Malaroth, Memory, and Mist

[Malaroth]

“I will have her,â€

[Malaroth]

The ropes, caught in the crisp, salt air echoed their captain’s sentiment as they creaked and groaned beneath as if beneath some unseen hand. Malaroth shoved the barrel forward and resumed rolling it toward the gangplank amidst the silence of the crew. If we were in Zachea, they never would have dared. If we were in Zachea… the thought choked upon itself. If he were still in Zachea’s city of Emen, there would have been no mercy for him. Luckily news had not yet reached Sidgar, the smaller, port city to the south.

“What, no thank you?â€

[Malaroth]

Silence greeted him through the noxious mist of pipe smoke, along with several pairs of heavy eyes. Sparing the spartan tavern a brief glance, Malaroth proceeded towards the bar. Conversation resumed, flighty and sparse with silences interwoven as the patrons continued to take in the latest arrival. With a few muttered pardons, he wrestled the barrel beside the bar.

“You want to put that somewhere?â€

[Teron_Ashfiend]

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The river of images and the story it told crashed upon his consciousness. He reeled without form, lost in the void. He heard the man's steady, even and warm breath and felt it spill about his own withered countenance which served as a home for shadows and nightmares.

Memory sang its own song. It lulled Malaroth into this reverie, he noted, and also called to his own stale mind. Memory reached into his dark depths and coursed over the screams of the dying, the pleas of the helpless, and the dead eyes of the damned. He counted a finger, then two, and the entirety of a pallid, lifeless hand.

A great sigh stirred between scarred lips as he breathed thought and heard time. Malaroth had it all wrong. The story began long, long ago...

***

The sight of the village, though familiar to say the least, was more welcoming than ever it had been in his entire lifetime of almost three decades. The sun was ascending towards its apex, nearly there and thin, wispy clouds drifted lazily across the light blue sky; reaching out with tentative fingers to feel about the calm atmosphere about them. Despite the sun's brightness and clarity, the air was still rather chill and with a soft smile he realized that no amount of sunlight would warm this place, his home, too much. Such heat must come from the earth, and there was none to be had.

The grass fell beneath his boots as he strode forward, leading a lean though powerfully muscled horse whose dark eyes glanced furtively about and whose soft, irregular whickers kept its master from drifting away into the quiet splendor of his home, finally reached after such an arduous journey. They had passed a few scattered farm houses along the dirt road, but here lay the town's true center. The numerous buildings, all painted and cleaned into a blinding whiteness seemed to smile at this one's return; and this man gladly accepted this welcome, but especially from the structure at the very center. The church's golden spire gleamed in the sunlight like a divine beacon, and its high walls held a sense of sanctuary and peace, despite its age; which even the wisest of the Clerics either could not reveal, or simply did not know themselves.

The villagers glanced up from whatever tasks they were about, some merely walking and others sharing a conversation amongst friends. Some going about their chores or seeking someone to fix their shoes, or what have you; plenty of men and women whom he would never see again did he pass by, and he could only wonder what they were about and where they had been.

Such thoughts faded as the man stopped before the church's great, double bronze doors; an enormous holy symbol carved upon its surface with utmost precision and skill; undoubtedly aided by some magic of one sort or another. The man's plate armor, covered with road dust, jangled as he stepped inside and his boot struck the cold, even stone floor with an audible noise that echoed about the silent, towering walls. The man stood inside only a small, vestibule chamber but the doors that lead further inside; towards the main chamber of public worship and ceremonies were opened and allowed the noise to dance along. The tall man's weapon, a great sword, struck his shin plate with a resounding clang, and reaching up he removed his visored helmet; allowing light blond hair to fall straight to rugged shoulders and into light blue, almost gray eyes. His features were sharp and strong, and a gauntleted hand fell to rest upon the pommel of his sword as he stepped further inside and allowed his striking gaze to pass over the main audience chamber.

The walls rose towards the ceiling in a vaulted manner, and tainted windows allowed the sunlight to pour in upon the hard wooden pews. A window above, that ran the length of the ceiling, allowed one to view the sky as well; and at the moment the sun darkened as it a particularly fat and lazy cloud decided to swim over the ancient church.

