The Prince of Golden Iron

[Kobra]

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Hence, from Temuria

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Hooves on rock sang a pale and stony march; the horse's strong but spindly legs scrabbled just a little, kicking snow-slain lichen free from the slick earth beneath. But the moment, for it was only a moment, passed swiftly, and the battle-bred stallion pushed himself up the slope, flanks settling, and at the peak was reined in.

Before the two companions, Temuria lay, draped languid as a maiden queen upon the lush bed of her valley. Green were the fields below, the rich, dark green of rain-blessed floodplain and fertile pasture; as dawn drew a pale gold veil about the land, wisps of pale mist rose and drifted like wandering ghosts, their addition to her modesty only enhancing the beauty of the earth.

His earth, his land. Home. It was named for him, this valley, though he had not sought such a conceited thing; his men had declared it and taken no refusal, when at last he had led them and their families, battered, hungry and trailworn, to this place of abject solace. Led them out of Soralon, where they had been slaves. Led them through Khan-kuri, where many had been wandering tribes, raiding warbands. Good, fighting men, lacking only one element to give their restless hearts peace - a place to journey to. They had asked and he had given, and in his icy eyes and steely will they had found a leader, and in his moments of warmth and patience with their ills, a friend.

He had made no promises, but they had always held faith. He was not a prophet, nor a king, nor a messiah. No god had called him, no sacred power drawn him through fire and steel to the land they now called Temuria - such illusions were for other men, with loftier ideals. No, it had been a warrior that led them here, a man who had wandered the wilds half-starved, had wrestled lions and lay bleeding with his fingers driven into their lifeless throats while his heart sank and the arena crowds howled with bloodlust and glory. A man who had lost and given, had bled as much as any of them, and had led them here with only one misty goal in his heart - survival.

And here they had found a paradise on earth, and dug in like any good pioneers would. Uninhabited, this blessed place, untouched by man or beast. Harsh, but they had seen harsher. Winters had been cold, though the snow remained for the most part about the peaks that encircled the valley, forbidding teeth of white ice and grey stone. But Temuria was fertile, and here, indeed, they had founded a city, on the shores of the Lake - the great lake that through thin rivers adjoined the sea, the great lake that held that one ancient mystery - Gate Keep.

Beyond the city, he could see Gate Keep as an angular black speck rising out of the vast planar gleam of the lake. It was an island, hollowed out by antideluvian and likely inhuman hands into a fortress of spiral staircases and mad geometries; but perched upon the very top of the peak was the Gate, a great half-circle of stone propped up vertically in the air like some monstrous torc wrenched upright for all to see. And, when the Gate was open and the cold air in the midst of the ring was filled with that strange, hollow suction that seemed to lead to nowhere and everywhere at once - all -could- see it, even from the city, and many feared the day when it might open unexpectedly. But there were many Gates within Gate Keep, of smaller size than the greatest, and all could be trained by the proper incantations - deciphered from ancient scrolls by a strange travelling sorcerer - to open anywhere a similar structure had been set up. The possibilities for trade and exploration had been immense. The positive use of the Gates had led to Temuria's expansion - and to the cosmopolitan nature of its capital.

The jewelled crown upon Temuria's brow, the city of Temnenos was a fitting adornment indeed; its walls were tall and thick, its gates were strong, but they lay wide open to the villages that clustered the valley, and trade bustled frequently along the roads into and out of the city. Though its outer walls were heavily fortified, the inside loomed in pillars of sandstone and marble; white and gold in the morning sun, Temnenos gleamed, set out in the manner of a wheel separated into many sectors; each a self-contained village district unto itself, but each also specialising in particular industries compared to its neighbours; and all connected at the hub of the city, where the Gods' sacred temples, the forum known as the Philosopher's Round, and the spartan but nonetheless magnificent palace where the Prince made his home stood. A place whose warm bed he missed.

"Gal-Ganjin," spoke a voice behind him. There was Senju, tall, lean and dark; his horse a beast that reflected its rider's quick-witted and subtle nature. "It is time, Gal-Ganjin, the men are ready."

But Altan Temur, the Prince of Golden Iron, gave pause upon that hilltop, where the cold wind tore his leonine gold hair in wild dances about his back; his eyes were fixed upon the city, upon his palace, and upon the tiny figure he dreamed he could see there, her warm brown hands pressed to her lips in farewell. A lost and far-off dream...

"Gal-Ganjin?" Again the lieutenant spoke, with tilted head that half-hid his face in shaggy locks.

Altan pursed his lips, silent; the man-giant seemed to his comrade preoccupied, almost apprehensive.

"I look upon our city as though I will not see her again. Why is this, Senju?"

Senju's pause was one of startled confusion. "Perhaps...you feel the change of the seasons? You do not wish to be away, should the winter be difficult?"

Altan shook his head; Senju's practical solution had nothing to offer him in the way of answer. He had not felt this way before, not even when the Tarosian horde of the dead had battered at Temuria's very gates in that final battle. Not even when so few of his men had remained to defend them, and he had looked out to see the Tarosian mobile spawners belching out wave after wave of mana-birthed corpse soldiers, two for every one his beleaguered troops cut down. Altan Temur was not a stranger to threat nor to evil; but there was something wrong here, palpably, that he had felt only distantly in the past.

"My Prince, you are not ill, are you?"

The words broke Altan's ill mood somewhat, and stole a laugh from him; good-natured scorn given to his subordinate's suggestion, the tall Prince turned his horse with a pat to the steed's neck - and then one to Senju's shoulder as he passed, down to lead the company of his men.

A visit to his errant cousin in the east, past Myrken-land. Nothing more; nothing to be troubled with, for the man who had led a mismatched horde of barbarians, tribesmen and farmers across half a continent. A morning stroll by comparison.

Yet even Senju felt a little uneasy as he shot one last glance over the lovely spectacle of Temuria, and rode down the hill after his Prince...

They headed across the Gatebridge, and made their path to Gate Keep. Powers eldritch and once-forgotten hummed at the behest of mortal men, and the sky itself opened to grant the company passage - to Myrken, and beyond.

[Ira Vehementi]

Seconds to minutes to hours to days, moments ticked past, measured only by the beat of hearts and the beat of hooves, steady and sure as metronomes. Altan's men passed through the gate and arrived some distance from Myrken Wood, though safely. The midday sun grew low and heavy, hanging upon the horizon like a great eye peering at them -- the eye of a God, a guard whose duty shifted in the evening, when the moon rose in all its silvery glory. Great white obelisks the mountains of the continent upon which Myrken was founded seemed at their backs, like hunched titans in the distance, watching with gazes long since frozen into craggy stone, furrowing the jagged, frosted brows of ice and snow hanging over their depths. The land's stare could be felt upon the travelers' backs as the pathways led through the dark, lush lowlands barely touched by the wintry pallour others had been tormented by. Myrken lay many miles away, but darkness fell as the world rolled over onto its belly.

