Blades without a Banner

In the earliest days, before honour was well known, there was a wanderer called Eldrys. Unlike many of her kin, she was born free, the daughter of refugees and escapees who had hidden in the caverns and hills, beneath the notice of the Starseers. However, something other than chains weighed on her mind.

Her people worshipped the spirts of the verdant wilds, and her birth came with a laconic prophecy. She would one day destroy their way of life, and become a merciless herald of death and war.

Fearful of her destiny, Eldrys banished herself, and wandered far through dangerous lands to learn more of fate.

From the wild Skinshifters, she learnt why prophecy was vague, but the only vaguely destroying her home did not satisfy her. From the enslaved, she learnt how foresight could manpiluate, which did not help her. From the sea tribes, she learnt how embracing destiny was honourable, but Eldrys neither knew nor desired honour.

After many years, she came across the followers of Karranil, who had just begun their campaign to destroy the Starseers, and so were not yet known. They taught her that prophecy was a lie, destiny a mere prediction. This at last she could not believe. What authority had this Lord of the Slain, to declare that all the seers in the land were false? Were all her travels for nought?

Although she did not believe, Eldrys fought alongside the faithful, as she still craved answers. In one skirmish, the magics of the Starseers summoned an earthslide, and the huntress was buried alive.

Entombed, Eldrys was neither dead, nor alive. In this state, she found herself, miraculously, in the court of Karranil, Lord of the Slain, yet could not move on.

Today was a slow day for Karranil too, as although there are many Islefolk, he is a deity, and so impossibly swift. With nothing else to do, the Lord welcomed his guest to drink and share her story, before she left some way or another.

So before an audience of the dead, Eldrys told them about her travels, and her destiny. She told her story very well- so well, that Karranil felt impelled to tell his own.

It was about a man who was raised to be a soldier, and a slave driver, merely a pawn for cruel masters to use to keep those slightly below himself in line. Karranil spoke of how this soldier realised his fate, and defied it- instead freeing all he could, and leading them to a faraway land, where by his valour and cleverness he was named Lord of them all, so well respected that even after his death his teachings defined his peoples. Eldrys was amazed, and knew, in some way, that this story was true- and begged to know how it was so.

And Karranil repeated his followers' claims- prophecy was a lie, destiny a prediction, fate a weapon in the hands of those who pretend it is immutable. He gifted Eldrys an axe from the stars, and assured her that from now on, only she was responsible for what she did.

Before she could question further, Eldrys awoke, her comrades having dug her out. However, in her pocket was an axe head, made of otherworldly metal. She now had faith, and learned honour, as she carried with her a blessing manifest.

Although she fought with the host for another season, she eventually decided that she could no longer run. Taking her favoured axe and a warband of companions, Eldrys returned home just before spring.

Her kin were fearful, and amazed. Who was this woman, who in a decade had changed so much in body and spirit? Was it the end, as the spirits foretold?

Eldrys did not come for war. When she returned, she realised how her home truly was- frightened, meagre and enthralled, having traded cold chains for fearful worship. She brushed away the crowd, and confronted the thane and the seers directly. However, when she explained that the spirits are greedy, rapacious and lesser compared to true deities, they attacked, enraged by and fearful of change.

Even impelled by faith, Eldrys's kin did not know honour, and scattered in fear, while her warband rushed to her aid, even against the spirits. Leading from the front, Eldryn fought with such swiftness and cunning she seized overwhelming victory.

After her success, the warband settled for spring, and Eldryn taught her people new ways, like honour, to mix with the old. In doing so, she became the Thane of her people, and the people around them, and her prophecy was forgotten in their prosperity and change.

Only after Spring, when her fellow believers approached her again, did she realise her destiny. Hearing of her works, the first Exalted Heroes wished for her to be their standard bearer, and perhaps even to join their ranks. Eldrys was sorely tempted, as it was a grand honour, and clearly fated as well.

But as she held her axe, she looked about her, at the peoples who now looked upon her as Thane and teacher, not a warrior, and remembered what she learned, and realised who she had become. And so, she reaffirmed her loyalty, but respectfully denied- instead pursuing the peace she wished to create.

Seven decades and five years later, Eldrys' great grandson had the axe examined, being a sceptic. Indeed, although made from marvellous iron, not known in Eldrys' time, it was only mundane.

Eldrys had never needed magic to change her fate, and so neither do you.


