A flame flickered in the darkness. It jumped in and out of existance, flashing between inky solid and wavering light. Gilded in dancing crimson, the twisted, diseased shapes of the forest scratched up at the starred night, as though frozen in some silent scream of horrified anticipation or maybe dispairing acceptance of what was to come. The air shivered through with the relentless thump thump of hide drums, the beating heart waiting for the felling stroke.
There were no petty thieves this hour. No clandestine deals of questionable objective, or exchanging of gold for the spilling of blood. Even the more fearless of the scofflaws and villains remained far from the dead oaks and pines. The sky was unguarded, the closed eye of the moon unwatching. A tempting arrangement. But not tempting enough. The pervading sense of death and rot reached its fingers into the living, stealing breath and bone. Anyone foolish enough to disregard the portent met quiet steel and unyielding resolve.
The last of such fools was dispatched and a cloaked figure wove through the blackened trunks. Droplets of blood trailed him before he wiped the blade clean, stowing it under the folds of cloth. As sandaled steps took him deeper in, chanting voices joined the drums in ghastly chorus, a tapestry of maleficent design.
The cracked stone of the abandoned temple rose up before him. The withered vines that decorated the columns and steps had long ago given up their struggle to pull the structure down. Now, they served only as macabre ornaments along with the crumbling statuary and attendant dust. The whole of the area was bathed in the quavering, florid illumination of torches. The loathsome hymn continued, tainting the air and causing a swell of dark joy in the man. He took his place among his brethren, an arching row of robed stewards, and entwined his voice with theirs.
The time was coming.
A tortured scream lashed out, piercing the incessant drone but not stopping it, searching for succor among the gathered mass. It found none. The terrified wail continued, soon accompanied by the scuffling of torn flesh and hardened leather on ancient tile. A struggle was in process, but it was just the shadow of things unseen. It was a reflection of what was to be.
The participants of the clash of wills came into view. Five of the brethren encircled a white-clad woman. Four held fast to her limbs, raising her up to halt her desparate digs into the unforgiving ground, and the last followed them with a grim expression. She writhed in their arms, unwilling, bucking against this mad fate. She was full of life and passion, anger and fear, the undeniable impulse to to survive. This was no meek maiden, cowed in wide-eyed romantic fright, but a striving echo of Artemis.
Not an easy find and not to be easily let go. She was brought down on the large, square stone etched with symbols not seen for untold centuries. Under the cacophony of monotonous ancient syllables, wordless protests, fluttering flames, and damning drums was the low creaking of binding rope. It continued on, interlacing in discordant song, crescendoing with the dissolution of the chant into repetition of the name Zentaris, the sound of drawn steel, and consummated with a downward slice through the oppressive air.
It all fell silent. There was nothing but the drip of warm life on cold stone.
The time was come.
