The twilight over the Crying Pillars was always the color of dried blood, a bruised and heavy purple that hung like a damp shroud over the eastern parapets of the outer fortress. When the freezing winds of the high altitudes tore through their natural fissures, they emitted a low, discordant wailing that sounded exactly like a chorus of grieving souls. It was a sound that drove weaker entities mad within days, but to Commander Thorn Theodore, the iron hand of the Sovereign's military force, it was merely background noise. It was the rhythm of his domain.
Thorn was resting outside his primary command pavilion, his massive frame draped over a carved throne of ironwood. He had unbuckled the heavy plates of his dread-armor, leaving only his dark leather vest and the heavy, silver-embroidered tunic that marked his status within the Demonic aristocracy.