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Four generations ago, the Islefolk were sorely pressed by enemies on every side. Slavers rose from the ocean, to devour us as fuel for their fields and blood for their altars; the united warriors of the continent scoured the disparate settlements, and the wild beasts feasted on the carrion, and survivors, that were left. The temples were quiet, many banners forever lost- it could have been the end.

But the Islefolk did not relent. Every adult is a warrior as well, and they resisted no matter the time or place. In victory, they were swift, and in defeat, resilient. Their courage and honour was preserved, no matter how dark the days, and providence rewarded them- for at the final hour, a fresh crop of heroes arose, who threw back every invader and created the nation of today. How valiant were they all- Morian the Avenger, Katarys the Flame, Kola Shatterhand! But above them all were the two prophets- Yona the Fated, and Sonai the Doomed.

But this is not the story of those times, exactly, of which entire tomes worth of tales have been written about. This is a story about how it ended- and the final story of Sonai, last of the Exalted.

At the end of it all, the Sahuagin had been scattered, and the banners of the expedition claimed. Islefolk once more controlled all the Isles, although merely over a third as populous as was once, and two great powers remained- without a common foe or unitifying trait, once more at wary peace

In the South were Yona's converts, those who had sworn themselves into covenant with the Five Fold Queen, while North were Sonai's banners- half in number, but twice as valiant. This pairing between strength and wisdom, renown and prosperity, could have been great, if not for that they preached if different gods.

Where Yona created whole cloth the Queen's way of life, Sonai did not believe in the unity of the Crown. He and his followers were of the heroes of old, of which the revenant cults can only aspire to, and so were loyal to the last, refusing all evidence that Karranil was dead.

Yet… despite these differences, the Islefolk, at last, were truly sick of war. As such, Yona and Sonai communed with their deities, together, to see the way forwards, for even if an Islefolk differing in faith was unimaginable- surely there was an in between?

Although there was no answer for Sonai but the fading echoes of the dead, the Queen foretold two paths through her prophet, and neither were greatly appealing.

The first was a tenous peace. None would claim the sacred Isle of Regrets, and both sides would work together to rebuild- both physically, reclaiming many enclaves, but spiritually, to create and proselytise a common creed based on shared ideals. It was a harsh concept for the loyalists, who were scarcer, ravaged and scarred, and had nothing to speak of in true priests- but the alternative was war, with nothing else both peoples would accept.

It was a cruel proposal, yet Yona had as her verbal armaments the knowledge of what would be. Fate is ever shifting, but the reality it is built on does not change. For hours, she spoke of populations, prophecy, predictions and cruel inevitability. She spoke of disparities in numbers and wealth, of the bitter clash between divine work and hardened warriors, of the suffering she could prevent.

Although she dressed peace in gentle tones, Sonai could see her suggestions plain. Either peaceful succession, and the work of creating a syncretic legacy- or total defeat, as written in the numbers of their peoples and strength of their supplies, with no fate but death to speak of.

Sonai looked his counterpart long in the eye, and imagined what could be. He looked at his destinies, laid out so clearly, and finally decided.

He told her that prophecy was a lie, destiny a prediction, fate a weapon in the hands of those who pretend it is immutable.

The resulting civil war scarred the North to this day, yet for all their terrible fury, the loyalists never reached the Isle of Regrets- brutally stonewalled by overwhelming number. Sonai himself fell to unknown blade. None recalling how he died in the final skirmishes, the embers of his blessings finally guttering out. In the end, every prediction the Queen spoke through Yona proved true, and the faith of Karranil was destroyed, leaving only scattered remnants as its dying embers.

After all, no one, not even a hero, can change their fate if they refuse to know it.

[X] No
[X] Find a lever and force the blockage from the door. If you stick around too long, the roof might give in.

'It's not safe here', Talyn announces, solemn like a judge. 'These stables are fit for up to half a dozen horses, and we only saw one. Maybe the fires consumed them all, but until we find five corpses we have to assume that hunters like those are still out there. With an entryway like that, they'd be able to swoop right in, and spear us like fish in a tide pool.'

'So we go further in?', you hazard. 'Inside seems too low for those riders.'

She nods, once, indicating to the door- or it's burning remnants, at least. The path seems clear, but there is one more thing to settle.

