20.2

ACT 963161069-26889.24.(M08.D6)(8647 B.C. Last Seed (August) Second Moon (Second Week) Mardon (Monday))-Eve-Smith-Silver Prime

A gathering of twilight shadows wavered on the hill overlooking the green sea of the grassland below. The Faceless Eyes, shrouded in silken cloaks that echoed the ephemeral glow of the moon, lay silent, their keen eyes studying the distant landscape with a hawkish intensity. Their position was atop one of the taller hills in the surrounding grasslands.

Beneath them, the Andal horde lumbered across the plains, a slow-moving storm of life and metal, a living engine of purpose and power. It was a sight that was part spectacle, part menace; it was as if a mountain had somehow been taught to march. The noise alone drove every predator within miles away. No animal desired to serve themselves upon the horde’s platter. Blacksmithing wagons clanked and clattered, interspersed with food carts heavy with the promises of a hearty meal, their scents dancing upon the breeze, tantalizing and teasing.

Each Faceless Eyes watched, rigid and unwavering postures mirroring the steadfast resolve hidden beneath their silver-lined irises. They had been Blessed by the Strange Lady, like all Faceless Ones. One of them, the tallest, lifted an arm adorned in darkened chainmail, pointing towards the center of the Andal procession. There, a particularly ornate wagon boasted an anvil and hammers, the heart of the horde's blacksmithing operation. Sparks flew and danced in the cool air, transforming into fireflies against the evening's canvas.

The leader made hand signs marking various targets. Unlike the horse lords, they could not be observed by the Seven’s sight. The Andal horde was a living, breathing entity, its heartbeat echoing through the ground beneath each Faceless Eye. A persistent throb underscored the scene with a bass note of raw, unyielding power. It painted a mosaic of sound, from the metal clink of a hammer on an anvil to the soft murmur of Andal voices, a symphony conducted by the wind sweeping across the grassland.

The most valuable target arrived after patient observation for the better part of the night. A series of carts guarded by warriors carrying the scent of water. This deep in the sea of grass, its oasis was few and far between. The Faceless Eyes had prepared a unique slow-acting concoction for the Andals. Based on specially raised Manticores, the poison was slow acting, addictive, and left the victims in agony.

It was as much a message as a means to kill.

The Faceless Eyes were silent as the grave, communicating in whispers of movement, slight gestures, and shared glances that held volumes of unsaid understanding. Their hearts were stone unburdened with the weight of choices to come, decisions that would carve the future from the raw metal of the present.

With a final look, they melted into the shadows again, their presence fading like a forgotten dream. The Andals, oblivious to the silent watchers, continued their march, a cacophony of life echoing across the quiet grassland.

A few miles away from even the bravest scouts circling in defense of the Andal horde, the Faceless eyes regrouped. They lay down like dead logs waiting for the sun to die once more. Magical runes stitched into their inner clothing turned them into just another part of the scenery while still. The poison was distributed among their best members once the sky darkened into the night again. While the poisoners departed, the rest of the group went in the opposite direction. The job of those not killing was to provide insurance.

In the unforgiving expanses of the Great Grass Sea, the nomadic Andal horde thundered across the emerald plains towards the setting sun, their ranks stretching far and wide. They were a mishmash sea of humanity.

Once the sun fell to dim embers on the horizon, horns sounded out, calling for camp to be set. In the depths of dusk, as they made their camp, their fires casting flickering shadows on their tired faces, a more insidious enemy infiltrated their fold. No clang of swords, no battle cry, and no war horn heralded this assault. Silent and invisible, it was an enemy more deadly than any Valyrian steel or dragon fire. The Faceless Eyes, a covert operation team of the Silver Bank known for their stealth and deadly efficiency, had arrived.

Men, women, and children gathered around the flowing tributaries they had claimed for their watering holes. They laughed and drank, oblivious to the invisible serpent slithering into their lifeblood, the water supply now tainted by their unseen enemies.

Faceless Eyes had no allegiance to banners, kingdoms, or gold. Their loyalty was solely to their mission, to their Strange Lady. She had commanded the Andal horde culled, and so it was done. Silently, they moved their presence as fleeting as a zephyr, leaving only the caress of dread behind.

