Demonic Warlord's Barding Novels & Stories

“Your warlord lies beheaded on my battlements. Your legions were held back by my Empress’s shield. You have one chance to surrender your standards—or my wolves will use your bones to lay the new wall’s foundations.” The senior commander of the golden legions—an elder Lycan whose face bore the burn marks of my barrier—stepped forward. He glanced at Lawrence for a heartbeat, then his yellow eyes locked on me, reading the mystical symmetry of my double mark and the glow of the silver medallion resting over my full chest.

The shadows thickened and one after the other, they arrived. The first figure emerged out of the mist like a wound opening: tall, wrapped in chains of silver that rattled faintly when he breathed. His eyes glowed a dim red. The Warlord of the North, blood-soaked and ancient. Then came another — a woman with no shadow, her body a shell of light that flickered between beauty and decay. The Seer of Hollow Vale. A low growl followed, and from the pit rose the General of them all, his armor cracked, his gaze venomous.

He has an almost full moonmark on his right wrist, a sign of the great achievements he has accomplished. He is wearing a war attire, a sleek, black leather jacket with silver fangs; which I believe are from demons he has slayed, rests along the shoulders and an embroidered wolf on the back. Beneath the jacket, is a form-fitting white shirt with a pair of dark, fitted pants with reinforced knee padding. On his feet, are high-end combat boots with a polished, metallic finishing.

At the back of my head, I understand that he is just a messenger- albeit a very foolish one- but I am unable to bring myself to care. Dominicus’ other hand twitches and starts to slowly come up and I can see the despair in Nigel’s eyes. Suddenly, heavy footsteps approach, and strong arms grab the shaking man, roughly pulling him back and away. In his place stands a tall, muscular warrior. Unlike the others, his black soft armor bears a gold emblem on the shoulder, and a sheathed longsword is strapped to his hip.

After breaking free from the encirclement, Kral let out a deafening howl, unleashing powerful sound waves that caused the warriors' helmets to crack. "Ah!~" The warrior at the forefront was impaled by Kral's spear, his brief cry engulfed by the blood spewing from his mouth. Kral coldly lifted the warrior's body, and the blood from the wound trickled down the spear, leaving crimson stains on the ground. "Hahaha!" He grinned in a menacing manner, revealing his white teeth. Clad in black garments like a demon from hell, his predatory gaze fixated on the trembling white-robed elders.

The command ripped through the chaos of battle, resonating with an ironclad authority that compelled his soldiers to hold fast against the relentless tide of their foes. He was clad in resplendent golden armor that gleamed like the sun, he wore the regal insignia of his honor and lineage, each piece meticulously crafted to perfection, a testament to his status and position. Drawing his sword in a fluid, lethal motion, the warrior surged forward, his long, dark hair billowing like a tempest wrought in raven silk. Each sinuous strand danced in the frenzied wind, a compelling accent to the sheer ferocity of his onslaught.

The warriors fought valiantly—clad in weathered leather and steel, swords flashing in disciplined arcs—but they fell in droves, bodies rent and steaming on the blood-soaked earth. Yet one figure dominated the chaos, a lone titan at the fray's heart. He stood unyielding amid the sea of claws and fangs, a whirlwind of lethal grace. Towering and broad-shouldered, his frame was forged for war, muscles rippling under scarred skin bared by a torn tunic. Long, raven-black hair whipped in the wind, streaked with grime and enemy blood, framing a face etched with grim resolve—high cheekbones, a jaw set like granite, eyes burning with unquenchable fire. A crest gleamed on his chest plate: the Moonveil

The Rogue Alpha, the Warlord, Dalhkan King of the Rogue…how the epithets pile up, no one knew his true name, because throughout the entire pack, one name stood above all, we called him…The Butcher. He was also rumored to have possessed dark magic that revealed his enemy’s thoughts. I didn’t want to find out how true that was. We finally set down after hours of travel, after my hours of crying in silence, and I was blown away by the sheer size of the place. It was their campsite, where they stayed and waged war, a site that once belonged to another before them. ‘You are not going to die, Sybil.’ ‘Think about your sister!’ I chided myself when the thought of death and fear and failure shot its

I turned my eyes back to Marcus and the warriors, seeing the light dimming down as their forms reappeared before us again. Gasps sounded, coming from me and our friends, as we saw them dressed in silver-white clothes, covering every inch of their bodies. They were dressed similar to modern army men, white with silver imprints, covering their combat pants and their jackets. The shirt that was peeking through, underneath their jacket looked like it was white, but I couldn't see very well. I walked towards Marcus, fingers tracing the fabric that covered his chest. I saw marking, the same one he got when he defeated Azrael, covering his left shoulder.

"Although, I really should have used it that evening when I saw the Warrior at his bar. It would have been useful information to know a Lore Master was around, even if he is only an apprentice. He would make a nice prize for the prince. It's odd, though, that he's not surrounded by other Warriors. Rarely do they allow Lore Masters out of their precious realm." Bertram stared at the dark elf, the other's cat-like eyes staring out the window as if contemplating his next move with whoever this apprentice was. Aradhon wore dark trousers and a royal blue shirt, long-sleeve with no buttons. His brown leather boots rose to mid-calf as he sat in the leather chair, his right ankle resting on his left