The moon hung high over the Shadowlands, its pale light filtering through twisted branches and weaving serrated shadows on the ground below. The air was thick with an otherworldly stillness, punctuated only by the crackle of fallen branches and bones underfoot, a chilling reminder of the terrors that prowled this forsaken patch of the realm. Exelous tightened his grip on his bow, the smooth wood familiar and comforting against the callused palms of his hands.
As a holy warrior dedicated to Malachín, the esteemed god of the hunt, Exelous didn’t merely kill; he hunted with purpose, guided by a celestial ambition that transcended mere survival. But even the faithful found bitterness in the blistering dregs of the Shadowlands, where the undead groaned and crawled from their graves, bound by dark magic and old grudges. Tonight, the nightshade scent of impending conflict was thick, a foreboding perfume of dread mixed with decay. The desolate expanse beyond the borders of Cadomyr was more than mere wilderness; it was a battle against the Fallen.
A rustle in the underbrush snapped Exelous back to sharp clarity. He maneuvered through the dense foliage with practiced silence, the muscles in his legs coiled like a bowstring. It was how Malachín hunted: with stealth, precision, and a respect for the balance of life and death. Drawing an arrow from his quiver—an exquisite piece carved from the sacred wood of an Eldan oak—he whispered a silent prayer for guidance before nocking it.
Before him, shapes began to materialize in the murk, grotesque amalgamations of rot and sinew. Their eyes, empty and haunting, glowed with an unnatural light. Undead creatures, animated remnants of human ambition turned vile and wretched—cursed to wander aimlessly in these abominable Shadowlands. He released his breath slowly, letting the arrow fly.
The shaft whistled through the night, striking a skeletal warrior in the chest. The creature staggered back, an eerie rasp escaping its skeletal throat before crumpling to the ground. Exelous felt a flicker of satisfaction, a reminder that the righteous had the strength to push back against the Fallen, even if only for a moment.
Another arrow flew, then another. Each shot was imbued with the righteous fury of devotion, and with each kill, he felt a sense of clarity, but also an unsettling longing. Next month’s finals of the tournament known as One Above All loomed over his thoughts. What honor, what glory!!—what challenge awaited him among the other champions? He would be facing Caswir, a powerful battlemage whose side Exelous had fought by in many battles gone by. Each experience painted him as a colossus in the ways of Arcane, formidable in strength and skill. But Exelous was more than a combatant; he believed himself a beacon of Malachín's will, a divine embodiment of vengeance against those who lie twisted and wronged in the Shadowlands. Would Nargùn's luck aid Caswir the same? And then there was Malchus, an unknown in the eye of Exelous. What should he expect from a warrior who gained the title of Champion of Malachín's hunt? The game was on.
Another figure emerged from the depths of the underbrush, this one even more grotesque than the others. The creature was not merely undead; it was a wretched fusion of beaten flesh and insatiable hunger, crawling with an unnatural agility. Exelous cursed under his breath, his mind racing back to thoughts of Caswir and Malchus. Would the arena showcase the same challenges as tonight's hunt? Could they outmatch a creature as horrific as this abomination?
Shaking his head to refocus, Exelous released another arrow, letting it sing through the air with divine intent. It hit the creature in the forehead, and for a brief moment, time slowed. The monstrosity’s wicked jaw dropped in a silent scream, and Exelous’s heart thudded in rhythm with the rush of adrenaline. For a second, he was no longer in the Shadowlands; he was on the sunlit sands of the tournament grounds, the roar of the crowd echoing in his ears as he moved not with the weight of destiny, but with the confidence and grace of a true warrior.
Yet, the eerie whispers of the undead pulled him back. More shadows emerged, creeping closer, their numbers multiplying in the dense fog. He couldn’t afford to dwell on fantasies of glory—not with gnarled fists poised to snatch it all away.
Using the last of his arrows, Exelous took aim at a group of the undead, blending focus with fervor. He had secured the first victory of the night, but as more disturbed souls launched from the darkness, he realized each victory only highlighted his relentless pursuit of the true battle yet to come. The blood arena in Cadomyr would demand from him a mastery beyond mere archery and hand-to-hand combat. It would require him to wield heart, mind, and spirit—his very essence—to emerge One Above All.
With that thought firm in his mind, Exelous summoned forth a deep, primal energy from within. Drawing upon the last remnants of Malachín’s blessing, he engaged the fray. He turned, feet dancing around frigid earth, combining arrows and the merinium sword at his waist into an ever-flowing rhythm. Steel and leather clanked as Exelous struck decisive blows against the relentless tide of darkness before him.
His thoughts were a blend of strategy and rapture, shadow and light. In this dark realm, under the benevolent guidance of Malachín, he felt alive and lit with purpose. Yet, each swing of his blade and flight of an arrow reaffirmed one fact: as frightening as the creatures were in front of him, the real battle waited in the blood arena at dawn—a fight for honor and perhaps, redemption. To prove himself worthy to her Majesty.
With the light of dawn still obscured, Exelous restructured his stance, the Holy Warrior’s heart beating in sync with his purpose. The Shadowlands roared around him, a cruel reminder of the undead blight that engulfed the peninsula, but he—he was a hunter, a protector of balance. And as long as he drew breath, hope remained.
With a final, powerful roar, Exelous charged into the fray, ready for whatever lay ahead—be it undead terrors or the tournament ring—where he and his fellow champions would prove that even in the darkest times of Illarion, light could find a way to pierce through.
One Above All?
Moderators: Rosaline Edwards, Gamemasters