(Dramatic Music) First of Primilun, in the year 220 after Deadhaus. It is by the light of the blood moon that I write these words, bright enough that I need no candles. My heart hammers, but absinthe steadies my hand enough to put quill to paper. I saw it again in my nightmare. As before in the sunken woods. There was more this time, a vision. Something I was not meant to see. At first I felt as if weightless, drifting above a stone path without effort.
I marveled at the sensation of being supported not by my own limbs, but by some unseen force that carried me so steadily that it seemed as if the world was moving around me while I was perfectly still. The path ahead was drenched in darkness, but the shadows receded as I moved forward. Driven back by a bluish light that emanated from somewhere on my person, so I could not move my head to find its source. On either side of me rose immense rectangular pillars of blackened stone.
They were engraved with symbols that stretch upward until they vanished into the darkness beyond the blue light's reach. And in the spaces between them, where their looming shadows swept aside at my passing, there stood more pillars in the distance and more beyond their shadows. More and more beyond them and more and more until my light could not penetrate. Yet I suspect they went on even further, a forest of silent stone, silent stories in the dark.
I drifted this way without any sense of time or direction, sometimes turning down one path or another, a passenger within a vessel that seemed to know where it was going, and then at once I stopped. Before me was a pillar, no different to my eyes than all the others, but I felt myself drawn to it. Saw my hand lift a blackened cage from which a bright blue orb cast its light. But it was not my hand. It was a hand of a dead thing, and I had seen this cage before and the light inside.
My mind began to race, pulled taut by panic. I was brought closer to the surface of the pillar and found it to be reflective. No, don't look at it! I screamed to myself, but my face pulled closer to the stone and was revealed in its reflection, dead and desiccated, slumping to one side without the support of ligaments. It was the creature from the Sunken Woods. It was the liche I felt my mouth open to scream, which matched the gaping mouth reflected in the stone, but nothing came out.
My other hand, its other hand, reached forward and traced along the engravings, then pulled away. What happened next will haunt me to my dying breath. (Eerie Music) I felt the liche turn and noticed for the first time the presence of another. An emaciated man, his face slack and eyes blank, stood motionless nearby. He must have been following the liche as it moved through the pillars, but now the liche reached forward with one arm, twisted its skeletal fingers in the air and clenched them shut.
The man fell to his knees. His body began to convulse, and from his eyes and mouth, they poured a vapory substance, cyclically swirling so that it read the Liche's hand in its glow. The empty husk of the man crumpled to the floor, as the liche turned back to the pillar without a second glance. It placed its now glowing hand upon the stone, which drank in the light so that the symbols began to flicker in that same
green hue. Then I saw them shifting, sliding, swirling free of where they had been chiseled. A hundred glowing runes encircling one another and luminous geometry singed across the surface of the stone. And then there was no stone. It was as if a hole had been torn in the fabric of reality itself, an opening the same shape and size of the pillar. And through this opening were other places, other times.
Through the window, I saw the silver towers of Ustilia as they once stood, before Deadhaus, before the fall. As a scholar of history, I had read of the old empire, but to seize a capital with my own eyes, well, not quite my own, but still, but still. I know now why it was called the Mirrored
City. Such was the wealth and craftsmanship of Ustilia that its ramparts rose as mighty walls of rounded mirror so that any invading army would see itself in total clarity and know, however vast its numbers, that they were not enough. And yet the fall of Ustilia was not brought by foreign invaders. The Mirrored City fell from within, blackened by a curse at its very core. I watched from high above as a dead surge
through the capital. The winding streets funneled them like so many streams of rotting flesh, all spiraling in unison to the center of the city, to the temple of El’sabayoth. Where the last living souls in Ustilia made their stand, the Lucent Templar, sworn defenders of the temple, formed lines too many deep in a triangle around the base of the
structure. Their armor was of an interlocking design lost to modern smiths, and their helms rose like steeples far above the narrow slits through which they watched the Uncoming Horde. As the dead gathered in the temple clearing, the Lucent Templar took their glaives in both hands, bowed their heads, and began to vocalize in unison. It was a deep and wordless mantra, a focusing of the faith, much as I have heard from the Ashen priests in my own time.
