Sanctuary Part 2 - The Immortals

 

PART II – THE IMMORTALS

KI'MINSYLLESSIL

Age of Death – Ki'minsyllessil

Screaming, the children ran. Startled by the activity, a flock of multi-colored birds took

flight, rising to the air like a rainbow. The children were a flurry of movement, darting in all

directions; hiding behind branches, atop limbs, and burying themselves in thick piles of foliage.

They kept to the shadows as they fled, dodging the slivers of light that pierced the canopy like

blazing spears.

Alana observed the ruckus, amazed as ever at how fast and sure-footed they moved

among the limbs. Hundreds of feet above the earth, they jumped from branch to branch without

the slightest hint of fear, as though only the tree existed, and they were oblivious to the distant

earth below. She was also impressed by their natural agility, and how quickly they were able to

scurry up the trunk. Even when footholds were scarce, they never slowed, their nimble fingers

able to cling to even the most indiscernible crack.

Alana wasn’t the only one watching the spectacle; a family of the slow-moving Bolo

Monkeys crept down from the branches, regarding the scene with their wide, black eyes that

always seemed so sleepy and sad. But the smaller monkeys – little more than black-eyed

bundles of fur – betrayed their joy by hooting along with the cries of the elven children.

Soon, the children were all settled into their chosen hiding spots, their screams

transformed to muffled laughter – the only thing giving away their positions.

Alana used the lull in the activity to look around, and take it all in. The Graelic – as

wondrous to her now, as the first day she arrived. The tree was a world unto itself -- a city

towering to the heavens, its branches sprawling outward among the clouds. Such a lush nursery

of life. Every day she uncovered a new species of animal or plant – the tree harbored countless

of both. Gardens of flowers bloomed in the massive crooks of the Great Tree’s limbs; tended by

the elves, but occurring naturally as organic matter piled up through the ages, forming a lush bed

of soil. The elves cultivated no crops – the tree sustained them with the fruit it bore, specifically

the melina berry. As far as Alana could tell, it was their main source of nourishment; a diet, she

believed, that was also most likely responsible for their extended life-span.

Alana thought to return to the Sanctuary with a sample of the berries, but she couldn’t

escape the feeling that stealing from the tree was somehow sacrilegious.

To the elves, the tree was called the Graelic, and from what she knew of their language,

the word could be interpreted to mean many things; ‘life’, ‘god’, ‘love’. But to Alana, the most

apt translation was ‘holy tree’. Not only did the Graelic give the elves food, shelter, and a home, it was also their utmost symbol of spirituality -- its purity the very standard by which they

existed. To them it was life, it was god, (and above all) it was love. The longer she dwelt within

their land, the clearer the truth of it became to Alana. Given enough time, perhaps she would

become a convert of their god, the Graelic. But time was something this world lacked. Very

soon, even their Holy Tree would be corrupted by the Plague, as would the elves and all of the

purity they stood for.

For many days she had watched the children play. At first she hesitated, knowing their

inevitable fate and finding it cruel beyond measure to see such joy in their eyes of grey and

white. She tried not to think of the coming of the Dark Army, and that she must go, abandoning

them to such a hideous and untimely death. She still wasn’t sure if she possessed that kind of

strength – to simply leave them, knowing they were certain to die. But Anon had taught her

well, and he believed she was ready. She had to put her faith in him, and the Maker, and believe

that good would come. That one day the fallen would have their vengeance and peace would

once more rule the universe. To set that cycle in motion, she would do what she must.

In the beginning, she couldn’t bear to watch them, then it wasn’t long before she couldn’t

bear to look away. Such peace. It was something she had never known – never thought could

exist, not in the Age of Death. Up here in the Holy tree, there was only bliss. The Plague did not

exist. She knew it would come, but she too wanted to feel such peace, to forget about the

Plague, if for but a moment. And though she dared not partake in their games, just watching the

elves left her feeling content. 

Then he came.

The children’s laughter grew to a fevered pitch with his arrival. Despite her training and

self-discipline, Alana found her own heart fluttering -- but for entirely different reasons. So

regal, yet humble as well, she had never witnessed a male like him. In many ways, he reminded

her of her brother, Gedron. Both men were Princes, powerful leaders that were imposing both

physically and magically. Her brother however, had been a cold warrior -- a brutal fighter and

strategist who proved his love and loyalty by the number of enemies lying dead at his feet. The

Elf Prince was altogether different; he was as strong as her brother, yet in entirely different ways.

And unlike Gedron, his love was his greatest strength, and he wasn’t afraid to put it on display.

One look at the man, and his kindness was plain to see. Alana couldn’t help but love the sight of

it, in a universe filled with death, she found the man’s ability to blend strength and love

remarkable – his broad shoulders and glowing waves of hair didn’t escape her notice either. 

He moved through the Graelic so silently and fast, that even with Alana’s power, she

hadn’t sensed him until he was directly in front of her. There were times he seemed to vanish

altogether -- despite her best efforts to find him. She prayed her own presence was equally

undetectable to him, but often she wondered if he knew she was there. Sometimes she swore –

or maybe hoped – that he was looking right at her, possibly even sent an arrogant wink her way.

She disregarded the idea as quickly as she could. If anything, it was a lapse in focus, a dream of

a real life. To succeed against the Plague, she had to eliminate the idea -- tear it from her mind.

In the Age of Death, war was the norm, the only real life was that of solitude and death.

She had been sent to save him, not fall in love with him. If he proved worthy, she would

extract him before the death of his world. Then, she would take him before the Conclave of

Elders, who would make him one of the Chosen. 

The standard method to determine the Chosen was to witness their reaction during crisis

– as Anon had done for her. They would be forced to watch all that they love die. Some go

mad, others bloodthirsty. Only those who maintain love are saved from the Dark Army.

If he was worthy . . . 

. . . he is worthy.

She had deemed it so in less than a day. 

When the Dark Army came, he would rise against it, empowered not by hate or

vengeance, but by his love for his people and his world. Convincing him to abandon all that he

held dear – that it had been slated for death, and could not be undone – that would be Alana’s

greatest challenge. 

If only she could save them all. They were all worthy in her eyes. Never before had she

seen beings so pure and good, she could even name a handful of Elder Gods who paled in

comparison.

There was goodness within the Elf Prince, beyond a doubt. But still, she couldn’t help

but wonder at the nature and true extent of his power, even after all this time among the elves,

she still wasn’t sure what it was. Alana was certain he lacked the Dreamfire, but to say he was

powerless would be a grave error on anyone’s part. No doubt, a great deal of his power was tied

to his staff. The twisted staff seemed a part of him, never leaving his side. 

Alana had heard tales of ancient weapons of power, relics of the Age of War; a time

when weapons came in all shapes and sizes, and could nearly rival the strength of the Mage-

lords. If his staff was one such weapon, she would be sure to bring it back to the Sanctuary as

well. Perhaps the Elders would be able to unlock its secrets.

Until she knew the true power of the Elf Prince, she would have to be wary. Anon had

warned her that oftentimes the Chosen do not wish to be saved. The last thing she wanted was to

fight the Elf Prince.

The man came on, chasing after the children. He moved so fast that without a veil of

Dreamfire covering her eyes, Alana doubted she would have seen him move. The children’s

screams turned to squeals of delight as he closed in on each and every one. There was no

escaping him – even the Holy Tree was on his side. Vines unfurled from the trunk, twisting

around ankles and hoisting the children into the air, where they squirmed, dangling like leaves.

Giggling during their mock peril, the vines then dumped the children in a thick bed of moss.

Alana found herself stifling a chuckle at the sight. 

His head whipped in her direction for but a second. Alana’s heart nearly stopped as she

fell under the scrutiny of his grey and white gaze. Thankfully, he moved on, playfully swatting a

child who thought himself safely hidden in a mass of leaves above his head.

She would have to be more careful. She tested her veil of Dreamfire, and was confident

that it was fully intact. By all logic, he should be unable to hear and see her, but even so, she had

witnessed the Elf Prince’s heightened senses in the past, and knew that nothing could ever truly

be hidden from the man.

She curbed her desire to sigh in relief as he continued to hunt down the children, her own

hiding place seemingly secured for the moment.

The chase took them down the trunk, and Alana made the mistake of looking down at

them. A mere glimpse of the distant ground below and her stomach grew instantly queasy. She

had to look away, else she risked revealing herself to the elves by vomiting on them. She

struggled to control her body, embarrassed that the great heights still had an effect on her.

Meanwhile all around her, little children continued to leap about with reckless abandon. Even

the knowledge that she could easily drift to the earth if she so desired, didn’t seem to help ease

her fear of falling.

When she first started observing the children – so effortlessly fly from branch to branch –

Alana had often wondered how it was they never fell, and how they lived at such heights without

fear. Then she saw one fall. It was a little child, perhaps no taller than Alana’s knee. The child

had most likely learned to climb before it had learned to walk. Unsteady on its feet, she could

very well have been witnessing the child’s first attempt at the latter. Several adult elves were

present, but to Alana’s amazement, they practically ignored the child as it stumbled from branch

to branch. Alana knew what was to come, and very nearly exposed herself to avoid the

inevitable. Horrified, she watched the child slip on an inclined limb. Alana was no fool, if Anon

had taught her anything it was that the death of the child would come, whether it was that day or

during the coming invasion. Still, she moved on instinct, drifting down the tree to catch the

falling child. 

But the Holy Tree beat her to the child. With a smile on its face, the infant tumbled into a

newly formed net of vines. Delicately, the vines escorted the child back to its parents, who

hadn’t so much as flinched during the entire ordeal.

It was then that Alana realized the symbiotic nature of the elves to their god, the Graelic.

The elves nurtured and protected the tree, while at the same time the tree fed and cared for the

elves.

In all the worlds she had traveled, she had found no purer religion. The elves and their

god truly were one.

The Holy Tree and the Elf Prince had nearly rounded up all of the children, signaling that

their game would soon be drawing to a close. Suddenly saddened, a sigh escaped Alana,

knowing they would be entering the trunk, and that for a time she would be alone. Another

world existed inside the tree, but that world continued to elude her. Somehow the Holy Tree

barred her from entry. Dreamfire was useless; it merely faded to nothingness when it met the

wood, defying her best efforts to gain entrance.

The children began their procession inside the trunk, and as always, she studied the Holy

Tree, hoping to glimpse the secret crevice they were walking into. Once again, she saw none.

Whatever magic the Holy Tree possessed, it was beyond her. As much as she felt at peace in this

land, it recognized her as the outsider that she was. For in truth, her home-world had been a land

of steel and stone. A place where trees and plants only grew in castle gardens, and the forests

were all buried beneath layers of ruined cities.

For a moment, she lost herself in memories of Edroth -- the now lifeless planet. When

she came out of her reflections, she realized the elves had all gone. She left her perch, floating

down to where the children had so recently played. How she longed to frolic as they. Still

practically a child herself, even in her younger years she never experienced such uninhibited

freedom. Since birth, her brother and Alana had spent their days in training. A wise ruler, and

powerful Dreamer, her father knew the day would come when she would need the Dreamfire to

save her life. He had personally devoted a great deal of his time to train them both. And though

she would never look back upon her days with her father with anything but fondness, his

methods of training had been incredibly harsh and demanding. But she never doubted his

reasoning then, and if she saw him now, would do nothing but thank him for all his efforts.

Alana was young for an Edrothian, but her harsh life had matured her beyond her years.

As she had grown accustomed to doing, she tucked away thoughts of childish play – even

resisting the temptation to lie down in the fluffy bed of moss where the Holy Tree had recently

deposited the children. Still though, how good would it feel to give in, to simply lay down and

rest?

She approached the trunk, her incredibly long, elegant fingers running over the deep

ridges of bark. There was nothing to indicate the elves’ passage, and she knew better than to

waste her Dreamfire trying to force her way in. Alone, and in defeat, she turned to leave.

The Elf Prince stood before her, calmly leaning on his twisted staff. Except for his

golden hair dancing in the breeze, he was as motionless as a piece of wood.

Impossible!

He was tall for his kind, but compared to Alana, his grey and white eyes were no higher

than her neck.

“It won’t allow you to enter,” he said, in his elven tongue.

Alana had been observing the elves long enough to pick up the majority of their

language, but it was extremely complex. She had faced Dead Gods and monsters of

unimaginable evil, but never before had she felt so afraid. She had longed to speak with the

man, but a simple misinterpretation, and the meeting would be ruined, her first mission as a

Savior would result in failure -- possibly even bloodshed. 

Since she arrived on Ki'minsyllessil, she had dreamed of connecting with him, but there

had always been an excuse to bar her way. Whether it was the language barrier, or a matter of

timing, she always stopped short, waiting for just the right moment, praying it would come

before the arrival of the Dark Army. 

She wasn’t sure how to proceed; she had never done this before. All she had to go on

was her own experience with Anon, and she was far less impressive than him.

Her heart beating loudly in her chest, she tried to sound authoritative and impressive. 

“I am not your enemy,” she managed to respond.

Smiling broadly, he laughed in reply. 

At first, she felt slighted by his casual reaction -- didn’t he know he stood before a

goddess? This moment was not as she had iMagined. She had always thought she would come

to him in his time of darkness, to be his shining Savior. When he saw her he would be in awe,

not laughing -- and certainly not laughing at her as if she were a fool girl. Her anger was rising,

as were her blue flames. 

All it took was a second look at his carefree smile, and she was disarmed.

“No,” he said, continuing to smirk. “Enemies of the Graelic never make it this high up.

A friend you may be, but nevertheless, only the caretakers of the Holy Tree are allowed within.”

“So, have you known I was here this whole time?” Alana asked in disbelief, feeling more

foolish by the moment. 

“Yes. But more accurately, the Graelic knew. Being one of its vassals, I was party to the

knowledge.”

“Then why allow me to continue the charade? Let me believe myself hidden?”

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying the game. But there was more to it. It’s not

often visitors come to our world. And as I said, those that do, usually do not make it up this

high. I was intrigued. The Graelic accepted you. Before I could accept you as well, I had to

learn why . . .”

Alana had thought she was studying him, but all along she had been the one with

something to prove. She wondered how much of this Anon had foreseen. Of course Anon had

known the elf was worthy, that had never actually been her quest. To get close to the Elf Prince,

that was her true mission. And to do so, she had to prove herself. Anon had known this would

be so, and wisely, he had sent Alana, because she was the purest of all the gods. 

“ . . . to be a part of my people, I had to know for myself that you were worthy.”

“And . . . What have you discerned?” Alana asked, more than a little hesitant to hear the

reply. She worried that Anon erred in choosing her, and that she couldn’t possibly live up to the

purity of these elves.

The Elf Prince shattered her fears with a hearty laugh.

“Thus far, you have done your best to make sure I cannot ‘discern’ much of you at all. If

I thought you were simply a spy, we would not be having this conversation. I very much doubt

you would even be standing in the Graelic, no matter the powers you possess. Your heart is

kind; I have seen enough to know that is certain. But your purpose here, that leaves me with

doubt. No . . .”

The shadows bent to his will, cloaking him in darkness. Alana realized it was the tree;

the branches were moving to protect him – or fight at his side.

“ . . . it fills me with dread,” he continued. “Please, tell me. Why have you come?”

Did she dare? This wasn’t how it was done. Did she really wish to return from her first

mission a failure?

The Elf Prince stood before her, so handsome and strong. Even with the greatest

Dreamfire she couldn’t know what was to come. He was pure and good, she had known that

since the first day she saw him. He deserved the truth, all of it. She wouldn’t lie to him, she

couldn’t. Nor would she simply step aside and let his people die. He had to know what was

coming . . .

He must have sensed her reply was grim, for the darkness tightened around him. The

branches hung in the air, menacing, as though they would crush her at any moment.

 “Tell me, Prince Adros . . . what do you know of the Plague?”

Freedom . . . What did it mean to a Dead God? Finally, there could be an end to the

Hunger. It had been so long, and now it was so close.

How many worlds had he drained to get here? How many wars had he fought? The

Hunger had been with him since the beginning, he was Makii. A Dead God. Lord Imorbis. 

Because of him, the Plague had spread throughout all of the Maker’s creation. Those

who resisted suffered certain death . . . those who accepted him, suffered a fate far worse. They

became slaves to the Hunger, and found their immortality came with a price: to be bound to

Lord Imorbis and his campaign for the duration of their existence. Together, they traveled the

Darkbridge, devouring world after world, his army growing stronger and larger with each fallen

world.

There was a time when Imorbis claimed the souls of all he conquered. That was in the

beginning, when he actually fought a war with the Living. Now, that war was long since won.

No longer was there any confederation of worlds to stand against the Makii. No grand offensive

to drive them back into the Darkbridge and burn their home-world to dust. Their best laid plans

had all failed, and no matter how many worlds united against them; the army of the Makii

perpetually grew in numbers while their enemies’ forces eventually dwindled to nothing.

Imorbis was the first to come to the realization that their victory over the living was

meaningless, and that the true enemy to the Makii was the Hunger. With the battle won, and his

enemies scarce, Lord Imorbis was left with a vast army to feed, and very little to nourish them.

Living planets became hard to come by – and often abandoned when found. Enslaved to the

Hunger, Lord Imorbis was forced to press on, his new campaign begun not for conquest but for

starvation. 

