The boats were white; that much could be made out beneath the mist. They travelled up the river in complete silence: not even the splashing of oars or the blowing of wind in sails could be heard.
    It was as if the mist was carried with them, for it surrounded them, and left a trail behind them, disguising the ships and hiding them from all but the sharpest of eyes.
    But, it was agreed after they passed through villages on the river, the really eerie thing was the lack of voices: there was nothing, just the ships and the mist steadily moving on, never stopping, never pausing.
    In fact, it was as if they were moved by magic.

+++++

Arda looked at the cavern with wariness, mentally seeking for a way to escape this fate. This was where Mallobaude dwelt … where his actions would be judged by the Arch-vampire, the last remnant of an age where heroes walked the earth like the gods they were.
    Behind him, his apprentice’s face twisted into a smile. “Master? Scared to face Mallobaude? I faced him many times, and I’m still here,“ Jacques taunted.
    Lucius spun around, his hands closing on the lesser vampire’s neck. D’Eperon had proven to be loyal, but Arda still did not trust him fully. Something made him wary of the vampire: perhaps that he had a vast potential to be unleashed, and a lot of power, but most likely that he represented what Lucius hated most: a vampire who had, in life, stood against everything Arda held dear.
    Luc’s voice was a hiss of barely-contained vehemence. “Just because I saved you from death doesn’t mean I can’t return you to death, d’Eperon. You get away with a lot, and should you continue to do so, I will not be so lenient? Is that understood? Good.” He flung his apprentice back, letting him fall hard onto the ground. He had no time to discipline or teach foolish weaklings.
    No … now he had other business to attend to. Business that would decide his fate for the rest of eternity.
    Steeling himself, Arda stepped into the gloom of the cavern, followed by his apprentice.

+++++

Jean did not hesitate as he saw the elves. He dived from his horse, watching as his fellow wights raised their shields and prepared for attack. The Black knights riding next to him dismounted, the fires blazing in the pits of their eyes glowing bright in the night.
    It was full moon. The great eye looked down, illuminating the darkness. Jean looked around, searching for the elves: surely they would be nearby. That had decimated his warriors … if he let them escape, the same would happen again.
    After all, that was why he had come here: to hunt down and kill the elf and her followers. He had thought it would be an easy victory, but how was he supposed to carry out his mission if he couldn’t see the wretched creatures?
    Yet a solution was already occurring, forming in his mind even as he thought the words. Fire.

The great clouds of ash and soot filled the forest, making Arhia cough as she desperately sought for a way out. She was a High Elf, not a woodlander: at no point in her training had she been informed of what to do if you’re enemy tried to smoke and burn you out.
    Her eyes watered as she struggled to see what was happening: she could only hear cries of fear and running and fleeing feet, and smoke stopped her smelling or tasting anything.
    It was growing warmer. Nearby, she could see flames licking from a tree just a few metres away. A tree fell, blocking her exit. She had no way out. Climbing was fruitless: to do so meant you had to cope with more smoke and fire. And these were pine trees: hard to climb, though good for hiding behind.
    Panic finally closed in, and Arhia fled, dashing everywhere, jumping flames to escape, not knowing where she fled. Tears dripped down her face as she realized she would die in a burning forest, denied a warrior’s fate.
    Was this how Lethalis had died, too? Trapped in a forest while flames flickered around him?
    But there was no time for such thoughts. Arhia now had one goal: to escape. She evaded trees, dived aside from falling branches and scrambled up, desperately trying to escape.
    But she had left it too late. Flames danced all around her, mocking her. Great flaming trees like vast beacons blocked her only way out. The floor was covered by vegetation that was shrivelling and dying from the heat, some catching light.
    Arhia looked around one final time, as her eyes rolled up into her head and she fell onto the burning floor, a puppet whose strings had been cut.

+++++

Coreaux watched from the tower, and turned his eyes eastwards, surveying his lands. Arkhor was dead, but it had been worth it, purely to see two of his greatest foes defeated. Besides, he had never trusted the vampire anyway.
    He could make out a plume of smoke rising from a small copse to the east. Good. That would be Jean getting rid of those elves. His old friend was very faithful, and an excellent general … it seemed odd to Coreaux he was not bitter after he had suffered his flesh stripped from bone, but it was a mystery the Duke had decided would probably be best left to lie as it was.
    Another smoke plume. That would be the mountain, far to the east. It never stopped smoking, and Coreaux had many suspicions, but he had long learned it was best not to act on suspicion.
    And to the west … nothing. Simply the usual barren land, with skaven – loathsome ratmen – scuttling about like insects. It was a cursed land, but no more so than the rest of Mousillon. In Coreaux’s eyes, it was blessed compared to the rest of Mousillon. He reigned over it.
Wait … there was something … mists. On the river. White sails. Close. Near Mousillon … entering the long-derelict gates …
    With a curse, Coreaux rushed down to confront these new arrivals.

+++++

The cavern was vast, a massive hall made by water dripping on stone for millennia. Jacques couldn’t help but pause and marvel at the wonders of the Earth Mother.
    The steady dripping of water of stone was the only sound in the cavern as Arda slowly stopped, his footsteps echoing into the distance, and turned to d’Eperon. His voice came out as a hiss. Clearly the vampire was disconcerted, or worried. “We have no time! Hurry … this is not the moment to pause and wonder. The Great Lord will have my skull as yet another trophy if we do not hurry …”
    The Great Lord? Jacques had thought that was what the ‘Blood Dragons’ called Abhorash. Clearly he was wrong. D’Eperon hurried after Arda, feet slipping slightly on the damp red stone floor. “Master,” he began, voice echoing in the massive room, “Why did you—“ But Luc interrupted him.
    “Later. For now, we have business to attend to.” Lucius gave his apprentice a rare smile (the only time Jacques had seen him smile without it being in conjunction with something nasty happening to someone), and stepped into a tunnel in the wall of the cavern.
    Jacques hesitated just a moment before following his master.

+++++