J. Chansellor - Son of Erebus

How small the world has become. How dark the days of man have grown. Each passing moment is steeped in vile, wicked, and corrupt things that once whispered of power, only to betray. What was once overflowing with life has diminished to a threadbare existence. It was not always this way.

For years, the realm of man, called Middengard, has waged war against the forces of the Laionai. Once human, the Laionai speak as one consciousness — a collective in which nothing of mortality remains. Gifted by the Dark Goddess Ciara with the ability to steal the souls of other men, their purpose is to enslave all who live and breathe in her name.

In the beginning, Middengard was successful in defending its people. But as the first age of war came to an end, its people began to weaken in their resolve, and a fable began to take shape; first in whispers heard at battle's end, then in legends passed down from one generation to the next. Soon, myth became prayer and an unswerving faith in an unseen realm was born.

For thousands of years, that fable fueled the vitality of the human heart, but as the free lands waned and Eidolon's rule overshadowed the few who subsisted on their own, faith faltered. As the last stronghold of man celebrated what little light still existed in the world, few held to the promise of such a fantasy.

There were some among man who would not let die what they knew in their hearts to be true. As they ended their day, they whispered their regards to the winged guardians whose plight was to stand in the stead of mortal man. As they woke, they recited long-held praises for those they had to thank for their freedom.

Though the faith prevailed in some, man was not alone, for among those born into the lineage of Ereubus — the ones who served the Laionai — a prophecy was told:

"Among the souls there is a chosen one, the Oni. Carrying the fate of mortal man, he shall through blood procure their end. He shall be the bearer of all things, bridging the divide between life and death. Through mortal fate eluded, he shall bear witness to those who embody light. This will be the first sign of his coming. One who has slumbered long shall arise, bringing the Oni the seal that shall forge the final strength of the dark one. This will be the second sign. The son of light shall fall from great heights, spilling innocent blood upon the steps of Eidolon. This will be the third and final sign. All things in alignment, the Oni will then sit at the right hand of darkness."

With faith placed in things unknown, both Middengard and Eidolon await the future — the Ereubinians, sitting in a throne of power, await the one who will secure their place of sovereignty while man, through the listless eyes of a soulless vessel, awaits the one who will deliver them.

The city reeked of sweat and grime. Eidolon's citizens gathered in the chilly, dank air of the commons, their eyes turned to the cloaked figure standing tethered to a post on the center platform. The crowd was boisterous, pushing to gain a better view, all the while musing over the prisoner's identity and the offense he'd committed.

Micah rested against the rain-soaked stone of the far wall, his cloak held tightly to him, trying to ward off the cold he'd felt coming on for weeks. He was tall for his age and could wield a sword better than any of his peers, which was the main reason he was allowed to skip this day's lessons. The other boys would ask and he'd already concocted a dozen exaggerations to relay if the event turned out duller than his imagination.

The prisoner had arrived two days earlier, hood already in place, hands already bound, and apparently gagged, for his only responses to questioning were muffled cries. No one dared touch the hood or even come close enough to examine the undecorated linen shift he wore. Most were content to conjure their own guesses, some stating they knew but had been sworn to secrecy. Micah didn't believe a word of it. They seemed far too interested in what they supposedly already knew.

Urine stained the prisoner's clothing; when the breeze shifted direction, the scent of it and where he'd shat himself filled Micah's nostrils, his congestion doing very little to dull its potency. He coughed and spat, willing away the urge to vomit.

Some had already grown impatient and left, mumbling that the rumor of a public lashing had been just that. He considered leaving, but was too curious. Besides, the crowd alone was more interesting than his studies.

A hush fell over the crowd, every knee bending in reverence as Garren, the High Lord, ascended the shaded stairs beneath the platform. He smiled and walked with a casual stride across the creaking boards, each step echoing in the sudden stillness. He motioned with a turn of his hand for all to rise.

"I see that my display has captured your attention." He clenched the black hood of the prisoner in his fist and jerked it away, revealing the raw, tear-streaked face of Vallor, ruler of the northern realm of Lycus.

A collective gasp was drawn as the magnitude of the prisoner's identity set in. Micah couldn't believe what he was seeing. Had it not been last week that the nobles of the greater houses were singing Vallor's praises?

"Before you," Garren said, "is a reminder that nothing goes unseen. All is laid bare before the eyes of the Laionai and the Dark Goddess — even such trivial matters as paying Eidolon what is rightly due."

Taxes? That's what this is about? Micah was stunned.

Vallor moaned and pulled against his bindings. Dried blood stained his mouth from wrestling with the gag, giving him a maddened appearance. The humiliation seemed rather gratuitous to Micah — surely a simple chastisement or financial penalty would have sufficed.

Garren dipped his head in mock sympathy and placed a hand on Vallor's head. "Perhaps I haven't made myself clear. Lycus has been prosperous…"

As he spoke, a shrill and terrifying cry sounded just beyond the commons. That lone cry became a chorus so dark it sent shivers racing down Micah's skin. Moriors. This wasn't a lashing — it was an execution.

Garren continued speaking as though it were nothing more than the wind they were hearing. "Yet, my generous gifts of land and privilege are not enough for him."

The Moriors had black scales and fleshy wings that extended twice the breadth of their body, their man-like countenance complemented by a tall, skeletal torso and long talons that extended from deceivingly frail hands. Their feet were hooved like cattle. Shrieking still, they circled the platform before landing.

Garren pulled his sword and Vallor's eyes washed in relief. When the blade sliced through his gag, rather than mercifully beheading him, Vallor lost what little composure he had.

"If I take your head how will I hear you scream?" Garren asked.

"Lord, be merciful!" Vallor's wailing died against the sound of rushing wings and gnashing teeth, but Micah could read his lips and the words chilled him to his core.

Micah wanted to look away — wanted to sink back into the stone of the wall, or retire to his chambers to read a book, or practice his swordplay — but he could not tear his gaze from the platform as the Moriors ripped flesh from Vallor's bones, eating him alive.

The gruesome scene silenced all who witnessed it, magnifying the sounds of the carnage. Eventually, only bones remained, gleaming eerily white in the waning light of day.

Garren, jaws clenched, eyed the crowd. For several minutes, he flexed his hands at his sides and paced. The Moriors stood sentinel behind him, their heads hung in obedience, though it was not Garren who commanded them, but the Laionai, and none present questioned it.