AN:
A bit of a short one, this time. I wanted to have all the fighting in one compressed cut for the next chapter, and then a little something much more fun after ;)
She drifted down to the forest floor. Roughly two days had passed; Davith's men would recover, weakened, by the end of the next. Rikmar would arrive then, and prepare his attack. She had spent the time reinforcing the chittering creatures that bowed to her will, as their losses were great in carrying out that divine will. Yet this was not a sincere challenge. Thus she hunted out moments to strike, inflicting chaos, fear, and death upon the camp. She wished the time had passed more rapidly; it was, though unbecoming of her, boring beyond her previous imaginings. But that did not solve her current conundrum; simply, she had another day in which to do anything she wished. It was a strange feeling. Deciding to get some rest whilst she still could, Syndra landed at the foot of a large tree which towered over its neighbours. She felt this was a worthy place to sleep; it was far from Davith's camp, secluded, and she felt a queer sense of security lying under the great tree. She didn't know what type it was, but hoped that it was special in some way. She lay, wondering about the tree who sheltered her, and woke up to a voice screaming in her head for her to move. Calmly floating to her feet, the voices multiplied. She was to run, hide, escape, go anywhere that wasn't here. She was not scared. She could feel a presence nearby. It wasn't malign or benign; simply existing. But she couldn't see it. Inside her mind, the voices scattered at the entry of another.
You disturb the balance. This balance must be kept, between spirit and human. I am sorry for what I must do.
Syndra did not see the blade that sliced across her neck. She could feel the pain explode inside of her, and blood pressed through a gaping wound in her neck. Falling to her knees, she could hear the voice praying for her soul. Pressing a hand against her throat, magic spilled forth in a rush she didn't even ask for, but which closed her neck and filled her veins and left her standing. She opened her senses as Sensei had told her; a third eye blinked and was dazzled by the beauty of what she saw. A man stood before her, dressed in dark shades of black and purple and green. His stance was exact, his palms pressed together in an arcane template that she did not recognise. His eyes were a blank purple, much like hers. He stared at her, otherwise unmoving. The hilts of two swords crossed over his shoulders, and a third, large as her, hovered in a way that looked menacing and spoke serenity. Prepared for another blinding attack, she pooled her magic inside of her, a thick wave of Dark climbing from her and pouring into the surrounding terrain as her control slipped in the mad rush for power. The tree beside her started to rot, creaking, and immediately she stopped. Without a thought for her own safety, she reversed her power, drawing the Dark inside and leaving behind a strange absence, one that Light filled as water did an empty cup. The tree sprung up and healed and grew, taller than ever. The man had not moved, and she turned to him, hesitant before stating:
"I know not of your balance. I know simply that I am, and I will be. You will not stop me or my plans. I wish no harm on you or your spirits. Leave me be, or suffer the consequences." To her now enhanced sight, she could see the effect of her magic. Pressing against the veil, she drew forth a half dozen spheres of Void. As they fell through, the world rippled and peeled back, retreating from them. It looked like running paint, leaving behind the normal, physical realm. The man's eyes - she did not think how she could see them, but instinctively knew in a way - darted from her, to her spheres, to the tree, a rapid chain of decisions made unblinkingly. The man swiftly bowed, conclusion reached, and intoned to her in a voice that was cripplingly monotone.
I am sorry, Lady Syndra. I had believed you to be a disciple of the Shadow Order, and their practices abhorr the very worlds around us.
The sentence startles her. Syndra has indeed heard of the Shadow Order; boogeymen, tales told to scare children, blamed for misfortunes and disasters across the world. She was interested in joining them, for a time, to further hone her Dark magic; they were, after all, the masters of it. But Sensei had managed to talk her out of it, as he had many things, not to mention the difficulty of finding and being initiated by them. She had not thought of them in a long time. Perhaps she had best start doing so. Her eyes narrow.
