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(Note: "Chapter break" indicates an edited alternate scenerio)

The entire land seemed to boil as large drops of grey rain buried themselves deep in the sweltering pools of the Vepiukuk. The name Vepiukuk, or Vepi unun, was actually a derisive comment from a visiting Dwarven Lord, meaning strained or cursed land. Though intended as an insult, it just seemed fitting, and the commanders had absolutely no success in quelling the spread of the popular nickname.
After summer had faded from the rest of Layell, the marshland still bore an unusual sweaty heat, which it proudly set upon all travellers who thought the roads seemed fair enough to approach Giaden from the northwest. This made the season somewhat unpopular for the soldiers stationed at the city gates, who had the unpleasant duty of welcoming their sweaty and grumpy visitors with formalities and regulations.
The Great Gates of Giaden, a name which actually referred to the entire wall, was a massive structure cutting off the entire peninsula of Giaden. The military city really had no pressing need for the wall at present. Yet it remained, and was continuously manned--though not for any useful reason.
This particular night things felt somehow out of place. Even the warmth from the nearby swamp seemed to hold back reluctantly, which would normally make the night more cool and pleasant to the soldiers, but went generally unappreciated and unnoticed.
A mist settled over the Vepiukuk, and washed against the walls of Giaden like a wave against the shore.
There is a permanent link between the body and its native soul. Even if the body is possessed by other spirits, or even demons, after its owner has left this plane of existence. This links the body on Vellis with its spirit in Darkness -- in the Depths. So there is a rift, in the fabric which separates those realms -- dark matter leaks into this world, and some of the warmth from this world's life and light seep into the Black realm, so that a chill accompanies the link. This almost imperceptible rift exists around the evil undead, to a greater degree depending how strong the black fibers are that thread the eternal soul to its rotting body. The cold, the dark... the hate of the damned--all of these filter in from the Depths. The presence of the undead saps the light and beauty from all around them. And the warmth.
It is this link between worlds, this tie to the spirit, that allows the most powerful of sorcerers, adept in the darker Arts, to animate the dead--but even then the creature is fuelled by the darkness from that realm. Spirits filled with hate and other powerful emotions have been able to will their consciousness into this world, though their spirits are tied with black cords to the Darkness.
Likewise, an opening into the realm of Light accompanies those spirits who descend from the White, and warmth and light follow.
Most of these events on a spiritual level are unnoticed by Humans. There are those who perceive spirit constantly -- the Sazeans and willing Elves, clerics and paladins -- yet ALL are able to feel the cold and hate to some degree. Some merely a faint premonition. A sense that something is wrong. Perhaps horribly wrong. An undefined sense of doom -- some foul thing. Humans never seem to place the difference, being too caught up in their own thoughts, and thinking the discomfort is their own.
And so it was that the men on the battlements about the Great Gates of Giaden felt little more than an uneasiness in the early morning. Most of the soldiers present had kept watch for the greater part of the night (or slept at their posts, anyway, since Lord Trent seldom supervised the night guard), and the chill seemed natural, with rain splashing down from the sky for every hour since before the sun had set the previous evening. If it was unusually dark, it caught no ones' attention. If it was unusually quiet, so much the better to weary soldiers!
Aeren Benoit stalked the stone walkway directly above the Great Oaken Gates themselves. The other soldiers still snoozed or stood at various posts along the miles of wall. Aeren had time to peer down the wall until it disappeared on the horizon, and seldom saw any sort of movement among his own men. Perhaps he was too lenient... and it didn't even seem to endear his men to him. They all loved Lord Trent, although he was strict, and unapproachable. Maybe it was just his position they admired.
Most of them had been drafted, or pulled off the streets, put into the army as a sort of community service for minor crimes. But there were those who dreamed of greatness, and knighthood in Tamereck... or perhaps Soliisa, who had joined the troops of Giaden of their own accord, and they were looked up to by the other soldiers, as though they already WERE knights. So it may have been that those men looked up to Lord Trent for his sternness and adherence to protocol. It was a lose-lose situation for Aeren.
So caught up in his thoughts was he, that his march turned more to pacing, a key difference being he watched the ground lazily, rather than surveying the horizon with any alertness.
Darkness washed against the 50-meter walls, above the undertow of mist. His thoughts turned to their guests, the elven "strangers" who had arrived the previous night. They sure didn't seem strangers to Lord Trent. Probably dignitaries, he thought with a sigh, kicking at a protruding stone he had no intention of dislodging. Lord Aeren considered what it would take for actual strangers to receive guest accommodations in the quarters within the wall itself. The protected wall. Anyway, they didn't look too important. The man was armed, true, but it would be odd for any woman to travel the roads these days without some sort of escort... perhaps hired. They had a few books with them, meager rations, and little else. Not even fancy clothes. Aeren suppressed a shudder, just thinking of the "important" men they had accommodated last week. The so-called "Servants" of Cortar. Bloody showoffs. Walking with an affected mien of nobility. "Pretentious thieves," Trent had sneered himself, and not outside of their company! Anyway, Aeren had no great appetite for visiting dignitaries. Aeren's stomach grumbled a meek request, which was denied.
The forest along the east wall fell silent. Deeper than silence, as though the very life within the great oaks themselves had been stilled, or frightened. As if even the rain were veiled in darkness thick enough to mute sound. Even the Vepiukuk to the north was deathly still, and pale in the rising sun, as though it were the moon bathing it in ashen light, which faded until even he was worn out, and the vast marshlands darkened again, as though night were returning for an encore. The sky turned dark blue, until the silhouettes of the oaks were swallowed--their outlines disappearing as the sky matched their black. Lord Benoit failed to notice anything--and he was more alert than anyone else atop the wall at this hour.
Having reached the end of one pace, and turning to begin another, Aeren froze. As though he'd been shot with an arrow, he felt some instant shock and horror--something unseen. The shudder he'd been stoically repressing, from the chill of the night, now shot up his spine, split through his arms, and clouded his mind, seizing his senses. It was only a brief moment of pain, and the influence passed, though the cold remained. It was too sudden and severe to have been a breeze, and Aeren's eyes darted around in panic he didn't understand. He took a few half steps in various directions, searching for something unseen. The rain now fell like darts -- shafts of cold steel cutting his skin with icy blades. Wrapping his cloak around himself tightly, Lord Benoit stared out into the black, trembling, expectant -- suddenly aware of the oddity in this new darkness, and addressing it for some explanation--an answer to a question he was unsure of. It felt like he was in a blizzard, as the rain whipped around with the ferocity and deadly intent of a snow storm.
As though it had been there all along, and Aeren had just done a very poor job of looking, a pale face loomed in the darkness. Death, a spectre, in a sea of black. His eyes couldn't move, he could only stare, his face drained of color, and his mouth hung wide open, awaiting this spirit to decree his death. This unnatural fear passed, and, though trembling visibly, the image of death hardened, twisted and thickened. As Aeren grasped more tightly his sanity, the form became more and more human. The face took on delicate features. Just like the chill that hit him earlier, the fear never left, but struck then fell back waiting. But it was obvious now that this apparition was a man, holding in the darkness, level with the wall.

