We All Face the Fires (QUEST)

[Pharaoh]

"We All Face the Fires"
60 Ash
The Portal Chamber of The Aurisian Embassy
Solunarian Luxium

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Cithæra and Raithen stood before the massive archway that towered at the rear of the chamber. On either side of the structure stood two guards and two attendants. The gate was closed at present, but soon would open an entry point into the newly sanctified Temple of the Radiant Rending to conduct a small but potent party on their path to a perilous pilgrimage.

“Do you wish it were you, Raithen?” She inquired, somehow managing to make a loaded question sound idle. “Do you feel prepared to stand before the Founders and bare your soul to Their scrutiny?”

As for the others… It felt like a sacrifice in itself to send people she loved to the judgment of the Founders. Her faith was resolute in both the gods and her children, and yet… Hers was not to understand the minds of the Gods. Their concept of worthiness was forged in flames of divinity the likes of which she had never broached. Their auras were touched by such grandeur as mortal minds could not brook without descent into madness or even death. Those she had reared, raised or guided toward their current courses might not meet their standards, even if they surpassed her own expectations.

Before footfalls met the marble staircase behind her she sensed the arrival of the others. Before they’d even entered the building, she knew they were on their approach. As soon as they were in earshot she spoke:

“Today is paramount.” She opened the part of her spirit that felt the momentous might of the endeavour to the Mesmers present, to emphasise into their very Symphonies— into their very souls that this was the most important day of their lives. Upon this moment hung eternity…

Slowly she turned to regard those assembled. Her sons and their companions— all of them so young. What sacrifices had they prepared? And what more would be asked of them? Would all of them return home in one piece? Would all of them return home at all? She liked to think at least a few would come home bathed in a greater grace. But she didn’t know. It was not a familiar sensation for the spymistress of Solunarium.

“Raithen and I will conduct you along the trek up from the temple to the mount. Phocion, I know you have made this journey before, but something has shifted in the winds of the world since then. Their puissance is on the wax in a true and palpable way for the first time since the Rending millennia ago…” She scanned across the line of pilgrims.

“The Founders have broken their long silence, and you have all been noted. Two of you summoned explicitly,” She looked to Arvælyn and Finn, “Two of you touched in other ways.” Her golden gaze turned then to Phocion and Hilana.

“At the mouth of the volcano, high atop its peak, there stands a platform. It is a natural shelf, not carved by the hands of man or elf. It is there you all shall stand to be regarded by empyreal eyes. You must practise no exploratory magic upon divine beings.” She looked pointedly to Finn, and then Arvælyn.

“Even if such an incursion did not offend them, the mere act of divining the Divine is enough to rend the mortal mind to madness or mortis. These are ancient Entities, who bore sundry names and ruled empires ere they claimed the forms of Aværys and Varvara to found Solunarium and reign united in blazing glory.” She looked to each aspirant. Phocion in subtle silver and pitchy black— simple, reserved, booted, gloved and covered from head to toe with only his moon pale face and dusky hair bare to the world. Arvælyn in a resplendent tunic, white and luminous as the paler of Ransera’s moons, with solid gold bracers, chain belt and a ruby encrusted festoon necklace that hung over his mostly bare, bronzed chest. His soleæ were leather accented with gold and it’s studded laces rounded his slim calves to end just below the knee. Pro Deus et Domina, she thought. Would her sons be her sacrifices or would their rise be her prize for all those made to date.

“We should depart hence. If you’ve questions you may pose them en route. It is best to be lit by sunlight when standing before Aværys, and there will be… obstacles.” She pivoted to face the archway.

“Aperite portam!” The princess commanded, and the two attendants at either side of the archway moved to comply. The stone shifted before their eyes in a swirl of white-blue ætheric residue, which warped and widened to reveal the daylit deserts of Auris and the looming Mount Kaladon beyond the clear crystal of the temple that housed the other side of the portal.

She stepped forth, wrapping her blond head in a black silken shawl as she crossed the vasty distance between Solunarium and Northern Auris.

~ ~ ~

As they emerged from the transparent Temple of the Radiant Rending and regarded the landscape before them, the black sands of the ancient battlefield still smelled of dragonfire. Or was that a reverie known to Cithæra’s stark Sembler senses alone? Between here and the mount was mostly an open sea of obsidian sand, except for the grim monument of a colossal skeleton- or least part of one- protruding from the base of the mountain.

