Birathi (No longer accepting)

Lamika

"Perhaps Taur's legends will give us a clue." I nodded, but did not move.
"We can ask him later, right? I don't want to go outside..." Lamika tried to laugh and pretend she was simply refering to the cold, but she knew that Taur's silence was still affecting her. "Tonight we can take the next step. For now I just want to sit, and relax, and pretend like this isn't happening."
"Then sit we will," Haven answered, pulling her closer.

Wyverus

Saved from the abyss of destruction, the familiar arms of death. As much as Wyverus hated to admit it, the passed event had disturbed him greatly; never again would he take the joys of life, no matter how common, for granted. Being nearly claimed by death was not something the necromancer would ever forget. Never.

But what had shocked him, rivalling that of his near death, was Taur's skill in the dark arts. There was no way he could ever give life to a corpse any other way, no herbal or medicinal concoction could cure a blow from the grim reapers scythe. With newfound suspicion, Wyverus recited the names of those in his group, studying their faces in his mind. Was there really more to them than he currently understood? It was a distressing thought, but it had to be asked, was Wyverus fighting for the right cause? He knew of the vast oppression and terror that the tyrant ruler Ranare had caused in Birathi, but would the others do any better? After all, only Taur was the only one to have matured to an age to possess experience and wisdom, the rest were still to achieve true adulthood.

Digressing, Wyverus switched his wandering mind to the path of events that had just transpired. Why did Satina, his ever trusted mentor, betray him? Was she working for Ranare, or a much greater force? And what could either of the powers offer her? These questions haunted his knowledge of what he knew of his deceased master. All these years of training; were they in vain?

Wyverus tried not to dwell on the thoughts, and tried to go to sleep. He then remembered that he didn't need to, so he decided to meditate instead.

Taur

Taur sat watching Wyverus meditate. It struck his as odd, finding solace in watching someone else do the same, but for the time being it was satisfactory. His eyes searched every facet of the Necromancer's features; inwardly he tried in vain to patch the wounds the act of resurrection had made in his soul.
There had been a time once where Taur had delved in youthful ignorance into the dark abysses of the arcane, a time when his desire for knowledge and power overturned all others. No longer. He had vowed never again to set foot down such a path, and until now, he had kept his promise.
Taur had reopened wounds he had long considered closed, wounds made nearly two centuries before. He had broken the one oath he had so dearly wanted to uphold, and it had left his soul bare.
Motion caught his eye. Wyverus stirred, perhaps sensing Taur's scrutiny, but continued his meditation after a moment. The old Ox sighed, moving his gaze from the Necromancer to the grass at his feet. He studied it intently, its texture, its colour, its movements in the brusque evening breeze. Grass had made its oath to cover the land, and cover it it did. Taur's sigh clouded before him in the cold air.
"What bothers you so, Oxman?" Wyverus had not moved, save to speak. Taur chastised himself for disturbing the man.
"Many too many things, Necromancer. Many too many."
"We can talk, if that is what you wish." Wyverus' concern touched Taur's heart, warmed it slightly, but Taur did not wish to commune with other members of the group until he had first communed with the Mother River, and so Wyverus would have to wait. He shook his head.
Wyverus hovered over him, seeming to want to say something more; Taur breathed a heavy sigh when he eventually moved away. Still, his emotions broiled in a way he could not fully understand. Relenting, he called after the walking Necromancer.
"Perhaps we could converse, brother, for a short while."

Haven

Lamika and I lay there for a while. Contemplating plans, thinking of the future. Pitting our woefully inadequate knowledge of the world beyond our homes against the future of a nation. Finally we reached a conclusion and strode out to speak with the others.
"Companions, friends. We have stood shoulder to shoulder in defence of a dream. Shed blood and lost friends in our determination to reach our goal. Now I ask you to follow my faith in a prophecy. I must reach Hunters Hill before the next full moon. From there I will gather my kind and my kin. With them at our backs your races will come next. Offers of allegiance and treaties of lands freedom and peace in the new kingdom we will forge." Giving this speech I felt different. I had purpose and with it came confidence. Even Lamikas gaze fuelled my fervour.
"Will you follow me? Together we can do this."

Lamika

Lamika stood patiently, staying as close to Haven as she could. His strength had grown, and he stood with a strange sense of power that she could not shake. "Will you follow me? Together we can do this." The two waited for an answer from the quiet necromancer and minotaur.
"You know I will be with you always," Lamika whispered gently, gazing at Haven. He gave her a small smile, and pulled her closer. Firego had just emerged from his tent, and he nodded.
"If my sister is with you, I will not leave either. I'm sure Jenko would say the same." Jenko joined him, nodding.
"Yet this is easy for us to say. The human race has already been torn and divided. No harm can come of our joining or not. It is you," he turned to the other two, "it is you whose decision may affect your entire race."
"I will give you no answer at the present," answered Taur, "I must have time to decide." Haven nodded, now waiting only for Wyverus to answer.

Wyverus

Taur's deep but gentle voice called the Necromancer to turn, Wyverus could feel that both he and the oxman needed to talk. As much as Jenko was the closest thing to a friend Wyverus ever had, he found most solitude and peacefulness in the presence of the old, wise bull. Wyverus, although he was a human, had more in common with Taur than the rest. Both were bound by a deep, spiritual code, the necromancer's more sinister and ammoral. They too shared an exceptionally long lifespan; although Wyverus could not even hazard to estimate the age of death in Oxmen, he knew that he would outlive the others twenty times over.

"I know what worries you Taur. Well, at least one of the main things" Wyverus spoke, emotion still not affecting voice, as always.

