Dreams of future conquest flash through Kahazul's sleeping mind. The taint holds sway over his subconscious, unfolding before his lidded eyes visions of what is to come.

---

The 18th of Vestian, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. Sunset. The Basin of Life is utterly still as Father Sun descends over the western mountain range. For the past three weeks the gates of Magnagora have been barred tight - not one creature has been seen stirring upon its streets, nor coming and going from any door. A solitary vulture swoops low, circling the Tower of Midnight Domination. It lets out a piercing cry and begins to arc towards the east, towards the blasted lands that are its home.

The residents of the Basin of Life begin to drift off to sleep, safe in the arms of those they love and thankful for this strange new peace...

The quiet is broken. The gates are at long last flung wide, the echo of crashing steel discernable from across the Inner Sea. Flocks of seagulls take to the air in surprise. Those Celestians still up and about pause and cast their eyes east, towards the gathering darkness and the silent spires of their foe. Word moves through the barracks of the paladins and sentries are posted upon the walls.

Twilight. Several hours have passed, and the squires posted along the walls lean drowsily against the battlements. The boredom is broken by another sound from the east. It is faint but continuous, audible only by virtue of the westward winds. It begins as a low rumble, felt more than heard, and grows every minute. The city is put on alert - whispers of 'earthquake' filter through crowds of gathered peasants as winged Celestines take to the sky and Aquamancer seers scale the tallest towers, all eyes fixed on the eastern horizon.

Midnight over Magnagora. Just as it has for every night within memory, the bell within the old belltower strikes twelve o'clock. Never before has it carried such a strong and malevolent note, or held it for so long. As its vibrations cease the source of the earlier rumbling becomes apparent. Issuing forth from the northern gate, a blackness darker than night spreads out over the Ackleberry Highway. An infinitude of swarming shapes pour from every structure within the city, flooding the ancient streets and surging ever northward out of the gates. As they emerge from beneath the city's polluted haze the starlight reveals their true nature.

A million blades bristle in the ethereal light, a million polished helmets and twisted masks hide a million hungry faces. Legions of hulking Taurian and Orclach assemble upon the Shallach bridges, forming into well-disciplined ranks. The massive shapes of Tae'dae and Igasho mill through them, wielding sharpened tree trunks and gargantuan, unwieldy blades. At the head of the first column, resplendent in obsidian mail, the Emperor himself sits astride an armoured night mare. He raises his blade and brings it down again in one swift gesture, and the march begins.

---

The 19th of Vestian, 173 years after the coming of Estarra. Dawn breaks. The Celestians prepare for war within their walls. Paladins wander the walls, blades at the ready, while Celestines and their angelic companions flit to and fro between Delport, Serenwilde and the Star Palace, exchanging messages and reports. All eyes are on Serenwilde, abandoned for now - the Princess will not see her forces spent among the indefensible trees of Serenwilde. The Imperial force of Ur'guard has only grown as it makes its way towards the northwest, crossing over the Ackleberry Junction as the sun moves towards noon. Teams of Geomancers move along the fringes of the army, tainting the land beneath their feet as they go. The last dregs of the army had exited the gates as the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, and the gates had slammed closed behind them. The force leaves ruin in its wake, the ground mashed to mud by marching feet and the slithering bodies of tainted wyrms leaving wide ruts.

Noon. The assembled forces of Serenwilde wait at the edge of the woods, a phalanx of Serenguard forming a buffer between the expanse of the open highway and the druids in the rear. Every tree has been animated by their magic, every totem flares with power. Three full moon circles have formed among them, a ring of Moondancers to either side of the phalanx, and another in the rear providing support. The Regent and his advisors stand back from the assembled fighters, safe in the trees atop a wooden observation post. The Great Chieftain and Hierophant shout orders down while the High Priestess communicates with her coven below. Fear is apparent upon the Regent's face - they could not have anticipated this strong a foe, and support from Celest is not forthcoming.

High above, the Silver Goddess looks down. Uneasiness is etched in Her ageless features, and in the fringes of Her vast mind She senses something great and terrible gathering strength. Something red.

The sun has begun its slow descent towards dusk, but for the Serenwilders the day is only just beginning. It will be their last, and so it is only fitting that it should prove exceptionally long. The first line of Ur'guard has spread itself out, the vanguard of the legion ten-men thick and twenty times as wide. To the Serens posted opposite that daunting wall of steel it is quickly becoming apparent that the time has come for them to make their final stand. Moments before the initial charge Magnagora is joined by its last as a wing of Nihilists arrives from the south, blotting out the afternoon sky as they soar alongside their demon thralls, a nimbus of corruption wreathing their features. They are fresh from the plane of Nil, having received the blessings of all the Demon Lords. The Fist of Luciphage flies at their head, the Nil Grim Horror a bestial silhouette at his side and the mark of the Supreme Master glowing red upon his brow.