'Sir Penroll!' A voice called from beyond the pews, at the altar of stone that stood before two stone pillars; and between those pillars a statue of a figure carved of some strange, dark stone; a depiction of his Deity. The blond-haired man started as a familiar voice echoed across the room, and a smile slowly illuminated his lips as he spotted a familiar figure; clad in the white and red robes of his order approaching. The priest's squat stature and waddling approach identified him easily, though the thick beard shot with gray did not hurt in the warrior's estimation of who this cleric was.

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[Malaroth]

Malaroth stirred as the chill began to sweep over him. In its wake he numbered the bones in his body. He took in the strange landscape, the looming church and mutely railed against the alien memories.

Merrin... the man's name had been Merrin...

**

Malaroth slipped his hand about Merrin’s wrist and shook once, firmly. “Malaroth.â€

[Malaroth]

After he set the barrel aside, he hefted the axe overhead and brought it down upon the wood waiting to be split in twain. He felt the part of an executioner, killing those who had already died. The thought brought with it a sour scowl to his countenance and cut careworn lines across pale flesh. Every time the axe fell it reminded him of his sword. And every log that split was one of the priests who had denied him everything with but a word. A word from a god who no longer cared.

He swung all the harder at the memories that rose unbidden. “How could you do this,â€

[Malaroth]

Panting, Malaroth drew the back of a bare arm across his forehead and smeared the sweat back into the length of blond hair. With every slow, labored breath the sting of wooden prickles throbbed in several fingertips. At length, his gazed over the wood he had broken and felt his shoulders slouch and bow in fatigue. The wood lay shattered about him like the priests in the belly of the high temple, their deaths just as meaningful. Their faces, which he had known since his youth, remained meaningless in the death he had rained upon them. Their faces had held as much meaning for him as the blank, expressionless wood he had chopped. Leaving the wooden bodies where they lay, he struck the axe deep into the stump and trudged to the worn, swollen door. It would no longer be contained by its frame and strained against a frame that would not budge. That frame, however, held the door firmly in check with a tyrant’s grasp and the door had begun to stick.

He lowered his shoulder and forced it open with a grimace. Every muscle ached, his arms complained the loudest. The door proved to serve as an accurate face for the home that lay beyond. Everything sagged, like an old man leaning against a worm-ridden cane. His eyes fell immediately upon a warped table abandoned in the corner of a diminutive kitchen dominated by the squat, swollen frame of an enormous hearth. Its brick-lined maw yawned greedily for more wood, and Malaroth spared it a small scowl. He would suffer many splinters to fill this monster’s mouth. A set of pots hung on the dark stone opposite the hearth, catching the flickering fire in their dented, unpolished faces. They caught his own as well, the uneven surfaces twisting it with harsh, brutal angles and ridiculous ellipses.

Ducking through the doorway brought him to an even smaller room home to a far smaller hearth over which hung a wolf’s head that glowered at the pair of chairs across from it. At the feet of one of the chairs, stripping the wood raw, sprawled a large, dark brown dog. It regarded the visitor with a long face and old, damp eyes. A muffled, throaty growl of welcome gurgled in its thick throat before it returned to its chew toy.

In the center of a table rested a half-curled bit of faded parchment. A few shuffles from behind a closed door assured him that Merrin was not within immediate vicinity. Malaroth leaned forward and the dog growling at his proximity, and began to unfurl the parchment.

“You want to put that down?â€

[Malaroth]

The nobleman watched Merrin move about the kitchen with a hard-learned familiarity. As he took up spoons and searched for an extra bowl, his face would furrow or wince at some unseen prickle of pain. Lips frowned in a mark of thought, a deep thought that attempted to push beyond a haze of distant memory as if he were reaching through coiled fog and unable to see his own hand. Inevitably, these dense patches of ghostly memory yielded their secrets, as he discovered the extra spoons, plates and bowls. A hand beginning to spot with age stirred the stew with tired circles. And the dog wandered in tired circles around Merrin’s feet before a long, calmly frustrated sigh escaped the mangy creature and it fell at its master’s feet.

