Lanpool, Totaris

"They're outside! An entire pack of 'em!" A farmer adorning dirt-slathered tunic and trousers burst into the tavern, his face redder than a hog's arse. Sweat spilled into his beard and soaked his collar. Whatever cheery ambiance filled the building immediately shifted to one of nerves and fear. Furry eyebrows hiked up and disappeared behind greasy hairlines, and chatter about finally ensnaring a fox after its third break into their chicken coop screeched to a halt.

Another patron slammed his mug to the table with a curse. "Shite! How close are they?"

"J-just cresting the hill! We don't have long!" the farmer babbled.

Heaving a growl, the tenant was already on his feet and ushering the others towards the back exit, who stumbled over their own feet and battled with swimming vision. Any other time Doonts would've shoved his boot so far up their holes that they'd pass leather-scented dung for weeks, but time was of the essence.

Guards would come ransacking the Drunken Jester at any moment.

"Margie! Don't idle, love." Doonts's call carried over the crowd to a blonde and stout barmaid; she stood an inch shy of Doonts, and the youthfulness of her round face combined with exhausted brown eyes spoke of an older woman who befriended Father Time. Margie was in the process of dumping and rinsing out as many mugs as she could, until Doonts's much larger hands covered her own. "None of that! You go on to the house, now! Look after the kids and wait for me!"

Margie immediately shook her head. "Ain't no way I'm leaving you alone with them. I'll have Vaashill rake my body over the coals before letting them take ya--"

"Hush now." His voice dwindled to a whisper as their foreheads met. He could feel the sweat gathering between their brow. Hear the sobs building in Margie's chest. They locked eyes. "Skipped one pay too many, love. You saw this day coming just as well as me... Don't you go and let our kids grow up with no mother, you hear? I ain't having it."

A whimper bubbled up the back of Margie's throat, her eyes screwing shut. "I can't..."

"You can." Doonts cradled her face. In the blink of an eye, all of the fear in his visage vanished and a reassuring smile peered through his massive brown forest of a beard. "I married the most beautiful and bullheaded woman in Lanpool. There's nothing you can't do."

Before Margie could protest further, the creak of a rolling cart and metal feet traveled from outside. A harsh knock bashed against the front door. "Open up! In the name of your superior, Lord Vaashill!"

Time was up.

Franticness born anew, Doonts shoved Margie away from the bar, his heart breaking at the sound of a cry escaping her. "Go!" A violent tremor coursed through Margie's hands and he couldn't help but savor that feeling up until their fingertips parted. Something deep in his gut dreaded this to be the last time they'd ever touch. He watched his wife stumble backwards, unable to look away until she palmed blindly at the handle of the rear exit.

"Y-you better be home before dark!" she cried.

"Aye." Doonts smiled, one of painful bittersweetness. "I always do, love."

A fraction of time.

Then she was gone.

And not a moment after, the front door swung open with a mighty kick and several guards slithered into the tavern. Before they noticed Doonts's presence, the man slipped a mead knife into the back of his waistband, its blade rigid and sharp enough to flay a live horse. "Can I help ya, gentlemen?"

"You're well aware of what we're here for." It was the largest of the guards who spoke, stepping forward to pin Doonts down with an icy glare through the slot of his helmet. There was a borderline animalistic gravel to his voice, though it did little to daunt the peasant man. Instead, his chest puffed up, a silent challenge that made a sneer pull at the guard's hidden lips. "Do you own this pigsty?"

"Aye, and if I do?" Doonts asked, eyes narrowing.

"This establishment is two days late on its pay. And this isn't the first time."

"You want me to have a cozy chit chat with Mother Nature then? Tell her to spring up some extra barley in our fields? Huh? Our ale's the best in Lanpool cuz it takes time. We can't crank out piss in a cup."

"Lanpool's nothing short of a fecal stain on the map," the guard hissed. From the corner of Doonts's vision, he saw his hand fall to the hilt of a sword at his side. A longsword. "Bragging about your ale here is like praising a mule for homing flies. Don't misplace your value, peasant." Broiling rage shifted the tavern owner's chin from side to side, only to swallow back the emotion a second later and expel a quick breath. His next words slipped through clenched teeth.

"I'll get ya your pay soon."

"You'll pay today."

"I. Can't. Do. That."

"I didn't say with coin."

In a flourish of movement, the rest of the guards surrounded Doonts and seized him from all sides, their grasps firmer than steel. He immediately began thrashing like a wild mare. "Hands off, ya metal-chromed demons! Ya won't take me!" Even with the unbridled ferocity coursing through his veins, even with the powerful yanks and snarls, his efforts proved to be futile. The head guard drew closer until mere inches were left between them and dug gloved fingers deeply into the hinges of Doonts's jaw.

