Seuss

From the walls of Sternfell's encampment, a hunter sat comfortably facing the souther shores. In one hand he held a thick cut of jerky, tearing away at it with his jaw while reading the recent delivery of parchments in his other hand. Basileus. A name that struck out to him like a pained headache. Aurelian had told him the name of his family that he has forgotten. Told him he had an older sister still. Several hundred years have taken a toll on the hunter's mind, but as his memory slowly returns, he feels the need to see them again. Perhaps to understand why he grew so distant to begin with.

Cassian went around looking for Cesari to congratulate him. Where did he go?

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・ La Música ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 1 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ The sea only carries willing men to cursed shores Cassian stood just shy of the southern shores, watching as the tide rolled in and lazily retreated. The sun shone over the yellow-hued grass that tilted with the gentle winds grazing from the high mountains to the sunken valleys. Across the way did his gaze focus on the once blessed lands of the Silverwoods. The abyssal darkness that loomed overhead its silvery-blue foliage would certainly block out any true sunlight once underneath its veil. This was not his first journey; in fact, Cassian has sailed to the island on numerous occasions for battle and espionage, and today's expedition was no exception. His intense commitment was stolen from the nickering of his steed slowly walking up beside him. The warhorse, trained to excel in any climate on any terrain, had accompanied Cassian since he was a young boy. To this day, he towers over the Hunter akin to a living monument, but they were close friends. A hand raised to meet his steed, and the companion bowed his head in kind. Through thick and thin, Cassian knew he would ride free of any altercation if need be, and no other mount in the realm could catch him. “In and out. As per usual.” observed the Hunter as the ferry came within distance to that shoreline dock. With rein in hand, he ventured onto that unkept pier. “I cannot do this any longer.” Whined the Operator as he looked over his most accustomed passenger. “It gets worse and worse, and soon I fear the undead will begin clinging to my ship.” A small, leather-bound pouch of coin was lofted over to that concerned man, followed by a most uncaring tone. “You only fear an empty purse. When this is over, find yourself guiding travellers to and from Idunia and the Empire.” “Don’t get hurt out there.” From his tone, the Operator meant that. Cassian brushed it off with a smile, carefully guiding his horse onto the ferry, and it was soon departing from the sunny shores where everything had reason and his family and friends were safe. With the time given before he was upon enemy territory, Cassian looked through his belongings to confirm he was set for an altercation. Sharpened weaponry, potions, aurum-dipped arrows, a large chain around his waist, and his longbow slung over his shoulder. Whatever he would encounter, he would conquer. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 2 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ Instinct notices danger long before the mind accepts it Just as he made landfall, Cassian watched his ride make haste in ridding his presence of despair and gloom. The Hunter bid the rider farewell with a lowering of his chin before turning onto his horse. With one leg raised and secured against the stirrup, he launched himself up and over, settling on the saddle and brushing back his mount’s mane. Cassian’s eyes turned upwards towards those towering trunks of silver and white; the only hope of a blessing’s return still residing in the natural wildlife. Hooves pressed into the grass below, turning over fresh soil as Cassian surged between low hanging branches at exposed roots. The familiar paths he travelled to and from on multiple outings brought him to the first open field where flowers bloomed in plenty and trees circled the area. In the center lay a corrupt construction of blasphemy having not previously existed. An amalgamation of wrought flesh, sinew, and unidentifiable bone made up this totem-like effigy. Cassian brought his horse to a slow pace, not motioning close to the totem, but instead observing it from afar. The uneasiness within him grew from there. He always felt uneasy when approaching lairs; however, this dread that came over him did not steady. It grew the longer he remained on the island. There may be more totems on the island, and so he was off once more, sailing through the forest like a ship over water. As he turned towards the white sand beaches and circled around the small portion of woods killed over by The First Blasphemy, Cassian came across yet another effigy raised from the once-pure ground. He was certain more would populate the island, and as he attempted to continue on, his horse whined and stepped in the beginnings of a retreat. “Woah. . .” he brushed along the steed’s head, attempting to calm him down. “It’s alright. I just want to check for more, then we will leave immediately.” Almost unconvinced, the horse was ready to leave, yet moved with Cassian’s guidance further into the island. He now aimed to reach the lower valley just short of the Black Church fortress. The gothic structure itself posed as a cathedral of past creations. Towers rise and split apart into needle-like spires, each tapering at their peaks like black ferrum spears. Vertical windows with sealed walls behind them stacked in a pattern along the front and sides of the pointed arches. A contrasting darkness to the white earth around it, and a large circular window at the fortress’ forefront. As Cassian rode through the forest once again, leaving behind the absent abomination, the churning of low chants echoed between trees, and the everpresent odor of death assaulted his nostrils greater than before. As the low branches parted way to the next clearing, Cassian found himself before the denizens of that false church. A group of undead ghouls accompanied by their Necromancers stood before a third effigy of unknown remains. A foul rite of desecration upon the land they call home, where imbuing lifeforce empowered the totem’s corruption into the land below it. The shuffling of his horse stirred their attention as the ritual came to an end. Rotten eyes turned upon that lone Hunter - he was spotted. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 3 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ Even seasoned hunters can become prey One weaker ghoul caught a glimpse of the Hunter soon after his mount made enough noise. An axe came from the undead’s belt, held in both hands as the creature fidgeted and twitched similar to withdrawal. There stood a skeleton close by - its bony hand sporting wisps of foul black ether between the digits. It too turned upon Cassian and sluggishly ascended the valley slope. In the rear stood a jester-like enigma, sporting a mask of sorrow and joy with a long cap’n’bell headpiece stretching down its backside. Beside them paced a Dark Elf sorceress, quick to channel lavender energies within her palm. Closest to the abomination effigy did the form of a witch stride forward. Her robes billowed about her form as shadows darkened around her person. The summoning of abyssal flame around her arm began coalescing into a sphere. The greatest threat stood nearest the Hunter. A foe he has witnessed before - a King. A man whose appearance indicates centuries of age, with a green cloak hanging just over his shoulders and a cane in hand. The ash-crown atop his head symbolized his position in the hierarchy, and Cassian knew this to be one of the Sepulchre’s chosen directors. As that congress of entropy and ruin set into motion their march upon the Hunter, the woods around Cassian churned to life with previously unfound activity. The clamoring forms of undead shuffled to and fro between trees and shrubbery. Some afforded armor, albeit rusted and falling apart. Wicked weaponry dragged across the ground as their awful groans of forced revival replaced the once board-scratching ceremonial display. That King of Witches, black flame spurring from his hand, raised an arm in directive as his command rang to all those present. All of them. “What are you waiting for?” Questioned that subject of the darkness. “Bring him to me.” Cassian’s heel kicked into the side of his steed as he rushed leftward, aiming to break free of that undead barricade slowly forming a perimeter around him. He lowered his head, and for a brief moment it appeared as though the wolf-pelt that hung on his body had come back to life and