The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Vraal quietly made his way down the length of Tannerback Lane. The warn summer sun fell upon a pale countenance of harsh, merciless angles and high-set cheekbones. A thousand thoughts slithered about his mind, each carefully hidden behind heavily-lidded, obsidian eyes and thin lips pressed tightly together. He had grown unused to season shifts, especially towards anything remotely as warm.

Occasional fragments of conversation touched his ears, coloring his thoughts with the mutterings of food costs, councilor actions and citizens' reactions. It curled one corner of his lips into a cruel sneer as, his hands clasped behind his back, he caught sight of the smithy where Malaroth had stopped on the day that twenty brigands had been butchered like so many cattle.

His move to save the wayward foreigner had been a calculated risk that, ultimately he considered, had fallen short. Whatever he suspected of Malaroth could no longer be denied though the man's role in whatever was to unfold seemed to be fading. Vraal's gaze flickered towards a worn warning, passed out by the constabulary he assumed, that expressly commanded what one should do if one were to run afoul of the latest addition to this land's ever-growing list of villains: Teron Ashfiend.

"Oh they will hate you here," he muttered to no one in particular - a habit that drew the curious glances of an occasional passer-by. "More so, perhaps, than anywhere else."

Some time later he arrived at the abandoned warehouse which he had run by Councilor Treadwell and, so long as certain issues of engineering be addressed: providing hearths for warmth, a kitchen for preparing food and so on, at least one government official seemed to not have any problem with the construction Vraal had in mind. The intricate black brand upon his pale brow glinted, momentarily, as he stepped into a welcome pool of shade. The cool tickled the back of his hands and tempered his cruel, thoughtful smile with the refreshment of a break from the sun as well as the sweet scent of what the future might bring.

To construct, however, one required engineers and laborers. Thinking back on what few engineers he had found, who often also doubled as laborers and led him to doubt what intellectual prowess any one might possess, he considered which one was closest and headed there next.

The workers milled back and forth beneath the verbal whips of their masters. Summer dust arose to choke each laborer in his counterpart's wake while, beyond the rising cloud, engineers stood and debated amongst themselves the finer points of construction. Each had formed a picture in his mind and each sought to bring their vision to life in the other. Left to their own devices, the end result might only prove to be some monstrous ideological crossbreed that accomplished nothing and bore a monstrous face. But they were not left to their own devices.

Vraal had resolved to keep an eye upon them.

His hands clasped at the small of his back, occasionally teased by the light black cloak swept over one shoulder, he beheld the ongoing construction through narrowed, obsidian eyes. He felt the mortal, fleshly strain of attempting to peer through the rising tide of dirt while the oaths and coarse shouts of the laborers caught his ears and twisted the corners of cruel lips into a hungry grin.

Gathering the work force had proven to be something of a challenge, considering that many seemed to have been conscripted to work on some other building project elsewhere in Myrken Wood. Several others had joined the ranks of the newly born knighthood with the promise of food, shelter and adequate pay. His Majesty's coin could purchase much amongst the right kind of people. The hungry and the poor were always to be numbered amongst such people.

Soon, Vraal considered, he could number Myrken's orphans among such people as well.

Vraal left the money changers with lighter pockets and less coin to his name, and the moneychangers in just the opposite condition. Accompanied by the struggling barrister Oliver Whitfield, the two had begun the lengthy process of converting distant Mizraim coinage into Myrken currency. Having done so the pair filled out the necessary paperwork to shift ownership of the orphanage to one Nhilos Ahad, along with the ownership of three neighboring buildings.

It was these three buildings that became available for space and raw materials should the workers decide to tear them down for scrap. What was more important to Vraal, however, was that where the orphanage had begun as one building it could now conceivably become an entire complex with time and money.

And, of course, on the broken backs of the laborers. One should never forget the one's overworked servants, Vraal considered, with a cruel smile.

Shadow bore him along in silent subservience, carrying the burden of his damnation and burning rage as from moment to moment he closed in upon his eternal prey. Brief glimpses of the slumbering town, punctuated by the torches and shifting armor of constables and mounted knights, haunted his vision like ephemeral mirages while he sought the true water in the desert of his unlife: vengeance. A vengeance directed by Khalika Quiller's offered information.

On the outskirts of town, a shadow birthed the dark blossom of his armor-clad fury alongside a closed warehouse whose dark windows stared out into the night like blank, staring eyes. Several yards away the reconstructed warehouse laid partially bare, revealing wooden ribs in the laborers' renovating wake. What Vraal had intended as some self-serving seed for his own ends the Ashfiend swore to rebuild into a tomb.

With silent footfalls he began crossing the street towards the awaiting structure. As each boot alighted against the earth his thoughts thrummed in a hungry, violent beat set to the rhythm of all the memories Vraal had given him since before being remade. A mailed hand descended to the dark handle of Arak's Ruin at his side, armored fingers curling, each with a silent promise that, beginning tonight, Vraal would be unmade... for his sake as well as Elysia's.

