#af01

here is an attack at Artificial-Radiance

The relentless summer sun beat upon the the hills, the slight breeze caressing the grasses no relief from the pressure. Two grey wolves lounged panting in the heat in the meagre shadow of a single thin tree. Above them their master crouched against the bough, shape indistinct underneath a patchwork cloak of branches and rags. The tired face of the wearer tracks the eerily silent parade before her. Repeating aloud the impossibility of the sight simply refused to dispel the image of four columns of legionaries marching to battle. She had read Viola and Laissance as any patriotic child did, even long after the empire was a memory. This force before her matched her memories perfectly in some ways; a shining pike with reinforced crossbar and spiked butt for each legionary in the second rank to hold monstrous beasts at bay, weighted javelins and tall curved shields to deflect projectiles, fires or acids, all in perfect repair. Yet their armor was a decaying wreck, each face was without expression and indistinguishable and worst of all they spoke not at all. Not a word, nor a cough, nor a grunt of effort. No sweat slickening the grip of pikes or sergeants calling turns as they negotiated the hills. Each marched in mechanical unity, save the black hooded figure driving a single wagon alongside the column in mockery of a centurion. A single wagon without the provisions to supply even a tenth the force before her.

She dared not approach any closer. She doubted the garnet-tipped artifact beneath her cloak would prevail against whatever those things were, and even if it would even her slight gift was enough to comprehend that the figure was once of immense power, which explained their destination.

At the base of the hills, a scarce mile away was the shattered remnant of a fortress. Strewn about the shattered gatehouse were disease bloated corpses of the last humans to step foot nearer than she; still in horrifically preserved condition without even a stench thanks to the potent miasma of the horror within that killed even the meanest scavenger. A ragged line beyond which no weed or grass lived marked the line which even the wolves would not cross. Yet this hooded driver merely stopped the cart and dismounted, the false company arranging for battle without a gesture or spoken word. As they marched to within throwing distance of the corpses a horrific cry beyond reckoning struck the tree.

It echoed as if constructed of every tone the ear could comprehend at once, a cacophony of noise that shattered the senses. It vibrated in tones the ear could not comprehend, shaking her very bones and the tree itself. Her gaze was caught first by a songbird falling dead past her vision from the upper branches of the tree and then by the wolves below on their feet and crouched snarling. Even the heat vanished under the sheer pressure of the noise and then her stomach lept into her throat as she could begin to taste the sound. A indistinct shape of every color at once and yet perfectly transparent oozed from without the gate, colors that she could smell.

AF 15.6

The forge-armored figure shoves back the Senator with a massive hammer to the chest.

"I am not going to sit behind these walls any longer and you should know better than to try and stop me," the Artisan's voice dips nearly into a snarl, "Senator."

The Senator sputters and reaches out to stop from rebounding against the stone archway, looking up at the imposing figure. "I'm not trying to stop you, I'm trying to keep you alive!"

The hammer slams into the ground with enough force to shatter the unlucky paving stone to find itself the target. "Your problem, Senator, is that you lost your conscience somewhere in the Fall and you think the rest of us never had one in the first place! You're sending fresh novices with spears out there while we 'gifted experts' sit around wasting time and lives. I'm done having other people die for me while I sit here doing NOTHING!"

With that the Artisan storms past the Senator and through the gate onto the frozen road. The Senator lets go of a deep breath and straightens up against the wall.

Minutes later the crunch of a score of wrapped feet stomping through the snow heralds the jogging arrival of a squad of hunters. The Senator nods towards the archway. "The Artisan has already left. Catch up and follow wherever the journey leads."

The hunters don't waste time with anything beyond a shouted cheer before they follow the Artisan down the road.

The Senator watches them leave and shivers against the cold and fear "And try to come back alive yourselves."

AF 15.7

The flickering oil lamp was barely suited to combat the darkness of the tiny chamber and not suited at all to oppose to the omnipresent cold seeping through the stone. What little dim light made it through the empty windows from the iron overcast sky did little to dispel the gloom in which the Senator huddled over papers. Engrossed with ledgers, it takes several chirps from behind before the Senator turns to see the small bird animatedly bouncing around the windowsill. The bird opens its beak to speak in the voice of a grown human, exited and hopeful, "Lapintha is still there. The walls are held by mercenaries and it is inhabited by people instead of the dead. We are not alone."