controlled the horse’s sprint. His gut screamed at him as much as his horse whined out in terror. He should have not come here today. He should have listened when his companion desired to leave. When the ferry operator suggested turning away. The initial ghoul that caught wind of him rushed in a blind fury, energized by hunger alone. Its teeth parted wide, exposing the rot within that only dreamed to feast upon flesh. It was the first to combat Cassian. The Hunter drew his axe and swung it down the side of his horse, crashing against that ghoul’s arm as it opted to dive away instead of tanking the collision. Its own weapon swung for the belly of that horse, yet more worry laid ahead. As Cassian charged forward, the King of Witches gestured with his blackened hand, urging black flames to erupt from the soil below and conjured forth a wall of abyssal hell. He could not dodge the impact to come, and with his boots freeing the stirrups and aiding Cassian while standing onto his horse, he met the wall. He hoped the impact was enough to end his friend’s life. The slash from the axe alone would bring him only agonizing pain - but that impact into the wall was sure to destroy that mount’s vertebrae from head to tail. Cassian went over that large wall, flung by the kinetic force transferred into him when his steed came to a sudden halt. A heavy thud rang out from the ground as Cassian landed. A second, softer thud followed, then his body continued rolling. “I wonder if you will be the first to die on this new. . . blessed land.” Came the chuckled taunts of the jester. The ghoul screeched out as it broke into a furious sprint towards Cassian. “You will make a fine feast!” The voice of a witch played like an instrument as air slowly made its way back into Cassian’s chest. “A reckoning child of the light, you are blessed to have witnessed a daughter of entropy bring forth blessed ruin upon the lands.” Cassian pushed himself up to his knee, struggling to hold his axe as the neverending forces of dark marched on. He ripped his other leg forward, planting his boot on the ground in his desperate attempt to evade and strike. Misfortune befell him in a quartet. The Witch of Ruin unleashed her sphere of abyssal flame, colliding against Cassian’s head - slamming into the makeshift helm lined underneath the wolf-pelt and knocking it free of its perch. An undead sorceress followed suit with their blackened summoning of lifeforce, striking the Hunter in his shoulder, just off his center line and throwing him off-balance. The cackling howls of the jester screamed out in a deranged manner. A withering overcame Cassian, draining him of the necessary strength he needed. His eyes widened, staring out at the several figures emboldened by their habitat. The final shot from the resurrected skeleton was a sphere of unholy make. It collided with the plate armor over Cassian’s chest, sending him into the massive silverwood oak at his rear. His vision began fading, and the noise that left his body was one he could not recall hearing before. He fought to stay awake, and yet his head bobbed and his eyelids grew tenfolds the weight. “Do not kill him.” “Let us show him the doom that awaits.” The last sight he could recall was the descending ghoul. It ripped at the armaments on his arm, freeing cloth and metal alike as that drooling, rotten mouth shot forward. He could not feel what happened after. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 4 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ He woke to a world that had already ended As he woke, Cassian laid sideways in a field of pale yellow grass. The silver foliage around him was gone, as were the illspawn that he happened upon. He felt no pain in his body as his palms pressed against earth and lifted him to his rear. Cassian looked around, spotting in his immediate vicinity that the grass had long died. The portion that laid under him was split and broken akin to hardened straw. He brushed the back of his hand against a patch and it withered away. The world felt wrong. All about him did a great fog drift through the air. A darkness unlike the night sky he studied in his youth. Cassian pushed himself to his feet and looked over his body for what he expected many wounds and mutilation to reside; yet he found nothing. His armor and weapons were gone. His wolf pelt no longer on his shoulder, and all he wore was a thin layer of gray silk robes with a belt looped around the waist. “Where have I. . ?” He questioned himself, but stopped short. There truly was no one else around, and his condition did not fit the bill of someone just recently attacked and subdued. “I must be by the southern shores again.” Cassian convinced himself, and began his trek northbound to find the closest road. The longer Cassian walked, the more apparent the strangeness of his predicament became. Not a flower in sight of a path he often spotted tulips. Trees barren of foliage and fruit; no evidence of such existing at the base of those oaks. The telltale beauty of nature went silent as not a bird was in view and not a song of their tweets rang out. “What happened?” Cassian would inquire, and yet it was spoken to no one but himself. He crossed through a valley hidden between mountains and happened upon the ruins of the Dwarves. A familiar sight, and a guarantee he was on the right path. The fog around him made determining the time of day or the delay in his travel difficult to determine. The world around him had the same lay out, at least. Cassian felt no pain in his body despite how far he walked. He crossed through the golden leaf forests and was met with a river that once flowed. On one side, the river stood steady, and the other it was a barren trench of where the river used to reside. Between them a toppled tower, destroyed and taken over by vines that acted as a dam. Was this the result of the Crusade? He was unsure, and so he used that fallen keep as a bridge to continue north. His stomach churned with anxiety as the next location he came upon were the ruins of Alba. A once lively city with citizens travelling about the roads in excess, was now a long past status of loss. The tall palace barely had any walls left, and ash stained the ground around it from flames that have since dissipated. Cassian’s worries grew, and he broke into a sprint past those dilapidated structures. He made his way to the bridge; however, the center had caved down into the river below. Too far a gap to jump, so Cassian retraced his steps and chose to swim the width of the river across. Water dripped from his robes as he continued on. He passed by Fruitfall - the Imperial home of his Tawantinsuyin companions, but much like everything else along the walk, it was gone. As he crested the hill, the anxiety left Cassian’s body. The nervousness disappeared. His soul escaped his form as air fled from his lungs. What once stood as the hallmark of Imperial achievement was now gone without a trace. Rittersburg was no more, and the barren wasteland that remained became readily apparent of the world Cassian now lived in. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 5 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ The hardest graves are the ones never found The Hunter fell to his knees, letting the hardened soil below remind him that he could feel pain still. The city he grew up in was gone without a trace. There were no tracks left of passerbys, or citizens fleeing, or where the barracks once stood. The bridge no longer connected the mainland to its island capital, and the high towers of ivory white that housed Horen were replaced with air. The fog slowly dissipated around him, showing the dark horizon of dead forests and towering mountains. “DIE. . .” Came a whisper overtaken by twisted sickness. It was not Cassian's voice, yet he heard it in his head. “SUFFER. . .” Its foul intentions manifested once again. Cassian slowly looked up from where he was knelt, staring into the darkened sky above. The sun; though it was not his sun. It did not shine yellow and gold, casting warmth over the lands. A foul, purplish black had replaced it. It pulsed in the sky, radiating with malice and disdain. “DIE. . .” It spoke. The sun spoke. Cassian was sure of this, that the voice in his mind of harrowing words came not from something standing leveled with him, but that cruel parody of the life-giver staring down upon the silent earth, wishing for the death of all below it. Cassian’s upper torso fell forward, and he just barely caught himself as his palms smacked and scraped against that tough dirt. He looked away from that abomination in the sky, yet the voices would not stop. “This cannot be. . .” Cassian pleaded to himself. His eyes widened as tears formed. “Kusi, Aurelian. . .” He raised himself up, looking around frantically. “Ally, Taki-” He stumbled up to his feet. “They must be in the tribe. Or in Norland. Underground i-in safety where they cannot be found.” He stammered over his words in a hurry as he began his trek once more. Cassian looped northbound, intent on finding everyone in the fortified city of Verdegrad. It took him days to reach there on foot, yet Cassian paid no mind to the hunger forming in his stomach or the pain under his feet. “SUFFER. . .” He was met with what he knew he would find. The stalwart city was no more, and despite his insistence in telling himself everything was fine, the ever-dreadful words of that false sun spurred his true thoughts to light. No matter. Cassian carried through that coniferous forest and onto his next destination. With each step growing closer to the next town, his worry grew more. Walls that once stretched kilometers now paint the ground grey and return to nature’s newest form of lifeless control. No longer did Petra stare off with the crimson passage to its north. Viru was unrecognizable in the wasteland it became. Idunia’s capital is now a monochrome shadow of its former glory. Lairs he once traversed were found void of life as well, including the undead kind. Everything and everyone was gone. