Elhyrst’s North Gate is two towering things wrought of black metal. Akin to the armor of the guard captain moving swiftly at her side, the gate is adorned in a pattern of spiraling briars. Elhyrst loves her bloody briars. When closed the gate’s enchantment activates. Anything attempting to breach will be bled for their efforts. For every drop of blood consumed, the steel thorns will swell to greater size. The gates are beautiful but deadly, like much of Elhyrst and the forest around it.
When Dialla turns the corner she must slow her steps. Every inch of the massive doors is covered with omen-moths. From horn tip to tail tip a tingle of anxiety runs through her. Never has she seen so many in a single place. Hues of green, pink, and blue dance across the gate; a field of stars against the dark metal and wood.
An omen.
Upon reaching the gate she slows to a halt and glances towards Valindra who stops beside her. Before them two gate guards clench their weapons tightly but seem frozen in place. They have yet to notice their arrival for they are too focused ahead of them.
Hair like snow cascades in waves across the stranger’s shoulders. A messy strand strays across the dusk blue skin of her cheek. Dialla wants to look at her more, take in the breadth of her shoulders and the power of the fighter’s form constrained by worn leathers, to find out why an omen-moth crowns her head. She has Lord Abrus, noble council member, pinned to the gate with nothing more than a leather clad forearm pressed against his throat.
“Villager—“ Valindra’s command is cut off when Dialla clears her throat. Despite their tense ‘friendship’ the captain knows that when it comes down to it, a clergy member outranks her. Dialla outranks most to their consternation and her endless pleasure. She approaches the pair with a rustle of elegant black silks across the hard road. She places a lavender hand on the other woman’s bicep an offers a warm smile up from under her veils.
“I know the day is stressful, but violence against Lord Abrus’s person will not help the situation.”
“And do you even know what the situation is, priestess?” The response is not unexpected but the growl of the woman’s voice is.
“I do not. Would you enlighten me? Please? Perhaps over a dri—“
“Dialla.” comes the brisk tone of the guard captain behind her. “This is not the time.”
Dialla doesn’t let her mirthful look falter. Valindra has a low tolerance for her whimsy.
“Ah, as the kind a captain has reminded me, we do need to be getting out of the way for the citizens entering the city?” She presses firmer on the arm against Lord Abrus’s throat. Hesitation tightens the woman’s jaw. “Whatever the problem is, you have my word as a servant of the Lady that I will do my best to fix it.”
The woman’s golden eyes gleam as she looks down at Dialla. Finally she steps back from Lord Abrus. Dialla realizes not only had he been pinned, but lifted, for his tidy black boots thud against the ground when the woman lets him fall.
“There, that is much better. Lord, you are unharmed?” Her concern is fake but he doesn’t seem inclined to call her on it. Those of the faith answer only to the Lady and all of Elhyrst knows it. How they feel about this fact, is none of her concern. The Clergy of the Grave are the life of Elhyrst. Only their blessings can shield Elhyrst from the constantly roving bands of undead that rise in the Corpsewood. The city can survive without a noble, but it cannot without her clergy.
Lord Abrus crinkles his nose and rubs a hand at his throat as if he might banish the touch. The look he has for the stranger is one of contempt. Dialla doesn’t believe him to even be trying to hide his prejudice against the villager. “Indeed, I will be fine but I must insist on the gates being closed. The horde approaches and—“
“And I said not until everyone is in.” Dialla must place a hand upon the other woman to prevent her from stepping to him. From the war hammers hanging at her sides, Dialla does not think Lord Abrus would win this fight.
Thankfully the guard captain chooses that moment to step up. She places herself near Lord Abrus, as if to pull him out of the way. “Well good news, I see the villagers appearing now. The gate will soon be closed in accordance with the curfew.”
As a group they turn to look down the road to see carts heading towards the gate. Relief causes the fighter’s shoulders to slump.
“Well then,” Dialla turns towards the gate guards who have been standing awkwardly in the background of this mess. “Ensure everyone is in before you close the gate. Remember to let them know there is space on cathedral grounds should they need.” It's easy to project spiteful warmth. “After all, the villagers outside the wall are just as much the Lady’s concern as those within.”
“As you say, my lady.” Lord Abrus turns then, moving briskly away. Valindra’s sigh is expected but the soft laughter that comes from her side, is not.
The woman is still there and the omen-moth now perches upon one of her long slender ears. With the tension in the air fading, her demeanor is opens. Her arms hang lose at her sides and a faint smile is trying to break out across her lips. A pang of mourning strikes Dialla when the warmth fades and the stranger’s eyes go weary.
