“She is a injured maiden, requiring aid Peter. Gather a fire now lest I do it myself.” said Percival sternly as he caressed her face softly, stroking back her slightly messed hair. “Yes Master, right away…” answered Peter. With that he quickly darted off into in search of firewood thinking to himself “If there’s one fault with Percival is that he’s too damn kind…one day he’ll learn that people don’t not repay kindness with kindness.” To be continued… The sun bought little relief to Skaris’ heavy heart. Indeed very little things bought him pleasure in this world, save perhaps running his devious curving blade into his hapless victim’s stomach. The sensual feel of his blade edge, slowly carving its way towards his victims vital organs, unit their horrific screams insured Skaris of his kill. Yes, killing…and the art of it all. Presently however his mind was focused on something else, on something that his life dependant upon, his explanation… Only twelve of the forty Dark Elf raiders were left alive, sailing back to their Black Ark deep in the Sea of Chaos, away from the shore of L’Anguille and its vigilant towers. His own thirty spearmen was butchered down to four while the other eight survivors were battered Black Ark Corsairs, sitting on their half burned Corsair ship cursing under their lips as its tattered sails fluttered lifelessly in the winds. Indeed his elite raiding party appeared to be now little more then woeful deserters, battered and exhausted. As the charred dragon ship approached its destination, the dreaded Black Ark of Moriath, Scourge of the Sea of Chaos, Skaris’ fear grew. He was almost trembling, drenched with fear and terror. How should he explained it all to Moriath the Cruel, knowing that on his explanation hung his life… His supposed raid had turned out to be a disaster, with Skaris losing more then half of his men, returning on a half blackened Dragon Ship. Yet what bothered him the most was the fact that Morlena was missing... He remembered seeing her, standing aloft upon the hill, raining death upon the battlefield while his men retreated. His head still throbbing with pain due to the deep gash he had suffered. “Curse those Bretonnians!” he hissed lithely. Yet he knew in his heart that cursing would bring nothing. As every second path, his Dragon Ship edged closer to its destination, and possibly to his doom. He had pondered timelessly over his explanation. He knew that things were heavily stacked against him. He had not only failed to bring back any loot, but had lost most of his men in the process, along with another two of the sleek Dragon Ship and worst of all Morlena was missing…the last thought chilled his blood. Moriath was not going to be pleased… Yet what could he do? Everyone upon the Black Ark of Moriath feared the wraith of the Hag Sorcerer. It is rumored that her mere stare paralysis the hardiest of warriors, flooding their hearts with fear and terror. When she speaks, her thin voice penetrates the soul, reducing it to a puddle of fright. Her gaze probes into the deepest part of the mind…unraveling the closest guarded secrets. To lie to her would mean certain doom for nothing hides from the wraith of Moriath. This thoughts did not help Skaris as his Dragon Ship approached the Black Ark. A dark mist started to surround them as the ship’s navigator skillfully navigated through the foggy darkness. The Pelt of Midnight which constantly surrounds the Black Ark have time and again proved its worth against enemies fleets, protecting the Black Ark from unwanted gaze. A stagnating presence fell over, as the air became stuffy and heavy. Indeed it was midnight here, for no light penetrated through, not even that of the sun. A dark presence of fear also fell over Skaris as faint echoing screams started to ring out, wailing, as if beckoning for death rather then stand the torture of the dungeons deep with the Black Ark. Already he begun to feel Moraith’s haunting aura over him, like a shadow of fear, slowly masking his entire body in fear and terror. The Dragon Ship sailed onwards, as if guided by the very currents beneath it. Slowly an even darker silhouette appeared on the far horizon. Dim torch lights could be seen, shinning with an eerie glow as the ship reached its destination. A mammoth floating island seemed to suddenly materialize infront of the beleaguered crew, that in the shape of a huge pyramid. The currents and waves splashed tenuously upon its black foundation of iron rock, shaped and battered by the centuries of tide. Before them stood the Black Ark of Moraith, a gigantic floating fortress of the Dark Elves, home of the Black Corsairs of Moriath.. With its black rocks dwelt near three thousand Dark Elves. In its moors docked over one hundred Dragon Ships. It was a floating horror in the Sea of Chaos, responsible for untold blood shed. It is through these floating Arks that the Dark Elves come forth, raiding undefended coastlines, bring loot and slaves back to their bleak home land. A black citadel rose from the centre of the Black Ark, like a keep out of an aged old mountain, the Citadel of Terror they called it, where Moriath dwelt and held court over her baneful mountain. Nervously Skaris stepped out his charred Dragon Ship, onto the cold hard rocks. His battered ship sailed into a cave dimly lit. The Dark Elf porters quickly attended to his ship and crew, somewhat a little bewildered, casting dubious and taunting gazes. Skaris ignored it, pacing his way up the dark winding stairs for he had been at once summoned to the Citadel of Terror. He dreaded every step of the climb, which bought him closer to what could be his doom. Fear swept over him as he was greeted by four guards, clad in jet black mail, wearing blood red cloaks, brandishing long spear, personal guards of the Citadel Skaris thought. “Lady Moriath wishes to see you,” said one, his voice cold and hard, displaying no emotion. “Follow me.” Through the winding passages they walked, deep inside this black mountain of horror. The interior corridors were finely decorated, resembling just that of a keep. Finely chiseled images of black lotuses were upon the walls, in an intricate pattern, adorned by other symbols such as skulls and swords dripping with blood. They continued their climb upwards, past the garrisons and the mess halls, past the armoury and the forge, past the personal rooms of the many captains and generals. Finally they had reached a large hall, supported by large black marble pillars. It was empty apart from the huge black oak door on the other side. It was a large door with dim brass nails, heavily decorated by the continues images of the black lotus, for that was the very symbol of Moriath the Cruel. “Lady Moriath is waiting for you. Do not keep her waiting.” Said the same cold voice before the four guards swiftly disappeared, leaving Skaris alone, in the deadly silence. Shaking with fright Skaris walked forwards, barely having enough strength to push open the surprisingly light door. To part 5

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