Whether or not the company made camp or opted to continue moving, the night was uneventful, almost too quiet.

Crimson glistened like rubies in the waxing light of day. The morning dawned frosty and chill along the lowland forest path leading toward the famous -- or, rather, infamous - Myrken Wood. The sky was a delicate, pastel portrait of blended mauves and violets, blues and pinks, but smudged with the gray-black of charcoal. Columns of smoke rose toward the heavens, marring the pristine beauty of the sunrise. Beneath the feet of the horses, the ice formed from the last evening's freeze crunched and crackled like dry tinder, while the trees silhouetted in morning's triumph rattled like the bones of so many skeletons upon marionette strings, manipulated by a sick puppeteer. The forest's towering sentinels seemed to exude an air of ill omen, as though they had been forced to bear witness to an atrocity even the angels might shed tears for.

An acrid, sharp scent rose to meet the senses of those traveling the lonely, icy road. Unmistakable for its copper tang, the stink of blood recently shed -- a smell likely very familiar to the warriors -- assaulted the nostrils. Even from this distance, the stench was almost overpowering -- urine, feces, and other, less pleasant fluids and solids, all of this constituted the smell of death. The place was dead in so many ways; the morbid stillness seemed to enfold the small army like the yawning maw of some toppled giant felled to the earth by Thor's mighty blow, if Thor is indeed a fellow known to these folk, as he was once known to those of a world far away. Shadows clung like cobwebs to the empty forest's towering trunks. The unnamed wood was a ghost citadel, a place of monumental silence. Overhead, the stillness was interrupted by a wheeling murder of crows, carrion-birds awaiting the softening of what lay below.

Around the curve in the road, Altan's men could decide to follow the trail that led toward the horrid reek, if these men of steel and strength dared to look.

What they beheld when they approached the source of the smell was a macabre nightmare vision that would snap the minds of the squeamish and send them blubbering insanely to the ground. The scope and the ghastly brutality were only part of the horror. Shapes that might have been shrouded in blessed shadow were now horribly revealed in terrifying, gruesome clarity. The true heart of this monstrous act was in its artistry, in the skill that must have been employed to perform such a vile sculpture, such a diorama of profane tragedy...

The ground was filled with human bodies. Men, women, children, only the size and general shape gave hints as to age and gender, for all of them had been stripped of their skin, jellied subcutaneous layers shimmering wetly still in the illumination from the rising sun, clinging to the outlines of muscle and bone. There eyes had been hollowed out, their faces twisted into permanent screams of agony. Some bodies had been wrenched and curled together into monstrous sculptures of dead tissues, although these surgeries were apparently performed whilst the victims were still alive. Here, a man's scalped head had been forced through a woman's denuded and split pelvis; there, a child's arms had been ripped from their sockets and contorted to pierce through his chest; there, the corpses of six were positioned as if in prayer, their postures penitant, heads tipped back, eye sockets sewn over in symbolic blindness; their mouths were left wide open, however, and from the gaping hole of each, the discoloured, fat serpents of intestines were strung across the ground like the gruesome drapes of some formal party, all leading to a single source -- the torn side of a partly clothed form of what might have been the local magistrate, the only one not skinned, hanging upside down from his ankles by the thick lower bough of a tree, swinging slowly in the catch of the wind.

As to where the skins had gone, the answer was simple -- one needed only to look between the massive oaks. The flesh was stretched between the trunks. The sunlight beaming through these foul canvases painted the earth in lurid shades of veiny, bruised purple-blue and yellowish-red. The most abhorrent skill was evident in the skinnings; they had been performed with murderous efficiency, for each was simply stripped off in a single sheet, with only one single long incision made along the spine...

A whimperish gurgle whispered from near the perimeter of the devastated hamlet. Remarkably, whatever, whomever had passed, man or beast, had left a single survivor: a woman, young, perhaps -- once beautiful, possibly -- but one could not tell, for her face had been mutilated and nearly removed. She crawled over the bloodstained, rocky ground, pulling herself across the earth with bare hands, knuckles pale and splitting for the effort. Her dress-front was shredded, her legs were broken, the pallid pinkish-white of bone jutting from ruptured flesh, oozing with the beginnings of infection and gangrene. Her eyeless face upturned, she stared with empty sockets toward the sounds of footsteps, breathing, and hoofbeats.

"...M-monster-men..." she hissed, crawling closer, closer still, until her strength gave way. A wet cough parted her half defleshed jaws -- brown-black ichor, half digested blood forced down her throat, now spattered across the dust, wetting the thirsty earth further. "Attacked...ambusssch," followed the hacking expulsion of air. Rolling bonelessly upon her back, the peasant reached up toward the sky, weakly, her hand curled, pallid and clawlike, dirt-caked and stained with things no simple woman should ever be made to touch. "M-make the pain stop...pleasssse..." Her plaintive exhalation was answered first by the calls of the buzzards that descended upon the dead, and upon the nameless, faceless female. Broken flesh they pecked at and stripped away, only compounding her agony...

A wail of lament keened forth, underscoring the squawks of the avians and the hum of flies in the near-distance.

[Kobra]

Firelight spattered like drops of errant blood turned to pale ether; it cast the faces of the men in craggy shadows, as if their visages were carved of sombre stone, left behind by some nameless ancient tribe.

None could forget.

They ate what little their stomachs would now accept, in grim silence. Strips of jerky now were gruesomely reminiscent of the sun-dried skinless flesh of the carcasses they had found, dried fruits resembled the shrivelled eyes of the dead. They had left the village far behind, long before they had dared to make camp, but the smell was still with them. The memories.

*****

They had come upon it, a vision of Gehenna painted in broad daylight; all its macabre details visible. Lesser men would have simply gone insane; but each and all of Altan's troops were seasoned warriors, and the sight of blood, of hacked and broken limbs, gouged eyes, torn flesh, was no stranger to them. But this was not the gallery of gore that awaited in the field hospitals. There was something about this obscenity - a great many somethings, the cruel sculptures, the foul symbolism - that spoke of some black and horrendous rite, some profane festival danced by demented zealots trampling the blood of their victims into the mangled earth.

Some had turned away and vomited there and then upon the ground; others had stood as if nailed to their places, trailworn swarthy skins drained to sickly hues; others had simply turned their faces away, unable to explain just what about this grisly scene had filled their hearts with such unnameable dread...

But they could not forget. Nor could they forget the Prince.

None quite understood why he reacted the way he did. How he could have stood there unmoved and unmoving until one of the men noticed and recoiled from the expression building in Altan's cold eyes. How his hard young face had suddenly and unexpectedly twisted into a mask of abject fury, and how, at last, when there had been sudden movement, when the butchered woman came forward...

