Little flakes of ash were dancing in the air, here, in the ruins of the wanderer community of Adu’Alash in northern Thondia. The fires all over the town hadn’t died down completely, not yet.
Some parts of the settlement were but blackened husks, some had ceased to exist.
Only little had been left untouched by the Fires of Our Saviour’s crusade.
The surrounding woods hadn’t fared much better. Not only them – between charred trees, bereft of their former majesty, the brittle hollow corpses of their Sylvaneth guardians stood frozen in poses of anguish, as silent testimony of the brutal battles fought within. In the end, they could not stand against the Templars’ Holy Flame.
Most of Adu’Alash had been built on top of vast, ancient trees, but there were some parts of the settlement that reached down, even down to the forest floor.
The marketplace, for example.
Formerly a peaceful place of commerce and craftsmanship, today it was the place where the inhabitants of the settlement were kneeling, in chains.
Templar forces were keeping watch over them. Most of the forces were regular Tzaangor forces, towering over the captives in disciplined rows of gleaming golden plate.
There were irregular forces, too, though – units of freed Desraki slaves were amongst the crowd, watching, as were errant Tzeentchian knights and sorcerers, attracted by the Templars’ successes in battle, and a few of their Dragon Ogor allies.
Those gathered cheered and sang Our Burning Saviour praises when the Templar Champion finally appeared upon the wooden platform that had been erected on one side of the marketplace.
During the Templar’s campaign in these woods, the appearance of the Templar Champion upon his Karkadrak had been greatly feared by the Wanderers and Sylvaneth. The Holy Armour had made him invincible to the Elves’ weapons, or so it had seemed, and he had slewn dozens of their warriors all on his own with his daemonwrought sword.
Now, it would also be him who finally snuffed out the local wanderers’ last spark of resistance. The last six leaders of the Aelves knelt in chains before him. They had led guerilla forces, who had undertaken surgical strikes against the Templars’ supply trains; fast and deadly attacks with arrows seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere.
With Vardeshir the Solemn ordering to put their hideouts to the torch, they had had nowhere to run any more.
The Templar Champion drew his sword; slowly, almost ceremoniously. The six leaders, four women and two men, had fought well indeed, so he honoured them with a quick death by decapitation. The daemonic longsword cut their necks, one after the other, without spilling any blood, as the wounds were instantly cauterized. The tribal leaders accepted their fate stoically, while there was much wailing and lamentation amongst the other prisoners.
The Templars watched in silence, until the last head fell. Then, the Sacred Hymns of celebration started.
Soon, at dawn, the march would begin. And they would put their captives to good use.
Here, there wasn’t anything left for them – in the Forest of Ash.