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 6 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ Each mark was proof he had not yet died Off the southern shores, by the marble high formations of rock sat a makeshift hut years in the making. What little strong wood was left of the weak forests was strung together to craft roofs and walls alike. Tarps of decaying grass form the topside, just barely protecting the shelter by the pelt of acidic rain. Within that abode sat a figure facing the white rock wall. In his hand was a shard of stone clenched - slowly etching into that diorite face a crude line. It joined many like it; tallies covered it from head to toe, counting off whatever it was the man had been counting. Ten. . . fifty. . . eighty. . . one hundred. . . one hundred twenty. The stone dropped from his hand, successfully recording another year that has passed. He stood up, his silk cloth long replaced by harvested material to form a cloak. He turned about, exiting the hut and returning to the eternal gaze of the dark sun. An aged man, still as pale as he began, stood facing the vast seas with a scraggly, grown out beard and sunken eyes. His hair, still full but oily and matting to his skin. He was far too thin, and the muscle was all but gone from his body, leaving behind skin on bones. Cassian persevered. “DIE. . .” The endless ire never once ceased its chatter. “Not yet.” Replied that keen hunter as he committed his way down to the beach. From a small wooden box hanging off his hip, did Cassian retrieve a portion of sliced bark that he treated in salt water and dried under the dark skies. He carried it up to his dried, cracking lips and rested the treat between his teeth before biting down. He starved for years, suffering the neverending pain of a stomach that yearned and cried for sustenance, and yet never did he die as a result. The bark was to pass the time - to distract him from an otherwise constant ping of reminder. Down by the beach, resting in the sand as the gentle waves cruised to and fro, laid a raft of sturdy logs and rope. The years and dedication it took to source wood that was not hollow and fiber that did not fall apart upon first touch was not a simple expedition. Whether this platform would hold was now ready to be tested. “I know you are out there, brother. It makes sense you left this continent - I can’t stand it any longer.” Cassian laughed in passing. “I am on my way.” As he pushed the raft into the water, he glanced back at the place he called home for several decades. “SUFFER. . .” Cassian spared his attention momentarily to eye the false sun, the essence of pure evil that haunted him since he first woke up. He offered no conversation and boarded his contraption. He prepared four paddles in case he lost one or two, and began pushing himself away from that beach of decay. A world with no animals. Lakes and seas with no creatures. Fruitless trees and acid soil that fostered no plants. Cassian would go to leave it all behind and set his sights on his new home. With the Tawantinsuyin’s. With the Basileus’. With his friends of many tribes, clans, and nations. It was time to return to them and end his suffering. As he sailed away, the coastline grew smaller and smaller. The dark sun was still with him, but Cassian was certain - whether through insanity or reason - that when he got far enough away it would all disappear. As certain as he was to seek freedom and rejoin his kin, the nightmare that became his life was just as determined to keep his torture extended for much longer. As winds began increasing, the waves started to shift back and forth, growing in size and intensity. The fog that followed him everywhere condensed into greater darkness, defeating his ability to anticipate the greater sea’s challenge. A heavy force struck against that small raft with ease, and the moment passed in the blink of an eye. Cassian stared up at that dark sky, lit by the abyssal sun. He felt the grinding pattern of sand under him, and as he sat up, he was right where he left off. The remnants of his boat were destroyed and washed ashore along with him. “DIE. . .” It taunted him from above. The slicing winds that cut from the high mountains, down through the valleys and kicking up the beach’s sand were almost howls of laughter pounding into his ears. Cassian’s hands balled up on either side of him, packing wet sand into a crude ball before splitting out. His chin tilted up as he screamed. His voice roared in unbridled rage at his new life. At that false sun. At his inability to change his world. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 7 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ A man can grow accustomed to almost anything except eternity The marble faces of those surrounding statues of rock have been carved over many times now. An endless number of tallies dating the years spent under the eye of the void. At some point, the tallying had stopped. How many years have passed was no longer crucial. The final tally was five hundred seventy three, with the last tally barely making it halfway on the rock. “SUFFER. . .” “Suffer. . .” A quieter void repeated. “DIE. . .” “Die. . .” Like responding to a chant, each word was spoken in turn. Nothing about him was recognizable. His body thinned even less than if his bones were still solid. A fraction of him remained, and yet he sat there on the beach while water slipped underneath him before the tide was beckoned further out. His hair has all but fallen out or greyed. His eyes sunken to the point they just needed to fall out on their own. “SUFFER. . .” “Suffer. . .” His forearms wrapped around his knees, fixed like hardened twigs that could no longer bend. Portions of his skin have rotted and fallen off, exposing that skeletal frame underneath. His lungs no longer filled with air. His stomach reduced to the size of an apple before its function ceased altogether. He cannot recall the last time his body yearned for nourishment. “WE RISE, AND RETURN TO ONE.” “We rise. . .” Though that response came short. For the first time, that false star spoke other than the single whispers of hatred and disdain. Cassian’s eyes looked up to that sun, staring at it. Would it speak further? Did those words carry any meaning? Does it matter in the end? He would question what little he could think of. The intensity of that looming harbinger grew, and slowly did Cassian’s body begin to dissipate into ash. His legs fell apart. His arms dropped at the shoulders and whispered away as nothing but floating particles. The remainder of his sight focused entirely on that floating abyss. “I’ll kill you. . .” Came the last words of a Hunter who has lived far past his limits. As his head and torso fell in a vertical drop, they turned to dust on impact, joining the billions of sand grains that decorated that southern beach. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 8 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ The tide returned what the dead world could not keep When his eyes opened next, the sky was bright blue and gentle, white puffy clouds floated by. He heard the tide roll in and back out, and once more felt the familiar texture of sand underneath him. Cassian sat up, staring out at the vast body of water and the island of Silverwood glaring back at him. A flash of yellow just out of his peripheral made him squint, and with further investigation did he almost blind himself to the beauty that was the true sun. Pain shot through his right arm, and a glance over notified him of bandaged bled through from a wound laying underneath. In that direction did Cassian spot the wreckage of a passenger ship. The corpse of one individual laying beside it - mutilated and feasted upon. Cassian wondered who it was, or where he was. He came to a stand and looked around. Without rhyme or reason, he began walking west. Something in his body urged him to go that way. To the coast of white rocks and yellow grass. To a land he recognized most. ・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Image From Snow gave way as powerful legs kicked through the layered powder with a breathtaking stride. A thoroughbred designed for survival and capability in the harsh north carried her rider deep into the unforgiving storm. Trees succumbed to the overbearing weight and tilt at angles like blades of grass in the breeze. A world frozen in time save for the flakes of white being ushered down to the ground below. The trail that marked the path from the island’s coast were quick to cover themselves up, rendering anyone unfit to become lost. The snow accumulated on the black pelt situated on the Hunter’s shoulders. Those carmine eyes of the once-beast were all that reminded him what it was, rather than the snow animal it became. The section of cloak that ran down his back billowed behind him while he projected in a linear direction towards his direction. His icy breath coming out in struggled huffs as he braved the island’s natural defensive nature. He spared a look to his rear, where his companion rode without worry. That aurum armor reflected what little light broke through the clouds overhead. A helm depicting a steel face carried a lack of emotion as well. It was difficult to determine if the Hunter was the only one suffering the wintery wrath. “When we arrive, focus your attention on the left-most wall.” “The moment they step outside, I shall rain down my wrath upon them.” Their destination in question became readily present as they crested the nearest hill. Tucked within a small mountain range sat dark, tiered towers reaching for the sky overhead. Just shy of matching that height were protruding spikes of hardened ice staking out in every direction. An asymmetrical pattern scattered about the land that disrupted the falling snow from settling. Image From The figure head of that fortress stood out more than any jagged tower or sky-tearing mountain peak. A skull one could be convinced belonged to a god. Larger than any creation to wander either side of the world, it stared out across the projection of white; it watched those that approached, and welcomed them without difference. Powder traded for black stone as the hooves of his steed clomped down, echoing a rhythmic tapping as the horse came to a stop just before a ferrum gate frozen over with ice. As the Hunter turned his attention upwards, it felt as though the skull returned the gesture. “Denizens.” His voice, loud enough to call through the slicing wind in hopes his expedition was not a fruitless one. Silence would reign in this portion of the world if only the storm subsided. The bastion stilled; along its grooves and balconies gathered a murder of crows whose squawks heralded a voice. “Speak.” “I have come once before. To meet the one who rules this home.” The harsh northern winds carried unsettled snow upright into a violent dance from right to left. The sharp tune as ice shards broke that pace, echoing around them. Those howling winds pressed against the riders who braved the shadows. The crows took from their perches, beginning to swirl and cling to the bastion’s side, as if tethered to something within. “For what use is there talk?” “Present yourself. What use is there for words if not to understand?” The Hunter’s tone carried neither malice nor illness. Though spoken loud enough to conquer the deafening winds, his voice carried the gentle waves of the southern shores where he often resided. The Crowlord emerged from the walled entrance, which gave way to his thudding arrival. The winds whipped and the snow beat against this stretched figure of grim metal. Even despite the cold, blood-fire lashed off the form of the Farmer who met the two riders. “I will entertain you. Until I am bored.” “I have much to ask, should you be inclined to speak on.” Though separated by a ferrum gate armored in deep ice, the two kept their distances from one another as they conversed. The accompanying rider set his attention towards other residents of the fortress, bellowing out his own tribulations their way. “I have met some of you. Battled fewer. Yet I also noticed many of yours with those of the Black Church. “An alliance? A truce, perhaps, for something you wish to achieve?” “Why spoil the surprise? Delayed gratification is more rewarding. Dread even moreso.” “I have run into a number of surprises as of late. You know of our goals then? The Crusade in the South?” “To remove the blight. The wraith’s presence. But so be it, it has been lax. Quiet even.” “A notion I unfortunately agree on.” “To me, you are all a theater of battle for which to prove our fearsomeness. So when the time is ripe, our fight ordained, let us exchange without restraint.” The two carried on their conversation akin to strangers making small talk to pass on the ticking clock. Perhaps they both had somewhere else to be, and yet they gave one another their attention, their words, and their understanding. “Those under the Bishop will be struck down first. The Pontiff’s determination may then fall on the Western Tower, or here.” “You want the Bishop and the Pontiff?” “The issue with one Church attacking another. You get the people in charge confused.” A hand, once hidden under the dark underlayer of his cloak soon revealed itself. The rear of his palm knocked against the ferrum gate, testing how readily the ice was to break away. “Our Pontiff. Their Bishop. Do you all revel in knowing we shall march North in time?” “Crusades come and go. But time and time again, they only delay an inevitable return. The crops may grow, but the swarm of locusts always reaps its due.” “Another point I cannot take from you.” “It is a dance, a back and forth. As Empires rise and fall, as World Orders shift, the Dark does too.” “When groupings such as yours come together, it is after years of the last falling to ruins. Just as our nations. Just like us all.” The overbearing storm took hold of all sound. Shadows across horizontal casts of blizzard snow were all that kept both keenly aware of where the other still remained. As the torrent subsided, newcomers joined the commotion. Atop the skull that watched over the isle, there came a figure shroud in darkness at the height of a Dwarf, accompanied by a laughter befitting insanity. “Do you lead this fortress in its efforts, Farmer?” “I do not lead it.” “Then we talk as neither heads of our wars, nor victims of it. “You mentioned your desires once before. For a theater - a stage to cast your fear over the world that will receive it.” A terrible crack of green lightning struck the parapet above the skull. A writhing mass of black fire laced with occult green light rises up like a tidal storm. Flowing from the gaping holes of the skull’s once-nose, a large leering face of malevolence-proper glared down at the fortress’ visitors. Hatred and contempt were present to all gazing upwards. “Then hear me, as I make my recommendation towards you, and to any who reside here and listen. Let the Black Church fall. Worry yourselves here, within these walls, and care not for the war in the South. Ready yourselves instead for the magnificence of wonder you dream of when it is our turn to sail onto you.” “It may fall. You may even succeed in your objective in the South. But you will be facing many surprises, riders. Heed and stand ready for our collective arrival.” Slowly, as the riders readied themselves to depart, the grand stone doors to the keep ground opened. The iron gates shook free the ice that settled about them and rose upwards. That menacing green fog slowly leaked out of the opening, accompanied by numerous, glittering eyes that glow in the dark depths. The sorcerer of these works - The Witch King - taunted them. A dare to enter and fight; a plead to give them a show they can witness now instead of later. “So be it then. Mercy was never something afforded to either of us.” “Try as you may. Find us if you can. Die if you cannot.” “In whoever’s name you pray to, it matters not.” Those vapors of disharmonious green crept closer to the riders. With his words said, his understanding had, and his priorities aligned, that Hunter raised his hand up from within the cloak he kept it, bidding those of unholy conscious farewell. Image From

