"Regarding the objectives thereafter... the Legion has yet to receive definitive intelligence! We possess only skeletal data suggesting four major sectors plagued by incidents of unknown origin—incidents we're certain emanate from the Demon Legion! You, however, are tasked with merely a fraction of that burden. At this very moment, the Legion is deploying vast numbers of sentries to investigate a demonic horde recently emerged from the ancient catacombs. Yet, from the reports I've gathered... this year's Bloody Hunting is likely to span three phases. Therefore, I bid you all await further intelligence upon the conclusion of your primary objective!" Mordant concluded.
The shadow of the airship cast upon the clouds flickered violently, as if something monstrous had banked through the mists above. Yet, shrouded by the mantle of night, not a single crewman took notice.
"I've said my piece... if any among you harbour doubts, reserve them for later!" Mordant spoke with clinical detachment. He stared directly at the gathered hunters, his gaze lingering as if hesitant to utter a final truth. "Steel your resolve... for the moment you disembark from this vessel, you no longer stand within the dominion of man. You're treading into a literal demonic slaughterhouse."
The world seemed to cease its rotation as a profound stillness claimed the deck.
[Woooooo-ooooh!]
The howl of a gale surged around the airship, carrying with it the distant, mournful blare of the sister-vessels' whistles. It was the clarion call—the signal that, at this very breath... they had truly entered the Bloody Hunting.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
Above the arboreal expanse of the Darkwood, the fleet circled the designated perimeter. They'd voyaged with desperate haste, pushing their energia engines to their absolute threshold.
The ten vessels dispersed across the timber's edge, searching for a clearing stable enough to facilitate a secure landing. This was no simple excursion; they were tasked with ferrying over ten thousand aspirants toward the subsequent ranks of their trial.
Before long, the airships parted ways, drifting toward different cardinal points to descend upon the ten frontier villages that sat like sentinels along the fringe of the wood.
Viewed from the heavens, the Darkwood resembled a cryptic sea of flora draped in a mantle of onyx. Yet, beneath those dim shadows, the land didn't possess the malevolence its name suggested.
On the contrary, the Darkwood was a realm of unnatural abundance, devoid of beasts or predatory monstrosities. Even the woodsmen who'd dwelled there for generations had never once encountered a single demon within these borders.
The true source of the forest's grim moniker lay in the timber itself—the heartwood of every tree was a profound, polished black, as dark as coal. It was a stark deviation from the same species found in any other reach of Laurasia.
This ebony wood possessed extraordinary properties: a preternatural tension and a structural integrity that defied reason. At times, it proved more resilient than the finest steel birthed from a forge. Consequently, this black timber had become a priceless treasure—the very foundation that fuelled the great foundries in the heart of Arkflame.
The lives of the foresters here had been entwined with the ebony timber for generations, giving rise to a dense network of established settlements. Within these villages lay sufficient meadows and rocky plateaus to facilitate the descent of an airship, though such a maneuver remained fraught with peril.
Navigating a vessel of such titanic proportions through the jagged canopy that loomed from every flank was a feat of harrowing precision.
What spread the renown of the Darkwood across the continent was the enigma of a forest where every heartwood was as black as jet—a stark deviation from the same species found in any other reach of Laurasia. This onyx wood possessed preternatural tension and immense resilience, proving at times more durable than the finest steel birthed from a forge. Consequently, the Darkwood had ascended as one of the most precious resource veins in all the land.
The woodfolk's existence had long been bound to this blackened grain, their homesteads clustered thick amidst the boughs. These hamlets offered just enough clearing—rugged slopes and stone-strewn fields—for a single vessel to berth, even if the act of threading a massive hull through the encircling, razor-sharp peaks of the treeline was a soul-shaking gamble.
[Vroooom—thrummm!]
Violent gales erupted from the mageia crystals beneath the hull, expanding in a turbulent radius that lashed the canopy into a frenzy. The low, guttural thrum of alien mechanics roared, rousing the entire wilderness from its trance. Yet, within the village itself, there was only a haunting silence—a void of life that defied all reason.
[Creeeeak—thud!]
The clearing below was nothing but a jagged, natural outcrop, never intended to cradle the weight of an airship. Before the vessel could be wrestled into a stable rest, the aspirants within were sent sprawling, cast about by the violent tremors of the impact.
[Cr-crack!—Whoosh!]
Sudden, violent gusts lashed the fleet, forcing several airships into harrowing collisions with the towering canopy. The emergency landings were desperate affairs; the impacts ignited mageia fires that roared across the decks. Crewmen scrambled in a frantic dither, battling mageia blazes to mitigate the wreckage. The primary phase of the mission had yet to commence, yet the hearts of many aspirants had already plummeted into a cold, hollow dread.
Inside the vessels, the atmosphere was as chaotic as a swarming hive. The extent of the structural damage demanded the fleet depart the timber immediately for urgent repairs—a rough start that etched a visible scowl of irritation upon Captain Mordant's features.
Orders were bellowed, commanding the hunters to disembark and muster upon the rugged stone slopes of the village clearing. The thousand-strong host trickled down the gangplanks with predatory suspicion, dragging their cumbersome kits behind them, their spirits weighed down by an oppressive gloom.
Some aspirants were burdened by an excess of armaments, resembling walking arsenals more than men. Others were encased in such ponderous plate they moved with the grace of rusted statues. A few hauled crates of provisions and garments as if intent on founding a permanent colony, while the more seasoned warriors merely tightened their grip on a solitary, trusted blade. A cacophony of confusion was inevitable as a thousand souls vied for space.
Several hunters began to drift away, prowling through the abandoned homesteads without a shred of regard for the objective. Others pressed toward Captain Mordant, their voices sharp, demanding to know the fate of the other nine airships. For many, the Bloody Hunting was a pact made with sworn comrades, and the question of whether their cabals would ever be reunited weighed as heavily as the threat of death itself.
The Arkflame Legion had calculated this isolation with cold precision, severing every cabal across the ten airships before they even took flight. Now, each vessel lay berthed at disparate corners of the Darkwood—a sylvan expanse more vast than any metropolis. A suffocating anxiety took hold of the aspirants; the dread that they might never reunite, nor bolster their ranks with familiar steel, all in the name of a cruel and impartial fairness.