The Story

Chapter One

Eorgaen, 5111.

“Heroes get beaten and buried boy.”

His father’s final words. Before he had killed him.

He wondered now, what would be his?

The ashen sky was stretched out overhead, tangled with amorphous grey clouds and the frozen crests of the Dragonspine Mountains disappearing among the stars. Snow fell from all around, drifting along the arctic wind that chilled his bones.

But it did not numb his agony.

The demon’s black fire had burned his leg badly, all but reducing it to soupy mush. He stared up at the creature, his vision blurred from blood and tears. Clusters of spikes ran along the demon’s black skin, like ridges of jagged stones. It towered above him, a toothy monstrosity of muscles, claws and horns. Its huge dark membranous wings stretched out behind it, like a thick mantle of shadows. Its eyes were living fire, their red hot glare burning brightly as it watched him try to slowly drag himself away.

He looked past the fiend, to the snowy sky above, wishing more than anything for a sudden torrent of ice and frost to snuff out the fiery creature before him. His fingers, while broken and bent, still desperately clutched the blood-slicked handle of his waraxe. He knew he had perhaps only one final strike left, but was determined to make it count if nothing else.

The huge vathor roared, an intense heat rolling from its mouth and eyes causing the air to shimmer and the snow to melt beneath its feet. The demon stretched out its clawed hand and blood began to pour from its palm, before the crimson liquid ignited into flames, quickly shifting into the shape of a fiery sword.

It took another step closer.

“No, that’s far enough,” a voice said from the darkness. On command, the demon lowered his arm, but its sword of fire still blazed.

The snow in the sky fell down around a black silhouette as it approached, slowly walking into the light of the demon’s fiery glow. The man’s robes were red, or perhaps white but bathed in fire and he moved with an aura of arrogance and a wide smirk was painted across his face.

He looked up at the red-robed figure and immediately snarled. He recognized his hair, black as night and his eyes the deep blue of the sea. They gleamed when he spoke, which means they gleamed when he lied.

“Hello Walkar.” The robed figure smirked again, “You’ve looked better.”

He spat, his aim good, but his force weak. He got more on his chin than even close to his enemy’s feet.

The red-robed figure chuckled, “Ah, I see you are tasteful until the bitter end. Can you believe it Walkar, after all of this time, your father was a soothsayer? You should have listened to him. Perhaps it would have been someone else lying there in snow and blood.”

He swung up with his arm and brought his axe slicing through the air. The blade cut just an inch from the robed man’s face. The crimson figure laughed, but took a step back, “You never could cut it Walkar, and now you couldn’t even cut me.”

The red summoner turned and walked away, “Now you my end him.”

The demon’s inferno sword arced downward, a trail of fire burning behind it. The flaming blade slashed across his neck, scorching the flesh as it buried deep into his shoulder. With a growl, the vathor struck out with its claw, tearing open his throat as he collapsed to the ground. With a whoosh of air, the demon flapped its massive wings and soared into the sky, disappearing into the night.

His head hit the ground first and he felt his life quickly fading. Every pulse echoed in his ears and the pool of blood beneath him expanded every second. Soon the pain in his neck and shoulders were gone and the anguish in his scorched leg melted away. He felt only a deafening numbness as he stared up at the dappled sky, snow falling against the backdrop of night. In each glimmering snowflake, he saw his life. He saw the tears his father shed when his sister was brought into the world, and he saw the tears his father shed when it had cost the life of his mother.

Faces.

Every single flake of snow held one. Young friends he could vaguely name, old lovers he could barely remember. The air became colder, the night even darker. Silence settled all around him and he no longer heard the beat of his pulse or felt the fire in his wounds. It was only the snow and it began to fall steadier. Soon he could barely make out the blackness of night as the snowfall grew so thick around him. The faces within each flake disappeared, replaced now by only one.

His father’s.

He thought of the end, and that when his life finally slipped away, his corpse would be buried by the snow. Buried by the faces. Buried by his guilt.

He thought of his town, of his people and his bloodhound. He thought of all of the things he should have done, and all of his failures. His father’s final words to him had come true. He was beaten, and soon he would be buried.

What had been his final words, he wondered? When death came to him, basked in the glow from a demon and garbed in a robe of crimson, he had said nothing. He had tried to spit at death. He had failed, but he had tried.