From within their helmets, each chant reverberated, rising so that it seems the temple grounds were filled, not with the voices of men, but living bells. And so the bells tolled together one last time, a final prayer, a dirge for those who sung it, still resonating even as the dead rushed forward, ceasing only when they reached striking distance.
(Yelling) The glaives slashed into pinkred flesh, claws hammered against angled armor, and the temple grounds were awash in the cacophony of desperate battle. The Lucent Templar fought without fear, but the dead fought without number. The defenders were pressed back, slowly ascending the temple steps, narrowing their triangular formation to prevent any gaps as their brothers fell. And as the blood of the fallen seeped into Malorum, the skies were darkened with gathering clouds.
Then came the first crash. (Explosion) The first blast of light emits the dead, incinerating many outright, and sending those nearby hurtling as smoldering limbs. Then another, a streak of gold from above, a deafening explosion, and the dead scattered as leaves before a storm. My vision turned to the top of the temple, and I saw him standing there. I saw The Burning One I felt at once a sensation like never before, a simultaneous belief and disbelief that would have brought me to my knees had I
been in my own body. As it was, I felt the literally coil from the image of El’sabayoth's chosen. Draped in flowing robes of white, adorned with golden braces, he stood taller and broader than the mortal men whose likeness he bore. His hair and beard flowed together as a white mane, framing a face set stern as stone and eyes that burned with the white fires of his sacred heritage. As he reached above his head with one hand, I saw lightning strike down from the heavens and strike his open path.
And as it did, it formed into the likeness of a golden spear. A thunderbolt caught and suspended, still crackling. He hurled his thunderous missile from on high into the swarming dead below. Blasting another dozen into smoldering ruin. And again, and again, another spear, another thunderclap. Ceaselessly, tirelessly, he lashed out in righteous fury against those that would invade the temple, destroying in a matter of seconds, but would have taken an army of men to accomplish.
The tide of the dead slackened against a Lucent Templar who began pressing forward down the steps. I believe they could have won that day with The Burning One behind them, even against such overwhelming numbers whose still here might still stand, if not for what followed. (Air Whooshing) I heard it before I saw it. A shuddering, wheezing hiss that emanated from the skies washed over the battleground.
Then the clouds began to churn, whipped into vortices and dispersed as the winged horror dove below them. As a boy, I had heard tales of dragons, mighty beasts that ruled the skies ofAtan and raised any ships that dared approach. But this creature was a twisted nightmare of death brought in dragons formed. The abomination's wings should not have granted it flight, tattered as they were, like the ruined sails of a drowned frigate. It's still its sword.
Its massive body was parked and marred with decay, a skeletal frame to which moldering flesh clung in shreds. The lack of tissue on its skull laid bare rows of fangs, as if in perpetual grin. Yet from its hallowed sockets, their streaked blood-black ichor, empty eyes that ever wept above death's smile. (Air Whooshing) The abomination alighted upon one of Ustilia’s Towers, seemingly indifferent to the smoke that hissed from its
elongated claws upon the silver. It craned its neck, serpentine and skeleton, surveying the temple grounds, grinning without mirth, then unfurled its wings so that they stretch as wide as the temple itself. (Air Whooshing) It was The Burning One that struck the beast. As a hand towards the heavens, he called down his golden spear and hurled at the wing in terror. His unnatural swiftness, the creature loosed itself from the tower, which
blasted apart in a shower of sparks. It swooped so that it almost struck the floor, then swept upward with a beat of its wings, avoiding another lightning bolt as it rose. Then I heard its putrid lungs rattling as they drew a monstrous breath, like a thousand bragged gasps of the dying. (Air Whooshing) The exhalation came as a shuddering hiss, a pale green fog, and in so opening its mouth, the creature's bottom jaw swung apart from sheer decay.
