[WP] An ancient immortal, known as The Dark Lord, is very bored. One day he finds out a new band of heroes is coming for him, yet again. "Hope they are fun enough", thought The Dark Lord, disguised as an average dweller, while approaching the team: "So, I heard you need a guide?"

...

Jarl, I tell you: This campaign is damned to' hell itself." The Baron muttered, face reddened deeply by the shades only capable in whipping winds and strong drink. "We're fools for acceptin' it in the first place."

"You're not wrong about that." Beside the Baron, Jarl spoke from beneath his gilded hood, breathing through the cloth of a fine scarf. "Seems the dust storms have picked back up in the eastern winds. Forward scouts brought in the news not three moments past, visibility will be low tonight."

"Dust, winds, even the sky is a might' strange. I think we may 'ave made mistakes in heading South, I truly do." The Large man adorned in red armor tipped back a flask, fierce and grizzled features all but covered by the beard creeping from his lofted helm. "Should 'ave tried our luck at the walls, become lawless brigands and deserters instead."

"Aye Baron. I often think the same." Jarl replied, eyes held skyward to follow his observation. "Not that you weren't already at least one of those in the eyes of the Church."

The Baron's response rumbled like thunder, confident and loud as the bearded face threw back fierce laughter.

He was right of course. Jarl could plainly see in the fading light of late afternoon: The clouds were indeed strange today. Pocketed with portions of blue and color that came as unmistakably foreign along the endless stretch of grey overhead. It almost seemed a grid-board set with the pieces missing, like some royal family's gilded table had been placed far above their mortal souls by two gods about to duel with fate.

"They were the' fools which gave my family's line such a title. No fault of mine for acting on the authority." The gruff reply settled at the trailing ends of humor, hiding more than it's share of amusement beneath helm and facial hair. Beneath the man, a horse stirring in the chill of another winded gust.

The moment faded, as both men watched the heavens above with grim faces.

It seemed fitting in some way, that an ancient game of Shah'rah would be taking place above the realm of mortal foolishness, while armies marched and battles raged. Unlike the traditional game Jarl remembered fondly in his mind's eye though, the sky seemed far more expansive.

"March might be ended, but we'll need to set camp early today. I want fortifications laid this time. Nothing spared."

"Aye, agreed." The flask fell into a custom leather pouch on the horse's saddle as the beast began its sturdy trot. "I'll pass it to' Bruce and my men. Trouble is approachin', that's for certain."

With a nod of leave, the Baron headed off and Jarl watched him make way towards the figures beneath the setting sun. Dozens of camp and dinner fires already setting down among the rocky stones and black sand. Above them all, the odd pattern of clouds and colors seemed to grow in their intensity. A strange power shifting and molding to form within his view.

First an early snow, the serious and unnatural chill following soon after, and then this; whatever it was.

Trouble and uncertainty were the two resounding traits Jarl might pick out from the strangeness that confronted them now. As the orders bellowed out, men and horses scattering to set tents and stakes into the rocky black soil, he watched the horizon.

Looming with a presence that never seemed to fade, the great and terrible Blackened Spire stood upon the Western Wastes. Its awful visage was like a spear stabbed up through the earth and out its flesh, charred like shadow and coal upon the horizon. Standing proud and wretched, it watched: an ultimate compass of both direction and destination by orders on-high.

Jarl knew better than to trust the image there as truth.

How many times along the border wall's edge had he seen it peeking up over the protection of Doterra's blessed stone? How many travels had taken him miles south, or miles north to the exact same. It was idle curiosity, but Jarl had to wonder how many fools had been killed simply by trying to march towards that distant shape?

Hundreds of thousands perhaps, trusting their eyes when there was powerful swirls of illusions and magic afoot.

No tower, no matter how mighty, could be visible to the naked eye as oppressively as that one now stood. Not while watching over the large majority of the continent, dated maps of which suggested over a thousand miles in any direction. Human sight was limited at the farthest extremes, even when magically assisted or using a noble's looking glass. Beyond fifty miles in any particular direction, Jarl had a very difficult time believing what held along that far-off horizon was actually present.

Therefore the tower, he could conclude by manner of logic and reason, was not where it appeared. Walking towards it and ignoring the actual compass, the stars and the dated stone byways of long lost civilizations, would be mortal folly.

As would not setting preparations for an ambush deep within enemy territory. Jarl had not managed to lived this long with the intention of dying to a rusty Orc sword in the dark.

As he dismounted his horse, handing the straps and leathers to the waiting hands of whatever servant happened to be on duty, Jarl watched the work unfold about him. Stakes and spears lifted out of supply wagons, light spheres and torches driven deep into the patches of sand.

His own personal tent went up with all the others, cloth and rope pulling taunt along wooden pieces and embellished gilding. His table was assembled, his chair set carefully beside it, boxes of maps and scrolls laid and waited by polished stones and runic pieces.

