text: [Themes: fantasy, action, fantasy]
  
  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.
  
  > Warlord
  The Lady tasked you with ending the Great Warlord, the return of Uralan. Joren may be the reason that brought you this far, but you'll not abandon the task that is set before you. She chose you as her herald, and you cannot betray her like that...even if it's in justice's name for the destruction of her temple. He's here in front of you. Exposed, thinking he's safe behind a wall of guards. His life is yours for the taking. You step forward, ready to end it here. Suddenly, a hand rests on your shoulder, stopping you. 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..." you answer, taking a second glance at the situation before you. A wall of black and white shields, a raised platform with two dangerous men, a horde unlike any other around you. Perhaps patience is the best avenue. As the Lady's herald, you must be willing to listen to others.
  
  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?"
  
  Joren's hazel eyes scan the horde before him. Most would be fearful in that position, speaking to thousands upon thousands of warriors. Leaders know how to inspire. They put their men's interest above their own, willing to place themselves in risky situations for the good of the company. Ever confident, like he knows a secret you don't, Joren takes a deep breath before speaking.
  
  "My travels have resulted in many things learned, Warlord." Confidence, even at not addressing the Great Warlord's full title in front of the horde. "There are those in Helswith that slander your name. They mock the tribes' gathering based on the inability to punch through the Helswith frontier line. Now, as we speak, High Lord Ursa is marching on our very position. He's taken the offensive. Something that many here would say we should have done."
  
  The statement, and the obvious slander, brings a displeased look to the Warlord's face. Murmuring starts among the horde. Joren yells over them.
  
  "I've been but a mere slave, chained, beaten, treated as but a wild animal. My bonds have taught me much about the way the world should be." Joren's hands blaze alive with holy flame, radiating blue light on his face. "Tyranny is everywhere, enforcing unfair rules, bending others to their will. The only way to live is through freedom. True freedom. A man is his own being. Anyone who says otherwise is a tyrant, a dictator, a WARLORD!"
  
  Both hands suddenly grip the Great Warlord's face, searing his skin with blue fire. The Warlord screams, frenzied, flailing his arms out meaning to catch Joren with his fists. The horde erupts in chaos. Tribe against tribe, savage against savage. Like a loose thread holding a pile of sticks together, they snap, the loose bond holding them, uniting them, broken. Through the chaos, you see the elite guard marching upon Joren's position. The bond between their master may be broken, but their honor will continue to be lost unless they can avenge their fallen leader.
  
  Paxson jumps to Joren's rescue, unaware of your history with the man. All he sees is someone ending the Great Warlord's life, an unlikely ally found in a horde of savages. Never one to passively wait for an outcome, he charges the platform where Joren stands. Reluctantly, you follow. Luckily, Joren is the main focus of the elite guard, allowing you to end a few, unaware, from their flank.
  
  Pulling your blade from the back of a guard, dropping him, brings you face to face with Joren. "You," he utters, with a more surprised look than the Warlord just displayed at Joren's betrayal. "You just don't quit, do you?"
  
  Paxson drops a guard next to you. "You know each other? Now's not the time for petty disputes."
  
  You parry a blow, stepping back as another tries to catch you preoccupied. "Agreed. Why don't you make yourself useful and give us some cover?"
  
  Joren, understanding, nods, sending blue flame extending from his palms. The entire platform soon is covered in flame, black smoke rising into the air. In the smoke, you feel at home, drawing upon your training received on the island. Such smokescreens were part of what Morgan taught you, causing you to depend on other senses rather than sight alone. Joren, in the same situation, follows suit, both of you guiding a non-accustomed Paxson through the smoke cover, letting the chaos of the horde give you additional cover, and distraction, to leave the war camp.
  
  > Into the surrounding hills
  You flee, far from the war camp. The sun, originally high in the sky, slowly creeps towards the horizon. But still, you flee, putting as much distance between yourselves and the horde as you can. It may be in disarray, it may be chaotic, but it's still thousands upon thousands of warriors. For all you know, another leader could rise, bonding them together in their betrayal, uniting them for a sole purpose: to find and kill Joren. In your temporary position next to Joren, you hope that's not the case. It's still a very real possibility though.
  
  How is it that the man you chased several nations to kill became an ally, aligning his goal with your own? Yes, Joren is the reason for traveling this far, but the Lady's will directed you towards the Great Warlord instead. Confused at the outcome, questioning her decision to even task you with the assassination, you suppress the thoughts, meaning to focus on escape. You'll have plenty of time to answer those questions later.
  
  Cool evening air washes against your face. The three of you, running on foot, finally rest, finding a large grouping of stones as cover. Each of you drop, planting your backs against a stone for support. The rock itself is cold, a result of being exposed to the air, while not receiving direct sunlight.
  
  "Just couldn't get enough of me, huh?" Joren breaks the silence, hazel eyes meeting yours. His brown curls have grown considerably longer than they were at the island.
  
