2 - 3 [Magus] Omens O’ Doom, A Shadow ‘Ere Looms The Mercenary III - 16th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

Ashes, ashes everywhere. So much ash that the day became amber grey and the once brown-dead forest clearing was an ashen desert. Dying flames now served as the scorched earth's grass.

Atop a hill of burnt and mangled corpses, a lone mercenary stood. Left-arm burnt to a crisp, right arm dangling by the skin—no bone or muscle connecting, just some ragged skin keeping it together. His limb almost cut clean from the rest of his body—a feat wrought by an inhuman-sized weapon wielded by something decidedly other.

The lone mercenary staggered, walking away from the hill towards the wintry forest. The Heavens a mere strand of hair away from the Damned.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

The mercenary looked back and immediately regretted it. Fear took hold at the pit of his stomach once more, sending an icy grip to his insides.

A giant made of interconnected corpses stared at the sellsword. A different corpse made each limb, held together by dark red mold, intertwining and snaking around the macabre and twisted facsimile of life.

The lumbering monstrosity stared at the mercenary with faces frozen in despair. They wrapped around the vile mass every which way like the Dead claying their way through the Veil. Their eyes were gouged out and filled back again with fungal growths—tiny little grabbers of faenclap spore, red as sin and rusted as blood.

But the feeling of being watched came from seemingly everywhere. The air itself observed the mercenary, measured his strength and condition.

He was found wanting.

But even such a mere pittance would do for the invisible presence.

Damn it, thought the mercenary with hopeless acceptance of doom. A ray of Solaria pierced through the ashen gloom, seemingly offering him some thread of salvation.

And then, came the humming. A queer little song for such a dastardly place.

From behind the giant and the cloud of ash, a shadow approached, a darkening blotch amidst the amber-grey ash. A man, or so the mercenary thought, clad in black from head to toe. A large nixian hat, and a swirling cloak wrapped itself around the blurry figure.

Yet what caught the sellsword’s attention most were not the man’s apparel, but his eyes. They had an eerie glint in them like the flashing of naked steel in the moonlight.

They were not a holy light nor a beacon to guide the lost—the gaze was the darkness itself, a black so black it ate away at the light. It was Evil incarnate, if such a thing existed.

Lockanat O’Kirk Ivarssen, Master of Knots - 16th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

The sellsword’s thoughts were easy things to parse through, like untangling a simple knot—child’s play.

Oh, if only he knew it was the pleasure of hunting a fellow man that shine in these eyes.

Though, perhaps, the truth within the truth was even more terrifying.

The Man Clad in Black could not count humanity as brethren any longer. They are now, and have been for the last centuries, prey. Cattle to be slaughtered and lives to be done with as wished.

There is fun to be had here.

The Mercenary IV - 16th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

A cacophony of laughter burst from the Man Clad in Black. It was high-pitched and unnerving laughter. It didn't fit with his dark figure, suiting a jester instead.

"Oh Kedwen, such a fine place for fun." Exclaimed the Man Clad in Black, voice dripping with joy. He looked at the mercenary, casually sizing him up.

"You know, I once had a friend here in the South. What was his name again? Henry? No, no. Harrison? I know it starts with an H." The Man Clad in Black's voice was seemingly normal. So ordinary that it was easily forgettable. Yet, it served to unnerve the mercenary even more. The stranger's casual tone making the burnt hairs on the mercenary's neck stand like a frightened cat's.

The mercenary stared at the Man Clad in Black incredulously.

"Ah." Said the Man Clad in Black, allowing the sound to marinate.

"Harrien. Such a weird name. It sounds like a bar wench's name, but then again, a vampire has their secrets. Maybe they shed a female sleeve for a male one. To them, it's all the same… I think.

“Lilithu's spawn are very peculiar."

The mercenary inched away as the Man Clad in Black continued his monologue. Damn, you sure like hearing your voice, don't ya?

"Not so fast there - or should I say slow?" Said the Man. "We aren't done yet. Well, I am, but Nameless here is hungry." The Man looked towards the undead. "Come on now. I bet you're hungry, aren't you? Ahh, who's a good undead? It's you, isn't it?"

The Man looked at the mercenary and uttered with a monotone voice.

"Eat."

Seemingly losing interest, the Man Clad in Black disappeared into the cloud of ash that permeated the battlefield, humming all the while.

The undead lumbered towards the mercenary. The giant's steps scoured the scorched earth, unearthing more ash and sending it airborne.

The mercenary's perception of time slowed, stretching his consciousness like sinew along the length of a bow. The beat of his heart pounded in his ears, each hammering of flesh greater yet slower than the last.