Atop the chiseled out wall of stone sat a dark figure covered in a matte black fur cloak. The dull carmine eyes fixed to the wolf’s head stared out lifelessly as the jaw hung down over the hunter wearing it. In his hand danced a curved dagger between digits. His posture befitting someone who has waited for quite some time. The grotesque, magnificent scale of the Church scorched black stretched overhead, staring out across the barren, uninhabited landscape of the southern isle. The eerie sense of death lingered about the area, and the closer to the structure one stepped, the stronger the hand of Death gripped upon your shoulder. Down the path, Death itself seemed to tear through the veil, a ripple of miasma broiled through the air and thus came worms to eat away the rest. Through it marched a hollowed-armored figure hauling two women on its shoulders. Labored breaths came as it continued to march up the hillside towards the large gates. Armor began to shed in sections. One by one the pauldrons fell, the gauntlets followed, and the plate trickled off and wilted. Tattered wings burst through and a hollow snout of bone outstretched as the entire form shuddered free of the false carapace. Blasted peripherals glanced outward towards the awaiting hunter. “State your purpose at the base of my steps, ‘less you be banished to meet the most unholy.” Boots pressed into the stone underneath as he raised to a full stand. “You’ve come home with luggage.” The hunter stared down onto the figure. “Unwillingly, on their part?” “Time in their towers, bloating themselves with tea and gossip have seen the fear and cautiousness of their instincts waned.” Observed the kidnapper as both women were dropped unceremoniously and dragged within the church by their ankles. The large gates were pulled upwards as chain links rattled against themselves. Servants awaited inside as the robe-clad denizen entered. The gates remained open longer for the hunter to follow behind. Past the gateway, entering the cathedral proper, the walls of black stone stretched endlessly above, tapering off at the point of its underground dome. A groaning fleshpit sat just before the pulpit on the tiered dais. As the figurehead of the church deposited the winnings of his recent outing, he motioned up the stairs where he held a greater position. That curved dagger in the hunter’s hand flipped between his fingers as he followed along. He moved with no sound, and kept himself silent even when the kidnapped women were dragged and dropped. “I will be fair.” Observed the hunter while staring at the creature’s back. “I will take one back home.” “This will be your first warning.” Spoke the desolate voice. The voice of women unseen rang out in a choir in the corners of the church. A tear ripped through reality just above the beast-in-robes. A bloodshot eye rolled forth, and as it blinked it wept tears of disease. “There is no fairness here. For you are the bargainer.” A claw splayed out two digits, indicating the well-present eye that watched over. The carmine eyes fixed to the pelt glanced left and right at the brighter pew contrasting against the scorched stone flooring. “Iblees now watches over us. I hath already sated my tongue in the blood of ‘Fenn and ‘Ker. I do not hunger, yet my anger can be churned.” “Then you are full, so the need to eat has passed. Why keep these bloated nobles filled with pastries any longer?” The prisoners in question have begun stirring awake. Fear taking over the pair as one became burdened with fearful curiosity, and the other a knowing pain of familiarity. They were at an impasse; above them a creature of bone and death, and below them a figure draped in the pelt of a wolf and face painted with blood. “Their minds will be made inverse. Their inner flames will be awakened.” Atalon rose before the hunter could reply. “If you provide me something of worth equivalent to their souls. . . you may leave with them both unharmed.” Verdant eyes, just barely reflecting nearby candle-light turned over onto those nobles. They were not supposed to be here, and his plan was ruined the moment they were dragged into it. Numerous shadows became known around him as they encroached upon the altar. Towering beings of disproportionate bodies and animalistic traits. The hunter would not leave alive if he attempted a rescue through force. Two noble women he has never met, and yet he entered the den of evil and spoke of trade for their safety. “Can you take something nonphysical?” A knowing tell became true between them. The sacrifice of the living for the security of the damned. The creature moved forward, slowly declining down the steps until it towered over the hunter directly. It rose a hand as blackened energies began to swell within its digits. The grotesque limb extended outwards. “Shake my hand and we have a deal.” “We will see each other once more.”

