The ash still fell here, though the battle had ended ages ago. Each flake drifted like a funeral veil, settling across the hollowed husks of what were once Vescrutia’s champions. Their forms lingered in stone — mouths open in silent defiance, arms frozen mid-strike, eyes wide with the horror of realizing too late that their courage meant nothing before the Horsemen.
Famine stood among them. Her pale fingers brushed one statue’s cracked cheek, as if feeling for warmth that had long since bled into soot. A faint, humorless smile creased her lips before it broke into something harsher — a sneer pulled taut with memory.
“It rarely changes. What they call sacred…” Her voice was low, drifting like smoke through the ashen air. Her fingers traced the edge of a petrified helm, crumbling gray dust into her palm.
“Versus what they view as sacred,” she whispered.
She stepped between the statues, her pace unhurried, her eyes catching every final expression carved in stone. "It’s all here," she thought, her tone almost reverent. “The truth of this realm, engraved in these petrified remains.”
The mothers clutched their children, some wrapped in desperate embrace, others shielding tiny faces from the horrors that fell upon them. Fear hardened in their eyes, even in stone — fear that had turned their last act into shelter.
A few men had died standing, sword frozen mid-arc, or hands glowing with the fading echo of spellcraft. Their jaws were set, their stances unbroken. And fewer still — a rare handful — had met death with fire in their eyes, unwilling to bow, unwilling to yield even as the shadow consumed them.
But most… most had been cradled by fear. Some clutched lovers or kin, dragging them toward impossible escape. Others cowered beneath the weight of inevitable ruin. And some — she stopped before one such figure, her lips parting in a grim smile — had turned blade upon themselves, fleeing the terror of battle for a quieter cowardice.
Her jaw clenched, and for the first time her voice rose, raw and unshaken.
“Cowards,” she hissed. The word tore from her throat like venom. “You *hid* behind children. You begged to be spared. You let fear rot your marrow until even your love became a bargaining chip.”
She spread her hands, palms facing the sky. The earth shuddered in answer. Stone cracked from the statues of the craven — their hollow faces splintering, their limbs shivering as something inside clawed free.
The first Ravenger lurched forward. Its face was a ghastly mockery, stripped of eyes and ears, its flesh sagging around a cavernous mouth and a nose that twitched like a starving beast. Its arms hung bound together in twisted bone, its long legs bent and knocked at the knee as if forever stumbling.
A wail ripped from its throat — high, ragged, inhuman. Another rose beside it, then another. Soon a chorus of their cries filled the plain. At first it was only anguish. Then, woven beneath the sound, words emerged. Broken, echoing fragments of cowardice.
“Take them… leave me…”
“Spare me, not them…”
“I’ll give you anything…”
The Ravengers keened, their voices scraping together until the air itself recoiled. Famine’s lips curved, cruel and satisfied, her earlier softness burned away by fury.
“Your final words, your final acts,” she spat, voice cracking with wrath. “You thought death would silence them. Instead, they will be sung forever — by the monsters your weakness birthed.”
The newborn Ravengers shuffled forward, their ungainly forms grotesque, their mouths gaping like endless hunger. Famine lowered her arms slowly, her expression tempered, a strange serenity folding back into her.
“Cowards are remembered not by stone,” she whispered, “but by screams.”
In the Shadow of Victory
Re: In the Shadow of Victory
The Hold rose from the ash like a scar gouged into the land, its spires crooked and angular, swallowing what little light the twin suns managed to strain through the choking soot. The ground at its feet was blackened and brittle, every step cracking through the crust of a world already broken. Petrified remains stood scattered in its shadow — silent witnesses to a victory that had never been theirs.
Famine stood before her work, silent. The word forced from her mouth, heavy with the taste of marrow and endings.
“Golgathine."
It left her lips like a sentence rather than a name. A fortress not of stone, but of death. Forges from ash and skulls of this world. A monument etched from finality, bound together by her will. She had not chosen the word — it had always been waiting for her, buried in the bones of every world she'd reduced to ash.
A shifting presence stirred behind her. One of the newly wrought creatures dragged itself closer, limbs bound and misshapen, its ghoulish face twisted into a permanent hunger. Its wail broke the silence — a hollow chorus of pleading voices, echoing the last words of those who begged to be spared.
Famine’s eyes lingered on it.
“You are The Abject,” she said, though the words were more thought than sound. It was not a title of glory, but of shame — the raw essence of betrayal given form. It belonged to her alone, carved from the marrow of cowardice and pressed into her service. Unlike the others, this one bore her touch, her grief, her fury.
