A Morning Where Fields Mourn No Longer
RY766, 6th Day of Descending Fire, Early Morning
Another old battlefield, the scent of old rot clung to everything. Flames let the dry dusty earth slip through his fingers, noting the ancient flecks of bone and ash in the scorched earth. Getting just this far had been troublesome mortals and ghostblooded who claimed this spot as their own. Fortunately the ghosts of this shadowland were powerless in the weak daylight. Rising from his crouch he spares the sky a glance, noticing as the sun for the first time this morning breaks through the grey-black clouds. Sparing a glance to the figures surrounding him he notes how the weak sunlight glints off their armoured forms.
How long had it been since he’d last had soldiers guarding him? Too long, obviously. Letting out a little sigh, he shakes off the melancholy rising within him, knowing this was neither the time nor the place for such bitter reminiscence.
The small ray of sunshine was a good enough beginning, if one believed in omens. Turning to the armoured figure next to him he barks, “Sergeant, have you men spread out, I believe we are in the centre of it. Certainly they fought harder to keep us away from here. At least before they joined the ancestors they worship, at least they were kind enough to mark the centre of this foul place.” A series of shrines dots the blasted landscape, made of bone and horn. His wave encompasses them in his gesture to the ruined landscape. “And we don’t want anything and I mean anything interrupting me. The effect would likely be catastrophic.”
The man’s shoulders tense as he barks out orders, obviously slightly puzzled. After all the maps of this region all assumed the shadowland was centred on the ruined fortification half a mile away. Flames however had in his research found this to be false. The locals obviously knew it too. That fortification while important and a ruined manse had little to do with the modern shadowland. Its only connection to his task here was what could be found within it. After all it had been the last refuge of a long fallen Twilight and No Moon couple. They had fled their after the usurpation and the siege here was recorded as bloody, though not terribly lengthily. At least that is what the records hidden in one corner of Valkhawsen had claimed. The records dating back to the early days of the Shogunate claimed some bright spark had ended the Siege by destabilising the geometry of the manse, and the battle had ended here, as the two fled the geomantic discharge, fighting through scores of the host, who had slowed them enough for them all to be vapourised.
Sad really, a few thousand horrific deaths were all that were required to create one of these sores on Creation. Such a trivial thing for the Deathlord’s and their minions to accomplish and so very difficult to undo, Flames thinks with a grin beginning to utter the incantation in Old Realm, well difficult to undo for those that aren’t a master of the circle of Adamant.
The ray of sunlight expands, centring on Flames, the light touching the ground and rippling outward. His anima flares and light seems to be leaking from every pore and orifice as he slowly rises to the heart of the now incandescent beam. As he does he turns to the slightly surprised guards, several moving to drag him from the beam. Focusing his now shining eyes on the sergeant he utters a few words in a most inhuman voice, “This is part of the spell do not interfere and do not worry everything goes according to plan.” And tilting his head skywards once more he allows the spell to overcome him once more.
Over the course of the next ten minutes the light pours ever outward, the beam widening and the clouds dissipating. As the light does the wind picks up blowing the dead dry earth into the light, vanishing forever leaving in its place ripe fertile earth; the ash and bone gone as if it were never there.
Somewhere nearly two hours in the light reaches the edge of the shadowland and at that instant the clouds part dissipating as if they were never there. Flames lowers as the light slowly fades, falling the last few feet and lands on his knees. Rising stiffly, he looks directly at the Sergeant, who like his men still looks slightly awe-struck glancing around at the now empty but fertile part of creation that now stands in the shadowland’s place. “This is why we are the true rulers of Creation; we can put right what so many others have put wrong.” Flames says quietly though his voice echoes across the open field. He warily stumbles to his feet, his robes rippling in the new summer breeze and begins walking toward the ruined manse to see what of the recorded sorcery archive survives.
