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No More Opals, pt 4

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Mal-Ferren had never felt more alive than when he had died... and brought back by his Master. The return of Mal-Corwin was a new, brighter chapter in the Werulf's existence as all of the work which had transpired since Lord Muscroft's death had finally born fruit; it had all been worth it. From the first talk he had with his arisen Master through the numerous years of conquest later, Mal-Ferren finally knew that his purpose was being fulfilled.

The great conquest was no small feat; an entire continent could not be taken overnight. Regardless, Malcormus' forces swelled with each victory-- in most cases the disenfranchised welcomed their new god and the general populace continued on in their petty, ignorant lives without raising a fuss. For those who resisted, they too would join the horde in service to Him, risen as more of the undead legion, though without His blessing. It was a time of learning for Mal-Ferren... learning about what he was, as well as those who were pale imitations of him.

True undead, such as Mal-Ferren, were willing servants to the Dark God. Malcormus instilled in them a life beyond life, and an ever-youthful, ever-impowered body. True undead remained as copies of their living selves, only they were no longer burdened by the limitations of a living body-- they did not require food, nor sleep, nor air to breathe; they could not grow sick, succumb to poison, nor bear the affects of infirmity. Truly, for those risen devoted to their God, undeath was a blessing. The same could not be said for those who resisted.

For the unfortunate, ignorant fools who stood in opposition to Malcormus' will, they too would serve him in death whether they wanted to or not. Thralls, as they were known, lost the essence that made them who they were-- their souls torn asunder by conflicting powers as the afterlife called, but Malcormus refused to let the animating force leave their physical vessel. As a result, those who did not embrace Him, were brought back as near mindless, roving husks who, despite their wishes when alive, remained the God of Whispers' tools in death. Mal-Ferren found it poetic.

The undead who served as Malcormus' Thralls were not blessed in the way of the True Undead. The mindless legions were not themselves, and had no desires or thoughts that were not their God's. They were lesser things, expendable, and serviceable on the front lines of the battle with those who opposed His will-- all the more poetic when the undead thralls were sent against those who knew them in life. Unlike the True Undead, those fodder were held together mechanically by the power that animated them; rather than preserving their flesh, the Usury mana gave them extraordinary power at the expense of their flesh.

The Thralls became decomposing corpses shambling across the battlefield; their wounds continued to mount until their rotting flesh began to fall off their bones and yet the resulting zombies continued to fight; eventually there was nothing left but skeletons, and yet they too stayed in the fray, fighting until their opponents broke every last piece of them. Mal-Ferren didn't know what happened at that point, but he did not care; tools which could not serve his Master were of no use. Malcormus did put his tools to good use, however, and, in just over a decade, the Dark God and his armies had pushed those who opposed Him to the final confrontation for the fate of the continent. Mal-Ferren was jubilant.

The resistance in the beginning had been fierce but the opposing forces gradually began to give way, faltering, and ultimately routing. The conquest started eastward through the plains and, by the time Malcormus' followers had set upon the foothills several leagues from the coast, they were marching all but uncontested. Maan' Henion along the north coast fell first, followed by Mann' Ami to the south. At that point, the greatest bulk of Malcormus' force was able to return victorious to Maan'Ellis before setting its sights westward-- that had been less than a year before that morning--- THE morning.

Mal-Ferren knew innately that his place was by his Master's side. Unlike the rest of Malcormus' inner-circle of followers, Mal-Ferren did not keep his own tent; he shared his Master's. Since neither slept, the downtime for the troops was theirs entirely; the rest of the world was silent but the two of them had each other. Mal-Ferren cherished those times and, in most cases, mourned when their quiet councils came to an end, but on that morning he was barely able to contain his excitement. Almost bouncing around Malcormus like a pupppy, the Werulf was eager to start. "Today is the day, my Lord-- today is the day of Your ultimate victory."

Smiling warmly, Malcormus reached out and cupped Mal-Ferren's furry cheek in His hand. "Today is a victory for Us all."

* * * * *

Over the course of the years between Malcormus rising and the morning of the final battle, a number of the Dark God's inner circle had lost their life. No longer limited to the frailty mortals, Malcormus had raised them all, and Mal-Ferren found himself surrounded by his undead brothers and sisters, all circling the war table with Malcormus at the head; Mal-Ferren, as usual, was by his Master's right hand. One of the few still living members of the retinue, Jiibelle, stood by Malcormus' left.

