Coarse gravel crunched under Nerele's feet as he moved along the path, striding
towards the distant hut. The path behind him wound throughout a dusty wasteland,
the featureless distance obscured by heat haze and wind-stirred dust.

Before him, the land was almost as bland as that behind. The only respite from
such were dozens of black smudges, shrunk and without detail due to the
distance, but slightly larger than himself. Beyond them was the squat dark shape
of the hut, towards which the snaking path inevitably led. To which Nerele had
been directing himself for twenty years, seeking revenge.

In the hut which Nerele approached lived Akham, a Geomancer with a streak of
cruelty. Twenty years ago, he had emptied Nyalia of all those over the age of
ten, leaving just Nerele and three others alive. Since then, Nerele had devoted
himself to a single purpose: revenging his family and friends. Studying as a
Paladin, he had used his time to locate Akham. Now, he came to kill him.

As Nerele continued down the path, the nearest of the dark smudges was
clarified: a statue of a taurian, placed a few feet off the path. The figure was
dressed in bulky plate mail armour, and a large two-handed klangaxe was held
above his head, swung back in preparation for a mighty blow against an unseen
foe.

Something odd about the arms, however, caught Nerele's attention. Stepping off
the path onto the dusty wasteland, he approached the figure curiously. None of
his research into Akham had revealed that the Geomancer was any sort of artist;
this previously unsuspected facet of the subject that Nerele's life had revolved
around was irresistable.

As Nerele neared the statue, the astonishing craftmanship was revealed.
Wondrously detailed, the artist had even used true steel armour to cover the
taurian, rather than a mimicry of stone. Having never purchased a set of
fullplate for himself, preferring to spend his sovereigns on locating Arkham,
Nerele's own leather armour felt
comparatively inadequate.

The taurian's face was twisted in a bestial snarl, every muscle tensed and
perfectly shown in the granite as he prepared for the final blow. However, the
rage and vigour of his stance contrasted sharply with the look of abstract
horror and helplessness that adorned his face, as of one who has only now
received true perception.

Furthermore, his arms and hands were stripped to the bone, with only a few
tatters of petrified tendon and muscle still holding the bones together, as if
an artist had captured a frozen instant during which the flesh was flayed from
his bones. The detail of the crafting went so far as to depict each vein and
artery, and the wash of smoother planes that showed the presence of blood.
Scattered around the statue's feet were shaped shards of stone, the flesh that
had been rent from the taurian's body.

The mutilated figure awoke such a deep revulsion in Nerele that he
instinctively recoiled from the statue, fighting to keep himself from retching.
Although he had seen combat, that had been brief and bloody, with his blood
pounding. This was a permanent testimonial to the twisted nature of the one he
sought; no other could have such an effigy, such a worship of torture.

Clutching the hilt of his broadsword for reassurance, Nerele turned his back on
the statue and strode towards the path again. The reassuring crunch of gravel
helped clear his mind of the petrified atrocities he had witnessed, and with his
resolve bolstered by those images that still haunted him â€" no creature that
glorified in such could be permitted to exist! â€" he continued on.

Further towards the hut, which now squatted close enough that he could discern
the lack of windows, the rough, featureless stone marred only by a single wooden
door, placed at the end of the path, Nerele drew close to another statue. The
precise features of this one were less distinguishable than the other, for the
figure was hunched and facing away from the path, shrouded in bulky robes
crafted from stone. Drawn by a morbid urge to examine the statue and perhaps
further understand Akham's twisted mind, he against departed the gravel path and
approached the figure.

As he neared the statue he once again noted the incredible precision of the
Geomancer's work; even small Celestine symbols stitched around the hem of the
robe was visible, where the windblown sand hadn't etched them away. The statue's
sex was indistinguishable under the heavy robe, and the rounded mugwumpian face
gave no further hints. Nevertheless, the craftsman had not stinted on the face,
which stared down with a look of ecstasy and worship at its hands and what they
held.

Such detail, however, only made the next revelation even more disgusting.
Within the statue's hands was grasped its own heart, clearly torn from its chest
just moments before, each vein and artery rendered in astounding detail. Carved
with equal skill were the dozens of bloated maggots, frozen in one perpetual
instant, eternally feasting on the ossified flesh and wallowing in the
putrescent filth that dripped from the figure's hands. The statue's chest itself
was a mutilated wreck of torn flesh, fabric and bone, with a gaping hole where
its heart should rest.

Nerele turned away from the scene before he could see any more. Already he
could feel the bile rising in his throat, and clamped a hand over his mouth as
he sought to quell his stomach, doing his best to dispel the images that seemed
burned into his brain.

Stumbling back to the path, he composed himself, and locked his eyes onto the
distant hut. Vowing to resist all further distractions from his purpose, he
quickened his step.