“Zalkyrion.” Phocion whispered gravely.

“Æternal Churneth His Fire.” The Princeps Sybilla said by way of a grim confirmation. “The Stations of the Rending begin at His maw.” As they drew closer, one could see that there was a footpath that rounded the mountain the origin point of which was the draconic skull.

“Do not be deceived by what your eyes perceive from without. The path may appear placid, but once we pass through Zalkyrion’s jaws, we enter Their realm. The test begins thither.”

Drawing up to the gargantuan skull, Cithæra paused beside a draconic lower fang that was twice again as tall as she, and turned to face the party.

“I will be very clear with you now, children. Beyond this point lies great bounty, but pernicious peril withal. I cannot promise you your safety. That is not mine to offer, but Theirs… and only if They will it. Security is only the first of your sacrifices. They will know our intentions as soon as we enter… that Raithen and I are here in support of your pilgrimage, and not standing as pilgrims ourselves. Even this…” She looked solemnly... apologetically to Raithen, “Does not promise us aught. Any of us, lofty or low, might find ourselves pawns on the great gaming board of the Founders. So.” She looked deeply into the eyes of each pilgrim and finally into Raithen’s.

“This is your chance to turn back if you feel ill-suited or unprepared for this exploit." She glanced pointedly to Phocion, who averted his eyes and gritted his teeth as she added:

"There is no dishonour in taking time to better equip yourself for what lies ahead. But, once this die is cast, children, you will not come back from Kaladon unaltered. Who stands committed to walk this precarious path?”

"I stand committed." Phocion replied, quick as a cobra strike and twice as sharp. The Princeps Sibylla inclined her head in acknowledgement, and looked to the others, awaiting their explicit answers.

[Hilana Chenzira]

Hilana was waiting for the others when they arrived, so that she and her friends might go in together. Her rucksack, filled with her medical supplies and tools, not to mention two waterskins and a jar of sunscreen for Finn, was on her back. A sturdy leather strap held a massive canvas sack tied and knotted and hanging across her body over her shoulders. And whatever was inside of it was not pleased about its predicament. There were regular sounds of protest and rage coming from inside of it, even though it was somewhat muffled by the canvas: a deep hissing, an ominous clicking, and something that sounded like thick oil sloshing through pipes as the bag bulged and moved. She would bow to the three of them, and bring up the rear going inside.

The Vastiana was unusually quiet for once, but perhaps that had everything to do with what was at hand. The stakes were much higher than her own offerings in the sands, or at Mount Sorokyn, or at the Templum in the Sanctine District of the Umbrium. Perhaps she was aware of just how grave the situation was. While she had her usual energy levels, she kept them tightly restrained. She was silent as she listened to the Princess, though when they had finally come to a stop near her, she bowed low respectfully, her wrists folded in front of her. Her voice was that of the Vigilia’s from the Templum Mediae Noctis Matris, Hilana realized, but she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut and her ears open. It was not her place to talk. It was her place to listen, and pay attention.

Knowing their journey from having seen it from the Temple of the Radiant Rending from the portal at the Ball earlier, Hilana had dressed for it. As much as she enjoyed her longer, full skirts, she knew they weren’t suitable for the trek that was coming. Go off into the deserts, yes. Climb a volcano, when she didn’t know if there were pathways, no. Logically she was sure that there had to be, but better to make no assumptions. She wore a sleeveless fitted shirt that covered her torso, even her abdomen for once, along with an asymmetrical skirt that stopped midway between her thighs and her knees on either side, though the tips of the triangular panels at the front and back reached just below her knees. The outfit was a deeper navy, and stitched and embroidered on it were stars. A hood was attached to the back of the shirt, and fingerless gloves covered her palms to the middle of her forearms. Her sandals were perhaps a bit rougher than one might have expected to be worn inside an Embassy, but they had treads for grip, and they were comfortable, laced as they were around her ankles. Her long hair was woven into a braid, starting at her forehead and gathered and twisted into sections, each section joining the braid until it reached the tip, tied off with a leather cord, hanging over her shoulder and out of the way of the hood. Her copper earrings had been replaced with silver, a mixture of studs and small rings, and she bore no other jewelry beyond the trinkets and beads that were visible within her hair.

