text: [Themes: fantasy]
  
  He's here. Finally within your grasp. The man that you've chased over several nations stands before you, unaware of your presence. You feel a small pang of regret that Morgan isn't here to share in your vengeance, in her vengeance, but it must be done. Joren first, then the Warlord.
  
  A hand rests on your shoulders. Paxson's. "I have a bad feeling about this," he whispers. "Whatever you're about to do, this is a one-way journey. I hope you know that."
  
  "We'll see about that," you whisper back. The black and white shields lie before you, a cliffside meant to stave off the most powerful of waves. Behind them, two men to kill. The eyes of the elite guard scan the horde, searching for signs of danger, seeking disruptive behavior. You take off in a dead sprint directly toward them.
  
  The sudden movement draws all attention to you, the few assembly members in front of you part, retracting like the receding of a wave. You murmur a soft prayer to the Lady, pumping your arms and legs, propelling yourself forward at full-speed. Despite being surrounded by a hundred thousand men, all seems quiet. The only sounds registering in your mind is your breath and footsteps. A wall of shields raise against your charge. You leap.
  
  Flight. Wind rushes past you like howling gales. The hairs on your arm rise, partly because of fear, partly because of adrenaline. You acknowledge both within a thought and press onward. Your flight is only a matter of seconds, maybe less, but it feels as if an eternity. The world slows down around you, allowing you to see. You must be made to see.
  
  The eyes of the elite guard are steadfast, confident with their shield wall. As your leap takes you higher, they shift. Realization falls across them, surprise at your flight path. The whites of their eyes, behind steel helms, follow your body upward, momentarily frozen. Before they can recover, your foot lands on one of the shields, propelling yourself higher, sending you directly onto the stage in front of your victim. Joren.
  
  "Hello, old friend. Been awhile," you say, throwing your dagger at Joren. Whirling, it flashes through the air towards the exposed neck of your prey. It lands within Joren's neck with a soft thud. A small gurgle escapes his lips simultaneously. Behind you, Paxson engages the Warlord's guards, a single man surrounded by well-armed and well-trained soldiers. In an instant, you know how it will end. It would likely have the same outcome even with Pralthar's greatbow at his support. You feel a pang of guilt, but do your best attempts to suppress it. There'll be time for that later.
  
  The thick neck muscles of the Warlord bulge, his body posturing for combat. His eyes draw down to your arm, where the tattoo of the crow lies. "You!" he speaks. He charges forward, a mad bull stampeding. At the last moment, when he's almost upon you, your feet shift drawing you away from his charge. Surprisingly quick, too quick for a man of that size, he adjusts, slamming his massive shoulder into your gut. It's like being hit with a solid rowing oar. The impact shoves you back, taking a flight path in the air opposite of the one you just took. Your body collapses near the edge of the stage, almost falling over completely.
  
  Crumpled, dazed, you eye the approaching Warlord, his heavy boots resounding on the wooden stage with each step, like thunder within a storm cloud. In the circle of soldiers, Paxson's success is on par with yours. Several cuts line his arms and legs. Blood pours down one side of his face from an unseen wound, only worsening his vision for what's to come. Still, he holds a defensive posture, unwilling to accept defeat while he possesses strength. Like you, he knows what the outcome will be. The longer he distracts the soldiers, the greater your own chance of ending the Great Warlord.
  
  Your hand grips tighter around your sword. You're not done yet. You spin to the left, avoiding the Warlord and arc your blade downward. The edge strikes the side of the Warlord's leg, pausing him for a moment, but then he closely follows your movement, meaning to catch you before you can rise to standing.
  
  > rise to standing
  He's on top of you as soon as you finish the roll. Armed now with a curved blade, he brings it down in a powerful overhead swing, sending splinters flying from the stage as it narrowly misses. You bring your own sword to counter. It meets the Warlord's cloak, bouncing off harmlessly, not making a mark. It has the same effect as a small dagger trying to slash through plate. On his next assault, you attempt to kick out his legs from under him. The Warlord hardly notices, absorbing the blow, and returning his own, which sends you sprawling across the stage again.
  
  "This is the strength of her herald?" the Great Warlord comments, drawing closer to your fallen body.
  
  You try to cut his injured leg, but he easily avoids the attempt, slapping your sword from your hand. You try to hold on to the blade, but it feels as if it was torn from your hands, like the rigging in stormy sea water.
  
  A man cries out behind you, followed closely by laughter. Paxson. You turn to see his prone body, pierced with several spear wounds. He moves, barely. Not for long, though. Not until the tribesmen have their fun. The Warlord's fist smashes into your nose, bouncing the back of your head on the stage. The heel of his boot stomps on your knee with a sickening crack, like a tree branch being snapped into two pieces. Pain. Searing pain shoots up your leg distracting you from your surroundings. There's only one focus on your mind. Pain. Searing pain.
  
  "Can't have you escaping now, can we?" he speaks again. "You've made it this far, only to fail now. I suppose that's expected considering the Eternal Father tasked that whore to stop me."
  
