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During the Ages of Myth, a dark time where demons, dragons and their spawn reigned over their lesser brothers, the Universe was sinister and colourless. Death and debauchery was manifested into a billion, ugly and deceitful forms and there was no light, just planets floating in the shadows.

That was until the Essence Orbs came into being. It is told that the Orbs were not made, but simply are. They drove out the demons and imprisoned them in giant, circular boxes, the fire streaming from their horns lighting up the prison and making them the suns, where they were burned to a cinder; still alive but as ashes floating in space. The dragons, however, which were fighting a civil war where factions were destroyed and created every day, were made Gods, the most powerful being Lokve.

The demon spawn, humanoid creatures with blazing red skin, eventually evolved into a less temperamental people, known as the Mythics. At the same time, the dragon spawn, small, winged beasts, developed into birds, the greatest being the Eagle Guardians of the mountain ranges. The two species co-existed peacefully, even learning each other's language and engaging in trade.

Nevertheless, that alliance was not to last, the Mal-Demons had seen to that. The Mal-Demons, the three strongest Demons ever to live, had liberated themselves from their gaol and travelled to Cerceres. They destroyed the sun, which was a disguised jail, and led an army of evil to attack the Kingdom of the Mythics.

For ten millennia, the conjoined armies of the Mythics and the Eagles repelled their invaders successfully, even thriving despite the brutal war. Using magical machines, the Mythics had forced the demons to retreat back to their city of Kha'zixr, where the Mal-Demons resided. The Eagles, sensing that something was afoot, pulled out of the fight and withdrew their soldiers.

The Mythics were not discouraged by what they branded "an act of the utmost cowardice" and surrounded Kha'zixr, which in their tongue meant "the Malevolent City". For years, they besieged the settlement by bombarding it from afar. After firing over one million spells at the huge shield circling the city, they too noticed that something was wrong. But it was too late.

For every hex that they cast, the shield got stronger and larger, until it bulged over two continents. The war was to last another four years, with the Mythics failing at every ship and land battle that commenced. The war would have been over quicker if it wasn't for the massive amount of Mythic controlled forts, towns, keeps, villages and metropolises filling the land. At long last, the demons uncovered the Mythic capital of Adasurc and captured it, enslaving the inhabitants of the once vibrant and joyful city.

A handful of people managed to escape and became known as the Wanderers. As a nomadic tribe, they travelled around Cerceres, hiding from the demon patrols that would delight in killing them. During one of their journeys, they came across a floating light dancing in a cave. Mesmerised, they followed it and were amazed when they discovered an altar and a fountain. For seven days and nights, they prayed at the altar, hoping for salvation.

Far away, outside the universe, the Gods heard their pleas and came to Cerceres, destroying the demons and creating the Void to hold the Mal-Demons. Once they had done what was requested, they left and let the Wanderers evolve, which they did. They split into two groups; one becoming the Essence Elves and the other group grew into the Hardeteels, known by historians to be the founders of the human race.

*

Tobil, the Champion of Evil and the Thwarter of the Gods, marched around the large, fiery cavern with a formidable, threatening demeanour, barking orders aggressively to timid, bent-over goblins.

Tainting black smoke wafted slowly through thin, narrow vents, choking the already poisoned air and dark orange lava bubbled and seeped through cracks that riddled the sloping walls.

Countless goblins silently leaped through shadows delivering messages to elders and hurrying towards their posts. Some were blacksmiths, creating Shadow Cutlasses and Ragged Blades, or builders erecting weak wooden scaffolding much to the dismay of workers slaving away below. Some were also taming huge, spider-like Lava Shooters and a few were training in the middle of the expansive cave, slashing bloody carcasses and groaning at the effort.

Shouting loudly, even audible against the horrendous noise, was a menacing-looking overseer armed with a dangerous whip. "No slacking, get to work!"

Every repetition of this was accompanied by the brutal sound of the whip and his eerie laughter echoing off the walls. The goblins being scolded would then fall to the floor, writhing in agony, before getting back up and resume working, albeit with less energy.

Tobil glided through the dimly lit warren of tunnels and passageways, passing goblins who halted and bowed out of fear and respect, and then raced away to tell their family groups the news.

The complex labyrinth was confusing at the best of times and Tobil, having been banished and incarcerated in the Void for over 100 years, struggled to remember how to navigate the tiring network. Although he had retained his core, sadistic personage and the large majority of his memory, he failed to recount how he had been banished. He knew one thing though, and that was that he had been Banished by that interfering Druid. Oh… How he loathed that Druid.

All that he had of the events leading up to his untimely "demise" was unclear images and visions of a battle. Grainy recollections and fragmented memories clouding his mind like a thick, almost solid fog that never faded, unsettled or dispersed.

However, thanks to the help of Tobil's greatest aide, the mist was going to disappear. The faltering images would strengthen into vivid pictures and the jumbled collages would cease to exist, instead replaced by clearer visions.

Zackarack, an old goblin 50 years Tobil's junior with a sharp mind and blade, had recommended that he should drink from the Fountain of Time Everlasting, an ancient relic said to pre-date the First Empire of Acka-Tosh and have a connection with the Conduit.

Tobil, even as open-minded as he was, dismissed the idea as rubbish, saying that even if it did exist it was lost in the Great Battle of the Kavrosh Plains. He should know, as he was a general leading the Armies of Mithraleen against the Borasi, a species so foul that it was written out of most books.

For weeks, he grew progressively more insane. No goblin, apart from Zackarack, dared go near him or his quarters. To him, even the Void was better than this torture.



That was until he had encountered the fabled entity Norkel, the Goblin King of the First Era and now a malevolent Eoni Wraith. Norkel had come to Tobil physically when he was in his Private Quarters and told him also to drink from the Fountain, informing him of its rough location after he agreed to a secret deal.

