Thenriot (pronounced Ten-Ree-Oh), Pellowin, Cyridion - End of the Fourth Era

The wide streets of the large city didn't accomplish much in the way of preventing clogging of traffic; merchants letting their carts run free down the winding roads in a mad dash to escape unscathed. Some of the carts veer off course and ram into the sides of buildings that quiver but fail to collapse, and further add to filling every last inch of the already pedestrian saturated roads. The men in pitch: the very things these people were running from, congregate on these very same streets, retreating from the rejoicing soldiers, right into the cluster of people attempting to run for their lives. A volatile match made in the deepest pits of Hell, or as the populous here would deem it - Sethin.

The growls - the guttural, primal moans of the abominations as they rip their way closer and closer to the pile up intensify with each passing moment; each thundering step echoing in the distance, driving the same instinctual fear that drove the citizens to flee into their hearts once again. Shrill shrieks and screams fill the air, alerting the pitch covered monsters to their presence and causing them to increase speed. Hearing these same cries however, are the soldiers. Either the call of duty, or the lust for Joltinen blood drive the squads to chase after the screams, in hopes of cutting those very same demon spawns off at the pass.

One such example - one that had beaten his peers to the punch, was one Ageaden Lyemos, who found himself posted in an alleyway like indent between two formerly competing taverns. Waiting. Just hoping for the chance to take the first of the abominations that were unlucky enough to stroll between his chokepoint. Little did he know, how close he was to getting his wish. Within the span of time equivalent to that of blinking, the mass of pitch black bodies sprinted past his line of vision. Without thinking, he reaches out into the pack and grabs the nearest of the horde and plucks it out, plunging the blade of his sword into the thing's throat, allowing thick clumps of yellow/green blood to pour from the newly opened hole onto his body, the blade, and the ground below. With its last draw of breath, the thing screamed - a loud, shrill howl that stopped the others dead in their tracks. Turning their heads to face the alley, they watch as Lyemos pulls the blade out and lets the body drop to the ground, into the puddle of its own blood that awaited it.

Like a chain reaction; the beasts swarmed, converged upon the alley like a pack of hyenas on a slowly decomposing gazelle corpse. Raising his sword to the air, he begins to slice and dice at the horde, managing to take down a few more before finally, the numbers game proved itself way too much for him to handle. As he sliced at one's throat, another reached behind him and pulled him toward the ground. It was that one, whose hand smashed through his throat, that took the life of one Ageaden Lyemos. Leaving him lying in a puddle of his blood, stained with the yellow smears of the abominations fallen comrades.

At least, that's how it should've went.

For in that moment; mere seconds before blood loss was scheduled to be the death of our dear Lyemos, that Freshtinshe - Joltinen Chieftain of Insanity, appeared at the very back of the of the indent.

"Ah, yes! Save this one!" exclaimed the frantic Lord, pointing at the body that lay on the ground feet ahead of him. Looking up from the corpse, the abomination nods at its master, and in a shrill screech it utters:

"As you wish," before gripping at Lyemos' esophagus and whispering an incomprehensible sentence to the sky in a long forgotten language. A sweltering, white light shines down the body, scorching Lyemos's body until like the things he had fought, his clothing was burned to bits and his skin was scorched black as the Chieftain who ordered this transformation's heart.

"Rise, minion," utters Freshtinshe as he slowly fades back to wherever it was that he had come from, the hard n sound on the end of minion hanging on the air long after he is fully vanished. Lyemos' eyelids open once more, revealing two empty sockets. He gets to his feet, clumsily grasping for his weapon before growling in the same way the others were. Without a thought or care as to why he's doing this; he makes his way through the crowd that was beginning to dissipate around him, out of the alleyway, and into the streets. Directly towards the sound of the screams. Sword held high, he leads the horde of undead to the slaughtering grounds.

However, the question that remains is which side will be slaughtered?


"And you're sure we can trust her because?" asks Arellia for the fifth time as the Derrick rips open the envelope. Not bothering to pay much attention to her complaints, he pulls the paper out of the envelope and tosses the latter onto the ground, stomping it into the dust. Unfolding the paper, he gets exactly what he was hoping for. A map. A red circle drawn around the area in question.

"Y'know, it doesn't surprise me that you're so distrustful of her actions."

"For the last fucking time; why?"

"For the last fucking time; no reason. You might be a Chieftain, but you're still a woman. Women always seem to get jealous over the stupidest shit."

"Excuse me?"

"You fuckin' heard me."

"I didn't hear you spout any of this shit when you were begging me to help you take over this fucking rathole."

"Yeah? Well, you weren't being a fucking cunt when I asked you, either."

"Oh, you motherfucker..." she snarls, winding her fist back and throwing a massive punch, which Derrick slides out of the way of at the last possible second.

"Oh! So close! Now, let's back to business." grabbing her hand, as well as Itaria's, he summons up a blue aura that surround the trio, and compacts into microscopicness. They were gone, away from the town of Apex, Arizona.

They reappeared in the middle of the Sonoran desert. A large, wooden crate in front of them.

And the unmistakable sound of police sirens off in the distance, converging on their location.

"I told ya so."