The night drew in, crisp and cool, the sun sinking over the horizon, outlining for a few brief moments the treacherous rocks and atolls that circled the bay, framing the harbour with it's own, natural defences. The last rays of the day's light trickled over the waves, weaving in and out of the first hints of mist across the sandy beach, and crept up the foreshore to the foot of the path that led into the mountains. Across the winding flagstones it spilt, higher and higher up the face until, just as it died, it came to glisten on the massive, carven gates of the city of Ravenhome. The darkness settled over the city like a discarded cloak, fallen in folds and hollows across the poorly lit sections of the haven, pooling in wrinkles of distasteful activity in alleyways and broad expanses, making it unclear whether the activity brought the darkness, or vice versa. It lurked through the thoroughfares of the indigent and the indiscreet, and settled into the nooks and crannies occupied by the stealthy and the wary, as string after string of artificial little suns burst into life along the more salubrious streets and avenues.

Through the gate at the entrance to the city, a black carriage clattered across the cobbled streets of the Avenue of Ravens, the main thoroughfare to the citadel. The iron-shod wheels rivalled the iron-shod hooves of the horses drawing it for noise in the inky depths of night, giving the few figures that were abroad at this time plenty of warning of the coaches approach to move aside, a fact they were likely glad of if they caught sight of the crest gilded onto the coach door. The silver torch on a black field was fast becoming known in the city as the symbol of the Black Exile, and his reputation was not one that would encourage people to believe the coach might slow for them.

The man himself, pinch faced and thin, with the slight hint of elven features, leant back in his seat, oblivious to the noise of the carriage as he focussed his attention on the reports before him. Transport costs were rising perilously, threatening to mire the city, yet there was little choice but to pay to have the goods imported, for there was no supply of food near enough to harvest for themselves that would feed the entire metropolis. They would be forced to raise their own ore prices, but their export was neither the cheapest nor the best, and they were suffering in the markets already. Eden lifted his head to stare out at the buildings moving quickly past the carriage window, and was forced to wonder yet again how and why this strange fortress, and it's accompanying township, had come to be built in the first place.

The land was isolated from the body of the kingdom by the impenetrable mountains, and if the old dwarven tunnels beneath them led through then the horrors of the Orcish inhabitants prevented anyone proving it. The sea journey around the headland was at best long and arduous, and when the storms hit there wasn't a sailor in the world that would brave the Darkling Cape. It spoke volumes that the seaman, ever a suspicious bunch, needed no stories of sea-monsters and treacherous mermaids to fend them away from the dangerous Darkling Straits, and steered clear for a good six months of the year.

He stared out the window once more, examining the immense, elaborate buildings, the churches and temples that thrived amongst the busy city, whilst the people eked out an existence little more than subsistence, scrabbling amongst each others cast-offs in the hope of finding a prospect. The wheels clattered even louder, sparking slightly as they slid, as the coach turned off the road into Bridge Street, heading for the Skyreach Ward, leaving only an echo for the city to sift through, and Eden turned back to his papers, searching for a way forward.

The rooftops spread before her like another world, so different from the cramped, winding streets below - streets she remembered well. She had been a child not far from here, growing slowly in the shadow of the Skyreach Ward, it's white walls and bold buildings a mockery of the twisting nightmare of houses and businesses that she knew as home. Her parents had slaved away long days, and often longer nights, in their back-street alchemists store, selling equal measures of hope and cure to the needy and desperate. She had graduated from the streets, of course, taking to the rooftops with the others who had managed to grow sufficiently strong to climb, and there were many she left behind in the alleyways and hollowed squares of the Narrows.

Up on the roofs, this night as any other, figures huddled about the chimneys for warmth, the more nimble of the ragged, homeless wretches that gathered above the maze of back-streets and alleyways that seemed to nestle up against the Skyreach Ward, huddling against the wealth and riches for dramatic effect as much as scraps. Light from the pale moons reflected gently from the small pools of water that remained of the afternoons storm, glistening patches of beauty that those who spent their lives on the floor would never see. This was her world, her home, the darkness and the heights, but she was not a jealous owner, and any who came to visit would be welcome.