Time had changed Mal-Ferren's opinion of the Werrit. While he originally thought of her as an interloper, pretender, and lacking of devotion she had proven him wrong in the years since. The decades had tempered her some, and given her a greater appreciation for Malcormus' will. While Mal-Ferren and Jiibelle did not always see eye to eye, they were able to work together flawlessly and complimented one another effortlessly. The Werulf certainly didn't begrudge her the position granted to her by their Master; she was worthy of it.

Rounding out those in attendance were the usual. Mal-Rima had died early on in the war and was brought back almost immediately; her gray fur was flawless as always, though the enormous, gaping wound in her chest had been stitched up and she favored heavy tunics to cover it ever since. The years since had been kind to her; being undead, she still appeared at the age she had attained before her death; other than the wound that had slain her, no other injury she'd sustained since had stuck-- the forces animating her had seen to their disappearance, and she seemed pleased by how indestructible the magic made her.

Mal-Brooks and Mal-Ire made the transition toward the end of the eastern conquest; they gave their lives defending Malcormus when the last holdout champions of those opposing them pushed for the legion's commanders. Since being raised, the two of them were constantly testing the limits of the Usury Magic animating them; Mal-Ferren could sometimes hear them trying any number of lewd acts only suitable for those who were already dead. He could appreciate their fervor since most senses were muted save when interacting with other members of the Undead-- being as carnally involved as they had been with one another it stood to reason that their 'tastes' would evolve in undeath.

Other than Jiib, who was still alive, the only member of their number who had not been risen after a violent end was Altan, Lord Malcormus' Heudan sage... but the Owl most certainly was Undead. Mal-Altan had died of old age in the middle of the eastern conquest and, like the rest of them, he was brought back by the Dark God. While frail, weak, and ill of health at the end of his life, Mal-Altan's Undead form was supernaturally fortified-- granted, he still looked as ancient as the Maans themselves, but, despite his spindly, ancient appearance, Mal-Altan was as physically fit as the rest of the retinue.

It was to the Owl that Malcormus spoke. "Will the totem be ready on time?"

Mal-Altan bowed his head "Yes, Master... ready to become a Gaunt... except for the final piece."

Turning with a melodramatic flourish, the Heudan sage motioned with a talon to an object covered by a tarp. At the gesture, the two skeleton thralls standing on either side of it reached up and pulled off the covering, revealing a finely crafted statue resembling an ivory-furred Antlarin made entirely of Opal. The sculpture, created by magically combining the countless white opals in the Muscroft household, was the spitting image of a late-teenage Elk buck.

Although Mal-Ferren had no skill with magic, he was perceptive to the flow of Mana, and he could see that the otherwise-perfect cervid statue was not yet complete; there was still something missing. Mal-Rima. however, looked unimpressed. "At least Your last Gaunt was a Human... why bother with a Belnyr, my Lord?"

Among the Antlarin, the Belnyr were one of the rarest subspecies. They had never been common but, with the majority of the Antlarin joining Malcormus' armies, their numbers had dwindled even more during to the war. Mal-Ferren smiled when his Master responded in the most supurb way possible to the often-uppity Le'o woman. "Because it is what I decided."

An actual question arose from Mal-Brooks. "If we are to conduct a ritual, Master, do you have a sacrifice in mind?"

Malcormus raised a hand to forestall that thought. "No... I have a different plan in mind for this sweet child." The Dark God moved over to the statue, gently caressing the Belnyr's opal cheek. "Do not worry yourselves about this one... he is almost complete for Our purposes... I only need one last thing."

Mal-Ferren was quick to step up to offer his services. "Whatever it is, Master, I will make it so."

Malcormus' hand left the statue and transferred instead to Mal-Ferren's head, patting him between the ears. "I know you would, My friend... but in this case, I will require Jiibelle's assistance."

The Werrit stood up a little straighter, surprise obvious on her face. "Me, Lord Malcormus? Of course. Anything."

The God of the Dead turned to regard Jiibelle, holding out his hand; she obediently placed her paw into it. He pulled her away from the table and moved toward the statue. once they stood in front of it, Malcormus released her paw in favor of holding just one finger. "You are all aware how nothing happens for a reason..."

Mal-Ferren's eyes drifted to the ring encircling the Werrit's digit and he watched as her eyes were too. "My ring?"

As still as the Belnyr statue, Malcormus simply nodded his head. "Your opal ring, My dear... it is the last piece of the puzzle."

