeezed it out, and tucked it into his pocket.

"So, this was a sacrifice?" asked the Dwarf casually.

Mak'kara, too busy losing a 3 silver breakfast, couldn't respond. Hassala stepped forward.

"Yes, obvious, you can see all the runes." he said, gesturing all around them at the various and sundry runes all over the walls and floor of the alley.

The Dwarf looked around at them.

"You don't say. What else leads you to believe this?"

Hassala looked confused for a moment. "Well, that is really all it takes, isn't it?"

The Dwarf smiled slowly, and then proceeded poking through the bodies.

"Tell you what," said the Dwarf, "make yourself useful and get me a glass of cold water with lemon."

Hassala looked as though he was about to explode in his skin. Captain Viras stepped up behind him, her voice calm, but clearly entertained.
"He made a request, Hassala - do it."

Moments later Hassala returned, glass in hand, and moneypouch lighter.

"Enjoy." he said angrily, shoving the drink towards the Dwarf.

"I doubt that very much." said the Dwarf as he pulled the lemon from the water, and squeezed it over the center of the runes. The runes turned from red to dark green, and then started washing away.

Hassala looked on in confusion as Mak'kara returned, still breathing heavily.

"What does that mean?" Hassala asked.

The Dwarf turned around glancing at them briefly.
"It means… that this runic circle was painted with dead blood. This and the lack of significance of the runes means this was no sacrifice at all, but just made to look like one."

"No significance? It classic example of a death cult ritual!" said Mak'kara

"Indeed it is. Too classic - this is the same ritual circle that was described in the Throalic Library and posted publicly after the Death Rebellion."

Mak'kara gestured a T'skrang-specific gesture of complete exasperation. It looked like he had tied his fingers in knots.

"Exactly!" Hassala said.

"Exactly indeed," the Dwarf continued, "What fools would Throal be to reprint and display the exact ritual circles used by the Death Cultists, and potentially risk spreading hundreds of their runic circles around? This is an exact copy of the fake runic circle presented by Throal as an example of what to look out for."

Both Hassala and Mak'kara looked awed. "So someone murders seven adepts and leaves em lying around to make it look like a cult - but who would have the numbers to kill seven at once in the same place at the same time?" Mak'kara pondered aloud.

"Brimstone Gang, Taylor's Chosen, maybe that Nix Cult we heard about - they all have enemies."

"Wrong. This wasn't done by locals. This is the work of out-of-towners." the Dwarf said promptly.

"Explain that one, then." demanded Mak'kara.

"Simple. These bloody robes and shoes in the corner, they are new, and barely used for the amount of time it would take to do the crime."

"So?"

"So, this means that they were recently purchased, from a source probably nearby. The shoes have the distinct soles of Serevos wood, meaning they were made locally, and the robes are dyed with Fire-pitch coal, meaning they are local as well. What local would buy new clothes just before a murder and leave them at the scene? We could just ask the nearby shopkeepers their identities and be done with it, couldn't we?"

"Ha! You really are something, Dwarf! Let's get on it, Hassala!" Mak'kara said, turning to go.

The Dwarf held his hand to his face. "No, it is no use, as I said."

The T'skrang stopped in their tracks, turning slowly. Commander Viras watched with interest, seemingly ignoring them.

"No local smart enough to reproduce the runes in such a fashion would have done so. Not to mention, there are 4 robes here, all new, and 8 shoes. No 4 people together, who were experienced Nethermancers or gifted cultists would have made such a childish mistake."

Hassala and Mak'kara both shrugged. "What now, then?"

"Now." Said the Dwarf, "we identify the bodies."

Mak'kara practically jumped "Already done!" he said, whipping out a small parchment.

"The troll is Gurntok, local smith's assistant, ex-convict, wanted for… arson. The T'skrang was a swordmaster drunkard who went by Fishtail, the human there was a ex-tavernkeeper named Gerard, and that human there was an apothecary by the name of Dravis, the other 2 humans and Dwarf are unknown."

The Dwarf frowned. "I would hardly call that done, but at least you were more than halfway there. Now, how are they linked?"

Mak'kara started to open his beak, but Hassala started saying something. They looked at each other for a while, "Maybe they were all unlucky?"

The Dwarf nodded, seemingly pondering this for a while.

"Yes, they were weren't they? An ex-con who scrapes by on low wages, a drunk ne'er-do-well, and a tavern-keeper who could barely afford the clothes on his back. Unlucky, and most likely, unmissed. These other four, however, were well-to-do. Let's have a look…"

The Dwarf pushed one of the bodies off the pile, and a small shiny object rolled away from it.