“Killing your father was righteous.” A cold and dark voice shattered the silence around him.

“He had died to the bottle long before. His curse would have ended your sister’s life that day. It would have been her blood on his hands, instead of his on yours.” The voice sounded all around him, even snaking through his mind.

“You are not beaten Walkar, nor will you be buried today.” Assured the voice, colder than the ice around him.

He tried to move, but all of the strength in his body had fled. He heard soft footsteps and crunching ice as a cloaked figure approached, his sharp eyes as silver as pewter. The figure carried something in his arms, something so polished it gleamed with the colors of the stormy grey sky above. A shield? No, a breastplate.

The voice brushed across his ears, “Will you be buried today Walkar? Or will you accept the chance I offer? Accept the opportunity to bring justice to your enemy?”

His eyes turned to the axe that had fallen to his side. He would not be beaten, he would not be buried. He would defy death and he would spit in its face.

“Excellent choice.” The voice drifted through his mind, dark and proud.

The cloaked form knelt down, holding out his metal offering. He suddenly felt hands grasping at his chest before a wave of heat coursed through his shoulders and gut. More sounds rushed back to greet him as the very air around him thrummed with life. He clenched his fists as strength flooded back through his body. He craned his neck, his flesh now whole and the pain in his throat gone.

A thick layer of sleet covered the ground, as icy flakes descended from the desolate sky. The cloaked figure faded from sight, disappearing in a rush of wind and silvery motes of light. Walkar then stood to his feet, unbridled power saturating his veins. His eyes went to his chest, where he saw the radiance of his metal breastplate, its glow now bright and crimson, a burning red star amidst a land blanketed with gloomy mist and wrapped in iron skies.

His axe rose from the ground and he reached for it.

Story by GM Kenstrom Cross into Shadows - Teaser 1



Chapter Two

The corpse was carted through a postern gate.

The sky was aglow from the sun, its shimmering heat bathing the landscape in warmth. Pale clouds clutched desperately on the horizon, so thin they scarcely existed. The ground, much like the air, held little life.

He was attending a horse in the stable when the ancient creak of the gate had sounded, admitting two knights pulling a battered wooden cart. From the gnarled and blackened feet barely hanging over the back, he knew they had found their scout.

The men’s golvern-studded armor glinted beneath the sun, forcing his eyes away not once, but twice from the glare. Helms removed, their hair was matted to the side of their faces with sweat and dried blood. Despite the gleam of their armor, it was dented in more places than not.

Voices rose up from all around at the return of the knights, and soon more men at arms rushed in to greet them and some servants hurried off with the cart and corpse in tow. He stood in the archway of the stables, squinting against sunlight as the wagon was dragged by. The body inside was indeed one of their own as evident by the loose pieces of armor, which had now been partially melted into the flesh.

The sun baked corpse had been savagely maimed and its jagged wounds inflamed and discolored. The man had met a vicious, yet quick end, he had no doubt. Plump black flies still flittered about the remnants of the scout as it was finally hauled out of sight.

“Found him three days out into the waste.” He heard one of the homecoming knights say.

“And the creature about to devour his remains.” The second knight added.

That was the third inward scout he told himself. Those that were closest to their post. Which only meant...

“They’re emboldened and getting closer than they have in some time.” One of the knights stole his words.

“Squire!” A third knight shouted, slowly striding towards him. The man was human but nearly the size of a giantman, his bald head as polished as his white field plate. A thick dark grey moustache concealed half of his nose and most of his mouth. “Fetch my sword; we’ll be manning the walls soon. The sun is out, but it won’t be long before nightfall ambushes us.”

He stowed his grooming comb and darted to the barracks, his own ringmail chaffing beneath his white and silver tabard. The knight was right; it would not be long before the heat of day turned into the dread of night.

The golvern-edged falchion was waiting where he had left it, hanging high upon a rack on the far wall of the barracks. He slipped the sword into an ivory scabbard and hurried outside, handing off the weapon to the mustached-knight before returning to his other duties.

Only a few short hours passed and the first smattering of distant stars broke through the blanket of night above. He stood with his head craned to the heavens, silently counting each speck of light as it burned into existence. It was always his favorite time, when he became raptured into the few moments of peace as the day’s labor transformed into the night’s battle.