When they emerged outside the Temple, Hilana hooked her thumbs in the shoulder straps of her pack, ever-mindful about jostling the livid creature still trapped inside the canvas bag. She breathed, taking in the differences between the deserts she had grown up in and this one before Kaladon. She crouched to touch it, feeling it between her fingers and sniffing it, rolling the grains between thumb and fingers before letting it fall back down. Her eyes were enormous as she looked on at the skull and fangs, and like she had with the sand, she wanted to touch that, too. But she restrained herself, her fingers going back to the straps. To do so would be disrespectful to Zalkyrion, she figured, and she kept her hands to herself. She noted the pathway, her attention turning back from it to Cithaera as she spoke. But when the Princess Sybilla looked into her eyes, the girl didn’t dare look away. She was no Mesmer nor Sembler to know about the connections of the variables at play here; and she knew it was further not her place to ask.

‘Fear has two meanings, Hilana. Forget everything and run... or face everything and rise. The choice of which one it is is always yours alone. And no one can make it for you. But remember something. If you spend your whole life running, they will never let you stop. And you will only die tired.’ It had been advice from her maternal grandfather, given nearly six years ago to the day. There was no shame in turning away. But at the same time... she had come this far. She had no expectations as to what could come - she knew better. She might have hoped for answers, for some explanation beyond the cryptic words whispered to her on the eve of the Equinox. But she was not counting on receiving them. Who was she to expect such things?

“I stand committed, Your Serene Highness,” she echoed Phocion, though she added the Spymistress’ proper title at the end. This was the point of no return, and she knew one thing: trial by fire might burn... but the scars were neat reminders.

[Raithen]

The winged son of Phædryn stood quiet, letting the solemn nature of the newly finished temple wash over and through him. When the voice most familiar to him spoke it did not startle him out of his contemplation, he didn't even turn to look directly at his mother as he answered, as though her voice were part of the experience.

"No." Was all he said, for a moment, with no particular inflection aside from the simple respect for both her and the setting. He shook his head, just once to each side as his eyes followed the lines of architecture over the vaulted ceiling. When he realized that his answer might be interpreted for either question he added,

"I don't wish it were me. If the Founders have use to examine my soul, it already belongs to Them. They will do as They will. I am a servant."

As the last sentence graced his lips he did turn back to the matriarch, lowering his head and shoulders in a small gesture that said he was her servant as well as obeisant to the gods of his people. A small, intimate smile curves his mouth when he stood straight again and affection laced his eyes.

"I am content, Mother. I have always been." Had they been alone he might have kissed the backs of her hands. He did it often to show his gratitude, which was both deep and long established. As they were in a public place he let the words be enough.

When Cithæra turned toward the entrance he knew the others that he would guard on the journey were approaching. He was not yet graced with the rune of Semblance, if it was indeed his mother's intention that he should carry it, but he was so used to following her cues that it was as if he had a lesser version when she was near. Raithen turned as well, standing with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, resting on his travel satchel where it was slung over his shoulder.

He greeted the newcomers with his eyes, a nod each, and a smile rather than interrupting. When the instructions were complete he allowed his mother, who was formidable in her own right, to proceed him, but followed on hasted feet after her. Though he knew she could protect herself, it was his job to ensure the safety of all and he intended to see the pilgrims to their intended ends.

When they paused for the final warning and he saw apology in his mother's eyes he returned the look with another small smile that promised, if he was the sacrifice required for the fulfillment of her desires, he was ready to step into that destiny. When she asked each person and met his eyes in turn he only nodded in response. It felt better to be silent, leaving it to those with greater fates to lift their voices and be heard.

[Arvælyn]

Arvælyn struggled to come up with another suitable offering to the Founders. He’d wracked his mine at Æquinox Eve to come up with the symbolic sacrifice he’d offered Varvara. Whether it had been deemed meet or whether She cast Her divine gaze upon him for other reasons, she had summoned him to Kaladon. It felt that something more potent had to be posed if he was to stand before Them at the altar of Their imprisonment.

