Talin has been a feature of this land since its dawn. While they are neither regularly recognized nor publicly known, they have found themselves in the underbelly of society, whether the secret catacombs and temples long forgotten or tunnels and systems adapted to house the many forces and resources they had accumulated over time. They relied on secrecy and deception to handle their problems and ultimate goals. Crafting the best of soldiers, the best warriors, mages, thieves, and assassins here. The Catacombs of Orcus. A massive system of tunnels and rooms that snake along with the mountain range of which they are named after. Or perhaps the mountains were named after these catacombs. Years have dulled this knowledge, and even the most ancient sources fail to distinguish. Either way, this was where it was all birthed, either way. A man found within these catacombs the power that they had locked away and set out to collect more and more of. Collect people, objects, and trinkets. He was training others to find it for him. Experiment with magic. Extended the catacombs and build other underground structures to act as bases, even ancient monuments. He named them the Talin, an archaic word for the predator or the seeker.

His connections grew, even to the clans. Influences no man could dream of, and the world seemed to dance to his rhythm as he held them to his pulse. The only opposition for quite some time was a group, a guild that had opposed him time and time again. Threatening to destroy him, all he had, and all he had built. They did destroy, and they did take. But they failed to kill him. As long as he was alive, things could be rebuilt, things could keep progressing, and he could regain his strength to return once again.

Prime Noctum Umerius The Thief, was slain. Thousands of years of life severed quicker than it was formed. His body burned into ashes and scattered over the rough sea. His name snuffed, his legacy turned to mere whispers. And he was replaced by the culprit who sought differently.

These things rolled into the head of Amond as he walked through one of the catacomb's entrances leading to the base of the mountain. He spent his entire life here, it seemed. He made himself appear ordinary, with a simple face seemingly in his middle years, short black hair, and eyes similar to coarse dirt. The only thing marking him otherwise was a scar following the curve of his cheek. Amond heard those stories from other members was his younger years. In the war, he even sought glory for Prime Noctum Umerius as one of his most trusted advisors. He has slain countless and secured untold relics of immense power to offer his lord. When his lord was gravely wounded and the massive defeat upon Talin crippled their efforts, it was once again time to recover and regain strength. He spent his time suring up his influence, all for the benefit of Talin and his lord. Amond waited and listened. He was ready to raise arms once again if he was called. He was so sure that the time was going to come again. History will merely repeat itself. But no. One day, he was told that Umerius had died. Died. Like any other mortal? The man who lived beyond years fell. At first, it seemed impossible, but more and more came after. Talk of rebellions against she who took his place, and at first, he wanted to take arms against her. Who dared to take the seat that so one so great took? This witch may break the vows they swore and not give what was promised by her predecessors. He almost joined those rebellions. But then, he heard of what happened to those rebellions. No, not genuine rebellions. They were not lasting more than a few days once they made their presence known. Hundreds were killed by her own two hands till any spark of opposition was smoldered. Her takeover was swift, and her display of power infamous. And he knew that she could not be stopped by their means. She received that title, Prime Noctus, for a reason. And the shadow must follow her.

So when he received a summons by this Hecate, he was unsure what to do. His first instinct was to run and hide. Find a simple life as a fisherman at some docks. Perhaps it was time to settle down now. Find a wife, and raise a kid. Live the rest of his short days in hiding. But he knew that she would find him. There is no hiding from Talin, with eyes even in the throne rooms of kings to the dirtiest of taverns. So his only option was to comply with the request. To submit to the summon and come back to the world, he knew he would come back a stranger.

The catacombs didn't seem any less empty since last he entered. Men continuously walked in and out of various rooms carved through the rock. None paid him mind. Many had that blank stare that startled him once he saw it. White-eyes, void of soul and light. No emotion on their faces and no sense of purpose besides that fact of breathing. Yes, startling the Makhai are, but not the worst he has seen. Those lay deeper in the catacombs, in rooms no man has set foot in for decades at a time. The room he was headed to was simply beyond these doors—the doors sealed with power ancient and foreign. Nothing was able to break them. It could be laid siege for countless days without receiving damage. That was when his next startlement arrived. The doors were bent. One of the hinges appeared to of nearly snapped. A single impact dumbbells undid out all. The size fits a hand or a fist. Whatever it was, it destroyed any trace of magic he may have felt before. His training in Torlak made him sensitive to such things, and he had felt the magic to shake his mind before. But nothing was emitted from the doors now, as if the magic simply broke, like shattered glass. However, they were at least open now, and the court of the Noctum's throne room is directly accessible to anyone for the moment.