Although the Werulf would not have hesitated in the least he understood Jiibelle's reluctance; it was the last thing she had to remind her of her family. Such things had been as important to the Werrit for as long as Mal-Ferren had known her, but he knew her dedication to the cause was greater, and he wasn't wrong. As expected, Jiibelle ultimately nodded, letting the God of Whispers slide it gently from her finger. His words were generous. "Your selflessness will be rewarded, My dear."

She bowed her head, moving to step away, but Malcormus took her by the wrist with his free hand. The Werrit paused. "Master?"

Rather than address her questioning glance, Malcormus looked to the assembly. "Our pending victory is due to all of you. Without you, none of this would be possible. Although I have spent over a century fighting for what we are about to achieve, it is all of you, not ME, to whom this success shall be credited. Your devotion; your faith; your trust in Me... and your sacrifices."

With that, Malcormus reached his hand forward, pressing the ring into an almost imperceptibly small hole that Mal'Ferren hadn't previously noticed. The opal statute shone brightly; a flourishing shimmer of light danced across its surface as the last white stone merged with its form and, when the God of the Ignored drew His hand away all he held was an empty, unadorned band. Handing it ceremoniously back to the Werrit, Malcormus spoke softly. "I have seen the future, as I often do, My Friends... and I have seen troubling things. This one, my dearest creation, Tah'Mythrius of the Moonlight, shall ease much suffering and be the bastion of succor for so many. His time is not now, but, those faithful to Me, shall know when that time comes."

Jiibelle slowly returned to the table, sliding her empty ring back on her finger. "Then we will honor him as well, Master Malcormus."

Smiling softly, the Dark God turned to addressed His followers. "For much of the time you have followed Me you did so protected by opals-- denying the mercurial whims of Karma and refusing to be beholden to such a broken system."

Numrerous shouts of approval and agreement went up from within the tent; although their numbers were barely a dozen, those present were the most loyal of Malcormus' followers and, unlike the legions who awaited His orders in the field, knew that His power to protect them was limited to the vast store of opals to which he had access. Staring at the impressive Belnyr statue next to Malcormus, Mal-Ferren knew the truth to what the Dark God had told him in confidence, and to what He was explaining in the moment.

Malcormus finally released Jiibelle's paw and let her return to the table as He continued speaking. "As you all know, for the past few months We have gathered the opals from Our followers... and now you know why. Karma has taken its toll on many of Our legion, and yet We will not be swayed from our goals. In the morning, We ride out one final time for the confrontation which will secure Our victory. The time has passed to hide behind petty loopholes. Tomorrow, We show the gods the failure inherent in this system. No more opals, My friends. Tomorrow, We end this."

Only as the cries of pending victory from within the tent were drowned out by the cacophony of roars, cries, bugles, and cheers from beyond did Mal-Ferren realize that Malcormus had broadcast his short but meaningful speech to the entirety of their forces. The whispers had come to an end; the secrets were done. Mal-Ferren knew that the morning sun would dispel the last of the shadows and lay bare Malcormus' great deeds and nobody in the entirety of creation would doubt His greatness.

* * * * *

The battlefield, as always, was glorious. Malcormus had chosen a high spot on the rolling landscape, providing Him a suitable view of the pending victory. Mal-Ferren, ever at his Master's side, reveled in his prime-of-place at his God's right hand, but he regretted not being able have a more active role in the final battle. There was no doubt in his mind; over the past few months Malcormus' forces had engaged with occasional skirmishes but nobody had been able to raise a suitable defense-- those resisting Him were gathering their power, and what the God of the Liberated faced that final morning was the meager remnants of that which stood in opposition... and, as true as any other engagement, it was a slaughter.

It, as usual, made Malcormus melancholy-- more so than usual. "Ah... I will miss this, Mal-Ferren."

The Werwulf stood by His side, obediently, stalwartly, knowing that, on many occasion, he was his Master's rock. "I understand, my Lord, but there shall be no more needless killing... no more of those beholden to the old ways... no more to stand against the world that You wish to rebuild."

His beloved Master let out a long sigh. "No, Mal-Ferren... this is only the catalyst to that change. The hard road is still spread out far ahead, and this is but the first of many steps."

Although the Werulf rarely interacted with his Lord without being bidden, Mal-Ferren could not stand to hear what sounded almost like remorse in Malcormus' tone. Reaching out with his paw, the Werulf found his God's hand, and grasped it. "I shall be with you every step of the way, Master. This, I vow."

