Table of Contents: https://www.bungie.net/en/Forums/Post/244705039?page=0&sort=0&showBanned=0&path=1 [b]Chapter 10, Part 3 (continued(3))[/b] The newcomer set across the plain at an impressive speed, considering his appearance and all that it implied. His gait, though quick, showed signs of fatigue. Indeed, it was more a stumble than a sprint, propelling him forward by the force of his own weight rather than by any degree of muscle or motive power, demanding of him only the spark that had set it in motion. He held, grasped tightly in his right hand, a trailing mass of heavy cloth, as weathered and worn as himself. It was of a rich purple hue. As this stranger met his crowded mass of fellows, they parted, and he passed into the camp without slowing. Roak, lacking the degree of elevation necessary for his continued viewing of the unfolding events, lost sight of the figure. His position having proven inadequate, the Risen sought out another. Finding that which he desired after a short and frenzied search, he looked again upon the courier, who bowed wearily before Ikoris, wavered, and fell. He rose again after some struggle, and-proffering the scrap of fabric to his superior-voiced his intelligence. The messenger’s speech, slurred by his want for rest, was hardly audible to Roak, and nothing could be made of what little was heard. Neither Ikoris nor his gathered lessers shared in his difficulty, however, and Roak managed to glean from their reaction some semblance of the words’ meaning. Whatever had been said, the message struck the camp as a meteor: sending waves of shock outward from its point of impact; spreading its revelations throughout by way of word as a fire through a forest, leaving chaos in its wake. There was, though, at the thing’s epicenter, a place ringed in ruin, but as yet untouched by any finger of flame. This was, you could say, the crater-for there was in it a void far greater than ever could be blasted into a bed of earth, made all the greater by the contrast between itself and its surroundings. It was not a physical void; could not be expressed in such terms as the absence of sand or silt. It was, instead, the absence of emotion, and it was seen in the eyes of the Lord of Ambros-those eyes which held an abyss so deep, and yet filled with so bright a flame, as to break and to blind all who dared search its depths. Roak saw all of this, and-knowing his enemies to be as much, and thus thinking this disaster a thing to be taken hold of-drew nearer to the site of the sensation, anxious to learn of its nature. He heard-in tones more distinct than those prior, and more charged-a great deal of concern voiced by the crowd’s most prominent figures. These leaders, Risen all, were quickly split into two camps. First of these groups, and (as sustainers of the status quo) most numerous, were the loyalists. Second-a new sight among the ranks of Ikoris’ Chosen-were the insubordinates, who lingered in that gray of uncertainty which separates fear from willful defiance. “They’re dead,” a member of the latter group announced, his voice flat and forlorn. “They’re all dead.” His fellows had, of course, learned this as soon as he. Still-as if his stating the fact of reality were all that made it so-they were roused, by his words, from their dull stupor, and were set into a sudden frenzy. Some exclaimed, despairingly, that the cause was lost. For some, it was. The forces of Ambros having never before suffered any measure of defeat in battle, the loss of an entire host was akin to a deathblow: it was the first domino to fall in a sequence which surely spelled their collective doom. With this in mind, a few-yearning to escape their seemingly imminent deposition at the hands of the Wolves-broke from the camp without pretense, denouncing their allegiance and setting into the night. Ikoris, for reasons all his own, made no move to stop them. His loyalists, either blind to his purpose or too angry to care, did not hesitate in their pursuit of the deserters. The latter soon found their intended path of exodus cut off by a wall of bodies. Despite this, they altered their course none whatever. In response, the wall soon sprouted with the thorns of thirsty blades, and with the barrels of a great many guns. The deserters armed themselves in turn. Neither force endeavored to avoid their impending collision, and so battle soon broke. The one true Lord of Ambros looked on as the flash of swords and the cries of rifles tore the calm of the night to shreds of chaos. He saw the first of the traitors felled by the first of his loyalists’ blades; watched as the Ghost of the same was blasted to ruin; heard the thunder of guns fired by others’ hands in the defense of his honor…and felt nothing. His only reaction was to say, within the depths of his mind, that this was simply the inevitable will of fate. Still, such inner-conflict was an ugly waste, and he did not care to see it. Ikoris turned his eyes from his followers’ infighting to the night beyond, where a follower of another sort sat, unseen, and watched in silent satisfaction as the blood of his Chosen spilled over the earth. [b]End of Chapter 10[/b] [i]I apologize for the inaccuracy of my last posting prediction. I will not endeavor to gauge my productivity again until I've formed the habit of consistency. Anyway, I hope that you enjoyed, and know that I fully intend to see this story through.[/i]