The silence crept inside like a coiled serpent, comfortable and complacent. Malaroth’s eyes flickered over the hearth, beneath the suspended pot of stew to the flickering flames nestled beneath. Each hungry, yellow tongue lapped at the pot’s vulnerable underbelly with hot snaps of the wood that fed it.

A knock on the door startled him, and he watched Merrin spare a glance in his direction before opening the door and stepping outside. He caught the glimpse of one of the cloaked huntsmen that had joined Merrin at the bar before the door shut once again, leaving him in the warm, stale air with a half-sleeping dog. The bubbling of the stew began to intrude upon the silence, as did the creak of the door which marked Merrin’s entrance. In one hand, he spotted a coiled bit of parchment, which he placed on the table before beginning to fill their bowls with stew.

Malaroth furtively glanced over the parchment. “What is this?â€

[Malaroth]

After finishing the viscous stew, Merrin had spent a few hours whittling a bit of wood into the semblance of a small sailboat before taking his leave. For his part, Malaroth merely peered out onto the deserted streets. The narrow, choked avenues and alleys reminded him of Sidgar. The noble’s bitten fingernails scratched his palms in a rising fever, stirred on by his quickening heart. All that had stood between him and freedom had been the back streets of Sidgar and its shady inhabitants. Every face that leered at him, many in drunken stupors, laid half in shadow. And he moved among them as the greater shadow, adorn in the armor of a holy knight who wore the dark night as his cloak and tabard. But every unlit road threatened him with the specters of accusatory priests and fellow knights. Until, upon reaching the docks, the sight of the Remembrance greeted him as the stair to salvation. The family fortune had remained at his estate, unable to fit into the pouch on his belt. To leave and escape punishment from administering justice to the priests demanded a simple thing – for him to remove his armor and hide it. As he hastily undid leather straps and allowed the worn steel to clatter to the ground, the guttering lights from nearby windows failed to catch on his clothes; his garments absorbed it rather than reflect it as his armor did. With every gesture to remove the protective metal plates, he melted into the shadow like the leering figures he had brushed past. With every passing moment, the darkness swallowed him.

The darkness stirred as a star streaked across the heavens, rousing Malaroth from his reverie. He found himself staring blankly out the window to the distant stars. “Your creation is so much like you,â€

[Malaroth]

But the recognition did not come. Merrin seemed content to take in the image’s morose beauty with some measure of wonder on a coarse visage.

Malaroth cleared his throat. “Why does that bit of metal hold your attention so?â€

[Teron_Ashfiend]

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Teron watched Malaroth's memories with a perverse, voyueristic pleasure. A cold, hollow chuckle escaped him and echoed about the other's thoughts, tying them up with his rumbling voice.

"Not used to death?" Teron queried, the word metallically accented. "Strange to hear such after you slaughtered the priests, after you poisoned the Sovelli civilians..." He paused in his mercilous diatribe to allow the realization to sink into Malaroth's mind.

"Perhaps death does not come as naturally to you as lying. You lied so well to the constable."

As Malaroth inevitably reeled from the harsh rebuke, Teron turned his brooding thoughts upon the memories that had enwrapped them both. He watched Malaroth struggling to pull his heavy plate armor free. The sharp cracking and scraping of the hardened steel against its wooden barrel-prison stirred his thoughts once more. He remembered the weight of his own armor, and how it jostled when he rode horseback...

***

'Ah, Brother Maridolbar..' Penroll murmured warmly, and the two embraced roughly, clapping each other on the back. The priest cursed his enthusiasm quickly however, as his small, clammy palm slapped against the armor plate and allowed a tingling of slight pain to course along his forearm. 'It is good to be back my friend..' Penroll went on, chuckling softly as he watched the other look sorrowfully at his wounded hand.

'And it is good to have you back!' Maridolbar grinned broadly, his beard stretching with the gesture as he hugged his friend again and then released him; pushing the paladin away gently to take a look at him. 'You seem.. different, somehow. Perhaps it is wisdom, eh?' He adds with a sly wink and turn of his heel; and the two men, Penroll towering over the portly priest, move along the side of the chamber towards the rear. 'But that is for the High Priest to decide, is it not? '

Before Penroll could answer, Maridolbar paused before a small wooden door beyond the altar and on the left wall that lead, eventually, to the mess hall and priests' quarters. 'As you have returned I take it you were successful, yes?'