  "Something like that," you answer.
  
  "We're still even, though. I could have escaped there by myself. Didn't need you and 'Scowly' over here to rescue me. If anything, I saved you with that smokescreen."
  
  "Who are you calling 'Scowly,' Mop Head," Paxson answers. "I don't care about your past. You ended the Great Warlord's life, which puts you as a friend in my book."
  
  You sigh, exhausted. You find yourself here, so might as well make the most of it. "Why? Why did you do it?"
  
  "Do what?" Joren answers. Seeing your frown, he continues. "Ok, ok. Speaking plainly then. The one they worship is real. The woman flocked by crows, vengeful spirit. All that. She's real. I've seen her."
  
  "No way," you reply, directed towards the fact that Joren's spoken with the Lady. As far as you know, you're the only one she appears to. Morgan didn't even claim direct communication with her.
  
  "It's true. She came to me on the island. How much do you know of Killian? He was a false prophet, leading the order astray. He's actually part of the Dreamwalkers. The leader of the Lady's order was grooming up members to be taken by the Dreamwalkers for experimentation."
  
  "But...but you're a high priest for the Warlord, the direct enemy of the Lady," you respond.
  
  "I was a high priest for the Great Warlord. All those things I said on the stage are true. The Warlord was a tyrant. He's just as those who put us in shackles, worse even as he feigns freedom for his followers. They're bound, and they don't even know it. Their chains follow them no matter how far they travel."
  
  Seeing your skepticism, he continues.
  
  "I serve the divine, in all forms he takes. Once I thought that was the Warlord. Even after the island, I thought that. My journey told me otherwise. The Lady told me otherwise. Though I was once aligned to the western tribes, my only duty is to the divine. You are her herald. She told me as such. The herald must have a priest in accompaniment. One to fulfill her will, and the other to cultivate it. You know it must be this way. You and I are bonded, destined, to do the Lady's work. Together. "
  
  "I find that hard to believe."
  
  The voice comes not from you, not even from Paxson, but from your left. Morgan stands between two sizable boulders, arm resting nonchalantly on them. Two emerald eyes framed by hair of unnaturally black hair.
  
  "Liliana?" Paxson utters, wide-eyed.
  
  "Morgan," she answers, stepping forward. Something flashes in her eyes. Recognition? Whatever it is, it appears for only a moment, now suppressed. Morgan dons her blank, expressionless face, the one that accompanied many lessons on the island.
  
  "Ah, Morgan," Joren begins. "Fitting you should be here as well. We'll need your--"
  
  Subtle movement on the rock above where Joren leans against. Neither Paxson, Joren, and apparently, Morgan notice. Something's wrong. Then, realization hits you, like a strong wind current running into full mast sails. "Morgan" is an illusion, a projection. She stands where the sunlight barely hits the rock formation. No shadow. Her body isn't casting a shadow. The subtle movement occurs again. You're too late to stop it.
  
  The real Morgan drops from above, blade ready, flashing, a silvery streak as she flies down. All eyes are focused on the woman in front of them, on "Morgan." Her boots land directly on Joren's shoulders, one on each, the sudden blow dazing him. Morgan's free hand grabs a handful of curly hair, pulling Joren's head up to expose his neck. She eyes him for a split-second, savoring the moment, ready to enact the Lady's vengeance. Hazel eyes meet a pair of emeralds.
  
  > reach out
  You must be made to see. Taking a deep breath, you draw on the power that the vengeful spirit instilled in you. Your arm starts to tingle, like static energy is in the air, small hairs starting to rise on themselves. Dizziness takes over, the world spinning into a blur of color and images, pouring in on itself like a swirl of clouds taking the red-orange light from a sunset. Blackness appears at the edge of your vision, growing large, finally tunneling your vision into a single point of light.
  
  A woman appears, emerald eyes within a curtain of blonde hair. Dressed in simple brown work clothes, her hair is a mess, loosely tied behind her head. She struggles to carry a bucket of feed, slop for the farm animals. She grips the bucket in front of her, both hands on the U-shaped handle. The bucket is dumped in entirety with each pen she crosses, causing the woman to journey back to refill its contents. You count six pens in total, a sizable amount for a family, let alone, a lone woman.
  
  The farm is surrounded by trees, much too many to be in the Helswith or the western plains. The land mass itself is far too large to be one of Tristrand's islands. Wherever you are, it's a place you've never been. Southwest of the barbarian plains maybe? As the woman finally finishes feeding the animals, several figures emerge from the treeline. They're dressed in red tunics with bright chainmail underneath. Orem's soldiers. The laws say she's to provide food and shelter for those in support of their king. The same law took her husband away from her, off to war with mere weeks of service left. That was three years ago. Their reason for arrival obvious, the woman, Liliana, sighs and begins meal prepping.
  