Eventually, the weakest of his army withered to near death, and he gladly abandoned

them on the Dead Worlds. Rarely did he replenish his fallen ranks, and did so only when he

found a champion worthy of the blood on one of the conquered worlds. But Imorbis was no fool,

even before the war had ended he had seen the truth – those of the Blood would always be

hungry, no amount of life would satisfy that. In anticipation of this, he had even formed a truce

with the Living. To continue feeding on the worlds, Lord Imorbis the Bringer of Death promised

peace.

But to possess the world he now beheld would make such promises meaningless. This

world was life. He felt it all around him. Even deep below his feet he sensed its pulse. Clearly,

even in the air above, where the branches covered the sky like clouds. In all of the worlds he had

conquered, never before had he found such a life-force. To possess its power would make him

truly a god, immortal. Satisfy his hunger for all time. 

The indigenous population decided to stay and protect it . . . all the better. There was a

power in them as well that could prove equally satisfying. Lord Imorbis was nearly salivating to

find out exactly what it was.

Because of the prize, Imorbis had summoned twelve of his Brethren, as well as four

hundred thousand of the Risen dead, and one hundred thousand of the Initiated. He meant to

take the tree by the time this planet's sun had set.

How wrong he had been.

Numbering around ten times the amount of defenders, he thought his army of the Risen

ones could swarm the tree and end it at that, but to his surprise, the tree itself took up the fight,

its branches moving to ensnare and smash the lumbering beings before many could even make it

to the trunk. And those that did, fell by the thousands as the protectors fired upon them with

simple wooden arrows from atop the branches.

He sent in the Initiated.

Unlike the Risen, they weren't mindlessly consumed by the Hunger, and could function

intelligently. Some of the older ones were even quite strong, nearly equal to the Brethren

themselves. The branches came at them, too slow. The speed of the Initiated was enhanced by

the Virus, allowing them to easily outmaneuver the slow moving branches. Some fell from the

arrows, but they fired back with their own dark powers sending the protectors back up the tree.

The Initiated and the Dead Gods could tap into the Void, wielding death at their fingertips.

Known as the demon wind, the dark power normally disintegrated living flesh. But oddly, the

elves hit by the dark power seemed unaffected, and were able to scramble upward to safety.

Accompanied by a solid throng of the Risen, the Initiated continued in pursuit. They found the

protectors calmly awaiting them, simple wooden spears in their hands.

He knew his forces had been baited and trapped, but before he could relay orders the trap

was sprung. As before, the Initiated threw their dark force upon them, again it had no effect,

simply washing over their lanky forms. The protectors charged right through the wall of

blackness and fell upon the undead with their spears.

To the Dead God's amazement, his Initiated seemed not only matched in speed but

outdone in skill, and in moments they began to collapse, raining down from the tree.

"These Elfin fight well," the Lord Imorbis said in a hollow whisper.

He grinned. Black cracks spread across his alabaster face. 

He cared nothing for his fallen forces – with their deaths, all the more life for the

Brethren to feast upon. Besides, after this battle was won he would no longer have need of an

army, no need for battle. This would be his last fight.

“Let us see what the Elfin are truly capable of,” he said to his fellow Makii, who were

anxiously awaiting the promised feast.

Covered in waves of black, Imorbis’ body rippled, and in moments they were in the thick

of the battle.

Impressive, he thought as the elves gathered and cautiously came at the group of Makii.

Typically the living merely fell before him; his power stealing their life-force the moment they

entered his presence. But these protectors stood, unharmed and unafraid.

No matter, the Dark God thought. There are many ways to kill with the Dark Power.

And Lord Imorbis knew them all.

He crafted a blade of black steel with his power. Every cell in his body had long since

been overtaken by the Plague. It had hardened his flesh into something stronger than any known

element, and unlike the lesser Initiated, it was impenetrable to even a silver edge. With the

demon wind he could control his cells; enhance his speed and strength, or even turn his body into

a weapon. For this fight, he did them all. The blade of demon wind became as sharp as he

willed it -- which meant it passed through stone and steel as easily as air, while his body was

impossibly fast and strong. The elves proved to be skilled opponents indeed, but against the

Makii and their Dark Power, the protectors' flesh parted for the black blades.

Two came at him. A head of golden hair fell from one's body, while the other lost an

arm, then leg, and was finally cut in half for good measure. More came at him and fell the same,

their wood sticks severed in two as easily as their soft flesh. He finished an exceptionally tall

one of the beings when another came before him; a crown of vines wrapped around his head, in

his hands another wooden staff, this one tinged red at the tip and had what looked like thin wisps

of smoke rising from it as though the creature recently plucked it from a fire. The being's eyes of

white and gray stared down the Dead God unflinching.

Imorbis smiled as the creature came at him, knowing this one to be their leader, and that

with his fall the battle would be won. 

The Dead God summoned the demon wind to its fullest, his blade a blur as it shot toward

the elf. Remarkably, the being managed to raise the staff in time to block his attack. To the

Dead God’s shock, his blade didn’t continue on, splitting staff, crown, and skull as he would

expect. But instead, it came to a dead stop, resting harmlessly against the staff. 

Imorbis had but a moment to wonder at his failure before the elfin came on, his spinning

staff nearly too fast for even Imorbis to block. Incredibly, the staff withstood his black steel no

matter how much he willed the wood to split. In fact, his staff not only deflected the black blade

but weakened it every time they met, stealing the Dead God's own power much like he took life

from the living. Imorbis found himself slowing each time the weapons met, and his opponent

was skilled as well, anticipating every counterstrike Imorbis thought to send. He knew that very

soon, the staff would work its way through his defenses, and that he would finally be freed of the

Hunger – in the true death. 

He hadn’t come so far, and gotten so close to fail now . . .

Imorbis had survived for the span of a thousand lives by learning to adapt to the

unexpected. And in all that time he had never known failure. 

His blade vanished. He channeled all of his power into his fists, and struck out - not

caring whether the creature blocked him or not - hoping the sheer force of the attack would break

him. His fists slammed forward, easily intercepted by the other’s staff of wood. The combatants

cried out as one; the Dead God’s scream an ear-splitting shriek, while the other’s more of a

hollow groan.

The Dead God looked down at his hands -- saw only blackened stumps from which his

infected blood poured. His opponent lay crumpled against a branch, his staff smoldering at his

feet. In his anger and pain he meant to finish the being off, but then he sensed another presence

-- surely an Elder God -- and began to worry his own existence was in jeopardy.

Had the Elders anticipated his betrayal? Their numbers were growing, had they decided

to forfeit the truce? 

He sensed the attack was imminent, but before he could summon a barrier of his own

dark power, the Elder God had him encased in blue flames. Though they didn’t immediately

destroy him, nevertheless, the pain they caused forced him to his knees. In that moment of

weakness, he hadn’t seen his fallen foe rise to his feet. He was only dimly aware that the being

drew near, his staff smoking in his hands. The Elder was at his side – a woman, taller than even

the elf, her silver hair engulfed in blue flames. Imorbis found himself backpedaling as the elf

brought the blood-ringed staff to bear on his head.

The Dead God never dreamed such pain existed. His own twisted life-force drained

away. The protector held on to his staff even as smoke started to rise from the flesh of his

hands. Imorbis was all but drained by the time the being let his weapon fall.

Still covered in blue flames, the Dead God fell too -- hundreds of feet from the tree. His

body crumpled as it slammed into the base. Barely able to roll onto his back, he looked up and

watched as his army was obliterated high above the branches. Much later, Lord Imorbis of the

Makii found enough energy to crawl his way back to the Rift on broken and bloodied limbs.

No single world – no hundreds of worlds, had ever defeated him. Despite his failure, he

wouldn't abandon that life-force. Drained as he was, he needed it now more than ever. There

was no shortage of Makii within the Darkbridge. And they too had vast armies. The prize could

be shared. It most certainly had to be taken. When they learned a chance to be freed from the

Hunger was at stake, a million worlds would answer his call. Together they would feed from the

tree, the so-called Graelic, 

Imorbis would return, bringing with him enough of an army powerful enough to bury

these Elves, and blanket their world in death until the end of time.

Broken, drained and near death, Imorbis refused to give up. 

As he dragged his damaged body to the Darkbridge, Imorbis decided the day had finally

come . . . so he entered the Rift, returning to the edge of the universe where he would resurrect

The Servant of Death . . . 

It would be worth the price, he reasoned. For when it was over, he would stand high atop

the Graelic, at long last free of the Hunger.

ANON

Age of Death – The Sanctuary

Anon chose to observe the sentencing, and nothing more. He was invisible to all but

one. Even if he chose to do so, Anon doubted he could hide from the great Dona’Cora.

Their robes so white they seemed to sparkle, the Conclave of Elders formed a circle

around Alana. Consumed by grief and shame, her head hung low. Throughout the questioning

she hardly made eye contact with the Elders -- probably had not heard a single word they said.

Her mind was encased in an impenetrable shield, but even so, Anon knew her well, and could

easily sense her thoughts. The words of the Elders meant nothing to her. What they did not

realize, was that her failure was of an entirely different nature, a loss they no longer could

comprehend. She had ignored their laws, and would do so again. Perhaps a million times over if

it would save those she deemed worthy. To uphold purity and goodness was her only true law.

On the world Ki'minsyllessil, the Plague swept that all away. Her law was sundered by the

undead army, forcing her to see the truth of things; the fragility of innocence and the limitless

breadth of corruption.

Frustrated with her stubbornness, and realizing the futility of any further condemnation,

the Elders cast their sentence and left her to her fate -- she was forbidden to step upon a living

world until she once more accepted the Conclave’s ways. To reenter the fold, she would have to

fully open her mind to them. If she harbored any doubt, they would find it and banish her once

more. 

Quite possibly she would never return. For some, such a punishment amounted to a

sentence of death. The Dead Worlds were harsh beyond imagining. Upon many the undead

remained, and would no doubt find a weakened god an irresistible treat. Or perhaps, Alana

would refuse the Conclave forever -- find her own path in the fate of the universe. Ultimately,

the choice would be her own. 

Slowly Alana arose, her head of smooth, silver hair towering over all but one of the

Elders -- Ostedes, a thin giant with branch-like arms and legs from the world Edilan. She faced

the Elders, seemingly unfazed by her sentence and their harsh reprimanding. 

As Anon suspected, she had but one thought left in her mind.

“What of Ki'minsyllessil? What if some remain?” she asked, not bothering to

acknowledge the harsh stares garnered from her words.

“The Elves are no longer your concern. Though most likely none remain, an entire strain

lost because of your arrogance.”

The speaker was Dona’Cora. Next to Anon, she was the most ancient of all the Elders.

At one point in time, entire galaxies bowed before her, worshiping her as a true god. In the beginning of the Age of Death, she led perhaps the single greatest offensive strike against the

Makii. Worlds upon worlds rallied to her call, joining her in a battle that spanned nearly a

century. She was, of course, doomed to fail. For as ever, the Plague’s greatest strength was its

ability to acquire its enemies; the more that stood before it, the more that joined it. The truth of

Dona’Cora’s effort was that she hastened the spread of the Plague, funneling thousands of

worlds directly into its maw.

Her final glimmer of hope lost, Alana lowered her head.

Very little softened Dona’Cora’s heart anymore. She had seen more devastation than

most, and no doubt found Alana’s suffering childlike. Still, she responded with what could

almost be seen as sympathy.

“Nonetheless, we will return for a final assessment. With so promising a specimen at

stake, we must be certain.”

Even from his distance, Anon saw a sudden spark of hope in Alana’s eyes – though it was

snuffed out as quickly as it arose when Dona’Cora continued, “Do not mistake me, Alana. I care

not for your tale of lost love. You were to return with him. As tragic as it may be, I cannot

afford to feel sympathy for you. Nor do I weep for the loss of his people or his world. The Dead

Gods had claimed Ki'minsyllessil. It is only because of the Treaty that they bothered to inform

us of this fact at all. You dared to deny not only us, but the Treaty as well. Because of you, a

Godling is lost, and our treaty with the Dead Gods quite possibly broken. If we didn’t value your

power so dearly -- perhaps now more than ever -- most likely your sentence would be death.” 

Alana appeared made of stone.

“I promise you, Dona’ Cora. I will not fail again.” 

“I hope you have that chance, Alana. As I hope you return to us soon.” 

As much as he hated to admit it, Anon doubted she would ever return. It was clear to him

that she was more committed to upholding her own laws than ever before. 

His thin lips spread into a grin.

As if they were non-existent, she walked through the ring of Elders to begin her

banishment.

Along with a pair of staunch, white-robed Elders, Anon followed Alana to the hangar – a

spacious barreled chamber that opened to the wind-warn mountains. Two lines of egg shaped

objects filled the chamber. These oblong metallic vessels were known as ‘pods’. Relics from

the Age of Unity, the pods relied on the Oneness as their sole power source. Colossal failures at

the time, the pods never achieved speeds anywhere near those of the more popular grav or matter

condensing drive systems -- even when powered by the greatest of the Blood. Not to mention,

such vessels were only logical for short range distances, rare were those who dared to test the

limit of their power by undertaking a major interstellar trip. More often than not, such fools

were never heard from again.

Needless to say, other than for amusement, the pods were quickly discarded, and

considered almost laughable when the Rift made space travel an instantaneous event.

Now, the pods were the Chosen’s only way off of the small basalt covered moon which

they called home. Known as the Sanctuary, the moon was the sole orbiting body of a Dead

World that no longer had a name. With the Oneness, the Elders were able to carve out a keep

within the largest of the moon’s smooth, black mountains. Inside the keep, an artificial

atmosphere was constantly maintained by lesser Chosen, while outside, solar winds transformed

the moon’s surface into ever shifting waves of black glass. 

The Dead World below housed a Rift. The Sanctuary did not. Despite the moon’s

constant volcanic activity and flesh searing winds, being disconnected from the Rift made it one

of the safest places in the universe. Even with all their knowledge and power, the Elders had

found few such places: lands forgotten or overlooked by the Plague. It was to the largest of these

hidden lands that the Chosen were sent, terraforming the worlds with their Oneness. 

The trio shielded themselves in blue flames as they approached the open-aired hangar.

Anon fell back, not wishing to announce his presence to Alana by summoning a similar shield.

He contented himself to watch her embark from a distance.

‘You do not even wish to say goodbye?’ 

Dona’Cora had chosen to join him, though unlike him, she remained visible to all. 

‘She must gain strength on her own now. My presence would only undue her efforts.’

‘Or perhaps, Illusionist, you have grown too fond of her. Your loving heart will not

allow you to punish your child, so you leave it to others. ’ 

After all these years, the lack of respect from the other Elder Gods still brought a smile to

his face. Despite all his recent accomplishments (what many called miracles), they believed he

had fooled the Dark Army into thinking he was something he was not; some sort of holy and

sacred being. But the Elders were not so easily fooled. No matter how much power he

possessed, or what great feats he performed, he would always be viewed as an illusionist. 

He smiled because he enjoyed their misconceptions, and because they were right – truth

be told, he did foster their perceptions of him. He only appeared to the Elders as he once was; a

short, middle aged man with but a patch of hair remaining on either side of his head. His belly

protruded from his waist, and seemed oddly incompatible with his otherwise moderately fit

body. But the most amusing part, was that they couldn’t see through their own illusions – that

they were just like him, Illusionist one and all.

‘I watch my child leave for the Dead Worlds and you think me soft? You and I are more

alike than we probably care to admit, Don’Cora. Like you, I do what I must -- without

exception. And with no regard for the difficulties.’ 

‘Surely, if only for the semblance of discipline, you could muster anger and

disappointment?’

‘To survive the Dead Worlds, she must begin to see truth. Why corrupt that with lies?’ 

‘Lies? Truth? Both are irrelevant in battle, Anon. For the Makii, truth was a virus that

made them immortals -- the greatest lie the universe had ever known. It is like you said; we do

what we must. Life itself is at stake. To win this battle, I for one would do anything.’

That’s what Anon feared most.

‘Do not think you are clear of this, Anon. Alana is your child, your responsibility. As

such, the Conclave has chosen you to go to Ki'minsyllessil, to clean up your child’s mess.’

Perhaps because of her fur covered flesh, sharp pointed nose, or possibly just her general

toughness, whenever Anon was in Dona’Cora’s presence he was reminded of a particular

creature that once thrived in the worlds. Prior to the Age of Unity, the worlds were separated by

vast and often unattainable distances. Creatures of every imaginable shape and size filled the living worlds, but rarely did any single species populate multiple planets. Miraculously, one

animal did manage to find its way to virtually every populated planet, and also thrived upon

every world it landed. These small fur-covered stowaways had of course been given many

names throughout the years, but Anon remembered them by one name more clearly than the rest

-- rat. 

Alana was about to enter a pod when she turned to them. Dona’Cora stared her down

with her beady yellow eyes. Some thoughts must have passed between the two women, for

suddenly Dona’Cora spun away. She stormed off, saying, “Stubborn girl. The Worlds die and

she frets over one man.”

The follies of young love . . . the thought of it made him smile once more. Except for the

innocence of a child, there was nothing more pure in the entire universe. Even the great

Dona’Cora had once fallen prey to its spell, though she would never admit to it.

