Weyellin's Story

"What are our numbers?"
"Rounded to 500,000, sir."
Weyellin stood from his throne. He was an incredibly tall man, 7 feet at best, his large stature was built by his muscle, and furthered by his massive armour, and he towered over the smaller man. Weyellin removed his helm and placed it on the throne. His curled black hair finally released into the air after a long day, his forehead dripping beads of sweat atop the scar on his right eye. He crossed his arms and slightly bowed to the man as a signal for him to leave. The man hurried off past the elite guards next to the door, thanking them as the large stone doors swung open for him. As soon as he was out, the doors slammed shut.
"We are doing well, Grandmaster." He said monotonously, turning to an old man hidden by the shadows. "Who is next?"
"Our scout group from the Great Drakon, sir. They have reported a release from the Magi Tower."
Weyellin spat on the floor.
"That does not interest me."
The Grandmaster cleared his throat and took a step towards Weyellin.
"On the night of his release, sir, the authorities found several bodies of Gral men. Dead."
Weyellin's face changed to one of slight interest.
"Let them in."
The doors swung open once again and a group of five men in open leather armour armed with pikes walked in. The superior of the group led them ten paces from Weyellin, and all bowed in unison.
"So, this Mage of ours. What happened to the Gral men?"
The superior stood straight.
"The bodies were terribly unrecognizable. Two blackened by flame. One with an entry and exit wound in the head. Another with a turned ribcage." The superior paused and shuddered. Weyellin scoffed.
"A barbaric and murderous mage? Can hardly be a difference from the other savages from the Magi Tower."
"We don't think he was alone, sir. No man could take on that many Gral alone."
"Perhaps our mage is no man." Weyellin said with a half-smile. "You know what happens to murderers in Everlast? I am sure you are familiar. We clad ourselves in Lord Death's attire, and we execute them ourselves. Swiftly. Justly."
"Of course, sir. Alas, this particular mage is beyond our jurisdiction." The Grandmaster said with a hint of despair in his voice.
Weyellin sighed and walked down the throne steps to greet the superior. The scout group all let go of their weapons as he came five paces into the superior's line.
"You believe he was not alone?"
"No, sir. There were black-coloured wounds on a number of the Gral bodies."
"Cauterization, perhaps?"
"No, sir. Obsidian. Too small to be a blade of substantial size. A dagger. The only ones we know of were last in possession of the Blackmont child, Iaira."
"Huh." Weyellin stood and thought for a moment.
"I thought she had pride. I never thought her to stoop so low as to accept a mage into her company." He said in a mocking tone.
"Grandmaster. What do you make of this?"
"Nonsense. The Blackmont girl is dead."
"Well, then. If this truly is an inhuman mage, capable of this amount of destruction, then he must be stopped. Send a group of twenty Elite to Drakon. I would like to find out about this mage of ours."
With that, Weyellin turned and walked back up the stairs to his throne.
"You may leave. Thank you for the information. You have served your cause well." He turned again to face the group of scouts.
"Grandmaster. See to it that this group is rewarded for their efforts. The superior, a promotion." He bowed and waved his hand in dismissal.
"We live to serve Everlast, and will die to protect it further!" The scouts shouted in unison, and then turned around and left the building. Weyellin collected his helm from his throne and slumped himself down onto it.
"Bring this mage to me, Grandmaster." He said, placing the helm back onto his head. "I wish to speak with him."

"The 20 Elite you requested are at the gates and ready to depart to the surface, sir." The Grandmaster followed with hurried steps behind the giant strides of Weyellin in the corridors of the Everlast Keep, clinging to his books dearly.
"Good. We will need to question the mage before bringing him to Everlast justice. Make sure they bring him here alive, or rather, in a state in which he can speak."
"Sir, you are aware we cannot deal our full justice to him. The walls of the Great Drakon are far beyond our reach. We will never be allowed into its gates."
"We do not need to get into the gates." Weyellin stopped and crossed his arms once again. "He cannot stay in that city as a murderer. He will be departing. Soon. We will need to leave before the stone has turned."
"'We', sir? Are you planning to go with the guard?"
"I had not planned it, but yes. If this mage truly is without the aid of others, we will need true force to withstand him." Weyellin reinforced his grip on his helm that was held against his side.
"Sir, I advise against this. If you should fail in your attempt to bring the mage to justi-"
"I will not fail." Weyellin cut him short. "And neither will the 20 Elite. They are Elite for a reason, Grandmaster."
"I-I apologise, sir. It is only... If this mage is as powerful as we suspect him to be, even a great warrior such as yourself may not be able to withstand his flame."
"As the commoners say: 'Get your tongue out of my arse', Grandmaster. I care nothing for flattery. I am only as good as my skill allows me to be. If you suspect this mage is able to topple me and 20 Elite, then I say take 50."
"Sir, 50 is a substantial amount-"
"Then we take 20." Weyellin said, turning to the Grandmaster, his face cold as stone.
"Y-yes, sir." The Grandmaster had no other choice but to accept whilst he was in the gloom of Weyellin's shadow.
"Will that be all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I shall head for the surface. Hold the keep while I am away. Do not make any military movements until I have returned. Understood?"
"Understood, sir."
Weyellin continued walking down the corridor and swiftly made a right turn to a spiral staircase. Two scholars threw themselves against the wall as he passed, not out of fear, but out of respect that perhaps they made give him space by doing so. Weyellin reached the top, and continued along a bridge to the Southernmost building of the keep - The Parish, carved into the natural rock, like the rest of Everlast. Once inside the Parish, Weyellin walked to the alter and kneeled before a great statue of the Dragon of Everlast. He respectfully removed his helm, held out his hand, and, as quietly as he could, cleared his throat.

"O Everlast,
talon - raw stone,
strength - unbreaking.
Entrust thine power to me,
and I shall strike down the foes
that challenge thy justice.

O Everlast,
will - marvelous,
foresight - vital.
Entrust thine wisdom to me,
and I shall follow the path
that leads to acuteness.

O Everlast,
bravery - frightful,
fortitude - awesome.
Entrust thine courage to me,
and I shall walk the dark road
not easily taken."