Hassala flicked it into the air with his tail and caught it, handing it to the Dwarf.

It was a small charm made of glass. Suspended in the center of it was a single, living drop of blood. It had nethermantic runes carved around it, and the image of a chalice on one side.

"Knights of Nix, I should have known. These three, they were unlucky - these four here, these were the targets." said the Dwarf, gesturing to the unidentified bodies, and that of the apothecary.

The Dwarf suddenly stopped, reaching into his pocket and pulling out several items, as well as a pipe. He filled it and lit it carefully, puffing several times to get the tobacco to burn steady.

"Say…" said the Dwarf "do any of you have any blood charms?"

Both the T'skrang's shook their heads, and the captain as well.

The Dwarf looked them in the eye, and then wandered to the other side of the crime scene.

"Each one of these four was killed sooner, and more slowly than the others. They were being questioned - questioned, no doubt, about the Knights of Nix. If this was not a questioning based on a crime, then it was surely related to the cult. All four were gathered here in their everyday garb - they were not here for a ritual. The questioner obviously didn't provide the answers being sought - as they each died slowly and painfully. Had he gotten his answers, the remaining ones would have been given swift deaths."

The T'skrangs feverishly scribbled notes.

After a few puffs from his pipe, the dwarf continued.

"They were being questioned about the cult, in some regard that they could not speak of - but what about the cult would they want to hide this much? Any follower of Death would be happy to share everything he knew about Death, even if being forced… but there is something else here. The force behind the cult - the magic behind the cult. I know something about these so-called "knights" - I have met the man who founded the order. He was a powerful, intimidating and vindictive figure in his infancy, and grew more so with age and power. If knowledge of him was at the end of this questioning, then surely it would be worth death to avoid being on his bad side."

The Dwarf turned his back to the alley, and faced the T'skrang, holding up the small charm.

"This charm, however, will enable me to find their killer, beyond a shadow of a doubt. With it, I can communicate with their spirit easily. Obviously the killer didn't know this fact."

Out of the shadows of the alleyway a thin tendril whipped out and latched the tiny necklace, ripping it from the Dwarf's hands, and hurling back into the shadows.

"Thanks to youuu - Investigator Jurolisss." a voice hissed, "You have done for mee what I, regretably, could not… now, however, you will tell me all you know of Archon Kaylu of the Seven!"

The Captain, Mak'kara and Hassala all reached for their shortswords, but binding lashes whipped around their arms and legs as they did so.

Investigator Jurolis simply puffed on his pipe.
"You had better not have been lying." he said, glancing back at the struggling T'skrang.

The shadow burst forth, death's head itself on the shoulders of a man, seemingly 10 feet tall. His cloak billowed forth, and reached through the shadows up behind the 4 of them, threatening to envelope the entire alleyway and everyone in it.

"Fractomos!" Jurolis shouted, clapped his hands together around a small piece of living crystal he had produced from his pocket earlier. A shockwave blasted out from him, passing through everything and everyone nearby, the terrifying shadow included.

There was a sudden muffled crack, and an instant later, a black, shrouded body hit the ground face-first in front of him. The countenance of the alleyway immediately returned to normal, and the bindings on the T'skrang slipped away.

The body struggled in the throes of death for a moment, before becoming still. Jurolis calmly returned the stone to his pocket, and pushed it over. Shards of living crystal protruded from it's chest, blood gushing from several holes produced by the same. It's head lolled sickly to one side, facing Jurolis. Still-living eyes with a reptilian pupil seemed to dart back and forth, fixing on him, before fading away.

Jurolis stared for a moment.

"Iopos" he said. "And it seems like they are looking for one of the Seven."

Captain Viras spoke up for the first time. "The Seven? They are planning a journey into the badlands - they have been gathering resources and namegivers to their cause. Archon is not among them, though."

"Exactly why he makes an excellent target - they won't be able to aid him. Through him, they have all of them." said Jurolis.

The Tskrang nodded. "What now?" asked Mak'kara.

"I didn't think it was possible..." Jurolis said as he tapped out his pipe, and turned towards the street.

"What? Wait, where are you going?" asked Hassala

"We've got to find the Seven first."

"Why?" the T'skrang stammered.

"It sounds like things in the Badlands..."

Jurolis paused, lifting his glasses to his head, fixing them securely on his nose.