  The insult towards the Lady distracts you from the pain, briefly. You try another desperate attack, but get shut down instantly. The Warlord's boot meets your already broken nose, crushing it further. Your face a bloodied mess, you speak. "The Lady will have her vengeance. She's stopped you before, and she'll stop you again."
  
  "Face it, Herald. You're beaten. Your death will serve no purpose other than to further the spirit being's return. His power made manifest through me. In killing the whore's herald, I will severe her ties to this world. Face it, Herald. You've lost."
  
  The Great Warlord lifts his curved blade up, ready to end your life in a single strike. Here, it all ends. You've made it far, falling short near the finish line. In an instant, you find yourself full of sorrow, not because your life is ending, but because you've failed the Lady. You've failed to accomplish her task, one that she placed her faith in you for.
  
  This is it. You close your eyes wanting it to get it over with. A sudden flash. Movement occurs. Sunlight fades for a moment, caused by a shadow passing over you. A woman stands above you, her back turned towards you. She engages the Warlord in a fury of strikes, like a swarm of hornets being disrupted in their hive. She's quick, too quick for the Warlord. But still, he holds a sizable edge due to sheer strength and size. Her swarm may be frenzied, spurred by vengeance, but she's ultimately outmatched in a direct confrontation.
  
  Several minor cuts appear on the Warlord's arms, but they are but a small nuisance. The guards and the horde stand at the ready, willing to come to their leader's rescue. The Warlord waves them back, preferring to handle the would-be assassins on his own. He creates a spectacle of it, a show for their benefit. This is not a leader standing idly back while others fight. He'll settle things on his own terms. He'll get his own hands dirty. He'll smother the Lady's vengeance.
  
  A woman falls next to you, blood pouring from her face, just as you. Morgan.
  
  > Epilogue: The Horde's Plaything
  Shackles. Once again, they find themselves around your wrists. Your back is pressed against a large wooden column, hands bound behind and around the pillar. Similar chains are clasped to your ankles, connecting to the base of the pillar like a dog leashed to its master. Thousands upon thousands of faces surround you, cheering, voicing animalistic sounds at your demise. The horde.
  
  It's late in the day now. The sun is much lower in the sky than it was when confronting the Great Warlord. The strength sapped from your body, you must have laid unconscious for several hours. Morgan! Where is she? You twist your body the best that you can manage to see if she's near. She's not. You're alone, tied to the pillar. However, to your right, you discover Paxson's remains, a series of five pikes in the mud arranged in a star-like pattern, each impaled with one of his limbs, the fifth being his severed head.
  
  Paxson, an unlikely friend, loyal until the end, unwilling to stand by, idly, while you took a desperate attempt on the Warlord's life. He knew the outcome and still gave you support, trading his life so that you could have a greater chance at success. And still, you failed.
  
  Bodies begin to part in front of you, creating a pathway for two figures to walk through. Like you, she's chained, led by the Warlord holding the leash. He pulls on it suddenly, cruelly pulling her forward, stumbling to the ground. Her clothes are tattered, torn in several places exposing the skin beneath, at least not directly where places are meant to be covered. Close, though. Very close. Black hair, unnaturally black, frames her face. Two emerald eyes peer through the curtain, absent of the brightness they once possessed. You recognize the look. Hopelessness.
  
  The Warlord walks her up in front of you, tossing her once again to the ground. Morgan. The two of you have shared so much. It's oddly fitting that you find yourself here, sharing in the defeat as well. Her eyes meet yours, hands and knees still on the ground. She's void of the sharpness that once inhabited. The zeal that possessed her is gone, replaced with a sense of nothingness, a shell of her former self. Morgan's head turns slightly, catching sight of Paxson's severed body. For a moment, the light is back. Inner fire that burns away all else. As quickly as it appears, it dissipates, doused by the present setting. Was that recognition or simply a reaction to the cruelty?
  
  "I had my men break her in for me," the Warlord speaks to you. "She's as passionate as they come. Eventually, though. They all break."
  
  You attempt, unsuccessfully, to break from your chains. It's futile, but you have to try.
  
  "I think I'll keep her around a while. But first, you must be dealt with."
  
  The Great Warlord motions to nearby tribesmen. They nod at his command, stacking pieces of wood around you and lighting torches. So this is how it all ends. Your life, once from the comfort of a prominent house, to the Mountains of the Nameless, to here, in the horde, is about to end.
  
  The man you tracked across many nations is dead. That much was accomplished. But seeing Morgan in her position, in the vulnerable form you never expected to see her in, is heartbreaking. The man you chased, Joren, left a wake of flame in his path. His life ended, and yours about to be by the very burning tracks he left behind.
  
  Symmetry. The cyclical nature of your journey is not lost on you. Here, at the end, you find yourself where you once began. Shackled, your life in the hands of another. From a family that owned slaves, to becoming one yourself. The woman flocked by crows, stampeded, mistreated, shamed through a barbarian horde, Morgan following in her footsteps. Symmetry. You were born into this world screaming, crying. As they light the fire underneath you, you leave the world in the same way.
  
  The End