(Chapter break)

Lord Veyes Trent flexed his strong jaw muscles until he heard a POP that satisfied him, a habit he'd picked up when trying to concentrate (or keep sane) during long speeches and boring debates, at which he was often required to be present. Such things gave him headaches, and gave his headaches headaches, and somehow the tension of a tight jaw seemed the best thing to fight the tension of a tight head. Of course, it was completely habitual that he now did this as an involuntary, even unnoticed, routine each morning.
He thought to himself, as he yawned, how much he HATED being woken up to business. And he wasn't having very pleasant thoughts of Aeren now, as he seemed to be incapable in what seemed such trivial business. Business... there's that word again. It was all his time permitted when he was awake, and all his haunting dreams permitted when he was a sleep -- a fact he would gladly change if he could. A frightened young page lagged several feet behind trying to meet his pace, and had obviously been yanked from sleep himself, judging by his loose garments, and not long ago, judging by his smeared face. Trent was used to dealing with intimidated pages and thought little of his apparent fright, as they marched down the empty hallways, "Well, I don't suppose you have any idea as to what the matter is," the Lord questioned with a sideways glance, and a twitch of his mustaches.
"Er... no, Sir. I...," the boy paused a little too long, "... that is, my Lord Benoit..."
"Aeren." Trent amended, though he would have reprimanded the lad, had he so addressed the officer.
"Yes, er... my Lord, he... oh, he looked terrible, and..."
Half listening, and half brooding, Veyes marched along in the bits of armor he had thrown on as he listened to the pages' unintelligible report. Finally, frustrated at incompetence in general, he had stalked out of the room in no more than leather greaves, and a chain cuirass, feeling half naked for it, with the young boy scrambling to keep up with his angry speed.