There was no laughter, no mirth when dawn broke upon the Andal horde. Bodies twisted in pain, their eyes wide with uncomprehending terror, their parched throats croaking out pleas to the Seven. The once vibrant encampment was now a tableau of despair, a silent testament to the cruelty of unseen foes.

Even as the sun crept high and shone brightly on the twisted bodies, the Faceless Eyes were already long gone. They left no trace, no trail to be followed, vanishing as silently as they had come. Only the echo of their deadly deeds lingered, a phantom whisper on the windswept plains.

In the empty vastness of the Great Grass Sea, the hushed moans of the dying Andals were lost to the wind. Yet, the ground remembered the footfalls of those who had walked its breadth, the water held the echo of their laughter, and the wind whispered their tales. Of the moving Andal horde, a people of great vitality and spirit brought low not in glorious battle but poisoned, betrayed by an enemy they never saw.

The massive tide of death from so many created ripples in the fabric of reality. The power of faith cut short like a loom broken in operation sizzled in the air. From multiple warped portals, seven figures stepped out.

“Entry is a violation of the Pact. Leave, or be disciplined. This Naf has no patience.” The high-pitched voice of a Summer Fae echoed across the empty dead.

The Seven turned once to face the tiny sparkling spec that rippled at eye height above the Grass Sea.

“We were attacked in violation of the very Pact you claim to uphold.” The Father said. His beefy hands grasped, pulling the souls of the fallen from their shells.

“We have abided completely by the Pact at all times. This attack was unwarranted and unreasonable.” The Mother said. Her beauty shimmered out over those still living enthralling even as it healed.

“It would be so kind if you could tell us who struck.” The Maiden said. Her beauty seemed to sway the Fae briefly before the creatures took on a cold countenance.

“Attempting to enthrall this Naf. One count. Baseless accusations against a member in good standing. Two counts.” Naf said with a nasty twist as they spun and danced in the airy daylight.

“If you do not take our side, we will no longer hold back.” The Warrior said. He stared at the dancing fairy’s light with a hungry expression.

“This gamble is unfavorable now. Proceeding forward is too uncertain.” The Crone said. Her voice whispered from cowled robes even as her sharp eyes glanced at Naf in judgment.

“We should cut our losses and retreat. Any enemy that can do this within the bounds of the Pact is not wise to antagonize.” The Smith said. He reached out a hand pulling all the iron implements of the dead into his physical form. Skin turned to iron, muscles to copper wire, and bones to solid steel.

“Ever willing to leave even when the Master has spoken. The World Core is a feast promised to our Lord.” The Stranger said. Even though he was hidden in a shapeless robe with a hood that let no light pass, the sense of creepiness he emitted was unwavering.

“Too late,” Naf replied before flickering out of existence like snowmelt on a summer day.

The Seven glanced at each other as they felt the fabric of space shifts around them.

“Defensive Formation!” The Father shouted. The men wrapped around, taking the outer points. Each of the women began conjuring their most potent magics to strike.

Eve stepped out of thin air as if conjured from it. Arriving here had taken two steps. First, decimating the Andal horde with poison. That had lowered the amount of Faith flowing around them, breaching the innate magical defense the Seven used. Second, the Faceless Eyes placed those that hadn’t been given poisoner duty to place down the ritual circle.

The combination of both effects and the power of the Summer Fae, Naf, had allowed her to exert her true power. Eve immediately shapeshifted into the form of an Asian woman built for combat. Her robes rippled in the wind that sheared through the small rocky formation behind her.

“None shall pass,” Eve said with a grim smile.

“This world is already dead. Even should we fall, the Master will arrive eventually.” The Father said. He motioned in hand signs behind his back detailing the plan to strike.

Eve cocked at an angle and said, “You are not seven faces. You are seven fingers. Seven fingers pushed through the crystal paper of this world’s defenses. Like most Others, your vaunted Master is here to feed on the World's Core. Do not pretend to have a higher purpose. A world without a system was too tempting a fruit to ignore, wasn’t it?”

