Chapter One: Awakening

 Laslow:

Laslow found himself running through the Darkwood, how he had gotten there was quite a story. He had spent the past 10 years working his way up the ranks of the church, all to culminate in the assassination of the high priestess. But all to late he found her immortality was more than just religious speculation. He ran on, well knowing that it was futile, that the drake riders where much faster than any human or horse. Then they where upon him, claws tearing at his flesh, he barely felt it it as they removed his arm and then a portion of his chest. Slowly the sky faded to black, Its over, this is it, I'm dying. Then, like a clap of thunder a voice "Fir Ringfel saw." then everything went black.   

"Whats this? We certainly have had an influx of heroes haven we?" Laslow looked around into the darkness that surrounded him, "Where am I?" "Silence child, your badly wounded, so there isn't much time." "Time for what?" "Laslow Helith, follow the black ones, and you shall know what you must, now go forth and purge the blight from this land!"

The Fallen Exile: 

There was a sudden jolt, a disruption. something was wrong with the great flow, very wrong. The ancient dullahan flashed a genuine grin for the first time in over five hundred years. Casting his line back into the crystalline waters of the Wyld and thought to himself “If he’s back... well... things are going to get very loud. very soon.”   

Laslow:

The night was nice surprise to Laslow’s dilated eyes, the cool air felt like the Winter Queen’s embrace. “Finally come to collect have you?” He called out to the abyss, directing is voice to whatever lie beyond the void, beyond those cold blackened stars. “No, Not yet at least” a bitter chill flowed across his body, further numbing his already dull senses and his eyes closed once more. 

The Wild Huntsman:

All froze in the Huntsman’s wake, his Icy steed silently gliding along the trail of frost set before it. Fimbulvinter sat in his hands, a nocked arrow ready for the first thing that moved, and move something did. The black iron arrow found its mark as it had a thousand times before, and the Unseelie dropped. “Its the Traitor!” One called just before a black arrow lodged itself into his neck. The last Unseelie dropped to her knees, a look of terror unbefitting of her kind adorned her face. The Huntsman slung Fimbulvinter over his pauldron, set his hounds to sniff out anyone who might have been hiding, One of his hawks returned from it’s flight and rested on his shoulder as he dismounted. “One question before you kill me” the unseelie gasped as he crouched down beside her, “Speak, servant of the false queen of frost.” His voice hinted of some amusement, but who knows what lay beneath that helm “Wh-why’d you do it?” The fey trembled 

“Do what?” 

“Why’d you betray Queen Meb?”

“Ah yes, that” his smile was audible “I didn’t betray Meb”

“What?” The fey was puzzled 

“One cannot betray whom they never served” he said as his hands clasped around his helm “Ill let you in on a little secret” he said “Seeing as your about to die” there was a hiss, like frost being suddenly warmed as the Huntsman removed his helm, the white raven on his shoulder took the hint, and took flight once more. The Unseelie gasped as Long silver hair tumbled down from the helm, styled in a traditional elvish braid and bound in black-mythral spiderwebs, the sign of a high ranking drow elf. His coal-black skin was covered in uneven swaths of frost and his cold blue eyes peered into her soul. “Now you know” he smiled as he dove an icicle into the fey’s heart. Just then, from some distance away one of his pack howled.

Laslow:

“You stink of him, you know that?” 

“What? Who?”

Laslow’s eyes flicked opened once more, he pulled himself up off the cot he had been haphazardly dumped on. He looked around, scanning the large, albeit cozy cabin, the walls covered in hunting trophies and murals of hunting, then his eyes rested on a figure hunched by the roaring fire. “The Maker” he replied “you stink of The Maker” the figure turned, invisible eyes looking him over from under a barbute*. “The Maker?” The man stood and walked to Laslow, unlike normal plate male, which is heavy and loud, he moved silently, acting as if the armor weighed no more than a feather. “Who is the Maker? He laughed “see this?” He held up an un-strung bow made of blacked Iron, with a freakishly real eye set into the middle “The heck is that?” “This is Fimbulvinter” Laslow’s eyes widened “the bow of the Wild Hunts-“ Laslow’s eyes widened with a new appreciation for the man in front of him. “This was a gift from from The Maker for my assistance over a millennium ago, before his departure from our world.” 

