A grand fortress stood at the southern peninsula, but now was a ruins, or heath, in the south. The portal, a brilliant scarlet rift that hangs above the cracked stones and broken table at the heart of the halls of the renamed Fortress Syzygy of the House of Nocturne. Brilliant purple banners flew from the flagpoles that remained standing, and even though there were obvious signs of disrepair, wretches patrolled the worn and broken walls, or dug a trench from the sea to the hall. The Lord of Nocturne, a crimson skinned man with curving horns wearing an extravagant outfit that is almost remarkably similar to the fashions of an aged Bastion, stood at his war table.The silver circlet about his head shone in the moonlight as he surveyed his schemes.
An onyx ram's head, with curled, wicked horns, stood in the woods, at the border of a hold called Wynchestir. Luckily the maps had been salvaged from their first incursion. Further north, a gilded lion stood at the border of the Queendom of the Silver Paw, and to the northwest of Fortress Syzygy, a blackwood carriage rode into the mountains.
Yes, the Lord's schemes were beginning....
The ragged black cloak of the Crimson Chaplain dragged on the stone floor of the Nocturne Keep. the torn and tattered uniforms of the wretched guards, a parody of royal guard armor flanking the chittering "priest". He reached a small chamber, and entered, seeing the Matron Lady of House Nocturne, Lady Somnara Noctis, a tall, pale elvin looking woman, in the moonlight her skin shone a deep blue, and she looked positively bloodless.
"[You summoned me, my Lady?]" the voice of the Chaplain was actually many voices, a writhing cacophony that made the ears of lesser mortals bleed. He bowed, but it was no sign of respect, merely an acknowledgement of her rank. "Ah, my dear Voice!" The lady turned, her thin nightgown billowing as she reached out to embrace the horrid thing in the vestments. "My dear channel to our overlord! I have called you here to ask of you a favor."
The wriggling, chitonous head with its burning crimson eyes tilted to the side. "[I see. What do you ask of me?]"
"Well, you see," the lady pointed to the caged corpses of a dozen crows in the center of a circle of wet, reddish liquid. "I have an idea to give our dear overlord some eyes in the sky, but I need your blood. You're his voice here, you are connected to the darling Knight in Aimsir."
"[I see. Most interesting. I shall allow this to pas
The lady clapped her hands, "Splendid, splendid!" She took one of the sleeves of the priestly garb and rolled it up to reveal the mass of writhing, wriggling, squirming silver-carapaced things that made up the body of the Chaplain. she drew a dagger from the table and cut deep into the wriggling mass, freeing the thick greenish-blackish slimy ichor from the body of the chaplain.
As the ichor flowed onto the cadavers of the crows, they began to jerk to life, screaming and shrieking as the Lady intoned a chant in a language that died on a warren long, long ago. She raised her arms to the moon and howled the last syllables into the sky.
Burning red eyes erupted from the ribs of the birds, burning bright in the center of their chests, only covered by a thin layer of dark, greasy and eternally dripping bloody ink onto ground.
"Yes! Yes!" Howled the Lady! "It is done!"
"[I see. How wonderful. My Lord is pleased.]" The cacophanous Chaplain bowed again, covering his injured arm. Without another word, he left the chamber with the sobbing, dripping, burning crows.
"Now... to send them where we need them most."