Weyellin's hand began to become imbued with a glowing light. He pressed it against his forehead, closed his eyes, and saw a vision of a great desert. He had been there before on a surface mission. It was the Raraku. A far land considered inhospitable to most. It was there he saw the pyromancer he had been seeking, clad in dark, drooping attire with a large red rose in his overcoat pocket. Weyellin had certainly never seen such a thing before. Perhaps it is his mark? He thought. All Tower mages wear a mark of their art. It is law. But the Red Rose? I am not familiar. A word began to flash before him in a strange writing style. He could only make out a 'C' before he was interrupted by a hand landing harshly on his spaulder.
"Lord Overseer and High General of Everlast. Sorry to cut you short, it is only the Elite Guard wait for you. Have you any leads?"
Weyellin stood slowly and shook himself so that his vision was clear. The man that awoke him from his trance was the High Priest of the Keep Parish, and older man with a kind face, yet he was void of all emotion.
"The Raraku. That is where I shall find this mage."
"I see. A large area. Your horse is ready, Overseer."
"Thank you, High Priest. Before I depart; Do you know of the Red Rose sign for a mage? It is a branch of pyromancy, I know that much."
The High Priest mumbled and squinted at the air in thought, then leaned in closer to Weyellin.
"Chaos, if I am not mistaken. Very rare art, that one, not many wear that rose. Not with pride anyway."
"Could you tell me more about it?"
"It is dangerous, even to the caster. It practices not only the art of casting flame, but also the art of the power underground. Of magma, lava, the sorts. Chaos Pyromancers are known for their accursed dark flame, which sticks to the skin and burns until there is almost no trace. They are also the only branch in Pyromancy to learn the higher art. If I am not mistaken, their initiation ceremony is quite messy, indeed. It involves the complete burning of the Pyromancer, so that he is one with the art. If you survive, you are released. Quite simple, really."
"Thank you. I will... Be careful around him."
"Safe travels, Overseer. May the Dragon guide you."
Weyellin turned and walked back the way he came, acknowledging all who bowed to him. He found his way to the throne room, and removed his ceremonial cape. He wouldn't be needing it where he was going.

The twenty Elite stood straight in two ordered lines on either side of the perfectly smooth stone bridge before the Great Doors to the surface. Any other day, they would have worn their parade armour, a light mix of black cloth and steel, yet today they wore massive black armour much similar to that of Weyellin's, yet nowhere near as protective. They were armed with large halberds, yet also had a sword ready at their side for close combat. Weyellin made his way out of the keep with his grey horse onto the bridge, walking slowly before stopping at the fifth man and thumping his chest twice with his right hand. He was much more well armed, carrying his crested shield and sheathed sword at his side, with a compact repeating crossbow at his hip. A dagger concealed itself within his boot, and he smiled to himself before his face returned to it's regular sternness.
"You may stand at ease."
The two lines of Elite swung their arms behind their back in unison.
"Men. You are some of the best in the lower arm of the Everlast Force. This turn of the stone, I entrust my life unto you. We will travel to the Raraku, slamming any and every obstacle in our way. The man we are looking for is a mage, but do not be fooled; He is a pyromancer of the highest rank, and bloodthirsty, at that." Weyellin looked over the men. Not one had a strike of fear in their dark faces. This pleased him, and he continued.
"He is suspected of having an blade of obsidian in his possession, and if that is true, he will like nothing more than to colour your bodies black with it's edge. His flame will be his dominant weapon, however, and so we will need the aid of a magical barrier." He looked behind him to see the Grandmaster, who swiftly bowed and met Weyellin's eye.
"Grandmaster, go and collect the keep's Betrayed."
The Grandmaster bowed again and left hurriedly into the shadows between the two towers that guarded the entrance to the keep. Weyellin took another look at the keep. He had admired it since he was a boy, and it still amazed him to this day. It was built upon a large circular rock, it's black walls following the natural contours of the rock perfectly before coming to a halt halfway into the keep. The keep itself was very large, and was carved out of the natural pillar of rock that held up the great kingdom. From this distance, the keep appeared as if thorned, as many of the towers had incredibly spiked roofs. Below the great circular rock laid the kingdom of Everlast, a giant city of dark, blackened further by the shadow of the underground, all carved into the rock. Along the walls, lava flowed down into pools of stone, letting it run down further underneath the city for heating. It was an effective system that Weyellin himself had thought of.
Parish bells rang, and faintly, Weyellin could hear the bustle of the city's streets below the bridge, market traders shouting their prices, the metallic clang of a hammer against the forge. It was all too much to take in at once, yet Weyellin was used to it. He had ruled here most of his life, and it had taken him years to fully appreciate the beauty of the city. All throughout his admiration of the city, his face never once changed to one of emotion. It was blank. Cold. He turned to face the Elite and speak once again, but the Grandmaster's raspy voice interrupted him.
"The keep's Betrayed, sir."
Weyellin turned his head to the side and saw the girl out of the corner of his eye. Her mouth had been stitched shut, and her eyes were gleaming and watery.
"Betrayed. We are in need of a magical barrier to protect us from flame. Is this something you can do?"
The girl bowed silently.
"Good. Then we will take you along with us." He turned and walked towards the girl. He opened his mouth to speak before his eyes met hers. They were a gorgeous bright blue, almost turquoise in the light of the lantern the Grandmaster now had held close to her face. It didn't seem to bother her, however. Perhaps the warmth of the lantern made a change from the large and empty cell the Betrayed are kept in. Weyellin ran his finger across the girl's mouth.
"Mages are not to be trusted." He said, turning once again to face the Elite.
"There are 22 of us, and only one of him. Let us show him the true meaning of Everlast Justice!" He shouted, unsheathing is sword from his side and thrusting it into the air triumphantly.
"We live to serve Everlast, and will die to protect it further!" The Elite screamed together.
"Arahu!" Weyellin said, changing the position of his sword in the air towards the Great Doors in front of him, which had now slowly begun opening, the singing of chains bringing the doors to life. Weyellin hauled himself onto his large horse and began to trot down the centre of the two lines of Elite.
"Superiors! Orders!"
The two men at the front of either line barked orders to their men, and all men turned to face the doors, and began marching.
"It has begun." Weyellin said with a smile, taking his helm from the rope at his hip and placing it onto his head once again.