He’d considered a slave. Sentient souls were traditionally regarded to be more worthwhile sacrifices than livestock, and he had no dearth of Servi in thralldom at the Domus Sorokialis. He was sure if he asked Kyrin, the request would be obliged. And yet, there was Finn to consider. He would surely disapprove. The bard had befriended much of the serving staff and had made his disapproval of human sacrifice passing plain. He seemed to remain resolute on the issue so, whilst Arry might have rationalised a ritual killing and been willing to mark his soul with such a sacrifice, he was not willing to sacrifice Finn’s fond regard. He’d unofficially assigned Finn the role of his ethical advisor, and relied upon the human’s conscience to keep him grounded in the face of Solunarian severity.

On the eve of Æquinox he’d essentially sacrificed his childhood: A symbolic coming of age. It eventually occurred to him on this occasion, that there was another souvenir of his past that he might sacrifice. As Cithæra spoke, he unconsciously clutched it— the simple, wooden charm that hung at his neck from a simple piece of twine. He’d worn it for years, since the day his mother had gifted it him alongside his Rune of Mesmer. To anyone else, such a trinket was worthless, but to him it had been a connection to a remote, obscure past since clarified to some extent. It was the love a child bore his absentee mother. She now stood before him. They weren’t resolved, but they were connected. She wasn’t the perfect princess of Sol’Valen who would sweep in to take him away from the squalor and starvation he’d suffered in Antiris. He’d had to be the one to seek her out and, though a princess she was, she was not the beacon of light about whom he’d long fantasised. She was shadowy and cagey who seemed to have a complex relationship with all of her children, with the possible exception of the winged one. Part of him wondered if this whole pilgrimage was a ruse on her part to please her gods by sacrificing one of her sons. There were three to choose from, and he couldn’t help but fear his hardships might have been the fattening of his spirit to better surfeit the Founders of Solunarium. Yes, he was prepared to let go of the charm and the notions it represented.

Cithæra’s words were harrowing. He could feel how momentous she felt this all was, and the secretive Sentinel went as far as to open her Symphony to those who could delve for emphasis. He squeezed Finn’s hand, stepping forth together through the portal from the embassy to the distant temple in the Aurisian desert.

Looming in the distance was Kaladon. He didn’t know whether it was taller than Sorokyn, but it looked it for no city of towering spires and monolithic pyramids stood around it. Only black sand and the colossal skeleton of the fallen Zalkyrion.

Stepping out of the crystalline temple and onto the black sands, he felt something in his very soul. The Battle of the Rending had taken place here. He’d played out the scene that took place here, but it didn’t look like he’d envisioned. In his blood he felt echoes from beyond the Veil. He was no Sembler, but perhaps being tapped into his mum’s Symphony enabled him to glean some of what she could perceive with her Craft. Or perhaps it was just his blood itself. The immaculate vitæ of Deus Aværys and of Varvara Divina, reminding some part of him through the Spiritus Mundi, that a monumental thing had happened here. As they drew closer to the massive Draconic skull, the towering skeleton seemed to punctuate the point starkly.

He heard his mother’s stark warning, and understood it. This was a deadly path to tread. It was one Arvælyn felt obliged to embark upon. It felt like destiny and his blood beckoned him forth. His life was something he was willing to forfeit and so:

“I stand committed.” He announced. But Finn was another matter. He squeezed the human by the hand and looked into eyes that evoked the skies of happier places than these, which looked grey and grim even in full sunlight. He leaned close and lowered his voice.

“Finn… You really don’t need to do this, if you don’t want to. I know that you have reservations about this Faith… They may sense that and judge you poorly. I wouldn’t be able to brook it if you didn’t return home with me. I have to do this. This is my fate, but you… Even if I don’t make it, you can have a full and wonderful life… you can go on your quest and devote yourself to Syren instead. The world will be worse for lack of you… Please don’t do this thing for me alone.”

[Finn]

Finn was not so facile an actor as his lover. He could perform on a stage with his music and an audience, but he had swum the waters of the Kalzasern palaces with deference to his betters, hard work, and honest relationships. There had been sharks in those waters, of course, but these were different waters, different sharks, and whether or not Arvælyn was living openly as who he was, Finn was the human lover of the scion of a royal house. He was fair certain Cithæra could eat the Iron Queen as an appetizer.

Plots within plots.

The minstrel was honest with Arvælyn, and moreso when in private. He was clear with his disagreements with the Varværyn faith and Solunarian culture, but allowed that they were in many ways merely different, not necessarily bad. Most of the time, he kept his symphony in check, calm and amiable, knowing Arvælyn worried about his reactions to everything. It halfway convinced him sometimes, faking it until it felt natural.

