Tales of Argos Volume 2

The Tales of Argos Volume 2 is a collection of all 7 parts of the *Cataclysm: Change* series.

## *Cataclysm: Change* Part I

There were trees once. There were trees of tall, sturdy, golden brown wood filled with leaves greener than the greatest painter could illustrate. They stretched for miles in every direction like an ocean of emeralds. At least, that is what the stories tell. Only the oldest people in all corners of the world could tell you of the times before the sickly energies of the Plains of Chaos plagued pockets of the planet and tainted all that they touched. The places rampant with corruption were like scars on an otherwise perfect world. No one, not even the bravest warrior, would dare to tread in these accursed lands. Not before the Celestials. One day, very suddenly, one hundred god-like people made of the natural forces and magics of the cosmos set foot on the planet to answer the prayers of the people. These magnificent beings were known as the Titans. Ferrying down on vessels capable of sailing the waves of the stars, they offered to help the people if they would permit the gods to call the planet their new home. Here they have been, fighting for the mortals for nine decades and returning hope to the eyes of people living in a nightmare.

There were trees once, now replaced with rolling hills of blackened earth like charred bark under a sky painted in light gray. What little vegetation that lived there was nothing more than gnarled, flaky plant matter. Corruption rid the land of not just all life, but personality and color. It was a cancer both physical and metaphysical. The land sat on the eastern front of the continent known as Eisenor; one of five that covered the planet of Elura. Eisenor was known for having hundreds of miles worth of lush forests accompanied by large lakes. Its neighbor to the south, connected by land, was Argos. People of both continents had traded for centuries as Argos was home to fertile land for farming and Eisenor provided a necessary abundance of trees for logging. Like every continent, Eisenor had its scars of corruption.

Soaring high above the skies on long stretched ivory wings wearing a sleeveless blue tunic was Cyrene Raif; a bird-like humanoid known commonly as an Arakokra. Like most others of her kind, she was slightly taller than humans and shaped the same, though with an avian head, feathered arms, taloned feet and wings fully capable of flight. Her white feathers were tipped with a coal black. She had a long, shapely golden yellow beak that hooked to a small point. It was as elegant as it was deadly. Centered on the breast of her tunic was a gold diamond. It was the symbol of the Astral Guardians: an order of mortal warriors who have volunteered to fight alongside the Titans in their quest to rid Elura of demonic entities. Of all other variations of fighters and soldiers across the planet, none were as well trained or as disciplined as the Guardians. Trained equally in the strength of the body, the mind, and knowledge in the arcane, the Astral Guardians were the only soldiers directly overseen by the Titans. Each among their ranks is placed in a specific role that best suits their individual qualities. Cyrene was a Rogue; a variant with skills of stealth, dexterity, and agility. It was a role that fit her perfectly. Cyrene had been recognized for having the most silent wings out of anyone in her home village. It was a talent that had taken her far in the ranks of those that served the Celestials. Though, it wasn’t just her incredible ability that paved the way for her status as a Guardian, it was her unwavering devotion and belief in the great gods; the Titans. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was a part of something greater than herself. Between the poverty that was her upbringing and the horrors of the unknown world, it gave her blissful freedom.

For the past year, she had served as a lead scout on the front lines within the third battalion or more unofficially known as the Legion of Thunder. It was a fitting name, for the being that commanded the entire legion was none other than the Titan, Thurunor. He was a living god that had natural elemental command over thunder and lightning. She had only met him twice and each time it felt like a dream—like she was in a fairytale. Meeting a being as great and as powerful as one of the Titans was something she doubted she could get used to in a hundred lifetimes. Their existence was something you simply couldn’t believe was possible until you saw it for yourself. They were all so wonderfully beautiful and today she would meet him again.

## *Cataclysm: Change* Part II

She glided through the sky with ease, her wings gently riding the waves of air like a single guided feather. Several hundred meters below was the black, flaky and corrupted grounds of the Cursed Lands. As a scout it was her duty to fly for hours on end searching for possible demonic activity. It was Guardians like herself that was all there was keeping the denizens of the Plains of Chaos from ambushing mortal encampments on the front lines. Demons could only claw through into the Material Plain using dimensional rifts—portals between worlds that required incredibly strong magic to produce. In the Cursed Lands, however, they could appear anywhere and through far easier means. Today marked Cyrene’s 212th flight with the battalion. She had made a habit of counting them. She liked to believe it kept her calm and kept her focused. It had also kept her sane. Just the sight of a chaotic demon could cause anyone to lose themselves. They were creatures born out of unbridled negative energies; they were the things of nightmares. In a war between people, one could at least understand the ideologies of either side. With demons, there was no understanding. It was an objective truth that the only thing that they could want, if they could want anything, was destruction. They acted without care and without mercy. It was a lot for anyone to accept.

Eventually, she came upon an entire city of small blue tents all neatly organized in strict rows, each one able to fit no more than four people. All together they housed a few thousand. Thin columns of smoke billowed from sparkling campfires sitting outside many of the temporary dwellings. She could see small dots of soldiers wandering about the grounds. In the center of the grouping was a tent made more magnificent than the rest. It was four times the size of the others with a fine white tarp blanketing the roof. On either side were tall poles holding long flowing blue banners twisting in the low breeze like great sea serpents. They bore the same diamond shape that Cyrene had on her tunic. She quickly retracted her wings, allowing herself to plummet towards the larger tent like a stone. Just as the speed caused the wind to claw at her face, Cyrene’s wings shot out faster than the sound could carry them. She left an explosive gust of air in her wake, allowing her coarse feet to land like a leaf to a pond.

The front of the tent towered over her. The entrance was strange in that it appeared to be made specifically for a being that was almost three times as tall as she was and Cyrene was already above average in height for most people that inhabited Elura. Standing just in front of the tarp doorway was a stout creature that was man-like and bulging with muscle. It was a male Dwarf—a being identical to a human, but at least a foot shorter and twice as sturdy. He was covered head to toe in a thick silver plate with arboreal iconography carefully carved into the metal. Underneath were robes as blue as Cyrene’s. He had a thick hide of animal fur around his collar and a pure white cape hung from his back. His crinkled bearded face was the only thing out of place from his otherwise regal physique. Held at his waist was a thick silver helmet with great wings on either side. His demeanor was as solid and as stubborn as his armor.

“Am I late, sir?” Cyrene asked.

“No, las, but ya could’ve been earlier.” Snorted a thick gravelly voice. He seemed almost frustrated he couldn’t scold her on tardiness. She knew the rough man as Commander Ullrik Beldur. He was one of the senior officers in the battalion that answered only to Thurunor himself. He had a rough exterior, but let a compassionate side slip through the cracks only to be glimpsed at by those in his inner circle. Cyrene was one of the lucky few. Since there were so few scouts that could fly as far as she could and remain silent, she often reported her findings directly to Commander Beldur and even to Lord Thurunor on occasion. In recent weeks, they saw fit to promote her to one of the Head Rogues.

“Well, if I was here any sooner you would have called my work sloppy.” She said with a smirk.

“Oi! As long as yer in front of me you’ll put a ‘sir’ on the end of that bloody sentence!” He barked, swinging a hooked finger in front of her beak. She blinked.

“You would have called my work sloppy…sir.” Commander Beldur huffed and scrunched his face. Cyrene had seen that man shout so many times it hardly phased her anymore. She was convinced yelling was just how he spoke, but something seemed to have him particularly on edge. Her keen eyes could see the slight shallowness of his breath and the tightening of his fists. She wondered what could have the most stubborn thing alive so rattled.

“Come on then, ya chickling.” He said, having had enough of this conversation. “Best not ta keep the Masters waiting.” Cyrene recoiled.

“‘Masters’? Who else is in there with Lord Thurunor?” The Commander looked back. Cyrene saw his face crack into the slightest remnant of a smile.

“Well now, what would be the fun in me tellin’ you?” He said. Before she could ask any further questions, the Commander threw the entryway open and beckoned her to follow him with a harsh gesture. Cyrene’s heart leapt in her chest upon crossing the threshold into the golden light within. The only beings that were ever referred to as ‘Master’ were Titans. She always had pride over her ability to be ever vigilant and ever prepared for any situation. She knew the Commander hated the fact that he could never surprise her or catch her off guard. She silently cursed that stubborn man. This was obviously an attempt to finally throw her off her game. Cyrene had always enjoyed the subliminal competition between the two, but to keep her in the dark about a meeting with multiple Celestials...it was completely unfair.

