It started like most other dreams, I am alone in a bright forest. As is my standard, I am carrying a sword and wearing a heavy suit of armor (much like the heroes of old RPG games). I start out through the woods, weaving through dense undergrowth and tangle, hacking and slashing the sapplings away. After what seemed like weeks of walking, I came to the edge of the forest, a vast golden savanah sprawling before me as far as my eyes could see. Somewhere, far in the distance at the foothills of a distant mountain chain, a rising column of thick, black smoke billows out of a burning town - ravaged by the Hoards. Through some trick of magic I can't explain, I summon a powerfull and fast war steed, quickly mounting it and racing towards the township. Even at the incredible speed this magic mount carries me, I arrive too late; charred skeletons of women and children litter the burnt-out adobe buildings. Cursing my steed and banishing it for not carrying me fast enough, I search the town. Among the ruins I find many RPG staples - healing herbs, gold coins, food and clothing, scraps of leather, metal and wood. Gathering up my feeble scroungings, I pack them into a hide sac, which I sling over my shoulder. Summoning my steed again (these magic creatures seem to forgive - and learn) I proceed to the west. Not long after I find myself in a new land - one of rolling, gentle green hills dotted with countless farmsteads and inns. Along my travels, I encounter a great many of the Hoard, their dark writhing fleshy forms falling easilly to my blade. But I was not unscathed - my armor was damaged and my blade dulled, though they together had spared me from any harm myself. Wearilly staggering into an inn, the few looted gold coins are enough to buy me a stiff few drinks and a room for a fortnight. As I rest and recover the mystic energy endowed on me and attune myself to this new land ("magic has rules, and they all bind - payment must be made in kind"), I spend long evenings volunteering for guard detail of the surrounding township, and long afternoons discussing with the locals of things that have happened as of late. My meager gathered supplies were graciously accepted by a local craftsman in exchange for his services, and heskillfully repaired my armor and honed my blade. Upon one rather bleak night, the Hoard came to the town in force, the peasant millitia hard pressed to keep them at bay. I did what I could to help lead their desperate fight, coordinating those skilled in archery and blade to repell the Unwelcome Ones. The town was battered and its surrounding fields layed fallow of their once bountious harvests - but the people survived, only 3 were lost in the defense of this town I would later learn to be called An Haeva. Finally, in the aftermath of the raid, my tenure at the inn expired, and despite the offers from the mayor to pay for my extended stay, I had to decline - my mission, from what I learned from the generous people of this villa - lay to the north, somewhere high in the frozen mountains. Bidding a fond farewell to the local beer wenches (they always fall for the hero, don't ya know?), I summoned my steed to a gasping crowd - a few cries of "Witchraft!" and "Heretic!" echoed after as I fled this town that would no longer welcome me for my practitioning of 'the darkest arts'. Across the foothills I sped, the tireless steed barely striking hoof to ground as it fluidly navigated the brooks and chasms. Slowly the land shifted, lush green giving way to ashen gray - life to cold rock. Through the winding passes and folds of the mountain range, I encountered but one individual. A lone hermit holed up in a cave, his skin stained a deep blue from the berries he ate - the only thing he ate, by his own confession - and his eyes a permanent red from the hashish he smoked. I spent the night with the man, and shared in his stories and hospitality, chewing thoughtfully on the dried berries as he told me of life and lore and things forgotten. As is often the case when I am present, the subject turned to magics, to arcane babble and rediscovered codex. From this raving lunatic and insightful hermit I learned much - I learned to heal, to free the body of toxins, and many other things. What was most intriguing was a particular skill he taught me. With but a handful of words and a slight gesture, I can now turn the life force from one enemy (or indeed any object that is alive) upon another - to spectacular results. These new magics fresh in my mind and practiced to perfection, I once more set out. As the grey rock once more gave way to greened foothills, I found myself looking upon a dreadful sight - Dotting my entire view was a sea of burned villages, faint shadows of some of the Hoards most fearsome creatures travelling like rolling smoke from town to town, slaughtering and pillaging everything in their wake. Spurring my steed, it carried me to a nearby town - it's astral glow raising alarm with the guards until they saw my standard - crossed silver blades on a bloody field struck chevron with black. As I rode through the southern gates, the enemy arrived to the north, the sound of splintering wood ripping the dusk into daylight as balefires were lit. I lept from my steed, banishing it amidst the chaos as I dashed to help the locals raise the bar on the main gate - luckilly an iron slab that withstood those seeking in. This town was well protected to the north - its walls carved from