They had all, to a man, stood there rooted to the spot as she crawled forth, many of them unsure whether this was a victim of the atrocities still clinging to life or some fell and skinless demon crawling from the wreckage to lure new victims. Those who had moved had laid hands on their swords without realising why. When her voice came, when they realised a human soul lay beyond those ruined sockets, the men had choked with horror - and done nothing, rendered impotent and immobile by the shock.

All save one.

The Prince had watched impassively, had listened silently, while behind his eyes the rage smouldered like the fire in a volcano's belly; rising, rushing ever-closer to that yawning crater, that means of escape. Then had come her heart-wrenching plea...then had come the buzzards.

And that had snapped the Prince, his face becoming that contorted devil's snarl, the sinews in his neck and strong arms standing out like rope drawn taut, his blade suddenly drawn and flashing in the sun. He had strode toward the woman and with three great strokes had driven the buzzards away squawking and bleeding amid trails of feathers; he had stood over the fallen woman, a golden, heartless angel framed in sunfire, and answered her plea, his men watching in startlement as her head rolled free of her shoulders, the ruined face cast down into the dirt. Pain stilled in an instant.

"Burn them."

The words had smote as surely as his blade into the hearts of those who heard them; it was unheard of in Temurian custom to burn the corpses of any but dishonourable foes or those slain by dangerous plague.

"Gal...Gal-Ganjin...should we not make each a grave and speak a cere-" one of the men had stuttered.

His eyes had then widened as he felt Altan's blade pressed to his throat, the edge wet now with long streaks of the peasant woman's blood.

"Burn. Them."

The Prince's eyes were lakes of ice, aflame. His face was polished granite. They had never seen him like this, never before, nothing close, since -

****

The smoke and the smell of the mass pyre lingered on the air, a great dark blanket in the sky. They sat with their backs turned to it. Few spoke, and when they did it was briefly muttered, only to lapse into silence again. Words seemed awkward, flat and false.

Occasionally, one man or another might glance to the Prince himself, who sat an unmoving hulk by the fire. He had not spoken since the deed was done; his face was a graven image, an immobile marble death-mask. Hours like that he had remained, staring into the flames with distant eyes.

What lay ahead, now?

[Mer]

Elsewhere -- far to the west . . . . .

Soralon was a beautiful land, as rusted iron covered with gilt is beautiful. Its crown city, Saldana, was the glass jewel that adored it all -- home to the Priesthood, and the Priests allowed no luxury to be missed. Every road led to the exquisite splendor that was the Temple, built in the center of the city, and from there came and went the Knights, as mandated the Priests.

Knights, Priests, and the citizens of the country were all known as the Dirians, the High Race; a Dirian child born in Soralon could grow up to become any of the three, given the ability required. The citizens lived by the law that the Priests interpreted and the Knights upheld. Then there were the Ral, the Low Race. Born a Ral, you lived the life of a Ral: serving your Dirian master or mistress until the day you died and were replaced. A Ral had no rights, for once, millennia ago, the Ral had turned against He-of-Stars, and now every Ral paid for that insolence.

A Ral could be picked out by his or her bright blonde hair and deceitful blue eyes, ensuring that none could ever hope to impersonate the black-haired, honorably black-eyed Dirians. Even a Ral that bought his or her own freedom was never accorded the status of the lowest Dirian, much less the rights. Any Ral accused of any crime was guilty, as the nature of a Ral was inherently evil, especially compared to that of a Dirian.

Azura Erdene knew all this, had known it as long as she had wanted to be a Knight. As a child, every stick was a sword, every pillow a shield as she fought for justice and . . . more justice. The girl watched wide-eyed every time a troop of Knights marched out of the Temple, out to the country to do as the Priests said He-of-Stars wished for His people. Her parents, both wealthy merchants, were pleased with her heart's desire and made sure she received the best training from an early age.

When finally confirmed as a Knight her eighteen summer, Azura already wore the armor with the ease of a Knight many years her senior, and she rose through the ranks quickly in the campaigns that followed. Her duty ranged from squelching common Ral uprisings to forays into neighboring countries on righteous missions, and sometimes northward journeys to capture Ral that had fled Bemara long ago and had settled there, foolishly thinking themselves safe from the wrath of He-of-Stars.

And yet all was not well. Troubled by the foundation of slavery her beloved country was built on, Azura finally requested permission to journey alone to the furthest reaches of known lands to see what she might find there. The Priests believed she would discover new opportunities; Azura traveled in search of the truth to a falsehood she could not quite perceive.

[Ira Vehementi]

The blaze danced in the distance, devouring the remains of the abominable scene within the clearing. Bodies and buildings alike were but kindling -- all around, there was tinder for the gods. It was midday by now, and the sun had risen high up in the sky, over the trees; shadows shrank and withered away from the surrounding land, but the forest still seemed shrouded in the darkness of night, perhaps because of the billowing cloud of smoke that rose up into the atmosphere as an ominous onyx pillar, or perhaps because of the heaviness in the hearts of the men making camp.

A pall of filmy cloy lingered upon the air, the smell of freshly turned earth intermingling with soot and ash. The bitter blast of wind brushing across the landscape from the mountains, blessedly, carried away the foul stench of burning corpses. The stillness was almost comforting, for nothing could disturb the peace after the mass funeral pyre had been set... Right?

Surely, none would shatter the silence, none would break through the down-time that the men so deserved? Still, there was the feeling of unease - the inexplicable sensation prickling at the back of one's neck, curling and curdling in one's stomach, easily dismissed as anxiety after seeing so many bodies mutilated, an entire town laid to waste, and, even moreso, how shaken Altan, a man of fortitude, seemed to be, brooding, seated by the smaller fire.

Fate was not on the entourage's side this day, as distant as the danger might have seemed.

No, luck was cruel.

They were being watched.

Feral eyes glinted in the light of noon, gleaming from the woods, yet the dappled play of shadows and light proved to be the perfect camouflage; they were hiding in plain sight, these wild-men, these abominations of the forest, these murderers, offensive to behold and foul to smell.

Only when it was too late did the horses catch a whiff of them. Some of the equines, caught unawares, screamed, reared in alarm, as if being attacked by wolves, though these creatures were something far more insidious and far more numerous.

They poured forth from the surrounding area like water flowing over a cliff to dash itself against the rocks, a swarm of them. Insects, wolves, carrion-birds, jackals, they could be compared to all of these things, yet none of those titles accurately captured the true terror that their presence seemed to envoke: the feeling of hopelessness at such a huge number of humanoids exiting an area they had been hidden within stealthily, always outnumbering, seeming never to stop in their advance...