Thump.

This is it, isn't it?

Thump.

I get out of that no-name village, and this is what happens. I am gonna be eaten alive by some warlock's puppy.

Thump.

Sorry, Roddy, I wish… I wish we—

The light of Solaria’s ray grew brighter, almost blinding. The mercenary's comrade-in-arms ran towards the undead, displacing clouds of ash, battered, dirty, and screaming.

Rodrick!

Rodrick let out a continuos battle cry, screaming so hard he would even dare to speak even if he survived.

He struck the beast with a one-handed battle-axe; It cleaved through the flesh and sunk in.

Rodrick pulled back the axe with all his might; It didn't so much as budge. Even the giant was left balanced, seemingly unbothered by the failure of an attack.

Crunch.

The abomination’s hand, wrought of an intermingling of body parts, crushed Rodrick's head like a grape. Its fingers were made of forearms, shins, feet, and hands. Blood and mush seeped from the holes and crevices of the giant's hand.

The scorched clearing had an eerie peace to it—the sounds of fires crackling throughout the dead-quiet battlefield. The amber light shining through the ash lent itself nicely to a painting. And there, in the midst of it all stood the lone mercenary, his body frozen. Emotions churned beneath the surface of his mind.

Rage.

Regret.

Grief.

Helplessness.

Fear.

Of all the bubbling emotions in that cauldron called a human being, one stood out. Excitement. Even the mercenary himself was startled by that unhinged feeling. He didn't want to die. But, the calling of battle was intoxicating.

The mercenary, high on bloodrush, screamed—an unexpected battle-cry coming from a crippled, soon-to-be-dead man. The noise came from the deepest pit of his stomach, fueled by the fires of his smoldering wrath.

If Barry was to die, then he would drag the undead monstrosity with him across the Pale. In that moment of defiance, a thread snapped, letting loose all that was to be. The mercenary’s scream was changed, transforming from the raw voice of grief and rage to something otherworldly.

It was a blade being unsheathed, the song of naked steel. It was the draw of a bowstring and then the subsequent release. It was the thrum of thunder in dark sky, promising the strike of fulgur.

It was the lifting of scales upon sight.

The wind came alive in furious ardor as the mercenary’s voice diminished from its unnatural heights to ragged and then finally mute.

It was Da’ath—Awakening.

Barry’s spirit stirred from its slumber, called forth to join in the battle to come. The air around him grew heavy and palpable. White mist evaporated from his skin in hissing bouts of steam. The essence swirled around his form, dragged by the whirlpool that was his waking will.

The hungry presence that bore down on him unravelled. It was cloth while he was flame. With a flare of his will, he burned away at the intrusion of its insidious threads.

The nevean-white mist fell back upon his skin and burrowed deep. The ash of the battlefield was sucked into the spiritual-forged-physical cowl of steam that enshrouded his form.

Like a serpent shedding its old skin, his ruined limbs fell to the ground as new arms took their place. Their muscles taut coils that shifted with every movement. Their skin ashen like the leftovers of flame. Blacken ridges of coal erupted from the arms, forming mountainous topography upon the unnatural hide.

He had four digits on each hand, his last two merging into one. They were elongated things of inhuman proportion, ending in talons wrought of jagged, obsidian crystal that devoured any light daring to come close enough.

Darkness made manifest. Primal and more unrefined, better fitting mythic beast than common man. Savage things made only for the tearing of flesh and skinning of muscle from bone.

The mercenary looked down at his newly materialized limbs in awe and excitement. Blacken steam rose in tandem with the translucent mist from his body, bathing him in a greyen shroud.

The white fog that came from him was superficial spirit, Barry felt it in his bones. It was weakness being shed and a veil being lifted. The hide of mundane was skinned from his frame, leaving behind an existence that superseded the natural.

His eyes transformed, their sclera darkening into abyssian-black with the iris and pupil morphing into one. Twin beacons of incandescent and pure light shone from within shimmering seas of darkest dark.

Barry’s eyes bled tears of coal-pitch tar, the ensorcelled liquid sliding down his form and aspecting him with the brand of night.

In the certainty of his own demise, Barry had been Awakened to the essence of his soul. In the looming shadow of the Doom God, he had been reborn in ash and dust.

Sorcery, he thought, almost unbelieving. Of myths and legends.

His lips snarled into an unhinged smile, the power coursing through his veins a potent druggae. It gave him the courage of heroes of ages past and the calmness of stillwater. Even without his armor, Barry felt invincible. The crumbled coat of brigandine and battered bascinet had long since been cast off to avoid them digging in.

