Chapter One

A pale streak of moonlight illuminates a withering tree. It’s said that the Wildland’s beauty is sublime, but now the uncaring hands of darkness linger through these woods. Even with the lively leaves on the trees and beautiful shades of brown that make up the trunks, something is off. Bracts descend from the trees, but before the cotyledons hit the forest grounds, the pads turn into nothing, molding away out of existence. Some of the bark from the tree trunks wavier from the cold winds. A piece blows off, and the husk falls on the bright teal grass. The woodchip wilts away, and the dirty brown plank remnants flow in the air like smoke from burning bodies. This haunting land smells like rotting flesh with the absence of human life conflicts with the new natural order of its surroundings. This forest of horror houses death, and when one’s life flashes before their eyes on the brink of the end, one will know that even death may die. 

A paw steps on the messy ground between the dirt and rotting flesh. There are humanoid bones that the wolf’s forefeet crush to dust. The freezing winds force its black fur to wavier. Saliva drips down on the grassland, melting the nature beneath. The four-legged creature is known as a heat seeker. On the outside of the body, it appears the mammal looks like a black wolf; however, its heads are what stand out. Two woven heads are attached to one linked neck. One of the craniums is a standard wolf head that matches the black coat body. Its teeth are white and salivating, its eyes purer than dark pearls. The other vertex is rotten but alive. Its once canine meat is reduced to an older animalistic husk. When a patch of skin falls from its face, a tentacle periodically shivers and crawls through the innards of the skull. The blue scales of the tendril are visible when it crawls inside and outside of the empty eye sockets.  Grown in the black fleece of seekers are multiple hearts. The organs are engulfed in the mane but there are many. One of these hearts beats then all the other cores throb rapidly and in unison. While the vascular pulsates, the wolf head looks at the shimmering moonlight. A brutal and harsh howl to the moon follows. Multiple heart seekers rush into the forest, stomping on the broken woods and splitting the blades of grass.

The ground shakes from the rushing heart seekers. The stamped has so much force that the grass and dirt elevate before crashing back down. Among the creatures in the forest, two pairs of feet rush on a trail. Sticks and rocks along with metal boots bash on the ground. Both creatures wear a black knight suit itched with golden outlines along the shoulders and torso. Their armor looks thin as opposed to heavy alterations of a traditional knight plate mail but what separates tradition is the animal helms and the mechanical goggles. One of the helms is in the shape of a wolf, sculpt perfectly to resemble the terror of the beast. The other helm, and the person that leads on the trail, depict an eagle. The wings of the helm fold back to protect the long, dark elven ears and the golden piercings that went with them. The goggles in place of helm eye sockets spark like an electric voltage.  This current flows through the knight’s armors which creates a pink, energetic path behind them.

The heart seekers are just a little faster than the pair. The two are panting, but the eagle helm is far ahead whereas the wolf lacks the speed to keep up. The voice of the eagle is dominating and thick but also loud enough to be heard under the metal shako. “Faster boy!” The wolf launches in a full force sprint that slowly transitions to a run with the hope to keep up, however, he still lacks the speed and endurance a veteran scout should have. The wolf’s panting increasingly becomes heavier during the midst of their travel.

The eagle sees a spear on the ground within a small creator. Slowly he approaches the impact and places his hand in the air forming a fist. “Halt!” The heart seekers in the forest stop in their tracks at the same time. The dirt in the ground splits between the appendages in their feet. The eagle kneels on the ground. Their knees crashed into the dirt. He takes the moment to catch his breath and to let the wolf close the space between them. After further inspection, the spear is not a spear at all, it’s a trident with the metal headpiece broken off from the tip and stave. He places an arm on his knee and then uses a free hand to lace his fingers on the trident head, picking it up to examine the metal closer. The slow wolf approaches the scene. Still, in heavy pants, he looks over the shoulder of the eagle. “What is that Rodin?” The tone of his voice shows how young he is: barely able to swing a sword or even mate with a woman. Rodin scraps some dirt from the trident’s blades. He sees runes carved in the fine points. Charms that would normally be in a state of glow but now have gone dormant. Speckles of the weapon’s foil shine through the rubble on the ground. The shards of plate lead back into the forest and away from the trail. Rodin places the trident back down in the dirt and then stands. The electric current around his armor scorches the dirt off his leg plates. “Sirens.” Rodin’s voice shows its depths once more. “Shall we turn away? Warn my father?” The worried voice of the younger comrade surfaces. Rodin turns his head to the side and with a voice like a stern mentor, he speaks “The Jakalorn are no strangers to war. King Malakai sent his loyal son and most trusted scout of the 16th court marauders. Tell me something Varick, once you plead to him, do you think he will shame you before he puts your head on the spikes of Velenheart? Or would he show mercy and kill you swiftly for being a coward?"

A gust of harsh wind flows through the two. Varick’s sheathed claymore rattles. He places his right plated glove on the hilt. Rodin stands fully and places a hand on his sword, located on his hip. Tensions are high, but the young voice manages to speak. “That is not how I meant it.” Rodin’s free hand slowly forms into a clenching fist. “Your intentions make no difference to me. You speak of retreat again, mother moon herself won't be able to save you from me.” Varick’s fingers that grip his giant sword tighten when another draft hits. “It was you who taught me the scripters. I fear our lunar god would not only omit a rescue but join the hunt as well.” Says Varick. Rodin’s hand is now fully raised. A chuckle escapes his lips. “Try to keep up this time boy.”  Rodin flicks his wrist. The heart seekers snap back to life like a dormant statue embracing viability. They growl like rabid beasts but are tamed like war creatures. Those snarls that fill the air are that of pain and emptiness but still, they serve. The main tormented would put its nose to the trident and then howls at the moon. Together, the seekers rush through the direction of the forest that was foretold; west. Rodin and Varick follow henceforth on their mission even with Varick lacking behind his mentor.

A few moments pass before Rodin reaches the end of the metal breadcrumbs and enters a campsite. The scene is horrifying; the once teal grass is now red with blood, and body parts, limbs, and chunks of flesh are scattered across the forest grounds. The air pulses like a breathing animal which in return forces the four tents that make up the circumference of the site to wobble in place. The insignia on the dark green tinted shelters are covered in blood but still the black sun ripples with the draft. The fire pit in the middle smolders a black fainted smoke, but on top of the fire is a handful of stacked bodies. The carcasses wear the same armaments as Rodin and Varick though they are missing their helms which exposes their faces. Ebony skin and long elven ears. Under normal circumstances, their faces would be full, and their eyes would be shut however, this was a message. The platoon of dark elves had no blood within their facial structure like their fluids have been sucked out. Their once hypnotic apertures are incapable of closing due to their missing eyelids. The dead body on top of the stack has different pauldrons from the rest. Both shoulder pieces have the black sun. He is one of Malakai’s captains.

 Rodin enters and his fist rises to halt the seekers. Their wolf palms stab at the ground, stopping in their tracks. Soon enough, Rodin’s hand lowers, and his eyes examine the brutal slaughter. Hesitantly he approaches the tower of corpses and uses his right armored finger to rush along the captain’s shoulder. When the body moves only slightly, the bottom of the pillar bleeds out into a large pool of red fluid. He stares at the insignia and under his breath he speaks, “Damn.” Rodin’s head turns. He sees the black suns engraved on the tents and canopies. One tent has a flag implanted in the ground at the apex. Rodin stares at that tent. Varick finally enters the scene. The site of the bodies and the thick pool of blood at the end of the pile makes his throat clench and gag. So much so that he rips his helmet off like a wild drunken Jakalorn and throws up. The vomit splashes on the grass, but like everything else in this rotting wasteland, the puke is swallowed up by the forest. Varick’s hair is a pure shade of white. His skin is a rich brown shade while his ears are long and narrow. With one hand, Varick places an arm on the tree and then places his forehead within his inner elbow. His free hand clenches the wolf headpiece tightly. “Fuck, that is a rough way to go, what happened? I thought we were at peace?” Varick shakes his head, and the sweat from his greasy snow locks splashes on the grass. He slowly approaches enough to be at shoulder length with Rodin. Rodin looks over at Varick then back to the pile and kneels. He places a right hand in the pool of blood. “They were out too far…for a reason. “Rodin says.

              Slowly, Rodin lifts his fingertips from the puddle. The blood drips back into the pool. The blood is thick almost like sludge and smells like rotten meat when it's cooked. Rodin flings the blood on the teal grass which cleans the shine on his armor. Rodin stands and he starts to walk to the tent with the flag. Varick looks over the pile. On his side is a satchel, he reaches in this compartment to pull out a book. The book’s title: “Book of The Blight.” Carefully, he sets his wolf helm down on a clean spot among the forest. The plate head sparks with pink electricity, causing the headpiece to slightly hover along with the grassy blade tips. Varick opens the book with one hand and then uses his other hand to turn over the white pages. All the sheets of paper are worn out like they have been read repeatedly thus, when a page turns, a crinkling sound emanates through the air. The pages turn and flip to a section of the book. Varick clears his throat.

Rodin enters the captain’s shelter. The tent is thrashed, scrolls are everywhere, opened, and tossed around as someone’s investigation got turned upside down. Black ink and letter openers are on the grass floor. There are broken weapons between the dirt and lawn which are also mixed with clothes, blankets, and other assortments that make a temporary home. At the helm of the inside is a pile of papers and documents. Rodin goes over to this pile; he kneels and searches through the unorganized mess. Most of the papers are names of the military dark elves, slaves, and construction blueprints. The blueprints look like the construct is a combination of a golem infused with technology and nature. Rodin tosses the blueprint to the side. Finally, he eyes a scroll lobed in the dirt as if someone tried to bury the parchment. The scroll looks like two different shades of blue tentacles attached, holding the document shut. Rodin grabs this scroll and then steps back out into the campsite.

“And I lay you down, back to the earth, let this passage guide you to the blighted land –" Varick’s sweet nurturing voice fills the chaos of the site while Rodin closes the tent behind him. Rodin’s eyes narrow at Varick. “Still read from the scripters, prince? Even after all you have seen?” Varick notices the condescending tone, he closes the book and then places it back from once it came. Varick shakes his head in a disapproving manner. “As my mentor once said: Every soldier deserves a final judgment.” Varick voice, in its youthful expression, displays a sadness that surfaces. “Simple guidelines to live by a century ago…not necessary in the slightest now.” That vile voice mixed with ash and brimstone surfaces from Rodin’s mighty throat. The veteran's eyes dart down at the bodies that are piled up, shaking his head and then looking to Varick. “If there is a god within the city of blights.” He turns his head and looks at the captain’s corpse. Under the mask of his metal suit, his old elven face tries to stay calm, collected and centered even though there is pain within his scarlet eyes. “They have left us long ago.”