History said that The Great Offensive had begun with one woman’s love – to save her

god-king from a planet under siege, that woman had rallied a legion of worlds to her cause. She

would have sacrificed the universe itself, if it would have saved her love. But sadly, by the time

her armies arrived, her god-king had become a demon. Decades later, with her army lying in

ruins around her, she yet refused to leave the battle – not until her lover was truly dead.

Yes, Dona’Cora knew well the follies of young love. It must be difficult indeed, for her

to relive her errors through the life of another. 

Alana watched Dona’Cora depart, her eyes lingering in Anon’s direction long after she

was gone. Was she already seeing to the truth? Had she seen past his illusion? Deep down,

Anon wished it were so -- that she could see him one last time, that he could say a proper

goodbye. He was almost on the verge of revealing himself when she turned and gracefully

entered the pod. 

The moment for a final farewell had passed. It would be ages before they would meet

again, if ever.

A blue halo surrounded the vessel and it was off, sailing past the ocean of black glass that

was the Sanctuary.

Shortly after Alana left, Anon began preparations for his own departure from the

Sanctuary. His mission was to find and save the elf prince, Adros -- if by some miracle he still

lived. Failing that, any remnant of the elven race would suffice. Worse case, if the elves had all

perished, a healthy tissue sample could perhaps unlock at least some of their biological secrets. 

From what they learned from Alana’s tale; the elves all seemed blessed with a natural

resistance to the Plague, and an unusually long life-span. There was no doubt that their genetic

makeup demanded further study, as well as a deeper integration into the Elders’ evolutionary

program. Their resistance was of particular importance. If they could rob the Dead Gods of

their ability to replenish their army, the entire dynamic of the battle would suddenly shift in the

Elders’ favor. With an army immune to the Plague, the Elders could even entertain the idea of

outright war.

Such was the Elders’ goal – face the Dead Gods in war once more, but on their terms, and

when the time was right. That was where Alana erred. She moved too soon, and without the

Elders’ consent. She risked breaking the Treaty with the Dead Gods, at a time when the Elders’

survival depended on it. 

The Treaty had never really been agreed upon by the Elders, so much as it was enforced

upon them. Towards the end of the Age of Death, it was becoming well known that both sides

were facing possible extinction. The Elders and the living worlds they ruled, were of course

failing catastrophically to stop the spread of the Plague. But correspondingly, the Dead Gods’

own armies were growing beyond their own ability to maintain, and were becoming so massive

that (at a time when a single living world was hard to come by) entire galaxies could not sustain

them.

It was the Dead Gods themselves who brought forth the idea of ‘peace’. The Elders

could continue their efforts to resurrect the Dead Worlds (obviously in hopes they would become

a future source of nourishment). Meanwhile, the Dead Gods would take only what they need,

leaving the Elders with their Chosen ones. 

Still in the early stages of its development, the Treaty had brought little success to either

side. The Elders had yet to bring life to a Dead World, and the Dead Gods were drawing ever

closer to snuffing out all life in the universe. 

For Dona’Cora, war had ever been the only real solution. But she dared not act, not until

she was certain that the next time she faced the Dead Gods, she would be the victor. That was

why the planet Ki'minsyllessil had become so vital. The blood of these elves could change

everything -- if all of it hadn’t been infected or spilt. 

Because of the mission’s importance, (or perhaps because Dona’Cora did not trust Anon)

the Elder God Ostedes was to accompany him -- under Dona’Cora’s direct instruction. It was

believed his uncommon affinity for nature would serve them well on this Ki'minsyllessil.

Ostedes not only resembled a tree -- his interior vascular system did as well. His hands and feet

didn’t have typical toes or fingers, but instead ended in branch-like appendages. It was from

these appendages that Ostedes found sustenance, whether it was from the nutrients in the soil or

other, less wholesome things. 

Though boneless, every appendage was moveable -- his mind able to expand and contract

his vascular system like one giant muscle. Lacking a mouth with which to speak, Ostedes was a

born telepath. His mind perhaps the strongest Anon had seen. Few could resist his telepathic

attacks. If he chose to enter one’s mind, he would find a way; whether it was tearing into it with

pure telepathic energy, or piercing it with one of his many branch-like appendages and literally

feeding on its knowledge. In truth, back on his home-world, Edilan, brains were considered a

delicacy. 

Fortunately, the Elders had taught him better table manners since then.

Even for Anon, it was difficult to judge Ostedes’ emotional state. His mind was an

impenetrable wall of pure telepathic energy, while his long grey face was, for the most part,

emotionless. The only emotion he ever truly displayed was anger – when his eyes glazed over in

white, it was best to step lightly around Ostedes. Anon had seen that look once before – the day

he rescued Ostedes from his dying world Edilan. 

The giant never forgave Anon for that. 

Being a Godling, he was exceptional among his people. They recognized this, and

bestowed him a great honor because of it. He was made their Sacred Guardian. They believed

he would be the one to save them from the Plague.

By the time Anon stepped in, his failure was certain. Ostedes knew the truth of it as well,

and claimed his rightful place was to die in protection of his people. Anon robbed him of that

final duty – his last act as their Sacred Guardian. 

Ostedes was the first child Anon had saved. From the experience, Anon had learned an

important lesson: not everyone wanted to be saved. If he had to do it again, would he leave the

choice to Ostedes? Did Ostedes even have a choice, or would he merely be embracing death --

much like Alana’s love -- the elf prince, Adros. It seemed to be an obvious fact that only one

thing could be achieved by standing against the Plague.

There was another simple truth that Anon had grown accustomed to facing over the

years: no matter what one does in life, their path leads to death. He had seen entire races

abandon their worlds, hoping to hide from the Plague -- though in the end, the Plague found and

slaughtered them. Some actually managed to spend their lifetimes in hiding, but eventually they

too died, homeless refugees, living out their days in fear, outcasts on an alien world. And what

of the Dead Gods, were they any different? They call themselves immortals, but in reality

merely steal the life from others. In time, they too will find their end – an end they set in motion

a long time ago. 

Everyone must die. Anon knew there was no changing that. The Makii tried, but merely

corrupted the laws – not escaped them. 

Perhaps Alana’s law was the correct path. It had been proven time and time again that

the Elders could not save the worlds. Then why not at least grant their people honorable deaths,

in a manner of their choosing?

As Anon walked to the Hangar, he still wasn’t sure what he would do if he actually found

the Elf Prince; leave him to certain death, or force him to forsake his world and his rightful

resting place. 

There was one more option . . .

Anon flexed his fingers. A white glow crept from his fingertips, working its way up his

arms and soon encasing his whole body. 

. . . He could always stay and fight.

Shinning bright white, he stepped into a pod.

Along with the giant tree-like being Ostedes, Dona’Cora had hand-picked a dozen

Chosen to join them. If the decision had been his, Anon would have taken only one of them – a

young human named Brontes. Anon had saved Brontes from his dying world as well, though,

unlike Ostedes, Brontes and Anon had formed an immediate bond that had endured for ages. 

Brontes nodded respectfully to Anon as he emerged from his pod. His head was covered

in a wild mass of curly hair. Black and long, it fell upon his face where it became one with a

scruffy beard that was more knots than curls. From his left cheek, a puffy pink scar ran

vertically up his face, passing through the fused patch of flesh where his eye once was, to the top

of his forehead. The scar always served as a grim reminder to Anon of how twisted and evil the

Makii had become. Despite Anon’s best efforts to restore sight to his left eye, the wound would

never truly heal.

The story of its creation was often told – the young Godling who thought he could stand

against a Dead God. The most remarkable part was that the Godling survived, while the Dead

God did not. Many credited Anon with the victory – one of his earliest miracles. But Anon took

no honor from that battle. The horrors inflicted by that Dead God – Sevron the self-proclaimed

‘Servant of Death’, still haunted Anon. He couldn’t escape the fact that he had killed the Dead

God much too late. 

Like the rest of the Chosen, and Ostedes, Blue flames covered Brontes. The air was so

thick and dense with toxic gases that without the Oneness, one would be immediately crushed.

Even with the Oneness, merely walking on the land proved to be a task, much like trying to walk

on the bottom of an ocean. Every motion was incredibly draining; too much activity could easily

deplete one’s power, especially for the younger Chosen who were present. Speaking was

impossible. Just to get a word across would require enough power to generate a tidal wave of the

dense air. And when the word did reach a listener, so would the wave of elements -- enough of a

force to put an Elder on their back. Even telepathic communication was a risk; the slightest lapse

in concentration could lower one’s halo, resulting in certain and sudden death. 

The Dead World was dangerous indeed, but it was also part of the reason the Sanctuary

remained safe. Not even the Dead Gods would near this land any longer. They only wanted

living worlds. To go elsewhere was merely a drain on their power. And should any of their

lessor minions happen to stumble through the Rift and into this world, their bodies would be

instantly liquefied by the extreme pressure.

As much as he wished to speak with Brontes, Anon focused his movement towards the

Rift, hoping there would be time for pleasantries later. He wished he knew Brontes’ role in all of

this. Why had Dona’Cora chosen him -- perhaps his most loyal companion next to Alana. He

didn’t like where such speculations led to. It seemed there were only dead ends in this maze.

While in the safety of the Sanctuary, Dona’Cora had briefed each member of the mission

individually, leaving Anon uncertain as to the others’ knowledge, or purpose. For Anon, the first

order of business was to see if the Treaty was still in place – something he figured would be

known perhaps the moment they set foot on Ki'minsyllessil. If they were lucky, the Dead Gods

would even offer their aid, after all, the continuation of life was of mutual gain. If not, they

would quickly find themselves in a violent struggle. Their party wasn’t large enough to survive

any lengthy fight. Their best chance would be to flee into the Rift -- though not directly back to

the Sanctuary, lest they lead their enemies back to their home, bringing the war straight to their

door. It could be years before they ever made it back, if they did at all. 

In the Age of Unity, the Rifts used to be housed in elaborate temples; structures that

defied the laws of physics and only existed by the power of the Oneness. The Rift was the

ultimate symbol of the Mage-lords’ power, and was worshipped as such. The Rift he now

approached stood alone, unadorned. Twice as tall as Ostedes, the Rift floated mid-air, its outer

edge slowly wavering in the dense atmosphere.

It had been prearranged that Anon initiate their destination – a highly tasking effort for

even an Elder. Once a Rift was set to a certain destination, it took a great toll to alter it, only

slightly less tasking than actually opening a Rift on a new world. Not only did he have to plot

his course -- which required him to find one world within billions of worlds -- but also redirect

the pathway of the Rift – something akin to permanently reversing a river’s flow. 

No doubt he would be weakened on the other side. But thankfully, should there be

trouble when he arrived; he could rely on Brontes’ support. Of his other companions he was far

less trusting – especially Ostedes. He had the distinct feeling the Elder longed to find him in a vulnerable state. But Anon didn’t fear Ostedes or the Chosen. There were ways around the

Elder’s telepathic barrage, and lacking that weapon, Ostedes was relatively weak in the Oneness.

As for the Chosen, he was fairly certain he could defeat them with his reputation alone. If they

somehow mustered the courage to stand against him, he would be forced to teach them that his

respect was indeed well earned.

Ostedes and the Chosen were transparent in their faults. What Anon feared was the

unknown – what exactly was he walking into on the planet Ki'minsyllessil?

With the entire party growing weaker by the moment, Anon supposed it was time to find

out. 

Threads of white light drifted to the Rift. They spiraled inward, coalescing into a single

pinpoint of pure white deep within its heart. Luckily, Anon didn’t have to search for the planet

Ki'minsyllessil – he was led there by the light. Trusting in the Maker, he stepped in . . .

. . . in all of the universe there no place more peaceful than the Rift. It was a purity that

defied intellect, an absence of time and space that brought one closer to the Maker – and the

Void as well. All was forgotten in the Rift – all was forgiven. Reality became meaningless, but

somehow life held more meaning than ever. Anon knew someday he would be allowed to stay,

drifting in the blissful abyss for eternity. But it wasn’t his time yet. He was only passing

through. 

Sensation returned, and with it pain. He felt his mind tearing as the real world pulled him

away. Consciousness was almost unbearable – surely reality would destroy him . . . 

Anon was reborn on the other side. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts. When

he did, he realized he was not alone. 

His halo encased him

 . . . and there was something else too. Evil, he was surrounded by it.

He fought to remain standing, hoped the other couldn’t see his knees tremble. If he was

to face a battle he had to buy time, at least until his allies arrived.

“I once knew a man who refused immortality,” the other spoke, his voice little more than

a whisper. “And to think, I thought him a fool. But now, look what I have become, while that

man -- the ‘Illusionist’, remains unchanged.”

The land was buried in shadows. The Great Tree filled the horizon, its canopy blocking

out the planet’s sun. Its trunk was hidden in darkness, but Anon could clearly sense it in the

distance, looming over the land. The land itself was covered in twisted roots that could easily be

mistaken for hills – the largest of them mountains. From beneath one of the giant roots the

speaker crept – his body as much a twisted tangle of shadows as the surrounding landscape. He

limped forward. He reached out to Anon, his arms ending in stumps from which his thick black

blood poured. The blood formed into a hand. It didn’t try to strike out at Anon, but was left

open and waiting before him.

“I too have changed, Lord Imorbis. Maybe I am merely better at hiding my scars, after

all, like you said; I am an illusionist.”

Grudgingly, Anon accepted the gesture and shook the Dead God’s hand. He wasn’t

worried about infection -- he was confident the white halo surrounding his own hand would

protect him. But for many, a handshake signified respect, something the Makii did not deserve.

 “Ha. Changed indeed. But not through illusion, oh no. The Brethren know the truth of

you, Anon. Of what you really have become.” 

“Well then, do you offer your hand in peace or in fear?”

“Respect. For the one who choose the true path.”

“There is no choice, Imorbis. There is only one path.”

“Yes, yes indeed. If only I could have seen things so clearly as you. . . And I thought I

was the smart one.”

“What of the Treaty? Does your good gesture mean it remains in place?” Anon asked,

thinking the Dead God was too far gone to find absolution, and anxious to begin the task at hand.

The Dead God laughed; a hollow rasping sound.

“No Anon, The treaty is broken beyond imagining.”

Anon released his slimy grip then stepped back, filling himself with as much power as he

could summon.

If the Dead God was aware of Anon’s sudden blaze of power, he showed no sign.

“Though not by our choice, of course. Our armies have been stolen from us, Anon, and

even now they march the Darkbridge. Everything has changed. No longer do they require

nourishment from your Living Worlds, only their annihilation.”

‘EXPLAIN, DEAD GOD.’

Until Ostedes spoke -- with the force of a telepathic headache, Anon hadn’t realized his

allies had arrived. Even so, after what Lord Imorbis had said, he doubted anything would

comfort him at the moment.

His eyes pure white, Ostedes stared down the Dead God.

‘WHAT HAPPENED HERE?’

“Hah, you think you frighten me, Elder. I have seen death itself and it let me live.”

He looked at his bloodied stumps.

“Such as it is.” 

“Lord Imorbis.”

This time Anon was reaching out to him. He placed a golden hand on his shoulder. The

Dead God’s soul was laid bare -- all the evil done, all the horrors committed. Deep inside Anon

saw a man who was both a genius and highly gifted with the Oneness. Considering all his

atrocities, his greatest crime in life had been that he thought he could undo the laws of nature. 

Anon looked down at the crumpled form and felt sorry for the being.

“It took the army, Anon. All of our armies. It cares not for immortality or life, it wants

only death. It is the embodiment of the Void.”

“Who, Imorbis? Who controls your armies now?” Anon asked.

“Such fools we were. To think we could conquer the Void. The Elfin and their Graelic --

such power. We thought we were feeding off it, but in truth, we were giving it life. Life to the

Void. We let it into our world, and now it wants to reclaim all.”

“Your armies,” Anon persisted. “Where are they now?”

He thrust his bloodied stump to the heavens.

“Everywhere. It knows where you’ve hidden the Living Worlds, and it moves to

annihilate them.”

Anon’s companions cursed behind him. He sensed Ostedes dearly wished he could

smash Imorbis.

“What of your Brethren, the other Makii?”

“My brethren have all left. IMagine . . . the conquerors of the universe fleeing in terror.

The Void is the only foe we were never truly able to defeat. The one force capable of destroying

us.”

‘I DON’T TRUST HIM, ANON. THE DEAD GODS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN FALSE OF

TONGUE. LET ME INTO HIS MIND, AND I WILL SEE THROUGH HIS LIES.’

“No. He speaks the truth. I know you can feel the evil in this world as clearly as I. I’ve

known the truth the moment I arrived. The real question is; where do the Dead Gods now

stand?”

“Yes,” Brontes injected, the memories of his first encounter with a Dead God sparkling at

the corner of his remaining eye. “Why then, are you still here?”

The Dead God shrank away from them, as though it was trying to stuff itself into the

shadows.

“My life’s work was the Void. It was I who discovered its existence, learned to exploit it.

I remain while all others have left. I remained to study it.”

“I seem to remember, your studies also gave rise to the Plague,” Anon said.

‘YOU SAID IT STOLE YOUR ARMIES, STOLE THEM HOW?’

“Infected them, of course. It’s a version of the Virus unlike any I have seen. A new

strain. A living organism. It infects the host, then grows within. After time, there is nothing left

of the individual; the flesh is but a puppet.”

