MQ: Dawnbringers

[Mage Hunter]

The huntress was about to make a witty retort about liches, and further to talk about Godhand's rather dapper dress. She was about to show a bit of that Drow arrogance so many found alluring. Not that she was interested in any of the people present at the current battlefield, only that she was bound and determined to show the necromancer what he was worth to her. Drusilia knew without a second glance she was a trial for most of these people, and only one was weaker than her.

This much was gleaned from even a basic use of her ability to detect magical auras.

She never got the chance to say a word however. Drusilia's world went dark about her, even as she began to feel the nausea of being immersed in magic. This was not unlike the time she had taken Warson's enchantments upon her, watching in horrified fascination as they sought to do the same vile things upon the hunter's body. The Drow shook her head to free her mind from the unseemly magics, only to find them cling desperately to her head.

She took to a knee, even as the others were fighting off their nightmares. Softly she heard it, a solemn whisper in the back of her mind, which sought to seduce her, to let her accept the gift that she was being given. The strength it would give her, the ability to fight the necromancer. It was a truly terrible power, able to topple nations and force the gods to kneel before her. This was all laid before her, she only need open her heart tot he dark energies that even now, sought to pry open the door.

"You, who thought you could harm me by besting my lieutenants. You, who fought the Necrosition and survive. You have not done anything, but removed a piece from the board," The voice rang through her head, seeking desperately to shatter her defenses, even as she began to retch up the hard tack she had not swallowed five seconds ago.

She focused her willpower, wielding it as a club against the encroaching darkness. She swung it about clumsily, feeling some of the tendrils of magic fall away, only to be reconnected with a moment's thought. It sought her mind, tearing slowly at the hair she had pulled back only moments before into a ponytail, preparing for the worst. It clawed as her armor, her skin her very bones. The magic even now was seeking to claim her, to open her to the winds of magic.

Baruk's words rang in her head, "Zombie, though with the amount of necromantic energy in her we'd be lucky if tha's tha least she becomes. We might be looking at the next Warson if we aren't careful..."

She wasn't going to become a zombie; she wasn't going to die here. She wasn't going to give in, and gods be damned she was going to kick that necromancer's ass for making her spill what little food she had left on the gods be damned floor. The heat of rage focused her will, even as she reached for her belt. She shook her head before she managed, "Magic..."

"I see you still fight, that is promising. I think I shall make a new undead out of you, craft you into something far more suitable first. Perhaps make you into the undead version of the N'jallian Spider Magi..." His voice filtered into her head. She growled lowly, forcing herself back to her feet even as she felt the porous surface she was looking for and grasped it.

She was focusing on the litanies of hate, forcing them to march through her mind, focusing on the words with every inch she reached forth. Fully standing she spoke one tersely crafted sentence, "If you think I'm going out like a chump, you can kiss my purple Drow ass!" With those words her willpower focused intently on the stone in her hand, causing it to flash brightly. The white light expanded in an ever growing hemisphere until finally she was freed from the necromancer's grip. Letting go of the stone, she drew both swords, even as the Necromancer spoke of dying in this place today.

With the parting magic from her body she heard the soft words, whispering in her ears, "I didn't expect you to fall to that parlor trick. Not truly, but you will be mine. I don't let those who slight me live, and for poor Nialon Sunscar, you must die."

She grinned before she spoke softly, more to herself than anyone, "Looks like I pissed off the right guys..." Stepping forward into the chamber she didn't even bat an eye, seeing the true form of the Necromancer lording over her. A soft smile crossed her face before she looked back for Godhand, then shrugged not seeing him emerge from the fog and shouted to the Necromancer, "You made me lose an alright lunch back there. Now, I don't like horking up my food, so let’s just cut to the chase and you take your beating like a man. Rather than hide behind childish antics..."

A hand lashed out and a wave of sorcerous power slammed her back against the wall, the spell his only reply to her tort. She was more than certain he didn't like that, and the fact the anti magic she had spent the last week building up hadn't truly softened the blow meant she was really in trouble. The magic had the added affect of dazing her, as she shook her head from the fog it created in her mind. Once again the voice crept into her mind, "You're too weak pathetic creature. To think I was going to elevate you to a truly wondrous position. Perhaps I should make you into the next Warson, that anti magical aura about you should prove an interesting mix with the flesh crafters..."