Raising a gauntleted hand, the other still resting upon his sword's hilt comfortably, Penroll could not help but smile somewhat. 'Indeed I was, but that is for the High Priest to decide, is it not?' He winked slyly and passed on, leaving the chuckling priest behind. Penroll's longs strides lead him past the other clerics of the Order, some bustling about, attempting to organize fund-raisers while others went about their praying. Most, if not all, stopped to offer a wave or nod of greeting to the long absent paladin before continuing on with their chores.

Among the clerics, Penroll noted that Briar Faol was still there - a long-time friend as was Azeron Whitecloak, his trainer in the ways of the paladin. Gone, however; was the ancient, withered though incredibly wise Brister Gorson, a former High Priest whose knowledge of just about everything, or so it seemed to the younger clergy, always had an answer for those who knew how to listen. Penroll's smile turned somewhat grim at the memory as he recalled how the man had taken ill before his journey and although he wished the aged patriarch might have lived to see his triumphant return, he had known secretly that such would not be the case.

Through a few more doors and up a flight of steep stairs brought him to the tower of the High Priest wherein dwelled the High Priest himself, Anlonsus Fairhaevan, descendant of one of the great Kings from across the Vastless Sea; few of such stock that remained in these lands. The double doors opened of their own volition as Penroll raised a hand to knock, and he smiled inwardly as he remembered this little peculiarity of the doors. For, despite the common belief, the doors were not enchanted to open when someone approached. More often or not they just eased open when one was about to knock. The peasants believed that they were, indeed, magical doors though the truth of the matter was that such magics were incredibly difficult to enspell correctly. Often the doors would open for those who just moved past the doorway to one of the small storage chambers of holy writ further down the narrow corridor, or would allow entrance to every rat and cockroach that raced by.

As Penroll stepped inside, he glanced about the chamber. The same drab, cold gray stone glanced at him in return though the walls were littered with holy symbols. The parlor itself was very drab and lifeless, very much like the younger clergy's impression of the High Priest himself. With a soft smile, though his first one upon returning had never truly faded, the paladin moved forward but stopped and blinked, while peering forward in the poorly illuminated chamber.

Before him stood the lean, gaunt figure of Alonsus Fairhavaen himself. The Priest's beard was now completely white and hung to the small bit of rope that served as a belt for his pure white robes. Gnarled, ancient hands clutched a candle whose flame sputtered and danced the dance of one trying to survive and beneath thick, fuzzy snow-white eyebrows, deep set, almost sunken blue eyes peered down a hawk-like nose and into the Paladin's heart. The demands of the High Priest were a great burden, and the toll those burdens had taken upon Alonsus shown visibly in the cleric's loose, parched flesh and withered frame. Though in his eyes and deeper still burned the flame of righteousness and piety; an energy that could keep even the weakest, lamest pup on his feet were dogs capable of such thought.

Without preamble, Alonsus led Penroll into one of the side chambers; a small, hardly luxurious sitting room where the paladin sat down upon a small wooden bench and the elder eased his frame onto a tall stool. He set the candle atop a long table of scarred wood between them, and reaching to one of the dust-coated books on the crumbling book shelves that lined the cramped chamber, he produced a particularly ponderous tome and laid it on his lap. He then clasped his aged hands together and set them atop the book, before his gaze returned to Penroll's.

'You have returned.' He murmured, and Penroll nodded once in positive acknowledgment. 'And I see that your mission was a great success... No need to tell me, I see it in your eyes Penroll… the eyes tell much, if not all.'

The paladin clasped his own mailed hands together and nodded solemnly, his gray eyes never leaving the other's, though such a small feat took all his inner strength. 'The Signet Ring of Valkadesh has been destroyed, High Priest. The Demon's power over entities of light and of our God has been broken as well, no more shall he be able to sow the seeds of destruction amongst our own kin again.'

