MQ: Dawnbringers

[Flames of Hyperion]

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He was surrounded by faceless stone and heavy rank air, in an oppressively small room with no paths in and only one way out. The cavern was no more than a pocket of claustrophobic darkness deep within the Raiaeran earth, lit by a single brazier that flickered erratically despite the complete lack of wind. The arcane flame was a beacon as well as a source of light, reaching out into the war-torn homeland of the High Elves in search of suitable souls to complete its anointed task. With each individual it ensnared it grew gradually weaker, the murmurs of its fate-borne whisperings fading away like haunting echoes into the shadows.

For the moment, however, there was only one figure in the room, a motionless young man tucked away in the far corner like an unwanted ornament. He sat with his legs folded beneath him, on the cold hard floor facing the brazier; the flame reflected upon the armour of burnished gold he wore, playing upon the spectacles nestled on his brow and dancing in the depths of his darkly sensitive eyes. Beyond the object of his silent contemplation was a single doorknob embedded into the rock face, although there was no visible door to match it. It was easily identifiable as a portal, and Ingwe Helyanwe had no doubt as to where it led.

He felt distinctly uncomfortable seated in the shadows, decked out as he was head to toe in the Regalia Valora, the ancient relic that had been entrusted to him by powers far greater than he. Ingwe disliked the feel of metal against his body at the best of times, and although the mythril was far lighter and more flexible than the vast majority of armours he was used to, it seemed to cling to his clammy skin with every breath he took. The remainder of his attire was completed by the staff propped up against the wall by his right hand, along with the shield resting against his thigh and the twin daggers he wore on his back. Part of him felt slightly overdressed in such resplendently extravagant finery; the other part knew that there could be no such hesitation when preparing to face one of the Forgotten Ones, the Dread Lord Xem’zund himself.

He sat within one of the last of the Necromancer’s strongholds, a hidden crypt deep within the Raiaeran soil beneath the Lindequalme. Ingwe didn’t know how it had been built, or how it had been found, or why it had been deemed appropriate that he should find himself there. All the young man knew was that beyond the innocuous-looking doorknob lay Xem’zund’s final resting place, to which the lich had been driven to after the fall of the Obsidian Spire and the siege of Narenhad, and his defeat at the hands of Nalith and Prince Turgon on the banks of the River Escaldor.

Neither did Ingwe know who had placed the beacon in this small hidden chamber, or how they had managed to smuggle it so close to the Forgotten One’s lair, or whether or not Xem’zund was aware of its presence and had taken the time to prepare a lavish welcome for them all. What he did know was that it had taken over twenty assorted Bards and Magi nearly two days to decipher the song in their heads and then prepare the ritual to send him to his current location. Such was the effort required that Ecthelion had warned that they might not even be able to track him, much less communicate, once he left the Legion of Light behind. Ingwe had only smiled gently and bade them take care, to concentrate on their own destinies as he would on his.

It was the job of himself, and that of any who joined him in that small chamber before the fire in the brazier sputtered and died, to defeat and bind the powerful demi-god who lay in the chambers ahead. Only then would Raiaera and its peoples be allowed to embark upon the long and hazardous journey to recovery.

He had no doubt that his companions would soon begin to arrive, drawn to the crypt like moths to the flame in any manner that fate saw fit.

Until then he closed his eyes and clutched gently at the pendant upon his chest, and allowed his thoughts to roam as they would… the path he had walked until the present, the dreams he held for the future, the battle that he would soon be asked to fight…

… and those who had given him the strength to come thus far.

He would either redeem their faith in his abilities and prove himself worthy of returning to see them once again, or he would die trying.

[Cydnar]

We are immortal in but one way, our memories. Through them, we are eternal and youthful, glorious and radiant, empathic and successful. An eternity binds us to the memories of others, and we live on after the physical corruption of death in the minds and hearts of those we left an impact on during our existence. Cydnar grew tired and weary of being nothing more than a memory, vowing to not succumb to such petty clawing at life, at brilliance – it was time, he thought, for him to forge his own destiny, even if it will end in a swan song of self-fulfilling irony, of sacrifice.

The Hummel are supposed to observe, to caress, and to maintain balance between the magical and the mundane. Men are supposed to die, but it is these two things, these fundamental laws being broken that has brought the Salthias into the catacombs of the mother earth, and it is these two sins that he would triumph or die for in the dark beneath all other dark. It is a funny thing, although humour is oft lost on elves and other folk, to be fighting for survival in the very essence of a race’s endeavours. The geological properties of Althanas are laid out before the gods, and he like every Hummel knew each and every edifice of stone. Here however, he was lost in a world beyond the salvation of knowledge, of petty and scholastic words.

“I am frightened Brother Cydnar,” he spoke slowly but surely, commanding the last few yards of stone aside with a flick of the wrist and a concerted brow, furrowing through the stone with mental contractions and resolute control. “We are too far beyond the realms of Yrene to hear his call, what manner of place is this?”

Cydnar decided against answering, and twisted and loosened the chill in his wrists. How could I safely tell him that I did not know? After the battle on the surface, after witnessing Love die and the authority of a thousand years crumble beneath the fury of battle, there was nothing left with meaning but a futile sense of emissary power, and a crushing wave of revenge, of taking vengeance on that which caused my kind so much woe. If this great ‘necromancer’ was not stopped, then the dead would walk the earth forever, and the balance of magic, natural and right, would break; even Yrene could not consume that much evil and malignant corruption in the soil – there would be a sundering, a proverbial twilight between man and manna. He lost himself momentarily in his thoughts.

The awkward silence purveyed a greater sense of urgency, of longing for an escape than he realised. He dwelt in his thoughts as they forged through the last of the granite.

The rock melted away, half pushed aside and half vaporised by the geomantic boon of their deity. The darkness beyond created a pocket of vapour, and the cold rushed into the warmth of the tunnel; the half-light cast from a distant brazier foretold of movement, of life, but no eyes could see the signs beyond. “Thank you, Brother Sajama; you are, as per the council’s mandate, to return immediately to Donnalaich. No turning back, no hesitation, no contesting of wills in the umbra cavity – you are to go home, do you understand?”

