Nobody's eyes open.
Do you know what it means when the woods are silent?
It means something terrible is soon to come.
It means the world is holding its breath.
Deep within, the crumbling remains of an old temple sits. Untouched for decades, perhaps even centuries.
Until now.
A lone Yeren hikes its mossy stairs, their footfalls the only disturbance in the omnipresent silence within the air. This place's original purpose has long since faded, lost to time and lost to memory. Forgotten. Erased.
How perfect.
Within they find an altar. There are objects, weapons and half-rotten relics, already placed upon its faded surface. This is their second time within, a return from gathering the final materials that they needed.
Their heart weighs heavy in their chest as they pick up a series of dark stones and begin to arrange them. An old great sword is lifted with a terrifying ease in spite of the heavy meteorite that makes its blade. The weapon screeches against the stone as they carve wide, elegant circles into the old floor. The runes along it spark with jagged, wild energy, burning further markings.
A knife rests upon the altar. It is a jagged, broken piece of metal. Unwieldy, but sharp. It will serve its purpose well enough.
They pick up a bundle of greenery. Small, blue flowers. Some bloomed, some mere buds. They arrange them at the heart of the symbols.
The Yeren stands in the center of it all. Against the runes and flowers and stones and weapons.
They take a deep breath.
It is a complicated task, to rend one's soul. It is a complicated, arduous, agonizing task. And it is a task they are willing to do. For it must be done.
The Fae Queen's empire has crumbled, but still there remain fragments of Her reign. Like a terrible infection, they rot beneath the surface, these fragments stalk the ruins of the world. These fragments tear apart anything within their path. Mindless, feral beasts of an now by-gone age.
But even mindless things can be powerful ones, for a god is a god. But still, like beasts, they bleed.
The Yeren lifts the knife.
They will bleed, too. But it will be in the service of something new.
They will craft themselves from nothing, they alone will make these beasts know what it is to fear the grasp of their end.
They begin to cut off their face.
It hurts, by the Earth, did it hurt — but they keep going. They cleave their cheeks, their nose, their lips, they silence their own throat. Thick blood pours from them — splattering against the floor. It finds its way into those carved, runic shapes. It drenches the flowers in crimson.
The runes begin to glow. The blade begins to glow.
They plunge it into their chest, but this time it does not shed blood. It does not pierce flesh. It plunges into their soul.
And so the Yeren too carves out their Name. They create a pivotal void within their very being. They rip out all that they are and lay it bare and festering within their own spilled blood. Amongst the blue flowers that by name beg to be remembered.
They drown those flowers. Drown those memories. They cut and cleave and slice and destroy and tear apart everything that they are.
So that nobody remains.
And it hurts. It hurts so, so much.
They throw back their head, jaw agape, in something approximating a silent scream — throat too filled with blood to garner any noise louder than a gurgle.
And in the space between breathe, the darkness between blinks, there comes an answer.
A fragment, a shard. It answers that silent call with one of its own. The very air thrums with the power of something ancient.
The runic circle glows brighter, sparking with energy as that shard pours a potent magic into it. There is a presence now, but it is not something that they could name. It is a presence long shattered, and now one of its lost pieces has found its way to them.
They pour everything that is in them into that shard. Offering all that is left. The rage that boils within their heart, the desperation that pounded alongside, the deep-seated desire to ensure that the empire that had all but destroyed their people would never rise again.
The shard likes that.
The shard wants the same.
And so it makes a home within the absence. Within the space that the Yeren has carved. Its blinding light baptizes that emptiness, dissolving whatever remains within the one who has offered it a home.
The being now lay against the blood and runes and stone, breathing ragged and heavy. There is a thrumming in the air now. Within the Yeren's chest, where a heart should be, now glows a pale light. A binding spell, an insurance, the creation of something new.
Not a name, but a title. The creation of a role, and for something to house that role. Forged from sacrifice and a shattered divinity. All housed within vital nothingness.
A vessel.
Nobody's eyes open.
And the world breaths relief.
The flames burned a faint green as Yniss threw another scrap of the banner into the campfire, flickering in the autumn twilight. Quietly, xey set xer dagger down, and began to turn the spit over the flames once more. The remains of the three haddock Gaiys had grabbed out of the river with his bare hands sizzled as they slowly cooked, their flesh turning a brownish gold. The man snored away on the rock outcrop to xer left, and Gonlire and Ryga held post further up the hill, the only angle anything could really approach from. The lake was clear. Xey had made sure of that xemself.