There may have only been dozens of them, but they moved with such astounding swiftness that one couldn't be sure; conversely, there may have been hundreds. Some of them dashed like apes on all fours, some on two feet, wielding rusted spears and gore-caked swords, clubs and picks of yellowed, aging bone; most were already covered in blood; some were clad in the fairly fresh skins of those who were slaughtered like livestock; a great number of them wore spiky, spiny armour composed of the bones and horns of felled animals and what looked to be the skeletons of human beings; some even had the faces of the dead covering their own visages like freakish masks of war, twisted permanently into expressions of anguish. Unwashed and painted, monstrous, like demons flying from whatever abyssal realm they belonged to, these men shrieked from the woods, howling and jabbering in a tongue indecipherable from the cackles and howls of hyenas and certain night-birds.

More frightening was the fact that despite all of their appearances, they were men, just like those sitting around the camp -- just like those who were decimated in yonder hamlet.

The pack descended upon the group with the ferocity of a storm, coming from all sides, all angles, even from above, as a few leapt from the thicker tree-branches, down onto the waiting ones below. They even rose from beneath the earth, springing from carefully constructed pits that were concealed by mesh tarps and handfuls of leaves. Unchoreographed but certainly not unpracticed, the beast-men charged upon Altan's company, uncaring of who they struck, simply moving with the mindless fanaticism of brainwashed marionettes manipulated from above by means of unseen strings, lashing out at whatever came close enough.

Whatever they could, they pounced upon and hacked at with swords, clubs, crude tools, and even their bare, wretched hands, curled into claws with nails untrimmed and yellow. If one fell, then another took his place. Merciless, unrelenting, they fully intended to turn this place into a graveyard, just as they had the village, just as they had other places before.

Beyond the combat, there loomed ten figures, all mounted, all armoured like the knights of the era, all heavily armed. One could not tell if there were more of these horsemen, for they stood far beyond the dust of the scuffle. The one who appeared to be the leader curled his fingers around the reins of his great, chestnut-coloured steed. He and his horse were both clad within crimson lacquered plate mail. The leader rolled a spiked pauldron, turning his head to glance over his shoulder toward his companions. Through his skull-faced mask he narrowed black eyes, nodding once. As the battle continued to rage, the mounted party diverted its path into the woods in a different direction, heading tangent to Myrken...

Riders of the Apocalypse?

Surely, Hell did follow behind them, for as they departed, more of the beastly barbarians surged from the position they once occupied...

[Kobra]

"Ambush!"

The cry came too late; the enemy was upon them.

Like demons of the pit somehow forced into human skin, the madmen descended; the foe, the unseen slaughterer, showed at last its horrifying face.

The first wave caught them offguard; the watch was taken swiftly, an ugly spear catching the gristle in his throat shortly after his alerting cry; he was pulled down in the tide and his belly cut open; his entrails trampled into the dust by running feet.

Those at the outskirts of the camp fell first; some never made it out of their tents, tangled in the material as the foe leapt upon them and hacked at their bodies through the cloth; at some point a firebrand was pushed into one of the outer shelters. Several tents, and the trees around, burst into flame - casting a hellish glow upon the carnage.

The men held their ground.

A miracle it seemed, that in the midst of the chaos they managed to pull together into a tight formation, back to back, each cell that had been separated from the others slowly working its way back to the centre, to the Prince's side.

They heard the horses cry shortly before the watchman; the sound of the butchery of their steeds mingled with shouts and screams of outrage from the men still standing; some went berserk right there and then, for it was said that a Temurian rider loved no brother more than his horse; these few carved into the army of madmen, trying to reach the steeds and cut them free - and for their part they managed to wade in deep against the fiends before they fell. But fall they did.

Lean swords were drawn, bows hefted, arrows fired haphazard into the onrushing crowd; piercing hateful faces, blackened hearts - the archers of Temur were as skilled on foot as on horseback, their short, compact bows sending deadly shafts into the horrors' run - but the madmen would not be stopped, and the order for flight came...

**********************

Senju twisted his blade, wrenching it upwards, hearing it crack and splinter the ribs of the man-freak before him; the maniac berserker fell in a welter of blood, still clawing and howling like a beast at Senju's heels; but the lieutenant leapt over it, taking another in the throat as he did; he did not stay to see whether it stayed down. He had to find the Prince. He had to find the Prince...

The night was broken by a cry that echoed even above the bestial shrieks of the enemy; a roar like the cry of a great bear, a fury that chilled Senju to the heart;

He saw, over the crowd of seething bodies, golden hair flying, lashing and swinging like the tail of a dragon - saw the broad bare chest of Altan Temur gleaming with sweat and blood in the fireglow; the Prince of Golden Iron was taken again by that madness that had consumed him the day before - Senju had never seen such a look of ice carved in his eyes, nor seen his young visage twisted so in an expression of bloodthirsty rage.

His great sword clove the bone helm of an attacker amid a spray of black blood and brain matter; a pitted bronze axe caught his arm as he turned and drove his weapon up and through the wielder's chin; twisting the hilt between his hands, Altan wrenched it out the side of the madman's neck and swept the arm off another.

He stood atop a pile of bodies, of the crazed barbarians, of his own men, of their horses. The pile grew by the moment; the Prince was forging slowly forward, and Senju could think only that his sovereign had become the embodiment of some warrior god of old - great and terrible and unstoppable, his fury knowing neither bounds nor discrimination once unleashed.

Senju's attention was caught by a moist sound near him; he turned to see one of the madmen crouched upon a fallen Temurian, tugging at the mangled right arm of the man; it paused to bury its face - its all-too-human-face - in the ruptured wrist and guzzle the blood. There came a weak moan and Senju realised to his horror that the fallen man was still alive.

Some manner of the Prince's rage must have fallen over Senju, then, for he let loose a wild cry and lashed his blade up the spine of the crouched man-beast; pierced the chest of his dying comrade, granting him mercy - but then, there were more - so many more - their numbers seemed endless and the more he looked around, the less Temurian faces he could see - the more he saw bloodied on the ground.

His gut twisted as he ran toward the features of a familiar soldier, only to find them hanging loosely from the visage of a horrid barbarian. The man had had five children. Senju felt tears sting his eyes.

His arm ached; the elbow jarred, felt crushed, felt clicks of bone each time he swung his blade and shooting pains each time it anchored against a barbarian's crude weapon or blood-drenched flesh.

He too was blood-drenched, the matter of the Prince's safety returning suddenly to his hazed mind, and Senju found himself running to Altan's side, carving as best he could through the foes near him - never considering till the last moment that Altan might be in so deep as to be unable to tell friend from foe.

"Gal-Ganjin!" He cried, and he saw Altan turn, his eyes wild as a tiger's, his nostrils flaring amid rivers of blood spattered on his white face.

"Gal-Ganjin! There are too many! We must retreat!"

Altan bared his gritted teeth, whirled to strike aside the thrown axe of an enterprising madman; his knee bent and he pushed forward, slamming his shoulder into an oncoming chest, opening it to spill its crimson load a moment later - with an upward flash of steel.

