Legacy's Wrath, Part 1: The Stranger in The Fog

The old wolf leaned onto his spear, trying his best to ease the pressure on his tired back while simultaneously doing his best to not fall asleep.
"Guard" and "duty" were probably the two least interesting words in his line of work when combined, and tonight was no exception. In the span of the staggering fifteen years he'd spent working under various crimelords, loan sharks and assassin guilds, he'd been stabbed, beaten and almost choked to death multiple times.
But he'd survived it all, beaten the odds, and had finally been entrusted with the privilege of guarding the young Prince of Greed himself.
Or his mansion, anyways. He'd been ecstatic when he first got the job; To think that he, a low-born wolf from some unknown forest tribe would one day live to serve true nobility! Visions of gilded rings and soft beds had clouded his mind when he signed the contract, and he had cursed that decision every day since, as he had quickly come to learn why they called him the prince of "Greed". His pay was actually lower now than it had been in years, the beds in the barracks didn't even have mattresses, and his spear was basically a rugged stick with a sharp piece of metal at the end. To top it all off, the young prince had cast some sort of spell in him right after his hand dropped the pen.
<That's in case you ever need to contact me, or vice versa.> He'd said. <Simply say my name, and state your message. Why do you seem so surprised? The contract mentioned this pretty clearly. You did read it, right>
Even now, as he peered gormlessly into the foggy night, his young companion droning on about some recent political development, the aged wolf envisioned what his life could have been had he learned to read at some point, instead of becoming a freelance assassin.
<So anyways,> the young guard continued <Them humans don't have the guts to mess with us. They're too small and scared. 'Sides, They're too busy with their own problems; heard they've got some trouble with a magic faction called The Templars. Apparently they have a new leader; some guy who usurped them all on his own.>
The old guard wasn't all that interested in the state of human society. The strange furless species was comfortably far off to the east, miles and miles away from the green groves where he had lived his entire life. But these news made his ears perk up.
<Wait, what? Don't they have a king? I thought the humans were ruled by him.>
<I think they still do...> His companion scratched his ear. <...I'm no expert, but it sounds like their King is much more of a wimp than ours. Fitting, I suppose, since humans in general are rather weak. But this new “Grand Templar” is apparently all business, and even more aggressive against us wolves than most humans.>
The young wolf shrugged.
<Sounds a lil' far-fetched to me. Can't imagine why they'd wanna go to war after such a long time of relative peace. But hey...If some guy waltzes in, kills everyone in power, and commands them to get off their asses and attack us,  then I guess... I guess they gotta do it, right? I mean, he must be crazy strong if he could just wipe out the Templar all on his own. Heard even the basitins are afraid of him.>
Though the story seemed nonsensical to the old keidran, he couldn't help but feel a chill down his spine at the thought of the mana and magical prowess required to take out something like the Order of The Templar on his own. He'd done more assassination missions than he could count over his fifteen years in the business, and he was no slouch when it came to magic. But he'd almost always had the element of surprise, and his targets had never been too much bigger than a horse-drawn cart.
He gazed into the night. The fog was thick this evening, and it made him uneasy. The story from his young workmate had woken him up a bit, and he found his eyes wandering back and forth along the edge where the grassy landscape faded into gray nothingness.
<So...> He started. <This "Grand Templar" guy... What do they know about him? Did he work with some sort of radical group? Did he have any insiders within the Templars? Has he made any sort of public statements?>
The young wolf scoffed. <Psh. I dunno. From what I been told, he just...> He gestured forward like he was opening a door. <He walked right in the front door of the main temple. He ain't got no insiders or faction, far as anyone knows. He just... Appeared one day.>
He seemed to get lost in thought for a moment. <Oh. and his name... "Track". No, wait. Uh... "Trail". Ah, no. These weird human names. Anyways, his last name directly translates to <Heritage.> Or whatever you leave behind when you croak.>
The old keidran raised an eyebrow.
