A chill wind gusted above the mountain peak. The trailing path through the side that surrounded it grew thick and heavy with snow. Covenant black skies darkened in the late morning, dimming like night than day. Under such terrible conditions in an environment so perilous to traverse, few took the path as two white armoured figures journeyed in the pursuit.  

The pale plated armoured figure, Decimus, paused from the mountain edge as he surveyed the far scenic landscape of the world with an observing gaze. He peered below, catching the wide avenue of the land, the green masses for the forest, the winding serpentine roadways and far further ahead, the signs of what seemed like civilized settlements. If he strained his eyes just hard enough, he could see the imperceptible dark dots like insects, people or otherwise, moving to and fro from whatever destination that led them to do. 

A world of greens and browns, and not one that he was familiar with. The last time he’d done this, staring at the wide yonder world, he stood atop a broken castle tower and saw nothing but a sea of flame. 

Even as Decimus allowed himself to set his mind loose to wander on this strange, peaceful world, the heavy crunching sound of snow brought him back to reality.

"What’s on your mind, brother?" Oerin began with a sonorous purr, oily. It carried a bare trace of a smile behind them, almost amused at the spectacle.

Decimus turned, then frowned. Oerin had just gone on ahead to scout the path and returned in a gorge of blood. As usual as one refrained from wearing his helmet, his sallow brutal features were smudged with the red stuff, wet and recent like a paint waiting to be dry.

If Decimus had any indication at the sight of the knight’s bloodied appearance, he gave nothing to show. He turned back to the horizon. “Nothing out of the ordinary,”  he said almost dolefully. 

Oerin chortled at that, knowing full well the falsehood of a lie when he heard one. He shrugged. “If you say so, brother,” he said, then came step to step beside him, watching the world. They were silent for long moments, feeling the cold, gentle breeze and hearing only the inevitable silence, but Decimus knew the peace would not last.

Given the prospect to momentarily moderate himself, Oerin sat from a nearby boulder, leaning his bloodstained halberd beside him. He pulled out an ornate axe, taken personally from one of the wolven warrioresses at Blackpine woods, and held it close to see the reflection from the metal edge. A tattered black cloth was on his hand at the other as he wiped the blood and grime off from his face.

Instantly, Decimus glanced at him, brows furrowed. Oerin quickly sensed this and looked back with one eye. "I know that look," he said a moment with a toothy grin.

Decimus extended a finger. "That cloth. Where did you get it?"

Oerin pulled the black cloth away from his face. He stared at it as if considering, then back at him. "From a bandit camp nearby," he said casually and hiked a thumb at the trailing path. "Not far from our position. Barely a handful of them, so I decided to take… a little visit.”

Decimus paused, silent as a block of stone, then looked away. “That would explain the blood.” He murmured, reminding himself to urge restraint. He had gotten used to tolerating such actions, actions that some of his brothers failed to uphold the true tenets of an orderly manner. 

And yet, out of all his brothers that Decimus fought side by side against red-cladded hordes and deviant apostates in the crimson war, Oerin was the most bothersome. Impertinent, yet reliable at equal measure. A fierce powerhouse of raw muscle with a quirky greedy delight to challenge any kind, whether on the field or in court. Decimus could never tell what his brother was thinking. Still, with confidence, he could be assured that his brother was efficient in the art of disorganized slaughter that no bandits would escape from his gaze unmolested.

Oerin eyed Decimus with a cocked head before he resumed cleaning. “I know that tone, brother,” he said, voice muffled by the cloth. When he was done wiping, he sanctioned the cold breeze to drift the bloodstained rag from his hand, and it flew far and wide to the horizon.

“You do?” Decimus’ eyes idly watched the rag become a distant thing.

Oerin chuckled and then gradually stood to his feet. “Most indefinitely. Despite your stoic platitude, you are as easy to predict.” There was a smile beneath Oerin’s words, and Decimus released a slight groan, earning the former another throaty chuckle. “Be at peace, brother. You know full well that we would have to deal with the bandits along the way,” he outstretched a palm in a casual gesture as emphasis to the world. “It is a place not our own, and these… ‘two-legged beasts’ are far more precarious than our lesser kin of humans.”

The way Oerin said it, the word held a drip of acid, an undisguised malevolent contempt for his brethren kin. Regardless of the rancour of his brother’s words, Decimus dipped his head in a gesture of acknowledgement.

