Chapter 1:

What once was lost


It’s hard for anyone to remember a time where the dead weren’t burned. Seems like the ‘old rites’ are nothing but a myth now- a legend of when one’s body could be laid to rest in the soil without disturbance. I remember just a few months ago when I found myself in conversation with a wizened chemist; his hair gone silver with age that his eyes amplified. He spoke at length about a time before the ‘Zealots’, where his wife and son where allowed eternal slumber without disturbance; only to see their shambling corpses a few months later, residing in a fetid horde that followed one of the practitioners of the now prominent cult.

The vile bastards that took the name of religious fanatics, ‘Zealots’, were a growing blight upon our lands. What once was thought just to be a harmless group of rabble-rousers and heretics, had took those in power by surprise as they twisted and corrupted those who had their time upon this earth and led them against the established order. The Church, the Hierarchy, the Nation, and then the world; no one was able to stop the ‘Endless Horrors’- a massive force of the undead with their masters at the helm. With inhuman fortitude and dark mysticism at their side, nothing seemed to be able to break their momentum… Until one brave child stood up.

We all know his visage: a frail young boy- couldn’t have been any older than ten annuals- holding aloft a small translucent orb, staring down at the endless hordes that plagued our lands. It was in that moment that the child would be known throughout the world as a saint. With a few mystic words and incantations, the boy shattered the orb upon the ground, committed his soul unto the heavens, and devastated our foes as his holy spirit ascended- vanquishing a vast majority of the Endless. He bought us time. Time we so desperately needed. There are still those that have their doubts, saying that the boy’s actions were for naught and we’re only delaying the inevitable… It’s that doubt that drove those same people mad and twisted them into the very things they sought to survive, the Zealots.

It is because of all this that I took up arms and joined the ‘Bastion’, a holy order seeking to rid this world of the vile chaos that plagues it. Our base stands proudly upon the Ascending Spire, the ridge of where our patron Telrian gave his life for ours. Our numbers are few and growing smaller by the day, but we continue to fight with the gifts of our patron saint: writs, rituals, rites, and spells that give us a glimmer of hope in these trying times.

My name is Werrick, and this is the story of how we fought.



21st Day/5th Cycle/127th Annual of Shade

Ascending Spire, Bastion fort ‘Telrian’s Light’


“Keep your shield up!”

It was hard to go through a day without hearing that repeated like a chant by our instructors, grizzled old veterans of this war that were lucky enough to survive and pass on their knowledge. Today’s drills were the same as any other: prayer, combat training, survival training, faith training, prayer again, another round of combat training, and finally resting. It seemed like second nature to most of us now, though there always was the few that became lax. It was the personal responsibility of our instructors to force that laziness out of us.

‘Shield in front, just under eye level,’ as I went over the drills in my head, my body followed. ‘Sword kept pointed towards the enemy in low guard. Step in, parry-‘ I could feel my body tensing, prepping itself as my eyes fixed on my partner before me. With a heavy groan, my shield received the oncoming attack, lifting my arm up and to the side in instinct, ‘Thrust!’ I was given my opening, jerking my blade upwards as the dull point clattered against the armor that adorned the man before me. He gave a subtle grimace, his eyes meeting mine with slight disdain.

“Not so damn hard,” he whispered, stepping back as we both returned to our starting positions. I could only smirk at my comrade in response as I readied myself for the blow I was about to receive. As I watched my comrade mimic the steps I had gone through just moments before, I waited for our drill instructor. On his signal, I lunged forward, bringing my blade down in a mighty downward cleave. Just as I had done: the strike was parried as I winced, feling the forceful connection of his blade upon my abdomen- armored though it was.

“You think the blighters will take it easy?” I replied, stepping back with shield and sword held aloft at my side, “Can’t beg the dead for mercy.” There was the look I knew so well. That furious stare I had grown accustomed to. Marco was never meant to be a warrior; his lanky frame and cowardly demeanor were all evidence to the contrary. I still remember the first day I ran into him: his blonde mane swept back to his shoulders, clutching his chest through his lavish robes as he entered the gates of our fortification. He had been conscripted- like many others- and begged for the officers to let him leave and return to his indulgent lifestyle with what remained of the nobles. He wasn’t the first to panic, nor would he be the last, but the begging and pleading just earned him the ire of his future brothers- as it always did.

