“Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist

Iseret looked up and saw one of the tribesmen deliberately make some noise as he approached her. ‘The courtesy of the proficient.’ She smiled and raised herself from where she had been sitting with a fluid coiling movement. “Well met. Is there any news?”

The brutish-looking man with copious body hair and a long dark mane falling past wolfish ears seemed embarrassed as he looked at the – in comparison- fragile-looking snake-woman. “Hrrrm. Mordrak bids me tell you that we have heard that the ancient has been captured and there are several groups of soldiers entering our lands. It is very possible that they will come here misunderstanding the importance of Sirviel for us. He says it is probable that they want to force us to expend strength protecting her.” The man laughed grimly, a deep rumble that came from his massive chest. “She is Sirviel of the Oak the first dryad. Have they not learned from the first time they attacked the grove?” He looked insulted.

Iseret nodded calmly. “I will be ready, but my place is not the line of battle; I will do as your hunters do and strike from the woods where it will hurt the most.”

Glancing at her thin arms the wolf-tribe warrior nodded energetically. “That is fine. We thank you for fighting with us when not friends or allies. Actually, Mordrak said- ‘If you fight with us that means you have been a friend all along.’ So the saying will not be wrong after all.” He gave a short laugh. “May you sink your fangs into the neck of the prey and leave no suffering.”

“Thank you. You too.” Iseret did not know what to return to that and left it at that. The warrior turned and joined the group of his kin that began to prepare. Windspeaker shamans applied ground herbs in swirling paint on the face and arms of the fighters and she felt subtle, natural magic woven into the act though the actual pictures mostly seemed to be that- pictures.

The wind picked up again, and snow whirled through the barren treetops. Here near the center of the grove, flowers still bloomed, and only a light drizzle reached the loamy earth. Branches were creaking and swaying as the gusts became more fierce, and far out in the forest, a wolf howled.

Time passed.

Iseret concentrated and called magic to her fingertips casting glyphs and speaking the words of the spell Vanessa had taught her, warmth infused her clothes. Grimacing at the small but noticeable drain on her reserves she shrugged.

Another howl, closer this time.

The snake woman drew her khopesh freshly infused with crystallized mana and prayed. “Many-as-One hear your servant; wake the gift of your children, anoint me with your divine venom that I might better serve your purpose, remove the veil of night and grant me sight, strengthen my arms that this blade may find the heart of the enemy and let it be weighed on your impartial scale.”

The poison burning in her veins flared as the gaze of the goddess fell on her and her eyes glowed with greenish light, before darkening again, as her blood vessels blackened. She felt her venom-teeth itch and unfold from the roof of her mouth. Black blood dripped from her lips as she licked the edge of her blade, coating it generously in the flowing black liquid that unnaturally adhered to the metal.

A short incantation and the wind silently supported her, making her feel light as a feather.

“You come uninvited and unwanted to bring blades and fire into the holy grove. Leave, and we will not pursue. Enter with malign intent and suffer before you die. Such is my promise as a son of the tribes.” Mordraks deep voice rang with barely suppressed violence.

Distant torchlight signaled the coming of the kingdom's soldiers and as they drew near it did seem to be a small company in strength. After the red moon Ioreth had finally set, the nighttime forest was pitch black but for the dim light of the stars. With her goddess’ blessing, Iseret saw as clear as day and quickly realized that a group of human scouts tried to flank them, light grey cloaks camouflaging their forms.

“Treacherous hounds! We will kick you back into that muddy sinkhole you call a country. For the commandant, for Margrinar!” A strong voice bellowed back.

Incantations from several army wizards came from behind burly soldiers carrying large pavise shields while others raised crossbows or halberds ready to fend off or initiate an attack.

‘They wait for the surprise strike from the woods, most likely. How they think they can evade wolf-tribe in the forest is another question entirely, though.’ Iseret wrinkled her brows and softly jumped into the treetops to then creep closer to the rapidly nearing group of rangers.

There were already three tribal warriors hiding in the undergrowth, so she was probably not needed.

Balancing on the branch high above their heads, she waited.

As shields and supportive magics blossomed around the army magicians Mordrak threw back his head and howled before gripping his warhammer and rushing forward alongside his men. Arrows from the scouts hidden in the woods to the sides peppered the kingdom's soldiers.

The group of scouts creeping closer took that cue to abandon their efforts at stealth and began to unload their crossbows into the charging wolf-tribe. The three warriors hiding near them began their attack, but one of the scouts spoke a command, brand flaring, and thorny vines whipped forth and entangled them. Several of the men had been waiting for just such a moment and attacked with perfect timing.

Screams of pain and the roar of the angry tribal warriors destroyed the quiet of the forest.

