[i]“There is something deeply troubling about the very idea of being trapped. There is something deep within the Human soul that cries for freedom, yearns for open air and endless trails. It is something important to us… essential. So when a malevolent entity like Kharathorr screams for your very liberty, all you once were will soon fade, and you will find yourself forever trying to run. Perhaps it is a sick, twisted contortion of his plan for you once you inevitably tire. Once his gaze is set upon you, there is no escape. Now, or forever.” -Captain Arthur Drammar, Paladin of the Order of The Old God, on ‘The Great Enslaver’. [/i] --- The Garden of Chains --- There was a lapse in the storm for a moment, and the Garden of Chains fell silent save for the murmuring lamentations of the broken bodies trapped in the fissures of the muddy squalor. It was a veritable quagmire, a cacophony of horror and physical pain; screams and the gentle clinking of chains filled the air in a disconcerting, yet harmonious, chorus of the Beast. The Great Enslaver sat at the heart of his torturous Gardens, his hands lashed together around the Central Chain, a mighty set of bonds that were larger than any being’s comprehension, forged of a pure black, demonic iron. Whether Kharathorr was the prisoner, or whether the Chain was the prisoner, is the cause of many a discussion between the bravest demonologists of Anadara. However, it was there in his seat of power, his throne of bars, that the Caged Lord would write in eternal hunger, never able to sate his desire for more terror, more slaves, more torture. His need to inflict pain could consume the world if he was given but the slightest chance. his brothers and sisters in the ether would not fall so easily; they stood in his way. They prevented him from enslaving all of creation -a most important task- to his will. Only the Mortal World remained to be conquered, the humans were rife for the harvest like a crop of grain at the end of summer. It was through those lost, weak beings that the Lord of Chains would find his advantage. From the body of the Beast, a chain, seemingly with a mind of it’s own, rose to meet the face of it’s master. It was a long shackle, stretching all the way to it’s creator’s head whereupon it looked towards it’s overlord, and silent orders were exchanged. There was no sound or expression on the Great Beast’s bestial face, for the chain was a part of himself, a tiny fragment of his will that would exact his bidding upon the world. The chain detached in an instant, slithering up the body of Kharathorr, wrapping itself around the Central Chain and glissaded up the impossible length into the ashen clouds, where it would somehow find it’s way into the world above… The calm in the storm ended, the strikes began anew, and the storm above began to drip blood into the morass once more, soaking it deep crimson. The chains tightened, and the beast’s weary victims began a new chorus of tortured screams in reply. --- Arcturus, Estara, Town Square Sergeant Valken, Town Militia, and Ornithus, Town Crier. --- “Beware the Princes of Ruin!” the pompous Town Crier called. “Even to this day they plot your demise, they want to take your children and hew them limb from limb! They want to take your very humanity! Your very life! Be very afraid! Repent your sins and comfort your loved ones for the end of times is upon us!” The overly loud man, who was a little rounded and red faced, had gathered quite the crowd with his doomsaying rants which had been the spectacle of the town for almost a week. The authorities hadn’t minded about the outspoken public rallies that he was attempting to incite, because for the most part they and been tame and somewhat stable. However, in recent days, the man’s subject matters had gotten more and more unsettling, granting him a fast-growing reputation as some sort of heretic who was planting the seeds of corruption in their society. While people had once stood around him in awe, listening to his tales of heroics and good deeds and news of Human progress, mothers now shielded the ears of their children and hurried them out of earshot. His cries had become frightening to the people of Arcturus. “Hey!” Shouted a leather-clad militia-man to the crier, interrupting him mid speech. He pointed his crude spear some distance from the herald, an act of intimidation. “Crier, you need to stop. You're causing civil unrest with your tales.” He said, remarkably calmly for someone who just pointed a weapon at another. The Crier stopped his shouting mid sentence, and took one look at the militia-man, shooting him a glare worthy of an angry bull before stepping down from his makeshift podium of wooden boxes and barrels to meet the enforcer face to face, though he said nothing, instead waiting for the guard to make another mindless statement. “You’re scaring people. You have to stop.” “I should stop telling the truth? Does that not go against