Within the outside forest, there is a shadowy figure that rushes along the grassland. They do not make a sound when their feet hit the rubble or twigs on the surface. As if from the void, a blue feminine but muscular arm grasps one of the heart seekers by the back of the neck. The seeker instantly submits without a sound of resistance. The other blue arm comes out and stabs a trident in the forest ground. Like the broken one, this trident has the same metal and runes, though, along the hem of the blades, a small bell is chained from the serrated edge’s base to the stave's top. Even when the clasp of the bell rings, no sound is heard but the runes glow. One hand keeps the beast submitting while the other hand detaches from the trident and renders along with each heart. Their fingers are lengthy and toned and their nails are black like squid ink. With each organ those appendages pass, they make sure to press and rub along the veins until the hand reaches the one that is implanted within the stomach. Violently, the hand rips this heart out, tearing it from the tamed beast which causes the seeker to fall over and die. The figure stands and through the moonlight, some of the shadows dissipate. Its mouth opens like a shark. Four rows of bottom and top teeth that can match the sharpness of any sword. The blue arm draws the heart closer to their maw. Within seconds the whole heart is devoured. The sound of flesh and teeth colliding with one another surfaces followed by gulping. The blood from the organ drapes over their chin and splashes along their tribal necklace composted of elven eyelids. The scarlet hand mixed with the blue skin tone grips the trident. The Sirens are nearby.

The seekers are startled. On every beast, a heart goes black and starts to bleed. This puts their defenses up but once the hive sees what killed their comrade in arms, they run like cowards. The amount of panic within their rotting faces tells the whole story. The only way for scouts to live when faced with a Siren is to run. Though, the mutts did not get too far. The trident once plunged into the ground now travels through the air like a guided projectile reaching speeds unfathomable. The weapon rips through every seeker there is. Some are split in half, killing them instantly, others are impaled on the side and bleeding out, but most had their hearts stabbed and torn asunder. Only one heart seeker remains and that is the one at the campsite. All his organs are now black and bleeding an ink-like fluid from his body, though one beating heart remains. The wolf head growls and its paws stab at the ground. This beast tamed by Rodin is not running like the others. Its teeth start to salivate, and those black pearl eyes show a fearless state of animalistic euphoria.  Varick notices the blackened cores and the state of the beast almost like he knew what was happening all too well. Quickly, he grabs his wolf helm, but something is wrong. A shocking sense of fright overcomes him and at the moment, he stands in place, hand clenching on the metal outline of the shako’s base. The hand that holds the sculpted headpiece rattles. The sweat dripping from his hand makes the pads of his armored fingers clench tighter.

Rodin turns to face Varick. A pleading voice escaped his lips. “Run boy.” Varick drops his helmet from sheer fright and habit. His right-hand grips the handle of his two-handed sword and once he does, the mechanical sheath that hides the blade begins unclasping like twisting gears. The case that holds the blade opens outward and then folds back into the armor suit, Varick’s blade is drawn. The claymore has multiple runes carved in the metal and those charms become more visible once the pink electric current course through the sharp edges like venom. Varick’s legs spread apart from one another, secluding his footing to create a foundation for a basic combat stance. Now, both of his hands hold the handle of his sword. The young prince is afraid but even so, he stands, and the shaking stops. “No retreat, isn’t that, right?” That once kind and boy-like voice is replaced with some confidence, but confidence through a mask is just that; an object to hide his fear. Once the trident stabs into the last heart seeker on the outside of the campsite the bell rings. The sound of impending doom lingers through the eagle’s mind.

Rodin’s body trembles. There’s a ting in his ear that forces his hearing apparatus to bleed. He tries to lift a right limb, but he simply cannot as if the bottom of his armor feet sticks to the ground. Within his helmet, his pours start to sweat which in return makes the scroll in his hand rattle. Muscles and nerves in his wrist twitch in a weird way, which makes his free hand bend oddly when the appendage shakes. This is a common sign of fight or flight response triggering with no flight or fighting, stillness. Rodin’s eyes look at Varick. “You must leave Varick. You have to live.” Varick’s throat has a knot in it, unable to speak. It takes a moment before Varick’s fingers clench on his sword. “What do you mean?” Varick asked. Rodin’s voice becomes deeper than before. “If king Malakai loses his only son, we will know war we cannot hope to win. Run and live…” Varick’s eyes take a hard look at Rodin. The way his mentor speaks is unlike him. He sheds a tear for his friend, his comrade, and his teacher. Varick knows he cannot approach him for fear of his safety. The sword powers down and the case folds back out. The living metal on Varick’s back clings to the sword once in place, sheathing the claymore. Varick turns around and his eyes close. Once those royal orbs awaken, he jolts away, leaving his helm behind.

The Siren within the shadow pulls the trident from a dead seeker. Still, they are shielded by the shade of the night sky concealing what they are however, that moonlight shines along with one of its black eyes. Nearly a mile away, the Siren’s head looks at the seeker in the campsite as if it can see the beast at which it stands. The blue monster rises the trident above its head. Both of their feet plunge to the ground in a combat stance and the one visible eye narrows on the seeker. With all the creature's might, they plunge the stave forward. The weapon releases from their hand and flies through the teal tree leaves and withering wood. In the wake of its trajectory, the tree branches shake and rattle as if a conscious mind is alive. The sliced appendages from the trees begin to wither away and fall but before the wood can fully hit the ground, the boughs mold out of reality before the impact. Once it happens the shift in the wind changes and the creatures within stir with the night out of agony and grief. The trident reaches its destination and impales the last heart seeker. The weapon stabs into the one red heart. The force of the collision is so powerful that the trident rips through the mutt’s body and sticks the hound on a tree trunk. With the seeker’s death comes the splitting bark from the tree. A piece of the trunk falls showing the tendril innards that are in a constant state of pulsation and movement. These are Wildland’s trees. The bell's ring surfaces once more just as Rodin tries to turn around to see the situation unfold behind him.

A full minute passes before the Siren enters the campsite in the same location where the trident entered. With the moon in full view, the shadow that once concealed its figure is now gone. The predator stands at almost seven-foot tall. Their long black hair is as thick as dreads, but they move like tentacles. Along the middle and ends of the dreadlocks are pierced jewels, a combination of rubies that look tribal. When their hair moves, the tendrils let out a hiss as if a rattlesnake is being provoked. As soon as that hiss surface, the creature turns its head to see the still and quivering Rodin. They turn to face his backside. They have an extremely toned body and breasts to match the physique. Scales protect their chest and front bottom but also cover their perfectly sculpted thighs and arms. Their eyes beam on the back of Rodin. Two black gem eyes make up their normal sockets but on each side of their head are even darker orbs. On the right side is a fainted purple eye. The pupil moves erratically as if surveying the landscape. On the opposite side rest a red glowing orb. Unlike its violet counterpart, this one is unmoving though the blood vessels retract periodically from the cornea and then connect to the lens and iris. The red hue focuses on the trident that’s a few meters away. The brut places their hand out opening their palm. Like magnetism, the weapon floats out of the tree and the trident then slams into their open palm. The Siren swings the trident down which creates a razor-sharp wind along the grass and travels to Rodin.

The razor-like wind cuts through Rodin’s ankles like butter. The draft slices through the knight's sabatons, breaking them like glass. It’s a clean-cut that dismembers Rodin’s feet from his limbs. A muffled howl of pain escapes his throat while he tumbles downward. In that same motion, his helmet flies off and lands in a pool of red fluid in front of him. The foundation of the corpse has now drained out and the forest ground is bloody. That old elven face is meant with the blood of his comrades, however, the sound spell from before is broken which allows Rodin to crawl. His right-hand grips the ground violently, but once his armored fingers dance between the blades of grass, he feels the moving forest beneath him which makes it difficult to move. Moments at a time he advances only inches away and every time he makes progress more elven remnants coat his face and the ebony suit becomes red. The realization sets in for him, he knows that his time is short. Instead of movement, he grips his right gauntlet and rips it off. His dominant palm is itched with multiple runes. Four of them are freshly carved: a rune of wood, the charm of lightning, a rune of an eagle, and the charm of the soul. An elven prayer starts to spew under his breath which causes the carved charms in his hand to glow. The tongue of his people lurks within his mind while he places the scroll down in front of him.

The blue beast simply watches the struggle unfold. They plant the trident in the forest ground, and they fold their arms under their bust. A bleak grin crosses their face like a predator playing with their food, though this creature loved to see the pain and misery rather than feasting. An idea crosses the horror’s mind. Their long lengthy fingers twiddled with the eyelid neckless around their neck. Each finger pad takes a moment to feel the individual skin until they get to the one at the end. Quickly, the Siren pulls the eyelid off the neckpiece. Both of their palms come together and between their hands, they rub the piece of skin back and forth. Briefly, there is a shimmering light of blue that reflects from their dark eyes. The grin only grows wider once they see white and black dust along with their hand. The creature pulls their open palm forward to their lips and with a harsh blow, the dust lifts in the air. Unlike spreading apart from a normal blow, the dust moves in the air like a spiral serpent seeking a home. Once the living particles come across the stack of bodies, they travel through the carcass of the captain by entering through the corners of the mouth and flowing inside the nostrils.

The voices within Rodin’s vast and clouded mind soon stifle from the corners of outer thoughts and emotions. Even though death knocks from the world beyond he is still, at the very brink of his core, a solider. Even with the bitter end wrapping around his throat, he still had a job to do and the burning flame within his eyes would not allow his veteran body to give in just yet. With the force of a dead man, he slams his hand on the ground. Those armored fingers twitch and throb. The runes carved in his skin start to bleed out of his armor. Elven blood begins to mix with the ground’s roots and soil. These components mix and combine on the surface of the grassland. Wood starts to bend and twist in the shape of an eagle. The model of the bird sits in front of him, though the eyes are hollowed out along with the chest. Inside the coffer of the wooden carving are roots that are twisted together and within the middle of the mutilated twigs is a space to put something. Rodin’s armored hand approaches the middle of his chest. At first his open palm rest flat along with the metal as if feeling for a specific spot. He finds it! His index finger taps on this area. The plate chest opens like a mechanical portal and within the implantation is a pink floating crystal and around it is a silver metallic catalyst that holds the jewel in place. The right gauntlet hosts himself up just a little then the freehand pulls the shard out of his chest.

Moonlight shines down on the captain’s body. Those red dark elf eyes begin to change like roots griping the hue and upon impact, changing the color that is all too known within this hellscape. The body’s eyes swirl into all black as someone painted over that beautiful shade of red with the color of the void. Their perfect snowy hair starts to fall out and flow downward thus revealing the dark roots that pulse and twitch around the elf’s cranium. The wooden veins wrap around the back of the head and then to the side of the face. On each side of the dead’s mouth, a root coils inside the coroners of their maw and pulls their skin back. The bags just below the eyes become indented and start to grow a black mold. Almost like a fungus that spreads along with the meat. Crack! Bones begin to snap back in place which forces the joints in the body to move in a twisted and irregular fashion. Once each bone is in place the dead captain takes a breath of life. Fully reanimated with a newfound purpose, serving. The undead breaks away from the pillar of bodies and stands. Its arms dangle with the wind, and as the wind blows, the skin on its face starts to turn into the bark. Slowly, the dead approach Rodin.