Barry's bare chest was marred by ash and dirtied by dust. Tendrils of tar wrapped around his skin in the semblance of the fuller of a sword. When the markings reached his ashen limbs, they turned neveian-white and pulsing with stubborn, chalky embers. A pool of darkness lay at his navel, waiting in joy for the end of all things.

The brands were rigid like some sort of primitive and tribal script, the kind found adorning the bodies of alfar meadowfolk or the barbarian bands of the Hallowed Marsh.

Barry did not pay much more heed to the newborn markings. He had a monster to slay and Mortus to greet. And then smack upside the Seven-blessed head to get Rodrick’s soul back from the Pale River.

His voice rang out once more in silent scream. Yet when no sound came from within, the elements without roared in his stead. The air howled, and the shadows deepened as did the cold thicken its clawing at the flesh.

He had doom to bring and the world responded in kind. Dominion over the natural had been placed in the palm of his hand like a king’s scepter and crown. The weight of power was as comforting as the presence of an axe at his hip.

Barry’s feet pounded the scorched earth, throwing dust and ash into the air as he charged into the fray. The long and ominous shadow cast forth by the monstrosity no longer unnerved him.

It was family, forgotten and unknown and now once more found.

The giant lifted up its inhuman weapon, a massive slab with an edge. The blade came alive in a burst of abyssian-black flame. The fires flickered not in the wind, theirs an origin unnatural. Silent locusts wrought of smokeless and fell flame with the will to devour all the land and turn it barren and ashen.

Monstrosity and man lunged at each other. Steel bathed in fell fire and claws swallowed by black ash.

The mercenary, in an overly telegraphed move, swung an ashen fist at the giant. The wind thrust his strike forward as did the shadows give him alacrity, their presence like a fulcrum he could leverage into palpable power.

The giant, in a feat of unexpected dexterity, pulled its blade up in a vertical manner to guard against the attack. It waited for the newborn sorcerer to slice his fist in two.

The mercenary’s fist opened, claws catching the blade's edge like a serpent striking upon a woodland mouse.

Black ash swirled around his arm; the blade cracked, sending a blast of air and force outwards in a wave. The spot where he caught the sword’s edge crumbled, layering the blade's core with spiderweb fractures.

The black flames that danced around the metal slab flared to life, doubling in size, and crawled up the mercenary’s arms. The locusts had thought themselves to have found crop.

The mercenary jumped back, retreating as the fell fire crawled upon his ashen arms. Yet, his instincts told him not to fear, for a plague could not ravage upon land already barren as a disease could not spread itself upon bone without marrow.

What was already dead could not die.

The locusts in the form of blacken flame were whittled down and absorbed into the ashen wastes of his limbs. Their powers were now his, a blade taken from the enemy.

He looked at the slab of metal, and a grin made its way onto his face. It cracked! I cracked a wrist-thick slab of fucking metal!

The awe was instantly replaced with pain.

Nine-fucking-Hells.

Barry took a breath to quickly look at his shoulders; red and sore. His own attacks seemed to be doing damage to him. His mundane muscles and bones couldn’t handle the strain that his sorcerous limbs put upon them.

The two circled each other. Looking for weaknesses. The mercenary saw none. That thing isn’t even human or alive, how the fuck do I kill what’s already dead. Its anatomy, or anatomies, is a mess. Where do I attack?

Amidst the frustration and doubt, power swelled in response. Barry felt something inside himself stir once more, calling out for him to evoke it forth. While still paying attention to the monstrosity he circled, Barry dove inwards. He felt something caged, trapped at the base of his stomach, at the space just behind his navel. And he let it out, freeing it from its prison.

Fell fire surged from the base of his spirit, expanding forth into the invisible channels spread throughout his limbs. His obsidian claws darkened, losing all of their luster and reflection, erupting in flames made of shifting darkness.

He was cowled in locust-flame. The essence of pure destruction and annihilation contained within the fell fires was vitriol incarnate. They strained against the shackles of his spirit, abyssal hounds wanting nothing more to be let loose entirely to disintegrate all that was.

A smile crept up to his face, and he clawed at the air, letting loose the locust-flame. Ash and fell fire coalesced in the shape of claw marks, floating in place. Blind and implicit instinct took over once more. Barry repelled at the essence with his will and the skin of his spirit, launching it forward with soulborne wind.

The undead giant stomped the ground. A gust of air and force erupted from its feet, dispelling the flames before they could reach it proper.

Damn. Got to get closer.