After that fateful meeting, Tobil instructed every single scout, spy and soldier under his command to search and examine every inch of the suspected area just to find the Fountain of Time Everlasting.

Progress had been too slow for Tobil, who had become increasingly psychotic and mad, and the goblins sent out were getting spotted too easily. Luckily, for Tobil, the people crazy enough to believe what they saw had their claims regarded as fallacy or advised to visit the local healer for some physiatrist treatment.

Finally, after Tobil had resorted to enlisting Dark Ash Assassins, the Fountain had been unearthed in a heavily guarded Caaha shrine and installed in his rooms.

Tobil himself had chartered the ship that took the assassins over the sea, from Eusiac to Ameninca. Of course, he himself couldn't join in on any of the heated skirmishes and minute battles that followed or he risked being sighted and starting another Goblin Purge. In the last Purge, five empires, not to mention other traitorous goblins, had united to drive out the terrible Enacra Goblins from their caves. The few survivors had been forced to seek refuge in the generally unexplored mountains of Moosh.

After many nail-biting hours, the assassins returned to the ship, having lost half their number and injured. Tobil was jubilant for days. So jubilant that he only had thirty goblins executed for laziness that week. Soon, the vicious, relentless plague of bad memories would vanish and he'd be free at last. Or so he thought.

As he turned the corner that led him to an intersection, that in turn would take him to his quarters, a thin smile, and expression Tobil had not used since his victory over Crusada's forces at the Siege of Castle Carnihex, crept across his face.

Two Menagi, attractive, naturally tattooed Half-Elves, guarded the doorway with spears in their gloved hands. They gave a hasty salute before parting, leaving Tobil alone. Tobil proceeded into his room. It was dark; a lone candle spluttered quietly on top of an ebony table.

His room was bare, reflecting his perfect world, apart from the intricately made table, a wooden bookcase housing a plethora of arcane books of spells and detailed treatises, a shabby bed and, in the pride of place, the Fountain.

The Fountain was made of immaculately white marble, draped in blood red velvet embroidered with gold, and was too perfectly rounded to have been created by even the most renowned sculptors or artists, even if they were dwarves.

It radiated a mystical light that emitted from no visible source and was filled with a transparent liquid. A golden goblet rested beside the water, carefully placed so it did not taint or corrupt the water.

Tobil walked over to the chalice, inscribed with intricate writing, and was shocked when it flew onto the table. Tobil, trying to make sense of the confusion, guessed that it must be enchanted with a Repulse charm.

Hopelessly, he attempted to grab it and after hundreds of fruitless tries he raised his head skywards and let out a sickening insult at the Gods for they had sanctioned the curse.

Nostrils flaring, he recomposed himself. He would have to touch the Water of Time with his hands, unprotected.

Slowly, he edged over to the marble and cupped his hands.

Gradually, suppressing as much pain as he could, he inserted his shaking hands into the liquid and withdrew them. Spasms shook him as he swiftly dipped his black, poisonous tongue into the agonizing water and regretted it. His head exploded with pain and images.

Visions of the future, of what was to come, erupted from him, pouring from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Tobil dropped to his knees, scratching slivers of wood from the table as the images fired from him.

He saw a picture land beside him and take shape. It depicted a young man with brown hair walking through a bright forest, joined by a huge Giant Man and an old wizard-like person who looked like an older version of someone Tobil had seen before, carrying a beautiful staff and baring a stunningly white beard.

Another one portrayed the three same people duelling a dragon of pure malice alongside a teenage girl wielding a bow and an older, dishevelled man holding a crooked wand.

The next one showed the brown-haired man and his gigantic friend travelling across Carnihex Bridge while whitish water raged and fought below them.

Any normal human would have been crippled, driven insane and torn to pieces from the immense ocean of Things To Come blasting from them, but then again, Tobil wasn't exactly an ordinary man. He wasn't even a full goblin either…

























Malfa watched his mother, his lovely mother; leave Crusada by her ornate horse-drawn carriage from his balcony.

Saddened though he was, he understood that the Queen of the day had to make a holy pilgrimage to the Statue of King Calgacus every decade. How he loathed the endless traditions and beaurocratic functions of the monarchy he was part of.

Obviously, he could never share these thoughts with his father, the King of Crusada and a large chunk of Mithraleen and other countries, because he knew that he would be disappointed.

No wonder, thought Malfa as he sat in the sweltering heat, sipping crisp water from a glass, his idea of fun consists of meeting with diplomats or looking at his large collection of maps of countries all around the world, especially the ones of trans-continental colonies that he owned.

So Malfa sat, waving to his departing mother who couldn't see him, wearing the tight, customary vestments that he abhorred.

For the thousandth time, Malfa loosened his repulsive, blue outfit, thinking about how weird he looked.

He had been given the choice out of melting in the sun, or attending a meeting with a group of tanned, foreign-looking delegates.

The sun won easily, from here he could see all of his future subjects working and relaxing.

As he spied on the alien-like habits of the citizens, Nomin, the Palace Guard Captain, entered via the glass door, clad in his silver and gold armour.

"Sir" He greeted politely, dusting some dirt off of his chest plate. "The King would like to see you at the Basilica, it is about the Seminary Stone."

"Hello Nomin," Greeted Malfa, visibly pleased to have some company. "Is it time for the Sacred Blessing already?"

The Sacred Blessing was one of the few traditions that Malfa was intrigued about. It involved praying for a cheap-looking emerald, rumoured to have been made by Vulcta, the Sculptor God, using various ingredients, spells and potions.

"Yes, as I'm sure you know, the Blessing happens once every hundred years." He answered, retreating to a rare bit of shade.

He left the room for a while, Malfa feeling lonely in his absence, and returned carrying a large crown, gold glinting blindingly in the blazing sunlight that was assaulting Crusada.

When Nomin saw Malfa's face he allowed a small chuckle to escape him. "And, you're going to have to wear this."