The second wall of sand drew closer, and with it came the handful of warriors from Everlast in an ordered arrow formation, with Weyellin at the point. He ordered the men to slow down as they approached the figures on the horizon by raising his sword in the air, it's metal edge gleaming in the bright sun of the Raraku.
"There are three." Weyellin said monotonously, raising the visor on his helm and turning to the Elite superior. "There was only one in the vision."
The superior of the line on the left hand side of Weyellin pulled his reigns and sped up closer to him.
"Perhaps the vision did not show the whole truth, sir. It is often that those who use the Dragon's power find it has become bent by the winds of time."
"Perhaps." Weyellin spat, lowering his helm once again.
"What is our first move, sir?"
"We question the mage, and bring him to Everlast Justice. The other two are not our problem, see to it they do not meet our blades unless they draw theirs."
"Understood, sir."
"The storm will make for good cover should we need it. Tell your men to engage in a circle around the three. Your halberds will keep range between you and them and The Betrayed will produce a magical barrier to protect against flame. He will be forced to engage us in physical combat. It is then I will dismount and bring him to justice."
"If the other two are a problem, sir?"
"There are 22 of us, superior. We have the numbers, and most likely, the skill. You are an Elite, and so are they." He said, nodding at the small army they had following them.
"Yes, sir."
As the small army drew closer to the three figures, Weyellin could make them out.
"Two women and a small man." Weyellin growled. "There is not much honour in this."
"Do not worry about honour, sir. This is justice, and justice comes for all, even the weak."
"Yes it does, superior, yes it does indeed. If your blade is a sharp as your tongue, you may land yourself in a much higher position given time."
The superior concealed a great smile within his helm, which was quickly swept away from his face.
"They are heading to Landro Landing, sir."
"Then we wait. There is no need to hasten this man's death."
"My only concern is the sandstorm, sir. It will only provide us cover for some time."
Weyellin snarled.
"You are right." Weyellin stopped the formation and turned his great grey stallion to face the Elite.
"Justice does not often come easily, and today, we must speed ourselves, else we lose this man, and fail to bring him to justice!"
Weyellin reared his horse and drew his long, sharpened blade out of its black scabbard into the humid air.
"Elite! K'haalimut opis!" He shouted, turning his stallion around on it's hind legs, and slapping the reigns against the horse's hot neck to hasten it into a gallop.
The Elite group cheered in unison, and they, too, began to gallop at full speed towards the figures, still in formation.

Ulysses trudged through the sand, holding the reigns of his horse in one arm, and his other limp at his side. The storm seemed not to bother him, as he was so heavily covered up, yet still the sand found its way into his boots, which irritated him. He had lost his companions in the early stages of the storm, yet he was not phased, as he was stubborn enough to believe he could brave it alone. He was wrong, and he was lost. Although it was a dark night, once the storm had passed, one could see all of the stars in the sky. Ulysses stopped in his tracks, and examined them closely. He had read about the constellations in a few books, and the theories surrounding them, and it always seemed to fascinate him that another being may be looking back down upon him when he gazed at the stars. He snuffled heavily and shrugged, continuing on walking aimlessly into the desert. He could see walls in the distance. Lights. He was unsure as to what it might be, but he was certain it was a town, or a city. He could not tell at this angle. All he knew was that he needed to get there, and fast. Ulysses had heard stories of the dangers of the Raraku at night, and he was not eager to experience the tales first hand. As he headed towards the city, he spotted something in the distance, on a dune near the gates. Silhouettes of at least 20 large figures, their bodies shimmering in the moonlight. He could make out that they were heavily armoured.
"A bit much for a guard posting." He said to himself. Has something happened? He thought. Perhaps Neiu or Iaira are hurt? No, no... They can handle themselves. Ulysses stopped an thought for a moment, but then shrugged and continued walking towards the city. As he drew closer, the band of warriors neared him, also. Ulysses could see them clearly now. They all donned the same armour, as black as the sky above them, save two of them. The ones wearing the black armour had Halberds and large shields, and just that was enough to intimidate Ulysses. The two who were not wearing the identical armour were at the front of the group, leading them towards him. One was a mountain of a man upon a great horse, the colour of which he could not see in the darkness of night, and the other a small girl with what seemed to be a large mage's spellcaster in her right hand. Ulysses stopped suddenly, only just realising how irritating the slight crunching of sand was to his ears.
"Hello?" Ulysses called out into the air, breaking the harsh silence. The group of warriors stood to a halt instantly as the man on the horse held up his hand and raised the visor on his decorated helm.
"Welcome to the Raraku, masked traveler." The man said with a smile. "Where have you come from?"
"Drakon."
"Do you know who I am?"
"No." Ulysses spat. "And I do not care."
"You should. I am The High General, Weyellin, Overseer of the Kingdom of Everlast. I have seen your crimes in a holy vision. The guilty always pay the price. I will bring you to justice. Such is the custom of Everlast."
"So," Ulysses began walking towards Weyellin. "You hunt down those who defend themselves for the sake of their own lives? How honourable of you." Ulysses said mockingly, and chuckled.
"Silence. You are but a child, and I take will take no pleasure in bringing an end to your life, yet, you are a bloodthirsty mage, is this not correct? You have killed Gral men savagely, their bodies almost unrecognizable."
"They tried to kill me." Ulysses said calmly.
"And if they had succeeded, it would be they on the end of our blades."
The two men stood in silence and stared at each other. Ulysses sighed and stepped forward to open his mouth to speak. The men in black armour all raised their halberds and pointed them at him as a warning. Weyellin raised his hand and they all lowered their halberds once again.
"Let him speak, men."
"I am a mage, yes. A Pyromancer of the highest rank. Bloodthirst is one of my many assets, I can assure you."
"Chaos. Yes. I know, very impressive. Yet, Pyromancy, along with all other magics, are unsavoury."
"That is why you have brought a mage along with you, I suppose?"
"She is The Betrayed. She is here to stop you from playing dirty, as it were. No magic. Just two blades. Fair."
"That is not fair. My magic is my dominant weapon."
"You lie. You carry a blade of obsidian upon your back. It is what you used to kill the Gral. Only two of the Gral were killed by flame."
Ulysses swore under his breath.
"If you're going to kill me, why drag it out?"
"I must make sure you understand that this confrontation, it is not meant in ill-will. I will show you respect, and should I fail in bringing you justice, my Elite will escort you to the nearest city, where you will face their punishment, not ours."
Ulysses inhaled sharply through his teeth.
"So be it." Ulysses said, pulling harshly at his greatsword to pull it out of the leather hoop on his back.
Weyellin dismounted his horse and walked up to Ulysses, towering over him and drawing his sword from his scabbard, and his shield from his back, offering his sword respectively. Ulysses stepped forward and touched blades with Weyellin and both men took a step back.
"Superior."
The superior barked orders at his men, and the Elite formed a large circle around the two men, enclosing them.
"Betrayed."
The girl with the stitched mouth raised her spellcaster high into the air and enveloped the circle of men into an even larger sphere, wincing as she did so.
"Your spells will not work here, Pyromancer."
Ulysses tried to make a simple spark in his left hand, but to no avail. He swallowed loudly, and bit his lip.
"Name?"
"Ulysses."
"Origin of Birth?"
"Drakon."
"May the False Gods have mercy upon you."
Weyellin bowed to Ulysses, and both men initiated their stances.