The fog rolled over the dead with no effect, but as it reached the first line of loose and templar, the living fell to their knees in choking agony. The Burning One was quick to react, drawing a deep breath of his own and bringing his hands together in a mighty thunderclap. And from the force of it, a shockwave rushed over, sweeping away as a putrid fog, sparing the second line of defenders. The winged horror wheeled in the sky, hissing in outrage.
It circled the temple, coming around for another breath, but The Burning One was ready. He hurried the abomination with thunderbolts, forcing it to dip and dart aside, crunching from it ever more baleful hisses, until at last it soared above the temple itself and dove directly down. The rattle of its rotting lungs sounding with a crackle of lightning brought in hand. The fog came first. It poured over the top of the temple, obscuringThe Burning One and the creature banked upward.
There was silence. Neither the dead nor the Lucent Templar lifted a hand. Then two white eyes ignited from within the fog, and a golden lance of thunder shot straight up, piercing through the abomination of long-dead ribcage, sending grey fluids sloshing free with a gurgling shriek of rage. The battle resumed below, and the winged horror plummeted, its form billowing into black smoke, and crashed as an inky comet upon the temple top.
Smoke swirled and roiled, condensing into bubbling ichor, and then rising once more as smoke into the likeness of a man. The Burning One raised one leg and brought his foot down in a stock that blasted away the remaining fog and smoke, and there before him stood a princely figure, draped in black. His features were angular and drawn, as pale and hard as ice, and his eyes shone like silver coins. Your aim was true... but your target false.
The prince's voice was cold, almost detached, and as he spoke, he gestured to the Lucent Templar below, who all had fallen without the lightning to support them. Now the temple stood ringed by the dead, who stared blankly in motionless silence. The Fetid Prince you are a stain upon these sacred grounds. A matter of perspective. Truth, a null's perspective. Truth lies. Their only difference is perspective.
The Fetid Prince slowly began to circle The Burning One scraping his claw-like fingers along the stone of the temple. Be silent. I'll not stand idly by as you befoul this temple with your deceptions. The Burning One remained focused on The Fetid Prince not allowing him out of sight. Those that would silence do not seek truth, and there is no greater deceit than hypocrisy. Come then. I have no fear of death or those that serve it.
All serve death in the end. Even you know if I should fall in battle, I will rise again in fire and vengeance. Lightning streaked from the heavens to meet The Burning One's upthrust hand, but as it struck, it formed into the likeness of a crackling greatsword. The Fetid Prince raised his own hand, clutching his claw-like fingers closed. The blade of shadow was laid manifest, dripping its darkness on the temple floor like blots of ink. Half of that is truth.
This time, The Fetid Prince struck first, rushing at The Burning One in a blur of speed that I could scarcely follow. Shadow clashed against lightning as the blade struck and sparks were shone from the collision. In that same speed, The Fetid Prince drew away from his opponent before he could retaliate, circled him in a blur, and struck from another angle. The Burning One whirled and swung his lightning blade upwards, slicing a molten trail in the temple floor before the
following clash. Yet again, before he could counter, The Fetid Prince darted away, flanked and rushed in. The shadowed blade sighed in a whisper. The lightning blade crackled, and the two bound together in a blast of sparks. Out and in, The Fetid Prince darted once more, this time managing a blow against one of the golden bracers, severing it so that it splattered to the floor, stained with black, hissing with corrosion.
As The Burning One lashed out, it drove through a temple pillar, toppling it in his fury. But The Fetid Prince was already gone. Enraged, The Burning One gripped the hilt of his greatsword with both hands and tore in either direction. The blade crackled, arcing along its length before splitting in twain, two blades of crackling gold. He set upon The Fetid Prince then, hammering down with both weapons again and again, hitting nothing.
