Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave grabbed a silver handle from a shelf, pulling free a black box. It was large, and he was unprepared for the weight—Anneliese put her hand beneath it to stop Argrave from dropping it. They lowered it to the ground together. It was a black cube chest with a silver locking mechanism.

The four of them stood in Argent’s treasury, entirely unopposed. The place was a fitting treasury for the Lord of Silver… but quite disappointing for Argrave. Fine art, silver statues, or sculptures of Lords past might indeed be quite expensive, but Argrave would have preferred enchanted items. In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ you might be able to sell an expensive painting to a blacksmith—that wouldn’t fly, here.

Instead, Galamon wrenched free gemstones from statues and poured boxes of jewelry into their lockbox. Once the box was full, he moved on to the backpacks, haphazardly tossing valuables in alongside the books and supplies he held. The elven vampire still had a grim air to him—he was far paler than normal, and instead of dour, he seemed enraged. His arm had healed to the elbow already, yet it seemed to be taking much out of the vampire. He drank from his flasks very frequently, draining them one by one.

Argrave knelt down to the chest, lifting it open—Quarrus had not bothered to lock it. There was a silver medallion within atop a pillow of purple silk. It was a strange, primitive looking thing, with strange letters on it. In its center, a woman held a horn up, pouring water from it.

“The inheritance medallion,” Argrave raised his head to look at Anneliese. “With this gone… no more Lords of Silver. No one will ever hold this seat again.”

Anneliese looked at him seriously. “Is that… prudent, taking it?”

“Well… the ancient gods are a bit more vindictive than the others. At the same time, they don’t pay much attention to the mortal world. I think.” Argrave took the medallion. “Destroying it might be problematic. Merely taking it, though…” Argrave weighed the medallion in his hand, then stuffed it into his pocket. “Every bit helps.”

Argrave stood from the box, walking to a corner of the treasury where things remained more on the curio side of things. He opened a few boxes—most of them were worthless things, truly just oddities—but eventually, he saw what he’d been looking for within. He turned the box in question about.

A gray, slightly transparent model heart lay within the plain box. Argrave touched it. The thing was lifelike enough that Argrave would not have been surprised to feel heat, but it was dormant. In the wake of the grim battle not moments ago, he could not muster the excitement he’d been anticipating at obtaining the Wraith’s Heart, the final piece he needed to become Black Blooded.

“Time to go,” Argrave turned around. “Leave the rest of the treasure. Maybe the freed breeder slaves can take…” Argrave trailed off, feeling the words weren’t fitting with Galamon’s presence.

“We should assess things in Sethia, alter our plans accordingly,” Anneliese suggested.

“Getting out is more important than doing some people-watching. Quarrus made a big commotion, both by fighting and dying—might be some of his underlings are sauntering up those stairs. While it’s a fight we can win, I’d rather sidestep it altogether,” Argrave commentated, stepping towards the stairs.

“…what of the albinos?” Anneliese asked quietly. “They saw—"

Galamon interrupted. “Please. I’ve done

vampire companion. He couldn’t recall him ever

“Galamon… you couldn’t—”

arm up—the forearm was already taking shape. “I could’ve done something. I took responsibility for all the pain my hunger causes when I chose not to die all those years

in response, and so he turned towards

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back its head, swinging its horns upwards into the Vessel’s body. The water resisted like taut rope, but eventually the wyvern’s strength prevailed, and water scattered. The Vessel’s heart pulled away, seeking safety. Durran cut the straps on his saddle, freeing his body from the wyvern’s back. He strode up his winged reptile’s head, jumping from its snout in pursuit of the infant

even with the reach of Durran’s long glaive. As he dropped, he readied a spell in one hand. He threw his glaive forward, and then sent out a burst of wind magic to propel his weapon. The

He grunted in pain, glancing down at his leg—blood dripped out of his wyvern scale boots, onto the paved streets. Something had broken, obviously, and badly. Water rained down on him from the dead Vessel. He laughed as it drenched him, teeth still clenched

glaive, then whistled. His wyvern craned its neck down to reach him, and Durran grabbed hold of its

could not fly. Others were outright killed. Their attacking force had been devastated… yet the city of Sethia more so. At this point, ruined buildings had become more common than standing ones. Corpses lay everywhere. The streets

The Lord of Silver had been fighting there… and judging by the waterfalls coming out of the windows and freshly made holes, he had lost utterly. Durran couldn’t picture what had gone down there. He had seen the Lord of Gold—he had been seconds from dying to

he saw the

seemed indomitable as it writhed about the city, dispatching opponents indiscriminately. Brium had not yet betrayed them, but Durran could see it coming as clear as day. This well-executed betrayal

men underneath Titus were much of the reason the city had become as it was. Though Durran did not know how, they brought a

casting low rank healing magic he knew in some desperate attempt to heal his wound. As he soared above, he saw the last of Brium’s guardsmen storm the final holdout of the forces beneath Argent still standing in Sethia. An

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highest buildings in Sethia—the belltower. The bell had fallen down and crashed amidst rubble, but the top of the building was largely intact. Brium, human form reassumed, sat

he was worried about the confrontation with Quarrus, his worries were unfounded.

his conquest earned him not a verdant paradise, but a war-torn ruin. The southern tribals and the citizens both died in numbers far too great. Brium had wanted Sethia—he seemed likely to obtain a shadow of its glory now,

the southern tribals moved away from his men, moved away from the heart of the city. Their movements

his vision was typically flawless. In the far distance, two balls attached by a rope twirled through the air—they stayed suspended

balls hadn’t been growing larger—they’d been growing closer. Magic must have affected his sight. He stood, climbing further up the roof. His vision was dyed red and distorted, and he was near certain his cheekbone had

he saw a glaive swinging for his chest. Brium raised a hand, but the glaive soared over and struck his neck. No blood came, though—his flesh

whose words sounded muddled—his voice sounded like something was wrong with