text: He lands on the first hunter, like a lion pouncing on its prey. Simultaneously, his short sword slashes the hunters neck, who, fallen prone, is unable to muster any sort of defense. Six remaining.
  
  After getting past the initial surprise of the attack, the hunters gather, throwing down their catch to avenge their fellow man. All are focused on Paxson as he willingly threw himself into the group of hunters. Something wizzes past your ear, like an angry hornet after its nest is disturbed. All, minus one, are focused on Paxson, a tribesman nocking another arrow seems to have taken interest in you.
  
  You throw your dagger at the archer, and unlike his attempt, your projectile lands, collapsing the man to his knees, briefly clutching the wound at his neck before falling face-first into the dirt. Then, you join Paxson's engagement with the other five, flanking them from the side. The closest doesn't react to your presence until it's too late. Four. Paxson blocks an axe, sending the crown of his head into the man's nose, stunning him, then stabbing him through the stomach. Three.
  
  An axe swings at your torso, which you easily dodge by stepping out of range, gliding back in before the tribesman can recover. Your blade slashes through his chest in the exact place you avoided being fatally cut. Two. Paxson blocks a blow with his buckler, simultaneously stabbing in the opposite direction, burying the point of his short sword into a hunter trying to catch him unawares. One. Paxson bashes his shield forward, dazing the remaining man, then kicks his legs out from under him. His short short quickly follows up. Zero.
  
  After, you and Paxson drag the bodies into the surrounding grass, doing your best to hide pooling blood from the dirt path. The result isn't perfect, but the red sections of the dirt would easily be overlooked unless someone's staring directly at them. Dressed now in the hunter's garb, their catch of rabbit slung over your shoulders, you're ready to infiltrate the horde. You're ready to kill the Great Warlord. Uralan's return must be stopped.
  
  > The Great Warlord
  The next day, as you draw closer to the horde, you slowly begin to see that their camp is more like a small city, rather than a traditional war camp. The contrast between the Great Warlord's and High Lord Ursa's is easily seen. The horde has women and children running through the "streets," marching with the warriors, making sure the men are fed and tended to. The more you think about it, the more it makes sense. The western tribes are used to fighting one another. Now, allied, they still don't seem to trust one another, as they're obviously unwilling to leave their families undefended. Or perhaps they're worried about a Helswithian attack. Probably the former.
  
  Just like you'd expect, nothing matches. The horde is like a quilt, pieced together with varying pieces not meant to be sewn together. The result, while functional in its designed purpose, quite frankly isn't a pretty sight. Unlike the Helswithian matching silver and gold, the horde wears simple padded leather, allowing their hair and beards to grow long. There are no symbols displaying rank, no insignias, differing weapons and armor, just, a horde. Likewise, with such a high number of warriors, you're able to slip into the camp unnoticed dressed as one of them.
  
  The ground beneath you has been stamped to dirt. There may have been long grass here, in the basin, at one point, but not now. Not with hundreds of thousands of feet stomping on it daily. Dirt beneath your feet, surrounded mostly by warriors in leather armor, the horde's camp is very...brown, and that's not to mention the waste excreted by the large number either.
  
  As far as you can tell, there's no design to the horde's layout. It seems like a mob of tents piled near one another. It's easy to see where one tribe ends and another begins, though. Small walls built from stone, barely waist high, separate each tribe. The wall wouldn't deter anyone from entering, but it definitely would point out who belongs or not. From what you've heard, crime -- at least thievery -- is almost non-existent with the horde. Removing limbs for petty theft will have that effect.
  
  Only a few minutes into infiltrating the horde, and you realize the tribesmen are gathering in one direction, like a school of fish heading downstream. The quickest way to show you don't belong is to continue in your direction, so you turn to follow the assembly. You end up in a large open area, unobstructed by equipment. The horde spans out before you, countless tribesmen lined up in no apparent order. If this were Helswith, they would be neatly placed in rank. Far off in the distance, across several thousand heads, is a wooden platform. A stage. On it, stands a man, hands clasped behind him, watching the horde assemble. His posture is forthright, displaying confidence at the number before him. The Great Warlord.
  
