Dust rained down from the arched halls of the Temple.
Even over the ardent chanting of those gathered, the booming noise of cannons easily reached them here. The Acolytes of the Academy of the Arcane Arts of Aith’erant, Humans and Aelves in dark red robes, their faces hidden behind golden masks, sang Hymns of Glory and Praise, while the Tzaangor Priesthood feverishly weaved the ritual spell.
The floors of the vast hall were made from red marble, and at every pillar lining the walls there was a bright torch, illuminating the room with golden light. Numerous statues of Tzaangor Saints and other legendary figures from the Holy Scriptures lined the walls. Pyres burned in Worship.
The Paladin of Fate, Vardeshir the Solemn, spectated the ritual, accompanied by his entourage.
For now, the Holy Sigils of Protection carved into the walls of the Citadel had held. The tremor of the Desraki’s advanced weaponry’s impact was felt, though, and it still caused damage.
This was concerning, considering these were only the first few ships of the Desraki fleet bombarding the Citadel of Coalescence; soon, very soon, more of them would be in reach.
“It is intriguing how they just happened to arrive within a timeframe without any realmgate activity, is it not?” a female voice asked. “These Desraki are as lucky as they are brave.”
For a moment, his gaze turned towards her, how she laid upon her ornate chaise longue, in her elegant dress, looking up to him languidly. He did not question how she managed to convince anybody to move the furniture into His Temple.
Vardeshir retracted his gaze, instead following the arabesque carvings of the hall’s pillars, up to the great dome of stained glass in the center, with intricately formed pieces of yellow, orange and blue glass depicting the Flames of Our Saviour.
“Where is the western flotilla?” Vardeshir spoke, exhaling, to expel the silence he felt.
“Your Eminence… it is likely it has been destroyed.” the Templar Champion to his side replied. He stood in a disciplined pose, as could be expected, but the Paladin could hear the restlessness and concern in his voice.
“Admiral Sepehr?”
“He is further to the east, your Eminence. It is unlikely he will arrive here in time, I’m afraid.”
“It was quite fearless of the Desraki to come here. Foolyhardy, even. Yet it may very well grant them their victory.” the elegant Tzaangor woman interrupted their conversation, her tone still languid.
“Any changes? Are there natural eruptions to be expected yet?” Vardeshir asked.
“No eruption is incoming.”
“All those victories you have gained, dear. And it brought you to this.” The Tzaangor lady continued.
Vardeshir kept his silence, arms folded behind his back.
The Templar Champion used this moment to turn towards his superior, his tone urgent. “Your Eminence, their cannons have greater reach than our artillery. We have to detach some of the priestho-”
“No.” Vardeshir’s voice was quiet, but firm.
“Could it be you underestimated the Desraki? They have come here, into the heart of your power. They have fouled the desert. And now, even the tendrils of the Place Furthest of the Flame have reached us here.” She spoke, almost jovially, taking pleasure in his scorn.
“Enough!”
“Your Eminence?” The Champion stood, surprised.
“We need more sacrifices, to honour Our Burning Saviour.” Vardeshir stated.
“Of course, your Eminence.”
The Paladins gaze wandered, up to the eastern wall.
There was a single, vast painting of impressive artistry, depicting an enormous, winged being of blinding light floating above a battlefield – the golden-clad Templars were doing battle with a barbaric force of browns and reds on a desert landscape. Some of the Templars depicted seemed to burst into flames, some taking flight and joining the winged being in the skies as flaming disciples. Their barbaric adversaries were in the process of being slaughtered, those that were facing the blinding light were clutching in pain at their faces, fires blazing out of their eyes.
It was glorious, truly, worthy of Our Saviour, he thought, as he regarded the details of the painting while walking towards the center of the temple, the great glass dome, leaving the Champion and the Lady behind. He stopped right in the middle of it, and looked up. Yellow and orange lights fell onto her from the stained glass above.
He shuddered blissfully.
You truly felt on fire here.
Vardeshir had come to a decision.
He gestured towards the two Cathallars, who knelt in chains beside the statue of a stern Tzaangor Crusader. He had had other plans for them, valuable prisoners as they were, but the circumstances had left him no choice.
“Bring them here.” He spoke, solemnly. “They will be part of the next group of nine, to Our Saviour’s Glory.”
The Aelves were gripped by strong golden gauntlets, and brought to the center of the temple, with a great circle of adepts chanting, and Priests reciting the holy scriptures.
They were not the first being burned here, today, upon Pyres of Praise and Prayer, but the most potent sacrifices indeed.
As they were chained upon the Pyre, and set alight, they sang a Song of Sacrifice in the most Pure Voice their creator had gifted them, and the Holiness of the act was felt by all those of the Faith, and elevated them to religious ecstasy.
Vardeshir the Solemn himself stood at the temple’s center, in deep concentration, weaving Fate.
Slowly, but inexorably, Golden Light filled the Temple’s hall, and the eruption of pure Arcane Power turned many of the weaker aspirants amongst the adepts instantly to ash.
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Out at sea, the change was not noticeable at first. The Desraki could see Golden Light emanating from the Citadel in the distance, but the sea itself, it was naturally dark. Few noticed how it grew darker even, until it was a mass of pure blackness, until it was already too late. Thick black fog began to rise, mercilessly enveloping the Desraki fleet, creeping through their decks, in every cabin, into every crevice, first making it hard to see, then making it hard to breath.
Panic spread amongst the crews, officers uselessly trying to reinstate order, their shouts and curses swallowed by the darkness.
The shadows rose, into great waves, crashing down upon the ships of the mighty fleet as the pure essence of Ulgu was conjured upon them; like a great maw of Shadow, they closed in upon them.
Many of the ships were simply swallowed whole, never to reappear. Others, the Templars later found floating upon the water – ghost ships, forsaken, with no living soul left, the entire crew taken away by the cruel, unyielding fog. Untold numbers of Khornate lives simply snuffed out, not with a roar, but with a whisper.
Nothing was left of the grand armada sent to topple the Templars, and indeed, some of the ships would now sail under Our Burning Saviour’s banner.
With the Templars finally gaining control over the wild magics of the defunct realmgate, the Templar holdings in Vensoth Bay had become all but unassailable by sea; conversely, the Templar’s own overseas supply lines were strengthened substantially.
A new wave of Templar expansion was soon to begin.