It was the invaders in her home she took objection to, the despoilers and the selfish, the greedy and the self-important, who kept the wealth for themselves and cast off their scraps to feed the populace. She had worked for several years in the household of just such a noble, the Count Las'eau, a corpulent little runt of human, with a penchant for fondling and a quivering lower lip that hung ridiculously like the leaves of a sycamore. She had had many dreams, during those seven long years as an upstairs maid, of slicing that trembling little morsel of flesh from his face, and watching to see if it span slowly to the ground, but the time had never come, and she was forced instead to leave the broken bottle wedged into his bloated stomach as she fled, dress in tatters, to the rooftops upon which she now hid.

The clatter of iron wheels drew her from her reverie as her appointment arrived, a little early but she was prepared. She skipped across the gap between the roofs, her soft shoes scuffing slightly as she landed, a disappointment for her, though the noise didn't disturb even the other watchers on the same roof. At the end of the street, overlooking the hulking, ugly monstrosity of the Bridge of Souls she nestled against the raised eave and drew out the crossbow from beneath her cloak, snapping the arms quietly into place, and calmly winching back the cord, any possible noises masked by the volume coming from the building below her.

Karax shook his head slightly, impressed at the power of the squat little figure of the dwarf before him. The kick had almost knocked him back a pace, though the distraught look on the craggy, bluff face of the brawny little fighter showed he had expected more. He looked more than a little like Fenrigh, on reflection, with the same broad features and flattened, boxer's nose, but then so did the majority of the dwarven people. That had, of course, been a long time ago, a different lifetime almost - a different land, a different war, a different name. The body was the same, though, the same trained, precise, combat instrument it had always been.

Fenrigh had fallen in the field, cut down by a Brasari Cavalryman at Hollock's Pass, lost like so many others in the disastrous battle that lead to the demise of the Great Elven Empire; the first one, at least. There had been others, of course, though none had ever achieved the grandeur or grace of it's predecessor, and the huddle of tree-huts and pretentious druids that claimed the title now would have been laughable had it not been so sad.

The time was coming again, though, he could feel it in his bones - the winds were turning, or the seas drifting in a certain pattern, but he could feel the old enemy returning, feel the rise in power of the destruction that was to be. Another renaissance was being born somewhere, either strong or near, for he could almost sense the pulse of it, throbbing in his head and his heart, his soul resonating with the strength of it as it grew. Long ago, nearly a hundred years ago now, he had felt the potential seeping from this place, and he had come to see it, found the fantastic bridge that stood outside and knew that it was true: now the Other had felt it too, and was coming. Now was not the time to show his hand, but soon: and then the battle would be joined once more.

An instinct took his head back, out of the way as the dwarf flew surprisingly high through the air, his solid bulk lending weight to a devastating kick that never reached it's target. Feinting left, he lunged with his right, striking with the blade of his hand into the muscular shoulder, knocking his red-haired opponent back a step, clearing some space for the wicked, thrusting leg he threw out as he continued the turn, sending the unconscious dwarf into the bails of hay surrounding the pit to the delight of the crowd above. Raising his hands above his head, barely a sweat showing on his grey, pitted skin, he ignored the meaningless crowd, and revelled in another fight won, another validation of his training and discipline, before the door opened and a reluctant orc was nudged into the ring. This wouldn't even last as long as the dwarf had.

The Traveller's Garden was Jad'aer's favourite place in the city, and it was with some reluctance that she walked out, following in her squad leader's shadow. The plants came from all over the peninsula, in their tens, or in their hundreds, and every day there was a small group of dedicated, out of work peasants knelt in the dirt, tending and pruning with black-nailed fingers, arthritic knees protesting strongly against the moist soil as devoted minds led them to care. She had joined them herself, many times, during the long days off-duty, and had brought back flowers and trees from her own patrols, some of which she could still see dotted about. The highlight, for her, was the deep wooden bench near the rear of the garden, The Exile's Bench it was called, though she knew not why, where she would sit as the sun set, and watch the last reflections of the day dance across the elaborate carvings of the Bridge of Souls, making the figures there seem to come alive in their strange, almost tortured, dance.