"...have gone from bad to worse."

Fruit of Vengeance

Chants echoed through the dark halls of the temple.

An Ork with no name walked towards the chamber slowly. His eyes seemed to be exploding in fear, but his movements were calm and precise. His black robe flowed gracefully as he came to rest with each step.

As he neared, the words of the chant flowed through him. He felt compelled by them, so much so that the collar about his neck, and bound to the hand of the High Priest was full of slack in front of him.

"Brothers in blood. Sisters in blood. The blood of the brood is black. The blood of the brood is blue." they chanted.
He drew closer to the chamber, sweat trickling down his brow.

As he stepped to the door, the chanting ceased.

The High Priest bowed low to the ground with practiced grace.

"I present you the nameless one, who has made his choice of his own will, out of true adoration for his master." he said with speed, as though the words were spoken often.

In the chamber there were five figures around an altar, with long channels leading from the center into a lowered ring around the edge, about 10 inches in breadth. At the far end of the room sat a statue-like figure, towering in height above a common namegiver, whose face was obscured by a solid silver metallic mask. It stopped below the nose, or where a nose should be, and his haggard, red lips, protruded beneath it.

The seated figure spoke, but has he did, his mouth did not move with the words, save to lick his lips with a dry tongue.
The voice was powerful, but calm.
"COME FORWARD, NAMELESS ONE."

The Ork moved forward slowly.
As he reached the edge of the altar the voice spoke again.

"STOP."
The Ork obeyed

"YOU HAVE CHOSEN THIS FATE, NAMEGIVER. YOU RELINQUISH YOUR LIFE FOR THE ALMIGHTY DENIASTARES."
The Ork nodded, as though in a trance."YOU ARE NAMELESS, AND SO I GIVE YOU A NAME. YOU ARE KNOWN AS TOR CINDERFLESH, OF LAKE BAN"
As he finished speaking, the figure lifted up his hand, and in so doing, the Ork was lifted into the air. He motioned with his hand in such a fashion as to bring the Ork to rest on the altar.

"DENIASTARES, THIS OFFERING IS BENEATH YOU, AS ARE THOSE THAT MAKE IT. WE ASK THAT YOU ACCEPT THIS BLOOD, AND SHOULD IT BE WORTHY, GIVE US THE SIGHT OF THAT WHICH WE SEEK."

As he finished speaking, the five shrouded figures grabbed the sacrifice, holding him down to the altar by each of his limbs. Once they were in position, the seated figure stood, towering over the scene, and lifted his hands into the air. He slowly turned over his palms to face downward, and pushed them towards the ground. As he did, a grisly crunching cracking noise and a muffled whimper emerged from the Ork, whose blood seemed to diffuse from his body entirely. Within seconds the altar overflowed with blood, filling the shallow channels and pouring into the pool around the edge of the ritual table.

At once, the five voices shouted in unison, and the dried body ignighted, instantly being reduced to cinders. Smoke billowed forth, and seemed to immediately begin to swirl and churn. The blood below seemed to seep into the very rock of the altar itself.

In the smoke, an image started to form. It seemed to dance between terror beyond reason and joy. A barren plain filled with nightmares and bleached bones and a lush forest of powerful oaks protecting it's people. The smoke swirled, seemingly drawing away, as the great trees drew back into the earth, and the boundaries of the wood shrank, until there was just a handful of namegivers at the edge of a blackened, barren landscape.

One of the shrouded figures cursed, and the image of the smoke seemed to shatter momentarily.

Seconds later, the calm restored, the image seemed to narrow, the namegivers became clear, Seven, or what remained of them, stood on the edge of the badlands. Ready to journey into them, it seemed. Their many allies and compatriots surrounded them, but were less sure than they were.

At the center of the image was Tor.

The smoke faded as the last drop of blood disappeared into the ground.

"MY CHILDREN." the voice spoke again, this time the mouth bared it's teeth - multiple rows of inhuman fangs.

"YOU HAVE CHOSEN THIS TASK. BE REWARDED FOR ACHIEVING THIS GOAL. BE REWARDED WITH DEATH FOR FAILURE."

The robed figures bowed low.

"KILL TOR CINDERFLESH, AND RETURN WITH HIS BODY AS AN OFFERING. TAKE HIS SOUL AS A TROPHY. IT WHICH BRINGS HIM BACK WILL BE THE MOST FAVORED OF MY BROOD."The five figures all looked upon him.