  > Observe
  There are far better places to assassinate an army's leader. Patience calls for you to wait for the proper moment. An attempt in front of his entire army isn't the place. There will be a better opportunity, and you'll be sure to find it.
  
  The Great Warlord's voice rings over the crowd, the horde of barbarians gathered at his beckening. His voice projects over a great distance, magically enhanced so that the horde could hear him speak. His vocal tone surprises you, though. It's not ragged. It's not rough. Rather, it's smooth, his words flowing like a proper instructor or politician, both of which are skills required for his position.
  
  "...the people of Helswith have lived high and mighty for too long. Comfort has crept into their veins, poisoning the host. They rest on fine silk and speak poorly of the laborman, the very men who make their society possible. No, they must not be allowed to continue, not while spitting in our direction."
  
  A voice from the horde answers the Warlord, softer in volume. The Warlord seems to be the only one with magic aiding his speech. "Then why have we been sitting here? We should have marched months ago!"
  
  The Great Warlord answers with far more understanding than you expected. "It was not the right moment to strike. The spirit being was building his strength within me. Striking without his aid would be folly."
  
  "And now is?"
  
  "Yes. The signs are before us! The spirit being speaks to me in my dreams. His power is made manifest through me, and subsequently, you. And who should share in our glory? My long lost high priest has returned, a holy man who is instrumental in our cause."
  
  A man steps next to the Great Warlord. Even at this distance, details barely visible, there's not mistaking his identity. Joren. The Warlord motions, again, to Joren. "Step forward, priest. Your return is a sign from the spirit being. Victory will be ours. At long last, we march on Helswith and the privileged Ursa. Your travels have taken you through the desert, priest. Do you have any insight to share with us?"
  
  As Joren prepares to speak, suddenly a man rushes onto the stage behind the Warlord. He whispers something in the Warlord's ear, the urgency of the moment causing him to rest a hand on the Warlord's shoulder, something that you're sure would be punished with a quick severing in any other circumstance.
  
  The Great Warlord turns back to the horde. "Seems we won't have to march far. Ursa and his pretend soldiers are on their way here. Prepare yourselves, burn an offering to the spirit being. War is upon us! Their chariots mean nothing in the rocky plains. The foolish 'High Lord' is giving away his advantage -- a direct cause of our patience and obedience to the spirit being. Gather yourselves, men. Tomorrow, we feast on Helswith blood and bone."
  
  If the horde wasn't a frenzied, chaotic mess, it certainly is now. Each tribe scrambles to reunite with their own, getting in the way of others. Small fights, nothing major, break out, causing a few drops of blood, but nothing too serious. You see only one path to take. Shadow the Warlord. Joren at his side, Uralan's return tied with him, all of your enemies have grouped together nicely for you. How very kind of them. You will be sure to reward them for their efforts.
  
  > Shadow the Warlord
  The horde, a chaotic mess, you keep your eyes on the Warlord as he's ushered from the staging platform. Thousands upon thousands of tribesmen lie between you and him. The task, the duty the Lady herself gave you spurs you into action. Everything is so close to completion. Motioning to Paxson, who quickly understands your meaning, you attempt to push your way past the rushing tribesmen to get closer to Joren and the Warlord.
  
  From the stage area, your prey is surrounded by a wall of soldiers, elites by the look of them -- every prominent leader has their own. Within the safety of their white and black shields, your targets move east along the war camp, members of the horde doing their best to get out of the way.
  
  Like cavalry charging through a line of infantrymen, the elite cluster moves through the horde with ease. You and Paxson on the other hand, do your best to swim upstream. Each body, each barbarian that you "politely" move out of the way are replaced by several others. The camp is in uproar. Rushing bodies, men shouting, the stench of war is in the air. Off in the distance, you eye their destination. How could it be elsewhere?
  