His young eyes glimmered in the distant azure glow and Cydnar felt saddened at the sorrow and understanding in them, welling up like a storm drain. Even he did not think he would return from this confrontation, but he would not be alone in both thought and action – “do not fret for my safety, the World Snake will consume and constrict all those who are not born of His Grace. I will return to the city to tell the council of Raiaera’s victory over its enemy.”

“Will such victory bring you peace, Brother Cydnar?” He stepped back into the tunnel as Cydnar stepped forward, the padding of leather on smooth stone floor covering the tracks of my hesitation with a smooth slide and echo.

“I have found peace in my servitude and my position in life, Sajama, may you in turn find yours.”

With a longing look, they nodded in agreement at one another and then the stone formed over the tunnel like a liquid spirit leaving no trace of creatures ever passing through it. The silence smothered the lone elf more than the darkness, and the magnitude of his stupidity struck him. Ever since those first clashes in the Citadel, ever since meeting the stranger in the woods who spoke of distant worlds and serving gods and monsters, Cydnar had wondered what Fate would inflict upon him. As he walked slowly through the darkness towards the flickering brazier, hand resting on the hilt of Freya, he contemplated if this last act of defiance of the Hummel would be his magnum opus.

Or his early grave…

[Mage Hunter]

Anebrilith – 2 Weeks ago

Drusilia watched as they ran towards the walls once again. Shambling and screeching their hunger filled most of the people on the walls with dread, even as she notched her bow with another arrow. Her eyes had taken on the bluish tint, as she focused once more on her chosen task, preformed faithfully since she had gotten back to the besieged Elvin town. Bringing the bow up, she smiled, seeing the stronger auras of blue amidst the ranks of the trudging undead, before an arrow shot off.

The necromancer who had been hiding amongst the undead was felled, as the other elves fired on the target, sending a hail of twenty arrows even he would have been hard pressed to dodge.

Another volley began in the same area, even as she notched another arrow. She had taken to shooting first at the target, showing the others roughly where to fire. Even if the arrows were not accurately fired, the fact so many were flooding the area produced the same effect. With the Dweller in the Dark dead, few necromancers could be spared, and the tide began to shift, ever so slowly towards victory. The elves had hope once more, and she began to see the martyrdom slowly leave their ranks, even as their “Pet Drow” continued to fight relentlessly against the forces of the necromancer.

The zombies immediately began to shamble back from whence they came. This brought a few sighs of relief as the call for more arrows was brought up from somewhere along the wall. Drusilia merely pulled out her flask and began to drink from the water within. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand she heard a familiar voice, “Harpy, I have some news for you.”

A small smile crept across her face, even as she looked up. An Elvin woman with fiery red hair was standing there, dressed in full armor and wearing the badge of an officer. Her eyes held a bit of a caring quality about them, perhaps her biggest flaw. Lieutenant Verryna was standing there letter in hand, a small smile upon her face. Drusilia sighed taking the letter she was offered into hand, before her finger opened the letter and with a casual flick of the wrist she was reading it. A few of the guard watched in silence, even as an eyebrow arched on the Drow’s forehead. Finally she looked up at Verryna before she said, “Think you can hold down the fort for a few weeks?”

“What are you planning?” The Elf asked, her own face taking on a look of confusion.

“Looks like Godhand flushed Xem’zund into a corner. They want me to move against him, guess I impressed them with my tricks against the Necrosition…” Drusilia said, her hand gently rubbing at a scar on her throat from where Lord Colin Crowley had attempted to choke her. Godhand had been there for that fight as well, much like they had since coming up against Warsong and Warsmith outside the no name town where the Anti-Paladin had fallen. Time had caused the two to break up temporarily with Godhand chasing after gods, and Drusilia honing her skills on a real battlefront, namely helping Anebrilith.

“You know what they say about a cornered animal,” Verryna cautioned. Drusilia laughed before she rose up and stretched her form.

“Careful Lieutenant, I might get the idea you care about me…” Drusilia said before they clasped hands warmly.

“Oh don’t worry about that. I just figured you still owe me another month or two of service on the wall,” The red headed elf replied with a sarcastic smirk.

“I figured it would be something like that. I don’t suppose you have a horse I could use?”

“As a matter of fact I do…”

~*~

The Lair of the Necromancer – Today

“This place reeks of necromancy,” Drusilia muttered under her breath. Living on trail rations and her wits alone had already soured her mood. She forgot what it was like to travel with no reliable means of restoring her dwindling food stores. The results were a rather irate Drow, who was nearing the lair of Althanas’ most dangerous mage. She continued forward, ignoring the slight pangs of hunger by taking the opportunity to nibble on a bit of hard tack. It worked for the most part, but really it was more a delay tactic.

She just hoped Godhand had an extra cigarette to share with her.

Moving down the passage way she had indicated on the small map she shook her head clucking her tongue, “Figures that they’d write in Elvin, at least I now what the hell they’re saying, even if it takes them five words to get the concept of tunnel across.” She continued down the passageway before she saw it, a light in the darkness. A small smirk crossed her face as she continued forward, tearing into the hard tack in earnest. If she was going to fight, she had better not be hungry while doing so, or else she would fast become a casualty on the field.

Moving a bit swifter down the tunnel she didn’t reflect on her life as much as she should have. She didn’t ready herself for death, nor did she steel her nerves. She wasn’t that kind of person, the Drow arrogance long turned into a pride that said she would not die with regrets. She had already done most of the things in life she wanted, her only regret was in not having kids. Even then, she wasn’t sure if her really fit being left so vulnerable. Perhaps she would never have kids, or perhaps she would when she had retired from the adventuring life. She didn’t know, but for now that didn’t matter. What mattered was the task before her.