One of the fighters entangled by the vines tried to rip free but was riddled with several bolts; soon, his struggles weakened, and he slumped over, lifeless. Another was desperately fighting off the blades of two army rangers wielding short swords. The last one managed to down two soldiers before he, too, was overwhelmed.

As the branded readied himself for another spell, Iseret simply dropped down from above, her khopesh cleaved through magical wards showering sparks everywhere, and hacked deeply into his neck, ripping it free, she whirled and cut the scouts around her before jumping backward into the darkness between the trees. Blood sprayed in a black arc, hissing as it met and dissolved the snow.

As the men turned to follow, the ones she had cut began to shake, froth bubbled from their mouths as the poison did its work.

Two rangers in their grey cloaks surged forward and attacked from both sides, with her twisting between the trees to keep them from coordinating effectively. Metal sparked on metal, and flashes of eldritch light flashed as the enchantment on the khopesh kept the edge sharp and flawless.

A bolt shot at her as one of the poisoned army scouts rallied and got his shaking arms under control long enough to use his crossbow. A line of fire burned along her chest as she twisted out of the way, parrying with one hand and using a gust of wind to stagger the other assailant long enough to keep him from capitalizing on her distraction. Hissing, she gestured, and the black blood flowing from the wound turned into the form of a serpent striking forth with quicksilver speed and latching onto the hand of the man she had pushed back with her wind magic.

Crying out in pain and fear, the man hacked at the snake, but the blade simply passed through the black liquid, causing nary a ripple. The other scout was shaken by the sight and the screams, and his inattention was costly as the curved blade found his throat ending his struggles. With quick and quiet steps, Iseret vanished in the shadows of the trees. The black serpent lost its cohesion and turned into black blood that spattered on the ground, but the damage had already been done. The bitten hand turned black, and the fingers curled in on themselves as dark streaks shot through his veins with a gurgle, the ranger fell, shivered, and was still.

Meanwhile, the main fight was still ongoing, and Mordrak, together with his warriors, had hit the line near the center carving into the pressed soldiers with great swings of his hammer, bashing in skulls and cracking breastplates.

Not without taking some hits in return; but his great physique, together with the magical paint adorning his body, seemed quite resilient and even bathed in blood- his and that of his enemies- he did not seem much worse for wear.

A tent in the forest, near the border to Hundredstreams

A soldier with a tabard bearing the crest of the Nordmarks stormed into the tent earning an irritated growl from Lars von Nordstrom who was studying some maps strewn haphazardly over an unfolded camp-table.

“Lord Nordstrom!”

“What is it?”

“The academy hostages…”

“Out with it!”

“...have summoned hordes of undead and killed or routed many of our men!”

“WHAT?!”

Alyssa winced as the connection was lost, and her thoughts were now wholly her own. What sounded pleasant at first did not mention the fact that this left her feeling hollow and alone, and her headache was actually intensifying.

“Are you alright?” Alea turned to her and leaned closer, looking worried.

They had requisitioned several horses and used the trail the soldiers had been using to maneuver a small but sturdy cart on which they had piled the wounded. Cushioned with blankets as best they could. Sarah and Alea walked beside the cart and remained alert for anyone getting worse.

Mireille had stubbornly refused as she saw who and how many would have to be transported that way. And now she was cursing as she trudged through the snow and her injuries were still painful even after the healing she had received. There was always a residue, an echo of the deeper wounds, even when they faded without a scar. And that was with the attention of a competent healer. If you did not understand what you were doing when applying healing energies, you would simply overload the body with magic causing only the most superficial injuries to close.

Around them, the other students that had been able to walk on their own forced their way through the snow.

“I’m worried what the undead will do now that I lost control,” Alyssa whispered.

“That worries me too.” Mireille frowned. “But we can do nothing about that, can we?”

Alyssa shook her head.

Calvin strode up to them, the two young girls he had been traveling with following him. “Is it better?”

“Not really.” The white-haired girl winced and rubbed her temples.

Calvin sighed. “What a situation. The south is crawling with those strange undead. In the north, the tribes and the renegade Nordmarks do nothing but cause trouble. I hope we get to Fort Wolfsbane in one piece.”

“The tribes are not to blame,” Alea spoke up. “The army...they killed the dryads.”

“I know. We have no reliable news about the army and what is happening there. It cannot be in the kingdom's interest to wage war with the wolf-tribe as we are still reeling from the death of the king, and Ulsolm is more active than in hundreds of years.”

“In whose interest is it then?” Vivienne's nearly turquoise eyes shone coldly.

“The Nordmarks probably.” Alea sounded subdued. “They are just a hairsbreadth away from being stripped of their title, which would probably lead to civil war. They have the troops to at least put up a fight- But they would lose in the end. Embroiling the kingdom in a senseless war would make it impossible to persecute them effectively while time passes, and going after them for what they did at the Exhibition will be more and more difficult.”