The young wolf chuckled; <Yeah, it's weird, I know. Humans have this thing with Death, and "Leaving stuff behind". Did you know what they do with the bodies of their dead? they dig these holes in the ground, and dump the->

The old guard raised his hand abruptly, cutting off his companion.
<Shush. Did you hear that?> It had been a familiar sound; The sound of a teleportation spell. Teleporting was usually a rather loud procedure, but someone much more skilled than the old wolf could muffle it slightly if they wanted to.
he readied his spear, and squinted down the road, into the fog. The sound had been very low, almost inaudible. But he was positive he'd heard it. What scared him, however, was not just the idea that someone teleported. It was the fact that the Prince had assured him no one but himself could teleport anywhere near the estate, thanks to some very strong magical barriers that he himself had set up.
<What, you tryna scare me or something? You know I don- uh...>
The young wolf's voice trailed off. At the edge of their vision, about a hundred feet away, a lone figure emerged from the darkness.
<Oh, shit.>
The old assassin was not one to panic easily. His strong mental fortitude and cool head had saved him countless times before, and now was no different.
He talked without taking his eyes of the approaching silhouette, voice lowered, but intense.
<Crystals.>
The young wolf looked at him, eyes wide.
<What?>
<Mana crystals, you whelp. Necklace, belt or bracers. Get 'em ready. These sticks won't be of much use.>
The boy looked around, bewildered. <I... I don't know magic. The boss h-hired me 'cause I agreed to work for half the normal wage.>
The grey-fur rolled his eyes. Great. More dead meat. He'd need to have a talk with The Prince about security spendings after this.
He brought his unoccupied hand up to his neck and stroked the mana necklace. He could feel the crystals glowing warmly under his touch.
The figure was about fifty feet away now, and the old wolf could make out some of its features. To his great relief, it seemed to be a keidran, not a human. It was a small keidran at that, around fifteen palms, he'd estimate. It bore a cloak and a hood, but he couldn't make out any more details.
<What the...> The young wolf gave a sigh of relief, followed by a surprised question.
<Is that a goddamn tiger?!>
The cloaked individual was in clear view from the torchlight now, striding towards the two bewilderd guards. And it was indeed a tiger, from what the old wolf could see. Though it was the height of a child, something about the way it walked seemed almost regal.
Nevertheless, he exhaled nervously. The stories of this monstrously powerful enemy leader had gotten him all worked up, he had almost forgotten where he was. The estate lay isolated in the middle of the wolven forests, far from the rumor-laden cities. The Prince himself had assured him that the magical barriers were nearly unbreakable, and any hostile intrusion would set off his alarms.
It was the safest place in the world.
He crossed spears with his younger companion, blocking the path to the mansion.
<Who goes there? State your business, or leave.> Might as well do his job properly, he thought.
The figure stopped a short five feet or so from the wolves, a white tiger's jawline visible in the flickering torchlight, eyes still covered in the shadow of his hood.
<I'm here for the meeting. I know I'm a little late, but...> He shrugged. <It's a long way from the Tigerlands to here.>
A male tiger keidran's voice. It was a lot deeper than the he had expected.
<I don't remember hearing about any tigers attending the council,> The old wolf said, hesitantly. <Show your face, if you please.> He decided it best to not let the young one speak, to avoid any hot-headed remarks. The fledgeling still had a lot to learn about diplomacy.
The tiger keidran pulled back his hood, and the old guard heard a sharp inhale from his right.
<Wow, that's a pretty crazy fur color and pattern you got there, kitty!> The young one blurted out.
The grey-fur cringed slightly, but at the same time he had to agree; The tiger's white fur only went up to his temple, where it suddenly burst into a completely clashing sky-blue mane. The hair flowed all the way down to his shoulders, quite long for a male. His left cheek was also covered by a strange blue triangle. A part of the fur pattern, he presumed.