Malfa groaned, not out of dislike for the Blessing, but because of the fact that he would have to wear his crown. If there was anything his despised more than customary nonsense, it was his heavy, jewel-encrusted crown.

He was forced to wear it on every single official date since he turned fourteen. That was five, long years ago.

*

King Malfal strode out of his majestic, gold lined carriage with a air of importance, and waved condencsendingly to the throbbing crowds amassing outside the Seminary of Untampered Love, a beautiful piece of masonry adjacent to the Basilica that was as equally captivating.

An anxious-looking scribe ran from behind the King and proclaimed to the conglomeration that: "King Malfal V, son of King Malfale V and Queen Beatrix, caring husband to Queen Tarwen Carnihex and loving father of the most honourable Prince Malfa…" He exhaled and inhaled violently, before proceeding. " Is here!"

The vast throng of people listening exploded in frenzied admiration and cheering for their beloved King.

King Malfal, who was the 23rd King of the Ninth Empire, wore and expensive, blue shirt, luxurious, black trousers, and, hanging pompously over his left shoulder, a red cape with the insignia of the Eagle of Crusada sewn onto it. Dictating his prestigious title even further to the gathering was his antique crown that rested genteelly on his golden hair.

Gradually, the crowd dispersed, either exiting into the Basilica or returning to their workplace as most couldn't afford the day off. The King continued towards the heavily bolted, oak doors that were the Seminary's only entrance, other than the trapdoor leading in from the marble steeple.

Standing protectively at the doors were two, fully armoured guards. Each wore looks of pleasure as the King walked nearer and nearer towards them. When the King reached them, they bowed promptly and followed their monarch inside.

Gracefully, Malfal entered the Seminary and was immediately aware of why the building was held in such regard. He had already been in the Seminary once when he was a child, but still, he was blown away by the amount of godly energy flowing around the place.

It was a hall of worship, a separate shrine was at each column, and each one was dedicated to a different god.

Whole statues pictured kings, queens and heroes genuflecting in front of finely crafted altars, great, tactical generals adopting peaceful behaviour while glancing a saints and extremely talented wizards suddenly overcome joy after setting eyes on the mythical Staff of Life.

The huge giant pillars located around the Seminary supported the tiled roof and the steeple that housed a stone eagle.

Precisely at the centre was an expertly constructed altar that was made with emerald branches imported long ago from the forest at Gal'Gaheer and held together with the platinum strings spun by the Gargantuan Spiders of Civlovriy.

A long, linen shroud covered the precious twigs like a sacred shield, defending it from impurity and corruption. Emblazoned onto the cloth was a roaring lion, the War God Kyvrosh manifested in a terrestrial form.

All the occupants of the holy building gasped as they noticed that the King was in the presence. Two lowly monks almost slid of their pews when they spotted him.

Even Abbot Thomas Kim, who was shepherding a bunch of gawking Initiates into a half-hidden room, was dumbstruck with happiness, despite the fact that he had seen the King on countless occasions.

The only person who did not lose their head was High Druid Zilnee. Zilnee was robed in a humble, white robe and had an exquisitely crafted staff in his hand.

The staff was made of three bits of wood, gnarled around each other like old, bony fingers. At the top, being contained in the "fingers" was an Essence Orb, a swirling sphere conceived from magic.

He smiled when Malfal neared him, "Ah, Malfal you look so grown up," His eyes twinkled in the light spilling from the windows. "I remember you as a baby. Your father invited me to the celebrations… Come to that, I can recall your dad as a baby."

"Oh," Roared the King. " I'm sure you're not that old. You've probably lived for about 300 years, give or take a few."

The contingent of servants sitting at the teak pew nearest to them laughed obediently before taking out their prayer books and reading half-heartedly.

"Ha. You are indeed correct, what gave it away?" He asked softly, like a grandfather. "Was it my nicely trimmed beard? My many wrinkles?"

"That is a long time to live for a human, especially in these harsh times. Anyway, how is Vosh Grobar?"

Vosh Grobar was Zilnee's predecessor, a Forest Elf from Tarbet, and retired, subsequently leaving for the Valleys of the Druid.

Just then, the Abbot addressed the congregation. "We will begin the sermon. Now everyone, please turn to page 34 of your books."

Zilnee and Malfal sat at the front as the Abbot directed them in singing. He stood on a wooden dais that bore the altar, while a pair of people came from a small room at the back of the church.

One carried a perplexing, brass tool, whereas the other one was holding a cushion on which sat the Seminary Stone.

The Stone definitely gave out an aura of comfort and purity, and a special energy surrounded it. The green jewel also seemed to levitate centimetres above the purple fabric of the pillow.

The woman with the brass instrument inserted some alchemical ingredients and placed it beside the Abbot who held his breath.

Thick, pink smoke erupted from it, billowing up to the far reaches of the ceiling and beyond. Wherever it went, it took with it a sleep inducing, aromatic odour that caused a few of the less enthusiastic monks, priests and druids to fall into a stupor.

One fat druid fell into such a deep sleep that a bunch of Healers where forced to bundle him outside so that they could Revive him.

The man with the Seminary Stone gradually made his way over to the altar, carefully ascending the steps, and began to chant:

"Diante mi Noor,
Diante le Jour,
Movrash Shunte,
Deer Monte Louve.
Di onte me Tosh,
Menta moosh Dela,
Ave montangue Lde,
Teler in Joubuen,
Tormenio Derfrites!"

Suddenly, the green gem began to glow, radiating a whole collection of colours. Then, instantly, three colours became distinguishable, clashing and battling for dominance.

The fighting colours became a blur, continuing their fast-paced duel. Blue, red and green dissipated, crashing into the wall before fading into nothing. Purple and pink, along with brown, became forgotten, and orange was absorbed by the yellow.

