Disclaimer: This is a story from an actual role-playing game known as "Exalted" (from a series called White Wolf). It's basically a game where you grab a character sheet, make a character, and play that character out. Since this is a story from a game, by all technicalities, it's a fanfic. Look, it's my little loophole. Leave me alone. I do not own the role-playing game itself, but I do own the characters (well, actually, I own a few characters, my brother owns another, and a few are actually from the Exalted game itself, but that's beside the point) within it. I actually got this entire plotline just from creating my character (how cool am I?). I think that's about it for the disclaimer.

(Oh, if any of you ask questions about my Digimon fanfic(s), I will kill you all.)

Chapter One:

Nine Years Later

"You little rat! Just wait 'til I get my hands on yuh! I'll rip out yer liver and feed it t' the next person I see!"

The swinging doors flew open, and Soren, the young head chef with bright red hair, dashed into the citadel kitchen to see what the matter was. "Spencer! What happened? I could hear you clear down from the Entrance Hall!"

"That little bitch! That's wha' happened! Look at this! Look!" The tall, rather large man with thick, curly blonde hair known as Spencer brandished his apron into the face of the smaller, much slimmer man. It seemed to have a large red stain covering the white fabric. "Pig's blood! All over it! That's not all, either! There's blood smeared all over the walls of the freezer room!" The man's face was flaring in anger. His complexion appeared almost as red as the still glistening blood on his filthy apron.

Soren winced at the sight of the bloody apron flung into his face. He wasn't much of a chef in this case. He backed away slowly, trying to coax his friend into relaxing. "Look, Spencer, I'm gonna need you to calm down, alright? This isn't anything that the maids can't clean-" At this point Spencer continued his rant.

"And don't try convincin' me that it isn't that Godforsaken Prince!" Spencer was now pointing his finger accusingly at Soren. "She's had it out for me ever since I refused to give 'er extra eggs for breakfast!" He then shouted up at the marble ceiling. "How 'bout I shove those eggs down yer throat, yuh mini bastard!"

"Spencer, please!" Soren was now driven into a mild panic. He knew that if he didn't sedate his frenzied friend, a good handful the citadel guards would rush in and complete that task for him, and this would look bad to the citadel possessor, Master Canis. "That was eight months ago. You can't really expect her to hold such a grudge, can you?"

Spencer was clearly not paying attention to his red-headed friend's reasoning. He was too busy pacing around, not caring about the thudding noises he was making, brooding about how no one ever keeps "the Prince" in check. "Walker in Darkness never punishes 'er, that's the problem. Yeah…he lets 'er run around the citadel as if it belonged to 'er. Why doesn't he-"

"Stop it, Spencer! You're blaming our very lord!" Soren was moments away from slapping his hand over his large friend's mouth. Such words, if heard by others, could mean certain Oblivion. "You cannot expect him to baby-sit the Prince all day; he has many duties he must perform as it is. You know about those skirmishes with Mask of Winters he must deal with, directly outside his own land! Taking care of his child prodigy hasn't exactly been a priority these days."

Spencer stopped pacing when he noticed Soren's face become somber.

"I can only imagine how it must be for Prince of the Vicious Seas. She's so very lonely; Walker in Darkness used to always pay visits to her here at Stoneweller. You remember, Spencer; he would come almost daily, mainly to check up on her training. He always gave her praises and rewards for her excellence, more so than his other Deathknights," he smiled, "That never settled well with them." Soren chuckled at this, all the while staring off to dwell on distant (or not so distant) memories. "But, because of the squabbles between Walker and Mask of Winters, he's been gone for three whole months, and for her, who views him so highly, it must be brutal."

"What does she care?" Spencer grumbled behind his back, heading toward one of the large dish basins. With his mighty hands he managed to turn the large faucet handle with ease, pouring icy water into the basin. "I mean, all I've ever seen her do is train in the courtyard with the other soldiers, or laze around the fortress while making the lives of people like me miserable with her childish pranks!"

