Bonded Summoner

“Take care, Morwen.” Rookard ended the communication with the High Priestess, his blood already running hot with fury as he fired his bow and directed his wolves with his will. He was already using his Technique, On the Hunt, to put down the undead enemies.

Taron, the mammoth nethril beastkin fought at the front, his large body tearing through enemies. His wolf beastkin brethren fought with bows, spears, and blades, joining the numerous beastkin in their battle.

Rookard directed the beastkin with his will, his heart beating his song of intentions. For the rest, he gave his command. “High Priestess Morwen and her forces have discovered the evil ritual to sacrifice thousands of innocents within the necropolis. We must make haste and push forward, despite the dangers. Gather near Taron, and fight with righteous fury. We must protect the weak, and stop this tragedy!”

He spotted a line of Morvalis natives, chained and stumbling, driven forward by the cruel whips of the necromancers. The sight of those chains ignited a primal fury in Rookard's chest. It was a dark echo of the beastkin's own history–the legacy of the First Tyrant, who had sought to enslave their ancestors.

Rookard had lost his son to the weakness of old, passive traditions and a malevolent invader his peaceful people couldn't even comprehend. But from the ashes of that complacency, a new breed of guardian was being forged.

His people had sworn to never bow to tyranny again, their blood burning away taint and wickedness with righteous purpose, tempering their spirits in the very flames of conflict. To see such enslavement happening on another world demanded a pound of flesh. Tartarus would pay.

And the betrayers that made this twice as difficult as it needed to be? They would pay even more, and Arawn would see to it.

His wolf beastkin howled, and many warriors gave off their battle cries as they focused on going on a greater offensive. Instead of fighting a marathon battle and playing it safe, a larger portion of warriors brought out their melee weapons and rushed forward.

Their songs took on a new tempo, a more rapid pace to match the swinging of their weapons and casting of their spells. The undead were culled with not just tactical dominance, but physical and spiritual dominance. The manifestations of beasts became fiercer, their extended auril blades larger and sharper.

Rookard took out his axes and did the same, rushing forward and fighting alongside his enhanced wolves, the Chief’s researched knowledge empowering each and every swing. All around him, he could feel a new song brewing among his brethren. It was a heavy, driving rhythm where their grueling training, their forged equipment, and their righteous purpose had finally converged. The collective bravery and valor of the beastkin beat out fierce new notes in his chest, charging the battlefield with an auril that felt nearly electric in the freezing air. It was the pulse of a people evolving into true masters of conflict, allowing them to shatter and pierce through the undead ranks with absolute, unyielding ease.

With the warriors using their mana and auril in a rush, they breached the undead army and left them in their dust. Their army rushed across the battlefield, the necromancers attempting to flee with their captives. Sending undead as a distraction, they continued to run away on their slow mounts, but Rookard wasn’t having it.

He took to the air and cut them off with his bow, spreading deadly cold and taking out their horses with every shot of his bow. After wounding and freezing the necromancers, this enabled them to free the undead legion. In a hurry, they left only token forces to handle and capture them, continuing the charge.

For a moment, it looked like three armies of hundreds of necromancers, immortal legions, and their captives were going to enter the necropolis and reinforce the enemy. Rookard and his armies were not going to make it in time, only nipping at their tails.

But then the sky streaked with vibrant colors, a stark contrast to the muted brown and orange sky. A roaming Battlegroup of forty cultivators from Love and Justice arrived, riding on flying swords, boats, and a massive emerald leaf.

They didn't aim for the army; they aimed for the mountain. With a coordinated release of elemental fury, they shattered the peaks above. The resulting landslide was a deafening roar of grinding stone and ice, permanently sealing the pass beneath thousands of tons of rubble. Ice, fire, and earth then bloomed at the base of the avalanche, creating a fortified sanctuary around the captives and making Rookard’s job of slaying the isolated necromancers easy. His hunt of the wicked was nearly over.

Then a piercing blue flare tore through the gloom of the sky as well, exploding with light and a pop. Rookard's heart sank. It was the signal. He realized he would have to continue the rush instead of enjoying his victory.

Beside him, Taron suddenly shuddered, his massive mammoth frame growing rigidly tense. “Chief,” the nethril warrior rumbled, his voice strained as he stared toward the distant caldera. “The wrongness... it has awakened.”

“What is it? This…hungering thing?” Rookard asked, gripping his axes.

