[TT] The tattoo writhed under her skin.

...

The Westernlands were a far-cry from civilized. For those not fortunate enough to have grown to adulthood under the oppressive but protective presence of the Blackened Spire, many might even call the land barbaric: Victim to strife and war like a dry forest might be to a lightning's bolt. But whatever those who inhabited the Westernlands, all would agree that the magic which dwelled there was much more advanced then their kin in the East.

For reasons behind this, there were many. From the faded and crumbling scrolls of history, to the current aggression and desperation which forced hard folk to become harder still: Even the youngest children of villages in the West knew that no Eastern Magic stood in even pale imitation to the powerful workings and channeling of the Great Dark Lord.

For all the horror he might bring down upon them, it was that man alone who had defeated the greatest of rivals to any mortal soul: A victor over death itself. The Mage who would live forever, ruling over all in the West for all eternity.

Sandra learned of his deeds before she had so much as received her own name. By the time she could walk, as with all children deemed capable of the mystic arts by a village elder, Sandra had been taught from the sacred book of rituals. Carefully, her mind had been molded and shaped to stand the tests of mana and current, before she was sent out to be trained in the Service of that Great Blackened spire.

She had witnessed many things in such time. From acts of magic she herself might replicate, to powers churning along the very fabric of reality itself; mana pressed into forms only possible by the Dark Lord himself, or the gods. Sandra had witnessed greatness and all that beneath it, and like a sponge she had drank in the knowledge for the pure purpose of clinging to her mortal existence.

To be a Mage of the Black Spire in service of the Dark lord, was to risk death upon each and every ritual. Survival was a privileged given only to those with capacity and experience, not a right.

So, compared to those magics, the likes of complicated motions, intricate rituals, thousands of memorized incantations with practiced nuances that took years to learn: The Eastern Brand of slavery was an decrepit and archaic magic. Even worse than most of the Eastern Magics she had witnessed thus-far.

On her wrists a deep shade of silver sat writhing, just beneath her pale skin. Two cuffs of slavery, binding her to a stranger.

As crude and unpleasant as it was disgusting, just to think of such primitive workings was beneath someone of her talent. Sandra could easily construct at least a dozen more complicated and worthy methods to achieve greater and more efficient results for the same task, and yet this all changed nothing of her circumstances.

The magic bound her as surely as iron, just as it bound her companion Eron and the poor Cleaner beside her. All three of them were trapped and forced into compliance of actions- should their new master only command them. Anything at all

He didn't though. Instead, the man who held their free-will as simple as one might hold a leash sat quietly atop a large stone, eye watching the ludicrous display of physical effort taking place beneath him. As the cool air of evening settled down over the valley, torch smoke and shouts lifted up over the black-crested hills of stone and sand with abundance, soldiers in armor struggling desperately to achieve victory over a large monument of stone.

From what she had discerned so far, he was an odd man. Claimed to be from another world, the faint glow of stray fairies seemed to swirl around him, gathering like moths might flock towards a bright flame at night. He also, beyond any doubt in Sandra's mind, had a Dark Elf in his service; but there was more to it than just that: The man was eccentric in ways she wasn't certain had much to do with anything other than being insane. The way he spoke, the things he considered, all of them seemed foreign and strange to her- and none the least bit impressive.

"It's been at least four hours by now, and they've achieved nothing. I don't think I've ever seen Congrad look so helpless." Sandra's master spoke, hand rising to rub at an unruly-beard of curling hair. "Even from here, it looks like he's going to pop a vein on that precious face of his."

In the distance of the dipping valley, a man in perfect regal clothing shouted orders from a fittingly immaculate horse, waving his fist as a far-off voice demanded those in its presence work harder. She watched as several soldiers stumbled and fell, exhausted. The rope they had been pulling lay loosely beside them, purpose lost in obvious defeat.

"Say, Eron." The man spoke, turning towards Sandra and her companions. "What do you know about that relic? Jarl said you three were captured right next to it."

"Master." Sandra felt a spike of anger as the man beside her bowed low in response, demeaning himself as if it meant nothing. "The Northern monument is protected by the Dark Lords powers, sustained by the magic and life it once stripped of the land." Flashes of light and sparks sounded as another bout of Eastern Battlemages threw their worth against the thick stone, efforts sliding off harmlessly. "It is a reservoir of power for those of the West, and thus can not be destroyed easily."

As Eron held his bow in a deep and formal gesture, their master eyed the ongoing display of fireworks and pitifully inefficient magics with a look of idle curiosity; the likes of which made Sandra wish she could smack him off the rock he was sitting. How dare he treat them like this? If the man before them was a Battlemage, he was by far the weakest caster Sandra had ever seen- and yet Eron, the most talented Mage Sandra knew of besides the Dark Lord himself, was bowing.

It wasn't right. Eron was far greater than this man would ever hope to be.

"Magic won't work against it at all then?" Their master turned back to them, odd stare drifting in thought. "For god's sake, stop bowing man. This whole situation is awkward enough already."

"The men pulling ropes will probably have better luck." Eron spoke again, raising to a more relaxed stance, simmering Sandra's boiling hatred ever so slightly. "It is still stone, regardless of the mana contained within it. As such, it will still act as stone."

"What if I were to blow it up?"

"Wha-" The bindings of silver beneath her skin flared, stopping her disbelief short, but not before drawing their master's attention. He looked at her confused for a moment before realizing her predicament.

"Ah, sorry. You can speak Sandra." He said the last awkwardly, hand rubbing at his temples in a tired motion. "All of you can speak freely, I didn't realize that was an issue."

"Eron just told you magic won't work." She contained her displeasure, tongue holding back several choice words. "So you can't just blow it up, it's resistant to mana."

"Well, I was just thinking we could blow it up without magic."

They all stared at him. Not Just Sandra, but Eron, even young Julius- the Cleaner without half a drop of magical gifts to his name looked at the man like he was spouting insanity itself. The silence stretched, until finally Sandra brought herself to ask the obvious question. "How exactly do you expect to blow up the relic without magic?"

"Magic, without the magic." The man replied with a wide grin.

Gods have mercy on their souls, Sandra cursed the day she was born. Slowly swallowing her pride, she fell into a bow beside Eron, fists clenched in a mix of anger and disbelief as her mind raced at the implications just presented.

It was official, she thought, wrists once again itching along the crested edges of the silver beneath her skin.

They were bound to serve a madman.