Spencer's ferocity had obviously subsided, but the annoyance was still there. He untied his bloody apron and dunked it into the basin of frosty water, then he began to scrub it roughly with a pumice stone. For the most part, this was how he let out his anger: On his own property.

"Spencer," Soren's voice purred in an almost teasing way, "Prince of the Vicious Seas still is a child. You shouldn't hold a grudge against her for being herself." He made to place a hand on Spencer's shoulder, but he promptly swatted it away.

"Seventeen-years-old is not the age of a child! She was a child eight years ago when she first arrived!"

Soren sighed at Spencer's hopelessness. "Fine, wallow in your anguish until you drown. I'll go and talk to the Prince."

As the young chef pushed his way past the swinging doors, he heard Spencer call after him.

"That's not funny, Soren! You know that's how I died!"

Soren slowly sauntered down the long hallway, his hands in his pockets, vaguely admiring the many large painted photos of the slim, blue-hairedMaster Canis hanging on the walls on either side of him. Soren, much like Spencer and everyone else in the Citadel that wasn't a Deathknight, was a ghost. His death wasn't unusual or uncommon, but unlike Spencer who had drowned during a fishing trip, Soren was bludgeoned to death by a group of, well, punks who were after the little bit of money that he held in his pocket. He took it upon himself to come under the servitude of Walker in Darkness in order to avoid becoming a much needed tool for soulsteel.

Even though enduring the stern rule of Walker in Darkness was greatly difficult for the first few years, Soren soon grew to respect him and his methodical order over his land. He had even grown to miss him whenever he left for battle, such as he did now. It had been so long since his lord had come to visit his highest-ranking Deathknight's citadel. Because of this, Soren's well-known friend, Prince of the Vicious Seas had become greatly apathetic and unmotivated over the course of the months. Soren would witness her listless training in the courtyard, barely making any attempt at anything she did; as a result, she wound up with many cuts and broken limbs.

Such results worried the young ghost. Walker in Darkness was investing special interest and extra work into this particular Abyssal. If he knew what the current outcome was, there could be major misery at this specific citadel. Yes, it would be a good idea to discuss these things with Prince of the Vicious Seas, but where was she?

By now Soren had made his way out of the main building and into the citadel garden. He scanned the lush area for any trace of the Prince, but only found a few other Deathknights. They seemed to be performing various gardening tasks: Three recently exalted Deathknights were attempting to trim the tall blackened trees of the garden, while another, a man Soren immediately recognized, was hacking away violently at the man-sized shrubberies. He smiled and shook his head as he approached the oddball Abyssal.

"Now, I'm not much of a gardener, Mesher, but I don't think those are shrubs anymore."

Mesher, a wiry man of about six feet with a mohawk, ceased his brutal destruction of the greenery to respond to Soren. "Yeah, I got screwed over with this job. Me and those other three crock pot weenies got caught messin' in Canis' bedroom." He shook his head in disgust. "You'd never think that he'd get so pissy over a few missin' bed sheets and some drapes."

Mesher was a particularly crude Deathknight. He seemed to exist to abolish etiquette. His apparel only further threw others into confusion; a bright orange vest draped his bare shoulders, and deep green britches that were much too big for him— though one could guess that's what the large black buckled belt around his waist was for— framed his legs. Then there was that purple mohawk, except it wasn't purple yesterday, and it wasn't red the day before that, and it wasn't green the day before that. The only thing alarmingly normal about him were his shiny black boots.

Soren chuckled and took the large cutting sheers from Mesher, resuming his work for him. "My my, how were you caught?"

"That one," Mesher pointed a skinny finger at a particularly deformed Deathknight who was now swinging helplessly from a high branch that was slowly snapping and giving way, "decided it would be really funny if he screamed 'Lord Canis is coming to get us!' at the top of his lungs and darted out the door. Fill in the blanks from there." Mesher grumbled in spite, but laughed a few moments later when that exact Deathknight came crashing to the ground after his branch finally broke.

