The Eclipse of the North (Intro, Closed)

[Culokvia]

The clearing was dark, night having settled many hours ago, only rays of light from the full moon left to illuminate the patches of dead and wilted grass. The trees stood derelict of life and leaves, bark weathered and grey after many years standing vigil in a circle about the clearing. Traced deep into the ground was a great circle, a pentangle within and touching the circle with each of its points. Further adding to the dugout emblem were archaic and ancient markings carved into the open spaces between the lines, all flowing and elegant in a way that seemed entirely unnatural. Worst of all, they seemed to change position or depth if one looked away and back again, almost as though they had a mind of their own, and if one stared at them too long small voices could be heard whispering from the earth with obscene promises of power and life eternal.

Yet that was not the end of the foul regalia present. Strapped to the trees with course rope, naked and gagged, were men and women of varying ages. They struggled against their bonds, the younger crying while the older tried to cast whatever magic they could. None could tear their eyes from the great cauldron in the center of the etched glyph, a bonfire salted with the bones of lost children causing great wafts of foul smelling greenish steam to rise it. Worst of all were the five men within the circle, cultists chanting in a tongue lost to man with their arms cast to the heavens.

All the cultists were clad in dark robes, their hoods obscuring their faces as they continued their dark litany. Yet they stopped abruptly, walking forward to the cauldron and drawing out a hidden and bleached bone from their robes. They dropped the human remains in the cauldron, the water sizzling menacingly as the bones seemed to melt into it. Each cultist then drew back the sleeve of their right arm and thrust their arm into the liquid. They wailed and screamed in unearthly voices, blood seeping from where the skin of their arms melted away. Withdrawing their arms blood flowed from their freshly flensed right arms, dripping onto the ground as they each strode over to a waiting captive.

They withdrew wicked blades from hiding places within their robes, letting their own blood run down the edge of the blade before drawing it across the throats of the captives. The wounds were deep, nearly down to the spine, and all protests stopped as their life-blood poured unto the earth in rivers. The cultists repeated this, muttering foul prayers as they passed from person to person until all had fallen to their blades. Then they gathered into the circle once more, each taking a place at one of the tips of the pentangle as the blood from the draining captives flowed into the dugout channels and somehow managed to fill even the disconnected etchings until the entire glyph was a deep crimson.

The cultists fell to their knees, reciting a prayer from heart in unison, “We give this offering of blood, both light and dark, to please out most capricious mistress. Nott, goddess of the night, grant her blessing unto her followers, for we praise the night and shun the light as she demands. We, the last and most loyal of her faithful, beg her blessing so as to bring eternal darkness to this accursed land and ensure that all might know night’s glory and joy,” their blades remained in their hands, and they placed the point over their chests directly above their hearts, “We deliver our life to you so that the darkness can embrace all life.”

With calm hands and blank eyes the cultists plunged their blades into their hearts, some grunting other shuddering as they fell to the ground and began to bleed out. Their blood mixed with that already collected from their victims, sizzling and boiling where the two met until the entire symbol was alive and steaming. The cauldron steamed ever more, beginning to rumbles as geysers of liquid shot into the air as the pressure became furious. Then, as though the god they had called upon had seen and answered their pleas, the earth began to rupture around the emblem and a towering beam of sickly green light shot into the sky from the cauldron as the iron melted.

A pulse of the same green rippled out like a great wave across the land, small animals falling to the ground and shrivelling into mummies and bird fell from the sky. Wolves howled and whined as their fangs and claws grew, blood spurting from their paws and jaws as they made room for the larger natural weapons as their fur darkened to the colour of tar and their eyes began to glow balefully. Other animals either died or changed, even the trees and plants wilting away or twisting into mockeries of their former natural beauty. The quickly spreading shockwave also seemed to darken the sky, what little light from the rising sun seemingly blocked out and only allowing the moon to shine down with its cold light.

As the wave spread, the glyph continued to rupture and fall apart, collapsing to reveal a staircase deep into the bowel of the earth. From within a shriek echoed out, clawing and gasping heard as footsteps followed. As the voice drew closer to the surface the clawing and gasping stopped, a woman illuminated by the moonlight as she stumbled from the stone steps and into the open air.