The High Priest mirrored the solemn nod, though with much more sobriety if such were possible, but everything the aged one did seemed so. A slight smile pulled upon his wrinkled lips. 'Such is a mighty blow to that Hellish One. You have accomplished much good in this Penroll, and you have earned a rest. But do not let pride swell that head of yours...' The ancient priest paused as a brief hint of humor, a rarity from him, flickered in his normally steel gaze. 'Elysia need not worry about trying to get that swollen plate of yours into the doors of your new home.'

Penroll's lips curled once more into a smile at the light jest, and his heart began to race with visions of Elysia, his soon to be betrothed. How he longed to hold her in his arms, to feel her dark red tresses that caressed her pale shoulders, and to allow his fingertips to slide over her cheek...

With a shake of his head he climbed to his feet, and as the two holy men exchanged farewells, Penroll kissed the ring upon the Priest's finger and veritably raced towards his home.

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[Malaroth]

Malaroth furrowed his brow and sighed as he twisted and turned. The strange memories which were not his own, yet he remembered, had arisen yet again.

There were no clergy, nor churches in Strethdale. Just the bitter, suspicious huntsmen...

***

The town had little to offer in sweet farewell, nothing to offer to compel him to return. Zachea’s statues and ceremonies, the temple’s tolling bells, had always beckoned him home after days spent on the road, repelling Leshgaulian invasions or Sovelli raids. Even the blue, corrosive sands of the Mul Wastes offered the promise of an exotic, nightmarish land. Strethdale possessed nothing but the endless grey: sky, city, and people.

The cool air warmed his bitter heart and he surveyed his surroundings, dim and dull as if all were awash in a light layer of dust. He found it appropriate. The gentle breeze, when it blew, bit deep with a prickly chill that whispered of winter’s coming. What few villagers were about pulled thick coats about their bodies and bowed their heads in mourning of autumn’s passing to keep winter’s waking touch from the tender flesh of their throats.

Every morning, his breath turned colder. Winter had claimed his heart in her death, nestling it deep beneath some deep measure of snow and hiding it in a chill embrace, far from the light of lord, land and god. With every step, Malaroth’s thoughts turned inward and left the village and his companions shrouded in a colorless haze. Only the weight of armor he had not borne in months, and the chill that plagued his fingers and toes, along with the rhythm of his heavy stride, reminded him of a world beyond his reveries.

He pulled the memories about him like a blanket, turning his gaze over the faces of mother, father, mentor and wife. Each smiled and wept, laughed and cried, in an endless river of memories and moments. Beyond the ghosts of each face, he heard the distant tolling of the church bells welcoming him home from driving the Sovelli back to the great Mul Wastes. He saw his mentor, his foster father and mentor, raise the holy blade Magenor overhead and then turn to embrace the adopted son to the undulating roar and applause of the people of Emen. And, standing amongst the populace, he caught his wife’s slow, crooked smile and bright blue eyes.

And then he lost those eyes to the rising gorge of oblivion that shrouded his thoughts as it bore, to the surface of his mind, the image of his wife’s eyes forever closed as she lay limp in his arms. The lack of strength in her neck, the ghostly pallor of her flesh, seemed like nothing so much as a stringless puppet. Some crude creature, like the Leshgaulian goblin at her feet, had cut those strings and sent her to some distant land where he could not follow.

“Why don’t we send him first?â€

[Teron_Ashfiend]

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Teron mutely snarled as Malaroth once again derailed his memories. With deep rumble of displeasure, he delved deep into his consciousness to lay ahold of his memory. With his reckless fury the floodgates had opened and a hundred countless thoughts, words and visions spilled into Malaroth's consciousness.

***

With a jerk, Penroll sat up. Elysia started and sat up too, peering at him with soft eyes and her usual warm smile. The bells tolled, summoning the warriors of the church to council. Penroll's steel-gray eyes lingered upon those of his betrothed, and with a sigh he climbed to his feet, aiding her to her feet as well.