"My, that looked painful," noted Soren, meticulously clipping at the shrub to even out the jagged edges.

"Eh, serves him right. Lousy bastard…" Mesher watched in disappointment and revulsion as the other two Deathknights jumped down from the black oak to help the one that had fallen. "So," he began, turning his back to them, "what brings you down here to the gloomy garden?"

"Oh, that's right!" Soren stopped slicing and handed the hedge clippers back to Mesher. "I came looking for the Prince. Have you seen her recently?"

"Vicious Prince? Yeah, 'bout twenty minutes ago. She was headed to the plains right outside the citadel grounds. Didn't make much sense, though; I thought she was supposed to be in the courtyard by now. Why? She in trouble?"

"Unless you were the one who snuck into the meat locker and smeared pig's blood all over the freezer walls and on Spencer's apron." Soren eyed him suspiciously.

"Wha, me? Give me a break, Soren; you know I'm not nearly that sneaky. That's obviously the Prince's work." Mesher laughed at the departing ghost's unfound suspicions and continued with his penalty work.

It wasn't very hard to find the Prince; in a sea of wafting grey grass and wheat, she was the only thing that was draped in black and pale as ever. She was standing alone, her back to Soren, her head bowed. He waded through the tall grass toward her, the slow rhythm of his feet and legs obvious against the billowing melody of the field and the wind. However, she made no implication that she knew he was there. She remained motionless, seemingly content to simply stare at the ground.

When at last Soren had reached her, he placed a friendly hand on her shoulder. "What're you doing out here, Prince? Aren't you aware that you need to be in the courtyard right now, training? You know, if Walker in darkness came back right now and saw you standing here doing nothing, he'd probably-"

"I'm sorry," the Prince's solemn tone cut him off, "my rabbit died today."

"You-your-you have a rabbit?" The sudden statement caught him off guard. He glanced down at where she was looking and found a small mound of shifted soil, along with a rock that had the words, "May Lethe soothe your innocent soul, O Frozen Pearl of Ice," carved into it.

"Walker in Darkness gave him to me for working so hard on my training." The Prince turned her horned head up to look at Soren. Her face was that of a child who had lost her best friend. Her eyes, which seemed to have turned black over the years, started to fill with tears. "I should have known he couldn't survive in the Underworld very long. He's too little!"

Soren didn't know what to do. The Prince dissolved into sobs right in front of him. If he didn't act fast she might even break into wailing.

He quickly knelt down to her level and pulled out one of the few clean handkerchiefs he had left. "Now Prince, look at yourself. You're crying over a bunny." He tried to make his voice as soothing as possible. "It's obvious that you loved that bunny, so think of it this way: His soul's in Lethe right now. You know what Lethe is."

The sobbing Prince nodded in response while Soren gently dabbed her face with his handkerchief. He smiled and chuckled. "Still just a child."

The two sat alone in the windy field, for the most part saying nothing. The chef gazed at the permanently dreary and overcast sky while the Prince drew tiny symbols in the dirt near her.

"So, Frozen Pearl of Ice, huh?"

"Yeah…"

"Cute. Big name for a tiny creature."

"Yeah…" At the repeated statement, Soren glanced down at the Prince in uncertainty. The Prince now seemed to curl up in insecurity, as though she wanted to say something, but wasn't quite sure how to put it. After a long moment of unbroken silence, however, the Prince lashed out her question like a time bomb long overdue to explode. "Soren, why don't you ever go to Lethe?"

Soren half expected her to ask that question. Still, finding the proper answer was difficult. Lethe was a gentle state (though some refer to it as a place) of bliss and well-being that a ghost enters when preparing for reincarnation. It was a three day process that involved picking away a ghost's passions and habits, what gives a person his personality. It was an overall soothing procedure. Once the process was complete, the ghost's higher soul was reborn into its next incarnation which, frankly, was dictated by the actions of that person's former life.

"I guess…because…I don't want to be forgotten— no, because I don't want to forget. How can anyone expect me to meet so many people in my life— so many friends, so many people who care and have cared about me— and then just die and forget about them all?"

