text: tlefield, he collapsed backward with a solid thud. There was no dust cloud, however. Only emptiness and a traitorous warrior slain by the hand of his chieftain.
  
  "Thought this would be easy, did you?" Thought you could take power for yourself, did you?" Amir'sshan spoke, walking towards the priests, sword points used in emphasis. Rel'sumbra could see the edges of the blades now. By the Raven he could see them, for they were highlighted red with Gh'enna's blood, a crimson stain on otherwise flawless weapons.
  
  "More still stand against your tyranny!" Rel'sumbra slammed the butt of his staff into the floor, his way of emphasizing his point. A small rumble echoed upon impact, the sound of the release of magic. Visible ripples spanned out from the staff, like that of throwing a rock into a pond. Amir'sshan thought he heard the flutter of wings. The remaining priests, now six excluding Rel'sumbra, screamed into the air. No, that's not right. They screeched, a primal tone as wild as any animal in the jungle.
  
  Ancient, even compared to Harri'katan, even compared to Amir'sshan himself, magic flowed from Rel'sumbra's ravenheaded staff. Before he had used holy magic to attempt to smite Amir'sshan. If Gh'enna didn't die instantly, he would have used it in healing. This magic is different, however. Far from the realm of holy, good, farther even than "gray" areas, the realm of morally ambiguous, a mixture of both holy and evil. The priests' hands curled in pain, in power. Fingers grasped at unseen objects in their palms, flexing their palms turned skyward. The very bones within their body seemed to reorient themselves, sickening cracks confirming the fact, bulging in various sections of their neck and limbs, threatening to burst from the very skin that contained them.
  
  Black wisps of magic encircled the priests' feet, spiraling up their body like a poisonous snake wrapping itself around a tree branch. Ribbons of black magic hang in the air like sparks leaving the safety of their flame. Amir'sshan noticed Rel'sumbra was unaffected by the ancient power. As the black wisps spanned upward, covering the priests entirely in a dark shroud, Amir'sshan spoke again.
  
  "Tyranny, you say. Perhaps you do deserve to rule. The way you volunteer those beneath you to sacrifice their body for the cause."
  
  "They knew the cost and gladly paid it," Rel'sumbra answered, both hands back on the staff. A casual posture for the way his allies screeched in pain not five feet away from his position. "The Harri'ar are willing to lay down their life to remove you from rule. Can you say there are those willing to do the same to keep you here?"
  
  Amir'sshan muffled a laugh. The priests cry out in pain. "There's a reason you had to plot in the underground. You've removed those from the equation."
  
  "That is their duty, not their belief."
  
  "The two are mutually exclusive?"
  
  "Enough! Your time is at an end. For the good of the people."
  
  "For the good of Rel'sumbra," Amir'sshan corrected.
  
  "Those two are mutually exclusive?" Rel'sumbra fired back.
  
  "Ahhh, now you're learning," Amir'sshan said. Movement caught his eye, the dark wisps starting to vanish from sight, fading from existence the way spilled water evaporates after an amount of time. Upon subsiding, it revealed the abominations beneath.
  
  In the place where hooded priests stood, bird-like creatures, tall as a man. Talons took the place where praying hands once did, also bursting through their boots. Their heads became the very Blackbird that they worship, the face of a raven staring back at Amir'sshan, their hoods able to contain the transformation as well as their boots. Black beady eyes reorient themselves with their surroundings. Amir'sshan knew the transformation never took place before, not with the specific men in front of him; it's a one-way journey designed to turn the tide in a single battle, in this case, to turn the tide against him.
  
  It would not be enough.
  
  "I noticed that you remain un--" Amir'sshan started to say before the ravenheaded priests leaped towards him. They had no wings, but possessed strength beyond that of Harri'ar's greatest warrior...excluding the chieftain of chieftains, that is. To Rel'sumbra's dismay, instead of fear, a smile crept across Amir'sshan's face. It's the smile of a laborer as he took his first sip of evening ale. Subtle. Present. Six dark figures flew in the air towards Amir'sshan, talons ready to carve the eyes from the chieftain's skull; six figures, to rip the innards from his body in a series of blasphemous strikes.
  
  In a sight that future bondsmen would recognize, one of the translucent swords in Amir'sshan's palm became a spear. Small thunderclouds. Black smoke. Transformation, the furthest thing from an abomination, far more graceful than the priests before him. It was meant to be. The sword was no longer meant to be a sword. It was meant to be a spear, and surrendered its form to the man-god. Then, quicker than the shape shift, quicker than the swords first appeared in his hands, it left Amir'sshan's palm, singing a sinister whistle along its flight path.
  
  It impaled the nearest priest through the chest--no, that's not accurate. It tore through the nearest priest, both spearhead and shaft passing through his body with no more ease than dipping an oar into water. It impaled the second nearest priest, stopping the momentum of his leap, reversing it entirely, skewering the former holy man against the wall like a proud banner sending glory and exaltation in bright colors.
  
  One spear. Two dead. Four remaining.
  
