ASCENCION - The Age of SilverMoon

The dripping of rainwater from the hellknight's cloak was the only sound that echoed in the chilling darkness that night, adding to the soft clang of metal boots as he walked across the aisle of Ansha's temple. Here he was, lost time and again in the memories of the past, broken oaths and shattered trust. His mind continuously ran through the myriad possibilities of what would have and could have been if he had made the right choices¦then again, who decided which was right and which was wrong? Fate¦ he blamed it all on fate.

Removing the iron mask which served both as a protection in battle, and an effective disguise to hide the unyielding pain of his grieving soul, he knelt before the altar. The image of Ansha, goddess of light even seemed to weep with him as he poured his heart's grief. The night screamed as the wind continued its strength. The storm has finally come. He was tired and wet from a long journey which he should not have taken in the first place, but it did not truly matter now. He was here. Five years ago, it was also here that he, Paris was sworn into the service of the lion knights of Asphenaz. Time seemed to fly so fast, so many things happened in such a short time and his mind could not even begin to race with the events that made him what he is now¦an angel of death, a hellknight of Jurom.

Paris' hands slammed on the stone floor. His head followed, clasping his face with the iron gauntlets that took the lives of many innocent victims of the war. Tears fell from his eyes like the rain that poured outside the cold brick walls. For him, the storm that raged was within his heart.

"Milady Ansha¦.forgive thy servant for he hast sinned¦ The voice struggled from his throat like weeds choking a plant's roots. "My hands have been stained with the blood of those I have sworn to defend¦the lives of those who once trusted my blade to be their guide¦

"Paris?... Came a soft, elderly voice from behind him. From the door, a figure in a white temple robe stood firm against the storm. He was also wet, and water trickled from his flowing beard. "Why do you grieve so, my child?

The hellknight spun, his hands instinctively drawing the twin serrated blades which marked him as one of the dreaded hellknights of Jurom¦then suddenly, ashamed of his action, the blades fell, his head bowed low. "Elder Clarion? He asked, his face illuminating like it had never did for so long a time. "¦you're soaking from the rain¦what¦why¦? He asked selflessly as he almost stumbled and ran to meet the familiar figure. He stood there like he did five years ago, the high priest of Ansha. Wisest among the wise, Paris considered him. It was he who personally tutored the lion knights in the holy arts, carefully selecting those worthy to be paladins of the temple.

"Be strong, my son¦the war is ended, everyone rejoices for the hope of a new dawn. Why do you weep? The old priest said with a reassuring smile as he placed a hand on the hellknight's shoulder. For Paris, it felt like ages of guilt thrown upon him to bear the punishment that screams within his soul.

"Look at my hands, elder¦I have tainted my hands with the blood of innocents¦I have become what I once hated to my very core. He wept, wept like a little child to a father long lost. "I¦I did not want¦ He choked. The very words refused to leave his parched mouth.

"Hatred? Clarion gave him a soft look that penetrated deep within his grieving spirit. "Is that how you fought, Paris?...Perhaps that is why you lost so much in the war¦for hatred will make even the strongest of warriors fall. Come. The priest beckoned, leading the way to a winding staircase to the temple tower.

Paris followed like an innocent lamb being led by a trusted shepherd. His years of training in fort Asphenaz came rushing back in a flurry of memories. He was Paris Ironheart, one of the most promising students personally trained by the commander of the lion army, and was on his way to being counted among the paladins of the temple when that fated day came to be. A jealous highlord he once offended executed the plots for his demise¦framed for a crime he did not commit, he was hounded by his fellow knights and after a long struggle, he finally fell into the highlord's hands. Sentenced for execution, he lost everything he had, including the love of a certain lady he misses so until now. Saved only by the valiant efforts of the Black Dagger Order, a secret society of warriors who aided him for some reason he still could not understand, he made his escape towards the darklands of Jurom. There he met three other adventurers who shared a semblance of fate, and there they began grand adventures which soon caught the eye of Jurom's ruler.

