[center][color=aba000][h2]THE WITCH KING[/h2][/color][/center]

The business that followed the battle was dealt with quickly. Those that turned their cloak over to the Iron Legion were given quarters, and those that resisted were put to the sword. Dratha retired to his tent, and called for water to be heated for a bath. The musk and grime of battle had settled on him over the last few days, and he sought to cleanse himself of the foul stench of the North. His attendants set fires for his brass bathtub as one of his advisors regaled him with the word that carried over the land.

One item interested Dratha in particular: news that Arsenikos of Acharnae had put Aquilonia under siege. He knew little of the man himself beyond what most knew; a conqueror in the Atlantean tradition of old, who had already claimed three poleis in his growing empire. Aquilonia was a curious matter, however. He had been far too busy fending off Northmen in recent years to bother himself with expanding his domain, and the ruins of Atlantis meant little to the pragmatic Witch King. However, the fact that the ancient capital was under siege was a curious thing. He had always assumed it to be little more than ruins, perhaps populated by barbarians or squatters. What conventional military force could possibly be controlling it?

Something else piqued his interest, as well. The Book, held securely against his breast, seemed to react at the mention of the polis. It warmed against him, and seemed to almost tug him toward the West, pointing in the direction of the ancient city. However, when he faced the western hills, the sun descending behind them, he felt a chill run through him. Aquilonia was a place of death. It was not the Book that told him this, but the animal instinct buried deep in his brain, a primordial fear coded in him since man first walked upright upon the earth. And yet the Book still pulled him forward. It did not whisper to him, as it usually did. This too seemed far more like a natural reaction than any logical endeavor. Aquilonia attracted the Book, but repelled the King. A curious thing indeed.

Regardless, this was a point worth discussing with his lessers. Was it worth aiding the would-be Atlantean Emperor? Or perhaps the city could be snatched out from under him? Aquilonia was a fortress foremost, and it would be a boon to the Iron Legion to have walls for barbarians to break themselves upon. Interesting times laid ahead of the Lord of Iron, interesting and deadly times.

[center][color=aba000][h2]THE HUNTER[/h2][/color][/center]

Emily stepped gingerly through the ruined campsite, avoiding both the corpses and wounded men where she could. It was rare that she should encounter such a large battle; she was not used to smell of death so heavy in the air, nor the myriad cries of dying men. The corpses of werewolves particularly bothered her, their glassy eyes and gaping maws seeming not very different from living monsters. In Emily's experience, mutants were not creatures clever enough to play dead, but she was unsure of werewolves. It was only once before that she had battled one, and she learned much from nearly losing her life in the experience.

The clouds shifted overhead, and the light of the full moon was broken. No longer cloaked in silver light, the dead werewolves scattered about suddenly transformed, utterly startling both Tobias and Emily. It seemed as though the fur and sinewy muscle of the monsters melted away, leaving behind naked human corpses. However, what was most unusual was that these were not Northmen. Not even Lemurians, nor Atlanteans. Common Borean people were the faces behind these monsters, hardly different from the villagers that populated this region. Though each one bore many silvery runes inscribed upon their skin. Very strange, but Emily didn't have time to consider it; she had a mercenary lord to consult.

[center][color=aba000][h2]THE OVER-TYRANT[/h2][/color][/center]

The slaughter continued as the Trade Queen paced her tent, mind furiously working to devise some manner of counter attack. Too much had been lost already; it was very unlikely that she would be able to regroup her forces. Their morale had been shattered, and many that had not yet been killed ran screaming off into the night. Khalaevna's thoughts turned to her own survival. Could she flee in the midst of battle? Would she be able to survive the mountains on her own? Would a small contingent of servants be able to escape with her?

Her thoughts were broken by the flap of her tent opening once more. Her hand immediately went to her sword, and she hoped that she still had the strength in her to fend off another demon. However, rather than the frantic pace of the monsters, the intruder seemed to have a more human calmness. The familiar face of Aureus Icelake appeared, and Khalaevna was momentarily relieved. However, something was amiss; his mouth hung agape and his eyes were screwed shut in an expression like agony. A moment later, and it was clear that Icelake's severed head was stuck on the end of a staff, and her true guest entered.

An old, ragged Northman, wrapped in many robes and furs, crept into the tent. The staff holding the head of her deceased chieftain carried a handful of other skulls, bones and miscellaneous trinkets. Similar fetishes, carved with runes and strange symbols, dangled from the intruder's hood and cloaks, or were woven into his long, grey beard. Most striking of all were the man's eyes, which carried a mystifying green glow. Khalaevna fought to keep herself from becoming entranced in the man's gaze, and went to her sword at once.

"Still your blade!" The man barked, and thunder seemed to crack outside as he spoke. "Hear my words if you wish to live. The Mourslev are mighty in battle, but weak in spirit. Mere mongrels that forsake the gods of their people, and for this they have been punished." He banged his staff against the ground, and Icelake's head bounced gruesomely against another bleached skull. "The gods are mighty and their will is absolute, but even the Mourslev are not beyond repentance. We have seen your conquest, Over-Tyrant, and we are impressed. So much gained without the blessing of the gods; think what could be accomplished with their favor." The man then knelt before Khalaevna, laying his bloody staff at her feet. "Accept the true gods of the North, and they will give you power beyond imagining. Forsake them, and this place will be your grave. Decide now, while you still have a head to decide with."