Suffice to say, the last few months had been hard. They'd started the march to Farron with a unit twenty-six strong. The four of them had given rites to the bodies of two not six hours before. Xey could still smell the burning flesh, even with the fish's scent filling xer nostrils. What they had left on their backs could hardly be called equipment. Their armor had too many holes to offer any form of proper protection, the few weapons left to the group's name either broken, rusting or cobbled together from pieces of their fallen comrades' swords and staffs. At this rate, only one of them would make it to the capital, and even then they'd be crawling through whatever was left of its gates half-dead. Maybe Liier had been right. They should've marched toward the Ini-Urals, or in search of the rumoured remains of Yefshara's port-slums. Maybe they'd always been doomed to fail, just like that old Yeren hag had said moments before xey'd put a khy-varrn through her heart. Xey didn't want to admit it, but there was only so many times you could see hardened warriors break down in tears as they passed the place their home used to be, only to find the entire town razed to less than ash…
A sudden noise came from behind xer. Heavy, metal footsteps against the riverbank gravel. Xey scrambled to xer feet, hastily reaching for the dagger xey had set aside moments ago. The noise drew the others' attention, and they stood, prepared to draw their weapons the second anything stepped into view. And enter their view it did.
The being that emerged from the darkness on the edge of the campfire was certainly Yeren, or doing a damn good impression of one. Clad from nape to foot in a grimy set of old robes, like the ones the company's Starspeaker had worn before she threw herself to the jaw of some long-forgotten darkspawn to buy them a few moments to escape from that rotting old encampment. Beyond the tattered religious garb, a face-obscuring nest of wrappings, bandages and a mop of dirty red fur poking out from under a grey deer-like skull, a pair of curved weapons Yniss couldn't recognize strapped just above each hip. The irony of such a well-equipped warrior wearing the robes of a celestian, much less of an order sworn to see themselves die before letting another's life be take, was not lost on xer. Xey elected not to comment, for xer own sake.
Nobody was an intimidating figure, but nonetheless figured it was better to try and rest where there were others. Protection for both parties. Sometimes it worked. Other times, the sight of the ashen antlers and excessive amount of weaponry was a bit much for other wanderers, and it drove them away, into the night. It was unfortunate, but sometimes company brought with it more trouble than it was worth. The burden of conversation, for one.
Yniss, dagger still raised, was the first to break the silence. "Who are you?"
Drat.
Slowly, Nobody retrieved a loose stone from the riverbank, and set a finger to it, tracing something, before handing it to Yniss. Xey stared at it, a vague outline of a humanoid upper body with a cross through it. It wasn't a clear answer, but the point was made: Nobody of importance. Nobody at all.
"What do you want?"
Nobody pointed at the fish cooking over the fire, before taking the fingers of one hand and making a pecking motion into the palm of the other. The intent was obvious: Food, please. Yniss looked to the others, a look of concern on xer face. Gaiys and Ryga stood dumbfound, staring at the figure in a mixture of concern and awe. Gonlire just shrugged, muttering something about going to sleep. With a moment's hesitation, Yniss extended an arm towards the log near the fire, offering it as a seat to the newly arrived stranger.
…
Night came, and most of the camp found itself at rest. Ryga stood watch on the hill, waiting for the pinkish embers of the morning light to drift over the dry earth. The two others lay out on their furs, cherishing what little comfort they offered against the hard ground beneath them. They occasionally tossed and turned, their unconscious hands and faces dangerously close to the bladed edges of their weapons, but never fully coming into danger.
Yniss and the imposing stranger sat across from each other by the fire. Nobody sat on the log, unmoved since shortly after arriving, arms on thighs and back hunched. Somewhere in the gloom beyond, the occasional neighing of a horse floated over the flickering and spitting of the flames. Yniss was half-laying on a small sandy patch amid the stones, an arm propping xer head up as xey stared over the flames.
"So, you're… no one?"
A shake of the head. A cross made of fingers, and a gesture to the torso.
A quick nod. Odd choice of name, xey thought, but the west was a strange place, so who were xey to question someone coming from the other side of the empire?
Nobody raised the fish xey had handed over, a gap between the face wrappings revealing a mouth with goldening teeth and chapped lips. It closed around the fish's flesh, ripping a chunk away like an animal, chewing before spitting an assortment of small bones into the river. It was a strange display, but the wanderer didn't seem to mind Yniss watching.