The interior was large and surprisingly regal; there were fine furs, tables, and rugs evenly dispersed and laid out to fill the room. Five golden yellow luminescent crystals were spaced out in suspended animation. There was a large darkwood table in the center of the room fit for a giant. Its proportions were several times larger than the average sized person. Resting on it were piles of tanned parchment and many books. There were two tall figures in the room and another two that could only be described as giants. The shorter figures stood attentively together off to the side. The one on the left was a creature that was very obviously a Dwarf, but to compare them with someone like the Commander would certainly be an insult. This one towered over Beldur. His physique was a scale above the rest of his kin. Sleeveless silver and gold plate armor coiled in perfect fit around him. His fair skin bulged with perfectly sculpted muscle. It was a tone that Cyrene simply could not believe was possible by any means other than divine intervention. Short black hair covered his head and chin. Standing to his right, a full foot taller at least, was a sleeker figure but no less powerful. They wore similar armor, though this one was female. Her skin was a deep shade of blue and had long naturally bleach white hair. From her forehead came two long black horns that curved upward and looked tougher than steel. Pupiless eyes stared into the void; not distracted, but idle. Cyrene had been so encapsulated by how still they both were that she hadn’t even noticed a pair of glistening feathered wings furled behind the woman on the right. There could be no mistaking it, they were Archon; fallen warriors having been fully restored by a Titan. The Archon were mortal guardians made immortal. Upon a warrior’s death, if worthy, are sought out by a Celestial for their sacrifice. At which point, they are given the choice to pass on or pledge themselves indefinitely to the Titan in exchange for divine power. To the common people, they were almost as legendary as the Titans they served. Some were even referred to as ‘angels’. Many Archon kept to themselves or with others of their kind. It is said that once revived they have little memory, if any at all, of who they were before. Being reborn as immortal angelic creatures, it may be difficult for them to connect with mortal people. Being naturally curious, Cyrene had learned as much as she could about them. How could she not? Not ten years prior, angels were just legends. Now, she fought alongside them.

Cyrene didn’t recognize the Dwarf, but there was no mistaking the one beside them: Ironia Skultar, the Herald of Thurunor. She was the right hand of the Lord of Storms and strongest of the 12 Archon that served him. Titans may have several Archon under them, but will choose only one to have the honor of being called Herald. The Heralds were always the top lieutenants of the Titans, serving as representatives, confidants, or even leading in their place when their masters are called away. Lady Skultar was renowned even among other Heralds. Cyrene had heard rumors that the feathers of her wings are so sharp that they could not only cut through the form of a demon as if it were paper, but damage its soul. Cyrene heard many stories about the terrible fury she would impose on the battlefield.

The two others, the ones behind the uncommonly large table, were gods. One look at them, and the rest of the room fell away for Cyrene. Standing as if he himself had been cut from the hardest stone, was a fair skinned man wearing a silver plated chest piece and gauntlets crafted so beautifully with etchings of runes from a language Cyrene didn’t know and iconography of great battles she couldn’t imagine. Even the most experienced blacksmith in all of Elura could never make anything so magnificent. Draped around him was a pristine blue cloak that led up to the black fur of a large beast collared around his neck. She feared the idea of a beast challenging enough to warrant its hide being vanity for a being such as he. Cyrene noticed a faint iridescent tint on his snow white hair as if the northern lights themselves danced along his beard. He appeared human, but Cyrene knew he was the furthest thing from it. The weight of the power emanating from this being felt as though he could level a mountain with a single glance. It was Thurunor, the Titan of Storms. On the battlefield he was a force of nature and commanded lightning as an extension of his will. She knew of him, but the other one she had only heard stories of. Beside Thurunor was a man in a midnight clad plate with skin of blood red crimson. Channeling across his armor were thin rivers of what she could only describe as liquid fire. It was so intense she could feel its heat even from across the room. Pointed elven ears pierced through the vale of his long black mane. He was even taller than Thurunor. His grimacing face perfectly complimented his harsh yet perfect features. He was might incarnate. He was the slayer of a million denizens of darkness. Cyrene had heard the stories of the Titan that instilled fear in the fearless demon, the creature who made the wicked cower at the mere mention of his name; Atreates, the Patron Titan of War.

Eyes of burning yellow with a fiery red corona lifted their legendary gaze from the table, instantly stealing Cyrene’s breath. She continued to follow Commander Beldur to the center of the tent, binding her fists to cling to the calm that she had before they walked in. She and the Commander instinctively bowed their heads.

“My lords, the Scout Cyrene Raif has returned from her reconnaissance flight.” Said the Commander. The mighty form of Atreates rose like a mountain breaking from the earth. Cyrene would have given her life just to ease his scorn. Thurunor’s sapphire gaze finally meeting hers eased the anxiety, not much but just enough to keep her from fainting. His presence was a contrast to the Lord of War. It was strong, but respectful; blunt, but understanding. A voice of quiet thunder bellowed throughout the room.

“Speak, Ms Raif.” Said Thurunor. She could feel his words as well as she could hear them. The Titans were to the Archon as the Archon were to mortals. Cyrene’s head wasn’t even level to his waist. No words came at first. She could feel her jaw trembling. Although she had met the master of her battalion before, Cyrene had never actually spoken to him. Focus, she thought, focus. Once more, she clenched her fists and bit her tongue. The stabbing pain was enough to carve through the clouds of her mind. She reminded herself of her duty.

“N-nothing to report, Lord Thurunor. The Cursed Lands continue to be silent and I’ve found no demonic activity.” She uttered quickly. Thurunor nodded and began stroking his beard in thought.

“The consistency of your reports is appreciated.” Said the Lord of Storms. A great heated breath left the lips of the Titan beside him. It was like a venting volcano. Atreates swept his hand over the large map of Eisenor.

“13 nights and still nothing. Must you keep sending your Rogues out day after day? It is a waste of resources.” Atreates’ words were like a gargantuan beast yearning to break loose from its chains. Cyrene felt the immediate urge to back out of the room. Logic told her that he was no bigger threat to her safety than an insect, but instincts were screaming for her to leave.

“It is standard procedure, Atreates, and we will follow it like the others.” Thurunor said calmly. The Titan of War snorted in defiance and a gust of steam shot from his nose. “I sense that your anger is misplaced” The Lord of Storms spoke again, “the lack of foes has soured your demeanor and you are impatient.”

“Impatient?” He barked. “The horrors of the Plains mock our stagnation, plotting to outmaneuver us at every opportunity and you accuse me of being impatient!” Thurunor’s trunk-like hands rested on his waist. Cyrene watched her master’s brow constrict in annoyance. For a moment, however brief, it was as though she started to feel his plight; her hardened devotion to the Titan that commanded her battalion fuelled her with the desire to back her commander in any and every way. She had no right, nor sense to argue with the monstrous presence of the War Titan, but in that moment, she felt as though she might. It was a terrifying, yet invigorating experience. It was pride in her leader.

“I grow tired of this abrasive tone, my friend. If you are unsatisfied with our position, then perhaps it would be best for me to take my Guardians and regroup with the main army instead of sitting here ‘wasting time’ as you would so bluntly put it.” Watching these two immortal beings interact with one another had started to douse Cyrene’s unease further. In her previous interactions with Thurunor he had always given off this stern and aloof attitude that was befitting of an immortal being. Atreates, she had only heard stories about. All she had known of him was the unparalleled power that emanated from every swing of his sword, the mountains of demon corpses that trailed in his wake, and the utter fearlessness in his eyes. Yet, aside from their size these two appeared more like squabbling siblings than gods. Cyrene felt ashamed for even thinking such a thing. They were heroes, how dare her thoughts belittle them? But the scene she saw before her was difficult to ignore.