~*~

The entrance to the Geomancer's abode was before him: a surprisingly humble
door crafted of simple pine. The walls around it were equally austere, crafted
of a pale stone that reflected the heat of its surroundings.

Nerele hesitated before the doorstep. This was it, the culmination of twenty
years of questing. Here, with the end in sight, his resolve threatened to flag
and crumble.

Harshly thrusting aside his self-doubts, Nerele violently forced open the door,
his anger at himself and the hut's occupant causing him to forgo courtesy. Light
abruptly washed over the interior, his silhouette outlined against the bare
floor and far wall.

The interior hut was furnished with equal disregard for decoration as its
exterior. There was no decoration, no piece of furniture without purpose. A
chair was positioned next to fireplace; another before a desk piled high with
scrolls and tomes.

A hunched figure was huddled in front of the fireplace, reddish hands
outstretched to gain whatever shreds of heat he could. The rest of the figure
was shrouded in a set of heavy robes, concealing all but the broadest outline.

The figure turned at the sound of one of Nerele's feet scuffing the lintel as
he stepped over the threshold. The magician's face was revealed by the sunlight
streaming over Nerele's shoulder, throwing the ruined visage into sharp relief.

It was broadly recognizable as viscanti, with red skin dulled to a pasty hue,
mottled with darker bruising. A pair of black horns sprouting from the
creature's forehead were pitted and scarred, and a large crack through one ended
in a broken-off tip. The eyes were deeply sunken, glazed with a thin white film.
What little hair was visible before the hood shrouded it against even the bright
sunlight was twisted and matted, hanging in lank clumps. Overall, the magician
resembled something once properly interred now exhumed and granted a parody of
life.

He would return it to the grave gladly.

"Who are you? Why?" Akham's voice was sibilant and rasping by turns, and the
magician was forced to break off by a fierce bout of coughing that overwhelmed
his thin frame. The state of his mouth did not dissuade Nerele's first
impression; the teeth were stained black and chipped, while the breath that
issued forth was rank and rotten.

Marshalling his courage against the unexpectedly pitiful appearance of the
geomancer, the merian proclaimed: "I am Nerele, foul magician. I am here to take
revenge! Today, you die!"

Somehow, it didn't sound quite so impressive as when he'd practiced it.

The magician didn't seem to think so, either. A hacking laugh broke down into
coughing again. When he had recovered his breath, he replied, "I've done so many
things I can't remember. Remind me. It would be good to know why I'm to die, at
long last."

Momentarily nonplussed, the admission served to reinforce Nerele's will. What
he had been through, what had happened, wasn't even important enough for this
sorcerer to remember!

Forcing the words through teeth clenched with anger, Nerele said, "You killed
my parents, my friends, and made me watch. You laughed, and you left me to die.
But I didn't. And now you will."

His coughing under control, Akham drew deep breaths as he assessed Nerele.
Little detail was visible against the glare of the light streaming past him, but
it was enough. Grasping a staff from its place near the fireplace, he used it to
pull himself upright. "Well, I cannot say I have not expected someone, at least,
after all these years. I made many enemies. And nor can I say that I do not look
forward to death, in the end. But if I am to die, I shall do it outside." He
gestured for Nerele to precede him out the doorway.

Nerele frowned; the comparatively long speech had been unbroken by any trace of
coughing. Nor did murdering a man who sought death sound particularly vengeful.
Wary of trickery, he backed his way out the doorway while keeping watch on the
magician, a precaution that earned him another hacking laugh and cough. Worries
assuaged by the resurgent cough, Nerele ignored any remaining doubts; he had
come too far, done too much, to do any less.

Once Nerele was free of the constricting doorway and back in the sunlight, he
pulled his broadsword from the scabbard on his belt and held it before himself
in a ready position. As Akham followed him into the sunlight, flinching slightly
at the glare, he pointed it threateningly at the mage.

The mage in question, however, ignored the bared steel and continued his slow
passage, stepping off the path onto the barren earth and sand that surrounded
the hut. Nerele followed dumbly; if the old fool wanted to die a bit further
away, it meant nothing to him. He certainly appreciated moving away from that
hut, and having the magician in clear view.

Perhaps fifty paces from the hut, the mage stopped suddenly. Turning back to
face Nerele, he nodded his head in readiness.

"Here's as good a place as any, I suppose."

Which was good, for suddenly Nerele could wait no longer. Why had he let him
live this long, let him dictate the terms of his own death? This creature who
had killed his parents, his friends? Rage bubbling up from within him boiled
over, and he lashed out with his ready blade.