The pink shard floats on the palm of an armored hand. Rodin struggles to move his hand to the wooden bird just inches in front of him. The skin on Rodin’s face also starts to split apart and replaces those wounds with tree bark, as if his blood transforms into the wood in the same fashion as the undying. Under Rodin’s eyes, the black fungus starts to grow on his skin. The vile substances indent Rodin’s bags, formulating the growth properly. Without the pink shard that powers his suit that scorches the natural environment of the forest, he is being affected, slowly becoming what all dead beings long for. The elf manages to take the shard to the eagle. He places it in the empty compartment, the wooden appendages wrap around the jewel. With the shard in place, it pulses and sparks. The electric current rushes through the wood. The energy fills the hollow chest and eyes. Like stone coming to life, it moves and breaths like a functioning eagle. The bird’s energetic pink eyes gaze upon Rodin. Half of his face is nearly covered in a wooden husk and the black growth now drips down in a perfect line between each eye. The once-proud skin of a dark elf now withering white like an old tree. Even though all the pain in his face and the feeling of his insides rotting, he completed his job. Whispers leak from his lips before they are sealed by the growing wood. The electric eagle lets out a scream, but not of pain or hurt. This is the sound of defiance. The talons grab the scroll and without a moment to spare, the eagle flies away.

The predatory nature of the Siren never lost the focus of the struggling elf. It brings a sense of joy once they see the undead step on each side of the living. The captain’s right arm rises in the air. An open palm extends, and roots slowly start to break through the armored limb. These roots grow thicker and soon enough burst through the metal.  The mangled arm explodes open which splits the appendage in three ways. From the wound itself, a wooden spike launches forward stabbing in the back of Rodin’s neck. Rodin dies immediately and the undead sits there like frozen in time. Both bodies are now covered in the bark and their molding growth is now exposed. The Siren walks over and steps to the side looking at the two. The red-eye narrows on the neck of the captain and then the neck of Rodin, they had matching ink carvings. A sign of blood relatives among dark elf tradition. Given their age, they were probably brothers. The creature pushes the reanimated husk onto the forest floor and when it crashes the wood splits apart like shattering glass. Each piece of bark falls between nature’s glass land, melding back within the environment. A strong blue arm pulls out the wooden pillar from Rodin’s neck. They turn Rodin’s corpse over with a grin of accomplishment and terror. The formidable creature takes its sweet time coursing its sharp, long black nail across the departed elf’s eyelids. Flesh's meeting claws surface and once she has her trophy, they stand and slowly place the lids along with the tribal necklace.

Three sections make the Wildlands, and while the eagle travels, its pink electric current eyes use that God’s eye view to look down. The overview of the haunting forest is just like any other landscape, however, the very tip of its trees releases spores in the air, though harmless, the fungi smell of rot and mold. The moon finally settles and with the fall of the lunar comes the rise of the sun. The Eagle now reaches a no man’s land called “The Line.” The Line is what separates the rot and disgust from the dark elf race and its two factions. This trench stretches across the continent. The ones who fight are the elves that wear black armor and hold the insignia of the black sun. Among all the military that is there, the trench holds significance. Not only does it separate and unforgiving forest, but The Line is deep enough to halt the growth of the molding, but it takes the military to hold the growth at bay. The elves often use static magic and resources to burn away the living rot but sometimes reanimated creatures of the past attack. After a few sunsets and lunar dawns, the eagle finally makes it to the Jakalorn territory.

The colosseum stretches one-hundred and eighty meters in length and one-hundred fifty-eight meters in width. Like all places of gathering, the stone hedge seats are filled with dark elves and the stale air is surrendered by thunderous applause and cheers. The arena floor is covered with sand and rocks, though some of these stones have blood on them while others are buried beneath the environment. There is a match going on but among all who cheer there is the silent one. Above the stands rest the King. Long blizzard hair, nearly eight-foot-tall, dark red eyes, and a sculpted body fit for a redeeming god. Malaki’s eyes never left the match, nor did he say anything. The combat alone is enough to steal his attention away from the others that are around him. Ellensandria, wife to Malaki and stands nearly seven-foot-tall, though her skin is mauver than the normal darker shade. Her emerald eyes scan the battle that is going on as well. She wears diamond-like armaments that hug her curves and bust tightly, and she has a crystal bow leaning on the side of her chair with a quiver made from animalistic furs. There is a third, a dark elf that surrounds himself with servants and slaves. Those eyes of his mark the same blood color but he is much shorter than Malakai, six-foot when he stands. His blond hair is slicked back whereas the king’s hair is long and reaches down to his shoulders in a rugged fashion. They are not the same even though they share the same race.

A dark elf woman stands at the apex of the ground floor. Height nearly seven-foot and green eyes that matched the same color as Ellensandria. She has an old fashion breastplate that covers her chest and rustic leg plates that cover her lower appendages and middle area. Within her shaking right hand is a short staff with some runes carved inside the head. Though she is nervous, her features suggest that she is calm and collected. The torso armor has blood splatter running along the hem to the collar. Across her delicate-looking face is another scarlet splash. A long and wet tongue slithers out of her mouth. The tip of her wet induced limb slurps out some of the red fluid along her bottom chin. The shaking stops and her eyes narrow down to the one that stands before her and the goals she aims to grab. The elven man barely stands. He has a sword in one hand but the steal he wore to protect himself has all but shattered, like a wild animal capable of breaking iron with its jaw attacked him. The broken shards stick inside his flesh which complicates his breathing. Though he is soaked in blood and his beautiful blond hair shared it, he still managed to look refined.

The male dark elf’s tower shield stabs in the ground revealing his war-torn and broken arm. He plants himself behind the shield and takes a breath. Those eyes of his reaping along what the female elf would do, watching and waiting behind the last line of defense. The tower has an insignia carved in it, though it does not bear the black sun, the shield bears the white sun. Unlike the black sun depicting an eclipse, this one showed a rising dawn. The man’s battered arm moves as if he had shingles but soon enough that movement stifles and both of his bloody palms grip the handle of his sword. The dark elf woman looms her gaze at the man like a predator seeking to devour their kill. Within that moment the voice of Malakai seeps through the air and that voice is powerful enough to stir the hearts of people and break whoever is beneath. “Do you know why your warrior is losing, Volde?” Up in the higher seats where Malakai sits is Volde on his right side. He looks at Malakai nearly confused at the words. The uptight elf plays with one of the several old rustic rings along with his fingers, trying to ignore Malakai’s words. “It's because everyone from the Jakalorn is a warrior. While your people learned to walk and run, mine learned to swing steal, and kill.” The crowd goes silent even though they are still cheering. Like a dream from a little girl or boy, everything goes black. The only things that remain within the spotlight are the two in the arena and Malakai’s determined voice.

The woman in the arena grits her teeth like holding back a nasty habit. A right foot plunges forward while the left stays on the rocky ground. The muscles within their thighs start to twitch in place. Their ankles flex and soon enough they lunge forward. During the travel, that ash and brimstone voice beckons like a fire being fuel. “Your kind makes warriors while mine are birthed from the ashes of nothing. The women, the men, and everyone else strives to sedate their battle lust. Could you Lorn say the same?” Once the female elf reaches the mid-way breaking point of the apex, her flesh starts to break and mold while moving. The runes in the staff illumine a green dense aura of energy and magic. The transformation takes place. Her bones split and mesh while her flesh changes shape and grows fur. An armor panther pounces down on the tower shield which in return forces the pray to jolt backward, that destroyed arm grips one of his many wounds along his stomach. The blood seeps out between his fingers and forms a trail that leads to where he lands. Both of his hands go back to holding his rustic sword. Though his arms are shaking, a shocking sense of horror reaps along his face. Like a wise man, he submits. A knee driving into the ground and the sword stickling through the surface of the earth. Shamefully his head hangs and the panther starts to walk around in circles like they are waiting. The animal’s snarls and growls surface while the crowd goes silent.

              That big hulking body of Malakai manages to stand. His arms fold across his chest while those dark red eyes gleam down to the game that is present down below. Volde, the smaller dark elf also gets up. For a moment, Malakai’s eyes turn to the blond then back to the action. Eyelids close and that unfathomable voice flows out his mighty throat. “So, Volde. What will it be for your made warrior? Will he go back to that simple life you cultivated for your people, or will he meet the damned?” The blond elf in question beams their eyes down at the low-hanging head of the defeated. Their hand forms into a fist like seething rage envelopes within the sanctum of his wellbeing. The fist begins to shake out of pure unyielding hate when he sees the warrior that gave into the panther. One of Volde’s servants rests a hand along their master’s shoulder but Volde jerks away as if the slave is a plague to him. Those refined blue oceanic orbs dart their everlasting color to Malakai. Volde manages to calm himself but lets a few breaths exhale from his lungs. His shoulders jolt downward in the last emanation and finally, the voice of a Silverite spoon implanted in his mouth surfaces. “Kill the bastard.” That pitch and his tone told the story of his life, privileged and rich. Once Malaiki hears those words shifting with his mind, he lets out a small chuckle under his breath.

              Malakai’s eyes beam down on the druid that paces back and forth awaiting the order to kill. Both of their eyes finally lock, red orbs correlating with the emerald ones. The look is all the confirmation the panther needed to kill, though as tradition, their leader would have to make the final judgment. “Ankou!” The word of death ushers through the crowd and after a reprieve of silence the people roar with excitement hearing the decision. Almost as if on cue, the panther jumps on the male elf. Their white teeth pierce their body like a knife slicing warm butter. With the warrior battered, broken, and dead, the druid begins to take shape once more. Their bones crack back in their rightful place where they belonged. The panther skin drapes from their body like dropping a fur coat on the rocky ground. Their snout reverts to the elven nose and their face changes. Her dark hair flows out with the rushing wind that originated from the crowd. Though she was soaked in blood, she still had manners for her king. Thus, her knees dig down into the dirt in a bow of respect and gratitude. While she assumes the position, the staff that seamlessly molded with her transformation is placed down beside her and those glowing green eyes revert to a stagnate green.

              “Thank you, my king, for this opportunity!” Her voice comes out humbly like she is trying to appease a father figure. Malakai darts those red orbs down to her and gives a nod of approval rather than scorn. Volde stops in his tracks and he narrows his eyes on the woman in question. Though his stern look is out of rage and jealousy rather than approval and gratitude. That mighty voice of the king reaps through the air and causes the crowd to go silent. “Stand gladiator and tell me your name.” The elf takes a moment to gather herself before approaching her feet with a mighty stance of triumph. Now, her head looks up at the king that is above her. Her stern voice breaches the air. “Catharina of the Jakalorn, first druid of clan Farrowstrength, soldier of Malakai’s army.” Both of Malakai’s hands drift to his side. A shock of surprise lingers across his face but then his features turn into an appraisal. His dominating voice grips the air again. “Clan Farrowstrength is and always was the foundation to the Jakalorn and in service of the tribal clan Hallowedtail. What does a soldier of a noble clan ask of me as your spoils? If it's within my power, it shall be yours.” A sound of resolve echoes through the draft. Catharina turns her green hues down to the dirt that is beneath her. Her vast mind swings between thoughts of riches, selfishness, neglect, nobility, honor, and courage. Though deep down every dark elf knows that true power is the ability of defiance and the power to lead. She grabs her staff for comfort.

