#we lived in the fertile crest together and were star crossed lovers

[airsignaura]

when was the last time you got laid?

7500 BC

[korkrunchcereal]

Dawn

Night falls, and Cyvar Wrenth must break his oath to fulfill another. Though it is dark out he does not need torchlight, for he knows the castle’s ground as if his own hands. Besides; the glow beyond the walls gave plenty enough light. The castle has been abandoned save for twenty-one men and women, Calithielwen and of course himself. The others have fled. Part of Cyvar wishes for such freedom of duty; to have a choice.

But he’s never had a choice.

The air is damp here, far below the castle. There is no torchlight, for it is an area forbidden to all but the lords of the Castle and Cyvar. He is grim faced as he marches down the hall he has walked many times. He is not alone this time, however. Twenty footsteps echo behind him, each step a desecration of sanctity and oath. He does not care they walk these parts, just as he does not care they witness him open the locks of the treasury.

Aralan. Arasa. Balor. Cyena. Aphora. Nerus. Forya. Malwen. Varrigan. Illana. Saiyena. Caliban. Caledor. Silora. Droman. Argelos. Vira. Gilloux. Jasara. Tyran. They are names he puts into memory; names he has instructed the last member Tal-Euorva to remember.

Names that were doomed to die.

The treasury holds the wealth of house Indaris, though it is smaller than he remembers. His master has used much coin to buy his house’s protection and freedom, though to no avail. He does not worry for gold, however. He is after something more practical for the situation. He leads the doomed like a pied piper, the twenty uncaring of the vast wealth around them. They are Cyvar’s best amidst the knights Indaris commanded, and his heart breaks with each of their steps.

The treasury held more than gold. It held the arms and armaments of lords and heroes of the house long dead. The great Arakan bow, the sword of Balador, Hallera’s shield; the armory of kings now given to soldiers. Cyvar breaks his oath to guard the treasures from unworthy hands, for he must uphold his vow to protect Calithielwen. He must buy her time to live.

Even if it must cost them their lives.

The twenty arm themselves. Silora is the best shot, so she takes the Arakan bow. It hums as she grabs it, as if accepting its user. He notices her smile, and the pride in Tyran's eyes. They were to have a son, they told Cyvar once. One day, when the world was not so mad and cruel. The twins Droman and Argelos grab duel swords, for their swordplay is liken unto a dance. Varrigan, mightiest of the twenty dons the plates of Viraxon Indaris, for the lord had been a big man of well reputed strength. Cyvar knows Varrigan will hold until the end of creation, should he command such. He was always loyal, that way. Varrigan pats his chest, grinning wide as he laughs. Light, Cyvar would miss that about him.

They are armed now, but Cyvar needs a sword. He has his dagger strapped to his waist yet needs something more. He bids them a moment and retreats further into the treasury. His lordship kept many trophies from battle, including weapons. Perhaps greatest and most cursed of all was the demon blade he recovered, from a great and terrible power. Aurelian had never explained what happened, only that he had retrieved a shard of a mighty demon’s sword on the Broken Shore and had forged it into a weapon. He rarely used it for he preferred his ancestral runeblade, and in truth Cyvar believes his lordship fears the weapon.

Cyvar has no such fear as he grabs it. There is a faint whisper on the edge of his ear, like a wisp of smoke yet he ignores it. He has other things to focus on. He emerges from the back, the twenty armed and armored. They look like the heroes of old. Cyvar does not say it, but they all know it. They will all die like them, too. He nods to them and leads them out, pausing only to seal the treasury once more. Only the blood of an Indaris can open the seal, or one who is blood bound. He ensures no one may loot the Indaris fortune once he dies.

The air is thick as he ascends; thick with smoke and some other foul-smelling miasma. He bares it no heed though someone coughs behind him. The courtyard is empty and the sight haunts Cyvar. Dark are the times when the laughter of visiting nobles and courtiers is gone. Even the birds have fled, away from the terrible danger that has come. He looks up to the orange glow amidst the moonlight, eyes red. He has not slept in some time for he is too worried. They reach the ramparts and ascend. Higher and higher they travel and as they break the crest they see a world on fire.

The countryside is burning.

In the distance, Cyvar sees thick plumes of smoke rising from the inferno that had been Rivervale. He frowns in sadness, for he knows the people there. Most are safe, but their homes are gone. Where will Mila make her bread, he wonders. His eyes trail across the land, towards the distant Illonian Plains. There is no fires there yet though he knows it is only a matter of time.

