Nestled in the midst of jagged mountain peaks that seemed to pierce the heavens and surrounded by an expanse of nothing but dark valleys and rocky ground, lay the nomadic khans.
This place, a permanent shelter of warriors and wanderers, stood a great distance away from the ruling territory of the legion; it was its own, ruled by itself.
Here, the nomadic khans thrived. Their stone-and-hide tents, clustered in resistance against the elements, resembled the withered corpse of some colossal, slumbering beast. Smoke curled from their chimneys, carrying the scent of burning wood and exotic spices.
However, today there was a different scent, one ever so familiar to the warriors that resided here: a scent of blood.
It was quiet— it's usually never quiet, but today it was. Of course, the occasional screams of a dying nomad disrupted this serenity, but then, along with their lives, the sounds were taken, and the silence fell again.
Vrought wasn't sure how many he had killed now; he never counted. Perhaps the death toll would have been less if they did not foolishly attack him.
He walked through their reside; of course, now most knew better than to attack. They stood to the side and shivered as they watched him approach the tent of the Khan leader.
The man's face was a drastic contrast to the acts he committed, to the blood that laced his body. His eyes were bright blue, like an ocean on the prettiest of summer days, and his hair was white—so perfectly white it made everything around him seem dirty.
Vrought walked into the tent, his diamond eyes settling on the man before him, seated on a large chair, a throne perhaps, with his sword leaning to his side. There were other men who sat in this room with him, and they all showed not a single trace of fear. They were nothing like those outside.
The khan leaders, weathered faces etched with the wisdom of a thousand moons, were quite a sight. Clad in furs and leathers, adorned with trinkets scavenged from forgotten corners of the world, they exuded an aura of untamed power. Their eyes, glinting like chips of dark stone, held stories of countless victories and the scars of equally numerous defeats.
"So your slaughter has reached us, Vrought," the man who sat on the throne spoke, his voice like grinding stone, a tone of absolute authority.
"It seems it has," Vrought replied, his voice a subtle deep rasp. "You know what I came for; give me what I want, and no more lives will be lost," Vrought proposed.
"You know I can't do that," the khan leader replied.
"Then you understand my position."
"In our language, your name means Light," the leader took his hand to the side of his face as he leaned on it, "to think you'd be a complete opposite."
"I've had many names in my time." Vrought walked over to the wooden table that sat at the side of the room, took one of the clay bottles, and poured wine into a glass.
"The Falkans called me 'The Western Plague,' truly fitting it was. After all, I did start my blood-soaked quest deep in the west." Vrought took the cup and downed the wine before slamming it on the table.
"The imperial army labeled me 'Deserter,' the Vharads call me 'the mistake of God,' and the Aghatian witches named me 'a worthless lover.'" Vrought turned, locking gaze with the leader.
"And my own mother... called me evil." Vrought's gaze fell, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "It wasn't until I pulled my blade from her neck... that I realized she might have been right." He looked back at Khan's leader.
"I've been dubbed many names, Gorad, and none of them are a representation of what I truly am."
"And what's that?" Gorad, the Khan's leader, asked in amusement.
"A necessary savior," Vrought's voice heavy with the weight of his conviction.
"The power you seek is not meant for men; this will only bring destruction upon us all," the leader warned, his tone grave.
"Then so be it," Vrought shouted. "I read the scriptures, Gorad. The new power, it can only be gotten through the chaos the cores will bring." Vrought screamed like a mad man.
"Well, I can't let you have the core." Gorad stood, gripping his sword as he sighed, his face a canvas of disappointment.
Vrought calmed himself; the air crackled around him as his eyes emitted a subtle glow, his clothes began billowing from wind seemingly manufactured from nowhere, and the tension in the tent skyrocketed.
"I predicted I'd fail to persuade you, so please... indulge me."
Then, with a deafening roar, the tent ripped apart, seams exploding outwards like veins bursting under pressure. The ground beneath the council members shook with a malevolent light. Arcane pillars, blood-red and pulsating with raw power, erupted into existence, like a volcano of blood.
"Come, Vrought... Show me what you've become." Gorad bellowed with a smile.