[center][color=red]The Narrow Gates, survivor's camp-- "The Crypt"[/color][/center][hr]
[center][sub][written by Lovejoy & Jamesyco][/sub][/center]

Father Boris had face planted, interrupted in his chant by the sergeant pushing him out of the way of some attack. His eyes closed once more as he rubbed his head gently and rolled onto his back. He looked out towards the rest of the makeshift camp, where the two other arks, the Svarog and the Veles, stood empty and silent in the distance. Had the icekin only attacked the Kyselica? Boris’ eyes shifted to the makeshift corridor that connected the three ruined arks. That’s where he had left it that morning. “I need the staff…” he whispered out as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and laid on his back as he straightened himself and he started to chant once more. He needed to conserve himself as much as he could. 

He wished he had his staff with him, but he had decided to leave it in the makeshift corridor between the three ruined arks. He had done that as a precaution, as well as that was the best place for him to use his beam. If the Church had kept to their schedule, two other arks would be approaching the Gates around this time on a mission to travel to El and act as a support for the main invasion force. If he could send a beam skywards with his staff, he could possibly signal them. With their communications damaged, the staff was their last resort. Everything rested on this throw of the die. The staff, given to him by his old master, shone brightly from there in the corridor, the place where dead were given to the icy waters below them. He wondered if his death would be awaiting him there as well.

Father Boris felt blood on his face from another man being skewered nearby, the lines and ranks were most likely failing around him, he hoped that the people around him would protect him at least, no, they couldn’t. He had to use his last energy here, to get the icekin off the deck, to annihilate the enemy in front of them. To give off what light he had left to give to the world, his staff gave him the energy to project his power, but he didn’t have that. He had only what was in him, flowing through him. He began chanting, his voice rising up in the scream as he had begun using the last of his energy. He would conserve himself, how he did not know, the last piece of his body decided that it was time to either die, or show those assailing him a hellish rest of their life. Be it the rest of his life, he would find a way to protect, and possibly save those whom he had promised to save. 

“Raise me, help me to the staff… We will rule the day if we are capable of doing this task, we will drive them off and bring ourselves salvation.” he said knowing that it will probably kill him. The cold was sapping the ether from him, but he had to fight. Even without his staff, the teachings of the Divine Order and the gifts of the Ravenous Lord would see him to salvation.

Boris removed his gloves, and stretched his scarred fingers in and outward, testing them against the frost. He raised his hands in front of him, and prayed, communing with the gnawing emptiness of Lord Varya’s hunger. The icekin ambushers, twelve of them all, were so enraptured in their violence that they could barely turn in time to witness the miracle that came from the Ravenous Lord’s answer to the young priest's prayer. 

A shining wave of necrotic azure light burst forth from Father Boris’ hands, engulfing the twelve icekin. The stormlight was hungry and thus it ate away at all it touched, rending through armor, fur and flesh until only bone remained. The icekin in front of Boris were silent as Varya’s light consumed them, flesh-scented smoke and ghostly ether steaming where they once stood. Six of the twelve icekin remained, their armor and fur half-eaten away, and without fear they stepped over the bones of their comrades toward Boris. His hands were trembling as frost began to accumulate on them, and the icekin gazed at the young man with the same unchanging hatred blazing in their eyes. 

Boris had spent a sizeable amount of his ether calling upon the miracle without a catalyst, and it wasnt long before he felt all of his strength leaving him. He collapsed on the deck, his arms so heavy that he couldn’t catch his fall and thus he struck his brow on the steel. The last thing he heard before the world grew dark was the sound of the remaining icekin advancing upon him.


[center]***[/center]


Somehow, there in the haunted expanse half a continent away from their lord's aegis, the world was growing colder. For each and every one of the soldiers fighting on the lower deck, each bitter second was a frozen lash upon their backs as the once shimmering aegis above them continued to slowly fade. The deck was a nightmare of ice and blood, the frost accumulating in the crimson flow of icekin and soldier alike. The brutish bear-like monsters fell upon the remaining soldiers with a strange, silent hatred, their pale white fur awash in the blood of their foes, their ice-sharp axes tearing through Varyan armor and bone, while above, the colossal ghost-white icehound flapped its massive crystalline wings, relishing at the carnage beneath it. 

Father Boris' miracle had bought them a chance opportunity, and at once Sergeant Ernst grabbed the young priest by his arms and forcibly dragged him away, all while shouting orders for the men to regroup.