She was tall, around six feet, but was lithe and voluptuous of frame of such pale skin that it appeared near ivory. Long and straight orange hair hung down to the bottom of her thighs. Her buxom chest and her hourglass figure was held within a crimson dress, long sleeves ending in gold embroidered cuffs that hung around her soft hands. The neckline of the dress was rather low, exposing more flesh than a polite society would find acceptable. Her face was slightly pointed, a petite nose and full lips resting below bright emerald eyes that practically glowed with lust and wrath in equal measure. She hissed at the moon as she raised a hand to block out the unwanted light while her eyes dilated, the hiss revealing pearly white teeth and canines far too long and sharp for a normal person.

She groaned, clutching her stomach and near collapsing. Rising she looked to the horizon, seeing the bright glow of life energy even after the pulse had washed over the village. Her mind was set the moment she noticed the glow, taking off from the ground and gliding through the sky at an alarming pace towards the village. Her hunger had to be satiated, centuries of starvation having gnawed at her, and now the opportunity to feed rested so close. She could barely remember the taste of fresh blood, and she ached for it.

As the emancipated vampire flew towards a feast the shockwave of vile energies was already working its foul magic upon every magical human it touched. Mages attuned to light magic collapsed to the ground, seeming to fall into a seizure as they changed to the element of darkness. Yet this was not the simple end to the transformation, all those changed in this was growing pale and their canines elongating as they became creatures of the night. When they rose from the metamorphosis, the fledgling vampires were blood-starved and unable to contain their lust for the ichor of life. Those near them would be cut down as they drained them in order to satiate their newly found hunger.

This madness and slaughter hailed in the revival of something old and near forgotten, a foe that could not be defeated but was instead trapped released into the world once more. Archduchess Alexandrine Vallenfalk, now flying towards a village to stave off her primal bloodlust, was visiting her presence upon Grandtaria once more. The pulse of corruption that spread across the land ensured death and decay of all that felt its dark presence, and should that not sow them with enough dread the wave of blood mad vampires that rose in its wake would.

[Grandtaria]

A violent crack filled the air as smoke clouded round. The festival in the normally sleepy village of Velindre was in full swing, and a marksman contest was in process. "That's five points for the third ring!" Yelled out the tournament inspector. "And the winner is, by two points, Geroge Afon!" The man who was called stood up.

He was small compared to those around him, at 180 Cm. Bowing slightly as he spilled ale on his already spoiled uniform, he walked up and accepted the 20 crown prize. It was several months pay for a private like him, so this was quite the sum.

Swaying slightly, he walked to the stage, taking the small purse of silver and gold coins. Turning to the group of compeitors and spectators, he yelled, "I'm buying yee all a drink! Come on!" With a series of cheers, they quickly set off for the village tavern, only a handful of more dressed gentlemen remaining, with ten or so loyal spectators.

"We are nearing the end of the tourney. Our final event is magical duels. We have only two competitors, Fire mage Sir George Wensly, and Light Mage, Miss Enid of New Pembroke." The two contestants seemed extremely aristocratic, both wearing flowing blue and gold robes, a red and green cloak trailing behind them. The announcer strode off of the small stage and turned to the combatants. "On my mark! And... BEGIN!" With that the pair of duelists turned around, the pyromancer getting the the early advantage.

"Omne Flammans Flamma Purgatus, Domine Extinctionis et Signum Regenerationis, in Mea Manu Ens Inimicum Edat! Flagrantia Rubicans!"[1] A blazing red inferno of flames charged forward from the pyromancer's staff, striking dead on and sending the light mage tumbling, her magical barrier barely preventing the flames from charring her.

It was at that moment that the foul green pulse ripped through the village, and as it faded into the distance, a number of nobles fell to the ground, writhing in agony, but among the crowds and the commotion of the celebration, few took notice.

Returning to the fight, Eind was no exception as the world around her grew dark, her eyes blurring as the pyromancer, unaware of her distress, struck her again.