“A void…an eclipse. A maw that drinks life and death alike,” Taron warned, his eyes narrowing, and his trunk’s nostrils flaring. “I feel it pulling at my marrow from here. If we bring the army, the weak will not be able to resist its pull. It will feast on our numbers and grow unstoppable. It must be starved.”

That was…more than Taron ever said before. But looking at him, he could see the focus in his eyes. Perhaps this threat had brought some kind of special lucidity to the mammoth. Rookard didn't doubt the nethril warrior's instincts one bit. If Taron said a grand army would just be food, then a grand army was a liability. He realized he would have to leave the bulk of his forces behind, even if half as many may be able to handle the task.

“Parties who excel in flight and mobility, form a strike team of one hundred with me!” Rookard roared, his voice carrying over the chaos. “We must rush to aid our emberborn brethren against the Aspect! The rest of you, hold the line here! Secure the avalanche, shield the captives, and punish the surviving betrayers! If we drag the entire army to the caldera, we feed them straight to the monster. The hunt continues on two fronts!”

He didn't need to explain twice, as he had kept his elites close just as he had discussed with Morwen.

Rookard’s elite wolves, avian beastkin, and the most seasoned warriors in auril flight suits swiftly broke off from the main force, gathering around him. More than a dozen parties of beastkin were present, and a few Valor warriors from the Warrior Brotherhood and their supporting shrine and warrior maidens. A handful of cultivators and a beast tamer with a flying auril beast joined, and they were about to take off when Taron and ten other Nethril warriors joined.

He frowned at them. “Taron… I’m not so sure you’re going to be able to make it over that mountain in time, my friend. We must go now.”

“It is no problem. We must join. The wrongness. The hunger, I feel it. You will need us, Brother.”

Rookard frowned at this, but he didn’t have time to argue. If they could make it on their own, then they could use their help. He certainly didn’t have the time to wait for any of the teams with the larger treants and auril beasts to go with them, or they may be too late to help.

They made exceptions for the shrine and battle maidens of Warrior Brotherhood, as they could easily be carried on harnesses. The Valor warriors had enough means to take to the sky for short periods with their talismancer’s aid if needed, but some just might join their maidens along for the ride in the harnesses.

The Battlegroup of about a hundred took flight, and Taron and the rest of the nethril beastkin ran beneath them. The aerial team was faster, so Rookard had his forces take plenty of potshots at the necromancers as they passed through. He would have liked to bring the arriving cultivators, but he understood the truth.

Their display likely used all their Qi reserves, and he could see them exhausted and sagging with fatigue from their efforts. Most had already fled the necromancer’s fury after trying to protect the captives, leaving things to his forces.

While the enemy attempted to spread out and hide behind their immortal legion, they couldn’t handle this type of aerial archery assault well. They were also busy trying to get at the captives behind their protective stone, fire, and ice, while preparing for the incoming army coming to punish them. Rookard’s assault added more chaos to the mix, and then they were completely unprepared for the nethril beastkin when they arrived.

Taron and ten other Nethril warriors smashed straight through their forces, crashing through the undead and the necromancers like they weren’t even there. They were more than double, sometimes triple, the size in height and mass, and their physicality was unquestionable. They passed through the army, leaving confused necromancers in their wake, and then they arrived at the debris pile. Rookard was shocked at just how fast they moved, even understanding their strength firsthand.

However, he was even more surprised once they began vaulting over the stone, snow, and debris with ease. Despite their incredible bulk, the rocks and snow barely moved each time they landed and leaped again.

As Taron’s massive, bone-plated foot touched the shifting stone, the loose stone and snow didn't slide. It locked into place. It was as if his spirit spread over the area, anchoring the ground with the absolute, unyielding stillness of Nethril.

While auril boosted a beastkin’s strength with explosive life force, the nethril beastkin operated on different laws. They didn't tire, and they didn't breathe. Their bodies were an amalgamation of magic and flesh that allowed them to climb the treacherous avalanche as an undeniable, immovable force of nature.

Arriving on the other side of the necropolis less ahead of the nethril warriors than Rookard had expected, he spotted their quarry in the stone plaza, surrounded by ancient crumbling buildings. The specter was wailing on the dome with claws and tendrils, cracks forming on it as ice regrew and was reinforced by those within.

Rookard and his hundred warriors began buffing for their attack in flight, with the nethril warriors not far behind them.