  They fell upon him, four abominations seeking blood. A funny thought occurred in Amir'shhan's mind: in their eyes, he is the abomination. He might not have twisted his body into half bird, half man, but there's no denying his existence is unlike that of the Harri'ar. The man-god, they called him, living for centuries, never aging, keeping the same complexion. There's something sure as hell unnatural about the man(-god) himself, yet it lies underneath the surface rather than expressing itself in the physical, at least not in the way that would capture the honest, if not rude, attention of a small child with the ability to point fingers. After a few generations, however... Small thunderclouds. Black smoke. The remaining weapon in his hand became a greatsword, two hands needed to swing with any strength behind the large blade.
  
  The head of a Blackbird rolled to the floor, its body finding a few more steps before collapsing behind it. Like a headless chicken. Amir'sshan can't contain it. "Ha-ha-ha-ha!" His laughter is maddening to the remaining others. He's laughing. Laughing! As he cut through their ranks with no more ease than shaving in the morning. This was supposed to be their triumphant night, one that had been planned for years. The perfect night to (Amir'sshan drove the point of his greatsword into another Blackbird. Two.) catch the chieftain unaware, exposed. Yet he considered their threat nothing more than a minor nuisance. Laughing.
  
  Laughing!
  
  Thunderclouds. A nine tailed whip now rested in the chieftain's palm. The swing caused a crack rivaling a real storm, snapping in the air like a bolt of lightning seeking a tree trunk, leaving behind a blackened husk of where life once stood. Amir'sshan's whip left behind a similar figure. It took several swings, but the result was the same. Lifeless, hollow figures remained. A bolt of lightning possessed mercy. A single strike, and it's over. Quick. Painless. The opposite could be said for the man-god's nine tail. Unable to hide his glee, he overwhelmed the two harri'ar with furious swings, each one marking their body with cuts. Soon they were unrecognizable, a four-limbed frame underneath a thousand bleeding cuts. The room was filled with the crack of the whip. And laughter. Plenty of laughter.
  
  All his support dealt with, Amir'sshan turned his attention towards Rel'sumbra. Only the assassin is not there. Then where did... Pain bursted through the man-god's back. He holds no vision, yet images rush into his mind, Rel'sumbra standing behind him, hand gripped firmly around the (godkiller!) black mithril dagger, seeking to drive it further into the exposed back of the chieftain, its blade already sunk deep into Amir'sshan's lower back to the hilt. A coldness overtook Amir'sshan's body, like stepping out from the safety of a warm hut into snowfall.
  
  Unsuccessfully, he tried reaching behind him to grab the dagger. The attempt caused Rel'sumbra to twist--pain flashed. Thousands of years entered Amir'sshan's mind, hanging a moment, before vanishing. Life. Love. Lost. He'd been alive far longer than most. He'd loved few in the timespan, all early on, for he quickly learned that they would die while he kept going. After his third love died, he cut himself from such emotion. Instead he built a harem, allowing the physical manifestation of such feelings to be quenched with women as replaceable as a blunt dagger. Never the same one more than a few times. Amir'sshan couldn't trust himself to lay with the same one too often, otherwise he risked love rearing its ugly head, setting himself down a path that leads only to death. Lost. He'd lost more than a man could ever seek to gain, even in his wildest imagination, loved ones only being a fraction of the loss.
  
  Hot breath touched Amir'sshan's ears in spoken word. Their tone, violent. "Thus ends the rule of Amir'sshan, tyrant of the Harri'ar. Your death will cause a parade in the streets. Tears of joy will fall. For tomorrow begins the rule of the just Rel'sumbra. And after my lifespan, another will take my place. It is the natural order of things. You have stagnated our people for too long."
  
  Amir'sshan forced a chuckle, which ended up being a cough of blood. "Poor Rel'sumbra. The people will follow whoever wears the headdress. They are sheep as afraid of their shepherd as wolves. Your ideology means nothing. Whether I lead or you lead, they care little...as long as you do not disturb their simple, boring lives."
  
  "I'll live without their gratitude. You on the other hand..."
  
  Rel'sumbra ripped the godkiller from the man-god's back. Amir'sshan dropped to his knees. Soft hands grabbed for the chieftain's throat, hands unaccustomed to performing laborious tasks themselves. Before sliding the mithril dagger across Amir'sshan's neck, the assassin pulled the chieftain's headdress from the crown of his head.
  
  "Farewell, man-god."
  
  Before the godkiller could bring finality to the evening's skirmish, Amir'sshan briefly glanced heavenward, the whites of his eyes exposed, unfamiliar to the feeling of helplessness. It'd been a while since he felt that. Father Sun, it felt good. A new experience. The preciousness of mortality. An ending to make the journey sweeter. Men spend their lives avoiding death. Amir'sshan, the man-god, chieftain of chieftains welcomed it with open arms. Finally, restfulness could greet him. Finally, an end to everlong suffering.
  
  Rel'sumbra cut Amir'sshan's throat. Blood flowed out like a waterfall.
  
  > ...
  But he didn't die.
  
  "Ha-ha-ha-ha..."
  
  But he didn't die. Ha. Ha. Ha.
  
  But he didn't die. Ha... ha...
  
  But he didn't die...
  
  Ha-ha-ha-ha.
  
  But he
  
  Ha-ha-
  Didn't
  
  Ha. ha.
  
  Die.
  
