The Knight of Life and the Sharpshooter from the Order of the Sun refused to obey, and were marked by their peers as traitors, yet it was they who held even in the chaos hearts so pure. For this was the mark of humanity, to cherish those of it’s order. As Fog rose, so did the fighting. A roar of gunfire, a bestial cry from Chaos. Carnage, the Order was quickly falling apart as the Beast of Fog gathered aid under the Vermillion, the Crimson, the Red. Chaos flocked to it, fled from it, were confused by it, yet the Beast of Fog and Chaos had a single hate, a hate for humanity, so quick to try and destroy the valiant heroes held under sway by the madness.

The Beast of Fog became something else, a figure praised, The Crimson , she, now assumed female by those who surrounded the creature, came forth to face The Lead of Order. His was the mask of death, knowledge, fathoms untold and innumerable answers that he alone could give. He held death for those who opposed him, going so far as to strike down one of his own men who dared to defy his orders. Death he was, merciless and cruel, yet still some might think him kind for ending lives with such skilled swiftness. As the Crimson called to him Death rose to met her. Death did not embrace her like a friend, but greeted her as a true foe. Alas, red is the color of blood, and the image of death was cast down. Death could not destroy Chaos. The Crimson was Chaos come together, insanity given flesh. Red was the blood of a mortal man cast aside, of humans and their water of life.

So it was, the heroes had failed in saving the land already taken. Death was not even to grace them no longer. Without death how could they hope to kill those born of Chaos? Immortals, their bodies the stuff of nightmares and terrors unknown. A gate to the world of mortal they fled, The Crimson One laughing as she gave them permission to leave. I was mercy, but only a mockery of it. The heroes were defeated and once they had returned to their stronghold, it was a grim matter. The fallen had been turned to stone in battle, and those who turned upon their comrades were given back their sanity, yet still, their hearts remained untainted. They had believed what they did was right, even in their defiance.

Chaos was purified, yet doubt lingered in their minds. Those turned to stone- cured. Brought back from death’s gate. The reaper was not yet ready to take them to the great unknown, be it heaven or hell. They lived, and they would remain. Pure and untainted, yet doubts might have lingered in the minds of some. Aide came from those who had not been called to battle, who had remained stationed at the fortress, keeping it safe, a haven for the heroes, a home.

Home, a thing that so many cried out for from the fog, lost souls could the heroes forget such words? They claimed the heroes thieves, yet they knew not which they had stolen. It was knowledge they had not gained, yet another failure upon those sent to their tasks. The Bard of Death was lost in a sea of sadness and anguish. No song could she find to lift the spirits of the brave yet beaten warriors of mankind. Men and women who fought to save the world from devastation, the likes which many knew nothing of. They were heroes who would fight for no man’s honor or glory, only for themselves, each other, and the very world which they were born of. Yet something had changed. At a holiday feast that was to be so joyful was rife with strife, and all who came left with the bitter taste of wine and pettiness flavoring their tongues.

Days came and went and rumors began to fill the air. A restless stirring. Death had come for them, and his wrath was to be feared. A force of terrible might, Death and Death alone called forth the fallen heroes, commanding them to betray their hearts and minds. Many did, faith unwavering. Others refused, their hearts hardened to those who they felt had betrayed them. As the heroes gathered, they bickered, and fought. Chaos had been taken from their bodies, yet it remained in them. They had been tainted.



Heroes one in all, they were beginning to fall into madness and disorder, into Chaos, the very thing which they fiought so valiantly against. The Bard listened as Death took his toll, demanding payment to spare a few the trip across the river Styx. Many clamored to save comrades, other sat in silence, knowing the price they were to pay for being called a traitor, for rebelling against Order.

Death was not a merciful man. He would have his price for life paid, be in blood, or ink.