He gave a prayer to Arawn along with several other Divine’s clergy as they flew in formation, granting them protection against the deathly energies they would no doubt face. Others imbued their weapons with the flames of Brigid and the light of Lugh, preparing them for facing this monster. Their hearts drummed the song of battle, the hundred or so warriors ready to complete their hunt.

Rookard and his aerial strike force slammed into the edge of the plaza as they got into position. The Warrior Brotherhood elites detached from their harnesses and dropped into defensive stances, their weapons glowing with Valor or talismans, bows, and spells ready.

But the moment their boots and claws touched the stone, Rookard felt it. The Aspect of Eternal Night was truly dangerous, emanating a terrifying malevolence that they could feel hundreds of yards away.

This monster was firmly in the Third Tier, far above his warriors, and a true Raid-level enemy. Just how powerful would it have been if they finished their ritual fed it all the captives and undead? It may have truly been a world-ending threat, and Clan Hart would have had to have been called to bring down the power of the Divine to crush it.

The specter seemed to know they were there. It turned its terrifying, eyeless gaze toward them, radiating a suffocating vortex of darkness. The monster was massive, easily two or three stories tall, as it floated off the ground with no legs like a disembodied torso with a cloak of tendrils of darkness surrounding it.

Yet, it didn't advance. Driven by its endless hunger, it chose to stay anchored to the center of the plaza, viciously battering the cracking ice of the dome to get to the thousands of souls trapped within. Perhaps it knew that if it relented, those tasty souls would become that much harder to consume.

A dozen warriors arrived to face the specter in melee as the forces zeroed in on their target. Arrows with manifestations struck the monster first, but their attacks felt muted as they landed, like the sound and weight were removed.

The auril blades of the warriors cut into the monster, but Rookard could see and feel the energy being drawn in; the blade’s sharpness dulled as they cut into this spiritual being. And Rookard’s wolves arrived to nip at it and attack, but he could see, like smoke, they were unraveling into its maw.

It was like a vacuum that drew in the life force. Without Arawn’s protection, Rookard felt like his people’s vitality would be drunk up in mere moments. As it was, he understood nearly immediately. The beastkin’s vitality would only strengthen the monster. They needed to stay out of the monster’s radius, or else this fight would never end.

“Beastkin brothers–get out of the monster’s melee range, and stay out of its drain radius! Use ranged attacks for now. Talismancers, set up wards for protection and support your Valor warriors!”

The Valor warriors could continue because their shielding was dense and didn’t even allow mana to pass through–and protected them from this drain in a bigger way, it seemed. He could still see that their shields weren’t perfect, as they were weakening ever so slowly. Their energy and barriers would run out eventually–but they could accomplish something without feeding it, their large blades cutting into the giant spirit.

The heavy, suffocating vacuum threatened to snuff out the heat of their blood. Rookard’s purple Auril flared violently, fighting to keep his body moving as he retreated from its radius and fired his bow. He could see his warriors were already slowing down, their life force actively being leached into the swirling black mass that battered Morwen’s cracking ice dome.

His people kept up the attack, but Rookard could see it wasn’t enough. Knowing he had to do something to change the status quo, as even his enhanced wolves or spells weren’t enough, he tried to spark the familiar fury in his chest, forming the runes to the song.

He began chanting the requiem of vengeance as he established the runes, holding tight with his will, as if manifesting his spirit. “Hear the heartbeats of the fallen,” he sang, trying to rally his pack, trying to stir the auril as he moved through the stanzas. But as he finished the final verse, “For betrayal against life, there must be blood!”

The song fell flat. It felt hollow. The Specter had no blood to spill, no treacherous heart to pierce. It was just an endless, starving void, an eclipse on their reality from its terrible might alone. Rookard’s Auril wolves leaped, only to be absorbed the moment their jaws snapped shut on the shadowy tendrils.

They were fighting a losing battle. Even if it had only been a minute, the monster only grew stronger instead of weakening.

Then, the ground trembled.

It wasn't the frantic, explosive thumping of a beastkin charge. It was heavy. Absolute.

Rookard’s ears swiveled. Through his connection to Highlands, he heard a new song entering the plaza. It was entirely alien to him, a song he had never heard before. The nethril beastkin had always participated in battle, but never like this.

If the song of battle with Auril was the rapid, hot pounding of a war drum pushing life outward, this was its exact inverse. It was a resonant, rhythmic hollow–the heavy silence between heartbeats stretched into a melody.