Image from The nightbound veil over Azuras stretched from one coast to the other. Vast planes of unturned grass and remote terrains laid underneath a star-sharp blanket provided by the endless Void above. Fading, flickering lights assist a new moon in casting against all but the hollow dark underbellies of heavy forestry and subterraineous caverns. Whispering winds carried tall evergreens to and fro, calmly gesturing to the giants of pine so the shadows cast by their many needles danced along the everdark flooring beneath nature’s canopy. Frost dry air separated the calm forests just outside of Verdegrad from the cruel frost bound diorama of the Rimeglen. Mountain peaks that stretched for the Heavens above loomed over the northern world. Many coniferous adventurers wished to climb and plant themselves along the jagged face of the cold anchored body. The summit-lost giants saw little of the forest at its base the higher it rose. A muffled tune of wildlife offered the occasional offset from an otherwise isolated portion of untouched land. Within the devouring darkness of the dense coniferous forest laid a source of light. Fluttering embers of yellow and lapping orange spilled out from the burning set of wood situated above an ash pile. The flames held darkness just outside its perimeter from encroaching within. Pine trees washed over with an amber hue on one side contrasted against the creeping void that laid behind them. As splintering segments of wood crackle under the intense heat, a trail of dark smoke rose from its source and disappeared into the sea of desaturated blues and sky-matte purples. A variety of items and trinkets were laid out across the bed of pine needles in the fire’s immediate vicinity. A thick bedroll, still tightly packed and yet to be unraveled sits up against the stump of a tree long fallen with the head of a hunting axe embedded into the old wood. Pre-split, carefully rationed stacks of firewood rest close by the fire, along with a leather-bound bundle of twigs and dried moss for kindling. A pair of worn boots rest at an angle towards the flames to dry, and a quiver of aurum-tipped arrows sits just next to them, Small game is skewered through and cooked just over the heat-warping fire. Along the edge where a light-starved void separates the camp from nature’s endless world were various portions of raw meat stuck to branches. Large sections of bark torn from trees were coated in wild honey and placed away from the camp’s reach. Various omnivores, or predatory visitors, felt more inclined to take what laid available rather than fight in uncertainty. Above the fire dripped a hare’s translucent, amber liquid fat, sizzling upon contact with the engulfing heat below; should it remain like such, the underside would harden and scorch. A hand extended forward, grasping the skewered animal by the wood that kept it still and turned the body over. A monstrous shadow pulsed against the mountain’s stone face, cast by the warm light over a lone hunter who sat with his back to the fortified stone behind him. An amber soft glow cast over a young man postured atop a fallen evergreen. A cloak as dark as a shadowed olive was draped over his shoulders, and a fallen hood revealed long, unkept burnt sienna hair lazily pulled into a loose bun. Loose strands fell in front of a pale man’s face, and verdant eyes reflected the yellow hues of a fire he had attended to. Just to his rear, resting over the night’s dew grass sat the preserved skull of a once incredible buck with its antlers still residing atop the cranium. The headgear was a trophy from a time long past; however, it was one treasure among what little he had to care for. Across the marrow were etches of various strikes and slashes – from animal and humanoid alike. Dried streaks of once scarlet red now stained tawny. This was Cassian Basileus. Image from As his hand recoiled from the game now turned, the woodsman brought pressure off the heels of his feet and leaned more on his natural chair. His boots still by the fire, so off-white, wooly socks pushed down against fallen needles and cones. Either hand secured items that rested on his left and right, retrieving a knife and a carved section of wood. The satin-polished bowie knife was held aloft, blocking the light of the campfire, but allowing a glow-held halo to stretch around its silhouette. A clip-point blade stretching twenty-four centimeters. A pronounced spine contrasting against a subtle bevel that hyperbolized the weapon’s aggressive edge; a weapon designed for slicing and stabbing without hindering mobility. A gentle flip sent tip-over pommel before calloused hands caught the blade between two fingers. The handle was carved from a White Stag’s antlers, and supported with brass fittings to reinforce and divide the grooves of the contoured grip. A gentle smile came over Cassian’s visage as the weapon turned once more. The gift he received from a friend now settled back into his palm as the sharpened edge was brought against wood. A section of oak, now reduced to a patchy carving, began taking the form of a character. Shavings slipped off the knife with each pass by, falling over his lap and the forest floor. There was once plenty of wood on this piece, but after numerous accounts of whittling the fibers down, it soon began taking shape. The carving was of a woman. The figure itself was light beige – the same as the oak. Long hair came down just past the shoulders before forming along the uncut portions of wood. She was a fair carving; the rugged and sliced markings on the wood did not steal from her the elegance in her appearance. From the horizonless, heat-faint depths of the woods came a brittle snap of a twig hidden between the root knotted trail. The knife bit into the wood as Cassian’s forearm halted the action. His eyes peered upwards into the night pressed void in front of him. Carmine eyes reflected just enough light to appear formless beyond the tree line. From the height alone, it had to be a meter off the ground or so. A slender, four-legged creature crossed into the glint-spilling realm the fire provided. Soot dark, matted fur clung against an emaciated wolf. Prominent ribs viewable under lean-drawn skin that appeared withered. Each step carefully measured, the true predator encroached upon the light’s source. Lips furled back as the snap-ready jaw was poised for sudden violence. The hunter provided plenty of freshly hunted game just by the outer perimeter for animals to feast on willingly; yet it passed by. Tested and tried again since he was a boy, it was the first he encountered a creature that ignored its offering and lurked onward. The carving was placed down and traded for a slim cut of Hare. The piece tossed forward, landing between the front paws of the snarling wolf. Cassian glanced back down to retrieve his project, yet the ebon blur from the corner of his eye moved unlike the dipping of its maw, but instead the lowering of hind legs. Image from A shadow swallowed over Cassian as the predator’s thinning mass leaped between himself and the casting fire. He kicked off the ground, raising one hand as the other reared the knife. A