"Your energy will serve well in our slave camps," he chuckled, the hot scent of ham and mediocre ale wafting from his breath. "And we'll see to it that this pitiful hovel is placed under close management." Something vile twinkled in his eyes. "Are you a family man? I'm certain your wife's corpse can help fertilize those barren fields of yours--!"

Sucking in a large ball of mucus, Doonts spat right into the gap of the guard's helmet. He howled while frantically ripping off the mask, wiping away the spittle from his nose and eyes. "You fucking waste of air! I'll have you executed alongside everyone in this godforsaken village!" In an instant, his sword was unsheathed. He raised it overhead, casting a long shadow over the peasant, before bringing the blade down to carve him in two.

Only to stop mid-swing.

Pitch black.

Moonlight seeping through the windows thinned into needle pricks before evaporating into thin air. An unnatural stillness befell the tavern and miles upon miles of lands beyond it. With the horrific blindness came wails from every mouth in Lanpool. In Totaris. A wave of nausea struck the head guard like a bolt of lightning, his fright so powerful that his sword fell from his hands and hit the floorboards with a dull thud. He couldn't see a centimeter before him.

Just pure, raw, unfiltered darkness.

A heavy downpour beat against the roof, eliciting even more shrill screams and echoing cries. However, the guard barely had a chance to register his living nightmare before noises of a struggle filled his ears. The recognizable voices of his fellow guards soon followed, tinged with a fear similar to his own.

"He's loose!"

"Find him!"

"B-but I can't see!"

Thumping feet. Ones that didn't sound metallic at all. And they were drawing close.

The head guard's chest grew tighter and tighter with every breath he took. He knelt down and scrambled about the floor in search of his weapon, only to curse in frustration when he kept bumping into chairs and tables.

Closer the footsteps became.

His heartbeat stuttered.

A shuffle to the left. No sword.

Closer.

A desperate skitter to the right. Still no sword. A rapid pounding set off in his temples as sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

Ever closer. Ever louder.

"P-priests and Gods! Help me!" The head guard's composure shattered into a million little pieces, succumbing to the miasma threatening to drown him on the spot. He didn't want to die. He wasn't ready to die. Not this soon. Not like this.

A heavy weight crashed into him and pinned his back to the floor, the air rushing from his lungs in one fell swoop. He clawed at the burly arms holding him down with wild abandon. "U-unhand me this instant! So I command as your superior!" The faint sound of rummaging through clothes. Something akin to a whimper escaped him. "The lord shall have your head on a pike and roasting over a spit!"

Empty threats.

The sickening squelch of a blade driving through flesh and bone.

Like the lifting of a curse, the mysterious cloak was pulled free of the heavens and moonlight spilled over the world once more, illuminating an injured guard and bloodied peasant looming over him. Just as Doonts reared back for a second strike, he was promptly tackled to the ground. The head guard staggered to his feet while cradling a patch of crimson on his thigh. Then, he raised his sword and lined it up with the back of Doonts's neck.

The screams of Totaris raged throughout the night.

🌢

"Ink? You're certain?"

"Yes. We had our mage compare it to every principle of magic and it has come back... unknown. We have no idea what to make of this."

"Raining ink after the moon vanishes..." A chuckle twisted by fascination. "Only to return minutes after. Just like--"

"The story."

"No. The prophecy. Glory is yet within my grasp; I'm no fool to overlook this." Then came a thoughtful pause, before he continued, "But all great heroes face adversary. If the prophecy speaks true, then they'll come for me in two decades time."

"Shall I finally send word and gather my men?"

The answer came without pause. "You shall. I want Hendry's unit manning the first wave into Talat. They're already floating about Lanpool; it only makes sense."

"I..."

"What?"

The general cleared his throat before muttering, "Hendry is currently unable to serve in the raid. He obtained fatal injuries during a routine fee collection."

"The Drunken Jester?"

"Yes, my lord."

Only a hum resounded, as if he was lightly battling with himself over his next words. However, a few moments of silence gave birth to a simple revelation. "So I'd expect. Harassing the business of a retired knight will lead to such things. Give word to Hendry that his days serving Totaris are over. Dismissed."

A curt bow, then he was granted privacy once more.

Lord Vaashill stared at the mile-long tapestry hanging high above his throne. A bony and spindly hand descended from a crescent moon, curving around three orbs of black. Below that was the depiction of large silhouettes clambering and trampling over one another, slits for eyes scattered about the wriggling mass of black.

The tyrannical ruler smiled.

"I heed your call, my priests. Wait for me."