Fueled by the strength of his hatred, the merian raised his sword and struck at
the weakling that cowered before him, a blow that should have rightfully ended
the doddering old fool's life. Yet somehow, the magician responded with
surprising celerity, lifting his staff to deflect the incoming weapon. Sword met
staff with a resounding clang. Nerele's blade rebounded, leaving neither mar nor
blemish upon the petrified wood.

The force of the meeting sent Nerele stumbling backwards, while Akham stood
firm. Unbending himself from his crouched posture, the Geomancer drew himself up
to his full height, and undertook a transformation.

His skin darkened and cleared, approaching healthier tones for a viscanti. The
faint film over his eyes cleared, his horns no longer marred and broken. The
last shreds of subtle glamour were discarded. No more was Akham a senile,
withered husk; now his true majesty was revealed, and he gazed down at Nerele
with a look of disdain one might use when presented with a particularly
presumptuous worm.

"Did you really think you ever stood a chance?" The magician's voice was
smoother, more controlled than the earlier chaotic rasping.

Nerele was given no chance to respond, chance a second attack or even to flee.
Akham's dark gaze held him paralysed, the paladin's faithful blade dropping from
numbed fingers to land on the sandy earth at his feet.

The magician's theurgy held Nerele immobile, a mute witness to his own
destruction. From the bleached sand and barren earth around Nerele's feet rose
roiling gases that smelled of lightning. When the eldritch fog touched his
flesh, only the magician's hold prevented him from screaming until his vocal
chords snapped, to continue mutely expressing his anguish. All self-discipline,
all willpower, was stripped away by the intolerable agony that lanced up his
legs. He felt like tinder set ablaze by powers beyond comprehension, and the
pain followed much the same path that flame would, rising ever upwards to
consume more and more of his being.

The pain reached his face, and the delicate tissue and muscle dissolved under
its touch. His eyeballs provided even less resistance, and his vision darkened
as the pain brightened, beating against his mind with twisted virulence.

Yet, somehow, Nerele could still see the silhouette of Akham. The magician's
outline blazed with puissance, the power lancing against his blinded mind the
only perception left to the beleaguered merian as the mage assaulted his mind
while his physical body decayed, flesh sloughing from his bones.

Under the searing pain of the mental assault, Nerele felt something deep within
his mind shift and break, and in its final moments he recognized what had driven
him forwards for twenty years. A subtle compulsion, carefully placed at the
deepest levels of his mind.

He had truly never had a choice.

This final knowledge, culmination of an attack made when he was but a child,
broke him. The last tattered shreds of his mind dissolved, and he felt Akham's
mind releasing him in his final moments, abandoning him to his fate and leaving
only the echoes of laughter. Then they too vanished.

He died, alone.

~*~

Gazing down at the pile of bones before him, Akham made no attempts to disguise
the sneer that warped his features. The fool had truly believed that this day
would have ended with Akham dead, and this pitiful merian the victor. Even his
own compulsion could not be responsible for such resounding belief; only
youthful idiocy and bravado could claim that.

Removing a brief letter from inside his robes, he inspected the various
sketches inscribed upon it. He nodded to himself; the merian was the perfect
specimen, as much as any of that lesser race could be.

The scattered skeleton before him quivered, bones connecting and lifting at the
instigation of no visible force. The sword lifted silently from the sand, hilt
ending in the bony hand with the etched blade pointing down towards the earth.

Stalking around the prostrate skeleton, Akham made a few minor adjustments to
posture and position before stepping back to admire the end result. One knee was
bent, the figure kneeling in homage to something unseen.

Yes, yes, perfect. Just as was ordered.

Beneath the prepared skeleton, the earth began to quiver ever so slightly.
Rivulets of fluid stone poured upwards, engulfing the bones and taking form and
shape around them. Flesh and muscle, mimiced in stone. A weeping face on a bowed
head.

The statue had been twenty years in the making, but it was perfect.

~*~

Akham lowered himself into the chair gracelessly, dragging a ledger towards him
from one corner of the desk. Flipping it open to the fine ribbon acting as a
bookmark, his eyes scanned down to a particular entry halfway down the page.

15 Tzarin 247CE ur'Guard Merian Paladin, design specifics Paid
provided in letter

With the warm glow of a job well done, he sketched in a 'Completed' in at the
end of the row. The statue would be delivered to the ur'Guard in the morning,
when any new orders were delivered.

Closing the ledger, the magician reached across a pulled a freshly received
letter to hand. The order was brief, but the price offered extravagant. A
personal statue this time, for the Conductor's manse. An aslaran, with the
specifics at the artist's discretion. He would make the trip to the Moors in the
morning, and inform the Conductor of the approximate time forthwith.

Not that the Cacophonist would object to any delay. He understood that the
finest artists had to wait â€" and work â€" for suitable materials, and Akham's
statues were renowned throughout the Engine.