"Ex Somno Exsistat Exurens Salamandra Inimicum Involvat Igne! Captus Flammeus!" This time the attack was less direct, chains of fiery magical energy springing from the pyromancer's staff and binding her to the earth. However, as he approached her to claim victory, she went completely limp, spare for a slight twitch. Quickly he dropped his staff, the spell fading as he rushed forward. "My god!" Quickly he grabed the woman as she collasped. "I'm sorry I don't know my own strength!" Slowly the woman shifted in his arms. "Oh thank god! I feel te-" And that was all he got out as the woman opened her eyes. The pyromancer froze at the sight at of now blood red, peircing iris', only able to gape as she she planted a firm palm on his chest, screaming out in an unearthly voice.

"Επικείμενος Χειμώνας!" Instantly the man felt an unbearable, stabbing pain, and then... Nothing. The spell had coated his stomach, heart, and major arteries with ice, instantly freezing and shattering them. His eyes went blank as he felt his cardiovascular system rip apart and blood fill his lungs. Slumping to the ground blood poured from his mouth and nose, crimson tears dripping from the pyromancer's now empty pupils as the woman, with her new canines, drained what little blood remained in his veins as the crowd looked on in terror.

The few poor souls who had collapsed moments earlier fell quickly upon the villagers in a similar manor, the confusion and terror quickly cleared the streets as men, women, and children fled in every direction, most being cut down before they could reach any kind of shelter. In a minutes, at least twenty bodies lay in the street, pale and drained of life. The villagers who had managed to escape the chaos now hid, huddled together in the small houses of the village, waiting and praying they would not be next. All too many, found their prayers answered as many villages across the north suffered the same fate, unaware that terrifying black veil that had just fallen upon them, was only the beginning.

[Culokvia]

Kaelwangentown, the pride of the North, was a gem of civilization in a rather untamed and darkened land. Within its walls the people went about their lives, the cold wind of night forcing all but beggers, thieves, and the guard to their homes. Yet even still there were murmurs and voices in the dark, shadows slithering across filthy cobblestone as lamp flames dimmed and flickered in front of alleys. Soft boots padded across the ground, dust and dirt grinding against stone as unseen bodies crept throughout the cities darkest reaches, an erratic clink and tap of metal penetrating the sublimely silent air.

The guards would never see it coming, too busy dealing with the latest muggers and murderers. Three men in great coats, the wool obviously uncomfortable but providing reprieve from the icy grip of the north, crowded a wildly flailing and howling man. They smashed the butts of their muskets into his chest, viciously kicked him, and sent a flurry of blows down upon his weeping and bleeding form. A fourth guard stood over the bloodied form of a beautiful young woman, her clothes roughly torn and her flesh all too pale. The guard closed her eyes as a litany of curses filled the air from his raging fellows. The guard rose, wiping his brow of the cold sweat that had formed, and turned to his slowly calming fellows. At their feet lay the still and unrecognizable form of a murderer and rapist, the world was the better for it as a final kick landed upon pulverized and gushing ribs.

“Captain Davies, what should we do with the body?” The men looked to the corpse, a gurgle of blood and air escaping from between shattered ribs, “No point in leaving it here.”

Davies walked over from the young woman’s body, glancing down at the criminal’s corpse and then to his men, “Throw him over the edge, no point in letting his blood taint Tarian soil any longer than necessary,” the men nodded and began to grab the curs twisted limbs, “I will remain on watch over the victim, I do not want her left to the scum that infest these alleys.”

The guardsmen lifted the still leaking body and left, one man to each arm and the third grabbing legs that appeared to have far too many joints created from the thrashing. Davies sighed as a trail of crimson trailed after the guards. He leaned against a wall, slowly sinking down until he sat beside the now completely lifeless woman, the shocked look on her face making him feel all the more guilty. It took all his willpower to tear his eyes from her, forcing himself to stare blankly at the building opposite him. He reached into his inner coat pocket and retrieved a small bottle.