“You will do no such thing!” Shouted an explosive voice that cut Cyrene down to the core of her soul. A hot fiery force struck her with such strength she was nearly knocked to the ground. She covered her eyes in fear that they might be boiled away. The thunderous bellow rattled inside her head like nightmarish shrapnel. Just like that, she had taken back every negative or improper thought she had about the two Titans before her. When Cyrene’s trembling hands fell away from her eyes she found herself at a kneeling position. No spell was cast. It was as if the being behind the force was so powerful that their very emotions created a physical force. Dazed, her eyes wandered along every corner of the room trying to reorient themselves. She found that everyone from Commander Beldur to the immortal Archon were kneeling and their heads were bowed. She looked on to see that Atreates had his fist embedded in the fine table. Veins of bright luminescent orange surged around his body. And his eyes…his eyes showed an abominable anger the likes of which Cyrene had never seen. Her Lord Thurunor, however, was completely unfazed by the event. She quickly looked down and stared blankly at the floor, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of anyone having so much power that they could level a room with a shout.

## *Cataclysm: Change* Part III

Thurunor watched as the rage cooled in the Titan of War, his body finally rescinding the hot orange glow that filled the space of the tent. The heat was of no concern to him as the level at which his Celestial being was made it feel like a warm campfire. Thurunor looked further on to find Captain Beldur and his poor scout, Cyrene, were both shielding themselves from the seething emotional arcana. He put a hand on his friend and spoke to him with a roll of his eyes,

“In Noros’ name would you control yourself, Atreates! We are among mortals.” Atreates’ brow quickly unfurled and the flames instantly died. He looked down and very faintly recoiled to find that he had dug his fist into the table out of anger. Atreates slowly removed himself from the splintered wood and stared blankly at it as though he were somehow surprised at his own actions. This was strange. Thurunor had fought alongside Atreates for just a few decades and while he displayed a martial prowess worthy of his own divine title many times over, it was not unlike him to have outbursts of rage every now and again. Never were they directed at those they protected. Atreates was careful to release his anger away from those it might otherwise easily destroy. What was strange, however, was that the War Titan was always aware of these outbursts. In fact, Thurunor knew it had been a defining characteristic of his new friend to be fully aware of himself at all times. Perhaps it was the natural innate discipline he possessed, but it was a mark of pride that despite the waves of anger now and again, Atreates was always in control. This time though; this one time, Thurunor could almost swear that his friend was, in fact, not in control and that made him uncomfortable.

Atreates eased back from the table, swiftly collecting himself before waving a hand dismissively at the onlookers.

“My apologies.” He grumbled, turning away from the others in the room. Now, there’s an even stranger sight, Thurunor thought to himself. Atreates rarely apologized for anything.

“You are not impatient, but you yearn for the fight again do you not?” Thurunor asked, trying to reach his friend. He recognized that he was less of a speaker and more of a fighter like his fellow Titan, but times like these called for understanding. It was something he wished he had more practice in, although he would never admit it. Atreates slowly balled the hand that struck the table.

“Indeed I do.” He said. “But that is not why we sit idle and not the only reason for my anger.” Thurunor raised an eyebrow.

“Then why?” Without another word Atreates reached for the wide ivory parchment at the center of the table. It showed a gridded map representing the Cursed Lands of Eisenor. Atreates dragged his long black plated finger from a large grouping of blue squares from the far left of the map, representing the main force of the Astral Guardians, to a single blue square at the map’s center, which represented their current encampment.

“In these many years of battling the demons, I have learned that they are opportunistic given their sinister nature. I have moved both of our battalions far beyond the main force in order to draw them out. That is why we remain here.” Thurunor scoffed at such reckless planning on his friend’s part.

“You intend on making us bait?!” He blurted in alarm. What could possibly be the point of drawing the enemy out if they were too far for reinforcements to meet them? Surely there had to be more to it, but what was said next insulted him.

“In a sense, yes.” Thurunor tightened his fists with strength that would crack his own bones. He wanted to scream at his friend, if he could even call him that after this tactical incompetence, but the arcane backlash from an ounce of the anger he felt would surely end the lives of the mortals. His muscles quivered with frustration in response to such unnatural restraint.

“Explain yourself. Now. Because it seems to me that you’ve risked the lives of everyone under our command.” Thurunor was giving him all the leeway he could offer. If the next words out of Atreates’ mouth wasn’t genius leadership, he was going to find his fist across his jaw. Atreates shot his friend a weary glance and then let his eyes fall back to the table.

“Thurunor…” He began, “there are few among our kin that can call themselves warriors and even fewer that have the same understanding as you and I. The mortals view me as their patron of war. Men and women pray to me that I should grant them victory in combat. Tell me, what is the title they have bestowed onto me?” Thurunor was taken aback by this sudden poetic dialogue Atreates was producing. It was so different from his friend’s usual tirade of frustrated shouts and grunts.

“I…I don’t see—”

“Indulge me.” He said curtly. Thurunor repeatedly pulled at his beard trying to quell the frustration he was feeling.

“The Million Slayer.” Said Thurunor.

“Indeed. And it is not out of arrogance when I say that I have more than earned the title. You claim that I have risked lives, but I argue that by putting our forces alone ahead of everyone else, I have done the opposite. I have pitted the two of us alone against the dark because we will not falter and we will not fail. If it is our soldiers who fight then no one else has to die.” He turned to his friend. Thurunor saw the distinct amalgam of scorn and confidence that was Atreates’ signature. It was a look that almost made the Storm Lord pity the demon. “And I dare that abysmal chaotic void to thrust anything out into existence worthy of crossing my blade.” Not a single crack formed in Thurunor’s face of stone. He was glad, at least, to see good intentions hidden in a swamp of oversights. He never wanted to give the impression that he was agreeing with Atreates or he would never hear the end of it. He wasn’t won over yet and still wary. Thurunor gestured over to the only two mortals in the room.

“And what of their lives? What of the lives of every Guardian that we command? That we protect? This twisted altruistic plan of yours does not account for them!” Atreates scoffed as if nothing could be more pointless. Thurunor crossed his arms and took a step toward him. “Indulge me.” He said with his head sarcastically cocked to one side. He was shot with a glance of annoyance.

“As I have just explained, one could argue there is no safer place in this conflict than at my side, but very well.” He said. Stepping away from the table, Atreates’ mighty form walked with purpose over to the now kneeling Cyrene Raif. He was a giant approaching her with noticeably little regard for their difference in size. With the way she averted her eyes, Thurunor might’ve guessed she was fearing for her life if he hadn’t known any better. “Guardian, rise and face me.” Atreates demanded. Cyrene shakingly allowed herself to stand up. She moved with such hesitation it was as though the air was glue. At last her eyes met the God of War. Thurunor could see her face was tight, her last steel nerve hanging on by a thread before the abominable being that was Atreates.

“Yes...m- my Lord?” Said a sly, shaken voice.

“You are a Guardian. It was a position you volunteered for, correct?” Atreates spoke to everyone with the same imposing vibrato. It didn’t matter what stature they were or titles they held. He was always the same. It was one of the things Thurunor admired about him. No politics; he was who he was. Unfortunately for the average person, conversing like that with someone like him was a terrifying physical challenge. The power behind Atreates’ vocality blew back the feathers on Cyrene’s scalp.

“Y-yes, my Lord.” She said.

“Having an understanding that the duties of an Astral Guardian require one, if need be, to lay down their life in service of their Titan or fellow Eluran, you chose this path?” Cyrene’s face unwound. Her eyes fell away for a moment, trailing off as her mind slipped deep into thought. At this point in time, it wasn’t a God speaking with a mortal, but two people speaking on even terms. Cyrene’s inhibitions crumbled as she unearthed her own sense of purpose before her superior.

“Yes.” She answered with renewed confidence.

“And you would fulfill those duties willingly?” Cyrene took a step forward.

“Yes.” Atreates gave a nod; a modicum of respect, but worth more than gold considering who it was coming from. He returned to Thurunor’s side looking taller than ever before.

“There.” He spoke again. “Satisfied?” Thurunor huffed at him and the faintest rumble of thunder echoed from the skies above. The irony that he was now the angry one was not lost on him. Nevertheless, he despised this seemingly callous superiority that Atreates was now flaunting.

“The ends do not justify the means.” He grumbled.