“Accurate as far as I know. So they are the most likely culprit.”

“Let’s go a bit further. We know there was a strong vampire at the fight working for or at least supporting Carl. Then there was the very convenient attack by the undead in that exact same moment.” Alyssa roused herself to a sitting position grabbing onto the sidewall of the cart to stabilize herself.

“It’s not that we don’t know that,” Calvin grumbled. “But if we accuse them, we shove them firmly to their side. With things as they are, we hoped that the crown would simply…solve...the issue.”

“Should you tell us that?” Vivienne asked curiously.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. The ritual in that god-forsaken fort showed clearly where allegiances lie. No ducal power can simply ‘lose’ a fort for months and the men to go with it. No, they damn well knew what was happening there and endorsed it. And I fear the hesitation in bringing them to heel will cost us dearly. First, the king let Carl get away with all sorts of crimes, and now they do the same with the Nordmarks.

Silence reigned, broken only by alarming creaks made by the cart's stressed wheels and the horses' huffing.

“So, what can we do?” Alea swallowed nervously.

“Not very much as we are now. When we return to Fort Wolfsbane we can regroup and send our findings back. Then it is a matter of what the regent wants to do.” Calvin scratched at the fake scars on his face and gripped the half-mask before pulling it off. “Damn thing was starting to irritate me.”

The mood was subdued, and the moans of the wounded did not make it any more bearable. Only Cyrus seemed to be in good spirits, darting in and out of the underbrush shaking the snow from his scales before snacking on a snow-hare he had caught.

Alyssa looked at him as he gulped down the steaming offal ruby drops of blood glinting on his dark green snout.

Vanessa sat crosslegged in a chamber probably meant for supplies. Meaning it had no window, which was always welcome. Yawning, she fought against the leaden fatigue that the sun brought with it. Gesserachs lonely eye hurt her even through the thick stone, but the still prevalent void corruption offset this to a degree. Scratching equations into the dust and wiping them away again in frustration, the elf gritted her teeth and persevered. ‘I must think of something. There must be something I can do to close the rift. How did they even get it to stabilize!’

And then she thought about the last spell cast by an old man and the flitting insubstantial ‘something’ that flew into the night.

“Mother!” A voice called to her, and she felt pain all over her body. The voice sounded distant and distinctly not like a child.

“Mother, please wake up! We have to help father!” Something wet fell on her face, and her right hand twitched as she instinctively strove to wipe the liquid away. Some of it spilled into her mouth.

It tasted salty.

Light passed over her eyes, and somewhere the sun rose. She felt its rays warm her body and somehow that gave her the strength to crack open her eyelids. Just a bit.

A ceiling made of dirty, cobwebbed rafters vanished to the sides in deepening gloom. An arrow-slit let in a meager amount of light. Dustmotes danced in the pale winter sunlight, and the air was cold. With a monumental effort, she turned her head and looked to the side. A woman sat there, sleeping. Her countenance showed her to be in her forties, perhaps? Lines forged by deprivation and hardship lined her eyes and mouth, but she still retained a certain appeal. Like a beautiful flower, aged and roughly handled.

She tried to speak but only got a bit of dust into her throat. Coughing violently, she spat a bit of blood.

“Mother!” The older woman roused herself and looked at her with surprised delight. “Here, have some water.” A hand grasped her frail upper body, and the woman fed a bit of water into her desert-dry mouth.

“Who are you?” Gazing at the woman, the one that had been lying in the bed frowned quizzically. “Have we...have we met?”

The delight faded, and the older woman looked stricken. “You don’t recognize me. How stupid of me.” Muttering, she brushed some tears from her eyes.

Something about the woman seemed familiar to the former sleeper, but she could not place her. “No. Sorry. But I thank you for the care.” Something scratched at her memories, and she felt she was missing something important. A picture of a young lanky student formed before her mind's eye, and without intending to, she muttered, “...Tiberius…”

The woman who had been observing her looked pained. “Father, he remained in the fort and is probably in danger.”

The world did not make sense. Her body still pained her, and she had the strange feeling of being untethered from her body like a stiff breeze would blow her consciousness away on darkened tides.

“Who are you?”

“I am your daughter. Lily.”

Pictures flashed through her mind like bursts of lightning. A young man charmingly clumsy in his affections. Books and scripture, scrolls and glyphs.

Laughter

A mistake, but it seemed so happy at that time.

A child.

A girl.

She looked at the lined face of the woman before her, and there was something familiar but faint.

Raising her hand, she looked a the unblemished young skin of a twenty-year-old. The room began to spin crows cawed from outside. The musty air pressed in, and she could not breathe.

Flashes. The ritual. The enormous power of the void-maelstrom that pulled her under. Deepest black and endless quiet.

There were only silence and dreams.

And then she fell back and into darkness.