Chuckling softly, Malcormus simply shook his head. "No, my dearest Mal-Ferren... that is not meant to be."

The statement was spoken with the surety of prophecy and stuck an icy blade into the Werulf's heart. Gnashing his teeth against the encroaching emotional incapacitation, Mal'Ferren pressed on. "Then I shall fight for you with my every last ounce of energy, and walk with you down that path for as long as I am animated. I VOW it."

Turning to regard the Werulf, Malcormus tilted his head slightly, fine, black hair shifting ever-so-faintly across His eyes in a way that made Mal-Ferren's undead heart beat again. He loved his God like he could no one else; Malcormus completed him, and he existedf to serve his beloved Master. Almost as if able to read his mind, the God of Whispers leaned forward. For a moment, Mal-Ferren was convinced that his God meant to bestow upon him a kiss, and the Werulf felt his tail begin to move of its own volition; no finer a blessing could he hope to receive.

Malcormus' lips passed by his own, however, coming to rest beside his ear instead. "Mal-Ferren... beloved, loyal, treasured Mal-Ferren... I wish to give you one final secret... my last blessing for the one who has served me so faithfully for so long."

To Mal-Ferren, it almost started to sound like a goodbye. "Master, I--"

His God did not hold back. "It ends this day... for all of us."

The Werulf took a few moments to try and reason through what he was hearing. "Master... we are winning. Those who oppose You are--"

Malcormus pulled back, gesturing to the field below them. "Dearest Mal-Ferren... you are looking down, to the playthings of the world...."

When the Dark God raised his arm skyward, Mal-Ferren took in a sharp breath; the sun had grown darker-- not because of anything it had done, but because of a greater, brighter, silvery light manifesting high in the sky. The Werulf was stunned. "...what?"

His Master's arm slid around him, providing him steady support within a comforting, casual embrace. "The end, My friend. The culmination of everything We have fought so hard to achieve. There are powers in this world greater than the Gods... and, while it is incredibly difficult to get the attention of such powers, this is proof that it is not impossible."

Mal-Ferren, despite what he was hearing, was surprised that his tail did not wag; what he was witnessing was glorious, and beautiful... glorious... overwhelming... awe inspiring... and disquieting. "It... it is a sign of Your victory?"

The half embrace changed to a full one as Malcormus turned to fully wrap both arms around the Werulf, who felt a soft, exhausted breath leave his Master. "Our victory, and Our defeat, my beloved companion. It is the Aegis... and it is here to obliterate us."

Yelping, Mal-Ferren went to extricate himself from the Dark God's grasp-- the first time he had ever wished to pull away from his Master. Malcormus released him without resistance, and the Werulf leveled his gaze at his Lord. "What do you mean? Why? How could it? You are the most powerful being here! Surely if the Gods--"

Malcormus took gentle hold of the confused Werulf and softly stroked his head. "Mal-Ferren... I just said: this is BEYOND the Gods... it NEEDS to be."

The Werulf's mind finally began to catch up to what he was hearing. "You have often spoke of sacrifice, Master..."

The God embraced him fully, caressing his back. "Indeed I have, My dear Mal-Ferren... and I would never ask for more from My followers than I would expect from Myself."

Understanding his place in his Master's designs made giving himself over to them easy. Embracing his most beloved Lord in return, Mal-Ferren didn't even bother hiding the soft whine to his voice. "Then it will be my greatest joy in giving myself over to Your grand ascention, my love."

The Werulf froze in place when his tongue slipped, speaking words that he had never meant to reveal. At first, Mal'Ferren was relieved when his master did not respond, but an strong sense of unease began to flow through him when he felt a faint hitch to Malcormus' breath; he realized that his Lord was crying silently. Before he could second guess the reason, the Dark God revealed it. "There will be no ascension, Mal-Ferren... the Aegis has come to remove us entirely."

For the second time that day, and in as many times in his life, Mal-Ferren disengaged, pushing his master to arm's length. He could not hide his incredulity. "Remove us? How? I... I don't understand!"

Malcormus' downcast gaze, despite how mournful, still read victory. "Even now, the other Gods watch. They will see that the 'all or nothing' approach that governs this world like a tyrant cannot be an effective way for mortals to exist. The Aegis will scour this battlefield of every last of the legion-- possibly some of those who stand against Us as well. Those who are marked by Karma as 'unfit' will cease to be-- 'cleansed' in the name of this foolish, antiquated law. This MUST be done if change is to happen."