“This is war, my friend. We fight an enemy who seeks our destruction while we only seek survival. You may think that I do not care for the mortals, but I care for them in my own way. They have the will, but they are weak. I am not. And so, I have removed as many of them from the equation as possible. If I am to bear the success of this campaign on my shoulders alone then so be it.” Like an audience anticipating the finale of a play, the room was silent. Aside from not wishing to interrupt in fear of catching the ire of the Titans, it seemed everyone was enthralled by the back and forth of such powerful entities. Even Thurunor was speechless. He had started to believe that Atreates had let his lust for combat blind his judgment or that he simply never cared for the mortals to begin with, but it wasn’t either one. Guilt began to leak into the Storm Lord’s thoughts. He was wrong; protection was always at the forefront of his friend’s mind, albeit for his coldhearted reasoning, Thurunor reminded himself. Though he disliked his plan, he was glad, at least, that his heart was in the right place.

## Cataclysm: Change Part IV

Cyrene felt the veil of tension lift away from the room. This new sense of pride and purpose allowed her to stand tall even among the immortals that stood before her. She couldn’t wait to lord the discussion she and the great Atreates shared over Comannder Beldur, something she knew he was loathing at this very moment.

Her moment in the light was cut short, however, when the fine feathers on the nape of her neck tightened from the flurry of the tent’s entryway. Her instincts forced her to swivel on her heels within a fraction of a second. She pocketed those instincts the moment she realized what had come through. It was another Archon, but not just any. They had the likeness of a man. His skin was pale, yet flawless. Dressed in a shining sleeveless black plate with short, flowing, golden brown hair, this being was indeed a thing of beauty. His arms of sculpted muscle looked stronger than steel. His features, however, were completely overshadowed by a subtle restrained fury raging behind pupiless orange glowing eyes. Above his brow sat an obsidian black band with horns that curved over his head. Sheathed at his waist was a straight blade that burned with swirling orange arcana. He stepped through urgently and with little regard for anyone else. Captain Beldur quickly snatched Cyrene by the shoulders and tore her from the Archon’s path. She shuddered to think of what might have happened had she stayed. He was truly an icon of war. There was only one possible Titan he could have belonged to.

“Belial?” Said Atreates, seemingly confused by his appearance. “Why, may I ask, have you left the northern garrison?” The Archon took an overexaggerated bow like an actor at the beginning of a performance.

“My Lord, Atreates.” He began. His voice was smooth and light. It was dazzling to Cyrene’s ears. “I would not have come personally had it been any less important. Demonic activity has been detected to the east of our encampment. Additionally, the Lord of Change has arrived on behalf of the Ever King to accompany us.” A single eyebrow raised from Thurunor’s head. His eyes flashed to Atreates much like a brother seeking an elder’s opinion before his own. The War Titan scoffed.

“Hmph. Val is…accompanying us?” His words were slick with disdain.

“Why of course, my Lord. I sense this is…less than ecstatic news though I remind you I am simply the messenger—a role that is, well, rather beneath me I might add.” Belial was quite the animated figure. Every phrase was emphasized by a grand theatrical gesture and every word pronounced with the utmost eloquence. It was hardly a reflection of the Archon’s master. If a blind person heard his pleasant voice, they would never be able to guess it belonged to an eight foot tall idol of combat. Though Cyrene’s eyes made no mistake. Belial’s positive exterior couldn’t hide the single twinge of his eye from Atreates’ reaction regarding his news. What this meant, she couldn’t say.

“Indeed.” Said Atreates. “Well, go to Azmodai and gather the rest of the Archon. And you may tell the Lord of Change he can return to the Ever King. I do not need a chaperone.” A playful grin appeared over Belial’s face.

“Of course.” He said. His lips mouthed the words, but his voice was not his own. It was no less deep and ripe with eagerness. Its intonations of innocent whimsy echoed through every ear in the tent. Belial’s limbs stretched in a way that was unnatural to Cyrene; to any mortal for that matter. While his body stretched to match the other two Titans, Belial’s back suddenly arched as his armor lost all physical properties. They dripped off his form, contorting into dark gray and violet robes that hung to the floor. The pigment of his hair darkened to a fine black sheen and brushed itself back while doubling its length. A hand with long fingers reached for his face and ripped it away like a mask of paper mache, disintegrating into the ether as if it never really existed to begin with. In place of the mask was a face of long fine male elvin-like features. Underneath eyes of ever changing color sat a wide smile that was as welcoming as one’s own mother and as predictable as fate itself. Since being stationed in the Cursed Lands of Eisenor, the days had grown so mundane it was impossible to tell one from the other. Today should have been no different, yet before her were three of the most famous beings to ever set foot on Elura. Standing next to her was one of the most powerful wielders of magic known to any mortal: Val, the Titan of Change.

The Titan’s robes wisped gracefully in the air despite having no wind to act on them. They were like undersea vegetation flowing with the current. As Cyrene peered into the fabric, she saw twinkling lights as if the stars themselves were staring back at her. He was a magnificent sight, but not to everyone. Cyrene could almost feel Atreates grind his teeth as he glared at his compatriot.

“I thought I told you never to do that.” He snarled. Val threw out his arms, gesturing in a humble apologetic way, though his words were anything but sincere.

“My apologies, my friend, but I could not resist. Besides, I could feel your negativity from halfway across the globe and felt that you were in desperate need of amusement!”

“Get to the point, Val!” Atreates bit. “Why are you here? Was there even demonic activity or was that a lie?” Cyrene noticed that the Lord of War had a fixed narrowed gaze on Val ever since he revealed himself. It was an untrusting look. It was widely known that the Titans, having shared Celestial likeness that no other being possessed, were as close as any two individuals could be. Many even thought of themselves as family despite very few of them having a true blood connection. It wasn’t unheard of for Titans to squabble at times, but the look that Atreates had shared something deeper; darker. Perhaps it was the fact that Cyrene was a small fish in a very, very large pond, but she had never known Titans to hate one another. She couldn’t help but want to delve deeper on the matter. Cyrene noticed Atreates’ tongue had clung to the word ‘lie’. That was most confusing. Val was not only a master spellcaster, but highly regarded and trusted confidant of the Priarchs, the four Titans at the top of their hierarchy: Detro, Ceris, Théos, and last but never least, Noros. Could it be that Val had lied to Atreates? And what lie could warrant such contempt? Cyrene quickly pushed these thoughts aside as it would lead to an unending rabbit hole.

Val visibly recoiled at Atreates’ harsh tone. “Can a fellow Celestial not simply wish to say hello to his favorite warrior?” Atreates’ brow furled ever tighter. Before the War Titan could speak again, Thurunor placed a hand on his shoulder and stepped forward.

“We have been out here a long time, Val. Perhaps forget the theatrics.” Cyrene watched a grandiose animation rise in the Lord of Change and then fall away when Thurunor had finished. It was like a candle being blown out before the flame could reach its peak. Val’s posture tightened. He spoke plainly almost as if he became an entirely different person.

“Yes, well, as you wish. I requested that the Ever King send me to you so that I may have a closer glimpse at the magic of demons. I wish to study it. As fate would have it, the demonic activity occurred not long before I arrived.”

“Where.” Atreates demanded.

“North. Not far from here.” Val responded in kind. He was quick and to the point. Cyrene could tell it was not his nature, but it might as well have been. His ability to adapt was an art form. Atreates eyes focused hard, digging into Val. He then shared a glance with Thurunor who nodded without saying a word. Atreates quickly walked around the table with Thurunor not far behind. Both Cyrene and Commander Beldur bowed their heads, as was the tradition.

“Take a company from the barracks and gather your Archon. I shall do the same. We will meet at the North Gate in no less than 10 minutes.” Atreates ordered while making his way to the entrance of the tent.

“Of course.” Answered Thurunor. Failing to keep up with what was happening, Val suddenly found the others blowing past him as if he were invisible.

“A-and what of me? Am I still free to accompany you?” Atreates stopped dead, but didn’t bother to turn around.

“Do as you wish, but do not get in my way.” He warned. His words made Cyrene shutter.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Val said graciously in response as his lips curled into a kind smile.

## *Cataclysm: Change* Part V

Atreates had ordered a company to assemble in 10 minutes along with the Archon from both Thurunor and himself. It had been done in five. Over a hundred Astral Guardians had readied themselves and assembled at the Northern gate in no less than five minutes. That was the discipline that the God of War had instilled in his campaign force. Though it wasn’t just discipline. Cyrene knew first hand that anything felt possible if you believed your leader was a deity. It made one man feel like a hundred, and made a hundred feel invincible.