Soren's face showed traces of defiance. The Prince wondered about this, but said nothing to interrupt him. "More to the point, why would I want to lose who I am? I don't want to be known as Fredrick to Great in my next life, nor do I want to be Tom the Beggar. I'm perfectly content being Soren the Chef here, now, forever."

Soren looked down at the Prince, who was nodding at everything he said. "What about you? What made you become a Deathknight when Walker in Darkness came for you?"

The questioning stare that Prince of the Vicious Seas gave Soren could have made a God shudder, but she proceeded to give him an answer. "I was afraid to die, that's all. Back then I wasn't aware of a reincarnation or a Lethe. I barely knew anything about the Underworld. I didn't know what would happen to me if I said 'No, let me die'."

It was at that moment that the Prince began showing signs of anger. "Besides, what was the point of me simply dying? You know what kind of life I had to look forward to when I was in the living realm, Soren? I would have spent most of my early childhood with my mother, learning everything about household talents; you know, how to be a good mother and wife. When turned twelve, I would probably be married off to someone, and by now I would probably have three children, thus making me expendable because I 'fulfilled my life's duty'. Wonderful, let's let me die knowing I would have missed a life like that!"

Soren nodded sadly while the Prince drew in deep breaths. He knew that in the realm of the living women didn't exactly have a promising future. In the south, where the Prince came from, it was virtually unheard of to find a woman leader in anything, unless it was a get-together organized by the women, or unless you were Princess Magnificent. "So, Walker gave you a chance at something better, right?"

Prince of the Vicious Seas scoffed at this. "Look at me, Soren!" She stood up instantly and presented herself, stretching out her arms. "I'm a Deathknight, a warrior! I'm stronger now than I've ever been in my life! I command my own heavy cavalry of ships! A chance a something better? I have a chance at something , and I wouldn't give it up for anything!"

Soren laughed joyously at the Prince's display of good mood. "Well, I'm glad to see you're feeling better, my Prince."

"Yeah," she laughed slightly and scratched the back of her head, "I'm glad we can talk about stuff like this. It makes me feel better, you know?" Soren nodded, still smiling kindly. "Well, I guess I really should head to the courtyard now; Warmonger Anera's going to cut off my head with my own daggers as it is."

"Yes, yes, little Day Caste, whisk yourself off to the Warmonger!" Soren spouted off in mock drama as the Prince darted off in the direction of the courtyard. "Oh, and when you're done, we're going to have a little talk about the blood in the freezer room!" He sighed when she was fully out of sight and let himself fall backwards on the ground. "Ouch!" His head made solid contact on something hard and he sat up quickly. He looked back to find the rock with the carvings dedicated to the Prince's rabbit.

It was only then that Soren realized something; something dark and strange. Why did the Prince care? Why was she so sad over the death of a living thing? Being a Deathknight, one served their lord and Oblivion, the total annihilation of all of Creation. Every Deathknight Soren knew encouraged death if not caused it themselves.

Prince of the Vicious Seas had been on many escapades of conquest with her fleet and, in the name of her lord, had killed many Deathknights in her life as a Deathknight herself. So, why mourn the death of something living? It could simply be that she's just as he had said before, "still just a child." However, this made an uncomfortable feeling in Soren's stomach, and it made him worry.

"No, no, no! Silly child! Give me dagger!" A tall, lean, muscular woman with blonde hair tied in two braided buns snatched the sharp object from the much shorter, more sinewy Prince. "You thrust wrong! All wrong! You over-extend your arm. Too much, too much." Her voice, while strong and firm, had a German accent. She seemed to have a good hold on the English language, but the mistakes were there.

The Prince sighed impatiently. What does she expect from me? she thought with annoyance, Has she even seen me? Doesn't she know short I am?

