Mud churned like rocky snow as the traveller forced their way through the hailing rain, battering against the tattered oilskin they had tied around their neck with a discarded noose, threadbare and found by the side of the road.

That road. That damnable road. It was long, treacherous, and led to many a bad way. Wretchedness, betrayal, and turnabout. Lined with smiling mountebanks and leering cut-throats all intent to bleed dry those they led from their paths. But there was sanctuary to be had, at its very end. The traveller knew, she knew, in the deepest confines of her heart, the one thing left inside her that still burned, that she would find sanctuary at Castle Lusgardt.

Slipping in the muck, the traveller's elbows cracked against the stone buried in the mud. Pain reverberated through her cold bones as the heaving, primordial mud sloughed over her arms, as if showing intent to devour her. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself up from the sodden earth grasping to claim her. It would not have her.

Just a little further, higher over this hill.

Finally, she saw it. The imposing, menacing stronghold of Lusgardt. Yet from its skewering keep and tooth-like crennelations, warmth radiated within. An orange glow of fire and mirth and safety.

The traveller quickened her step.

The rain pelted harder as if sensing her desperation. Only a little farther and she would-

A warhorn sounded. The massive wooden gates of Lusgardt opened, and from within riders emerged, mounted upon the giant carnivorous lizards which made the mountains their home. Fear welled in the traveller. She knew this was no honour guard.

The riders were swiftly upon her, the jaws of their mounts snapping with spittle as their riders levelled pikes upon her. One of them spake thus;

'Hold, wench! From whence do you come?'

The traveller did her best to cry above the rain, her chest weak from hunger and throat dry from thirst.

'I hail from the Mourne Lowlands! There is nothing there for me anymore!'

'And wherefore do you come here, so far from home?' she was challenged again.

'I pray, good soldiers, for sanctuary! I am destitute, and will sell anything of myself should I have to!'

The riders looked between them as the speaker nodded to another, dismounting with a coil of hempen rope.

'You will come with us,' the first soldier spoke, his comrade beginning to loop the rope around the traveller, pinning her arms to her side, 'The Captain of the Guard shall decide your fate.'

The traveller, weary from the world itself beating down upon her, and still bound within her oilskin, was seated opposite a woman of prowess and strength. Her eyes were keen, her grimace flint-like, and her tone displeased.

'You must be either a liar or a fool,' she spat, literally spat, the globule dribbling down the traveller’s cloak, 'Do you expect me to believe you'd wandered from the Lowlands to here, all for sanctuary? This is Lusgardt! And your ridiculous claims that nowhere would take you in? Preposterous!'

The traveller could say little which had not already been confessed. And what remained no sane mortal would e'er believe. And were they wise or insane enough to, they would burn her alive with just haste.

'You're lucky I don't throw you to the sauri,' the guardwoman glowered, 'But by the Virtues, we have need of handmaidens for the High Magus.'

The traveller breathed a sigh of relief as heavy footfalls encroached upon the room, accompanied by the sound of clashing metal. The door swung wide, a black clad hand forcing it open.

There stood a woman, an elf, whose presence alone choked the traveller with fear. All knew of her. The Champion of Lusgardt, wielder of the fiercest dark magic, Ebon Lightning. She was Nihil, the green-eyed guardian of the Magus of Burning Emeralds.

She stood tall, the longsword at her side blunted from her recent skirmish, if her dishevelled state was any marker of her near past. Her black hair, oily from the rain, hung in strings around her ferocious visage; some falling in line with the scar that crossed her face. The marr did little to affect her beauty, and only bolstered her intensity. Black plate armour, slick with water, weighed heavily on her body, draped in a ragged scarlet cloak sodden and stained with fresh blood.

The Captain of the Guard stood at once, greeting the Champion with a stiff salute.

The Champion gave a wave of dismissal, and spake; 'Leave us. I will decide her place.'

The guard relented, bowed, and scurried from the room to attend to other duties.

The Champion, rather than sitting, pushed the table aside with one hand, and stood before the traveller.

'You come on the night of a fel omen, wandering one,' she hissed, 'But I will not ignore dim lanterns in the dark. Speak now, what is your name?'

The traveller's voice hoarsely croaked, 'Amoura.'

The Champion rolled the name around her mouth, considering it.

'Today I slew twenty men. They will never again laugh, or sing, or learn, or feel the warmth of the day. To end another life would bring bad luck,' she said, drawing her dented blade, 'But I am no fool. You may yet be a spy, or some force of malefic intent. So I will have you bound to service as a handmaiden, and you shall swear upon the tip of my sword. And should you break your oath,' she leaned in close, 'You shall feel it slide from your chest as I hurl you from the tallest keep.'

Amoura's heart roiled as she accepted.

'Good,' the Champion leered, 'Now open your mouth, and look into my eyes.'

Her jaw yawned wide as the Champion carefully, delicately, slid the tip of the blade over Amoura's tongue. It was a test of her resolve.

'Henceforth you shall beseech me as your Mistress, and serve as my handmaiden. You will bow to my Queen, your loyalty unflinching and unquestioning.'

The blade slid deeper but Amoura knew she could not look away. To do so was to show her will as weak; and for that crime, the only acceptable punishment was already pressed to her tongue.

But it seemed the Champion was pleased, and withdrew her blade.

'Good. Your resolve is strong. You will make a fine servant. Food will be given and a bed made. You shall be clothed in the morning.'

Without flourish she sheathed her blade and left the room to leave the lone traveller, Amoura of the Mourne Lowlands, to wait until her time was due.

The Voice Within spake with the tongue of a viper, 'You have done well, Pretty Little Thing, to bring Me so far.'

Amoura shuddered at the presence of the Sorceress as the Voice faded within her depths. This force within her would not wreak catastrophe. That was the promise she had made for herself when she left the smouldering ruins of what was once her home.