The old wolf sighed. <Well. You're not on the list of invited guests. The Prince only sees people by appointment, and he's busy tonight. So be on your way. Please don't make us do this the hard way.> He underlined the last part with a snap of his fingers, igniting a tiny spark of magical fire. his mana necklace flashed up in accordance.
The tiger's face lit up, but to the old wolf's surprise he showed no emotion, no surprise or fear. He didn't even close his eyes to block out the sudden sharp light. Instead he kept his gaze, staring deeply into the veteran's eyes.
The old wolf had used this intimidation tactic before, with varying outcomes. Most would back off, realizing they were dealing with a competent mage. Some had gotten foolishly enraged and lashed out, only to be blown back by a burst of arcane power.
But no one, in the wolf's long lifetime of mercenary service, had responded with such an ice cold calm.
The tiger kept staring. The grey-fur had been in such staring contests before. Two keidran would put their chests against each other, and stare stupidly into each other's eyes until one of them backed off. He had always found this tradition vapid and pointless, since the outcome was always decided by height and muscle mass. He'd usually win, with his nineteen-and-a-half palms height and massive, rippled physique.
But tonight he found himself taking an involuntary step backwards, even though the little tiger was built like a twig, and reached no higher than his chest. There was something wrong with those eyes, his intuition had been screaming at him ever since he saw them. And as he stared deeply into them, he realized what it was.
<Your pupils...> He stammered. <They're not shaped like slits, even in the torchlight. They're round! Like a... Like...>
The white tiger put his palm to his face and took a deep breath. He seemed completely unfazed by the wolf's confused words. In fact, he seemed almost bored, maybe even slightly annoyed.
<Oh.> He muttered. <I knew I'd forgotten something.>
He removed his hand, and something strange started happening to his face. His already short fur started shrinking, receding into his flesh. His whiskers withered and fell off before going up in smoke on the way down, the claws on his paws shortening and widening until they were like a set of tiny transparent panes atop of his fingertips.
The only things that stayed the same were his eyes and hair, the latter now resting on top of a smooth, pale and furless face with fleshy eyelids, flat lips and a strange, protruding snout in the middle.
A human face.
The old wolf recoiled in shock. He had never seen a human before, but this thing matched the description perfectly. The descriptions and tales of the cruel, slave-mongering and magically skilled species that he had heard from travelers of the eastern parts of the forests. stories of war, slavery and even worse atrocities.
He felt his cold professionalism take over quickly, though. Humans were terrifying and mystical to him, but they were not gods. He himself was a strong mage, and he had backup.
The veteran curled his fingers and flexed his muscles, both his physical and arcane. The magic flowed thick in his veins. He could do it.
The interloper crossed his arms cooly, and began to speak. The wolf couldn't understand his words, but the intent was obvious enough; His voice had gotten an undertone of intense, coiled hatred, just waiting to be unleashed.
"Okay. Which one of you vermin wants to go first?"
The wolf waited, taut as a bowstring. Magic duels were a lot more complicated when no one had the element of surprise, a concept this opponent had strangely not taken advantage of. His best bet now was to bide his time and wait for the human to move, and try for a counter-attack; A part of his well-sharpened combat instincts told him that attacking directly would lead to a quick death.
These instincts had been honed to perfection by over a decade of near-death encounters with other mercenaries and mages. And though he himself was adept at reading his opponents' level of expertise, his young companion could unfortunately not boast the same.

With a shaky and terrified warcry, the young guard lowered his spear and lunged.
It was a weak attack, even by the standards of an underexperienced soldier. The human could've easily dodged it, but strangely decided to keep his ground, arms crossed and eyes sparkling maniacally.
"You first? Okay-" he mused.
The old wolf didn't even see, nor hear what happened next.
All he knew was that in one moment he had seen his his young companion heroically charge the intruder, and in the next he was on his back, staring into the black nothingness of the night sky. His chest was enveloped in a stinging and crushing pain, as if his ribs had been hit by a fist the size of his head. He tried to scream, but his lungs were completely flattened, leaving him wheezing and whining helplessly on the moist grass.