Those soldiers who had managed to gather their wits and retain their Varyan military training in the face of the ambush were able to spring into action and retreat to the upper level of the command tower. There, Sergeant Ernst led thirteen of them with Father Boris in hand as they stood in formation and used their terrified comrades below as bait, for the icekin could not resist easy prey. Forming a killzone from their position above the deck, the soldiers rained fire down at the six remaining icekin, and though bullets couldn't penetrate the armor and fur of the bear-like icekin, it was enough to slow their advance.

"In the name of the Ravenous Lord, don't let them advance to the upper deck!" Ernst shouted, rattling teeth be damned, his voice roaring in crescendo with the storm of gunfire around him. He glanced toward the solar at the top of the command tower and winced when he noticed a dying light weakly illuminating the windows from within. A pack of icehounds were attempting to claw their way within the solar, but Father Taerlach was handily fighting them off.

Within the solar, Mother Faina and Father Solim were fighting to keep the aegis from extinguishing, but it was a battle they would surely lose eventually. The golden barrier of shimmering light that had encompassed their camp for the past three few months was now nothing more than a curtain of pale refracted light, barely noticeable except for the occasional glimmer of sunlight hitting the ward. Mother Faina's ether was surely almost running out, Ernst realized as his entire body suddenly trembled. A frigid gale of arctic wind blew across the canyon, biting at them so violently that a number of the soldiers in the firing line collapsed to their knees, shaking and moaning from the demonic cold that clawed and flayed at their bodies.

Ernst tried to muster the men, to scream for them to fight, but the old soldier found that the skin on his lips had frozen them shut, flesh upon flesh. He raised his fingers to his mouth and violently ripped his lips open himself, the dark blood immediately freezing on his beard. 

"Fight. Fight until there is nothing left. And for Lords' sake, keep the lad warm!"

The soldiers heard him and struggled to their feet, battling through Varyan will and determination the deathly cold that was now seeping into the aegis. But it was too late. A moment of respite was all that was needed for the icekin to surge forward and storm the upper deck. The bestial icekin lunged upward, their powerful legs driving them from the ground with impossible force. One of them leapt toward the opposite railing of the deck Ernst and his men were on and immediately bounced off of it, gliding upwards through the air in a sickeningly acrobatic arc. The towering warrior landed with a thud right in front of them, raising its axe.

"Varya, protect us," one of the men whispered as he raised his rifle to take aim at the beast. Ernst screamed for his men to throw themselves at the deck, but his words were cut short as the axe cleaved through him and four other soldiers like a knife through parchment. Blood torrented across the deck as their torsos fell in meaty piles upon the floor, bathing the unconscious Father Boris in red. The remaining soldiers, a credit to their bravery, were not cowed by the death of their sergeant, and began to fire point blank at the monstrous icekin. 

The towering creature remained still as the bullets bounced off its half-ruined armor and ether-corroded fur. It lowered its gaze to Father Boris, memories of Varya's miracle burning in its mind. Once more, it lifted the axe. 

The axe swung downward merciless, the blood-drenched face of the young priest beneath it.

Mere inches before the axe's blade found itself buried in Boris' skull, the icekin's massive forearm went flying across the deck, its grip still tight on the axe. The monstrous warrior seemed to stand there, staring blankly at its missing lower arm, when suddenly a light-filled blade erupted from its stomach and as clean as a butcher cleaning bone, arced upward silently, vertically bisecting the creature's torso in two. The icekin fell to its knees, both halves of its upper body sliding apart like partially cut fruit.

Father Tarlach stood behind the gruesome spectacle, black spellknife blazing forth from his left hand, the icekin's strange bright red blood sizzling on the blade's edge. He hurriedly bent down to check on Father Boris. Apart from the cold getting to him, the lad was unconscious and had sustained a few cuts, but seemed none the worse for wear. He then turned to the remaining soldiers, all of them young, all of them survivors.

Taerlach identified the highest-ranking soldier among them and asked her name.

"Private 1st Class, Luna ar'Maja, Reverence," the young woman responded, her voice as resolute as she could make it. Beneath her blood-splattered fur hat, the soldier's T'saraen blue eyes were terrified, but a steely focus and determination shone within them.

"Bring the Father to the armory. Pump him full of whatever stimulants you find in there. When he awakes, escort him to the connecting corridor between the three arks. You must protect him with your life. This will be the most important task you will ever perform for our Lord. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes, Reverence. We will do as you order," the young soldier responded before ordering the rest of the men to carry Father Boris into the command tower.

 Good, Taerlach thought. No more distractions.

The remaining icekin had landed on either side of him on the deck-- three one on side, two on the other. The monsters seemed hesitant to face the inquisitor, and with good reason. Taerlach didn't know a thing about icekin culture, but oftimes he and Albina had wondered if the monsters had spread tales of Warband Goliath among their ranks, those warriors who had defeated dozens of their ilk, and now feasted on their corpses.