Cyrene had been trudging through the bitter land for the better part of an hour. Behind her was the rest of the company: 30 Fighters, 20 Rangers, 15 Paladins on horseback, 10 Paladins on foot, 10 Sorcerers, 5 Rogues, and a few other individuals within Beldur’s Command retinue; one of whom was Cyrene. As head of every Rogue under the Battalion, she answered directly to Beldur. Before the time of the Titans, Elura had no formal military, only small pockets of warbands, militias, and knighthoods to fight off the horrors of the Cursed Lands. It was Atreates himself that designed the structure and ranks of the Astral Guardians. Every force, no matter how small, would be equipped to handle any situation whether it requires the martial prowess of a warrior or the arcane talent of a sorcerer. Every Guardian had their role to play.

In front of Cyrene were ten Archon: five angelic beings in silver plate embodying the immovable attitude of Thurunor and five obsidian armored icons of war that could have only been the spiritual progeny of Atreates. When she had met Belial, the real Belial, she was astounded to find that Val had played his character even better than he portrayed himself; so much so that his own Titan was fooled. The mannerisms, the attitude, the cadence were all perfect. Cyrene couldn’t help but be in awe of not only the arcane mastery of transmutation Val possessed, but his ability to transform his entire personality. That, she found particularly incredible.

The Titans took their positions at the head of the company. Atreates and Thurunor were front and center with Val not far behind. Walking with gods was something Cyrene would never really get used to. She knew what it was like to walk with someone she admired—even adored; she recalled a time before the Titans in which cities and villages relied on the fiercest of warriors to keep the chaotic monsters of the Cursed Lands at bay. It was natural for such warriors to become famous to local townspeople. To meet them was an overwhelming feeling of pride and amazement. To walk among the Titans…it was something else entirely. Simply being in the presence of not someone, but something so majestically powerful gave Cyrene a feeling that could be felt physically as it could emotionally. Primordial energy radiated off of each and every one of them, impacting the very souls of those closest to them like gentle waves meeting the shore. Cyrene could always admit to herself that to be around them was a perfect brew of fear and invigoration. It was one of the reasons why she wanted to perfect her skills as a Rogue; to prove herself to them.

Val’s cloak still wisped in defiance of any natural force. Cyrene found herself gazing at the Titan’s elegant pale face. She still hadn’t forgotten the incredible display of transmutation he performed. A sharp jab at her side quickly tore the memory away before it could be replayed.

“Yer starin’ again!” Commander Beldur barked quietly. Again? She thought. She really didn’t think she’d been looking at him that long, and yet Beldur had, apparently, caught her twice.

“I was not staring! I just—what he did earlier…it was incredible was it not?” Her stammered words only added to the slap of foolishness she felt. For a short time she felt worthy of her own title.

“Aye.” Said the Commander. “Twas amazing, it was. I would temper that amazement, though, for yer sake.” She was immediately taken aback by his comment. The lack of righteous reverence to a Titan was so unlike him.

“Temper? Why?” She persisted. Commander Beldur paused before speaking again.

“Magic…a powerful tool, and a dangerous one.” The Commander’s eyes finally met hers on the word ‘dangerous’. Cyrene recoiled. She felt offended by his apparent and open disdain for magic. Without it, their very civilization would have collapsed centuries ago. The Titans, their saviors, exist because of magic.

“Honestly, Ullrik! Lord Val’s the greatest magister to ever exist besides the Ever King. He’s personally unlocked more secrets surrounding magic than we could’ve ever dreamed of! It’s no more dangerous in his hands than a drink is in yours!” She knew she was being defensive; even pushing the limits on what could be tolerated towards her superior officer, despite their history. But she felt she had to. When her blood began to simmer, Cyrene was shocked to find that Beldur hadn’t verbally ridiculed her for not saying ‘sir’. Using his first name alone would have granted the typical Dwarven physical correction. There was no friendly squabble to be had between them. He was serious.

“‘Tis true that there is no equal to Lord Val in the arcane. Me’ doubts are not with the Gods, but with the power itself. Untamed magic is a destructive beast. If ya don’t trust ma words, girl, trust that I’ve lived two centuries longer than the arrival of the Titans.” She wanted to shout at him, but Cyrene’s anger simmered down with how serious he was acting. Had he been his usual bombastic self, the two would have been having a screaming match by now. Cyrene’s pragmatic brain began pulling at a thousand threads trying to figure out why the Commander was so taken aback by magic. She knew he would never tell her. What could possibly have happened that would have shaken the most hardy and stubborn person she had ever met? Cyrene found her eyes floating up once again to the giant arcane artist before her; the God of Change and Sorcery: Val. Bewilderment had taken her as it did before. She walked forward without telling her legs to do so, as if her steps were not her own. Cyrene heard her own name being called out from behind her. It was Beldur, but his words were so distant; muffled like sound through water. Right then, she just wanted to speak with him.

“If you wish to ask me something,” said an endearing, silky voice, “then simply ask.” The voice was close, very close. She looked to her immediate left to find the towering form of the Lord of Change. Cyrene was beside Val. Her head swam in a sea of dissolution. It was as if she had been thrown awake from a decade long sleep. She was with the Commander one moment and with Val the next. Despite the sudden mental intensity she was feeling, in the very next second, it was gone. She felt a veil of calm swell around her and all disorientation and worry was extinguished. It wasn’t her keen mind doing this, it was something stronger. Though she possessed no arcane abilities, Cyrene had been trained to recognize the effects of magic. This magic was unlike anything she had ever felt. She guessed, no, assumed that it could have only come from one being. She swallowed hard and mentally slapped herself as to not look foolish in front of the Titan.

“My Lord,” She began, finally grounding herself in the present. “Forgive me for my bluntness, but what you did in the tent…I’ve never seen anything like it. It…it was incredible.” Val let out an unapologetically loud laugh. Surely, there wasn’t a soul in the entire war party that couldn’t hear it.

“All that build-up to speak with me and it was just for flattery?” He said.

“No! No, Lord Val, I—” Val chuckled in a way that was so pure and genuine, even a mind as strong as Cyrene’s would’ve easily mistaken it for that of an old friend.

“Easy, Ms Raif, your thoughts are like a violent storm.” She felt a hand rest gently on her left shoulder. While his palms were large enough that they could easily encapsulate her entire back, his touch was as light as a feather and no less delicate. She felt the ‘storm’ that he referred to evaporate with one simple exhale. His every word flowed through her mind like notes from an old lullaby. She looked back at the Titan, only to find that she was at eye level with him. Like out of a dream, the enormous being of tremendous power was suddenly no taller than Cyrene herself. Despite this optical quagmire, in his magnificent presence, she felt at peace.

“My Lord, Val, I have spent most of my life trying to perfect the art of stealth. I don’t feel it would be arrogant of me to say that I am one of my Master’s finest Rogues, but at the same time…” Cyrene stopped herself. She knew what she wanted to say, but like a fawn caught in tar, insecurities refused to let the words leave her lips. The truth of her thoughts scared her. She had never shared them with anyone; not even to the Commander.

“But at the same time…” The Titan prompted. She felt his words just as much as she heard them. Once again, the fear was gone. All of a sudden it seemed silly for her insecurities to command her. She commanded them.

“At the same time,” Cyrene continued. “I can see gaps in my skills. No matter how hard I train, no matter how hard I try, I find myself lacking.” Even she couldn’t believe what she was sharing with the Titan. It would have been difficult for her to reveal this truth to someone she had known for years—decades, even. Once more, Cyrene couldn’t believe someone like him would even listen. How could a creature so impossibly powerful care about the mundane plights of a mortal? And yet, he did.

“I see.” Said Lord Val. “It seems perfectionism is a trait we have in common then, Ms. Raif.” He said, smiling at her. She found herself doing the same. Perfectionism, she thought. Truer words had never been said to her. “And so, you wish to fill these gaps in your skill with magic?”

“Yes, exactly! I was not born with arcane prowess, but I’m told it can be taught—my Lord.” She was quick to catch herself before forgetting his title. The Titan stroked his slender chin as he appeared to sink into deep thought.

“It can, indeed... Cyrene Raif, were you about to ask me to be your teacher? You should know I mentor only the finest aspirants in all of Elura with thousands asking the same as you.” Cyrene’s blood suddenly ran cold. He laid out exactly what she wanted, but only now did she realize how ridiculous of a request it was. Of course he would never teach her, he’s probably turned away countless individuals who have made arcane knowledge their life. What chance did she have? Before her mind spiraled further, she felt a small jab at her arm. She turned to find Val with a deceitful smile. “I am messing with you, Cyrene.” He said.