Morian settles it for you, standing unaided and draining most of her water. 'The sooner we crush this infestation', she promises, 'the sooner we can all rest easier.'

You could almost believe she was well, from the fervour behind her sweeping gaze- and you know that there's no point in arguing, wise or otherwise.

Solyn produces, of all things, a small crowbar from within a package that you're starting to suspect is larger on the inside than it looks, and the two of you back each other up against the wreckage, the others backing a safe distance away.

'Right brother- after three! One, two, three, heave!'

Wood splinters, sparks hiss, and despite the intimidating size of the debris, but the inside is loose chunks that break and give beneath your efforts. In a single effort, the wreckage visibly retreats, and an ominous orange glow fills the hairline airways.

'One, two, -'

'Don't!'

Both of you abruptly stop, almost stumbling, before facing Talyn.

'If you force that barrier, fire will leap from the gap and scorch you both. The glow means there's a blaze on the other side. It's not safe to open.'

You pull away from the doorway swiftly at that. 'Then how do we get through?'

'If there's no other way, we'll have to break through from a distance.'

'Try burning it from our end too', Heln voices at last. 'It's too much to break down with arrows, but it's clearly burning well enough.'

No one can muster a wiser idea, so you huddle safely away, before Talyn throws a burning torch amongst the blockage. It burns, dry wood that it is, but not swiftly. You glance at the roof above- burning ominously, slowly sagging under its own smouldering weight- and, in your morbid reverie, almost miss it.

At some hidden threshold of pressure, the doorway explodes.

Splinters are hurled across the room as the five of you duck low behind the shields, tongues of fire eagerly plunging into yet unexplored territory. Burning shrapnel is scattered across the stove floor and dry straw, and before consequences burn your heels you quickly kick the rotting fodder away.

What you see on the other side is enough to have second thoughts.

In better times, whoever designed this fort must have desired a hollowed ruin, because you don't believe that the Elves would purposefully let their work crumble. The entire structure is dominated by a keep, which forms the corner of a square of four walls. On each of the other corners is a significantly smaller tower, one of which housed the stables you just emerged from. The walls were decked with a single, broad walkway, while within the courtyard you suspect was the camp of whoever was meant to be here. Strangely, the place strikes you as purposefully neglected- the keep crumbles, towers sag, and even the walls bear several holes, one large and some small, while the courtyard within was overgrown. Even stranger, whoever built this place designed the higher places of wood, and the base of stone, as if they somehow ran out of one halfway and so needed the other.


You had only rested in the stable minutes, and that was all the time flames had needed to devour this place whole. Everything that burns is alight as far as you can see- the walkways crumble as their faded strength goes up in smoke, the other two towers have either fallen or seem like easy to do so, the keep a massive pyre that spits smoke and sparks towards the sky, and even the plants and settlement in the courtyard have become a gusty inferno that even now washes you in heat, with only narrow and irregular dirt paths around and spidering through providing 'safe' zones. Smoke billows madly, wood crackles for a final time, and even the daemons must have fled this place- or been devoured by the heat.

'Maybe the fire's done them in for us?'

'You should know better than to expect death without a corpse, Champion.', Morian rebukes- an increasingly familiar tone. 'There might be another place they've hidden away, and we must find it.'

'Castles have underneaths.', Heln notes. 'I don't know where, though.'

'If I were building tunnels, I wouldn't put the entrance beneath the keep. I'd put it under one of the towers- and with a second entrance too. Just in case.'

At your advice, soon all five of you are carefully sweeping the walls. If not the towers, the courtyard or the inaccessible keep, you can hardly imagine where else it could be.


Between the five of you, you swiftly clean out half a wall, leading to the rubbled gap while carefully evading the random ebbs and flows of the fire, keeping your heads down and faces masked with cloth. Oddly, there Solyn starts poking at the stone in a pattern unfamiliar to you and Morian, but all is made clear soon enough.

Suddenly, the scout jolts backwards, cursing vehemently as you hear the familiar sound of a blade on chainmail. You see a razor flash amongst the stones, suddenly still, before reaching forward and swiping loose stones away with your axe. A door, hidden in the rubble- and by some kind of trap.

As Solyn clutches an extremely sore hand and whispers a prayer of thanks for his gloves, you and Helen smash the trap and pry the door, weak from rust and decay, before fleeing down from the stifling flames and choking smog, weapons drawn….


