The White Army is in disarray. The Black King continues to hunt the Pawns. The Black Rook remains unresponsive, naught is known of his fate after Solstice past. The White Rook targets the pawns of the same color. The Bishop clatters on the table, off the board, claimed by neither yet mistrusted by all but the most desparate.
The White Army is in dire need of a King and Queen. Shall it be the Wayward Knight, lost in the endless twists of the Black King's castle, and her Damsel, of a land across the ocean and a language long dead? Shall the Knight and Damsel who tasted of the Black King's nectar and denied his rule ascend? Shall the Knight, once of the law and now one with the chaos inherent on the board, find a Queen to lead the attack?
The game yet continues, a macabre dance with but one player. None hold the fate of the White Army in their hands, all unwilling or unable. His prey Leaderless, the Empty One moves with ruthless intent.
The clock has been punched. Wounded, the Otherwordly lashes out.