“What of the Makii? How did you escape its control?” Anon asked.

‘PERHAPS THEY HAVEN’T ESCAPED. AND HOPE TO PLAY US FOR FOOLS.’

“We could have ended your kind at any time, treeman.”

His eyes pure white, Ostedes bolted at the Dead God -- his many snake-like appendages

propelling him forward faster than seemed possible.

But Anon was faster. He held Ostedes back with a glowing white hand.

 As though oblivious to the sudden threat, the Dead God continued, “But we knew that

with the death of the Elders, our end would soon follow. That has not changed. The Makii

remain, so long as we don’t interfere. Those of the Pure Strain cannot be controlled, but neither

will they join you lest they openly seek death.”

“We have to leave,” one of the younger Chosen said.

‘NO. NOT UNTIL WE KNOW THE ELF PRINCE’S FATE.’

“I think we have bigger problems now,” said Brontes.

“No, Ostedes is right. If anyone can tell us of this tree and its abilities, it is Adros.

Finding him is more important than ever,” Anon said.

“Ah, the Elf Prince. It knew you would come for him.” 

“What do you know of the Prince?” Anon questioned.

“I know well who you seek. Because of him, I am the creature you see.”

“So then, does he yet live?” Anon asked.

The Dead God attempted a smile, but it looked more like a knife had cut a slit in his face.

“He’s a hard one to kill, a fact I can personally attest to. He may have defeated me in

single combat, but I hold my honor intact. Even the Void could not defeat him.”

‘WHERE IS HE?’

“I can take you to him, if you wish. But I warn you, the Void desires him as well. If you

find him, you may not live to take him from this world.”

‘WHY SHOULD WE TAKE YOU WITH US? HOW DO WE KNOW YOU WILL NOT

EXACT YOUR OWN VENGENCE ONCE HE IS FOUND?’ 

“I was no match for him in my prime, and would be much less now. Nor do I wish

further injury on myself.”

“Why do you help us, Lord Imorbis?” Anon asked, not certain he trusted the Dead God

either.

“Far too long have I walked the path of death, and what have I gained? I once had great

power. With my gifts, I thought I could outsmart the Maker -- steal immortality from him. For

my hubris, I now suffer. Unleashing the Void was the end of my path, only now can I see that. I

sought to escape from the laws of nature, never realizing why they existed. They are a prison.

Built to contain the Void.”

‘HA . . . A DEAD GOD WITH A CONSCIENCE.’

Ostedes’ laugh, nearly split Anon’s skull.

‘SO, YOU NOW WISH TO FOLLOW THE MAKER? THEN LEAD US, BUT THE

MOMENT I SENSE YOUR BETRAYAL, YOU WILL FOLLOW THE MAKER INTO THE

AFTERLIFE.’

Anon had to admit, the Dead God delivered a fine speech, but even he wasn’t convinced.

What are you really up to Imorbis?

Anon was all too familiar with the Dead God and his reputation. In the hierarchy of the

Makii, he most certainly ranked among the top. He had personally orchestrated a vast number of

planetary assaults, no doubt leaving billions dead (or undead) in his wake. To think he suddenly

had faith in the Maker, seemed a stretch to say the least. Anon also shared Ostedes’ worry --

why would he wish to help the very same being who had so grievously disfigured him?

Once again, Anon tucked his worry and doubt to the back of his mind. He trusted to the

Maker’s path – even though now it was led by a Dead God.

They walked well into the day – even saw a distant glow of light radiating on the horizon,

far beyond the Graelic’s canopy. 

Anon shared some friendly words with Brontes – verbally and telepathically, but

otherwise he spoke little during their journey. He hoped to gain more insight into Brontes’ role

in this mission, and was rewarded for his efforts when Brontes’ explained that – unlike Anon –

he had not kept silent during Alana’s trial. He had vehemently fought for her, not only backing

her bravery when it seemed the Elders had none, but also demanding she be allowed back to

Ki'minsyllessil – to help find the man she loved. Brontes felt proud to have achieved a small

victory, being able to go in her stead. Though Anon believed otherwise. He knew the Elders

would not be cowered with strong demands, or forced into a decision because of some harsh

words. Most likely, he was allowed to join the hunt for the Elf Prince because they wanted him

silenced – else the other Chosen begin taking up his call. And the simplest way to silence him is

to send him away. If Anon knew anything about Dona’Cora, it was that she did not like

demands, nor would she allow anything to occur that did not benefit her cause. 

Should they ever find their way back to the Sanctuary, Anon worried about Brontes’

future among the Chosen, and that he would lose another child due to their unwavering valor.

As for Imorbis, Anon refused to speak with him, though the Dead God made him suffer

several attempts at conversation – mainly questioning him on the nature of his power or his

knowledge of the Maker. After all the evils he committed, Anon couldn’t help but wonder at his

intentions -- surely they couldn’t be benign. He even entertained the possibility that the Dead

God now sought to either become the Maker, or steal his power. But only a fool would enact that quest, and Imorbis had always been known for his intellect. Surely, one capable of

engineering the Plague could see the senselessness of such an endeavor?

Much to Anon’s dismay – and aching head – Ostedes not only welcomed the Dead God’s

conversation, but replied with his own series of inquiries, grilling him for information in his

thunderous telepathic voice. Surprisingly, the questioning did earn them something other than a

headache. The Dead God told them that Prince Adros possessed a weapon which the Great Tree

feared. Apparently, Imorbis had firsthand knowledge of the weapon, and its ability to absorb the

Plague. 

“The staff negates our Dark Gift, drinks it in. I estimate the weapon is of the same

material as the Great Tree itself. Like the tree, it takes the darkness into itself. Perhaps with a

chance to study it . . .”

‘DO NOT ENTERTAIN THE THOUGHT. I WILL DELIVER IT TO DONA’CORA

ALONG WITH THE PRINCE. SHE WOULD BE INTERESTED IN POSSESSING SUCH A

WEAPON. IF WE COULD REPLICATE ITS POWER, WE COULD SEE IT USED TO GREAT

EFFECT AGAINST THE DARK ARMY.’ 

“Ha, good luck taking it from him, treeman. I believe you would have to kill him first, a

task which you would prove to be unfit.”

‘YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED BY MY ABILITIES, DEAD GOD. PERHAPS

SOMEDAY I WILL DEMONSTRATE THEM TO YOU.’ 

“What happened to the Great Tree?” Anon asked, seeing the whites of Ostedes’ eyes and

hoping to change the conversation before it became violent. “How did it become sentient?”

“I believe, on some primordial level it was always so. Like all things living, it fought us

in the beginning. But after a while, we fed the Great Tree so much of the Dark Power it became

something else, it became the very thing from which it fed.” 

Anon noticed the terrain had grown rocky. Fewer roots covered the land, in their place --

smooth grey stones.

“When will you Makii stop turning the universe into ruin?” Brontes asked.

“Rest assured, our time is done, little god. It is the Void’s turn now.”

Imorbis stopped.

“I believe this is it.”

The Dead God pointed a bloodied hand to a distant outcropping of rock. It wasn’t much

of a formation -- maybe half again as tall as Ostedes -- but it was the only such natural body of

stone they had seen their entire journey. For the most part, the Great Tree seemed to have

encompassed the land with its oversized system of roots. No doubt the roots stretched for miles

in order to deliver the necessary nutrients to the tree itself. Alana believed they spanned the

entire world, and sucked the surface dry of water and life. But she also described the tree as a

bounty of life. Its branches held a variety of habitats, and varied forms of life. Though by

definition arboreal, the elves that once lived in the Great Tree had more of an urban lifestyle, for

the tree was a living city -- a tower higher than any steel or stone structure in the universe. Up in

its branches, all of the needs of the inhabitants were met; there had never been a need for the

elves to come down. 

Until now.

“It is a cave of rock. One of the only areas the Tree has not overcome. Inside hides your

Prince.”

‘WE ARE DONE WITH YOU THEN. LEAVE US TO OUR TASK.’

“As you wish, treeman,” the Dead God said, even managing to manipulate his crumpled

body into the semblance of a bow. “And you, Anon. I hope it is soon we meet again.”

Anon did not wish the same.

“Perhaps if you walk the Maker’s path, we will.”

The bow the Dead God gave Ostedes was obviously mocking, but for Anon there was

only respect.

The Lord Imorbis turned back the way he came, back to the Great Tree. Anon truly did

wish he could find the Maker, at heart his intentions had never been evil -- it was their result. He

intentionally infected himself with a disease that drove him mad with hunger, a hunger to feed

off of life. The universe was left to suffer and die from his mistake, but all the while Imorbis had

been suffering as well. No doubt he owed the Maker a great debt; perhaps someday he could see

that debt repaid.

For a moment, Anon and the others simply stared at the pile of rocks, as though waiting

for the Elf Prince to jump out and great them. If his reputation was anywhere near the truth, he

was likely already aware of their presence. And depending on his perception of them, he would

either be eager to great them as allies, or he was busy bolstering his defenses. 

Time passed, and nothing happened.

Anon saw it as a bad sing when he did not come out to great them.

. . .

‘I WILL GO FIRST,’ Ostedes said, breaking the silence with his booming telepathic

voice.

“I for one think that is a bad idea,” Anon stated, to which Ostedes replied with a blinding

glare. 

Ostedes had many talents, but emissary wasn’t among them. The situation was delicate.

With the giant on his own, not only could communication prove a problem, but Ostedes’ general

demeanor and appearance could easily provoke the Prince.

“I should lead,” Anon said, extinguishing his halo and trying to sooth the giant’s ego.

“This entire situation is partially my fault. If there is danger within, I should be the one to face

it.”

“Then I’m coming with,” Brontes interjected, his right eye surveying the outcropping of

rock as if he expected every last Dead God to jump out. “We have no reason to believe we

haven’t been led to a trap.”

‘AGREED. THAT’S WHY I TOO WILL ACCOMPANY.’

Assuming you can fit inside, Anon thought, hopefully hiding the thought from the giant.

He still thought it a bad idea for the giant to join, but it seemed Ostedes would have it no other

way.

“So be it. Time to introduce ourselves to this Elf Prince.”

Anon headed out, not waiting to see if the others followed – it was their choice to make.

As for those who remained, if he succeeded in removing the Elf Prince from his bunker, he

hoped they kept a vigilant guard in his absence. Despite the many boulders and rocks, he felt the

evil of the Great Tree more keenly here than anywhere else.

The outcropping of rock concealed a gateway into the earth. The hole looked to be a

natural cave, perhaps an opening into an ancient reservoir that the Great Tree had long since

sucked dry. Anon had hoped the size of the entryway would bar Ostedes, but it appeared large

enough for even the giant Elder to pass. And as far as Anon could see within the cave, the

interior chamber continued to expand. 

Anon entered first, followed by Ostedes, and lastly Brontes. Anon decided to forgo his

power until absolutely necessary. He wanted to keep his appearance as non-threatening as

possible, at least until he was able to properly introduce himself to the Elf Prince. He wasn’t

sure what Alana may have told Adros about the Elders and their mission. Quite possibly,

judging by Alana’s decision to go against the Elders’ law – and her subsequent failure to save his

world – the Elf Prince could very well have a low opinion of the them. 

Ostedes and Brontes didn’t hesitate to summon their halos of blue. The moment they

flared to life, the chamber was illuminated in a mind-bending pattern of blue beams. The

chamber walls and ceiling were covered with sparkling crystals that took the slightest wave of

light and bent and twisted it into a hundred different directions. The multitude of shimmering

angles was blinding to look upon, even the slightest attempt to see beyond them twisted Anon’s

stomach into knots. Undoubtedly, Anon figured the Elf Prince was well aware of the crystal’s

properties and could easily take advantage of the trio’s dazed reaction to launch an assault. 

‘Halos down,’ Anon commanded.

Brontes obeyed, but Ostedes continued to hold onto his. 

‘We’re blind in the light! Let you telepathy guide you. And at all costs, avoid

confrontation, we’re not looking for a fight here.’

With the equivalent of a telepathic groan, Ostedes grudgingly complied.

The light slowly faded. The glow lingered in the crystals, leaving the chamber a

mesmerizing maze of shadows.

“Ken’amista maki?” 

The voice was a whisper, and somehow seemed to emanate from all directions. It was

just as Anon thought, the elf was watching them. How he failed to sense him, even when his

halo was with him, was a disturbing mystery. Somehow the web of shadows cloaked his

presence -- perhaps another property of the crystals. Even with extreme focus Anon couldn’t

pinpoint his location. The only thing emanating from the cavern was a strong sense of caution

bordering on violence. 

The elf could have attacked them at any moment – a fact that could be viewed as either

be good or bad. He had them right where he wanted them, vulnerable; their power a

disadvantage in either the light or the darkness. And because of that the elf could afford take his

time, study his enemy. For the moment they were being judged. And Anon didn’t doubt that

should they fail to pass his inspection, violence was an inevitability. 

But what? Anon wondered. What is he hoping to learn; the nature of our abilities, or

our intentions? 

“We know not your language, Elf Lord,” Anon declared. “We have heard you know the

common tongue, taught to you by one of our own.”

“I know your tongue well. What I do not know is why you have come?” was the elf’s

response.

So, he wishes to know our intentions, Anon mused. He saw that as a good sign. If he

wanted to discover the limits to their power, they would be quickly revealed if he came at them with his magical staff. Still though, judging by the tone of his voice he wasn’t exactly happy to

see them. 

‘FOOL, WE HAVE COME TO TAKE YOU FROM THIS CURSED LAND,’ Ostedes

bluntly, and rudely stated. 

Anon studied the shadows, fearing they would come alive in violent reply to Ostedes’

words.

“What if I mean to stay, tree-brother?” the prince calmly replied. “Dead it may be, but it

is still my world.”

It was as Anon feared. The Elf Prince yet refused to let go. The situation must be

handled delicately, and resolved as fast as possible.

“We have learned a great darkness has taken this land, something perhaps worse than

even the Plague,” Anon quickly stated, trying to bar Ostedes from the conversation. “Your Great

Tree has become a source of pure evil. We believe it not only controls the forces of the Plague,

but has unleashed them on the last of the Living Worlds.”

His words were met with silence, meanwhile, the room continued to descend further into

darkness.

“What do I care for these worlds?” the elf finally said. “Where were they when the Dark

Army entered my homeland? Alone, we stood against the vastness of the Plague . . . and so

nearly prevailed. Perhaps would have, if these other worlds of which you speak had come to my

aid.”

“You did not stand alone,” Anon boldly replied. “Another chose to stay . . . to stay with

you. Despite her orders and all logic, she fought at your side to save this world . . . and now she

suffers because of her choice.”

The darkness grew so thick Anon felt it would suffocate him.

“If you’ve harmed her, I will see you sent to the Maker.”

The Elf Prince shifted. It was unperceivable, merely a sensation at the back of his mind,

but either way, Anon knew the Elf Prince was poised to strike, and lacking a halo, he doubted

there was much he could do to prevent him from fulfilling his threat.

‘I could never harm Alana. Trust me, Adros, she is safe. You, on the other hand, are not.

This world is corrupt beyond anything we have ever encountered. I know you wish to stay, and

would fight the Great Tree until your last breath. But you must leave with us while you can. I

sense this fight has only just begun. Please, if you leave with us now, you can yet live to fight

another day.’

‘No, Anon.’

Anon was saddened by his response. The last thing he wished to do was force him to

leave. If only there was a way to convince him of the futility of staying. He also noticed that the

Elf Prince knew his name. Alana must have told Adros something about him. He dearly hoped

it was something good.

Anon was about to try his hand at persuading him to abandon his world when the Elf

Prince continued, ‘I will never leave. But you must take them. I won’t let them die here because

of my failure.’

‘WHO HAVE YOU HIDDEN HERE?’ Ostedes interrupted, busting into the conversation.

Speaking with the Prince telepathically was a risk Anon had to take. He had thought

himself strong enough to escape Ostedes’ detection, but he had obviously underestimated the

giant Elder and his ability to intrude on one’s thoughts – he would have to note that for the

future.

Adros seemed a man who was always on edge, but after Ostedes’ interruption, the edge

was sharper than ever.

‘OUR INFORMATION INDICATED ONLY ONE SURVIVED, YOU.’

“It is as you say, tree-brother. I am the One Elf. The one who escaped the Dead Tree. I

alone escaped . . . but only at great cost. By luck alone I found this place, just shy of breathing

my last breath. Once I was able, I left the cave, all the while dreading to see what had become of

my world. I expected to find it crawling with the Soulless, but soon realized the Dark Army had

left; its minions were no more. So I journeyed back to my home, to the abomination that was the

Graelic. I was determined to find a way to end it, or forfeit my life trying.”

Anon nearly summoned his halo, his every instinct warning him that the Elf Prince was

preparing to deliver a lethal blow.

“What I found there still haunts my soul. While recovering from my injuries, I believed

my people were all dead. In this belief I found rage unlike any I have known before. Surely I

should have died at the cave, but the rage brought me to my feet again. I thought there was

nothing I could not face, even death and the Void. But when I discovered the truth of my

people’s fate . . . the horror of it brought me to my knees. ”

“What happened, Adros?” Anon asked.