              Catharina’s head jolts up, green mixed with red gazes colliding with one another again like a dance between father and daughter. That voice of hers almost comes out in a pleading manner, though she holds back the needy tone. “In a fortnight, I will be traveling to The Line. I will be putting forth my clan’s name in the trenches of warfare.” The grip on her staff begins to tighten like she is going to fight another arena match. Her teeth almost cling to one another and grit. The veins in her biceps and forearms tighten and propel forward. Her once pleading tone has now turned dry and dead. “I want the blessing from our queen, mother of nature, the eclipse.” For a moment, Malakai is in shock from such a request but then he looks over to his side and still sees Volde staring down in just as much shock as he is in. The elven maiden that sits in the shadow on the left side of Malakai beams her jade iris down to the arena elf. After a moment, Malakai’s hand extends to his left side and his palm slowly opens. “My queen, your blessing is requested. Bestow this warrior with your kiss.” Ellensandria's violet hand grips the palm of Malakai. She steps out of the shadow. Volde is in disbelief and forces the elves on the rafters to hear his opinions in a whiny fashion. “You would give the moon to a wench bitch foot soldier and not my elite guard!?” Volde’s grip tightens.

              Ellensandria’s voice comes off as elegant as a queen but as savage as an animal. “The only warrior that came close to my blessing meant his fate by the hands of a woman.” She closes her eyes for a moment then opens them narrowing her orbs back at Volde. “You better watch what you say Volde of the Lodron. We Hollowtailed women are not known for our…patience. Maybe next time you will bring my husband warriors that are worth my time.” Volde is livid from the insults and the way he is treated. Even though he had a seat by the king he feels like a peasant. However, instead of spewing more of those words of his he instead pulls his fist together, interlocking his fingers with each hand, and bows out of respect. “Thank you for your time. King Malakai and Queen Ellensandria” With those parting words he manages to step out of the rafters with his servants and exits the arena. Malakai could not help but smile at the words his beloved said to the outsider. He leads his queen to the railing of the arena and now both have a great view of Catarina. Now that Ellensandria has a better look at the gladiator, she gives a sly nod to her king. Slowly, Malakai’s hand lets go which frees the queen; Ellensandria, Queen of the Jakalorn, the first-born druid, keeper of the eclipse, and mother of nature. Both of her two feet stand on the railing.

              In the motion of her fall, Ellensandria transforms. Her bones break in place and her skin becomes a feathery white. That Silverite armor of hers melds with her purple flesh while taking the shape of a white owl. The owl flies down to the arena and lands right Infront of Catarina. Almost instinctively, Catarina drops to her knees in shock at what was happening up in the rafters and on the arena battlefield. Her head barrows down on the dirt as if she is worshipping a god. As quickly as it came, Ellensandria’s shapeshifting stifles and she reverts into her taller dark elf form. With a right hand, she brushes some of her green hair bangs from her vision and then looks down at Catarina. “Stand druid of Farrowstrength.” The queen’s voice comes out demanding but still held passion for her fellow kin. The gladiator stands at her attention almost immediately. The height difference between the two is noticeable. The queen almost stands two feet taller than the dark elf which forced Catarina to look up at those jade souls within those royal eyes. A dominant right-hand brushed across Catarina’s bloody face. Some of the liquid splashed on the taller elf’s nails but soon enough her large palm grips the other’s cheek. Catarina never takes her eyes off Ellensandria’s eyes as if she is in a trance or spell that flows within her core. That elegant voice stirs within the queen’s frail throat. “Catarina Farrowstrength. You’re now a druid of the Eclipse. One of my beautiful and loving children.”

              The hand along Catarina’s right side lingers on the back of her neck. The empty spaces between the queen’s fingers fill with locks of hair. With authority like Ellensandria owned the elf, she pulls and tilts her head back. Finally, the queen’s lips push and mesh with Catarina’s dry ones. The transfer of power ignites the gladiator’s body. Her skin starts to change from a dark brown into a light magenta. Even darker violet tribal markings start to form along her arms, each side of her cheeks, and her legs.  Catarina’s body shakes like a blaze of fire scorns her insides so. The staff in her hand drops to the ground and those runes on the hedge of the weapon disappear like wood-decaying in the wind. Then the staff itself melds into the ground and becomes nothing more than flowing dust. The taller druid unlatches her lips from the newfound child of the eclipse. Catarina’s skin is now a light mauve. On each side of her face rest dark markings that flow down to her lower limbs. The final step in the blessing is the hair. The once dark hair she had now faded into nothing. The queen’s hand drops to her side then Catarina’s hair begins to take shape and color. Her hair grows down to her lower back and a dark green color emerges, almost like moss. The taller elf closes her eyes and smiles. “My child. You have my mark, my blessing.” The soldier bows her head. “Thank you, my queen!” Malakai claps his hands together and the rest of the crowd joins him in the celebration.

              Something is wrong. During all the appraise from the celebration of the mother leaving her mark on a soldier, a slave rushes to the side of Malakai. The purple robe elf is nearly unseeable because of the fabric. Their stature is shorter than Malakai and once they approach the king, they drop to their knees in a bow. The gold lining along the torso of the outfit nearly scratched the rocky rafter surface. Within the grip of the slave’s right hand is a scroll that nearly rips from the harsh ground floor. Malakai’s eyes dart down to the slave then narrows those orbs at the parchment. He waves his dominant hand just slightly above the peasant’s head. “Stand.” He says in a demanding manner. With a word, the subservient elf lifts both of her hands in the air and offers the scroll like a tribute of some kind. Malakai snatches the scroll from their hands and opens it up. The foreign language of the dark elves uses symbols and dots. To Malakai, the message is clear. His fingers unlatch and the paper falls on the hard ground. Without a moment's notice, Malakai leaves the arena. Ellensandria watches her king’s movements, and the audience begins to leave.

              The outside arena is fully connected to the Jakalorn kingdom. The castle walls are built by obsidian and iron meld together with the same power that fuels their suits. Inside the arena is a corridor that leads to the rest of the castle, and vice versa, there is an outside stone hedge exit for the audience to leave.  Malakai comes to a tall and wide door that leads to the corridor. He places a powerful right hand on the left side and by his touch, the door begins to shift and move. The hinges fold backward, and the stone that makes up the gateway of the aperture move in sections. Rock folding and collapsing in on one another make a harsh sound. The transformation brings the stone appendage backward and seamlessly molds into the obsidian entryway until it looks like there is no door at all. The moment Malakai hears the final stones cling to one another, he marches forward into the depths of the corridor. His movements are that of haste like he is in a hurry rather than celebrating what had just happened. The sound of his footsteps crashing on the glass-like floor is enough to shatter. However, when the ebony floor breaks like a mirror, pink sparks render across the newly forged cracks. The energy alone is enough to weld the material back together and reforge the glass-like ground. On the left side of Malakai, the once worshipping slave follows the king. How the subservient elf moves are passive compared to the king that rushes forward.

              “When did you get the word?” Malakai’s voice surfaces in a demanding answer. The slave goes quiet for the moment but then graces the king with a submissive response. “Four days ago.” The notion is enough to stop those harsh footsteps. As Malakai stops, so does the slave by his side. The hallway they are in is like chapel walls. The stained-glass windows along the hallway provide a catalyst for the shining sunlight to surge through the room. Though the light is a light brown rather than a yellow or orange color because of the images along with the glass. Each aperture depicts a king of the Jakalorn. Then the one at the end of the hall is Malakai with a war hammer flush with his shoulders. “My kid has been back from recon for nearly five days, are you suggesting he knew nothing of this message from my uncle?” The king’s voice has the slave at a loss for words but then they manage to nod their head in agreement. The nod is enough to force his fist to clench and shake. The rage built within his core and his chest became tight. He leaves the slave and enters where the hallway is leading, the throne room. The slave follows suit with the king.

              The throne room fills most of the ground floor. Pews are stacked within a column-like setting. At the helm of the obsidian stage rest the throne itself. The king’s chair is made from petrified wood with steams of root and leaves propelling outward along the armrests and back of the chair. The roots located on the back of the chair grow upward, forming the foundation of the throne’s back but above that a tree spout. Unlike the nightmare trees from the desolated forest, this tree is an oak tree, fully living and breathing. The leaves are green and gleam within the sunlight provided by the glass stain windows. Some other chairs are lined up on each side of the throne. The chair on the farthest end of the left side belongs to the masonry, an old withering man in charge of the structures. Though he stagnate dark hair is greasy and hangs in front of his vision, Malakai can still see those green eyes through the bangs. Quickly, the king rushes past the benches and confronts the masonry. A voice of rage reaping through the stale air. “Ro, is this true? Did my son know about this?” Ro looks at the eyes of the king but then his tired iris narrows his gaze to the ground. The hesitation within the masonry’s eyes showed his fear though he still manages to usher his older voice. “It would seem so sire. I took the liberty of opening your uncles’ message and left it in your chambers.” Malakai takes a moment of reprieve to gather his thoughts, exhaling his breath before taking more oxygen in. “Thank you, Ro.” The right hand of the king grips Ro’s shoulder in reinsurance then he turns to the left and walks to the base of a staircase.

              The stairs are forged from stone but hold the same obsidian fluorite from the ground surface within the rails. Quickly, Malakai makes his way to the top of the stairwell, each step growing louder and louder while he made his travel. Once there he is meant with a four-way crossroad. The black woven cloth rest on the second-story floor which makes his footstep quiet. The king marches along the right path of the hallways. This hallway is special. The color of the black fur is so bright that it almost shines on the oil painting portraits of all the kings that came before Malakai and their families. Within these paintings, there is a reoccurring pattern. Every king has the same queen, Ellensandria. Though each image captures a different number of children but still the same queen reigns over the patriarchal tradition. Malakai comes to the hem of the hallway and is faced with another stone door, his chambers. Quickly, he places a hand along the right side of the black glass-like door. With his touch comes the metamorphism of the entryway opening. The striking sound of glasses pushing and colliding with one another surfaces. Malakai waits for the full opening then he steps inside with the portal closing behind him, clasping all together in the same way it opened.

The great hall is massive in size, the bed alone is big enough to house several elves if he so desired. The walls are made of the same material as the panels from outside the room, obsidian mixes with the pink electricity that transparently flows through the room. In the middle of the space is a small looking pool that is indented within the floorboards. The liquid in the pool is a bright blue color that mixes well with the darkness of the room, it almost acts like a source of light. Other than that, the room consists of regular necessary items such as a dresser, a closed window that overlooks his kingdom, a alter of sorts where the scroll and the owl are, and a separate room altogether that holds Malakai’s and Ellensandria’s clothes and armaments. Malakai makes his way to the tabernacle standing before the table. The altar is made from old-world stones. The owl sits in the right corner while the scroll stands upright in the middle. Beneath the scroll is a red glass mirror that is indented within the flat top of the structure. Malakai waves his right hand across the mirror. The rune that is engraved within Malakai’s palm gives off a red glow which forces the mirror to shine and pulse with energy. At first, the item rattles but soon enough a wave of energy jets forwards which makes the sealed scroll float in the air up to Malakai’s chest level.