  > ...
  Imprisoned in a world of blackness. The void called Amir'sshan's name, and took him to a place of undeath. His body was no longer. He was the man-god, after all. His body could be destroyed the same as any, despite its youthful and inability to age. One moment the end was inevitable, peace was coming for Amir'sshan. The next, imprisonment. An endless sea of blackness to dwell within. No colors, no life. Just blackness without a comforting purple shade.
  
  Foolish Rel'sumbra!
  
  The godkiller couldn't destroy the soul of Amir'sshan. Years spent compiling enough ore to craft the weapon; many men paid their lives to forge the dagger. And yet Amir'sshan still lived. Curse the day! Death would not bring mercy to the former chieftain. The peace he sought escaped him, perhaps would always escape him. Ha-ha-ha... Trapped in a darkened world with only his thoughts as company, as much a depiction of hell as there's ever been. He would have gladly chosen the lake of fire, the eternal bodily suffering. For this kind of purgatory is the worst kind: the constant exposure of one's mind without escape. It's Amir'sshan and the void. Amir'sshan and the void. Amir'sshan and the void. Amir'sshan...
  
  Father.
  
  Silence.
  
  Father, can you hear me?
  
  Silence.
  
  If he still possessed a body, a grin would have appeared at the corner of his lips. If he still possessed a body, his stomach would hurt from laughter. If he still possessed a body, he would drink himself into oblivion. Ha-ha... Seemed he already found himself there without wine. Everlong darkness. Not the kind the eyes ever adjust to. There's no shade. No contrast. He can't even call it a sea of darkness, for a sea holds waves. Structure. His entire prison might be small, it might be larger than the world itself. Color, time, size held no meaning. Simply, darkness. He might have been here decades, centuries, minutes. Nothing held meaning. Nothing mattered. There was darkness, and there was Amir'sshan. Father Sun holds no dominion here. Simply, darkness.
  
  Then
  
  Suddenly
  
  Awareness.
  
  Phantoms appeared from nowhere. Gray, ghostly shapes like the weapons that Amir'sshan could summon. He saw the throne room. He saw Rel'sumbra standing over the fallen man-god's body, pondering what to do next. The assassin priest's entire life was centered on ending Amir'sshan's life. Once he accomplished the task, what then?
  
  He saw Rel'sumbra place the chieftain's headdress upon his own head. For the first time, he saw his killer's face. Rel'sumbra removed the hood that covered his face. The priest possessed angular features, the crook of his nose seemed to bring the tip of his nose below his nostrils, beak-like. His face was marked with lines of aging; the assassin looked far beyond his age. His eyes, youthful. His face, elderly--the price of dark magic, likely taking years from his life in order to feed the ancient power. By whatever means it took. If Rel'sumbra only lived a year longer--and it looked like that was a stretch--to remove Amir'sshan from power, then it gladly paid the cost. Commendable, really. Just as his allies had given their lives, so too, did their ringleader.
  
  Amir'sshan spoke from his imprisonment
  (Bondsman.)
  and bonded with the first one to wield the artifact, for even presence with his killer was preferential to loneliness with only his mind to keep him company. And soon, he would learn to despise the bondsmen, only pairing himself with the select few over the next thousands of years. But for now, upon being cast into the void, imprisoned within the artifact, he couldn't be alone. No. Better that he had died. Better that he had been smote into non-existence. Hell was a very real place, once housed within the physical mind of Amir'sshan; now it followed him beyond death, a constant predator, a stalker in the night. And it laughed in his face.
  
  Laughed.
  
  > Continue
  You awaken in an unfamiliar bed. It's nothing but a small padded mat with a single blanket spread out over your body, no frame, placed directly on the floor. You're in a small room. Blank walls, no windows. A small fireplace is opposite of the mat, the wood that sits within blackened, small traces of embers underneath. Recently burned itself out, by the looks of it. That's not what draws your eyes, however. E'ffy lays in front of the fireplace on her side, one arm supporting her head as a pillow. No blanket. No padding. Simply, her, the floor, and the fireplace. Not one to have poor manners, allowing a woman to take the floor while you have a "bed," you try to remember the previous night's events. And suddenly it rushes in: the story of Amir'sshan.
  
  They assassinated you. Trapped you in a prison of black mithril.
  (A long time ago, yes.)
  And now you can enact your revenge on the cult.
  (Will you aid me in this, bondsman?)
  
  You do not answer right away. There's more to the artifact than being a weapon of immense power. A living being, an immortal god resides within, despite centuries--perhaps millennia--of twisted thoughts taking hold. E'ffy was right. And suddenly, it's all clear to you. You believe. The voice within the artifact is greater than your own. Amir'sshan, the man-god, chieftain of chieftains. The two of you are bonded to one another, a mortal body and an immortal soul. Man-god. Perhaps this is the way it was always meant to be. One foot in the realm of mortality, another in the divine. It's balance. Grounding.
  
  The S'umbra will regret the day they turned on Amir'sshan.
  
  Amir'sshan does not answer you, but you sense the man-god's gratitude. The two of you, though bonded, have been at odds ever since the artifact landed in your possession. The combined strength, the alignment of your minds. A relentless soldier seeking rest in battle, the battered sanity of a god. Together, Terr'ok and the S'umbra have no chance.
  
