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                                  Golden Hours

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   Narem was cautious. In everything, caution brought success. "What you'll
learn from me is perspective. Your enemy cares not for the sensibilities of the
heart, as you closest friend may one day betray you. When in doubt, verify."
He paced in front of them, the energy and anxiety of presentation racing through
him. He felt their eyes on him, and he prayed they'd watch a little longer and
stay open much longer than that. "The gibbering mouthers of the forest are just
as mind-numbing as the kind from below, but there's something about an elk head
screaming and gnashing that sets the teeth on edge." They gazed without
comprehension. Some were almost slack-jawed. Did they not know what awaited
them? Of course not, but did they not care? Of course not. They were glorified
city guards, given plate and pike and banner, hopped up on the drums of war.
Death waits for no-one. Least of all the unready.

"I've seen things you wouldn't believe. Horrors beyond comprehension. I'm not
here to tell you about them, I'm here to temper you with caution and bring you
home safe. There's always going to be another monster, and it'll be just as
terrifying as the last. You never really get used to it, so don't believe that
I'm some other kind of man just because I don't shit my britches and run. We've
all been there. What I have is experience, yes, but more than that I have the
bonds that bind me to my fellow man. I'm sure you have much the same, so _use
it_ and do not relent."

   Maybe it was pointless. There's only so much you can say before the words
fell like sand. The hollow hours that lay before them were daunting in part
because the stress compounded into a dense ball that weighed a man down. These
warriors were tough, yes, but they were built to fight things of _this_ world,
not the one below. How many would break and run? Hopefully but a few, but a few
still might.

   They prepared with maces and halberds, tools for dispatching the undead and
monsters respectively. The mace for crushing bones, the halberd for much the
same but at a distance. They had the benefit of time, but time weighs you down.
Too much caution and you might as well throw it to the wind - for nothing is
gained by running in circles.

   What more was there to say? Yet the lectures continued. For weeks they had
been planning, and yet here they were. Once the high command decided they were
ready, they were ready to march. And they were ready. They were prepared. And
for many, they were ready to die.

   Or so he told himself. The monster would come out of her forest, as if drawn
to the power of the King's fist. They always did. But soldiers were in short
supply, short enough to keep them busy even through peace-time. In fact wars
were so rare and short that many had never tasted one - most, in fact. What
other kingdom was spared the time to fight? What was there to gain? Usually it
was some noble's dispute that caused conflict, and they would take their levies
and march against one another. Often the King would allow it, as it weeded out
the weaker of the two. And other times he'd deny their justice, for he had need
of both. It all felt so... Arbitrary, to die for the whim of another.

   But what did he know? He was just an assassin.

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   Ursene savored the feeling of holding the ball of ice in her hands. It was
unnaturally cold, and felt covered in a slick coating of melted water - but no
dripping came. She spun it around, passed it back and forth, and gazed into it's
depths. Pure as crystal glass, it radiated light that played against the walls
of her home.

   The pond she lay stretched out before glimmered as it reflected the rays of
light, and she wondered if she'd ever see it again. There had been little time
in her campaign, too little to spend basking in the coven of nature's beauty. It
felt different now, like she was trying too hard to touch that side of herself.
She had begun to change as a human might, and perhaps it was the influence of
Carrion, ever at her side. It felt... Wrong. She took her orb, and departed.

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   She felt constricted. Her efforts had been contested at every turn by the
humans, and suddenly out of nowhere a large host of them had appeared. Where did
they come from? She didn't know that many warriors lived in the whole world. Yet
here they were, camped just days from her forest. She snarled.

   She travelled the hidden forest roads and gathered her strength. With every
step taken, she drew power from the trees and called to the animals. What few
remained obeyed without question - they knew her power, though they came to her
in fear. Where once was loyalty, now they saw only a predator suffused with the
stench of decay. She forced her will into the ground beneath them, calling to
any wandering undead in the dungeons below, and probing for spirits she could
conjure bones for.

   The stuff of nightmares were her everyday routine. She took the bones of
animals long dead and held them up with her twisting vines. The macabre puppets
danced to her tune and left sorrow in their wake. The nearby villages had been
depopulated by her relentless incursions, but they held great bounty both for
her sacrifices and for the necromancy. When she lacked bones for manikins, she
made do with sticks and fallen branches. These were weaker, but the vines grew
with such speed that it didn't matter. All it took were nature gems, and she had
plenty of those.

   She grew her gems in two ways. The first was by placing a river rocks in a
pool of animal urine. Once a week she'd top up the pool, and on the final day of
each moon she poured in the blood of a great stag or bear, mixed with a pile of
crushed insects. The process took eleven moons, but once finished the stone
radiated an aura of magic. She used these stones for natural rituals and the
fabrication of magical artifacts that she gave to Carrion and a few of her
greatest undead creations.

