(Please enjoy the follow scene that takes place today at High Noon. Updates and Rumours will follow.)
As you walk about your towns, forests and city centres, a golden glow emanates from your local Skein Gate. Moments later the Skein Gate sparks and crackles, as if some magic is forcing it open against its will. It eventually yields and a moving image fills its arched framework.
Before you, on a white marble dais, stands the Archbishop of the Church of Light, Rodrick Hale. His long pristine white robes reflect the magical golden light emitting from his sun topped crosier. On either side of him stand two massive heavily armoured knights, their golden plate matching close to the splendour of Hale’s glowing staff. In front of the Archbishop is a large dug pit; easily 50 metres in diameter and 10 metres deep. Men and women of the Church of Light ring it; each one heavily armed and armoured, by steel or magic, maintaining a watchful vigilance over the more than 200 elves at the pit’s bottom. The elves are tied, bound and separated into groups; the largest group, well over half of those imprisoned, wear the tattered and torn remains of old Suvantian livery — many appear to have been starved and beaten for a long period. The other major group appears to be Ice Elves; they are all wearing dirty blue robes bearing the symbol of sprouting green seed. The remaining elves are a mismatch of various races from Wild to Dark and there are even a handful of unbound High Elves, many bearing symbols of the Church of Light upon their meagre and simple clothing.
Behind them all stand the ramparts of Castle Lightguard, the capital of Tiefanue; her drawbridge is open. The Archbishop raises his head, speaking directly to the Skein Gate before him — to you — while gesturing his hands in welcome.
“My flock. You have done much for the church over the last few years. Your faith and devotion has not gone unnoticed. I have been tasked by the light itself, to see you rewarded for your loyalty to all that is good, just and lawful. I stand here today, amongst the bravest of my sheep, to give you a gift from the church.”
He turns his head sharply towards the castle and calls towards the gates. His voice booms across the field, unnaturally projected and shaking the ground. “Most holy, Asher of the Dawn, my beloved Paladin, bring her out now.”
There is a large clang as gate doors swing open from somewhere unseen within the castle. A few seconds later a fully platemail armoured female Wood Fae steps into the light of the sun. She drags behind her an iron sarcophagus that appears to float as if weightless. The lid of the iron coffin is carved to resemble a female Grey Elf and its entire exposed surface is etched in glowing golden arcane symbols. She approaches the pit and the crowd parts. With the flick of her chain holding wrist, the sarcophagus rises and stands upright. Asher removes her helmet and pauses for a moment, a worrying crease is dug heavily into her brow. She swallows, takes a breath as if about to speak loud enough for all to hear, but her words do not reach the gate; the symbols on the sarcophagus begin to fade.
Hale speaks next,“Since the first day of men upon the soil of Arthos, the light has guided our way. For in those times there was great darkness but none more dark and vile than what stands before us now. A blasphemous and selfish Thalan sold her spirit, a Grey Elven spirit, to the king of hell. This was the first demonic sin, the first contract and the first true heresy against the light. Her sins are beyond measure, and it is only through devotion to the light that the church was able to halt her demonic rampage and imprison her within the church for well over 2000 years. The wretch that stands before you is none other than the first to abandon her spirit and pledge it to the demonic— the immortal Black Wytch.”
He turns to the Wood Fae.“Asher of the Dawn, bind her with the light.”
The last symbol on the sarcophagus fades and the hinged cover swings open. You see large metal spikes lining the inside of the sarcophagus lid and a wet sloshing sounds as weakened flesh, still twisting on metal, fills the area. Blood gushes out of the coffin before a frail figure slumps forward to the ground. The Skein Gate crackles and sparks, and the image of the first Wytch becomes blurred; as if the scene beyond is so blasphemous that it cannot be processed safely by the Skein Dominion’s magic. The blurring image does nothing for the smells of putrefied flesh and burning hair as it wafts impossibly through the gate. Revulsion contorts the faces of all present on the other side of the gate, save the Archbishop, who stares at the corrupted Thalan with contempt. Asher of the Dawn reaches down to the writhing on the ground and retrieves a golden collar from her belt. She sighs heavily then places it around the Wytch’s neck. She leaves then, taking her place beside Hale on the dais.
“Now, we will begin.” Hale speaks before pausing a moment. “The Mortigest. He is but weeks away from plaguing these lands again. No longer shall the lives of innocent elves be put in harm’s way because a foolish mother is too corrupted by power to make a decision between the light and the dark. I make this offering to you, the mortals and immortals that hide in fear at Whitethorn’s return.”
He gestures towards the elves bound in the pit, “Today we will rid the world of the Mortigest and cleanse his stain from Athros forever. Like all hard earned things, to do so requires sacrifice. I have sent my sheppards to the lands of the Greenskins and negotiated for the lives of these traitors. These followers of elder vampire lords and miscreants of evil. These surviving elves that served Suvant, after it betrayed their own people, were justly served sentences for their own actions, the destruction of their own city. I will admit, the Mortgiest’s imminent arrival came sooner than expected but the light showed us the way and we were guided to these filthy dark serving Ice Elves who dare call themselves the Children of Thaw. They too shall join the ranks of their evil Suvantian kin. In doing so they will help see the world become a safer place for light fearing elven children to grow. I would pause my disdain to give blessings to Eleven members of the church of light, who give up their lives freely so that we may accomplish this task ahead of schedule and in a timely manner. Your action here will be recorded for eternity and I will personally see that you are escorted to the celestial light realm, most deserving of your sacrifice. We thank you.”