RY766, 6th Day of Descending Fire, Late Afternoon
Though many first hand sources of that era have been lost, most reputable historians agree that the closing of the shadowland known as the Mourning Fields which had lain outside the city of Lookshy for centuries, was both a major turn in the wars against the Deathlords and the re-ascent of the chosen of the Unconquered Sun. Certainly several such shadowlands had been closed prior to the Mourning Fields but few shared both its accessibility or its notoriety. Such a blatant use of Solar Circle Sorcery in an age that had not seen such miracles made possible much of what came after. Certainly Nexus and Thorns would have been far harder to retake otherwise and this action was one of several that demonstratively helped rally the entire River Province to war.
Pg.387, Maxim’s “A Brief History of the Second Age”
The blasted heath that made up the Mourning Fields was visible as the Manta approached Lookshy, standing in the doorway of the cramped cockpit of the craft Flames glances over at it over the pilots shoulder. The manse had yielded up profitable results: two crystals etched with ancient sorcery, certainly a worthwhile addition to the Valkhawsen’s library. After studying them he had ordered a return to Lookshy.
As they draw closer, Flames puts a hand into a pocket hidden in the seams of his robe, pulling out a small slip of paper. After a quick glance that it is the right note, he hands it to the pilot.
“Change of plans gentlemen, take us to those coordinates pilot.”
“Sir, that takes us into the Mourning Fields?!?” The pilot splutters when he examines them.
“I know Pilot, I’ve changed our plans. I have decided to seal it away today, now bring us in low over the Heath.”
The man suppresses a flash of irritation at the change in orders and swings the Manta around, coasting over the geomantic barrier of cairns that kept the shadowland contained.
Moving to the back of the craft Flames opens one of the external doors watching as the ground as dead roots, brambles and weeds sweep by. As the craft slows and begins its descent salt becomes visible amongst them and all of this contributes to the audible crunch as the craft sets down. Studying the salt, Flames gives a short brusque laugh for all the good it’s done in combating the ghosts of this region, before stepping down onto the ground. The unit with him pour out the other doors as he does securing the landing zone.
“According to the records normally this area would be swarming with ghosts, fortunately due to sorcery unleashed during the battle there shouldn’t be much of a threat here today. I doubt anything has moved-in in the meantime.” He yells over the slow whine of the Manta’s engines. “Be careful we also can’t be sure our ‘friendly local Deathlords’ didn’t leave behind anything nasty.”
Moving away from the Manta, his guards alert, Flames begins to scout round with essence sight looking for where the Soulbreaker orb was detonated all those years ago. A little while later, examining a small crater up near the ridge of the heath, he’s sure he found it. This crater just one among dozens that litter this battlefield is the heart of the shadowland.
Climbing towards it he wordlessly commands the troops accompanying him to spread out, taking up defensive positions, stopping halfway up to examining the ruined remains of a Shock Pike. Its head lays buried in the ground and its haft pointing skyward at an odd angle. A tattered scrap of dirty white cloth tied to the end flaps in the wind and for a moment Flames eyes lock on it wondering who in amongst the Mask forces would waste their time bothering to tie it there. Resuming his climb he steps into the centre of the crater and begins his incantation.
The spell takes much the form as earlier in the day except that this time Flames’ anima flares far earlier, its light causing the petrified brambles to blacken, then burn and drift away caught in the wind that accompanies the blast of light pinning Flames in place. The black flecks slowly dissolve the bright summer sunshine leaving no remains.
After about nine minutes the cloud of sunlight slowly begins to fade, the Fields flickering as they return fully creation. This time as the spell concludes Flames tumbles from a greater height, sustaining slight bruises from the fall as he rolls down the slope, struggling to stagger upwards. When he finally manages it he spits a mouthful of black ash which burns to a cinder before hitting the ground.
With assistance from the Sergeant and another man, he manages to limp back to the Manta, the pilot already beginning to cycle the essence turbines up. Crawling through the door with little grace in his bruised exhausted form, he mutters thank you to the Sergeant and the other man and yells for the pilot to take them home. Moving to the cargo bay, where he plans to rest, he can overhear the Pilot calling in a recovery team to properly excavate the battlefield. Staggering into a makeshift bunk, he swiftly looses consciousness, hearing just as he does a woman’s laughter.