   The second way she created gems was by placing stones with the color of the
foam from the base of a waterfall in the dirt. She'd cover them from the
sunlight, and expose them to the moon. Every day she'd bury fresh bones beside
them, and every day she'd uproot sprouted seeds and leave them to wither. The
placement of the stones was important as well - it needed to be an empty place
with plenty of wind, as she needed the dying saplings to see the bones of death,
know that was their fate, and be blown away before succumbing. Thus she
preserved the essence of _death_, rather than the dead. After eight years of
this, the gems crystallized into a dark purple color - the darker the better.
She used them for her necromancy, and since her process was labor intensive she
had fewer of these gems.

   As she reflected, she gathered her forces and drew them unto her as
protection. Should the army advance, they'd be needed. But still it lay, just on
the edge of her awareness. _A threat..._ she supposed.

   The icicle orb she possessed was found buried deep in the earth below her
forest. It had fought her at first, but her latent power had proven powerful
enough to earn it's respect. Every boon must be brought to bear in this final
battle, should it ever appear, and she waited and wondered how best to prepare.
Though it was of water magic, of which she possessed no trace, the orb
recognized her as a wielder of magic and thus gave her power over ice. It took
a mighty effort from her, but she had learned and practiced and kept it hidden
within her sanctum. She only hoped it would prove useful in the new world they
sought.

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   The orb was restless. It knew there was peril ahead, for it could see beyond
the horizon. It knew what waited, how powerful it was.

   The master didn't stand a chance.

   Yet still she labored, gathering what little power she had. Did she not
realize the battle had already been fought? A thousand thousand times, over and
over... Yet the mortals must play their games, again and again, as the hourglass
spins. Forward, then back - time did flow. For ever unto the present did hours
do flow. Cradled in space, and cherished in time, there's no place like the
present, where all of our dreams do wind.

   Her fingers splayed across the surface, and the feeling was sublime. To be
held was different, it was fine, but to be used... It coursed within and
channelled through, forming crystalline structures that ever did grew. The orb
was but a window, to another forgotten place - and peer through the darkness did
all who would place - their hands on the mirror, who granted it's boon, to those
who would wisper - of terror and gloom. For what is the ice but a memory of
fear? Scarcely unfiltered through time and through space, it's shivering memory
left unbidden in it's wake.

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   Carrion had never seen the orb. He had tempered himself in vicious battle
beside her, yet never did she reach for this particular trinket. _Was it a last
resort?_ He couldn't help but pray. The darkness inside him grew steadily with
every man he did slay. He completed his task, yet ever did she hunger - the
blood of the innocents is tempting, but too much'll tear you asunder.

   He knew what he was doing was wrong. But he had no choice. Serve, or perish,
and he knew he should fall on his sword. But yet he refused. Something within
him held fast. It told him to continue, and fight to the last, but more than
that it said he had hope. That he should cherish his life, whatever whims it may
take.

   So he cherished. The dancing and whipping of his emerald blade sung songs in
his mind as it tore flesh from bone. His mailed fist crushing and breaking were
sensory delights - the screams of his foes rent terror through the night. What
solace had he, a most terrible to be? Only the pain he inflicted in copious
symphonies.

   But now his time was ending, he could feel it in his bones - the hour fast
approacheth, when death was repaid his loans.

   But not today. Today, they opened the portal. Today, the army at their gates
who dallied and lay fallow would taste no fulfillment as their prey escaped into
worlds unknown and lept unbidden to a new life in a respite from the dreams of
death and screams that ever did assail him. He wondered if she dreamed, and if
she dreamed, if she dreamed the dreams he often dreamed. He had no need for
sleep, sleep was when the living recovered from the trauma of the day. No, he
never recovered. His watch was unending, and his dreams lept unbidden from the
dark recesses of his mind, ever just out of sight and ever clinging through the
night.

   And so they readied themselves at last, bearing all of their possessions and
powers they held, standing before the dark pillars in the pitch black where day
dare not tread. Not lately, at least. The blood sacrifices they'd made had given
new life to the vines that grew here, bolstered and vivid in their vile
putrescence. They wrapped the standing stones and choked them in blood, dripping
down in a cascade that painted every surface. The center was tepid, like the
surface of a bubble, it waited and wallowed and twisted for those
uncircumspected.

   What lay beyond? There was only one way to find out.

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   Narem heard the bang before the shockwave hit him. He felt the world lurch,
as if a great hole had been torn in a far off corner of the map. It fell away
from him like quicksand into a sinkhole, twisting and sliding below his feet and
ever drawing him nearer. But his feet never left the floor, the world never
shook or changed, the leaves on the trees were tranquil, even as the sky above
him screamed in agony.

   He looked around at the shocked and stricken faces around him and knew they
felt the same, yet... The birds still sang. The clouds still encircled them, and
the wind still blew. _What sorcery was this?_

   There was no time to waste. Finding his footing in his new, strange reality,
he sped past the confused and crying men who suddenly were without purchase.
Onward he ran, to whom he could not say - but something within him guided him on
that day. Into a tent, large as they come, the adventurers of the guild were
assembled one by one. A glance between them confirmed their suspicions, the
world was dying and bleeding in conniption.

   "What do we do?" He was the first to speak. They looked at the faces around
them, and with growing clarity they knew without speaking. Shouldering their
broadswords and hefting their spellbooks, out of the tent they filed one by one
to the circumstances.

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