"I concern myself not with those misguided fools. Yes, they are skilled. But they are weak, and I am strong. I have no love for them." The strange, purple man doesn't react physically, yet she can tell the words have struck a nerve. A tense minute passes as they stare - two sides of a bent coin - and he comes to a semblance of a decision, one hand lancing out to point in a seemingly random direction. The eyes, however, keep firmly chained to her own.
Do you see their perverse temple, Lady? The sight should be familiar, for one such as yourself.
She looks off and lets her eyes lose focus and dips her sight into that other world. She can see it, now that it is pointed out to her; there is a hole in the world, like the effects of her orbs, yet grossly multiplied, swollen beyond belief. It is a sickly, cancerous growth, leeching the power from this world, leaving a husk behind. She momentarily entertains wiping the source from the world, but thinks she might cause more harm than good, and instead looks back to the man, and nods, trying to discover a motive. Her voice is direct, and scathing, scornful.
"A rotting wound on the soul of the world. What about it?" He ignores the question, instead nodding slowly, thoughtfully, before replying.
Today, the balance is kept in place. Soon, I will return. My duty demands it. May you live well until then.
He chants and waves his hands in a strict but fluid series of motions, then vanishes in a flash of purplish light. She was left agape, blood starting to dry on her throat. With a wave, shadows washed up and over, taking the filth with it. In a strange sort of dazed shock, not quite comprehending what just happened, she sat back down at the foot of the tree, floating gently so as to not jar her frame. Who was he? He had moved like none she had seen, and indeed, had shown abilities she didn't know of. He was inside the spirit world. She wasn't sure how that was possible… Lifting her head upwards, she realized it was light, but getting dark again; pink light dyeing the sky in a spectrum of beauty. She'd missed almost an entire day… How was that possible? Turning her focus inward, nothing was wrong. In fact, the rest had done her good. The strain of the Void creatures was severely lessened to the point of almost disappearing completely, though admittedly, since the star in her soul began its imperative duty, it had become much easier to sustain and summon the demons. It was nice to be able to ignore the world for a time, short as it was, and a new experience. A welcome experience. She would have to undertake such an endeavour - to do nothing, and relax - more often. Hopefully with Lux, that it might develop into something that Syndra knew she hungered for, ached for, yet did not know the identity or motive of. And indeed, thinking of the Light star, there was a pulse; a strange rhythm throbbing to a beat unseen and unheard, but felt. Following a trail of latent magic, she stepped into the shadows and arrived at the edge of a tree-lined path. She could hear something, and the trail led in that direction.
She pressed forwards through the undergrowth, when necessary melting through grasping vines. The sounds got louder and louder and quickly realized it was the sound of a baby. She'd never heard one, the inane babbling of an infant, but she knew of it from her other lives. Breaking into dazzling sunlight, pushing a weak branch from her face, she was met with a clearing. There was a patch of broken trees, probably from a lightning strike, on one of which sat two people. The burbling sounds emanated from the small blob of fat being bounced up and down on the man's knee. Beside him sat a woman, giggling as much as the baby. Their backs were to Syndra, and apparently they hadn't noticed her. It took a moment to realize the man was Mordreth. The others must be his family. They looked as happy as his memories suggested. She wasn't sure being flung into the air was fun, personally, though flying held a certain thrill. Maybe for those who cannot control their own gravity as she can, the substitute is just as good. She didn't want to break this idyllic moment, watching them. They were simply being a family, and who was she to impose? And yet, this wasn't his cabin, wasn't where she left him. Where was her knight going?
"Sir Mordreth?" In a movement too fast to see, he was up with sword drawn, the baby safely ensconced in his wife's arms. His face was a mix of fear and anger until he saw Syndra. He smiled, his wife looking on in a mix of horror and confusion. It seems justified.
"W-Who is this, husband?" The baby was crying, reacting to the tension his mother exhibited. It was a grating sound to Syndra, but she found something inside of her didn't mind. Mordreth shushed their son, sheathing the sword, then turned to her.
"A pleasant coincidence we are to meet again, my Queen. I was travelling to Rikmar's army, hoping to serve you once more." His wife's face has relaxed into a more angry pose, mostly directed at him.