Davies eyed for but a moment before popping the cork and taking a swig, “regulations be damned, I need this now more than ever,” with the taste of rather poor liquor in his mouth and his body tired from a long night of patrolling he could not keep his eyes and mind from wandering back to the woman, “What has this world come to that I can’t even save one life? And while that bastard’s death will console the masses, it won’t bring you back, and it won’t stop your weeping of your family,” he took another swig, swallowing hard before replacing the cork, “And yet the people think life is dandy, mostly because they live in the country and can defend themselves. These accursed alleys and street have taken more lives than I care to count...”

A shout, yell, and then cacophony of screams and explosions alighted into the air, carving into the blissful silence and banishing it. Captain Davies was on his feet, bottle of booze forgotten and shattering upon cobblestone. His boots pounded upon hard ground, sending jolts up his legs and spine as his hands gripped tighter around his musket. Adrenalin pumped, instincts took over, and Davies follow the litany of noise. His boots were caked with blood before he even reached the scene, having sprinted entirely along a trail of crimson. When he arrived, even though he was only moments in the running, it was far too late. He retched upon the ground, the foul taste of acid mixed with rum passing over his tongue.

Pasted across both sides of the street, down fifty feet of cobblestone, and dripping from the roofs of the buildings was blood and gore. Bits of his men’s uniforms stuck to doors, chunks of brain matter clung to the sign of the butcher’s shop down the street twenty meters, and glass from windows lay strewn across the streets where shrapnel from bones had shattered them. The smell, a mixture of sweat, excrement, and the overpowering irony tinge of blood pervaded the air. Worst of all, four men wearing ever foreboding black robes and hoods stood in the center of the carnage, one of their own kneeling in the epicenter with his wrists slashed and neck slit so deep that his spine could be seen. Worst of all, out of that gushing wound he still chanted with gurgled and bubbling words.

“Kill him! Sacrifice his body to the dark lords!” The words came from the kneeling man, spilling from his smiling throat with a wet pops and splats, “Feed the coming slaughter!” He rose, his hood falling back from his face, his face was an image of suffering and terror. Davies screamed, the cultist’s eyes had been gouged out, his tongue ripped from his throat, and his lips slashed open so that his jaw hung open in a perpetual state of agony. How he spoke was beyond the Captain, all he knew was that the four cultists surrounding the abomination charged, screaming praises to gods best left unmentioned and throwing themselves upon him with wickedly sharp daggers.

A loud crack shattered the air, and one of the cultists screamed as he fell to the ground with a gush of blood pouring from his stomach. Davies, having fired his only shout, brought the butt of his musket about and slammed it into the head of the closest cultist, the sound of cracking bone and a dull yelp would have been more satisfying if there hadn’t been two more cultists. He swung his musket like a club, catching the next cultist in the side and breaking a couple ribs. The last cultist reached him though, and with a grunt Davies felt the blade slither into his gut.

Time seemed to slow for Davies. He noticed things he hadn’t before, his senses slowly passing over his killer. The cultist smiled with cracked yellow teeth, his eyes bloodshot and flickering about to things only he saw. The bastard’s breath was like curdled milk and dead fish mixed together, washing over even the stench of death. Wheezing, like the man had lungs that had nearly given in, reached Davies’ ears. Davies’ last thoughts were that this was a rather ignominious death, a crazed lunatic stabbing him in the dead of night. A small consolation entered his mind, at least he wouldn’t have to try and explain what the hell happened to his superiors, so this was probably a small mercy.

With that, and a final grunt, Captain Davies of the Kaelwangentown Guard fell to the ground. The Cultist smiled, his crazed eyes flashing back to the man with the mutilated face, “Maeder?” His voice was high pitched and cracked, a coughing fit overtaking him as he finished just a single word.

“You have done well,” Maeder walked to his minion, bloody footprints following behind his flowing black robe, “The gods will be pleased with this sacrifice, and you shall be rewarded for your loyalty.” The words slipped from his wrecked throat with a sickly happiness, “But they night is not yet over, the pulse is coming and we must prepare for the revival of our lords.”