Glass of whiskey soon found itself in hand, and the traditional nightly routine of brooding over the maps with a stern look of displeasure began anew, nagging thoughts of old grudges and shut-away uncertainty creeping along the borders of Jarl's mental bulkwork.

They had suffered several casualties now, nothing major- but there was one loss that still stung. A burn in the back of Jarl's mind to match the warmth in his throat and belly from the whiskey in the crystal glass.

It still pained him to lose that Battlemage, resignation and borderline desertion no less. The equivalent of a winning hand and a quick step away from the gambling table, the Mage had ridden off into the sunset headed East with his companions; leaving Jarl short of several gold pieces, and a noted debt on parchment of several more.

Sand-coated paper to polished wood: That was a better description of how it felt than a burn, or sting, or itch. Decidedly unpleasant nonetheless. That Foreigner had been a cut above most men Jarl found forced, inclined, or sold into his service. Not only that, but he'd been bested by the man: Bested in such a way, that Jarl still wasn't certain whether he wished to have the man strung up by his intestines or congratulated.

Though he'd been sorely tempted to perform both (in that exact order previously imagined) he'd settled for the second option alone on formality.

Staring at the map, Jarl knew there were better subjects to waste his mental efforts, but still it irked him. He wasn't used to losing, it wasn't what he did as a inheritor of the Congrad's lineage. In battle, in trade, in gambles and assignments: Jarl always won, just like his father before him.

Except for this, and perhaps the war.

That was how it always went for the Congrad name. They won, and won, and won- until finally they failed. When they did, usually they lost everything. Jarl knew that well. No matter how exceptional he could make the small army beneath his command: A force of irregulars, adventurers, Church-hated Northern men and paid mercenaries, this was a game of numbers. 300 men would not win again a full horde of Orcs on an open field, yet that seemed to be exactly what was demanded of them in rejoining the damaged Southern Legions.

Without their precious Dragon leading the forces, the scribe network made strong inclinations to losses easily predicted down to the last man. This crusade would already have been in full retreat, should anyone have been lucky enough to pull out of the battles raging.

Heading a course to willing dive into such a situation seemed utter foolishness to Jarl. Yet, at the same time, being pumped full of arrows from the Eastern wall for desertion seemed to hold to similar levels of idiocy. There was no good solution to the problem.

He'd had to wonder what was to be gained from all of this bloodshed anyways?

Another generation of soldiers sent to early graves? A more docile population of mourning widows and children pledged to forget their history and pray to the gods of light? Less bodies to feed and house by the Church's grain during the coming season of winter?

Jarl could look at them objectively and rationalize each motive as equal. The winter season often came with predictions known only to the great oracles of the Holy Circles, often lasting as long as several years. The crop yields had been on a notable decline for decades since the political fallout of several Alchemists focused on crop yield, Bishops banishing the leader and inventor of the a movement- along with an increasingly heavy hand towards any other whose presence might threaten their perfect ideal of a nation.

The trouble in these came more of less with the selfish perspective. Fine enough if some other poor bastards were sent to die early, but when it was him and his army being sent to achieve a holy victory with the underlying premise of dying miserable deaths and ending within Orcish cook-pots, Jarl was much less inclined to sit back and let it happen.

The maps on the table before him did little to ease his stress. Ledgers showed the obvious to any trained eyes that looked them over: of supplies dwindling, of sickness prevalent and wounded numbers growing- even when avoiding battles as carefully as possible. It seemed that ending Skirmishes with Orcs quickly, even when dealt with by arrows and spear, had its consequences. The healers could only do so much, pressed as they were.

Sitting heavily down beside the table to scan over their traced route with a steady hand, Jarl could recall no short list of unpleasant memories. The problems came from this dastardly crafted terrain, and the lack of proper maps.

Roads that were said to exist with great assurances, no longer seemed to be in place. Roads that were not drawn in upon the maps, seemed to have been placed along ago, stone so old that the act of horse and boot upon them made cracks and crumbles. In some places, mobile dunes of black sand seemed to sweep over-top the map entirely, obscuring and form of landmark beyond that damned Spire in the distance.

Jarl tipped back his glass, refilling it for a third time this evening alone. Quietly he muttered, calm demeanor finally unhinged. "Damn that Mage. Damn the Church and it's blasted Dragon. Damn the Faith and all the ignorant fools blindly following the orders of men above their precious gods, and damn the Orcs, the Goblins, the West- it's Blackened Keep. Damn it all!" His outburst ended with a shout, nervous shuffles of armor from beyond the tent's door painfully acknowledged.

Perhaps the Baron was right. Maybe he should give up and turn back now. Their chances might be better as deserters and criminals, even with the entire Doterra Faith against them. What armies were there left to send marching after them anyways? The main force of the Faith had already been slaughtered, just like they would likely been in the following weeks.

Again Jarl let his eyes settle down on the maps and ledgers, following along the stacked papers and weighted stones on unrolled corners. They provided little in the manner of comfort, and this time as his hands reach out, it seemed the bottle was light and emptied.