As the Imperial army sets itself once more into motion towards the Serenwilde, great red banners are raised at intervals, red silk sewn with the visage of the red masque. The enchanted banners dance with images of flame and destruction, and as they are lifted skyward chanting begins to erupt sporadically among the tainted. A horn sounds, first one, then another, and soon the air is filled with enthusiastic screams and trumpeting instruments. Above them all there rises one long, terrible cry from the Nihilists above, their voices joined as one and then amplified a thousand times. As their war cry echoes across the Basin of Life the very sun itself seems to shift, a subtle red light invading its golden rays and coating all of creation in a bloody glaze.

"Fie, things! Fie! Thus ends the age of the light and begins the crimson epoch! Glory to the Red Masque!"

The armies meet. The warriors clash with steel, the mages exchange volleys of magical energy, and above it all the Wiccans and the Nihilists dart to and fro, trading blows, demons and fae tearing each other to ribbons and raining blood upon the chaos below.

---

The battle rages on.

---

The Imperial forces charge again and again, dashing themselves against the Seren ranks with wild abandon. The Serenguard hold, tremble, and finally break under the steel tide.

---

A single silver tear falls and splashes upon the Regent's brow seconds before his platform is felled and he is set upon on all sides. As his mind goes black he is aware only of its wetness upon his brow.

---

The 24th of Vestian, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Serenwilde has been put to the torch. That which resists the flames is laid barren by earth and taint. That which resists the taint is set upon with axe, and finally by fang and claw as the Magnagorans tear wildly through the woods, fanatical in their desire to destroy. The Moonhart Mother is ringed in flame, and though it has thus far warded off the many attempts at destroying it, it has begun to weaken. Great gouges mar its sides, silver sap oozing out like blood, as its once vibrant leaves begin to wither and float down to feed the flames below.

Great masses of Serenwilders have been rounded up and forced to aide in the destruction of their home. Those that resist are thrown into the pyres; those that comply are thrown into the pyres - Mother Moon stares down in horror as her faithful are summarily executed. In other areas, where the forest has already been cleared, regiments of necromancers are at work resurrecting those that fell in the battle and the pursuit through the woods that followed, as the last of the forest's defenders broke and turned west, scrambling desperately towards Celest. Not one made it. Now those few victories they had scored were being undone as their foes rose once more as hideous undead. Those missing limbs harvest them from fallen Serenwilders, some of whom are reanimated themselves, shackled, and marched east over the mountains towards Angkrag.

The scene on the Ethereal Plane is no better. The Ethereal Serenwilde has been treated to the same hospitality as its prime counterpart, though it has proven more resilient. The bonds of those Fae loyal to the Moon Spirit are broken, and they are held prisoner alongside their Faethorn brethren. Ringed by Ur'guard they are forced across the Planes to Nil. As they drift sullenly through the putrid mists they are assailed by the cackles and leers of imps. One by one they are marched into Gorgulu's gaping maw, carried on their own feet into the abyss. The laughter of the Supreme Master reverberates across the plane as his legions swell with transformed Fae, and he appears beside Gorgulu himself to witness the spectacle as Queen Maeve is hurled into the Mouth of a Thousand Hungers.

Their task complete, the Magnagorans return to the prime Serenwilde, leaving the Ethereal Plane silent and bare. The people of Glomdoring look on from the Ethereal Glomdoring, their eyes masked in mingled hatred and fear. Their Fae, few though they may be, are the last.

---

It is several days before the Moonhart Mother falls. As it finally gives in and crashes into the inferno that has already engulfed its smaller counterparts, it fires a fountain of silver-white flame into the sky above. The lesser fires around it dim for a moment as it wishes the Basin of Life farewell, etching the image of a great silver tree upon the sky.

---

The 3rd of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Serenwilde is little more than a blackened smear against the northern mountain ranges, its former beauty wiped from existence by earth and taint. The armies of Magnagora break camp and form up along the Alabaster Highway, gleaming ranks of Ur'guard punctuated by units of freshly risen undead, not quite as noble in bearing but just as fierce. The Geomancers, exhausted from a long night spent completing the forest's corruption, slide along atop their wyrms in a lethargic daze.