The cultist nodded eagerly and went to move away, but a hand flashed out from Maeder’s robes and firmly gripped his arm. The flesh of Maeder’s left hand was peeled away in thick green and yellow flakes as he tensed it, red muscle and flesh apparent below as he gripped with a dead man’s hold, “M-Master?”

“Your duty is not done, serve your master as another vessel,” Maeder cackled, a darkness that swallowed all light flowing down his arm and into the now shrieking cultist. It was over quick, Maeder’s body slumping as soon as the darkness passed and the cultist’s shivering with its new inhabitant. While the eyeless body began to decay, maggots and worms that had been unseen before wriggling out of its mouth and eye sockets, the new body warped and bent. He howled with agony as bones snapped, flesh coiled, and his left arm and eye decayed and burst with necrotic flesh and liquids. A splash of bile fell upon the ground, having fallen from Maeder’s new lips, “This shall be suitable.” The voice lacked the wheeze, now a calm and cold tone without impediment.

Maeder stood straight and adjusted his now tight robes, turning to the sound of marching boots. The guard proper was going to arrive soon. He sighed, his eyes flashing to the distant cathedral, “We shall be late, but there is nothing that can be done about it. Such a change in plans is not unaccounted for, but still disappointing,” His words were to no-one that could be seen, and even as he spoke he began to pile the corpses of his fallen comrades and Captain Davies in the center of the road, “However we shall move another factor a step ahead.” Maeder’s chuckle was sickening, a deep and menacing laugh that would have shaken the soul of anyone that heard it.

---

The Cathedral was grand, with gothic arches and a high stone ceiling that made all who visited it gasp in awe. Stained glass windows depicting saints, archangels, and Jesus Christ made the devout sing their praises to the Lord ever louder. The pulpit from which the Bishop read his daily sermons was crafted from the finest marble, five artisans working their craft to engrave it with depictions of the Lord Christ. Upon it sat a weathered leather-bound bible, the cover inlaid with golden letters. Behind and above the podium was a massive cross carved from a single gargantuan oak tree. All in all it was a sight to behold, even for those of another or no faith.

What no-one realized was what lay below the surface though, just a few feet below the stoneworks of its foundation. The Cathedral sat upon a prison, or tomb depending on one’s view. Beneath it, hidden away by the righteous followers of God, was a cage made for an enemy that could not be killed. Hidden for centuries, forgotten, it went unnoticed by the masses that had begun to head towards the cathedral for asylum as the city broke out into chaos. Everywhere attacks were taking place, dark mages fanatically throwing themselves at the guardsmen, and spells being flung about causing collateral damage that was already slaying many innocent men and women.

Leading the first band of refugees was Striga Elethwyr, a tall and stately light mage. Her heritage was Tarian, even though she stood taller than most women and had a full head of bright orange hair that met her thighs. Eyes of bright electric blue, a soft featured face, and most of all her seductively feminine figure often drew men to her. Yet tonight was different, all lust lost as the chaos overrode other instincts and set panic loose. She was one of the few truly powerful mages in the city, and unlike the others she was more concerned about seeing to people’s safety than going out to fight the menace. So it was that she led a band of over three hundred panicking, crying, and shouting civilians to the only place of refuge in a sea of pandemonium.

The large wooden double doors to the cathedral were flung open, Striga having summoned a gust of wind to blow them open and save precious time. She panted, leading her flock of followers to the rows of pews. Yet even in such a massive cathedral there was not enough seating as ever more refugees poured in. Striga sighed, sitting down on the cold stone floor for a much needed rest after having gone from house to house gathering people. A young man came up beside her, his face ashen and barren of the typical smile that men walked up to her with, “Do you have any idea what is going on? Is Grandtaria under attack?”

“I honestly have no idea, all I know is that it isn’t safe out there. I think we should let the nobles worry about the details while we just try and survive,” Striga’s voice was soft and lilted with a celtic accent, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she tried to keep from despair, “Besides there is not much point in worrying now, we are in a cathedral. Even if those dark mages out there try they can’t harm us in here, the power of our faith keeps them at bay. So just try and rela-” Through the stained glass, all went green for but a moment, then Striga’s heart began to pound harder than ever before in her life as body erupted into agony. She fell to the floor screaming, her cries shocking many and making them jump. Striga’s eyes rolled into the back of her skull, dribble flowing from her mouth as she convulsed wildly.