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Taron crested the ridge of the plaza, followed by the ten Nethril warriors. He passed Rookard, and the Nethril flooded into him, but that wasn’t quite right. It didn't push energy into the world like Auril did; it anchored the world to itself.

The mammoth beastkin’s eyes were no longer clouded by the fog of undeath. They were ancient, clear, and burning with a terrifying, absolute certainty. The Nethril warriors didn't hesitate. While the living elites were forced to hang back to avoid being drained, Taron and his brethren charged directly into the Aspect’s immediate radius with a cold, calculated fury.

The Aspect whipped a massive, shadowy tendril toward the mammoth. Taron didn't dodge. He reached out and caught the void in his massive, bone-plated hands. Seeing an opening, a Valor warrior roared and cut deeply into the monster from the other side, just as the nethril warriors crashed into it with manifestations of Highlands beasts. A stag’s horns, a raven’s claws, a Tyrannosaurus Rex’s maw bit down onto the monster, releasing a spiritual weight that strangled the specter and unraveled it.

Waves of nethril energy pulsed out from the nethril warriors as manifestations appeared, and they didn’t seem muted–they were stronger than Rookard had seen before. He could feel the fury in the attacks, the conviction in their will. This adversary had awakened them in a way he had never seen, and now they were truly like the heroes they undoubtedly were in life, similar to the beastkin they fought beside.

The specter tried to drain them, but it couldn't. Protected by Arawn and Cernunnos, War Priest Taron had no breath to steal, no hot blood to cool, and no frantic life to extinguish. He was the embodiment of natural, balanced death, and he withdrew a bone battleaxe from his storage, filling the runes with energy.

The specter’s unnatural void ground to a halt against Taron's absolute stillness. Several warriors struck him, and frost exploded from the point of impact, Nethril locking the specter's tendril into physical reality. The other Nethril warriors stepped up beside him, driving their bone weapons into the shadows, pinning the struggling Aspect in place.

For the first time, the Aspect didn’t seem still and uncaring about their presence–it became furious. It roared as it brought out its claws, attempting to swipe at the nearby warriors. Its tendrils stopped slamming against the dome, and they instead whipped toward the nearby warriors.

With the nethril warrior reinforcements, the beastkin began a new dance of battle, or Rookard thought the battle could finally begin. Not only did Taron and his brethren strike hard and stay in the giant specter’s face, but their nethril weakened the monster with their wills. On top of that, this odd…world-anchoring effect appeared to help with Rookard’s manifestations. To become more solid.

“Chief,” Taron rumbled as he swung his fist, and it crashed into the specter. His voice was no longer slow or fragmented, and it carried the confidence of an experienced warrior. “I heard you before. You sang the wrong song.”

Rookard blinked, and his bow lowered a fraction. “It is the song of our vengeance. It unites us.”

“It is a song of desperation,” Taron corrected, his massive muscles straining as he grabbed a tendril and held the specter at bay, dealing heavy chops as the monster screeched with his other hand. “For a millennium, you sang of blood because we were silenced. We were tainted, locked in the dark. The punishment of the wicked, the finality of winter–that was our burden to bear for the balance. You were meant to be the endless spring, the brilliant summer. When we fell and slumbered, you had to take up our song just to survive.”

The mammoth beastkin shoved the specter back, his Nethril flaring with a deep, bruised black and blue light.

“But our world, our people, have changed, Rookard!” Taron roared, the inverse drumbeat of his soul echoing across the frozen plaza. “The First Tyrant's curse is broken. The mother of the world, Avalara, no longer just nurtures–she fights! She has accepted the mire and the rot, the empowerment through conflict. She has chosen her path. The beastkin do not just steward the balance anymore; you conquer its enemies. You have evolved.”

Rookard felt the truth of the words ringing in his very marrow. The old traditions were dead. To face Tartarus, they couldn't just rely on the old ways, and they couldn't just rely on blind rage as he had decided on Highlands when he helped Hearthtribe rally his brethren. Now, they had to become more than that to move on from their past.

“The song of blood was for the betrayers,” Taron said, locking eyes with Rookard for a moment as he backed off, another warrior pinning the specter in his place. “But this thing and Tartarus is a perversion of the cycle itself. We cannot sing the old songs. We must join the choir and fight together.” He blocked a tendril, locking it in his arms and his tusks, twisting it aside, and added, “The hymn of the world is always being sung, Rookard. You need only listen to know the words.”