              Malakai takes a brief solitary moment to dart his eyes down on the floating scroll. That mighty throat of his exhales a harsh breath as if he is dreading opening the parchment. In a slow fashion his right-hand drifts upward in front of him and with his pointed finger he prods his appendage in the middle where the tendrils resided together. The suctions that originate from the under-skin tentacles sting the air. The first coils move before separating to both ends of the document. Once those sea arms are in place the scroll finally opens. The paper has a series of runes drawn in the blood that is dry enough that some of it flakes off but still Malakai can read the message that is meant for him. In the first row, there are runic symbols that depict animals. Since the body of the scroll stretches nearly two feet across, all animals of old and new are represented in this row, though some of them are marked with smudges as if the writer tried to erase them. The second row down is a plethora of weapons and armors. Though these are not rules, they are small drawings of each weapon. The pattern displayed is a weapon than an armor piece. There is not a moment within the row where the formula holds false. The last row down shows two symbols; the black sun and a sea creature symbol that shows the face of a corrupted squid. For every two squid faces, there is a black sun to follow. The king thinks for a moment within his collective thoughts he realizes that the scroll is in code.

              Once the king realizes the pattern, he turns the paper over so that he could see the symbols from the back. Though now the patterns and how they are placed are reversed. Malakai grabs a feathered pen from the right side of the alter and brings the head of the ink tip to the top right of the scroll. Quickly, he draws the first rune, bear. The next thing he would draw is a helm though he places this drawing across rather than downward. The two newly drawn rune starts to shimmer a green color, thus confirming their pattern. Next, he draws in the black sun and once the ink hits the page, the drawing also begins to glow with that forest shade. The next set of three is a piece of armor, the rune of a panther, and the squid's face.  Malakai draws this line just below the others and once the last stroke of ink renders, these drawings emanate blue. The next set that goes down on the last row is a wolf, then a sword, and finally, the black sun. A grin reaps along his lips – he knows the pattern. He draws out all the compatible symbols on the scroll, even though the runes and armor drawings are different the last symbol remains the same every time a set of three is placed on the paper. Black Sun – Squid – Black Sun. Once the back of the scroll is filled with these markings, the colors begin to mesh forming one pulsing black magical aura. The light reflects within Malakai’s eyes and the scroll crumbles away, turning into ash.

              Just like the floating piece of paper, the room starts to shatter like glass. The tub of thick blue water begins to meld into nothing. The master-size bed of the great hall disperses away and the kingdom itself begins to show the mirage of the rotting forest. Though this is just a vision Malakai witnesses, it still feels real to the touch. His nose wrinkles from the smell of rot and decay. The trees weave within the night and the feeling of the grass blades brushing with the soles of his feet. He is at the campsite. The fire is alive and well and the platoon of knights sit around the campfire keeping warm from the nightly cold which makes Malakai shiver though he still manages to approach the campsite with the group of elves speaking about their day. One of the dark hair elves bits down on an apple and looks over to another. “Ahoy! Korin! What did you say to your wife when you left?” Korin, the more blond one of the grounds looks over at the other and gives a bashful smile. “I didn’t say anything to her! I wrote a song. Though I don’t think an elf-like you, Sonah would care for a tune.” Sonah takes another bite of his apple nearly finishing it and swallowing. “Come now, we would all like to cherish some music.” The group gives a nod, they could use some music to pass the time. The captain steps out of his tent and looks at his team. He folds his arms and waist for the pitch to surge through the dim air.

              Korin’s voice comes out angelic, even though he keeps the volume down and stifled. The pitch is high, and the group of elves matches the tone with a solid base reaping from their throats though it is Korin’s voice that leads them. “My dear Zendra, there are so many things I have left to say!” The bases erupted with the choirs though it’s made up on the spot. “To say. To say. To say.” Korin gazes into the fire while his tone emerges. “The first time I meant you, I knew you were mine.” The bases “Mine. Mine. Mine.” Korin hugs his stomach. “The first time I meant you, I knew I would never need anyone else. You always kept me by your side.” The bases is “Your side. Your side. Your side.” He places his hands on his armored knees. “Now that you have my life… I will always be by your side.” The bases. “Survive. Survive. Survive.” The last verse: “Now that you house my life, I will always…survive.” After the song, their voices fell flat and Sonah places a hand on Korin’s shoulder tugging him. “Beautiful song boy.” Korin gives a nod to his older comrade in arms. Even Malakai smirks from knowing the meaning of the song and how unfinished it is. The vision starts to move rapidly. The group of elves moving faster as space and time fast forwards. Malakai rubs his chin watching and speaking to himself under his breath. “What did you want me to see Captain?” The campsite morphs into the slaughter.

              It is two, maybe three Sirens from the dark that kills them all. The first is Korin who meets his fate by a trident through the throat, in the same way, a fisherman beheads a shark for its flesh. The next one to perish is Sonah. He goes down fighting the red-eyed Siren. Deflecting attacks until another Siren stabs him in the back with so much force that his spine propels outward from his chest and ripping his body almost in half. All the other elves fall from the might of their enemy. Till finally, the three Sirens come across the captain. The elf draws his sword and once the blade meets the air a pink electric forcefield incases the blade. One of the four eye sea creatures darts forward with its weapon and tries to propel a forward thrust. During that motion, the captain ushers a phrase along his lips, and with his armored hand, he grabs the hedge of the spear and breaks the metal. Then his sword stabs in the Siren's chest. Theirs blacken blood spilling on the forest ground. The captain’s free hand forces the Siren to their knees. A hand grips their tentacle-like hair and renders the pink blade across her throat. The Siren lets out a gory, horrific scream then the captain cuts their head off. Once the head lifts from their body two tridents plunge into his body. The captain dies with a smile on his face. After the captain’s death, the room begins to mesh back to reality. The words the captain usher is not a spell at all. It is one word that would flow through Malakai's mind.

              On top of the red reflection, the mirror is the ashes of the parchment that wither away into nothing. Malakai brings his right hand to his mid-section. His palm opens out and his fingers extend. "A dreadnought." He says. The once-toned hand and the crooks of his bones start to twitch and ache with pain. With his free hand, he grips the in-pain wrist and tries to stifle some of the hurt by moving his thumb up and down his palm. Finally, he lets out a breath of air that fills the room ushering a reprieve from the quaking appendage but only for a moment. Soon enough, black tribal markings start to render across his flesh. These inked tattoos covered every part of his body leaving little room for the natural shade of skin to breathe. Once the end stroke of black squid ink darts above both of his eyes his body begins to take a different shape. The king’s bones begin to shrink and his muscle mass decay away. Meshing flesh and morphing bones have him in pain, though this sensation is not new to him, and he can hold that pain off to hide the fact his foundation is going through systematic change. Those dark robes fall to his feet.

              The once proud and masculine king is now reduced to being barely six feet tall. The muscles and his godly appearance that matched his physique shattered into nothing. Both of his arms are skinny as if blood has been drained from them. Those legs that stood so tall now stand so low and shake in a place like an old man. The king’s skin turned into a course leather that isn’t smoothed out around the edges. The frail left arm manages to wrap around his stomach and the bottom of his ribcage. The lower torso is always where he felt the most pain during the transformation. Those small fingertips plunge within his skin. Fingerling appendages rest on the tribal marking that depicts a black circle with four other clear rings around its circumference. Malakai takes his time stepping into the blue liquid tub. His feet are rather motionless while moving as if he is hesitating. The king takes a full minute between his steps. With each step, he gets closer to his goal though when he reaches about halfway something drastic happens. One wrong push of weight is all that it takes for his right ankle to snap like a twig. The old man's body crashes to the ground and his mouth hits the hard obsidian floor. His head bounces off the glass and while he makes his way to his knees, blood reeks through his fingers. “Damn it!” The once-mighty voice is brought down to a mere commoner and like a peasant crawling for survival, he pulls his way to the tub of blue liquid and slams himself in.

              The pool of azure liquid flows along his body like the water has a mind of its own. Malakai lets out a huff of defiance once the rushing of cobalt substance forces his ankle to snap back in place and heal it. The king exhales his breath out of relief rather than pain. The door to the great hall opens and Ellensandria walks into their room. The seven-foot-tall elf leans on one of the dressers and folds her arms. Those dark nails nearly dug within her purple flesh from frustration. Her voice comes out rather demanding and straightforward. “How long did you wait?” Those tired eyes look among his beloved before seething at his reflection within the blue waving tides. “Too long…maybe a day?” The queen shakes her head in disapproval. She makes her way to the tub and as she walks, bits and pieces of her Silverite armor pluck from her skin and drop on the floor. Her full nude elvish body is equipped with large breasts and a muscled toned figure. She reaches the hem of the tub and Malakai looks at his beloved up and down. His withering bones manage to tense at the sight of her. Both of his arms lap out of the tub and his fingers do their best to grip the surface around the cask. His dry lips meet the sharp edges of his old teeth like he is waiting for something for someone. “We talked about this. You need to bathe in my mana every day to maintain your body…” She sounds almost disappointed in a way. A sense of worry within her force cracks and breaks through the demanding metaphorical mask she wore. Slowly she steps into the pool and stands much taller than her husband but then straddles her king’s lap.

Her smell, her touch, and the divine essence that makes up her being is enough power to make an elf or man throb in excitement. That thick meaty appendage of the king stands once he feels those plump thighs coil around his withering and frail body. The look within her orbs weaves the threads of her soul within Malakai’s old and rustic-looking blood hues. The queen knows that she is in control but possibly more important, the king knows. Ellensandria’s right-hand slings past his shoulder then those long and slender fingers wrap around the old-looking snowy hair. The empty spaces between each finger link gracefully and fill with strains of the king’s mane. Her free hand manages to seep down into the pool of mana and with that warm and angelic palm, she pressed the meaty muscle of Malakai. The long green nails of her tracing ever so gently across each vein of his as if worshipping even though it should be the other way around. The thumb rushes along the very tip of his throbbing prick while the pads of those small appendages move in motion with the pulsing muscle. Ellensandria’s seductive and lustful tone manages to escape her lips. “Why did you run out of mana, my king?” sly with her question, but even under the tone of voice she wanted to know more and the way she moved her thighs to secretly tuck in her beloved king showed just how far she would go to get whatever she desired.