Besides, she had Lieutenant Verryna to disappoint. Already Drusilia knew there was a pool going for her death, and when she came they would all find a small anonymous chip betting against all odds for one thing;

That she would be there to collect the entire pot from under them.

[Ataraxis]

Darkness reigned still and silent within the cavern, broken only by the glow of smoldering coals and the licking light of dying flames. The shadows steered clear from the burning brazier, pulling back then pressing on with the fire’s every wax and wane, lapping at the cold stone ground like waves upon sandy coastlines. Thus went on the ebb and flow, until the monotony was broken by a singular ripple in the dark.

The shadows seemed taken by a shiver of unrest, their surface disturbed by a light effervescence before breaking out into pitch black spume. Countless beads of inky darkness skittered across the stone, moving as one under the influence of some unknown hive mind, gathering at the base of a cavern wall, melding into one another as they collided and coalesced into a single body of darkness aggregate.

The resultant globule wobbled to and fro, rising from the earth with every sway as it attempted to take shape. The mass became flatter and flatter until it was nothing but an obscure film against the cave wall in the form of an archway. There it stood in perfect stillness, strange and silent, the only remaining fixture of darkness in a room otherwise bereft of any shadow. In its heart, one could only make out the blur of a pale silhouette.

Lillian’s head was first to make its egress from the portal, scanning left and right with wide, glacial eyes. She registered the brazier, the confined space, the few occupants that had arrived earlier than her, and she nodded: the premises seemed secure. The girl of sixteen walked through the sorcerous threshold without more flair than she would that of a tavern, though the slight bounce in her step seemed weighed with reluctance and wariness.

At once, the portal collapsed behind her to become an unstable black void of sorts, its ominous pulsing indicative of its imminent dissolution into nothingness.

Practice caution, girl, came a stentorian voice from the black hole. Point of no return: cannot come for you again.

“I know,” Lillian answered softly, looking back over her shoulder with a wistful smile. She saw two great orbs of pure, white light staring at her from the void, and she knew those were the eyes of the Shadow Child: more than a powerful elemental, it was a demanding teacher as well as a close friend… and she knew this may be the last it would ever see of her. “Thank you, Shalim. For taking me here… and for everything else.”

She might have seen a nod of acknowledgment before the sphere broke apart, wisps and tendrils of shadow gushing outward like sullen festoons, splashing against the cavern walls, trickling back down to where they belonged. Lillian sighed there and then, feeling rather vulnerable in her sudden loneliness. Succumbing to a pathological timidity, the girl took a last scan of her surroundings before engaging the few who had heard the summons just as she did.

In this room with no sound, there was a force all around. It bled from the stale and stagnant air like it did from the flickers of the brazier, each arcane drop becoming to the skin a fading ripple without touch or force, and to the eyes a subtle spark that incurred both wonder and enlightenment. Even as it weakened, even as the flames faltered with each valiant or greedy soul that answered its summons across the aether, it never lost its ineffable aura – that quality of being born from a numinous hand, and of carrying out a duty as noble as its maker.

There was comfort to be found in this sensation, but to Lillian, its presence itself was an equal cause for concern: whoever had carved this cave into the very stone of Raiaera, be it a powerful mortal or a divine entity, had done so as a last resort… and whoever forged this brazier, be it by a lack of power or an inability to directly intervene, could not defeat the Necromancer on its own.

She was, with those already here and those who were soon to come, effectively the country’s last hope of defeating Xem’Zûnd – a prospect that did not enchant her. That she felt herself undeserving of the call did not help either, but there was nothing to do about that now: her exploits at Timbrethinil and Tel Moranfauglir, however coincidental, appeared to have inextricably entangled her with the fate of Raiaera… and ultimately, she decided it would be silly not to see this through to the end.

“Present circumstances notwithstanding…” Lillian began, addressing both the bespectacled man in full plate armor befitting of royalty and the robed arrival that had only just walked into sight. She could hear other footsteps, announcing the presence of a third besides herself, though that person may have been out of earshot. “It’s always a pleasure to meet other foolish people like myself,” she quipped, offering them a bashful smile and the modest shrug of her shoulders.

Knowing that she could die on this day, and that these could very well be the last people to whom she would ever speak, she thought it only appropriate to give them her name, even though she did not expect to hear them reciprocate. “I’m Lillian.”

[Caden Law]

It all happened very quickly, with no dramatic lead-ins or anything of the sort. Nobody in the cavern at the time would've even had a chance to monologue about it.

The flame in the brazier turned yellow -- not gold, not even sunny, just yellow. The light that it gave off remained unchanged. The smell of smoke gave way to the smell of salty desert air, and then the flames changed again: They had an actual shape. Fire became a ring, the ring stretched to the ceiling and threatened to burn anyone near it as it expanded, and then a faded blue portal swirled into existence at the ring's center. The whole process probably took about a tenth of a second.

For another few seconds after that, nothing happened. It was actually a bit anticlimactic.

And then the portal basically spat out a man in a funny outfit, imploded in on itself and returned to being a simple red flame. It was, again, diminished by this latest arrival, just as it had been for all the others and just as it would be for any after.

The man stood up about as abruptly as he'd arrived, then patted himself down with one hand to make sure nothing had been chewed off en route. His explanation was, "I just got teleported cross continent by a preying mantis in a cheap yellow hood. Yes, yes, I am slightly concerned as to the state of my appendages, thank you." And upon seeing that everything was still in its proper place, "Right then. So."

He looked at the assembled group that he shared a cramped artificial cavern with at least four other people. One was a swarthy looking Drow lass with a nice rack. Another, Caden instantly marked as Jailbait the Second. One of the men was Drow?, the other was a human decked out in some patently ridiculous Elven garments that Caden was really in no position whatsoever to criticize. Even if the boy? didn't have a properly pointed Hat.

