Calamity: A Ballad of Ash

Chapter 3: Yharim

As night began to fall, the council gathered together in the war room. It was illuminated by the vibrant orange light of its crackling torches, each of which decorated the corners of the space. Set in the middle was a long wooden table, with three chairs on each side and an additional one on the forepart of it. Set on the center of the table was a large strategy map of the land's surrounding areas, its old writings from former meetings still present.

Before long seven generals assembled in the war room, each sitting quietly as they flicked glances between each other. While the air in the room was warm, the aura was bitter, crowded with heavy feelings of tension.

At the foremost part of the table sat Yharim, the man who single handedly catalyzed this crusade. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the table, his long red hair hanging below the helmet and backplate of his highly burnished auric armor.

Yharim was not destined to rule in the position he stands for. His destiny was to quell Yharon, the last auric dragon, and consume his soul. The dragon was no more than an egg at the time, and if he consumed his soul he would at last ascend to godhood, and rule forever in Terraria as king. To most, being bestowed with such a prophecy would be a peerless blessing.

However, Yharim was not like most.

He instead allied with the cocooned dragon, revolting against his peers and rejecting their ideals. He was to be executed for his crimes, cast into the blistering lava of hell along with Yharon's egg. But, as fate would have it, the world kept him yet longer.

"Shall we begin?" Permafrost said abruptly.

"We shall," Yharim replied in an irritated voice. "Before we waste any more time than we already have."

Permafrost was the Archmage of Yharim's regime. His hair was scruffy and pale, while the robes he donned were royal blue, fitting for one of his stature. While he was a mage in his own right, he never itched for battle. Instead, he acted as an advisor of sorts for Yharim, managing the cities they held while also guiding him with his wisdom during their conquests.

Eventually the mage stood up from his chair and leaned over the table, setting his hands on both sides of their strategy map. "As I'm sure you remember, our scouts and agents provided us this outline, allowing us to work out the framework of this attack. Although we worked out a seemingly sufficient strategy at our last council, I think it'd be wise to reevaluate our approach." He paused for a moment, turning towards Yharim before continuing. "Have you any input, my lord?"

Yharim nodded slowly, leaning in and beginning to speak with his deep and gravelly voice. "Our Godseeker knights should front the army at midnight, they can offer a surprise attack against Silva and her underlings. As they press forward, our shock troops can flank from the west, overwhelming them before dusk."

"How shall we go about seizing Silva?" Permafrost said candidly.

Yharim squinted his eyes at the duke, nearly becoming offended by his words. "Seize? You think I'd offer a gift so kind to that vile elemental?" Yharim halted his response for a moment, his eyes falling dead as a resentful expression formed across his face. "I'll make a carcass out of her, and profane her city with her own blood."

"Do you remember not what happened to the old gods we slew?" Permafrost replied in a somewhat troubled tone. "I believe a more proper burial for them is in order..."

A shiver ran down Yharim's spine. He remembered all too well the first mistakes of his crusade. The essence of a slaughtered god does not simply dissipate. Their foul essence seeps into the roots of the land, and festers dastardly. The dreadful crimson mire, and the foul corrupt wasteland... Both were byproducts of gods beyond redemption.