Val wasn’t anything like the other Titans she had met. Thurunor and Atreates were living legends of combat and stoicism. The mere mention of their name demanded respect. Val was hopelessly endearing and to her surprise, even had a sense of humor. Cyrene felt a cautious relief ease her anxiety. It was nice to see some humanity in an immortal, but for the life of her, she could never predict anything that came out of his mouth.

“I want to better serve my Titan and my people.” She managed to say. “The way I see it, the only way I can improve my skills is to incorporate the metaphysical.” Val nodded slowly, visibly taking in what she was saying.

“You are pledged to another Titan, Ms. Raif, what would Thurunor think of this decision?” He asked. Cyrene answered without a moment's hesitation.

“I believe he would support it. Lord Thurunor has high admiration for those trying to better themselves. It is how I’ve made it this far in his legion, after all.” Val was silent then, again stroking his chin. “Lord Val, I can’t imagine how many of us mortals must come to you day after day to seek your tutelage. I know that I have no right to ask, but if you would accept me as your student I know I would be worthy of your time!” Uncomfortable with the deafening silence, Cyrene let a desperate plea escape her lips. The Titan raised a single hand, calling for her silence, and finally turned to her. Cyrene gazed into his iridescent eyes, ever shifting with a thousand colors, and saw that their depth was greater than any body of water in existence. She couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t so much looking at her, but looking through her and around her. Finally, he smiled and said,

“It is true what you say. I am sought after by nearly every magic user in the world. None, however, share the same qualities as you. When this excursion is over, I will speak to Thurunor and make the proper arrangements.” Caution grounded her excitement in fear of this being a cruel joke, but there was no trickery, no lie. His humor was light, not cruel. The overwhelming excitement forced Cyrene’s heart to leap in her chest.

“M-my Lord,” she uttered, “you have no idea what this—” A thunderous voice boomed across the scarred land, slamming its way through every ear in sight.

“HALT!” It said. The world fell silent and everything stopped under the command of a single voice—Atreates’ voice. She heard a second bellow equal in command, but not quite as deep.

“Honor guard, front!” Thurunor shouted. The majority of the company stayed in place. A select few dozen foot falls sounded around her as the most senior members of the excursion force made their way to the front. Commander Beldur passed her quickly on the right, punching her on the shoulder as he went by. She turned to the left and found Val in his original size once again. He, too, rushed his way forward. He briefly looked back at her. His lips didn’t move, but an echo of his voice swelled in her head like a fog.

“Come, Cyrene.” She heard.

## *Cataclsym: Change* Part VI

Cyrene rushed forward, clutching the hilt of the scimitar sheathed at her side. She was eager to catch up to the Commander and see what was happening, but the moment she reached him, all words had failed her.

In a small depression in the surrounding gray landscape, without so much as a hint of vegetation in sight, there sat two stone pillars that twisted evenly around each other like coiled snakes. The pillars were separated at the top, splitting in opposite directions that fractured into branches mimicking a dead tree. The effect was almost perfect. The stone was jet black and glassy like obsidian. The structure was twice the height of the Titans and half as wide as a small house. The longer Cyrene stared at it, the more uneasy she felt. She didn’t have the words to describe what she was feeling, but something about the black monolithic rock was…wrong, very wrong. One thing that became strikingly obvious was the way the light reflected off of its glassy surface in the evening sun, or rather, the lack thereof. Somehow, there was no shine at all. What was even more disturbing, was that in spite of the cloudless sky, not a single shadow could be found around the rock. It was as if this thing was the antithesis of every natural law in the known world.

The Archon that accompanied the Titans had already fanned out to form a perimeter around the object. Their weapons were drawn and spells prepared. All eyes were fixed on the black rock. Seeing beings with such magnitude in power acting cautious was far more unnerving than the sight of the structure itself. The feathers around Cyrene’s collar stood on end. There was a feeling slithering its way across her mind that she couldn’t shake. Something was telling her that they were being watched.

“Am I right to assume that this is the location of the chaotic activity?” Atreates asked as if it weren’t obvious enough.

“Without a doubt, my friend.” Val answered. His narrowed eyes were completely encapsulated by the pitch black stone. “Although, I am confused.”

“Confused?” Asked Thurunor.

“I have a keen sense for the energies of chaos. The fact that I did not anticipate something like this being here is…most concerning.” The rest of the company remained idle. No one’s voice was above a whisper, but Cyrene could still make out short conversations here and there. The men and women remained brave, but even the most courageous among them were taking a mental step backward from the ominous tower. Atreates leaned over to Thurunor standing beside him.

“Surround it.” He ordered. The Lord of Storms cocked his head to Commander Beldur. The moment they locked eyes, Thurunor gave a stern nod. Beldur swallowed a barrel of air and bellowed with a force that would split a lesser man’s lungs.

“Legion of Thunder! Ensnaring formation!” Quickly, he unsheathed a double headed warhammer and brandished it high above his head. The hammer itself was twice the size of any traditional kind Cyrene had ever seen. The metal was a light aquamarine color that shined brightly under the sun. It was Mythril, one of the strongest materials on Elura. Only Dwarves and Giants had the skills necessary to mine it. Every square inch was engraved in Dwarvish runes. There was a lightning bolt in the middle of either side that appeared to be striking towards the ground with the way the Commander held it.

The ground erupted in tight foot falls. Squad leaders barked orders to their teams as a hundred Astral Guardians had mobilized the second the order was given. Like cogs in a machine, the soldiers sprang into action, moving with the precision that only years of intense training and discipline could provide. The Fighters, those skilled in close combat wearing light armor, made up the main defensive bulwark of the formation. They stood in front while keeping a 20 foot distance from the rock. Reinforcing them were the Paladins on foot; extremely well trained and fearsome warriors that had proved themselves worthy enough to wield weapons imbued with arcane power lent by Thurunor himself. Behind them stood the might of the Titans—the Archon. Without a doubt, the immortals were capable of handling virtually anything, but their mere presence was even more valuable to the Guardians. The second layer of the formation was made up of Rangers that provided long range archery support. The final part of the formation were the Paladins on horseback to ensure nothing was getting in or out of the perimeter. Sorcerers, Guardians that used magic like a weapon, were spaced evenly around the inside of the formation to provide arcane support to non-arcane troops. If need be, they were also capable of repelling magical attacks. This formation was designed by the Titan of War to completely and utterly destroy a demon incursion. Given his record, it was more than effective.

“Hold!” The Commander shouted, and the company froze. Cyrene could’ve seen it a thousand times and the efficiency would still astound her. Every soldier was where they should have been down to the millimeter. Weapons were drawn, stances taken, and spells prepared. They stood like statues with all their training and fury aimed at the single midnight structure that sat before them. Slowly, Cyrene drew her scimitar and stayed vigilant like the rest of them.

“There is a great demonic presence within the rock.” Said Val, breaking the silence. Cyrene’s gaze wandered up to the Titans. Atreates’ brow furled. With eyes ever fixed to the structure—to his enemy—he spoke in a low, finite tone.

“Burn it. The demon will be untethered, and we will eradicate it.” Val recoiled at the callousness of his words. Knowing that Atreates did not like him probably made it easier to imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of the War Titan’s wrath, Cyrene thought. Val shrugged and let out a disappointed sigh.

“Oh, very well. There will be other research opportunities I suppose.” Once again, Commander Beldur raised the hammer high above his head.

“Magisters! Disintegration on the structure!” He roared. The ten sorcerers dressed in long cloaks of blue and silver stepped forward in synchronous fashion. Each one systematically took a wide stance and reached out with open palms. A long shadow passed over Cyrene as Val had reached his arm out as well.