Suddenly a warcry erupted from the wall above him. Men clamored about, and while all heavily armored, they ascended ladders and foot holds quicker than he could have imagined.

As the last fragment of the sun’s rays dropped beneath the skyline, nightfall was swiftly ushered in around them. The stars above shone as bright as the golvern ones upon each knight manning the old stone wall. It was then a flare shot up from their location, bursting into a shower of brilliant golden sparks, tiny swirling citrine embers dancing across the black banner of night.

The first flare.

The first sighting.

He slowly climbed the ladder with one hand, and with his other firmly clenching a burning torch. Others quickly called to him, demanding the service of his torch to prepare for their attack. He finally stood still, just mere feet away from the edge of the wall and the expanse of broken lands below him, broadening out far into the empty pitch black of uncertainty.

The wall that stretched out beneath him seemed so opposing from the ground, but from atop it felt so vulnerable. Blackened stones here, crumbled parapets there. Both man and rock felt the destruction of war. The area was still silent, save for the tight-lipped breaths of the knights along the ramparts, each man gripping their weapons tight.

Another flare lit up the sky, followed by a bellowing warcry from one of their own.

They’re coming, he realized. The flares, the cry. The terrors of the waste were coming.

A man shouted a command and soon a long range of flaming arrows arced up into the air, showering down on the bleak lands before them. The fiery missiles hit more ground than enemy, but served their purpose to illuminate the battle field nonetheless.

Through the volley of fiery arrows, he saw them flood in. Huge, gloomy creatures with smoke trailing from their bodies and fire burning in place of their eyes. Some came on all fours, shambling across the shattered ground like demonic ghouls. He watched the light from their arrows as gnarled three-headed beasts sauntered forward, some accompanied by blood red fiends with crimson tentacles lashing wildly about.

Another warcry, another volley of arrows.

This time more enemies were struck, but the assault did not stop them, or even slow them. He heard the chorus of a hundred blades being pulled from their scabbards, just as a cold rush of wind rolled over the field, snuffing out the flames of their arrows.

Darkness had descended upon the Demonwall.

Story by GM Kenstrom Cross into Shadows - Teaser 2



Chapter Three

The ship creaked beneath his feet.

Each new wave brought dark water and tangy salt over the railing’s edge. He was quite far from home, but quite close to destiny.

Bitter, arctic winds rushed over the deck, swirling up under his black robes and causing him to shiver. His hands gripped the wooden banister, quietly reflecting on the woman he had left asleep below, and how the warmth of her flesh stirred him almost as much as his work.

Not just his work. But his legacy.

His name would be carved into the legends of his people. As hallowed as Korthyr, or as cursed as Daephron, it did not matter. A true master of his arts, a pioneer for those after him. His chest swelled with pride, visualizing the children of the future uttering his name and striving for his power.

They’ll aim, but miss, he thought to himself.

But still, his achievement felt empty. The murky waters rose and fell around him like rolling hills of black glass. The sky was no brighter, its shades as deep as the void, broken up only by a smattering of stars amidst thick clouds, like freckles on the face of a god.

But not his god.

Nor the god of the seas, nor the god of his enemies, and certainly not the god of Rhoska Tor.

“Impressed with yourself?” Her voice was like music, slicing through the chaos of the ocean.

He turned from the railing to watch her ascend the ramp up to the deck. My protector, my lover, my silencer. He smiled from ear to ear.

He threw his hand back, gesturing at the clouds spreading out across the sky, like pockets of tattered black rags. “How could I not be. We stand on the precipice of glory. For us, for our people. For the betrayal that stains our history.”

Her eyes gleamed like polished feystones as she approached. He could see his reflection and the raging storm behind him in their depths. Her hair was like silk strands of moonlight, draping down from her scalp to cascade around her shoulders like a silvery waterfall. As the boat uneasily shifted beneath him, it seemed the motion did not affect her in the slightest. Her movements were graceful, making her even more beautiful in his eyes.

She stepped closer, her dark skin glistening from the spray of the ocean and her gossamer cloak thrashing wildly around her from the wind, about to be torn from her shoulders if not for the bright scarlet triskelion that held it in place. Her lips beckoned him, and for a moment he answered them. Locked in passion, he held her to his chest as the ship tilted beneath the churning storm.