He dropped his gaze once entering, a custom of his home he kept, but more out of fear of meeting the faces of the Empousa who wondered the chamber aimlessly. At first glance, they seemed to be women. They appeared fair-skinned, dresses thin enough to show the form beneath. Faces too beautiful to be natural and entraps any who looked upon them. But this was not reality. They were gaunt figures. Their faces, while somewhat attractive, were also drenched in horror. Skin as white as the purest cotton, lips as black as night. Fangs that should belong to the beast instead decorated their mouths, occasionally curled into snarls and smiles. Hair did not fall past their shoulders but glided behind her, instead of being replaced by flames of reds and blues that shimmered and shifted as if alive. One leg, beneath the thin clothes of their gowns, made clanking sounds as it impacted the ground. Whirring and grinding like a machine and shimmering like bronze. Then the step of a hoof on stone came from the other. Fur as a mule that matched the shape. These things were not always here. They came just fifteen years ago. Just before the war, when he first heard of this Hecate, they arrived with her and were charged with protecting this chamber. They are notorious for ensnaring men, even those who accidentally gaze upon them, devouring their souls. The servants of Hecate, at least one of the many servants of this woman, whoever she is.

Thankfully they seemed to stay clear from the second half of the room, leaving only two women. One sat on the throne, and he had to stop the instinct to frown at her instead of keeping his stare steady. For dinner reason, he couldn't look at her face. A spell, no doubt, but it was undoubtedly a powerful one. He had to focus on other things. Her black hair was tied into a ponytail that swept across one shoulder. A black and mauve shawl covered her shoulder and almost became a cape in the back. This scheme flowed into a dress that gave no way to form but gave any necessary movements to her, a black band covering her abdomen and a set of different bracelets coving her arms and even her ankles. Her hands were covered in tattoos, depicting geometrics and words in another language, like his own, marking her as a mage. The staff laid across her lap was definitely an instrument in helping her cast magic, but he could not tell specifically what it could do. He did feel the power from those crystals, but that was it. He couldn't even correctly estimate how powerful it was, and that scared him more than the woman herself.

Standing beside her was someone who he could believe dethroned Umerius and took over the entire organization. She was impressively stout, wearing a dress that did not pass the knees. Her clothes were odd, unlike anything he had ever seen, but functional. The off-color wool was spotted with sashes of red and depictions of animals. A bear's skin was hung across her shoulders like a cloak, and even the fur was painted with red lines. She had a beautiful face, but few could contest. But the cruel test of her lips made her off-putting. It was hard to tell where she was from. She had honey-colored hair like anyone from the southern clans or even Hath. But her cheekbones were strangely pronounced, and her eyes a brown color. She wielded a spear in her hands, made from gold and bronze, and inscriptions carved into the handle and blade. An enchanted weapon, no doubt, made with Torlakian magic instead of the work the clans specialize in.

He waited till they addressed him, another custom from his home seen as polite. He bowed, placing three fingers across his chest and bending down to one knee. He decided to act humble and complacent with events. If he's lucky, he can be closer to her and be in her favor to demand possibly more than the previous Prime Noctum offered. No, she should die, burn for her misdeeds. Just how, though?

"You are Amond of Culband," her cool voice washed over him. That sing-songy accent is common near the most southern of the outlands.

"Yes, my lady," he spoke in level tones.

"You were the advisor just before the war, am I correct? You secured many artifacts that decorate his chambers now," her voice seemed uninterested, but he was sure to be cautious with his words.

"Yes, I have, my lady. But now I serve you. My blood is yours, my knife yours," he bowed, even deeper than before. In return, all he heard was a snort from Atalanta, hefting her spear over her shoulder. She even made that sound elegant.

"Little backbone, as predicted," her voice was rough and filled with amused mockery. "Well then, be glad you were sent to the territories. If you were here, I doubt you would have survived. Either joining those rebellions or betraying your kind. At least we know your alignment now."

He ground his teeth in silence, wishing to bite back at her, but knew that any ill word would only ruin his position as is. "It was not my place. I serve only the throne."

"I see," Hecate's glowing eyes appeared to burrow into his soul. "You, among others, are motivated by greed. For those, I conditioned them to serve the light truly. But perhaps you can still serve it in other ways. We will need allies from the territories and your abilities as a mage."

"My . . . ability," he couldn't help the uncertainty bubble in his voice. "What do you mean, my lady?"

"Before leaving Torlak, you trained as a mage proficient with earth magic," she raised her staff to her side. "Specifically, you specialize in making golems and familiars, is that right?"