He managed to bring an elbow under his back to prop himself up, even though a pain in his forearm made him whimper, indicating that it was broken in at least two places.
The scene that greeted him was almost surreal; The human stood fifteen feet away, his arms still crossed. In front of him, where his friend had been standing just a moment ago, there was a red crater with nothing in it but bits and pieces of unrecognizeable meat and bones.
All around him were body parts of various sizes, from little giblets of organ to long strings of intestine. The grass was painted black and red as far as he could see, the only thing not slathered was the man himself; He didn't have a single stain on his clothing or skin, as if the debris had somehow missed him. The only difference to his look was that his robe had been blown away. He was now clad in a white shirt, adorned with a blue circle intersticed with three lines, two vertical and one horizontal.

The insignia of the Templar.

The old wolf knew he was already dead, he hadn't needed to see the Templar insignia to understand that. The human hadn't needed to lift a finger to obliterate his companion, not a word or a gesture. The explosion hadn't even produced a sound, it was as if the young wolf had just burst from the inside. He had never known or even heard legends of anyone with such magical power.
He looked down at his chest, and felt the bile rising in his throat; His once standard-issue uniform could no longer be recognized under the layer of blood and gore that had once been a young wolf.
There were strewn little pieces of pink matter across the entire front of his body, and he was pretty sure he could see at least two broken ribs sticking out of his crushed chest, and he retched pitifully when he realized that they didn't even belong to himself.
The templar had been staring vacantly into the night, as if he had simply lost interest in the whole ordeal. But the sounds of the dying wolf's convulsions seemed to snap him out of it.
He turned towards the figure on the grass and grinned.
<Tell me...> He started walking leisurely forward. <Is this what you mean by "The hard way"? Because it feels like you're making things pretty simple for me. I'm almost out of mana, so I went easy on your friend over there...> He gestured towards the crater. <...But you keidran must be a lot more fragile than you seem to think.>
The old wolf tried again to bring some air into his shattered lungs, but the only thing that came in was a gushing flood of blood. He whimpered and coughed, dyeing his uniform red once again.
He blacked out for a second, and when he opened his eyes the templar was crouching above him. <You know, I didn't try to disguise myself as a keidran so I could do things peacefully. I just wanted to see how close I could get to your boss before revealing myself.>
He sighed, and forced forth a smile so fake that even the dying keidran wouldn't believe it was genuine.
<But I must say, you're more attentive than your kinsmen. Which doesn't really say much, but I'll let you give a few last words before you pass. If you can even speak, that is.>
The wolf could feel the life leaking out of him; He had realized now that his lungs were permanently crushed, blood was spurting out of multiple holes in his chest, and the edges of his vision were rapidly closing in. He knew that even if the templar decided to let him live, he would still die within the minute.
But he had one last thing he wanted to do before he went. He realized as he laid there, forgotten and broken, that he had made some regrettable decisions in his life.
More than he could count.
But one of the few things he didn't regret was his work morale. He would always carry a job through to the end, even if it meant risking his own well-being.
If his employer asked him kill a married couple, he would do so.
If his employer asked him to kill a child, he would do so, albeit with gritted teeth.
If asked to literally bring the target's head forth on a silver platter, he would ask for extra funds to buy said platter.
He was not a person of half measures.
Which was why, with his dying breath, he wheezed forth his last words, praying that his master's spell worked.
<Clo--vis...> he whispered almost silently, red foam forming on his lips. <Run... Templar arr-- here... Cancel the... heeh... meeting... run...>
Through his fading vision, he could see the templar cock an eyebrow. <Really now? You're trying to use a weak mind-link, one that I found and broke the moment I entered this area, to issue a warning? No insults, no cry for help, no plea for mercy? Hm.>
The man straightened himself up. <I guess you're not all equally pathetic. Good night.>

The old veteran didn't even feel it when the spell hit him in the chest. His last thought was that he was thankful to at least die at the hands of an enemy, and not a friend.