The man stood amidst darkness as though it were solid ground, as the rain soaked his robes and wet his long dark hair. His hair was stained crimson at the tips, as though it covered a large wound on his neck, a color which bled into his dark blue robes, leaving them a burnt red at the collar. He waited patiently until the imbeciles on the city walls could bring their commanding officer as he had requested of them. It brought him pleasure to see them scurry around, like terrified animals. The corner of his mouth began to curl into a smile, which he checked from growing too obvious.
"I tire of this. You're stalling," he smiled now openly, a wicked smirk, enjoying his little game.
"No, I assure you, he is being collected, and will be here shortly," Aeren had no idea how to react, or behave. This man acted as though he were an invited guest, deserving respect. Demanding it.
Since the pale thing, this human, had arrived, most of the nearby soldiers had awoken--or been woken--and stood nearby with their longbows held anxiously at their sides.
The man brought his hands together, draped in their long sleeves, placing the fingers tip to tip. He bowed his head, and closed his eyes calmly. The noise of jangling chain armor echoed from the depths of the quarters within the wall, and soon Lord Trent rose, cursing, from the stone steps to stand on the battlements. The ranking lord whirled instantly on Aeren, "What is the meaning of this?" He suddenly felt dark and cold. Feeling eyes burn into his back, through his armor. Veyes turned slowly, and found himself staring into mist grey eyes, as cold and barren as winter air.
"Are you in charge here," there was an unmistakable belittling emphasis.
"Y-yes... I am," Trent stammered, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. The man now stood upon the great wall, directly before the startled Lord.
"I am a simple traveler. The elf maiden who currently resides in your care," the thin man spoke with artful precision, taking a step forward, "is a friend of mine."
Trent's mouth opened and his mustaches dropped limply, giving him the appearance of a drunken walrus. This man was mesmerizing. Erie. Cold. But... somehow he seemed harmless. After all, he was a friend. He wouldn't do any harm to the elf girl. NO! Trent suddenly thought with great intensity. At least, it only seemed like a thought... but it hit his ears as though someone had said it out loud.
The stranger's smile faded as he loosened an object from his belt and lifted it slowly above his head. It didn't seem threatening.
"Captain! Look out!" Lord Trent started, blinking several times, then stared at the soldier who had yelled at him. Realizing he had somehow been very lost in his own thoughts, Veyes quickly turned to his left and stared, horrified, at the man standing before him. Too late he became aware of the danger, and to quickly the stranger dropped his blade. The thin steel cut into his neck, with surprisingly little resistance. The first thing Veyes felt was the cold. Even before the pain. It sent a shiver down his spine, and it was the cold which brought the most discomfort. As though the sword had slept all night in the snow, it seemed to freeze his blood before it came out. But no... blood was coming, flowing from his body--from the wound. There was some pain from the cut, but it was the icy cold that demanded his concentration, and the cold on which he focused as his vision blurred and blackened.