Abruptly, the light splintered: Black, yellow and grey still vying for power. Colliding and turning, they climbed and climbed, ignoring the group of people who were looking at them, mouths agape out of awe and confusion. Misty, writhing tendrils began to form a defensive ring around the fight, sliding beneath each other and coiling around the thick columns.

They separated. The yellow and black gave each other one last "look" of disgust before escaping through different window. The grey sphere, pulsing and radiating a coolness, hovered defiantly, repulsed by its "sisters" behaviour.

Shards of sharp glass rained down from above it, some passing through it like it didn't exist, and lacerated a small proportion of unlucky people. Then, as if aroused, it dived at King Malfal.

It slammed into his stomach, winding him and sending him tumbling over the pew. It dragged him across the ground with the power of troll, and he scraped his back badly.

The pain was unbearable, all of his nerves were firing madly, black spots formed in his vision and blood drenched his coat. He felt it as his head struck stone and was cleaved open, then he felt nothing else.

Even though he was out cold, somehow Malfal knew that spasms and convulsion were shaking his body, knew that red blood was matting his hair, and knew that the world had darkened…

*

Malfa jogged down the spiralling road that led directly from the Palace, hoping to avoid the unnecessary contact of admirers and autograph-seekers.

Not only was it a private path, it was also out of the way of the densely populated Market area, a region notorious for its beggars and harassers. So Malfa was safe in the knowledge that he would be bothered as he marched down the hill, the only downside was that the road would at an extra ten minutes on to an already long journey. Ten unwanted, unneeded minutes.

When he sighted the priests, wizards and monks filing out of the Seminary, shocked looks etched onto their face, he knew that he was late. His father would be disappointed in him.
As he turned his back on the glittering building, he heard a window shatter. Spinning on his feet rapidly, Malfa saw a dazzling orb soar up into the cloudless sky. It floated there peacefully, and then it flared in anger and charged at Malfa, who began to run. It hit Malfa, wounding him and causing him to cartwheel into a pile of dust.

The dust peaked in height and then settled. Malfa was unconscious, his breathing irregular, muttering garbled nonsense.

Crusada, a once glorified city with control of prosperous, exotic trade countries in the East, freezing duchies in the North, tribal dwellings in the South and small, fertile agricultural regions in the West, was a shadow of its former self.

Although still epic and spectacular in terms of productivity and wealth, and rivalling even the most barbaric and expansive kingdoms in terms of skill, Crusada had faltered to mere backstage positions in the echelons of monarch states.

In its exciting history, it boasted one of the longest-running empires, educated spell casters and destructive warships of unmatched power. Long ago, at the closing days of the Eighth Empire, it bragged about an impressive army consisting of varied battalions of hardened veterans, swift cavalry and amazingly talented battle-mages. The Great Trade Republic asked to be annexed into the Empire, the Sandpeople from the Deserts of Antar begged to join, and the Canids of the Ludovohic Peninsular pleaded to become part of the largest ever kingdom Cerceres had ever witnessed.

But the vast empire had been diminished and weakened from within. A diplomat, and known compatriot of King Freid II, led a rebellion, supposedly heralding a new age of freedom during the turbulent 7 Year War (Waged in 102 Before. Ninth. Empire.)

After months of protesting and raising awareness, he rallied a massive following behind him and stormed Crusada. He attempted to force Freid to submit to his rule. He refused and a worthy-of-a-ballad duel ensued.

The king and his loyalists conquered their foes, however, the damage was done. He had withdrawn the large majority of his forces back to Crusada and the most distant countries had been left with only some squads of militia. At that time, pillagers and Nirdic Warriors chose to attack. Most towns and village had been razed in a blazing inferno.

The troublemaker was incarcerated in the newly constructed Iron Curtain, a technologically advanced prison made of iron. Nevertheless, the countries ravaged by attackers were angry and killed all troops and governors in their cities during one mutinous assault.

Freid, weakened by battle, sent envoys to make peace but they too were murdered. Next, he sent armed guards and again they were assaulted and just made it out alive. King Freid went with the next group and was injured by a poisoned arrow. Freid then sensed the best course of action would be to release the angered regions from his rule.

So Crusada's dominions had been reduced to a few tiny city-states crippled by drought, war and lack of assistance. King Freid died. His son - who would be the creator of the Malfaleen dynasty - inheriting a crumbling city.

For the next 80 years of his life, King Taostde worked tirelessly and relentlessly to restore the Crusadian empire to its former glory. Sadly though, the task was never completed, due to time constraints brought on by death and the reluctance of masons and builders and his many descendents were left to slowly rebuild it.

Eventually another tragedy was to befall the broken city. A noble by the name of William Green, claimed to be the real descendent of Queen Bekar, the matriarch of the True Empire.

In the battles that followed while the casualties grew and grew Crusada was demoralised and de-stabilised even further. William Green repeated an earlier revolutionary's tactics and besieged the capital city doing what his predecessor could not, slay the king.

Fortunately, William's tyranny was short lived, as Malfalee I, the murdered king's son, destroyed him in an hour-long fight. For the next one thousand years Crusada would slowly be re-seeded and re-threaded to it's former place in the world. It would recapture and retake some of the countries it had lost to the brutal Nirds. But it would never grow back to its fabled old size.

Having been re-built for the twelfth time and been re-located to a position 4 miles south of the original one, the only building from the time of a King Freid was the Palace and the Keep.

The Palace, a towering fortress with over one hundred floors, housed about a thousand servants, delegates and dukes, ladies, lords, earls and baronesses. The giant, golden walls were made from Kazak rocks mined only in the deep caves of Khazaduru. Standing at an impressive altitude of one elb, the Palace, and the Keep that it dwarfed, could be seen from Enedale, the capital of Old Crusada, a new region created when the King decided to let his cousin, the Duke of Carak, have some form of power.

