The Cost of Loyalty- Excerpt 2

(The following takes place in the recent past. 2 years before the Twilight's Stand adventure begins. . .)

The night, always dark lights up with the fearful crash of thunderous lightning as merciless rain begins to pound down in torrents atop the sheltered and winding tower of Gode-agatha the temporary seat of power for the Viasect Superior Maur Salem, the leader of the newly formed church of man and his loyal entourage of dedicated neophytes.

A lone patrolman his heavy, blue tabard emblazoned with the scarlet wolf and symbol of 'the church of man' strides along the barely lit halls of the entrance corridor looking for anything out of place, anything unusual.

His long blue cape flutters violently upon his shoulders as a howling wind tears its way through the keep, dimming the torches upon the walls, their flames bowing low and fluttering violently before the strength of a gale force zephyr.

Alarmed, his hand goes to his sword hilt, though he does not pull his weapon, instead his eyes draw focus on the large, wooden, entrance doors of the tower. Only scant moments ago they were barred and secure, their high polished and lacquered surface gently shining in the soft light of the corridor.

Now however they lay broken and twisted, barely attached to their hinges, the man can see by the brief flares of the lightning outside that they have been dulled and warped, his first impression is that they have been burned. But upon closer inspection its almost as though they had been aged more than scorched.

His touch traces the brittle surface of the wood and a piece comes loose easily into his hand, with the gentlest squeeze the wood turns to powder and dust in his grasp.

Whatever life the wood had still preserved within it was gone now, as though it had been maturated a century in the passage of minutes.

Fear grips him, his face goes slack with it and his hand, once for his sword, now clutches frantically for a signal whistle on his belt. There was foul magic afoot; the likes of which he had never heard, nor seen.

Knowledge that sets his blood cold and his bowels loose.

The lightning flashes again and he makes out the form and face of a young boy standing beside the door to his left, a curly haired youth of six seasons, the boy’s face and hair are grey, as are his clothes, looking to all the world to be the same colour as the door the sentry was inspecting. Unable to shift or make a sound, due to his trepidation the guard merely watches silently, fearing what will happen if he moves.

The youth's glossy, wet eyes stare at him from beside the entranceway, "Are you going to save us?," asks the boy in a voice that sounds small, distant and removed, yet loud enough to be clearly heard above the storm, "We’re so cold."

Lightning illuminates the hallway and he barely makes out the child slipping away into the shadows of the corridor. Another blaze of lightning shows a horrible scene to the man, as a great beast begins to rise from the gloom behind the creaking and flapping door, a plenteous, flowing cloak moves about the fiend, blown by a wind straight from hell. Like a great snake rousing from its sleep the thing moves to its full stature while all about the voices of crying children and weeping women call out to him, begging the sentry to help them. The light from the storm fades, sinking the hall into blackness as the wind howls on.

The guard manages the slightest of whistles for help a second before a pair of blazing amber eyes appear a full eight feet above the ground and light up the hall and body of the shaking guard in their eerie and baleful light. His whistle clatters to the ground, dropped from his useless lips as the shadowed monster in front of him opens its mouth and a glowing red light streams out to engulf the man.


Farther up the tower in a more secluded spot removed from the storm, a group of guards play a dice game on the floor of a well lit room.

One of them beams a big gold toothed grin and scoops up a pot of coins from the centre of the mat. At that moment all eight men hear a terrible howl from downstairs.

"Eh?," asks the big winner standing and pulling his axe from his hip, "What’s that now?"

The one door to the room begins to blacken and crack as though a tremendous heat were being applied from without. All the guards pull their weapons, one taking the time to spit a mouthful of food onto the ground before adopting a combat stance.

The portal explodes inward, pelting the sentries with debris and dust as a fierce and cold wind bends the flames of the torches lighting the chamber.

"Ready," shouts the big winner, "No matter what comes, we be neophytes unto the new Church!"


In the tower top Maur Salem and his modest council, including his bodyguard and master warrior Charr study a map of the Aout territories and the grand city known as the Sighold, in hushed voices they point and nod over differing strategies and their plans for the future.

When suddenly screams cut through the quiet of their sanctuary and a blackened face guard with a gold tooth bursts into the room, bringing with him a terribly cold wind and the sounds of the violent storm that continues to rage unabated outside the tower.

Unarmed and wild eyed the man collapses to his knees and frantically sobs to Maur and his entourage, "We couldn’t stop him your excellency. He killed everyone, he’s on his way-," the guard gasps and claws rabidly at his collar. Smoke begins to rise from his armour as he cries out in terrified agony.

His skin turns grey and falls from his body as dust ,shortly after that his equipment and skeleton crumble away leaving nothing but a large pile of fine grey powder and rust, as though the man had aged to death and decomposed in a matter of seconds before the eyes of the gathered council.


Charr steps forward his great sword drawn fiercely from its scabbard, its blade combusting into a violent flame as he speaks the words of its power, "Elion Ach!"

From the hallway outside the room moaning and pleas for salvation can be heard as ghostly pale apparitions of women and children claw their way across the floor and about the portal-way to the room.

A huge figure stoops to enter the chamber, its foot falls sounding like great stones being forcibly, cracked together, its humanoid body seemingly carved from onyx and ebony and its eyes flaring like amber fire from within their deep sockets.

It becomes evident to all within that the ghostly people travelling with the creature are actually a part of the fiend’s gliding and writhing cloak.

The beast’s glowing eyes look passed the threatening Charr as though unconcerned with his presence and lock malignantly upon the white haired and tall standing Maur Salem.

"At ease Charr, this monstrosity is beyond even your considerable skills," says the Viasect Superior in a hushed and confident tone.

The warrior hesitates for a moment before standing straight and shaking his weapon briskly. An action that tosses the fire sprung to life across the blade into an arch shaped pattern on the floor.

To the creature Maur says, "Why have you come dark one? Have the Midlands now caught your unfathomable attentions?"

The creature steps forward, its cloak quieting with its unheard urging, "Why has the cycle and learning of magic subsided?," rings out the creature’s voice in a deep baritone, like an echo within a bottomless chasm that shakes the room with its intensity.

Maur’s smile is a mask to hide his barely contained and seething anger, "You think to come here, to my hospice and lecture me on the ebb and flow of the world’s magic?"

The beast rises to an even greater height and slams one heavy foot forward offering a challenge to the Viasect superior that sets the others gathered in the room even more on edge.

"I will dictate what happens in this land now! Seek your answers elsewhere monster for my power here is absolute and you are merely another plaything for my distraction or displeasure as I see fit," Maur's words strong and clear, though underneath, perhaps an edge of fear, a tiny morsel of uncertainty.

"The lands of men, like a warm blanket can offer protection and security," says the fiend pointing a long and wickedly sharp talon, "But like any clothe it can be unravelled as simply as pulling on one thread. Return to your true work Viasect Superior, for if I am forced to return, your precious ‘Midlands’ will suffer for it. As shall you."

Without further words the great, earthen monster turns and departs from whence it came, leaving the stunned and quiet room as unmolested as it found it.

Charr looks from the door back to his patron, Maur Salem, "So what now your excellency?"

Turning red with rage the wizened Viasect grabs a dagger from Charr’s belt and drives it down hard and deep through the papers and surface of the table, "We proceed as planned!," he hisses before rapidly and furiously heading off to his chambers.

The warrior looks down at the table where his dagger sticks up out of their map of the Aout territories. With a smirk and brief moment of amusement the master warrior notes that the Viasect Superior has driven the point of the knife straight through the heart of the grand Sighold.