"Gal-Ganjin!" Senju cried through his tears, desperation nearly breaking his hoarse voice - "ALTAN!"

It was the last cry to leave the lips of Senju - he looked down to see a flower bloom in red upon his chest. A pretty rose, he thought distantly, though his logical brain picked out the spike of crude steel that pushed through its flowing petals, the splintered, gleaming shaft of the spear beyond. He thought of his wife's smile as he fell, but the last sight his eyes caught was the Prince's rage, fading to bewilderment.

**********************

Altan saw his lieutenant crumple to his knees with a heathen spear thrust through him and the rage in his heart was suddenly pierced by ice; he snapped out of his fury, and saw familiar faces lifeless all around. Waves of the madmen were surging toward him; the tents were burning, and the air was filled with howls and screams. Altan saw, to the left of him, a group of his men who had managed to reach their horses in time, trying to ride through the mass to reach him – one of the horses whinnied and fell, its belly opened and its legs hewed beneath it. The rider was pulled from the saddle; a barbarian’s axe raised, fell, a geyser of blood responding.

Altan’s rage returned; a cold fury now instead of the hot and blinding fire. His blade broke the spear of the monster that stood over Senju, and he felt one hand leave the hilt and drive forward, his fingers digging into the madman’s temple and his thumb thrusting into his eye; he felt a wet pop of released pressure and his thumb dug wetly in, past the first knuckle. He brought the pommel of his sword down, again and again, onto the freak’s forehead until he felt it crack.
Pulling away, pain beginning to seep into his frenzied limbs, Altan pressed forward, finding the voice to cry out to his mounted men, to bark out orders to turn, to flee – knowing that they would sooner die where they stood than abandon their Prince.

Altan bled. He could no longer tell where his wounds were, or what of the blood covering him was his own – a tall, lanky maniac draped in human skins leapt at him, bit into his shoulder; he flung the freak away to see three more bearing down on him–

Their screams of fury were cut short by descending hooves; Altan’s steed drove like Sleipnir through the massacre, a beast of thunder and of fury; the Prince found the saddle and hauled himself up, and with a cry drove himself forward through the enemy, broke their circle. Broke the rim of the camp, and followed the sound of horse-hoofs, unable to see the men that rode ahead of him.

They left the dead behind, and wept for them in broken songs. The dark pulled them onward.

**********************

[Kobra]

Battered hoofs ascended that last green hill; blood from heaving and wearied flanks trickled down in thin rivers. The blood of horses; the blood of men. The brothers intermingled as they rode. There was no time to stop, to bind wounds, to rest. Until now.

The ice and fire had gone out of the eyes of Altan Temur. They stared now as wilting blue flowers might ere they at last crumpled. His calloused hands grippled the reins with a tightened strength that refused to be dulled by weariness. But weary he was, and so were they all.

That humble wooden building might well have been a palace of marble, the misted and snow-ravished surrounds a gleaming garden Paradise, to the eyes of the Temurian survivors. They numbered in the tens, now, and would number less soon, if shelter was not found. Ah, but here it was, the storied Inn, and they cared little at present for its unsavory reputation. Not even a great Dragon at the door would stop them from seeking their rest here.

"Gal-Ganjin?" came a tired call.

"Aye, move in. We have sanctuary."

The Prince of Golden Iron, tarnished, and his worldly warriors, came seeking solace at the Broken Dagger - bringing with them a tale of woe.

For in the north, the Horde pressed ever onward into Myrken Wood...

[Kobra]

The Broken Dagger; a tiny building in a small province, yet it had held the hope for Temuria's future, in providing sanctuary for the Prince.

There, he had found allies; there he and his men had taken shelter. The voice of the Corvid still rung in his head; the strange but benevolent woman who had led them to her forest villa, where amid the waterfalls and woods unseasonal in the snow Altan Temur had planned for the future of his people.

Time passed. The Corvid sent her scouts forth to determine the Horde's position; Altan himself sent his fastest able horseman to Temuria, to send word to Vinter Danesti.

Vinter Danesti. His trusted aide; his right hand man. There were secrets each held that only the other knew. There were none, save his beloved, who knew Altan better. Vinter was also a clever man; not only a powerful warrior but cultured, for he had come from far-off lands without name, after his wife and children were brutally murdered by a mob hunting him.

Yes, there were some secrets to Danesti; but they mattered little in this task. Danesti would wear the mantle of diplomat in place of his armor; he would walk among the lands of Myrken Wood, of Thessaline, of New Dauntless, would seek allies there against this nameless threat.

Altan would gather allies among living men; never again, as he had vowed, would he call forth Amun Khan.

Never again.

The presence of the Dirian, Azura, disturbed him more than he had let on; the last thing he needed right now was the interference of the damned Dirians, of that race which had long ago enslaved his people. Dirians to his mind were arrogant to the point of uselessness; once, perhaps, he would have looked upon them with awe.

But he had spent too long in wanderings, now, to admire such a cloistered and inward-looking race. Azura was a wild card in a very delicate situation. Would she accompany him, and seek a friendship with Temuria? Or would the past overcome her and she seek her people out for some kind of revenge against the rogue nation of once-slaves?

Too much to think about, and too little time.

Altan saddled his horse; stirred the thick silver-white mane; the steed's nostrils twitched, whuffled quietly. A nudge pressed to Altan's gilded head.

"I know, old friend."

He cast his gaze back to the Corvid's sanctuary; at any other time such a place would be ideal for rest. But he could not afford to rest long here, only until the men were healed enough to travel. They would return posthaste to Temuria; there, they would rally the armies.

War was coming.

The enemy would be halted.

Saddling up, Altan turned to the Corvid as she rode up beside him, and flashed him a curious smile. Perplexing. The Prince knew very little about the woman, though her words had chilled him when she had spoke of this foe, this Horde of religious madmen who would sweep through civilised lands like an uncontrolled bushfire and ravage all that stood in their path.

He would never have believed such a tale had not his own eyes drank in the proof but days before.

Now, she was his only link to the mysterious foe; and she would accompany him, to Temuria.

He thought of home.

A firm tap of heels to the horse's flanks sent Altan thundering to the horizon; with his men and their ally in hot pursuit; there would be no further dalliance.

Home, to the fields of gold and green. Home, to the snow-capped iron teeth of the mountains, and their mirror cast long upon the skin of the Lake.

Home.

[Ira Vehementi]

(Altan`Temur): They have come to the mountains near to the border with Derry; great gold-rimmed ridges of stone likely viewed from above as though they were a great rumpled fold in the sheet of the landscape's skin. Altan rides point, fearlessly, his brawny frame and flapping golden hair like a banner to those who come after; the column passes in its depleted brilliance henceforth, to the Gate which doubtless lies in these hills. The company halts near to a circle of crumbled stones thrusting like teeth up from the grassy earth; teeth knocked asunder by some mighty giant's haymaker, it appears, for half of them lean precariously and some are on the ground, scattered about. In the centre of the clearing, tucked against a hollow in the mountains where none but those who knew what they were looking for would pass by without missing it, two gigantic monoliths side-by-side form an impossible diamond-shape in stone, pitted and covered in vines that cannot mask the angular, archaic runes that mark this strange doorway.