  E'ffy stirs. She sits up and looks in your direction. "You are well?"
  
  You nod. "Amir'sshan has spoken to me. The path is set before us. We will enter the gauntlet, and the S'umbra will be no more." You roll out of the bed. "Did you bring me here yourself?
  
  It's E'ffy's turn to nod. "You were deep in the vision and you needed rest for today."
  
  "Well...thanks."
  
  "Come. Eat. Gather your strength. The day will be long."
  
  In time you would look back on those five words, the day will be long, and discover the truth of them. Now, however, you pay no mind to them and make your way to the storeroom for breakfast.
  
  Belly full, and a few cups of tea down, you gather your equipment for the day. It's not not much as you travel light. Your longsword is strapped in its typical spot, running from right shoulder to left hip. It doesn't get as much use nowadays, one of the side-effects of possessing a black mithril dagger with a god's soul trapped within. Still, you've kept it all this time. Dependable. Trustworthy. It's not an extravagant weapon by any means, but it's exactly how a sword should be. Finely crafted and doesn't dull easily. If something were to happen to Amir'sshan--and you're not the kind to rely on magical artifacts--you'll be glad to have the traditional weapon, as handy as any dagger hidden in a boot.
  
  You've abandoned the crimson tunic of Magda, and you're glad for it. The shirt made you an outsider to both the Blackbirds and yourself. Not that representing your birth country is confusing to your identity; it just brings a certain uneasiness that you'd rather not weigh you down, especially not now. Bastus, Lionel, and the rest of the company probably still consider you to be traitors to the High King. With the Alteran occupation of the Magda garrison, you're sure your traitorous position is set in stone, along with the number of gold pieces for your head. Luckily, bounty hunters aren't running rampant in the New World as they are in the Old. That'll change in time, you're sure.
  
  Instead, you've been given a shirt woven in black thread, its shade close to raven (although not quite). It's one of Onng's. Any other and it'd extend down to your knees. You strap your leather armor over the top; you're not as quick to toss the armor away even if it were given by a Magda quartermaster. On your thigh, where the Alteran flintlock used to rest, is where you leave Amir'sshan. The edge of the winged-tip grip sticks out of the leather holster, begging to be drawn, silently of course, although that can change in an instant.
  
  Belly full, and a few cups of tea down, you exit the temple.
  
  E'ffy leads you through the war camp. She strides confidently ahead with Onng taking up the rear. It's the silently agreed upon order of walking as it's a risk to have you or Redding on either edge. The Blackbirds seem to keep to their customs well enough, not a lawless people in the least, but there still could be a disgruntled warrior or two mourning from their defeat at the Magda garrison. Having two outsiders in their war camp offers the opportunity for retaliation, and you can't think of a worse ending to things than suffering a mob attack. So you play the part of respectful guest, allowing E'ffy to escort you to your destination: Chieftain Malic'ant, her father.
  
  Everywhere you go, eyes follow. It's not everyday the war camp receives visitors. You're surprised by the amount of non-military activity happening. In the Old World, soldiers are full-time. Sure, there are other tasks to do besides battlefield training, but those are focused on military maintenance, keeping equipment clean, always ensuring the High King's army is in tip-top shape. Here, the warriors are a mix of civilian and soldier, like a militia--almost--but without the casual approach to battle. They are fighters to the core, but they are also farmers, tradesmen, and family men. Not only do you receive their distrustful gaze from a warrior's perspective, you also receive it from a protective father's eyes, which is, perhaps, simply a warm-up for what awaits you at your destination. You're about to meet E'ffy's father, a chieftain, who will no doubt be skeptical of the "outsider" company that his daughter is keeping.
  
  Like the other buildings of the war camp, the chieftain's structure is built in a circle of stone. Malic'ant's hall is larger than the others. Larger, even, than E'ffy's temple. It's reached by a long stretch of road, ravenlight evenly spread out on either side. Blackbird warriors, their face painted in ash, stand guard outside, casually leaning on spears. Unlike the previous warriors you passed, these appear to be full-time; their job is to keep their chieftain from danger. Despite the apparent friendliness with the chieftain's daughter, or perhaps because of that, they eye you with a disapproving gaze, more than ready and willing to jump to her defense should the tek'usan get out of line.
  
  Through the outer line of defense you go into the main gates of Malic'ant's hall. The inside is an open room, built around a single focus: a training pit. It's made from dirt. Torches, real torches, line the perimeter, sending shadows to spar in the center. Behind the pit sits a throne. It's constructed of animal bone, white jagged points jut out the way a thorn protects its ros. Resting on top is Chieftain Malic'ant. The first thing you think is--
  
  (Old.)
  I was about to say that.
  (Not out loud, I hope.)
  
  Malic'ant had certainly seen better days. To say the Blackbird's skin is covered in wrinkles would be understating it. It's more like his wrinkles have skin. Long, thin white hairs hang from a ring around his head, the top itself bare. Blackbirds on average stand a full head taller than an Alteran. Besides the two that escorted Terr'ok earlier, who likely stood two heads taller, Malic'ant, if he could stand and straighten his back, would be at least that. Perhaps more. Now, however, he sits with a rounded back, one hand resting on a knee for support, the other holding a feathered spear, which has likely turned into more of a walking stick in recent years.
  