“My people were . . . imprisoned. We are immune to the Plague, but the Dead Tree

thought to keep us around nonetheless, to make us a part of it. It grew within them, tree and

flesh melding into one. I went back . . . for days I went back. I found I could save some, the

young. They were able to recover, the others . . . they died upon separation. Eventually, even

the children became inseparable. Still, I saved many before they became one with the Dead

Tree. Now, they are all that remains of my people, the sons and daughters of Solo Ki.”

“We will take them from this world, I promise you,” Anon commanded, though he knew

full well to do so went against the foundation of the Elders’ belief. Only the Chosen were to be

saved. But now, with the Dark Army left unbridled, Anon suspected all rules would soon be

broken.

‘DONA’CORA WILL NOT BE PLEASED.’

“Angering Dona’Cora is not my greatest concern, Ostedes. Besides, once she learns of

the invasion, how would she feel if we left an army of immortals to die on this world? These

children may very well be our greatest weapon against the coming war. However Dona’Cora

may feel about my decision, I will not leave them.”

‘AS YOU WISH, ANON.’ 

Even though he was in agreement, Anon sensed more sarcasm than sincerity from

Ostedes.

Anon summoned his halo. Unlike the blue light of the others, Anon’s white glow bent to

his will alone, filling the chamber with a soft, natural light that defied the dizzying refractive

properties of the crystals.

Anon expected to find the Prince posed to unleash a violent killing blow. Instead, he saw

a gaunt eight-foot figure calmly leaning on a wooden staff. The Elf Prince was also far less

glorious than expected. The Golden hair of the elves was legendary among the Living Worlds

for its innate radiance. The hair that was visible from beneath the elf’s dirty white hood was

black and caked with filth. 

Despite his apparent calm poise, the edge was still there; amidst the filth, eyes of grey

and white studied them intently. Well versed in illusion, Anon knew the Prince could turn

deadly in an instant.

‘Alana spoke at length about you, Anon. If any other had come, they would be dead.

Nor would I trust another with the protection of my children.’

Anon thanked the Maker that Alana didn’t abandon her faith in him when she abandoned

the treaty. She truly was seeing clearly now, seeing through his illusion, and that what he

ordered her to do was not necessarily what he desired her to do. 

‘On my life, I will see them free of this world. If only there was some way to convince

you to join us?’

‘Unless you mean to destroy the Dead Tree, there is none.’

Even with the power of the Maker at his hand, Anon did not dare to make that promise.

Something’s wrong, Anon thought as he stepped out of the cave. He held the others back

with a glowing white hand while he surveyed the land. He expected to see the other Chosen they

had left behind dismembered, their body parts strewn across the land. Instead they had all found

a comfortable niche in the stone or small boulder to rest on. The bored looks on their faces

vanished as they sighted Anon. Hesitantly, Anon signaled all was well, though the looming

threat of danger suggested otherwise.

Lacking any visible sign of trouble, Anon decided to continue on. His halo grew

brighter, and his senses even sharper as he led the procession out.

Brontes and Ostedes were next to leave the cave – both similarly attuned to the

impending threat as they cautiously made their exit. Then came the children. The soil and filth

covering the children made Prince Adros look regal in comparison. 

Brontes kept them close, signaling for the other Chosen to attend to them immediately. If

Anon couldn’t sense their purity of life, he would have mistaken them for the dead. When first

he found them, many were so weakened they couldn’t even stand. Though elves were naturally

thin, Anon had seen walking skeletons with more flesh on their bones. Between their

malnourishment and injuries, many of the children required immediate healing if they were

going to have any chance of making the long march back to the Rift. 

The Chosen were busy pouring blue flames into the children by the time Prince Adros

stepped out of the cave. He demanded to be the last one out, to ensure none of his children were

left behind. As did Anon; he kept his own mental tally as they left the cave, noting to his

satisfaction that all one hundred and twenty-one had left the cavern. 

Watching the rail-thin, rag tag group of youngsters stumble out, Adros considered it

nothing short of a miracle that Adros had kept them alive as long as he did. 

For as much as they had all suffered, one child seemed to have been inflicted more than

the rest. His name was X’ander. Whereas the rest of the children had golden hair (though

currently buried under a layer of filth) X’ander had no hair at all, nor would it likely ever

growing again. Anon had personally tried to heal the child, but whatever darkness had taken

hold of him was now deeply ingrained into the child's very genetics. 

 Prince Adros had explained that he was the last child to be rescued. Since X’ander, none

had survived Adros’ further attempts to separate them from the Dead Tree. Perhaps another day

in possession of the Dead Tree, and X’ander would never have escaped, short of his death.

Despite his separation, Anon noticed a darkness seemed to follow the boy, something beyond

what had been physically ingrained into the child. Anon could see in the Elf Prince’s own white

eyes that he knew it as well, the boy X’ander would never be like his elven kin. 

Along with Prince Adros, X’ander was one of the last of the elves to leave the cavern.

So far, despite the continued sense of dread, all seemed well within the outcropping of

rock. The true test of their journey would begin when they walked among the roots – and what a

long journey it would be. It took Anon and the others nearly a day to reach the cave, with the

frail group of children it could take twice as long. Anon would have to remain vigilant the entire

way. The power of the Dead Tree was, as of yet, still a mystery to him. If it was indeed the

incarnation of the Void, its power could be limitless. 

Since the beginning of time only one being had ever defeated the Void, and even the

Maker’s victory came with a price – death. One could argue the Void was never truly defeated

and that the creation itself was only temporary. Anon may be blessed with the Maker’s gift, but

he wasn’t the Maker. To defeat the Dead Tree, they would have to find another way.

Anon was the first to leave the rocky earth. He was hesitant to step within the swarm of

vines, but was relieved to see the roots withering when his foot drew near. He continued on, the

roots parting in his presence, leaving a path for the others to follow. They moved safely for

some time, Anon paving the way while Prince Adros continued to guard the rear, his blood-

tipped staff equally effective at holding the limbs at bay. It was because of the staff that he was

able to return to the Dead Tree and rescue the children. He called it ‘King’s Wood’, a supposed

sapling of the Great Tree itself, carried down through the ages from the line of elven kings. Few

such staves were known to exist, the Great Tree had but a brief period of fertility, and that had

been lifetimes ago – elven lifetimes. With the Great Tree corrupted, the staff of King’s Wood

was perhaps the last pure piece of the once sacred tree. It could also be their key to

understanding the power of the Dead Tree, though it was doubtful Prince Adros would part with

it. More than likely, once they have seen the children safely away from Ki'minsyllessil, he

would continue to wield it against the Dead Tree. But to what effect? Even with such a weapon,

what could one elf possibly hope to achieve other than his death?

The real question, the one that troubled Anon the most, was if he could allow such a

valuable weapon to fall in such a futile battle?

‘NO, ANON. WE CANNOT.’

He had sensed a mounting danger since he left the cave. The entire time, Anon had been

looking outward for it, but now the source was clear. It had been with them the entire time –

Ostedes! 

‘What exactly is your mission here?’ Anon asked, barricading his mind for the inevitable

coming assault. 

He had failed. He had disregarded Ostedes after they left the cave, and now he detected

him and many of the Chosen at the end of the line, carefully encircling the Elf Prince. Anon

knew he wouldn’t have time to make it to the back . . .

‘TO DO WHAT YOU CANNOT.’

A bolt of lightning struck his mind – was even followed by a mental thunderclap. As

one, the entire line of children collapsed, even with his most powerful shield, Anon fell to his

knees. Disoriented -- his vision a blur, he saw a haze of blue fire burning at the end of the line.

Screams of pain filled his ears . . . white fire filled his veins.

‘OSTEDES!’

With a thought, he was at the center of the battle.

The Elf Prince was down – as were five of the Chosen. Brontes was disabled by the

mental assault and slow to arise midway down the line. Ostedes and the remaining Chosen

surrounded the fallen Elf Prince. In Ostedes’ branch-like hand was the staff of King’s Wood. 

Anon was a pillar of white fire, towering over the Chosen and even the giant Ostedes.

Several of the Chosen dared to attack him. Their blue flames fizzled out when they met

his halo. In response, beams of white devoured their shields then bound them, pinning their arms

and legs to the earth.

Anon’s face had no features, no mouth with which to speak. He was pure energy. His

voice originated from the air around them.

“End this, Ostedes. Before I must.”

‘I KNOW I CANNOT DEFEAT YOU, ANON. I HAVE SEEN YOUR THOUGHTS, AND

SEE NO NEED FOR CONFLICT BETWEEN US. YOU KNOW THE TRUTH OF IT AS WELL

AS I. THE STAFF IS THE KEY. WITHOUT THE GREAT TREE THESE BEINGS HAVE NO

POWER. THE STAFF IS THE SOURCE OF THEIR GREATEST STRENGTH, DONA’CORA

KNEW IT THE MOMENT ALANA TOLD HER TALE. THE ELF PRINCE HAS PROVEN

HIMSELF A POWER TO BE ADMIRED, BUT WITHOUT HIS STAFF, HE WILL DIE WITH

THE REST OF HIS KIND. AS A GODLING, DONA’CORA WOULD WELCOME HIM HOME.

IF HE CHOOSES TO STAY HERE, SO BE IT. BUT THE STAFF MUST COME, WHETHER

HE BRINGS IT OR NO. DONA’CORA DEMANDS IT. IMAGINE, ANON . . . WITH IT WE

COULD ALL BE IMMUNE. IN HIS HANDS THE WEAPON WILL BE WASTED.’

The sense of danger continued to mount, evil begetting evil. Ostedes’ attack was only the

beginning. It was minor at first – the roots slightly trembling, inching their way from the earth.

Then they were a swarm . . .

“You are wrong, Ostedes. In his hands it is the only thing keeping us from death.”

Even as he spoke, Anon saw it -- the earth came alive like a giant pit of snakes. Black

tendrils seeped from the ground encircling everyone’s feet. Before Ostedes even thought to

defend himself with the staff, his branchlike arms and legs were entangled in the black limbs of

the Dead Tree. A few of his Chosen strengthened their halos, but the dead limbs puncture them

with ease -- and continued onward, digging into their flesh. Once beneath their skin, the limbs

began to spasm madly, then throbbed, pumping a dark liquid into their bodies. Their veins

blackened instantly. Their screams of pain became moans. Then they were dragged away . . .

Anon was a white hot ball of light that seared any black limbs that drew near.

Brontes and the children were infested, multiple roots digging into every one of them.

Despite having a black limb protruding from his stomach and leg, Brontes maintained his halo,

though he devoted all of his power towards the nearest children. His feeble wisps of blue light

wrestled with the oncoming horde of black limbs, but lost. A larger root dug into his back,

secreted its black fluid inside of him and he too was dragged away . . .

The children were yet stunned from Ostedes’ telepathic barrage, and were helpless to stop

the limbs from taking them. Once their flesh was penetrated, they were quickly entwined, then

hauled away to the distant trunk of the Dead Tree . . .

The One Elf was still out cold. The largest of the roots took hold of him – so many of

them he could no longer be seen, his body covered in a mass of snarled black roots heading for

the Dead Tree.

Ostedes fell. In one hand was the King’s wood. For all its power, all it managed to do

for the Elder God was keep him from utterly falling to the ground. His other hand dug into the ground, his own branchlike fingers fighting the pull of the many black limbs sprouting from his

body. His white eyes fell on Anon . . . and then they went black.

Anon was at his side. A hundred arcs of lights sprouting from his body – darting to those

who were captured.

Anon reached out to Ostedes . . . grabbed the King’s Wood staff and took it from him.

“I’m so sorry, Ostedes. You were right . . . I never should have taken you from Edilan.”

‘NOOOO . . .’

The tips of his fingers ripped off, and Ostedes was dragged away . . .

This was no illusion – Anon was pure power. The Maker was with him more than he had

ever been. But now he faced the Void. The Maker was unable to bestow him with a victory,

only a choice. He couldn’t save them all. The roots encompassing the Elf Prince regrew faster

than he could burn them away.

Anon made a promise to the Elf King, and he meant to keep it. He knew Adros would

have wanted it this way. 

He abandoned Adros to the Dead Tree. He focused all his power on the children,

lassoing them with his ribbons of white light. The roots around them burnt to cinders as he drew

them back. To take all of the children tested the limits of his strength . . . but he wouldn’t let

them go, nor would the Maker allow it to be so. In the end, all one hundred and twenty-one

elflings were returned to his side. Of the Chosen, there was but one he wished to recover. He

took that man back as well, the white light cleansing his veins of evil. All his wounds were

healed, except one – his left eye remained dead as ever. 

Anon’s halo spread, encompassing all those he saved. Around its perimeter, a wall of

black roots arose. Anon wasn’t sure if they meant to trap them or crush them, but then another

miracle occurred – the roots parted . . . clearing a path the entire way to the Rift.

Anon stood alone on the planet Ki'minsyllessil.

The staff of King’s Wood clutched tightly in his grip; its tip blood red.

The Rift hovered before him. 

For now, the children of Adros would be safe. He had opened the Rift into a new world –

a Dead World nearly resurrected by the Chosen. There they would find safety behind a great red

wall, and the army of Chosen sent there to craft it. Brontes himself accompanied them – no man

could ask for a more trustworthy protector. Brontes was initially saddened he could not stay, but

the truth of it was clear: he was no match for the foe Anon was to face. In the end, Brontes

gladly accepted his role as the children’s guardian – an equally important task. 

Thus far, the mission had been a failure. Dona’Cora would not be pleased; Anon had her

staff, and the Prince was lost. Twelve of her most loyal had fallen to the Plague. And now she

faced a new threat, one which defied her ancient knowledge and experience when dealing with

the Plague. No, she would not be pleased at all.

But for Anon, the mission was not yet over. 

He had once made the mistake of saving one who wished to stay behind. Despite the

outcome of his error, Anon meant to make that same mistake one more time.

Alana had been right. Without a doubt she saw the truth. 

The one who remained did not deserve to be saved -- he had to be saved. Fearless, brave,

and willing to sacrifice his life to save others, they needed him on their side. A new war had

begun. An apocalypse worse than anything the Dead Gods could have dreamed. Their failure

would not only see the end of all life, but reality itself. If the Void could not be stopped, it would

reclaim all. 

For Anon, there was only one path. Like the Elf Prince had done so many times before,

Anon would go back to the Dead Tree. He would go back and free Solo Ki.

SOLO KI

Age of Death – Ki'minsyllessil

Hope. 

For so long he dared not utter the word. With the arrival of the gods to Ki'minsyllessil

the elves had hope once more. 

The last to leave the cave, Adros gave a brief and hopefully final glance at his former

shelter. The caverns were certainly not as comfortable and pleasant as his true home the Graelic

had once been. But still, he had to admit that living below the earth hadn’t been as terrible as he

had iMagined. There was beauty within the earth. The entry chamber was but one of the

subterranean marvels. In his quest to feed the children, Adros had found many such chambers,

deep underground. Some of which were quite vast; giant fields of crystals with stalactite towers.

Having lived his entire life far above the earth, the beauty below was something he had not

expected to find. It was also something he would never forget, for it was perhaps the last thing

of beauty left in his once wondrous world. 

Despite the beauty of the subterranean chambers, he was glad to be leaving them, for the

children’s sake if nothing more. For Adros, only death remained. He would return to his rightful

home and confront the result of his failure. No matter what was to come of his journey, he

would be content knowing his race would live on. Perhaps one day they would rejoin the fight

against the Dead Tree, but for now, they would be safe with the Gods. Alana told him of their

world; a place free of the Plague. There they could find peace, for a time at least.

The procession moved out, and Adros fell into the back of the line. As usual, at his side

was the bald-headed child, X’ander. His white eyes were as dull and lifeless as the day he found

him, and they remained fixed in the direction of the Dead Tree. He thought the boy would be

terrified to head in the Dead Tree’s direction, but he showed no emotion at all. Adros often

feared he had merely saved the boy’s flesh and left his soul back at the Dead Tree. The

lackluster sheen of his eyes made it obvious that something was missing from the child -- and

darkness took its place. Though not necessarily possessed by evil, the boy was inflicted with

more of an emptiness. He did what he was expected to do, with no emotional investment on his

part, as if he was merely going through the motions of life, but not actually living -- like an elven

golem or a steel automaton of the old science. The truth was that Adros had freed him far too

late. Sometimes, he wondered if the boy would’ve been better off left to the Dead Tree.

But now there was hope. And there was Anon. If half of Alana’s tales of the man were

to be believed, then anything was possible -- even X’ander’s recovery.

Alana had spoken often of the man; a being as full of love as he was power. She loved

the man as a father, and had a respect for him that bordered on worship. Adros would follow the

man to the Rift on Alana’s word alone. But he would probably do so, even without her

endorsement, for he sensed a kindred spirit in the man. The man had a selfless nature that nearly

made him nonexistent. To say his life was not his own would be an understatement. Like

Adros, his life was theirs – the children’s. To see life continue, and nurtured towards goodness,

that was both men’s sole reason for existing. 

Having met the man, Adros now felt even closer to his love, Alana. Clearly, she was the

ultimate achievement of the Elder God’s existence. With the mere mention of her name, he saw

his own sense of loss reflected in Anon’s eyes.

Alana . . . 