The first bolt of lightning arced down from the heavens with a thunderous crash, slamming into the deck of the boat and filling the air with humming energy and wooden debris. Neither of them flinched, but merely turned to watch as a ragtag group of sailors came rushing up from their quarters, shouting commands.

“The crew grows restless.” The woman commented.

“It is not their first storm, nor their last. They have their weight in treasure, they knew the risks.”

Another bolt of lightning tore into the side of the ship, knocking one deckhand on his side as a shower of wooden shrapnel flew through the air. More shouts, more fear.

Humans. He thought, Quick to take gold, quicker to hide.

The sky suddenly groaned louder than the ship, arcs of lightning dancing beneath the clouds like a web of white light. The black of the heavens bled away like ink, peeling apart as a ruddy, copper hue infused the clouds above. Lightning became constant, like the glowing legs of spiders skittering across the ocean. The ship’s crew exploded into a frenzy, scurrying about as if they were frightened ants, working feverishly to steer to a new course.

“Don’t they realize, it’s all around them? We are safe, the crew is safe.” He smiled from ear to ear.

“Are they?” she asked.

“All of Elanthia is safe.”

“Are they?” she asked.

His response did not come. But her attack did.

Her blade shot out from her hand in a blur, slicing through the skin of his throat, neatly cutting him from ear to ear.

His matching smile turned to surprise. His eyes grew hot and his anger gurgled from his mouth, as blood from his neck seeped down over his robes, staining them from black to red. His legs gave way and he crumbled to his knees. She towered over him then, his protector, his lover...

His silencer.

Story by GM Kenstrom Cross into Shadows - Teaser 3


Chapter Four

Sand and sky melded together as the sun’s edge crept into view.

A deep golden hue bathed the rolling desert hills in its glow, accompanied by a warm breeze bringing more heat than comfort. With each passing moment, the sand beneath their caravan shifted, reshaped and redirected with the slightest of wind. The first driver brought his wagon to a halt, raising his hand to signal those behind him. Heat was not the only thing sunrise brought.

Minutes, feeling like hours, passed as the golden orb rose in the sky, its rays angling down on the sand which captured and reflected its light in an iridescent, fiery effect. Between the wind and the sun, the light and grit danced across the dunes like tiny flames swirling across the hills of sand.

The wagon’s driver squinted his eyes against the scorching sun, doing well to cover and protect his face from the scratching hot wind. The air shimmered as the heat rippled across the wasteland before him. There, just on the blurry edge of a dune, silhouettes appeared. The man shouted, alerting the rest of his group. A dozen lightly armored Imperial guards exited their prospective wagons, sunlight glinting off their longswords as they drew them.

From the dune, the band of Tehir came more clearly into view, quickly galloping down the sandy hill on the backs of snarling yierkas. Black veils covered their faces, their dark eyes burning with wild intensity to match the heat of the sun. Another raider emerged ahead of his companions, his veil blood red and strikingly similar to the dark crimson blade of his takouba. His skin was as dark as the onyx hilt of his weapon.

His deep voice cried out, “Ebiemj o eizh!”

A shrill song of steel erupted as the raiders clashed with the caravan. Blood splattered upon the sand, as the cries of man, horse and yierka filled the blistering air. In the mere passing of seconds, the battle was over. The last remaining Imperial guard threw down his weapon and tightly gripped his bleeding and nearly severed left arm. The red-veiled raider strode purposely up to him, slicing deep across his chest and pushing the man over, leaving him to redden the sand and die.

The Tehir searched the wagons, shepherding out the passengers into a line. Among them were a handful of children, men, and three women, one of them full with child. Aware of their fate, the survivors lowered their heads and did not resist as the Tehir bound their hands and collared their necks. The red-veiled raider spit at the feet of the prisoners, “Teuriz gojor, iebri lovib.”

With that, the slaves were stripped bare, then garbed in simple cloths and lifted back into the wagons. Two horses died in the conflict, so one wagon was emptied of possessions and left behind to warp beneath the sun, surrounded by a ring of imperial corpses.

As the band of Tehir and their acquired caravan moved through the wasteland, the bright rose-gold sky became infused with deep carmine hues, trails of orange and purple streaking across the horizon. The horses whinnied and struggled, uncomfortable with their new owners. In the back of the wagons, many of the captured women and children could be heard whimpering, a stark contrast to the silence coming from the raiders as their march continued.