"Prince of Vicious Seas! Listen to me when I speak!" The Prince was brought harshly back to reality with a hard tug on her curved left horn. "I explain again: You are Day Caste, yes? Obviously. For you, at your height, you need lots of things. You need speed, you need to jump, you need to think quickly!" The Warmonger, as she was called, pounded her fist on her hand as she made her list of necessities. "Look, I show you. This is how you stab at someone."

The Warmonger got into her fighting stance, legs spread and bent, her left arm raised defensively. She made a quick jab at an invisible foe, moving her hips in coordination with her arm. Even though Warmonger's quick stabs were impressive and professional, Prince of the Vicious Seas was paying attention to something…else. Warmonger Anera just happened to have extremely large breasts. Along with this, the armor she wore, while meant for defense for the shoulders, back and torso above other things, apparently wasn't meant for covering or keeping those two sizeable things in place; they attracted more attention than her masterful skill with blades, and, quite frankly, disturbed the Prince more than anything else.

"You see? Very simple." The Prince tore her eyes away from the scene to nod briefly at her teacher's words. "Good girl. Just remember what I said earlier: You need speed, you need to jump, you need to think quickly!"

"Alright! I know this!" the Prince interjected with irritation. "You've told me this already yesterday! And the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that, and-"

"And yet you still can't point knives at people!" Warmonger Anera jabbed the dagger at the Prince as she interrupted. "Be happy you are quick or I'd chop that head off!"

The Prince was silent after that. She knew threats from Warmonger were real threats not to be toyed with. She looked at Warmonger's face and knew she was being scrutinized. "What?"

"You need armor," she said slowly as she observed the Prince.

"What? No I don't."

"Of course you do! Look at you!" She stomped over, bent down, revealing even more cleavage, and gripped the Prince's shorts. "These tight— what do you call them— spandex shorts! These, these can't protect anything! And that shirt! It doesn't even have sleeves!"

"Hey, it gets hot when I go sailing!" The Prince was growing more irate. All the picking and poking was getting on her nerves. "What are you going to comment on next? My sandals? My horns, perhaps? Besides, what I wear is much better than that weird bondage queen armor you've got."

The Prince had touched a nerve. While it was true that below the waist her armor was simply straps around her thighs, making for littleprotection on the Warmonger, she was still severely insulted. Three vicious smacks was all it took for the Prince to be floored. "Such disrespect!" Anera threw the dagger at the Prince's side and stormed off. "This lesson is over! Such disrespect…"

The Prince stood up slowly, dizzy from the sudden attack. That was certainly a bad idea. Her cheeks throbbed painfully. She stooped down and picked up her dagger, pocketing it in the holder tied to her right leg.

"Alright, I'm hungry. What time is it?" the Prince looked behind her at the familiar clock tower that loomed over the grounds almost as tall as the citadel building itself. It was twelve forty-five, lunch time.

When Prince of the Vicious Seas entered the banqueting hall, she expected to hear thunderous voices and laughing. She expected to see about a hundred people chattering with their comrades and friends about their morning's work or other such business. She expected to see no one out of the ordinary and no one who didn't belong.

But of course, nothing that she expected happened. Everyone was deathly silent and staring at the back where at makeshift podium resided. There were two people standing on this podium: One whom the Prince instantly identified as the long blued-haired, girlie-eyedMaster Canis, Man of the Scornful Breeze, and one whom she didn't know at all. This bulky, mustached man was General Forte, the Requiem for the Dead. This particular man seemed to be the person who was talking before the Prince entered the hall, and he let her know of her interruption.

"Child, sit down! NOW! You should have been here thirty minutes ago!" There wasn't so much rage in his voice as there was total irritation.

The Prince felt someone tug hard on her shirt and she was thrown to the right. She landed on Mesher's lap and knew he was the one who had jerked her. Mesher grinned and squeezed her tightly.

"Gettin' a little cozy there, aren't ya, Prince?" He made sure he was whispering so as not to get into trouble with the General.

The Prince wrenched herself away from the tall man and sat down next to him. "Hey, Mesher. What's going on? Who's that guy?"