  Instead of a tower, gazing over the army, providing a vantage and symbol over their troops, the Warlord's destination appears to be dug directly into the earth, tomb-like, a labyrinth for the dead. A small set of stone steps lead into an equally simple structure, one that protrudes from the ground like a shark fin in the water. The entryway is an open black space. Several more white and black elite soldiers stand guard outside, waving their arms to allow the Warlord through and underground.
  
  "How do you suppose we'll follow them in there?" Paxson whispers, wondering aloud.
  
  "The direct approach?" you answer, rhetorically.
  
  Shaking his head, but not disagreeing, Paxson answers. "Gods. I wish I never said that."
  
  "Hasn't failed you...or me yet," you reply. "Stay close. The time for subterfuge is nearing an end."
  
  You approach the structure. The Warlord and Joren inside, most of the ushering elite soldiers remain outside. A small burn, more surprising than painful, ignites at your inner arm. Your tattoo, the mark of the Lady, glows softly not unlike it did on the night of Tristrand's navy arriving. The Lady is with you, invigorating, guiding your steps. You cannot fail now.
  
  The guards outside, numbering almost twenty, feel the Lady's vengeance. You make them feel it.
  
  Power surges through your sword arm, cutting through the guards' defenses easily and efficiently. Their parries, blocks, and attempts to dodge are sluggish, like a great deal of wine was consumed beforehand. Openings, once never found, appear to you. You must be made to see.
  
  Paxson, next to you, does his best to engage with the elites. His skills were unmatched in the arena as well as the western front. However, these soldiers are on another level. Two keep him engaged, causing him to react more defensively than normal. Still, that's two less than fighting them alone. After making quick work of the nearest soldier, your sword slashing the back of his leg then meeting his neck, you move to flank those engaged with Paxson. Another two quick slashes and they drop, never noticing your approach. Death follows you, child.
  
  Empty, inviting, the entrance stands before you. A square of black housed by stone. You silently pray death will continue to follow.
  
  > speak to Paxson
  "Hold a moment," you say. "This is it. After we enter, either us or the Warlord will walk out. There's no telling how many soldiers or what exactly lies within that will greet us."
  
  "I've faced the dangers of underground fighting pits before. This is hardly any different," Paxson answers.
  
  "This is entirely different. You've no chains at your wrist. No whip at your back. And yet you willingly throw yourself back into them."
  
  "I wouldn't say 'willingly,'" Paxson says, pulling a well-crafted dagger from one of the fallen bodies around you. "But also not reluctantly."
  
  "Go on. Make it quick, though," you reply, doing a quick sweep with your eyes to ensure no one's noticed you. The other tribesmen seem too concerned with their rush.
  
  "True, I'm not being forced against my will. I had every right to travel back across the plains to the Helswith camp and report Tristrand's arrival. As much scrutiny as would be upon me, a slave being the lone survivor, High Lord Ursa isn't known for being unfair. After a few days locked up, he'd likely send me back to my master as 'reward.'"
  
  "Speaking of which," you begin. "Freedom is within your grasp. You could escape, southwest of the plains, into Orem's land. He's no ally of the Helswith."
  
  "No, but he will honor a writ from the Helswith. Master Arroden knows that is my homeland. It's the first place he'd send bounty hunters to. And, there's a small matter of my wife. Your father is on the verge of locating and sending for her."
  
  Damn your father. It's a story you've heard many times. Often, slaves have families before arriving at your father's school. It's been somewhat of a reused tactic by Arroden; he was using it when you were there. As far as you know, a reunion has never taken place. Seems it's still in place. No, now's not the time to disclose such information. Knowledge of illusionary bonds can be distracting before battle. You pray that your delayed honesty will be taken in good faith.
  
  "After we end the Warlord's life, I vow to aid your search. Personally. We'll find her, Paxson."
  
  "You're a good man, Nameless."
  
  The words in the current context stings, especially after your confrontation the night of Tristrand's navy arriving. That night, you witnessed yourself change into someone you've tried your entire life to avoid. Hopefully, here, ending the Warlord's life and reuniting Paxson with his wife will right that wrong.
  
