Act 4: Torrent of Woe
A vast tent of blue silk sat in the center of a bleak plains in the far north, battered by an endless rainstorm. The mighty tent stood tall and unbowed, fortified as it was with many charms and emblems of jade. The fifty thousand faceless, miserable, weary soldiers surrounding it had no such shelter, and they stood, crouched ankle-deep in mud, trying not to think of home.
A man in brilliant red jade battle armor pushed the flaps aside from within, and began to stride through the camp. Wretched, exhausted men lept to attention and saluted as he walked past. He couldn't bring himself to meet their gazes, so he waved them away and made straight for a low hill at the edge of camp. From that slight vantage point, he could see the churning Wyld to the north, east, and west; only to the south did the land remain still and unchanging.
He closed his eyes, and thought of 'her'. Her sad, gentle smile; her care for the sick and the suffering; her laugh, the laugh of one who had long forgotten joy and had only recently rediscovered it. He was merely a loyal Terrestrial officer, and she was a Chosen of Luna, far above his station. Yet still he loved her and served her faithfully. When duty called him away to War at the side of the Solar Lord Boameth, she had met with him one last time. "Watch over Boameth for me," she said. "Don't let him lose himself out there in the wastes." As his lady commanded, so must it be.
He had failed; Now, all that remained was to let her know, though it broke his heart to do so.
He removed a jade gauntlet and held up his hand to meet the gale; he could feel the warmth of essence rising within him as he uttered the Wind-Carried Words, possibly for the last time.
"My lady Erdene Kitsune -
"Lord Boameth ordered me to keep silent, but such silence can only betray both you and the men under my command. I am privy to the letters that he has written home considering the progress of the crusade, and I fear that they contain naught but brilliantly chosen lies and articles of propaganda. We have lost fully half of the hundred-thousand soldiers we set out with. True, we did meet with initial success, but after slaying several of the Dread Lord's fey armies, he retreated into the Wyld and dared us to follow. Against all advice, Lord Boameth chose to follow him in.
"My Lord is not himself. The further we get from the Blessed Isle, the more erratic and vehement he becomes. With every military engagement, he distances himself from me and from his officers, and his letters to you grow more and more duplicitous. He has let himself be consumed by vengeance, and the soldiers under his command are expendable so long as he can finally slay the Dread Lord Alarun.
"Perhaps worst of all, he has put aside the beautiful sword that your grandfather gifted to him on the day of your betrothal; in its place, he wields a blasphemous weapon given to him by Larkin Ken. It isn't so much a sword as it is a demon wearing the garb of a daiklaive. It is called "The Vendetta", and it deals grievous wounds to any Fair Folk it meets. But it exacts a terribly price. I urged him to cast it away, to pick up your betrothal-gift once more, but he would hear nothing of it.
"Now, we stand perched at the very edge of Creation. Boameth is determined to pursue past the boundaries if needs be, and he intends to take his remaining force with him. I have no doubts that he'll survive, but his armies will not be so lucky. My place is with the men.
"I will probably not live to see the day after tomorrow. I die with many regrets, but loving you is not one of them.
"Your faithful servant, now, and forever."
As the red-clad officer finished speaking his farewells, a common foot soldier on the other side of the camp had gathered quite a crowd. He stood atop a supply crate, his spear upraised in defiance of the continuing downpour.
"I say we turn for home! We've beaten the Dread Lord's armies; what more is there to do?"
A frightened voice rang out from among the many soldiers: "But what about Lord Boameth? Surely he'll have us executed for disobeying him!"
"And what could he possibly do that's worse than staying here, starving and drowning and waiting for him to lead us into the Wyld itself? No good can come of being out here! This isn't a crusade anymore, it's just a series of disasters! A miserable folly! A torrent of woe!"
"A Torrent of Woe, is it?" The voice - everyone knew the voice. Lord Boameth had heard, and he had come. Boameth was not a particularly tall man, nor was he particularly imposing, physically; the two Earth-aspected officers flanking him both towered over him. But he had an intensity to his eyes, a terrible, cold, wild-eyed hatred. Few could meet his gaze for long without turning away.
The crowd melted away as he approached the soldier who dared speak out. "A Torrent of Woe. So it is, and so am I. You asked, soldier, what could be worse. Permit me to educate you."
As the crowd looked on, the two Terrestrial officers grabbed the soldier, shoved him against the side of the supply crate, and bound his hands and feet with rope. Then, with their enormous, calloused hands, they held his head rigid, and forced his eyelids open. He could not blink, he could not turn away. Boameth paused theatrically... and suddenly flared his Dawn Caste banner as brightly as the sun itself. Forty-nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine soldiers fell prostrate and covered their eyes. Even the two Terrestrials averted their gaze.
One wild, struggling man screamed in agony as an onslaught of shimmering golden dragon's claws burned into his psyche. After ten seconds, the man would never see again. After a minute, the man's eyeballs began to smoke and blister. After five minutes, the man was very much dead - but no-one had told his lungs about it. The screaming continued.
Boameth held the flare for ten full minutes before he abruptly turned away and walked towards his command pavillion. The man's hollow corpse, held upright by the ropes that tied him to the supply crate, finally ran out of breath.
As he stepped into the dim light of the command tent, and sat down at his writing desk to plan tomorrow's attack, Boameth paused a moment in thought. The Vendetta stood at his side on an ebon stand; his hand absent-mindedly caressed its hilt. "Captain."
The Fire-aspected warrior sighed to himself. "Yes, Lord Boameth?"
"Inform the quartermaster that I want a new war-banner made in time for tomorrow's assault. Tell him to emblazon it... with the name 'Torrent of Woe'".
