The force blew Aymeir backwards off his feet, hitting the beast directly, searing into its hide and knocking it into rows of ancient bookshelves with an enormous boom. Wood, parchments, and dust exploded all around the fiend.
The plasma stuck like glue all over it, burning hot and deep. It writhed around, trying to find any sort of escape from the plasma that was now enveloping it.
Aymeir, too, began to scream once again. The black liquid within was so concentrated that it was tearing his insides apart.
Without a second to waste, Aymeir spun around, crawling away on his hands and knees in the direction of the lost tome he had dropped. He looked down at his wrinkled fingers as they began to fall away from his body, riddled with rot. Chunks of skin fell from his face with a splat on the marbled floors below.
What have I done? Creator, I do not want to die! I am not ready to transcend. Please.
Aymeir peered into the darkness ahead, and there it was on the floor ahead. The old tome he had been trying to escape with. As he urged his body forward, he could feel parts melting and collapsing inside.
He was in agony.
Within arm’s reach of the tome, another monstrous howl came from behind. Like a hungry cat pouncing on a little mouse, the beast howled once more before leaping on top of Aymeir.
Its body was decaying like Aymeir’s was. Bones hung from its open chest cavity, its insides turning black, bubbling, and burning.
Aymeir shrieked, but his screams turned to gargled mutters as the monster’s hinge-like jaws wrapped around the old man’s neck, its teeth piercing his flesh with ease.
Aymeir felt his cold blood pumping from the punctures in his throat as the creature’s bite grew tighter. It crushed his windpipe. His breaths grew shallow as he struggled, before turning into gargles. He was drowning in his own blood.
The beast ripped into his neck again, its serrated teeth severing the arteries and tearing flesh and bone alike.
Aymeir closed his eyes, accepting his fate. He felt the life slipping away from his body. But despite the agony and the horrifying fate that was to come, all he could think about was Lynn.
He had failed.
He felt the pain slowly dissipate.
He saw the darkness consuming him.
And before long, Magister Aymeir sensed nothing but cold and deafening silence.
Act IDawn & Dusk
Chapter 1 - Winged Omen
Tomas’s hands were shaking. Not from cold, not from an illness, but from fear. He was struggling to hold his spear steady. The trembling resonated in his crudely made armour.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the soldier on his flank grumbled, elbowing Tomas hard in the side. “Quit your shaking, boy. The last thing I wanna hear before I die is you shittin’ in your breeches.”
Tomas glanced at him, staring at the lizard-like green eyes behind the helmet. The man had wide shoulders, rows of bony ridges running across his cheeks and an incredibly high hairline with long white dreadlocks. He was Valkhor, Tomas realised. He hadn’t seen one in quite a while, as none resided back home.
Tomas ignored the jest. Focus.
But all he could focus on was how much he did not want to be here. No one did.
Tomas reapplied a strong grip around the haft of the spear, interlocking his fingers. He held it outwards steadily, in line with the hundreds of troops to his sides. A wall of spears.
Sweat poured down Tomas’s dirt-smeared face, his blue eyes intensely focused on the scene before him. On a normal day, this area may have been quite picturesque- it was a cloudless day, and a cool breeze made the fields of grass dance in unison, swaying back and forth. The grass was still damp from earlier rains. Scattered oak trees groaned as their old roots strained to keep the behemoths upright. Behind him and the battalion he stood with, was a thick forest which lined most of the open field’s perimeter.
Clear skies were rare so far north. Tomas was used to overcast, damp weather and snow for half the year.
But this day was not a normal day.
The fields were poisoned with dread. A deep, insidious atmosphere or foreboding and anxiety.
A swarm of black crows were perched in the oak tree branches, screeching, awaiting the feast to come. Tomas always thought of crows as a bad omen- that is what his mother had taught him.
At that moment, more so than ever, he could understand why.
On the crest of the foothills about a mile ahead of Tomas and the vanguard unit he stood in formation with, black figures began to take shape.
Soldiers. Hundreds of them. Blood-crazed and marching to battle.
Tomas could see their dark armour speckled with deep shades of green shimmering in the afternoon sun. The invaders made their presence known with thunderous marching and howls of intimidation.
Tomas’s nervous eyes darted around.
Where were the knights in shining armour? The line of banners? The courageous speeches by his superiors to boost morale?
Are any of the old stories of war true?
Most of these soldiers in the vanguard lacked any proper equipment. Some had blunt weapons, dinged-up swords, and hammers with split handles. A few had even carried pitchforks and machetes from their homesteads. Others were lucky enough to have some chainmail and metal helmets, but most wore padded gambesons, cheap leather, and furs.
Tomas was fortunate enough to have a wooden shield on his back.
Yet, he knew this was possibly his last day alive.
These breaths the final ones they would ever draw.
That was a sickening thought.
A soldier in the row behind Tomas fell forwards as vomit came spewing out from the
