Cross Into Shadows
Cross Into Shadows was a year-long story line taking place during 2014. Most of the event took place in Wehnimer's Landing and its environs, but other parts that tied in took place throughout Elanthia. The first chapter of the story ended with the Baronial Coronation Festival in Talador.
The following are saved posts by GM Kenstrom summarizing the event:
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Message #: 4020
Author: GS4-KENSTROM
Date: 3/14/2013 4:09 AM
Subject: Cross into Shadows - Teaser 1
As I stated earlier, my next storyline "Cross into Shadows" will kick off in December 2013 and last all through next year. There's a lot of work involved and a lot of things happening in it, so in order to help bridge the time gap, I'm going to be posting monthly teasers for the storyline. So here's your first teaser! This one is basically a flashback, finally showing the origin of Walkar's armor and how he came across it back when he was on the run from Grishom Stone in 2011, so we're all on the same page. Enjoy!
Eorgaen, 5111.
“Heroes get beaten and buried boy.”
His father’s final words. Before he had killed him.
He wondered now, what would be his?
The ashen sky was stretched out overhead, tangled with amorphous grey clouds and the frozen crests of the Dragonspine Mountains disappearing among the stars. Snow fell from all around, drifting along the arctic wind that chilled his bones.
But it did not numb his agony.
The demon’s black fire had burned his leg badly, all but reducing it to soupy mush. He stared up at the creature, his vision blurred from blood and tears. Clusters of spikes ran along the demon’s black skin, like ridges of jagged stones. It towered above him, a toothy monstrosity of muscles, claws and horns. Its huge dark membranous wings stretched out behind it, like a thick mantle of shadows. Its eyes were living fire, their red hot glare burning brightly as it watched him try to slowly drag himself away.
He looked past the fiend, to the snowy sky above, wishing more than anything for a sudden torrent of ice and frost to snuff out the fiery creature before him. His fingers, while broken and bent, still desperately clutched the blood-slicked handle of his waraxe. He knew he had perhaps only one final strike left, but was determined to make it count if nothing else.
The huge vathor roared, an intense heat rolling from its mouth and eyes causing the air to shimmer and the snow to melt beneath its feet. The demon stretched out its clawed hand and blood began to pour from its palm, before the crimson liquid ignited into flames, quickly shifting into the shape of a fiery sword.
It took another step closer.
“No, that’s far enough,” a voice said from the darkness. On command, the demon lowered his arm, but its sword of fire still blazed.
The snow in the sky fell down around a black silhouette as it approached, slowly walking into the light of the demon’s fiery glow. The man’s robes were red, or perhaps white but bathed in fire and he moved with an aura of arrogance and a wide smirk was painted across his face.
He looked up at the red-robed figure and immediately snarled. He recognized his hair, black as night and his eyes the deep blue of the sea. They gleamed when he spoke, which means they gleamed when he lied.
“Hello Walkar.” The robed figure smirked again, “You’ve looked better.”
He spat, his aim good, but his force weak. He got more on his chin than even close to his enemy’s feet.
The red-robed figure chuckled, “Ah, I see you are tasteful until the bitter end. Can you believe it Walkar, after all of this time, your father was a soothsayer? You should have listened to him. Perhaps it would have been someone else lying there in snow and blood.”
He swung up with his arm and brought his axe slicing through the air. The blade cut just an inch from the robed man’s face. The crimson figure laughed, but took a step back, “You never could cut it Walkar, and now you couldn’t even cut me.”
The red summoner turned and walked away, “Now you my end him.”
The demon’s inferno sword arced downward, a trail of fire burning behind it. The flaming blade slashed across his neck, scorching the flesh as it buried deep into his shoulder. With a growl, the vathor struck out with its claw, tearing open his throat as he collapsed to the ground. With a whoosh of air, the demon flapped its massive wings and soared into the sky, disappearing into the night.
His head hit the ground first and he felt his life quickly fading. Every pulse echoed in his ears and the pool of blood beneath him expanded every second. Soon the pain in his neck and shoulders were gone and the anguish in his scorched leg melted away. He felt only a deafening numbness as he stared up at the dappled sky, snow falling against the backdrop of night. In each glimmering snowflake, he saw his life. He saw the tears his father shed when his sister was brought into the world, and he saw the tears his father shed when it had cost the life of his mother.
Faces.
Every single flake of snow held one. Young friends he could vaguely name, old lovers he could barely remember. The air became colder, the night even darker. Silence settled all around him and he no longer heard the beat of his pulse or felt the fire in his wounds. It was only the snow and it began to fall steadier. Soon he could barely make out the blackness of night as the snowfall grew so thick around him. The faces within each flake disappeared, replaced now by only one.
His father’s.
He thought of the end, and that when his life finally slipped away, his corpse would be buried by the snow. Buried by the faces. Buried by his guilt.
He thought of his town, of his people and his bloodhound. He thought of all of the things he should have done, and all of his failures. His father’s final words to him had come true. He was beaten, and soon he would be buried.
What had been his final words, he wondered? When death came to him, basked in the glow from a demon and garbed in a robe of crimson, he had said nothing. He had tried to spit at death. He had failed, but he had tried.
“Killing your father was righteous.” A cold and dark voice shattered the silence around him.
“He had died to the bottle long before. His curse would have ended your sister’s life that day. It would have been her blood on his hands, instead of his on yours.” The voice sounded all around him, even snaking through his mind.
“You are not beaten Walkar, nor will you be buried today.” Assured the voice, colder than the ice around him.
He tried to move, but all of the strength in his body had fled. He heard soft footsteps and crunching ice as a cloaked figure approached, his sharp eyes as silver as pewter. The figure carried something in his arms, something so polished it gleamed with the colors of the stormy grey sky above. A shield? No, a breastplate.
The voice brushed across his ears, “Will you be buried today Walkar? Or will you accept the chance I offer? Accept the opportunity to bring justice to your enemy?”
His eyes turned to the axe that had fallen to his side. He would not be beaten, he would not be buried. He would defy death and he would spit in its face.
“Excellent choice.” The voice drifted through his mind, dark and proud.
The cloaked form knelt down, holding out his metal offering. He suddenly felt hands grasping at his chest before a wave of heat coursed through his shoulders and gut. More sounds rushed back to greet him as the very air around him thrummed with life. He clenched his fists as strength flooded back through his body. He craned his neck, his flesh now whole and the pain in his throat gone.
A thick layer of sleet covered the ground, as icy flakes descended from the desolate sky. The cloaked figure faded from sight, disappearing in a rush of wind and silvery motes of light. Walkar then stood to his feet, unbridled power saturating his veins. His eyes went to his chest, where he saw the radiance of his metal breastplate, its glow now bright and crimson, a burning red star amidst a land blanketed with gloomy mist and wrapped in iron skies.
His axe rose from the ground and he reached for it.