That was for the days, however, and tonight she was on patrol in the city, the full complement of town guards out for the Reap-tide Festival evening, even those who were typically assigned to duties in the mountain passes and along the coastline. It wasn't a dangerous place, the prospect of invasion laughable, but the city needed to find jobs for some of it's citizens, and there were occasional raids from the Orcs in the mountains, spurred by bravery or stupidity. Even they were unlikely to fight on Reap-tide, however, a festival that seemed common to practically every race that dwelt near the Kingdom. It was a strange holiday, for a mining town, celebrating the collection of a harvest they didn't have, but the tradition was there, and the citizens needed little excuse to party. They needed little excuse, truth be told, to do anything that might relieve the monotony and hardships of life in the frontier town, and the Traveller's Garden was really just one more example.

She wandered along her patrol, the heavy spear slung over her shoulder, the raw edge where the last foot and a half had been hacked off to bring it down to her size cutting into her hand, but her smile was broad, and her heart full. The stars twinkled gently down at the city, sneaking in and out of the broken clouds to reflect off her pretty, elven face. The upswept ears broke through the crest of auburn hair, tied back tightly into it's leather queue this night as she went about her duty, and her deep, green eyes glimmered gently. Her partner marched along just as quietly beside her, neither of them feeling the need to spoil the night with noise, as they approached the Bridge of Souls. The night was quiet, the bulk of the criminal elements in the city either too tired from helping with the meagre harvest - or too sotted on the drink they had bought with their meagre pay for the job - to be out on the streets, and the only figures they had seen so far had been Reap-tide revellers in their exotic masks as both of them came alert at the clattering sound of a carriage approaching the bridge.

Prelate Zhebell moved quickly through the streets, her cloak pulled tight about her form, and her hood high over her head, drooping down to mask her face in shadows as she came out from the vintners, a slight smile on her lips. Councilman Varga, an obsequious little ingrate, desperately trying to curry favour in Count Ingo's eyes, had challenged her claim to be able to supply the best wine of the festival to the Count, knowing the man prided himself on his cellars. She had, of course, had to accept the challenge, it wasn't merely her own pride at stake after all, for she had backed Lord Farrell in several important decisions of late, confusing some of the more established voting lobbies in the council with her choices. Eden Farrell, something of an enigma, had burst onto the city's council a year ago, sponsored inexplicably by the Merchant's Guild to be their third representative. Since then he had managed to almost double the trade coming through the gates, with some shrewd deals, though it kept him from the council far more often than the merchants themselves might like, and she had taken advantage of that to become something of a ghost speaker in his absence. It appeared, however, that she may have taken the association a little too far of late, giving the impression of some sort of official alliance: that could be turned to her advantage as well, of course, given the right circumstances.

Several figures hulking in a nearby alleyway, sampling a less renowned vintage of the merchant's wares, eyed her as she approached, but the glint of a Secular ring - the logo unclear in the darkness - held them back. She had no fear that they would attack her, not a Priestess of Ladar, but they may ask for blessing, and she had neither the time nor the inclination to fritter away the night with them, despite her religion. The bottle clasped firmly in her hand, she smiled even more deeply, moving around the corner into the view of the Bridge of Souls, pausing slightly at the sound of a carriage approaching. The Black Exile? she realised, knowing that the other nobles of the city were all accounted for at Duke Caspian's revelry. He had returned early, but she wasn't concerned - she was prepared this time. She wasn't, however, prepared for the hand that snaked out from a nearby doorway, grasping her wrist firmly, pulling the ring nearer for a good look. The broad smile that accompanied the gap-toothed face as it emerged slowly from the shadows showed he recognised the emblem, and she managed to force a smile as she eased her cloak apart, revealing not a great deal of outfit beneath it as the carriage drew nearer.

