A New Day

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Amidst the gold and green leaves, and the stirring of birds with the first rays of dawn, he towered in the center of a cancerous clearing marred with clinging deathfrost by his frequent lingerings. Though the sun filled his vision, it bled across it as a writhing, furious sphere of ashes and dust collected from the dying expanse of the heavens. Muted colors stirred his memories with the recollection of vibrancy and air while his mind attempted to settle itself in light of recent events.

Though he had been betrayed he had also found allies, if only temporarily, against Vraal in the latest and far more personal struggle at Snowstill. That others would seek to undo Vraal was nothing new, not even during his centuries of servitude to the ancient creature. That they would even seek his assistance was a rare event though not without echo. What truly struck him was the image of Cinnabar, cradling the silver urn that even now hung from his side by means of a small chain and length of rope, the constable clinging to a shield by which Teron held him aloft and threatened him with destruction.

A constable who had promised to protect Elysia.

His relationship with Myrken left at a momentary peace, he was left to focus upon the foremost of his goals. Firstly, the eradication of Sin'Vraal and the Violet Dawn. As the sun ascended into the sky he took in the sight through simmering, crimson eyes beneath the perpetually shaded depths of a low, black hood. Would it be as simple as shadow-walking into their compound and laying waste to everything? Would Vraal have wards and skilled followers and lackeys?

Should he give no quarter to those his allies of yesterday were sworn to protect?

The last thought drew out a slow, bitter snarl as he savagely dismissed the notion of concern and honor. For Vraal, he assured himself, there could be no mercy. No quarter. Nor, he thought while a gauntleted hand affixed itself firmly about the handle of his sword, was there softness or mercy in fury. There would be no respite in rage.

Who are you, he had asked.

There could be no respite in rage.