Breathe. Focus. Concentrate.

Breathe. Focus. Concentrate.

It has been some time since the plague had been lifted. Weeks... nearly a month or more. How was it, that he had been so caught up in it all? How was it that he allowed himself to be captured... marked? He had allowed their task to be laid on his shoulders, and yet... he had refused. He needed allies. He could not go alone. And so they bound him. Marked him. Branded him. He had lost control. All control. And had it not been... had it not been for his clan, his people being in the right place, at the right time. He would have been lost.

And yet here he was. Lost again. Triggered... how was it triggered?

He was alone in his head. Alone, trapped, as he watched from afar. His spirit, his soul. Torn from his body as the priest commanded him. Had him fight. Strike. Try to kill. He watched helplessly on as he felt his body crack... tear... rip... all because his Clan did not understand. How could they? His body was commanded by a Hyperborean. A mad Bori priest. They couldn't know... they didn't know. His body ripped and tore, and then they let him free. He watched... with desperate eyes. He watched himself leave. He watched the bickering... the pain. The pain the Bori priest caused.

Ahearn looked on, only to wake up.

In his own body.

The confusion set around him. The green... too bright. The people... moving about... walking around. Strange clothing. Strange weapons. In the distance, purple towers loomed. The feeling began to set in.

He turned about and there was the priest.

"What is this?!" The Shaman growled.

"You have awakened. Welcome to Khitai."

"But... you were just..."

"Controlling an illusion?"

Ahearn reached for his weapon, and found none. He looked down, and noted the robe he wore. A Scarlet Robe. Much as those around him. The Priest smiled grimly, and motioned about him.

"Listen to me, Ahearn Pict-Killer," the priest said. "You think you know. You think you have the answers. Hear the truth, and be calm, for the trials you face will be... extensive."

"Trials? I broke free... I disarmed the mark!"

"No," he replied. "You did not. Sorcery allowed your consciousness to return to your Clan while I prepared. While your true body, your real body marched through Hyperborea, and even farther east, around the Vilayet Sea... and into Khitai. Your body was temporary. And you know this. That's why you felt as you did when I forced you out. The body was deteriorating."

Ahearn's brows creased, "So then... this whole time?"

"Aye," the priest said. "This whole time. I gave you a chance, and you failed. Your Clan will not reach us in time to help you as you truly desired. So, you are alone, as planned. Now..."

He grinned, an almost mischevious look, and the priest was gone. Ahearn lunged forward, growling. Then he turned as footsteps sounded behind him. The pommel of a blade snapped across his face, and the Shaman was unconscious.... and yet the last thing he heard...

"The Last Legion lives!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Priest returned to his chambers. The thought caused him to chuckle deeply... the shaman, so gullible. So pathetic. He had no idea the true reason why they, the priests of Bori, hunted Tholgrim. Little to do with doing the right thing. More to do with the death of one that prevented them from gaining power. A struggle... a constant struggle. One look outside of his citadel, and proof could be seen. The lands of Hyperborea were not the barren wastelands many thought they were. Break through the barrier, and the fertile land was there.

Yet war torn. Now, in the age when a Cimmerian ruled the civilized kingdom of Aquilonia, in an age where dark magics stirred, and wars covered Hyboria... Hyperborea too was vulnerable. The cults of many witch kings did war, and the priests of Bori suffered for it. But now... power was obtainable. Power was in reach.

Fedar, Priest of Bori, smiled grimly, and gripped the orb that sat in the middle of the room. An image, stirred. The sight of Adharca Cathair appeared through the crystal object. Indeed... perhaps they were stirring. Perhaps, they would come.

All the better to move them towards their end.