The man beside her tried to do his best to help, rolling her onto her side, “Someone get a piece of leather or wood, she is having a seizure!” as the refugees scrambled to help their saviour the cage below was now unbound, the locks and shackles removed. Its inhabitant moved, tunnelling upwards with animalistic fervour and ferocity. The Tarians, all too busy dealing with Striga, did not notice the scrapping coming from below until it was too late.

“Don’t worry miss, you’re going to be okay, everything is going to be just fi-” The words are cut off, the young man’s face turning from one of concern to shock as the floor beneath him gives way to a gauntleted hand. It grabs him with inhuman strength, talon-like fingers ripping into the flesh of his leg before dragging him down the opening. The opening, being too small, does not allow him passage, instead he wails and screams as the arm pulling him yanks ever harder, bones snapping and contorting as he is every slowly dragged through the hole.

Hands shoot out, grabbing him and trying to stop whatever is dragging him. This only elicits more screams as it just movers slower, his right leg contorting and twisting as it pops from its socket to all him to fit, then it comes off entirely with another yank. Then, all at once, all those holding onto the poor man fall to the ground and are dragged towards the opening not two feet from Striga. With a loud series of cracks every ribs in the man’s body are crushed, blood gushing from his mouth like a geyser as he disappears into the hole. Some scream and start running from the cathedral, others pray, everyone ignores Striga as she continues to convulse on the floor.

With a growl, the floor ruptures, stone and blood cracking and falling away as the prisoner from the cage below claws his way out of the earth. A now crimson gauntlet springs out of the hole, grabbing onto a lip of stone as another does the same on the other side. They push and pull, revealing the monstrous being that just murdered a man with brute strength alone. His eight foot tall form is that of dark iron armour, all spikes and sharp edges, what little can be seen between plates is darkened and hard leather. With shoulders as wide as most men, arms as thick as tree trunks, and balefully red eyes glowing behind a horned helmet, those that had remained flee as he utters a primal roar that shakes the foundations of the cathedral.

One man is not fast enough, and the same gauntlet that ripped a man apart lashes out and cuts into his face. An eye, blood, lips, and flesh go arcing through the air, bits of brain matter trailing behind lazily before splashing on the ground. The other gauntlet finds purchase on the man’s arm, jerking him into the beast’s grip and raising him up to his face. Dying, the man does nothing as fangs like that of a wolf’s sink into his throat and practically rip it out. Growling, groaning, and grunting the gargantuan armoured fiend slurps and chews away at his prey until all that is left is a husk without a throat or face.

Quick sharp breaths leave his mouth, deep and guttural by nature yet exacerbated by quenching a hunger that had been building for centuries. He looks about, dropping the husk of a human he holds to the ground with a dull thump. Red eyes fall to Striga, her convulsing form enticing him in several senses of the word. With a heavy clatter he kneels down beside her, recognizing what is happen, and leans over her. He removes his left gauntlet, skin as pale as moonlight and literally covered in scars hovering over her face. With his right hand he slashes a talon across his exposed wrist, blood quickly splashing to the ground.

Striga gurgles and spits as the open wound is forced into her mouth, the blood running down her throat burning every fibre of her being yet somehow easing the pain. After the initial shock she recovers, the convulsions passing as she begins to suckle and then chew upon the precious source of burning blood that floods her. The pain washes away, replaced by an emptiness, and then she opens her eyes. Striga screams, the giant overtop of her clamping her down with his free hand and keeping his slit wrist in her mouth by force.

“Do not resist, the process is not complete, you will only suffer more,” His voice is deep, as it should be for a man of his size and build, yet it lacks any ferocity or anger, instead terribly cold and calculating, “Drink deeply, my child, for this is all that matters in your existence from now until the very death of the universe.”

