SoO 3 - War of Talons - Chapter 2

War of Talons: Tales of the Wylde
Chapter 2 - A Call to Arms

The moon waxed and waned over the course of four months as the satyr made an effort to let the words of the council be the final few spoken in regards to the problem in Orlandia. He met with his fellow revelers to prepare for future gatherings, discussing the music to be played and dances to perform. He helped in the fields and toiled in the breweries, doing his part as expected for his community. Many of his nights were restless, the sounds and visions of suffering waking him from sleep, familiar voices that seemed to be calling him from across the Sea of Oak, and across the realm. Most consistent in his dreams was the image of a great bird swathed in blinding flame. Then, one night, the bright bird clashed violently with darker winged creatures in his mind... sick, twisted pieces of darkness given form and movement. These sinister things clawed and pecked voraciously, mindlessly tearing at the fiery plumage despite its punishing heat. Aurelion knew of the phoenix as an ancient creature, one of many fanciful beasts that roamed the Earth long before the wylder. To see such a bird was usually an omen of renewal, of life rising from ruin... and yet here this creature was in his dreams, fighting for its life. The bird called out in an almost deafening shrill no eagle or hawk could match. The satyr awoke, panting through clenched teeth, his body damp with fevered sweat. He sat upright, calming himself as he tried to breathe in deeper, less desperate breaths. He froze as he heard the phoenix call out again, from what seemed a considerable distance this time, but in the realm of the waking.

The satyr slid from his bedding and dressed quickly, donning enough to maintain modesty and barrelled through his front door, half-running into the street of his village, and looked around. The great bird's protracted shrieks echoed across the night sky, and yet no other hut or hovel stirred. No candles or lanterns were being hastily lit. No murmurs of confusion or clamoring came from the other villagers, no commotion broke the calm of the sleeping neighbors. Aurelion began to question whether he was truly conscious. The sounds continued, pausing for moments, then resuming with the same urgency and volume. The satyr surmised that this creature was in need, and was calling only to him, for reasons beyond his understanding. He jogged back into his home, and quickly threw open an old chest at the foot of his bed. His housemates were awake now, mumbling complaints as he rifled through his stored belongings noisily. He cracked a subtle smile as he happened upon a leather belt he was seeking, as well as a bearded axe that belonged to his father. He applied the belt to his midsection and buckled it, then fastened the axe to his side with a hanging strap. Aurelion strode briskly out of his house, the elves and orcs he shared a flat with blinking in disbelief as he climbed upon his horse and kicked its ribs with purpose. Aurelion bolted away on his steed, following the faraway cries of the phoenix.

Aurelion's mount thundered down the road of flat stones, the impressive hoofbeats of a healthy draughthorse drumming upon the ground. She galloped with surprising speed as she carried her charge through the forest paths and city roads, seeming to know her master's need and keeping pace without faltering. Aurelion soon found himself in the center of Delamarre, and the night was silent. The satyr slowed his steed to a walk as he swallowed nervously, wondering if he was too late to help. The night was unsettlingly calm again. The satyr ground his teeth in frustration, fearing that he may have been chasing a nightmare or some troublesome phantom. He patted the neck of his heaving steed, trying to calm her. "Easy, Poppet," he said in a soothing tone. "I'll let you rest and we'll head back-". The shocking cry of the phoenix erupted again. Aurelion's horse reared and neighed, almost throwing him. The reality of this creature was undeniable as the horse reacted. This time, the call had more direction, and the satyr knew it had to be one place... the gate! He coerced Poppet into a hasty gallop and rode hard to the source of the shrieks.

