Demzan
He had had three brothers and a sister. All had amounted to great things except for his ... his thoughts trailed off. His sister had grown gorgeous and graceful and had married a highborn Lordling. His eldest brother, Bavolan, had died a gallant death as a famed knight in a lost battle. Trevan had risen to become second-in-command — a trusted counsellor to Arthur, and Demzan himself had come to be known as the skin-changer. People tremored on the sound of his name and dropped unconscious on his scowl. He was a man dreaded times more than loved, unlike Trevan. He had made a perception of an unrelenting assassin who stalked you till his prey's grave. Once he caught the scent of his prey, the prey would find no escape, except death, and would be assassinated, though by human body or animal that could not be said. He led the Skin-changer Brotherhood. He had never failed nor disappointed anyone except for that one time ... his youngest brother had been abducted and his feet and unknown and it had been his fault. He hadn't known it was a lie but, he had been so gullible back then; yet ...
His head ached and he returned to his wolf body to change his mind. The greenery ended and after a stunning twilight followed a depressing night. He had sped passed the lush green plains and had entered a forest. Which? Didn't matter. He metamorphosed back to his human form and decided to slump on a tree.
The tree was one among many in this small forest whose name he knew not. He was but a few miles from the Fort Wingbearer, which perched upon a valley's precipice. He had arrived at Lopelanzec almost two weeks ago and had delivered the information. He had learned from Arthur that his brother Trevan had left for a mission to Wingbearer. Arthur had advised him to follow as the mission was quite deadly. So, if Trevan were to need any help he was nearby. Though Trevan did not know that he was nearby.
He let those scattered thoughts pass out of his mind. In the silence, fond memories of his childhood returned to him: he, Trevan, Merisa and Laura had been fostered at the Eye. He remembered the memories of naive bantering with Merisa. They had a challenge still going on: who was the better fighter? Every time they met; they would have a duel without fail. With these thoughts, his mind fluttered to Laura: her death and his hopes of marrying her. It had been his greatest and only mistake! It had been his fault to hope that something would happen between him and Merisa. He had noble blood, but it was lowly, at least not as high as Arthur's. His duel with Arthur had been his biggest embarrassment; he had learnt his place at that moment, his airy world torn down. At that moment, he had made the error of swearing to loneliness.
He shrugged to himself and thought appallingly, there is no purpose on delving on the past rather let me get some sleep.
In his dreams, he slipped back into a wolf. The wolf, vile and gided, in penitence, ran wildly through the dark and murky woods. Everything around here was evil!
The wolf started panting but still could not even glimpse an end to this folly. The trees were the same, the scenery monotone. It felt he was in an eternal orbit of ... yeah! These were the haunted forest, who started nowhere, ended nowhere but, always somehow lead us to our worst fears! He wanted to escape, scamper from this abyss, but he couldn't, no more than a stone could float. He had to let the nightmare run its course. With nothing to think his mind slowly drifted to his pensive thoughts of his iniquitous deeds. Grrrr! He snapped back from his dark and unjust world. The wolf had saved him. He had to be more solicitous or else he would fall into a well he wouldn't be able to climb out of. He observed his vicinity and felt something awry here. His fur stood up and when he glanced far ahead there were no woods. Yet, the wolf kept on going ahead to what seemed his ultimate fate. He felt the heat rising, heard oil hissing, fire crackling and mourning of the dying. The wolf came to a stop and suddenly ahead the land fell in a steep slope and rose again to make a valley. This was strange. What he saw was stranger or more close to bizarre. This was no ordinary valley but one that burned. A figure fell out of nowhere and screamed so loud that it might have burst its own lungs. He tried to find from where the figure had fallen and finally made out thin hempen lines swinging in and out of the thick smoke. Soon, he could make out tiny clung to the ropes. He found a single figure creeping slowly to land while clinging to the ropes. He narrowed his eyes and with his paw wiped away a sweat bead above his brow. He focused harder, his eyes stinging from the smoke and heat. The figure finally bounced out of the fog for a fraction of second and in that time, he glimpsed the figure's face. The figure was ...