Even if the Elves survive, the land will be devastated. The loss of the fertile Illonian Plains will hit the people of the Crescent Hill hard. He suspects there will be famine, though such calamity will be rife across the kingdom. Local gangs will rise in power and there will be banditry, and with the armies depleted there will be little that can stop them. In that he is thankful to die, for he will not have to see the land he has sworn to protect be consumed in madness.

Yet he is not dead yet. He looks out to the horizon and sees no sign of the Blackbloods. He has not seen them before but knows what to expect. They are monsters and nightmares given flesh, and they are doom. His heart sank when he heard of the defeat at the Tempest pass. Ceana Greyflame was a good woman and a good stabilizer in the otherwise tumultuous politics of the Coast. Without her, the province will erupt into chaos he fears.

“Well, they’re not here yet.” Cyvar calls out to the others. They will be soon, though.

“Hear that Aphora?” Malwen turns to face the woman, his face alight in amusement. “We got time to hear my singing one last time.”

“Gods I’d rather die than here you sing.” Aphora responds. It brings a round of laughing, including from Malwen. Nevertheless one of the party, Caliban, disappears back down the spiral stairs. The rest find various places to sit whether it be against the ramparts or on barrels pulled forth from the armory. Gilloux leans against a ballista he had helped repair that very day with arms crossed. It was one of the several artillery pieces along the wall.

Too few.

It was all too few.

The group begins to chat amongst themselves, though Cyvar pays little attention. He continues to glance out beyond the walls for any sign of the Blackbloods. He picks up some of the things they say and cannot help but smile, though it does not reach his eyes. Silora and Tyran had finally decided on a name for a child. Sirowan if it were to be a male, and Mallera if a woman. Caledor argues the child should be named after him, and offers Tyran a swig of his wine skin as a bribe.

The twenty begin to pass around various flasks and skins with much joy and cheering as they dare each other to drink more and more. Cyvar does not interfere. He cannot deny this small comfort to them. Besides, he knows they will not drink to stupor. Not like his lordship, anyways. Light he regrets not telling Aurelian to ease on the wine. The drink will kill him one day. In truth, Cyvar regrets a great many things and not just about Aurelian.

His thoughts turn to his son, Vamiran. He hasn’t seen the boy in over a year now. Not since…well, not since Cyvar chose duty over family. He had never been a great father to Vamiran. In truth, he was more a father to Aurelian than his own son though he needed to be. He needed to do whatever he could to ensure Aurelian would never end up like Arcannon. He’s failed in that, however. Failed in so many ways. He hopes Vamiran and Aurelian will forgive him.

Caliban returns bearing with him a lute. They all cheer, and ask he play a song. They cannot decide whether to play something sad, or happy. Caliban argues that there will be enough sadness by morning, and so chooses a song he wrote that he considers romantic. He explains it is about two lovers forever chasing one another. It is a song Cyvar recognizes as Caliban sing, his voice soft with the lute. He’s heard it before. The others recognize it too and join in, adding their voices.

The moon calls, forevermore

She bid me come embrace her light

I chase and chase across the stars

Only for the briefest sight

 The sun calls, forevermore

Across the world I see his rays

I chase and chase across the stars

Grasping for the fire’s blaze

 The moon calls, forevermore

She bid me come into her gaze

I chase and chase across the stars

I yearn and grasp for all my days

 The sun calls, forevermore

So close I feel the burning heat

I chase and chase across the stars

Our touch alas so ever fleet

 The moon and sun, forevermore

Together they are bound as one

They’ve chased and chased across the stars

In moments few though they are done

The group applauds Caliban, whistling and cheering. Cyvar watches Illana and Saiyena inch closer, hands placed together now though none but he see it yet. He looks away, taking a deep breath as a sudden wave of guilt floods him. Why were they all so damn loyal? They could have said no to this task; could have continue to lead their lives. They should be, damn it. Instead they made him proud. They did not hesitate when he asked them to die for House Indaris.

What had the house truly ever done to them, to earn such loyalty? What had Aurelian done to garner such devotion? Cyvar was unsure. Perhaps Aurelian knew of Jasara’s debts and threatened to expose her. Perhaps he knew that Caledor was the paramour of no less than three noble women. Perhaps he knew Nerus and Forya had been petty criminals before Cyvar had found them. Perhaps he knew all of this…and perhaps he didn’t.