Before I could get back into position, I felt a heavy force strike upon the back side of my armor that threatened to topple me. In a daze, I rounded, only to feel the heavy strike of a shield against my cheek. Staggering back, I fell onto my haunches, gazing upwards as my eyes came to rest upon the intimidating figure known as Durand, one of the leaders of Bastion.

This mountain of a man sparked fear in even his allies, standing well above even the tallest of our order, with shoulders about as broad as a claymore’s length. His face held many scars, the most notable of which was a gnarly wound to the middle of his forehead- which was rumored to be from a Zealots axe. Rumor was that his skull was so thick that it broke the edge of the axe as it struck. The scarred tissue parted his hair just off center as it came to rest just above his right eyebrow. This wound was made all the more prominent by the darkened skin around pinkish wound, making his visage all the more memorable to those who looked upon it. Even the amused grin that the goliath held then had me unnerved.

“I wouldn’t worry so much about the blighters. I’ll personally see you to their ranks if I see that display again,” The deep bellowing tone of our officer seemed to echo in the drill-yard, drawing all eyes to us as they watched intently. Fearful to make even the slightest noise, the grounds had fallen silent, “Stand.” I asked no questions as I raised myself before my superior, attempting to ignore the sharp pain that resided upon my cheek and the trickling sensation that crept from it. Gripping my sword and shield as I stood erect, I bowed my head to him- more so to hide my aggravated expression than to show humility.

“Now, repeat the drill.” Durand’s voice spoke sternly, prompting me to lift my head as I began turning from him, “With me.” He offered, though more amusement was held in his voice then before. I couldn’t help but pause. I was no fool; this was not so much a drill now as it had become a punishment. Reluctantly I returned my facing to him, merely offering a nod in reply. He stood there, smiling, towering over me as I prepped the sword in my hand, trying to work up the nerve to follow through with his command. It was then that he tossed the shield from earlier onto the ground, the heavy wooden armament landing with a heavy thud upon the dirt. “I’m waiting,” he remarked, his voice holding an ominous songlike quality to it. Having steeled my nerves as best I could, I lunged forward, raising my blade high as I brought it down upon my superior.

When I tell you this man shrugged off my assault, I mean it quite literally. Durand stepped into my strike and rolled his shoulder, forcing my blade to glance off his bare flesh. All I remember after that is the darkness that suddenly overtook my vision, and the massive force that had assaulted my chest.



23rd Day/5th Cycle/127th Annual of Shade

Ascending Spire, Bastion fort ‘Telrian’s Light’


For two days, I called the infirmary my home, unable to leave the cot that had been commissioned for me after Durand’s ‘lesson’. Though I didn’t recall what happened, according to those who witnessed it, the commander merely drew up a fist into my breast plate with such force that it warped the metal and broke a few of my ribs in the process. The healers were quick to respond, almost as if they were prepared for the overwhelming display, and carted me off here for treatment for my injuries. Though I was thankful for their attention and readiness to assist me, it took only a matter of hours for me to grow tired of the holy chants and choruses that filled the room as their healing spells took effect.

These healers were a gifted few, drawing upon shards of ‘Telrian’s Focus’ –the orb held by our sovereign- to craft the enchantments and incantations that they were known for. These shards imbued them with just a fragment of the ‘God-Childs’ power, and were worshipped as sacred relics and symbols of faith amongst Telrian’s followers. Despite being gifts from our Lord, these spells were not without their drawbacks. First, though the wound would mend, the pain of molding bones and stitching of wounds would not be dulled. Second was the time, often taking hours to heal lacerations and mend common ailments –depending on severity- and even longer for injuries such as I had sustained. Though, the biggest drawback was that it could only be used upon the living. If by chance you happened to die during the healing process, there is nothing they could do. You had your funeral shortly afterwards and your body burned with even more haste… For if you died, you run the risk of returning as a thrall of Zealots.

Still, I couldn’t complain too much. The pain was unbearable, but they kept me drunk throughout the better portion of it. ‘Nothing to better to dull the pain than Firewater’, and right they were. Even then, I held a flask firmly in my hand at almost all times, fighting through the pain that wracked my body just to take a few more swigs of the liquor. That familiar burn in your throat, the spices assaulting your sense of taste, and the almost instant lightheaded feeling that accompanied it; don’t know if I could’ve survived that procedure without it. Still,



This is an ongoing work in progress of a book I'm currently working on. Though I'm still flushing out the setting, I'm somewhat proud of what I've been able to furnish in this world so far. I'm posting this to get some feedback on what all I could improve form a storytellars standpoint (this is one of my first attempts at a first person narritive.)