As the satyr approached the legendary gates, the awful sounds of the phoenix rattled his skull, his horns vibrating slightly as each terrible wave pierced the otherwise impervious doors. He could see several guards from Delemarre, armed for battle and yet cowering, holding their helmets in pain as they too were audibly assaulted. Then came a great impact, and the gates, though holding fast, moved slightly, as though something of great size had thrown itself against them. Another slam rocked the gates, and the guards took a step back, making their weapons ready. The great thing railed against the door... repeatedly. Aurelion trembled as he watched the doors of oak and elven steel move with each hammering impact. The great bird gave another deafening shriek from the other side, and another strike against the gates followed, punctuated this time by a most unnerving cacophony... thousands of calls and shrieks from things beyond the gates that only played at being birds. These were the shadowfowl, once normal beings, some even human, now corrupted and diseased with a living darkness that escaped from oblivion when the Yaoguai had returned. These were the same things that tormented and assaulted the phoenix in his nightmare, and here they were, in numbers great enough to shake the Oakenfold Gate. The sounds from the other side of the gate were maddening, and two of the guards stepped backward, dropping their weapons, their forms shaken and pale with absolute terror. Suddenly, the gates, and the things behind them, went silent. Nothing came through the passage, save for what sounded like labored breathing. Something remained at the gate, heaving lungfuls of air... waiting, it seemed. The satyr could no longer stand and watch. He had no way of knowing what stood on the other side: the phoenix of his dreams, or some misshapen abomination sent by the Demonlord Corax. The guards simply stood in place, mouths agape despite years of training and defending this portal. Something had crept in past the gate, regardless of its magicks, and forced its way into the minds of the soldiers as they stared wide-eyed into the middle distance. The evil of the shadowfowls was quickly corrupting them. The satyr watched one guard, moving like a frail puppet, producing a copy of the key to the gate and holding it aloft. Aurelion clenched his teeth and took a breath. His right hand tugged at the strap holding the axe, loosening the knot so he could draw the weapon. He stepped forward, his heart racing as the key began to hum. The doors of the gate began their mechanized process, and the satyr's hands wrung tightly on the handle of his axe as he prepared to fight. He was no soldier, no great warrior, yet he prepared himself to engage his potential foes, be they intruders through the gate or the tainted guards around him. The doors clanked, and gave way.

The satyr found himself awash in brilliant light and a strangely comforting heat, as though he were in a great furnace. He blinked, squinting as he raised a hand to shield his eyes, trying to gaze upon what lay beyond the now open gate. A creature stood in the entrance, breathing heavily and wavering, obviously battle-weary. It was the phoenix of his dreams, burning like a sun as it looked upon him, it's impressive head turning to look at him with an unblinking, steady eye. Movement in the sky distracted him, and he looked upward. For a moment it appeared as though the bird and the satyr were in the eye of a great cyclone, swirling above them in a colossal circle of ink black clouds. Aurelion's eyes became more focused, and he muttered an old fel expression as his vision drank in the horror of the details: thousands upon thousands of shadowfowl, oily, vile perversions of crows and ravens, circling and calling in nightmarish tones. The satyr stepped back, the terror starting to seap into the edges of his mind. Then there was a voice, unknown yet familiar, and it called his name with authority, "Aurelion Kelkallen! Son of Morthos Kelkallen, bearer of the blood of the Ancients... be still!,". The satyr looked again at the phoenix, astonished. The voice continued, "The fates draw their hands across the strings of time, young satyr, and the resounding song bears your name. This realm has fallen out of balance, and its keepers know you have heard its call for help. The Demonlord grows more powerful each day. Countless mortals shall suffer. More realms than you can comprehend are in danger."
Aurelion stammered, overwhelmed," B-but I am only a simple satyr! A reveler, not a warrior... certainly not a hero!"
"The blood of heroes pumps through your heart, through your mind, along your veins. Greatness lies within you like so many others."
"But what can I do...," the satyr points skyward, "... against that?!,".
"You must gather other heroes and make a stand against the Demonlord. You must prepare the mortals of Orlandia for the return of their lost king. Most importantly, you must seek out that which will undo the Demonlord's magicks. You must find... Khaz'Radan!".
Aurelion puzzled at the great bird," But what is it! And where can I find-". The massive cyclone of shadowfowl broke, and the multitude of winged things dove. "Time grows short, satyr," the voice cut in," Go... find those that would stand with you and seek out Khaz'Radan. You shall not be far from my influence, nor my observation." The phoenix spread its large wings, its plumage burning brighter and hotter as the shadowfowl descended and began to surround them. The great bird made eye contact with Aurelion and drew in a deep breath," For now, a gift...,". The phoenix emitted another deafening shriek, and blinding light launched forth, striking the satyr. He yelled in surprise as the flames flowed and eddied around him. For a moment there was no pain, then, an intense burning on his right arm stung him as though something were being carved upon him with a hot knife. The satyr faltered, stumbling backward into the Wyldewood side of the gate. He fell to the forest floor, losing conciousness as the doors of the Oakenfold Gate closed, the sounds of a disturbing clash of fire and shadow carrying on, the flames of an inferno lashing at the last sliver of opening in the doors, before they slammed shut, the energies of the high magicks securing them once again. A short distance away, Belthazan and a full compliment of elven guards approached, and paused as they surveyed the area. Aurelion lay motionless on the ground, the smoldering bodies of the gate's guards next to him. Belthazan shook where he stood, furious.