Vertrock stood in a state of chaos with the destruction of the dwarven mines. The smoke finally settled but the damage was done. The mountain collapsed in on itself in the explosion causing a blockade of boulders from ever allowing anyone in anytime soon. The orcs scurried around in hopes of finding a way in, but to no avail.

The slaves were either captured or killed on sign. Those who were brave enough not to run, instead were spared and immediately put to work on clearing the rubble. The remaining orcs who were not hunting those who escaped instead were stacking bodies from the calamity of the battle. Though mostly human, the slain bodies all were stacked together and prepared to be burned before the stink grew too much on this overcast, humid day.

A man strode through the camp, his black boots covered in the mud. He refused to remove the hood while shouting commands to the orcs as to where to go and what to do. Unholy anger swelled within him with what he had witnessed that day, and he was going to make sure of the fact that someone was going to pay.

An orc approached the cloaked man, “The slaves are clearing the rubble, we will clear a passageway into the mines and begin to rebuild by the end of tomorrow.” The creature was hesitant, nervous, even somewhat stuttering his speech in fear. The man could sense this without so much as looking at the orc.

“If you are unable to find a passage into the mines, kill the remaining slaves.” He threatened, “We will have another use for you.” He walked off returning to the entrance of the fortress. He reflected on the battle he witnessed from above in the tower, the will these slaves had to escape. It was beyond anything he had seen in a while. The dead goblin in the east tower, and the boy who had caused their victory. “Highborn.”

He moved down the hallway, the orcs sliding to the side of the walls in order to let him through, even with carrying the dead. The man checked the scratches and cuts on the stone walls, seeing the orcs dead on the ground without so much as a sword wound. “So he is proficient with his air ability?” He said aloud feeling how deep the cuts were in the walls. “How did he stay hidden so long?”

Orcs marched past the cloaked man each carrying bodies of slaves to the outside, the stench lurking all around. He moved into the great hall where the majority of the battle had taken place. The blood stained the walls, the humidity creating a rotting smell of the dead bodies. Rage continued to flow within him, waiting for any excuse to manifest itself.

“Lleweller!” A grunted voice sounded from the gate entrance. Druvairuk approached the shattered doorway pushing any orc who was in his way, his arm still bleeding from the injuries of the previous battle. He marched down the stairs, toppling a table over with his aggression before staring down the human. His breath steamed through his nose rising around him. “Everything is destroyed!”

Lleweller lifted back his hood revealing a war spent face, his peppered beard long and ragid, but his eyes pierced to your soul, showing no fear. “Druvairuk, this is your doing. Explain how a Highborn was under your nose for so long.”

He silently stood in his place refusing to answer. Lleweller paced around the orc, noticing his arm dripping blood on the ground. “So, I assume that dismemberment was from the Highborn as well?”

Again, no answer as Druvairuk still stared ahead, refusing at this point to make eye contact. Lleweller knew he had him in his grasp. “No excuses? Good.” He faced Druvairuk head on heeding every little movement the orc made. “I will inform High King Viran of this misfortune, his say will decide your fate.” He gripped the bloodied arm, Druvairuk grimacing in pain. Lleweller’s eyes ignited while smoke rose from the orc’s arm. Druvairuk roared in pain, but held his ground with Lleweller searing his arm to cauterize the wound. “How long.” The Highborn demanded, “How long was he here?”

“A year. Maybe more?”

A year? Somehow he had kept his abilities hidden, refusing to use them, or it was such little power he was using that none of the others would sense such a presence. It had even eluded himself, which was reprimandable in and of itself.

“If you happen to live…” He paused as Druvairuk’s arm caught fire, “I would imagine that no such event would happen again.” Lleweller turned away to exit the great hall, Druvairuk arm still burning, yet he held his ground until Lleweller snapped his fingers, the flames immediately distinguished. A snarl came from Druvairuk the pain finally began to subside.

Lleweller dashed up the stairs and down the corridor before entering his chambers. He locked the door, lit the fire with a swish of his hand, then yelled out in anger. Lleweller punched a wall, the stone caving in though his fist firmly protected from the aura around him. His violent breathing subsided while he composed himself.

The fire calmed down to a slow burn when he reached in and took out an ember, holding it in the palm of his hand with absolute composure. It neither burned or cooled on his finger tips. He blew a gently breath on it and it immediately cooled becoming charcoal.

He tossed the rug aside, the dust from it floating in the air from the impact against the floor and wall, though he ignored it. The area was precisely measured out as he went to work. He drew a perfect circle cirumcircumfrencing the main area of the room next to the fireplace. Drawing three rune symbols in the middle he intertwined them with a triangle, followed by two crescent moons, the tips touching. He added two final runes at each side of the moon, and it was completed. Once completed he stood up checking his work that it was perfect drawing a final rune on the palm of his hand whispering, “Tomos Zilir”

A gust of wind blew the symbol off from his hand and fell to the ground where the circle lied. It began to light up with blue stream of light lifting into the air around the circle until a connection was established between the worlds. A figure lifted out of the ground materializing before Lleweller, his pride eminating more powerfully than the glow in the entire room. The crown held it's gold hue in the transfiguration, he gazed down at Lleweller who fell to a bow. “My King.”