This was his favourite point of the city, a vantage point unrivalled amongst all those in the City on the Cliff. Ravenhome they called it, now, though it hadn't been called that when he first came here. Then it had been known as simply the Last Stop, a place for those who had run out of places to run to await their capture. For those few who were simply not welcome, it was a haven of sorts, a collection of refugees, criminals and miscreants, gathered into a melting pot of ancient treasures. Most of the people of the city believed the bridge to be a part of the ancient workings, and it had taken his some time to come up with a design that fitted so well, but it was younger than he was: he had built it after all. Of course, that had been over eight centuries before, before the Kingdom had spread it's grasping reach across the continent, sucking the independence out of the Last Stop and turning into just another outpost on the impossible border of human arrogance and ignorance. He had watched the spread of the Kingdom, of course, as had everyone, watched it grow and struggle like a child as it explored its surroundings, hidden away well enough that by the time the Kingdom had him surrounded it no longer remembered who he was, which suited him fine. He remained at the Last Stop, content to keep his home even if the Kingdom laid claim to it, for he did not exist in their eyes. He paid no taxes, bought nothing from them nor sold anything back, but merely lived amidst his creations, a silent benefactor whom none of them knew

Atop the first tower of the Bridge of Souls, wrapped in an all encompassing robe, the thin elven figure stared out at the moon, wind blowing through the loose, sparse hair to drag it out behind him. The wind caressed his face, a feeling he was still not used to, and the tears it brought to his eyes were of both pain and loss, as his ruined eyelids failed to cover them properly, and the cold breeze stung the strangely gentle, sky-blue orbs. This was a night for elves to be celebrating, he knew, staring down across the city to the unusual number of bright lights still showing as the watchman in the Tower of Hours prepared to strike the first bell. The distinctive rattle of a carriage caught his attention, and he watched the jet carriage slow slightly as it passed the Battle-Pit, preparing to turn onto the bridge itself, and he wondered who might be able to afford such a carriage. With a coach, of course, he would be able to travel the entire city, day or night, but such dreams were foolish, and he knew he had to content himself to his meandering through the night hours as he did now.

The carriage should have been dwarfed by the sheer bulk of the public arena, the oppressive grey mass of human construction clashing garishly against the finesse of the surroundings, the style and elegance of the derelict baths beside it, and natural beauty of the Traveller's Garden across the road. He would love to walk amongst the flowers there, between the rows of shrubs and herbs, to once more breathe the scent of the blooms and spices. The Garden, however, was a popular resting place, especially for the elves of the city, and there was little chance of him finding solace or solitude enough to revel in the horticulture. Still, he had the bridge, with it's hidden ladder that no-one had yet found, and a vista that none in the city could rival this night, as he settled onto his haunches to watch over his home.

It had been a long evening, really, all things considered. His first serenade had, of course, been rebuffed, which was to be expected, but a carefully measured walk away from the crumbling facade of one of the more influential homes in the city had allowed him to observe the curious, amused face that had appeared at the window as he went. The bait taken, he arranged an invitation to the Baron von Volstagg's soiree, a tedious affair crammed with as many flagrant, ostentatious displays of wealth and status as possible. A collection of vile dishes specifically chosen to be unpalatable so as to allow the Baron to regale people for weeks on the amount of peacock steak and oysters that he had had to discard was only surpassed by the gaudy collection of outfits and uniforms dragged out of hiding by the guests. Gabriel usually prided himself on his ability to stand out amongst a crowd, but this was an event at which even he wished to appear anonymous.

Clairesse, as it turned out her name was, was also one of the more suitably dressed ladies of the evening, which made his approach somewhat easier to bear, and he began with a long, lingering stare over the shoulder of corpulent merchant in an outdated and undersized King's Hussar's uniform, the grey epaulettes almost brushing his ears, so tight across the shoulders was the jacket. He had chosen military himself, this night, a deep blue Royal Cavalry doublet, lined with two rows of gleaming gold buttons and a touch of gold braid looped around one shoulder. His trousers were neatly pressed, the sharp creases to front and rear, settling into the high black boots without disturbing the line of the red piping down the seams, red that matched the fringe of the peak on the hat tucked under his arm. The stare lasted for several minutes, her fan becoming more and more agitated as she played the flustered maiden, but as her eyes flicked back to the fat suitor, the fan became too restrained, the facade cracked slightly. A talented amateur, but no match for his skill or expertise.

When he cut in on the dance floor, the conversation was fast, and the looks charged, his smile growing as she sparred with him, amused for once in this provincial backwater to find someone vaguely challenging. As soon as that, though, it was over, she fell for his words, and they found themselves walking in the cool air of the night, the Skyreach behind them and the privacy of the Bridge of Souls beneath their feet.

