The shadow-creatures. The denizens of the dark.
For as long as humanity has existed, a subset of the population has been aware of the malformed beings of evil that lurk around every corner. Their only desire is to eradicate humans and turn the mortal realm into their playground, but as long as the Warriors of the Light exist, they have sworn to prevent that - no matter the cost.
As technology has progressed, fewer and fewer profane places have existed for them to spew their evil magic from. As a result, the Warriors lessen in numbers, until the year 2013, when there are only a handful left. From a central bureau in France, instructions are sent out, leaving the Warriors able to act autonomously as they heroically move from country to country, striking down these demons wherever they rear their ugly heads.
###
For the past three days, Christa Quan had been traveling through the Roman countryside. Unlike most Warriors, she was able to make her own schedule: a relatively new recruit to the cause, she'd been given a shared jurisdiction. The intent was to allow her to learn at her own pace, never rush in exhausted or grow overwhelmed by the tasks she faced.
She had been a Warrior of the Light for almost ten years now, so she knew that soon she would be given a continent of her own to protect. Until then, she enjoyed the leisurely pace of her duties - rather than catch a taxi straight from the airport, she'd allowed herself to walk all the way to the Tiber.
Her mission was clear: the bureau had heard rumors of an ancient Pagan tomb (adjacent to the River Tiber) where the god Epona had begun resummoning its strength, preparing for yet another bid to take over the world of man.
Not if I can help it,
she thought with a cocky grin.
Christa normally had no idea where the bureau got its information, but she'd dealt with Epona and her acolytes before, and the first step was always the same: for Epona to return, she needed blood.
Gallons and gallons of fresh horse blood. If unusual reports of slaughtered horses begin to hit the grapevine, odds are pretty good that Epona is involved.
Standing outside the reported temple site, Christa weighed up her options. It had been a long day of walking, but she was used to that - Christa enjoyed walking, and it was something she was going to miss when she was given her own territory to protect.
Walking was a solitary pursuit. She didn't get the stares, the questions, the assumptions. The outfit that her work as a Warrior required was not typical garb for the Roman countryside, and she would rather walk for three days than take a taxi and be subject to an hour of small talk and questions about her suit, her appearance, her heritage.
Her father was Asian and her mother had been Hawaiian, which had given her a gorgeous complexion and meant that no one could ever place where she was from - not that it stopped every man she ran into from guessing, of course. She unwillingly drew their attention not only from her face and unusual mode of dress, but from the bane of her existence: the double-d's she wore on the front of her chest.
They got in the way during combat, they made running more difficult, and - worst of all - they were (she was sure) the reason that every man she ran into insisted on stopping and having a conversation with her. "What's your name?" "Where are you off to?" "Why are you dressed like that?"
No, fighting the forces of evil was a solo venture, and Christa liked it that way. She'd never had a romantic or sexual partner - during her time in the academy, one of her instructors had clearly shown an interest, and Christa had spent a few restless nights thinking about her teacher, but nothing had come of it and so Christa had focussed on what she was best at - smiting demons.
At just over five feet high, Christa had almost been rejected as a Warrior. But her incredible hand-to-hand skills had won the bureau over, and her fierce intelligence had been a bonus. She could speak four languages fluently, had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ancient gods who still had active influence in the world, and had dedicated her entire life to fighting evil.
On some level, she knew she was attractive - her work kept her fit, and her arms and legs had a sinewy strength to them. Had she tried to be a Warrior five hundred years ago, she would never have been accepted, but the days of swinging around broadswords were long gone. Everything she needed to get the job done could now be carried in a light backpack, and so her training regime focused more on flexibility than brute strength.
She had everything she needed for a good night's rest. She could sleep, wake up, and fight Epona at full strength.
But who knew what stage of the transition Epona was in? Those few hours could be the difference between "puddle of horse blood" and "goddess of fertility" - and Christa knew which one she would much rather do battle with.
A steely expression crossed her face as she pulled out her favorite sword. Different demonic forces require different materials to smite, but when she wasn't sure exactly what she was going to be facing, Christa always resorted to Darkslayer - like Frodo's "Sting" or a Jedi's lightsaber, it emitted a strong glow. It ensured that she could see the path ahead, but that wasn't why it was her first choice - it made her feel connected to the thousands of Warriors of Light who had come before her.
It made her feel like she belonged.
Holding Darkslayer in front of her, Christa opened the door, and began her trek into the darkness of the pagan temple.
###
There's a very short list of things that truly terrify a demon. They do not fear death, loneliness, or fear itself. They fear punishment - not from mortals, or the Warriors of the Light, but from their Gods. If you worship the God of Pain, spending months - or years - working towards his resurrection, and you fail him in any way, the wrath that he can unleash makes any human punishment seem like a mild tickling.
But as Christa Quan, Warrior of the Light slew her way through the half-horse, half-abominations that Epona calls her servants, a new item was added to that very short list: the look on her face as she raced towards the Goddess of Fertility herself.
"You've gone too far," she hissed, killing half a dozen demons without blinking an eye. "This. Is. Not. Okay."
In response, Epona just cackled.
"Foolish mortal," she screeched, and Christa would have rolled her eyes if they weren't busy making sure she didn't get overrun by the horse creatures. Gods were always so dramatic. "You don't understand - I
am
the God of Horses. Their souls were always mine!"
Until that day, Christa didn't realize how accustomed she'd grown to evil having standards. She'd seen towns full of slaughtered innocents, bodies defiled in every way imaginable, and families torn apart - and made to watch each other's torture.
But the understanding had always been that the soul was different. The soul was sacred. Once you die, your mortal body stays on Earth, and your soul passes through to the afterlife.
As soon as she'd entered the temple's main chamber, Christa had sensed something was up. Darkslayer had begun glowing in a way that she'd never experienced before, and rather than rush into battle, Christa had spent almost half an hour sneaking around, trying to work out what was amiss.
And that was when she'd seen it. Epona wasn't just slaughtering the horses and taking their blood; no, she was peeling away their very souls, and weaving them into her new bodies.
The horses would die, but they would find no rest. Rather, they would spend the rest of existence as part of her ghoulish form - whenever Epona was slain, they would live the pain with her. Whenever she killed, their souls would be tarred.
It was grotesque, and Christa couldn't let it stand.
She'd thrown subtlety out the window, and headed straight for the God, slaying anything and everything that stood in her way. Her Master could have stepped in front of her, and he would have fallen to her sword.
What Epona was doing was wrong, and Christa swore that she would make the Horse Goddess pay for it.
When she reached the centre, however, Epona held up her soul-woven hand, and her servants fell back. Christa suddenly realized she was in unexplored territory - they'd learned about the power that could be wrought from soul-powered magic, but she'd never experienced it first-hand. She'd hoped she would never have to.
"Perhaps your soul would like to join them," the half-formed God hissed, and Christa shuddered at the thought. Her training had prepared her for death, but nothing could train you for an eternity of servitude, involuntarily powering whatever God killed you.
Soul-magic was frowned upon even by the most evil of gods, and if the bureau had known this was what Epona was up to, she knew they would never have sent her alone. But this was not time to question herself - she needed to take Epona down now, before her power could grow any more.