And two sharp turns in, nearly all sound obscured by the roaring flames, come face to face with a party of four- two hounds and two men, one a hunter.

Unlike them, you do not hesitate.


You are at the front of the formation, and for a moment you are death walking.

They lead with two hounds, each two thirds your size and dressed in some manner of armoured coat. In this passageway, there's no way to assault you than head on, and both constructs rush ahead near silently- cost bleached, eyes blank, but in motion still fearsomely alive. They charge fearlessly, straight on, slipping under Morian's dart-

-they die in a moment. You carve both in a single blow, mid air. The next to recover their bearings is the more lightly armoured spearman. Striding past the dead hounds, he lunged at you with what you suspect is more confidence than this being was meant to have. Despite his simple equipment, he fights without fear, or a single noise- not even breath.

You deflect his thrust with the haft, the axe head still to the side, and almost lose balance as they strike like a man twice their size. The blade slides up, only partially deflected, and your shoulder both numbs and stings as something unpleasantly bruises.

Now they have the same issue as you, however. With the spear up and above your shoulder, you step in with a shortened grip and grind the steel across their shield, their guard- back against the wall, and into them.

Perhaps they could have survived- in a fashion- if they let go of their spear or shield, fought you off with both hands, but as strong as they are, mortal creativity doesn't seem to be a strength.

You turn aside from a thrust you more predict than see, the last of four constructs seeking some kind of emotionless vengeance, before, swift and well equipped as they are, they're promptly cut down three to one.

The group paused only a moment to collect themselves, murmuring brief praise at your strength, before Morian marches straight past, further down, and noone has more time for conversation.

At the very end of the tunnel is a decrepit door, surely once sturdier before inflicted with an aura of ruin. Even drained as she is, however, Morian looks ready to strike it off its hinges before Talyn pulls her back.

'You think the source is there?'

It's impossible to grasp what she thinks from behind, but after a moment, she turns around- more curious than aggrieved.

'This time, we should go in with a plan of attack. It worked last time because they were weak, and us strong- but the enemies here have proven more dangerous, right?'

'….. you have a plan?'

'So there's a source, which doesn't fight directly, and some weaker defenders, and an immortal guardian.'

Again, after a long moment, Morian nods.

'Probably.

'Alright… so assuming something similar, we should define what we do before we do it. Geln and Solyn our are most aggressive killers, so they clear out the weaker targets while the three of us should cripple and bind the immortal.'

'What about the source?'

'We can destroy it after we've cleared the field. With the enemies defeated, we could even help you.'

'…..alright. But don't touch it like I do- just strike it, from as far as possible.'

Another round of agreements from the other three of you, before Talyn continues.

'Just remember that the plan might change, so listen when I speak. Now… Morian?'

A single kick is all it takes, and then you see your target.

You sense it before you see it- a curdling sense of loss, of formless absence. In the centre of this room is a familiar sight- a crystalline cocoon of void like aether, slowly leeching everything and anything around with an insatiable magnetism.

Standing by it is less than you thought by far, with the dirt and stone chamber otherwise bare. Two of them- one a simple shield bearer, like you slew, but the last is clearly much more. They tower in a heavy hauberk, gleaming scale ensconcing their entire form as thoroughly as if they moulted with it. A greatsword rests comfortably against their shoulder, as both of them ceaselessly watch one of three other entrances, separate from the side passage you burst from.


In the corner of your eye, you see Talyn elbow the champion, and then your mind is occupied with battle alone. Leaping towards the foot soldier, you never let them turn around- a single blow is an all you need to carve their back apart.

Turning your attention to the captain, you see they're utterly overwhelmed. Even as their sword whirls madly, every strike staggering its target and scattering splinters on the stone, it's clear that they fight a hopeless fight. Morian fights them face to face, powering through a rain of strikes under the protection of her steel, while the ship's crew has savagely harries their flanks- stealing the space they need to fight, and scoring a half dozen wounds on the gaps. To fight four at once, their mastery is incredible- their blade is less a single object as it is a shifting wall of death. But it is still one sword, and not enough to fend off all of you at once.

Leaping on them from behind, you slam him to the floor, and between you and the other men overpower the wounded champion completely, The greatsword you throw into a corner, while the sailors bind them with rope, face down on the floor. Morian is already savagely mauling the source, but the Warmaster has stopped entirely- realising something you have not.

