“Spite sustains and hate motivates, a solemn truth branded to man. Let no foolish hope ever stand, to let one forget about the fallen land. Woe seekers of strength, woe to the clever men that delve into mana, for the Ancients watch and guard, their hatred strong for the races of man.”

- Unknown : Second verse of the lost Dirge of Asjen

Within what could be described as a withered husk of a colossal tree, a peculiar structure hanged within its hollowed depths. It could be described as a platform of clockwork materiel, with incessant whining of gears and various strange pumps and tubes running across its length, made alien with strange and wondrous arcane tools that dotted its length and even around the withered walls. Which came naturally with the presence of strange arcane writings on the walls, all of which throbbed with strange dissonant sounds.

At the center of this strange and confusing cacophony, the Lord Weaver hovered surrounded in equally strange happenings. Which served to strengthen his position as the eccentric among the twelve Lords, yet he seemed to be in deep focus. His hidden face beading with sweat as he moved his arms and hands, performing and creating confusing mystic gestures, which would mystify even the most experienced of mages among the young races.

Beyond this he was beset by magical occurrences, born completely from his own actions. Which all related to eleven red crystals that hovered with him, though seemingly orbiting his form in their own accord. It sat well with what was happening, lending a great credence to his title as the Weaver, for it seemed he was a grand arachne weaving some unseen yet vital silk in his domain. That was what other races would perceive now, which was all too far from the truth.

The truth was something far simpler and surprisingly malign, for the Weaver was delving deep into the essence of his new brother. The newly named Despot was an oddity among oddities, which motivated the curious mind of the greatest mage of the Ancients to explore and ponder, and in doing so led himself to the experimentation with the Blood Crystals that formed from an ancient rite of a long dead people. This in part was not solely due to his desire to know, but rather a necessity that another Lord asked of him.

Yet whatever motivation he may have had, was overshadowed by the growing sense of confusion and dread. As from the false serpentine eye of his helm, he was blessed by a means to see beyond the ken of most mortal races. To see what was always there, yet unseen by ones who had never found the truth of mana. Through this false eye, he saw it. The unceasing nature of the Despot captured in small quantities within the crystals, which made his eyes watery, and mind shift in bouts of strange fascination and fear.

It should have been simple, he thought. He was merely attempting to focus the power within the gems, so they may be ready for the socketing into the equipment of the Despot. Yet he grossly underestimated the nature of a being capable of spawning eleven crystals from their own potent blood, and in turn turned his desire for understanding to that of containment.

For in his enhanced sight, there stood shifting beings of unnatural qualities that made his mind swim. Things that shouldn’t be, yet are, and ones that would have caused madness if he wasn’t protected by his own helm. As what he saw before him were many things, yet dwindling and multiplying as each second passed, seemingly coming from one another and devouring each other.

It was akin to the very representation of a concept of endless rebirth, a cycle unending that one was doomed to. Which did not bode well for the Weaver in understanding the Despot, as in his false eye he saw not his tower, but a land of endless bone and eternal night. Where throughout the horizon was sight of endless war, of skeletal beings tearing one another apart bit by bit, only to reconstruct themselves moments later.

The land reeked of many malignant emotions and concepts, chief of which was necromancy. It surprised the Weaver, as this very sight implied the Despot was meant to be a Necromancer. A possible individual that may rise up to the ancient tales of the forgotten dead, in which he would perhaps surpass the long dead gods of undeath itself. But such a thing should have not been enough to instill fear in him, there was something else in this strange land of skulls that he could not see, nor understand.

Before he could ponder more into what he saw, the land faded and in its place the interior of his tower returned. With a looming presence towering over him, a thing of ichorous flesh and incomprehensible amount of undulating physical parts, which spoke in a echoing gibberish tongue. He did not understand it, nor did he feel like wanting to, yet it spoke as it drew close. The sight of it forcing tears down his hidden eyes, as its voice grew louder the closer it got.

When it was but mere inches from his hovering form, the thing was only repeating one thing. Its meaning forcibly piercing his mind so he may understand.

“Let me out.”

-

Benedict found his mind thinking of one particular word the woman said. Dominate. It in the context he often found himself in, was a violent word. It meant many things, yet his mind knew it to be a word that meant murder and slavery, meanings he was familiar with thanks to what he had experienced. Yet… A part of him understood that this woman meant something else, something that went beyond the crude and violent interpretations he thought of.

This drew from him a gasp of surprise, as his eyes widened in realisation which elicited a coo of delight from the woman. As her shadowy form seem to fade, allowing her true look to be shown, which caused a blush from Benedict and a shameful growing arousal within him. A desire that was once smothered by his need to feed, destroy and survive.