Contrast the splendid young Ingwe with the older, harder, much more heavily scarred Caden: The Wizard was wearing cavalier's steel armor in addition to a breastplate, all of it on top of a N'jalian spidersilk longcoat and his ordinary clothing. His hands were bare and pale, even in the dim lighting afforded by the brazier, and he sported a blue Mark on one cheek. He had a sword and an arcanist's rod on one hip, a nasty looking bowie and wand on the other, and he was carrying a relatively plain looking staff that seemed to be made out of anvil black Prevalida and some other exotic materials. He was also wearing a suitably Wizardly Hat, pointed and with a wide brim and a heavy leather belt holding it upright. The Hat had the same construction as the longcoat, and both were blue. All the armor was steel, obviously Conscript gear, but the craftsmanship was superb and the markings were unique.

Really, the only thing the Wizard had in common with the mage was being a human male wearing glasses and carrying a stick with some magic in it. The younger mage was, presumably, powerful in his own right. He had a staff that looked pompous even by Elven standards, and the clothes to match. Caden wasn't familiar enough with Adamantine to identify it on sight, but he could still guess at the power in that weapon. Little Mage Syndrome kicked in when the Wizard realized Ingwe's was longer and fancier.

Never one to dwell on such things, however, the Wizard turned his attention to the others. The first to catch his eye was the Drow woman, for the obvious reasons that she was beautiful, bountiful, and had a sense of tainted, imploded magic oozing off of her almost as bad as Caden probably did. Putting aside the obvious thoughts of undressing the woman, he told her simply, "You. Are gonna be useful."

The others were impressive enough in their own ways, but the Drow? man didn't have an aura of taint and neither he or the girl were especially flashy and powerful looking. In point of fact, he took one look at the girl and automatically had her earmarked as Jailbait the Second; she looked too young to even be here.

But she was here. All of them were. Caden could only assume they had earned it the same godsawful ways he did. With that as his basis, introductions ensued: "I'm Blueraven, by the way. Who are all of you and have any of you ever killed a demigod before?"

[Godhand]

Godhand burst into the barracks, squinting as blood poured into his eyes from a ugly cut above his forehead even as it dribbled out of his nose and mouth. He suddenly clutched his chest and a slew of soldiers hurried up to him, their 'hero', terrified he might be having a stroke. Godhand pushed them away and pulled down his collar, noticing a massive hematoma right over his heart from where that animal had tried to run him through with a spear. If it hadn't been for the ridiculous clown suit Nalith had ordered him to wear, he'd be dead. He pushed past the growing throng of soldiers, surprised at just how much reinforcements were waiting in the wings even as the battle raged just outside. More than likely they were being held back for the High Bard's last decisive push, but he didn't think that would be much consolation to the beleaguered troops being massacred by the undead. He grabbed one of them by the collar and shouted over the din of war.

"Where's Nalith!?"

"The Lady General is the war-room, sir!"

He let go and muscled his way into her heavily guarded headquarters, nearly tripping over a chair before collapsing on it. The stern general gave him a brief once-over, then nodded to an attendant.

"Heal him."

"Won't work. The sheath blocks all that out." He lifted the crimson sheath and ran his tongue over his bloody teeth. "And I'm certainly not giving it up. I don't trust a single one of you."

She let out an exasperated sigh.

"Then what?"

"Just have the broad stitch me up."

The impromptu nurse left the war-room and returned a short time after with a needle, thread and bottle of alcohol. Wiping off all the blood on his face, he waited impatiently as she wet a cloth with alcohol and began gently dabbing at his forehead. Finally, he grabbed the from bottle from her hands and poured it out over his head, hissing when it sunk into his cuts. She seemed like she wanted to admonish him, but instead merely went to work on the gash. Time was too precious not to talk all through the operation, however.

"Xem'Zund. I had him. I had the bastard, but I got bum-rushed by one of his generals. He won't be a problem anymore but the Necromancer disappeared. I have no idea where he could have gone."

"We know."

"You know?"

"Yes, our scryers have been trying to divine his location ever since the scouts returned with news of his retreat. We believe we've found it. I've marked it on this map."

Godhand shambled over despite the nurse's protests and looked at the diagram of Raiaera drawn over the large cloth. There was a small area in red, so seemingly inconsequential and out of place with the leylines of the war that Godhand nearly mistook it for a drop of ink accidentally fallen on the graph.

"What is this? This is nothing. There's nothing there; nothing goes through there, either."

"All our diviners agree. This is where he's gone. And we need you to go after him."

Godhand stared into the still beautiful elf's scornful eyes, his own features made even more haggard by the war.

"After I do this, we're done. I'm done. We get that seat on the council and you never see me again."

She smirked unpleasantly.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, human."

"That's still a three day ride, and I'm not going to be teleported there either. Leave my sheath behind, get massacred and then have it put in some goddamn museum as a 'relic of the Godhand'."

"We've obtained a cloth that should dampen the effects of your precious sheath long enough for you to be transported, but you need to move now."

-----------------------------------------------

There was a flash of light and then a ravaged-looking figure appeared in the nearly total darkness. The mercenary was certain they'd double-crossed him and sent him right up God's asshole to get out of living up to their end of the bargain, but when he noticed the other figures there he relaxed.

"Gentlemen."

He peered harder through the darkness and soon recognized the dark elf, her dusky skin making her nearly invisible in the black but her white hair giving her away. He raised a hand to shut her up before she even began talking; he knew she was going to start ribbing him about his clothes and he was in no shape to play that game. And then he saw her; he almost didn't believe his eyes at first. What was she still doing in Raiaera?

"What the...fuck? Lillian? What are you doing here?"

[Flames of Hyperion]

One by one the shadows grew in number, flickering in time with the flame in the brazier in the centre of the room. Little by little the same flame died a slow and prolonged death, the beat of its pulsing heart lessened by every new soul it drew to its location.

Ingwe introduced himself whenever necessary, made small talk whenever spoken to, and smiled his trademark gentle smile whenever he inadvertently made eye contact with one of his fellows. For the most part, however, he remained quiet, and it was not too difficult to see why; sooner or later, every conversation attempted was swallowed whole by the stagnant atmosphere, overwhelmed by the sheer stillness of their surroundings.