  > Enter
  You enter the blackness. Stepping through the opening is like the shades of a window being closed suddenly; the light from outside instantly vanishes, causing your eyes to blink repeatedly in order to adjust. There's a small staging area initially in the structure. No guards are here, as they would have heard your skirmish outside and joined in to protect the entrance. A staircase leads down further underground, back and forth like switchbacks on a mountain trail. Along the way, soft light is posted, torches placed strategically on the walls for vision, like small fireflies on a moonless night.
  
  "Take care to pace yourself," Paxson whispers. "Don't need to exhaust our legs on the way down."
  
  "Agreed," you whisper back.
  
  The two of you start the climb down, finding a good speed that finds the balance between speed and exertion. The journey doesn't take too long. Not ten minutes later you find yourselves nearing the bottom. The final section of the staircase leads into a large cavernous room, which looks to be formed naturally. However, the Great Warlord must have built directly into the natural rock.
  
  Rocky, dusty ground has been replaced with smooth white stone blocks, the walls and ceiling mirroring. There's still enough of the cavern to tell its original shape, but it looks like the inside of a cathedral placed underground. Varying sections of the sanctuary have jagged rock poking through the white stone, like icicles built from pure rock, giving the otherwise holy place of worship a dark feel to it, sinister, unseen dangers of the void peering through the veil. Across the sanctuary, framed by two large statues of past warriors holding battleaxes, the Warlord sits casually on the floor, back facing you, an elite soldier on either side.
  
  Above him, strung into the air like a fly caught in a web, is Joren suspended between the two statues, rope binding each of his four limbs stretching them out in a starlike shape. The Warlord sets a golden cup down on the floor, echoing throughout the chamber, and you realize noise travels exceptionally far in the stone enclosure. You take great care to move silently, still pressing forward to reach your target, while also listening to hear the words spoken from his mouth.
  
  "Now what am I to do with the likes of you," the Warlord wonders aloud. "A treacherous high priest is no small matter. You will be made an example of, of course."
  
  As you draw closer, using jagged sections of natural rock for cover, you notice a wound at the Warlord's side. Looks to be made from a small dagger if you had to guess. Joren turned on his leader? The man seems to have a pattern of attacking those closest to him. Finally, he's been caught in the act.
  
  "My travels have shown me that tyranny cannot stand. Freedom is each man's right. I've been bound, traded as a slave, but I finally recognize you for what you are: a tyrant using our own religion and tradition for your gain. At least my slave masters had the common decency to tell me what I was, not feigning free will and twisting our religion for their gain."
  
  After speaking, Joren attempts to call on his holy fire, blue flame, the wake of destruction you followed several territories. Nothing.
  
  "Ha, you think I would string you up with normal rope? You give me far too less credit, priest. The spirit being's power is almost within my grasp. Perhaps a sacrifice will grant additional favor and manifest his power in me completely. I'm sure it will, considering your betrayal to that whore, the false god who delayed his return so many years ago."
  
  Does he mean the Lady? Is Joren following her ways? No, he killed Killian and burned the temple on the island. There's no way he's on the same path as you. Still, the Warlord's words bring you to pause a moment. So Uralan isn't fully manifested in the Warlord yet. Good. You need to end things before it is. You're close to the Warlord now, so close that a minor scuffle on the ground would alert him of your presence. You motion to Paxson, telling him to stay put. The direct approach has gotten you this far; your training on the island would have to carry you the rest of the way.
  
  Silently, sneaking in a crouched position, you do as Morgan taught you so long ago on the island, limiting the surface area of your feet on the ground, light in your step, using the strength of your legs to absorb the impact of your steps. You breathe a sigh of relief, figuratively as not to alert the Warlord, that you didn't rush down the long staircase to get here. Blade drawn already, you move forward. Amateurs don't draw until the last moment. That's why they'll forever be known as such. Draw your blade early. Even the smoothest of sheathes give a slight sound when pulling weapon from a resting position.
  