(Corvid): She knows these lands as well as she can, for only having been in the area for a little over a year. She knows, and she trusts in the judgment of those choosing the route of travel. Despite her best efforts to remain silent and solemn, she has found the task too monumental to complete - and so, likely to the annoyance of some, she has been chattering away, firing questions in a rapid, chattering stream to anyone kind enough to listen and brave enough to respond. She has, however, remained quiet, simply because she understands the need for some stealth. What is Temuria like? Is it hot or cold, desert or rainforest? What is the staple of its economy? Is it really named after Altan? How many people live there? How are we to get there if it's so far away? Would you like something to eat? Do you have any Grey Pupon--er, nevermind.

Horses are not her preferred means of travel, but she has chosen to keep with the current trend of movement and has mounted up on a light, fast steed who seems not to be overly alarmed by the odd scent and presence of a winged creature on its back. When the columns halt, she rides up a short distance to the side of the one at point, staring about with widened, curious eyes.

(Altan`Temur): "This is Myrkengate. We do not know who built the Gates in the beginning; we found Gate Keep in ruins upon the island in the centre of our lake. In time, the priests were given the blessing of their gods and the ability to activate the Gates, but we still know very little of how to use them." He purses his lips, eyes pale and narrow - "We found the Gate will lead wherever there is another Gate. The ancients must have surely been widely-travelled and had many mystical arts we barely understand." He approaches the Gate, and is met by a small contignent of Temurian soldiers who had been sitting around, playing a game involving small ivory pieces. They seem at once relieved to see the Prince and extremely worried at his dishevelled state and his men's small numbers.

A swift conversation ensues, in the tongue of Temuria spoken rattlingly fast.


(Corvid): Despite her babbling earlier, Altan's explanation of the Gate, its purpose, and a brief history of its discovery, draw only a long, owlish blink from her, a slow nod, and a quiet, "...Oh." She seems just about to pipe up and fire another rapid stream of questions off, when he approaches the gate and begins to converse with the small contingent of Temurian soldiers in a language that she does not understand. For a few moments, she is actually silent, listening in, futilely attempting to make translations of what the men are saying. The only thing she has to base her assumptions on is gesture. Body-language speaks a thousand times more loudly, usually, than words do. Drawing clawed hands up, she unfurls her wings from her back and begins to preen idly, smoothing out the glossed black pinions that sprout so regally from her shoulders. Picking out a few loose, gray-black, fluffy down-feathers, she frowns distastefully. What a time to start moulting...

(Altan`Temur): Great trepidation is the best way to describe it; one of the men gives an anguished cry on learning, it seems, that one of his friends or family was among the soldiers killed; he turns away and stifles his grief; Altan gives him a sympathetic gaze for a time, before speaking again to the head of the men there. The soldier salutes and moves back to the Gate; a man in attire almost akin to a toga is stepping forward, now, speaking with Altan briefly, before giving a grave nod and turning to the Gate; incantations and prayers begin to be made, as he touches the runes upon the object. Altan himself turns back to the Corvid - "You were saying?'

(Corvid): The bird-woman blinks owlishly yet again, looking somewhat embarrassed as Altan turns back to her, for she has a hand full of loose feathers plucked from the undersides of her wings. This is perhaps so she's not leaving a trail for someone to follow, or simply because the fluff is uncomfortable and itchy, like a hanging fingernail might be for just about anyone else. Her brows arch upward, and, for a few seconds, she is actually unsure as to what to say. Clearing her throat and turning to stuff the down into a pouch - maybe someone will want to use it as a pillow sometime - she composes herself. Then, she questions in a quiet, wholly voice, half so she doesn't disturb the prayers and half so that she doesn't draw too much attention to her query. "Are all of these men all right, or have they too been threatened? And I do hope that you do not receive criticism for bringing a foreigner through..."

(Altan`Temur): He shakes his head quietly, chuckling a little at the last part - "No, they have had no contact with our mysterious aggressor. I hate to bring them such foul news but the task must be done." He turns back to her - "Are you certain that your estate will be safe in our absense?"

(Corvid): "No, I am not certain that it will be safe - nothing is ever absolutely secure in this world, in this time," she says with a small, sad smile, folding her arms beneath her chest and balancing on her saddle through her lower torso, for her horse has begun to prance somewhat impatiently, pawing at the earth; something has made it nervous. Perhaps the equine has some innate unease around the metaphysical.

(Altan`Temur): A curious, shimmering distortion passes across the Gate; and then, quite as simply as that, the space between the stone arches changes its view; it is as though they were staring into a picture frame, or as if the area through that gate were somehow sliced out and replaced with a section of another land; cold stone walls can be seen, and intricate designs on an open, otherwise barren floor. Were one to look -around- the gate, they'd see the grass and the mountain cliff on the other side, but if one were to look -through- it...the interior of Gate Keep would be seen.

(Corvid): The Corvid's horse whickers, then rears back at the sudden distortion. The rider, wings unfurled, flaps and keeps hold of the reins in one hand, while balancing with her other one, even as the equine screams and flails its legs in fright. This is part of the reason as to why she prefers to simply travel under her own power - flight is easier, usually, unless if her form is not stabilized, as it is at the moment, at least in body. The other part is probably that the Corvid isn't a very experienced rider, and, as such, is definitely going to have a very, very sore bottom after this incident. Only when the chestnut mount settles back onto all fours does the disheveled rider release her claw-latch on the saddle, looking even more embarrassed than before. "...Ehe."

(Altan`Temur): The Temurian steeds, by contrast, have been bred to this and trained for it. The hard way. They do not balk at the familiar shimmer, but not a man there looks upon Corvid unfairly for her mount's hesitation; they know what it was like to try and acclimatise the horses to such an event as the opening of the Gate. Altan smiles gently - "Come, it is time for us to go home, and for you to come visit." With that, the column of men begins to file into the Gate, though Altan himself remains to assure they all pass through safely.

There is nary a shimmer felt to cross the miles, perhaps even the worlds, to the place they call Temuria; only a vague sense of disorientation and unease that sends many of the horses whickering despite their experience, and their training. Hoofs that had touched earth a moment before touch stone; on the inside they are of a great chamber with a curious pyramidal slant; every structure here seems sharp and triangular, and carved of smooth sheets of stone rather than square blocks; the architecture is most alien in design.