The mage with the distinctive pointy hat and preoccupied manner he recognised as the Wizard Blueraven, whispered rumours of which had reached even his ears. The bulkily armoured man was no doubt Godhand Striker, perhaps the greatest warrior to face Xem’zund in the current age. There were others as well… a young girl, a dusky Dark Elf, a pale warrior of indeterminate race… no doubt they were all encumbered with an equal pedigree, or else Ingwe doubted they would have been summoned for the task at hand.

Warriors and wizards, soldiers and sorcerers, they were each veterans of countless battles, firsthand witnesses of what the Necromancer had done to the country. There was a tacit harmony between them not only in what they had experienced, but also in their purpose in being there at that time, and the complexity of their thoughts regarding the battle that loomed ahead. Rather than ominous or menacing, the silence between them soon coalesced into a common ground, a unifying factor that served to enhance their individual resolve.

At least, such was the way it felt until the last of their number arrived, and the flame gave one last sputter before dimming out into darkness. For a brief moment the gloom was absolute and overwhelming, not even the keenest of their eyes able to pierce its indiscernible depths.

Then, before any of them could react in any way, the doorknob portal activated with a bright purple flash.

And a low unpleasant laugh sounded in their ears.

***

It’s a trap!

Attuned to the arcane and already on high alert, Ingwe was perhaps the first of the motley crew to sense the anomalies upon their arrival. His first thoughts were of the protection of himself and his comrades, his second of retaliation against whatever power sought to constrain them. By then, however, it was too late; they were caught like flies in a spider’s web, surrounded on all sides by a miasma of black fog that completely paralysed their bodies and nearly froze their minds in its icy grip. The sensation was one of absolute helplessness, of being stripped bare and placed under such intense scrutiny that every last fibre of his soul was obvious for all to see.

But there was only one entity doing the scrutinising, and it took only a heartbeat for the young man to recognise the stench of rotten flesh, the necromantic taint that hung low and heavy about his surroundings. He could not see, for it was as if somebody had cast a weighty black blanket over his head and left him to suffocate in its rancid depths. But there was no mistaking the voice that echoed within his mind, as it simultaneously echoed in the depths of all the others present, trapped as they each were in their own personal nightmare.

Ingwe Helyanwe… it mused dismissively, as if barely even granting him the honour of recognition. It was like the Forgotten One was deliberately setting out to goad him, to establish psychological supremacy even before the battle had begun. Anebrilith… Nenaebreth… Eluriand… do you truly think that your actions even qualify as a thorn in my side? Do you actually entertain such illusions of grandeur as to think that you’ve even made the smallest of differences in the greater scheme?

Ingwe couldn’t have replied even if he had wanted to; tendrils of the Necromancer’s foul power reached in his mouth and threatened to choke him from inside out. Instead, he concentrated his dwindling strength on focusing his powers, seeking the weakness in the spell about him that would allow him to break free…

Your association with that daemon’s pet girl, however, intrigues me… the voice continued, bouncing around the confines of his head like an echo about a cramped claustrophobic cave. At the mere mention of Yuka, Ingwe stiffened involuntarily in anger, although technically he was so under thrall that he couldn’t even move a muscle. I wonder if I should have brought her here today as well, just to see your face as I…

Something snapped.

Something very audibly, and very visibly, snapped.

A backlash of raw power swamped Ingwe’s body and mind, and suddenly he was free of Xem’zund’s thrall. He emerged from the darkness into a dimly lit cavern, the towering form of the Forgotten One himself looming over him like a dark daemon of legend. Grimly he brandished his staff, as one after another his comrades fought their way clear of their own nightmares.

The Necromancer simply laughed again.

[Caden Law]

The world turned pitch black. Considering that they were in a cave, this wasn't especially shocking. Considering that the dark had a certain peppermint taste to it that felt red on the brain, it was a little bit worrisome.

Caden grimaced and willed power into his staff with a deep inhale. He could still feel...something. Leylines, his instincts informed him, but he wasn't sure if they were the lines of his body or the lines of the land. It was like someone had dunked all of his extra senses in novacaine. The Wizard looked around, his staff providing a light. He found himself standing on what, at first glance, appeared to be a very long street in a rather gothic city. It was cobbled with some very big, oblong rocks, with the space between each big rock taken up by jagged smaller ones.

It took him a few seconds to realize that those weren't rocks. They were the tops of skulls, and the filler between them consisted of broken bones. A few seconds more and he heard a skittering sound all over the place, to which the Wizard simply replied, "I'm not asleep but I'm still carrying a big stick."

The skittering stopped. And was replaced by footsteps. Loud, heavy, red-on-the-brain footsteps; like a God deigning to idle around in some poor schmuck's boots. He focused the light of his staff down the street, eyes following its path, and the Wizard's gaze fell upon...

Himself.

Sort of.

Whatever stood before Caden Law, it looked like him right down to the scars and the Mark on the cheek. Except that it was paler, and it wore all red with a hood and robe instead of a hat and coat. The sword it carried had a wavy blade that undulated every few seconds, and a staff that looked like someone had crafted it out of vertebrae and a ram's skull. It wore a badge on each shoulder, clearly fashioned from scalps, and there were dried human and elven ears stapled to the belt.

It didn't have eyes anymore. Just necrotic fires burning where they used to be, and glasses that were purely for decoration.

"I don't think your stick's big enough," the thing said.

Caden stared. Then he laughed -- laughed -- until he was almost doubling over, propping his staff against his chest just so he could clap for what he was seeing. The thing cocked its head to one side, but said nothing.

"That's just rich, Xemmy," the Wizard said with a grin and a sigh. "How long did it take you to find that? How far did you go pilfering about in my subconscious before you dredged that thing up?"

"...what," said the thing.