He hesitated. He had not disclosed any information on his learning in Torlak, ever. When he joined Talin, any knowledge of his life was secretive. Not anymore, it seems. "Yes, my lady."

She nodded in reassurance. "Show me an example. Now."

Her tone shifted. Instead of water washing over him, serene rocks suddenly fell with daggers atop them. He nearly stumbled back but stood instead. He took a deep breath, thinking deep in his mind about something that would impress her but not show her everything he was capable of. A familiar was no simple trick or anything quickly learned in the study. It was new magic formed from the study of necromancy. Using the souls of creatures, a mage found that a contract could be made to bind the spirit of that animal with its soul. This practice could also be used to imbue golems with life. But they could also be modified, which is where he focused on studying while in Torlak. He lifted his sleeves, revealing another one of these geometric tattoos, a series of circles and arcane signatures. He took a deep breath and then manipulated zoi, channeled it till he felt the presence of something within himself. He forced this thing, this other self, out. And from the tattoo billowed a cloud of black smoke. Two glowing purple eyes gleamed in solid shadow. That solid shadow formed, making out a lean body, a muzzle, and thick fur. Tufted ears and claws as long as daggers. Slightly larger than a wolf, but all the same features marred in darkness. It stood at attention, unblinking eyes towards the women, who seemed genuinely curious about it.

"What do you call him?" Hecate asked him, still holding her staff at her side. Atalanta's smile disappeared almost, but the amusement in her eyes stayed.

"Its name is Sheuta," he said. "He is a familiar that I created long ago. It can turn invisible and mask its presence even from those who can detect magic. I can even see through its eyes and speak through it as well."

She seemed to consider this. "A beast made for clandestine movements and reconnaissance. How interesting."

She stood then, making him even warier as she slowly marched down the steps. The soft clinging of her metal staff against the stone was unnerving and made him step back as she moved closer to the familiar. Her eyes shone even brighter, no trick of the light. More like two orange stars now looking upon the darkness. Sensing its master's unease, it crouched down and growled at her, but she did not notice. She walked with such confidence that she might as well be approaching a kitten. She held her hand out towards its muzzle, uncaring for its bared teeth, and placed a firm hand between its eyes. Suddenly, its entire body lurched. The same as Amond. His back arched as he felt a searing pain in his arm. He looked down to see the tattoo burning, worst than how it was applied. When the pain finally stopped, or at least dulled, the place where the tattoo was drawn was now bare and raw with pain. He lifted his head to look back at her. Sheuta also stopped shuddering, as still as she was. Hecate lifted her arm to observe a tattoo precisely the same as his own. The purple eyes were now orange and appeared more like flame than smoke.

"What . . ." he worked moisture back in his mouth. He can't remember if he screamed or not. "What have you done?"

"Interesting," she spoke as if he was not there. "Simple enough spell to replicate. Very well then. Amond, your first task be to create three hundred of them. You have the resources of Talin at your disposal, but you have a month to prepare. For any familiar you can not create, two golems must be prepared instead. Is that understood?"

He could barely comprehend her words. He felt as if his ears were going to burn off, and his fists were balled against his sides. "How dare you, witch. This is not yours to take. I have worked for years to finalize such magic. You can not take that away."

Without thinking, he raised his hands. Perhaps being buried under tons of stone will make Hecate repent, make her sorry she ever met him. Not all catacombs will fall, but enough to destroy whatever she had and held close perhaps as long as they died. But as he placed his hand on the ground, making the tattoo of his hand contact the earth, nothing happened. He felt no flow of magic around him like just a moment ago. His eyes bulged as he looked up, the glow of her eyes trained on him and the hostile stare of Atalanta. Somehow she did this, but how? He had never heard of a mage taking the power of another away. He took a cautious step back as Hecate walked closer to him now.

"Fool," Atalanta sneered but did not move. Mock pity lined her face. "A dog who does not know his place or circumstance."

"You will learn," Hecate's voice somehow became colder than it was. She held a hand towards his face as she still smoothly walked across the room. "You will learn."

He unsheathed a knife he had at his belt. A mage he was, but he knew mages were not so adept in fighting. He wasn't himself, and throwing the knife was the closest he got to actual physical combat. The knife sailed towards her chest, a fatal wound if landed correctly. Even those cursed doctors could not heal such an injury. But just before it was a pace from her, it was suddenly snatched away by her free hand. Incredulity was plain on his face, with panic now, as he turned to run. But before he was even half-turned, the doors that seemed too damaged to even move closed shut, as good as new. He pounded against the door, yelling, but no sound escaped that chamber. IT stayed silent for more and more. Screaming fading away into nothing. And then there was no scream.

Just Silence

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