"So… what brings you eastward?" Xey lowered xemselves, rolling onto xer back and turning their head to look at Nobody. "Not much left out here these days. Just the ruins of towns and whatever abominations are left from the Nightwalkers' armies."
Nobody retrieved another stone from the ground, and began to trace something, tossing it to Yniss a moment later. Xey propped themselves up with one arm and caught it with the other, holding the stone up to xer face to make out the image in the firelight. A pair of crossed swords, seemingly dripping blood. Another stone sailed over the fire, and xey switched them. A monster of some sort, not anything that xey were familiar with, presumably a catch-all symbol.
"You hunt monsters?"
A brief pause, then a somewhat hesitant thumbs up. A finger pointed upward, before being drawn along Nobody's throat.
"Gods?"
Another nod, slower and more somber this time. Xey resisted the urge to roll their eyes. Xey'd seen god-killers before, it came with the territory of high-ranking Imperial military duties, and this mess of cloth and leather was far from the sleek, almost smooth bodies of the Essence Assassins of the Coláistaí Alagaddeí. If anything, any god that met those blades was being hacked into still-divine pieces when and if they crossed Nobody's path. "You don't look the part."
Nobody's face was hard to make out in the firelight, but xey could almost sworn it contorted into something like a frown. Another rock clattered over to xer side. An arrow, pointing to xer, directly beneath a crossed-out sword.
"Fair point." Xey glanced over at xer sleeping companions, grimacing. "It's… rough going, out here. If we hadn't started out with a full company, I don't think we'd have made it this far."
Yet another stone. A question mark, beside a compass.
"Farron, I suppose. Might still be something there. And, hey, if there isn't, I'd much rather die at the heart of my homeland than in the burnt-out remains of some disease-ridden hamlet that even the cartographers haven't deemed worthy to make note of. What about you?"
Nobody retrieved another stone and, a few moments later, tossed it to Yniss. A flat line, with what looks like swift sketches of trees dotted along the surface. A few wavey lines along the middle, fire, maybe? Could've been a plain, or…
"Tagasni?"
Nobody nodded, accompanied by an open palm, the other hand's index finger and thumb pinching the skin. Xey knew this one, given it was a common signal in the scouting regiment's silent communications. Target. Hostile. Xey grimaced. They'd passed through Tagasni a little under a week ago, or, rather, what was left of it. It'd been a bustling centre of trade in the region not even a year prior, untouched by the civil war, a population two thousand strong. It'd been reduced to cinders, the remaining stone ruins of its old temple home to the survivors of whatever demon had passed through. They'd had to put them down, after their offer of hospitality had turned into an excuse to cannibalize members of the company in their sleep, compromising any sense of refinement people formerly of such standing should possess. Xey could still smell the stench of Fae meat being roasted some nights, and it never failed to bring the overwhelming urge to puke with it.
After a few more minutes of silence, xey spoke up once more. "…Can you actually talk? Or do you have to just…" Xey made a series of vague motions with xer index finger.
A shake of the head, and a finger tapped against the lips.
"You can't? Can you not even try?"
Nobody's mouth opened wide, but no sound left. The lips were definitely moving, and xey could almost certainly make out the movements of the neck, but naught but the slight sounds of moist movement inside the mouth left. It was unsettling, and somewhat sad. Yniss watched for the few seconds Nobody carried on with the display, before the lips slid back into their neutral spot.
"That's… something. Has it always been like that? Or were you cursed by someone?"
A hand held flat, before being tilted from side to side. Yet another stone was traced upon, showing what Yniss assumed to be a wrapped infant, the arms of a figure in a crown wrapped in a broken circle around the child, whose mouth was crossed out. Xey weren't quite sure was to make of it. Mab was fearsome, so much so that her presence on the battlefield could be seen from over mountains, but she had never struck xer as the type to permanently mute a child, at least according to the rumors. Her sister, as much as xey disliked her, seemed even less like the sort of individual to harm a child. Directly, at least.
They sat in silence for another few minutes, before Yniss sighed. "I should probably sleep. Need all the energy I can get for the rest of the journey, you know?"
Nobody nodded, and copied xer as the two got to their feet. They stood, staring at each other for a moment, before Yniss offerred xer hand.
"If you need anything during the night, shake me, wake me up. I'll try give you a hand, alright?"