"That guy's General Forte. Apparently he's here to get a few troops goin' to Juggernaut (you know, where Mask of Winters lives). From what's he's been spoutin' off, our Lord Walker needs more help than we thought." Mesher laughed briefly. "You just know he's gonna send our armada of ships out. We're the biggest fleet here." He sighed and reclined slightly, as though a feeling of ecstasy had washed over him. "Finally, I get to call you 'Captain Prince' again."

Prince of the Vicious Seas sighed in exasperation and nudged Mesher in the ribs.

"God, stop with that name already. Call me Prince or Captain, but don't put the words together. I'm tired of the crew calling me that. It's all because of you, too."

Mesher shrugged. "What can I say, I'm a trend-starter."

The familiar sound ofMaster Canis' voice caught both of the Deathknights' attention. His soft tone was grave and serious. "Everyone before me today, our Lord, Walker in Darkness, is in dire need of our assistance at the enemy's base, Juggernaut. I know I speak for everyone here when I say that bringing our lord back safely is highly important, and our highest priority. After all he has done for us, we cannot leave him there in defeat."

"That's right!" screamed a bald, pale man near the front row, who stood and raised his fist. "Walker in Darkness came to us when no one else would! He gave us a future where other Deathlords would have let us rot and die in the battlefield!"

"I'll go to Hell before I let our lord be defeated by that lowlyscandal of a Deathlord!" screamed a woman right next to Mesher.

"We must…do all that is…within our power to…bring…our lord…back!" another man wheezed with difficulty behind the Prince. She noticed a strange metal stake the size of a thimble lodged in his throat. It must have been there when he was exalted.

There were others that began yelling their tribute to Walker in Darkness. Soon, the entire banqueting hall echoed with the voices of the Deathknights. The noise was earsplitting; the Prince covered her ears and leaned forward in agony, andMesher soon joined her.

"Then let's not sit here screaming about the predicament!" the General hollered, throwing his arm out to demand silence.

All noise ceased as though General Forte had taken their voices away.

MasterCanis then stepped forward. "We will set forth as soon as possible. By nightfall, if we can. Commodore Conroy!" A rugged-looking man with long jagged hair stood in response to his name being called. "Assemble your captains and their crew and load your ships! The rest of you, my ground troops, remain here! We shall discuss our tactics for battle once the hall has been cleared! In Oblivion's name!"

"In Oblivion's name!" the Deathknights replied, throwing their fists into the air.

Prince of the Vicious Seas and Mesher interlocked with the rest of the large crowd that was heading for the citadel docks. Since battle would soon be waged, the captains and their first mates had to go about routine checkups on their ships for any sign of major cracks or holes in the ship. The seas by themselves were dangerous enough in the underworld; unstable or leaky ships were certainly of no help.

"Ugh, so much for lunch. God, I'm starving." the Prince whined as she and Mesher headed for the docks to locate their ship. She dragged her feet in exaggerated exhaustion— which wasn't very wise, considering the rocks that slid under her feet due to her open-toed sandals—while Mesher shuffled his way along, humming a tune he knew in life. The Prince blew up in curses a few minutes later when a particularly sharp rock cut through the bottom of her foot; she hopped around in agony until she managed the pull the rock out, then she chucked it furiously.

Finding the Prince's suffering boring at last, Mesher began digging around in his large pockets. The Prince watched him pull out a fist-sized piece of bread.

"Here ya go." He tossed it over his shoulder at her and she caught it quickly, tearing it apart with her little canines. "Swiped it from Spencer before we left. I figured if I didn't feed the stomach, I'd have a miserable voyage the entire time."

The Prince made a stifled response that sounded something like "Good idea."

"So, where's our good friend, Commodore?" Mesher inquired, flipping his head from left to right. He seemed disappointed when he couldn't find him. "I was really looking forward to commending him on his inhuman pecks."

The Prince stifled her laughter while finishing up her piece of bread. The moment it cleared her throat, she felt something rock hard slam on her shoulder, causing her to nearly fall flat on the floor. She wound up on her hands and knees, coughing from all the rattling going on in her chest.

