ritual would be complete by then, and the Ancient Beast would be imprisoned. And he wasn't going to give up so easily anyway—not after dedicating his whole life to mastering Dark magic.
There was only one Darkness, even if there were infinite shades of it. But Death that preceded it—in most cases—varied quite a bit. Celphata, the Goddess of Death and his mistress, did not approve of the methods of that degenerate Vill, who loved to torture his victims before killing them. As a result, their souls were broken upon reaching the Gray Frontier, and required much time and mending before their next incarnation. The bastard disturbed the Universal Equilibrium by his very existence, which explained why he and his adherents were hunted incessantly.
When the Master of Death, magus of dark magic and necromancy Diarten had set out on yet another campaign south, he couldn't have imagined that Erisjat, the wise and just ruler of Craedia, would ally himself with the Twice Cursed god, whose arrival in Craedia was arranged by Diarten's own pupil. The magus hadn't been blind to Belvert's intemperate lust for power, but he could never have guessed that it would drive him to betray their mistress and don the gray hood of the disavowed. By the time the necromancer had returned to Craedia, it had been too late. And he wouldn't have survived the betrayal if it hadn't been for an old servant who had sensed something rotten and had egressed his daughter to their estate in a Xantarrian suburb after leaving a note of warning for the magus.
The footpath sloped sharply upward, the ground wet and muddy from a recent downpour. The magus struggled to keep his balance and not slip as he walked. How much longer? The magus wiped his brow with his sleeve, still wet from the rain, and pressed on. Before long he reached an elevated platform, and stopped to rest. He wasn't afraid of a pursuit—the squad of legionnaires he had destroyed, deployed by the legate to catch any citizens fleeing Suonu, had provided the magus with plenty of additional, albeit inexorably waning strength. His head was throbbing from the sinister whisper that was gradually rising in intensity and volume. The magus was certain that he was going to make it. More than that, he felt that his entire life—all of his pursuits, accomplishments and failures—had been lived precisely for this path, a paltry fifty miles on foot. And he wasn't going to let it go to waste. He wasn't going to stop. The only thing he regretted was that his daughter, the only person in the world he truly loved, would never learn of her father's lot. How much longer? Who cares! I will not stop, no matter how long! Diarten took in the mighty pines that succeeded the mixed wood, and continued his uneasy trek to the Cave of Wisps.
Forewarned is forearmed. The magus had escaped Craedia, leaving behind a half a dozen corpses of the disavowed who had been sent to assassinate him. After a sleepless night in Xantarra, talking strategy with Satrap Gorm, he had led a small squad to intercept a group of missionaries serving the Twice Cursed god who had turned up in the satrapy. The magus felt a certain sense of responsibility for the hardships that had befallen his princedom, and so, after eradicating the mission of the disavowed and leaving his daughter in Gorm's custody, he'd headed straight for Suonu.
By the time he arrived, the city's mayor, Satrap Ohten, had already fallen under the degenerate god's influence. Thankfully, the spell of manipulation had been cast on Ohten in haste, and it hadn't taken Diarten too much effort to dispel it. What followed was what came to be known as the Night of the Great Bonfire, when the scumbags who had sold out to Vill were burned alive in the city square. And ten days after that momentous night, General Korg's First Legion showed up outside Suonu's walls.
As day broke, sunlight flooded in. Diarten pressed on to his destination, stumbling, muttering warding-off spells with a voice
There was only one Darkness, even if there were infinite shades of it. But Death that preceded it—in most cases—varied quite a bit. Celphata, the Goddess of Death and his mistress, did not approve of the methods of that degenerate Vill, who loved to torture his victims before killing them. As a result, their souls were broken upon reaching the Gray Frontier, and required much time and mending before their next incarnation. The bastard disturbed the Universal Equilibrium by his very existence, which explained why he and his adherents were hunted incessantly.
When the Master of Death, magus of dark magic and necromancy Diarten had set out on yet another campaign south, he couldn't have imagined that Erisjat, the wise and just ruler of Craedia, would ally himself with the Twice Cursed god, whose arrival in Craedia was arranged by Diarten's own pupil. The magus hadn't been blind to Belvert's intemperate lust for power, but he could never have guessed that it would drive him to betray their mistress and don the gray hood of the disavowed. By the time the necromancer had returned to Craedia, it had been too late. And he wouldn't have survived the betrayal if it hadn't been for an old servant who had sensed something rotten and had egressed his daughter to their estate in a Xantarrian suburb after leaving a note of warning for the magus.
The footpath sloped sharply upward, the ground wet and muddy from a recent downpour. The magus struggled to keep his balance and not slip as he walked. How much longer? The magus wiped his brow with his sleeve, still wet from the rain, and pressed on. Before long he reached an elevated platform, and stopped to rest. He wasn't afraid of a pursuit—the squad of legionnaires he had destroyed, deployed by the legate to catch any citizens fleeing Suonu, had provided the magus with plenty of additional, albeit inexorably waning strength. His head was throbbing from the sinister whisper that was gradually rising in intensity and volume. The magus was certain that he was going to make it. More than that, he felt that his entire life—all of his pursuits, accomplishments and failures—had been lived precisely for this path, a paltry fifty miles on foot. And he wasn't going to let it go to waste. He wasn't going to stop. The only thing he regretted was that his daughter, the only person in the world he truly loved, would never learn of her father's lot. How much longer? Who cares! I will not stop, no matter how long! Diarten took in the mighty pines that succeeded the mixed wood, and continued his uneasy trek to the Cave of Wisps.
Forewarned is forearmed. The magus had escaped Craedia, leaving behind a half a dozen corpses of the disavowed who had been sent to assassinate him. After a sleepless night in Xantarra, talking strategy with Satrap Gorm, he had led a small squad to intercept a group of missionaries serving the Twice Cursed god who had turned up in the satrapy. The magus felt a certain sense of responsibility for the hardships that had befallen his princedom, and so, after eradicating the mission of the disavowed and leaving his daughter in Gorm's custody, he'd headed straight for Suonu.
By the time he arrived, the city's mayor, Satrap Ohten, had already fallen under the degenerate god's influence. Thankfully, the spell of manipulation had been cast on Ohten in haste, and it hadn't taken Diarten too much effort to dispel it. What followed was what came to be known as the Night of the Great Bonfire, when the scumbags who had sold out to Vill were burned alive in the city square. And ten days after that momentous night, General Korg's First Legion showed up outside Suonu's walls.
As day broke, sunlight flooded in. Diarten pressed on to his destination, stumbling, muttering warding-off spells with a voice
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