The answer Cyvar surmises is much simpler. They agreed to his suicide task because they, like him, had no choice. They were duty bound to themselves. To be a knight of Indaris was to uphold great virtues and dedication, and that life shaped them…made them who they are today. Though, what did it actually make them, as they sang to one another now?

Dead men.

His thoughts are grim, and Cyvar tries to think of something else. He looks out beyond the ramparts, arms folding. He stops, going silent and still. He swears he sees movement at the edge of the twin bridges. He cannot hear them, for the sound of running water from the river Sin’dal far below is strong thanks to the winter’s run off and the merrymaking on the ramparts is loud.

“Cyvar?” He hears one call. He does not answer, instead narrowing his eyes. He has begun to grow old, but his eyesight is sharp yet. There it is again, and now he realizes. His eyes widen, waving a hand to them. Immediately their chattering ceases. There is the sound of armor shifting and plate upon stone as the twenty spread upon the walls. He sees them now.

The Blackbloods. Death has come for them at last.

From here they looked to be a writhing mass of flesh without form, though he wonders how far from the truth he really is. He looks to his left and right, moving towards the gate. Torches and braziers are lit and illuminate the ramparts. Gilloux, Vira and Aralan have each taken to a ballista. The rest have various forms of ranged weapons in hand, though the Arakan bow in Silora’s glows like starlight. Overhead the sky roars in rage as thunder booms. The Blackbloods have brought a storm with them, it seems.

“Gilloux!” Cyvar shouts. “Is the Bridge in position?”

“Yes, sire! On your command.” Good. Aurelian would skin Cyvar for it, but Cyvar will be a dead man by then anyways. Near two years ago now, there had been a ploy to usurp House Indaris and destroy the Gilded Lands. Though the plot was stopped, there had been leftover…elements from it. Cyvar had ensured such was collected and stored away in secret beneath the castle. That morning, he had brought forth the traitorous Moonsworn’s final ‘gift’.

Closer now the Blackbloods draw, and lightning cracks against the sky. Briefly they are illuminated by its light, and Cyvar pales. He was not wrong to assume them a writhing mass of flesh. Hundreds, nay perhaps thousands of bodies pressed against each other, squeezing across the great bridges that arched over the river Sin’dal. They came in all shapes and sizes, howling and roaring with inhuman voices. Another flash of light, and Cyvar can make out now elves among them. One seemed different from the others, hovering over the mob of monsters.

“Gods they’re ugly.” Balor mutters. He cranes his neck, shouting down the line. “Hey Arasa! Maybe you can finally find a man among this lot!”

“Fuck off!” Arasa’s response brings a chorus of laughter, though not from Cyvar. His eyes narrow, hand gripped tight around the sword. It illuminates his features with a sickly fel glow. It highlights the anger drawn in hard lines on his face. He can hear it whispering to him. It promises him power, and a thousand riches he can never have.

He ignores it, as he no doubt will have to throughout the night. He knows he dies this evening, but he cannot die quick nor can the others. They must buy time for Tal-Euorva to escort Calithiel to safety, to the southwest. He has a contact in Mistborn, and a ship able to carry her away. She argued against it, even trying to fight it. Cyvar could not fail Aurelian in this, and so has her bound. He trusts Tal-Eurova with his life and knows she will not fail him.

He does not need the lightning to see them now. He picks out indescribable shapes moving in jarring motions. He sees maws biting at the air and howling for blood. He smells the foul stench of decay and rot, and it drives him to gag. They’re close now. Just a few more steps…

Closer…

Closer…

…closer…

“Now!” Cyvar commands. In an instant the three-ballista fire, sending large bolts into the horde. They cannot miss so great is the Blackblood’s numbers, and their foul cries of agony reward the Indaris soldiers. They bray and howl, picking up their pace as they make for the gate. They have no siege equipment nor ranged weapons so far as Cyvar sees. Then he hears it.

It is quiet at first, drowned out by the whispers of his sword. Yet it grows beyond that, and further still echoes across the ramparts. It is ugly in sound and Cyvar recognizes not the words, but the meaning. It has become a chant among the Blackbloods, and Cyvar picks out a small cabal of void elves amidst their numbers. A faint mist rises from the horde in a sickly pale purple, and it lashes out at the castle. To the surprise of the void elves, it dissolves mere feet away.