He woke up with a jerk, panting hard. He felt dizzy as if he was drunk and he was, drunk on grief and fear. He had to do something - his brother was in peril.
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Micura
The Sword of Darkness was in his hand, his cloak wavering behind him. He stormed a wide primary hallway that led to FortWingbearer's exit. The passage was lined with many two torches on the opposite walls spaced a meter away. As he bludgeoned through, every torch he passed fluttered out. It was as if the palace was paying him its respect though he knew it was the magical sword's power. Strangely the whole passage was clear, not another soul to be seen as he made his way.
His purpose was clear – he and some riders would exit from the castle's main gates to the west. Then they would make a huge circle around the castle so that they arrived on the east side of the castle but at the valley's lower side and far side. Then he and the other riders would cut down any who managed to cross the valley. For that first, he would have certain his absolute command of Wingbearer.
His mind was swarming with rage. He could think of only one strategy – he would cut down anyone who opposed him or he had any suspicions on. He meant to find many soldiers assembled near the castle's main gates. There he would become the castle's lord. If he won enough soldiers to his side he would reign if not then he would end up dead. It was a risk he had to take. Silently, he hoped the sword's power would be enough to establish his control as sweat trickled down his lush black hair and broad forehead in the chilling night.
Micura had arrived at the hallway's end and he could see the soldiers arranged near the main gate. As he was about to leave, he glimpsed the unlit passage behind him. The sight caused him to completely turn around and awe the spectacle. He had never seen the prime hallway completely dark. Yet, the sight seemed to ring a bell in his mind.
Long and flickering strands of shadow waved around in the entire hallway – floor, walls and the curved ceiling. The shadows were highlighted further by the mimicking faint, ivory-silver lines of light. The swinging motion was like a baton that waved in a conductor's hand, standing in the middle of an orchestra. Yes! The strands seemed to beat in a rhythm ... a rhythm that was quickening in pace. It was as if the castle crooned in a symphony and uncannily there were very soft clatters and rings coming from nowhere which seemed to match the light and shadow. At that moment he realised what had rung in his mind – this passage was entirely made of obsidian, though a thin cement layer had been caked over it to protect the real precious wall. It seemed all the cement had finally come down and the hall was standing in its true glamour – reflecting slightest trickles of light in mesmerising patterns and resonating melodious, enthralling tunes from the tiny shifts in the metres wide pillars of obsidian. He knew what had rung in his mind earlier – the name of the castle. The Palace of Obsidian Halls.
Still entranced, he stumbled into the patch of dirt before the main gates where a big chunk of the army stood. They were waiting for his command. A raised platform stood to the right and Micura climbed to its top. He focused his eyes and grim undertones lined his face. Orwen's death came back to him. He could barely control the rage.
The cloak rippled behind him. He began with a soft tone, "Warriors of Wingbearer, Rulerstead took Alicia. We did nothing. Lopelanzec today slaughtered your lord, my brother-like best-friend, Orwen. What do we do? Nothing? No, we retort! They may have stabbed our heart but we will shred them to pieces. We will make rivers run red with their blood! The castle is known as The Palace of Obsidian Halls because the halls are made of obsidian, the passages are made of obsidian, the palace is made of obsidian but most importantly our hearts are made of obsidian. Brothers and Sisters, we are not brave warriors, tough warriors, veteran warriors. We are the Obsidian Warriors!" With that, he unsheathed his Sword of Darkness and the sword was covered in a sphere of oblivion. Yet, the sword rang when it brushed against the sheath. He raised his sword and roared. Tens of thousands of swords rose and roars swarmed the midnight sky.
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Trevan
He leapt off the rope line and landed on the muddy ground, every bone and fibre of his body exhausted. The smell of ash, cinders, blood and above all - death was suffocating and he wanted to escape more than anything from, Fort Wingbearer, murder, butchery, politics, everything! Using his last grain of energy he peeped up in hope to glimpse his getaway. He gazed at the woods ahead - wet and glistening with an eerie, silver hue against the pitch-black, starless night sky which had a speck of dawn within it. He had finally arrived at the ground. Every moment on the rope he had felt like his last breath and he had nearly fallen. He had almost fallen midway when a bone-jarring roar had risen behind him from the Fort Wingbearer.