'Heln, with me! We'll block the reinforcements in the tunnel! Destroy the Source!'

With admirable discipline, Heln follows her up into the dark, while the rest of you turn on your ultimate target.


Somehow, it's far more resilient than it looks. At first, you slash and crush it wildly, somehow less effective than Morian's precise cuts, but then fall under the Templar's instructions- to hook, hold, unravel and reveal, before she exerts herself a final time to pour burning spit into the heart. In a moment, the corrosive liquid seems to finish the horror, and it crumbles to dust in your hands. Suddenly losing her handhold, Morian stumbles, and you catch her and brace for both of you as a pulse of reality flows through you all.

Behind you, you hear the sudden absence of violence- the reinforcements suddenly reeling, crippled and stunned. A handful of seconds later, and Heln and Talyn reappear. The latter sports a fresh, shallow cut across her jaw and neck, but seems grimly content, while the former greets you with a sudden, whooping war cry. Solyn joins in, while you carefully let Morian to the floor.

You stretch, rubbing your sore shoulder, and take the moment to breath until the blood-rush fades away. Victorious shouts echo through the tunnels, but after some moments the five of you stand about in a largely empty chamber- any signs of corruption crumbling before your eyes.

'I'll check upstairs, but I wouldn't hope for anything', Solyn volunteers first. 'We'll probably have to wait here for twenty minutes at least for the fire to dim somewhat. Not a bad place to stay until then, though.'

'Before you go, check yourself for injuries. We can't let something we could clean now slide and fester, even if we seem fine. After… we can wait to check the other tunnels. Let's just rest here for a while. Heln, stay by Morian and tell us if she needs anything.'

'Sir.'

The templar doesn't respond as Heln settles down next to her. She doesn't really seem willing to do anything right now, except maybe resemble a dead fish. You don't think she can even slip her armour, although Heln slips off her helm for her to help her breath.

'What are you going to do?'

The warmaster promptly throws her helmet down, and then sits heavily, sprawling out her slim pack on her lap. While she absently rummages through for what you assume to be medicine, she lets her head lazily tip back against the slanted wall.

'Following her righteous moral example, right after I clean this. I'm bloody spent, and still have no clue where Solyn finds the energy. Yourself?'
——————————-

[] You go explore the other tunnels. You won't be long. Solyn is checking the one that leads up, but there are two more that lead down.
[] You decide to make a small campfire. You want your food cooked, and damn the other's grumbling!
[] You follow the examples of your elders, youngblood or not, and just lie on the floor.
[] Something else?
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You have Veteran Heavy Impact now, as post travel gift from me.
You, Solyn and Talyn are at 3/4 health. Otherwise, it's going fairly well, but you're probably trapped here for a half hour or more.
You've been lucky with the dice, but also have what I think are two great RPG gifts- competent NPC allies, and a system master who's feeling generous today.
You're not really sure what this place is meant to be, anymore. A smuggler's tunnel?
Questions always welcome.
Voting is for at least two days.

Good to be back.

[X] You go explore the other tunnels. You won't be long. Solyn is checking the one that leads up, but there are two more that lead down.

You briefly mull over the question, but not for overlong. There are four entryways into this now empty chamber, whatever it may have been, and only two have or will be mapped. You are a hearthguard no longer, for better or ill, but the training of your now past life sticks to you like the shell of a snail. Until you can trust in full all the entrances, exits and possible dangers of a place, it cannot be secure.

'I'll go investigate the other tunnels', you summarise laconically. 'I shouldn't be long, but if you hear fighting…'

'…we'll go check. Of course. Take care of yourself. Better slow than dead.'

'Thank you.'

You nod to Talyn, and to Heln, briefly check and clean your bruised shoulder, and take your leave. If not for the recurring itch at the side of your neck, you could imagine…

…..

There's nothing you can do about it now.
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Not being a tunnel-delver of any skill or inclination, you pick the left tunnel to go down at random. Torch in one hand and seax at the other, you fully leave even the flickering embers of light behind you in favour of subterranean shadow. This tunnel is smooth- too smooth, too clean to be anything but artificial. Perhaps it was more embellished, but the corruption that even now was still fading had stripped everything to the bone, or even less.

A minute in, and you admit to yourself you dislike it.