The castle is old, and Cyvar’s twenty are not the only defenses it possesses. It was built long ago, in the dawning of the Quel’dorei civilization. The walls hold stones as old as the Gilded Lands itself and carry ancient secrets few now possess or remember. Cyvar watched as they tried to conjure another spell only for that one to also be dispelled. At that he smiled, for he knew they were robbed a key element in their attack. The small victory was fleeting however, for they yet held numbers unending. The Blackbloods spanned the length of the great stonework that bridged the castle to the rest of the Crescent Hills.

It was time.

“Silora, now!” Dutifully she obeys and nocks her arrow. She releases the breath she was holding and lets the arrow fly. It catches fire midway through the air, though it does not land on the Blackbloods. No it instead lands upon a spot near the bridge and as it hits sparks shoot skyward. The sparks moved fast, travelling in a line and disappearing from sight as it dips below the bridge. Moments later, the world exploded.

The bridges, which were older than any living creature in Quel’thalas, was consumed in an inferno. Stones were sent flying through the air in a massive explosion that rocked the very castle itself. Cyvar grabs the ledge, steadying himself. Hundreds if not thousands are eviscerated in moments as Moonsworn’s last gift was revealed. Though Moonsworn had failed to blow Aurelian up with gunpowder in his coup, Cyvar had collected it and stored it away. The Indaris house had always been traditionalists, but Cyvar was more…practical. After all, gunpowder was both rare and valuable and that much would prove useful as he just saw.

The sound was deafening, and no doubt was heard for miles away. Plumes of ash rose to the night sky, and as the smoke began to clear the full extent of the damage was clear. The bridges, built in the time of the Gilded Lands founding, had been reduced to mostly rubble with great yawning holes replacing the majority of the stonework. Cyvar did not have enough gunpowder to completely destroy both however, and so small paths yet remained across. The explosion had slain a great chunk of the Blackbloods though, and those that did not die from the explosion itself fell far into the roaring waters below to drown. Cyvar takes solace in this with a grim smile. The others cheer loudly, their voices proud.

The Blackbloods are quick to recuperate, unfazed by the explosion. Without hesitation they charge once more, severely reduced in number but nevertheless hungry for bloodshed. Now they were within range of bows, and a volley of arrows were unleashed. Deadliest was Silora, for she nocked arrow after arrow in rapid succession. The tip burned with a fierce glow upon release and shined like starlight when it arced across the sky. As it rained upon the heads of the Blackbloods it became a shower of meteors, exploding with force in a hail of lights. And so each arrow was worth five, and she reaped a grim harvest. Further still the ballista still fire and bring woe upon the enemy.

Yet beneath this death the Blackbloods mindlessly charged, uncaring of their casualties. Cyvar briefly wonders what foul force gives them such strength. What evil could exist that reinforces such bitter and senseless hatred? He is a man of little faith, though this makes him question his beliefs. Surely there are gods in this world and some cruel to give this madness shape.

“Barrels!” Cyvar bends down, grabbing a barrel with a grunt. The contents slosh inside with the motion, betraying it to be liquid. Slowly he places it on the rampart, looking down the wall’s length to see much the same from others. Varrigan held two with ease, a grim smile on his face like that of a butcher spotting a choice meat. He waits until they are just before the walls.

With a roar he pushes the barrel, and the others follow suit. They crash far below to the ground, spraying their contents across both stone and monster. As they react, Cyvar grabs a nearby torch and drops it over the edge. He watches with worry as the flames are nearly snuffed out by the fall, though hold true. As it touches the liquid, the world erupts in fire.

Great flames rise high from the liquid for it was oil and Cyvar had learned from his spies in the evacuation that the Blackbloods feared fire. The creatures hissed and cried out as their flesh burned. Blackened oily skin oozed off of bone from the intensity, and soon the monsters hesitated in their attack. In response more barrels were dropped, spreading the fire further. Cyvar watches as Varrigan launches one deep into the ranks of the Blackbloods amidst a group of the Void Elves, an arrow lit with flames swiftly chasing it. Moments later the group was set ablaze, and as they panicked and ran they spread the flames further.

A woman stepped forward, unphased by the flames. Cyvar saw her earlier amidst the horde, and now assumes she leads the host. An arrow crashes into her, only to rebound off of an invisible force. The flames die out in her presence, fading as she steps through. She looks up, her face hidden by a crimson veil. Though Cyvar does not see them, he knows her eyes are upon him. Casually, she extends an arm out, and the last of the fire is snuffed out.

“Focus that woman!” Arrowfire rains down upon her, though it still rebounds. She is too close for the ballista fire, and her opening allows the Blackbloods to charge the walls once more. Cyvar curses as he reaches for barrel no longer there. They were out of oil. Light, they were so few. So few…

So few.

