Scarlet bathed the world. Cloaks as red as flames dragged through the bloodied grass, the shadowy figures beneath them trudging along the endless plains. When this Red Horde encountered a monster of sizeable strength, they consumed it, enveloping it with their forms until it remained nothing but bones on the ground. Their lips became covered in remnant sinew and blood, and their fingers caked in fat.
Their weapons, plentiful, were rusted and chipped, some shattered to a thin fragment of a point from overuse. They had no blacksmiths to repair them. They would wear those weapons down to the hilt, and when the last wooden fragment of their handles had buried itself into their palms, they would use their fingernails to claw at their enemies.
It did not matter if their nails, fingers, and hands wore away. Each time they bit into the flesh of a creature, it renewed them, and so they continued roaming endlessly. This was not their nature, it was their mission.
They emerged from the City of Gold at the edge of Shadowhaunt, seeking the Yellow-cloaked figures they had been instructed to kill. This was such a war, a war of colour, a war of the Avatars of Gods.
Whether Yellow or Red triumphed, whether Fate was bathed in Blood, it was all dependent on which party could gain the upper hand first.
The figure standing at the head of the Red Horde carried a rusted cleaver covered in dried crimson. It stopped for a moment, the figures behind it halting as it did. It raised its bony grey hand towards its hood, pulling it back. Underneath the sky of black stars, the empty skull of the figure glanced out at the field ahead. Maggots writhed within empty sockets, and teeth which had begun to peel away from a bone-white jaw chattered.
The figure reached its hand up to its neck, where flesh had been gradually eaten away by the maggots, seeming as if they had started at the skull and had begun to work their way down. It picked up a handful of these maggots, writhing between its grey fingers as it raised it towards its mouth, biting down on the squirming creatures.
As soon as its mouth became filled with the mushy pulp of the crushed maggots, flesh began to writhe at the edges of the bony skull. A half-face wrapped its muscle, sinew, and skin on the left side of its skull, a greyish-blue pupil overlooking the field.
As its tongue gradually renewed itself, it began to speak in a raspy, low tone of voice.
"Here is where we fight, men."
[+++]
"How does our Lord's attire feel?"
A bit uncomfortable... I keep tripping over the part that hangs by my feet from behind...
Eshent smiled in a genial fashion. "They're fine."
The two had been ascending the highest and centermost tower of the Nocturne Spire, talking as they walked.
"Have you yet reconciled with what had occurred thus far?"
"Maybe later, Granos. Now, I ponder just why my father wanted to access this place. What motive did he have? Does this Spire hold many secrets?"
"Certainly. Of course, this is all mentioned within the booklet."
"Ah, I lost that booklet when I was attacked. I'm sorry."
Granos shook his head. "Don't worry about it, young Visionary. This is why we printed so many copies, as instructed by our Lord. What is it you ponder exactly?"
"There are just too many mysteries surrounding my father's motivations..."
"As to why he made you a 'key' that can access Shadowhaunt? It may have been arranged by our Lord in order to bring you here. He does think that far. But it's best you read our Lord's words first before you make conclusions in that regard. As for your father..."
Granos paused for a moment on the staircase they had been ascending, frowning slightly. "That was the work that your father made effort to achieve his whole life. He is a cruel man in his processes, but his goal may have been greater than you anticipate."
They soon came to a dark hall with many doors on each side. They stopped before one such door, Granos turning to face Eshent.
"Rest easy tonight, young Visionary. Tomorrow morning, we'll start discussing our plans to eliminate those red-cloaked soldiers. It's important to our Lord's plan that they don't have a chance to interfere. If they can make contact with the False King, they will certain align themselves with him and work against us!"
Gears began spinning within Eshent's head. There were just far too many things he didn't yet understand, things he was sure that Granos would fill him in on in the morning.
For instance, what exactly were those red-cloaked soldiers? Were they even human? They seemed to him to be more like corpses, grey mottled flesh as cold as ice, and a lack of expression like ghosts wandering the crimson-strewn plains.
At the same time, why did they have any reason to align themselves with August Lunastre? Of course, it meant that the red-cloaked figures were working against the Priests in Yellow, perhaps even to stifle the plot of their Lord.
"Ah, before I forget, young Visionary, our Lord would definitely wish you to read through his word tonight. It will certainly apprise you of your role, of His plan, and prepare you for our plotting tomorrow."
Granos produced a thin pitch-black booklet from his robes, holding it out with both hands for Eshent to accept, which he did without hesitation. This mysterious book deriving itself from the Priest's Lord had strange qualities, that even the monsters of Shadowhaunt seemed to respect.
Certainly, if it was the case that these black books had connections or ties to the Lord, and those monsters were under his pacification and command, then they may be able to sense that origin, and see Eshent as a friend.
So it really was the book that saved me at that time. I owe this mysterious Lord far more than I previously assumed...
"Thank you, Granos, I appreciate it. I'll read through it later tonight. I'm very interested in what our Lord has to say."
This seemingly made Granos's mood far happier, almost exuberant and demonic. He began to fidget excitedly, like a child who had just received a gift.
"Praise the Fated King." Granos smiled widely, the corners of his lips almost touching against his earlobes in a fanatical, crazed manner.
The Fated King? Is this the Lord's moniker? Granos called August Lunastre a 'False King', implying that his Lord was the true King. But in this way, calling him a 'Fated King' implies that he is not yet a King. So which is it? Is he the King, or is he not the King? How odd...
Eshent bowed his head, placing a hand against his chest as he replied, "praise the Fated King."
Granos nodded his head, gesturing towards the door behind Eshent. Then, he slowly turned on his heel, walking back down towards the staircase that led to the main hall of the Nocturne Spire. He watched the Priest go for a moment, glancing back down at the book in his hand as he sighed.
Entering the room behind him, he was greeted by the chill of the open air. There was a terrace at the end of the room, the glass-paneled windows drawn away from it, black curtains filled with the breeze as they wavered and danced about. He quickly walked towards the windows, shutting them closed before taking a step back.
There was a bed at the right edge of the room, and a desk at the left, with a small oil lamp placed atop, dark and unlit. Because the faint light of the black stars shone through the window, illuminating the room to a dim extent, he didn't bother lighting the lamp, closing the door to his room before falling back against the wall, slumping to the floor.
He felt oddly at peace, but at the same time, peace only allowed for many things to resurface; the busyness of life often hid one's problems so that they might later find a time to resolve them.
As Eshent sat on the cold floor of his room, staring out of the windowed terrace at the cold, empty sky of black stars, he began to recall his siblings, his home, his life. He thought that he could be strong, be hollow completely, but there was still the matter of grief that he had ignored.
After this night, I will be a hollow soldier, a Priest of this Lord, this Fated King. He has become my only place in life, He is my only way forward. But for tonight, just for one night more, I will be Eshent Sutcliffe, not a Priest, not a Soldier, not Hollow...
In the silence of the peaceful hall of the Nocturne Spire, Eshent broke. His tears fell down to the floor, his sobs uncontained. He felt his grief all at once, all his despairs and his longings.
He had lost his family, he had lost himself.