*

Malfa, having been discovered by his friend and personal escort Bronar, was lying on his sweat soaked bed, muttering incoherently. Bronar, a Giant Man and brother of Ronar Kakul, the leader of a small, prosperous town bordering Carnihex, was sitting on a minute stool, conducting the alchemical experiment that the High Druid had prescribed, looks of worry mixed with intent on his face as he worked. Every so often, he would glance at the murmuring body of Malfa before adding some ingredients to a pod, stewing on a magical stove.

A book, titled "101 Different Ways to Save a Human", was splayed open on a mahogany desk, accompanied by a dozen other books instructing how to heal and diagnose injuries and illnesses. A plethora of plants, minerals and metals were stacked in a small, clay bowl.

Stifling a yawn, Bronar stood up and stretched out his long arms. He picked out a long Nightshade and began to grate it. The fine powder fell into the pot and a flashing light filled the room.

Next, he added a chewed up Eanhees petal to the congealing mixture. He also added a cupful of his own spit, some thin slivers of Milfour root and a pinch of shredded magnesium.

The room dissolved into darkness. Then, as quickly as it had been drained, the light was miraculously returned. Gradually, he tore up a pile of Amaseac, a rubbery, pink flower, and added that to a plate, already decked with some metal shredding. The flower reacted violently with the metal and an explosion shook the room.

Grinding quickly, he fused some plants together in a slimy paste that he scraped into a cauldron. Finally, he mixed all of the solutions together and poured it into a silver cup. He carried the smoking liquid over to Malfa, exerting every once of steadiness he could muster. He kneeled down beside him and dropped a few trickles over his grazed lips. Some dribbled down to his chin, like a milky river, but a tiny portion dropped into a small parting.

Malfa swallowed the thick juice reluctantly, a natural reaction to stop him choking. He sat up and suddenly began to chant nonsense. It flooded the room like poison, seeping out of the walls and infecting innocent people with blemishing ideas of treason and murder.

Bronar, struggling to fight the evil attacking him, fumbled for some parchment and an ink-covered quill. He found a piece and began to scribble hastily. He could barely decipher his groaning from his shouting and kept stroking lines through words he had got wrong or spelt differently.

Thankfully, after several repetitions, he finished writing, smacked Malfa over the ear to knock him out, and bolted out the room and descended the winding stairs.

*

Zilnee, sitting silently at a table in the Palace Library, was researching about the mystical, celestial "beings" christened Essence Orbs.

Zilnee could tell that the appearances of these magical spheres were rare at best, as after hours of fruitless reading, Zilnee had found nothing describing what an Essence Orb was, other than a messy note stating that they are not creations but rather the creators.

He had even queried the stern-looking librarian to see if see if see owned anything that would remotely tell him something important about their shadowy existence, however, she told him that there was no book about them in the library, which basically meant it didn't exist.

Zilnee was undeterred, and finally uncovered an arcane book detailing the orbs in full hidden under a mound of useless manuscripts dictating that the Dovakharion - an extinct race of fierce dragon-like birds - must be cleansed from the face of the earth. The book had a red leather cover, tattered spine and was titled:

A Study of Magykal Orbs and Their
Power

As he carefully fingered the vivid cover, he could feel himself salivating. He had just unearthed one of the most inconceivably scarce books that the knowledge of which was unknown even to the intellectual woman stationed at the front door. Only seven copies were said to be in a readable condition, most of them to be found in icy castles and freezing manors in the Arctictas region.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, a habit Zilnee declared as uncouth, he traced the gold lettering with his long, bony fingers. Then, with an increasing sense of trepidation in case the pages were ripped and torn beyond repair, he opened the book with tiny motions.

Zilnee felt a warm, protective aura surround him as he Quick Read the book, a talent he had learned he could do since he was an Initiate in the Order of the Druid.

The skilled wizard Erodel Bmud was the founder of the Order of the Druid, an ancient guild located on the Idruidi Islands, from which the word Druid is derived, in a time when enrolment for wizardry was skyrocketing and there was a huge school called Strawgoh teaching children the magical arts of Extirpation, Summoning, Phantasm and Concealment.


But that was millennia ago, the branch of magisters known as the wizards had shrunk to a mere 200 dotted around the vast confines of the globe, Warzari Bud had seen to that. Warzari was the leader of a tribe that happened to inhabit the area around the school and suddenly attacked it in a burst of murderous rage.

Fortunately, no children were hurt, but two teachers had died defending the walls and a bludgeon had crippled the Headmaster. The Legionaries, a sect of the army dedicated to defending foreign territories owned by Crusada, had to be called in to restore order and the children were sent home, the easiest method of recruiting new wizards destroyed.

Zilnee finished Quick Reading on the first page of chapter nine a began to read a lot closer:

Orbs and What Their
Colours Represent

"Essence Orbs - commonly known as their pseudonym the Lights of the Gods, Mystical Spheres and Floating Sparkles - come in many different shades and hues.

Although yellow, grey and black coloured ones are the most popular for fairy tales and children's ballads, they are actually the least common, to the point of being non-existent in most scholars' eyes.

Red, which is the most found one, is associated with love, as is its sister orange, while blue, along with green, is to do with tragedy. Brown, a natural colour, is a Restoration Orb, signalling the environmental repair of a corrupted area.

Yellow, which is the High God Lokve's colour, signifies a morally good change in someone, with black being responsible for an immoral alteration in somebody. Grey, long been depicted as a neutral shade, can have cataclysmic consequences if brought into contact with a morally extreme character.

In the unheard of case that all three orbs of these colours are seen together, and also originate from the same location or relic, then it means the repair of the Loudh…"

The last few words and letters of the page had disappeared and even more words were fading. Quickly, Zilnee flicked open more pages and found, to his horror, that they were blank. He was both shocked and amazed, and knew he was witnessing an Erase spell in progress. Zilnee furiously started to mutter the counter-charm, to either reverse the damage or at least hamper or prevent the enchantment from extirpating any other words.