  Up close, the Warlord is a brute of a man, far from the eloquent speaker you heard speaking to the horde. Well, perhaps, he's both, but the ruggedized man before you looks anything but eloquent. His head is bald, highlighting a bull-like neck, thick and muscular. He doesn't appear to be wearing armor. A black cloak hangs from his shoulders, and a chiseled arm extends from beneath it. The Warlord still sits, one knee in the air, leaning on an arm while the other holds a golden cup. His two guards are stoic, silent, ever watchful.
  
  A few more steps now. Blade raised. Neck exposed. Your path takes you from cover. Joren, noticing, the only one facing you, does his best to hide his surprise. Still, though, it shines through. Something's off. The Warlord senses it. He turns just as you plunge your blade directly into his neck. Surprise, then anger flashes on his face, one that's hairless save for a thin moustache.The world starts to spin, fading in and out of existence. Like heavy eyelids before a night of sleep, your vision slowly turns to black.
  
  > ...
  The Lady stands in front of you dressed in her simple ceremonial robes, hair floating weightlessly just above her shoulders. Her eyes, two black orbs, stare directly ahead past you. You turn, finally noticing your surroundings, the Lady taking the bulk of your attention until now. You're back in the chamber, one that holds a small stone altar, flowers at its base. It's the place you first met the Lady, the place where she first bestowed her mark upon you.
  
  The coffin that you're used to seeing is gone. Instead, the Great Warlord lays on the altar. Blood pours from his two wounds, one at his side and another in his neck. Strength rapidly lost from his limbs, he's at the Lady's mercy, something that she's not known for. Mercy doesn't come easy for the spirit of vengeance.
  
  Four flames, candles lit on each of the altar's corners rise in luminosity as the Lady floats closer. Her bare feet travel mere inches above the steps leading to the Warlord. Next to her, you float, watching the scene unfold before you. As she draws closer, the candles burst with light, like a forest fire spreading in the night. Flames dancing, your eyes travel to the Warlord's shadow.
  
  Unlike its human origin, the Great Warlord's shadow is not reflective of humanity. A beast, clawed, with a snout-like nose appears in black behind the Warlord's body. Two sharp tusks extend from its mouth, a great and terrible beast: the form of Uralan. The shadow rises high, reaching far higher and lengthier than the Warlord, like the long shadow cast from the setting sun. Trapped, laid on the Lady's altar, Uralan's shadow howls. Piercing noise emanates from the Warlord's mouth, primal, enraged, otherworldly. The Lady doesn't react. A blank expression coupled with firm eyes watch the man in front of her. It's the look of vengeance, a dutiful approach to the word.
  
  Your return will not happen this day, fiend, she speaks. My herald has stopped you. Face it, you've been beaten again.
  
  The Great Warlord's body thrashes on the altar, seizing like a man possessed.
  
  And will happen again, the Lady finishes.
  
  You betrayed the Eternal Father, not the other way around. Your attempts to overthrow him have brought chaos in the mortal realm. I was once one of them, transformed with the Eternal Father's power. You do not know the strength that lies within them, the steadfast willpower mankind is capable of. True, they are destroyed easily; their bodies naturally decay on their own. But still, they resist you. Still, they will not be pushed aside. Their lives may be scarred with tragedy, but still they press on, undeterred of the future and their likely demise. The Eternal Father knows this. We can learn from them. Their doomed nature brings promise and hope. Ours, on the other hand, is a perpetual state of existence, blank, meaningless, unchanging.
  
  Enough. I tire of your empty threats. Herald, step forward.
  
  You do as the Lady commands.
  
  End it.
  
  Your blade pierces the Great Warlord's heart. The shadow of the beast cast from the Warlord's body, disappears for a moment, then surges into the air, fading from view, extinguishing the candles along with it. Smoke in the air, warmth overcomes your body. The Lady's hand turns your head to face towards her. She remains silent, your gaze falling over her flawless features. A nose perfectly shaped, skin unblemished, sparking eyes black as onyx, womanly curves filling the edges of her ceremonial dress. Her face draws closer, hands cupping your jawline. Her eyes shut, lips meeting yours. Similarly to Uralan's shadow, the Lady fades into nonexistence, her touch a small spark still upon your skin. She's gone.
  