It's cold, for one. Even despite the fire raging metres above your head, the stone and earth somehow keeps every iota from permeating into this chilly atmosphere. Your meagre flame enables you to see, but not far ahead- and beyond it, just past the edge of the light, a blackness like a void. But what choice do you have? There is no light source here, no sign of the bio-luminescent creatures of your home to light the way. It is either you accept a limit to your sight, or give it up entirely.

Worse is the quiet. You couldn't place it at first, but this place… this place is dead. Artificially made, any vermin having snuck in devoured by supernatural forces. It's the anathema of your home, with writhing life- dangerous, resilient, sometimes cruel and ever verdant- literally beneath every stone, every road, in every nook it could squeeze into. Without the endless cycle of prey and predator, the crashing of the tides and mirth of unpredictable winds, the rustle of leather and clink of metal and regular march of your people on the move, you realise you are alone here. There is only your footsteps, only your breath. Only you.

When you hear the sound of flowing water, you have to actively stop yourself breaking into a run.

Instead, you move more cautiously, blade ready, as you come down a final dip, and find- hidden in the dark- a river.

Just ahead of you, the path abruptly ends in flowing water, fast and deep. It snakes through some kind of tunnel, with a floor low enough you cannot see it but a ceiling high enough for you to still stand up in, if you could possibly walk on water. The only way through this tunnel, you realise, is some kind of small rowboat, tied weakly to a post driven into the ground.

Another artificial creations of the Elves, you assume, stripped of its ornamentation. For whatever reason they placed this here, though.. you're glad they did. This must be where the fresh air is coming from, despite the fire.


You look about, but this place- despite coming from the sea outside, surely- is as bare of life of anything else. There are no fish in the water, no molluscs on the stone, not even sea-plants clinging to meagre life as they are wont to do…

You weren't planning on drinking it anyways, but something strikes you as off about that.

You check the rowboat, but it was only made for two at most, and is in pathetic shape. Leaving it for fear of breaking it at a touch, you tentatively touch the water with your gloved hand.

When nothing happens, you touch it again with your bare fingers, but in all aspects it feels like water- a lot more pure than you'd expect as well. It doesn't seem dangerous, in the short term, and it doesn't seem to be poisoning the air. Some kind of stringent cleaning magic?

The water burbles cheerfully, sweeping along its predestined course, steadily wearing away the stones. If it is safe, and strange as it is, it seems to be, then heaven knows you could all do with a bath!

You sit for a minute, listening to the river, then swiftly return from where you came.
————————

You hear them before you see them- the ship's crew chattering amongst themselves, underscored by a low and steady rasp. They probably do the same, your steps not being particularly quiet, but apparently your survival doesn't warrant a stop in the conversation.

'-is to stretch. Stretch when you wake up, before you sleep, just when you're sore and have some free time. My ma didn't listen to my father on that, and you shouldn't make her mistake!'

'Really?'

'Yes, really! Mother's a bit of a sceptic.'

'No, I mean, how is it meant to help me?'

'Just keeps your joints loose. You'll get a few more years of use out of them, fate be kind. Talyn knows what I'm talking about; just watch and learn from her.'

You come around to all four of your friends lingering about the chamber, a small campfire hissing to the side. Morian remains exactly where she was, now completely passed out and softly snoring. You don't envy her back when she wakes, but at least Heln had taken off her boots and placed her pack under her head. Solyn turns something over on the fire, while Heln sits a couple metres away, splitting his attention between all three of the others, armour abandoned. Lastly, Talyn is folded up against the wall, bandage neatly wrapped around her wound and tucked into her hair. Impressively, she's managed to twist back far enough she's almost done a handstand.

Apparently, actually seeing you isn't enough to cut them off either.

'Alright.'

'Think we learned that one from the Continent, actually. We once sailed to some kind of monastery-town. Beautiful people, but I could take or leave the martial arts.'

'You know these already, then.'

'Mm hm! We've served on the same ships for nearly a decade now.'

'So why are you watching her?'

'You'll understand when you're older. Safe travels, Geln?'

The older man smoothly pivots towards you, as Heln very forcibly suppresses a laugh, and Talyn assumes a very familiar, very Tallow expression- although uniquely, upside down. In the cause of living long and well, you follow the sailor's example, and take a moment before you reply.

'Safe enough. The tunnel is straight and downwards, more or less, and just leads to a very clean freshwater river. There's a rowboat too, but I wouldn't trust it even with one person after the rot. It is a lot cooler down there, though.'