Twilight had bled across the sky before the darkness of night was ushered in. The scorching heat of the day began to peel off of the sands, as the air grew cold and uncomfortable. The slaves huddled together beneath the coverings of their wagons, too chilled to cry. For an hour they suffered beneath the blanket of the desert’s cold, black sky. It was then the red-veiled raider drew their caravan to a stop, finally reaching their campsite. Large sand-hued pavilions rose in a half-circle around a fire pit, where a Tehir woman stood roasting a goat, while pouring a mug of rum over the sticky innards of a massive sand flea.

Without command or question, the Tehir broke into their routine, quickly unloading and sorting the inventory of the wagons, and just as hurriedly leading the slaves into their holding cage near the fire. There, the cold and tired prisoners were left to watch their captors feast, while riffling through their belongings and mocking them in their ancient tongue. The tribe wasted no time in devouring the goat meat and many grew frustrated when it went so quickly. More than a few of the warriors turned their eyes to the slave pen at the sight of the frightened children.

The red-veiled raider rose to his feet, the light of the fire flickering across the black pools of his eyes. He withdrew a crude bone dagger from his belt and dragged its sharpened tip along the bars of the cage. The Tehir woman approached him, her warm eyes twinkling beneath her dark linen shawl, the edges of the fabric decorated with archaic symbols. She touched the raider’s arm gently, and he glared at her before lowering his weapon and returning to the fire.

The radiance of stars broke through the black sky overhead, twinkling like thousands of glowing diamonds in a sea of shadows. The fire in the pit had almost burned out, its dying flames bringing only a small sphere of light to the campsite. The faint crackling of the logs was the only sound as both Tehir and slaves succumbed to sleep.

The silent night was shattered with the piercing cry of the pregnant woman in the pen. The Tehir warriors burst out of their tents, weapons drawn, their old steel like curved silvery glass beneath the moonlight. From her cage, the woman cried out, having fallen upon her knees and clutching her stomach in anguish. Water and blood stained the sand around her.

The red-veiled raider stormed forward, his weapon arm out to his side as he hastily approached the pen. Before he could reach the cage, the woman’s screaming turned to a low, throaty rattle as her eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed onto her back. The absence of her cry was then replaced by the pitched wailing of a newborn.

The babe’s skin was insipid, almost translucent to reveal flecks of blood and tendons below its thin surface. Fine, silken hair, more silver than the moon crowned his head. Between fits of sobbing, he opened his eyes to reveal irises, orange and pale.

The red-veiled Tehir leaped back, eyes wide with alarm and shouted, “Keke vyitz! Keke vyitz! Eizh koka!”

The black-shawled Tehir woman spun into action, snatching a small blade from her boot and plunging it into the small of the red-veiled man’s back. He cried out, falling over to his knees. The other warriors stood motionless, unwilling to move against the woman. She stepped over to the crying baby, his tiny and frail body covered in the blood of his birth. His mother was an inch away, her body already growing as cold as the desert night.

The Tehir woman unwrapped her shawl and picked up the babe, swaddling it among the black linen folds. The ring of warriors lowered their heads, ignoring the defiant screams of their red-veiled leader as the Tehir woman wandered off into the cover of darkness, with two watery pale orange eyes staring up at her face.


Story by GM Kenstrom Cross into Shadows - Teaser 4

Chapter Five

The blue canvas flag flapped wildly, snapping and twisting against the rising winds.

The strong scent of salt and sea drifted in from the docks, where the dark silhouettes of ships floated purposefully in the bay, many departing from the piers despite the late hour. The moon shone bright and full in the night sky, casting ripples of silver across the water beyond and illuminating the west market beneath his balcony.

Along the square below, the moonlight bathed the potted wildflowers in its pale glow. But it was the light of the torches that caught his attention. First came three, and then soon they were joined by four more. Within moments over two dozen fiery lights appeared at the edge of the market, their fires burning like the angry eyes of demons.

They might as well be demons, he thought to himself. They are just as heartless as one.

“They would not even give us this night, would they?” A woman’s voice spoke softly from behind him.