              Malakai’s teeth sink deep down within his bottom lip. The sensation of his darling’s palm rushing along the erect flesh made his hips buck but like a typical male, he stifles the moan. When he holds back the heated and lusty breath that boils, his tongue starts to lick his inner bottom lip as if trying to soothe the wound. It is always like this, distracting him so the queen can propel her questions and under this gapping power that she held, he had no choice but to answer. The black ink face looks up, and his sagging old scarlet orbs narrow upon his beloved. “A visionary scroll from a scouting captain managed to exhaust most of my energy to maintain.” Malaki feels the queen's thumb stroking the long vein that is located under the seam. Once more, like a tamed dog, his teeth collided with the innards of his mouth yet again. The vibrations of his tone nearly coil around the small open wounds that were self-inflicted, but again he makes no sound that would suggest his pleasures. The old withering voice of the king surfaced again. “I’m sorry I worried you.” The sound of his voice nearly changed to a much softer pitch than before as a form of submission rather than being assertive. Of course, Malakai knew his place…for now.

              Ellensandria’s southern lips rub along the hardened muscle of her husband. In doing so, both sides of her vulva spread apart, and her nectar manages to mix with the mana and coat the low skin of Malakai. The hand that solely strokes that shaft shifts over to her lower maw. An index and pointer finger spread apart her opening so that her natural essence flow more abundantly, making it easy for wet inner walls to be filled with Malakai’s stiff member. Each side of her toned hips rocks back and forth in a smooth and hypnotic rhythm. The fingers within his hair start to tug harsher than before, her small whimpers escaping from her lips. Those jade eyes of hers match that same stare Malakai gave her, and in that time freezing moment, those blood-red hues of the king’s reflect a perfect silhouette of his queen. A slithering voice reaps from her lips, though it comes out tiredly. “You need to be more careful. I hope what you got was worth nearly dying for.” After her scolding, those toned hips manage to pick up the pace. Sliding that member of the king faster and more erratic. So much so that the mana pool begins to ripple from the friction that both of their bodies created. The king wraps his arms around Ellensandria’s back, his nails struggle to claw at her skin because of his deformed fingers, but he manages to hold on tight and lift his hips to match his queen’s succulent motions. Their panting begins to fill the stale air around them and a snap-in Malakai’s rib echoes.

On one side of the king’s rib cage, a bone snaps into two, like growing marrow into an extra rib. The same thing happens on the other side of the cage, snap, and growth. Due to the expansion, his torso manages to grow upward in size back to how he was just moments ago. Some of the black ink marks begin to fade away but not all, not yet. Those wither hands of his manage to grip the queen’s hips, his nails slowly digging within her perfect shade of skin. Their nails of his are so narrow that her skin breaks and small sprits of blood seep from her body, mixing with the mana pool. Even though her face protested the feeling of being clawed by an animal, her body told another story one of lust and desire. The king’s hips begin to buck at a much faster pace than once before, the newfound body is giving him more energy than once before, and he is hell-bent on using this vigor in the correct way that fits the situation. The meshing sound of their middles meeting rapidly fills the air and mixes with their succulent moans of pleasure. For Malakai, the bravado mask has fully fallen from his face and his true nature leaks out. Within the moment, his once tired and decaying eyes sought new life as well as love for the women he grew with, his Ellensandria.

              Malakai’s arms quiver for a moment. The sagging skin begins tightening, and the muscle mass thought gone is renewed. The tissues that decayed in a matter of seconds spring back into his lifeless arms. The forearm’s strength is now vibrant and whole. Though regrowing power using mana is difficult and painful, the use of sex and being with the one he loves nullifies that pain. With his newly crafted right hand, he moves the appendage upward past her lower torso and between her mounds. Though while his hand moves, he takes the time to worship every inch of her divine temple. Each induvial pad of his finger glossing over every scar of her and every beautiful stroke of paint that created her gorgeous divinity. Finally, his hand clasps one side of her face. His warm palm invaded her right cheek and his fingerlings pressed into her skin. While those hips of his bash with hers, his eyes stare at his queen’s soul. The jade in her orbs met with his scarlet gaze as if looking for something, looking for an answer rather than asking verbally. They are true lovers and know everything about each other, how their bodies worked. He sees it and thus he takes the moment for himself. The hand across her cheek slowly creeps around her throat. The lengthy appendages gripped each side of her neck. The empty spaces between his fingers fill with her goddess-like flesh. The palm presses down on the middle of her windpipe in a harsh manner, though it's only enough to stifle some of her air, after all, he needed to savor the look of want and need that bellows in her eyes.

              Snap! Malakai’s legs begin to regrow to the prime of their youth like the rest of his body. His legs extend to their full length along with his hips and back. The spin in his stern cracks loud enough to be mixed in with their moans. Thus, the bone grows and once it's done, he reverts to his pinnacle perfection of height, weight, and muscle mass. The queen’s hands that still lingered in his hair loosened and her palms dropped to his shoulders almost like a submissive partner would once they realized their role. With Malakai’s firm hand attached to her throat like a scarf on a winter day, he forces her head to tilt back. The sling is enough to expose one side of her neck and once he sees those veins pulsing, he greedily pulls her head close to his watering mouth. Within that motion, his thrust becomes idle for a reason. Not all of him is fully repaired but when his teeth sink in his queen’s neck the transferable of power finishes. He can feel the streams of blood splattering his white teeth and she felt his mark on her once more which forces a loud yelp followed by moans of pain and pleasure. Now his insides grow back to his prime of a godly stature.

              Malakai’s damaged lungs are sealed. The internal bleeding from his fall is cauterized with magic. The decaying organs of old age are no longer hanging on by a thread, but instead are lively and throbbing. The same went for all the rest of his muscles. The throbbing erect appendage plunged inside his lover grows in length back to its original shape and girth. Now he can feel the very tip of his most sensitive parts prod and beg for entrance into her womb. He detaches his sharp teeth from her neck, along with his hands from her throat, and lets out a lustful moan. The queen lingers her lips across Malakai’s neck, sending sweet loving kisses around the newly forged skin while her southern maw devours every inch of his hard member as if she owns his flesh. The slamming down on the extra length makes the lower part of her stomach bulge with the imprint of her king’s prick and hits the entrance of her womb. The invasion forces her throat to let out a loving moan and makes her long darkened tongue lap out of her mouth formulating a trial of saliva dripping down in the mana pool. Malakai’s hands grip his queen’s hips to pull her off him, finally assuming control. The king stands, his nine-foot height matching with her standing seven feet. The right hand of the king trails under Ellensandria’s chin. The lengthy fingers almost petted and scratched her chin. His voice changed and that demanding royal tone reaps across the now quiet room. “It's worth it to get your attention.”

              Ellensandria could not believe what came out of his mouth. Her eyes narrow away from the king. Her upper teeth sink downward within her bottom lip. Now she has lost control of the physicalness of what they were doing, a position she did not often find herself in even though she liked it. Even with all the settled hints of how she wanted to be taken by him, that look of hers darts into Malakai’s vision and her jade orbs lock onto his crimson soul. A voice that is soft and frail manages to escape her lips, the first time she displays submission rather than control. “Idiot…” Though she speaks the scolding word under her breath, the tall elf hears it. A bleak grin manages to surface along his lips and the hand that worships the under the skin of her chin now shifts to the right side of her face. Soothingly and lovingly, the back of his hand begins to stroke at her skin as if petting a treasured domesticated animal. Malakai’s mighty voice erupts from his narrow throat in a demanding and dominating tone. “Since you took care of me, I will take care of you. That is how it works…right?” The queen looks up with a flushed face and as if giving the right of way, she nods in an agreement.

              The dominant hand that strokes her cheeks turn around so that a firm open palm clasps the right side of her face. Unlike last time when he had no room to properly worship, he now roams his hand downward, but he takes his time. Every crest of her skin, even the scars displayed did not go untouched. The natural scent of his lingers within her sanctum and so does the look in the depts of those red orbs. It took one look of the queen’s gaze for his hands to latch along her hips, the full warm palms wrapping tenderly along each side of her toned, crafted body. From the way he is touching her and how, it seems that the moment they are sharing meant safety in a union, however, that is the false sense of security from the games they both loved to play. The tips of his fingers dig harshly deep into her loving skin making small imprints of the edges of his fingers along her flesh. The queen yelps and almost instinctively, she wraps her arms around Malakai’s neck. With all the king's might and strength, he lifts the seven-foot-tall female and throws her onto the huge bed. Ellensandria spreads her legs, leaving the view wide open for the king. Malakai smirks looking at the watering southern mouth. Her essence made the red fabric blanket under her drench, even the sound of the dribbling waters splash on the glossy floor. The king jolts his body on top of her. Pressing his lower torso in the space between her legs.

A powerful right-hand pins her wrist down on the bed. Malakai’s nails manage to dig in her skin which causes pain to shoot from her throat. The blood that is made sinks down from her skin and onto the red blanket making the scarlet color darker. The king’s legs are propped up so that Ellensandria’s own lower appendages spread as wide as she was capable of. That member between his legs propels forward and once again finds its home by seeping the head back inside the queen’s temple. Once her lips quiver from the sudden invasion the indecent hot and lustful moan is about to erupt however Malakai’s lips seek to silence such a vulgar tone by forcing a loving and collision of lips. His long dripping tongue latches out of his mouth in a rather greedy way and thus enters her maw. Both of their mouth appendages battle by twisting and turning with one another as if fighting for control and dominance though it did not take long for that battle to turn into a dance of both happiness and avarice. Like a wild beast clawing and fighting for his pleasure, his free hand grips the firm base of her frail throat. That giant palm of his pushing down along her windpipe as if stifling her breath but he knows the combination of his slow but savage thrust combined perfectly with the choking; she loves it. Until the morning sun rays seep through their windows, Ellensandria and Malakai both delved into the morbid parts of their souls as well as filled their desires they could not find within anyone else.

              The sun’s majestic glow flows through the room. The morning dew has come once again. For the king, it’s a somber time. He sits on the edge of his bed and places his hands along his strong face, the pads of his fingers rushing along with each strain and line of his visage as if gathering himself for what is to come. Ellensandria has her back propped up on the headboard of the giant bed. The claws and marks on her body are covered with the red blanket she has wrapped around her figure. One of her hands is placed on her side which keeps the comforter pinned down on her while her other hand she gazes upon. Those jade eyes narrow down to the near lacerations on her wrist. Her long and wet tongue laps out of her mouth and slowly licks at her wound, halting the bleeding. Then her eyes look over at the alter and notice the wooden owl in its corner. A soft and sad voice escapes her lips. “Malakai… was that your uncle’s familiar?” The king narrows his eyes, slightly over his shoulder. “Aye, he used the last of his rosmalt shard." The queen shakes her head in a disapproving way, and her voice is mixed with scorn rather than sadness. “Varrick returned nearly four nights ago, he retreated… he deserves to” Malakai stands, and his voice of rage fills the stale air room. “I will not execute my only keen! And if we are to maintain peace with these creatures… we are going to double the tributes for the next meeting.” The hand on the sheet trembles, her hand turns into a fist and her nails dig into her palm. “Your father would have his head on a pike! And these aren’t the people you sacrifice… they are mine!” The staggering sound of his love's voice echoes through the king’s vast mind. He lets out a huff. “You know what needs to be done. I have work to do. The families need to know that their keen is not coming home.” Malaki then goes to his closet and puts on some new robes before leaving the great hall.

