CALAMITY CARMEN

It was midnight with the moon high in her might when a chilly mist fell on one of the border cities in the kingdom of Greystone. The municipality of Warborne was once a free and prosperous city that was once home to many.   Drifting over a murky stream, the frosty haze shadowed the algae tainted canals that coiled between the sparse remnants of a labyrinth of cobblestone buildings and towers long left abandoned. An immense structure stood at the center of it all, the fragments of one of Greystone’s oldest cathedrals: broken chunks of stone buttresses and grandiose pointed arches lay chaotically among the overgrown tussles of the tall curtains of wild grass and shrubbery that had grown rampant with the current season. Gone were the grand vaulted ceilings that once reached out to the sky and shattered where the ornately forged windows and fathomable finery that artisans of past days crafted with unparalleled imagination and skill.   But the only thing that stood strong and steady for close to a millennia was none other than the statute of one of the four heroes of legend, Alma of Lyonnais, the Patron saint and the Guardian of the ward. Standing at an imposing height of ten feet tall was the depiction of a woman: slim in a billowing dress and long tresses of hair, the ancients craved the Saint with her long sword drawn out in one hand, with the other outreached to the sky, in a manner reminiscent of the ten basic gestures of ward magic. An eerie silence filled the air before the loud clap of a thunderous sound shook the ground as a monstrous screech echoed against the stone walls of the ruins, as a sudden and terrible wind swept over the land. “CAPTAIN!!!!” called a voice from a distance. Clad in black, with the exception of the intricately designed white emblems stitched onto arm bands of their uniform as a group of hooded figures appeared out of thin air. Fifteen sets of trained and tired eyes warily scanned their bearings, before quickly dispersing into groups of two and strategically standing in a large circle in the clearing with a sole figure standing in the middle. Tired and panting, a man with hair as dark as night threw back the hood of his trench coat as he accessed the eerie phenomenon above. “Culver, Status report.” He commanded, his pale grey eyes never leaving the sky. A young man with a lanky build came forward, wiping a shaky hand over his sweaty freckled and bruised face. “We’re in Warborne, Sir, our navigators managed to teleport us to the only border town with an active source of manna- “That’s more than enough,” he said, voice hoarse and strained, but his eyes still trained at the monstrosity above as it began to move, now fully aware of the presence of those who brought it here. “ARRRRRRCCCCCGGHHHKKKKK!!!!” it screeched in a blood curdling tone, prompting everyone into a tense battle ready stance, each rearranging themselves with militant precision. They could all feel it, its anger, its power and its all-consuming need to devour.   It had to be stopped, they had to stop it. One last time, he said to himself. “Prepare yourselves!!” as he looked back at his regiment one last time, sorrow filling his heart as his hands instantaneously glowed with frosty white wisps of energy before crouching to the ground, laying them flat on the earth igniting a series of luminous intricate patterns of runes and sigils within the circle. Shaking, he tilted his face to the sky, his eye’s a luminous white.   “It was an honor serving with you all, may the power of four unite us all, under the guidance of the mighty Aðill.” “And Aðill be with us.” They answered in unison as the massive wisps of darkness coiled and struck out towards the group, with a mind of their own. And then it all went white…….