Mile after mile of soot-blackened stumps, punctuated by barren stretches of polluted refuse. The Northern Wastes are borne from the Serenwilde - it will be centuries before they are repopulated.

Before setting out a number of crude wagons are ordered to be constructed from the wood gathered during the sacking of the forest. As the vanguard advances south towards Celest, a train of wagons begins to trundle back in the opposite direction, pulled by rockeaters. Once there they are loaded down with provisions, and word is sent through the remaining civilian populace - the siege of Celest is at hand.

---

The 6th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Celestians stand proud atop their walls, fear forgotten for the moment. Ranks of gleaming Paladins gaze out over the western parapets as Aquamancer scouts navigate the Estengare River, slipping silently through the reeds. The Imperial army has set down roots in the Oleanvir Valley west of Celest. Savage knights slaughter roans and rabbits as Geomancers blast Rocs from the sky to supplement their rations, though many are still living off of preserved elf flesh.

A handful of Paladins, bows in hand, take shots at the amassing legions, only to find their arrows sent wide of their marks by magical wards. By day the armies retreat into the tents and shelters that crowd the valley, but as soon as the sun sets they emerge in a flurry of activity. Great bonfires illuminate the night, fed by uprooted brush, around which great siege engines are constructed. Morale upon the walls is still strong, however, for the Celestines have retreated to Celestia to beg the favor of the Supernals. They are confident their prayers will be answered.

---

The 9th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The new moon. As Father Sun settles down for the night a storm begins to roll in from the Amberle Ocean. It carries the scent of faraway lands, of desolate plains long abandoned by mortal kind. It holds the subtle yet pungent reek of old death, and as it reaches the Magnagoran camps they are invigorated by its aroma. At midnight the armies of the Empire begin to form up, making their final preparations to storm the walls of Celest. The air is thick with apprehension and subdued excitement.

---

A solitary figure swathed in a white cloak emerges from the Pool of Stars, followed moments later by an escort of archangels. It makes its way to the western battlements, clutching a long object wrapped in cloth to its chest.

---

The Oleanvir Valley comes to life as thousands of torches are lit, illuminating the frenzied faces of the Magnagoran armies. A signal is given and the Ur'guard surge forward as one, led by a vanguard of ladder-bearing grunts. They maneuver the gigantic lattices of wood and rope against the wall under a hail of arrows and elemental energy, great spheres of Celestial light rending gaps in the seething hordes below. The onslaught is not slowed in the least, troopers clambering over their fallen comrades to reach the wall. A wing of Nihilists is dispatched into the sky, drawing fire as they wheel about the parapets, their forms visible only as flickering black shapes outlined against the moonless night.

Ur'guard troopers begin to climb the ladders as elite death knights scale the wall manually, driving iron spikes into its lustrous surface and pulling themselves up by their arms. A few of them are accidentally struck by falling debris as the fortifications are pummeled by Geomancer-guided siege engines, boulders and hollow stones filled with crotamine vapors striking the towers repeatedly. The defenders are slowly beaten back as the first waves of Ur'dead pour over the top of the wall. In the streets, huddled masses of peasants watch in horror as scores of Paladins are struck down and flung over the wall to crash through roofs and splatter their innards across the cobblestones.

---

As morning comes the Celestians find themselves nearly beaten atop the wall, only a few pockets of resistance remaining to fend off the Ur'dead. Meanwhile scores of screeching Nihilists engage the Celestines high above the Pool of Stars, explosions like fireworks lighting the darkness as the guardians and their thralls exchange blows.

The sun peeks over Avechna's Teeth, and a new figure takes to the wall. Swathed in white robes, the Ecclesiarch of the Celestines discards the cloth obscuring the object in his hands and draws forth a huge, shimmering blade. He holds Methrenton's sword aloft, its scintillating tip catching the first rays of the dawn and illuminating the wall in an aurora of burning light. The Ur'guard fall back from its glow, shielding their eyes even as it melts them within their sockets, the reek of boiling flesh filling the air as undead topple backwards over the wall, clawing at their dissolving flesh. Those knights powerful enough to resist are hurled backwards by a sudden pulse of angry red light that flashes from the ruby set in the sword's pommel, flying out into the open air to crash down onto their comrades below. Once the last Magnagoran has been flung from the fortifications the Ecclesiarch plunges the blade into the solid stone of the wall, suffusing every brick with a golden aura. A few more boulders come crashing down, only to bounce harmlessly off the stone's blessed surface.