[Ira Vehementi]

(Corvid): The Temurian horses whicker, but the foreign one rears and flails, a thunderous whinny erupting from the easily frightened animal's throat and chest, tearing into the air with all the sound and fury of a storm. For all the tenacity of her clinging grip, the Corvid woman cannot keep hold of the bucking creature's mane or the saddle that seems to offer naught but treacherous snags and dangerous loopholes. With a birdlike squawk and a sudden flapping rustle of feathers, she is thrown from her mount. A fleshy thud marks her unceremoneous and embarrassing landing. The terrified equine's hooves clop and clatter against the stone as it, in a rush, wheels around and bolts in the direction from which it came, disappearing back into the portal, back toward familiar territory.

(Altan`Temur): Altan gives a sharp whistle, and one of his men turns and vanishes back through the portal to alert the Gate-guards to find the stray horse and keep it out of trouble; he himself then dismounts, boots thudding heavily upon the stone; even more heavily those two impact sounds for that this Gate chamber seems to contain a strange and impressive accoustic quality, resonating and echoing every sound made until it seems they are all walking on eggshells. The men dismount almost in unison - it sounds like thunder - and lead their horses onward - pattering, heavy rain. Altan remains to offer a hand to the Corvid - to help her to her feet. His expression is bemused but only good-naturedly so; hardly condescending.

(Corvid): "Oh...bloody horses. Mmrffwrrk," mumble-mutters the fallen bird lady, sounding quite dejected and only half coherent for her mixed jumble of Common words and avian clicking and trilling. Sprawled in a most uncomfortable fashion, she remains limp for a while, staring blearily up toward the oddly shaped ceiling. Her eyes cross toward the image of Altan looming overhead, bright yellow discs of sight staring toward his hand first, then toward his expression. Then she blinks owlishly, as if coming to some sort of epiphany. An arm that truly looks more like a raven's leg than anything else for its scales and clawed fingers soon extends, clasping upon the blonde-haired man's hand as she moves to haul herself up off of the floor. Dispensing with the utterances of dissatisfaction under her breath, she bobs her head in a nod of thanks.

(Altan`Temur): There is perhaps a slight discomfort at that clawed limb; but he does not flinch by any means, drawing her up with a firm strength she could - given what she is - probably exceed. He glances then about the chamber - "Welcome to Gate Keep. Built by whatever race it is who preceded us, here. We believe they used the gates to travel between lands. Perhaps even worlds...spreading their long-forgotten empire far and wide." He gestures to the walls, not merely triangular - upon closer inspection they're covered with very strange raised markings, again angular and geometric; are these some form of very strange hieroglyph?

(Corvid): Teetering a bit once she is drawn up to her feet, she reaches up with her free hand and rubs at the back of her head to exorcise the soreness from the point of impact. It would not do for her to go around with a concussion, though she hardly thinks that this is the case. Even so, she still remains dazed for some time, at least until the blood begins to flow from her original stun. With an arch of her spine and a ruffle of black feathered wings, the Corvid straightens herself out and gingerly releases her grasp from Altan's, glancing around the chamber as a whole. For a long moment she is silent, studying the markings on the walls and the shape of the structure from her vantage point. "It is a remarkable building," she murmurs, too-bright eyes panning over the surroundings with something that can only be described as reverence.

(Altan`Temur): "I imagine they were remarkable people, if they were even human." He reaches his fingertips forth to stroke the stone, and his eyes narrow slightly in thought. "Come, there is much to see here, but we have no real time for dalliance. Shall we, then, to Temnenos and my palace?" A smile is granted upon the Prince's stormy features - that haunted expression he has worn since the attack of their enemy warmed somewhat by the sense of homecoming. Home. Here it was, though he could not see it through the thick walls of Gate Keep; he knew that ascending to the bridge....they would find the dawn of Temuria.

(Corvid): "It reminds me of Giza," she says quietly, snapping out of her trance when Altan mentions moving on. Of course - there is never time for lingering in such a fascinating location. But then of course she is reminded of what looms over their heads if they do not continue onward to the intended destination. Clearing her throat and nodding, she smiles lopsidedly, folding her hands behind her back and clasping her fingers together. "Of course," offers the Corvid with an inclination of her head, blazing golden-yellow eyes at half lid. Now, she shows at least some bare scraps of respect, having reclaimed her dignity, and waits without complaint for the Prince to lead the way. "After you, sir."

(Altan`Temur): Altan leads indeed, stepping out into the corridor - really, a room, shaped much as a dodecahedron, with one of those circular doors on every face - even those below and above the crude wooden ramps the Temurians have built in various directions to make passage to the oddly angled rooms. What race -did- build this mad place? There, a gap in the multifaceted shape opens out into a balcony or landing of some kind - and it is to there that Altan strides, with his men leading their horses over the ramps behind him. He stands forth on the landing, and drinks in the air as if it were the draught of the Gods; an air laced with cold grey mist, an air fresh and cold and free of the toxins of the industries of men.

And shortly behind Altan, the strange winged woman strides along, humming under her breath. It is good to be moving again, even if it is through a construction that seems to have been spawned from the mind of a mad genius. The threat of the Horde in Myrken seems distant, now, and at the same time stiflingly close. She does not let this concern show, though, continuing on with her quiet tune in time with the easy

steps she takes to bring her up and off to his left side. Pausing on the landing, careful not to get ahead of the blond-haired man, she draws a slow breath of the chilly air. Nictating, membranous third lids flow with surreal, liquid smoothness over the surfaces of her eyes, shielding them from the effects of the cold, misty wind.

[Ira Vehementi]

(Altan`Temur): They are standing overlooking the Lake; a vast depression indeed, a circular bowl of water perhaps filling the crater of some prehistoric meteor-impact; it must surely have been a gigantic strike, for the lake is miles in diameter, and the island floats almost at its dead centre; fortunately, there is a colossal stone bridge, wide enough to walk twenty abreast, built across the Lake by the same strange technology that carved the Gate Keep itself. They are almost on top of the Keep; the bridge stretches from this high point in a rainbow arch. Gate Keep itself , around and below them, is a strange thing that does not seem architecturally possible; it is all of cold grey stone, of course, set with odd braces of flattened, darkened metal, but it is merely the angles and proportions that seem surreal - as if the topheavy Keep would surely tip over into the lake at any moment. Beyond, above the mists that swallow the bridge's end, the snow-capped skulls of ominous mountains loom as if they were peeking at the new visitors to the land of Temuria; there is a sense of green through the fog, and a sparkling of sunlight upon the cold clear waters of the Lake.


