From beyond the gates, wreathed in the darkness of the entrance, the cries of the crowd seeped through. People of the plebeian ensnared by Ephraimur; the nobilos who strayed not often from their opulent, aloft manors; merchants who mingled amongst the plebeian with offerings and hungry eyes, and the Elhyrissiar whose shadow overhung the city since its inception all voiced their joy in the bloodletting unfolding in the arena. Mirayroth himself stirred and surged with thrill in the darkness, blazed by the fiery whirlwind of anticipation for what stood ahead, and from watching through the thick darkness and oak the orkh extinguishing one life after another against the expectations of the Elhyrissiars.
Fresh air mingled with that of sweat, left behind by the gladiators after awaiting the opening of the gates. It was quite salty, reminding Mirayroth of his billowing dark home. His people fought there against the lurking monstrosities with the same vigor the gladiators struggled against each. The fear they felt initially remained, and became the fuel of their survival, instead of shackles binding their limbs which now moved in a strange mixture of instinct and intent. The latter supplemented by the Will of Night bringing the promises of glory and freedom when victory gazed directly onto them as they stood in its shimmering shadow.
Not long passed, until he felt the five pass from the realm of mortals, and passed His gift upon the Elhyrissiar.
A loud bang broke him from the pondering trance, one of their willing agents gained his freedom at last. A long spear’s tip broke through his rib, right through armor, flesh and bone, piercing his heart which ceased its throbbing. The veil fallen onto him, and for a moment Mirayroth felt a cold and kind presence wrap her arms around it, taking the them away from the cruel reality. Blood seeped through the small crack, down onto the sand and he walked towards it. It was dark with a hint of blue, resting peacefully like the dreaming sea.
Then he stepped back, flames sprawling on the other side, their heat sizzled the thick door which resisted to be devoured by a wild beast. Sparks lit the gloom for a moment as they danced, cascaded towards the sand where they joined the myriad miniscule pebbles forming an almost even ground. Looking down, he just noticed the ripples forming dunes and chuckled a little as he imagined how the Titans once looked down upon the old lands and how ant-like all living beings must have seemed to them. Their steps created quakes akin to the ones he felt from the falling of a hulking orkh, still impressively developed compared to their khimmerian brother-in-fates.
Mirayroth stirred further as the hoarse cry mingled into the cacophony of unfolding mayhem. And both went silent, giving audible space to the shattering of the space, and the niuvhe to be shattered in two by the metallic hands. No shriek came from him, only the song of tearing flesh, bone rang through the circular field, where blood turned the snowy ground into a canvas, upon which a grotesque painting of war and death was created by them. It even crept into the dim space where Mirayroth awaited, waiting to feel the mushy soil beneath his soles.
Silence. An eerie silence followed as the last of the legionaries and fellow Blackened Circle members fell in the arena for the time being. Then with an ear-piercing suddenness, returned the cacophony of battle high above.
An hour and two passed as he stood still, bidding his time to step forth the darkness. Swords, spears, axes and daggers clashed against another or against the angular plates forming the symmetrical panoply of the First Legion and the custodians who marched in doves into the seating area, over and over. Spells roared in their multitudinous ways, followed by screams as people boiled, burned within their armors, a few froze and shattered by the strike of a mace. Children and youth shrieked and bellowed like beasts, tearing the utterly befuddled legionaries and custodians first, before the legionaries of Talos flung, slain and slammed them hard against marble.
Truly, the tin legionaries proved themselves capable, lacking the mental weaknesses ailing many of the First and the custodians, who found themselves again cutting down, discharging spells against those they laughed and cheered with hours before. Much like the citizens and agents of the New Dawn, whom Ephraimur compelled to desire only one thing. To exercise the death demesne of Dusk, nothing else, in any shape or form they were capable of.
Then from behind in the dark, came at last a few of the tin legionaries signaled by their measured heavy steps dampened by the sand. With a sour smile he turned, facing the mechanical legionaries of Talos. Closing his eyes, he felt the faint murmurs, unintelligible yet still that of children, men and women. Pleading they sounded to him and thankful when he swept his arms. A dark crescent reaching from wall to wall passed through them. Their forms painted lifelike disassembled, limbs fell heavy into the sand, whilst rust at away their sculpted forms and panoplies. As their form faded, so did their whispers, before an utter, pleasant silence occupied the dark space.
Taking a deep breath, Mirayroth turned and sensed the turn beyond the gates. No longer they had the element of surprise, but still they had a few capable of combating the brass golden legionaries. Their loss for them were not so great, more for the Empire as He chosen them personally. Each destined in varying ways to contribute to the fall of the Host and its true ruler. Though in what ways, Mirayroth himself could not imagine at first. Had a suspicion many of them would sire the generation to break through the Veinways, the looming peaks and ridges of Dhaugruz. Some may even get Chosen by the Deossos, as many were in the olden realms.