[center][color=aba000][h2]IOANNES[/h2][/color][/center]

The conquering king rode into the black heart of Aquilonia, where he discovered a strange tranquility. All seemed still and quiet in the city center, as though it were utterly detached from the battle raging just outside its iron walls. The fortress was strangely partitioned with crude, metal walls, making it difficult for two men to ride abreast. Ioannes' cavalry slowly entered the dark citadel, hearts thundering with anticipation and anxiety. This place was already so [i]wrong[/i], but that feeling only intensified where they were.

The soldiers passed strange and gruesome sights, but saw not a single enemy after the initial rush of slaves. Mutants, their features twisted into the visages of bats and and wolves, lie dead on racks. Most had seemingly starved, though others appeared to be warped beyond that which their own sickness had twisted them. Piles of dead slaves were scattered about. Some had killed themselves, others died by unseen blades, while others still seemed partly eaten. The Atlantean soldiers grimaced and covered their faces as they passed these horrific sights, avoiding the tainted corpses where they could. Some whispered small prayers to their gods or ancestors, though such words echoed hollowly in the iron corridors of Aquilonia.

The very center of the city was eventually reached; a courtyard paved with intricate stonework. At its center was a fountain that once displayed a representation of lost Atlantis, the home of the Dragon-Kings of myth. Now it stood profaned, its spires shattered and black ichor filling its pool. Ioannes' men rode out into the courtyard, trying to space themselves well enough to avoid getting in the way of each other. They felt dark eyes on them, peering at them from the shadows cast by the spires of iron overhead.

The first one emerged from the shadows once Ioannes himself entered the courtyard. It had the shape of a man, from what he could tell, but its aura was indescribably unsettling. Black armor, not unlike the riders they had encountered before, but of far stronger make and with heraldry unlike any Ioannes had ever seen before. The eldritch symbols inscribed on his shield seemed to distort before his very eyes, and it ached Ioannes' head to look at it for long. The twisted steel of the knight's helm obscured his features, but he stood a head taller than Ioannes, and the sword on his back was nearly as tall as he was.

Others appeared soon after, auras stronger than the dark riders they had seen before, but not as malignant as the first to appear. Some dozen dark knights emerged, all armed, but none with their weapons drawn. Ioannes signalled his men not to attack, wary of a trap. For a time they stood inert, each force facing each other silently. Just when Ioannes decided to break the stalemate by calling out, the first of the knights spoke over him.

"You who rush so blindly into death..." A voice as cold as a mountaintop grave called out, and Ioannes felt an icy grip on his heart. "Who interrupt our great work... Who dare intrude upon the sanctum of my masters... Shall die under the weight of your own arrogance..."

Ioannes wasted no time giving the command to attack, and so his men rode in to attack the dark knights. He had the advantages in men and horses, but these cramped quarters made the mounts more a disadvantage. The dark knights were swift, despite their size, and each seemed terribly strong. Their apparent leader made no motions to join the fray, but faced across the courtyard from Ioannes. Though he could not see his face, he had the unshakable feeling that he was being stared at by the otherworldly warrior. It was then that the knight lifted a gauntleted fist, engulfed in unholy power, which made Ioannes' sweat run cold to look upon. He slammed his fist down to the ground, falling to his knees, and a great shaking overtook the citadel, not unlike an earthquake.

Throughout the city and the lands surrounding it, a dark and terrible work of sorcery took place. Fallen soldiers of both sides rose up from where they laid, like puppets on invisible strings. Their eyes were the solid black of frozen flesh, and they carried themselves as though ill at ease in flesh bodies. Their fatal wounds mattered little to them, nor did any that were inflicted on them. They advanced on Ioannes men, often from behind their ranks, swinging their weapons wildly. They were clumsy and slow, but they were many, and they were as tenacious as the grave. Even when hacked into spare limbs and flesh, the crawled along the ground, the will of their masters not allowing them to die.


[center][color=aba000][h2]THE LORD OF BLADES[/h2][/color][/center]

Damion was utterly puzzled. He scowled furiously, though it was hidden behind his helm. What was seconds ago a dead werewolf stared up at him with a Borean commoner's face. He felt like it was mocking him. Northmen or mutants he could understand, but what was all of this? A resistance force? Was the Duke in command of these monsters? The questions continued to pile up, and Damion was not any happier for them. He rode through what was left of his camp, barking orders at men where he found them. He wanted new sentries, the number doubled. A perimeter of torches. The wounded were to be brought to the center of the camp. The dead had to be burned. Much to do, all while still under the impending threat of another attack.

The Lord of Blades cursed quietly. His lieutenants bickered loudly, but Damion's conflicting thoughts were silent. He was a soldier, a mercenary, not some damned huntsman. He had killed his share of mutants, but this was something else entirely. It was something he felt entirely unprepared for, and knowing that killed him. The humiliation of this surprise attack burned him like hot irons, and he was utterly determined to not allow it to happen again. He just needed information, leverage even. These were men wearing the skin of monsters, and if he could capture one, he could get it to speak. That said, he wasn't an expert on taking wild beasts hostage. Perhaps if he were a trapper, a ranger, or a hunter...

Damion's thoughts were broken by a soldier approaching him. Third lance, if he was reading his epaulette correctly. Beside him stood a girl Damion had never seen before, with hair like fire. "An important visitor to speak with you, Milord."