Gabriel eased himself back against the stone railing of the bridge, staring into the pale, grey eyes of the Margravine Las'eau's daughter as she fluttered her fan and her long, lavish lashes before him. The gestures of the fan dance were a tired deception by now, and the batting eyelids that were supposed to lead him to believe that she was overcome with the passion of the moment, were the eyes of a hunter as he leant away from her slightly, testing her resolve to see if she would step closer. The corners of her eyes crinkled slightly, as she smiled behind the delicate silk of her fan, seeing not the tactic but the ploy as he let the lump in his throat bob nervously, taking a half-step away, and turning towards the water below. A hand on his arm drew him back, the hunter believing she had won, and he turned quickly, relieving her of the support and forcing her to fall onto him gently, her rigid corset pressing firmly against the thin silk of his shirt through the open jacket. He stared into her eyes for a moment, seeing the realisation there that she had fallen into the trap set for her, and he edged his lips closer to hers.

It had been a long journey, through the mountains, a long way to travel on the strength of a Fire-Vision, but he had been the servant of the land for too long to start ignoring it now. The fool humans, of course, said the mountains could not be passed, that the tunnels were occupied by orcs and the passes too treacherous. Damned fools! The orcs were a problem, it was true, but anyone with the will and the focus could dislodge the rabble, and the crests were like anything else in nature: if you respected the world, it carried you to where you wanted to go. It was only the blind ignorance of the King's men that prevented them passing through the mountains, and the fact that they instisted on trying in the bad weather. Idiots assuming that snow was the bad time to travel, so moving in the summer, when the sun and the heat meant an avalanche every day, somewhere in the peaks.

He had travelled nearly three months now, from the deep southlands, by way of river and road, even riding with a wild herd of horses at one point, leaving a rather astonished farmer at Yvel with three-hundred or so extra steeds in his field, and no idea where they had come from or how to feed them. Here he was, though, finally, hauling himself up from the cold river, hand over hand towards his fate. There would be death at the top, he knew, the dark shadow of the vision had shown him that much, but he knew not whether it would be his.

Blood-Raven crested the cliff-face, his braided hair still dripping gently from his swim up the treacherous channel, and his chest heaving from the exertion of the hundred and fifty foot climb. He hung below the walkway railing a moment, listening for footsteps, then hauled himself over the stonework to stand on bare, calloused feet on the cold cobbles, attempting to gain his bearings. The clattering of a carriage nearby told him he had arrived just in time, and as it approached the bridge behind him he hid in the shadows of the massive pillar holding the roadway up. He finally caught sight of it, and stepped out to seek the attention of the driver, just in time to see him fall from his seat with a crossbow bolt protruding through his neck. The carriage, bereft of control hurtled on towards the cliff-face, and the dwarf grasped at the footplate, leaping up to the seat in time to grasp the reins and guide the carriage towards the bridge, hearing the wheels protest as they slid sideways over the cobbles, the speed far too high for the maneouvre he was attempting, and finally the coach began to tilt as the sky before him became suddenly bright.

The first bolt came from the sky somewhere above the cliffs to the south, streaking over Haydon's head and slamming down into the Battle-Pit as it passed through the space where the carriage should have been. The frontage of the building shattered, stone, glass and timber flying hundreds of feet along the street as a massive fireball ripped into the shattered shell of the arena, sending nearby bodies tumbling through the air. The blast of air rocked Haydon on his pedestal atop the tower, and he took barely two steps towards the ladder before turning to see second bolt. The carriage, twisting in it's traces and sliding onto its side as it cannoned into the stone-work of the bridge railing came to a halt despite the straining horses, and Blood-Raven's axe whipped down into the leather bindings to release the terrified animals. The obsidian blade reflected another bolt of light, and he watched it streak down from the skies towards him, striking the nearby pillar first and impacting on the road beside him, throwing him backwards clear over the carriage to disappear into the smoke of the Battle-Pit.

The masonry of the pillar exploded, peppering the roof of the carriage with shrapnel, as Eden lay within trying to shake the dust from his thoughts. The tilt of the carriage told him enough, and he climbed to the door above him just in time to feel the carriage thrown back by a massive blast, grasping the bench to prevent himself being thrown about within the coach. The flying wagon stopped abruptly as it impacted with a nearby building, the wooden back of the coach crumpling like firewood, slamming Eden into the wall and unconsciousness.