Nobody stared at the hand and took it, nodding. The two shook hands. Nobody's was rough, as if there wasn't much practice behind it. They seperated, and Yniss laid down on xer side, facing into the fire, as Nobody sat back down on the log. Slowly watching as the fire burnt lower and lower, Yniss slowly drifted into sleep, the outline of the armored figure across from xer lingering in xer vision the whole time.
…
When Yniss woke up, Nobody was gone. None of xer companions had seen or heard the heavily armored individual leave, in spite of Ryga actively spending the night watching over the camp. They all debated each other as to who was at fault for the sudden disappearance, before swiftly moving on to the idea that the figure who had come to their fireside the night before had been nothing more than a collective hallucination. Something odd in those fish, they agreed, mustn't have been cooked right. Obviously, Yniss took the brunt of the blame for this, but xey put up with it.
Camp was packed up relatively quickly, and they were back on the road west. Any day now, the towering silver spires of the capital would pierce the grey skies and they would have finally reached their destination. But, for now, they walked.
And, as they did, Yniss pulled xer dagger from its sheath, admiring it in the morning light. Gone was the old standard-issue ornate nonsense xey'd been given hours before the company had left the outpost. In its place was a simple, heavy chunk of irrilite, sharpened into a point and mounted on a leather-wrapped hilt. It was simple, almost closer to a knife than a dagger, save for a single detail: a pair of small runes, carved directly below the tip of the blade. It was an old style of writing, one that hadn't seen much use outside of the Three Far Cities since the Twin Queens had been naught but infants, but xey understood the basics of it enough to know exactly what it meant.
"Thank you. Live long."
The wastes of what's left of the world have no shortage of horrors. That was the heart of the quest, after all. On this pilgrimage of ichor, a final purge to a crumbling empire, there were no shortage of rogue divinity. Fragmented remains of Her court and call.
Such as the one that Nobody has laid eyes upon.
It was is a hulking, massive thing, its body sparking with flame. Discordant pieces of armor were bound to its flesh by wrought iron chains, its stance a cross between something reptilian and feline. It stalks along the wastes, a skeletal tail of mangled and mishappened bones sweeping over the dusty earth. Jaws behind a metal mask carved like a man's face snap idly in search of something to sink its teeth into.
Torn apart robes and now rusted jewelry, that perhaps was something once grand, are long since collapsed to embers and bone. It marked it as one of many remnants of Mab's court. Once sworn to the Queens. A god of conquest, a starvation for power that could never be quenched no matter how much of the world the empire claimed.
Now just some old god of the hunt, of burning fervor. Of the insatiable hunger of a wildfire.
Such mindless destruction, it makes Nobody sick.
Its presence in the air dyed the night sky a blood red, the stars burn in a fiery hue. The flame of Nobody's torch grew brighter as the Yeren drew closer. It flickered and writhed like something alive.
The monstrosity's attention is drawn to the Other when the torch is cast aside. When it bursts the dried grass into a burning pyre.
A silent challenge, Nobody's skull-crested head bowed and antlers gleaming.
The great beast's burning eyes focus in on the one who dares to taunt it with its own domain. A behemoth deer's skull covers the face of the Faceless. It recognizes it, in that moment, as the remains of one of its brethren — slain and butchered divinity. Cranium still bloody in ichor, as though it had been freshly cleaved from the neck that once held it aloft.
For the first time in its undying existence, it hesitates.
But only for a moment.
The God of Wildfire Hunts closes the distance between them with ease.
In that same instant, Nobody's hand traces along the jagged blade of the greatsword and the Yeren's breath is held. The meteorite runes glimmer at the touch, igniting in a pale glow. By the time the beast rears above the Yeren, Nobody too lunges.
Powered both by force and the god's own momentum, the greatsword cleaves deep into its side as it screams past. Nobody drops down to slide underneath the spined tail of the beast, which whistles against empty air above the Other's head. With a hiss of breath, the Faceless whirls to face the Wildfire as it shakes out its head and snarls. Claws grind against dust, the wound struck against its side bleeds crackling embers.
It throws its head back and howls, and the sky answers its cries. The burning heavens rip open in a veritable maelstrom, and reigns hell down upon the wastes. It is a rain of fire that pierces the night in a hungry glow.
Nobody braces, eyes widening. The greatsword, forged of the same sky fallen stone, is raised in defense.
A first, a second, a third burning meteorite strikes and splits and crumbles at the blade's edge.