"SEVEN HAVE SOWN THE SEEDS OF VENGEANCE, AND NOW WE HARVEST THE FRUITS OF THEIR LABORS. GO NOW, AND BRING ME THE FIRST OF SEVEN SOULS."

The Silent Serpent

At the edge of the serpent river, somewhere southwest of Lake Ban…

"Backtracking!" the scarred and flamboyant Tskrang let out a forced laugh.

"I would have us doing no such -" he was cut off by the Aropgima, Hiskala.

"Enough. The evidence is clear. We travel upriver once again." Hiskala spoke with tremendous force and authority.

Cam let out a snort.

"Clear?" he said, continuing his mocking tone. "This pile of shit is not evidence of Theran activity in Shysval - it is evidence only that even a scorax gets diarrhea from time to time."

"Then go your own way - you do nothing to further our goals with your actions or words."

Cam stood appalled, the thought of leaving might have been his end goal, but this insult could not go by unnoticed, even if his freedom was on the line.

"NOTHING!" He bellowed, "NOTHING? What about the hulking mass? Who saved you from that horrific monstrosity?"

"You brought it upon us with your insistence on song and dance in the middle of the Serevos." Hiskala said quietly.

"And who killed it? Me!" Cam shouted, puffing up his chest, and bringing his frills out across his face in pride. "Then what of the shadowmants? You would have died in your sleep if it weren't for me, you know that as a fact."

"They were attracted to your roasting fish. I specifically told you not to cook anything using the darkfire."

"And yet again, who killed them? Me. Only taking one casualty from…" Cam counted on his fingers "More than ten shadowmants is something to be proud of."

"I am not proud that we lost a scout in training." Hiskala snapped.

"No, I wouldn't be either, but I would be proud of making the decision to bring me along on the trip - because without me…"

"SILENCE!" Hiskala's whisper may as well have been a roar, and even Cam was swayed by it.

A snap from the woods brought everyone's attention towards the darkened forest's edge. A small ball of light appeared within, dancing for a moment, before rising into the air.

"GET DOWN!" Hiskala yelled, as the light reached it's apex, and began to drop towards the ground in front of them.

Cam drew his heartblade, whipping his body towards the light and lunging, snapping the end of his blade against the tiny orb with a grunt, and sending it soaring back into the woods from whence it came.

"What in the name of the passions was…" Cam was blown to the ground as a deafening explosion blasted through the woods, flames spilling out from every open spot. Whole trees were flung into the air like toys.

Cam stood up with a cheer, turning towards the rest of the scouting party.

"AGAIN, I SAVE YOU, YOU SEE?" Cam erupted like a volcano, throwing his blades into the air. "I AM THE FASTEST, I AM THE BEST, IN FACT, I AM THE CORE OF THIS WHOLE EXPEDITION!" he caught his blades with a spin, laughing heartily.

The rest of the camp looked in horror and began to scramble away.

Cam turned slowly, still laughing, in time to see 7 more orbs in the air, making their way towards the ground in front of him.

"Oh Horse Cocks!" The explosions silhouetted him, and he seemed to vaporize, his blades flying into the air and into the river beyond.

"Therans! Dead or alive!" shouted Hiskala, racing into the smoke and cinders, along with the rest of the scouting party.

…….

The Theran commander stepped over the corpses, kicking one to check for the sign of their house.

"Disgusting. Nevilheim, I would ask you avoid using skin shift, it makes this job very difficult."

The windling jumped down.

"If…" the windling croaked "if you are having trouble relating, I could easily do the same to you."
The Theran commander considered this, and kept silent, digging into the folded piles of tskrang hide for the bracelet. As he pulled it out, he gagged.

The sound of the windling laughing was like the sound of the signal to an execution. A mirthless facsimile of an emotion.

"All Vistremon sir. 6 count." said one of the soldiers nearby.

"There were Seven of them. Egrin?"

The elementalist stepped forward. "The Seventh? That is probably what you are tasting right about now. Now, if you will excuse us, we have no more time to guard our guardsmen. We have to reach Serpentwatch soon, or we can expect they will have already failed to avoid detection as dramatically as you seemed to."

The commander flicked the gore from his hands, and shouted to his men who were rummaging through the corpses for valuables.

"Wrap it up, there is more where this came from in Lake Ban."

As they moved back into the woods, the windling paused, looking back over the decimated bowl burned out of the forest at the river's edge.

The elementalist approached him. "What has you alarmed?"

