Stories and Gravestones atop a Blood Tide [Skarnfel v. Blood Rose]

[Daeut]

Long had the presence of Skarnfel burgeoned in the purple-laden lands once belonging to no one. Fresh in the memory of a few Aphrosians remained the days of when it was a barren plot in its backyard. Now, bisected by a river, does the Twilight City stand between the demonic hub and the rest of Meranthe, like the Citadel Upon The Edge stands between Helheim and the mortal coil.

Yet amidst this seemingly perpetual deadlock of antipodal forces, the Twilight City found its own means to grow. The dormant backwater colony of Black Rose found new beginnings as a refuge and sanctuary for those tragically lost in the engineered destruction of Nyt'hjem. Appointed Baron by the Oracle of Athelios, Sinclair transformed the island into a promissory vassal state under the new name of Blood Rose.

Bound to the Balance of Aschea, it was nonetheless property of Aphros.

The forces of Helheim mobilize once more to take the Warden's rightful stage.

Where they gained the notion it was no longer the case was as much a mystery as it was a mistake. A mistake the Twilight City's navy would soon embark to make clear to those audacious enough to commit it. Just as the Demon King subjected the denizens of Blood Rose to its epicene voice, so too did another voice echo in the minds of the invading bulk with the harrowing polyphony of static and sandpaper--raking with the beckoning of the Warden's Many.

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Hearken me well, abominations.

I have witnessed you all since you first arrived [you first broke free] on our continent to spread your filth like a canker. It never ceases to amaze me [to surprise me] how you can claim any victimhood, as though you have any right to life [to live]. As though you have any existence so to purchase on our plane. You cry and bemoan [they all reckoned the Heavens with a virtue they never had] as you strike at the righteous and terrorize the innocent.

It is pathetic.

You will earn nothing, because you deserve nothing.

What beats in my [in our] voice and heart is not my rancor. What [beats] in our collective is the hatred [the rage, the rage] against the sniveling dung that you are. They all wail for justice.

Your kind is the mental and spiritual excrement [the shit] of the rot in our minds and hearts, anthropomorphized and given form like a parody of our condition. A concentration of our worst with more power than you ought to have. You are maggots [itty bitty- itty bitty worms] that somehow feel entitled to the beauty or fruit of our world.

You are a foetid [so so wretched] walking stench that cries and begs for our sympathy when those of us with noses have the sense to turn away.

How kind [especially lovely] that you brought yourselves to the water. You at least recognize your need to be cleansed.

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As the Warden's Hand of Destruction, we will kill every last one of you.
Or we will die trying.

Objective:

Defend the rightful domain of Aphros.