Sight of the beast is lost against the smoke and flame, eyes darting behind a mask to locate where it stalks. The Other coughs, and whirls around in a tight circle — watching for movement. The fire rages on at all sides, now. Amidst the smothering smoke, the Yeren holds a brief moment of not fear — but uncertainity.
The God of Wildfire Hunts lunges through the smoke from behind. With a clatter, the Yeren is thrown to the ground — pinned there by set of skeletal claws. The greatsword clatters to the dirt, the flames in its path waiver as it skids just out of reach.
The Yeren huffs.
From Nobody's side, twin blades are drawn without hesitation. The blood stained metal glint like the eyes of something hungry in the light of the god's fiery maw.
When the beast lunges its face down to sink its teeth into its quarry, the blades find their home within both of its eyes. It jaws slam shut mere inches away from the mask, before the thing recoils away with a shriek. Shaky from adrenaline, Nobody scrambles up and backs away as the Wildfire thrashes its head. The blades remain lodged there, burning ichor like tears down its face.
After a brief moment of consideration, Nobody dashes forward, and leaps to grab hold of the hilt of the one blade. A foot braces against the god's head, both hands curling around the hilt, and the Yeren pushes off. Gravity and momentum rip it free in a shower of burning ichor. The ground hisses and smokes.
The greatsword is retrieved in one hand, the bloodied katana remains in the other — it's twin still lodged deep within the god's skull, blood pouring like a waterfall.
With a pained shriek, the Wildfire slashes wildly. Its claws whizzing through the air and cutting through the smoke. The greatsword blocks one of the strikes, but another slices Nobody's chest. A dark blood glints in the firelight. A silent cry of pain slides out as a horrid little gasp.
Finally spilling the blood of its adversary seems to give the God of Wildfire Hunts a second wind. It lunges forward again, jaws unhinging — snapping around the Yeren's arm and preventing another strike with the greatsword. Nobody is jolted into the air by the beast, left dangling from its jaws. The katana rams into the things maw, a frantic attempt to keep it from snapping down further upon Nobody's arm. Bones creak between powerful jaws, the metal will only save the Yeren from the full force of its bite for so long.
In panic, the katana is released — a bloodied hand clasps around a relic, igniting an old magic along an even older stone carving. Glimmering, vibrant blue. Held against the chest as eyes squeeze shut.
Calling something. Awakening something.
An behemoth stag lunges through the smoke.
It's body of twisted roots, the antlers that crown it a shimmering blue. Wisps and motes of light follow and dance in its hoof-falls. It slams its antlers into the chest of the god, shoving it with a bellow. The god shrieks and claws against its shoulders as the elk pushes it.
And it is an opening. With one foot braced against the god's jaw, Nobody grips the greatsword.
It is swung back with the Yeren's entire might, shoved against the back of the god's throat and through.
It pierces through flesh and muscle and fire and bone.
The God of Wildfire Hunts waivers, crashes to the ground.
The upper portion of its head is severed. That human-esque mockery of a mask thrown to the side and cracked to pieces.
The stag takes a few steps back, huffing. Nobody's footing is regained, weapons retrieved. For a moment, the Other pauses. The stag's side is given an appreciative and hearty pat.
…
The fire has not waived. The stag's ears are pinned.
Nobody turns back to the god's body in time to be met with a veritable surge of flame. The Yeren is thrown back as the God of Wildfire Hunts surges into the air. The remains of its head now a burning effigy of teeth, a myriad of flaming wings have burst from its back — entangled in chains and trailing feathers like ash.
A final swansong.
Nobody hauls up onto the stag's back. The greatsword drawn once more. The stag counts its foot against the burning dirt and chuffs, head lowering.
The god circles above, shrieking like something soon to die.
Nobody circles below, the elk lets out an echoing cry. With narrowed eyes, the Faceless watches the beast above with a fierceness that could rival its fire.
Soon to die indeed.
Wings tuck in and the beast dives, only for them snap open mere meters above the ground — spraying burning embers down like a storm. Nobody's head ducks low to avoid, but hears it sizzle against the elk. Its bellow spark a pang in the Yeren's chest.
The next time the beast swoops low, Nobody is far more prepared. The greatsword slices through one of its many wings, cutting through feathers and chains. The God of Wildfire Hunts falters in the sky, wings beating to steady itself. It twists in the air to face its attackers, scattering dust and ash with its sweeping wings.
From its burning head, it spews a line of fire.