The two circled each other, side-stepping constantly, waiting for the other man to make a move. Ulysses soon made a thrust towards Weyellin's chest, but Weyellin easily knocked away the hit with a quick swing of his sword and hit Ulysses in the face with the hilt of his own sword. The mask cracked slightly under the immense power of Weyellin's blow, and Ulysses was stunned for a few seconds, in which Weyellin moved forward and hit Ulysses in the stomach with his shield, and, using all of his strength, slammed the winded Ulysses into the sand. Ulysses lay the floor in agony, holding his stomach tightly and groaning quietly.
"Get up." Weyellin said, circling Ulysses' writhing body.
"Get up, young Ulysses. I am not going to kill you while you lie on the floor."
Ulysses mustered all of his will and stood, wincing terribly underneath his cracked mask and stumbling a little.
"How nice of you." Ulysses said in-between breaths. "I suppose I should thank you."
"Gain your balance. You will need it."
Ulysses grunted and crouched low, swinging his weight around to kick Weyellin's legs from under him, but as soon as Ulysses' foot met Weyellin's leg, he felt a great pain shoot up his leg, and he lay on the floor once again.
"Get. Up." Weyellin demanded.
Ulysses stood once more and, very slowly, tried to swing his greatsword. Weyellin simply stepped back and hit Ulysses' sword towards the floor, proceeding to step on it. He followed up by flipping the sword in his hand, and slamming the hilt into Ulysses' mask in a great uppercut, breaking it into pieces. Now on his knees, Ulysses' burned face was now exposed, and although his skin was numbed, he felt the wind lightly brushing sand into it. He gasped in awe of seeing the blurred outside world in its full beauty and tried to un-blur his vision by shaking his head, but failed. Ulysses had lost focus, and there was a searing pain that echoed throughout his entire body, but he was too in awe to change the expression on his face. He felt heat, cold, wind. He was overcome. His incredible green eyes looked around at everything and he felt as if he had been blind to the outside world until now, finally seeing everything from outside of his mask.
Ulysses tried to control his breathing, and heard Laurentius' voice inside his head.
"How long will these pains last?"
"As long as you allow them to. You are in control here."
Ulysses brought himself to stand one again and raised his sword.
"You are a brave man. I underestimated you." Weyellin stepped towards Ulysses, and he offered his hand to Ulysses. Ulysses grabbed Weyellin's back and pulled his sword from his side and attempted to run his greatsword through Weyellin's stomach, but he wasn't strong enough to penetrate the armour. Weyellin slammed his shield into the back of Ulysses' head and drove him towards the ground, but caught him and threw Ulysses behind himself.
"I offer you my hand in respect and you try something? You are cheap, Ulysses." Weyellin said, extending his sword arm and pointing his finger. Ulysses roared and sprinted full speed at Weyellin and grabbed his arm. With all of his strength, he jumped and slammed his knee into Weyellin's elbow joint, bending it the opposite way with a deafening crunch. Emotionless, Weyellin grunted and dropped his shield in his left hand, then proceeded to change hands with his sword.
"In Everlast, males are trained to be ambidextrous. Furthermore, and rather unfortunately for you, I am callous and unmatched with a straightsword. I dislike the dishonourable. I will not make this pleasant for you." Weyellin approached Ulysses and swung his sword hard diagonally. Blatantly unblockable as it was, Ulysses moved to the side, and instead of splitting his now exposed face in half, the sword sunk deep into Ulysses' shoulder. Ulysses fell to his knees and began breathing heavily.
I have known pain worse than this. If I can only stand...
Ulysses arose once again. Weyellin groaned and sheathed his sword. He grabbed Ulysses' shoulder and buried his armoured thumb into his wound. Under the immense pain, Ulysses fell to his knees again, and his vision began to fail on him. Weyellin followed up with a colossal jumping punch, knocking Ulysses to the ground, cold.
"Leave him here. Let the morning heat finish him. No doubt the filthiness of this hellhole will fester his wound if he survives. He is beyond the reach of the False Gods, now."
The magical sphere above them vanished, and the circle of Elite disbanded and found their way behind Weyellin, whose main sword arm was now crippled completely.
"Leave The Betrayed. She has outlived her usefulness."
The small girl whimpered, but could not open her mouth due to the stitching.
"Men. Justice has been delivered. To Everlast."
Weyellin mounted his horse once more and trotted into the distance with the Elite, holding his crippled arm in a makeshift sling.