But presently, their struggle meant to bestow confidence upon the uncertain, those who had enough of centuries under the bright banners of the Empire, those looked down upon for the sins of their ancestors, ancestors who sinned because of an Oath. Now, they could witness, hear of many whom they shall believe had the bravery to contend with the First, with the custodians and the ruling family itself. That was his belief.
Though he was not na?ve to believe they shall all arise by the death of a few, he knew in their psyche a lock shall fall, opening the door to Ephraimur to exert a little of his will. So, he can focus on the work he came for. And to properly pry open the gate, Mirayroth called upon the hands of wind to open the gate before him, and he stepped through upon sensing the mild storm created by Luelia’s “demise”.
He took a deep breath. Knew the hour of Twilight came, to precede the New Dawn.
He could not lie to his body, only impose calmness upon it. Mirayroth trembled a little from thrill and fear. He could still not grasp speaking before an audience. Even to an audience half enslaved, half beyond his sight. Above that, the anticipation of dueling the greatest magus who walked the lands of Elhyrissian proved greater than he suspected the day before. The gift of the Nightscale and Grimslaukh somewhat eased his anxiety, helped him maintain the air of mystery he practiced since his arrival in the dark cellars that served as his home for the past decades, and exercised the few times forced to play the role of a prophet, a visionary, a savior to the plebeian. A role he did not like much, and wished another would have taken.
“Come down Elhyrissiar. Shout not from your lavish fort of a suite, come forth and rely no more on your children to act as shield and sword. Show me, show us whether you are brave enough to face Night itself. Or at least its herald.” Mirayroth continued, the approaching legionaries withering in their own opulent panoplies, crumbling on to the blood tainted mud with whispers and whimpers.
Drussaev laid dreaming still in the mid, Albrion and Aurelithae both high up, watching with unseen masks upon their faces, meeting his cold gaze. His invitation was followed by a silence, settled upon the colosseum that mere moments ago was still filled by the cacophony of chaos. But now, the legionaries both flesh and metal ceased slaying the citizens, the agents of the New Dawn. Said citizens and agents themselves entered a docile state, and joined all staring down at Mirayroth standing in the shadows, awaiting the answer.
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Terrianis sat still upon his wooden throne, assuming a contemplating countenance. He uttered his words to Aurelithae, then rose to his feet and vanished from the suite. Dreaming Drussaev vanished too from the grounds. The corpses too seemingly vanished, leaving behind a heat that felt a little unpleasant to Mirayroth’s soul. He himself materialized before Mirayroth, standing where the amber light of the Illius warmed the dewy, bloody soil. Its brilliance hidden the mild pallor imposed by His gift.
“Fine. Show us chosen of the night, how long you can stand before us before you return to dust.” As soon as the words reached across, unseen weights snapped onto his limbs, felt chains whir around his mind. All effects merely latched onto the mocking words of Terrianis.
Weights which he expected to be heavier months before. Now Mirayroth could shake them off quickly, and harbored no doubts about his own victory. Instead, he focused on the brief jolt making him feel alive, his breath caught in delighted shock beneath his mask. It gradually neared a point; it nearly overpowered his sensible side. Though he possessed the gift of the Nightscale, a great boon many covets through their long lives, his opponent was the Elhyrissiar, the sole mortal privileged to the Higher Beings’ magnitude of essence and power. At least from what he heard in Dhaugruz, not even the Chosen of the Almodo equaled the Elhyrissiar.
Aware of this fact well, Mirayroth maintained a healthy dose of caution, kept him still, eyes focused on the towering draevhe of chiseled looks. Even his hearing fixated on the surroundings, the slushing of mud, his own breathing under the mask.
Similarly, Terrianis whilst assured of his own triumph, of this nothing being nothing more than a farce of the Outer Intelligences, Their whispers beseeched him caution against Mirayroth whose midnight black robes fluttered as a warm, almost searing wind swept across the Colosseum. The blackness of the robe seemed to grow and envelope the world before his eyes, and in the darkness, he found himself alone, hearing the voice of his own father, making the dreadful vow which gnawed on his confidence. Though with a blink of his eyes, found himself back in the arena, arms stretched and tense at his sides.
Terrianis chuckled a little as the caution of Mirayroth dawned on him, and even found a little respect for him, seeing how he managed to put him under illusion for a second or two. Still, both waited vigilantly, both knew in sorcerous duels, the one of greater fortitude will come out in triumph. Both relied on the sharpened sixth sense endowed upon most elevated-kindred, sought for the well veiled alterations in reality, the onset of thoughts taking on palpable forms.
Mirayroth himself though tensed, allowed a little gratitude towards his elder masters – and of Fate – for having him face Terrianis, instead of Primuinis whose mastery of sword and sorcery granted him victory against the Grim Sovereign or Anessarion who wiped off three legions of Twilight and Chaos coming to besiege the old capital under his reign and protection, without breaking a sweat. Compared to them, Terrianis was still young, inexperienced, arrogant, who lived and grown in the shadow of Augermil.