The Grand Templar looked down at the corpse in front of him and sighed. This was too easy. It made him a little sad, in fact. He had hoped to face more resistance on the way in, something to give him a proper warm-up. But offing the two wolves had been as easy as swatting flies. Easier, in fact, as flies usually didn't charge head first into death. The younger one had died with a face full of petrified rage, just like most keidran,  but the elder had showed a strange calmness, almost as if he had thought he could put up a real fight.
He stood there for a moment, reflecting over the looks on their faces, before shoving them aside; The last thoughts of the deceased could wait. He still had business with the living.
Snapping his fingers, he ignited a small blue fire in the night, watched it burn for a short second, before fizzling out.
Mana.
Though silent, the night around him was alive. The weaker races were somehow oblivious to it, but he could feel the energy of every leaf, every bug and blade of grass flowing together in a constant stream, driven by the neverending pulse of life itself. Life, flowing around and past him, the lifeblood of nature pumping through gigantic, invisible veins.
The keidran would try and trap this energy, locking it inside the little crystals that they would hang around their necks or wrists, and then pretend that it gave them some sort of mastery over the wild energy that surrounded them on a daily basis, before they spent it on casting their petty spells at him.
His own kind wasn't really different, as they directed the lifeblood of the world into their towers, letting the invisible energy rain down over their cities like a cascade of power.
But he didn't need crystals or towers. He went straight for the source itself.
Without a moment of hesitation, he sliced into the vein, freeing the chaotic energy, letting it wash over him in a tremendous torrent. Even after having done it so many times before, he still felt a minor shock as the lifeforce of the world hit him square in the face; It was like leaping into a body of freezing water, only so much more intense.
The rapids of energy rocked his body, its pressure intensifying for every second.
This was true power, and even he felt a little frightened at its overwhelming prospect.
The forces of nature was a thing to respect... in fact, it was the only thing that he still respected in this world. It had twisted and killed so many of his own kind over the years, hundreds of young, aspiring templars who had wondered what would happen if they borrowed just a little more power, just a little more time.
They'd keep the vein open for just one more second, and it would swallow them. He had made that mistake once, but somehow survived, though he still wasn't sure how or why.
With a low groan, he tried to shield himself against the unending assault of energy. This was the hard part, closing the vein. The surge of life was so rapturous and fulfilling that he'd often find himself lost in its throes, letting it run through him like an avalanche through a forest.
But he had better things to do tonight than courting Nature. With a languid hand movement, he shut the bleeding vein, and the night was empty once again.
He blinked, trying to clear his eyes of the magical sparks that danced across his vision. He found himself trembling-
No, -vibrating- with energy, from the bottom of his toes to the top of his electrified hair. His body could barely contain the immense reservoir of mana that he'd siphoned, and he knew he had to find an outlet soon.
But even so, he took a moment to survey his surroundings one last time. The grass had, for as far as he could see, withered and turned black.
There was no life left around him, no frantic pulse. The lifeblood of nature had been spilt, then dried up and disappeared. The part that still lived on inside him was all that remained of the fragrant life that had resided in the field.
Such a waste of ethereal power had once caused him a slight sting of guilt back in the day. This way of sucking the life out of the world had seemed... wrong somehow.
But everything had changed that day, two summers ago.
What remained now was a gray and meaningless copy of the world he had lived in back when She was still alive.
There was nothing left in this cold and lifeless place.
It had all fallen apart when they'd killed Her.
They had taken it all from him.
To his surprise, he felt his chest tighten. He didn't know he could still feel that pain, so many years later.
He took a deep breath, sealing away his emotions for now. They had killed her.
With a poisoned arrow.
One of the lowliest and most cowardly ways of taking a life.
The keidran were, despite their boasting of the contrary, afraid of direct encounters with human mages.
Trace Legacy cracked his fingers and turned towards the manor.
He was about to remind them why.