"Sir. A rider approaches from behind."
Weyellin stopped his Elite with a raised hand and turned to face the rider, raising his visor and squinting his eyes in the morning sun. He could only make out that the figure was a female, from her small frame, and that she was hooded.
"A girl." Weyellin slurred, the heat and his injury effecting his speech ever so slightly.
"Perhaps she has news, sir?"
"What news could there be? A burned man withering away in the sunlight? I know of that."
"Perhaps there were witnesses, sir."
"If that should be the case, superior, then she would most likely turn us in rather than warn us of the authorities."
"Do you consider her a threat, sir?" The superior said, tightening his grip on his halberd until his exposed fingertips were white.
"We cannot pass judgement on her yet. Let us approach her and deal with her. We have no need for a shadow in these circumstances."
"As you wish, sir."
The group of Elite, led at the point of their arrow formation by Weyellin, turned back around towards the girl, and drew their weapons. As they reached the hooded rider, the Elite formed a semi-circle on Weyellin's side as he dismounted. He started walking over to the girl and trapped the sunlight from getting to her with his gigantic body, casting a large shadow upon her.
"Your name."

More than a squad. And these ones did not seem to be locals- not if she could judge by their heavy armour. Gods, but they must be boiling in there. Iaira couldn't help but grin at the thought. They approached in ordered formation, the man who must have been the leader at the front. They seemed disciplined enough for her to dislike them at once. As she neared, she forced her stallion into a trot, acquiring more time for herself to decide whether she'd act or not. She opted for the latter. Best get things dealt with quickly.
Dismounting, Iaira gathered the leather reins in her hand and gently tugged at them to bring her horse nearer. The man had approached her and she felt a flicker of annoyance when she realised she would have to look up at him. Why do I always choose the big ones? The man had something imposing around his person, other than his obvious high rank. Some cold, calculating demeanour, eyes that streamed icy, clinical observation. She did not answer him immediately, drawing out her silence, partly to test his patience and partly to regard him closer. He had been in a fight. Quite recently at that, judging by the condition of his arm. Iaira was fairly certain that he would not be able to follow her gaze's trail beneath the hood.
'I'm looking for a man,' she said, disregarding his demand. 'Perhaps you've seen him? Tough one to miss. Not exactly common looks- wears a mask.'

Weyellin chuckled under his breath before his face returned to its regular blank state.
"Long overcoat? Top hat? Masked no longer, girl."
Weyellin took another step closer to Iaira, and raised his fist. With a synchronized movement, the Elite surrounding the two took a step back, and stood their weapons back at their sides.
"Yes... Your friend put up quite the fight. He is quite obviously skilled and cunning, but chooses to ignore his higher status by fighting as if he has never seen an opponent fight honourably before. He now lies dead near the walls of the Keep along with The Betrayed. Take her, if you want, but she is useless." Weyellin took a deep breath and sighed, trying to find the eyes underneath the shadow of the girl's hood.
"You see, magic is primitive. It deserves no training, and the pain that holds hands with the art is the price mages pay for clinging to an art long overtaken."
Weyellin grabbed Iaira's hood and yanked it backwards along with her hair, revealing her slanted bright green eyes and slight face.
"Are you normally this disrespectful, or do you have something wrong with you? Not only are you hooded and you do not address me as your superior, but quite simply, I asked for your name, and you avoided my question, asking another of me. As I am kind, I have answered yours. Now, if you have any respect for others, you will answer mine."

Iaira's breath sucked in. Ulysses, dead? A little voice inside her head laughed mockingly. Not the first time someone finds death as soon as they meet you, is it, girl? She thought better to push it further inside the corners of her mind and ignore it. She had to time this right. Perhaps she would be able to save the bastard, find some healer- granted it'd be hard and expensive to almost bring a man back from the dead but she could be...persuasive.
More important and more alarming that Ulysses had been bested by another, as powerful as he were. And that man stood now before her. And this one lacks manners, too.
She locked gazes with him, grinning. Iaira bowed in the nobleborn fashion as if to mock him. 'Apologies, your Grace,' she began, voice dripping sarcasm, 'I did not realise I was courting the Emperor.'
He had ordered his men back. There was some hidden message there. No...he wasn't one to let them do his dirty work for him, was he? This was a man who had no problem feasting on blood...but he didn't seem to yearn for it either.
Icy, clinical observation.
'We shall have to find out who is superior to whom, Commander.' Her fingers sought to ease the tight knot around her throat, fumbling with the clasp. 'You have the honour of meeting the one and only famous Iaira Blackmont. Not quite at your service.'

At the sound of the name, the Elite stepped forward and raised their halberds. Weyellin took in a deep breath and instinctively clenched his fist at his side.
"Iaira Blackmont. Infamous is a better term. I should have been able to tell you from your overconfidence. It is surprising how it has not gotten you killed as of yet. You were never one best known for respect, were you?"
Weyellin threw the name around in his head, echoing throughout his body.
This girl is meant to be dead.
"You have committed many sins, Iaira Blackmont. In such a case, this meeting is certainly not an honour"
Weyellin looked Iaira up and down, scanning for a sign of sub-dominance, but there was none.
"I am in no state to deal justice to you. I must return to my Kingdom. One kill is enough for a day."
Weyellin turned swiftly and remounted his great horse, lowering his visor.
"Oh, Blackmont?" He pulled on his reigns and turned back to face Iaira.
"I hope we never meet again. For solely your sake."
With that, he turned his horse in its hind legs and began to trot away, the group of Elite falling back into formation behind him.

'Why, Commander,' she chirped cheerfully, 'threats do make a girl lose her mind over a man, wouldn't you agree?' She stepped closer, abandoning the reins of her own horse only to grab at his, tugging savagely in hopes that his mare would be startled and if she were lucky enough, throw him off her back. There was a soft breeze then, lifting small clouds of sand around them and blowing them over the desert. The wind whirled in her ears. Iaira's grip on the reins tightened, denying him the chance to go further. 'If he is indeed dead, have no doubt that we will meet again, love. There is one thing I hold sacred and that is honour. Everything I've done was repayment for what was done to me, to my House. Don't be too quick to judge.' She let go and took a step back, eyeing him flatly. 'And as you already seem to know, my word is gold. You should train harder while you wait for me- I hear I'm quite deadly with a blade. Of course, that is said by people who have not met me; I'm afraid the ones who have prefer to be silent, honestly.'
With a last lingering look, she turned her back to them, drawing her hood once more. I have to find Ulysses and figure out how in Hood's name that fool managed to throw him into the ground and bloody him. She swung onto her saddle once more, turning her stallion towards the Keep's walls, where he said she'd find him. Or his body. Iaira cursed under her breath as she sent her horse into a gallop.