The first explosion shook the bridge, and Gabriel grasped the young lady's wrist gently, pulling her behind him as he raised a hand before his face, feeling the sting of tiny pebbles striking it at speed. The warm wind of the explosion passed over them, and he took a single step towards the buildings as the carriage slid to a halt before them. A strange, savage looking figure with a black-bladed axe struck out at the horses in the dust, and Gabriel moved his free hand to his rapier as the noise of the fire at the Battle-Pit began to reach them. Suddenly, from nowhere, a second blast hit the floor behind him, and he felt the sickening, wet, thud as the broken body of Ellesse Las'eau cannoned into him, throwing him twenty feet through the air to land heavily on the cobbles beside the broken carriage. A pained whinny from a horse not quite dead followed him into the darkness, as the night claimed him and his senses departed.

Zhebell lay on her back in the alleyway, the scrawny figure of the doorway-dweller above her, preparing herself for the blessing. The darkness of alleyway, she realised, at least minimised the chances of anyone interfering - or worse wanting blessing themselves - and she reached out to unbutton his shirt as he worked feverishly with dirt encrusted hands at his belt. He lurched into her suddenly, slamming her against the wall, and her jaw clenched for a moment as her head rang and lights flashed from the impact with the stone behind her, and it was a moment before she realised that neither was merely within her own thoughts. She stepped aside, seeing the three foot piece of timber embedded in his back, and the prominent fire further up the alleyway, before a glittering streak arced down into the tower of the Bridge of Souls, and another blast of hot air blew over her. She had barely the time to raise her hands before her face as a body flew into the alleyway, striking her squarely and carrying her more solidly into the wall, where a slight stain of blood was left by her head as she slid down to the floor.

Jad'aer turned at the bright light, shrinking slighty into a crouch at the strange sight, and the fist sized piece of masonry that might otherwise have killed her flew an inch over her head, the wind of its passing tugging at her hair as it went. The noise from the Battle-Pit was immense and her ears rang as Ferdinand mouthed at her, and she was forced to shrug her lack of understanding. He pointed her towards the building, the fire raging within it as he headed onto the bridge, approaching the overturned wagon. Jad'aer watched the second glittering streak fly down into the bridge, and saw the carriage be thrown against her squad leader, crushing him against the nearby wall of the Glevram Bakery. She took barely a step in that direction before the creaking, crumbling noise of the Bridge tower turned her, and she watched the damaged pillar plunge to the floor bringing a cloud of masonry with it. The dust was like fog, and she had no real warning as the decorative fresco spun out of the wreckage to slam into her chest, taking her to the floor with a strangely final flash of light.

The pillar tilted slightly beneath Haydon's feet for a moment, before suddenly crumbling, and he felt himself start to plummet towards the floor, spreading his hands wide as he went. He muttered the words quickly, the single hand gesture, and the magic broke into his fall enough to have him land without dying instantly, but he heard his leg crack under the impact, an impressive feat given the death groans of the Bridge of Souls. He turned his head to survey the wreckage and felt something slam into his back, driving him mercifully from the pain, into darkness.

Atop the wreckage of the Battle-Pit, Wraith finally managed to rise to her feet, slightly wobbly, as the flames billowed below her. The eave she had been leaning against was gone, destroyed by the impact of that massive magic, and she turned to try and move away from the fire, feeling her ankle give beneath her as she did so. Her knee struck the floor painfully, but she forced herself to her feet again, seeking the safety of the next building, as the roof gave way beneath her, and she fell into the fire, landing atop the struggling, groaning, grey skinned figure of a pit-fighter, taking them both into unconsciousness.

Out on the plain of the mainland, stood on the beach near a small launch, a black-clad figure smiled as the noise echoed down from the fringe of the mountains, and tooled, black, leather gloves creaked as he clenched his fists at the second, and sudden glowing reflection of fire in the city.

"It is done. Death has been visited upon our enemy. We leave." The voice was quiet, and the figure turned with a lithe grace to move towards the boat, which quickly made it's way out to sea.