For as the golden blade struck, The Fetid Prince stepped aside and returned to his position in a flicker unscathed. In a cry of fury, The Burning One raised one leg and stomped down, catching the Prince in a shockwave that flung him violently into a pillar. The Burning One pressed the attack, hurling one of his golden swords as a
whirling thunderbolt. Still struggling to regain his footing, the Prince knew he could not evade the oncoming gold that filled his eyes and so crossed his hands over his chest in a flash, causing his body to dissolve into swirling mist. The lightning pierced through the cloud, buckling the pillar behind it. The mist coalesced into physical fall once more. The two beings regarded one another for a moment in silence and the prince rushed in again.
Darkness smote light as blade to blade and flashed in intervals over the dead below, illuminating rotted faces in flickers of gold. And now among them stood the Lucent Templar, their steepled helms devoid of song as life. Sparks danced in the temple as swords bound anew, yet with a twist of the wrist, The Fetid Prince rested the lightning from its master, sending it streaking into a wall that set ablaze. And the temple of El’sabayoth was in flames then and set agrow the battle in crimson.
Fire was in the silvered eyes ofThe Fetid Prince The mane of The Burning One appeared as if soaked in blood. Reaching for the heavens, The Burning One called down another bolt. It struck his hand as the shadow blade struck his heart. Forsaken. With a single word, the faintest smile pulled at his lips. The Burning One still held the bolt in
hand. He struggled to lift it. Trembling and straining through clenched teeth, The Fetid Prince waved, watching all the while as the bolt was brought overhead, then drove the shadow blade deeper, then botched it fizzle out. He withdrew his shadow blades and, stepping back as The Burning One sloped to his knees, as the fire spread around them. From the wound in his chest, the blinding veins of black had begun to spread. And his breath came in the ragged wheezes. Finish it.
It was finished long ago. The Burning One groped at his body, then held his hands before his eyes, seeing them threaded with blackened veins. What? What is this? That is for your priests to tell you, those that survived to the north. Why? It is a message for your lord. Deadhaus rises. And with that, The Burning One reached both hands to the heavens and lightning fell upon him in such force that his body was obscured in the width of the bolt. And when it passed, he was no more.
The Fetid Prince stood alone in the Burning Temple, running his claw-like fingers along the toppled stone. Then at once he stopped and tilted his head in perplexion. Slowly he turned to face my direction, the direction of the viewing window, and paused. Those eyes, like silver coins shone firelight so intently that I could almost feel its heat. You're being watched, he said at last, and I felt my stomach lurch. Impossible. None have followed. I heard the whispered
voice of the Litrus Bonn. Look closely, The Fetid Prince said, tapping the claws of his middle and index fingers underneath his eyes. The liche waved its hand, and the window through which we gazed was filled entirely with the image of The Fetid Prince And there, in the silver of his eyes, I saw myself reflected, an interloper in the vision, spying through so many nested windows across distance and time.
The liche hissed in horrible realization, jerking its hand so that the window in the pillar snapped shut, replaced once more by engraved stone. It jerked its lantern upward and leaned towards the reflective surface of the pillar. I watched helplessly as it scanned its horrible face under the blue light, and then I heard it, like a whisper in my own thoughts.
“Alaric…. Alaric.” It reached towards its own reflection, toward me, and as I flailed away from it, I found myself once more, bolted upright. I flew from my chambers, needing no candle for the light of the Blood Moon. It was just a dream, a nightmare. That is what I want to believe, but as I write these words, I know them to be false. I was seeing through its eyes, just as I did briefly in the sunken woods. But how? And in the vision, what can it mean?
Our history says that The Burning One abandoned us in the first battles with Deadhaus, but I have seen through other eyes the hidden truth. And now I must wonder if The Burning One stood with us, and where has he now? Where has he been while the Dead consume his people? I fear these matters are beyond my understanding, and yet I must know. All this time I thought the gods had abandoned us, a matter of perspective. I dare not speak of this to anyone.
There is no telling who can be trusted at this point. The light of the First Moon stains these pages red as I write, as if they had been drenched in my own blood. I fear that in time, they will be. Alaric von Beller, Grand Inquisitor of the Thacian Empire.