  "E'ffy. Daughter," he rumbles across the hall. His body may be failing him, but you see the life in the chieftain's eyes, an untamed fire threatening to scorch all that stands in his way. "Who are these outsiders?"
  
  "They are our freedom," E'ffy answers, stopping squarely in the center of the training pit. You and the others stop as well.
  
  "Are they now. And I didn't realize I was in chains," the chieftain dryly says. His voice is the warning of lightning, the sudden appearance of storm clouds. He is his daughter's father. Somehow you know the mother is out of the picture.
  
  "That is the problem, is it not? The S'umbra--"
  
  "I KNOW WHY YOU'RE HERE, GIRL." Malic'ant's voice booms in the hall; it's a gunshot in the night, the dagger finding a weak place in a set of armor. The chieftain quiets down. "I know why you are here. And you dishonor yourself by not holding custom."
  
  "They are outsiders and do not hold the same."
  
  "They are under your wing and will follow our ways."
  
  Somehow, and this intuition comes easier than the one about E'ffy's mother, you imagine this type of exchange happens often between the two, perhaps in cause of E'ffy's mother. The priestess turns to you. She quickly whispers to fill you in.
  
  "I am sorry for this. Defend yourself."
  
  The words themselves don't fill you in as much as the sweep that accompanies it. Her arms push you off balance, while her foot blocks you from taking a step back to keep your feet underneath your body. Instinct takes over, and as you're falling over backward, you clutch on to E'ffy's arm, dragging her down with you. WIth your legs wrapped around her torso to hold her into place, your arms work to isolate a limb for submission, both hands locked around a single of E'ffy's wrist. And that's when you learn that striking is allowed. E'ffys free arm blasts a fist into your face. Your vision sparks for a second, just enough time for you to see a second incoming punch.
  
  You shift your weight in order to dodge the second punch, giving E'ffy the opportunity to twist from your grasp, even if the punch itself doesn't land. The both of you find yourselves standing, facing against one another in the ring. In the corner of your eye, you see Redding and Onng have quietly excused themselves outside of the ring. Good. This is just between you and E'ffy. Chieftain Malic'ant watches intently, no doubt a legendary warrior in his time, his rule built from spoils of war. One must prove themselves worthy in order to receive an audience.
  
  "E'ffy," you whisper. "Who's supposed to win this?"
  
  "The one who is stronger," she answers back, rather unhelpfully.
  
  > take the offensive
  She said it herself, the stronger one is meant to achieve victory here. Being the daughter of Malic'ant, you're certain that E'ffy had significant training, perhaps even beyond your own. But training decays over time, a sword rusted and brittle from lack of use. Better to possess a sword of well-maintained quality rather than an initially well-crafted one, poorly handled. You shake the analogies from your mind as you take the offensive. Better is the quick cut of a surgeon, an emotionally-surgical sever than the unsure hands of a novice afraid to make a mistake. Another analogy slipped through. You make it the last, feeling the ever-familiar flow state take hold.
  
  It's not limited to the battlefield and forged weapons. It arrives during any fit of combat, hand-to-hand included. You may seek to end the show early, but you'd prefer to avoid knocking E'ffy out senseless. As soon as the thought appears, you almost turn back on it--a cross, designed to knock you out senseless barely misses, fired from the chieftain's daughter. She's quick, dangerously so, always sliding just out of reach, closing in before your defenses can fully manifest itself.
  
  And you realize she has to be. The woman herself can't outmuscle you; the strength discrepancy must be even greater between her and a Blackbird, standing a full head taller than you. E'ffy fights like a floating butterfly, a hornet from a disturbed nest. You, on the other hand, stick to your training. Countless hours of drilling instilled within, emerging whenever the flow calls upon. E'ffy dances about. You cut her off. She presses. You give ground. She feints. You don't bite.
  
  You act like you're moving left but then quickly switchstep to catch E'ffy unaware. Both arms find an entry, hands locking behind the woman's torso. She'll not break from your grasp easily. Her style only works if she never finds herself caught, pinned down, which is exactly where you take her. You use your superior strength to wrestle E'ffy to the ground, hand still clasped holding the priestess in place.
  
  "There is only one way this ends," she whispers, too soft for anyone else to hear. "No mercy. Give no ground. Show strength."
  
  (Knock her out.)
  
  She's at your mercy, held down by your grip. Knock her out? The sparring matches of Alteran end here, with one member subdued by the other. Knock her out? It's dirty. Unsportsmanlike. The goal of sparring is to improve one another's skills, not seeking to harm the other by any means, besides harm that naturally occurs in training, that is. Furthermore, and not that you've been the most chivalrous of men, but there's the fact that E'ffy is a woman, a beautiful one at that. Something about knocking her senseless just doesn't feel...right. You sense the eyes of Malic'ant, her father, watching your next move. It's time to pass judgement.
  
  > knock her out
  Despite your feelings, you know what must be done. The Blackbirds are a people that rely on the strong. Not only the physically strong, but those with the warrior spirit as well, those who would accomplish their task by any means necessary. For the good of the tribe, even if it's at a personal loss. There is only way this ends, a warrior's defeat and victory to offer to the chieftain, a symbol of the uncertainty of war. Loss and gain come hand in hand. Not one without the other. Chieftain Malic'ant is as tested as they come; and by similarity, the grit to do what must be done, as an offering, is the greatest gift you could bestow upon the chieftain. Pearls, gems, and heirlooms be damned.
  