lunge too quick to be braced against as the wolf’s jaw snapped shut around Cassian’s right forearm – sinking teeth into treated leather and inducing a yelp. The savage slamming of its body against the man tripped him over the log he could not space himself from. As they toppled over, another tearing scream of pain echoed into the darkness as one of the antlers behind him pierced into his left tricep. The canine’s rear legs pressed against Cassian’s core, resulting in the worrying crack just by his lower back. Something certainly cracked, but he was not afforded the luxury of caring right now. Cassian ripped his left arm across his body, freeing himself of the antler once there. As his fist met the wolf’s temple, it was without his dagger. In the initial collision it fell from his grasp, resulting in the frenzied slams of his fist against the beast’s temple. The breath-stolen man, grunting for air as energy and strength slowly leaves him, continues to reel his arm back and slam, scratch, smack, and desperately force the jaw that kept his arm pinned from remaining pinched. A high pitched whine escaped the canine as his teeth released from where it indented into leather, pulling back and lunging downward once more. Cassian pushed his hips up and turned his left shoulder over, letting the maw strike the dirt beside his head before it rolled over and off his body. The bed of needles under his feet gave way like ice as wool socks slipped along scattered pine. Air escaped his lungs as quickly as they filled; hands smacked against earth in search of his dagger just a meter away, still echoing the fire’s ember hues. Weapon secured, the sudden mauling upon his rear thigh incited another roar of pain. The wolf recovered quicker than he, maintaining a grip-fast bite on the leather bound to Cassian’s leg and refusing to release. The dagger was swung, but given how he laid, it was out of reach. Writhing in pain, the hunter tried to turn himself over, striking out with his free leg as his heel met the sturdy cranium of the attacker. With enough force, the wolf began toppling backwards, freeing Cassian from the bind. He struggled to his feet, limping on his good leg and losing feeling in his right arm. Time blurred as crackling wood deafened to mute drums. Dilated pupils constrict as the night-breaking light of the fire cast warmth on him. A break afforded to him, Cassian risked taking his eyes off his enemy in search of his bone-wrought helm – the deer skull. His left arm aches from where the antler pierced skin during the initial collision. The pain from his lower back, what he originally believed cracked, was merely struck. Behind the log sat pieces of bone; scattered portions of cranium split almost down the center line and resting akin to fossilized remains. The antlers, wholly intact, inclined inwards towards one another as a result of the broken mask. Time had no longer blurred. It came to a standstill. Image from The subtle winds no longer carried foliage gently across the forest floor. Radiant light halted its attack against the darkness; likewise, the eternal void ceased its endless devouring of light. His erratic heartbeat, once pounding between his ears, disappeared. The only movement before Cassian were the standing hairs atop the wolf’s back, and its low stalking form readying for another attack. The wolf lunged once more, jaws snapping for a limb to adhere to as Cassian rushed forward. Summoned strength in his right hand slammed against the underside of the wolf’s jaw, allowing the two to collide hard enough to knock the breath from the canine for the first time. They hit the ground in a tangle; the wolf’s back meeting dirt as Cassian relentlessly dug his feet into the grouping of pine needles under him and pressured his opponent from escaping. The wolf growled as gnashing bites met no target. A yelp escaped the beast as the hunter’s dagger found home in its gut. Cassian’s right forearm pressed down against the predator’s throat, keeping its jaw at bay as the dagger was yanked free. The tide of battle had turned drastically. The predator–now prey– whimpered and struggled the same as Cassian in their initial clash. Clawed legs scratched at a tearing tunic as desperate bites continued to no success. The knife once more pierced the creature’s ebon hide, allowing blood to flow. A lucky paw strike caught across Cassian’s forehead, drawing blood, but not freeing itself. Carmine eyes stared upwards at an imposing shadow. The fire’s light just barely illuminating verdant eyes surrounded by crimson ichor that flowed from the wound across Cassian’s brow. A monster with talons replaced the once-prey this wolf intended to make a meal of. Fear. A choking gasp escaped the wolf as it cried out. Legs kicked out frantically in an all-or-nothing attempt to escape. An instinctive last stand that came at no cost. The dagger met body again. The metal pierced its hide with ease. The monster’s eyes refused to blink. Spent thin, the feral wolf panicked hopelessly as its body soon went still. Time around the hunter resumed as his ragged nature slowly wound down. A defiant soul kept a tight grip around the bone-hilt of his dagger. He offered it mercy and food. He designed his small world so the need to fight was futile. Yet he still fought for his life. Image from The crackling flames were not the same as before. The chittering insects became a mocking symphony to no end. Every gentle change in movement just outside of his peripheral became an enemy. Cold eyes looked away from that wolf towards his first trophy. His deer mask was destroyed. Cassian turned back to his fallen opponent. Those carmine eyes no longer screamed for a hunt. They cried for survival. He offered it mercy and food. The world was not designed for Cassian. He was not designed for the world. As the rise and fall of his chest calmed, he brought his dagger upwards. The world around him would not spare Cassian the kindness he spared it. Monsters of the Black Church would slaughter him on a whim. The knife glided along the wolf as the pelt was separated from body. Devils of Fallen Aenguls would take those he loved without sympathy. The inner layer of the pelt was shaved down and lightly heated by the flames. Lawless men would strike his head on a pike. Cassian stood before his trophy. A part of him died along with it; a piece of him that still sought that mercy. He glanced down to the torn cloak over his body–a useless cloth now. The hunter gathered the remains of his helm and discarded it to the flames. The cloak from his shoulders now free of his form met the fuel hungered fire. His foot nudged the fallen work of oak that he carved at once before. Ember lighting still danced across the beauty of the woman in heartwood. It too soon became food for the fire. As Cassian held up the blackened wolf pelt, he stared into the carmine eyes one last time. There came a crack in the depths of darkness. Another followed as many pairs of yellow caught reflection from the campfire. Cassian dawned his enemy and turned his back to his past. A monster’s shadow, affixed with eyes of blood red, stared out to the void. The void blinked Image from