              Like a personality switch, her grace gets out the bed, and the way she moves is elegant and meaningful. On her side of the room within a closet, she finds a sea through a white robe which she places on to barely protect her perfect physique. “Stubborn old fool.” Ellensandria walks up to the altar, and she places her right hand along with the helm of the bird. A green aura of light streams out of the fingertips of the bird. Once the light hits, the wood starts to decay away, however, the dust seeps into her fingers as if she absorbs the remnants of the familiar. Those green mossy eyes begin to take a new shade of black and power surges through her. Her regular voice mixed with a godly ancestral pitch mix. “Show me, Rodin Hallowtailed!” The queen's ancestral vision sees through everything the familiar once experienced.

After the king and queen’s departure; the city of the Jakalorn bustled with amenities and the prospect of the working folk. The city is made up of back door alleys that are made of dark stone and brick. The marketplace that makes up a great portion of the city is called the Valley of Wares. Within the valley are hovels of street markets selling all matters of goods like meats, fur, fruits, vegetables, and other assortments. Often the smell of fresh food fills the air, but the smell of smoke and iron often collide with one another formulating an intoxicated vibrant scent like toasted bread. The smoke comes from the cast irons at the independent forges. The men and women that slam their hammers on metal combine the natural metals of the region: obsidian, iron, and the pink resource known as rosmalt. One of the master forgers cast an iron sword within the frothing fires of iron and once the bending metal takes the shape of a longsword, the master pulls the material out and slams it on the avail. They use their pink erupting googles to stare at the base of the blade. They take out a rustic knife and start to carve a channel between the inner metal and the blade. Next came the pounding of the hammer, forming the iron weapon with the indented line. Once the shape has taken its final variation, the iron is cooled. The smoke from the normalization fills the air and reaches the markets.

A wondering platoon of elves walks through the markets of the city. In the middle of them is their leader Malakai dressed in uniformed black robes with golden metal hanging from the joints of the cloth. As the group walks into the market, the citizens drop to one knee almost like a shoulder-jerk reaction. The robes, and the black sun insignia flags that are held out in their arms, are honoring the fallen. Each elf breaks off from the group and wonders through the city. One goes to a bread vendor to hand over the flag, and the middle-aged wife that owns the stan covers their mouth in shock and holds back their tears until they could not. Greedily and quickly, they snatch the flag from the messenger and then fall to their knees in a fit of rage and sorrow. The rest of the group does the same thing. One of them walks through the darkest alleyway and knocks on the door to get the attention of the owner. An older woman answers, they look down at what is propelled outward to her, and it clicks within her mind, the nightmare finally coming to pass, the fall of a loving husband. The circle that protects Malakai finally disperses until it's just the king alone, but his message stems further out than the marketplace. He takes his time walking to the outskirts of the black city. The outer layer of the bustling city is filled with natural farmland and cattle but there is one establishment that perches between a ranch and an untouched, uncorrupted field of grass: a tavern. The establishment is called Moon Rising, and its patrons enjoyed the best ale the Jakalorn city has to offer. Malakai reaches its small gates and stops at the wooden door. One hand presses on the stone wall and a look of befoulment forms on his face. Zendra has dark long hair to the back of her knees, golden hues, a toned body, and smaller ears than most elves are performing. The king can hear the tune from the door, and it halts his movement.

The pitch quality Zendra uses and the sound she propels from her strapping throat is enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine. Shivers of excitement but also dread and sorrow for what he had to do. For a moment he waits to see if she stops performing however for Malakai, it feels like forever. For him, every word lasted ten minutes as if time is standing still and all he could hear is the voice that vibrates through the door and within his hearing apparatus. His legs start to shake, and those toned muscles within his thigh begin to flex as if he is forcing himself to stay still but soon the time must come. It was either now or never. If he didn’t deliver the message now, then he would never be the messenger again. The king’s Adam’s apple gulps in a dry and swallow way like eating sand. The hand that rests on the stone wall slowly drifts down to the door handle, once his fingers grip the entry limb, he becomes still. He had a duty to uphold as did the other elves. That right hand opens the door, and he walks in.

              Within the king’s castle, Varick sits in his room. The chamber is a little smaller than the great hall much like a prince. He has a rather large red sheeted bed, big enough to fit multiple people. A tub of water is imbued within the obsidian floor. A machine is attached to the hem of the bathtub and sparks in a pink fashion. The electricity rush through the water with a harmless low voltage, but the flow of energy makes the water bubble in rapid sessions. A naked prince finds himself within the hot tub. His eyes are glossed over with pure pleasures of lust and desire. One of his hands pushes down in the water while the left hand grabs a goblet of wine that rest on the black floor beside him. With a need to embellish his craving for both drunkenness and pleasure, he gulps down the last bit of wine and then slams the cup down on the floor, nearly cracking the fragile material. The elf now puts both of his hands in the water and then lets out a young boyish moan, he comes to a climax of pleasure and lust. Both of his hands lift from the water and rest on the hems of the tub. A Lodron whore surfaces from the water then wipes his mouth and slings their blond hair back with a left hand.

              The blond wraps both of their frail legs around the waist of the prince, interlocking him in place. Varick gives a rather pleasuring look once their eyes meet. The blond stared at him like his next meal whereas Varick looked back with guilt and shame. After a moment of eye gazing, he places both of his hands on the boy's hips and shoves him off in a harsh manner. The Lorn retreats to the apex of the tub and gives the male elf a look of confusion rather than anger. “Are you okay my prince?” The whore’s voice is soft and soothing but also weak to the core and Varick knew it. The knife ears on each side of his head begin to wiggle and what fills his mind is the oncoming footsteps he hears on the outside of the room. To light to be his father. The prince wonders for a moment but soon enough his voice manages to surge through his dry raw throat. “It's nothing… just tired.” The Lorn gives a charming and inviting smile. Quickly, he swims over to the prince and sits beside them. Rather than using their suggestive tone body for sex, he manages to rest his head on the royal shoulder and places a hand upon a right thigh. Their palm rubs softly along the warm skin as if providing the comfort that all men long for. “If you want to talk about it…” Again, that soft voice ushers through the air but those words of the sensitive are cut short by the opening of the obsidian door. Ellensandria steps into the room and the door closes behind her.

              The queen wears a white robe that covers her physical attributes and her long mossy hair drips down to her lower back. Almost like an instinctive reaction, the Lorn tries to move out of the tub to reach for one of the red towels that rest near the hem but the queen extends her palm out in a halt. “Oh no! Do not stop on my account. I just need a moment with my son so do not worry, you need not leave.” Ellensandria’s voice is rather demanding and the Lorn knows it, so he stays in the pool and pushes a bad feeling down their stomach. The queen walks in front of the jetting pool and folds her arms in a displeasing way. She shakes her head in disappointment. “Rodin manage to give a message to your father, and through his familiar, I saw what happened…Varick.” The prince’s head hangs low for a moment but then a sharp eye narrows at the queen and the voice of a privileged boy escapes his lips. “Then you know I was following orders when I retreated.” The queen turns around and she walks to an open window, one of the many in the castle that overlooks the city. Both of her hands wrap around her back and she stands tall. The objectivity in her voice goes from demanding to hectic. “I spoke to your father about it… by this time tomorrow, your head will be on the spikes of Sabraeton.” Varick and the Lorn have a face of shock. The thoughts of betrayal from his family begin to pour into his mind of Varick but then he looks at his mother and questions her in a more serious tone. “Why are you telling me this?”

Ellensandria’s head turns so that one of those forest color irises lurks upon her one and only son. Almost like she once again felt hurt by Varick not understanding the situation simply because to the queen it's obvious. “I have arranged a carriage to take you to the Lodron capital. You will be safe there. Your father will be back at this time tomorrow to sentence you. You must run.” Varick’s hands turn into a fist and the sound of Rodin’s voice echoes through his mind like an arrow stabbing in his back. Out of spite and quickness, he stands up in the hot tub and a voice of an angry boy escapes from his narrow throat. “I will not run! Running got Rodin killed, I will not do that again!” Varick’s outburst causes the queen to turn around. Those eyes lock on his own and a look of nothing but love for her son emerges. “Malakai will kill you. The elf has followed tradition accordingly regardless of family.” A silence falls on the trio until Ellensandria walks to the door, but before she leaves, her motherly voice breaks through her throat. “I cannot make you leave son, but I will give you the option: perish or live. The carriage is near the stables with an escort of Volde’s royal guards. Make the right choice my beloved.” The door opens and the queen leaves. Varick looks back at the Lorn and bites his lip while thinking. 

              Later that night, Varick and the Lorn make their way to the carriage. The castle stables have countless undead-like horses. Like the heart seekers, they have multiple organs propelling outward along their bodies. Tentacles shiver through their husks though the creatures have one single head: one of bone and flesh. The carriage that sits on one side of the stable has four black fur horses, unplagued by the forest and perfect in shape. Varick took what he needed, a sword, commoner clothes, money, and food. The Lorn dresses in a dirty peasant robe with nothing underneath. Like a gentleman, Varick opens the door for the blond and he gets in the carriage first then he makes his way inside. Inside the vehicle are two guards with black knight suits. The Lordon symbol is itched on the chest plate. Inside the space are two wooden pews that are big enough to fit two people on each side. On the right side where the guards are, a black cloth drapes over some weapons the Lorn finds this odd considering that there are already blades at their hips, though she knows her place and says nothing. “You ready prince?” One of the guards asked. Varick looks out the open door and in the distance sees his mother through a window in the castle. She looks back and gives him a nod of approval. Varick turns to the left guard that spoke. “Aye let’s go.” He says in a defeated tone.

              The night begins to fall as quickly as the dawn once came. The travel to the Lodron capital is a long one and in doing so, Varick would look outside of the window, just in one crack so that he could not be seen. On the road, he sees the forges of the valley closing for the night. His people going back to their homes is a somber moment for him. The smell of supper fills the air; stews, meats, vegetables, and other dishes plague his nose. Food smells good to anyone but to him, he is leaving home, and this is the last time he would set foot in his homeland all because of an old rule he did not obey. The Lorn wraps her hand along the inner fold of Varick’s arm. Their palm slightly rests along his wrist. The fingertips of the blond were too short to reach the princes own. Something is off, Varick can feel the tension in the boy’s palm. Their nails rattle along his skin like they wanted to tell him something but just as he had done for him, his headrests along the crook of the Lorn's shoulder. The blond flushes and his eyes narrow to the prince. A look of shock washes over their face as if their job is being replaced. This is a treatment most elven sex slaves and whores aren’t accustomed to. The gesture on Varick’s part is enough to calm that moving hand and calm their nerves. In a soft tone and loving tone, Varick's voice fills the air. “What is your name?” In this culture, slaves had no name. Their master's point and they performed actions. It takes the Lorn some time to gather his thoughts before coming up with a name. “Syn.” The prince smiles and responds. “After Syndonia? Goddess of virtue and honesty? A strong name indeed.” The carriage reaches the outskirts and passes Zendra’s tavern.