As he tried to halt the spell that was rapidly destroying a precious work of literature, he noticed that the librarian was gone. Did that matter though? Zilnee suspected that the last sentence of the page was discussing the legendary Loudhorns, the three horns that keep the Mal-Demons from returning to this mortal fabric.

Furthermore, he believed that this was a recently placed Erase charm, directed at the book from somewhere else, which also meant that someone knew that Zilnee was reading this and was watching him.

Reading what he read. Seeing what he saw. Listening to his conversations. Zilnee was thankful that he could still remember the incantation to give the clairvoyant reading his mind different images from what he was seeing.

That alerted Zilnee to the fact that someone else knew what the Loudhorns were. Only Zilnee knew that they were real as his brother Kashagara, an old, cantankerous and reclusive hermit living in a moss-filled cave, was the protector of one of them.

Kashagara also guarded a cemetery that was located in the interior of the mountain he resided in, and was frequently plagued by wyverns, giant worms and moss herders. But, with him being an esteemed wizard nearly as powerful as Zilnee, that was no large problem.

Good thing that whoever was trying to find out more about the Loudhorns couldn't read his thoughts, otherwise he dreaded to think about what they would do to him and, more importantly, his brother. If it was who he thought it was, then they would probably torture Kashagara before leaving him out as dinner for all sorts of villainous beasts.

Zilnee's thoughts were interrupted abruptly as Bronar charged through the only door, a note flapping madly at his side.

"I've done what you instructed!" He exclaimed, indicating the shaking paper.

Zilnee hushed him, glancing around the room to check if the nosy librarian was hiding secretly behind a bookshelf. "What does it say?"

Bronar walked over to the desk that Zilnee was perched over and placed the parchment in front of him. "I've not got the education to decipher it fully, but I think it is Backwards Elvish." He pointed at a barely readable word. " Oinemrot. I think that is Tormenio, or torment. What do you think?"

Zilnee peered at the creased paper for some time and came to the conclusion that it was Backwards Elvish, just as Bronar thought. He turned away from the note and said. "It is indeed Elvish. However, it is imbued with a spell, a curse of some sort, exactly like the one in this book." He touched the pages of the book with his hand, feeling a tingle rush through his body. "It's reversing what was written, deleting it, if you will."

Already, as Zilnee explained the magical properties of an Erase spell to an agitated Bronar, the writing was draining away.

"Quick, read it!" Demanded Bronar, afraid that the High Druid would be unable to work out what it meant.

"Okay. But cover your ears, the translation may be deadly." Zilnee coughed "The Sacred Tomes of Escelaith are broken, a hero, destined to vanquish the coming Torment, will rise.

The hero, a descendant of a triumphant ruler, the one who opposed the Changed One, will go by the name of Stranger Prince. He will do Lokve's bidding and will cleanse the Hordes of Evil, from which stems discord and unfaithfulness. Stranger Prince, a manifestation of all that is good, will unite the Kingdom and destroy the Ancient Instigator. Chosen by the Gods, he will Close the Conduit and recover the Artefact. He will open the Portal, through which we will exit, ready to judge the world and restore it as we see fit."

Imprinted deep inside his mind, Zilnee could still feel the Recital coursing through his veins, sending shivers down his spine.

"You can take your fingers out of your ears now." He said, nudging Bronar in the ribs.

Bronar obliged and curiously questioned Zilnee on what the note said.

"Basically, it told us that Malfa is Stranger Prince, and that Tobil is back." Replied Zilnee.

Bronar was overwhelmed with both astonishment and terror. "What? Impossible! Preposterous! How can this be true? I thought Tobil was killed, annihilated, one hundred and fifty years ago, in the Battle of the Courtyard. And Malfa as the Stranger Prince? The Stranger Prince is supposed to be some sort of super magician, an excellent archer, and an amazing swordsman! Malfa couldn't even hold a sword the right way round until about five years ago."

Zilnee answered the former question first. "Tobil wasn't killed, he was only Banished. I should know, I was the one who done it, it was all I could do. Banish him to the endless howling of the Void for over a hundred years."

Bronar was overcome with immense fear. "But that means he could already have an unstoppable army, capable of overrunning our castles and cities unchecked. It'll be just like last time, when my grandfather died, alongside another million hopeless souls."

Zilnee sighed his long, saddened sigh. "It will not be like last time; last time we were unprepared. If I inform the king of this, he can send our army over to the Ashlands and strike Tobil as he sleeps."

This calmed Bronar down a bit. "But, what about Malfa being Stranger Prince. His only good assets are his face and his lineage. How can this be possible? Seriously?"

Zilnee smiled. "Bronar, you need to be kinder to your best friend. Especially if he happens to be your employer. But, the prophecy is right; he is Stranger Prince. Which means he needs you more than ever. He needs our support. Tobil will probably send his minions out to do his bidding, in other words, to murder or capture Malfa."

That silenced Bronar. "I'm sorry. I didn't know… It's just that… Well, what needs to be done?"

Zilnee clapped him on the back encouragingly. "That's the spirit. Anyone would have been as sceptical as you are, don't worry. With your help, and with the assistance of some friends, Malfa may be able to do this. That is to say, stop Tobil from opening the Conduit and letting heinous beasts and creatures pour plentifully from the Void."

Bronar was glad that his apology had been accepted and inquired about the Conduit.