(Chapter break)

At once the soldiers began to load their longbows keeping their eyes upon the stranger, who casually rose off of his soft leather boots, into the air above the dying captain. Looking down in mock pity, the man tied the sword again at his waist, with two thin strands of leather on his belt. The sheathless sword lay bare against his side. The first volley of arrows sprang into the darkness, but somehow lost themselves in the black--even those which were heading straight for him shrunk out of sight before reaching their target. The human laughed, looking with amusement upon the soldiers below him, then closed his eyes. A man raising his bow suddenly dropped to the ground, firing off into the field below. Another soldier reaching for an arrow convulsed slightly, as he dropped to the ground. One by one the attackers dropped silently, other than a few thuds and chinks as their armor hit the cold stone.
Aeren darted for his Lord, Trent, to see if the old soldier was yet alive. A few steps away he was assailed by pure darkness. He felt it whip him around, and obscure his vision for a moment, until he had collected himself, and turned again to face his Lord. Between them stood the wretched assailant. A thick spirit of black, a thing held here by blacker magic, to undyingly serve its master. The spectre gasped at the chill air, its emptiness needlessly breathing in the memory of life. The blackness inhaled, and groaned, cursed to ever fill the habits it formed when it once lived.
The dark dispersed; Aeren's gaze waited patiently on the air, where he felt it hiding. With a sudden arc of dim black air, the spectre struck like a serpent at the ground, disappearing into the depths of the fortifications.

New soldiers entered the chaos from further down the wall to the east and west. The sounds of more rose from the quarters of other soldiers within the wall itself. Seeing no one prepared to continue the game but Aeren, the being in the air lowered himself to the ground of the wall, and took a few slow steps in his direction, turning to survey a few still forms as he walked.
Aeren knew he was alone for the moment, but never stopped to consider it. He stood, slightly hunched, and gazing at his single visible opponent. He stood still, and the hairs in his arms were truly sticking straight up like a frightened cat, but his fear had not immobilized him--he merely hoped this attacker would assume it had. Sweat broke his brow, in spite of the chill. Just a few more seconds...
The man was so close now that Aeren could see him clearly in the darkness. No strain wore upon his light features. No wicked stain upon his eyes. Somehow this man didn't seem evil, but charming... not handsome, but too plain to... Aeren shook his head to empty these dangerous thoughts--he'd seen the look on Lord Veyes' Face when... no, he had to concentrate.
The only noise he heard was soft leather muffling light footsteps upon the granite wall. The man limped slightly as he walked. A sword swayed out from underneath the robes on his left side. Aeren was a bit seasoned as a fighter--though there wasn't too much experience to spread around these days, with no serious wars about--and knew that the first blade this man had used was on his right side. Unless there was some foul sorcery at play... no there was no blood on this blade. Aeren had no idea what he was up against and had to calculate every factor--so the man had two swords.
"Asiri'i..." the man hissed softly, and instantly Aeren felt the spectre, as though it were inside of him, ripping at his strength, tearing at his nerves--encircling him, or was he the one winding in circles. Lord Aeren saw the wet grey of the ground above him, and the dark of night below, waiting to swallow him--waiting for him to fall.
"This is pathetic," the man stated to himself. The presence withdrew for a moment, and Aeren righted himself, with shaking footing, and soon stumbled sideways, landing harshly on the rainsoaked granite, scraping the palm of his hand. For a few moments he merely saw the man's lips moving, before his ears cleared, and words formed in his mind, "... this display. No one would have been hurt at all. I am not a violent person by nature, but I do need to speak with your guests."
His speech was interrupted by the clinking of more armor running up the stairs, accompanied by shouts; further down and noticeably further away was the muffled murmur of many soldiers.
"One moment," the human gave a slight mocking bow, and turned to face the steps leading below. Leaning back his head, a few whispered phrases to unseen spirits flowed from his mouth, and raised in volume to a discordant echoing wind, and the words rushed about Aeren. These words were of the ancient Sazeans. The eldest of dark sorcerers, whose language the dark spirits still recall. The rush of words intensified, as the wind that carried them darkened, and settled upon the oaken frame of the steps to the lower levels, the deep heavy darkness pressed downward on the wings of devils. The crushing darkness settled, like a thousand tons of dirt were dropped from the sky, and hit as suddenly, producing a loud WHUMP! which spread along the wall, shaking the famous impenetrable structure, the immovable oak pillars shaking and creaking beneath nothing but thick, heavy dark. The Great Gates, which were actually huge doors, carved from the giant oak forest on the borders of the wall, were three feet thick, but groaned loadly and dully as they warped against the strain, sounding like a monstrous grizzly yawning and turning in his sleep, finally settling down in a more comfortable position.
After a moment, the press faded, as too its sound, and all beneath was quiet.
The dark figure turned to Aeren, eyeing him suspiciously, "I hold you personally responsible for that inconvenience." He paused a moment, "Hmm... I sense her down there. Let us hope the spirits spared her as I requested. Personally, I have trouble trusting anyone too much," It walked towards him casually, like an old friend. Aeren gasped, at this range it looked as though his hair was bleeding! But there was no wound beneath it to leak through. "Should I kill you before I retrieve her?" It lifted one finger and brandished it like a lethal weapon.
"N-no! Please..." it was the fear that spoke. As though he were forced by magic to say it, and make himself into a coward. But even brave words wouldn't have saved him.
"All right then," Aeren detected a faint cheery tone in his voice, which made him shudder. He averted his eyes in shame, as it slowly walked away, towards the steps leading below. Lord benoit let his arms give out, and his face sunk to rest in the murky puddle on the stones beneath him. Through the corner of his eye he watched some of his men approach the beast. Aeren closed his eyes and prayed their souls to rest in Light.

