Lyria disappeared behind a mist of blood and carnage. She continued her assault relentlessly, drowning in a sea of deathly wails. The pleas for mercy fell on her deaf ears. Those who challenged her fared no better than those who choose to flee. Both received the eternal embrace of death. Where her eyes fell, only splattered blood and mutilated viscera remained.

“Release him,” someone screamed before the voice got silenced by the vicious arc from Lyria’s maul, but not before the instruction reached its intended audience.

Unheed and unchecked, Lyria continued like a crimson maelstrom ravaging all in its path. Eventually, a challenge issued in the form of rattling chains and a boulder tumbled down with a thunderous thud.

In stark contrast of ebony black matted fur and a silvery back, the Troglodyte Ogre stood menacingly. Even Ar’krak would pale in comparison to its towering height. The deeply sunken eyes considered Lyria with untamed savagery, while a cruel intelligence roamed behind those threatening eyes. Clutching its rock-like hardened fist, the troglodyte Ogre slammed the ground powerful enough for the shockwaves from the impact to knock all in the vicinity. Lyria continued her slaughter, unimpressed by the challenge.

Insulted by her dismissive attitude, the troglodyte ogre pulled its lips back in a sign of aggression. The sharp, jagged and dagger-like teeth, each the size of a short sword and covered by its saliva, glistened fiendishly even in the low light. The last remnants of its meal, dull grey and decaying flesh, ridden with worms and stuck between its teeth, gave a putrid odour and an aura of decay surrounded the monster. Its powerful jaws eventually pulled and a stone ravaging roar challenged Lyria. Lyria ignored and continued her death-dealing fete.

The troglodyte Ogre wielded a club, the size of a small pillar, and kicking its powerful limbs, it rushed towards Lyria. The monster cleared a wide distance with an unnaturally high leap, swatted cultist in its path and with the upraised club, it came down on Lyria.

And with one hand blocking the club, Lyria crushed its skull.

I stood transfixed and also somewhat awe-inspired at the scene that unfolded before me. I knew that years of toiling at a smithy blessed Lyria with a strong physique and even to an extent, an unnatural strength. The Lyria, before me, instead, commanded the strength of a behemoth.

Horrified at the death of their most powerful weapon, the cultist retreated behind the statue of their beloved Shaper and formed a defensive line of spears aimed at Lyria. Lyria strode up ignoring the spilt blood and viscera.

“How does it feel?” roared Lyria.

A blood-curling scream issued from behind the line of spears, followed by another scream. Arcane sigils pulsated in purple flair.

I knew what was happening behind. Blood sacrifice and a summoning ritual. A strong one too if they needed two lives for the ritual.

Karotak scream unintelligibly behind the wall of pointed spears. In return, Lyria stopped midstep and answered in a loud booming voice for all to hear.

“Behold, the face of your so-called God.”

She spun around, tracing a huge arc with her maul and struck the idol of the Shaper. Sparks and flint flew at the impact.

For a brief moment, the cracks spread and like the strike of lightning, I had a vision of clarity and like trying to hold water through a sieve, the comprehension immediately escaped my grasp.

The idol crumbled drawing a hiss of fury from Karotak. He tore his hair and broke his ceremonial staff.

In a surprising moment of serendipity, he stabbed the pointy end of his staff through his heart, sacrificing his own life force.

My own feelings were uncertain. I felt pity and to lesser extent respect for Karotak.

The twin emotions of disgust and love for Lyria fought like mad ravaging lions inside me. I could not stand by what she had done and I could not bring myself to hate her.

“Your God is a lie,” screamed Lyria dishonouring his sacrifice.

As if refuting her claim and fulfilling the binding of the staff, twin Erinyes emerged from the portal, followed by an Erinyes Matriarch.

Howls and cheers erupted from the cultist while the Erinyes circled above them brandishing their chain whips and spears before sliding to a stop in front of Lyria.

To the terror of all the cultists and to my own surprise, they prostrated themselves before Lyria.

In a sing-song voice of a siren mixed with the child-like clumsiness, they struggled to verbalise. Finally, the Erinyes Matriarch managed to plead, “Mercy.”

In a voice that was one and many, the Erinyes slowly joined the Matriarch and pleaded “Mercy.” Repeatedly.

“Lay with dogs, wake up with fleas,” said Lyria. Her tone was grim.

“Make stupid contracts, face the consequences,” completed Lyria.

With her verdict proclaimed, Lyria stamped on their bowed heads with the flat of her foot and crushed their skulls.

The Erinyes accepted their fate motionlessly, offering no resistance.

As the bodies of the Erinyes crumbled, a multitude assortment of weapons, with dark arcane runes slithering like vicious serpents, were raised against Lyria. Their wielders, witnessing the fate of the summons, rushed, abandoning all forms of self-preservation. Those soul-ordained weapons were all that offered them a sliver of hope against the death that loomed before them.