  One hand curls into a tight fist, the other holds E'ffy's face into position, like readying the sacrificial animal for an altar. She looks up to you and nods her agreement. Your mind whispers an apology, desperately hoping she receives the message, as your hand lifts for the finishing blow. (It must be done.) Pain erupts through your knuckles, insignificant. E'ffy's head snaps back. Her body crumples to the ground--or it would--but you catch her limp body and gently guide her to a comfortable prone position.
  
  "Step forward, outsider," Chieftain Malic'ant orders. You comply.
  
  As you reach the end of the sparring pit, movement flashes behind you. Redding and Onng rush to take care of E'ffy. Nothing permanent is likely to affect her. However, she suffered trauma to the head--and with such a blow, treatment is better sooner than later. You've witnessed, personally, the effects of such trauma: slurred words, reduced cognitive ability. Causing such an impairment to the priestesses, by an undeserved blow in most opinion, would be an unforgivable act in your mind. You reach the edge of the pit. Hard packed sand gives way to stone. The floor is natural cavern rock, scrapped to be smooth, although it's not perfect. You can view more than a few ridges and bumps in the ground, nothing too extensive, although it'd be considered a mortal sin to designers in Alteran.
  
  "Closer. I'll not bite."
  
  You're not sure of the truthfulness in the chieftain's words. Or it could be one of those technicalities. I'll not bite, but you didn't say anything about stabbing you with my spear! Technically correct, still the undesired outcome. You're allowed to walk right up to the chieftain. The two large Blackbird guards stand at attention, ready to act in a moment's notice should you act less-than-savory. Under a throne of white animal bone, tusked skulls lining the top, Malic'ant addresses you.
  
  "You are made of sturdier stuff than your countrymen. Tell me, how do you fare against them?"
  
  "Against my fellow soldiers?" you ask, quickly answering your own question. "I win more than I lose. The same can be said for the battlefield against other armies."
  
  "Hmm," the chieftain ponders aloud. The sound of his thinking is like the low rumble of an aftershock earthquake, the steady pour of rain clouds lingering after a storm. "You are not the greatest warrior."
  
  You shake your head.
  
  "Nor the quickest."
  
  Another shake of the head. "Or the smartest."
  
  (Some points are proven in the words themselves.)
  
  "Hmm." Malic'ant's grip tightens around the spear. The speartip protrudes from a shaft of many feathers, from underneath a makeshift wing, if you will. "Not the strongest or the quickest or the smartest. Tell me, outsider, what do you offer then?"
  
  (Time to dance. What shall I be? Six-shooter, sword?)
  Nothing.
  (What, you think you have something to offer besides me?)
  You picked me despite a lack of magical artifact. Are you telling me you didn't see anything?
  (They call me the mad-god for a reason.)
  You hate that name.
  (I do.)
  Malic'ant respects the strength of the individual.
  (And you defeated a woman in battle. You possess strength, indeed.)
  No easy foe. Likely trained by the chieftain himself.
  (That's not enough to impress the man though.)
  I know, I know. Thinking.
  (Think quicker. We've been--)
  
  "Silence caught your tongue?" Malic'ant breaks the inner dialogue with Amir'sshan. Your companions are used to the gap in responses when Amir'shan speaks. Others aren't.
  
  "Apologies, Chieftain," you respectfully answer. "Amir'sshan speaks to me in moments such as this."
  
  "It is true then. You are the bondsman. You possess a weapon greater than any of the Harri'ar. That is your offering, then?"
  
  "No, Chieftain," you respond back. "The weapon is merely a tool. (Hey, now...) I would not offer something that another can merely take from my grasp. That is the same as equating my strength to the armor strapped around my body or the warriors that I call an ally."
  
  "Go on," the chieftain says, interest in his voice.
  
  "I am not the strongest, physically. Nor do I possess the mind to outthink my opponents at every turn. Yet Amir'sshan chose me for the bond; the man-god saw an unrelenting spirit, one that never strays from the path. I'm an arrow, Chieftain, set upon its course, fired true. There's no going back once the bowstring is released. I'll not hit my target unless plucked from the sky itself. And in order to do so, those must answer to Amir'sshan. I will do what is necessary to achieve victory, even if that means striking my own...ally," you call E'ffy that for lack of a better term.
  
  Chieftain Malic'ant doesn't answer. Instead, he rises from his skeletal throne, both hands leaning on the spear for support. The guards behind him don't flinch, but you can tell they're ready to rush to their chieftain's aid should his decrypted bones fail him. Interesting, isn't it? He rests on a throne built from others' bones, yet his own seek to betray him. Such is the course for all, however, and not all conquer the amount Malic'ant has during their time.
  
  Even with an arched back the chieftain towers above you. A weathered face examines yours, wisdom in Malic'ants eyes, the kind that is born from experience, the kind that outvalues all others. "Ask something of me and I will grant it. I give you my word as chieftain."
  