Through the narrowing, fiery vision of livid crimson eyes the ancient, vengeful knight noticed the pair of figures who regarded him from the roofless topmost floor - engineers still squabbling over the building's finer points to be remade. And as one pointed and trembling, paling in evening's faint illumination, the other turned and looked as well to see nothing but darkness and shadow.

Until the air about them billowed with a fierce, unnatural cold. From behind them the Ashfiend emerged, a towering, black-armored figure cut from the darkness, his eyes offering a glimpse of the hellfire that had forged and chained his fettered, raging soul. A swift, brutal kick drove the man over the edge, his screams echoing out across the slumbering Myrkentown as, turning swiftly, Teron drove his blade into the remaining engineer's flesh.

Pain and fear escaped the man's paling, trembling lips as hot pain detonated throughout the length of his body. Tears sprung in impotent denial and fear as forgotten prayers, suddenly restored, flowed endlessly along the river of pain he birthed into the night sky. Effortlessly, the Ashfiend raised him into the air with a single arm, the blade's angle drawing the quivering figure further towards the hilt. The burning gaze followed the pinned engineer, skewering him with unfathomable rage that, as the man's vision began to tremble, robbed him of family and children, future and hope - all drawn to fed the Death Knight's horrid, unwavering eyes.

"Vraal," Ashfiend snarled in hot fury, spilling ancient, fetid rage into the metallic, grating syllables. "Tell me... where to find Vraal..." With the command his armored hand twisted, eliciting a fresh batch of agonized screams. As the engineer struggled, gasped and gaped Teron raised his other hand. A few arcane syllables passed the hidden, ruined remnants of his lips as sparks flickered about the empty fist. After a moment a surge of heat swept over the billowing cold that shrouded Teron, his free hand wreathed in flame, and with a cutting gesture he set it loose upon the engineer's livelihood.

The dry wood caught flame quickly, coughing black smoke in a pyre's supplication for heaven, as he twisted the blade again. "Tell me... and you spare your family a similar fate."

This last threat stirred the life that had begun to fail. Eyes widened, a hand feebly reached out and fell limply against the blade that bore the stream of living lifeblood from his deadening flesh. He could not answer the Fiend's query and, with the knowledge that his family would suffer as well, a handful of tears escaped arid tear ducts.

Snarling in fury at the engineer's inability, his hand worked through a brief, rapid gesturing accompanied by the monstrous snarl of his black, echoing voice. The tracing left a twisted symbol in the air and, as it hissed and spun about itself, midnight lightning lashed out. Tearing the man free, it delivered him shrieking and writhing in cruel torments towards the earth. The Ashfiend watched in the grim shade of satisfaction, the fullness of it robbed via his curse. Turning from the edge of the floor, he drove a mailed fist through an overarching beam that sundered with a feeble grown. Every broken board,e very shattered plank echoed his own, swallowed and web-shrouded anguish. Each act of destruction an anointing for every single act that had drawn him into consuming shadow, a gesture of frustrated penance upon an enemy long denied justice and a hunter forever forsaken by peace.

As the distant shouts of the water brigade drew closer, he began to descend the stairs from the topmost floor. His empty fist lashed out, snapping beams and plunging easily through stout, oaken walls in impotent, writhing hatred. If Vraal eluded him here, he considered through the seething well of anger into which his ancient mind had plummeted, there was yet another place to visit. And a final message to leave.

The next floor, yet free of the spreading flames, held enough shadows to spirit him away. And as he vanished he entertained the thought of holding Vraal in the flames that threatened to consume his orphanage until his enemy were nothing but ash. Yet even then, he thought, he might not know peace.

A crowd had gathered.

The laborers' strength had wrought the beginning of change for their home - a simple structure built from wood, toil, iron and the sweat of one's own brow. Their hands had come together to help make a difference in a land that often waxed dark and merciless and though most cared first and foremost for the food that such work provided, it remained a reminder of the foreboding nature of Myrken Wood.

Vraal studied the milling, directionless crowd as it took in the half-ruin their work had become. A few offered choice curses and oaths. A few made the sign of the One Faith. Others merely stared in silence. The silence spread quickly in the wake of a single hushed, strained whisper that accused and terrified with tone spoken word.

"Ashfiend!"

Though the bodies of the slain engineers had been removed, tales of their gruesome deaths, one in particular, circulated quickly. A town beset with enemies usually discovered a way to pass along any and all but the most closely guarded relevant secrets. A palpable malaise settled over the assembled with the name of the attacker, an unseen but heavy-handed fear. A fear ripe for direction.

Vraal stepped forward.

The sun settled fiercely upon the silken black cloak that cascaded over one shoulder and the length of his back. Hands secreted away beneath taut black leather raised skyward, crowd-ward, as the earth crunched beneath the soft steps of soft, matching boots.

"People! People!" He shouted, the words resonant and commanding drew a compliant hush from the assembled throng. "Yes, it is as you say," he conjectured easily enough. Though the Ashfiend's responsibility was for the moment more rumor than substance it bore the telltale familiarity of the creature's work. Vraal recognized it all too well. "The Ashfiend has struck again against Myrken Wood, has struck at your livelihood, your home, and the future you seek to provide for it and its children!"