The churning masses hurl themselves against the wall again and again, but each time they are forced back by its burning aura, and any ladder pushed against it bursts into flame. The battle slows until the Magnagoran forces can to naught but mill around as the wall's base, eyes shrouded by rags, screaming curses at the Ecclesiarch.

---

Night has cast her shroud over the Basin of Life. In the Emperor's tent the Supreme Commander of the Ur'guard confers with the Archmage of the Geomancers in hushed tones. The Emperor pores over his maps, moving battalions of enchanted figurines to and fro, lost in thought. A skeletal bat is sent east bearing an urgent message for the returning caravans.

---

The 10th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. A contingent of Geomancers and conscripted Igasho have been seen advancing towards the wall under cover of night. As the sun rises a great fog is called in by the Geomancers, obscuring them from the prying eyes of the guardians atop the wall. The rest of the army remains silent in the encampment. Tension is high.

---

The 11th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Paladins posted atop the Tonna Olearium tower hear a rumbling from deep beneath the wall. They alert their superiors, but there is no feasible way to launch an investigation. Extra guards are called in from other areas to stand watch. The Merciful Judge of the Celestines consults the Supernals and is assured that their blessing will repel any Magnagoran who attempts to set foot within the city.

---

Noon. The earth beneath the Tonna Olearium tower shifts and groans, and in the blink of an eye the earth beneath the tower falls away and the entire tower is swallowed up. The cries of trapped citizens can be heard for hours, but the rescuers cannot clear the mud in time. By sunset the last guardsman has perished, drowning in the rising silt. His choked screams send chills through the hearts of those gathered.

---

Over the coming weeks the bulk of the Imperial army pulls out and heads back to Magnagora. The geomancers remain beneath Celest, determined to see their plan succeed. They work tirelessly, manipulating the layers of earth beneath Celest, drawing out the supportive bedrock beneath the city. In places they replace it with thousands of tons of silt and mud drawn in from the Inner Sea, and in others they simply leave vast underground caverns. They target the foundations of the city's structure, bringing tower after tower toppling into the abyss. The walls fall first, and then they turn their eyes inward, sinking the city a block at a time, laughing all the while as the earth accepts their offerings, the stone and marble of the once-great nation returning home at last. The city is evacuated, its surviving citizens scattering across the Basin of Life.

---

Dvarsh. 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. Celest lays in ruins. The Pool of Stars remains intact, alone in the middle of a swampy mire. Magnagoran planar scientists manage to reconfigure the Pool's structure, allowing war parties to begin laying waste to the outer planes. When the magics of water prove too powerful to warp they move on to Celestia, slaughtering scores of angels and, finally, the Supernals themselves. The five meet the invaders head on, resplendent in golden armours and weapons from Methrenton's forge. Even Raziela enters the fray, clutching Elohora's hand desperately in her own and flinging orbs of crackling pink flame with the other, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and tears rolling down her cheeks. The Supernals hold the taint at bay for days, butchering, vaporizing, and otherwise destroying wave upon wave of invaders. Eventually, however, they tire. As their magic weakens and the Geomancers' tainted grip upon the plane strengthens they are forced back. One by one they fall, overwhelmed by exhaustion and countless wounds, until only Elohora remains. She collapses against her throne, eyes glazed over, a shining spear in one hand and still clutching Raziela's disembodied hand in the other. She raises her arms to shield herself, desperate. The swarms of raiders part, and the Emperor himself steps forward. A knight beside him offers the Emperor his blade, and it is accepted.

He steps forward and yanks off his helmet, tossing it aside and taking a moment to look the Supernal in the eyes. Above Lady Terentia gazes down in abject horror, held at bay by a cackling Lord Fain. The Emperor levels the tip of the sword at Elohora's heart and drives it forward, penetrating her chest and ending her life instantly. Afterwards their bodies are carried off to be desecrated upon Nil.

---

180 years after the Coming of Estarra. Winter. The Basin of Life has become a festering blot on the landscape, the Inner Sea shimmering black as pitch under the sun's rays. Celest has become 'the bog', and is home to all manner of tainted monstrosities, drawing their power from the reeking ring of waste and putrescence that was the Pool of Stars. To the north life has yet to stir, save for a handful of wooden outposts and frontier fortresses, occupied mostly by Magnagoran scientists. Only the Glomdoring remains to stand against the taint. Emissaries are sent from Magnagora, demanding the Heart of Darkness to give in, to throw off the wyrd and embrace the taint once more. Their ultimatum goes unanswered.

