“Nobility was once a reward in the Empire. For service to the Realm, in recognition of an individual’s power and strength, for the greatest contributions. Now, the Nobles are selfish and greedy. Jealous of the Mages growing authority and the Church’s influence.”

Chapter 48

The church around him had changed considerably. Gone were the large glass windows, the altar and the rows of pews. The church had been old but well-kept when he had arrived, it was now ancient and decrepit.

The floor he rested on was cracked and broken, with weeds and moss reclaiming the stone. The lush rugs, that had been bright yellow and blue, had darkened and dirtied with age.

Where he lay, the fire had burned low. Little remained but smoldering embers from the roaring flames he had fallen asleep next to. The fireplace itself was nearly black from soot. A large portion of its façade was broken off and lay scattered around him.

Standing, Wil looked around at the changes. The large altar, with its symbol dedicated to the Twin Suns, was split in half. The wood supports had long since rotted, causing the stone to collapse and fall. The gold symbol that rested on top had been removed.

All around him were signs of the building’s age and neglect, although thankfully the building was intact enough to keep most of the snow out. Even now, the fire’s warmth lingered in the building.

Wil gathered his belongings, pulling his cloak tight around him in preparation for going back into the storm. Taking one last look at the ancient church, he noticed a faint golden glimmer from the ruined altar. Curious, he knelt next to it, searching carefully for the source of the light.

It was a golden coin, wedged into a large crack of the broken stone. He gently pried it free, careful to not damage it.

The gold coin was bigger than any of the currencies he was accustomed to seeing. It filled the entirety of his palm with its width. The coin was thicker than a standard Illyrian gold piece and he was surprised by how heavy it felt in his hand.

Curious about the coin’s origins, he carefully wiped the dust and dirt off to see the markings.

On one side was the symbol of Primaris, a burning sun with seven points. It had been carved into the gold, as if with a knife, rather than stamped like Illyrian coinage.

Flipping it over, he saw Secundus, represented by a perfectly round circle. This symbol was also carved, he could see where the knife had slipped in places, causing slight imperfections in the markings.

Wil pocketed the strange coin, before turning away from the ruined altar and leaving the abandoned church. He struggled to push open the rotten doors, the snow had built up around the exit while he slept.

With a final shove, the door opened, and Wil could see outside. The storm had continued unabated, and the clouds were dark and grey. The light, although still dim, was brighter than when he had arrived and the snow in front of him were an unbroken, flat greyish white.

He walked down the steps, noticing that the once vibrantly painted doors were now dark and bare, no sign of their former painted glory remained.

He trudged down the steps and onto the snow-covered ground. He was up to his waist in the snowfall again, whatever magical protection from the snow the church provided when he arrived had obviously ended.

Looking around, he tried to pick the best direction to travel as the wind howled and the snow stung his unprotected face. Pulling his Ursine fur hood closer around him, he squinted into the grey void, struggling to make out more than the vague trees and unbroken snow around him.

Briefly, while he searched, the clouds shifted slightly, and the bright yellow sun broke through the grey cover overhead. In the light, Wil could see a hazy mountain in the distance, briefly visible through the storm.

Marking the location in his mind as the light faded again and the mountain was obscured, Wil lowered his head and began the long trek through the snow towards the distant peak.

With the wind gusting against him and the snow stinging his face, Wil slowly made his way forward.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Archibald Anwir, the famous Illyrian Bard, danced through his enemies, as the snow fell heavily around him. Unlike Allard, the Northern Bear, who ripped and tore through the bugbears with his namesake’s ferocity.

They had traveled late into the evening, through the unrelenting snow and heavy wind, finally arriving at the mountain’s peak. True to his word, Archibald had led the adventurers through the storm, up the steep mountain paths and through the snow filled passes.

Tired and cold, they had gathered at the peak in the dim light. The clouds had gotten darker as they approached, the wind growing stronger, and the temperature plummeted. No one believed that they would find anything on the desolate mountain, and they secretly cursed the bard behind his back.

They were proven wrong when they crested the top and saw the large gathering of Bugbears. The hairy creatures were hundreds strong, kneeling in front of a profane construct.

The Bugbears had built a statue, demonic in its features, with skulls and offerings piled high in front of it. The shamans, who Archibald had reasoned were responsible for the storm, were leading chants to the demonic stone figure. A visible haze of dark, corrupted Mana filled the air from the ritual.

The group were shocked at the discovery, not believing that the Bard was correct. They quickly overcame their surprise. The group drew their weapons and rushed the creatures.

A great battle ensued on the mountain peak.

Mayor Allard ran forwards, his great axe raised high in front of him, as his mana burned through his veins. He dashed towards the first bugbear he could see. The large, hairy creature opened its mouth to roar at him as it leapt to attack, a large club held in its hands.

Allard slammed his axe downwards with all the strength his rank 5 mana could give him, cutting the Bugbear completely in half and striking the stone ground below it. His weapon, protected by the mana he channeled through it, embedded itself into the rock and a shockwave of force erupted from it.

The Mana, unable to be contained in the axe, exploded out from the weapon. It threw rock chips and shrapnel in a wave in front of him. The attack shredded the approaching enemies, tearing through their bodies. Those that survived were knocked off their feet as the ground below them shook from the force of the strike.

Laughing wildly, the Northern Bear ripped his axe out of the ground and leapt froward, soaring through the air before crashing into another group of Bugbears, swinging his axe wildly. Each swing separating heads from necks and arms from torsos.

The surrounding Bugbears, terrified at the ferocity Allard was displaying, ran from him, desperate to escape the carnage.

Unlike Allard’s destructive and bloody assault, Archibald dashed gracefully forward, spinning around weapons and enemies. He was dancing to the tune of battle that only the bard could hear.

Each step was perfect and deliberate, each swing of his golden sword perfectly placed. As he fought, it was as if he knew, without a doubt, the exact timing to dodge and strike.

Bugbears lay dead and dying all around him, each from a single slice of his Mana coated golden sword. Impossibly sharp, he was often onto the next enemy before the previous knew it was even cut.

Coming upon a trio of bugbears, Archibald stepped forward, his sword pointed straight ahead as he thrust directly in front of him. The creature attempted to block with its own sword. It watched in horror as the golden blade pierced its dark iron weapon and entered its heart.

The bard stepped back, pulling his sword with him as the other creatures pounced forward, seeking to overwhelm him. Laughing, Archibald spun to the side, slashing with his sword as he moved behind the slow bugbears, taking the head from one before it could respond.

Finishing his spin, he kicked the other in its back, knocking it to the ground before stabbing downwards, pinning it to the rock with his sword.

Pulling the undamaged golden sword from the stone, he looked for his next target. As the battle raged around him, the storm continued to worsen.

Lifting his sword, he focused on the chanting shamans. Their magic began to fall amongst the humans, burning fire and flashing lightning attacked them.

Archibald moved onward, dancing to the tune of death.