Rookard’s lips peeled back in a fierce, understanding grin as he let out a breath and listened. Avalara’s song was always playing, a harmonious symphony of beasts, the water, soil, and wind of the world, and its people. It was impossible for him to put the overall feel of so many into words, but he could feel what Taron said was true.

The world of Highlands and the beastkin had changed. It was once a place of peaceful balance, a place of abundant life and mutualism. A cycle of seasons and rebirth, along with a praising of the Divine that placed them in such a paradise. Underneath it all was a song that slept in wait. A patient stillness of the true stewards, the dead’s duty to preserve the balance.

The symphony’s score, its theme, had matched this. But that theme had changed with the people and all that lived on it, even the world and its geography itself. He could feel a slow crescendo, an urgency to the current symphony. The seasons, mutualism, and abundance were still there, but there was a forward march among the living. No longer did the living passively enjoy the fertile vitality, Avalara’s abundance, but instead sought strength and virtue.

And the dead remembered their suffering. Their struggle and loss played out like a constant funeral hymn. They remembered their weakness, but also what led them to victory. What had made them band together as one despite their differences and triumph over a great enemy, the valorous hero Timothy, who bled for the weak and triumphed over a terrifying enemy. The dead’s strength was tempered by their duty, their endless vigil to protect the balance.

Together, it was as if the drums of war were slowly beating, endless preparation for battle against evil. Whether it was the beasts or its people, living or dead, none would shy away from conflict, and all wished to become a beacon in the dark, a pillar of strength like their ancestral heroes or their venerated chieftains. They knew they had to train and perfect themselves because the wicked were always waiting, lurking to strike at any weakness, and they didn’t play fair.

To take that paradise, their home, away from them. They had suffered this lesson, and they would never suffer it again. To achieve this, the living and dead would fight together with bravery and valor to bring justice to the monster and punish it. To protect others from suffering from this same lesson and to take power for themselves and enrich their future. They would fight to secure their sanctuary and home.

It wasn’t lost on Rookard that this was part of Hearthtribe’s creed, but it was still surprising to him that the world, people, and the guild were so aligned after their turbulent past. Was this on purpose, or happenstance? It almost felt like the Divine had somehow planned it.

It didn’t matter.

He stepped forward as he put away his bow and drew his axes, crossing the threshold into the specter's radius, but this time, he didn't feel the drain. He let his purple Auril intertwine with the heavy, anchoring Nethril radiating from Taron. While the two energies didn’t mix, Auril floated on top of the nethril like oil over water, and anchored by the nethril and Divine protection of Arawn, it was enough to protect against this monster.

“Then let us sing the new song of the world,” Rookard said.

He raised his right axe, the edge glowing with fierce, purple Auril. With a wide, sweeping motion, he carved the first spiral of the Triskele into the freezing air, forming the runes with his will, his heart singing the song along with his words.

“Hear the pulse of the living. In virtue and strength, we forge ourselves.”

As Rookard shouted the invocation, the living beastkin around him took up the verse. It wasn't just words but a roaring, wordless harmony that spoke of their grueling preparations, the heat of their blood, and the fierce joy of a life that refused to yield. The purple rune burned like a miniature sun, pushing back the specter's encroaching shadows as the many beastkin infused their auril, singing the song together.

Taron stepped seamlessly into the rhythm. He slammed the butt of his heavy bone weapon against the stone, dragging it upward to carve the second, interlocking spiral in bruised, blue-black Nethril.

“Feel the stillness of the fallen. In sorrow and duty, the vigil stands ready.”

The Nethril warriors and the deathly beastkin echoed the mammoth's call. Their underlying dirge was heavy and somber, a vow carved from the memory of their suffering and their heroism throughout the ages. It was the promise of the silent watcher, anchoring the volatile energy of the living so it would not burn out. The black spiral locked into the purple one as the rune locked into place, the oil and water grinding together with the force of tectonic plates.

The Aspect shrieked, sensing the existential threat of the formation as the spirals grew, the songs continuing. The monster surged forward, its massive, void-like tendrils whipping toward the two leaders to snuff out the magic before it could complete.

Rookard and Taron didn't flinch. They raised their weapons together, carving the final, overarching circle that bound the spirals into a perfect Celtic Triskele.

