Before a great wall of obsidian geode, there stood a flaming figure. It was not equine-- in fact, it was not built like any manner of creature she had seen with her own eyes. The visage was obscured by fabric, and she could see only the bottom half of its likeness. Condor watched warily as boiling, blistered hands extended towards her, and the chin moved as if it were trying to form words.   “...I…” A wh...

Deeper in the Buried Kingdom than she had ever been, Condor raised her head at the distant sound of metal striking metal. The sound is not dissimilar to that of a forge, which the Regency’s finest blacksmiths used to craft armor and weaponry. Before she was a member of the royal guard, Condor had been a lancer: those at the frontlines who bore the heavy steel horn upon their helms. It was used to pierce enemy defenses, carving a vital path to victory… but at...

“Little courser…” the words reverberated through the walls-- through her very flesh. The very ground beneath her started to move with some difficulty; the overgrowth of plant life breaking apart suggested that this creature had not shifted in a very, very long time. “..where is your knight?” An ancient visage smiled down upon her, its surface weathered by time and absence of sun. Condor could not help but be on edge around something that-- while seemin...

The depths yawned before her, their darkness nigh impenetrable by even the brightest light. It was a manner of darkness that swallowed sound itself-- suffocating and oppressive. Condor did not have a torch, or armor, or a weapon other than her own body. For a time, she stood on the precipice of uncertainty with nostrils flared and head craned up on high alert-- bold as she was, there was truly no telling what awaited her within the seemingly bottomless pit. ...