"Damn it all." Jarl spoke again in a whisper as another cool wind fell through the canvas of cloth and wood, clarity returning slowly as his wits collected themselves once more as the hair on his scalp and neck raised. "Damn it all."

"Sir." A deep voice rumbled, tent flaps lifting as a larger man came in. Jarl noted the deep red armor as one of the Baron's men, half-recognizing this particular individual as holding more importance than a majority of the rest. "We've captured an individual at the camp's edge. He's requesting an audience."

Leaning back in his seat, Jarl eyed the man. "A person? Here in the West?" Glancing at the maps, it was plain to see there were not records of villages in the area, though his trust in such papers was significantly lacking as of late. "And he's requesting to speak with me? Not the Baron"

"Yes sir." The man shifted beneath Jarl's gaze uncomfortably until he gave further explanation. "Baron Louis is piss drunk sir, we came to you instead."

"Ah." Jarl eyed the empty bottle beside him, at least somewhat aware he wasn't in much better condition. "Well, bring him in then. Let's see what he's about."

Several more figures marched in on the issued order, throwing an older man down heavily to the carpeted ground of the war-tent. Rising from the table, Jarl inspected the wretched figure: A gnarled elderly man, chained by the silver coils of Eastern Slave brands. Those were a locks without a keys in this region of the world, capable of making helpless any wizard or magical being might expect when lacking their powers.

Still, if the man was a true magic user of any kind though, he hid it well beneath a thick facade of grovelling.

"Please, mercy good sir. Mercy!" He cried out, chains clacking together with the tones of silver and iron. The lack of composure seemed more than fitting to the man's plight. "I come in peace!"

"He was found walking in along the front of camp. He had this with him." One of the soldiers presented a twisted staff of black wood. What might have once been a legitimate Mage's weapon, if left to the elements and abuses of time. A brutal and ugly instrument, to be sure.

"A staff..." Jarl stared at it pensively, his own magics floating out along the air to delve the object. It seemed nothing but a crude tool, though strangely so. As if it could never have been more than just that, held strict in its own mediocrity. "Why is it you've come here, old mage? You should know clearly by the banners of our camp, we bear nothing but ill for the West and its people."

"You're wrong!" The elderly soul stared up, eyes wide and toothless maw gaping. "You do us a great service. We in the west have little love for the Dark Lord and his armies, but we lack the strength to resist!"

"So what then? You wish to join us?" Jarl almost cracked a smile, buzz of whiskey settled uncomfortably in his tired mind. "Preposterous."

"Please, lord. You're brave souls: I can tell. Men who dare to lift swords against the demons of this vile place- I was drawn to your power. I brought myself through great peril to help you."

"You? You help us?" Jarl smiled at the man, indifference sliding up along a practiced face of cruelty. "How is that? What can you even offer, old one?"

"I can do little magic, taught as I was long ago as a child. They feared I would not be strong enough for the Dark Lords liking, so I was not banished to the Spire with my fellows."

"Your magic is indeed lacking." Jarl stared harshly at the man before him, seeking deeper intuition. Truly there was a spark there, but just like the staff it seemed barely present. Just enough to recognize, and nothing more. "I doubt you could slay a single orc with such weakness."

"Ah, please sir. I have many other skills. There are things are known to myself alone: Of the hills, the pathes and roads of this strange land. I know the Western Wastes well sir, I can be of service."

"A guide..." Jarl let his eyes wander back to the maps upon the table, hand tracing the weighted stone on the closest corner. It was a sobering thought, having a true guide. "Tell me, what is it you hope to gain in this? Why come to us at all?"

"Vengeance my lord." The elderly figure struggled to a deep kneel, body visibly shaking. "Vengeance for those who have wronged me greatly. It is what I desire more than all else, what I hunger for."

"So simple."

"Indeed, when you reach an age such as mine- it is only those which hold true value." The wrinkled face lifted to stare at Jarl, twisted features and sunken limps stretching to a terrible grin. "Let me earn my revenge in your service, my lord." The man bowed. "I beg of you."

Jarl took one final glance at the papers which covered the wooden surface beside him, eyeing the routes and ledgers with irritation. A man such as this was a liability, an unneeded risk when there were already many more dangers than needed- but a guide... A guide could be exactly what was required. A guide would could lead them to the main force, join the Southern armies, and perhaps survive to the end of this blasted war.

"Raise your head."

He spoke solemnly, hand lifting to summon the threads of magic before his hand. The glowing blue of mana formed to a long sword, blade extending ans it fell upon the bowing shoulders with an air of ritual.

"Swear your oath, and we will see about that revenge of yours."

In the dull glow of the blade's blue brilliance, the man's eyes seemed to take on a new light as his sunken face pulled taunt with a wide and wicked smile.

"For that, you have my undying and eternal gratitude, my lord."