She gives in, something new within her elating from the taste and sensation of the blood as it washes over her tongue and flows down the back of her throat. It is almost like ecstasy, the pain still wracked her mind. This was pure bliss compared to just moments before, the agony having broken something in her. They remained this way for a few minutes before the wound was gently removed from Striga’s mouth. She weakly attempted to drag it back, but her strength was gone. Instead she looked up into his face, able to see past the darkness of his visor and to the horrifically scarred face below, “You, you saved my life. Why?”

He stands, but not before picking her up in his arms, “I did so because you are one of my kind, and you remind me of someone I used to know.”

Striga weakly smiles, the smell of blood a thousand roses to her now where it had been a stench before, “I am indebted to you, what is your name?”

“I am Marcher Lord Margrave Von Aldenstein,” he looks through one of the now cracked stained glass windows, a colossal explosion of blood, gore, and screams erupting from where Captain Davies had died, “And you shall be my new charge.” With that he walks from the cathedral, in the distance fires, terror, and chaos overwhelming the city. To Margrave’s eyes it is beauty in its most pure form, cultists being gunned down, soldiers falling prey to mobs, and spells lashing out with deadly accuracy as the horror of the pulse reawakens a world long since lost.

[Grandtaria]

Alarm bells rung out the already apparent to danger as the militia, panicked and without order, flooded into the streets from their homes. Some where half dressed, others wore nothing but robes and their arms, but all looked as terrified as the next at the prospect of defending the city.

Before them was a scene of unrivaled chaos. Fires had taken root in the west and was now blooming into a blossom of destruction, advancing like the armies of hell, in an unstoppable, albeit slow, march. The fire brigade had long since either fled or been cut apart, and so the soldiers, now bolstered by, if the discouraged, panicked mob that was called a military force could be called remotely helpful to the situation, by a militia.

Not that it truly affected anything, for even as they groped for their arms in the dead of night, the city was already lost, the unyielding screams of northern wind drowning even the most heroic calls to fight.

The Industrial Sector was nothing better, for as the fires had reached the Aeden&Lancer steam plants. Chaos's Viola loosed a tune that could impress the reaper.

---
Eyes wide, Watchman Roberts scrambled from his post, pistols clattering in his belt as he took the stairs from the tower two at a time. Approaching the foot of the steps, he leapt across the final stretch of stairwell and hit the ground, feet pounding. His whistle blared instinctively from his pursed lips, the high pitched, brass note loud enough to wake the dead, echoed through the mill. though no one heard it.

From his post he had seen the city being engulfed by all forms of darkness and destruction, and even as the fire took root in the building, and a support column plummeted from the roof, nearly crushing a boiler, he decided his odds were best in the fire shelter.
But as he came within meters of the masonry building, his ears picked up something all steam-plant workers dread.

Roberts heard the warning signs as quickly as he saw them he saw them; a sharp, high pitched whistling of a stuck emergency valve, and the screaming of joints and pipes in protest as the steam built up. With the fire spreading quickly through the boiler room, he already knew what it meant. Throwing himself to the ground he waited only a few seconds before the sharp hissing was replaced by deafening bangs as the boilers went one by one, bolts and rivets bouncing of the walls like bullets as scrap iron made short work of any equipment in its path, huge holes appearing in the wall. With one tremendous, awe inspiring bang, the main boiler went. Almost instantly most of the factory was leveled as burning embers from the furnace, along with huge chunks of metal, carved an unopposed path through supports, walls, and roofing.

His choices had run out, he realized as he surveyed the crushed mortar and brick. Gripping his watchman's quarterstaff tighter then ever, he legged his way through the factory complex, and into the maw of fury incarnate.

----

"Come on! Milads! Get those guns forward!" Sir John-George E. Whitehall, Mayor of Kealwangenton, was preparing a defense of the Town Hall. Sprinting alongside a line of horse-drawn cannons, his vials and bottles clattering under his heavy coat. The aspiring alchemist had come into his position after seven years of service in the infantry, as well as two in the Knights of Agathria.