The creature bowed — or perhaps collapsed — in a grotesque parody of reverence.
Her gaze drifted beyond the Hold, beyond the ash and Corpses, to the memory of a lone figure she had seen once before. A warrior unlike the rest. One who did not scurry or plead, who did not crumble into stone with his back turned. He knew the end would come, and still he rose to meet it. That anomaly lingered in her mind, irritating her like grit beneath the skin, and yet fascinating her with its defiance.
She placed a pale hand against the jagged wall of the Golgathine Hold. For a moment her eyes softened, sorrow bleeding into her expression, as though she could almost pity the realm she had condemned. Then her lips pulled tight, wrath burning through her again — pity had no place here. Still, when her gaze fell back upon the Abject, she reached out and touched its ruined face with unexpected tenderness, a mother’s gesture.
“Build. ,” she whispered.
And in the distance, the Hold groaned as if alive, the ash-rain quickening in its shadow.
Ash-snow fell in slow, endless drifts, blotting the horizon into shades of gray. The half-built walls of the Hold stood like broken teeth jutting from the earth, their skeletal frames swallowing the light that strained to pierce the sky. The air itself seemed weary, carrying no sound but the hiss of cinders as they settled into the dust.
Then came the weight.
The ash shifted, not by wind, but by gravity itself bowing in reverence — or dread. Each footstep struck like a drumbeat buried in the marrow, dull and red, staining the pale ash-snow beneath him as though blood seeped from the earth to mark his path. He came with no herald, no trumpet of war — only silence that grew heavier the closer he drew.
Famine’s eyes lifted from the prism of her work. Her countless hands stilled mid-ritual, as if even they feared the futility of motion beneath his gaze. For a moment she allowed the silence to stretch, pulling tight as a noose. But silence was his language, not hers. Her lips curled, her voice threading through the ruin like a knife.
“So… War walks the ashen fields at last. Wrath dressed in silence. Fury given form"
No answer. Only the ash groaning beneath his tread, each step a hymn older than memory.
Her smile did not falter, but it sharpened.
“You do not speak, yet all things break in your shadow. Even here, in my Hold, the air bends to you. Tell me then… do you come to judge my creation? Or to claim it?”
Still he said nothing. The silence pressed deeper, and his gaze fell upon her.
The ash-snow clung to Famine’s stone-colored skin, gathering in the hollows of her face, but it did not veil her. The truth of her was not in her face at all — it was in her hands. Dozens of them, orbiting her like carrion birds circling a corpse, some clasped in prayer, others bent in cruel, impossible gestures. They twitched faintly, never still, as though each were possessed of a will apart from her own. A thousand rituals half-begun, a thousand curses sealed at the edge of completion.
And yet she stood calm, even gentle, her lips moving in mockery of softness while the swarm of hands betrayed her. War’s silence held them there, suspended between dread and reverence, while the ash fell heavier, faster — as if the world itself sought to bury the sight of her.
Famine stood before her work, silent. The word forced from her mouth, heavy with the taste of marrow and endings.
“Golgathine."
It left her lips like a sentence rather than a name. A fortress not of stone, but of death. Forges from ash and skulls of this world. A monument etched from finality, bound together by her will. She had not chosen the word — it had always been waiting for her, buried in the bones of every world she'd reduced to ash.
A shifting presence stirred behind her. One of the newly wrought creatures dragged itself closer, limbs bound and misshapen, its ghoulish face twisted into a permanent hunger. Its wail broke the silence — a hollow chorus of pleading voices, echoing the last words of those who begged to be spared.
Famine’s eyes lingered on it.
“You are The Abject,” she said, though the words were more thought than sound. It was not a title of glory, but of shame — the raw essence of betrayal given form. It belonged to her alone, carved from the marrow of cowardice and pressed into her service. Unlike the others, this one bore her touch, her grief, her fury.
The creature bowed — or perhaps collapsed — in a grotesque parody of reverence.
Her gaze drifted beyond the Hold, beyond the ash and Corpses, to the memory of a lone figure she had seen once before. A warrior unlike the rest. One who did not scurry or plead, who did not crumble into stone with his back turned. He knew the end would come, and still he rose to meet it. That anomaly lingered in her mind, irritating her like grit beneath the skin, and yet fascinating her with its defiance.