Raithen was a good man. Hilana was a good woman. They were true believers. They were less ambitious than Cithæra or even Arvælyn, but ambition seemed to be a thing prized here. Perhaps Finn's were limited by the commonness of his birth. He hadn't dreamed of being a prince in a castle, but he had certainly fallen in love with a real prince all unawares.

Architecture, magic, and landscapes were all awesome, and he took them in the way he did most sights, an artist filling his cup with inspiration. He smiled when Arvælyn squeezed his hand. He nodded when Cithæra spoke to him directly. To his mind, the die was already cast. He had but to walk through the skeletal maw of the ancient crownwyrm.

He had doubts and he had a sacrifice. He wasn't planning to devote himself to the Twins, but merely do what he could to protect his lover. But regardless, he brought Arvælyn's hand up to kiss, gaze steady, trying to convey his love and devotion without his Rune.

"I stand committed."

[Pharaoh]

“Very well.” Cithæra replied to the last of the acquiescences. Her typical stoicism showed the cracks of pride. She hadn’t raised her guard around her Symphony since she’d dropped it, and the pride, while strongest for her sons, was borne for all who would willingly walk this path— Finn and Hilana included.

“Come, ye Pilgrims, Kaladon awaits…” The Vigilia Magna was the first to step through the maw of Zalkyrion. Those who watched her would note no shift in space time around her. She staggered slightly, and her Symphony vanished entirely from the senses of the Mesmers, but as far as appearances went, she looked as though she remained in the same world as the rest of them.

“Excelsior!” Cried Phocion as he stepped through, and his Symphony disappeared as he froze in place, gaping ahead wide-eyed at a trail that looked to be nothing but sand and stone speckled with weeds, to those who stood behind them.

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By and by, each would enter and, until the last the same pattern continued. But as soon as any single soul pervaded the portal of the maw, they were met with an overwhelming clangour. The silence of breeze through the sands in which they’d basked before crossing over, gave way to the profuse and ponderous din of battle. The Draconic skeleton was gone as soon as they’d passed the first row of fangs, and the path ahead was no longer clear.

Rattling shrieks and thunderous bellows drew their eyes to the battle for the skies, where wyverns, giant bats and full grown dragons clashed too far ahead to see if they were mounted. One shone brighter and loomed larger than the others, emitting a golden radiance exaggerated by the divinity of its rider- a figure large enough to be seen even from this far below the summit of the mount.

Before they could take in the majesty of the moment, the clash of swords and offencive magick grew louder to their rear, where they would find the hitherto empty black sands were now red and soaked in the blood of the many corpses that lay at the feet of the tens of thousands of warrior who still fought in a massive melee that spanned as far as the eye could see.

The Hytori of old Sol’Valen in resplendent armour astride great harts or on foot, vying against the swords of Vastian knights and the claws and fangs of basilisks mounted by paladins of Re’ha. A war cry from the rear was silenced as a descending dragon spewed billowing plumes of flame upon their heads.

They stood in the same place they had, but in another time.

“The Battle of the Rending!” Phocion cried loudly enough to be heard over the cacophony. Rarely did one hear the seasoned Sentinel raise his voice.

“Stop your ogling, Pilgrims, and take up arms! The enemy approaches!” Indeed, they would turn to regard an Orkhan cohort obscuring the path leading up the mount, propelled forth by their downhill descent. Cithæra dropped to one knee, robbing a dead archer of his longbow and strapping his quiver over her slender shoulder, smoothly knocking and firing a volley of three arrows in rapid succession from her kneel.

Phocion lifted both hands as the grip of a tall, black staff began to form in his clutch, capped off with the orange-hot head of a glaive, the blade of which seemed to churn with magma.

“Pro Deus et Domina!” He cried, as he charged forth to deliver a sweeping slash across the front row of attackers, sending blood and embers in an upward arc toward the mountain’s base.

[Hilana Chenzira]

One by one, commitments were made, verbal conveyances forging promises. As solemn and serious of an affair as this was, Hilana offered her friends a small smile. They were together. They could manage a hike up a volcano where there was already a path. With no Runes to notice vanishing Symphonies as others stepped in, Hilana’s only warning was to see the faint stagger in the way Cithæra stepped once she passed through. There was just black sand. What was there to stumble on? Then the Prince shouted and stepped through. He had apparently made this trip before, and he stopped. The girl shifted her canvas bag containing her offering, and stepped forward.