Asher of the Dawn shakes her head and speaks, “My lord, this cannot be right, these elves…they have not been given trial nor sentence.”
Rodrick Hale stares at her with hateful eyes for but a moment before his face softens and he nods slowly in acknowledgement. “My child. I understand your concern, your pious devotion to all that is good and just, warms my heart. But understand, that here in this place, I speak for the gods. I am, through the power that Roland has bestowed upon me, law and judgement. Know that I am the power that guides us through this darkness. I AM the church of light. These elves are filled with sin and their sacrifices will save many more in the years and decades to come. Now, my child, remember your place. Paladins are best seen and not heard. Steady your resolve for what needs to come next.”
Facing back to the Skein Gate, Rodrick Hale begins to channel. His fists clench and begin to glow bright, the Skeingate shimmers and then darkens to adjust. His booming voice echoes around you, “WHITETHORN, HEED ME. TASTE THE DEATH OF THESE VILE ELVES AND COME TO ME. I CALL FORTH BUT A SPARK OF HEAVEN.”
With those words incanted, the sunlight bursts through the clouds, filling the area with white light. The circumference of the pit and all those inside begin to smoke and burn. A moment later a pillar of fire, larger than any you have seen before, slams into the ground from the heavens above. As elves burn and flesh cooks the tormented screams of dying elves fills the area. Then it is done. The screams cease as the heat vaporises flesh and spirit. ll is silent.
An ominous stillness fills the air on both sides of the gate. The hairs rise up on the back of your neck and those with elven heritage feel a shiver run down the back of their spines. A broken giggle, cruel and foreboding, breaks this silence, followed by a wicked laughter and then a piercing scream. In every town, in every kingdom and in every faction, a hellish black rift starts to form in the air. Some of these appear deep in the forest, where only Wild Elves dare to call home, others in the middle of town halls. From the forests, sewers, dark alleys and anywhere shadows exist, twisted Shattered Elves begin to manifest. He is coming…
The largest of these rifts appears in the centre of the now scorched pit. Seared lifeless elven skeletons shake and crumble as the air vibrates around them. As the rift fully expands a figure steps out into the light and the light grows dim. He is an elven male with black and grey lines of corruption scarring his face. He is dressed in the darkest black, wearing no armour but wielding a single black spear. Fused to the flesh of his face is a theatrical mask that shows little but his hate-filled eyes.
He begins to move then with blinding speed but Hale is quick, “Now, Wytch” and motions his hand into a fist towards her. The golden collar around her neck glows and Asher visibly winces as the dominating spell takes effect. The Black Wytch begins to speak then and like her appearance, the words she says are blocked from your ears by the protective magics of the Skein Gate. While you can’t hear her demonic incants you can see their effect on the mortals present. Blood leaks from every facial cavity but these are no green soldiers. They steady themselves as the Mortgiest throws himself at the top of the pit, attempting to escape. Channelling light magic and brandishing glowing magic weapons they attempt to beat him down to the best of their ability. It is not enough. The Mortigeist’s spear, Darkshard, rends mortal flesh as if it was butter. Power Words of death and obliteration find those along the lip with elven blood and dark magic extends from his fingertips, imploding bodies and withering limbs, indiscriminate of race. The Mortigeist’s dance of death is almost beautiful if it were not for the screams of those he impales (to some of you that makes it more beautiful). The church soldiers along the lip of the pit begin to fall quickly. Too quickly. A narrow gap opens in their ranks and the Mortigiest seizes it. With a fluid leap he takes to the air, spear forward, towards the hole and ultimately freedom. Then the Wytch stops speaking. Black fire bursts from the edges of the pit as her spell takes hold. It instantly consumes and burns those mortals still fighting to hold back the killer of elves. The Mortgeist pauses as if paralysed, hanging a foot from the edge of freedom, frozen in midair. Copies of the Mortigeist manifesting in the various realms and city centres suddenly burst into filaments of shadow as his true spirit becomes locked at this one location. His hateful eyes focused on Rodrick Hale.
“Child of Ll’yandra, you are bound,” Rodrick Hale says calmly. He then chuckles before continuing, “Ironically bound by your own demonic magic. Not just bound, but truly and fully here, in this plane. Mortal now, like those you have killed today. Mine to kill when I desire. Powerful is the Wytch’s magic. It appears I have used it for justice. Bind him my Paladin and put the Wytch back in her box. Take them both to my Dungeon.”
Asher of the Dawn retrieves a second golden collar and stares at it in contempt. She swallows hard, simply replies, “As you command, my Cleric,” and places it on the neck of the Demon Prince.
With the collar secured around the Mortigeist’s neck, Asher of the Dawn commands the Black Wytch into her maiden of iron spikes. Her screams briefly fill the area as they dig into her immortal flesh but are quickly silenced as the lid slams shut. As the iron maiden seals and the arcane symbols begin to glow once more, and the angelic / demonic binding circle spell ends. The Mortigiest falls to the ground, but before he can react Rodrick Hale motions with his hands. The collar around his neck flares bright and then golden bands of light manifest and snap tightly around his ankles, knees, arms and shoulders. He turns his head once again to Hale and calmly utters the second sentence he has ever spoken, “I know you.”
Rodrick Hale laughs as a golden band of magic snaps tightly around the Mortigiest’s mouth. “Of course you do, o’ fallen angel. I am the light. I am your master.”
Hale turns to the Skein Gate, bows his head, and speaks, “You are free.”
He nods to someone out of view and the Skeingate image shuts off.