Regardless, Mirayroth could still feel and hear his own heart’s beating, its treacherous rhythm nearly cost his life. In a mere second, he perceived Terrianis’s body lit up with the intense radiance of the Illius, followed by a small, needle sized projectile hurled at him. Nearly it swept through his bosom, but the space before him distorted into a swirling cone, changing the trajectory, and instead went into the vomitoria’s gate. The dry, grayish black wood lit up in golden streaks, sizzled at first before it crumbled into searing ash carried by the austere vernal wind.
Terrianis clicked his tongue in frustration, but took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, preparing another spell.
Stopping the flow soured his mood, as he sensed the gathering darkness manifest, mimicking the speed and intensity of thunder, tainting the rich colors of Mineirvia’s season with those of the Night. Quickly, he stepped sideways and glanced at the disintegrated chunks of crimson tinted earth before lifting his arm, a second spell parting from his palm within a second.
Assured in his gift and prowess, Mirayroth diverted not the spell this time, instead willed the most feared aspects of the Dusk upon the gleaming golden bolt. Its fundamental building blocks broke and evanesced one after another, before it reached him. Mirayroth could not help, but grin mirthful upon noticing the frustration written on Terrianis’s magnanimous countenance. He knew well the feeling of his own will denied, extinguished.
Mirayroth watched with interest as the air whirred and twisted as Terrianis began swinging eloquently his arms about, clawed swirling streaks of iridescent golden and earthly shades. At the same time, the same colors strode along his veins, highlighted the complex trails, continued down his sides until they reached into his soles fitted in a golden sandal.
Each grain arose and delivered upon their parts of a forming storm of blood and soil, lashing at the figure they slowly encroached upon. Whilst Mirayroth felt a few grains slip beneath his robes, gnawed and lacerated his flesh, there was little fear in his mind. He took a deep breath and slowly recognized the spells’ inscriptions floating around, recognized it as not greater than the average magnitude slightly enhanced by the caster’s presences.
Terrianis watched and awaited anxious, hoping to see nothing but the charred and lacerated corpse be revealed, but alas his body quivered at the chill summoned forth, freezing the spell, and each grain snuffed within violet tinted ice.
From the domed object, ice sculpted into the shape of arrows and spears flew at Terrianis, but shattered into ethereal flakes upon impact. His arms raised and fingers folded and stretched, their tips alight in golden and azure, a translucent wall of kaleidoscopic patterns manifested in the air, expanding and their rims folding like soft cloth, as a few of the frosty projectiles tried passing above them to strike down at his ashen black crown. Terrianis turned with haste as he felt the distortion of space, and Mirayroth walked forth, and with a snap, Terrianis vanished with a shriek.
He collapsed down onto the cold marble, clutching the gory aperture where his right arm should have been, instead he touched rotten flesh, the tattered and jagged rims of his robes, and blackened blood tainting the white marble. Further below, he noticed the spell quickly extinguish his living tissue, and it took him great effort to cease the ravenous march of nekrotic matter imbued and shepherded by Mirayroth’s will and the mild Authority of the Night. Tears streamed down Terrianis’s sharp, chiseled cheeks as he gazed at the gangrenous feet and knee, his chest rising and falling as he struggled still with the spell before he could heal himself.
“Witness it my fellow brothers and sisters.” At once his voice reached all across the island, his thoughts, his memories of the past few minutes all flown into the minds of every single citizen. And so did his mélange of triumph. “The great Elhyrissiar, the chosen of the Eight, their pets, the Almodo, every single being of a higher existence lost to me, a nobody who spent only a few decades mingling amongst you, helping you to see we need no longer to live blinded by their false brilliance.” Mirayroth relapsed into silence, mulling on his thoughts, calming himself not to sound too conceited.
“Now is the time to seize your fates, to join our cause to usher our world into a new age, under the light of a new dawn. Look into your hearts and know this, their promise were lies, and all their work amounted nothing but to deepen their claws, to ensure an eternity under their rule.” He continued, calming himself.
“And if you fear me and my divine liege, like me the previous Elhyrissiar, Primuinis too sought out the aid of the great dragon of Dusk and all its aspects. He sought the power to slay the maddened Deos of Twilight, and in doing so damned all our ancestors, and lied to us, lulling us into the belief the great war led to the collapse of our old, prosperous realms. And now the Elhyrissiar wishes to collect the new chosen of the Almodo under his banner, march them along with his tin legionariir to Dhaugruz, and damn us as they damned our ancestors once.” For a moment, he felt a cold touch against the back of his mind, then felt as memories, visions passed through, shared with all listening to his voice. A strange silence followed, settled upon the whole island as Mirayroth calmed himself a little.
“Trust me my brothers and sisters, you who all lived in the shadow of their lies. I know I ask much of you, but know this is the hour, the time to make change, a change that shall save our realm from certain doom. Fear not, if you take the silent vow, swear to herald the world into a new dawn, we shall give you the power to do so.” He looked around, noticed for the first time all the onlookers, the peace that settled onto the grim scenery of the Colosseum. Then his gaze settled on Aurelithae.
“Take it for the new dawn where we shall all start anew, as equals.” Then vanished in a hailstorm of darkness sweeping through the pit.