Adros, on the other hand, had proven a disappointment, and failure to her. She had put

such faith in him and his people. So much so, that she threw her own life away to follow him.

He badly wished to leave with the children and the Gods, but even if he could find her, how

would he ever prove himself worthy of her love?

Such hate yet filled his heart that he doubted he could even face her. What a monster he

had become. Though he couldn’t be infected, the Plague had made him evil nonetheless, turned

him into a savage killer. And Alana . . . forever so pure. Perhaps one day he would find, and

face her again; when at last he satisfied the hate in his heart, and had regained his home-world

and his honor. But to do so, he had to defeat the Dead Tree, a task that most likely will lead to

his death. 

No. The children can have hope, but he had to seal his heart, for he would never see

Alana again.

Adros kept a vigilant guard as the procession moved on, his keen elven eyes studying the

landscape for the slightest sign of danger. The safety of the rocky earth was far to their backs,

the colossal black roots of the Dead Tree had taken their place. Adros knew from experience

that any moment the roots could come alive, either to entangle, or smash those they deemed an

enemy. But with his King’s Wood staff, he knew they wouldn’t dare strike him. His staff was

perhaps the only thing capable of controlling the Graelic. Thought to be a sapling of the Great

Tree itself, King’s Wood had always had such a power, though previously it had been a way to

heal, and nurture the Great Tree. Now, Adros had to find a way to use the King’s Wood to

destroy it.

His senses tuned to danger, Adros continued to survey the land. He really wasn’t worried

about a direct strike from the Dead Tree; Anon’s white light seemed to whither any root that

drew near, while Adros sent the more brazen roots away with a thought. What he feared, was

that perhaps some Lifeless remained, or even worse, that they had been summoned back in

defense of the Dead Tree. He half expected to see the entire Dark Army emerge from behind a

giant root and overwhelm them all. He had seen the army with his own eyes, and indeed, by all

appearances it had encompassed his entire world. If it returned in full force, neither Anon’s light

nor Adros’ staff could stop it from devouring them. 

His senses grew sharper. His instincts had kept him alive when all others fell, and now

they told him danger was near. He searched the land, but found only darkened roots. Yet, he

couldn’t deny that danger was out there. And suddenly, it was closer still. 

He had to move.

Trusting to his instincts, he dove to the ground. He felt a wave of heat at his back,

singeing his cape. Coming out of the roll, he spun, preparing to strike his attacker. A pit of

charred earth marked his previous location. 

Like an extension of his will, X’ander was already in motion. Being an elf child, X’ander

was nearly as tall as the attacker – one of Anon’s supposed gods. But the child was far more

agile. And having only trained in hand-to-hand combat, he had a supreme advantage over the

god; who believed himself more than capable of defeating a child. But the god knew only

magic, and what little fighting experience he had did not account for the ability of the elves. It

took X’ander but a second to reach the god. Then, after a deft kick to his ankle, the ‘god’ was

tripping over his own feet. X’ander proceeded to finish him off with a powerful double palm

strike to the man’s sternum, causing the man to collapse in a helpless heap. Without a second

thought, the elf child moved on to the next god – for suddenly the number of beings covered in

blue flames were multiplying in the back of the procession.

Adros had trained X’ander well. He was truly a lethal fighter, if he fell, it would be at

great expense to his enemies. 

But Adros was the ultimate killer. In combat he had no equal. Against him even the

gods fall.

Another god thought to strike him with his power, but before he completed the thought,

Adros was on him. His staff was ten feet away, then, with one fluid motion the butt end of it was

slamming into the man’s forehead. Knocked out cold, the god’s power was extinguished. 

As one, the gods attacked him. Arcs of blue flame came hurtling at him from every

direction. He took his time, concentrating on a pathway through them. He held his body in

check until they had all but encompassed him. Then he dove through the air, his body contorting

in impossible ways to avoid every last thread of blue light. As he dove, he managed to swing his

staff in an arc. His feet landed softly on the earth, while his staff landed with a loud ‘crack’ on a

god’s head. 

Knowing he had landed a vicious blow, he didn’t bother to see what became of her, but

immediately moved to his next attacker. From the corner of his eye, he saw X’ander fall, snared

in a net of flames. 

“Betrayers!” he shouted in his elven tongue.

No longer bothering to dance with the gods’ blue flames, he came at his next target head

on. A pyre of flames came his way, but to the god’s shock, his power evaporated the moment it

met Adros’ King’s Wood. Seconds later, that god was lying unconscious at Adros’ feet. Coils

of blue-tinged smoke drifted from Adros’ staff. 

‘NO MORE!’

Then, it was over.

His mind on fire, Adros stumbled. The only thing keeping him on his feet was his staff.

Then it too was gone, and Adros fell to the earth. 

‘I will kill you tree-brother,’ Adros said, unable to voice the words, but knowing the god

would hear his thoughts.

It took all his strength just to look up, and when he did, he saw that Ostedes held the staff

of King’s Wood in his branch-like hand.

‘FEAR NOT, ELF PRINCE. YOUR CHILDREN WILL BE SAFE, AS WILL YOUR

STAFF. AND FOR YOU, I WILL GRANT YOU THE DEATH YOU SEEK. YOU MAY GO TO

YOUR TREE, BUT THE STAFF COMES WITH US.’

Adros felt the darkness creeping in, his mind slipping to unconsciousness.

‘No, Betrayer, you will kill us all.’

Then, the darkness took everything.

Beneath the canopy of the Dead Tree, Anon’s halo was the only source of light. Through

the darkness Anon walked, his body surrounded in a glowing ball of white fire. Giant roots rose

up before him, attempting to obstruct his path, but Anon sent his power outward, searing a path

straight through. Birthed from the darkness, black vines darted at him from all directions. His

halo flared, incinerating them before they came anywhere near his flesh.

In his right hand, he held the staff of King’s Wood. But for Anon, it was nothing more

than a twisted walking staff. Whatever power it held was only available to those of elven

descent – elven royalty most likely. Even if Ostedes managed to steal it away to the Sanctuary, it

would have been useless to the Elders. The secret to unlocking its power was simple: one

needed to have elven blood. Even the Elders could not alter their own genetic codes, no matter

how strong their ability to manipulate the Oneness. Like a fool, Ostedes had risked all for

nothing. Once again, Anon found himself on a mission to correct the errors of one of his

Children. 

He had been in the shadow of the Dead Tree for what seemed like an eternity. He was

beginning to think the giant tree was unreachable, merely a mirage in the distant and dark

horizon. With such a massive object, it was difficult to judge the distance. He wanted to think

he was nearing the trunk, but the more he walked the larger the tree loomed. Anon worried that

perhaps its size was without limit; that eventually the trunk and the darkness would become one,

and he would be forever lost within it. 

He also worried about his own limits. Every step he took was a battle; roots reared up to

smash him, vines to grab him, and branches to tear him apart. Thus far, the Maker was with him

all the while, his power burning the Dead Tree’s limbs as though they were kindling. But what if

the trunk of the Dead Tree was days away, or weeks? What then? And should his power last

that long, what new challenge would he encounter there? The trunk of the Dead Tree reached

the clouds, possibly the stars. Ascending it, he would have to fight for every inch. 

He needed to clear his mind, if for but a moment. 

A wave of energy spread out from Anon, burning any element of the Dead Tree for a half

mile radius. He had to think, and to reexamine the logic of his direct assault on the tree. The

landscape was too haphazard to risk teleportation, not to mention he was unfamiliar with his

destination. Most likely, he would arrive with half his body fused to a root. Enhancing his speed

was possible, but could the Maker’s fire keep up with the pace? Besides, the smaller vines

seemed as quick as he. And if he failed to burn or avoid them in time, he could easily find

himself entangled. If that happened, he would surely make it to the Dead Tree, but in the same

helpless fashion as Prince Adros. 

As he pondered his options, he sensed the branches closing in on him once more. He was

about to risk all and continue on his path to the Dead Tree, when the branches suddenly stopped.

Something else was out there. A presence he knew all too well.

No more games.

Anon became a pillar of flames, a faceless giant of white fire. Putting his faith in the

Maker, he decided to risk teleportation.

The being was before him, its broken body hunched over. Even beneath his flames, the

being was but a shadow. This one deserved no words, only death. Hands of flame wrapped

around its body and squeezed.

“Truly, I am sorry, Anon,” the being managed to whisper as its body began to be crushed.

“Please. It had to be. Surely, if you trust to the Maker, then I beg you to see his path.”

In the presence of Lord Imorbis, even the Maker’s path seemed shadowed.

“You knew.”

Anon’s voice didn’t originate from his body, but from the air around him.

“You used us to remove Prince Adros from the cave. To separate him from his staff. All

along you knew this would come to pass.”

“Yes, Anon, it’s true. I knew the probability of it, and indeed, I aided in its course.”

“THEN YOU DIE!”

Dead flesh began to burn.

“Anon, wait!” Imorbis managed to scream before he was consumed.

Anon wished nothing more than to watch the Dead God burn, but his power was gone.

The Maker had left him.

“The Dead Tree would have taken him whether I helped him or no,” Imorbis continued,

relieved to no longer be burning. The Dead God didn’t realize Anon was now powerless, and

thought he was merely holding it back to hear Imorbis’ final plea. “It was not I, but the tree-man

who sent you to ruin. It’s true I played my part, but for reasons you do not know.”

What was the Dead God up to? And why had the Maker left him? 

Anon was stunned, helpless. 

Did Imorbis have the power to silence the Maker? Or more likely, had Anon left the

Maker’s path? 

But surely, Imorbis deserved death more than any other Dead God.

“I need you, Anon. We know you have found the Maker, and walk with him. Many of

my Brethren thought the only way our victory would ever be complete was with your death.

Countless Brethen sought to fulfill this belief by facing you in battle. All died at your hands.

And with each death, your legend grew.”

If he tested Anon now, he would be the first to succeed.

“Is that what you want from me? To test my power? That in your defeat you will accept

the Maker?”

The Dead God chuckled. 

“No, Anon. I know the Maker is real. The Void proved it to be so.”

“Then what is it you want from me, Imorbis?”

“I need a miracle. Strange it may sound, but to succeed in your quest; I need to infect

you, and you to heal me.”

Anon wanted to say that he was immune to the Plague, and that he could not be infected.

But that was when he walked with the Maker. Now . . .

“I cannot heal you. Newly infected can recover, but one such as yourself . . .”

“I’ve crafted my destiny and accept what I have become. What I need you to do is free

me from another.”

“The Dead Tree . . .”

“Yes, Anon. The Brethren are not entirely immune to it. It grows within me as well. I

resist its will, but for how long? Eventually the being known as Imorbis will be no more, and

only the Void will remain. That is why I stayed on this world; to find a way to cure the Dead

Tree’s infection. It was known you would come. And so I waited for your arrival, knowing that

what I ask for, only the Maker can provide. I need you to cleanse me of the Void. If you

promise to do so, I will help you. I will give you the blessing of my blood.”

“What makes you think I would desire such a ‘blessing’?”

“Because, Anon. If you do not, the Dead Tree will never allow you within.”

Was this the Maker’s path? Or the Dead God’s trick?

Anon had always lived with the certainty that he was in the right, but now with the Maker

absent, the only certainty was that he would no longer be fighting his way to the Dead Tree.

There was but one path to the trunk.

“If you wish to near the Elf Prince, then there is no other way. To save him, you must

die.”

Anon’s hand was soft flesh. He held it defenseless before Imorbis -- who lustfully took a

bite.

The walls throbbed, pumping out a thick black liquid as though they were a massive open

wound. They even reeked as such; flooding the chamber with the scent of rotting flesh. At one

point, Adros dared to touch it, hoping that his power to commune with the Graelic would

somehow transfer to the corrupted Dead Tree. It was a mistake; and his one and only attempt at

escape. He tried to reach out to the tree, laid his palm on the dripping wall. Immediately he

sensed the Tree, and the pure evil within. He felt its hunger, not merely to feed off of life, but to

destroy all that is. It bombarded him with images of his people; their flesh pealing, their bodies

ruptured and torn to pieces. That was its feast – utter destruction. The Dead Tree thought to

drown Adros in the horror of its existence, to drive him mad with the mere thought of what it

was capable of. But the Elf Prince was already possessed by madness, steeled by the hate in his

heart; he faced the horrors, unflinching.

The interior of the Graelic once conformed to the needs of his people, a living city. With

a thought, even a child could move walls. Elder elves could create structures of great beauty,

statues and murals with such detail and realism they seemed to hold breath and life within. In

order to see it to perfection, some elves spent their lives on a single piece of work -- nearly a

millennium. For his people, the Graelic was a canvas for their minds; living art shaped with

thoughts. 

With the staff of King’s Wood, anything was possible. The craft of elven artisans may

have appeared to live, but the line of kings could actually give life to their creations. These

Golems, had been the greatest of the Graelic’s guardians. Though, like the tree itself, eventually

they too succumbed to the infection, becoming rotting hulks of misshapen wood. Before the

battle was lost, the elves had dealt with most of the Golems by incinerating them. But many

escaped, summoned to the aid of the Dark Army.

As for the art of the elves, it was all gone now. Their ancient masterpieces had become a

flowing mass of rotten muck. 

Despite his personal failure to commune with the Dead Tree, Adros knew the King’s

Wood still had an effect on it even if he did not – his many excursions to the upper canopy to

save the children were proof. But was its power great enough to destroy the corrupted entity that

the Graelic had become? Because of the interference of the so-called gods, Adros was never

granted a chance to find out. The King’s Wood staff could very well be the universe’s only

weapon against the Dead Tree, and now it was either lost, or in the possession of the Dark Army.

Despite his situation, Adros laughed. The sound of his voice deadened as it hit the

dripping walls.

He couldn’t help but find it amusing that so recently he embraced hope, and now there

was naught but hopelessness. It was truly over now. He refused to accept it when the Dark

Army first came to his world -- and the second time as well. Even when the full force of the

Plague stood amassed at the base of the Graelic, he refused to accept defeat. But now, all was

lost: his staff, his children, his world, and his love, Alana. Whatever end the Dead Tree had in

store for him was meaningless. He would endure the pain, then fade to oblivion joining all that

he had once cherished. 

With the walls oozing around him, he waited. Time passed, and he continued to wait,

wondering if this was perhaps the first round of his torture; to be trapped, surrounded by the full

weight of his failure, knowing the only escape was death, but unable to fulfill it. 

Then he came – a more corrupt and hellish being even Adros had never seen.

Adros knew that the true torture was about to begin.

The tree-like being confirmed his belief, filling Adros’ mind with fire.

‘AHHH. . . YOUR THOUGHTS . . . SUCH HOPELESSNESS. YOUR FAILURE

BRINGS ME GREAT PLEASURE, ELF.’

There was a moment where Adros wished to live, if only to see this monstrosity sent to

the Maker. But the being filled his mind with such pain, that his every last thought fell apart.

Adros was hunched over, but even if he stood upright, the creature would have towered

over him. His eyes were pure white, and emanated a ghostly glow. 

‘OH, TO FEAST ON YOUR BRAIN.’

His branch-like limbs quivered at the thought.

‘A DESIRE NEARLY AS STRONG AS THE WILL OF MY MAKER.’

His black tentacles caresses Adros’ scalp.

‘NEARLY . . .’

Through the pain, Adros managed to collect his thoughts, and managed a whisper.

“I swear . . . Someday . . . I will kill you, Ostedes . . .”

The lipless giant had a sudden fit of spasms, which Adros interpreted as its form of

laughter.

‘EVEN WITH YOUR STAFF, YOU WERE NO MATCH FOR ME. NOW, HOW COULD

YOU POSSIBLY HARM ME, ELF?’

His mind overwhelmed by pain, and hopelessness, Adros found the hate. 

‘I’ll show you how . . .’ 

His mind cleared of thoughts. The pain remained, but his actions became instinctual.

Adros was on his feet and leaping into the air, his fist flying straight towards the giant’s face.

Ostedes’ anatomy was foreign to Adros. For all he knew, the being’s brain might not

even be located in its head. Nevertheless, he longed to crack it open. If he was lucky, maybe its

brains would come spilling out. 

The blow landed with a hollow ‘thunk’, as though he had just hit a rotten log.

Unfortunately, the attack did little damage, if any. However, Ostedes was stunned by the blow,

and it even sent him reeling backwards. Anon wondered how the creature would look if he could

show emotion. Smiling, he fantasized a startled look on its tall grey face.

His joy was short-lived, as was Ostedes’ shock. He was showing emotion now, anger.

His eyes filled the chamber with their eerie white. 

Either Adros was weaker than he thought, or he had underestimated Ostedes’ speed. The

creature came at him faster than he iMagined possible on his snakelike limbs. Adros landed a

kick on his chest, hoping to use the motion to propel him away from the storming giant. But

Ostedes’ tentacles caught him as he pushed off. Adros screamed as the many limbs began

digging into his flesh. The giant heaved him into the air, his tentacles burrowing ever deeper.

The giant’s arms pulled in opposite directions. Adros was certain his body would rip in half at

any moment. Nearly unconscious from the pain, the pressure was suddenly relieved. Hanging

helplessly in the giant’s hands, he looked down, wondering why the creature hadn’t torn him to

pieces. Adros saw an inner struggle in the being’s eyes. His desire to see Adros torn asunder

was battling the will of his ‘Maker’, who seemed to want Adros alive, if only for now.