Not by their choice and plucked from one world to the next, the remnants of the pale knights along with scattered Avis legionnaires have whisked far away into a beastly country, full of strange and horrific things, things yet beyond Decimus’ comprehension for the time being.  Even as he stood where he was, his supernatural senses were keen on high alert as he, alongside Oerin, could sense the massive empirical power flowing all about them, raw and vibrant and too dangerous for them to ignore. The thing that was called magic was everywhere and on every beastly being like a disease, unnaturally so insidious that it was enough for Decimus to despise the beastmen more than the enemies of old.

"True, and they are a whole lot of these animals to our liking," Tired of the scenery, Decimus tore his gaze away, and he resumed his pace into the winding trail with Oerin trailing behind. 

It had been some time since Decimus and Oerin had followed the survivors of Blackpine woods with little to no such result that showed for it. The wolves were not to be harmed as Callus instructed, and Decimus and Oerin were prudent to distance themselves from the pack as much leeway as possible. Their primary objective was to let the wolves lead straight to their home base, or another outpost, that the knights could ‘peacefully’ interrogate in the whereabouts of the missing legionnaires. 

Decimus didn’t understand the reason behind Callus’ undertaking to show the homilies of affection for the wolves. Still, he was more compliant and loyal to the Grand Knight than any to follow orders. That didn’t mean he had to like it, of course. This world… These ‘people’ were not any of his concerns. Only the edicts of the Grand Knight were, above all else, mattered. 

And yet, the journey came along with some complications. Mainly in due part with their quarries. 

Ever since the wolves’ fateful encounter in Blackpine that reduced their numbers down to a little handful of strength, the survivors from the ambush had adopted a more cautionary tactic, assigned several watchers day and night, which earned the knights' irritation as they were forced to distance themselves even farther from the pack until they could only see tiny specks of them from a distance. 

The wolves persisted in their evasive maneuvers throughout the journey, covering their tracks and planting traps that would not even harm the pale knights in the conventional sense. Decimus had begun to wonder if the animals could sense their presence somehow through instinctive or empirical methods even as the days continued to drag on. Then again, he supposed it wouldn't matter, for as long as one of the wolves was alive, they would follow them no matter the length.

Like all knights devoted to the pale, they had consumed the blood of beasts, giving them the powers of insight. Few mortals knew the secrets of the knights’ incredible ability, and most would be hunted down the instant they knew of it. 

Besides their passive gifts that could emanate an aura to negate or weaken a sorcerous presence, a single drop of blood could reveal the man's past. But in a moderate, generous amount of it, they could see everything, even the trail of prints, glowing a bright blue flame from even the thickest of snow.  

Decimus eyed the smouldering prints of the wolf, fresh and alight like an unquenchable flame, trailing farther and farther to the world in length. He allowed himself a groan at this, vexed at the long miles needed to meet, but was in no mind in a hurry. Like any good soldier, he merely needed to be patient.

[==]

The actual evening rolled over the land as the skies ladened entirely in the black, starless display of the perpetual twilight. Decimus and Oerin descended safely from the mountain after long, perilous hours journeying through the narrow, singular trail, their armour streaked with frost and snow. They seldom spoke to one another. Their attention was focused, attentive to the path ahead. Their quarries were far and long beyond their reach, and they still followed the blue trail of the animals left kindly for them.

Opposite from the sky, the land below blanketed in a field of white, silken, driven snow outstretched wide beyond the knights’ gaze as they ambled through the empty landscape, tampering the orderly state of things with their metal boots on snow. The silence was everywhere and all at once, eerily uncomfortable, and Decimus saw that it unnerved Oerin somewhat as he went on ahead, displeasure riddled on his pale features. Though the sight of his brother was almost comical, he couldn’t blame his brother, nor did he even reprimand him cause he felt the same as well. 

After long years living in a war of sound, the chaotic rumblings of battle and the booming artillery fire, they had never stumbled upon a sound where peace and silence reigned supreme, and it quickly dawned on Decimus that he’d almost wished for it all back. He stopped moving, letting his eyes wander the white scenic landscape as if staring at a living picture.

It was a peaceful world, a quiet place bereft from war, but the moment came to cease, and Decimus frowned as his eyes noticed the smouldering blue trail of his quarry’s light beginning to fade and vanish altogether. He whirled set in the supposed direction of his brother and began to move.

A few minutes later, Decimus caught up with Oerin standing in place, head inclining, eyes casting on the snowy floor as if caught a terrible surprise.

“You too, as well?” Decimus inquired, earning Oerin’s steadying nod as the two began to apace themselves forward.