              Inside the tavern, Malakai drinks shots of a dark substance. The liquid inside the glass looks like squid ink but this is the preferred hard liquor in the Wildlands. The king takes a shot and slams the small glass down next to several other empty shot glasses. Across from the table where he sits is Zendra whose eyes hang from crying though she laughs a little once she compares the alcohol consumption. Zendra matches the great king Malakai shot for shot. In her lap is the black sun flag which her free hand clenches down in a tight iron-clad way. Her voice comes out a little tipsy when she speaks. “Getting out drink by a little ole elf-like me my king?” Another laugh escapes her lips. Her eyes look around the tavern, it's nearly empty and the two employed elves that work there are cleaning and stacking the wooden chairs on the tables. Malakai lets out a huff and questions her. “Damn, who the hell taught you to drink?” Zendra slams down another shot as if taking a victory lap. “I grew up with humans you know. Before the world went to shit you, know? A pirate was my best friend back in those days and she taught me how to outdrink any man, elf, or orc.”  The king could not help the smile on his face, however, the realization of Zendra’s loneliness hits her. The world of old is gone and now her husband faced the same fate. Her right-hand grabs her last shot and she manages to chug the liquor down like all the others but when her hand slams down her palm shake with the glass. Malakai’s hand grabs the agitated wrist and holds on tightly. A voice reaps from his throat like tearing away skin from the flesh. “Another… for his memory Zendra.”

              The dark elven female gives a nod of approval. The request from the king makes her grin from ear to ear. It was all about him, the husband that left her alone in the plain of other living souls. She stands tall and proud and within her palms is the black sun flag which she holds snugged to her lower stomach. One of the employed helps Zendra step onto the empty bar. She makes her way to the middle of the wooden row and stands there as if this is her stage and everything around her stopped existing. For once she enveloped her persona on the bar, nothing else mattered. The tone she sings fills the room with somber energy her simple tone, but to Malakai, the song reminded him of his wife and made him appreciate what he had, a loving wife and a son. “Then yell it! “Malakai taps the table and ushers the choirs under his breath. “To say. To Say. To say.” Zendra rubs her eyes, and some tears form. “The first time you meant me, you stuttered your words, but even so I made you mine.” Malakai smiles and speaks with a soft tune. “Mine. Mine. Mine.” Zendra’s pitch gets louder, and the higher she gets, the more tears fall. “The first time you meant me, you were scared, and you run away, but I knew I had to keep you by my side.” Malakai’s hand rests on his forehead. The emotion seeping through him and his voice softer. “Your side, Your side, Your side.” The last verse has her orbs expelling sorrow. “Now that we house our lives, we will survive…” The beautiful tone stops, and she clinches the sun flag. Zendra looks over to Malakai she asks. “Why do you like this song.” Malakai stands and he walks over to Zendra, taking her in his arms, pulling her from the bar so that she can be in his arms. “The way Korin sang about you… it reminds me how much I love my family. Thank you Zendra, so much. You and he will always be in my heart.”

              To shield her tears only for a little longer, her head moves away, and her eyes narrow away from the king. Her voice comes out in stutters as if trying to uphold a powerful mask that slowly begins to crumble. "What did my idiot husband die for anyways?" Slowly, Malakai's hands retract from Zendra and settle by his side once more. For a moment he thinks to himself, that he should keep this a secret from the common folk but ultimately she had the right to know why her husband was brutally killed. Malakai turns his back to her and walks over to the table. While he grabs the bottle of black liquor he speaks in a kingly tone. "The 12th court platoon discovered a dread knot within the forest." The king unplugs the cork from the bottle and begins to pour the last remaining liquid that the bottle had to offer. Zendra's head snaps back to the king, questions race through her mind. "How the hell did an orc warship come to the Wildlands?" Malakai downs the last shot and places the glass down. "I will give you information where I can Zendra, out of respect." Malakai makes his way out of the tavern and Zendra gives a hopeful smile. "Thank you, Malakai."

              On top of the carriage is the director of the vehicle the guides the horses in the travel. The cab of the carriage has a place holder for an old rustic torch that is currently not lit. The middle of the night becomes darker as the minutes pass by. The distance is about halfway over but in the foreseeable view, the guide sees a lit torch. The fire is enough to see through the eerie mist, but this also serves as a signal. Once the guide’s old eyes linger on that fire, he grabs a long wooden ore that is bedside and sticks it in the wooden wheel. Enviably, the wheel is stuck and breaks from the force applied thus rendering the carriage useless. The force of the wheel breaking is enough to wake a sleeping Varick and Syn. Varick looks outside and notices the lit torch. He looks at the guard. “What is going on?”

              Both guards take off their helmets. They are Lodron elves that belong to the loyal guard of Volde. The guard on the right speaks in a demanding tone but held some form of betrayal within his voice. “It's time to get out.” Varick looks at him out of confusion but then it all comes crashing down on him. He tries to grab the hilt of an iron sword but is quickly stopped by the guard on the left. “I won’t ask you again.” The elf on the right spoke. Varick gulps and the tension in his throat swallows a fiery air but he does as he is told and steps out of the carriage. Right behind him, Syn tries to follow his path, but he is stopped. The escort looks over at the whore and narrows his eyes up and down at them. “You stay, I may have a use for you later.” Syn knew what that meant, and he also had a feeling about what is going to happen. Varick stands on the ground. The land they stopped at is a field of grass and blue flowers. The flowers are picked and used for ailments, Varick knew from the scent of lavador that the plant gives off. On the other side is another carriage, this one is bigger and houses more guards that swing the door open and get out. It did not take long for all the guards to form a circle around Varick. The elves that get out from the bigger carriage are armed with tridents. The same tridents used by Sirens. The two guards that played the escorts take the clothed weapons from the space, so they are armed with the same weapons. Syn sees this he jumps out and tries to pull the guard down, but the guard pushes him to the ground and turns around to face them. A hand wave in the air and one of the guards from the circle walk over to hold the boy in place in a position where they could see Varick. One hand on the throat and a knee in their limbs, she could not move.

              Varick looks around and only sees the faces of his enemies. “If you all aim to kill me, I deserve the right to know why and who.” There is a shadow in the big carriage that has not yet revealed himself but at the prince’s request, he does. Vode steps out and upon his arrival, his feet crush the flowers underneath. The torches are just bright enough to see his face. Varick knows what is to come and with his final look, his eyes narrow to Syn. All he could do is smile at them as if everything is going to be okay, that he will be okay however both lived within the webs of lies and that smile is the farthest thing from the truth. “Why me? What is this Volde?” There is no more hesitation in the prince’s voice, nor is there panic in his throat. Only the unyielding rage of his gaze darting to his capture. Volde looks at those eyes of his. Eyes of a man facing death instead of a boy running away. The tribal chief speaks in a tone of malice. “Your mother gave me rosemalt to kill you. Six-hundred pounds.” The circle begins to close in, and the tridents stick outward. Varick looks at Syn, he sees the hurt within Syn's eyes, and at that moment, he realizes the life he could have had instead of the one he picked. A family, somewhere warm and by the ocean. Varick closes his eyes and lets the images of his and Syn’s child take shape. A white hair dark elf with beautiful red eyes. A log cabin on the beach and a pet. Those things are worth fighting for even if the fight is lost.

Even though Varick looks like he is accepting his grim fate, those red eyes of his lift open and look at the tribal chief. Neither boy nor man, a dammed king spoke. “I understand you Lorn have no honor but if you had any balls, you would not be attacking an unarmed elf.” Volde halts his elves and gleams at Varick, oh how that spitfire reminded Volde of the great king Malakai. The chief speaks in a condescending tone. “What did the prince have in mind.” Varick’s fist forms and his hands shake but Volde gets his answer in the form of righteousness. “Give me a damn sword.”  Volde looks over to one of the guards and nods his head to one. The guard stabs the trident in the ground and unsheathes his iron sword and throws it in the air. The weapon stabs the ground right next to the prince. Varick’s right-hand grabs the hilt of the blade and draws it from the ground. Both of his hands now grip the handle, and he gets in a combat stance.

              The cool air begins to still flow through the field but even with the wind picking up, the flowers do not move or sway in motion. Varick’s eyes rest on top of the carriage across the field, and to his dismay, he sees a white owl land on the roof. The Owl turns its head to watch the scene unfold. Once the bird is in his vision, he feels the sorrow fill his inner thoughts. Once more, he closes his eyes and for a moment, everything makes sense to Varick. Those eyes open and he has a look of defiance and pain. The first guard attacks him, Varick deflects the attack and slices at the guard’s throat. The weak point of the iron armor brings the elf to his knees, dropping the trident to hold the blood that spills from his throat. He gasps for air but soon falls on the flowery floor. Two more guards attack at the same time. Varick collides his blade with the three prongs which leave an opening for the second polearm to stab in his side, sticking him. Varick screams in pain and almost like he could feel his pain, Syn cries from the horror. They kick and scream trying to get free, but he is unsuccessful.

              Varick’s free hand grabs the staff of the trident and keeps the weapon still while he moves. He stabs the weaponless guard in the throat. The princess’s sword sticks to the elf’s neck, so he uses the body as a shield to protect him from another stab. The elf impales the dead body. The guard tries to get the weapon out of the carcass which provides enough time for Varick to drive his sword through the neck and in the face of the elf, killing him. In that action of death, Varick’s light gets snuffed out. Two more tridents stab his back. The pain alone is enough to force a scream out. The Jakalorn falls to his knees in a pool of his blood. Now he is weaponless and unmoving. Another spear is thrust into his back, he tries to grab it but the three blades stab through his chest. The rest of the guards pierce the blades within Varick’s body. Blood gushes from his mouth and pours on the flowers around him. The prince falls over and once he does, he sees Syn fighting like hell to get free however it’s the tears that give him a look of transfixed. Staggeringly his hand extends out to them, the last moments of life slowly leaving him. A trident slam down on the extended wrist, forcing his hand to be crushed under the flowers. Varick’s eyes start to change color, the red tint begins to fade out. Syn notices the metamorphism and they relax in the guard's embrace.

             

Suddenly, in a brief poof of black smoke, Varick switches places with the guard that holds Syn. The guard dies immediately from having all the tridents lodged in his body. The naked Varick drapes over Syn's body briefly before falling over. His eyes are hollowed out from the forbidden spell of the Hollowtailed. A birthright that all members have the capabilities of using at the cost of their eyes. Varick is far too weak to speak but he mouths the words to Syn. “Run.” Horror is written across their face and it's like Syn reverts from the damsel in distress to a survivalist. They get up from the position and run to one of the horses on the carriages unlatching one and riding away. Though the guards do not go after him yet, instead they move and gather around his body of Varick. Volde joins them and he looks at the prince. The owl flies over and lands on Volde’s shoulder. The owl squats as if giving orders. His voice is remorseful but only a little. The truth is that Volde loves his elven brethren but hates the power the Malakai has. “Send a team out find and kill the whore.” The right-hand elf of Volde looks over to him and then back to Varick’s body. “And what of the body my tribal chief?” A grin is replacing the guilt he felt and the voice matches. “Cut the boy’s lids off and send his head back home.”