  It strikes you that you could ask for anything, wealth, comforts, the hand of his daughter in union. All far short to the mission; they're but minor distractions pulling you from greatness. There's a task to accomplish, first starting with the native people of the New World then moving to the Old. With your answer, you seal in every unanswered question of doubt, smiting away all that takes you from the path. "We are challenging Terr'ok and the S'umbra by the trial of the old ways, to run the gauntlet of the gods and challenge the S'umbra's champion. We need your support."
  
  "And you shall have it," Malic'ant affirms, slamming the butt of his spear into the stone floor for emphasis. "You shall have it."
  
  With Malic'ant's support, you gained the right to challenge Terr'ok by the old ways. Yet you need more. The chieftain brought support from the tribe; the gauntlet will bring support from the gods. For a people so obviously devoted to the Raven, you're a bit surprised to hear of other gods existing. Amir'sshan only made sense because of his alternate reference, the Raven incarnate. According to E'ffy, there are many in the Harri'ar's religion. The Raven is above all, but another, subtier of gods exist, including figures that turned Alteran tavern rumors and borderline stereotypes into reality, gods such as the sun, earth, etc.
  
  The chieftain dispatched one of his warriors to call a meeting of the tribe's leaders, which consisted itself of chieftains puppeteering under the S'umbra and Malic'ant. No one challenged Mali'cant's backing. They didn't lend additional support, however, but no one openly disagreed with the legendary warrior. Respect, honor: it lasts far longer than the brittle bones of man. The Harri'ar are not a people bound by the sundial. They live lives free from the constraints of mankind's contribution to tracking time. They call the trial to happen that very day. If, indeed, the Harri'ar are being led by the wrong leader, then change needs to happen immediately; the gauntlet will determine if that's the case.
  
  Your body timer, speaking of time, tells you it's just past midday, despite the lack of natural sunlight in the war camp. As the one who made an audience with Malic'ant, and the bondsman of Amir'sshan, you'll be the one running the gauntlet. No surprise there. They painted your face in ash and stripped you of all armor, minus something called an a'lta, a blanket-like garment wrapped around your waist. On your head, a headdress of feathers was placed, only all the feathers have been plucked. The result is a headdress of spikes, white thorny stems that usually hid underneath the comfort of its feathers. You are allowed to keep your weapons, though, which includes Amir'sshan. Shirtless, face marked with ash, they set you upon the path, into the mouth of the cave: the gauntlet of the gods.
  
  > The gauntlet of the gods
  Darkness. Darkness abounds. Never has the light abandoned you as this. Not even on the blackest nights, during the nightmares brought on by childhood, or even worse, those occurring as a man. The mouth of the tunnel leads you down a narrow path, no signs of alternate routes or branches exist here. You walk forward, hands stretched out in front, feeling the stone walls as you continue into the darkness. It's cool, the kind of temperature that greets you in the morning, a sign, perhaps, that the trial is only just beginning.
  
  The journey takes you around several twists and bends before you arrive at a clearing. Small gemstones saturate the rocks here, a full nightsky in each stone, sending the entire clearing into a lunar glow, although the darkness still sends the ceiling into an endless black. You stride forward, aware of the crunching of rocks underneath your boots, the sound of every breath. It's dead quiet in the gauntlet; every movement from your body brings defilement.
  
  Like all the Harri'ar architecture you've seen, the room seems to focus on a single point, centered around an object at the center. In this case, it's a sarcophagus. It's built like...
  
  ...you've seen it before. It's a replica of the one in the halls of the dead, the place where you and Redding first discovered the artifact. If the scene will play out similarly, then--
  
  --Stone shatters. Rocks separate, lighting bolt cracks running through their bodies. The lid of the sarcophagus follows suit, a large crack twisting down the center like a painted river on a map. In a shower of rock, a hand reaches out from within the sarcophagus. Not a second later, the other grabs a handful of air as it, too, breaks out. The arms themselves possess a layer of decaying skin, gaps showing all the way to the bone. Another shower of rock. Feet, skin hanging to the bone like a poorly-stitched tunic. A mouth without a jaw. Empty gaps where eyes should reside, the same for its nose.
  
  The creature rises to meet you, not a lich. Not an undead priest. But, Redding.
  
  Hiyya, kid.
  
  His voice appears both in your mind and through your ears, audibly. It's different, though. And not due to its medium, although that's another point to quickly address. It reminds you of your childhood, the way a classroom friend would speak to you. A certain innocence, or perceived innocence accompanies it. Here's a man speaking like he knows every goddamn truth to grace mankind. Whether childlike ignorance or a good cardplayer, you're sure to find out the answer soon, the undead Redding patiently awaits your reply.
  
  Take your time; I've only got...eternity! Ha ha!
  
  "You aren't him," you flatly state.
  
  Am I not? This is how you view me.
  
  You bite down on your tongue. Answering "Redding" would give credibility to his statement. Instead, you scan the area for a path forward. None exist, or at least none that are visible. The cavern walls hide in the shadows; they could be either a foot or a hundred paces and you wouldn't know for certain.
  
  Want to see my bunkmate?
  