That hope crumbled the moment their weapons clashed against Lyria. The flood of lightning impacted her and hindered her no better than a gentle breeze. Their flames refused to scath her. Even the tenebrous black winds parted before her resolute steps. Lyria wrenched their precious weapons from their cold dead hands and shattered them with fury.

“Was it worth it?” She questioned no one in particular.

As if answering her question, the sigil on the ground activated. A dull purple emanation that transmogrified into a bright chartreuse green announcing the arrival. A grotesque amorphous form stepped through.

Covered in a greyish green skin, riddled with warts and cysts, the Fiend looked horrific and disgusting in equal measure. As it moved, the cysts rubbed against the fold of its skin, broke and discharged putrid yellow pus. The Fiend sniffed the air and considered its surrounding. The wide blade of its heavy axe flickered twice as it hefted the axe over its shoulders. The Fiend fixated its attention on Lyria and in a loud voice, strident and strangled, it belittled her.

“You caused this?” a peal of mocking laughter followed, “You not even a full Fiend. Just an imperfect creature.”

Lyria turned her head in my direction. A plethora of emotions pained across her visage, but one stood out amongst them. Shame.

“Tell me,” he taunted her with envenomed dagger-like words, “Who is your Progenitor?”

His words cut the chords of self-control holding Lyria back and she responded with pristinely untamed brutality. She swing her maul unerringly at the grotesque form till only a pink pulp remained in its place.

The grating laughter of the Fiend reverberated through the high cavern walls. Black tendrils coiled up and rose from the pulp of fleshed and knitted themselves back.

Lyria leaned herself for support on her maul and breathed heavily.

Instead of the grotesque monstrous form that the Fiend previously held, the newly formed figure of the Fiend was a sculpted muscular form, devoid of any fat. At a head taller than Lyria, he looked down upon her panting form. With his arms crossed in front and without any defence, he cackled at Lyria.

“You thought this is the end,” His cruel laugh tore through all, “But I commend you for forcing me to take this form.”

Lyria spat on the ground and straightened herself to full height.

“That strength of yours is marvellous. Now I know it all,” The Fiend's malicious face flickered in my direction for a moment before he grabbed his massive axe and flung it away.

“Against you, that weapon is just a hindrance,” He flexed his arms lethargically.

With his razor-sharp claws extended, he rushed towards Lyria. She blocked his attack by holding her maul diagonally in front of her. While the two locked in eternal combat of strength, he thrust his head forward, sniffed and drew a deep breath, caressing the scent of Lyria.

Anger surged in me and I finally unsheathed The Sentinel.

His eyes darted in my direction, held his attention for a moment and a mocking smile danced on his grim face.

“How does it feel Consort Mother,” he cruel words rang inside my skull, “to have your lover close to a male?”

“Does it make you feel inferior? Does it boil your blood to see her benefit the male company that you could never provide?” he mocked.

“Rils,” shouted Lyria, “do not let him taunt you.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” he cackled even more, “You poor oblivious little creature, I wonder how you would feel about her when you realise......”

Lyria’s heel struck against his legs shattering his shin bone. The white of his bone pierced his skin and jutted out.

But his mocking laugh still continued.

“You have strange taste in Lover, Denier of Kin, Lyriendriath of the Unerring Anvil,” he gloated more.

Lyria’s kick caught his across his chest and he fell to his knees.

“This is not enough. He will know,” he cackled like a madman, “Your brothers will hunt you, bind you in chains and drag you. You will answer for the atrocities you committed.”

Lyria shoved the wide end of her Maul into the Fiend’s open maw.

“As if a lowly Fiend would have his ears,” scoffed Lyria before thrusting the maul and thus ending the Fiend’s gloating, sending him to his eternal damned plane back.

My mind was a jumbled mess. Too much happened. Too many pieces of information.

Lyria’s uncontrollable rage.

Consort Mother. It is that expression again.

Lyria’s secrets.

One fact is clear. She is not a simple tiefling.

And she has been ashamed of her identity. She hid it even from me.

Lyria’s march broke my line of thought for she approached a helpless group of cultists cowering in fear in the corner.

The green-eyed girl with freckles, who served her before, stood holding a simple dagger pointed at the advancing Lyria. Behind him huddled a bunch of small children. The youngest of them cried while the older ones held them, in a feeble attempt to calm them. The girl with green eyes and freckles stood defiantly, fully aware of her demise.

“Lyria,” I screamed at the top of my lungs, “This is where you will stop.”

Lyria ignored my words and grabbed the girl by her wrist. Her violent shaking made the girl drop her dagger, which Lyria picked and slashed across the girl’s forehead. Crimson blood oozed from the clear cut and soon trickled down her face.

Lyria callously dipped her fingers in the blood. She then brought blood-stained fingers close to her face and twiddled her thumbs.

“No debt,” spoke Lyria, “You are free. Denounce and you will live.”

The girl ignored the pain and answered in a defiant tone, “I will not.”