As they made great strides through the wintry landscape, Oerin came first to a sudden halt, followed Decimus afterwards, eyes blankly gazing ahead. While the pale knights were not as keen on the sense of smell as the wolves were, they definitely recognized the unmistakable tang of blood in the breeze and the rotting stench of death that permeated it.

Decimus and Oerin glanced at one another and, in an unspoken agreement, leaned in into a crouch, weapons held ready. They proceeded slowly with the commendable silence for ones as large for giants and bulky in their armour. The knights have blended while to the winter snow, their armour grew even paler, making them almost ghostly to the naked eye.

The clash on steel against steel, the familiar cacophony of battle, was fairly heard as the knights proceeded closer to their destination. They then knelt above the twin hill, unmovable, implacable as stone, as Decimus was the first to witness such an event. An ongoing battle was contested from the streambank, the erratic sloshing sounds of water disturbed by the many movable figures. 

Decimus quickly recognized the wolves, their deep bluish capes fluttering wildly in constant motion and their cuirasses of hardened leather battered by the foe. The opponents that the wolves had to encounter were a veritable fighting force, fashioned in gilded armour from high to low, uniformed with the rigid discipline in their tight formation. There was a cold, mechanical motion behind the golden warriors, and Decimus couldn’t help but admire their ruthless pragmatism as he saw one plunged a halberd, similar with a design different from his own, in a downward strike as a wolf's head rolled free from its blood-spurting neck stump. 

Of the ten remaining wolves that survived the Blackpine woods, only four remained. Now three, as another slumped to the frozen watery depth with an arrow-bolt embedded on its head, its feathery end sticking out from the stream. 

Decimus shifted his direction at the trajectory bolt to recognize several arbalests positioned just close to them at the other side of the hill, unbelievably quite unaware of their presence. He turned towards Oerin and was about to make a command, but he stopped.

Not as of yet to don his helm, there was a childlike wildness that gleamed on Oerin’s eyes, lips peeled a teeth from ear to ear a mirthless grin. Decimus knew that look before as he had known the expression countless times together in war.

“Brother,” Oerin began a low rumble of a voice on the brink of madness, eyes aimed towards the arbalests from the other side of the hill. His hands tightened firmly on the axe on one hand while the halberd at the other. “Should I… dispense with them?”

Decimus stared at Oerin, almost heard a pleading tone behind his words. He then fixed on the arbalests and felt a flicker of pity for the animals. Their deaths would not be a quick one now that Oerin had set his eyes on them. Just like the bandits from the mountain, he would stretch their existence as painful and unbearable as he could before their due expiration.

“Yes, brother,” Decimus said finally, like a weight of a stone that sent ripples upon a pond. “Proceed.”

With the words parted from Decimus’ lips, Oerin inclined his head, all sense of restraint gone to hell. Gradually, he stood imposingly, exposing himself as clearly evident to all from their covered position. Whether the arbalests, the gilded soldiers or the wolves took notice of the looming giant, he cared not a whit ounce for concern as he broke into a sprint, weapons bared, eyes full of sickly life.

As his brother darted forth to express his grim parody for entertainment, Decimus joined in the fray straight at the gilded warriors. Not needing a weapon to expel such rabble, he went at them unarmed and aimed at the nearest target with a winding, enormous fist.

[==]

Mizpah had failed her watch to protect the remaining pack as yet another one of her kin, Dusep, tumbled dead on the stream, his body slumped against on jagged rocks with a bolt to the head. She had barely known the warrior since their time together, but regardless, she thought that he deserved a better death as with the rest that had fallen along the way.

The wolven warrioress bared her teeth in stoic frustration at her misfortunes, at her foolishness as second-leader of the pack and at the killers sent out to finish the rest of the leftovers. She had stumbled upon the kingsguard by mere circumstance in their withdrawal from Blackpine and expected the royal hounds of Oakenfall had come to rescue from their plight. Before she could even register any response, the hounds pounced on them without preamble, without warning, and the wolves were forced to defend themselves despite their dwindling number, reduced now to only a desperate few.

Mizpah allowed herself a glance at the two remaining wolves, Camden and Malik, bodies bloodied and battered from fatigue. Steel determination masked their tired faces that earned Mizpah a ghost of a smile, weighed in by the immense sadness that their lives and hers would soon join the fallen. 

The hounds motioned for the killing blow, silent and deadly with halberds held point bare. Mizpah glared on the hounds as she spun her twin axe in a tight figure of eight, arms spreading wide in a gesture of invitation.

"Come on then!" She bellowed, her voice dripped with acid. "If it is to be done, then let it be done well."