Having delivered the message the bird construct shatters into fragments that boil into a short lived smoke, leaving behind the faint smell of holly wood and a grateful expression on the Senator's face. "Finally, I'll have something good to report."

The smile was not long lived. An hour later the wooden circlet, strewn about the table along with several other trinkets, burst into flames of violet and yellow. The Senator could see within the flames the faint shape of an amorphous mass, pullling itself along the ground through sheer malice and projecting pieces of itself into the air to detonate into powder. The vision grew more and more intense until at last the circlet could no longer contain it and collapsed into a fine ash.

The Monk, most ignored of the gifted but no less driven, and fifty doughty hunters were dead. Another shattered edifice of once-civilization, now proven to be host to a horror made of fear and disease.

AF 15.9

It would be the Senator's final meeting. The Chancellor now sat with authority as if heading the council. The faces of all the other gifted save the Monk, now dead, and the Artisan, still abroad, spanned a continuum between amusement and anger, with disappointment only writ on the Philosopher's face.

The Chancellor began speaking as soon as the Senator entered, without providing an opportunity for the Senator to take a seat. "Your services are required elsewhere," at this, the Chancellor's voice became mocking "Senator. The mercenaries of Lapintha must be convinced to work with us and, more importantly, the people of the outlying farms and hamlets provided protection and prosperity."

"That is of great importance, but irrelevant if another expedition cannot be raised to exterminate the creature before it comes this," at this the Herald's fist slams the table in a familiar gesture to interrupt. "As you yourself have told us, Senator, you are of no use on the battlefield against such a creature and it is clear that your handiwork be kept as far away from our hunters as possible."

The Magus nods and speaks as well, "You gathered us here to assist us with our gifts and empower us to defeat the horrors, but you have wasted our talents and our time. You need to get out of our way."

The Chancellor cuts in again, "This is not a punishment," the tone used makes it clear that would be preferable, "but rather an understanding that there are far more than two of these creatures to be fought. It is critical that we have resources, recruits and supplies so you must ensure that we do and leave the fighting to those of us with the pedigree and talent for it."

The Senator wore a grim expression and lifted the toga out of the way to sit in one of the creaking chairs around the worn, round table. In a time not too distant other senators of greater distinction or at least age would have met that gaze. Instead only a collection of young faces sat alongside, atop young shoulders that carried the weight of damnation and restoration for the once-Empire.

"We received a messenger from what remains of Friedrich's command." The Senator stops for a moment as the Herald's fist slams against the table.

"What REMAINS of his command? Do you mean to tell me that for all of your training this professional expedition of yours has already been annihilated?"

The Senator simply waits until the Herald's expression returns to merely muted fury. "The castle was long ruined and there was only a single inhabitant, as I warned there would be. Friedrich and half the expedition met with a creature of the Fall; the exact nature of which I do not know without having seen it for myself. They dispatched the creature thanks only to their bows and wits, for it was made of death itself and any who came too close simply fell apart, in many cases after the thing was safely destroyed."

The Artisan's gaze becomes as murderous as the Herald's, with the Magus' not far behind. The Observer and Philosopher watch impassively as ever while the Witch merely shakes her head.

The Senator continues, "I mean them no disrespect, similar creatures dispatched entire legions during the Fall. This only emphasizes the need for each of your talents if the people are to see any lasting peace. That creature was less than a month's slow march from this very table; how long would it have been before the thing wandered in search of more victims and how many more would have died had it been inside the city before we fought it?"

The Senator frowns and glances around the table. "Any hope we would have had to rebuild would have been lost in an instant, even had you all been here to stop it."

The Magus chooses this moment to speak, leaning back confidently. "Yet if we were not here there would be no chance to stop such a thing, and this expedition found no mine, stream, bog or forest that could benefit my arts or those of our comrades. Are we simply waiting for a slow death now against another threat we now lack any chance to see coming? You said similar creatures, plural, dispatched the Legions, after all."

The Senator nods in acknowledgement. "There are no shortage of additional nightmares we will need to face, but while the legions were shattered they were not annihilated. The messenger from Friedrich's command was not a member of the expedition at all but a representative from one of several Centurions and their remnants scattered across the countryside; if we can prove to them that we have the ability to fight the nightmares there are trained warriors yet to join our cause. The death of the empire was not the death of its people; there are many out there in need only of a banner to rally around."

The Philosopher chuckles. "And this is why one with no family name, fortune or gift is called a Senator and leads this council?"