"Why would you hope that? I released you from my command. I… You deserve a happy life." His face hardens a little, falling back into a practiced mask.
"I am your knight, you said it yourself. I will serve you until my death, or yours, my Lady." She is startled by his loyalty, perhaps thinking he was acting from fear or some sort of perceived debt.
"I thank you for your service to me, but why bring your family?" She turns and takes a step towards Allia, who flinches. Their son has calmed, making noises and giggling. Mordreth comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, placating, and guides her to Syndra.
"She wouldn't let me go again. Wouldn't let me out of her sight." Allia smiles shyly, remembering the argument. Syndra looks on her with a new light, then nods, respectful. Mordreth says something but she doesn't realize; her mind has refocused on the pulse from her soul, a steady beat. It has amplified, and now she looks closely she can sense two. One shouts at the presence of her knight, deafening once her ears tune to its pitch, and the other is forlorn; its brother's echo is far, far away. Snapping back to reality, her knight repeats his question.
"My Queen? Can you hear me?" His face is slightly confused and concerned. His wife is unhappy, holding the cute lump, who is markedly more content simply lying there. Lazy baby.
"Yes, I… I fear, Mordreth, that the travel will be dangerous. I have trapped Davith's scouts from his army, and they will be desperate. It would be safe if you got there as quickly as possible… And I have a very quick method." Mordreth grimaces, remembering his first time through the shadows. He looks down at his wife, who gazes back at him, and his son, who is sucking a thumb, happily mumbling, ignorantly blissful. He takes a shaky breath, then nods, tightening his grip on the ones he loves.
"Prepare, Allia. I will hold Bron. It can be... Unpleasant." Syndra nods, steps close, and lays a hand on the two of them. His love is scared, frozen, and he presses a kiss to her temple. Syndra's face twists into a small smile, unbidden, and then they are standing at the edge of a ring of pale light, shadows pressing tightly to it, trying to deny it ground. His wife leans back against him, retching, and Bron immediately starts crying, liquid dribbling from his chin. He calms both as Syndra strides forward. She is used to the rigours of travelling in the shadow; she can seamlesslly step from one to another, as long as her magic allows.
The darkness recedes like a tide, and the light springs forward to reclaim its territory. She steps into the light and immediately a voice challenges her. It cracks, tremulous, but courage and loyalty reinforces it. She drifts into the air, the light momentarily blinding her. A purple glow emanates from her eyes, dimming the glare to a bareable level. This reveals a soldier, a young recruit, but trained well. He stands tall, spear extended. After a few seconds of staring at the Dark-wreathed figure, the boy realizes just who he is threatening, and dissolves into a stuttering, nervous mess. Her knight steps out from the darkness beside her; dressed in armour of deepest blackness, his sword a Void of life. His voice is deep and commanding, and the orders he gives are fair and true. The man's words ring out, booming, demanding loyalty, utterly undeniable. This is, at least, what the young recruit would tell his equally wide-eyed friends later.
When Davith's body was still warm in its grave, his army crushed, his last hopes dashed.
"Take us to Rikmar. We have business with him. And quickly, boy. " At once, the sentry turned and practically sprinted off. Like an eager puppy, he stopped every so often to check they were still following. Taking them through a guard station to send a replacement for his patrol, it took them a full few minutes of walking to reach Rikmar's command tent. They passed formations of men and women with swords and shields, training in regiments. Block, thrust, step. Simple, repetitive, efficient. Against a horde of unarmoured men who didn't know how to fight, it would be a massacre. Most Ionian soldiers were lone fighters; they were not made to battle in tight formations with rigid precision. But Rikmar, Noxian by birth, knew of a different tactic. Most of the Noxian army were conscripts, given a blunt sword and a week of training before heading out. But the real soldiers were trained to form walls of hard steel, unbreakable, and this was how he trained those who placed their loyalty in him; superior, expensive, irreplaceable, and above all, impressive to all onlookers.