Cyvar shakes his head, realizing the sword was whispering to him once more. He leans over the rampart now, cursing. The Blackbloods were hammering at the gate, each blow a resounding thud that seemed to reverberate through the stones. Worst still, they had reached the walls and climbed over each other to reach the top. It was a frenzy of mindless movement as they clawed at one another, all the while arrows rained down on them.

To his horror, Cyvar realizes the Blackbloods were getting closer. In their haste, they had formed a pile to climb and the dead aided in its growth. Slowly they would reach the top and pour over the walls like a tide. They had slain many by now. Cyvar might guess hundreds even, though of that he’s not certain. It was hard to tell in the darkness what was dead and what simply looked dead.

“I’m out of arrows!” Nerus calls in panic.

“Me too.”

“Aye, same.”

“As am I!” Each call sends a chill down Cyvar’s spine. He knows that the ballista are running low too by now, and the horde is still great. Damn Aurelian for emptying the castle of most of its soldiers. Cyvar could do great things with two hundred men, but twenty? Such limits were being tested moment by moment. They needed to hold.

“Draw swords! Though you will see no dawn beyond this day, hear no child’s laughter or lover’s sweet coos you will be forever remembered. Your names will be carved into the annals of history as the brave twenty that stood against the endless tides of darkness. Fight until your swords shatter! Fight until your bodies break! Fight until the world’s ending! Long live house Indaris!”

“Long live house Indaris!”

A head peeked over the rampart only to be separated from its shoulders by Cyvar. His sword seemed to sing with glee at the bloodshed, pulsing briefly. Another rose, and another and soon the Blackbloods had reached the ramparts. Now the fighting had truly begun. Hear now the slaughter, for Cyvar’s twenty brought low foe after foe. Cyvar himself brought death and ruin with each strike for his blade was hungry for battle as was he.

He stands his ground as more rise over the wall, clawing and grabbing at him. His armor is thick and enchanted, and their blows are futile. His are not, and each cleaves a Blackblood in twain. The black ichor that is their blood sprays across his body, but he does not stop. The others fight with equal fury, and it is not until the fighting has gone on for some time that the first one falls.

Cyvar does not see Aralan’s death at first. He is too busy fighting for his life. He hears his death throes, for Aralan cries out in rage and pain as he is torn to pieces by a great many claws. Cyvar glances over and witnesses Aralan thrust his sword into his killer’s skull, taking one more with him before he succumbs to his wounds. Cyvar mutters a quiet prayer for the man, though his attention is taken away once again.

The bodies pile up around them. First they are to the ankles, and then the knees. They are running out of room to swing their weapons, though the elves do not stop. They fight with wild fury and like a cornered beast do not go quietly to their deaths. The stones shake beneath them as the Blackbloods pound against the gate in great apocalyptic crashes. The blows reverberate to the bone.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Forya is next to die. As he swings down upon a misshapen creature with two heads, several more pounce upon him. He slips from the spilled blood and stumbles over the bodies he has made. Cyvar hears his scream as he falls over the rampart into the horde of Blackbloods. It lasts only seconds before it is silenced. Cyvar grieves but he cannot stop to pay respects to the man he had personally trained.

Slowly, the elves are being pushed back step by gruesome step. Each inch given was paid for in blood, but the Blackbloods had plenty of blood to give. Malwen falls and before he can rise he is buried beneath the weight of numbers. Cyvar does not know if the man was ripped to shreds or suffocated, but Malwen does not rise. They are at the edge of the wall now and are running out of options.

“Clear a path to the stairs! The wall is lost, we reinforce in the courtyard!” Cyvar is unsure if his command is heard over the battle at first, though soon the others move. Varrigan barrels through like a living battering ram, the plates of Viraxon Indaris shielding him from their blows. His sheer size and strength aid in pushing the blackbloods over the wall and clearing a path, and the others follow suit. Upon the opposite stairs the others are able to make it, though as Jasara begins to descend she is pulled back into the horde of teeth and claws and is seen no more.

Cyvar was left with sixteen now, as they slowly backed down the stairs. Beneath them the stone was giving way to grass, and their feet touched the courtyard. The Blackbloods in their haste strained to escape the confines of the stairs, pouring forth slowly. Varrigan is a wall and blocks the eastern stairs with his prodigious size alone. The other is held by the twins Droman and Argelos who in their dance of steel none could touch.