The cannon rolled to a halt and he drew his sword and slashed the cables in a rush. Quickly two militia rushed to his side and helped him turn the cannon about and pushing it to the makeshift barricade the men had made. Masonry, lumber, furniture, and stone made up this defense. Along it, twenty or so militia and the cannon had been lined up. A few militia nervously gave blank shots to keep civilians back, while a number of veterans passed out ammunition and set up a Gatling gun.

And then the silence came. The children stopped crying, and only hid in alleys and homes on either side of the blockade. The Men stopped yelling to the heavens, the officers stopped barking orders, the women stopped screaming, and even the animals felt the quiet the permeated the air. Sweat ran cold along Whitehall's neck, and flames tickled his lungs. His green eyes blinked frantically as he focused into the distance, and the wind blew at his jet-black hair. His twenty-something frame tensed and he crouched low as if the force of what was about to arrive drove another biting gust of wind.

And then, no more then forty meters away, he saw him. No, not him, it. Humans did not have that speed, that agility. Far more importantly, Humans did not have that drive, that absolute lust for death and destruction.

It wore bloody robes, those of a novice knight of Agathria, obviously once a light mage. Perhaps even a holy man at one point. Now the creature was an abomination in even the eyes of it's creator. Canines elongated, limbs made longer, with hair taking on a lighter shade, and skin becoming almost bleached, the thing was a true monster.

As it rushed towards the line, the flames in his lungs became an inferno, consuming his entire being with a mix of rightousness and fear. Pride at what he was fighting back, and terror at the knowledge of the same thing.

He never had a second to give the order, the entire line opened up in seconds, the dull pops of muskets, and the ear-shattering 'bang' of the cannon, leaving him temporarily deaf. Shots flew through the air with deadly speed and remarkable accuracy for firelocks, tearing through flesh bone and sinew. However it was only when the cannonball entered the thing's lower torso, and exited the other side with most of his ribcage, that the creature finally slumped to the ground. Dead.

"JESUS CHRIST, MY LORD HELP!" Or perhaps not. It's right arm stretched forward, weakly, as it bled out on the cobblestone, not even it's impending death halting it's lust for blood.

Whitehall said nothing, nor did he respond as calls for him to come back shouting from the barricade, not even at the sound of his men being cut apart, and the barricade being overrun, did he stop running. His feet pounded, his heart raced, his lungs gasped as they never had before. The world around him meant nothing, all that mattered was that he keep running, and never look back.

----

The capital command center was a mess, officers flying about the room as quickly as their reports, nothing but commotion as they frantically radioed every military outpost in the north.

Nothing. No information. They got through perfectly fine, but every report contradicted the other, and the men were so insane with terror that they made virtually no sense. Even the Third rate capital ship "Justice and Light", which had been docked in Kealwangenton with full crew and supplies, was not responding to calls any more.

Maids and servants of almost every kind rushed about, fetching tea, carrying papers, operating radios, and writing down messages, allowing the generals a few precious moments to think on the situation and figure out the hell what was going on.

However, away from the main flurry of activity, a few maids let gossip fly wild as to what was happening.

"Ooh I hope it's nothing dreadful like a rebellion! I have family up near Wheathill."

"No, probably just the command buggering up again! Those sods couldn't operate a radio with thei-"

"Silence!" The entire room froze. Radio receivers hit the floor along with cups of tea and spectacles.

Before the lot, stood the king. Disheveled, clearly in pain and extremely annoyed. Blood ran from his ears and nose, and his eyes were slightly off of focus, an eye was blackened as he had obviously fallen out of bed, and his night-shirt was drenched in sweat despite the freezing winter cold. "I will not have this chaos! Shut your god forsaken stupid gobs and LET ME SLEEP! This situation will be assessed tomorrow. Give whomever you can contact final orders, or carry out radio transmissions from your own private barrack sectors, and collect any data you can. A plague of darkness is descending, and we must be all rested to fight it. Now kindly do not wake me, under any, I repeat any, circumstance. Not if death itself looms over my bed. Good night!" And with that, his word was final. As final as the grave.