The tent was large, but only by necessity, and there were three others nearby with the same guard and design, to deter assassins. Opening the flap, the guards standing at the entrance uneasy, revealed Rikmar and his advisors around a circular table once more. This time, they stood, and between them lay a map with markings and scrawl covering it like scurrying ants. The Lord looked up and smiled at his Queen, then frowned slightly as he saw the three - no, four - others following her. He bows respectfully and the others follow suit, and the flap closes behind the new arrivals. She barely takes a moment to nod before her vision is invariably drawn to Lux, who is at the current moment smiling at her. She represses the smile that wants to mirror it, though it is hard.
"I have brought our Queen, Milord, as she has requested." The recruit's voice cracked but was otherwise steady; Rikmar noted him down for later inspection.
"And who accompanies our fair monarch, on this most auspicious day?" Mordreth steps forward and nods in respect, exempt from bowing to the lord due to his direct loyalty to Syndra.
"I am Sir Mordreth, Lord Rikmar, and this is my Lady Wife, Allia, with our son, Bron. I am pleased to at last meet the commander of my Queen's forces." Rikmar's eye is far more critical of this so-called knight than the green recruit; his armour, if it could be called so - little more than boiled leather - was old and worn. His eyes, however, spoke only fierce devotion. This man would be either a great asset or a dire threat, the old general decided. He noticed, however, that despite the equipment he carried, the man was not a soldier. A conscript or militia, since he knew how to strap on a sword belt, but otherwise not able to swing the thing.
"And I greet you humbly, and invite you to my table as the mouth of our Queen, should she be absent." The knight's face twists with shock, since he has no idea of the etiquette; he was rather hoping the Noxian would be lax in that area. As such, he has no reply but a simple acceptance, without any flowery phrasing. The Lord's eyes narrow, as it would seem his assessment of the man was correct; a farmer or threadbare merchant, thrust into a position he doesn't understand. His wife seems more regal, but they are both nothing besides the natural gravitas of the Queen who stands beside them. However, Rikmar is not a spiteful man; he knows that should this knight make a fool of himself, it would make Syndra look bad, and weaken their position, since their fates are linked intrinsically, for good or bad.
"It is nice to meet an Ionian who can speak plainly, Mordreth! One would think you ate thesauruses as babies!" Mordreth, though caught off guard, can sense an olive branch when one is extended. He joins in with the laughter echoing around the canvas as Syndra drifts over, her face conceding a small smile. As the sound dies down, Rikmar speaks once more.
"What is your name, Lieutenant?" This is directed at the young man who guided them here, still clutching his spear like a lifeline. It takes him a moment to realize it is directed at him.
"M-My name, Milord? Pan, Milord, but I'm no Lieutenant. Milord." Rikmar smiles warmly.
"You are now, Pan, and you will be my liaison and guard for our Queen's most loyal families. Please escort Lady Allia to my tent, and keep watch over her." The soldier hesitates, but his drive to obey overrides his confusion and exultation. Without preamble, he spins and marches out of the tent. Allia kisses her husband, then follows, Bron sleeping soundly. Lux comes over to stand next to her. Syndra lets herself sink to the floor so as to be closer to her, and has to resist the urge to kiss her again. But this time she cannot stop the smile as Lux takes her hand in her own. There is a moment of abject confusion amongst the others present, but a simple man of simpler thoughts, Raltt leans forward, one hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sheathed sword, though more in frustration than anger. Syndra is glad.
"Please, my Queen, tell us of your plan. We have had no resistance, any scouts we found were met accidentally. Thus far Davith has no idea we're here, my men are ready, and if we attack within the hour they will be cut down like so much wheat. It is almost perfect." The other advisors wore grim smiles, filled with too much pain to be happy, and she realized that this - the chance to crush Davith in his entirety - was a wish many of them had held for a long time. Mydaltt's eyes were narrowed, furious, burning a hole through the map where Davith's encampment rested. Raltt is grinning, predatory, happy to finally pin the roach that is Davith to the ground.