"I've already faced you down in the flesh, my Fear. And I've killed you. You were backed directly by a God, by the most evil God that ever went godding about no less, and I still killed you. You're not real. You're not even a possibility. You're the sloppy work of a would-be demigod. Tell me, Xembo, did you even think I'd be here today? Or is that really the best you can do?"

Silence. It was utterly baffled.

"You're clearly insane if this isn't remotely scary to you."

"I'm a Wizard. There's not much of a difference. And I would remind you, Xem'zund," Caden raised his staff, and the light recoiled into it and enveloped him in a feathery aura. Ravens crowed from a direction that could not be named or pointed to. "I already hurt you once."

Down came the staff. The sound of ravens crowing echoed through laughter, through rage, through rampages and demonstrations alike. Xem'zund's black spell simply disintegrated off of him in an instant. The Wizard Blueraven had been through the Icehenge. He had conquered himself seven times in one night, and come face to face with the Elder Gods of the world. Fear traps didn't work on him because there was nothing left for him to be afraid of.

"It's high time that I did so again."

The Wizard started forward then, dragging his staff along the ground as lightning surged up out of the cavern floor and enveloped him completely. Sparks lit off of him at every other stride, some of them twisting and writhing into ravens that blinked out before they could hit the dirt and stone below. The Necromancer's laughter ebbed away in the same moment, and at least for that time, he wasn't monologuing or delivering threats. His speech didn't taper off, he didn't bother playing head games. He stood his ground.

"And I'm not even the best one here," the Sorcerer added with a wicked little grin.

"Indeed," said the Necromancer. He snapped the fingers of his right hand. Emerald fire erupted from his index finger, twisted into a skull above his right thumb, and launched itself at Blueraven with an echoing scream and a bright enough flash to illuminate the entire cavern.

Caden replied with a swing of his staff. The earth shot up in front of him, rolling as fluidly as any beach wave, and lightning cascaded all over it. The skull hit and the barrier was gone in an instant, but the Wizard remained. With one hand, he thrust forward and the aura about his body coalesced into a salamander red fireball in his hand. It launched for the Necromancer in the space of an eye blink; however many yards between them.

"I am not Denebriel," Xem'zund declared. The fireball hit him hard enough to torch the cape and hood right off, but it was like the shadows themselves twisted and writhed about him to form a replacement. The Necromancer himself didn't even budge. His armor wasn't smudged. "And you are not my equal."

"Prove it," Blueraven sneered.

In the future, the Wizard was going to have to remember to exercise more caution with his words. Xem'zund deigned raise a hand, spoke a single syllable, and a near-invisible wall of force slammed into Blueraven head-on. The Wizard went from zero to thirty-five in an instant, propelled along by a huge tranpsarent green fist that sent up a dust wave in passing. It faded out as he passed the other members of the demigod kill crew, leaving the Wizard flying for another few feet. Through the door, out into the first cavern, and back-first against the extinguished brazier.

"Proven," said the Necromancer with a sneer that could be heard through his mask. And maybe it was imagination, maybe it was desperation, but whatever it was...

...he almost sounded a little bit winded.

"Ow," Blueraven muttered to himself after the fact. It would be a minute or two before he could finish shaking the cobwebs out of his skull. Hopefully the others didn't die in the meantime. There was, however, a small flaw in the Wizard's plan.

He wasn't going to get the time to recover properly, because there was a ghoul standing at the mouth of the outer cavern. It was about five feet tall. Jagged in every way, and rotten to the core. And it was not alone.

"I hope none of you were expecting to leave this place alive," the Necromancer told them.

[Cydnar]

Cydnar contemplated using a fake name, a moniker of some lost and unsung hero they would not recognise, but what was the point in falsities, in remembering the unremembered? “My name is Cydnar Yrene,” he spluttered whilst watching the congregation of two grow to three, four…and still more came.

They were humming with magical auras, powerful beings, perhaps heroes, perhaps villains, but all here together we stood in a unified goal.

Then the door opened.

Before them stood the Magister, wreathed in a shadow the likes of which I had not seen, even in the darkest depths of the under dark. Beside her rested a pile of bodies, Hummel, clearly from the armour and the blood they were dead; Cydnar instantly recognised them as the captains of the Salthias, the last of the warrior kith who fought to stop the summoning on the marshes…the soldiers and friends and potential lovers who died under his guidance, and under the Necromancer’s hand.

A foreboding wave of nausea struck him and he buckled at the knees, the hem of his robe folded in on it as it fell into the cold floor and purity and cleanliness gave way to decadence and disgust.

“You are not real!” he shouted, fighting the need to flee, or to fight. “You are dead!”

We-h, are-h, eternal-h.

The bodies whispered together in a cacophony of shrill laughter, clearly lost in their own melodrama.

You-h, shall-h, die-h.

What was life without those you trusted and loved? What was living alone compared to death in the afterlife, with the glory of the sun on your back and Yrene’s might wreathed and coiled about you like armour. “I would rather suffer death than this travesty and mockery of life!” His nihilistic servitude shattered the tendrils which clawed at his mind, but their wounds were already deep enough to have left a mark; to have changed their target.

He gasped as the illusion rippled and the man unmistakably a wizard flew backwards through the door and fell at the brazier’s feet once more. A moment wasted, and he looked back to find the Magister gone, and the dark opening to the necromancer’s chamber ajar and unhindered. Cydnar sighed with relief, but the seed of guilt had been planted, and anger was swarming up from his heart to the logical and cold calculated state of mind he held as his own.

“I know none of you, but allow me to say this –" he turned to address the wizard, and propelled his voice through the chamber –“I offer no hope of killing this evil with my own hand, power is not something given to me – but we must defeat him,” he stopped as an audible growl interrupted his speech, something had crawled through the opening…

Cydnar caught the ghouls’ deep timber eyes and smiled, its bloodlust matched only by the joy of meeting battle once more. “I offer the last hope of the Thayne Yrene, and even if I am a mere sacrifice, let Raiaera’s will be done!” He drew the sheath upwards and hooked it off the belt, in a swift movement, he brought it down and the mechanism released the blade upwards with a satisfying ringing of hematite metal.