'I suppose I should go see what it is they want with me.' The paladin smirked, and placed a quick kiss upon her succulent cheek before turning and jogging towards the towering church. A soft wind blew Elysia's dark hair across her beauteous face as a mask, and she watched him until he vanished beyond the trees; and turned and went home.

As she crossed the dirt roads, she saw the entire village was astir. The clash of steel rang about the buildings, as warriors; stout and battle-hardened, moved as fast as their encumbrance would allow. The sun glinted brightly off their swords, spears and armor; and the wind caught up their cloaks. Farmers hustled about, some seeking shelter from the chaos, and others taking up their spears and axes as weapons to join in whatever fight was about to ensue. Women herded children back into the house, and with faked masks told their children not to follow their fathers and older brothers to 'play war', and that everything would be all right.

Like a silent overseer or great, foreboding King, the great Ivory Tower; just next to the church, peered down from its lofty height. Inside, at the very top, was the Inner Sanctuary, a place where only those valiant of heart and pure of Spirit could brave the chamber and speak with their God. Such direct communing was traditionally done by the High Priest, though some of the older residents recalled the foul reign of Ssarech, pretended High Priest, who corrupted the villagers to follow his own ends...

Elysia stumbled but caught herself, finding herself being lightly held by a man garbed so in white that he appeared as a being from the heavens, or as a piece of the Ivory Tower granted life. His hair was pure as snow, and his smile warm upon his fair features.

'Forgive me, dear lady..' Azeron murmured, and Elysia nodded and quickly turned away, for the Paladin's armor shone with a righteous power and serenity that her soft eyes could not take, and neither could her heart; few were those who could withstand such powers of Good, and Azeron was definitely one of them. With a brief smile, she recalled that it was Azeron, returning from a two year pilgrimage, that found the state of disrepair the village was in beneath Ssarech and banished that foul one forever from the Land.

Mounted warriors, few though quick, sped past; the hooves of the light-colored mares and stallions causing the ground to rumble in their passing. Other warriors formed into some sort of military order she could only guess at and began to move to various points at the village border. Archers quickly filled their quarrels and sped along behind these regiments, though in fact their numbers were quite smaller than today's measurement of such an armed body.

The Eyed Hand, the symbol of their God, adorned the brightly polished armor of the next band of warriors to march by on foot. These were the Church's small though deadly force of Paladin soldiers, and Azeron was the Captain of those soldiers. Their footfalls were in perfect unison, and an air of serenity; much like that of the Whitecloak's, bled perpetually from them. They wielded great maces, weapons of such power that only those devout in their faith could skillfully use them, and swords as well; though such weapons were used only in times of great need.

Tugging her cloak further about her, she spared the towering church a final glance; straining for a glimpse of her Beloved from one of the windows or perhaps at the great double doors, just about to enter. Finding no trace of him, she frowned and moved back on her way to her home.

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[Malaroth]

He grimaced and bared his teeth against the alien memories that rushed toward him. In their midst he saw warriors clashing at the head of armies as if the great masses of men were nothing but the train of their cloaks. He saw fires licking the heavens as they sprouted amongst villages, cities and homes to the tune of weeping families. He saw faces twisted in fear as they pleaded for mercy or screaming for vengeance before being struck down. And amongst them all, as if cradled by all the rest, was the memory of a single woman: Elysia, who lay still on a bed of roses hidden away in some secret cave.

"I don't know you," he muttered against the assault. "I don't know you. I am not you."

There was a bridge, he considered as he fished for the one memory amongst the flood. There was a bridge that he had crossed with the huntsmen. And beyond it...

***

On each side of the ridge, the stone descended at a sharp angle into the gaping maw of dense, untamed forests shrouded in mist and shadow. Countless children, he considered, had wandered into their primordial embrace and never returned. The cool expanse beckoned with the silent promise of forgetfulness, of freedom from the heavy yoke of memory the noble warrior bore across his armored shoulders.

A distant, lupine howl arose to the clouds that lazily crawled across the heavens. A dozen others echoed in the first’s wake, along with a dry, cackling sound like the snap of dry kindling.

The long train of huntsmen paused. They glanced about the slopes of the ridge, while a few shrugged bows off their shoulders and knocked arrows with grim sneers. The loose line of hunters tightened like a serpent prepared to strike. Malaroth dropped a hand to the sword at his side.