As the Whirlwind grew, Weyellin and his men moved slowly onward into the desert, cold sand flicking at their steeds' heels. It had been a night without rest, a night of travelling without pause. The elite found themselves weary, and so did their mounts. Although Weyellin had not slept either, he did not feel tired. However, this time his stubbornness was due not to his callous determination, nor to his steel will, no, Weyellin's arm was twisted, dislocated joints and shattered bones grinding against each other with each movement of his great body, blinding him with intense pain. Weyellin did not show any external signs of being in this state, but he he knew that he would never use that arm again, and if he did, it would be extremely limited in movement.
Gritting his teeth, Weyellin halted the slow march through the sands, and dismounted. He raised his visor and stared at the golden horizon. A wall of sand seemed to obscure all beyond it's point, and upon further inspection Weyellin noticed that this wall of sand was not just at their front, but was tracing it's way around the edges of the Raraku desert. It grew more and more violent with each passing moment.
"Do you see that, sir?"
"I do."
"W-what is it?"
"Sand, elite. Nothing more. We continue."
Anxious to follow their superior, the elite waited until their master had returned atop his great horse and trotted after him. The trot turned into a gallop after long, and the elite found themselves struggling keep up. After what seemed to be a lifetime, the small army reached the sand barrier that was in front of them, and Weyellin dismounted once again, gesturing to the first elite he saw to join the view at Weyellin's side. The elite obeyed, and as quickly as his numbed legs could carry him, he brought himself to the stillness of Weyellin's giant stature, feeling a shadow cast upon him.
"Sir."
"Elite, I want you to walk into it."
Standing perplexed and nervous, the elite raised his helm.
"I-into what, sir?"
"Your ineptitude cannot possibly be one of this calibre. I mean this... wall. This sand. Walk into it."
"But, sir, I-"
"Dare question me again and I will have your equals throw you in."
The elite swallowed loudly, and took a step forward into the whirlwind. The sand viciously beat away at his armour, and as he raised a hand extended forth into the wall of sand, he watched the thick plating on his arm eaten away, exposing his muscular arm. As soon as his arm was exposed to the sand, he felt his skin being ripped from him, and pulled it back instinctively, the pain almost unbearable. He retreated, and looked back at Weyellin, disbelief in his eyes.
"Sir, this is madness. It will kill me."
Weyellin grunted with disappointment, and walked a few paces back to his horse, reaching into the pack at his steed's side. With his free hand, he pulled out a blackened crossbow with gold embellishments. The elite stood, watching intently as his general walked towards him and raised the crossbow to his head.
"Do you know what this is, elite?" The general asked, without expression and without wavering.
"No." He replied, even though he was fully aware of the weapon. It was the General's Sya'an. A compact crossbow of Weyellin's own invention, with three firing sections, each with a differently poison tipped bolt. The bolts were expertly crafted, with a point so sharp it could pierce any armour in Everlast. If the three bolts met their target, it would rip through plating, leather and chain, and then the skin. Upon meeting the skin, if the wound was not already fatal, the poison would enter the bloodstream, failing each organ before it clotted the arteries in the heart. A malicious weapon designed for a most painful and slow death, if anything, but nonetheless deadly. Weyellin rarely used it. It was more a prize than his personal weapon.
"You will walk, elite. There must be an end to it."
The elite gritted his teeth and took a step toward his general.
"I have a name."
"Congratulations. It seems your mother wasn't as inept as you are. The fact you have a name does not change the fact you are an elite, and at my command. I call you what I wish."
"I am not a pawn. I am a human being. If that kills me, so be it."
"Such a shame," Weyellin said, pressing a loader on the side that cocked the three sections. "Such bravery would have been amply rewarded. Walk."
"No."
The 19 elite at Weyellin's back all held their breath. No-one had ever questioned their general. No-one had ever challenged him. No-one ever had denied him.
"Your name, then?"
"Postias."

Weyellin blinked slowly, and opened his eyes as he pulled the pin releasing all three of the bolts. With incredible accuracy, the three bolts tore a neat hole in the soldier's neck plating, and he fell to his knees, clutching his throat. Warm blood streamed over his fingers, he could not control the flow. He struggled for breath, gasping and whimpering as his eyes widened. He felt a liquid from his eyes. He was weeping blood, sobbing and praying to his Gods for mercy. They did not give him any. He felt a sharp pain in his stomach, then his chest. He could not breathe, and he could not feel. Feeling his sight fade, the world blurring before him, he could not help but think of the warm embrace of his wife's arms, the smile on his child's face seeing them together. His child was so sweet like that.
'I know just how much you and mummy love each other, daddy. I want to be like you when I grow up.'
'You'll have to eat well, and sleep well, my boy. You have the making of an Everlast General I am sure.'
Feeling his life fade from him, he had a vision of his mother, reaching down and grabbing his arms, taking him in hers.

Weyellin, unmoved by the torture he had just given, moved forth and placed his foot upon Postias' chest, and rolled him into the whirlwind before him. His body was ripped, shredded and torn by the sand, the armour doing nothing to save him. Weyellin grunted once again. Turning to face the elite remaining, he spoke to them in their native tongue, warning them never to question their superiors.
"It now seems we are trapped, men. We must wait for it to pass."
Gratei. Weyellin thought. Shit.