Nobody grabs the elk's one antler and yanks it to the side to aid the beast in swiveling out of the way of the blast. It leaps over a fallen and burning tree, embers and its own wisps trailing in its wake. The Wildfire burns a trail across the wasteland, swiveling itself to continue its attempt to light the two ablaze. The stag falters from time to time, sparks and flames eating away at its wood and vine flesh. Nobody silently hopes it will hold on for just a little while longer.
The sky above is still awash in crimson, as the god reigns its wrath. The smoke drowns the air, obscuring the sight of the charging elk — if not for its luminescent antlers. Nobody's breath wheezes against the smoke, eyes squeezing shut briefly in an attempt to reign in focus and breathe.
The elk lets out a howling cry, rallying the burning blue wisps that circle it — and sends forward a barrage of light. Cerulean strikes against crimson, the god screeches at the impact — and it burns, for it was not of fire of the God's domian. The wisps melt away at bone and metal, making the great beast falter.
Reeling from the strike, the god rears up and away — ascending to the stars, piercing through the billowing smoke and into the bloodied sky. Against the thick, writhing smoke, Nobody can see only its silhouette and burning head.
A loud bellow splits the night, and from high above, the God of Wildfire Hunts pulls in its wings and begins a sharp dive — once again pulling up at the last moment at a deadly fast speed that leaves it charging parallel to the burning earth.
The elk charges at full speed, head low as the god screams towards the two. Nobody braces, shoulders hunched. They tear through smoke and flames, guided forward by the spotlight of the god's own burning head.
Nobody thrusts the greatsword into the air.
The blade slices through the god's chest. It continues to slice through the god's chest. The momentum of the stag meeting the god's own causes it to cut through the beast's belly like a butcher's blade.
The God of Wildfire Hunts crashes down to the earth with a scream — burning ichor spews from its gutted chest, bright glowing masses that could charitably be called organs splatter across the dirt. It spasms and struggles, legs and wings thrashing desperately. The chains clink and melt against its body.
Nobody and the stag turn to face it. To watch it.
The struggling slows.
The flames around them waiver.
And then, in an instant, it is all snuffed out.
The wings fall apart without the fire to hold them, spreading ashen feathers into the dust. The blood of the sky fades away above them, returning its blue hue. The stars gentle their glow. Nobody allows some tenseness to abate, shoulders loosening.
Nothing but swiftly fading embers remain, as Nobody dismounts the stag and approaches the mass of metal slag and bone. It hisses, any heat within the mass quickly vacates, and begins to cool. Dead. Not gone, such things never were, but in remission, like the cancer it was. Maybe it would reform, some dozen millennia from now, to once more walk amidst the material and believe it to be its domain. Maybe it would fly screaming back to the spaces outside, disintegrating into irreality as it went. It did not matter, but Nobody often wondered if the Other's path will one day come across the renewed inferno of embers long since snuffed.
The tip of a blade enters the pile, and came away with a fresh coating of grime of who-knew-what-nature. Another stain for the collection. Another one dead. A scrap of ground regained, the wastes made slightly safer, so that the survivors can rebuild.
Satisfied once more, a dull sensation spread through the warrior's arm, like the touch of a loved one from beyond the world of the living, growing weaker each time it was felt. It slid back into its sheath with a shrill scratching, joining its sibling in rest. Until they were called upon once more.
The steed behind the warrior brayed loudly, quiet against the slowly rising wind. It was once a common belief that a horse was the best judge of location, but a stag can tell just as well. They were always moving to remove themselves from the vicinity of some ephemeral malpresence. The creature, befriended through ancient ritual, has not failed Nobody in its judgement yet. Nobody raises hands to gently cup its snout, a silent thanks for aid, before climbing back onto it.
And so, astride on the great stag's back, covered in cloth and bone, Nobody rode on. Somewhere to the west, in the remains of the Red Fortresses of the Corilapas, the next target lurked. A beast of stagnance, once chained by the God-Queens, broken free by the hammering of siege magic. What little people were left in the mountains after the war had lived in fear, a feeling Nobody had felt permeate the camps in burnt-out ruins and along the rivers along the trials through the range. For a time, they would have to wait, for as inevitable as the end the armored Yeren brought was, it was far from instant.
From there? Helma, perhaps, or Parssic. They were close enough together where the remaining looter clans could be persuaded to leave their cobbled-together hovels and bring down whatever invisible horror stalked the peninsula. Maybe to the deserts of the south, or over the great seas, into the frontier of the Empire. Perhaps this perversion would be the one that finally put Nobody to rest. But, even if it did,