Step after step, the Archprophetess went.
Her clawed feet cut into the weirdly soft jungle floor. After her, the heavily armoured Templars followed, a more than obvious target in the midst of thick Plantlife with their golden plate and dark red cloaks.
Obvious they were, and thus, they seemed like easy pickings for all the warbands converging into the Dell. She had already heard in Civilian that a magnitude of explorers had already gone there before her small expedition; Orruks, Stormcast, and most dangerous of all – the Seraphon of Xarlanth. Not only were they behind the Aelven warriors who had attacked them back in the ruins of Civilia, they also had amassed here in the jungle, at least so the rumor went. They could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting. Looking for the right moment to strike.
Archprophetess Sytarith went, step after step, upright and unshakably confident.
Outwardly. Of course, her warband was not as much of an easy picking as they first appeared, and it was not the considerable martial prowess of the Tzaangor knights she thought about, no – hidden, surrounding them, inside the jungle, the Sariant warriors crept, keeping them safe and laying ambushes for ambushers.
If it was enough, only time would tell.
It has been her idea – well, in truth, it had been one of the Sariants’, and she had latched onto it like a madwoman, claiming it as her own before he could truly formulate his plans in words, desperate for any straw that made her seem fit for leadership. Of course, they had accepted it – still, she was sure her long-studied facade of willful serenity was showing cracks.
Sytarith physically forced herself not to look back, to not study their beaked faces, searching for any hint of doubt. Most of them wore their full helms anyways, even here, frustratingly.
Step after step, the Archprophetess went.
A searing pain shot into her head. She had no idea where she was going. She felt down into the soft ground, trying to feel something familiar, to grasp a strand of fate and pull herself along, but there was nothing. Merely the living jungle surrounding them, and danger looming in the darkness.
On their way, they had come upon ruins, an old checkpoint, perhaps – remnants of an ancient civilization, which had luckily been seen as a good omen by Sytarith’s followers. It was nothing, of course, and she had felt nothing in sight or touch.
She stoically led them deeper into the Dell, without aim or direction.
The tinge of solace, maybe even hope she had felt as she had spotted the Silver Tower up in the air over Civilia had all but disappeared, with the only sad remnant being of no use other than to torture her mind.
Archprophetess Sytarith went, step after step, elegant and serene.
She was very aware of the Seraphon in the underbrush. Their tiny, soulless eyes spectating as the Tzaangor made their way through their territory. Sytarith felt their stares, to the exclusion of anything else. With great effort, she managed to suppress a shudder, like she had suppressed any other outward sign of emotion.
Soon they would attack. Soon. Part of her wondered why she didn’t embrace the end, but fear it, but that train of thought went nowhere, but fell down into the depths of the abyss.
Abruptly, she came to a halt.
“We have expected you.” Sytarith spoke, calmly.
Behind her, she heard the scraping sound of the jagged swords of her followers being drawn.
She had not been aware of the Seraphon lurking in the darkness. They had been in a completely different direction than she had surmised, and it had been pure luck that she had been made aware of them now.
There was silence. The grip of her golden gauntlet around her staff grew tighter. Subtle black wisps of dark magic began twirling around her, toward the head of her staff, where the sacred dark blue crystal sat.
She had been mistaken. The thought shot into her head concurrently with another wave of pain.
This would certainly damage her credibility – and now, she was going to dig that hole even deeper.
“None can hide from the eye of Our Burning Saviour, minions of vile wreckage, not even you.”
In her clawed hand, the twirling wisps coalesced, their colour changing from black ink to bright blue, with a slight shimmer of gold.
She brought her arm forward, and the shard of crackling arcane energy shot forth just as a scaled monstrosity broke roaring from its cover; a split second later, she would have burned her own arm, of that she was certain.
Her magic attack struck the Saurus warrior straight into its eye, and with a shriek, the beast collapsed at her feet.
The Archprophetess Sytarith the Intricate stood, unmoving, while her Tzaangor knights formed a defensive circle around her.
Brimming with arcane power, she planted her staff before her. “Your profane ruins shall be cleansed with His Divine Fire! Glory to the Flame!”
She deemed it to be more their inherent fanaticism than her sloppy attempt at bestowing daemonic power upon them, but the Templars indeed fought fiercely, blue magical flames dancing along their plated arms, holding back the brutal onslaught of Saurus warriors and skinks with vicious blows, leaving bloody reptilian ruins on the soft jungle floor.
Fate had decided, Sytarith saw (with outward stoicism, but great hidden relief) when the Sariant warriors finally broke from the surrounding jungle, throwing themselves against their attackers from the rear.
The fight was short and bloody, and in the end, only few of the Seraphon managed to break away and disappear in the depths of the Dell. Most of the blasphemous creatures lay before them, and some of the Sariant warriors had joined them.
They were not their first casualties, the Wanderers back in ruined Civilia had arranged for that, but it would also not be the last.
Sytarith lowered her beaked head, spoke a prayer to Our Burning Saviour, and continued on, still not knowing what she sought. Only that they had to go deeper, deeper into the Furyoth Dell.
The Templars followed her, with the Sariants disappearing back into the jungle.
Step after step, the Archprophetess went. Victorious and purposeful, her wise eyes ever locked upon their destination.