---

187 years after the Coming of Estarra. Autumn. Above the forest of Glomdoring several planar rifts are rent through the air with no warning, expelling clouds of foul black smog into the sky above the woods. The inhabitants of Glomdoring look on in surprise and confusion for several moments, until the fruits of Magnagora's years of foul experimentation are finally revealed. Tainted fae, imps, and half-transformed abhorrations pour from the rifts in a seemingly endless tide, falling upon the forest, their buzzing wings and tormented cries filling the air. The smog follows their descent, a sickly deluge of tainted waste inundating the woods within moments. The power harnessed by the Empire with its conquests is simply too great a thing to stand against.

---

198 years after the Coming of Estarra. Little has changed - to the south the wyrd's presence is long gone. Several patches of forest have reverted to the taint, others have simply wilted and perished. The presence of life in the ruins of Celest and Serenwilde is strengthened as the Empire grows in population. No longer restricted by war or strife the Viscanti breed wildly, sending forth expeditions of newly spawned creatures to colonize and further corrupt the Basin. The villages are quickly enslaved.

---

214 years after the Coming of Estarra. The tainting is complete. In the ruins of Celest a new city has begun to be raised, and new growth is at last discovered in the Northern Wastes, though it is such a mockery of life that the Glomdoring seems wholesome in comparison. New villages sprout up among the remnants of the Verasavir and Oleanvir Valleys, and in the inhabitable stretches within the mountain ranges, as the Empire drives the natives from their homes.

---

234 years after the Coming of Estarra. The lost cities of Gaudiguch and Hallifax are at last returned through a massive collaboration of tainted minds hailing from Old Magnagora in the east and the newly raised fortress city of Orlache to the west. The people of the lost cities emerge to greet their rescuers with open arms, only to find themselves beset by tainted beasts. They are overwhelmed and exterminated, their cities transformed into tainted colonies and their nexuses plundered dry. The forces of the Empire have gained too much momentum to be stopped at this point. Lord Fain, brimming with the power offered by His legions of loyal beings, holds dominion over the Havens.

---

267 years after the Coming of Estarra. Time moves forward. The Basin of Life is a churning mass of activity - great spires are raised across the land as room becomes scarce, the tainted choosing to build vertically. As the Basin overflows, great armadas of ships are sent off across the Marne and Amberle oceans. Equipped with most powerful Imperial technology and manned by its greatest minds, they set out to retake the world from the wilderness that has gripped it since the Vernal Wars. They find inhospitable wastelands and desolate countryside and transform them into lush gardens of putrescent foliage, raising towns and spreading the seeds of corruption everywhere they go. Thus they exchange the land's death for undeath, corrupting it ever further, granting it the illusion of life that the taint might take root and spread.

---

332 years after the Coming of Estarra. Lusternia's surface is slowly changing as the taint writhes its way deep into the bowels of the planet, infecting all it contacts as it grows in strength. The creatures that walk it's surface are more akin to gods than mortals - all are Viscanti, and all overflow with the power of the taint. Despite these strides forward, however, the core of the Empire begins to break down. As it grows in size and power it is unable to support itself, splintering into numerous factions. Actual war is witnessed for the first time in over a century as the tainted fight among themselves for power.

---

456 years after the Coming of Estarra. The planet's surface is a seething mass of taint. The terrible black towers that rise from its pocked surface and the towering beasts that populate it would be unrecognizable to a man of an earlier era. Their ways grow more and more alien as time progresses. It is at this point that the Primal Gods begin to be rediscovered; many are hauled from their prisons and butchered, others enslaved or sapped of their dark power.

---

792 years after the Coming of Estarra. Nations begin to break down as madness grips Lusternia, the beings that roam its surface mutated beyond comprehension, the very core of the planet suffused by Kethuru's defiling touch. Great cults spring up in place of the dying nations, and in the dead of night rituals unimaginable in the magnitude of their violence and savagery are performed in homage to the Soulless Gods. Chaos reigns as the trappings of society fall away.

---

1023 years after the Coming of Estarra. The last pockets of tainted 'civilization' fall to the madness that rages across Lusternia. No mind is spared. The undead behemoths that stalk Lusternia and call themselves gods revert to a lifestyle of utter lunacy. Such basic functions as writing and even spoken language become lost. The air is filled at all hours by the drone and whine of twisted instruments, and the beasts of Lusternia work their endless savagery to their tune, caught in an eternal orgy of violence and blasphemy from which there is no escape.

you going to submit that?