The will of his Maker won the struggle, and Ostedes withdrew his tentacle limbs from

Adros’ skin. The elf slipped to the floor, physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted. His

short-lived skirmish with Ostedes had been his last.

“Why let me live?” Adros managed to ask. “Be done with it, Dead God.”

‘IF THE CHOICE WERE MY OWN, I WOULD BE AWASH IN YOUR BLOOD.

SADDLY, MY MAKER HAS OTHER PLANS FOR YOU, ELF.’

The way his eyes shown down on Adros, he still seemed to be fighting the urge to tear

him asunder.

‘YOUR PEOPLE REFUSE TO JOIN MY MAKER. SO THEY ARE MADE TO SUFFER,

TO ACCEPT THE WELCOME OF DEATH. IN DOING SO, THEIR SPIRITS BECOME

BOUND TO MY MAKER. THUS FAR, FEW HAVE JOINED US. BUT SOON ENOUGH,

MANY WILL FOLLOW. IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE THEIR SUFFERING

BECOMES UNBAREABLE.’

“I won’t join you, even in death.”

‘SO NOW YOU SAY. BUT YOU ARE YOUNG FOR AN ELF. GIVEN A MILLENIUM,

MY MAKER WILL CHANGE YOUR MIND. IN THE END, YOU ALL SHALL BE ONE WITH

THE VOID.’

“Why prolong it, our suffering? What does your Master even care? I’ve seen the Dark

Army, and compared to its vastness, we are inconsequential.”

‘I TEND TO AGREE. BUT IN THE SCHEME OF MY MAKER, YOUR PEOPLE ARE

THE ONLY ONES WHO MATTER. MY MAKER IS NOT CONTENT TO INHABIT BUT ONE

WORLD. IT WISHES TO CLAIM ALL THE WORLDS, AND TO DO SO, IT MUST GROW

WITHIN THEM. ONLY THE ELVES HAVE THE POWER TO CULTIVATE MY MAKER’S

SEED. THEREFORE, YOUR PEOPLE WILL HAVE THE HONOR OF SPREADING ITS

EXISTENCE THROUGHOUT THE UNIVERSE.’ 

“Never.”

Again the giant writhed with laughter.

‘I AM EVER SO CURIOUS TO SEE HOW LONG YOU CAN LAST, ELF. SHALL WE

BEGIN?’

Adros attempted to rise again, but his legs came out from underneath him. The Dead

Tree’s walls had formed into a vine-like noose, wrapping around his legs and pulling him into

the walls of black fluid. He struggled to find a hold in the floor as he was pulled to the wall.

Unable to get a grip on the slime covered floor, he went in feet first. The pain crept up from his

toes, to his knees, then to his chest. Before it entered his mind, his last thought was that he must

win this fight. No matter how long it took. This time, he wasn’t fighting for his world, his

people, or even his life. If the Dead Tree took his soul, the universe would fall.

‘EVEN THAT FOOL ANON CANNOT SAVE YOU NOW. LET HIM COME. SOON

ENOUGH, HE WILL JOIN YOU.’

Anon . . .

Suddenly there was hope once more. Now it was Adros who was laughing. He needed a

miracle, and if ever there was a man who could provide one, it was Anon.

The black oozed filled his mouth, and his laughter turned into a gurgle.

Hunger . . .

Until he had been infected by the Plague, Anon had never truly known the meaning of the

word. Such thoughts flooded his mind that he feared the Maker would never return to him. He

was beyond impure, he was rotten. He managed to contain his urges, for now. But every

moment the infection claimed more of him, and soon it would take his soul. If so, the path of the

Maker would be lost to him. Nor would Anon care, only the craving would matter at that point.

To avoid such a fate, Anon had to succeed, and quickly. Already his veins had blackened and

swelled to near bursting with the infection. His flesh was dead, his mind nearly so.

The power of the Maker had never been further from him. But he now had a power of

another sort. Dead though it may be, his flesh was formidable. He knew from his own battles

with the Dead Gods, that a blade would sooner bend than penetrate it -- even weapons etched

with silver. Also, the virus made him incredibly fast and strong, nearly equal to the

enhancements of the Elder Gods. But unlike the Elders, Anon didn’t need a halo to maintain his

abilities. They were a gift of the infection, and never left. In fact, they could even grow

stronger, should he indulge his cravings. 

Along with physical strength, the Makiian Virus bestowed an even darker gift -- he now

could tap into the power of the Void. Wherein, the Oneness manipulated matter through one’s

internal energy. This demon wind simply destroyed it. And one wasn’t limited to their own

inner strength, but could draw from the endless destructive power of the Void. Its effectiveness

however, was limited. It depended on how much energy one stole from the living. The power of

the Void transformed the stolen life-force, converting it to equal parts annihilation. The more the

Dead Gods fed, the stronger they became. For Anon, he should have been relatively weak, but

Imorbis had infected him with the pure strain. The very same virus that had begun it all -- the

false immortality, unfiltered.

Thus far, everything Imorbis said had proven to be true. Anon was all but ignored as he

made his way to the trunk. Instead of scorching a path to the tree, he now strolled right up to it.

Once he arrived, the rest of the Dead God’s plan was remarkably simple. Simple, yet

surprisingly feasible – but only if Imorbis could be trusted. Therein was the plans greatest

weakness.

The Maker had decided to abandon Anon for reasons he yet failed to comprehend,

leaving him with no choice but to partake of the Dead God’s plan. If Imorbis was infected by the

latest evolution of the Plague, then perhaps he truly did need Anon’s help to be freed of the Dead

Tree. Should he somehow safely complete this mission, Anon would do his utmost to honor his

promise to heal the Dead God. But without the blessing of the Maker, he could do little. Besides

which, now that Anon was infected as well, who was going to save him? The truth was that he

may survive this battle only to find himself enlisting in the Dark Army. For this reason, Anon

had decided to alter Imorbis’ plan – just slightly. 

His mind often wandering to thoughts of bloodied flesh on his tongue, Anon drew nearer

to the towering trunk of the Dead Tree. A maze of mountainous roots blocked his path, but with

his newfound abilities, he quickly ascended them. He once wondered if he would ever near the

blackened trunk, now he knew he was close, for the Dead Tree had in fact replaced the skyline.

Thankfully, his decomposing eyes saw clearly even in complete darkness. A mass of vines and

branches floated in the air high above him. From many, a humanoid shape hung suspended.

After a closer look, he realized there were thousands of them up there, swaying in the breeze.

Even with his undead vision, he was unable to determine which one was the Elf Prince, but he

knew he was up there somewhere, becoming one with the Dead Tree.

Soon, Anon would be up there as well – if he adhered to Imorbis’ plan.

First, he would have to enter the trunk of the Dead Tree, and then . . . Imorbis had laid

out many possibilities, some unfolded in their favor, others less so.

One final leap through the field of blackened roots took him to the trunk. Its bark ridges

ran like towers up its side. The crevices between were like deep caves leading into the tree.

Anon choose the nearest one, then headed in, slowing his pace in the full anticipation of coming

danger. The walls had changed from hardened bark, to a slick viscous fluid. Before him, the

caverns branched off into a maze of dripping walls. 

Anon knew what he had to do.

He touched the wall.

Instantly the Dead Tree was within his mind. All the horrors he had witnessed since the

birth of the Plague came flooding back. Even his most ancient memories returned – his family.

So long ago he had almost forgotten. They had all died before the Plague, but he saw them now

as monsters, stumbling toward him, reaching out with rotten flesh. They surrounded him, began

tearing him apart . . .

It took all of Anon’s willpower, but he was able to pull his hand away. Communing with

the Dead Tree was to be his first challenge. It knew him now. No longer would he be able to

walk freely among its limbs. It would seek him out. Now, he would have to face the next

challenge -- the Dead Tree had acquired new servants.

‘ANON.’

The voice roared in his mind. Anon turned to face the servant of the Dead Tree, fighting

to keep his knees from buckling from the force of the telepathic voice.

Ostedes had always appeared formidable, but now he was terrifying to behold. He

towered over Anon, his appendages writhing in excitement. His white eyes shone down on

Anon, bathing him in a white glow.

‘I AM SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU.’

“I cannot say the same, Ostedes,” Anon replied.

He noticed Ostedes was not alone. Lurking in the maze, he recognized the corrupted

forms of the other Chosen who had been captured by the Dead Tree.

“I am sorry it has come to this, Ostedes.”

The giant’s entire body quivered.

‘OH NO, ANON. YOU HAVE NOT BEGUN TO BE SORRY.’

The Chosen began to circle Anon.

‘I NOW REALIZE I HAD ALWAYS BEEN DESTINED TO JOIN THE DARK ARMY,

BUT YOU ROBBED MY OF MY DESTINY. AS YOU SAID, I SHOULD HAVE REMAINED ON

EDILAN. TO DIE WITH MY PEOPLE. INSTEAD, I WAS MADE TO FIGHT YOUR LOSING

WAR. BUT NO LONGER.’

The circle tightened.

‘IT APPEARS THE MAKER HAS LEFT YOU? OR PERHAPS, ANON, HE WAS NEVER

REALLY WITH YOU AT ALL. MAYBE YOUR GREATEST STRENGTH HAS EVER BEEN THE

ILLUSION OF POWER.’

Anon longed to prove him wrong. But he knew that without the Maker’s aid, he would

be no match for Ostedes. 

‘WHY DID YOU COME HERE, ANON? EVEN WITH THE MAKER, WHAT COULD

YOU HOPE TO ACHIEVE?’

“I came for Adros. And no matter what occurs here, he will be freed.”

‘THEN YOU ARE A GREATER FOOL THAN I EVER BELIEVED. YOU WILL SEE

YOUR ELF PRINCE AGAIN, THAT I GUARANTEE. NOTHING WOULD MAKE ME

HAPPIER THAN TO WATCH YOU HANG BESIDE HIM FOR ETERNITY.’

All was going according to Imorbis’ plan. Anon was to be captured -- to be imprisoned

alongside Prince Adros was ideal. What came next was left a mystery to Anon, for wisely, the

Dead God had anticipated Ostedes’ ability to invade Anon’s thoughts. Nor would Anon ever

know the remainder of Imorbis’ plan. 

Anon had a plan of his own. 

“Before I do so. I am curious to see how the powers of the pure strain compare to this

new infection. What do you think, Ostedes? Shall we put them to the test?”

‘AS YOU WISH.’

The Giant’s blank, grey face almost registered joy.

The Chosen came at him, moving incredibly fast. He was able to dodge many blows, but

some landed, painfully. To Anon’s credit, his attacks connected more often than theirs. Unlike

the Chosen, Anon was fairly adept at various styles of hand-to-hand combat, and had actually

employed them against Dead Gods in the past. Not to mention, he also had the advantage of

having a Dead God teach him how to fight with the demon wind. Imorbis had taught him many

tricks of which these newly turned Chosen were ignorant. One such trick was to focus the dark

energy into his own dead flesh. In doing so, he could alter his Plague infected cells. 

Instead of landing punches, his fists became blades of black steel, cleaving his foes into

pieces or piercing their flesh. The battle was brief – as he knew it would be – but several Chosen would rise no more. Ostedes had meant to make him suffer. He hadn’t expected Anon to come

out on top. The moment he realized his error, he put an end to the fight.

Ostedes was more powerful than ever. The mental barrage he sent into Anon’s mind

would have instantly killed an Elder God. Anon fell to his knees. His focus on the dark power

was gone, nor did he have enough wits about him to avoid the continued assault of the Chosen.

They attacked him with reckless abandon, pounding on him long after his body was lying flat

and motionless on the ground. Some of the more clever ones were even able to replicate his

ability, crafting their own weapons with the dark power. When they finally stopped, the

infection was all but drained from Anon’s veins. Unfortunately, (or perhaps fortunately) so too

was his life. He wouldn’t be imprisoned as Imorbis had hoped, nor would he have to worry

about succumbing to the desires of the Plague. To save the Elf Prince he truly would die – this

would be Anon’s contribution to Imorbis’ plan.

Before the darkness took him, he prayed to the Maker for Imorbis to succeed.

True power. It seemed like ages since he had known its taste. 

Anon’s blood had been like drinking a dream – the long lost dream of life. Imorbis

remembered little of his life before the Plague. Even the simple things -- like what it meant to

hold breath in his lungs or warmth in his flesh -- had become a fantasy to him. For a long time,

mortality simply did not seem real – until he drank Anon’s blood. His blood was life. There

could be no doubt now, Anon truly was touched by the Maker. 

But that wasn’t enough. They faced the Void itself, a foe even the Maker had never truly

defeated. 

He cast a wicked smile at the staff – which, thanks to Anon’s blood, he held in his

regenerated right hand. The staff of King’s Wood made all the difference. 

In order to prevent it from turning his hand to cinder, he bundled it in layers of cloth. 

Imorbis was never one to accept defeat. Nor did he desire to be a prisoner of the Dead

Tree for all eternity, a mindless shell moving to the whim of the Void. Even true death would be

a better fate – perhaps a fate long overdue as well. He now understood that during his entire life

as a Dead God he had been a prisoner to the Void. For so long there had only been the fight and

the feast. He existed only to satisfy his hunger for life. To live he had to kill. But to what end?

What was to become of him when the living were no more? The Elder Gods’ plan to regenerate

and repopulate the worlds moved at a stagnant pace. By the time they birthed one world, a

million would be dead. Meanwhile, the hunger of the Dead Gods would remain, always and

forever.

Imorbis wanted nothing more than for it to end.

It was because of the Elf Prince that he finally desired death. Some would think he

wished him ill, after defeating, and disfiguring him. But Imorbis held no grudge to the man –

how could he after he had ravaged his planet so? It was the ravaging part that changed Imorbis’

heart – made it beat for a moment. Imorbis had seen countless battles, and been victorious in

them all. Many great champions stood before him, and fell, joining his army. But never before

had a champion fought so valiantly, and fiercely, as the Elven Prince. He even defeated Imorbis himself, his first such loss in over a millennium. Imorbis’ first attack against the elves had been

a humiliation on his part. His second attack, though considered a victory, was equally so. Even

with the full Dark Army at his disposal, the Elf Prince nearly prevailed. He would never know

how close he was to routing them, most likely for all time. And it was due in great part to the

ferocity of Prince Adros. And for all of the elf’s efforts, his world, and his people died. And

what did Imorbis gain? Another, stronger prison. 

He had been ignorant of what his victory against the elves would cost him. But he made

no such error with this battle. To be freed of the Void wouldn’t be his only reward, the Maker

would bless him with something else as well.

Mortality. 

Anon’s blood hinted at its existence, but he wanted it in truth. Even if the Maker only

allowed him only a single living breath before he claimed his soul.

To reach that goal, Imorbis had plans within plans; a maze of possibilities that only

Imorbis could navigate. His success today was but one step in the right direction. And to

succeed, the King’s Wood staff had to be in the hands of the Elf Prince.

Anon’s role was for him to serve as a distraction, to become the focus of the Dead Tree.

Meanwhile, Imorbis would simply walk right in and hand Adros his staff. Or so he hoped.

Imorbis was bound to the Dead Tree. As such, he was able to wander this world freely.

He had also spent a great deal of time studying the Dead Tree’s interior, and had a good idea

where the Prince would be detained. The Dead Tree underestimated its hold on him. This entire

time, it believed Imorbis had been doing its will; helping to see the Elf Prince removed from his

hole and separated from his staff, and infecting and leading Anon into a trap. But the actions had

been conducted by Imorbis’ will alone, all part of his many layered plan. 

Now with Anon’s blood coursing through his veins, the Void’s will was buried deeper

than ever before, almost as if he was entirely freed. The Dead Tree would be ignorant of his true

intentions until the moment Adros held his staff.

But the Dead Tree had many servants, particularly the newly infected Elder God,

Ostedes. With his telepathic abilities, that one would not be so easily fooled. That’s where

Anon came in; the Elder’s hate of the man would blind him to anything Imorbis would do. 

And so it was, Imorbis entered the Dead Tree, staff in hand, and ascended the trunk to

find and rescue the Elf Prince. As far as he knew, all was well. He used the demon wind to

levitate upwards through the Dead Tree’s interior, careful not to come in direct contact with the

Tree’s walls, else it enter his mind, unveiling his true purpose. His journey took him high up to

the Dead Tree’s canopy; an area which Imorbis knew would be laden with imprisoned elves. At

this height, the trunk had no true entrance, it either allowed one to come and go, or it did not.

Again he relied on the demon wind, this time he sent it out to the wall of the Dead Tree, hoping it

would interpret his signal to exit the trunk. If not, he would be forced to connect directly with

the Tree, wherein it would no doubt refuse his request to leave – perhaps for eternity. Luckily,

the signature of his dark power was enough – the wall before him collapsed in a pool of black

sludge, revealing a clear pathway to a massive branch that seemed to span the heavens. Imorbis

was forced to step back as the sludge threatened to pool at his feet. But the liquid was quickly

reintegrated into the Tree. As soon as it was gone, Imorbis headed out. Even for his Plague

enhanced vision, the ground below was as dark as the starless night above. All he could see was

the trunk directly below his feet, and a wall of branches at his sides. 