For the woman without her shadow was unbelievably desirable, more so than his better half who slept next to him. As she was voluptuous, bearing the physical traits that caused lust to quickly rise from the chest of Benedict. Large breasts, long hair, thick thighs, wide hips, a slightly toned body and what seemed to be a regal yet seductive face akin to a dominatrix.

“Up for the challenge Despot~?” She says with a voice that rang in his ears and mind, which he replied to by simply raising his hands and taking a hold of her hips, leaning up and ignoring the very dagger that had its blade against his neck. As he needed this, needed her body. To the point that all the anger, all the hunger and the connection to his malign creations was faded. Replaced by the simple need to have this woman.

Which she happily allowed, letting herself be held by the Despot and leaning down to kiss him. This sent his body aflame with a desire that felt wholly natural, where his hands slid down from her hips and down to her rear as he deepened the kiss, letting out an animalistic growl as he gave her rear a wanting grope, that caused a moan from the grey-skinned woman.

Then a hand came, not from the grey-skinned woman but a hand that set him at ease, which softly held his shoulder, tapping at it with soft fingers to get his attention. But he did not turn and was focused on the kiss, even when his hearts began to beat in unison, a sense of dread creeping up his spine which was soon vindicated.

As suddenly without a sound, woman that he was passionately kissing was pulled back with great force. Breaking their kiss and depriving the Despot of the source of his lust, which made him turn to his side, only to be greeted by Salia. Who smiled and spoke to him, her voice cold with anger not directed at him, but at someone else.

“Good morning my love.” She said. “It seems… There’s an intruder in our room. Please, lay down, I’ll handle it.~” Though still loving and full of warmth, Salia’s voice felt wrong and cold, something that instilled great fear within him that the sudden surge of lust and arousal within his body was decimated. Replaced by a deep sense of fear and regret.

“S-Salia… I…” Trying to find an excuse for his actions as fear held him for the first time in days, Benedict looked to Salia and noticed her right arm was extended outwards, pointing to the woman that once straddled him. Here he shut his mouth, as from the palm of her hand, a disgustingly long and impossibly large tentacle jutted out. With dozens more constricting around it, forming what seemed to be blunted spikes and growing dozens of eyes that looked around erratically.

Then she reached with her left hand towards his lips, placing her finger upon it to prevent him from speaking anymore. As Salia’s entire right arm was engulfed in dozens of magical circles, bearing runes that he saw in his dreams. At the sight of them his hearts began to beat furiously, as he turned to look to what the tentacles seemed to be holding.

The grey-skinned woman, who now was once more a woman of pure shadow, was held in place against the walls of the room. With the tentacles that held her slowly tightening, intent at breaking her bones while the blunted spikes slowly sharpened itself. Which made the woman in their grip growl in anger, using her dagger to try and hack away at the tentacles that he held, but it did not aid her, as the tentacles reformed as fast as she could cut them.

This made Salia grin widely, as she slowly got up from the bed and stood up on the floor. Where the manifold magical circles on her right arm, spread to her left, which she raised to motion to the woman.

“He is… Mine,” she began. “You cannot have him wench, you do not have my permission.” With that very line her grin turned manic, showing off an unnatural set of sharpened teeth, with her eyes turning akin to the eyes of that thing in his dreams.

“Die.” She said then, which finally spurred Benedict into action. Not in worry for the woman that he nearly had sex with, but for Salia who now held qualities that were so unnatural, that it made him truly worried. Enough that he leapt towards her, only for her to look at him and held him in place in the air with her left hand.

“My dear… Stay still. This shall be over soon, and I can sate your lust and make us… Whole.” Then with a sickening chorus, the sound of something breaking echoed out with a disgust ‘Thwack!’

-

It had been a scant few days since Aniara had revealed the fullest extent of the coming expedition, the plans, the routes and the leaders that would lead the groups of Summoned. As such it was no surprise that Isalabi was a hive of activity. From the Summoned Heroes to the Peasant Serfs of nobility, who moved to prepare for not only the coming expedition, but also that of winter. As the Lonesome Frost’s winters were erratic at best, and completely insane at worse, which rendered the eastern half of this very lands to be nearly a mystery.

As such the Godless who found no true camaraderie or reason to interact with the Summoned, stayed far from them and gathered their own supplies, preparing in their own way. Even when the Kings had already prepared supplies beforehand, rendering their current attempts at preparing to be redundant. But they could not care about it.

For they were concerned with polishing their combat capabilities, sparring with one another with fury and strength that made it akin to a battle. With only the fact that they were using practice swords and equipment even showing that it was a practice.

“Harder!” Screamed Carleon, whose voice was akin to a harsh barking of a large hound, raising a thick wooden kite shield against a coming overhead swing from his fellow. He braced himself and felt the shield hold against the wooden sword that hit it, a loud thwack ringing out, only followed by another as Jio striked again.

