Chapter Four Hundred And Sixty Eight – 468

Chapter Four Hundred And Sixty Eight – 468

A plume of dust tore into the sky above the stepped plains, visible for leagues to any that cared to look. At its head, four loping creatures ran with tireless legs that blurred in the washed-out winter sun. The mountains were behind them by a bare half-league, and the curious, uneven terrain stretched ahead of them, seemingly without end. Seated atop the creatures were four figures in smooth, milky white armor and thick, fur-lined capes that streamed behind them in billowing folds.

"It is colder than I remember," one at the side said. She was wider than the rest by a full handspan, and a massive mace made of red-gold orichalcum hung from her saddle. "I do not like it."

"You don't like much, Mace," said the warrior to her left. She was far more slender across the chest and waist, though her powerful legs gripped the racing lizards beneath her saddle. A spear made of the same red-gold metal was sheathed near her stirrup. "You were complaining about the heat near Amaranth, too."

"That spitfire mountain makes everything too hot. And these plains are colder than a Dragoon's bedside." The one called Mace laughed; she laughed even harder when that orichalcum spear flashed up at her neck, stopping a hairsbreadth away from her skin. "Oh come of it, Spear. Don't pretend to hold affection for your old order."

The spear dropped, resheathed beside the slender figure with nigh-invisible speed. "It is a matter of honor, Mace. One never truly leaves the Dragoons. Do not besmirch them."

"Hm."

The other two were somewhere between Mace and Spear in build, though the one with the golden longsword strapped to his waist was stockier than the gangly figure holding open a book. The man with the sword shook his head and guided his mount around an oncoming protrusion of stone. Such natural obelisks were all over the stepped plains, some claimed as a result of an ancient conflict between elementals in the distant past. "Spear. Mace. Focus on the task at hand. We are nearing our destination."

"Of course, Sword."

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The one known as Sword nodded to himself and urged his basilisk forward. There was no snow on the ground despite the frigid temperatures, for which Blade was grateful. The basilisks were not as fast in snow, preferring the hard-packed, rocky soil of their southerly homeland, but they were still incredibly fast beasts. Bred for Agility and Endurance, it was said a basilisk could run down an Agility focused warrior of the same Tier, and still have enough energy to kill them with their barbed and poisoned tails. Savage creatures, tamed by our hands. As it should be.

"Ah."

"Tome?" Sword asked, looking to the thin man on his right. He was gazing into the sky, his face hidden by the same smooth helmet they all wore. Sigils glimmered briefly across its surface. "What do you sense?"

"Tier III flyers coming in fast from the west," Tome reported before turning his attention back to the pages on his oversized book. "I count two hundred. Likely the flock that has been threatening the Manaships."

It took a few moments, but soon they could all perceive the flying monsters that were diving from high above. Sword sighed in annoyance. "Good. Then we can eliminate them so our forces can move from the mountains. Spear? Take care of the trash, if you would."

"Very well."

The avian beasts burst into flame as they dove, the air screaming from around their outstretched pinions. Large meteors formed in the monsters' talons, swirling with molten stone and their hateful, malicious Spirits pressed down upon them all. The basilisks kept running, their hooded eyes never once straying upward or otherwise responding to the monsters' dire Intent. Sword, Hammer, and Tome all rode forward, equally unconcerned as their companion raised her long, orichalcum spear.

Kellis Faer, Hierei of Calumb, Pax'Vrell, and Sao'thun stared into the smoke-choked sky and could not help the feeling of despair that crawled across his old heart. Since their forced entrance into the Halls of the Hinterlords and subsequent...subdual of the Giathban warrior caste, the Unbound Imara has torn a swath of destruction across the whole of the mountain range. It wasn't until the Hinterlords acquiesced to her demands for access to their deepest vaults that she stopped her wanton destruction.

The Gnome had proven wily and more than capable of evading even Imara's might. Owing to some strange magic the creature had learned, it could vanish into the stone as if it were water, and seemed to require neither food nor water as it ignored their baited traps. In fact, the hunted Unbound proved to be more clever than expected, utilizing Imara's impatience and quiet rage against her time and again.

...in the latest skirmish, the Gnome led Imara into the castle fastness of Hinterlord Klagg Orskellig. His unique gifts let him bypass the excessive wardings on the castle, and Imara followed suit straight through the barricaded portcullis and gate. The Gnome remains at large while the damage done to Castle Orskellig and the Hierocracy's reputation is equally devastating.

It is with a heavy heart and humble insistence that the Unbound known as Imara should be confined to the Shining Palace until better strictures are in place to guide her willfulness.

Blessed In The Light,

Hierei Faer

Kellis finished his missive to the Hierophant and carefully folded it before drizzling a deep pool of wax atop its edge. With the ring upon his pinky finger, he pressed that wax with the symbol of his Authority: a tower topped by three stars.

"Call Minor Messenger," he muttered into the wind. The Skill spread from him, moving in a way that Kellis swore was like ripples in a pond. It was perhaps a fanciful way of viewing the activation of his power, especially considering his core was attuned to light, which everyone knew moved in straight beams. Fanciful or not, it did not hinder the efficacy. A pure white songbird alighted on the sill of his window, briefly fluffing up its feathers before hopping inquisitively toward him. No words were exchanged, but a vague pulse of Intent flowed across their sudden bond. Need?

Kellis handed the missive wordlessly to the songbird, and it picked it up in is beak with the gentlest of motions. A single quirk of its head was all the Hierei got before it flew off once more, letter in hand. Or beak, as it were.

The Hierei looked out after the songbird, tracing the peaks that still had not been extinguished. Imara wandered the forested hills and cliff faces, hunting after the elusive Gnome with the single-mindedness of a Dire Hound. It was both the most foolish thing Kellis had ever seen, and the most frightening.

That woman could level an entire kingdom, given enough time. He feared only a Grandmaster could stand up to her, and warriors of such caliber were few and far between. Kellis pursed his lips, sending his Perception Skills questing outward after the Unbound, tracing the Mark on her Spirit. He could sense her two leagues distant, her own Spirit horrifyingly flat despite being engaged against a horde of Tier III beasts. At least her violence is aimed at monsters, this time.

The impact of the Hierophant's personally trained Unbound was unmistakable, and the repercussions of her choices would echo for longer than he cared to admit. The Hinterlords were aggrieved and incensed, their attitudes toward the Hierocracy more foul than ever thanks to Imara's actions in chasing her target. The neighboring Clans had even taken up arms to prevent the woman from forcing her way through their mountains as well. The did not know they stood no chance against Imara's Strength; not even Kellis himself could contend against the forces that woman could bring to bear.

Yet action must be taken.

Kellis slipped a second sheet of rich vellum from his satchel and placed it perfectly atop his borrowed desk. At the same time, he sent his Mana expanding outward from every one of his Mana Gates, a crystalline sphere that locked into place around his desk and person. Sigils briefly flared along the sphere's surface, symbols denoting silence, hidden, and dream, among others. They locked into place, rotating as each sigil slipped into an array forged entirely on the spot...without a true Skill behind it at all.

Dipping his quill into an ink pot, he adjusted his long sleeves with all the care of someone who routinely wore pure white. Then, when all was in place, he began to write.

Mauvim of the Hidden Song.

I seek an audience.