text: [Themes: fantasy, action]
  
  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.
  
  > Assassinate
  Now is your chance. The Great Warlord is exposed. You'll likely not have a chance like this again. The Lady said she'd be there when you need her, perhaps she orchestrated things behind the scene to set up the Warlord's vulnerability. One thing's for certain, you're not going to let this opportunity slip through your fingers. Paxson following, you start to make your way to the front of the assembly, getting a few angry looks from several tribesmen along the way.
  
  Along the way, the Warlord's voice rings out over the crowd, somehow projecting a great distance. Magically enhanced. It's not what you were expecting from the man. You expected it to be more...rough, animalistic, but it's smooth, the words spoken with an eloquence that rivals a master orator.
  
  "...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."
  
  You draw closer. Still, a fair distance away. Barely audible, especially compared to the Warlord's voice, another rings out. Seems their assembly is a two-way road. Progressive, for savages.
  
  "Then why have we been sitting here? We should have marched months ago!"
  
  "It was not the right moment to strike. The spirit being was building his strength within me. Striking without his aid would be folly," the Great Warlord answers.
  
  "But now it is?"
  
  The Warlord smiles, a curved thing like the edge of a scimitar. "Yes."
  
  Closer and closer you get, meeting more barbarians who don't take kindly to you pushing past them. A few even give you a shove, which only angers others since it takes you into the back of another barbarian. It takes a little while, and by the time you get a clear view of the Great Warlord, you can tell the assembly is almost concluded.
  
  Unlike the men at his command, the Warlord is clean-shaven minus a thin black mustache that looks as if it was the result of a thin paintbrush. His head is bald, highlighting bull-like thick neck muscles. Surprisingly, he doesn't wear armor. Instead, he wears normal trousers, far too normal for his position, and a sleeveless vest, stitched with red, revealing arms that Helswithian sculptors could only imagine. He's also paler than you imagined. The western barbarians are typically darker skinned, since they spend most of their time outdoors.The Warlord looks as if he's spent most of his time indoors.
  
  "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."
  
  You're almost within striking distance. Below the stage, a line of more equipped barbarians stand guard, shields and spears at the ready, their colors black and white. Unlike their fellow tribesmen, these don chain and steel helms. Every leader has an elite guard, and these must be the Warlord's.The Great Warlord motions behind him, and a man steps up next to him. You recognize him instantly. Curly brown hair, hazel eyes. Joren.
  
  > Joren
  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.
  
  > reach out
  You must be made to see. Rather than meeting his advance with sword, you extend a palm forward drawing upon the Lady's power. A familiar tingle is felt through your fingers, transitioning up your arm. Your vision starts to darken, like a pair of heavy eyelids before sleep. Twisting, whirling, the world around you suddenly fades from view.
  
  Lightless you float, becoming more used to flying in the air during your time spent in visions. Stone blocks line the floor, walls, and ceiling. It looks as if the same stone from your initial meeting with the Lady, the place where the coffin lies. Warmth falls over you, like waking up with the morning sun across your face. She's here.
  
  You will yourself forward, traveling down the torch-lined hallway. You pass each torch, an orange streak of light, growing quicker and quicker. Soon, the light of each torch molds into one, a single beam of warmth on either side of you. Wind greets your face and your stomach turns as if falling from a great height. Perhaps you were overconfident in your abilities in this realm, wherever "this" is. Then, like running into a thick brush, you're stopped, trapped, suspended into the air. The torchlight around you extinguishes as one, sending wisps of smoke in the air with the final breath of light.
  
  Through the darkness, a green glow appears, a pale face emerges. The woman flocked by crows. The vengeful spirit. She approaches her herald. Her youthful face is unmarked, flawless. In contrast with you, it makes her even more beautiful, a broken man in the presence of a goddess.
  
  "You promised to appear when I need you most," you say, filling the hallway with your voice.
  
  Yes.
  
  "And here you are. I desperately need you now."
  
  I know.
  
  "He's strong. Stronger than I imagined."
  
  Uralan is slowly feeding him. He cannot pour himself into the man completely, otherwise the vessel would be destroyed. However, he's close. Very close.
  
  "Can you do the same for me? Pour your strength into me?"
  
  The Lady turns away from you, head seemingly buried in thought, tilted slightly.
  
  I am not like Uralan. He was born of this realm. I was brought into it. He can siphon off strength to others. For me, that would be crippling. The power that keeps me in this realm would dissolve with the transition. I would be cut from the other deities.
  
  "Then my actions have doomed us," you answer softly. "I should have waited, not charged the man in front of his entire army." Your body floats down to the stone floor. Somehow, you're able to command yourself to stand normally, feeling the solid ground beneath you. The Lady follows.
  
  You continue, bowing your head. "I ruined our chance. Paxson will die because of me -- the Reapers already have. Morgan is lost. At least the vengeance of your destroyed temple is complete. I set off from the island to end Joren's life. That was accomplished. I'm sorry that I could not complete the rest."
  