Weyellin's unit had moved backward as the Whirlwind grew more violent, and had noticed that the ground beneath them was no longer sand, but a mixture of rock, grit and what seemed to be remains. Rubble. Sitting side-saddled on his great steed, Weyellin's free hand was on his now exposed face, a symbol his elite knew well enough. He was deep in thought. The mystery was always what was on his mind. A plan? A new invention? Emotion, perhaps? The wind was howling in his ears, and from taking his helm off, occasion bursts of the Whirlwind's sand left grazes and cuts on his cheek, but his concentration was unwavering. He didn't even hear the shout of his elite, drawing their longswords at the lone rider who was quickly approaching them. He didn't hear the systematic clunk of metal as they gathered in formation in front of their general. The only thing that stopped him from the exploration of his mind was the third shout from the first elite.
"Sir!"
"What is it now?"
"A rider."
Weyellin looked up with slight disinterest as his eyes scanned the rider. He didn't have to see the rider's face to know that this was the girl he had encountered on his way back from Ulysses' slaughter. The horse, her apparel, even the discreet knives she concealed within her cloak. Upon further inspection, Weyellin could faintly see two silhouettes through the cloud of dust and sand. One with a smaller frame, and smaller horse, the other in what appeared to be a top hat. They were riding fast. Weyellin's attention returned to the girl before him. A slight smug look twisted itself upon his face as he scanned the girl, folding his arms as best he could and sliding off his mount.
"Iaira Blackmont."

'Commander,' Iaira shouted as she finally approached, tugging savagely at her reins. 'Didn't expect to see my lovely face so soon, did you? Well, you should be so lucky.'
Iaira was no fool, never had been one. She knew that Weyellin was a hot-headed, stubborn, power-comfortable bastard who would ignore her warnings out of sheer pride. But he did not know the desert like she did.
'Soldiers!' She said, raising her voice once more. 'I suppose most of you are heartless husks of men, stripped from all emotion and knowledge other than that including hacking men to pieces and boot-licking at your commander's feet.' That earned her stern, cold glares and one soldier even stepped closer, but moved no further. She grinned. 'If, on the other hand, you are men with homes, wealth and families back in whatever place you lot are from, you will do as I say.' Disbelief. Sarcastic laughter from a few brave ones. Not enough to hold her back. 'The Whirlwind destroys all that are not native to these lands. Unless you wish to feed Raraku with your blood, I strongly advise that you get on your damn horses and follow me.' Iaira stirred her mount and turned him around so that she could get a good-enough scan on all of their faces. 'To be honest with you, my dears, I do not have a breath to spare for you, a tear if you die. I will not try to convince you to stay or follow. You may do as you wish- perhaps for the first time in years. If you value your lives, however, you will ride and ride hard.' She winked at one of them, a boy at the back of the column. She was trying to act serene and in a light mood, but the little hairs on the back of her neck had risen. The overbearing sound of the Whirlwind was approaching, filling her ears.
'Commander,' she yelled, 'lead the way for your men.'
A high stone-lined bank suddenly blocked her way as she rode once more. It was sloped, rising to well above her head. Iaira paused for a long moment, then she gathered her mount's reins and dismounted, leading the climb. Scrambling, stumbling against the steep bank, she eventually reached the top and found herself on a road.
The paving stones were exquisitely cut, evenly set, with the thinnest of cracks visible between them. Bemused, Iaira crouched down, trying to hold her focus as she studied the road's surface- a task made more difficult by the streams of airborne sand racing over the stones. There was no telling its age. While she imagined that, even buried beneath the sands, there would be signs of wear, she could detect none. Moreover, the engineering showed skill beond any masonry she'd yet seen in Seven Cities.
As far as Iaira could judge, the road angled southwestward, away from the heart of Raraku. To the northeast it would reach the Pan'potsun Hills within ten leagues-in that direction they would come to the hills perhaps five leagues south of where they had left them. There seemed little value in that. She stared again down the road to her right.
She mounted the gelding, 'We follow the road,' she yelled to her companions, gesturing southwestward.

The elite climbed back onto their mounts, still laughing to themselves when Weyellin's deep voice came forth with a hint of amusement.
"Well, men, what are we waiting for? Let us humour her."
Reaching into his pack at the side of his horse, Weyellin pulled out a device made from the Moving Metals of Everlast. It acted as a sort of compass, and as he held it horizontally and studied it, a tiny smile curled upon his lips. That smile disappeared as he realised that this was the time to strike.
"Elite. Blackmont rides toward the Kingdom. What say we take her in?"
The elite laughed and raised their swords. The first elite opened his mouth and yelled like an animal. The rest of the men copied him. Turning his horse to where Blackmont had gone, he spurred his horse onward, hearing the roar of his small army galloping after him in harmony with the wails of the sands.
While his horse was in full stride, he took his helm from his hip and replaced it upon his head, concealing the smile that adorned his face. In the pack at his side, he pulled out the General's Syaan, and replaced the poisoned bolts with regular blacksteel ones. He didn't want to kill her, no, he planned to maim her, take her to Everlast, and make her pay.
"The first to bring me her steed's head gets on ceremony!" Weyellin shouted through his teeth.
The galloping at his back intensified as the elite roared and sped up.
It had been a long time since he had fun.

Driven by ambition and blind hatred for the Blackmont girl, an elite by the name of Lestium drove his steed next to Iaira's, and before she could react, a black halberd swung around and caught her chest with it's pole, knocking her from her mount with great force. Lestium threw his halberd from him as he jumped from his steed to Blackmont's, drawing his longsword. As he landed, he drove the sword deep into the horse's neck, twisting it slightly. The horse fell from under him and, whilst it collapsed on the floor, Lestium pulled his weight to one side and brought the sword with him, dismembering the gelding's head. With that movement, the rest of the pack cheered and dismounted, drawing their swords and edging closer to Blackmont. Weyellin remained upon his horse and circled the chaos, enjoying what had turned into a very one-sided hunt.