One by one, a hand-sized sickly green sphere of energy formed in each of the sorcerers’ palms. The sphere in Val’s grew to be half the size of the average person. Cyrene felt a small fire of excitement light inside her at the thought of witnessing what the Lord of Change was truly capable of. Just when they were about to cast whatever spell was being prepared, a massive force of air burst from the black stone tree. Wind struck the unsuspecting soldiers with a single concussive punch of dust and soot. Cyrene’s instincts took the helm, allowing her wings to shield her just before the blast hit. Any attempt to form a thought after the event was forced out of her mind by agonizing screams. Everyone in the company looked on in horror as each of the ten sorcerers had collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. They clasped their ears, some attempting to claw their own eyes from their skull. Cyrene’s blood ran cold. Streaks of red began running down from the ears of the sorcerers and she, like everyone else, was watching helplessly from afar.

“In the name of the Ever King…” Commander Beldur uttered in a hollow voice. Atreates snapped to Val, his lips curled back like a snarling wolf.

“Val! Explain! What is happening?!” He barked. Cyrene looked to him as well, praying he, of all people, would have some answers for the nightmare she was witnessing. The Titan was quivering with both arms stretched far forward. His eyes blazed with a pure white light. Every muscle in his body looked as if they were pulled to the point of breaking. Val’s hands were glowing with the same hue as his eyes.

“The…creature inside…is…defending itself.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Can you dispel its effect?” Asked Thurunor. Val lurched forward, as if trying to gain a better foothold on whatever incantation he was casting.

“Dis…pel it?” He grunted. “I am…trying to keep…the Guardians…alive!” A chill like a clawed finger slithered down Cyrene’s back as a terrible thought became increasingly apparent. This creature, whatever kind of monster it was, was forcing one of the strongest magic users on the planet to strain themselves. She was led to believe the Titans had no equal. What kind of monster was more powerful than a Titan? Suddenly, Val dropped to one knee. The white glow was gone and his arms recoiled as if some invisible tether had been cut. In the very same moment, the sorcerers all went limp. Their bodies fell to the ground with a single collective motion and their screams were silenced. No one moved; no one even dared to speak. Seconds after the sorcerers collapsed, they rose again. Something was wrong though, very wrong. Each and every one of them were brought  to their feet in the exact same way; down to the smallest twitch of a finger. Like marionettes all connected by the same threads they shambled unnaturally back to standing positions. Streaks of blood trailed down their eyes, noses, and ears. Their faces held so little expression it was as though their spirit had been ripped from them, leaving an empty mortal shell. In the following hellish seconds, the hollow gaze of the sorcerers snapped to the direction of those in command—to the Titans. With Cyrene being so close by, she felt their lifeless glare cut right down to her soul. It was then she noticed their eyes; pupiless and glowing with a bright violet color. In unison, their mouths opened and they began to speak. What came out was a haunting, guttural sound that was an affront to everything pure and sacred. The very sound of it was so dark it was a threat to the senses.

“What joy it brings me to see that you have brought such a wondrous assortment of mortal toys to play with…their anguish…what an exquisite taste.” Cyrene shuddered. She felt violated by the unapologetic apathy this entity so easily flaunted. It was sickening and terrifying. As much as she hated to admit it, if the Titans weren’t here she might have lost her nerve.

“Who are you?” Atreates demanded, unphased by the disturbing scene. The eyes slowly locked to the Titan and the voices answered.

“I have been known by many names throughout time…although my kin of the Nether Plain refer to me as The Eye.”

“The Eye.” Said Val. Atreates shot him a punishing look, but the Titan ignored it. “I’ve never heard of such an entity. What is it you want?” At first the creature was silent, leaving the psychically hijacked sorcerers in eerie suspense; and their companions to watch them helplessly.

“To observe…to learn…to…consume.” On the last word, the mouths of the magisters stretched into wide lipless grins. Watching the perversion that this thing had over her comrades disgusted Cyrene. For the first time since the entity had revealed itself, though, she wasn’t necessarily afraid. There was an ember of vengeful anger that brimmed within as she watched this creature toy with Guardians she cared for.

“We must break the stone.” Said Atreates matter of factly. Thurunor turned to him slowly, his face racked with doubt.

“No!” Val cut in. “We don’t know what sort of hold this entity has on them. If we are not careful, their minds could be destroyed!.” Atreates’ judgemental gaze fell on Val like a tidal wave. Without hesitation Val clasped his hands together. A moment later he threw his arms wide open. His eyes swelled with pure arcana. A spectral emerald green circle thrust itself into existence that stretched from hand to hand. It sat fixed in the air like a vibrant painting. Swiftly, Val swiped his fingers across it. His hands slashed and swung through the object as though he were conducting a symphony of symbols Cyrene couldn’t hope to understand. Watching Lord Val command the energies of the cosmos with such elegance and poise; it was like art to her. He brought his hands together once again and let everything go. In one motion the glowing circle exploded in an ever expanding wave of green energy. The wave washed over anything and everything in sight faster than Cyrene could see, faster than she could hear. For a brief moment, everyone became bathed in a green hue that faded as soon as it enveloped them. The violet in the eyes of the sorcerers was torn away and replaced with a vibrant emerald. The light faded and the magic users dropped to the ground.

“What has happened?” Said Thurunor. Eyes wide, Val shared a look with the Storm Lord.

“Our Guardians are free but…”

“But what, damn you!” The ground began to quake beneath them. It shook harder with every passing second as if the landscape itself was waking up from eons of slumber. Val put a foot behind him as a white aura swelled around his hands.

“But we are not.” He uttered. There was a roar. Not so much a roar, Cyrene thought, but an unrelenting and persistent primordial expression of rage more ancient than any civilization that unleashed itself in tandem with the quaking rock below. When the wailing had reached its apex, it prayed on the worst fears the mortal mind could comprehend by changing to a sinister laugh. Cyrene reached for her ears, but it did no good as the laugh was beyond what could be turned away or drowned out. She clung to her mind for dear life terrified that a split second slip would damn not just her nerve, but her sanity along with it. Involuntary tears spilled from her eyes as she was wrought with undeniable clarity: that this laugh, this abomination of mortal emotion, would stay with her until the day she died.

A black liquid as viscous as tar oozed from the base of the stone. Out of the obelisk’s canopy came a gargantuan segmented body that tore its way into the sky. Its form was centipedal in nature. Smoke and ash flowed freely from its slate black body. The thing grew greater; larger until its size rivaled that of a galleon. Cyrene knew instantly that this was the creature within the stone Val spoke of. It and its kin were the monsters that the Titans set out to cleanse the planet of; a demon from the Plains of Chaos.

Out of the segments came dozens of appendages as long as the Titans were tall. Though the body more resembled an insect, these limbs had muscle and flesh that ended in clawed, vaguely human hands. At the demon’s head, if it could even be called one, sat a single hellish eye. The iris burned with a raging violet color. Cyrene couldn’t bear to look at it. Just knowing that it was there was uncomfortable enough. Carving away the impending abyss, Atreates held his flame engulfed sword high in the air and let out a defiant howl.

“To preserve the light!” He called. The Titans brought many great things to the realm of Elura, but one of the greatest, in Cyrene’s opinion, was their ability to make the mortal spirit ironclad. A hundred voices responded in kind and answered the call.

“We slay the dark!”

“Kill the demon!” The war Titan shouted.

## *Cataclsym: Change* Part VII

A hundred men and women charged into the monster and were met with a sea of taloned hands that struck with the force and speed of lightning. Atreates and Thurunor spared no time and sprinted to meet the creature directly. The demon contorted its body in unnatural ways. It slashed and hacked about with a hurricane of taloned limbs. Just one of the creature’s appendages proved to be more than enough for multiple warriors at a time, as even the greatest among their ranks found themselves hopelessly outmatched against abominable speed and strength. Cyrene quickly unsheathed her saber and stood shoulder to shoulder with Commander Beldur. She watched as a hand came down onto a sprinting Paladin, bisecting him clean at the waist before his body could even hit the ground. A dark red mist sprayed the bestial limb, but left no stain whatsoever. The hand curled its finger like a threatened arachnid and lunged towards her.

“Ullrik!” She called. When the hand came so close she could feel the wind off its claws, the Commander turned and slammed his hammer into its palm leaving a clear reverberating bang. The swing had so much force it shook the feathers on her face. The hand snapped back. A strike powerful enough to take a man’s head clean off only left two of its fingers in pieces. It came for them again, this time directly for the Commander. He shared a split second passing glance with Cyrene and nimbly barrelled out of the way, allowing her to slide beneath the hand and sweep her sword across its wrist. Shadowy ooze sprayed from the wound. Cyrene had attempted to sever the tendon. Her strike had surgical precision, but who knows if it would have any effect. This thing lived outside their world; outside their reality. Who knows what hellish anatomy it even had? Finding a weak spot wouldn’t just be a single shot in the dark, but thousands. She would try though, forever if she had to. As long as it died. That was the mission. That was her purpose.