"Well, if it isn't my dear Vicious Prince!" a loud, scruff voice boomed from somewhere above the tiny Abyssal.

"Jeez, Benton, ya nearly killed her!" Mesher practically yelled, indicating the Prince sitting stunned on the ground. "For a second I thought you were tryin' to rip out her spinal chord or somethin'."

"Oh. Eesh, I'm sorry, my Prince. I keep forgetting that you're not like Horror of the Bones; small man, tough as nails." Benton, a hulking man with a shiny bald head, was known for his incredible strength. He was over twice the size of the Prince, and about five times as strong. He knelt down and hoisted the Prince off the ground by her waist. After he helped her steady herself, Benton proceeded to dusting her off, which was more like beating her with a broom.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" the Prince pronounced in a friendly yet nervous tone. Benton was the type of guy who would break your bones by doing things like that. Once she steadied herself, though, the Prince walked up and gave him a tight (by her standards) hug. She had known Benton since she was eight, which was when she was exalted. He was quick to earn her trust, and had become a father to her over the years, teaching her everything there was to know about a ship and how to keep command of it. Yes, Benton was the person she trusted the most, apart from her lord, Walker in Darkness.

"So Benton, my good man," said Mesher in a parody voice ofMaster Canis, "is there any way you can tell us what the whereabouts of our ships are?" He patted Benton heartily on the back.

Benton puffed himself up, looking even larger than usual.

"Of course I do! I've been wandering up and down these docks for a good five minutes. Our ships are about three ships down from here, and all together as usual. From what I can tell, the crew's been assembled. We're all just waiting for you two and the orders of Lord Canis." He scratched the back of his barren head.

"Well, let's get to work then." stated the Prince, walking off in the direction of her cavalry.

"Right then." Benton rushed forth and snatched the Prince from the ground, lifting her up high and placing her on his shoulders. "All ready to go, then? Come on, Mesher."

"Benton, put me down!" the Prince ordered, only resisting briefly. "I'm not eight anymore!"

"Ha! You're no adult, either. Not until I say so, anyway!"

"Benton!"

After a lengthy inspection conducted by the Prince and Mesher, it was clear that their cavalry was in top condition as always. Not a hole, not a puncture in the sails. Out of all eight ships, everything was in perfect order. To make things even better, there were onlyfour ships in need of repair out of the whole armada.

While the ground troops were sent out immediately, the ships were ordered to remain until instructed to move out by General Forte. This made the Prince very restless. She had expected to set off with the ground troops, thus get to Walker in Darkness faster, yet there they were, at ten in the evening, still at the dismal docks. Her dismay was made obvious by her pacing all about the deck, making her crew slightly panicky. Finally, Mesher spoke up from atop a supply crate.

"Will you stop that already? You're making the crew nervous, Prince."

The Prince stopped momentarily to respond. "This just isn't fair. We would have made it to battle by now if we had just been sent out. Why are we being left behind like this?"

Mesher shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe General Kiss-my-ass has some strategy. After all, he hates Mask of Winters almost as much as Walker does." At that, Mesher returned to his carving project on a small block of wood. He was very good with his knives.

Prince of the Vicious Seas nodded and was about to reply when a loud whistle sounded off into the foggy night.

"That was the General's whistle," Benton announced, striding to the edge of the boat, the Prince and Mesher following.

General Forte could be seen in the distance, illuminated by his own magic. He put the whistle to his lips and sounded off again. "Alright! Everyone! Awaken and get up! Set sail! We're casting off now!"

Deathknight: A generic term for Abyssal Exalted. They generally serve under a Deathlord, but their true loyalty is to Oblivion.

Deathlord: Basically, they are the rulers of the Underworld. There are thirteen of them, but while they are feared by almost everyone, they are the primary pawns in a much bigger game.

Lethe: (See Soren's view of it above)

Oblivion: The force of true annihilation and total destruction.

Soulsteel: Metal created from the souls of ghosts.

R&R: Read and review.