"Ahh… I expected your inquisitive mind to ask that. Well, I'll tell you a short history, we haven't got to long until Malfa wakes and starts to wander about. The Conduit, or the Key, is a godly relic; sacred texts describe it as being ancient, as old as the Gods themselves. An unwary traveller tens of thousands of years ago, who's grievous injures that he received after being savaged by a bear were healed miraculously, found it. Later, as a rich, old man, he paid for a monastery to be constructed over it, shielding it from the elements. Pilgrims and adventurers from all over the world flocked to see it: the Conduit. After many years, when the monastery's patron passed away, it was granted it's own army to protect it and serve it. Every

year, an Exalted Abbot is elected from five candidates. The current Abbot is a very hospitable Hardeteel, who has jurisdiction over five hundred citizens."

Bronar looked enlightened, but then, after summing today's revelations in his head, swiftly looked scared. "Does this mean that Tobil already knows that Malfa is destined to kill him?"

"Go to the market and buy a months worth of supplies for three travellers. I'll explain later."

*

Tobil picked himself up off of the rough, stone floor, grunting heavily from the effort. After almost being eradicated by vile, prophetic hallucinations, he had been slammed bone-sickeningly in the back by a sort of iridescent ball. The dark-coloured sphere had phased inside him, given him an unbelievably searing pain and blasted him into the wall.

Severely disorientated with agony, he had been struggling to stand for hours and had just recently recuperated enough strength to succeed. Oddly, the hurtful ball had, at first, sapped most of Tobil's near-limitless supply of willpower, however, it was now returning it and also giving him more. Also, it was revitalising the tenacity that he had wilted away during the long, turbulent decades he had spent residing in the darkness of the Void.

Was it possible that the excruciating pain he had endured mere hours ago was worse than the one that had been inflicted on him in the twisted and crude version of reality in the eternal howling of the Void, where waves of pain were literally waves, and the wind actually whistled? Was that the pain that Norkel had described? The anguish that scarred him in the vast, sprawling blankness of death and torture.

Too preoccupied with fighting of another refreshed bout of agony that swept over him, Tobil failed to acknowledge Zackarack's presence. Zackarack was the only original goblin that Tobil had recruited during his early crusades, and was so ugly that some historians even doubted that his evilness was greater than it. His dark, sickly brown-green skin was mouldy, and ragged curtains of greasy brown hair was lacking in some places, revealing warty skin.

Tobil staggered to his feet, the small effort being a fight for survival. He looked around and was surprised to see his aide.

"What do you want?" He snarled, flecks of saliva landing on Zackarack's rusty iron armour.

"I heard screaming and you yelling. At first, I thought it was you rightly punishing a worker that had been slacking. But when the shrieking went on for days, I guessed that something was up." He stated.

"Well you must have been hearing things, I'm perfectly alright. You are dismissed." When he saw that Zackarack hadn't moved, he added. "I said go!"

Sensing Tobil's deception, Zackarack asked again. "Are you completely alright? Sir?"

Tobil responded in such rage that would make the most brutal creatures break down in tears. Although Zackarack was undeterred by this show of anger, he decided to leave before Tobil got even more vicious.

Tobil was left alone. Left to carry the burden of the task that had been prophesised countless times before.

Malfa coughed violently and sat up. Slowly, with an almost super-human effort, he opened his heavy, lead-filled eyes and was greeted with familiar surroundings. With the near-blinding light seeping in through the window, he could see a tray of colourful plants and powdered metals.

Stupidly, he looked directly at the light, provoking some horrible retching, and he instantly feel back to sleep.

Later, Malfa woke again, his vision blurred and unfocused. Barely, he could just perceive two hazy silhouettes arguing quietly and could vaguely hear their jumpy conversation.

"He has to move! I think Tobil may have been alerted to his pres-… No, he is too weak; any journey of a considerable length might kil-… Then, in that case, it would spare him the humiliation and tortu-…"

Malfa, who up until this point had been listening half-heartedly, coughed loudly. The mucus travelling up to his head burned his throat and he doubled over.

"Look, he's awake. Let's ask him, shall we?" He could remember the voice. It belonged to Bronar, his escort.

"Ahh… Malfa, long time no see. How are you?" Asked a fatherly voice that Malfa remembered.

"Zilnee? Is that you? I'm not feeling to good, actually, to be truthful, I feel worse than when Bronar sat on me." He was relieved to find that he could still smile.

"I'm afraid your fathers in no better condition. He was hit by a Essence Orb." Said Zilnee, trying to convey the information without starling Malfa.

"So that's what struck me." Malfa said weakly.

Zilnee was interested. "What colour was it?"

"I can't really recall it clearly, but I think it was yellow. Or was it orange? No… It was definitely yellow. I was late for the Blessing so I was heading back up to the Palace, then I heard some glass smash. I turned around and right behind me, defying gravity, was the Eggy Orb, or whatever you called it, and it charged right at me like a stag. Then, I felt an unimaginable pain and nothing more." Replied Malfa, unaware of Bronar's shocked face.

"Ahh…" Bronar knew Zilnee hid fear and terror behind a façade of serenity.

"What where you two discussing? Something about someone having to leave." Questioned Malfa.

"Erm… Well, we were talking abou- Zilnee, you tell him." Stuttered Bronar nervously.

Zilnee sensitively explained Malfa's greater duty. "I'm sorry, but I believe you to be Stranger Prince." He continued more confidently when no one spoke. "Moreover, I uncovered evidence that Tobil has returned, and may have tampered with the Seminary Stone. Also, I suspect that he has committed sorcery on your father, hoping to take control of his mind and, essentially, the kingdom."

"Zilnee, if I didn't know you any better I would have laughed. What needs to be done?" Malfa said calmly.

Bronar was amazed by Malfa's acceptance. Zilnee was as equally as surprised. "Malfa, you seem very embracing towards this all."

"Mmmm… I feel as if that sphere gave me something."

"What? Recklessness?" Questioned Bronar.

"No. Something more physical, but also more to do with my mind. It's like it gave me strength… Dexterity… Intelligence. It sounds creepy, I know, but it's true."

"Malfa, I believe you, which is why you must understand that you are not safe here." Zilnee voice hinted desperation. "Tobil may already know of your newfound duty and send out his hordes."

