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This is a short story that was written by myself for Survive Stormont, it details a narrative event that some players and staff were a part of, though was later written out of the core lore. - Emily

The Church of Death

Late last night an ominous letter was set from the infamous Puppeteer. He called all who were brave enough to attend The Church of Death for a service that was like no other. Laid in wait were the Shadow-Walkers; their corruption controlling their every move. The people of this land sort to capture and cleanse the minions, but they decided to bring the fight to the Andorrans.

Two warriors marched into the snowy tundra, to the darkness that hummed behind the church doors. A Queen of the Andorran people and tamer of beasts, and her mighty Nordic brother, known for his prowess on the battlefield – Raven and Raen Azar. Adorned in fur and fighting off the bitter cold, the pair crossed the bridge to The Church of Death, ready to face whatever monstrosities their old friends had become.

First was Limos, the embodiment of Famine, once known as Shea White. Though small in stature, a dwarf of course, the red headed corruption challenged Raven to combat. The two danced with their sword and axe bared, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Raven was the first to cut flesh, striking Limos twice before the dance continued. However, Limos did not falter. She rushed the Nord and struck with immeasurable force, slicing right through the furs that protected him from the cold. Raven was now bare fleshed in the snow, on one of the coldest nights this land had seen for some time. He didn’t concede however, fighting through the icy winds that licked his chest as he rushed the dwarf once more. Limos, cocky in her ways, did not expect the towering man to recover so quickly and was caught with a winding blow to the chest. She crumpled instantly, hitting the ground with a tremendous thud. One down, three to go.

Next was Nergal, the embodiment of Pestilence, once known as Bhalmar Silverfist. Nergal was a frightening creature, always cackling like the madness inside him would boil over at any point. Allowing Raven to recover, the Nordic Queen took to her axe, swinging it through the air as if it was but an extension of her arm. Nergal cackled as he too raised his sword, burning with a bright white light, unlike Limos’ black blade. The two met toe to toe, but honour was not something Nergal knew of, much more used to playing with his poisonous toys. He slashed at Lady Raen wildly, cutting away at the thick pelt that protected her from the chilling cold. But Raen didn’t falter, her training some of the finest. She kicked out with her leg, knocking Nergal flat on his ass. Without a second thought she brought her axe down, hitting the blunted side against his temple. Nergal let out a wild growl, his eyesight blackened from the blow. If it had not been for his sickly habit of all things narcotic, he would have been knocked unconscious from the attack. Nergal took his dagger, coated in malice, from his hip and thrust upward. Fortunately for Raen the blow to his head meant he missed; his vision starry. She recoiled from his attack and hastily kicked her boot at his head, rendering him useless. Two down, two to go.

Third was War, the embodiment of himself, once known as Grufyd Rocksmith. He exited the large wooden doors to The Church of Death, a soft green glow and demonic humming coming from within. His fiery red form was illuminated by the warmth of the torches at the entrance as he met the Azars on the icy battlefield. Once close friends, now War would seek to destroy the two of them in honourable combat, worthy of such heroic warriors. Still reeling, the Nordic siblings stood side by side, a blockade of immeasurable strength. Raven attacked first, laying down his axe to retrieve a bola. Raen came at War with all her strength, slashing her battleaxe down against War. It caught, slicing through his shoulder as Raven threw the bola at his feet. War was struck again, but this time his red blade lifted to meet the blow and knocked Raen aside. He may have been immobilised, but War was no easy opponent. Raen cried out as she hit the ground, jerked like a doll in the snow. Filled with protective rage, Raven drew his Viking axe from the ground, the blade glinting under the moonlight. He ran at War, with no intention of stopping. The two collided with an impact that shook for miles, knocking the air from both their lungs. Even immortal, War was only as strong as his host. The butt of Raven’s axe came down then, striking War in the face repeatedly. Again and again, crimson blood flowing from War’s nose. Raven was fuelled with rage, becoming an immovable object of pure fury, with War pinned under him, who had one goal – save them. But the blows did nothing to deter War from his victory; he must win the battle the others had failed to. His arm came up, blocking Raven’s attack before grabbing at his throat with a vise-like grip. With no air, Raven’s face became withdrawn and pale, his eyes glazing over with every second that passed. This was his end. Only War forgot one thing. Her fury. Raen, protecting the brother she loved so dear, slammed her weapon against War’s head, the snow beneath now pink with blood. Suddenly War’s grip faltered, and Raven could breath once again. War had been defeated. Three down, one to go.

As the pair hobbled into the warmth of The Church of Death, they were met by glowing green eyes and a voice so chilling it caused the hairs on their arms to stand proud. The Puppeteer, the embodiment of Death, stood at the altar, as if in greeting. “Such a shame,” his voice echoed in the expanse of the church, a knowing glint in his glowing eyes. Raen Azar went to draw her axe once again, unsteady on her feet. Raven did the same, though he too looked inches from death. “Now is not your time, but…” The Puppeteer laughed, the room filled with a thick green fog, as he disappeared into the night, his voice echoing his goodbye. “I am inevitable.”



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