For the others, there is a brief respite to breath. None are without wounds, and all are tired. They cannot rest, however. They don’t have time to. The weight of numbers is too great, and Varrigan and the twins are pushed back. Argelos is too slow to dodge a blow and is gored upon the horn of some foul creature. Droman cries out in rage, slaying his brother’s attacker but it is too late. He too is slain for in his anger leaves himself open. He does not go down easy and takes a score more with him before he collapses from his wounds.

They are fifteen now.

Now the Blackbloods pour into the courtyard, trampling grass and flowers underfoot. They spread out in wild abandon across the castle’s grounds, searching for others to kill or to otherwise surround the elves. The elves fight, weapons slick in their hands with blood. For Cyvar it is easy still to hold his sword. The demon blade sung with glee on each swing, and the blood seemed only to strengthen each blow. Cyvar’s arms ached yet he kept swinging, each blow biting deeper than the last.

There was a great creaking sound, followed by a loud crash. Various eyes turned towards the gate, which had splintered and buckled under the assault. Moments later the gates exploded in a shower of wood, broken pieces swinging open. For the first time in seven thousand years, the castle was breached. Now a living tide crashed into the castle, for the whole horde could pour in now. Among them marched a company of heavily armored void elves, who spread out much as the Blackbloods had.

“Damn them!” Cyvar sees death for them all fast approaching. No, not yet. He is distracted by something out of the corner of his eye and grunts in pain as a blow strikes his chest. He is sent flying back and falls hard. He looks up to the maw of some beast ready to close around him, yet before it can a sword pierces it skull.

“Get up, Cyvar!” Varrigan extends out a hand as he spoke which Cyvar gladly accepts. “Take the others into the main hall and bar the doors. I’ll hold them whilst breath still flows in me yet.” Cyvar does not have time to respond, for Varrigan charges with a great and thunderous roar. He is likened to a giant and smashes his way through Blackblood and void elf alike. Blows rain upon him and some pierce, yet he does not stop. Behind him follows Gilloux and Aphora, charging into certain death without hesitation.

“Quickly, to the hall!” The others obey Cyvar’s command, slowly falling back. Gilloux falls and soon too does Aphora for they are overwhelmed by the number of monsters. Varrigan however remains. He stands at the gate’s remains, and with each swing brings death. The last sight Cyvar has of Varrigan is the man roaring his defiance before he is swallowed by the tide.

A fire catches somewhere on the west wing and it begins to blaze in the night. The fire illuminates the path of the party as they charge for the main door. Nerus is slow to follow and is cut off from the others. He realizes his fate and turns to buy precious seconds. They make it to the doors, swinging them open to quickly enter. Cyvar watches Nerus fall, throat torn out by vicious claws. Still bloody, his killer leaps for Cyvar. An arrow breezes past Cyvar, sailing into the monster’s eye socket and drops it. Silora steps forward, firing shot after shot with the Arakan bow.

The doors begin to close, pushed against the weight of numbers by the group. Only Silora and Cyvar do not push, for they slay any that approach. Light he is tired now. His arms ache, and he bleeds from a dozen places. He does not relent however as he must hold the door. There is little room now, and he steps back into the safety of the room. As Silora turns around to run in she stops suddenly and gasps. Cyrus looks down and sees the massive spear lodged through her chest. Blood oozes from the wound, and she falls to her knees.

“Silora!” Tyran pushed his way forward, reaching for her. She weakly reaches out to grab his hand, before she is pulled into the Blackbloods. “NO!” The doors slam shut. Cyvar pulls him away as he struggles to re-open the doors, while the others bar them. “Let me go Cyvar! I need to get to her!”

“She’s dead, Tyran!”

“No, she- “

“Tyran!” Cyvar shouts, holding the man. “I’m sorry.” Tyran turns to look at Cyvar before he weeps, falling against the man with a thud. He sobs openly into Cyvar’s shoulder, holding his commander tight. There is only the sound of his grief now, and it echoes in Cyvar. The others stand morose and grim, for now they were ten including Cyvar. Each loss hurt, for they were friends, siblings or lovers.

“Cyena. Take Vira and reinforce the western hall. Illana, you and Saiyena defend the east. Hold them with your lives, am I understood?” They nod and set off in silence, for there was nothing now to speak of. Cyvar watches them leave, his body aching. How many have they killed now? Most had given their lives by now, but what did they bring down with them?