  > Epilogue: The Spirit of Vengeance
  Bodies surround you as you wake. Joren's lies in the air, still suspended with rope in the middle of two ancient statues, ones that disallow his holy power to shine forth. His throat is slashed, a red line across is skin in which a waterfall of blood pours down. The sanctuary, with its acoustics, echoes softly each time a drop pours from Joren's body to the white stone floor, a pool forming beneath him.
  
  Closer, the Great Warlord's body is absent of life, his two elite guards the same. Their deaths, however, show more signs of struggle. Several wounds line their limbs, blood from several areas spilled on the ground, scattered, unlike the neat pools displayed by Joren and the Warlord. Paxson sits in between both, nursing his own damage, although his doesn't appear to be fatal. Paxson, always victorious with scars to prove it.
  
  You rush over to him, consciousness back in your body, to examine the damage sustained. As you draw closer, his wounds look much more serious than at first glance, partially because he's hidden them underneath his wooden shield. It's bad. A deep gouge lines his side, the contents of his torso barely visible through the opening.
  
  "Can't you learn to use that buckler of yours?" you ask, trying to lighten the moment.
  
  "You know I can only take the direct approach," he answers, wincing at the pain. A wince, most men in that position would be revealing much more. "Did you mean it?" he adds on.
  
  "Mean what?"
  
  "That you'd help me find my wife after...after this."
  
  "Of course I meant it."
  
  "She no longer lives." The voice appears from above you. Morgan, dropping down from an overhanging section of rock, lands next to you. She holds a dagger in her hand, still wet with blood. Joren's, if you had to guess.
  
  "Morgan! (Liliana!)" both you and Paxson speak simultaneously, then quickly eye one another at using a different name, surprised at each other's recognition.
  
  "Morgan," she answers, confident as always. Stern, like a schoolmaster addressing students. "Liliana is no more. Her death is the reason why I breathe."
  
  "I don't understand..." Paxson begins, before entering a fit of coughing. He spits a large amount of blood from his mouth to the white floor, far too much for your liking. His eyes turn glassy, like they are unable to focus on a single target, blurry, fading.
  
  "Liliana was weak. Liliana was vulnerable. Liliana got taken advantage of," Morgan says, striding up to Paxson's body. She eyes his wounds, knowing full-well it's only a matter of time. "She could no longer be allowed to live. Her sacrifice means my survival." Morgan gently grabs behind Paxson's head, forcing his focus to be on her, something that he's lost the ability to do himself. "She loved you until the very end. Even now, from behind the veil, she loves you, despite the choices of her stupid husband."
  
  Paxson opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. His vision, distant. Slowly, you see the strength exit his body. The power he possessed, gone. A man unhindered by wounds, setbacks, obstacles has finally met one he can't overcome. His grit, the drive that kept him going for so long. His honor, brings him to this moment. A man marked by, bound by his word tighter than any shackles, breathes his last breath. A man not soon forgotten. Morgan kisses his forehead and rests his head against the stone floor, shutting Paxson's eyelids.
  
  "So, you and him..." you trail off, realizing this is not the time or place for such discussion.
  
  "Once upon a time," is Morgan's reply.
  
  You join Morgan next to Paxson, crouching next to her. He looks at rest, his reunion complete. Your arm wraps around Morgan's shoulders, pulling her closer to you. Despite her typical emotionless, blank demeanor, you notice a single tear fall down her cheek. Liliana may not be as dead as she previously stated. Paxson, far too honorable for your father's house, lies dead, his time spent in servitude believing the lies of your father, Arroden Scholhart. The wrong man lies dead. It's time to return home, Morgan bound to join you. The spirit of vengeance lives on.
  
  The End