“A delicious tasty treat in the abyss of eternity.” The Stranger said with a sibilant hiss.

Eve sighed as she shifted her Crystal Core into battle mode and said, “Your plundering would halt my harvest. Do I have permission to intervene, Lord Naf?”

“For the crime of disrespecting this Naf, permission is granted.” The Summer Fae’s voice echoed out from around. The Fae were fickle, and Eve had always built a good relationship with them, even if it cost her to do so. It was in times like this that such a relationship bore beneficial fruit.

In the grass sea, the air shimmered with the force of the battle about to begin. The Seven were arrayed before Eve, their faces stern with the grave knowledge of what this fight would mean.

If they won, the victory would empower them to speed their Master’s descent.

Eve stood at the edge of the fallen Andal horde, the light from the sun reflecting off the intricate silver-threaded runic designs of her combat clothing. She held the Jian sword in her hand, its silver blade glinting in the bright sunlight. The raw power of space magic pulsed from her, and silver Witch’s Dust swirled around her as if the cosmos themselves had chosen to take part in the battle.

Almost a thousand years on this plane of existence had turned her from a monster into an eldritch monstrosity.

Across from her, the Seven stood in unison, resolute in their intent. The Father, a looming figure, radiated power drawn from the souls of the dead. The Mother stood next to him, a serene figure ready to heal. The Maiden, the Crone, the Warrior, the Smith, and the Stranger each prepared their magic and might, a formidable array against a singular foe.

As Eve began the fight with a sudden charge, the ground beneath their feet rumbled, echoing the power coursing through the hall. Her Jian sword swung through the air, silver dust trailing in its wake. The Warrior and the Smith met her charge, their physical attacks a blur of speed and precision.

The clang of steel on steel resounded through the open air as Eve deflected and danced around their onslaught. Her silver dust surrounded her opponents, making them momentarily lose sight of her before she reappeared, her sword swinging toward the Smith. The Smith’s metallic body reverberated with the impact, but he was unyielding and met her attack with a strike of his own. Eve smirked as silver dust collected on his metallic form, starting the rusting process.

The Maiden took this opportunity to unleash her Enchanting Enthrallment, trying to ensnare Eve within her enchantment. Yet Eve merely laughed, shaking off the enchantment with a whip of her sword, sending a wave of space magic rippling through the air. The Maiden shrieked as she lost an arm, even as the Mother’s light fell upon her sealing the wound shut.

Eve then drew upon her Witch’s Dust, and the entire battlefield was cast in a silvery glow. She was everywhere and nowhere, moving through space with an otherworldly grace that belied the ferocity of her attacks. The Stranger, however, was the only one not easily fooled. He used his Shadow magic to track her movements, dark tendrils snaking out to grasp her.

Just as he thought he had her, Eve shifted, the magic of space allowing her to evade his capture. Simultaneously, she struck at the Crone, her silver sword glinting menacingly. But the Crone was quick, her Dark Curses forming a shield of spectral energy that repelled Eve's attack.

Amid the battle, the Mother, her eyes glowing with divine energy, continued to heal the Seven. Her healing light immediately remedied every wound inflicted by Eve’s sword. Despite the intensity of the fight, the Seven stood firm, bolstered by the Mother's power.

Meanwhile, the Father, the force of death himself, bided his time, watching Eve expertly defend herself from their combined attacks. When the moment was right, he struck, his form enhanced by the souls of the dead. Eve barely managed to deflect his attack, her Jian sword ringing with the force of his blow.

“Well, it looks like it’s time to end the fun,” Eve said back to the ocean behind her. She’d taken care to lead the Seven here, knowing the Mother’s abilities.

“End this? You haven’t been able to deal a lasting blow. Your death is assured!” The Warrior bellowed with pride.

Eve said, “No, not quite.” Her sword vanished as the water behind her towered into a massive wall that cast all combatants into shadow. “Goodbye. Say hello to your Master for me!”

The carefully created tsunami crashed downward like a billion pounds of madness, engulfing everyone but miraculously avoiding the mortal Andals still alive.