Light, they must have slain thousands by now between the destruction of the bridge and their own efforts. Could the last ten keep it up? How many could they feasibly kill before they too perished? A great boom crashed against the door and drew his thoughts away. The group turned to face it with weapons drawn. Tyran pulls himself off of Cyvar, his grief turned rage. The doors will not hold long. Already it begins to splinter, and with a crash collapses.

The tide streams in, threatening to swallow the group whole. Yet like a rock they do not budge and cut down their foe with renewed vengeance. Tyran goes blood drunk, wild in his rage. A spear pierces his side, and in return he shoves his sword into his attacker’s faceplate. Nothing slows him as he cuts down foe after foe, lost in the madness of grief.

Grizzled Balor dies, pierced through the heart and falls with his dagger still stuck in an elf’s chest. He curses even as he dies, giving the enemy one last insult. His death spurs the others on to pick up the slack, and the bodies rise once more. Outside, the night has slowly begun to fade. It has been hours now that they have fought, and it takes everything they have to not collapse in exhaustion.

Caliban and Caledor die next, each falling with a score around them. The three left do not budge from their position. Each suffers from wounds and bleeds, but they do not collapse. They cannot yet, not while life flows within them yet. They know it is their final stand however, and the Blackbloods know too. They are eager for the kill, and they bite and howl in hunger.

They are two now, for in her exhaustion Arasa cannot defend herself properly. A creature that looked akin to a hound leaps upon her and bites deep. By the time it is killed it is too late for her. She swings weakly as her blood pours forth, taking one more with her before she collapses. The monsters’ numbers have been thinned greatly. By now Cyvar assumes there must be only a few hundred left. Even that would destroy the Gilded Lands however, for each town they consumed would add to their numbers until they regrew their strength.

There is a sudden stillness, as if the very air was tense. The ground shakes beneath their feet as if an earthquake, and beyond the door they watch as one of the gleaming spires collapses in on itself. The tower falls upon their position, raining stone and glass down as it caves in the roof. The duo dive away, barely avoiding the rubble. Cyvar groans as he rolls over to cough up dirt and dust, wincing in pain. He’s broken something.

He hears Tyran charge at someone in rage. There is a strange swooshing sound, and he hears a heavy clatter. He doesn’t hear Tyran again, but instead footsteps. Slowly Cyvar pulled himself up, leaning heavily upon his sword. From the rubble emerges the red veiled woman. She makes a tsk sound, extending out a hand. Something flashes in the air and before Cyvar reacts he feels something pierce his chest. He looks down in confusion at the icicle embedded in his torso. He collapses backwards, wrapping a hand around the icicle.

The woman turns away then, snapping her fingers. Blackbloods crawl over the tower ruins to kill the last elf in the room. He is wounded, they see. Whatever form of thought they hold they believe completely and utterly that Cyvar will be an easy kill. The monster leap, jaws opened wide. They think it’s an easy kill.

They are wrong.

Cyvar roars as he swings upwards, carving the beasts in twain. He cannot die like this. He refuses too. Slowly he pulls himself up as the woman turns around. The woman turns around, waving her hand again. He expects it this time, and side steps the attack. Before she can send another he’s already upon her, and she must bring a conjured dagger of ice upwards to stop the blow. She struggles to stop his attack, and steps away to let the sword crash down.

Cyvar brings the blade up as she transforms the dagger into a spear, parrying her blow with a resounding clang. He shoves her back to the doorway, and Cyvar steps over the body of Tyran whose form was nailed to the tower by a shard of ice. He does not need to see the other four to know they’re dead. He’s the last one alive. He does not grieve. He lets their deaths fuel his rage.

With anger he strikes at the woman, though the blow is clumsy, and she pushes it aside with ease. In response she thrusts her spear forward with the speed of a viper, and it pierces his shoulder. He steps back in pain and must bring his sword up to defend against one of the monsters. As he decapitates the creature the woman strikes again. Another blow lands and Cyvar knows he is doomed. He struggles to step forward, panting heavily. Light he’s tired. His sword is heavy, and his helm is stifling. Slowly he pulls his helmet off, throwing it to the side. Around him the Blackblood creatures snarled, circling like vultures for the kill.

He has a plan, though it is desperate. It will probably kill him, but he’s running low on options. He feints left and draws her attention there, before whirling on his heel to strike at her right. She is too fast however and before he lands the blow he is stopped. He winces, eyes closing briefly as he tastes blood. He doesn’t need to look to know he’s been run through. He wants to fall, but he can’t. Not yet. His eyes open, and they are alight with rage.