Judging by the hesitance of his opponents, he had an inkling that there might be some truth to he and Albina's musings.

Taerlach was not one to waste a good opportunity and thus he stormed toward the three icekin on his right. Jumping gracefully on the railing, Taerlach boosted himself across the open expanse of the deck, flicking an ether knife at the icekin at the fore. The icekin easily swiped the spellknife away with its axe, the small magical projectile dissipating harmlessly in the air, but behind this distraction came the full force of Taerlach's attack. In mid-air he summoned an ether blade from his left foot, twisting in mid air to deliver the killing blow with a deadly arc. The dark ethereal flow of the spellblade trailing behind it, the blade sheared cleanly through the icekin warrior-- its upper chest, shoulders and head sliding off at the diagonal with a wet splash on the ground. 

The remaining two icekin, seemingly conquering their fear and remembering their own ferocity, didn't miss a beat in swinging for Taerlach as soon as the inquisitor made landfall. Their attacks were too quick to dodge, a mistake on his part, one Gregoroth would have had him beat for, but not a lethal one. The enchanted armor fashioned for him by Goliath's treasured artificer, Mother Zante, would see him safely through this encounter. 

Taerlach raised both armor-clad forearms and as the icekin axes made contact, Zante's enchantments activated. A white pulse of ethereal bloom resonated from the point where his gauntlets absorbed the attack and a small shockwave emanated from them, violently pushing both of the icekin's swinging arms back over their heads. One second in combat is all that is required, and Taerlach used this opening to summon a longer spellblade on his right grip. Using both of his hands to add an impossible force to the blow, the black ethereal sword sliced through both of the icekin surgically, their divided torsos crashing on the deck.

"For Ernst," Taerlach spoke softly.

At that moment, a scream came from the solar. Solim and Faina should be up there alone. What was going on?

A sudden gleam of metal in his periphery brought Taerlach's attention back to the battle and with seconds to spare, the Muraadan inquisitor raised a gauntlet-clad hand in defense as an icekin's axe spun with cruel intentions toward his head. With a sickening crunch the blade of the axe sunk deep into the fingers of his gauntlet, pushing the back of his hand into his face. Though the enchantment of his armor had protected him, the weapon had been thrown with such force that it seemed to bypass most of the wards. He was lucky the wards didnt fail completely, for without the added protection the axe would've cleaved through his fingers and buried itself in his cheek. 

Taerlach cursed himself for his loss of focus. What was happening to him? Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the past three months that was catching up to him, or perhaps, more worryingly, it was the cold. He was beginning to feel the blade-sharp chill cut into him second by agonizing second, and not even his innate Muraadan indifference to the cold or the enchanted shadowcloth of his inquisitor's cloak were doing much to stop it. Faina's aegis was failing and time had all but run out.

[i]I have to end this quick.[/i]

Taerlach pried the icekin's axe from the half-severed fingers on his left hand and wielded it with the other. No acrobatics, no fancy moves, just axe to flesh. Quick and cruel. This was his strategy. And in Varya's name, he would make it work.

There were two of them left. One was unarmed and yet it raised its fists in a combat stance. Warriors to the end, these things. Tearlach approached, axe-in-hand, and raised it high above his head.

And then, something strange happened. He heard a strange whistling sound, a light airy noise, like the wind coursing through the abandoned shipyard warehouses where he would sleep as a child, but distant. Coming from somewhere far, but approaching.

Like lightning, the massive ghost-white icehound streaked from seemingly out of the nowhere and with hawk-like grace and demon ferocity it sank its massive talons into Taerlach's chest as it plucked him from the deck like the tinyest of rabbits. 

"Grgh!" Taerlach's throat and innumerable wounds expelled blood across the sky as he was taken far from the battlefield and up into the void white emptiness that raged above the cliffs. There, his dark Muraadan eyes could glimpse only endless snow and the red of his blood raining down and up and everywhere as the colossal winged beast barreled and spun through the sky, the pure force and velocity of the creature's flight bringing him to unconsciousness.

With the thunderclap beating of the alpha icehound's wings resonating in his ear, and with the frigid arctic winds piercing like thousands of iron needles into his body, Taerlach was brought back to reality. The bastard thing's claws had pierched his breastplate and were stabbing painfully into the bones of his shoulder blades. Upon realizing this, Taerlach screamed. Not for fear, because Taerlach himself was incapable of feeling it, but for bloody murder. He was going to fucking kill this thing, no matter what. And thus, he resolved to do it. He had a plan. A foolhardy one, but it was all he could think of. The creature's massive talons were anchord to his chest, his arms and legs locked within its vice grip.

