The Red Shadow: Death's Descent Upon Celia'Nor

[Behindbush 163]

 

 

 

Spoiler

https://youtu.be/ajl7q4WkYAw?si=DaYSQ2mBdyUFzLDM

 

 

In the dead of night, beneath the watchful gaze of the stars, a cloaked figure slipped through the grand gates of Celia'Nor. The city of the high elves bustled with its usual opulence, but none noticed the shadow passing silently through the turmoil of the city square. Market stalls bustled, citizens hurried along their nightly errands, but the cloaked figure avoided every eye, a phantom amidst the living.

He moved swiftly, gliding through the streets like a wraith, until he reached the towering entrance of the throne hall. Inside, the air was thick with a regal stillness, untouched by the chaos of the city outside. But this stillness would not last.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the figure became a whirlwind of death. His movements were precise, calculated, like a blade slicing through parchment. Blood splattered the marble floors, vivid against the pristine white stone. His cursed katana whispered through the air as it carved through the hall’s elegant tapestries. His other blade dripped with crimson, its edge slick with the lives it claimed. Statues that had stood for centuries were defiled, their serene beauty twisted by the splatter of gore. The throne room, once a testament to the high elves' grace and power, was now a slaughterhouse, its sanctity forever desecrated by the figure’s blood-stained path.

Scattered across the floor were blood-soaked petals, crushed beneath the boots of a long-fled intruder. At the foot of the throne, an animal carcass—a raven, wings grotesquely splayed—had been impaled on a ceremonial spear, its feathers dripping with blood. The air was heavy with the scent of iron, and on the throne itself, a single, bloodied inscription had been slashed into the delicate wood

"The Kuruibi Horde claims all”

But his work was far from done.

 

 

With a silent leap, he ascended the walls, his skeletal frame moving with an unnatural grace. Climbing to the rooftops, he gazed over the city below, his crimson eyes glowing through the shadow of his hood. His prey, the one he sought, had slipped away, vanishing into the grand building at the far end of the city. He prowled the rooftops, tracking the fleeting shadows beneath him, but his quarry had eluded him.

For a moment, he paused, his gaze shifting toward the square, where a few bystanders stood unaware of the terror that watched from above. The figure loomed like a bloody moon, his presence suffocating and silent. Then, with a swift descent, he plummeted down onto a nearby stall, shattering wood and sending a cloud of dust into the night. Panic erupted around him as the crowd scattered, and the shrill cry of a woman broke the stillness. She darted towards the bell, her hand outstretched to ring the alarm, but the figure moved to intercept.

Both katanas unsheathed with a deadly whisper—Darkness and Red Flower gleamed in the moonlight, ready to end her. But as he closed the distance, a flash of gold cut through the air. An aurum dagger struck his chest, and the figure froze, a screech escaping his twisted lips as the cursed metal pierced his undead flesh. The woman fled, her voice echoing through the streets, calling for reinforcements as the figure staggered back, the aurum burning like fire through his decayed form.

He did not retreat.

 

 

A crowd gathered, shouting in terror, their voices rising in a cacophony of fear. From the chaos emerged his challengers—a stocky dwarf, his axe already wet with battle, an experienced high elf wielding a carbarum tomahawk, a valiant knight with his sword drawn, and the woman’s protector, standing firm despite his fear. The figure hissed, the glowing crimson in his eyes flaring with anger. He raised his blades, and the battle began.

The dwarf charged first, his axe swinging in a wide arc. The cloaked figure parried, but the force sent him skidding back across the stone. The elf struck next, his tomahawk a blur of blue steel as it clashed against the cursed katanas. Blades flashed, sparks flew, and the ground beneath them trembled with the fury of their strikes. The knight advanced, his sword a gleaming wall of steel as he pressed the attack, while the woman’s protector darted in, his blade flashing like lightning.

The figure traded blows with all of them, moving like a specter among the living. His screeches filled the night, the guttural sound of a soul lost to madness. Yet with each clash, the aurum burned deeper, its golden edge searing his very being. The crowd screamed and scattered, some rushing to tend to the wounded, others running in terror. But still, the figure fought on, his crimson eyes blazing with fury as he carved through his enemies. Blood stained the cobblestones, and the night air grew thick with the scent of death.

 

 

But even the undead have their limits. The aurum blade seared through his flesh and bones, weakening the figure with every cut. His once-deadly strikes grew frantic, driven more by rage than precision. The stocky dwarf charged forward, pinning him to the ground, his hands grappling with the creature’s rotting neck, trying to sever its cranium from the decayed body. The woman’s protector, relentless, hurled aurum daggers that sank deep into the ghoul’s cursed flesh, each one sending a fresh screech of agony into the air. Above them, the woman herself raised her tomahawk high, its carbarum edge gleaming before it slammed down toward the figure’s skull. Yet even that was not enough.

The knight, seeing his moment, delivered the final, crushing blow. His sword came down with the force of a mountain and the manner of a lumberjack, splitting the ghoul’s skull in two with a sickening crack. All of them knew that to end the lost samurai’s suffering—to truly put this wretched being to rest—they had to destroy its cranium. But even as his body failed him, his voice, twisted and full of hate, rang out across the square, as he limped to grasp onto the nearest stall and gaze at all the descendants.

“Death to the mortals, death to Aevos, praised be the Kuruibi Horde!”

With those final words, the cloaked figure crumpled to the ground, his skull shattered, his cursed blades clattering beside him. The battle was over, but the shadow he left behind lingered, a scar upon Celia'Nor that would not soon be forgotten.

 

 

Yet both of his katanas, Kurui and Akahana, lay forgotten on the blood-soaked ground, their once-pristine blades now dulled and tarnished by the chaos of battle. The brave warriors, a knight and the elf, emboldened by victory, scavenged these filthy weapons from the battleground, claiming them as trophies of their triumph over the nightmarish ghoul. They marveled at the dark elegance of the blades, whispering tales of their legendary past, unaware of the darkness they had inadvertently inherited.

But little did they know that these relics were not merely remnants of a defeated foe. They were vessels of vengeance, longing to be wielded once more by their true master. In the shadows, the figure’s soul lingered, a vengeful spirit forged anew by his hatred. One day, he would rise again, reclaiming what was lost and returning stronger than ever, ready to unleash his wrath upon those who dared to wield his power against him. The cycle of death and vengeance was far from over, and the warriors' triumph would soon be stained by the specter of his return.

 

 

Praised be the Horde