  Before you can answer, another pair of arms reaches from within the sarcophagus. It must be deeply built, if two bodies can fit within, assuming it's actually there. Hands grab for the outer edges of the sarcophagus like the way one would rise from a bathtub, skin hanging loosely from bone. The new figure rises, and you can see a long ring of black hair around its skull. Dead, decaying, there's no mistaking the second undead man. It's like looking into a mirror, minus the obvious difference in health. It's you.
  
  The artifact. All that matters is the artifact.
  You would abandon your allies for it.
  Abandon. Betray.
  Whatever it takes.
  
  "You" dialogue with Redding, and it strikes you that the exchange sounds very similar to the way you and Amir'sshan speak. That's where the thought ends, however. Whatever meaning you're meant to discern from the symbolism is lost on you. The undead version of yourself now addresses you.
  
  You betrayed your family.
  
  "The company is fine," you answer, this time, thinking of Bastus and Lionel. "They were rescued by the battalion's takeover."
  
  You betray them even now, not even acknowledging their presence.
  
  Oh. So it meant your real family: A father too concerned with his work for your well-being, an overbearing mother, an older sister with achievements far beyond your own. Hell, Vladimir felt like more of a family figure than those who share your blood. Your name presented too much renown in Magda to escape to the military there. Even operation under a false name would eventually be discovered. Magda may be a large territory, but its social ladder makes it operate like one much smaller, everyone of reputable position knowing the dealings of other families. In Magda, both enemies and allies alike are invited to dinner, just remain vigilant of missing table knives.
  
  "If my actions are considered a betrayal, then it's only justified. I didn't start...whatever disagreements we had, but I certainly wasn't going to hang around as the family scapegoat."
  
  You left your father with no heir.
  
  "He's fine in that regard. My sister would lead the house better than I ever could, and I mean that. They're better off with me gone."
  
  Your house is no more. Dissolved. Consumed by a rival house. Vladimir was assassinated in the streets. Your sister was forced to marry into the rival's bloodline, a former classmate of yours. Do you remember a boy named Kelle?
  
  Remember him, the boy stands at the very center of a memory long forgotten, suppressed over the years and medicated with drink and other...distractions, a story that is the nightmare of every adolescent. That is not this story, however, and you are no longer an adolescent. So your father's house fell apart in your absence. Perhaps it was always destined to set upon that course. Who knows. There's no determining for sure, although the loss of Vladimir might have been the beginning of the end. Your father's man performed every task for his master, including serving as a sliver of what a father figure might be.
  
  "Their fate is their own," you find yourself saying. "As well as mine is my own."
  
  Flesh and blood is a lifelong bond.
  
  "No, it's a strong bond, but it's not lifelong," you answer. Your hand subconsciously travels to Amir'sshan. "I know what a true bond is, felt."
  
  It's taking him over already.
  I see it happening too.
  The allure of power, blinding.
  He cannot see what's occurring before his eyes.
  
  "Quit the riddles. Speak plainly," you address the undead.
  
  Plainly, then, the undead version of you speaks.
  You're the boss, undead Redding adds on.
  Amir'sshan will consume you.
  A mortal body he desires.
  The mad god feigns as an ally.
  But he seeks to trap another within the dagger.
  
  "You lie. You attempt to break me from my bond when I need it most. You work with the S'umbra and seek to remove our greatest weapon before the challenge."
  
  Come on.
  It's just us three.
  Amir'sshan holds no place here.
  It's your one safe place from the mad god.
  Stay awhile.
  Stay with us.
  
  > Stay
  "I...I will stay with you," you say, the words barely pouring from your mouth.
  
  Exceeelent.
  You'll find that it's rather peaceful here.
  
  And suddenly you find that a great weight has been lifted from your body. The burden of the task is a heavy load to bear. True, you aren't--weren't--carrying it alone with allies such as Redding and E'ffy, but the main weight still lies on your shoulders, and they're in a constant state of stress because of it. For the first time in your life, at least since you can remember, you surrender. Give up. Part of you could blame it on not knowing. Rare is the decision that you know the outcome. If you're being honest with yourself, you knew what this choice would bring: a sudden end to your journey.
  
  Your mind draws to the people you'll never see again. E'ffy, Redding, of course, but there are smaller players in the grand story of your life that appear now, oddly enough. Your favorite barkeep, soldiers that you've trained with--hell, even the sailors that were aboard the Devestator on your voyage to the New World. Strange what appears to the mind when faced with finality. And that's what faces you now, the end.
  
  (So close, and yet so far. Another bondsman who failed to complete his duty.)
  There will be another. There is no shortage of those who desire your power.
  (And you're fine with that?)
  Whatever I feel won't matter in a manner of seconds.
  (Spoken like a true mortal. Eternity is but a romantic notion. You know nothing of the torment of time...)
  
  (...But you soon will.)
  
  The undead version of yourself closes in, Redding close behind. You see them. You could attempt to stop them. But you've made your choice, and there's no going back now. Amir'sshan's final warning rings in your mind. You soon will. The void closes in. You surrender to it. Your journey may be ending prematurely, but finally, the restlessness is gone. It's not the end you imagined, but damn if you're not relieved that it's here. Whether right or wrong, you'll have time to reflect. The last thought on your mind is the fresh smell of morning dew, one of those lesser experiences that seems to be screaming at you now, another feeling you'll never have again. Darkness closes in. Finally, you can rest.