He turned to see his half-elven bride, her shapely body still snugly fit into her wedding gown. His grey eyes came alive and he smiled at her. She moved near to him, tracing one finger across his cheek and his trimmed beard that was more grey than brown. Her coral blue eyes sparkled, his own reflection so small and misshapen in their pale azure depths. Tears formed at their corners.

It was his turn now, as he brushed her skin, smearing the tear across her ivory cheek. He held her arms with his hands, squeezing her tightly while placing a kiss on her forehead. For a moment they stood in sweet silence, before the shouting protests rang up from the courtyard.

He let go of his wife and walked over to his nightstand, “We knew this would happen Alendrial. Go to the cellar, Cantorly will be waiting for you. She’ll escort you to the ship.”

“I will not leave without you.” Sadness, more than anger in her voice.

“I will be with all of you shortly, I have no desire to die today.” He watched his wife leave the chamber, the train of her gown trailing behind her gracefully as she almost glided out.

He took a cigar from the stand and lit it, breathing deeply as the faint wisps of smoke curled up before his face. Again he stood on the balcony, the night air alive with the smell of sea salt and burning wood. The faces of the mob could be seen now, the light from their torches causing their skin to glow red and orange.

He watched as his loyal guards stood their ground, defending themselves only when a protestor got too close. Their uproar echoed throughout the grounds, like a chorus of growling monsters. Death to the half-elf, they would shout. Burn the human traitor!

His eyes twitched with anger and he dropped his cigar when the first stone flew. The mob had taken notice of him and a rock came inches from his face, hitting the wall beside him and landing with a thud. The uprising grew louder as men and women, even some young children, pointed up to him and cried out their insults and threats.

A protestor then stormed the gate of the manor, sprinting for only a few seconds before being impaled on the tip of a guard’s spear. The death did not deter the crowd, but instead fueled them. The mob rushed the gate like a sea of flesh and fire, some of the angry cries turning to howls of pain as steel met guts and bone. He stepped back from his balcony at the sight of a crossbow in the crowd being reloaded.

As he rushed down the stairwell, he heard the glass of his front doors shatter and the creak of wood splintering as the throng of people tried to press their way inside. He snatched a polished longsword from an ornamental rack on the wall, for all the good it would do. It hadn’t seen a day of combat and neither had he.

He almost slipped on the marble tiles as he picked up speed, once even bumping his shoulder when he overcompensated his turn through a hall archway. He arrived in the kitchen, the giant room appearing all the more spacious with the absent staff and activity.

Good, they’ve made off for the ship then safely.

Shouts echoed from down the hallway.

But will I?

He reached the back of the kitchen, beyond hanging strips of seaweed and wedged the sword up under a trapdoor, pushing to free it. As the trapdoor opened, the sword snapped in half, and he cursed overpaying for shoddy steel and tossed the hilt aside. His tailored cloak tore on the rough-hewn walls as he descended the ladder into the tunnel below.

The passage was smothered in darkness, broken up by the small flickering fires of mounted torches. The underground smelled of old fish and he could hear the faint lapping of the ocean in the distance. He ran down the tunnel, sweat stinging his eyes as he went. The air became wet, adding to the moisture clinging to his skin. The opening had come into view and his strides picked up, pushing himself forward to his escape and to his love.

Out on the water, his ship shifted on the waves. The silhouettes of his crew and passengers had flocked to the side, watching and waiting, some likely more concerned than others. Along a sandy stretch of broken shells and jagged rocks, his wife Alendrial and their maid Cantorly stood beside a rowboat. His wife smiled, her gown now stained and tattered, and her eyes gleaming with tears.

Wracked with desperation and consumed with their purpose, the three climbed into the rowboat and hurriedly reached the awaiting ship and crew. He stood at the edge of his ship, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the wooden railing tight. He heard the captain shout orders and the crew explode into a frenzy, using the cold night breeze to their advantage.

The ship slowly set off, rippling the dark waters as it began to glide away. He heard some of his hired staff whisper among themselves in fear, and his bride begin to sob. His fingernails dug into his palms, breaking the skin as he clenched his fists. He saw his home, high above the Antler rock, begin to glow with a warm orange light. He could swear he still heard their uproar.