The windling spoke slowly. "Something here yet lives…"

The elementalist looked about.

"A lot here yet lives. Pay it no mind. These Vistremon traitors are beneath us."

"Right. True enough... but... even so.... have the men come back and clean up once we arrive."

The elementalist nodded.

……..

A few moments later a reed popped up out of the water. A gurgling Cam spat it out of his mouth.

"Beneath you!? That filthy little dredged-up wet-winged reject from Thera thinks I am beneath him? NO ONE IS BENEATH CAM DARKBLADE!"

Cam thought about this for a second, before ensuring that no one was around, and tore off into the woods.

The Stone Graveyard

"Dis will bless those who sloth, but Garland will have those who work. Put your backs into it. We are behind schedule, the Elementalists will be here in the day, and I will brand you all with the fires of hell if this area isn't cleared."

The slaves returned to work, not looking at where they were taking the mouthy ork. The sound of steel being drawn and a gurgle told them what they had to look forward to if they disobeyed.

One of the slaves, a middle aged woman, approached a large collapsed building, maybe an estate, perhaps something larger. She looked around, some of it seemed to be intact, the front of the remaining portions of the structure were crushed by a huge against a slab of marble. She started pulling on one end, barely even managing to budge it. Another slave approached and put his back into it, and soon several slaves were pulling on the stone, eventually it gave way, and they leapt away as the 20 foot tall chunk of stone came smashing down over the road nearby. Immediately another team of slaves set upon it with chisels and hammers, reducing it to rubble and placing it on carts.

The slavemaster shouted a loud cheer "Now THAT is more like it! Good work, Niras, you will make yourself useful yet." he approached the sliver-like crack in the wall and lookked into the interior of the building. He froze, fear creeping over his eyes. Just inside of the wall there was an arcane rune written in blood.

He spun around, addressing the slaves.

"Take a rest, slaves. You have 3 minutes for food and water."

The slavemaster backed away from the structure slowly, and summoned a messenger from the street, warily eyeing the dilapidated building behind him in the field of rubble.

All the slaves, exhausted and beaten, sat, save one. The woman motioned to a young man. "Arras, come here." the young boy emerged from hiding in the distance and ran to her. "Mama?" he asked in a common under-aged-sounding response.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye."Arras," She said "Go in that building. Find something that mama needs."The boy nodded, and ran over the building, squeezing himself through the seam in the wall with little effort.

Dust and debris dropped around the boy as he scooted into the room on all fours. He stood up, looking around. The blackened walls and floor seemed scorched, papers were scattered around. At the far end of the room a small glint caught his eye. He half-slid, half stumbled down to the corner of the room. A tiny glinting piece of metal was poking out of the debris. He reached down and grabbed it. As he touched it, he recoiled - it was warm, and felt moist, like blood. He looked to his hand, but there was nothing wrong with it, so he made a more pronounced effort to extract it.

Tugging on the edges, he managed to pull it up from the mess. It was a cube, about 4 inches on each side, and seemed to be made from a strange, almost mirror-like metal. Each side of the cube was cut into the shape of a circle, like a window into the interior, which possessed yet another cube of the same shape and design, but with smaller proportions. The subdivision continued within, and it was impossible to see where exactly it stopped.

"Arras, hurry!" the voice seemed distant, and rocketed the young boy out of his trance.

"Yes mama!" he replied.

Making his way up the angled, broken floor towards the door, he stepped on something that crunched underfoot. A distant, barely audible roar seemed to echo through the room. He looked down at the broken piece of brittle stone beneath his foot. It was white and flakey, and seemed to have a strange shape - a hand, as though it was part of a statue. It might be valuable, so he reached down and grabbed it, hiding it with the cube in the folds of his tunic.

As he climbed out of the room, his mother and the others hid his progress back towards his place in their slave-camp a short ways away.

The slavemaster returned with a messenger, and several robe-clad individuals, who glided across the ground effortlessly. One whose face completely shrouded a strangely shaped head turned his attention to the building.

"Leave us." he said quietly.

The slavemaster nodded.

"Alright, we are done here. Gather your tools and move. Now! Now!" He said, cracking his whip in the air. The sound sent shivers down the spine of the slaves, who leapt into action.

The robed figures approached the building slowly, talking amongst themselves as the slaves made their way away from the demolished structure.

...

Meanwhile, the young boy, Arras, furiously trying to scramble into his hiding place in the camp, didn't notice the fingers of the hand slowly releasing their crushed stone contents.