The fog dispersed, leaving only the faintest of wisps visible, but I knew enough to know that such illusions were separate, unique to each man’s mind. We would face horrors darker still as we worked our way towards death, or glory.

Catching the blade as it spun around mid-air and with a gracious spin, Cydnar settled it across his midriff with the sheath held in reverse in his right hand.

A voice, dark and foreboding like the essence of death itself broke the feeble attempt at rampancy, “I hope none of you were expecting to leave this place alive,” it said. Cydnar smiled.

“No, but we represent an ideal, and ideas, like hope, are truly immortal!”

As he swung the blade and ran towards the ghoul – he flexed his fingers and words to keep the crystalline weapon at the verge of reality. The Necromancer smiled, and with a twist of his own unseen hand he sent the ghoul and it’s brothers forwards, like a vampire sending it’s thralls to feed.

[Ataraxis]

The flames died out with a spark and a sigh, plunging the cavern in a deep gloom even she could not pierce – it all happened so fast, she did not even have the time to properly greet Godhand upon his arrival. There was a flash in the dark, a violet flare from the strange knob set in stone. Lillian could now feel a smoky breath upon her skin, could now smell the mephitic smog that was suffusing throughout the room. It entered her lungs, coursed through her blood, clouded her thoughts… and she felt her mind robbed of its secrets with every chilling exhale. Senses deadened by these intoxicating fumes, she was helpless before the violation of her soul, helpless as the elements of her life and existence were dissected and ground, diluted and decanted, measured and laid bare before cold, unfeeling eyes.

When had she slipped from consciousness? Lillian could recall nary a thing, save for the pulse that had roused her from her coma. Her sight was slow to return, even as she blinked profusely, but her other senses were not as unreceptive. The ground on which she lay was uneven, a pattern of corrugations and bulbs that felt slick to the touch, yet strangely warm. Something coursed by her palms, and she gasped: a pulse. She could make it out now, the floor beneath her… fibrous cords running in crisscrosses under an endless network of veins. Lumps of flesh were strewn about the landscape, leaking fluids and expelling gases, their rise and fall like the breath of sleeping newborns.

Towers rose from the viscera, their walls beseeming clusters of twisting worms. They were infested by nerves like cobwebs and climbing vines, all under spasm as if in the throes of an unseen anguish. And the more she stared, the more she realized that something… many things were staring back. The eyes growing within the walls were an infectious red, unnerving as they trained their gaze upon her, unblinking. And all the while, it had never stopped: the living pulse sustaining this endless organ, the pulse that told of a beating heart.

She saw it, then… saw her. The woman knelt atop a low, flat mound that rose from the flesh, a pedestal around which blood and bile pooled in a moat. The stranger was crouched over, silent and immobile: the position reminded her of prayer in supplication. The moment Lillian approached her, the woman pulled away from the ground, her back unwinding as she rose to an unhurried stand. She threw her head back, hair as dark as pitch cascading over her pale shoulders.

Remains lay at her feet, a male body severed at the hip. His intestines spilled over the beating ground, and his darkening blood continued to ooze from the pedestal. His right arm was absent, torn off at the shoulder, while the left was gnawed beyond the bone and to the marrow. There was a dripping crack in his chest, as if an ax had broken through his ribcage, yet his heart had been scooped out delicately: it lay in the woman’s hand, dribbling coolly on her skin. Saying nothing, Lillian watched as she brought it to her lips, taking in its perfume with sealed eyes and a longing sigh. With such delicacy, such frailty, she bit into the heart, savoring its spilled juices as if it were the sweetest of apples.

In silence, Lillian drew a hand to her chest. She felt its beat, learned its rhythm… and then she knew. It kept time – the beating of her own heart kept time with the pulse of this nightmare. The older woman turned towards the girl, and as they looked upon one another, they sighed as one. They were, after all, one and the same. The naked stupor bathed in blood and entrails, the dark hair like endless inkfall, the comforting smile that hid none of the sadness in their glacial eyes… they both looked down, that dreadful understanding now clear upon their faces. This was her world, this was her soul.

This… was her future.

“I would never have suspected,” came that depthless voice, its hollows and echoes a strange comfort in this morbid world. “To find such compelling… beauty… in the heart of an enemy. Simply baffling.” Shadows fell from the pitch skies, forming before her in a silhouette of luminous grey. The Necromancer stood before her as a ghost, his only solid feature the pale mask beneath his ethereal cowl. “Having seen this, however, I can only wonder: why oppose me? Theses gnats I have lured here, they must have seen in you no more than an innocent girl, when in truth… just as they fear me now, they may someday come to fear you.”

When the girl gave no sign of acknowledging his query, he pressed on. “Lillian Marici Sesthal, do you understand? Of those gathered here, you are the most like me.” He moved as a blur across this macabre dreamscape, coming so close that his fingers now brushed the line of her neck. She winced, the scales of his glove feeling like blades against her skin, and just as likely to cut her throat open.

“My intent was to make an example of you six, to parade your corpses throughout all of Raiaera as my new puppets. What small exploits you have accomplished in this war, they would be as naught before the massacres you were all to commit in my name… yet, I believe, an exception can be made.”

“Is this an olive branch I see hidden behind you?” With a strained smile, Lillian had grabbed onto his wrist, pushing his hand away with the tense delicacy of a vexed woman. “Your plan is to have me question my reasons for being here, my choice of coming here to kill you. You then rekindle my fear of death, and subsequently remind me of how foolish it is die for a nation not my own, making me all the more receptive to a tempting alternative.”

There was nothing left of her usual timidity, only a chilling calm in her evenly spoken words. Lillian raised her eyes, staring straight into the slits of his mask. “In exchange for my immediate survival, you thus propose… not an alliance, no. That would be presumptuous of me… Then, a partnership? Or am I simply mistaken?”

