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The Musketeer strode determinedly into the ruined keep of Haltoth, drought with corpses. He’d sent word for alchemists from his homeland, and thus had they arrived as well. They were already at work on the corpses.
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One of them approached the Musketeer, saying unto him, “My liege, you’ll be pleased to know that our progress is speeding.”
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“How many?” The soldier asked, as the lead alchemist walked beside him, towards the gates of the keep.
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“We’ve Identified five of the nineteen cadavers, with two more well on the way.” The man answered.
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“In the quartermaster’s log, which of them had children?” The Musketeer asked.
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“Well, I’d assume most of them sir.”
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“Which had children living here.” the soldier clarified.
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The Alchemist was silent for a moment, “Only one, my lord. Sir Letifer Mourse.”
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The Musketeer ended his stride before the gates to the hall.
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“Have the quartermaster ready my soldiers.”
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“So a Scholar of Mortem has surfaced.” Letifer reasoned with himself.
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“The Herald of Pestilence, as she is known.” The Earl responded.
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“If you don’t mind my asking, who is this Herald, my lord?” Asked Letifer.
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The Earl turned to him, explaining, “The Herald of Pestilence was taught to wield decay, and disease, as weapons. It is she, with the aid of her Leper Knights, who raise the Rott-kin en masse.” The vassal answered.
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Letifer turned, staring into his blade, seeing his warped visage in its metallic surface. Not turning back to his compatriot, he asked, “Why does she beseech me?”
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The Earl turned to him, “The Fell-kin are the root of all necromancy. The Lich Queen herself did study them incessantly, to her discovery of artificial necromancy. Hence, you would hold immense scientific value.”
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Letifer was silent at this.
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“I take it the Herald of Pestilence is not the only one vying for this.” Letifer responded finally, turning back to face the Earl.
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“Indeed. There are others who will beseech you. However, at this time, the Herald is the most prominent threat. We must prepare.”
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“My lord, have I not fought enough wars?” Letifer asked, terrified at the idea of marching to battle once again. He knew not what happened at Haltoth, but he knew that it had been horrifying.
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The Earl gazed a gazely stare towards Letifer, as he asked, “You do not feel pain nor do you have need to fear death, so what is your hindrance?”
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“I assure you my lord, I do not mean to make excuses.” Letifer replied, a hint of fear in his voice.
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“I do not seek to upend your argument. Only insight.” the Earl explained, “So tell me, what is it you fear?”
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Letifer paused for a few moments.
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“Blood. Viscera. A sea of gore, into which I may sink. The clash of blades, the cries of pain, the red blur that becomes my sight. It has followed me to and beyond the grave. And I see no way to be rid of it.”
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There was another silence.
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The Earl sighed, “I have no intent to send you to war. Of that you can be assured.”
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Some of Letifer’s fear was lifted then.
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“Though I fear it may be sent to you.”
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Shadow and flame. A strange combination. On one end, the entirety of the township had been engulfed in a venomous shroud. A noxious fume that felled the living, and nourished the dead. Hower, this all engulfing fog was not alone in the air. Smoke rose from the rooftops, as fire danced through the streets.
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The Musketeer waited at the doorstep to the vassal’s manor. What remained of the town’s shieldsmen had barricaded themselves inside, along with a plethora of refugees. But the true, blood red fruit of this dying tree, was yet to be seen: The Earl Aleric Dascule.
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He had not been seen upon the battlefield, which was to be expected with his age. But it was well known that this was a mask. A veil to hide his true essence. And it would soon be torn away.
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It was then that among the distant cries and clashes, there could be heard the clopping of hooves in the mud. A leathery black steed strode through the street, as the Rott-kin made way. And its rider, a warrior clad in a blackened cloak, and armour of leather and steel, of the same shade. One hand grasped the reigns, while the other curled around the hilt of an ornate and corroded sickle. But the face was the darkest of all, for it was unseen. Veiled, by a leather mask, moulded at the end into a wicked beak, studded and complete with glass irises. It was a visage unmistakeable, the grimm masked face, of the Herald of Pestilence.
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As the Herald dismounted the steed, greaves clanking against the ground The Musketeer knelt.
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“My lady.” He growled, as the Herald approached the stone steps.
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In a low voice, the Herald spoke, “What news of the Horror?”
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The Musketeer answered, “Barricaded in the manor my liege, near as we may tell. We’re ready to storm it, when you give the order.”
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“And what of the Phantom?” the Herald asked.
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“He’s fled to Fereldin. I’d planned to dispatch him former to today’s incursion, my lady.” The Musketeer replied, as he began to arise from his knelt position.
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“See to it that you do.” the Herald responded, as she cast open the manor doors, and what futile barricades lay behind. “Go. Spill the blood he commands.”
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The Herald proceeded into the manor, as the Musketeer led the Rott-kin, pouring through the doors beside. Screams could be heard echoing through the ornate halls, as the Herald of Pestilence found corpses littering the banquet hall. Their work was nearly finished. However, one deed was left to be done. And it was easier to be said. The undoing of the Earl Dascule, proved quite difficult. For he was nowhere to be found.
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At seeing that the assault was fruitless, the Herald fought to contain her growing anger. It was quelled however, when her pupil returned to her.
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“My liege, I bear word.” he said unto her.
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“Speak.” she replied.
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“A letter was found, in the Earl’s chambers. He’s been summoned to council, at Fereldin.” The Musketeer explained.
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The Herald was silent for a few moments.
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“Go, take your warriors to the city. I’ll be upon you in mere days time.”
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