“Lleweller, has the Highborn been captured?” The king asked.

He had no news on the issue yet, the only thing he had to report was the shortcomings which in no way was news he wanted to transfer. “The search continues, the trace has been lost and we are unsure as to where he may be. Druvairuk had a run in with him, his arm was lost in the fight.” He remained bowed to his king, both fists on the ground.

“Rise, any idea as to who the Highborn is? Any information on his identity?”

“He had been in the camp nearly a year unnoticed by any thing.” He fully stood up, “As to his identity we are still unsure. The orcs never obtained his name.”

He gazed off to the side of him, “There was that boy who escaped over a year ago from our generals during the Civil War. The one whose father was killed.”

Lleweller thought for a second about the incident and all that transpired, “Do you think he could have gone from Alluvion to Perdition, he is barely aging into adulthood. On top of that, how would he be able to survive a year in Vertrock?”

“You know the Highborns are extremely adaptive in spirit, you know that even untrained they have the ability to harness their power to enable a sort of healing process.” The High King considered these options, “No others have made themselves manifested yet, he is the only one.”

“Then what must we do Viran?” Lleweller said.

“We know this, Perdition will hunt him until he is brought back here dead or alive. He will need to find a way out of this dreadful land, and there is only one particular place to do so.” The High King hinted.

“Orrinshire. You think he would travel so soon?” It seemed like a lost effort if the Highborn would move so quickly in an attempt to escape, almost reckless. Escaping from Vertrock and then running to the one place everyone would suspect you to go is foolish.

“His scent has died off, either he is hidden, or concealing his power, though I fear it is the latter and he is being assisted.”

“How could he be?” Lleweller questioned, “There is no other.”

The animosity on the High King’s face plainly showed, “During the destruction of Vertrock, when we sensed the one, another, more aged spirit, became awoken.” He lifted his hand with the map of Perdition appearing, a mountain in the distance being scaled up. “I sense one who survived the great war, one never found.”

“Gideon.” Lleweller remembered. “People have been attempting to find his resting place for years, why would he appear now?”

“He remained in a great sleep awaiting for a sign much like us, but instead he was awoken and must have lead the boy to Mount Eznor.” He responded, “But it could be any Highborn master, though I have my suspicions it is Gideon.”

Lleweller began to pace around the room thinking out loud, “Then if it is him, what does that mean for us?”

The High King moved closer to Lleweller until he hovered above him, “They must be killed in Orrinshire! Our secrets must never get out, and if they do, and they return to Alluvion alive, your fate will be much worse than either of theirs!” He leaned back still yelling, “You will take the remaining orcs, as well as the men you brought, you will wait outside of Orrinshire until their arrival, then destroy the town.”

The High King thrusted his hand forward as Lleweller flew back against the wall with an aggressive thud. “The world must never remember magic existed! We have hidden this very secret for two hundred years and it will not break into the real world. Once the world figures out that magic is real, those gifted creatures will populate all over Alluvion! I will not have it!”

Lleweller began to rise from the ground being dragged up the wall. “The Highborn will not return, everything pertaining to their existence has been destroyed and Gideon will fall and remain lost in the past.”

Helpless, he endured the pain of the compression on his chest, barely able to get any words out Lleweller gasped out, “They will be silenced in Orrinshire my Lord, you have… my word.” he was dropped to the ground unable to catch himself with the shortness of breath. He grasped his neck, feeling if air was returning to its proper passage. “No one will discover that which was lost. The civil war will continue for dominance and power, but it will not have magic become involved.”

“See that it's taken care of.” With a sudden flash of blinding light the High King vanished from the room leaving Lleweller to reflect on the words which had been discussed. He sat for a moment regaining his strength. He rose from the ground, knowing full well what to set out for, though he wasn’t going to like hiding for a number of days.

Lleweller traveled around Vertrock until he located his men and Druvairuk. Those making the trek to Orrinshire all gathered in the middle to await further orders. Lleweller climbed atop the archer tower to overlook the creatures below. “Men, orcs, we march to Orrinshire on orders to camp out and wait for the Highborn. There is rumor of another joining the slave who escaped, who is more powerful than the escapee ever will be. We will hide until our men spot the slaves enter into the town of Orrinshire.”

He raised his voice, “The new moons are upon us, and with that the orcs will be at full strength, giving us the upper hand. We will find them, and slay them on the spot. Furthermore, this shall be the fall of Orrinshire!”

The orcs and men shouting for joy anticipating the upcoming battle. Lleweller watched the multitude cheer from above, with the order given, him and his unit of fifty men would march towards Orrinshire. He waved them away while they gathered their weaponry and armor to prepare for the journey ahead. In two days time, they would be on the outskirts of the port, ready and waiting for the Highborns to arrive.

Lleweller knew the magnitude of the Highborns roaming free around Perdition. Night fell with the crescent moons rising over Vertrock illuminating the world around them. They all marched out, charging through the woodland northward to Orrinshire, the destruction of the last Highborns on their minds. Whoever would get the kill would be beyond greatly rewarded, something they anticipated now more than ever.