“You should know, had I not held him the gate would have been closed and activated. I have no regrets for my actions.”
Dialla can understand what the stranger worries about. She lifts her hand and pats the arm once more, mostly to feel the strength of it before, “It was a simple miscommunication.” She smiles.
Executions were not her style.
“Maiden Dialla, are you done?” To see Valindra looking tired is not unfamiliar to the priestess. She starts to step away but a faint, “Maiden?” has her turning back.
The stranger looks like a cat Dialla saw once. Her golden eyes catch the fading light and reflect it back as she stares. The priestess assumes it is fear as it often is. She continues to smile.
“Grave Maiden Dialla, at the service of Lady and city. Be blessed on your path this evening.” A soft aqua glow brightens the woman’s eyes. She takes quick short steps to the woman and goes on her tiptoes to press a kiss to her cheek. When she pulls away a cheeky smile adorns her lips. “Be safe!” Dialla says with the sputtering indignation of her guard sounding behind her.
Dialla could spare a blessing for a woman who would stray beyond the saftey of the city’s walls in the hope of protecting her home. She’d give more blessings to all the fighting villagers who chose to stay beyond the walls if she could. Dialla turns away but not before she hears that voice go, “Thank you.”
Eirwyn, like many of residents of the Corpsewood, dreams of days when the forest won’t be overrun with undead. It’s an impossible dream, but it is a hopeful one. Over, under, over—she plaits her hair out of her face.
“Eirwyn ca Andala,” dread descends at the call of her full name.
Thosa ca Andala, looks much like how Eirwyn expects she will in two hundred years. She's been told she shares her mother’s stern, strong jaw and piercing eyes. The only thing that separates them from looking like sisters is Thosa's darker gray hair. It had been black when Eirwyn was born, but even elves eventually age.
“I understand, but you can’t do it again. We can figure out other saftey for the villagers. We can’t replace my heir.”
You could, Eirwyn thinks. If her reckless intimidation against the noble had ended with her death, her brother lived. She can hear Tirin speaking with the other fighters. She knows she should be speaking to them, encouraging them, but she doesn’t know how. Some wouldn’t be returning tonight, all in the hope of reducing the damage to their villages when the horde passes. Lives on the line because the Briar Guard rarely stepped beyond the city’s walls.
“We could have figured something out,” she agrees. “But the cost might have been too high. All ended well so it’s fine.”
Thosa’s gaze is a heavy weight. She’s been the head of their family, and the unofficial leader of the villages beyond the wall for decades now. She looks at Eirwyn now as both a concerned mother and with the expectations of a leader.
“Right. Fine. Ready?”
At each of her hips, Eirwyn’s war hammers rest. Each one made of the village’s standard steel and stamped with a wolf’s head. The leather wraps have worn perfectly to her hands over the years. A strange shimmer dances across them; the Grave Maiden’s blessing. Eirwyn only hoped it would last the night.
“Remember, wait till true night before using anything other than swords.”
Eirwyn scoffs. She may be bad at many things, but getting caught isn’t one of them.
“Eirwyn! Left!”
Tirin’s voice has her body moving before the words fully register. Eirwyn brings one hammer up to catch a clawing, skeletal hand. The second hammer swings forward smashing into the ribcage. Normally she’d have to use more force to wrench the skeletal frame apart, but an ephemeral teal shimmers across her weapon. When it touches bone, the reanimating magic shatters. The skeleton shatters.
She grins at him, younger but just as scarred and wild looking as her and her mother. The strength of the Andala genes runs through them. Her brother shares moonlit silver hair, golden eyes and dusk blue skin.
Tirin taps his own hammer against hers with a feral grin. “I’m a bit jealous of you. Blessed blades!”
Eirwyn’s laughter is a soft chuckle. “It won’t last the whole night but I’m grateful nonetheless.” The shimmer of divine magic is not just on her hammers, but flows up her arms and across her body. She imagines the tingle where the Grave Maiden had blessed her by kissing her cheek. A line of thinking she pushes away.
Eirwyn’s laughter is a soft chuckle. “It won’t last the whole night but I’m grateful nonetheless.” The shimmer of divine magic is not just on her hammers, but flows up her arms and across her body. She imagines the tingle where the Grave Maiden had blessed her by kissing her cheek. A line of thinking she pushes away.