Hidden within the branches, he could barely make out several tall humanoid forms. He

was about to go to the nearest elf, when he saw movement around it. Imorbis froze, as did the three shadowed forms around the imprisoned elf. The creatures turned to regard Imorbis, their

bodies wavering in and out of existence. They were transparent like a thin layer of mist, and

though they had elven physiques, they were more like elven silhouettes than the real thing. 

The grey and white eyes studied him, and had he been living, they would have frozen his

very soul. Once Imorbis realized they were but elven wraiths, he ignored them and continued

on. The creatures were guardians of the Dead Tree, but for one such as Imorbis the beings were

all but powerless. Imorbis even ventured to near them, and investigated their trapped elven

snack. The creature was almost entirely drained of life. The wraiths had reduced the elf to

empty, sunken flesh. His golden hair was no more. The only thing sprouting from his head was

a thick, throbbing black branch. The being was spent. Imorbis figured it wouldn’t be long

before he joined the ranks of the elven wraiths. 

As indistinguishable as his features were, he was clearly not the Elf Prince. This being

had suffered for quite some time. If and when he found him, he hoped Adros had a bit more life

left within him. 

Disappointed that he hadn’t immediately stumbled into the Elf Prince, Imorbis renewed

his search. And as much as he would like to disregard the wraiths, he noticed that as he left, they

didn’t continue to feed on the living elf, but kept their eyes glued on him.

He started to worry that perhaps the wraiths weren’t as harmless as he first thought. It

was becoming apparent that he had to find the Prince, and soon, for he was now under the Dead

Tree’s scrutiny. 

Anon’s blood had granted him great power, and now he used it to enhance his speed to its

fullest. A blur, he moved among the branches, inspecting every dangling elf he could find. So

far, all were deeply integrated with the Dead Tree, their bodies full of more vines than blood. 

Imorbis moved to the main branch, thinking to take his search further down. He paused.

A pair of massive lumps of decaying matter blocked his way. The pair of foul giants filled the

air with such a horrific odor that even Imorbis’ decayed senses were revolted. Their misshapen

forms also filled the width of the branch, making it difficult to simply step around them. With

his speed accelerated he could possible sneak past. But Imorbis knew the beings and their

loathsome reputation. They were the golems, the vilest servants of the Dead Tree. If at all

possible, he knew it was best to stay far away from them. 

They had yet to notice Imorbis, or if they did, they gave no indication. He was about to

turn back the way he came when he heard a moaning coming from the branches behind the

behemoths. High about them, an elf hung, trembling in pain. Imorbis couldn’t make the being

out clearly, but his instincts told him it could be none other than Adros. 

“So be it,” he whispered.

There was no other way, to save the Elf Prince he would have to get past the guards. He

used his dark power to alter his body – creating a thick layer of skin to cover his nostrils, and

then he took a step forward. The rotting hulks arose as if sensing his intentions. 

From the mass of mush where one creature’s mouth should have been, came a gurgling

voice.

“Why have you come here, Imorbis? We begin to sense betrayal in your actions.”

Rare were the times when Imorbis actually conversed with the Dead Tree. Generally he

tried to avoid such conversations – much like he wished to avoid this one. He had feared

encountering a situation such as this. Feared though it may be, it was not unforeseen. Imorbis

knew it as a possibility.

His intentions were now known to the Void. There was a high probability this would be

Imorbis’ end. But there was also a chance he could yet succeed, though it was an incredibly slim

one.

“No, my lord. I but deliver the weapon of the Elf Prince unto you.”

The Dead Tree was not easily fooled with simple methods – though Imorbis had done so

on more than one occasion. He had but one more chance to fool the powerful being. Then he

would have to face it.

First, he would give it what it wanted – the King’s Wood staff.

“Here, my master. It is for you.”

The golem speaking for the Dead Tree lumbered forward to receive the gift . . .

In one hand, Imorbis held the staff. His other hand held the bundle of cloth covering it.

As the being reached out to grab the staff, Imorbis pulled back the cloth. 

Imorbis leapt up and slammed the staff down upon its head. Instantly, its head crumbled,

evaporating into a smoking crater. Unaware of its location, the creature continued to lumber

forward; possibly hoping to crush Imorbis with its massive bulk. But Imorbis simply stepped

aside, grinning as the behemoth ambled off the branch of the Dead Tree.

The King’s Wood was now bare and exposed in Imorbis’ hand. His own flesh sizzled

and smoked. His power was likewise quickly fading, absorbed by the power of the wood. Had

he not fed on Anon, he would have immediately collapsed. Even so, whatever power he had

taken from Anon was rapidly dwindling, just to stay on his feet, he had to focus every last bit of

it on his disintegrating hand. 

The other being moved to attack – this one quicker, and more prepared than the last.

Imorbis had been in countless battles and faced many powerful foes – the Elf Prince being one

such opponent. Even weakened, he was still a skilled fighter and brilliant killer. 

The creature swung its massive arm to crush him, but instead of waiting to be smashed,

Imorbis leapt forward, closing the distance between them. He came in under its guard, its fist

landing harmlessly behind him. Imorbis’ entire right arm hung useless at his side, so he switched

the staff to his left hand. Using it as a spear, he shoved the staff through the creature’s chest,

forcing it in so deeply it came out its back. He then sidestepped the flailing monstrosity, pulling

the smoldering staff out of its back. 

All that remained of his power was channeled into his speed, and his smoking left hand.

He moved, as fast as he was able, to the sound of the moaning Prince. 

Meanwhile, a swarm of vines and branches moved to engulf him.

She always glowed when the sunlight hit her skin. Her flesh was translucent and

designed to let the light in, to where her cells then absorbed its energy. Through the process,

excess energy was expended, forming a natural halo of golden light around Alana.

Her tall, lithe body was a beacon of light in his dark nightmare. Her silver hair glowed . .

.

. . . and then it turned grey. Beneath her skin, Adros saw her blue veins filling with black

blood. Her heart stopped. But the veins continued to throb, pumping the black blood throughout her entire body. Her veins were all filled with the disease, but it continued to grow, branching

out into every cell. 

Her golden halo turned into a swelling darkness. Adros ran to her. He wanted to take the

darkness away, but his staff was gone. 

He couldn’t remember what had become of it . . . maybe he lost it, or it had been stolen.

Perhaps it had never existed at all, and in the constructs of this nightmare it had only been a

symbol of hope. 

Hope . . .

He had to survive this, and to do so he needed hope. He gazed at his empty hands,

seeking to will the staff into existence. Alana was gone, the Dead Tree now fully possessed her.

Adros continued to stare at his empty hands, pleading for there to be hope.

Alana bore down on him; biting and clawing at his flesh. In a spray of blood, her teeth

tore a chunk of skin from his neck. In the pain, he felt his life slipping away – replaced by

another life, another sort of pain.

Adros screamed . . .

The nightmare began anew.

This time Anon came to him. At first glance he seemed so unassuming; a portly little

man with a balding head. And his smile; he gave it so freely. How could one so caring have

lasted so long against the Plague? The light of his halo was so pure it was almost painful to

behold.

The pain. Adros waited for it to amplify, for Anon to begin rotting and then feeding on

him. Anon came closer. His halo shone brighter, so bright that Anon’s body disappeared in the

light. All that remained of the man was one glowing hand – and in it was the King’s Wood staff.

Hope. Did he dare dream it was real?

Adros took the staff . . .

. . . he awoke from one nightmare to find himself in another. Next to him was the

crumpled form of a man who looked to be more shadow than flesh. And surrounding them both .

. . they were trapped in a globe of the Dead Tree’s limbs. 

But Adros now held his staff. Using it as a prop, Adros got to his feet. Around them, the

limbs thrashed against an invisible barrier.

‘Be gone,’ Adros commanded, leaning heavily on the King’s Wood staff. 

His will flowed through the wood, forcing the limbs to slink back into the darkness.

Something else remained. Something his staff could not control.

But something his staff could destroy!

‘Ostedes!’

‘TIME TO END THIS, ELF PRINCE. MY MAKER NO LONGER CONSTRAINS MY

WILL. THIS TIME I SHALL FEAST.’

‘No. Now you will die.’

Adros spun around, charging at the giant. Wave after wave of telepathic energy slammed

into him, but his mind knew only hate and he plowed right through them all. He reached the

giant, twisting his body through his many branchlike limbs as they darted towards him. As fast

as Adros was, the giant’s limbs were equally fast, and there were hundreds of them. Several

penetrated his guard and dug into his flesh. But his staff swung back around, burning through

the fingertips before they pulled him into the giants clutches. 

Incinerate Ostedes fingers was somewhat satisfying, but for his staff to be truly effective,

he needed to get in close. To do so was a risk he couldn’t afford to take, there were just too many of the snakelike fingers to possibly avoid them all. The last thing he wanted was to be

trapped in the giant’s clutch, for this time, Ostedes would most certainly tear him in half. 

As much as he longed to drive his staff into the being’s face, he was forced to change his

strategy – first, he had to even the odds. Then he would go in for the killing blow. Taking the

monster’s arm became the focus of his rage. He circled Ostedes, his staff spinning before him,

turning any appendage that reached it into dust. Moving faster, he continued to circle him.

Ostedes thought to trip him up with the vine-like toes of his feet, but Adros nimbly danced

around them. He kept up the dance, constantly gaining momentum, knowing that soon his

opportunity would arrive. 

And then it did. 

He managed to get behind the beast’s reach. Ostedes knew he was vulnerable, and made

the mistake of attempting spin around and smash him with his other arm. As he did so, Adros

took full advantage of his error, and slammed his staff into the oncoming arm. The force of the

momentum threw Adros back. But the ensuing mental howl from Ostedes proved it was worth

it, as did the smoking stump where Ostedes’ arm used to be.

But the rage-filled blast of mental energy the giant sent his way proved to be too much –

even for Adros’ hate. Adros’ body and mind began to shut down. With his vision clouding over,

he saw the giant as a dark shadow looming over him, sending a constant torrent of pain into his

mind. Ostedes planted a foot on his chest, crushing him, his toes digging into his skin. 

He felt his staff slipping from his grasp . . .

And then, there was only light. Pure white light. 

It was a miracle.

Anon drifted in the Abyss. Of all places, he should have felt at peace here most of all.

But his soul was unsettled. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he didn’t belong here . . . not yet.

He saw a light twinkling in the distant emptiness, shining like a beacon in the night. It

came toward him, growing ever brighter. Eventually he was able to discern its shape. It was

Him – the faceless one. He stood of average height, his body a typical humanoid form, his face

smooth and featureless. His body glowed like a shining star.

Anon reached out to touch that smooth, golden face. As though he was looking into a

mirror, the being copied his motion. Simultaneously, they touched each other’s flesh. Then,

they melted into one.

Anon understood now. He had never left the Maker’s path, nor had the Maker left him.

His dead flesh on Ki'minsyllessil was but an illusion – Anon’s greatest one yet. There it would

remain, waiting to become dust, to be reclaimed unto the Maker once more.

Anon no longer had need of it; the faceless one was his true form now.

Ostedes would not be defeated. The Elf may have taken his arm, but he would take his

mind.

Adros was pinned beneath him. He was utterly helpless. Ostedes put his full weight on

his foot. His fingertips moved to pierce the elf’s skull.

Instead, they met a wall of white fire. His white eyes looked on in shock as his remaining

tentacle hand disintegrated. 

‘IMPOSSIBLE!’

Ostedes had long ago learned to channel rage and pain into psychic power. Now he was

overloaded with both. He used them to amplify his mental energy, focusing it toward the ball of

light hovering in the distance.

The psychic attack was far greater than the one that had taken down Prince Adros – but

when it met the ball of light, it simply vanished, never even nearing its actual target.

‘I SAW YOU DEAD, ANON. THIS CANNOT BE.’

As the ball of light neared, Ostedes saw a shape at its center – a puny, weak, humanoid

form.

“You questioned the Maker, Ostedes, now you will know the truth of him.”

Somehow, Anon’s voice was audible both telepathically, and physically. Yet it seemed

to originate without a source.

‘THE VOID IS MY MAKER NOW, ANON.’

Ostedes rushed the glowing being, only to be met with a blast of light. His white eyes

melted, his tree-like body caught on fire. The blast lifted him into the air. For a while he floated,

burning, waiting to land on solid ground. It was a long wait, one which finally ended as he

slammed into the base of the Dead Tree.

The odd trio of heroes stood together at the Rift.

Imorbis was all but nonexistent. Carrying the staff of King’s Wood had taken its toll. He

no longer had flesh; the staff had burnt it all away. The demon wind covered him like a cloak, it

was the only thing keeping him alive. Without it, he would crumple into dust.

Adros stared him down with his grey and white eyes. The Elf Prince thought that even

Imorbis’ current state was unsatisfactory compensation for the pain he caused his people and his

world. Because of his own injuries, to remain standing, Adros had to rely on his staff to keep

him upright.

Anon doubted that staff would leave his side again for a very long time.

Anon. To the others, he was human once more; simple, and almost foolish in

appearance. He seemed to have suffered not at all from the ordeal – but that was another

illusion, for it could be said he had suffered the most, having died to save the Elf Prince.

“Now, are you finally ready to leave this place, One Elf?” Anon asked, not sure what

more he could do to convince him.

“What’s out there, Anon?” Adros asked, shifting his gaze to the Rift.

“A new world. Another chance. And your children.”

Anon approached him, reaching up to lay his hand on his shoulder.

“There’s other worlds as well, those that the Dead Tree seeks to possess. Those worlds

need a savior, Adros. Someone to lead them to safety, prepare them for their final day. Gather

an army, Elf Prince, and never let them forget. For one day, the Void will find them once more.”

Adros nodded to Anon, he still felt responsible for it all. His failure to withstand the

Plague brought about the creation of the greatest evil the universe had ever known. Now it

sought to destroy other worlds, other people – Adros meant to see the Dead Tree stopped. 

He sneered at Imorbis, and then headed into the Rift.

For a moment the two stood in silence; a Dead God and an Elder God – allies.

“I owe you a debt, Imorbis. And a promise made in the presence of the Maker must be

met.”

“Yes, Anon. To be freed of the Dead Tree is all I ask.”

“It shall be done. But first I need a promise from you as well.”

Imorbis withered beneath his cloak of the demon wind, expecting the Maker would now

require payment for the sins he committed.

“I need your help. No one knows the Dead Tree and the Plague better than you.”

“Yes. This is true, Anon. How can my knowledge serve the Maker?”

“I need you to figure out a way to defeat it.”

Anon couldn’t have asked him to perform a more impossible task. The Dead Tree and

the Void were one. But he was right. Imorbis had spent a great deal of time studying them both,

and perhaps there was one way . . . 

Yes, I will put an end to the Dead Tree . . . Imorbis liked the thought of it, very much.

Strangely, it wasn’t the thought of vengeance that pleased him, but that he would finally have a

chance at absolution. 

Besides, now he fought alongside Anon and had the power of the Maker at his side, with

that, Imorbis had learned anything was possible.

“We once had a saying among the Makii; to escape death we must become it. So too,

must we face the Void. To defeat it, we must embrace it.”

Would Anon allow such power to be recreated?

“But, I warn you, Anon. The cost to do so will be great.”

Anon didn’t hesitate to reply.

“Either way we are lost. It is the Maker’s will that our fate is, and always has been ours

to make. In this, our final hour, it should remain so.” 

“Then I shall see it done, Anon . . . create one to destroy the Dead Tree.”

Both men were silent – Imorbis already plotting the creation of his ‘Destroyer’, while

Anon pondered a way to stop it; to keep it from becoming a greater evil than even the Dead Tree.

He knew of only one soul pure enough to stand against it. 

But alone, even Alana cannot begin to stop it. She will need a great deal of help . . . She

will need love, hope, and a world of heroes.

In time, she will have them all . . .

“You have failed me. Now your body will be reclaimed.”

Vines began tearing him apart, piece by piece. Through the pain, he somehow

summoned a thought.

‘I CAN REDEEM MYSELF, GREAT LORD. PLEASE, I CAN YET AID YOU . . .

DELIVER TO YOU WHAT YOU DESIRE MOST OF ALL.’

“You have nothing left to give me but your flesh, Ostedes?”

There was only one force the Dead Tree feared, one world it could not obtain.

‘THE ELDERS. GRANT ME THE DARK ARMY, AND I SHALL GIVE YOU THEIR

SANCTUARY.’

As if in thought, the vines paused their grisly task.

“You will take me there. But if you fail me again, you will not be reclaimed, but will

suffer eternal.”

‘I PROMISE YOU, GREAT LORD. I WILL NOT FAIL.’

The vines came at him again. This time they didn’t tear him apart but penetrated him

instead. They swelled with the dark fluid, secreting it in his innards, rebuilding his ruined flesh.

Somehow, his reconstruction was more painful than his rending. 

But through it all, Ostedes thought only of fulfilling his promise to the Dead Tree. Oh

yes. He would make the Elders suffer, far more than even he had. He would go to the Sanctuary

and show their minds pain and suffering like they never thought possible.

His body was so swollen with the fluid it spewed from his eyes.

The bark-like ridges on Ostedes’ face warped into what could almost be interpreted as a

grin.