(Corvid): And all she can simply do for the now is take every little nuance in - every detail that she can see must be stored away in the annals of her memory, for perhaps she will need them one day. "...I wish I had my paintbrush and canvas," she comments, though what she is considering painting - the scene itself or something else - is unclear. Pivoting around on her left boot heel, she turns slowly, taking a panoramic view of the fog-shrouded Lake and the landscape beyond. Finding herself tempted to take a peek at the walls of the structure that they stand upon now, she hunkers down a bit on the landing, but pauses. No, she must keep her manners, must remain civil. With a bit of a chagrined, half hidden grin, she steps back away from the ledge's end, moving briefly in the direction of the bridge, before pausing again, waiting for the Prince. How she must seem to be a flighty presence, filled with a sort of nervous energy that can be both dangerous and useful. It is a double-edged sword. "You wouldn't mind too terribly if, sometime, I came back here to capture this, would you?" Black scaled, clawed hands use their thumbs and forefingers to form "L" shapes which she then uses to frame where Altan stands. After a little while she peeks through that little frame, the ghost of a grin appearing again.

(Altan`Temur): A brow arches - "With paint?" It sounds as though he is not a particularly artistic man - with a country to run, tactics to plan, and battles to be fought, he either had no time for it or no talent to spare. Perhaps it was a sad thing, in a way, that the concepts of aesthetic he seemed to so appreciate in his homeland's vista were not those he understood when reproduced. "Will it feel the same?" He gives a broad gesture to the lake about them as he watches the strange woman's antics.

(Corvid): "With paint, maybe, though there are other ways to..." His second question catches her offguard. For a long moment she is silent. No longer does she peer through her fingers. There seems to be a sort of maturation in her stance, for she stiffens a touch, her jaw tightening and her hands drifting down to rest at her sides. Her eyes follow his broad gesture. With a solemn forward tip of her head, she answers quietly, almost disappointed. "I doubt it." How can a painting reproduce smells and airy textures and the feeling of majesty, after all?

(Altan`Temur): He looks almost ashamed, for a moment, that he had taken away from her excitement. He steps forward, clapping one very large hand gently to her shoulder. "If it can help you remember my land in any way, I shall do my best to find adequate paints for you then. There are many traders in the city. Come, let us go there, and be welcomed." He smiles, and moves back to his horse, to mount and ride across that great bridge - though slick with dew from the mists it has been coated with wooden boards so that the horses may swifter move.

(Corvid): She gives an 'oof' when he claps her shoulder, even though he does so gently. It comes as a surprise to her, just as many other things already have. She is about to say something against his acquiring paints for her -- that it would be too much to ask -- but he moves back to his horse before she can get a word in edgewise. With a gusty sigh she watches the Prince mount up and begin to ride across the bridge. With a slight shake of her head she steps up to the ledge's very tip, then leans forward as if she would allow herself to freefall and plummet to her death. Her pinions spread wide, however, and after she streamlines herself and drops like a stone for some time, she catches an updraft, ascending in lazy spirals following the trail of the riders.

(Altan`Temur): The soldiers seem at first startled at the sight of the woman winging along their path - startlement becomes awe, and then cheerful cries are given as she passes the column. The men's spirits begin to soar along the path of her wings - for they are home, now, their long journey done, and there the sun is shining, parting the mists with golden glow; the journey along the bridge is long but when it ends....ah,...when it ends.

The mist glides gracefully apart as though brushed aside by the fingers of nameless and benevolent sky-gods. Painted in gold are the fields of Temuria, from the shore of the Lake upward to the base of the great mountains; white blooms and yellow as butter the emergence of spring wildlflowers sprayed wildly over the canvas of the hills; gentle, fertile swells are they, invoking imagery both maidenly and motherly...Here was a nurturing homeland, nestled between the harsh and threatening barriers of the mountains.

A valley protected by their stern vastness; a beautiful secret hidden by their forbidding might. And there is Temnenos, the jewel in the crown; tucked at the sloping base of one of those great mountains, set high upon the rise of the hill that issues from it. Tall white walls dulled to brilliant gold - sandstone and granite and marble, for beyond the fortified strength of those wall loom delicate arches of classical design, and many-pillared temples and palaces wound together by the hands of skilled and beloved craftsmen. Here is a city built by human beings and easily lived in by them; now, dotting the countryside around, smaller and darker clusters - villages, farmsteads, groves of trees; olive, apple, vineyards...

Square fields of grain on the far right of the lake where the sun strikes them coming over the morning mountains. Here or there a tall villa built outside the city, or near the Lake's shores.

(Corvid): Like a serpent sloughing its skin, the Corvid has shed the awkward clutziness that was hers when she was riding on horseback. No ruffling of feathers precedes her appearance, no sounds of distress let anyone know that she is there. Here, she is free; here, she is unbound by the forces of gravity, which keep so many trapped on land for the entirety of their lives without any hope of loosening those bonds which are so essential to existence.

Her first spiral draws her up underneath the bridge upon which the men march with all the regularity of a metronome. A single flap along with a gust of wind from down below send her continually upward, upward, so that it is only a shadow which falls upon those who cheer so; she has become but another bird in the sky, or so she would like to think. As the mist is parted like a veiling curtain drawn back from the bed of a blushing bride-to-be, the avian soars still...

And then without warning banks to the right, descending again, to fly directly over the Prince's head, slowing her forward propulsion by spreading her arms to create more wind drag upon her. Her head tips, briefly, so that she can glance to the column riding so gallantly and proudly as if in a triumphal procession back to their homeland. After wiggling fingers in a bit of a wave down toward those who may be watching, her smile is born again, albeit a bit calmer than it was before. There is much to appreciate about this land of beauty, nestled betwixt cold, cruel, mountain faces whose forlorn crags are like eyes gazing into the very soul of the traveler, warning him against violence. There is a palpably ancient feel about this place to her, even if the city may be relatively new on the geological time scale. It is as if some spirit of Nature guides and guards Temnenos, now and forever. To think that this splendor, something that strikes a primal and reverberating chord in the soul, is at risk is not only frightening but appalling.

[Ira Vehementi]

(Altan`Temur): The Prince and his men are a line of resplendant ants below leaving the bridge; they pass up the road toward the city and the watch releases a clear, trumpeting call from the horn; at first there is little notice but soon forms begin to stream out the open gates, lining the road and waving their arms; the Temurians it seems when not in battle attire dress in long, flowing garments, almost resembling a mingling of Oriental dress and a toga; these billow about them in the breeze, leading Altan and company onward; the civilians like colourful flags welcome their Prince home; Altan rides with a quiet dignity at the head of the column.

(Corvid): As an outsider, the Corvid does not interfere with the Prince's homecoming, only watching from this distance, waiting for the proper time to descend so that she does not bring shock to the Temurians, these resilient people who have already seen so much in their time. As little as the avian lady knows about them, she can still tell that they are beyond simple peasantry, for they have surely known hardship and richly deserve this land that they have been blessed with. The lazily circling spirals begin anew, the only testament to her presence here an ebony shadow on the ground alongside where the column rides. From the bird's eye view it is a magnificent welcome for weary warriors glad to return to the comfort of their own territory. It is something that she will not interrupt, but only bear a silent witness to, and never forget.

For no painting can capture perfection.