Cassian was quite fond of the new fishing spot. He often caught whole batches and brought them to the campfire. He dislikes the lack of forest though.

Cassian looked over the letter addressed directly to the family of Basileus. "Hah, I'm part Elf? Kusi look! I'm somehow part elf!" @truelarper

Shout out, @Metamancyjoin the Tawantinsuyin side of thinking

Seussophobia Cassian Basileus Honor Guard / Vanguard All

"That was three questions." Cassian pointed out while he was eating bread.

Cassian removed the deer-skull he wore everywhere on his hunts. He examined the old trophy from his first solo hunt as a child. Perhaps it was time to upgrade? Perhaps a wolf pelt was the proper change he needed.

TRIMMED COPPER ARMOR LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

From the comfort of a wide branch attached to an oak tree sat a hunter of Basileus descent. In one hand he held the declaration of Nafis to represent his family. His other hand wielded a mighty length of Elk jerky being actively munched on. "He better get it. Otherwise, sis is gonna call me back to do it instead." The desire to ignore means of politics was strong, but soon interrupted as the hunter noticed the Barbarian walking away rather quickly. "Dammit... wait up!" Cassian called as he chased after his recently disowned brother.

As the Barbarian motioned his way across fields of wheat, hazardous mountains, and territory he can never call home, there was always a hunter cloaked in green following behind. Two hundred paces spoke the distance between the lone Kusi and his tag-along dawned in a deer skull.

"I went before I could retire, your Imperial Majesty." Came the calm words of a knight bearing Dragon armor. The world around them an empty sea of white clouds and a sky as pure blue as the eyes of a newborn. Between his hands he held the pommel of his sword, with the blade directed downward; the point consumed by the fluffy make of vapors. "It would be an honor to retire alongside you now. " Sir Severin Black, Dragon Knight of Hadrian I, rose his hand and gestured for the man he served to come into the Skies peacefully.

where free carb?

Cassian sent off the bird in hopes it reaches the Inquisitor in time. While he awaited a response, he began sharpening each arrow, axe, and dagger on his person.

When does Aether get share in the stockholding? I'm still waiting

You high crowns better watch what alley way you take in Rittersberg. My crossbow finger feelin' itchy