Whatever Hilana was expecting when she passed through Zalkyrion’s Maw, this was not it.

Her eyes were massive, and she made sure there was room enough for the others to come through. Her knuckles were white on her grip on her rucksack’s straps tightened as every sense was assaulted. She could taste the blood and smoke as easily as she could smell it, and Hilana drew in a sharp breath, taking in the scene around, above, and behind them. She took that moment to ground herself, to take it all in, and start making sense of it. At the sudden change in the environment, the tarantula in her bag curled up and was silent, all fight gone out of it. Small blessings, but if it died of fright before they reached that shelf, the girl would be livid.

When Phocion called out to explain the phenomenon they had stepped into, Hilana accepted it. That made sense. “Your pardon, but was it like this before, Dominus, when you made your last trip?” she called through the cacophony. It wasn’t an idle question, she was genuinely wanting to know. If it had been, what all had transpired might have been useful information to have, which made her wonder if this was different altogether —

ORKS!

Revulsion. Disgust. Rage—

Don’t ogle! Cithæra’s words cut through the emotions that the monsters descending on them churned in her. This wasn’t a vision. This wasn’t just showing them what had happened millennia ago. They had been brought back to it. And this was likely a test. Prove their devotion. Prove their faith in the Founders. In Their Righteousness. In Their Cause. Hilana swallowed, her gaze darting to the corpses around them before she picked up a pair of long-handled flanged maces, testing their weights as she shifted the canvas body bag over her rucksack in order to give herself a better range of movement. Her offering was no longer struggling, but she didn’t trust her hand and her aim with a blade in a field like this to make the precise cuts that would end struggle on a target, especially on something armoured and armed. As Phocion went forward, Hilana followed, keeping a distance from that staff with the magma, and waited for an opportunity for the Orks to hit the ground. And once they did, she darted forward, raising the first mace, the other drawn back for balance, before bringing it down on the Orkhan’s head. The second one followed, as the first drew back to counterbalance the Vastiana. “Fututus et mori in igni!” Hilana swore at the ancient enemy of her people, of her homeland, her tone positively venomous. Only once the body wasn’t going to be getting up did she move to the next one. The crunching sounds didn’t even faze her. If anything, it was incredibly satisfying and in some probably horrific way, therapeutic.

Still, she knew her role in this group was that of medic for the assembled party. Her ears were on them and she kept an eye out, though she had to hope that there would be no injuries as they fought their way through.

[Raithen]

The transition did not phase the Avialae as much as it seemed to the others, though the physical sensation did make him stumble hard enough that he only stopped himself from falling by laying a quick hand on his brother's shoulder. His face went still as his senses took in the battle, hardly hearing what Cithæra and Phocion said as his mind shifted to the place it did when politics were no longer applicable and action was required.

His mind was not made for the battles of the throne room, it was made for those of the field, and tempered by a lifetime of accepting that fact and working towards honing his talent for violence. The expression on his face shifted to one of focused intention as he pulled the cover from the blade of his own polearm. The weapon significantly resembled that of his brother's aether forged one, and it was not a coincidence. Phocion could shift his to meet his needs, but he tended to go with a similar style that suited his abilities and his younger brother had grown up in awe of it.

Feeling the vibration of the approaching attack through the thin leather of his sandles before he saw the Orkhan Raithen launched himself into the air on instinct, beginning to murmur battle prayers to the Divine-Twins in rhythmic Vastian. The words put him almost into a trance, almost meditation, turning his form into an act of worship, dedicating the blood he spilled and the lives he took to Them as he always did.

He did not go high, hovering with his feet around the head height of the aggressive attackers. It took only a second to analyze the formation, during which he was already pulling aether through his rune to pull the poisoned, two inch long flechettes from the pouch at his belt and flinging them into the faces of who his mind told him were the eldest and therefore most likely the leaders. Having fought fought Orks before, he understood that group cohesion was based around hierarchy, killing the commanders wouldn't scatter the group, but without the spoke that they all looked to for direction that was more instinctual than conscious, each member would fight as an individual. Still deadly dangerous, but any advantage was worth taking.