This is a part of why Syndra did not simply annihilate Davith herself. She does not wish to become too alike the Justicar, an all powerful deity, who though available to protect and serve, is not human, is too far above a normal person to talk to. If she were to have the ground open up and swallow Davith and his army whole, her rule would be assured, her influence all-encompassing. But she would be above them. They had failed, and she had succeeded. Either they would grow resentful - as any debt grows such an emotion - or distant; because of the simple, terrifying truth that she could do the same to them and they are thus powerless in the face of her whims. She is a Queen, and she must listen to her subjects and be listened to, must communicate and have a hand in their everyday affairs. Thus Rikmar and his soldiers must have a hand in Davith's death; they must believe that she needs them, and they need her. However there is another aspect to her reluctance to singlehandedly kill Davith and all who follow him.
She doesn't want to see all that blood on her hands, to wake up and hear the screams of her victims as they die like vermin at the hands of a merciless deity.
Lamol wasn't present, presumably overseeing supplies and weapons for the soldiers. Narrla has recovered from the events of the castle, and in her hands rests a new wand, which she is twirling anxiously. There is magic stored inside, but Syndra doesn't know what; it could be anything. Whilst Lux is a master of a singular element, Narrla is more like Syndra. She has access to all the magics, no matter the wind or lore. Lux's wand, therefore, can contain only Light magic; or more likely is a focus for her own natural talent. Narrla, like Syndra, is either skilled or gifted enough to not need one, and thus can use such an object to contain spare mana. Speaking of magic, she sees the noticeable absence of Roland and Lem, stalwart bodyguards of the Lord.
"Before we move onto strategy, I must ask where your mages are. They, and Narrla, will play an important part in the fight to come." Rikmar's eyes flash in a way she cannot decipher, since he hasn't told her the names of his advisors, but it passes quickly; she is full of surprises, this one of the least so.
"They are training a young man who volunteered, a Stormbrewer, who arrived only yesterday. He will join them in the attack." Syndra smiles, hands crossed lightly behind her back.
"No. I have something in plan for him. He is to join Pan in the guarding of Lady Allia." Rikmar raises an eyebrow. The gesture, though small, holds a weight defying explanation.
"You know of him? How?" She starts to explain that they were both Sensei's students, that he attacked her thinking she was still a murderer, how he was mistaken. The problem was, however…
He wasn't. She was a murderer.
She's killed Sensei in cold blood, and every student had seen it. She realizes that she hasn't thought about it - his death, or the sudden and jarring events over the last week - that had followed. There had been just over two dozen students, Syndra being the second oldest of them. This Stormbrewer was the third oldest, and the most senior of them all had been the grating harpy who Syndra had hated above everything else. She sometimes wondered how she resisted the temptation to kill her, when it was so easy. The girl had been an accomplished mage, and a good person by all respects.
That was why Syndra hated her with such passion.
Looking back on the past ten years, now removed only by a few days, she realized what an unforgiving bitch she'd been to the kind girl, who had no crimes but being popular and friendly. She felt a gnawing in her gut, to think that she'd been so close to ending that existence, but she brushed it off. She'd apologize when they met next, as they undoubtedly would, one day soon.
"He was the next youngest student of Sensei's. He, with the rest, ran when Sensei died… No, when I killed him. When I tore the temple from the ground. He trusts me, and I trust him. He will guard Allia. And I will need someone to train Mordreth. Either way, bring Roland and Lem here, after they're done. Narrla, you will have to fill them in on the plan I'm about to tell you all." There was fear in their eyes, after her open admission of murder, but that didn't stop them from listening as intently as possible as she outlined the part they all had in the battle to come. After all, for all of her wrongdoings and evil deeds, they were about to not only commit such atrocities, but under her order, aware of their consequences. They must either forgive her of these past transgressions, or subject themselves to their own baseless morality and discard it upon the realization it is worthless. She doesn't yet know which is the outcome she wants.