Ulysses' voice startled Iaira and she briefly glanced behind her. She had been to consumed into saving them, all of their hides, and had not even considered that possibility-the one of them turning against her. There was a man then, who hit her with the end of a halberd, knocking her off her horse and drawing the air out of her lungs, pointing at her diaphragm. She did not tumble, instead, she found her balance quickly, scrambling to her feet quickly. In time to watch her horse's head being separated from its body, blood spraying from the wound and splattering a few drops on her face. There was a metallic taste on her tongue, burning.
Betrayal was the greatest of all crimes in Iaira's mind, for it took all that was human within a person and made it a thing of pain. She recognised that taste. It was the one in her mouth. Seemingly, around her, they kept coming, crowding, now safe from the Whirlwind's wrath.
Not from mine, alas.
She was vastly outnumbered, she knew. But then again, that was the way all Blackmonts found their end, didn't they?
She unsheathed her long-knives in a blur. As the man who had struck her approached, she performed the basic moves of the Shadow Dance. Quick, measured steps. She darted in, low to the ground. Impossibly low. Her back leg thrust out of balance, not even touching the ground. Her knife arm licked out in front of her, her knee bent so deeply that her entire body would have been below the level of a man's head sitting cross-legged on the ground. Iaira unfurled all this csunuous motion as quickly you can snap your fingers. The tip of her knife came in low under Lestium's guard and angled up towards his knee. Heavy armoured as he was, there were places he was exposed and the joint of his knee, at the side, was one of them. She sliced, then tumbled backwards to rise again. The man turned, still, somehow making use of his legs. Her forearm hammered into the man's covered face, stunning him and she shoved into him, causing him to stagger onto his already unstable leg. Iaira, now on his left, pushed the thin blade into his flesh between his shoulder and chest. She made sure it was deep. And that it would not be a quick death.
Iaira made her way quickly along the road, tracked by half a dozen crossbow quarrels that struck the ground with snaps and sounds of splintering.
She swore under her breath as blades flickered in the air above her. She threw herself to the right and down, regaining her feet in time to meet the four men. A flurry of parries as Iaira worked her way further right, pulling herself beyond the range of two of the attackers. Long-knife lashed out, opening one man's face and as he reeled back, Iaira stepped close, impaling the man's left thigh on the exposed side, merely a slit, whilst blocking a frenzied attack from the other Elite. Pivoting on the first man's pinned thigh, she twisted behind the man and thrust with her free weapon over her victim's right shoulder, the point tearing into the attacker's neck.
Tugging free the blade impaling the thigh, Iaira brought that arm up to lock beneath the first man's chin, where she flexed hard and, with a single, savage wrenching motion, she snapped the man's neck.
God, I hate that armour.
The one stabbed in the throat had stumbled, his jugular severed and blood spraying through the fingers grasping futilely at the wound. The last two of the four Elites were coming up fast. Beyond them, Iaira saw, others were closing in on Ulysses and Neiu. Snarling her rage, Iaira launched herself past the two Elites, taking their attacks on her long-knives, slamming her foot into the nearer one's right leg, midway between knee and ankle, breaking bones- probably along with giving herself bruises. As the man shrieked his pain, the second attacker, seeking to move past him, collided with the falling man, then lost balance entirely as both feet slid out on spilled blood.

Weyellin watched on as his men were slaughtered by the assassin, one by one. He was actually quite impressed. He had never seen an assassin move with such elegance. Deadly elegance. With raised eyebrows, he kept his arms folded upon his steed, watching his men being sent to the Dragon Gods in the most brutal of ways, all the while keeping a stone cold expression. Hardly any time had passed before the blood of 5 elite was spilled upon the floor.
Five elite? By the False Gods, I never would have thought it possible.
The general unfolded his arms once again and took out his Syaan, newly loaded with the blacksteel bolts. He waited until the remaining elite formed around her before bringing his horse closer, so that he would not miss. With a cold and decisive mind, free of pity, or any other emotion for that matter, Weyellin pulled the pin of the Syaan, releasing the three bolts in quick succession towards Blackmont's calf with incredible accuracy. He didn't even look to see if the bolts had hit or not, he knew they had from the step back that his elite took as they stood easy for the first time that day. Covered in the blood of his comrades, an elite spat an insult in his native tongue at the girl on the floor. Weyellin dismounted and pushed through his elite to Blackmont. He knelt down to the girl on her back and he delivered a devastating punch to her jaw with all of his force, feeling a section give way under his knuckle. Emotionless, still, he watched as her head fell to the side as her eyes closed. Out cold. He dragged her through the dirt and rock on the ground by her wounded leg and threw her atop the back of his great horse, quickly mounting it himself.
He knew the way from here.

Trailing back through the harsh winds and hard rock, Weyellin and his men found themselves in familiar territory, the hills of Everlast appearing before them like a kind memory. The Great Doors were concealed in a valley, but they all knew the way, even in the weather they faced. As they approached, they heard the loud thuds and clunks of ballistas and trebuchets being loaded within the smooth stone walls, and soon enough they appeared through holes in the rock.
"Who approaches?" A voice bellowed in a threatening tone, filling the harsh air with his raspy and worn out voice.
"Your Overseer." Weyellin replied calmly, nowhere near as loud, but still heard.
"Welcome back, sir."
The tips of the great defensive weapons returned to the darkness within the walls, still loaded.
"Home at last." An elite said, followed by a content sigh.
"Indeed."
As the unit moved slowly towards the Great Doors, they did not open. The defensive weapons reappeared and the guardsmen stood ready, their hands clutching the adjustments. Upon this surprise, Weyellin turned his head to face behind him, and saw the rider in the top hat progressing towards the walls of Everlast. An elite laughed wildly.
"An imbecile, sir, he still approaches our Great Kingdom!"
Upon this joke, the elite joined him in laughter, the only warrior not finding the situation amusing being Weyellin. He had been observing the rider. Long, drooping coat, top hat, all dark in colour. This was Ulysses. He clenched his teeth, although his anger did not last long. Over the laughter of his elite, he heard commands from above him, and a thick, devastating bolt from one of the ballistas was fired from the walls. Ulysses barely had time to react. The large wooden bolt was about the size of a trunk from a tree, tipped with a huge metal point. It found its way neatly into Ulysses' horse's flank, the force throwing Ulysses some many metres from where he sat, and almost tearing the horse in two.

He lay on the floor, winded, and badly hurt. He could barely breathe, and standing was out of the question. He closed his eyes and tried his best to concentrate on his breathing. It was no use. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the face of his hunter, the High General and Overseer of Everlast, Weyellin. He shook his head before bringing his armoured heel sharply down onto Ulysses' temple. With the same technique as he had used for Iaira, he dragged Ulysses to his horse outside the Great Doors, now open for him and his unit. Dimly lit by torches, the Grand Terium to the kingdom was large and steeply sloped downwards. He had captured two, on one surface mission.
Magnanimous are the Dragon Gods. He thought, bringing himself, his elite and his two captives inside of the kingdom, the Great Doors sliding shut behind them.