Resolve strengthening with each word spoken by his master, Mal-Ferren felt renewed faith in the task. "We will do this for You, Master... I know every last one of us is deicated to the cause... and, afterward, You can tell the world that we--"

His words faltered and eventually trailed off to silence as Malcormus shook his head. Only once the Werulf had fallen silent did his Lord explain. "I would never ask more of My followers than I would of Myself, dearest Mal-Ferren... I am not immune to the Aegis... I will join all of you in this sacrifice."

Mal-Ferren was struck dumb. He tried three times and failed, only to make his objection known on his fourth try. "Master... You can't!"

Leaning forward, Malcormus smiled, reaching out to affix a broach onto the Werulf's cloak; Mal-Ferren recognized it immediately: it was the pin he was given the day he swore himself to Corwin Muscroft-- only the opal was as black as midnight. After that, his Master graced him with another gift: a kiss on his cheek. "I can, and I will... My love."

If not for his heart having been broke by what he'd heard, the acknowledgement of affection from his master would have warmed it. Behind him, back toward the battlefield, Mal-Ferren's keen ears heard the sounds of terror, and a deep, earth-shattering rumble that could only have been the surreal power being unleashed upon the combatants. In mere moments, if what he heard was to be understood, the grand legion would no longer exist... and the power was washing across the landscape-- soon to be upon him, and upon his Master.

Mal-Ferren couldn't stand it. "Master... please... don't do this."

Malcormus looked at him with sympathy, and heartache, and love... but also with determination. "It is already done, Mal-Ferren... all who are live and are unliving are beholden to the Aegis... it is time for this to end... for all of it to end. Come..." the God spread his arms wide. "Let us face it together."

Realizing what was to come, Mal-Ferren stepped forward and embraced his Master, knowing it was the last time they would hold one another. "Goodbye... Mal-Corwin."

He felt Malcormus give him a gentle squeeze, as if letting him know it would be okay. Unbeknownst to the Dark God, Mal-Ferren had already come to that conclusion. Adjusting his grip on his short blade, the Werrulf slid it into his Master's back at the perfect spot; to a living being it would be a painful, swift death. To an undead, it was simply a return to death... and a place the Aegis could not reach.

Slowly laying the unmoving corpse of his beloved to the earth, Mal-Ferren let out a howl of victory, knowing that his sacrifice would be warranted: the Werulf would be destroyed, but Malcormus would escape the Aegis. Refusing to close his eyes in anticipation of the end, he focused only on the softly smiling face of his Lord, fervently intent on it being the last blessed thing he would ever see. Letting air fill is unliving lungs, Mal-Ferren let out a howl of victory; he had cheated fate on his Master's behalf. And then, surrounded by pure light, Mal-Ferren was finally ready for the end...

...which did not come.

Confused, Mal-Ferren stood amidst an empty field. All around him life continued on, but there were no signs of Malcormus' forces-- there were no living... no undead-- every last one of them was gone, and only Mal-Ferren remained. Gazing across the battlefield, all he saw was the carnage brought on by the battle. Dead lay littering the place-- those from the legion as well as those who stood against it. The only ones standing, however, were the few dozen rebels, and they were too confused to notice a lone Werulf sulking off into the shadows, though they did not miss the unmistakable, mournful, soul-rending howl of loss and abandonment.

* * * * *

Mal-Ferren still had trouble coming to terms with what had happened, stumbling back to the camp the legion had left that morning. He'd expected to return beside his Master, their task complete and the order victorious. Although Malcormus had died claiming their campaign to be a win, the Werulf did not feel that way. He continued wandering aimlessly through the small, abandoned canvas structures until he arrived at the pavilion that had been used as the command tent.

Fingers brushing across his furred cheek where he'd received one of the two final gifts from his Master, Mal-Ferren looked down at the broach; he was stunned speechless when he saw that the black opan had turned pure white. Still not fully understanding, the Werulf moved numbly into the command tent. As expected, it was empty-- or, unexpectedly, too empty. Mal-Ferren spun around, seeking the statue. "Where is it?!"

A voice spoke up from the opposite side of the tent. "Gone. She took it after the Aegis' activation."

Spinning to regard the speaker, Mal-Ferren was ready for a fight; he neither recognized the voice, or expected anyone to be present, and that was never a good combination. What he saw, however, made him freeze. She was present in the form of a Werulf; Her fur was flawless cream and Her eyes the color of the forest and the sky respectively. She wore upon Her head a circlet of flowers and Her gown was made of flowing ivy vines sewn together with spider's silk.