She placed a pale hand against the jagged wall of the Golgathine Hold. For a moment her eyes softened, sorrow bleeding into her expression, as though she could almost pity the realm she had condemned. Then her lips pulled tight, wrath burning through her again — pity had no place here. Still, when her gaze fell back upon the Abject, she reached out and touched its ruined face with unexpected tenderness, a mother’s gesture.
“Build. ,” she whispered.
And in the distance, the Hold groaned as if alive, the ash-rain quickening in its shadow.
Ash-snow fell in slow, endless drifts, blotting the horizon into shades of gray. The half-built walls of the Hold stood like broken teeth jutting from the earth, their skeletal frames swallowing the light that strained to pierce the sky. The air itself seemed weary, carrying no sound but the hiss of cinders as they settled into the dust.
Then came the weight.
The ash shifted, not by wind, but by gravity itself bowing in reverence — or dread. Each footstep struck like a drumbeat buried in the marrow, dull and red, staining the pale ash-snow beneath him as though blood seeped from the earth to mark his path. He came with no herald, no trumpet of war — only silence that grew heavier the closer he drew.
Famine’s eyes lifted from the prism of her work. Her countless hands stilled mid-ritual, as if even they feared the futility of motion beneath his gaze. For a moment she allowed the silence to stretch, pulling tight as a noose. But silence was his language, not hers. Her lips curled, her voice threading through the ruin like a knife.
“So… War walks the ashen fields at last. Wrath dressed in silence. Fury given form"
No answer. Only the ash groaning beneath his tread, each step a hymn older than memory.
Her smile did not falter, but it sharpened.
“You do not speak, yet all things break in your shadow. Even here, in my Hold, the air bends to you. Tell me then… do you come to judge my creation? Or to claim it?”
Still he said nothing. The silence pressed deeper, and his gaze fell upon her.
The ash-snow clung to Famine’s stone-colored skin, gathering in the hollows of her face, but it did not veil her. The truth of her was not in her face at all — it was in her hands. Dozens of them, orbiting her like carrion birds circling a corpse, some clasped in prayer, others bent in cruel, impossible gestures. They twitched faintly, never still, as though each were possessed of a will apart from her own. A thousand rituals half-begun, a thousand curses sealed at the edge of completion.
And yet she stood calm, even gentle, her lips moving in mockery of softness while the swarm of hands betrayed her. War’s silence held them there, suspended between dread and reverence, while the ash fell heavier, faster — as if the world itself sought to bury the sight of her.
Re: In the Shadow of Victory
The ash-snow thickened, muffling the half-formed Hold in gray silence. Famine’s hands stirred again, their restless orbit twitching at the edges of her calm. She tilted her head, her voice slithering through the air.
“Tell me, Fury… what is the measure of your herald? Has he loosed your name upon the world ”
The silence stretched. War did not answer.
But his armor did.
The faceless helm shifted, and within its dark reflection the ash itself seemed to ripple. Ghostly visions unfurled across the blackened steel — cities ablaze beneath a crimson sky, armies drowning in their own screams. Akundae’s banner was shown buried under the bodies of his foes, raised again, buried once more, a cycle without end.
Famine’s many hands froze in mid-gesture as the reflections twisted further: allies cut down without mercy, betrayals burning behind familiar eyes, whole bloodlines erased in Akundae’s march. The whispers of steel clashing and bones breaking bled faintly from the armor, too soft to be sound, too sharp to be memory.
The visions did not show victory. Nor defeat. Only the unending wheel of conflict, each turn grinding Vescrutia deeper into ruin.
Famine’s lips parted in a low laugh, though her countless hands trembled as if something in those visions stirred even their hunger.
“So… he wages war against all, not for crowns or riches, but for you. For silence?”
The armor flickered once more — a glimpse of Akundae himself, eyes hollow, face lit by firelight, standing atop the corpses of both foe and friend. His mouth moved, though no sound came, until the image shattered back into ash-snow.
War did not move. Did not speak. The silence around him thickened, a weight greater than her questions, greater than her hands, greater even than the Hold she had built.
The ash-snow swirled heavier, drifting against the jagged ribs of the unfinished Hold. Famine’s eyes narrowed, her voice low, though the air carried it with unnatural clarity.
“You do not deny it. Then tell me—”
Her words caught, not from hesitation, but from the thousand hands that circled her. They shifted restlessly, breaking the symmetry of their orbit. Some clenched into fists, knuckles straining; others folded as if in prayer; a few clawed at the empty air, raking lines through the Ash-snow.