an outcropping of granite. But to the south and east they were wood. They would strike there. That is where I went. Unclasping the fast releases on my chestplate and leggings, I let them fall at the base of the ladder before climbing up to the overlook. Surely, there were a thousand grinning gleeful faces fixedated upon a common goal. Taking up a millitia bow I began to cast arcane bolts of raw energy into the crowd, dozens falling dead. But soon my reserves were depleted, so I cast arrows until my supply was exhausted. I drew my sword, and slashed a few of the climbing enemy - their dark, vile acidic blood sizzling the wood. As the millitia organized and the remaining township sought safety in the catacombs below, I began to feel a sense of hopelessness. I knew everyone felt it, but we had to keep fighting. Scrambling along the makeshift catwalks I helped tip a massive pot of burning oil onto the enemy below, their shrieks sounding like joyous agony, laughter filling the air even as they fell dying. I felt it now, stronger than before. Somewhere amidst the gleeful sprites and daemons there was a fearcaster - A powerful channeler who serves but one purpose - the utter demoralization of the enemy. It was a creeping power these creatures had, its power rising with every passing second, and its power making every second last two. The spawn would have to be uprooted, and quickly, else they defense will fall as men begin to lose faith until they drop their arms and surrender to death. Concentrating on a few nearby enemies, I drew their twisted lifeforce from them and launched it at their cohorts, no shrieks of glee escaping those who fell to the first part. But those who died from the second part let out a horrid sound, two brass slabs ground together bathed in blood and glee. The sound grew worse as I continued to slaughter them, the horrid sound adding to the fearcasters power and bringing hardened warriors to their knees. I shouted unheeded orders to them. They were as good as dead. Ceasing my casting for the damage it was inflicting upon my allies, I lept from the catwalk and donned my armor in a practiced fashion as I ran for the sallyport on the east wall. I'm sure someone would have cried foul that I, a noble of the Hen Vec Court, was deserting the battle. Bursting through the hidden doorway, the heavy steel springs slamming it shut behind me. I raced around the curved walls of the town to the west. Drawing my sword and uttering a short prayer, I charged into the the gathered swarm and broke their flank. Countless leering, sinisterly playful faces fell to my blade. But they weren't my quarry. Slashing and hacking through and through, hewing meat and bone and fur and claw, I hunted for the fearcaster, knowing the foul creature would be deep inside the writhing mass of claws and fangs. It felt like eternity, slashing through the bodies of fallen and lost. The air hung with their acrid blood and it stung my eyes and lungs, tinting my world with their sadistic glee. Through the murk and gore I saw it - Its tiny figure alone in a small patch, standing with its head bowed, its lipless mouth uttering its foul curse. Sages have spoken of the fearcaster. They have told me of its three dangers. The first is to feel its presence - the growing terror it projects. The second is to hear its curse - they said it was to be forever given to fear. And the worst was its eyes, said to be devoid of anything but the horror. The sages spoke that to see its eyes was to become a fearcaster yourself. Charging through to the horrid wretch, crushing many lesser daemons under foot, I brought my blade upon is, its form hanging for a moment - seemingly deciding if it had truely died - before crumpling to the ground as a pile of worms. Somewhere through the shrieks and laughter of my enemy, now nothing but a sea around me, I heard a rallying cry - the men of the town shaking free of fears shackles to fight the enemy with vigor anew. Through all of this it was instinct that carried my blade and guided my fist, instinct that kept me from succumbing. But instinct has a funny way of ceasing after a victory. Cleaving blindly through the seemless wall of bodies, I found my very soul aching from exhaustion. Another eternity later and I found myself free of the throngs of foe, slashing and hacking their flank. New dangers began to present themselves, as thousands of steel-tipped shafts - some still cherry from the forge - hissed their deadly whisper. An arrow sruck my shoulder, piercing the mail and burying itself into my bone. I howled and ripped it from the wound, plunging the shaft into the eye of a daemon, which fell over and writhed in ecstasy as it died. I stood watching from the edge of the battle as the swarms of hissing death culled the horrid flock, screams of dying pleasure wrenching from pierced lungs and throats. My blade did not move for the rest of the battle, the township taking over its defense, and the hoards learning to steer away from my blade. As the last cackling imp fell onto the dozen shafts in its flesh, I fell to my knees and wept. The land these vile beings fell upon would never hold life again, their soils eaten by the acrid sting of their final curse. And with life went magic. I felt great swaths of the mystic energies surrendering as countless spawn died. I wept for the death of the land, my skin pocked by the miasma before my listless body was manhandled into the town walls.