Her smile was bright like the sun, and warmed him in a way he thought impossible since his death. Mal-Ferren prostrated himself before no one, but he still bowed, which was the minimum acceptable honor when one encountered a Deity. Her name came easily to him as he acknowledged her presence. "Mother De'anna."

The Goddess' smile remained, but the glow dimmed slightly and Her eyes turned sad. "I have missed you, Ferren."

The words stung, and Mal-Ferren didn't know why. His people closely worshiped De'anna, Goddess of Nature, Mother Goddess, Goddes of Magic and the Moon, of the Seasons. He had followed his people for the first portion of his life, but his worship went ignored... not unlike with Malcormus. Steeling himself, the Werulf straightened up. "It is Mal-Ferren now, Goddess."

The smile still refused to leave Her muzzle, and yet it continued to do as much talking for Her as its words; shifting yet again, the newest expression was that of a mother hearing Her pup speak silliness. "You will always be 'Ferren' to me, sweet child."

He wasn't about to get into a discussion with the Goddess of his people, not when there were so many unanswered questions... so much grief. Knowing that Gods other than his Master had a knack for being indirect, he cut to the chase. "Why are you here... Goddess?"

Her smile slowly faded, and an unreadable expression replaced it. "I... please have patience. This is my first time inhabiting an Avatar, Ferren..."

Each time he corrected her it felt as though it were easier. "Mal-Ferren."

Her eyes settled on him, dismissing his illusion about being able to resist her will, and yet, she did not force it on him, simply keeping him quiet as she spoke. "Corwin has shaken up far more than this battlefield... and We have taken notice. Gods are slow to change, but, at times, it is a necessity."

Mal-Ferren whispered reverently "That was what He wanted."

She nodded. "He got almost everything He desired... yes"

The Werulf's eyes turned to the Goddess, challenging. "Almost?"

Her smile returned. "He begged that I come to see you."

Mal-Ferren was immediately relieved and contrite; his master had not been destroyed, but the Werulf was still responsible for his death. "I... killed Him."

De'anna made no move to console him. "Yes... you did."

Clenching his paws, he ignored the sensation of his claws puncturing his paw pads. "And I'm still here. I should have been destroyed like the rest... why? Why did the Aegis spare me? Why am I still... existing?"

The Goddess drew close, reaching forward to gently unpin the broach from his cloak. She turned it to face him. "Karma ebbs and flows... great evil begets a metaphysical punishment... while doing great good provides a blessing to the soul. This is what he desired... that you survive"

Mal-Ferren's voice came out as a growl. "All I have ever done, I have done for my Master. I have killed at His request. I have murdered, stolen, lied... I should have been destroyed like the rest! Why would he condemn me to a world without him?!?!"

She offered a calm smile, handling the brooch back to him. "I have long since learned that I cannot fathom what goes on in His mind. Yes, you should have been destroyed like the rest, and yet, you were not. At the end-- in the very last moment, when the end was upon you, you struck down the most evil being that has ever existed."

Undeath was not supposed to hurt, but Mal-Ferren felt the agony deep within the soul he should not have had. "He was wonderful... glorious... he wanted only good for this world. He was not evil, Goddess... he was..."

Turning around to challenge her perceptions of his most beloved Malcormus, Mal-Ferren saw that he was talking to an empty tent. He thought back to something his sire had told him; it had been a long time since he had thought about his life before meeting Corwin Muscroft but, in that moment, he could think of nothing but the lesson he'd learned from his father: anger is preferable to pain.

Growling, Mal-Ferren dropped the brooch. His Master had said something that morning, and the words stuck to him, overpowering all else. Picking up a banner pole, the Werrit tore the flag off of it, tossing the fabric aside as he took the butt of the pole and brought it down onto the brooch once... then a second time... and a third. By the time he was done, the glimmering white opal was reduced to dust. "You wanted a new world, Master? Then you will have one... no more opals; I will remake this world without you!"

---

The plains have lain fallow for two decades; I have seen the emptiness within the wasteland of what would have been the final battle. Malcormus, God of the Dead, the Emperor Who sleeps, bides his time. The armies are still there beneath the soil and not even death will stop the inevitable conquest. This I have foreseen. Malcormus, my Lord, you shall rise again.

-except from the Book of Cycles, as written by Jiibelle Darksworn, 22CA