“Tempered by the cycle, forged for war, we ascend as one to break the wicked,” they roared in unison.

The Triskele ignited, erupting into a blinding, golden aura of Life, Death, and Rebirth as they sang the true song of the world–the song of Avalara. The perfected cycle washed over the strike team, completely neutralizing the Aspect's suffocating vacuum. The monster’s tendrils slammed into the golden light and dissolved into harmless mist, its unnatural stillness violently rejected by the physical manifestation of the beastkin’s will, a weight of an entire world standing against the eclipse.

But this wasn't just a static shield. It was a living, breathing cycle, much like the resonance Tanda, Timone and Dahlia wielded. As the beastkin continued their roaring harmony of battle, the energy within the Triskele cycled from life to death and back again, building pressure with every passing heartbeat.

Rookard and Taron held the line against the specter, trading heavy, methodical blows with it as they let the resonance charge. They had to survive long enough for the song to reach its apex and the spell to be fully completed. Already, significant damage was being done, the drain having no impact, and the warriors all around were dealing heavy blows to an enemy that wasn’t being healed.

Empowered by the golden cycle, Rookard’s wolves manifested not as creatures of pure energy but as twilight hounds of solid, devastating reality. All around the battlefield the same happened, manifestations of beasts from Highlands becoming more than a mere fragment of will and energy. Much of the golden twilight light protected them, enabling them to continue the song and fight as one.

The rest of the golden energy of the group-cast spell was drawn toward Rookard as he directed the spell, the warrior’s auril and nethril being fed to him as he prepared to make this strike count. The cycle was eventually completed, and a pillar of golden light surrounded him as the energy grew thick and dense, threatening to burst from Rookard’s chest.

He leaped at the specter with incredible strength, his axes burning with the light of a new era. He crossed the threshold into the creature's core radius, completely immune to the drain. With a feral roar, he brought both axes down in a brutal scissor-strike directly into the Specter's shadowy chest. The Nethril gripped the monster, binding its form to the physical plane, while the Auril violently burned away its taint and stillness.

The Aspect staggered backward, a massive, golden fissure cracking across its shadowy form. The force of the blow sent a shockwave of resonant, golden light rippling across the plaza and shattering stone.

The monster slammed into the glacial walls of the Caer Wydyr dome powerfully, sending cracks into the ice.

The monster was wounded, and it looked to the sky, as if considering fleeing as it floated away from the wound. However, Rookard smiled as he felt the song, heartbeats from within the dome. Instead of shouting to not let up and not allow it to get away, he said, “Spread out! Get away from the dome!” for his non-beastkin brethren to hear.

The dome didn’t just shatter–it exploded outward. Spiritual, glacial frost crashed into the monster from behind, sending frozen shrapnel cascading outward and covering it with winter’s cold, inevitable embrace–frost, snow, and ice wrapping around its form.

Despite its unnatural stillness, the Aspect was frozen down to its very core. The glacial shrapnel shredded its shadowy form, pinning the crippled entity to the stone.

Morwen rode on the back of Bedwyr’s mount as it rushed forward, their army ready to defend the new hole in the dome. “Oh my. It looks like you barely required our help! Well, we shall not waste this opportunity. This monster gave us much more trouble than it should have, so I think it is only right that we finish the job.”

The monster struggled mutely against its bindings, trapped as Morwen raised her staff, and a magic circle appeared beneath her and Bedwyr.

Secondary magic circles fed into her as her priestesses prayed, no longer maintaining the dome and able to focus on offense. Rookard felt a sudden pull from Morwen, causing him to frown for a brief moment before he understood. Releasing his anchor on the spell, Rookard let the golden light of their cyclic song flow outward. Still thrumming with resonant power, the energy abandoned its defensive loop and rushed toward her.

Her body became like a cold, flaming beacon, and two of his wolves padded over, standing next to her as the spell charged. She smiled. “Ah. How wonderful. So we will finish this together.”

Morwen spoke with authority. “It is time to give back the lives you stole, the spirits you consumed. For punishment and salvation. Behold, The Wild Hunt! Let the gates of Annwyn open!”

An apparition of the city of perfection rose up in front of the dome, with golden gates of splendor. The gates opened, and Arawn, the ruler of the underworld, stood with his scales in one hand and a staff in the other.

Arawn raised his staff and scale, pointing at the enemy. Rookard's two twilight wolves howled, answering the Lord of the Underworld's call as if they were his own hunting hounds. They rushed forward, biting and tearing into the Aspect, locking it down with golden frost.