The hand reeled back again and its fingers twinged. Whether it was from pain or anger, no one could say. She watched its movements carefully. Commander Beldur held his hammer low, readying himself to take another swing. Suddenly, the fingers straightened. A ring illuminated with violet arcana shot out of its palm. It washed over the both of them with overwhelming speed. Cyrene felt as if there were a million steel hooks pulling her brain apart from the inside. The mere thought of resistance made the hooks pull harder. The pain was so intense she felt as though her mind was coming undone. No amount of screaming, clawing, or begging could quell the horrendous torment she was feeling. There was a presence within her psyche that wasn’t her own. It asked her if she wanted the pain to stop. Cyrene knew the presence was dark, that it was evil. In that moment, it didn’t matter. The agony forced her to say yes. She knew immediately that it was whatever spell the demon cast that required her to not resist. As with most spells, a test must be succeeded in order to avoid the effects of the spell, and she most certainly failed.

The hooks relented, but her relief was stolen by the realization that she could no longer move. Cyrene crumpled to the ground, her mind imprisoned in the shell of her own body. Commander Beldur fell beside her, the weight of his armor bringing him down with a resounding thud. Cyrene watched helplessly as the hand of the demon slowly loomed over them. Its fingers angled towards the two warriors with a long drawn out curl as if it were savoring their suffering. It was a cruel twist of fate that reminded her of the Commander’s words just minutes before they arrived. He warned her of magic, he called it destructive. In spite of all her skills, Cyrene was rendered helpless by a single curse. Yet, in the depths of her sorrow and shame, she still admired the strength of the arcane; destructive and wondrous.

Through the fog of panic, Cyrene’s mind was a vicious hurricane. She thought about where she had come from, the things she had seen, but in the eye of that storm Cyrene could think of nothing else than the interaction she had with Lord Atreates: Having an understanding that the duties of an Astral Guardian require one, if need be, to lay down their life in service of their Titan or fellow Eluran, you chose this path? To that question, she answered ‘yes’. And with that, she knew acceptance. With half her face buried in the ground beneath her, the last thing she saw was a clawed hand striking down. Cyrene closed her eyes and waited for the end. And it was an end that never came.

Cyrene’s feathers flurried from the force of something large sweeping overhead. It wasn’t the demon, it was something else. Her eyes shot open once more, finding that the hellish claws had stopped just inches from her face. There was a calming feeling that surged across her body and suddenly the paralysis was gone. Cyrene’s legs launched her away as fast as they could with the Commander not far behind. She wretched from the remaining dust caked in her mouth and looked up to see a white aura surrounding the demon’s hand and beside it was Val.

The Titan clenched his fist. White lines of light spun around the hand, engulfing it in a cocoon of ethereal energy. Then, it exploded in a shower of sparkling dust. There were no remains; nothing at all but the space in reality where the demonic appendage once existed. Cyrene wanted to thank him, but seeing him in the heat of battle quickly made her swallow her words. Any resemblance of the kind and confident creature she had been pleasantly conversing with earlier was gone. What was left was a scowl filled with such wrath it could rival that of Atreates. His eyes burned like two white suns. Without a word, Val turned to face the enemy. Like everyone else that had known of them, Cyrene believed the Titans to be beings of immeasurable cosmic power. They were above mortals in every meaning of the word, but deep within that sea of fury, however far, however small, there was pain.

The Lord of Change directed his hand towards the demon of the black obelisk and then suddenly, there was an eye shattering burst of light. Sensation was nothing more than an unobtainable concept. Whatever sort of force her mortal form was struck with, it caused all sight, sound, touch, smell and beyond to collapse into nothingness. While her consciousness was cradled in a space beyond; not knowing if she was alive or dead, questioning the validity of her own reality, there came to be a single tree. It was a tree not of Cyrene’s world—not of any world, for that matter. The tree stood tall in the void, its roots woven into emptiness. Its branches stretched far and evenly with one another in a way that Cyrene could only define as pure perfection. The tree’s bark glowed with a golden light. It gave off an overwhelming aura that reverberated over every mortal sense that could be experienced. Cyrene felt a power that dwarfed the might and mystery of the Titans a thousand times over. She felt privileged just to see it. Out of the quiet void, there came a hand, no more special than her own, to reach out and touch the tree. There came another, and then another, then 10, then 20. Countless hands stretched out of thin air just to place themselves upon this beautiful, vibrant tree. For a time, however brief, there wasn’t anything other than peace. After that short time, there was Chaos.

Like a swarm of hunger crazed wolves, the hands began ripping the golden bark from the tree, stripping it of its beauty. There was no order or thought to what was happening. It was just deliberate and violent greed, but more than that, it was an act of a vicious animalistic need to take to satiate a hunger that could never be satisfied. This is wrong, Cyrene thought, How could anyone do this? She wanted to plead with the disembodied hands, to beg them to stop. She would have burned out her own lungs just to get them to stop, but she found no voice. The hands began taking on a more sinister form. Fingers turned to claws, elbows to spikes, and skin to a shade darker than a lampless night. The darkness spread. It filled the void and every space Cyrene could see until finally, it swallowed the great tree. From there she could only see what something wanted her to see. Whether made up by her mind or something else, who could possibly say?

She saw a conflict of unimaginable proportions, she saw buildings that stretched to the heavens; they were burning. She watched forests turn to ash, cities turn to ruin, the gods themselves perish, and then a world…a world on fire.

Before she could make sense of what was happening, Cyrene awoke with her face in the dirt just as she had while under the influence of the spell. The bottom of her beak was trembling. Cyrene had almost forgotten where she was. She felt like she was piecing together the broken puzzle of her own mind. She was sharp and keen. The pieces came together far faster than most others could. Cyrene gripped the earth, relieved to have the feeling back, and slowly pushed herself onto her knees.

“Yer finally awake!” Said a familiar, gravely voice. A heavy gauntleted hand appeared next to her soon after. She lifted her head, as if for the first time in years, and saw a dirt riddled Commander Beldur. Cyrene took it and heaved herself up.

“How…how long was I out?” She asked.

“Not long.” Said the Commander. “Five, ten seconds at most. Good thing too. Yer not allowed to die yet. There’s no one else in the whole bloody company that can put up with me.” She’d throw him a chuckle, but Cyrene’s body was far too focused on keeping itself steady. As the battlefield became clear once again, she saw that the fight was over. Men and women of the company were recovering from the conflict. Soldiers rushed about to give aid to those wounded while others sheathed their weapons and removed parts of their armor to relieve themselves of the weight. There were bodies on the ground as well. At least twenty Guardians had been slain in the battle. As for the demon, Cyrene turned her gaze to the center of the depression and saw that there was nothing but ash.

“What happened to the creature?” Asked Cyrene. Beldur lifted his hammer from the ground and threw the head of it onto his shoulder.

“Ah doubt it’ll be a problem for any of us ever again. It seems your new friend blew it to kingdom come.” Cyrene watched him point off to the left where not far from them, the immortals were conversing. Atreates stood over both Val and Thurunor. His arms were crossed and brow remarkably less tightened than usual. The Archon stood vigilantly around the Titans, just outside arm’s length.

“Well, perhaps I could have disintegrated the demon sooner.” Said Val, defensively yet playfully throwing up his hands, “But, I was briefly delayed after breaking our people free of the creature’s influence. You are welcome, Lord Atreates.” Atreates sighed, allowing a plume of steam to fall from his lips.

“The beast is dead. I suppose that is all that matters.” He begrudgingly admitted. Val looked towards the space where the obelisk once had been. With a gentle sway of his robes he let his arms rest comfortably behind his back. And there, Cyrene noted there was something absent from his usually animated nature. He turned uncharacteristically reserved, almost as if was suddenly distracted by something.

“Still though…” uttered the Titan. A small reflective glint pierced Cyrene’s eye. Irritated, her disciplined vision swiftly targeted the source. There, hidden in the palm of the Lord of Change, was a small black stone. “It would have been nice to study what we found here.”