The necromancer laughed, not in disdain or amusement. If anything, it was delighted surprise. “Indeed you were not.”

“Then you must realize, this would be decades, maybe centuries down the line – if ever?”

“I would wait for you,” was his solemn reply. In purposeful deliberation, he turned to face the woman she would become, stopping before her in silent appraisal: though she could not see beyond his mask, Lillian knew he was staring intently, from her blood-clad figure to those forbidden eyes, sinfully aglow like lavender opiates. “For... her,” Xem’Zûnd continued, gallantly extending his hand. The woman complied, presenting him with her own.

Lillian felt sickened when he rubbed her ring finger, when his mask inched in almost as if to kiss it. “Like me, you will seek the power to exact vengeance upon those who murdered your kin… and like me, you will set on the path of godhood, a path from which you can never turn back. I… can sympathize.

“That is why I cannot take your life in good conscience: I will not waste a diamond in the rough… not for something as petty as this.”

“You make it sound like there’s nothing personal going on,” she began, crossing her arms as a passive mark of insolence. “But you lured us in, you set this trap… meaning we did more damage than you’d like us to believe.” Lillian grinned, raising her head in blatant mockery. “If your only purpose was to kill the last heroes of this country and make them an example, then where is Nalith? Or did she not take the bait? Even so, since this ritual of yours only seems to allow six of those who heard its call to enter your sanctuary, you should have been particularly selective in choosing her substitutes...

“Yet, here I am. A nobody. No one else knows that I had a hand in lifting the corruption from Timbrethinil: kill me, and they would be none the wiser. Make me an undead puppet? Only a handful of people would recognize my walking remains, even fewer would care, and as if those odds weren’t low enough, one of them is here!” She tilted her head to the side, giving the necromancer a derisive smile. “Face it: you didn’t choose me, or any of us, in terms of our fame or how much our deaths could crush the country. We screwed you over, hard, and now you want payback: that’s all there is to it. In fact, isn’t that basically your modus operandi?

“Lastly, what I am to become… that has nothing to do with you.” Turning her back on him, she began walking away. “You know where to put that partnership of yours.”

The billowing shadow that was the Necromancer seemed to have frozen still, though the ferrous stench of blood in the air felt heavier now, colder, almost crippling to the soul. Lillian knew those were the harbingers of a storm to come. “It confounds me, how I can offer you the chance to be the only survivor… and you choose to be the first to die.”

The blasts of raw sorcery expelled from his hands echoed as concerted thunderclaps, tearing through the air of this silent nightmare. The flesh underfoot rippled and broke off, mists of blood gushing out from the fresh wounds, carried off by this invisible force that ravaged all without prejudice, a force that would soon shred Lillian to myriad slivers within the blink of an eye.

The explosion resulted in a bleeding crater, a variety of fluids spurting or leaking from the pulp where Lillian had once been. It rained guts and bits of charred muscle, painting the skies a sickly crimson… under which a pale woman basked gloriously. Lillian stood behind her unfazed, pristine save for the gore they now both wore like he did his necromantic robes and mythril armor. In silence, they stared him down with those gypsy eyes, and a great unease surged through his spiritual form.

“With everything you’ve learned after prying my head open… did you really believe she was only a figment of my imagination?” Lillian asked, breaking the hush. “Look behind us.”

Beyond them was a cliff, the edge of a vein-infested hilltop he had not noticed until now. He had thought the plains in the distance but a continuation of this organic world, but he was wrong. Yes, it was flesh, but not these formless masses over which they stood. Greater than any battlefield, the plains were an endless bed of exhumed corpses. Millions upon millions, humans, elves, dwarves, countless other species he could not make out, or had never once encountered. So many misshapen, lacking legs and arms, so many rotting colossi among the mounds of decaying gnats, bleeding ink, bleeding slime… but all of them bleeding from a hole in the chest like never-ending fountains. Then he cringed, recognizing divine beings in theses dead trenches. “Impossible. This… this makes no sense.”

“Then clearly, you have yet to become a god,” came Lillian’s voice from his back. At least, he had thought it her voice at first, until he realized it was older, huskier, like a sensuous whisper. It was her, the other… and her hand had just pierced through his chest.

Xem’zûnd burst into a cloud of darkness, his astral body quick to escape Lillian’s nightmare like a frightened murder of crows. Lillian said nothing, only watched as her alter ego held onto a black puddle: it was a piece of the Necromancer’s mind, a fraction of his heart that she had captured after impaling him. Turning to the younger girl, she extended her palm, letting none of that tainted ichor escape from her fingers.

“Drink,” she said, smiling sadly. Lillian did the same, complying as she leaned to sip at the cup of her hand.


Lillian emerged from her nightmare with a gasp. She was now in a vast underground sanctuary with a high, vaulted ceiling and a misted atmosphere; she had most certainly been moved here along with the others by the violet flash from the doorknob portal. The Necromancer stood in the flesh a dozen feet before her, seeming winded by some past exertion. She remembered that parcel of his heart being ripped out, remembered robbing him of that portion of his power, but she knew there was more to it than that. For one, the armor-clad wizard that had just flown past her might have been the first indication that the fight had already begun and that their group had, with a price, gotten the first strike in.

Wasting no more time, she jumped into the fray, knowing that it was long overdue. In her right hand she drew a glass dirk, its blue-tinted blade invested with a sorcerous wind, while her left hand drew a Delyn rapier, bringing it to bear for a piercing lunge. She had not noticed the ghouls blocking the way to the cavern: in her mind, she could only see the Black.

Unbeknownst to the girl, something had changed in her since her awakening. There was no longer softness in her blue eyes… in fact, their sapphire hue had altogether vanished, replaced by a vitreous sheen of solid pitch. The air about her thickened, prickling the skin, and her whole body now exuded an aura of maleficence much like that of their common enemy. Upon ingesting the Necromancer’s blood, even in a world of dreams, she had triggered her darkest evolution yet...

And in doing so, Lillian had taken the first step toward ending her humanity.