(Chapter Break)

Brenam Luhr was the ranking officer now upon the walls, and ordered all the troops within his voice to gather together for an organized attack. Brenam was a Cleric of Order, and sensed more in this chaos than an intruder. His god told him to wait, and Brenam passed that word on. But now they had grouped, and though great were the pleadings and curses of his men as they watched Aeren fall to the stone, Brenam trusted in his god, and now felt they were ready to attack.
Approaching with their bows drawn, Brenam ordered in a whisper, "Ready men." The archers loaded. Brenam sensed that the spectre that followed this thing feared his god, and would not show itself. He waited until the man's back was towards them, heading for the stairs, "Aim..." Raising his hand he breathed one last prayer, as around him longbows pulled and steadied on their target, as well they could through the darkness and mist. Brenam dropped his hand, and the twang, and whir muted out his whispered "fire," as a dozen arrows split the air.
For a moment Brenam thought that Order had joined the barrage, along with his men, with a terrible bolt of lightning, as the sky about the fiend lit bright white. In that same moment the man turned to face the oncoming missiles, with indifference. With shock Brenam saw the white light was not upon his target, but between them, surrounding the stranger. Arrow after arrow passed the burning veil, and-- melting and burning--fell to the ground or struck against him with so little momentum left the burnt wood tumbled off of his dark robes, and a few bits of molten iron flecked them with red, instantly cooling to a hard grey.
It raised its hand, and Brenam lost hope. The veil faded, but Brenam could sense it now. It had been there all along, and merely grew visible when it perceived a threat. Arrows would do them no good. "Drop your bows!" Brenam ordered, loudly now. A few hesitant men aimed their lowered bows to the ground; most looked as though they considered their commander mad. "No, I mean drop them! Draw your blades!" Brenam was unarmed himself, and grabbed a spear from a lifeless soldier which lay between them, as he charged.
Their foe smiled coolly, folding his arms, and facing the one-man onslaught, who was slowly joined by more and more frightened soldiers. It slowly rose off the ground, and the darkness and cold gathered about him like a heavy cloak.
The loud twang of a bow rung through the air. Sensing silver, the man spun in alarm facing the source behind him. A single shaft sped through the air, the veil of white heat stirred but a moment, then, changing its mind vanished again. Thud. The silver shaft protruded from the chest of the menace, pinning his robes to him, near the heart. Dropping a few feet his face paled visibly, as he removed the arrow and cast it to the ground. His next few breaths were visible in the icy air, as though the silver had instantly warmed his frozen blood.
An elf man stood at the stairs, reloading his bow, a young elf woman under his arm supporting him.
"Vyesi Taie!" it hissed at the elf.
"E' devisha senisai li!" the elf returned. The elven words were completely foreign to the Brenam, who tried to follow what had occured.
It's face hardened in anger, then hallowed, like a pumpkin rotting in the night, as the darkness upon it deepened until it was merely a shadow in the sky, which fell slightly in the air as it thinned and disappeared.