"Ideed, I can't imagine anything sneaking past your senses. Enlighten me"

"Necromancy isn't easy, especially not shortcuts. The dark arts is not within your nature, and although you saved me from destruction, I disaprove of your gamble. Why would you risk sacrificing your sanity by dabbling in such terrible magics?"

The old bull sat silent, refusing to speak. And then it clicked. Wyverus knew that Taur's first alliegiance was to the mother river, and the necromancer wouldn't dare challenge this. Lamika and Haven emerged from their solitude from the group.

"Who will follow me?" Haven asked. Everyone seemed to approve, except Taur and Wyverus. Taur had to consult the mother river for forgiveness before he could continue any further, and Wyverus, although it pained him to part with the group for this period, had promised himself to uncover the answers to his master's betrayal.

"I will follow," the necromancer replied "in time. For now I must discover the truth behind this curtain of lies. Know that my spiritual support will follow you always, but for now we must part. Farewell". Black shadows swirled around Wyverus' body and he sighed deeply. For a split second a break in the warlock's expression showed a sombre face, emotion. The darkness enveloped him, and then subsided.

Haven

I knew Lamika wouldn't leave and her brothers would never leave her. Taur wanting to think I could understand. He would have to be our emissary to his kind and if they would not bend then many of them would fight and many of those would die beneath the savagery of the shifters. Wyverus leaving had me a little concerned. His power and his hollow men would have been most useful but he needed answers and i would not deny him that. I would just have to have faith he would return.
"The people of Blackmire stand with you, Sir." I look over to see a man from the town, still clutching a hammer.
"Then spread the word. We travel to Hunters Hill and any aid would be much appreciated. If we gather enough support we will pass through here on our return. I suggest you prepare for war and gather any other villages you can."
"Of course, Sir." With that he marched proudly back into town.
"Taur can you think whilst we travel?" I smirked at him. His reply was to shrug on his pack, laden with offerings from the towns people and stride off down the path.
"Shall we?" I smiled at Lamika, repositioning the sword on my belt. A gift from the blacksmith. He called it Fireborn.

Lamika

Lamika took Haven's hand and smiled. "We shall." Haven began walking, and Lamika followed closely, glancing the the sword that hung from his belt. Her own gift from the village hung on her back, a new bow and a quiver of arrows. She took a deep breath, feeling as though for once she had some small bit of hope to cling to. At the moment it was only a tiny flame, but she could feel its power kindle and grow in her heart, and she longed to let it explode. Instead she pushed it down and stared ahead at the massive trees and the approaching houses of Blackmire.

Taur

Poor Wyverus, Taur mused. Poor, naive Wyverus.
"There's more than one way to skin a cat," Taur murmured out load, breath coalescing in the bracing air. Haven looked up, obviously thinking Taur was speaking to him, but the old bull continued on without returning his gaze.
Wyverus had truly believed that Necromancy was the only was to raise the dead, and to a certain extent, it was true. What Taur had performed could be described as Necromancy, for those whose minds were either too closed or too vulnerable to learn the truth.
The truth stuck in Taur's chest like a physical entity, slowly constricting him, stopping his breathing, the beating of his heart.
It had been almost two centuries since Taur had engaged in ritualism. It was a black art, darker perhaps even than the path Wyverus had taken. Taur had learned its secrets as an overambitious young Ox, fresh from a bloody campaign and lusting for power like never in his life. He had travelled deep into the Grey Peaks, hungering for knowledge. There, he had spent decades studying under the master ritualists. They had granted him power, yes, but it had taken its toll. For every spell he cast, every word of ritual text he uttered, part of his soul had been lost, ripped from him and dragged over to the other side. While his power had grown, his body had atrophied, growing weak and pale, loosing hair, slowly dying. Taur had freed himself from its grip, sworn to never again dabble in the arcane. But he had broken his promise, and his body paid the price for his actions. Raising a soul from the other side was the most taxing task he could perform, and it required the most blood.
Poor Wyverus. Taur hoped he would never experience such pain.

Wyverus

Wyverus had arrived at the Amethyst Caverns, and goosebumps rose from his pale skin. From the events that had recently unveiled themselves, Wyverus no longer thought of this place as his home, but a giant lie. Silence drifted through the musty, dank smell of the deep, purple jewel encrusted grotto, and the necromancer became locked in deep thought. His steps became a gentle metronome, stepping in a simultaneous beat with dripping water. The sombre smile had faded back into the same emotionless expression, however a trace of profundity emanated from his slow breathing and general body language.

Wyverus' footsteps stopped abruptly; he had arrived. The gaping hole of his past marked the doorway into a castle of amethyst, the home of lies and betrayal. The young man wandered through the violet corrdiors, no longer did he feel death, nor power of any kind. What he felt was pain. He was no longer looking where he was going, he was staring into a non-existant world, reminiscant of childhood memories. His learning of necromancy was intense and harsh, but now it seemed like a waste. He broke from his daydream, and noticed the sliver silk mat in the middle of the cold, smooth obsidian floor. This was her meditation mat. To the left he saw her onyx cupboard and drawers, crafted by the spirits she controlled. Wyverus refused to say her name any longer, to him, she had never existed.

He wandered over to the dresser, almost drawn in by a powerful instinct. His pale hand reached out and tore out the drawers; rage. His blood was boiling, he had bottled up every piece of pain until this time, and now he could expell it all from his system. The iron railings could not hold against the necromancer's anger fuelled strength, and the jewel vessels shattered against the floor. Shattered like his trust. On the floor lay a letter, tea-stained and creased from transit. The print upon it read: To the Queen of Necromancers.

This belonged to her, and it had been opened too. Finally, Wyverus would have his answers. The curtains of deciet would now be drawn, and the wall of mystery demolished. The necromancer braced himself for what he was about to discover... and pulled the letter from its casing.