“Eirwyn…do you hear—“ Tirin doesn’t get to finish his question. For a moment the battle is nothing more than a dull roar. They’ve dealt with the wandering undead and should have a moment of respite. They can hear the distant battle raging at the walls of Elhyrst, undead drawn by the abundance of life.
A scream splits the air.
“BEHEMOTH!”
The siblings look at one another with wide eyes. A what?
The ground shakes beneath them. A nearby cottage rattles. A moment later they see it emerging from the dark tree line. Two stories tall and made of a hundreds of bodies stitched together, the behemoth is a wonder of grotesque necromantic magic. The main body is a terrible oblong with mismatched legs, both human and animal, that drag it across forward. Arms and clawed hands erupt from along the body but the worst part is the hundreds of murky, glassy eyes caught in death that form what must be the head.
Her family prides themselves on being the best at dealing with the undead in their work of guarding and guiding caravans, second only to the clergy of the Lady, but this is a creation beyond anything Eirwyn or Tirin have seen.
The behemoth drags its bulbous body towards the wall crushing undead beneath its massive weight.
The behemoth drags its bulbous body towards the wall crushing undead beneath its massive weight.
Eirwyn runs. Her keen ears catch the pounding footfalls of Tirin racing after her. They leap fences and skid around the corners of houses as they race to meet the behemoth. She doesn’t know if it can climb the wall or breach the sturdy stone but the idea of it has blood surgering through her body.
Her hands curl as she runs. Short nails press into her palms hard enough to draw pinpricks of blood. The scent of the village is overtaken by that of decaying corpses and grave dirt.
The abomination is getting close to the wall. It pauses and hundreds of mouths open. Overlapping screams echo in the night, voices filled with agony and both siblings have to stop and stagger as it batters their senses. How many people and beasts had gone into this monstrous creation? Who had crafted it? Eirwyn can feel her teeth growing sharp and her anger growing fierce.
“Eirwyn, no! We’re too close to the city!” Tirin grasps her wrist and drags her into the shadow of a building. “Calm yourself!”
A snarl builds in her throat. “It cannot breach the city, whether I’m seen or not!”
Tirin’s grip wavers. He knows as well as she does that if it makes it past the walls, past the Briar Guard, then the city will fall. How could it survive such a creature loose in the streets?
His grip loosens enough that she tears away and runs. She makes it two steps and then a blinding light flashes atop Elhryst’s walls. Where the abomination draws close, a shining aquamarine light erupts.
With her sharpened senses Eirwyn can just make out what causes the behemoth to come to a halt. Dialla stands atop the wall. Her black veils flutter around her head. Long white hair flows. Her lavender palms are outstretched in benediction to the night sky as her vestments billow.
The night answers.
An aurora erupts around her just as the abomination lunges for the wall. The abomination meets the massive wall of light with a loud squelch of flesh thudding on impact. Its screams ring out again but the light holds and pushes back. As the behemoth pushes against what Eirwyn assumes is the most powerful ward ever cast around Elhyrst, the divine magic eats at the reanimating magic. The harder it pushes the more its bindings fail. Limbs fall like rain upon the ground.
Eirwyn is left in stunned silence watching the abomination push unrelenting until piece by piece it falls apart. It collapses into a pile of gore at the base of the wall. When Eirwyn looks up the Grave Maiden has vanished.
Abruptly the world rushes into noise once more. Tirin steps up to her side and looks at her with concern. She shakes her head. What words can she possibly have in the face of divine feats? Feats that would never be used on the behalf of the villages outside of Elhyrst.
Her brother offers a smile. “Well…at least we aren’t going to be stuck on that clean up.”
The aurora vanishes and Dialla collapses. Before her head can hit the stone parapet two arms catch her. Her vision is spotty, blurred from the backlash of casting at such a high level, but she knows Kez is the one who caught her. Her primary guard and companion, Kez is a figure covered head to toe in black leathers and cloth. Even their face is masked. They smell like feathers and magic, a strange comfort.
“Kez…” She murmurs gratefully.
“—her safely back to—“ A figure in thorn embellished armor passes. Valindra’s hair is falling out of its severe braid. Viscera streaks her armor. Dialla wants her to turn towards her, to look at her even for a moment. Her lips part.
Valindra turns away to attend her duties. Always, the elf is dutiful. A proud member of the guard.
Dialla curls into Kez. Her face is pressed to the leathers, headless of the stench of undeath clinging to the armor. “..don’t let them see.” Warm liquid trickles from her nose as Kez hefts her in their arms.
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