Flames consumed the home, rising like a living bonfire against the star-filled night. But the fire was not nearly as hot or bright as the hate spreading through his heart like poison. He watched the home of his family, the home of his name, turn into a giant blazing forge and uttered a curse to the winds.

As he closed his eyes, he could still see the light of their torches burning before him.

GM Kenstrom - teaser 5.

Chapter Six

While monsters had taught the world cruelty, none had mastered betrayal like the humans.

That thought remained constant in his mind as he pulled himself up over the edge of the gulch, the skin along his hands being scraped by the jagged rocks. He stayed crouched to the ground, his flat nose inhaling the scent of dirt and urnon.

She was close, and he knew he wasn’t far behind now. He would not forget that scent, he could not forget that scent. Oily, alien, and metallic. It lingered in his nostrils and his blood came alive with the thrill of the hunt. The stalking of prey wasn’t his original desire, but as a man it was his trade. Now as an orc, he made it his duty.

He stood slowly, his old grey cloak loose and tired around his brutish frame. The sun was setting behind the Crown of Koar, the jagged mountainous peaks blackening to shadowy spires before a reddish-purple sky. His narrow yellow eyes thinned even more, adjusting to the approaching twilight. His prey’s track began to wane, soon overcome by the crisp scent of rain in the air.

A crack of thunder rippled through the crags, soon followed by a gust of wind that tugged at his cloak and carried the first drop from the heavens above. The blackness of night bled across the sky, the highest reaches of the mountains being submerged in billowing clouds.

Another storm, he thought. Always following him. Or were they following her?

He began his descent, warily moving along, skillfully lowering from one foothold to the next. The tempest churned heavily above him, deep bellows of thunder swelling outward like the fuming wrath of a god. A torrent of rain poured down from the clouds as slender bolts of white lightning danced around, slicing through the storm and illuminating his position.

The rock side became slick, its entire surface glistening from the downpour. He increased his caution, but it slowed his movement. Nothing hindered the storm. The rain stung his eyes, the wind scraped his face. Soon it felt like shards of glass were falling around him, so sharp was the assault.

He began to climb quicker, scrambling downward as he took the risk of speed over the storm. A few more moments and he would reach the ground and find shelter. Another thunderclap sounded above, leaving his ears humming in its wake. He reached for an outcropping and his hand slipped. He saw a flash of lightning as he fell, his body tumbling in the air before he hit rock and slid. He desperately grabbed for any hold, his hands slicing open from the rough stones as he began to slow his fall.

He landed on his shoulder and snarled with pain, his discolored fangs biting into the side of his mouth. He was alive, but anguish surged through his veins. He put his hands to the ground, his blood mixing with the earth and rain. He staggered to his feet, and strained to see the surroundings, looking for any safety to outlast the storm. He began to limp towards a crevice when he heard a faint cry.

His nose twitched and through the dirt and storm he smelled human blood. Another scream sounded and he painfully strode forward, pushing through the agony of his wounds and the relentless pounding of the storm.

He came upon the dying remnants of a campfire, the last of its burning embers drowning beneath the rain. The bodies of women were sprawled about the site, each wearing white robes embroidered with a golden crown, their garments now stained from rain and blood. Many of the corpses were dismembered, limbs and flesh flayed and scattered aside.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the massacre and instantly knowing the source, even before the metallic scent reached him. He looked up, his eyes malevolent and wide. There, behind the corner of a wagon he saw her. Incandescent green eyes returned his gaze, colorful specks flashing across them, first blue, then gold, then red. Her skin was smooth, almost fluid as it shifted from ivory, to grey to black. Small, crystalline shards protruded from her flesh, reshaping in size as he looked on. Her perfect, flawless lips curved into a sinister grin when they both heard the approaching shouts of men.

His prey stepped back, disappearing from his sight. He began to step forward just as the men came into view, their torchlight fighting against the steady wind and rain. Their imperial tabards were soaked and their chainmail glistened. Horror swirled in their eyes at the sight of the bodies, before their faces molded into growling rage. He knew what they saw and he knew what they thought.

The soldiers shouted amongst each other, their words partially drowned out by the chorus of thunder in the sky. As they encircled him and advanced, he gritted his teeth and unsheathed two longswords. Blood from his palms trickled down the hilts of his blades.

He was a man among orcs, and a monster among men.

GM Kenstrom, teaser 6
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