"Why? The City Guard can protect me! Right?" Shouted Malfa, almost pleadingly.

"Malfa, even I cannot begin to imagine the size of army Tobil could have procured after fifty years of planning and preparation. The city wouldn't stand a chance against his huge battalions and rampaging squads of monsters and goblins. If you want to do what is right for your people, then we have to leave, if you'd rather not, then we'll all die." He answered.

Malfa searched deep inside his mind for an excuse. He found a hopeless one, which would easily be deflected by Zilnee. "I haven't packed. We wouldn't survive a week without any food on a trek across the Fileteri Plains."

"Not to worry, I had Bronar collect some food, drinks and camping equipment at the market while you slept." Zilnee informed him.

"But, what about weapons. Bandits and marauders have large camps there. Not to mention, the gigantic monsters we'd have to confront." That was his last desperate hope, and, for a minute, he thought it had worked.

That was until Bronar said. "Don't worry, I bought some at the market on Wedas, out of my own pocket. Cost me about six Napaleans for two swords, a dagger, a large, mithril halberd, a half-decent bow and sixty steel-tipped arrows."

Zilnee beamed. "Thank you. I'll pay you soon."

Bronar waved his offer away. "Look at it as a present."

"Wait!" Exclaimed Malfa. "You said it you got them on Wedas, but Wedas is tomorrow."

"Malfa, I know you must be confused. You were asleep for three days, all you were doing was chanting and muttering." Bronar told Malfa.

"Was I out for that long? How many times did I wake?" He felt stupid, like getting an easy question wrong and then being jeered by everyone else.

"About four times, each time you stood up and began walk over to the window. It was if someone was trying to make you jump out, but you were fighting them."

Malfa was visibly shocked. "So I was sleep walking?"

"I guess so." Said Bronar.

Zilnee, who looked like he was in a trance, clapped his hands and yelled enthusiastically. "Well, we'll have to wait 'til nightfall before we leave. I may as well just stay in the Palace again. I'll meet you at the Main Entrance at 11:00 PM."

"But, there's a curfew! No one is allowed to leave or enter without permission from the king!" Bellowed Malfa. "Anyone spotted while exiting will be pursued!"

"No worries. I have everything planned." And with that, Zilnee disappeared with the whish of a cloak.

*

1st Grade Militia Officer Claudius Merator was shivering as he stood on perimeter of Fort Major. Although it was early summer, Fort Major was build in the extreme south of Crusada, the only bastion in the Ashlands, popularly called the Taint by the younger soldiers stationed there.

Fort Major was one the largest fort still standing on mainland Mithraleen, only surpassed in size by Fort Dibel and the forts constructed on the perilous shores of Sipti, where the guards often fell prey to attacks launched by cannibalistic tribesmen.

The fort was more akin to a formidable monastery than anything else in terms of aesthetics. A few wooden houses littered the surrounding areas, where lived farmers and their families who tried to make a small living off of the barely hospitable land. In return for protection and more than average pay, the farmers had promised to give half of their crop up to the fort as the barge carrying supplies only came once every two months.

Every soldiers currently placed at the fort would stay for six months, before heading home via a route cutting through County Carnihex. Most of the personnel there were only in it for the promise of riches and excitement. The pay was good, however most soldiers swore that it wasn't worth braving the cold for, and the only adrenalin-pumping event that happened was a rare visit from a lost Fire Crab. He shivered as he remembered his last fight with a Fire Crab. Two guards had been killed.

Although it was located in the Ashlands, an area infamous for it's active geographical behaviour, the place that the stronghold stood on was freezing, with the only source of heat coming from the large fireplace kept burning all year round in the Mess Hall, and the occasional roar from Mt. Vir, a semi-active volcano.

Claudius had been at Fort Major for five months now, and was frequently imagining going home to greet his wife and newly born baby. With the money he received from this term, he would relocate the three of them to a nice, thatched cottage just outside Crusada and would take up farming as an occupation.

How he adored his wife and the baby boy he hadn't even seen. From what he had gathered from the letters he had been sent, the baby had already grown a nice set of brown hair, exactly like his daddy.

Even though it was only early in the afternoon, the blotched sky was quite dark; this was because the Ashlands had an anomaly where the sun went down 2 hours before the rest of Central Mithraleen. The only light was that of the bulbous moon hanging in the sky, and a mild, glowing incandescence emitting from the volcano.

Claudius, exhausted by four hours of marching in sub-zero temperatures, yawned, flexed his muscles and leaned on the stone wall. He brushed some moss off of his shoulder and watched it float away until it was dissolved in darkness.

Suddenly, a bright twinkling caught his eye. There was a light, dancing a few metres away beside a large tree and it was inviting him, enticing him, almost seducing him. Asking him to join it on a stroll. He had heard about these lights before, they were distantly related to the Sirens of Sercene and they also lured unwary travellers to their deaths. But the Bog Lights, which was their name, as they were mostly found gliding along the edges of the marshes, were crueller, because they hypnotised their prey and led them towards whatever monster they had recently befriended.

He wasn't going to fall for the temptation. The Light could stay there all night for all he cared. Stay there and rot. But soon, Claudius found himself miles away from the fort. The Light had tricked him, he couldn't resist. He hadn't even noticed himself walking.

A lump formed in his throat, he wasn't in the small forest anymore, and he was past Mount Vir, his feet slowly cooking as he stepped on the hot ash. He couldn't see in front of him; the moon was shrouded with clouds and there was no lava bubbling from the volcano. He just kept walking, hoping that he was going the right way.

After a while, he noticed that it wasn't only his feet crunching on the black ash. He was being pursued. He turned and ran, yelling subconsciously while praying for someone to find him. But he knew, deep down inside him, that the Bog Light had led him to a creature more fearsome than any Troll.