“Certainly mere wolves cannot ascend to the ridge,â€

[Teron_Ashfiend]

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Within an hour or so, those who had been summoned to council had arrived. The War Chamber was located beneath the church, near the barracks of their personal guard and forges that were seldom used in these days. At the head of the long wooden table in a high-backed chair sat Alonsus Fairhaevan, and despite his age and thinness of body he wore a suit of chainmail that glittered like diamonds in the torchlight. About his narrow waist was a wide black belt, and a mace hung there for later use. A holy symbol of their God dangled from about his neck, and his beard flowed down his chest like a river of snow. With steel-gray eyes he regarded the others from beneath thick, bushy eyebrows.

At the other end of the table sat Azeron Whitecloak, his posture erect and proper as he clasped white-gloved hands together and rested them upon the edge of the table. To his right was Borys Varowyn, a paladin like Azeron and stern warrior of justice. He was also the greatest of the Healers amongst the Warrior-Clerics, and fought only with a long, iron-shod wooden staff. His hair was a fine blond, almost white, much like Whitecloak's; but pulled back in a ponytail. His features were rather blunt and strong, and his eyes were a clear, light blue; serene and peaceful. His raiment was also of white cloths and leathers, and he glanced calmly from one warrior to the next. Beside Borys was seated Penroll, and to Penroll's left sat Brother Briar who had been brought here for an unknown purpose. The priest was nervous, and his sweaty palms clasped and unclasped as he fidgeted; feeling like a boy again among the stern and powerful warriors, paladins, and priests.

Osric Quickblade, Captain of the city's guard, was seated across from Borys. His hair gray and receding, yet it still fell in its thin clumps to his broad shoulders. His face was weathered and stern for he had spent much of his life as a sell-sword and adventurer before settling down. His trusted sword, Wyrm-Biter, lay belted to his side and he tugged absent-mindedly upon his neatly-trimmed beard. To his right was Kensylvar, Warden of these lands. Garbed in his dark green cloak, he was one of the few wilderness-warriors dubbed a Ranger. He sat quiet and motionless within his cloak; turning brilliant emerald eyes over the others. The High King, who ruled from distant Irisfall, had assigned the position to Kensylvar after the Ranger had, supposedly, closed a gate to some Infernal region of the Damned with his small band of rangers and Elven allies; one of each which was seated beside him.

Alonsus remained silent a moment longer, his eyes shining with acceptance of his fate yet he stood in defiance of it, and would till the very last. 'It is good to see you all here… Some of you I deem friend, others I deem enemy but we are all united here for the possessing of a common foe. Azeron...?' The High Priest motioned to the paladin with a withered hand before easing into the high-backed chair. With a curteous nod he rose, his white cloak billowing gently with the motion like a soft cloud of cotton. His sharp features still shown with piety, but his expression was grim, and leaning forward he spoke in earnest.

'Aye, it is indeed good to see that you have all heeded the Summons. For we must stand as one against this enemy if we are to stand at all.' He paused for a brief breath, and blinking slowly as if to rid his eyes of some dust particle, he continued. 'An Army of Darkness... legions of Demons.. approaches. Our scouts and emissaries of Daer'Norn and that neighboring Kingdom's towns and cities have returned with tales of such a tide of evil creatures. I know not who masterminds this war, but they are making a bee-line straight for us, decimating all that stand in their path.'

As Azeron relayed this knowledge, many faces lost color and went pale. A few eyes widened while others gripped tightly to the arms of their chairs. A few soft gasps and murmurs of an ill-coming fate flit about from mouth to mouth, and raising a gloved hand for silence, Whitecloak continued when attentions were returned to him.

'Our fate is not for us to decide... We may survive, we may not. But we will not hand victory to the Demonic Hordes. We will stand, and stand strong against them.'

With a soft, resigned sigh Borys got to his feet, and peered down at Azeron, his brother in arms and spirit, from his only slightly loftier height. 'The center of the village has always been our most defensible position and most difficult to breach, although we have no battlements nor moats. To send the villagers out now to another town is to lead them to the slaughter... thus it is my belief that we bring all who will come into the inner sanctuaries of this church.'