Even as his projectiles flew he followed, bringing his polearm to bear from his height advantage, fighting from almost directly above Phocion, clearing attackers from either side so his grounded sibling could carve a burning path up the mountain.

As Hilana darted in and out, ensuring the blows of the other combatants were fatal he divided out a small part of his focus to ensure her safety. Once he sent one of his darts slamming into an eye socket so hard it brought out the back of the skull of an Orkhan who had decided to charge the her as she dealt a vicious blow to one of its fallen brethren. Another time he arched himself in midair till his head was nearly touching his own feet to swing his glaive back through the throat and chest of a giant even for an Ork who had been intent on taking out the obviously not combat trained woman.

Fear did not enter into it for Raithen, it was a series of actions, like a dance to which he knew the steps, he could let thought fade into the background and allow information coming in to translate directly into action. As clumsy as he could occasionally be in his every day existence, he was grace gifted from the gods when there were lives to end.

[Arvælyn]

Arvælyn’s stance instantly shifted at the sudden sounds and reverberations assailing his sense from all sides. His knees bent slightly and he took a quick survey of their surroundings. A season earlier he’d have been wholly out of his depth— cowering behind the others and using his most powerful Craft to ward away any who might wield arms against himself or Finn. But Phocion had invested a great deal of time and energy honing the weapon that was his half-brother.

Though he instinctually wanted to stare in awe at the dragons clashing above, the immediate threat lay before them. To the rear of the Orks, who were being quickly and thoroughly dispatched by his immediate relations and Hilana, he sensed a shift in the æther. Something hidden was approaching. He could sense subterfuge and aggressive intent in clandestine Symphonies and with his Æther Sight, he felt them wending through the corpses of their Orkish comrades littering the path.

Clearly Cithæra sensed them as well, as she trained an arrow on some invisible target between the heads of two Orks in close combat with Hilana. The arrow she loosed found purchase that warped the Masquerade magic that had been concealing an Hytori assassin. He let out a cry and held the gash she’d dealt along the side of his neck, before the same arrow planted itself in the chest of another elf who’d been stalking behind the first. The one in the foreground let out a war cry and a volley of throwing axes descended toward Arry and Finn. With a grunt of protest, the half-elf lifted a halting hand that froze the axes in mid-air.

Snarling with bared teeth, he let six of the weapons fall to the sort of the path, while two danced into his grip.

He sought out the Symphonies of Sol’Valen’s soldiers, and spoke to their souls in a voice emphasised by preternatural influence:

“Quarrel.” He incanted, which sent the several of their number into a berserk rage that set them against their own brothers in arms. As he stirred the Symphonies of the susceptible into discord, Arvælyn stalked forward to engage directly in melee with a pair who’d resisted his ætheric commandment. Enhancing the pressure behind his blows with his Kinetics, he swung one of his borrowed axes and divorced an Hytori from his right arm, cutting through armour like a hot knife through butter. Moments later the second axe was buried into his side.

[Finn]

The Song of the World faltered as he did walking through whatever paling separated the world he knew from the world of the Twins. Place didn't change; time did. Whether that was within the purview of their power or not, he didn't know. But Cithæra's eyes saw far too much, and they saw a true battle. Whether this was some divine glamour or mistborn twist of fate, it seemed the peril was real. This was his greatest fear—Arvælyn was in danger. But his lover seemed to have grown from thespian to mage knight over the course of a season, and he wasn't sure how to take that.

His own Rune flared to life, Mesmer rippling out from him to his cohort in what his instructors had called a battle meditation, which would allay fear, bolster reactions, and help them work together whenever and wherever possible. Maintaining that was paramount, but when he saw Cithæra neutralize hidden foes, he paid more attention to the music of the battle, finding a few other spots where a mind's song rang where it oughtn't to be.

Picking up a couple of the axes Arvælyn had so conveniently afforded them, he stalked after his lover, but kept track of dangers to his companions.

It felt a bit as it had when Hilana found him out of his mind in the desert: his vision narrowed; he grew colder.

He identified a hidden assailant, vaulted behind them, and hacked. It wasn't as elegant as he had grown with a sword, but it cut into the unfortunate elf. At another time, his gorge might have risen, but now there were only threats to Arvælyn that needed to be eliminated. He was a boy again, chopping wood for his mother's forge. There were no people, only dead wood to be split for the fires.