With a gesture of his staff and a flash of his scale, the ruler latched onto the monster with his will. Spirits rushed out of the monster, being drawn into his holy city–the innocents who had been consumed and tortured, finally finding peace and salvation after their suffering.

The holy city then rose, revealing what lay underneath. A twisted hellscape of thorned vines, mud, and absolute cold, with countless wicked suffering endless torment.

The vines lashed out, a giant mass of them wrapping around the specter’s form, and what remained of the core and the spirits within it was dragged down into the Shadows of Tir Na Nog. The apparition swirled around as it faded away into a mist and into a solitary orb.

The magic congealed and shrunk down until eventually a seed arrived in Morwen’s outstretched hand, just as the golden light of the Framework wrapped around Rookard and the entire Battlegroup. And likely their armies outside the necropolis, for aiding in the Aspect’s defeat indirectly.

The Framework’s reward wrapped around Rookard’s spirit, and he could just feel something within him tighten and become more solid. His vines flared colder, and his will was made heavier.

Looking at what Morwen held as he moved closer, it was a seed of absolute darkness purified of the monster’s taint. It was like the monster’s vacuum or eclipse of the living, but something about it felt more…natural. A part of a cycle, rather than a forceful weight imposed as an end to all that was good.

Morwen smiled as she inspected it. “Interesting. I think I will call this the Seed of the Eclipse. Our Chief will value this, but the trade will be costly. I wonder what I should ask for? Unless you would like to, Rookard?”

“No, I’d like to think if it was meant for me, Arawn in his great wisdom would have sent it to my hands. It is meant for you.”

“You might be right, though all in the raid have a potential claim for it. The Chief may be able to come up with something to benefit us all in the trade.” She stashed it in her Storage Ring in a flash. “We shall see.”

Taron and the other nethril warriors suddenly sagged, letting out a breath as their spiritual anchoring lifted. Rookard looked over with a frown and a sigh, as he realized that the cloud or fog had returned to the man’s eyes. That saddened him, because he was excited about the prospect of having such a competent ally with him at all times.

Bedwyr interrupted his thoughts, “Your ancestors performed brilliantly, did they not? Why do you look dismayed, Rookard? They served their purpose, the memories of the ancients protecting the weak, and preventing a wrong as they punished the wicked. Now, they continue their vigil, returning to their slumber.”

“I…yes, of course. I guess I just hoped…” Rookard couldn’t help but look to the nethril wolf beastkin male, wanting to speak with him. He wasn’t sure if the man was his great-grandfather or even further removed, but he was certain he was one of his ancestors.

Somehow, Bedwyr must have understood what he was thinking, because he nodded. “I see. You hoped for the wisdom and the security granted by your heroes and ancestors, not just their strength in battle. I understand this, as it is reassuring, is it not?”

Morwen smiled. “That’s right, but worry not. When you truly need it, you shall have it. Such is the nature of their vigil. They stand here, almost alive, but it’s important to remember that they are not. Also…” She closed her eyes, and Rookard could feel her mana flare, the cold hearth in her chest billowing as they reopened with frozen wisdom. “You might want to just try to listen with that special heart of yours. Their song continues, and… might be just a little less clouded than their mind.”

Rookard’s eyes widened, and he did his best to listen to the nethril beastkin’s song once more. Unlike their cold, listless gazes, their heart’s song still played. It was an inverse song of what it was in life, but if he took the effort to understand it…

The nethril wolf beastkin strode forward, his face expressionless. But his song, a deep, rumbling beat, played out like the emptiness between the notes. It was a challenge, but…it seemed to be playing a song of the hunt. The slow preparation, the focused anticipation. He could feel it.

Rookard smiled at him. “It looks like…he wants to hunt.”

Morwen chuckled. “Ah, not a surprise, is it? I do believe we may have some more wicked to be judged. You rushed here instead of facing all of our enemies first, did you not?”

Rookard grinned, feeling the pride and satisfaction of a battle well won. He would love to bask in it a while longer but knew he shouldn’t rest and celebrate just yet. The church was rotten to the core and may still be carrying out its terrible plots. And it was important to separate the wicked from the coerced and complacent for this world’s future.

And do it while Tartarus continued to slay the innocent and weak. Hearthtribe would not allow either to continue. “The hunt continues. Let’s move.”