The mercenary slowly approached the undead. When he got close enough to negate the giant’s reach, he started darting in and out of its guard. All the while, he sent in grazing attacks with his claws. The purpose wasn’t strength, but contact and time thereof. The giant’s flesh sizzled and burned dark with its own twisted fire.

A price paid in full, he thought as his grin only grew wider.

When the mercenary was about to launch another quick attack, the giant countered. At that moment, the mercenary had built too much momentum. The undead swung its black-fire-bathed sword in a wide horizontal arc, ready to cut the him in half.

Black ash swirled to life, forming a cloud where the giant's sword was about to strike. Instead of being cut in half, the black-clawed mercenary was pushed back, his feet gliding over the ground slick with ash and blood. The black ash shielded him from the worst, but he still felt bruises forming under his skin, a few ruptured organs, and a rib stabbing him in the lungs. Gods, this is what? The fifth rib I've broken or cracked today?

The mercenary jumped back with the dwindling embers of his strength, hand to his side where he was struck. His breath came out ragged and uneven. Each shallow cloud of air felt like a dagger was being shoved in his lungs. Shit. It looks pretty burnt up, but I’ve taken enough damage as it is. I can't endure anything else if I can't fucking breathe.

The mercenary felt an icy grip on his insides. Even with nine-damned, fucking sorcery, I’m not strong enough. Can I even defeat this thing?

It was with no small amount of shame that he admitted his weakness. Whatever power that Barry had awakened was not enough. Not nearly enough. And though it took an even greater blow to his ego and pride to admit another failing, he did it nonetheless.

I’m afraid.

I’m sorry Roddy.

I hav’ta run.

I don’t wanna die here. Alone.

The sellsword’s gaze swept over his surroundings, looking for any easy ways of escape.

But, how, in the fuck all, am I gonna flee? I’m in an open field…

Barry felt a tug on his awareness. A presence communed with him, but not with words. It was the stuff of thoughts, feelings, and primordial ideas. He heeded to the seemingly divine inspiration and intervention, allowing instinct to once again take over.

The mercenary breathed in until his lungs felt like they were going to burst. The ash around the battlefield was pulled to him like a leaf into a vortex, swirling around him. The essence of shadows came in twain, the kindred spirits endowing the newborn sorcerer with their lifesblood.

They whispered, voiceless yet still understood.

Blood and darkness.

The sellsword let out a slow breath, releasing a fog of darkest dark from his lungs and spirit, thickening the ashen cloud and turning it fully opaque. Surprisingly, even the sound of his pounding footsteps was partially dampened.

The mercenary bolted towards the unburnt forest, clutching his increasingly painful abdomen. Even with the bloodrush, it hurt. And the rush was starting to wear-off. He was already in a long battle beforehand. Each step he took sent pain to his wounds and a dagger to his right lung. The regions where the black arms attached themselves started to smart, and his right shoulder was increasing in pain.

With each step, the mercenary’s spiritual limbs dissipated into ash, receding back into his stumps. The bleeding stopped, but Barry felt something inside him shift. The power he awakened had burrowed deep inside himself. It hid, waiting for him to evoke it.

The battle was near Berrowden. I’ll head there. They have to have a healer of some sort or if I’m lucky, a miracle-worker.

The mercenary looked up at the sun through the boughs of naked trees. If it's the afternoon, then that should be east. Berowden’s to the east.

The mercenary vanished into the forest, to the direction where he thought salvation lay.

Lockanat O’Kirk Ivarssen, Master of Knots - 16th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

The Man Clad in Black looked from above the ashes of the battlefield, standing on thin air.

A pity. I thought he would’ve fought more. I would’ve never gambled on that bloodline’s powers surviving. And in a random sellsword at that.

The Master of Knots tugged at the binding placed on the undead, sending a command. [Forget him. Eat the stragglers.]

I’ve already gotten what I needed.

A necklace wrought of bone was palmed in the hands of the Master of Knots. A single dried finger hung as an adornment upon the beads of whittled human skeleton. The string was a threading of hair of different colors—red as flame, white as snow, and black as night. The weave of the three differently-pigmented strands of hair was done in a chaotic fashion. The end product lent the woven string the hue of rusted metal and dried blood.

“This.” Said the Man. “Will be interesting. I’ll let him mature before collecting. Unripe fruit has its appeal, but it would be… wasteful.”

Anticipation built inside the Man Clad in Black with each stride, dark boots threading down the air on invisible steps. Perhaps another vessel would be in hand, or… its bones could simply be cracked upon the marrow sucked dry.

Either way, Lockanat would have a bit of diversion in this faraway place. A stranger in a strange place and all that.