'Sounds brilliant, honestly…Think it's where the fresh air is coming from?'

'Probably. Yourself?'

'Other tunnel just leads to a trap door in the courtyard, which is still very on fire. I stole a burning branch and came back here; we're not leaving through there.'

'That', she interjects, righting herself, 'is a lot of words to admit to pathological recklessness. Do you think we could wash ourselves, or at least our cuts?'

'I think so.. I don't understand how they purified it, though. It didn't seem poisonous, but I wasn't there long. Maybe Morian could tell us if it's something supernatural?'

'Sounds good. You and Solyn good for the last tunnel, then? We'll try and move camp down there while you're at it.'

You nod, eager for company this time. 'Stay safe, you and Heln.'

'You too, both of you.'

You slip away to the sound of Talyn promptly delegating the risk of waking Morian.
————————

With company, you move a bit swifter now, with two pair of eyes to sweep for danger- but this tunnel seems as empty as the other, and warmer too. After a brief dip, it starts going up, and soon it leads to another trap door- one that you're not sure of the structural integrity of, with the metal latch uncomfortably warm to touch despite your gloves. With no other way, you force it open, to reveal another entrance- a trap door hidden within the forest, a clever escape route somewhat foiled by the fact that everything remains on fire.

With nothing to do, you make to head back.

'Is it some kind of ritual?'

'What is?'

'You and Talyn always pretend to fight, but you don't really. You could set a clock to it.'

'Eh… I guess that's a name for it. It's a habit, by now, but we do it because it's just who we are, and less because it matters, if you now. We fought a lot more a decade ago, but enough adventure and co habitation will soothe all wounds.'

'It only seems to be the two of you, though.'

He looks off into the distance, and what he sees in the past, you don't know.

'I guess that's just how the rings fell.'

You leave it alone.
————————-

'You're still here?'

You come back to Heln sitting alone by the fire, still cooking what you now see is dough and dried meat. From the fact that it's only Heln, with not even his armour or belongings, you presume that they have moved camp, which still doesn't explain what you see.

'Morian gave the alright, so they're having a bath.'

'…and you're up here?'

'Yes.'

'…bloody hell.'

Heln frowns, glancing up at you, though Solyn seems much quicker on the uptake.

'We do some menial tasks, they have a bath, and then we bring them lunch. Why? How?'

You throw your hands up in frustration, but unless you want to interrupt them, there's not much to do about it apart from slip off your steel and wait. You sit heavily next to Heln, who seems to be undergoing a slow realisation, and flip the spit for him.

'It is what it is', Solyn assures from your left hand side, completing the circle. 'It's her job to be smarter than us.'
————————————————-

After a bath, lunch, your bath, and some pointless puzzle games to kill time, Morian looks far more alive. Talyn ties her steel back onto her slender frame as she stares rather contemplatively about her, your group finally above ground (relatively) once more. After nearly an hour in total, by Solyn's reckoning, the fire had largely burnt itself to embers, and what is left is not a pleasant sight. The ruins are well and truly destroyed, the forest levelled to ash, the smoke above so thick the artful night sky is impossible to see. To your incredulity, somehow even the stones have warped and buckled under the heat- and you didn't know stone could burn!

Still.. the air has become a little fresher now than below, with the rising of the smoke and the settling of the soot. Whatever artifice of the Elves maintains their environs has quickly cycled a cool breeze through, and your small party enjoys the last of their pleasant respite. You've perched yourself on still warm stones, half marvelling, half awed at the sheer empty expanse around you.

You can't imagine how long it took to create a small world, a forest acres wide just to hide in, and now it's an empty expanse as far as you can see- nothing but ash and stone outcroppings, every branch and stump burnt to the ground.

It's still better, you remind yourself, than what it had become.

When Talyn finishes, you set out once again. It wasn't a long run from the entrance, and without anything in your way, it's a rather easy walk. You climb back up trivially, fully refreshed, and by some unspoken agreement, you are the first to open the doorway back up. With both corrupted trials purged, you're not completely sure what to expect. New life? A desolate collapse? Clean emptiness, or no change at all?

You weren't expecting applause.

Sitting atop one of the runes ice-boxes is a beautiful man, naked from the waste up. He sits attentively, legs crossed, staring at you- pale skinned and pale haired. Loose legged trousers are folded at an angular bent, in a posture you might take if politely watching a play. He faces you head on, and politely applauds, and you immediately reach for your axe because it is wrong.