She steadied herself, her lips pulling taut as though restraining her own hunger.
“—tell me, Fury… what does he hope to build from this pyre? Does Akundae wage war for a throne, for dominion… or is he just another blind dog, casting only your shadow?”
War did not stir.
But his armor stirred for him. The black sheen rippled like liquid, and the ash-snow bent toward it. Flickering across its surface, Famine beheld war herald again. She saw him knee-deep in ash and corpses, his face upturned, whispering into the void. His words were lost to silence, but the meaning was clear: supplication.
He did not seek to rule Vescrutia — he sought only to...
The visions deepened. Armies fell not in conquest, but in futility. Fields salted not for wealth, but for erasure. Every battle Akundae began ended the same — ruin without renewal.
Famine’s smile faltered. Her countless hands began to move again, frantic, fracturing into patterns with no coherence. Some pressed against her stone-colored skin as if to shield her heart, others pointed accusingly at War’s still figure, still others curled inward, gnawing at nothing.
“A herald who feeds only oblivion,” she whispered, though her tone carried the weight of accusation.
“Is that your will, then, Wrath? The circle of blood, without even carrion left for famine to devour?”
Still, he did not answer. Only the slow, suffocating silence of his presence. The ash-snow grew so thick it blurred the horizon, and the half-built Hold seemed to sink into it, as though already being claimed by the war his armor foretold.
Famine’s words dwindled, slipping into the thick ash-snow that drifted down like the silence itself wished to swallow them. Her many hands writhed in their orbit, restless, yet her gaze never truly lifted to meet his. She had not looked at him — not once since he stepped onto these ashen fields. To look upon War was to court the weight of his will, and wasnt ready, until now.
“Answer me,” she pressed, though softer now, almost a plea.
His armor stirred in place of his tongue. The sheen of its black surface rippled as if ink spilled across glass, pulling light into itself, then bleeding it back out as images. Not of Akundae. Not of Vescrutia.
But of another world.
A battlefield drowning in fire and dust. Towers falling, seas boiling to steam, their screams thick enough to suffocate the sky. She knew this place. She had walked it in another age, alongside her own herald, his hand brushing hers when the carnage allowed. A gesture fleeting, forbidden, but real.
The memory sharpened cruelly. Her herald’s, famines heralds face appeared, streaked in blood and ash, his eyes fixed on hers even as their leader’s wrath tore the field apart. His lips shaped her name — not Famine, not her title, but the secret one whispered between them when no one else could hear. She had not heard it spoken in centuries.
Her countless hands convulsed. Some curled into claws against her throat, some pressed her stomach as if starved, others covered her face to shield her from the vision. Still she refused to lift her eyes to War’s, though his armor left her no escape.
“You dare—” the words hissed out, sharp and cracking. Her voice trembled, equal The ash-snow halted, muffling the half-formed Hold in gray silence. Famine’s hands stirred again, their restless orbit twitching at the edges of her calm. She tilted her head, her voice slithering through the air.
“You unearth this… this blasphemy? After all your silence? Answer me, fury!”
The memory played on. Her herald, falling beneath their leader’s judgment, his defiance extinguished not by the enemy but by their own kind. His last gaze had not begged salvation. It had only sought her, even as he was erased.
Famine’s lips parted, but her words failed. The ash-snow clung to her like burial shrouds, her many hands wrapping tight around her body as though she could bind herself against the hunger gnawing inside. For a long moment she simply breathed — ragged, shallow — her eyes still fixed anywhere but him.
War, faceless and unyielding, remained silent. His armor spoke enough.
“Tell me, Fury… what is the measure of your herald? Has he loosed your name upon the world ”
The silence stretched. War did not answer.
But his armor did.
The faceless helm shifted, and within its dark reflection the ash itself seemed to ripple. Ghostly visions unfurled across the blackened steel — cities ablaze beneath a crimson sky, armies drowning in their own screams. Akundae’s banner was shown buried under the bodies of his foes, raised again, buried once more, a cycle without end.
Famine’s many hands froze in mid-gesture as the reflections twisted further: allies cut down without mercy, betrayals burning behind familiar eyes, whole bloodlines erased in Akundae’s march. The whispers of steel clashing and bones breaking bled faintly from the armor, too soft to be sound, too sharp to be memory.
The visions did not show victory. Nor defeat. Only the unending wheel of conflict, each turn grinding Vescrutia deeper into ruin.
Famine’s lips parted in a low laugh, though her countless hands trembled as if something in those visions stirred even their hunger.