“So he’s dead?” 

“Hardly, he literally left our world” the Huntsman said, a faint nostalgic tone in his voice a “The magic we used is still palpable today” “We?” The Huntsman laughed, “You think I’m strong enough to create the Scar on my own? And this is after the maker’s blessing.” The scar? Laslow thought the scar of the worlds? The massive crevice made of a lost magic? That was far more than palpable. “Also” Laslow finally asked “Where the hell am I?”

Keeper of The Depths:

Silence, then the patter of footsteps against the marble floor. The Keeper closed his book and returned it to his pack, the bag was almost as old as him, but he kept it around for sentimental reasons. Nonsense he knew, but it reminded him of the good old days, before the Maker’s gift, six adventurers against the world. Quickly he stashed the bag in a hidden compartment in his throne, and tried to look as regal as possible, one could not know the weakness of one such as he. The large obsidian doors creaked open, the magical cravings shifting from their slumber. A young girl, no more than 20, came in. One of the king’s many consorts no doubt, a vain attempt to win his favor. No, something was wrong, she was scared, all who entered his crypt where unnerved, but they had been briefed, this child’s eyes showed only terror. Though terrified, her eyes still scanned the room, over the masterpieces of old, the ancient tombs that lined the turquoise sea stone walls, then her eyes fell upon the keeper. She practically threw herself at his feet, begging for mercy through sobs, stating how sorry she was over and over again. The Keeper sighed, and placed his hand on top of her prostrated form, “What ails you my dear?” His voice startled him, it had become raspy from centuries of disuse “I-I st-st-tole food from the king’s table to feed my family sir, we were starving, and now the kings guard...” she managed to choke out between sobs, the old archlich* pulled himself out of his throne with is staff “weep not, for you are in my care” with that he left the girl alone in the haunting throne room.  

The light was nearly blinding, but The Keeper didn't take to long to adjust. The sea air felt good on his creaking bones, and struck a deeper resonance with his true self. Gazing around, he realized the world had indeed changed around him, there where more pressing matters, such as the squad of started horsemen. The Lich popped his neck “ah I’m getting to old for this” he muttered to himself. “How dare you?” He growled with a total change in demeanor, the long-lost red orbs that took the place of his eyes began to glow once more, makeing the figure all the more haunting. He pointed Ilalis at the leader and the staff’s head began to glow a deep crimson “what?” One of the guards asked “HOW DARE YOU CHASE A GIRL WHO WAS JUST TRYING TO STAY ALIVE!” He shouted as a roaring fireball shot from Ilalis, instantly disintegrating it’s target. “Take it form some one who’s lost it, life is a precious thing.” The Keeper took a breath, more out of instinct than necessity. “Who’s next?”  

The Warrior-Saint:

The town was filthy, literally and figuratively. Though she held none of the prestige she had before the dawn of that damnable church, but the saint was still a saint, and thus had a job to do. The cobble streets where caked with dirt and the smell of decay wafted merrily about the diseased town, the dead and dyeing lined the streets with the rich district looming over them, its inhabitants perfectly healthy. It disgusted the Saint, in, out, breath and it’ll all be okay she kept telling herself then she saw him. With a single touch he healed the sick and his eyes, they glowed red.. it was him the saint realized the Maker had returned.

*spartan helmet 

*Like and elder lich on steroids, that made a pact with the undieing, but worse, so much worse

Special thanks to Alecia for reminding me I actually had a proper fantasy story in the depths of my files, Go check out her work “Collide” here http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Alecia15/2013047/ its a thrilling story about a couple of guys who get sucked into the feywild (though she calls it something else) its a really good story.