I submitted it, yeah.

Wow, just..amazingly well written.

Yawn. One org pwnzors all - this never stops being boring. Even though this apparently ended badly. I winced when I saw Brylle's "Magnagora only controls a single village now" during the first bardic awards, I wince now.

Cuber, don't be so skeptical. I thought it was incredibly well done. The only only mistake was one that only nitpickers like me and Verithrax would notice. You said preserven elf flesh. You forgot the -en. BUT FORGET THAT! Well friggidy-doo-dah done, Guido.

I never said about the form. It's free of errors and well written, indeed. It's the topic I dislike.

Well done. Ignore the troll.

Thanks. As for the topic, I was sort of aiming for that. It's a bit of "be careful what you wish for" story, and from an IC perspective it's an account of a dream that Kahazul experienced shortly before turning his back on the taint. It was meant to entice him back into the fold, but it only disgusted him.



It does say 'preserved', which is the correct word.

He meant the -en in elfen.

Good work. It's ing scary, but good work.

It was really good, I enjoyed it. The imagery gave me tingles.

I think Glomdoring would have fought back harder though. Or at least I'd like to think so

I hope you get something for it!



Edit: And I wonder what kind of imp Queen Maeve makes.

Lusternia may have been destroyed, but the city in the aether lives on!

And I'd be sitting up there laughing my arse off.

Verithrax's eyes light up with proud joy as he proclaims, "TOLD YOU SO, BITCHES."

I am just stunned on how descriptive it is.. I love it, I may hate the taint, but the story is just excellent. I would say you should(If you feel like building the time to it) Make a frigin book of the years. I think lots of you would agree that this is possiably one of the best Bardic stories you have ever read?

Kahazul, this is a excellent work of writing, and I want to thank you truly for posting it for all of us to read. It was a enjoyable(Even if sick and slighlty twisted) Story that had me going to the whole time.

I hope you are able to write more of these, maybe not of the taint and Viscanti's breeding wildly while corrupt beast kill every thing, maybe some thing more of the lines of a actual modern date Vernal war.

You might be able to use the perspective that Hajamin once said to me when I asked him, "Do you know what it takes to become a vernal god?"

All he could say is that it was rumored in the havens to be more then one million power from the nexus of these users heritage (Which I know Serenwilde and Magnagora I think still have over 1 mil)

But I am just spitballin here, and continuing as I drag on. Either way, good story, and I am sure you will win the contest.

Good luck!

980 years after the Coming of Estarra. A lone, wearied being looks off into the aether, wrapped tightly in a black cloak that keeps his shimmering changeling form together, he himself having lost the ability to transform long ago. Time has worn down upon the one who was once called ageless, and he moves at a slow, weary pace. The Metropolis of Deepnight spans as far as the eye can see, even daring to expand adjacent to the void itself. Unknown horrors had spawned upon the prime material plane, but the metropolis was still home to many of the last of their kind. The gentle furrikin were few, the elfens scarce. Humans populated the area in great numbers, but the devlish viscanti had abandoned the aether outpost hundreds of years since, traitors to their fellow citizens.

The Archon walkes, and the wandering citizens give him a wide berth, out of respect for the venerable changeling. The shield surrounding the manse was starting to weaken once again, as it had periodically for several hundred years before. The lone figure raises up a shimmering box, guides it as it rises into the air, and without a sound it melds into a portion of the "sky". Briefly, as the shield's power is increased, it becomes transparent, and thousands of horrible, black tendrils can be seen writhing outside, trying to get in. As quickly as it had happened, the shield becomes the night sky once again.

The Archon turns away. He hobbles, lifts his right hand, and in one fluid motion, he creates a doorway, enters it, and closes it behind him. Once inside his inner sanctum, he eyes the dwindling supply of aetherboxes, and moves to sit at his desk. He closes his eys, wrinkles forming at the corners. Deepnight was safe again.

For now.

Richter, right more, or I will slice your *bleep* off. I like it already.

Guido - I like it, granted the theme isn't what I like - Cuber says it right there, but it still is a good piece.

Richter - Okay, not a lot but those two errors did make me thrown off.

Sano - The word is write.

You should also point out that his newest character is in Magnagora, which kind of contradicts his "I hate the taint" claim.

Sorry for the mistype, it is a 103 degrees out here, and I am starting to hear things

Xenthos, what are you talking about, I haven't played lusternia in around a month.

wait, Crono is Sano?