  Her feet land on the floor next to yours, the first time you've seen her have any physical contact. Even her own hair seems to float just above her shoulders, never touching completely. Now, however, it falls heavy. Her hand touches your chin, drawing your gaze to meet hers. The Lady's eyes are black, yet inviting. Somehow, comforting despite possessing endless darkness.
  
  I chose you because I knew you could make it this far. Your strength lies not in your physical body, but in your willpower. You have made it this far. Allow me to carry you to the end.
  
  You fully understand the meaning behind her words. Her strength, though able to pour into your body, would remove her from her place next to the Eternal Father. She would no longer live with the gods. Her sacrifice would end her life. All because of you.
  
  "No, don't do this," you utter.
  
  What's done is done, she answers, drawing closer. Her face comes mere inches from yours, examining, contemplating. Her lips rise to meet yours, passing through as if an empty cloud. Then, she's gone. You're alone. Still, with your feet firmly planted on the ground, you stride forward, not sure what else to do. Usually, the visions are ended for you. This time, it's sustained. Your journey takes you to a single doorway. As you approach, the door swings open inviting you inside.
  
  You're met with a familiar room. Simple stone steps leading to an altar. A coffin lies on top. In each of the four corners of the altar, candles are lit, shining their warm light on a row of colorful flowers placed near the coffin. Once more, you approach the coffin. Its lid, formerly firmly in place, rests on the floor next to the altar, allowing you to view the body inside.
  
  The Lady rests inside, flawless features absent of life. Her dark eyes lie closed, forever. Two small hands cross at her waist, resting softly on her simple ceremonial robes. The Lady, the one flocked by crows, lies dead because of your choices. Her loyalty to her herald has brought her the ultimate end. Your head lands on her chest, sorrow taking over. Tears start to flow down your face. She remains quiet.
  
  > Wake
  A curved blade swipes towards your neck. Clarity fills your vision, allowing you to focus on tiny details, rather than needing your mind to fill those in. The edge travels towards you. Your own blade rises to meet it, deflecting the attack off course. Strength pours into your limbs like you've never felt before. The sudden rush is like splashing fresh water onto your face after a hard day at work, refreshing, invigorating. The Warlord notices it.
  
  "No... this cannot be. Not now. Not after all I've done," the Warlord utters. Then his face darkens. "She's here. A mistake on her end."
  
  Heavy boots stomping on the stage platform, he commits to a series of aggressive strikes, long powerful swings and slices, not the disciplined quick thrusting of a Helswith soldier. Sheer brutality and ferocity are his allies, and they've seemed to carry him this far. Speed, strength, perception, yours are enhanced beyond human limitations. With the Lady's power, it's like a seasoned soldier play-fighting with a child.
  
  Behind you, Paxson lets out a shout. You turn just as a tribesman pulls a spear back from his thrust, one that caught Paxson cleanly through the shoulder. Blood. More blood splashes onto the ground, most of which is Paxson's. Glancing back, you know what you must do. The Lady sacrificed herself for you. Many have died because of you. Death follows you, child. Her words echo in your mind. You will not allow Paxson's name to be added to the list.
  
  You will yourself forward, in the same way as your visions. In an instant, your body transforms into a flock of crows, squawking, flapping their wings at deafening levels, each with eyes black as the Lady's. Not a second later, you arrive at Paxon's side, turning back into your body. Paxson's gaze meets yours, hand still clutching his fresh shoulder wound, one of many that line his body. Not a word is shared. Like you've done many times before, you engage the tribesmen together.
  
  You move as a blur, avoiding each axe, spear, and sword, finding openings with each swing of your sword. Part of you wonders how long you can sustain such movement. So far, you haven't shown any signs of slowing down, so you push the thought from your mind. Every barbarian you fell is replaced by another, sometimes two others. Paxson holds his own, using a defensive posture, simply aiming to survive and distract as long as possible, while you take the offensive. You need to move. And fast, looking at Paxson's accumulated wounds.
  
  "Surround the assassins! I want them alive!" the Great Warlord's voice rings out over the horde.
  
  While already surrounded, the tribesmen cluster closer together. Instead of solely attacking from all angles, they become a tight-knit force, meaning to enclose you from all sides. They draw closer and closer, prodding, poking, jabbing with their weapons. Paxson, delirious from blood loss, stumbles, his vision blurring, instincts taking over conscious actions.
  
  "They will make a worthy sacrifice to the spirit being. The spirit will bless our attack -- urghh!"
  
  The Great Warlord's words are cut short. The point of a sword sticks out from the front of his thick neck, flashing in the sunlight. His mouth freezes open in surprise, a trail of blood leaking from within.
  
  All stands still for a moment.
  