Soon afterwards, he was drafted into the service of the hellknights, a special force under the armies of Jurom, directly commanded by the king himself. Showing special prowess in battle, Paris was ranked among the Scorpions of the hellknight army, and the king showed him great favor. All went well until the vampiric Inofrii race became unusually interested in the politics of the kingdoms in Asperah. He heard from the scouts a long time ago that they took the small kingdom of Tiber under their command, but he never imagined that the skulking shadows would attempt such a thing in Jurom. The kingdom is technically the second most powerful in Asperah next to Asphenaz.

It was too late to rethink that now. Paris shook his head as he continued up the steps following the elderly priest. The sad thing about war is that one wrong decision or a miscalculated assault could lead to the utter destruction of even the mightiest of empires¦and the Inofrii planned well. The king fell into their influence, becoming dependent on the call of blood upon his throat, and they had no idea until it was too late. War erupted between Asphenaz and Jurom, influenced by the Inofrii, weakening the human kingdoms by using their own kind against them, and Paris was at the forefront.

His twin serrated swords drew the blood of both knight and civilian alike, following an order that even he did not understand. But as a true soldier, he fulfilled his duties even as his heart ceased to beat, and darkness engulfed his soul. For six moons the battle raged and then it ceased as quickly as it had begun. He saw Jurom in ruins, and the hellknights fleeing to wherever their steeds can take them. He too turned and fled, and after suffering the great wilderness he returned to where his heart belonged. Asphenaz, hoping for some redemption that his soul knew there was none.

"Paris, take a good look. The voice interrupted his thoughts. Before him lay the open lands, the storm still raged above and the trees whipped their branches from side to side as though struggling with Mother Nature from where they take their sustenance.

"She kills her own. Paris murmured selflessly as a tree gets uprooted and thrown into the ground.

"The elves would say otherwise, Paris. Clarion chuckled. "The cycle of fate continues with or without us. If it were not you, it would have been somebody else. Have I not taught you anything in the years past?

Paris bowed his head. The high priest was granting him the absolution he sought, but he could not stomach it. His soul yearned for the punishment he deserved, and it was unbearable.

"So the Scorpion is home? A voice boomed from behind.

Paris spun to see the glint of metal in the darkness. A man stepped forward in full armor. By his side dangled a sword that was unique all its own, the Sword of Justice.

"Commander? Paris gasped, bowing low on one knee in salutation.

"At ease, soldier. The man smiled, taking him up. "Though I should not do that since you are no longer under the service of the Lion knights, right?

"True, I am sorry commander Scryer. Paris raised his head, meeting the officer's eyes. They were clear and blue, like pools of courage that all soldiers who looked upon them attained renewed strength in battle. "You changed little in so long a time¦

"And you changed much. The knight replied, putting an arm over his shoulder. "When I first began to train you I believed you would make the Lion army twice stronger than it was back then¦and you had my best retainers running like dogs in the past war, a very good tactician if I say so myself. The commander added, laughing out loud.

The priest looked from a distance, relishing the fury of the storm. His aging brows gauged the two warriors, the best at what they do. "The war is ended, as this storm will soon end. The coming dawn will be a renewed hope for all inhabitants of Asperah. He said, stroking his beard.

"There are relationships to be rebuilt, elder Clarion. The commander began. "Such as the elves of forest Iluin, and the Dracona of Dragonfell¦not to mention the Mulgor of the wilds. I do not even think the king of the Nova dragons is still inclined to negotiations after we had to literally explode the volcano to gather that much power.

"A necessity to defeat the Inofrii, commander Scryer. They will understand. The dracona had been in this world far longer than the eldest of elves. They are wise enough to realize we had no other choice. Clarion replied. "¦though I would not deny the fact that they have no love for humans as they would have nothing to do with the war.

"Even after we have saved Asperah time and again from the dark? Scryer asked, somehow the irritated look in his face could not be hidden by the shadows of the night.

"They believe that their race existed even before Asperah came to be and without this world, they would still continue to exist. Clarion answered. "We need all the help we can get to rebuild the damage. How fares Jurom, Paris? The elder priest asked, turning to the soldier who was intently listening.

"Far worse that Asphenaz, I'm afraid. No one knew what had become of the king after the shadow of the Inofrii had been erased from the land. Every warrior fled and Jurom is a wasteland as far as the citizens are concerned. I do not think they would stay there for long. Paris replied.

To be continued ...