The two wolves behind her roared in support as they readied themselves for the final end. But as they were about to charge in a fierce titanic display of blood and steel, a sound pierced the nightly air, and they froze. The sound was a lonesome wail, distant, faint, but soon it unravelled into a chorus, a cacophonous noise of panic that pulsated from the rear line of the halberdiers.

Even as a seldom few hounds whirled, directing their gaze at the ruckus commotion, the wolves remained as they were, still as stone. A cold trickle of dread seeped deep into their souls as their primal, innate instinct screamed out with the immediate urgency to run, to flee at all due haste. Malik was the worst of the three as the unflappable warrior reeked with despair, his face, dragged on still by fatigue and soreness in his muscles, jolted into genuine fear. Camden quickly placed a paw on the warrior’s shoulder, prompting some encouragement, but even she was not immune to this unease sensation as her other paw struggled to cease the trembling.

Mizpah didn't turn, eyes promptly fixed on the hounds. If they had an inkling of confusion or concern by the commotion, they showed none of it. It was expected, of course, as not one of them understood the terror like Mizpah and the others had experienced in Blackpine woods. She focused her attention past the hounds, beyond the firing line positioned at the high advantage point of the hill. She was looking for something or someone that seemed misplaced among the sharpshooters, dreading to fear the worse. And then, she saw it, or what might have been plausible, as a sizable shadowy blur, too quick for her eyes to follow, came and fell another victim that split the creature half below the spine with a viscous sideswipe. 

The bloody deed ended in seconds as one by one, the firing line tumbled, either dead or close to dying, with the latter wailing in desperate pleas for mercy before the inevitable scream pitched high for all to hear. It made Mizpah's fur stand on edge, but her ears yet caught another commotion not far from her, growing louder at each second. 

A crunching impact of what sounded like a blunt instrument of a hammer boomed from behind the hounds as Mizpah realized that they bore their arms not at them but at the looming threat creeping in from their rear. Even as she continued to stare at the royal guards turning their attention elsewhere to this unknowable foe, she tightened the grip of her twin axes for possible comfort as the thing she dreaded the most had come at last. 

The monsters were here. 

Another impact and a body, sudden like a fallen boulder, plummeted hard in a wet sickly clunk in front of Mizpah and the others, its once gilded armour worn by the elite cascaded in a red metal ruin with limbs twisted in precarious positions. From the sight alone, Malik's fears over the monsters that stalked them for the past several days won him over, and he shrivelled, reduced into veiled mutterings of resignation. 

While Camden struggled to revive the warrior back from his deep state of trauma, Mizpah couldn't find the heart to find words to speak, couldn't turn away at the raining corpses that flung up high into the air. She'd seen firsthand what the monsters of Blackpine did to the pack, saw the grisly, brutal display of her blood-sister, her alpha leader, felled down by the armoured shape as she barked the survivors to run while she drew herself as a diversion.

More bodies were now littered on the stream, a broken display of contorted steel and flesh. They dropped hard with a heavy clank as blood seeped through the opening of their wounds that turned the stream from a clear liquid floor into a vivid shade of blood. 

Snapped by the red-cold water that splashed on her cheek, Mizpah’s entranced bewilderment almost cost her life. One of the golden hounds came at her, its halberd raised, its direction poised for the killing blow. 

As Mizpah came aware of the descent, she stirred briskly to act. She braced her axes and parried the oncoming blow, the halberd redirecting towards the stream that came with a clunking splash. Then, in a gesture of response, she sideswiped one axe below the hound. It plunged deep into its side and was rewarded with a wet trickle of blood beneath the golden plate. 

The hound stiffened, still moving, one free paw clenched in a ball of fist for a haymaker punch. Mizpah dodged the clumsy blow before she finished the hound with a downward strike, axe firmly embedded on its canine helmeted head. 

As the first toppled front-face into the murky red waters, more were upon the wolves, their silent determination for the kill almost commendable despite the looming uncommon threat tearing through their ongoing ranks. Though the hounds that were upon them came fewer than before, the battle was joined in earnest as Mizpah and Camden took the brunt of the storm.

Malik soon followed a minute later, feet bound to a sudden sprint. Instead of the supposed sluggish hesitation from the wolf's part, he simply lunged ahead and brushed the two aside, hurling himself at the foe with suicidal abandon. 

As Mizpah saw Malik's senseless rampage overcome by the sheer apparent madness, she turned to Camden, who shrugged her shoulder slightly. Unsure whether to feel concerned or afeared at Malik's deteriorating state of mind, the wolven warrioress shook her head and charged.