  The surrounding tribesmen stop their assault, hundreds of thousands of eyes fixated on one point. With a thunderous crash, the Great Warlord falls dead, face-first, on the stage. A small woman stands in his place, originally covered from view by the Warlord's massive frame. Unnaturally black hair, emerald eyes. Morgan. Her head motions to one side, signaling to run. You don't need to be told twice.
  
  Paxson, losing strength, can hardly stand. You scoop him up over one shoulder and will yourself to the stage, to Morgan. Black wings flap in the air, taking you to your desired location. Emerald eyes greet you upon arrival. Your other hand, the one not holding Paxson in place, wraps around Morgan's waist, pulling her close. You will yourself forward.
  
  You travel far. A flock of crows fly over the western plains. Your vision is a blur of passing grassy hills, occasionally passing by jagged trees, void of leaves or life. Inside the flock, you're able to see perfectly through the crows, although you're sure no one on the outside can look within. Your journey takes you all the way to the coastline, relatively near where the Reapers made their camp, though miles away in case more of Tristrand's ships arrive.
  
  Eventually, you land on the bluffs overlooking the sea. Three sets of feet stand on the ground, one pair badly bloodied. Morgan eyes Paxson, taking far more of an interest than you would have expected, especially after revealing your newly found ability. His body, drained of energy, lies prone on the ground, resting in recovery, his heavy breath indicating sleep. You've bandaged his wounds best you can, and are confident in time he will heal back to full. There isn't a more durable man you know.
  
  Morgan doesn't speak at first. Perhaps for the first time, around you at least, lost for words. It's oddly silent, save for waves crashing against the shore. A soft breeze blows in the air, causing her to tuck her loose strands of black hair behind an ear.
  
  "She chose you," Morgan finally breaks the silence.
  
  You nod.
  
  "I thought she would choose me."
  
  "I thought she would too," you answer. "How did you find me?"
  
  Morgan sighs. "In all honesty, I was after Joren. But you beat me to it. You seemed to be making quite a mess of things, so I had to clean up like always."
  
  Despite her light-hearted comment, you answer solemnly. "She's dead. The Lady sacrificed herself for me. She foretold her own death. She would still be alive if not for my actions. She should have chosen you."
  
  Absent of emotion, a blank expression falls over Morgan's face, like a mask hiding the true feelings underneath. It's a look you've seen many times at the island, one that is accompanied with lesson teaching.
  
  "I'll not have you disrespect her like that. The Lady made her decision, and questioning that decision is questioning her judgement. I'll not allow such blasphemy, especially from you. She lives on through her herald, just as the ancient texts speak. I've...we've trusted her this far, and have we been given a reason against that? No. Things rarely play out as we imagine. Just ask my former husband there. You and I have plenty of work to do. First starting with building a new temple and reestablishing the order. You will lead us, Herald. May the Lady's vengeance continue through you."
  
  Morgan finishes by dropping to one knee, bowing her head before you. Well, that's strange. The woman who you've known only to discipline and reprimand you -- wait, did she just say husband?
  
  Paxson continues to breathe deeply, eyes shut. Peacefully dreaming of other times. His face is caked with dried blood. Smaller wounds not large enough to need wrapping, have since stopped bleeding, showing early signs of scabbing. The man who stayed loyal by your side, despite your father's ownership, despite countless wounds and blows on the battlefield, rests softly. His past, deeply aligned with your own. If you and Morgan are to reestablish the order, you can think of no better member to include. Besides, a little refinement around the edges would be good for him, although you imagine he'll still prefer the direct approach.
  
  "Stop that," you say, pulling Morgan up by her arm. Her words resonate with you. She's right. Both she and Paxson have demonstrated that you can't wallow in the past, fixating on past mistakes. You share a burden, a responsibility to continue the Lady's work. Your mind draws back to her words. All this has happened and will happen again. Victory is yours for the time being, but it will not always be so. You need to prepare for the future. You can start with building a temple and training new members.
  
  "There is a place," you speak. "deep in the Mountains of the Nameless, hidden from most travelers. The sun rises each morning between twin peaks, shining its light down evergreen-filled mountainside. There sits a rocky slope, a jettison in the mountain as if the top was cut cleanly off. I spent time there after escaping my father's house. No one's settled there. It is a perfect place to rebuild."
  
  "As you wish, Herald," Morgan answers with a smile.
  
  Next to you, Paxson rests silently. His chest rises and falls with each breath. Finally, he looks at peace. Finally, he's free. The coastline wind blows, sending nearby dry grass leaning eastward. Sunlight, shining from the ocean, sparkles brightly with the ocean's movement. You take in the moment, knowing that soon you'll be back in the comforting caress of the mountains, back home. Strange how the arc of one's life can come full circle. All this has happened and will happen again. Asleep, Paxson dreams of better times. A life of violence, separation, pain, the only solace comes during sleep, during dreams of her. Past glories mean nothing. Future glories are simply stepping stones on his journey back to her embrace. When he wakes, he'll find her.
  
  The End