The first is his hair, his skin, his nails and lips- everything has been bleached of colour, as if a painter insisted on only tonal shades. His eyes lack pupils, but are a pitch grey, and his mouth is only a void when he speaks. Even around him, the world itself seems shaded out- less real, less defined, less coloured and alive- and even as you focus on him, you regret it. Your eyes blur, his details haze and shift, and you avert your gaze as he speaks- calmly, politely, and oddly eerily.

'I congratulate you, all of you, on your strength and wit. When you came in, I.. didn't think you'd do so much damage. I intended to greet you personally, of course, after the regular harrying, but-'


It's his lips, you realise. His lips aren't moving right. Even as he speaks, the words don't match- it's not Deep Speech that's coming from his mouth, but it's somehow Deep Speech you h-

His hand blurs, and he plucks a dart from a mid air. A foot of steel and bone is snatched between two slim fingers like a quill, and he gives it a long and disappointed look.

'You bitch.'

That is all the warning you get before, by all appearances, he explodes.

In one moment, he is there, and you start to begin what will be a charge- and then he is not. From every inch of skin bursts an opaque wave of absence, and your perception of reality briefly blanks in shock as you're pitched straight to the floor. The world is completely dark for a moment, only the shocked cries of your companions- bar one- to accompany you, and then once again you can see.

Standing where he was, the box crushed beneath, is what you can only describe as some manner of giant serpentine centauride monstrosity. Half a dozen metres of roiling scales, somehow shaded to devour light instead of reflect, furrows a bitter trail through the dirt beneath as he writhes in agitation. From the waist up is something resembling a man, but only in the most ghoulishly tangential sense. His frame is completely starved, yet abnormally large; his arms disproportionately long and ending in not fingers, but talons of obsidian shade. Random chunks and sores all along his eye are completely consumed by sucking voids, and when he shifts you catch glimpses of what's beneath- some kind of sick mockery of a man's internals, withered long past life yet still desperately pumping ichor nonetheless, somehow even when nothing actually exists. To crown it all is a gaunt and bizarrely narrow head, jaw dislocated and distended, tongue involuntarily hanging through the floor of his mouth and his upper throat towards the ground. Ragged black hair is long enough to reach his waist, yet leaves scores like whips when it even brushes skin, and while his left eye glows like the heart of his flame, in his right nothing exists- some kind of absence, a dark void that thankfully prevents sight into his own head.

Despite it all, Morian- fearless, apparently suicidal Morian- steps forward, teeth bared, sword flashing.

'You have lost! We destroyed your minions, destroyed your seats of power before you could fully manifest! Even if you kill us all without retaliation, it will be centuries at best for you to regain what was lost, opposed by Elven magics- centuries you will not have, when the masters of this place bypass your fallen spells and reclaim what is there!'

Fury, shock, hatred, bizarre and misplaced apathy- you don't understand how you read inhuman eyes, but you somehow feel these all resonate in your heart. Rasping like an engine of magic and artifice, he peers long and hard at the Templar, leaning forwards- half crawling, half slithering on ground that withers from his proximity alone. Power bleeds madly from his frame- every breath is rot, every glare despair, and his voice is the inverse of nails on a chalkboard, yet somehow worse because the loss feels permanent where pain never could.

'And how,', he rumbles, soft and sonorous, yet simultaneously painfully piercing, 'does that help you, here and now?'
——————————-
[] Pull back, hauling Morian by force if you must. Bar the gate with the heaviest stone you can move, and flee into the tunnels. You want to live!
[] Try to hold your ground at the choke point- it's a door made for people your size, and should be easier to defend than it is for small giant to slip through. Although the choke point goes both ways, you do have polearms, darts and bows.
[] In her name, attack! Kill it! Kill it now!
[] Something else?
———————————

You are all at full health, and reasonably energised.
If you had any Church aligned character in your party, diplomacy would never have been an option. Not with the likes of this.
Behold: an actually powerful daemon, if one in the wrong place, time and infrastructure to be fully effective.
This is the real boss fight, lads.

Questions (of any sort, not just about the immediate plot) always welcome. You have at least two days to vote.
And no, Geln can only guess at the horrible things he could do to you, because a theologian or diabolist you are not.