In his years in the Seminary, Taerlach had become a master of the spellblade. He was known as an expert duelist and a savant at hand-to-hand combat, but few had such mastery of the skill of manifesting a spellblade as Father Taerlach Duanei. And so, he wondered if this was a brilliant idea that would see him hailed as a legend, or laughed at as a cautionary warning.

Taerlach closed his eyes and focused on his ether. The sound of the rushing wind, the cold, the creature's talons ripping into his flesh and bones, for a moment all of it settled into a pure nothingness. And then, suddenly, from that nothingness, he allowed his ether to explode.

Blades of darkly light erupted from every surface of Father Taerlach's body. His shoulders, his stomach, his legs, his arms, his back, spellblades of varying sizes and lengths spawned outward like the quills of a hedgehog, piercing and slicing through the giant icehound's talons. A horrifying screech escaped its throat and suddenly Taerlach was let go from its grip as bright blood rained from its myriad wounds. Anticipating this, Taerlach swiftly grabbed at a swath of the creature's ghost-white fur and using his own momentum, flipped himself upward on the monstrous icehound's back, where he clung to fistfuls of fur. The gaping wounds on his chest spilling blood on the creature's pristine fur, Taerlach wasted no time in further sullying this monster's eerily beautiful visage. 

With one hand holding on, he summoned a spellknife, and began to furiously stab at the creature's back.  In and out, in and out, Taerlach plunged the spellknife through the icehound's flesh with a silent and focused fury, its screams deaf to his ears. The creature began to fly irregularly, trying desperately to shrug the inquisitor off its back, but to no avail. If I can just hold on, Taerlach thought as he continued to mercilessly stab at the creature, its screams filling the sky. 

Suddenly, the wounds on the wounded beast began to glow, as if something deep within it had come alive. The beast began to tremble beneath him, and Taerlach clung to the beast with both hands. The light from within the icehound's wounds burned white, and with its growing intensity the monstrous flying beast began to buckle with more and more anger, as if something was damaging it from within. In that moment, Taerlach felt a massive expelling of ethereal energy, the blowback pushing him backward as the icehound fired a pulse of radiant white energy from its mouth. And then another, and another. Surrounded by the white expanse of the sky above the battlefield, Taerlach had no way of knowing where any of these projectiles had struck, and he wondered why the beast hadnt used this attack to begin with, or rather, if it even could. It seemed like it was unleashing these painful-seeming ether pulses involuntarily, like an animal vomiting something it shouldn't have eaten.

Suddenly, with a lurch to his stomach, Taerlach felt the sensation of a descent through the clouds. Slowly at first, but then at a breakneck speed. The icehound was finally returning to earth, and while it continued to thrash and buckle beneath him, it seemed focused on its journey as it made its way beneath the clouds.

Good, the ground will give me the advantage. Taerlach's thoughts were quickly dashed as the curtain of white clouds unfurled with the icehound's descent, revealing the massive glacier wall beneath and the impossible army of icekin at its apex. This was its target, Taerlach realized, all too late. It would deposit him in the middle of an entire legion of its brethren, and that would be the end of it. 

The Muraadan inquisitor readied his paling, spoke a quiet prayer, to Lord Varya, and in the silence of his thoughts, to Lord Muraad, who's undying heart beat eternally within all his children.

Taerlach looked on at the waiting oblivion and marveled at how fast the creature was advancing. There were hundreds of them. Waiting for him. Soon they would all--

[i]Boom.[/i]

Somewhere from far below, the sound of cannon-fire resonated through the valley between the two glaciers. 

Impossible. The cannons on all three arks had been damaged beyond repair during the icefall. They had wasted days on end trying to get them back in working order, but to no avail. Why was--

Suddenly, there was a massive explosion underneath Taerlach as an ether shell struck the icehound with pinpoint accuracy. The creature was dead before it could even muster any awareness of what was happening. Taerlach desperately clung to anything he could, but he found nothing but the open air as the explosion engulfed both the creature and Taerlach in a violent bloom of corrosive ethereal light. The inquisitor, blown off the icehound's back and now falling through the air, could only gaze at his gauntlet-clad hands as the necrotic ether quickly ate through the enchantments on his armor. When he hit the water, there were screams from somewhere. This much he noticed. But the only thing that mattered to Father Taerlach was the pain. His armor was gone, and his skin and nerves were being consumed by the corrosive ether. 

As he sank, and as the haunted cold of the water stripped him of everything he was, Father Taerlach was glad for the darkness.