At this Osric snarled and pounded the table to draw the attentions of the others. 'It is all well and good to talk of protecting the villagers, but inside these walls... our rations will not last long enough, and we will all die under siege!'

Borys' eyes flashed with righteous anger and his tone took an unmistakably angry edge. 'You would let innocents die?!?'

'If it means giving us a better chance of withstanding... and, Gods willing, winning out this attack, then yes.' His response was icy cold and reptilian as he leaned back in his seat. Borys, his rage growing, opened his mouth to speak but sat down and held his tongue with a single glance from the now-standing High Priest.

'We must not fight amongst ourselves!' he bellowed, and shook his fist in the air. 'Back to more important matters.. the townsfolk shall be granted protection should they wish it, inside these walls..' He ignored Osric's muttered reply and went on. 'I appoint Azeron in command of the soldiers that owe allegiance to this Church. Borys Varowyn shall oversee the tending of the sick and wounded, while our good Osric, Kensylvar and his friends..' The cloaked Ranger and his friends only remained silent as their role was spoken of, offering neither protest nor support. Penroll glanced curiously at the mysterious wilderness warrior, and turned away as the hard green eyes of the other met his.

'Shall see to the organization of those soldiers that serve only the town. Brother Briar shall be in charge of this Church, alongside me... and Penroll, you shall follow Azeron into battle as his assistant.'

Penroll turned his even gaze to the aged High Priest, and was startled at the look in his eyes. Alonsus held a deep sorrow as he held the younger paladin's eyes for a few moments, and then turned back to the others.

'I have also learned that the leader of this attack force is none other than he who commanded the Signet Ring, Valkadesh.'

Eyes widened at the mention of the demon's name, and a deathly pall hung about the air like a shadow for a moment, and none spoke, until it then passed on. Penroll leaned back, pressing his knuckles into his sharp chin as he thought to his all too recent fight with the Demon, remembering the enemy's shrieks of unholy rage and power as their battle lasted for what felt like an eternity.

'But most important of all...' Alonsus's voice was now a soft, almost tenuous whisper as he continued. 'I have communed with our God, and have learned that the mastermind of this attack is none other than the Demon Lord Sin'Vraal.'

If there had been surprise at the mention of Valkadesh, the mentioning of this one was greeted with great shock. Many were stunned, and others shook their heads grimly.

Penroll searched the faces of them all, save for the hidden visage of the Ranger, before uttering boldly. 'Who is this Sin'Vraal, to hold such fear over you like an executioner's axe? I have fought Valkadesh, matched his seething hatred and power… and he is a terrible foe. Surely, this one can be no worse.'

At this Kensylar spoke in a deep yet strained tone, his hood raising slightly as his gleaming emerald eyes once more locked with Penroll's and the paladin yearned to be free of those searching, piercing eyes. Yet could not turn away, for the Ranger had the majesty of a King in his silence. 'You are young yet, despite your arrogant claims. I have seen Valkadesh, and I have fought against Sin'Vraal, and I can tell you that he is the greater foe. Vraal is a master manipulator and many powers of Darkness are at his command. He is a Demon Lord, a greater being among those fell, hellish creatures that were cast down from Heaven so long ago. He is Lord of the Seventh of the Nine Infernal Kingdoms, and serves the One below directly.' Kensylvar reached up and drew back his hood, revealing his dark-skinned and once fair face to be nothing but a shredded network of hideous, twisted and foul scars. 'Twas Vraal who took my face, and very nearly my soul.. And you would be wise to fear him if he does indeed lead this attack. He can see into your dreams, and turn them against you...' Quickly he drew up his hood and uttered with an arctic tone. 'You know not of which you speak. Sin'Vraal is a powerful foe.'

The Council sat in silence after the cold outburst from the disfigured ranger, and Penroll finally managed to turn away as his hand strayed to the comforting hilt of Deliverance at his side. The voices of the others fell away into nothingness as his thoughts turned back to Elysia, and their marriage tomorrow evening.

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