“So… he wages war against all, not for crowns or riches, but for you. For silence?”
The armor flickered once more — a glimpse of Akundae himself, eyes hollow, face lit by firelight, standing atop the corpses of both foe and friend. His mouth moved, though no sound came, until the image shattered back into ash-snow.
War did not move. Did not speak. The silence around him thickened, a weight greater than her questions, greater than her hands, greater even than the Hold she had built.
The ash-snow swirled heavier, drifting against the jagged ribs of the unfinished Hold. Famine’s eyes narrowed, her voice low, though the air carried it with unnatural clarity.
“You do not deny it. Then tell me—”
Her words caught, not from hesitation, but from the thousand hands that circled her. They shifted restlessly, breaking the symmetry of their orbit. Some clenched into fists, knuckles straining; others folded as if in prayer; a few clawed at the empty air, raking lines through the Ash-snow.
She steadied herself, her lips pulling taut as though restraining her own hunger.
“—tell me, Fury… what does he hope to build from this pyre? Does Akundae wage war for a throne, for dominion… or is he just another blind dog, casting only your shadow?”
War did not stir.
But his armor stirred for him. The black sheen rippled like liquid, and the ash-snow bent toward it. Flickering across its surface, Famine beheld war herald again. She saw him knee-deep in ash and corpses, his face upturned, whispering into the void. His words were lost to silence, but the meaning was clear: supplication.
He did not seek to rule Vescrutia — he sought only to...
The visions deepened. Armies fell not in conquest, but in futility. Fields salted not for wealth, but for erasure. Every battle Akundae began ended the same — ruin without renewal.
Famine’s smile faltered. Her countless hands began to move again, frantic, fracturing into patterns with no coherence. Some pressed against her stone-colored skin as if to shield her heart, others pointed accusingly at War’s still figure, still others curled inward, gnawing at nothing.
“A herald who feeds only oblivion,” she whispered, though her tone carried the weight of accusation.
“Is that your will, then, Wrath? The circle of blood, without even carrion left for famine to devour?”
Still, he did not answer. Only the slow, suffocating silence of his presence. The ash-snow grew so thick it blurred the horizon, and the half-built Hold seemed to sink into it, as though already being claimed by the war his armor foretold.
Famine’s words dwindled, slipping into the thick ash-snow that drifted down like the silence itself wished to swallow them. Her many hands writhed in their orbit, restless, yet her gaze never truly lifted to meet his. She had not looked at him — not once since he stepped onto these ashen fields. To look upon War was to court the weight of his will, and wasnt ready, until now.
“Answer me,” she pressed, though softer now, almost a plea.
His armor stirred in place of his tongue. The sheen of its black surface rippled as if ink spilled across glass, pulling light into itself, then bleeding it back out as images. Not of Akundae. Not of Vescrutia.
But of another world.
A battlefield drowning in fire and dust. Towers falling, seas boiling to steam, their screams thick enough to suffocate the sky. She knew this place. She had walked it in another age, alongside her own herald, his hand brushing hers when the carnage allowed. A gesture fleeting, forbidden, but real.
The memory sharpened cruelly. Her herald’s, famines heralds face appeared, streaked in blood and ash, his eyes fixed on hers even as their leader’s wrath tore the field apart. His lips shaped her name — not Famine, not her title, but the secret one whispered between them when no one else could hear. She had not heard it spoken in centuries.
Her countless hands convulsed. Some curled into claws against her throat, some pressed her stomach as if starved, others covered her face to shield her from the vision. Still she refused to lift her eyes to War’s, though his armor left her no escape.
“You dare—” the words hissed out, sharp and cracking. Her voice trembled, equal The ash-snow halted, muffling the half-formed Hold in gray silence. Famine’s hands stirred again, their restless orbit twitching at the edges of her calm. She tilted her head, her voice slithering through the air.
“You unearth this… this blasphemy? After all your silence? Answer me, fury!”
The memory played on. Her herald, falling beneath their leader’s judgment, his defiance extinguished not by the enemy but by their own kind. His last gaze had not begged salvation. It had only sought her, even as he was erased.
Famine’s lips parted, but her words failed. The ash-snow clung to her like burial shrouds, her many hands wrapping tight around her body as though she could bind herself against the hunger gnawing inside. For a long moment she simply breathed — ragged, shallow — her eyes still fixed anywhere but him.
War, faceless and unyielding, remained silent. His armor spoke enough.
The team