some tenant of society?” he asked, snarkily. “It’s not the truth. Despite what some cults may say, there’s still no solid evidence that the Princes even exist. Now if you could please move alon-“ “…” The Crier said nothing, he only intensified his glare. “Why are you looking at me like that?” The Crier stepped closer and began to unleash a flurry of rhetorical questions at the guard. “You think the Princes are a myth? Are you just saying that? Are you truly that ignorant? What about The Vanishing Eagles? The City of Tsaiora? You think those are simply [i]unexplained mysteries[/i]?” The Guard mentally staggered a little, not expecting the flurry. It was as though he were offended by his optimistic disbelief. “No.. I… I.. Look, you need to stop. You're scaring people, children. Is that what you wa-“ There was the bellow of a great horn in the distance, coming from the Southern Watchtower. Both the Guard and the Crier stopped their argument to gawk at the spectacle. The horn was almost never sounded due to the small size of the town. There were rarely goings on worthy of an Estaran horncall, yet there it was, a great reverberation of sound ringing through the streets of the town, shaking it to the very core as every man and woman fell silent in awe. Everybody in Arcturus began to count, partly in fear, partly in hope. [i]One blast for ships on the horizon[/i] There was silence, as everybody waited, hoping for a second blast. [i]Two blasts to signal the King’s arrival[/i] The first blast was echoed by a second of matching tone and volume, once again shaking the wooden buildings of Arcturus on their very foundations, as from the dying echo of the second blast, a cheer began to rise from everywhere and everyone in Arcturus! The King was coming! The King had never come to their humble town before! The day would make history for sure! This was the kind of event that the people needed to put Arcturus back on the map! The streets exploded with rejoicing people of all ages, hugging and cheering, patting each other on their backs as inn-owners and barkeeps invited everybody in their respective streets in for free drinks as worrying mothers and tailors and labourers began to make frantic plans in their own heads about how to greet their liege lord. The guard smiled, forgetting his previous disagreement with the Crier an extend his hand to the herald, offering some sort of congratulations to him. The Crier did not take his hand, he barely moved. He instead began to cry. Slowly at first, but growing more intense by the second, through his whimpers and sniffles were inaudible among the newfound hustle and bustle erupting around them. [i]Three blasts for Demons of Ruin[/i] Where there was, only seconds ago, air filled with joyous energy, there was now mere silence. The energy broken by a third blast of the horn, followed by a metallic screeching in the distance. The Guard glared at the Crier before looking back over his shoulder in time to catch a glimpse of the wall, chains writhing over the top, swaying, lashing, striking, pummelling and entangling anything in their view. Valken watched in horror as the chains slithered their way over the walls effortlessly before constricting in on themselves, crumbling the walls with such ease it was as it they were not even there. As the shards of rock tumbled and crashed the the ground in deafening roars and clouds of dusty debris, the true horror of the assault was revealed. The Slaver Demons of Kharathorr had found their way to Arcturus. Valken immediately knew of them through stories and legends: beasts spawned of a mass of chain that slunk and rolled and walked and crawled and creeped and slid towards any free soul they could latch themselves to. The Guard was totally unable to act, frozen with fear. His only use was to simply stand and watch as every man, woman and child in his wake was tackled by the creatures, who unfurled their bodies to wrap themselves around their victims, binding them tight before slowly and painfully dragging them into the ground, back to the Garden of Chains. Maybe in another life, Valken would have been able to raise his shield and extend his spear and prolong his life for a mere few seconds more; but in this life, he was not brave enough. His last sight on Anadara was a great spider of chains sliding him into it’s body, where the smell of iron and blood was strong, where he could feel his body being squeezed and dragged through some unknown darkness before a storm raged around him, the moans of others filled his ears and his eyes filled with blood as he began his eternal scream as yet another victim of the Great Enslaver. He was unable to protect his people. He was unsure how long they would last against such an onslaught, if they would last at all. It would have taken intervention on a divine scale to bring retribution; but this was not Valken's concern any more, his was merely to suffer at the hands of the Caged Lord.