“This is for all the lives you’ve taken witch.” He drops his sword, and as the blade falls he grabs the dagger at his side and thrusts up. He cannot see the woman’s expression behind the veil, though suspects it is surprised. He pulls out the dagger and thrusts again and again. It is clumsy and messy as the blood spills everywhere, but it is done. She collapses, taking Cyvar with her.

"They... are too much. Vannon... I have failed you." Her voice is weak before it fades and soon, she is still. Cyvar groans as he tries to pull himself up, then uses his dagger to saw at the haft of the ice spear. He cuts through and falls back hard, spitting up blood.

“Hah…I win. I win…” He pulls himself up, looking at the remaining Blackblood creatures. They bare their teeth and howl, but do not strike. Instead they turn away and flee, back to whatever hell spawned them. Perhaps they did know fear after all on some instinctual level. After all, they lost thousands this day against a mere twenty-one. Surely on some primordial level that triggered some instinct of survival, to flee the cursed place so many had died at.

Cyvar watches them flee through the main gate with a frown. Varrigan is there, kept upright only by the slain piled to his chest. They’re all dead. All but him, though he suspects he’ll be joining them soon. He sighs as he falls back to the ground, a hand clutching his wound. They bought time for Calithiel to escape. He realizes then they did more than that. They stopped an army.

He smiles at that. Twenty-one soldiers defeated an army of unstoppable, horrific creatures. Bal-Varos always bragged his troops were the greatest in the realm. Cyvar knows that to be false. It is a hollow victory, however. He’d never hear Varrigan’s laugh again. He’d never hear Tyran and Silora brag about children they’d never get to have, or the songs of Caliban. He’d never see any of them again. He throws his head back in the dirt then pauses. He sees it upside down and with some effort he rolls to look at it. An Indaris banner lay in the dirt, trampled by the Blackbloods and torn.

“Can’t have that…can we.” Slowly he picks himself up, stumbling over to the banner. He picks it up and looks around. The storm clouds overhead have begun to fade as dawn was starting to come. There, on the ramparts. One final defiance towards the Blackbloods, who had come to take the castle and instead found death.

His journey is hard for he must walk over a great many bodies. He falls twice, barely pulling himself up each time. Sweat beads his brow and blood oozes from a dozen cuts and wounds. Light he probably looks filthy. He glances around, spotting the smoldering remains of the Indaris gardens. One of the Void Elves probably burned them out of spite. Beyond that the various gazebos and other small structure were torn down. He cranes his neck behind him and sees the ruined base of the tower that fell. It had come from the western wing. The east fared little better as great cracks ran up the length of its walls. It would cost Aurelian a fortune to rebuild.

Yet rebuild he could, thanks to Cyvar and the twenty. It would take time and money, but life would return here. They had given theirs to make sure of it. He leans on the pole of the banner as he walks by the corpses of Droman and Argelos and sighs with regret. They had been so young and so eager to join the Indaris guard. Troublemakers the both of them, they nevertheless were some of the best fighters Cyvar had. Now they were gone.

He pulls himself up the stairs, falling to his knees now. He crawls slowly, step by agonizing step over dozens of corpses. It hurts to move, but his journey is almost done. He sees light at the top of the stairs and gets back up. Just a little further now, he thinks to himself. He’s tired…so very tired.  Just a little further and then he can rest. Just a short sleep is all.

He’s on the ramparts now. He picks his way past the bodies to the gatehouse. The walls are damaged, but they still stand. The same cannot be said of the bridges, however. Great holes are scattered over the stone, and in some parts the structure has collapsed entirely. He does not care, really. With effort he pushes aside a body and finds his destination. It is a place to plant a banner, and that was precisely what Cyvar did.

He falls with it as it goes into place, collapsing on the stone. Slowly he picks himself up to a sitting position, leaning against the banner now. He sighs, head propped up by the banner. He watches the sun’s rise over the distant mountains, Its light falling upon the ruined castle and upon the slain. Here, twenty-one stood against many. Here, twenty died so that thousands could live. Light, he hopes they never forget the name of the slain.

“It is…beautiful.” He talks to no one yet speaks aloud. The fires on the horizon have died down. The sun feels good on his skin. He was starting to feel cold. Somewhere a bird chirps. Funny; he hasn’t heard birds in weeks. The sound is nice. In the distance he sees faint figures, though he cannot make them out. He’s tired, and needs sleep.

Cyvar Wrenth closes his eyes.