"Doom has come!" A frightened, strained voice interrupted.

For his part Vraal quickly buried the cold smile that threatened to slither across the breadth of his cruelly thin lips. "Yes it has!" he shouted into total, absolute silence. They stirred, their emotions bared and confirmed in such short time. Vraal could smell their fear on the hot air and purred quietly to himself.

"Doom has come... but how will you meet it? I have been among the people of Myrken Wood for but a short time. And in that time I have seen your strength, your courage, and your fortitude to withstand grave and countless sufferings. Your history is one of conflict, yes, but also of overcoming your enemies. But I say to you you shall not overcome this one for your leaders threaten to desert you."

Many continued to stir, their anger suddenly directed towards the Councilors. Vraal spoke on quickly, unwiling to send the deluge of frustrated fury upon anyone in office. "They have succumbed to fear - and are you any better? Even now, with the one utterance of his name, even despite your long and proud history, I know your hearts. You are all ripe with fear. A fear that compels you to descend upon your leaders and yet I tell you this is not the way."

He pressed forward, slipping through the crowd and meeting their raptured, puzzled and considering stares with an unreadable, obsidian gaze.

"In their fear your leaders had decided to talk with the Ashfiend! To try their hand at reason when only steel shall suffice. They have grown weary and afraid of the manifold threats that lurk, waiting, poised to consume and subjugate this land in death, or some great loon's idea of perfection. But I tell you this my friends, that you cannot rail against your paralyzed leaders until you have the answer in your own hearts."

"What is the answer, then?" one man shouted in bold response, his voice strained through volume and with skepticism. "What do we do?"

"You must conquer yourselves," he murmured, his words carrying even throughout the crowd despite his lack of volume. "You must overcome your fear of all things. The fear of Zayken. The fear of starvation and abuse at the hands of your leaders. The fear of the Ashfiend. But mostly, my people, you must learn to overcome yourself. For your fear is not carried into your heart by these troubles, but your heart responds to them with fear. And in fear your land has no hope."

"But I give you hope," he continued, seizing one peasant's hand and squeezing it firmly. "I will show you a new way," he pressed on, leaving the peasant behind him as he affirmed another by squeezing his shoulder. "I will lead you to conquer and master yourselves and free you from all things... by freeing you from yourself. And together we will make a new world. And with a new world comes a new sun to warm, illuminate and sustain us. And with a new sun comes a new dawn."

"The Violet Dawn."

Sharing their fears so openly had bound them together with the tentative promise of blood-brothership. The words had left Vraal's sibilant lips, crawling into their ears and winding about their hearts, squeezing just a tad with every life-giving pulse. Though they labored on in silence, during that silence the seeds of change had begun to take root and grow in them. Throughout the course of their work, Vraal walked calmly among the, lending a helping hand, offering the perfectly measured word, and whispering it to penetrate into the dreams and nightmares that battled for control of their minds.

It was not, Vraal knew, merely a battle of the mind. It would eventually prove to be a battle of the soul. With the Baie possibly gone, the cult being rounded up, the voices of the One Faith firm but apparently not advancing, and Ashfiend and Zayken on the loose - the Myrken people had been plowed raw by circumstance. They were ready to believe almost anything - some of them at any rate. And their size might not even matter provided that they proved to be loud enough.

The first problem would prove to be the Ashfiend who had already attempted to lay waste to his immediate plans for the future. Luckily the creature's bold and blunt methods left an easy trail for blame to follow, and an even easier one to encourage the townsfolk to follow especially considering that the Council had evidently ruled for diplomacy with the creature who butchered citizens and then enslaved them through necromancy.

It would just require a tad more work.

It was not just wood that the laborers required nor the engineers had introduced into the fire-stained orphanage. Now great building stones rolled in on horse-driven carts, along with curved pieces of dark purple glass. One by one the stones piled atop one another, sandwiched in mortar that sweating crews stirred and distributed for all the hours beneath a merciless sun.

Food kept their bodies invigorated, but each helping hand remembered Vraal's stirring speech and the promise of the Violet Dawn. They worked not just for their children's future but also for their own and, possibly, all of Myrken Wood's. For they no longer built merely an orphanage but an entire complex.

A temple, Vraal thought as he watched the work from afar, would be built alongside the orphanage. Leather bound hands clasped at the small of his back, fingertips gently drumming together an ad hoc rhythm, as pleasure sketched a broadening grin upon thin lips. It would be a marvelous thing, bearing the symbol of the Violet Dawn in stained glass that would be illuminated with the sunrise.

The smile grew as he contemplated this new god, his favored deity, as he could feel the laborer's struggling, weak and infantile prayers stirring in their hearts. They would learn in due time, of course, how to truly worship a deity who would look over and protect them. They would learn what it truly meant to worship, to serve, and to obey.

At last there would be a restoration of the right ordering of things.

Canting his head aside as if listening to a budding request in a young man's heart, Vraal chuckled and began to pace about the dust-ridden construction site.