  An hour or so later, she places four plates of food on the table for the hungry soldiers, recognizing only one of them, though Liliana doesn't recall his name. Roast pork with a side of stew and bread, a specialty of hers. It always was well-received by Orem's men. The fact that the warm stew and its heaviness made the soldiers sleepy is simply a bonus.
  
  Those who escaped the war, or at least had a break from it, liked to indulge in their ale, and Liliana didn't want to put up with their rowdy behavior. At first she chalked it up to blowing off steam, but then she slowly realized it was much more: it's the action of scavengers, men who take all that they can, dressed in Orem's red. The burden of responsibility, of attending to one's duty is absent. Instead, it's men forced into service, those who seek escape above all else. A tankard of ale is a temporary escape, but it does the trick for the time being.
  
  After the soldiers finish, Liliana takes their plates from the table for cleaning. Unlike some, these ones actually thank her for the food. Others assume it's her duty to serve them. Whether actual gratitude or simply being polite, either one is fine with Liliana.
  
  "Lodgings, Miss?" their sergeant asks, a balding man with scruff appearing at his jaw.
  
  "No extra rooms. Sorry," Liliana answers. "There's soft hay in the barn to use. It's not much, but I'm sure it's better than being out on the road." After thanking her, the four soldiers leave, full and drowsy, to rest for the night in the barn. So Liliana thought. She wakes up. Darkness. Heavy footsteps. Floorboards creaking. Powerful arms hold her down. She struggles. Pain.
  
  They're gone the next morning. Memories echo within Liliana's mind, recurring events from the previous night. Her helplessness. A strong grip around her. Breath. Gods, that fucking awful breath. Pain. It lingers, a constant reminder, one that will not be easily shaken from her mind. Liliana goes through her daily routine as if everything's normal. First the squawking chickens, then the swine.
  
  She pours herself into the work, feeling the strain, sweat, and exhaustion set in. The animals here are grateful for her food. They don't...no, strike it from memory. Keep to the day. Don't let them take anything more than they have already. She almost forgets about it, the day's work thankfully filling her thoughts with pressing tasks that need completing. Until evening rolls around, and four figures, again, emerge at the treeline. Orem's law. She has to give them a place of rest. The law, however, does not cover...what they did. What they continue to do. Another four meals. Another night of pain.
  
  They don't even acknowledge their wrongdoing. They simply pretend it never happened, like the light of day washes all evil from the night before. She doesn't forget, though. How can she forget? Still, the soldiers put up their polite facade, giving them deniability with each as a witness for one another. Maybe they don't even know. Maybe it's only one of them, sneaking into the night, hurting her. No, they must know. They have to know.
  
  Nightfall. Creaking floorboards. Footsteps heading for her door. Staggering steps, affected by the ale. She gave them a generous amount, hoping it would lay them to sleep for the night. Not enough. Heavy hands holding her down. She anticipates the pain.
  
  A flash of light, followed closely by a burst of red. The thin point of a blade appears in the dark, reflecting moonlight shining through the bedroom window, like a guiding star in the night, one that Liliana instantly promised to follow. The dark shape atop her falls to the side. Standing behind, blade in hand, is a man with hair like snow. Pure white. He gazes at Liliana, concern in his face as if the loving look of a father.
  
  "Will the lady extend her vengeance to the others?" the man speaks, a soft whisper in the night air.
  
  Liliana nods, a loose strand of blonde hair falling in front of her face. Blonde hair, like a young girl innocent of the world of men. No more. She would have to change that, and she knows just the color. Black, like the night, to remind her of her helplessness. Black, to signify the hearts of men. First, the others must be attended to. Then her transformation would be complete.
  
  A fist crashes into your nose, sending you sprawling to the ground. Paxson stands over you, visibly angered. Behind him, rests the dead body of Joren, countless stab wounds pouring blood from his chest, Morgan holding the dagger. Joren's blood is splattered across Morgan's face and clothes, a large pool starting to form underneath his body.
  
  "What did you do to her?" Paxson demands, still towering over you.
  
  "Me? Nothing. It was Orem's soldiers..." you answer.
  
  Anger washes from Paxson's face, fragmented memories pieced together like a puzzle. He knows the laws of his homeland. Recognition, then horror, replaces his anger. His departure, her pain.
  
  Morgan, trance-like, wipes the blood from her blade. Any trace of emotion has since left her voice. "What's done is done. The lady's vengeance is complete." She turns to leave, her steps mirroring the emotionless tone of her voice, mechanical, like limbs tied to strings pulled by a puppet master.
  
  She leaves you and Paxson alone, the mutilated body of Joren opposite the two of you. Paxson slumps down next to you, his threats all but vanished. He sighs, the burden placed upon him audibly heard. It's a temporary relief, but the weight returns with the next breath.
  
  "I'm going after her," Paxson comments.
  
  You turn, meeting his gaze.
  
  "We'll both go."
  
  The End