From his peripheral vision, he could glimpse the midnight-black fort of Wingbearer ringing with chaos. The castle sheened with an eerie glow upon the twinkling dark canvas that the fort dwarfed. It was an obsidian pearl seated upon the crowning arches of golden fire that ringed the jewel. Like the valley, the flames guarded the crown apex with uncanny ferocity. The sight was one of awe and dread. Yet, it was nothing but a crown of onyx, an emblem of martyrdom to Trevan's eyes. At that moment he understood why Fort Wingbearer was named the Palace of Obsidian Halls.
His senses jumped as he heard the clipetty-clipetty-clop din of a horse's hooves. He saw a shadow fall on the glimmering, green grass and trees. The odour of honour, duty and dusky formality assaulted his nose. His stomach churned, heart squeezed and toes tingled as he lay lifelessly in fear and queer lust for what he knew was forthcoming - his death! A sudden spatial reminder came to him and he remembered he was just inches from a precipice. His heart's squeezed further as he imagined himself plummeting into the fiery abyss below. His head crashed back into the ground as he tasted his own slick, salty tears.
Realisation dawned on him. Suddenly, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live; to live for his lord and his brother Demzan and any good left in the world. A new strength surged through his veins, energy brimming his limited well of stamina.
He got up with a roar unsheathing and swinging his sword swiftly from hip to shoulder, ready to cut to pieces any enemy fate threw on him. He readied himself for combat from any danger, not wasting much of his newfound energy surge.
His blade's hilt was scorching and made his palms slept like a thunderstorm. He could smell the repugnant fumes of ash, molten flesh and fire and hear the agonised screams of burning men. He was also aware of the swelling hoofbeats and the sticky, heavy drop racing down his forehead and cheek to arrive onto his tongue as he tasted the rancid, lemon-like sweat bead. His blade shimmered a ruddy scarlet, lighting up his surroundings. He could hear the rider approach. His grip tightened against the slick and sweltering hilt. His heartbeat quickened. The rider was 20 feet away, 10 feet, 5, 3...
The rider could have ridden over him but rather it dismounted, and that would have been his end. He could sense that the rider was a man of honour. Trevan charged at him wielding his two-handed great-sword with a great burden. The rider simply swung round his sword and blocked Trevan's fatal stab at his gut. The sword already seemed to Trevan like a 50 pounds sack. The rider tossed his sword in the air and caught it again while detaching and donning his shield on his left hand, all at once. Trevan's back was yet to the ablaze ravine. The rider then started launching one stroke after the other, constantly driving Trevan backwards. Trevan was barely a foot away from his fall and couldn't even raise his sword while the rider should no slackening.
The rider delivered a lethal, hard blow to Trevan side. Blood started plummeting out of the deep gash. The rider raised his sword again to split Trevan's chest. It was met with a weak, exhausted counter strike. Trevan knew his end had come. He knew there was no hope left; next time he wouldn't be able to lift his sword or might trip over the edge and fall into the cookfire. The rider's shield banged against his ribs, driving the breath out of him. His feet went beneath him as he collapsed to the ground and mud and asphalt filled his mouth. He was merely a step away from the precipice. He was based on his head by the shield as he was pushed another step behind. Only the slightest shove would mean his death.
The rider smirked and announced, "Your treacherous life comes to an end by the noble hands of Lord Micura." The mystical sword warped all light around it, creating flapping strands of tangible shadows. Trevan felt warmth on his side and glimpsed at the pool of blood that had oozed out. His eyes felt heavy. His vision darkened as black spots started to appear everywhere. His eyelids felt heavy. He could only see one, single spot - Lord Micura with his sword raised over his head and mouth wide open, roaring his triumph. Slowly that to faded into the unending darkness. He heard nothing, tasted nothing, felt nothing. Nothing but warmth and warmth and warmth.
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