“You’re using a shield!” Jio complained, his voice laced with frustration and growing fatigue. But Carleon moved forward, meeting him with a sudden lurch forward and a bash with his shield that connected against Jio’s sword arm, eliciting a yelp of surprise, as Carleon slammed his shield once more against Jio. Forcing him back and nearly causing him to stumble.

“Nothing is fair Jio. Not here.” Carleon retorted with a frown, thumping his own sword against the shield, as if to goad Jio into striking again. “Goblins, Wolves, Beastmen, barely intelligent, common hazards in the cold land of the Lonesome Frost. But… What about humans? Are you confident you can best one?”

“... No.”

“Then do not complain. Remember our old sparring sessions.” Carleon moved forward now, slowly crossing the distance between them with his shield raised, and sword kept close and tucked in. Very reminiscent of the way Benedict held his shield when they practiced, meant to be used in heated engagements, or so he told them.

But it could not work against a passive enemy, which Jio remembered in his frustration at not being able to overcome Carleon. Making him instead ready his sword, moving back and opposite of Carleon, before moving towards him to the side. Where both began to circle one another, eyes firmly locked against one another. As this dance of theirs had bega an hour ago, with the ending being the same thing over and over. Like an incessant refrain.

It showed how much practice Jio needed, and Carleon made sure to make him realize this. Even if it means wounding his pride, as both knew that the Summoned would not be dependable. Making this more than necessary, it was to ensure their survival.

As Benedict had taught them, that no matter how prepared one could be, without honing their bodies, they would fail here. They needed to make their actions almost instinctive, almost as if it was second nature. Something their dear friend showed in his rage. This Jio mused for a few seconds, where Carleon capitalized in the inaction of his to rush forward.

Jio prepared himself, assuming that this would be like the last clash. A charge to hit him with his shield, disorienting him and hitting him with the same tool. Which was quite painful, making Jio meet his friend’s rush with one of his own, and feinted a strike overhead, which Carleon did not fall for, causing him to instead stop on his tracks. Where Jio tried to halt his charge, but found it too late as Carleon quickly slammed his shield against Jio, repeating what happened earlier.

“Remember. You’re faster, use that to your advantage.” Carleon said with a sigh of disappointment, before once again thumping his sword against his shield. Jio nodded at this, sighing in frustration whilst his body ached in pain, yet he ignored it, all in the name of becoming better. Or at least getting a proper strike on Carleon.

It proved hard to do, as Carleon was calm, composed, methodical in his actions. Far removed from when anger took him in that one incident, and an entirely new beast compared to Benedict. Who engaged with recklessness that made him at least predictable. Yet Carleon… He was a veritable wall of possibilities, who in the time they had parted gained greater improvement.

Which partly made Jio jealous, as it felt he was once again… Behind. A detriment. Where for a moment he felt his memories surge back, but he curbed them down and moved forward, to engage Carleon again. Where the same situation played out, frustrating him further, over and over, until he kicked at Carleon’s shield, which made Carleon tense up. Bracing against the kick which gave Jio a slight opening to reach out with his left hand, and simply pry the shield from Carleon’s chest with great force.

It worked and surprised Carleon, who tugged at his shield to stop Jio, but by then a blade came crashing down and struck Carleon on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt of pain and a happy laugh.

“Good! Good!” He said, kicking Carleon back and laughing fully. “Finally man! Finally! This, this is how you fight. Fight with every possible action meant to let you win!”

“That’s not honorable… Benedict won’t like that.”

“True… But would he like it if we died because of Honor?”

“No… He wouldn’t.”

“See? He wasn’t really… Honorable in many cases. Honorable in some cases, but…” Carleon paused, trying to find the word to finish his sentence. Which someone else finished.

“Murderous.” Said a ghastly voice, ringing in their minds as out of nowhere, the dessicated avatar of the book Carleon had once held arrived. He manifested from the shadows of theirs, filing the warm training room with the cold of winter. The cold of which chilled them to their very souls, as the thing seemed… Physical. Real. No longer bound to the Book that caused it to be known to them.

This caused much concern, as Jio saw the thing more clearly, and it made him tense up in growing fear. As the being instilled it in them, their natural reactions screaming for them to flee, yet they could not, for some force held them in place against their very will.

“Murderous: Capable of or intending to murder; dangerously violent.: "a brutal and murderous despot"... Your friend.” He says with that whisper of his, approaching them to reveal Benedict’s blade in his hands, which had the crude etchings on its surface glowing brightly.

“... What the hell? What… What are you doing?” Carleon asked, attempting to break free.

“Showing you… An Omen from your dearest friend.”