She groaned getting to her feet, but still kept that smile plastered on her face. The beginning of another witticism was forming upon her lips. It was just proof that you could not shut the girl up, could not be cowed. There was nothing she truly feared in this chamber, only another monster for her to play with and take down.

[Flames of Hyperion]

He only realised that they were one person short when the fighting began in earnest, and when it became all too clear that they lacked a dominating presence in their battle line. The visions that Xem’zund had planted in his mind flashed uncontrollably across the back of his eyes, reminding him of what even a fragment of the Necromancer’s attention could do to a soul. No doubt the Forgotten One had readied nothing less than the most powerful of the illusions at his command to stall the most renowned of his foes, presumably with an eye to picking him off on his lonesome after dealing with those that remained. It was all Ingwe could do to spare a brief instant for the hope that Godhand Striker would be able to outlast Xem’zund’s will unscathed.

The priority of himself and his comrades in the crucial first moments of the battle was, by sheer necessity, that of pure survival. Even this seemed to be a tough task to ask of the motley band, with first the Wizard Blueraven hurled backwards against the rock at an impossible rate, and then the Drow swordswoman falling to one knee under relentless psychic assault. Not to mention, of course, the horde of ghouls – and not just any ghouls, but mutated monsters that were obviously personal favourites of the Dark Lord – that swarmed at them from the shadowy recesses of the cavern beyond.

Ingwe’s response was a split second slower than that of his comrades, as he deliberately leashed his impulsive instincts and took that crucial extra moment to analyse the overall situation. As he did so, his companions flung themselves headfirst into the action: the Elven swordsman charged towards the ghouls uttering a defiant battle cry, while the young girl ignored them completely in favour of Xem’zund himself. It struck him then just how precarious their situation was, and how he dared not afford to let it slip from their grasp.

The one thing that was immediately clear to the Nipponese warrior-mage’s mind was that they could not be forced to fight on two fronts at once.

Breathe…

His reaction was to close his eyes for a brief moment, reaching deep inside his soul for the absolute calm required for the fine control of his powers. Xem’zund had made a mistake in invoking Yuka’s name to upset the young man, and in more ways than one; this time, picturing her face in his mind, Ingwe could almost feel her presence beside him, encouraging him to give it his all. When he opened his black eyes to the world once more, directing his scholarly gaze to the outer cavern from which the ghouls swarmed, they burned with an arcane intensity backed by years of training and months of battle experience.

Here goes…

Drawing deep upon the Sceptre of Valour for the first time, Ingwe found the sensation reassuringly familiar to his usual spell-casting, only on a far grander scale. He could sense the very finest of leylines in the soil that surrounded him, even the minute whispers of the winds of power that had somehow filtered down to this far below the ground. His head throbbed painfully with the sheer pleasure of the raw power that flowed through his body; it took all of his willpower to only siphon off as much as he needed and no more, lest the consequences cremate him alive.

Gurengoku!

The results, on the other hand, were nothing short of spectacular. All Ingwe had to do was to point the phoenix that topped the long sceptre in the appropriate direction, and his mere intentions took care of the rest.

From the cavern floor to the ceiling above, a bright wall of sacred flame shimmered into existence, completely sealing off the cavern from the hordes of ravenous ghouls that threatened to swarm them all. Those of the undead constructs unfortunate enough to be caught in the flames as they were conjured were incinerated almost instantaneously, even their ashes devoured as fuel for the white-hot fires. Sheer momentum accounted for a few more as they eagerly attempted to push through to get at their prey; not even a mote of dust made it through to the other side. Best of all, Ingwe had acted quickly enough that only a handful of the ghouls had managed to successfully obey their master’s order to engage the small band of adventurers; even as he watched, Cydnar hacked one of them down in glorious abandon.

Let Xem’zund summon more reinforcements if he wishes to now… Ingwe murmured mentally as he swiftly reversed his gaze, now glaring down at the Necromancer over the rims of his oversized spectacles and behind the safety of an outstretched palm. It will only be one less chance for him to bring down necromantic doom upon us all.

A mote of a thought, and almost before the wall of flame had finished forming behind him, five small but intense fireballs spawned at his fingertips. Maintaining the fluidity of movement that was going to be crucial if he was going to succeed in going toe to toe with the Forgotten One, Ingwe sent the fiery spheres spiralling towards his target, each of them arcing in on the necromancer from a different angle as they covered the advance of his comrades.

But his foe simply took a step forward, leaned abnormally low to the ground, and exhaled cold rank breath in their direction. As one, Ingwe’s missiles were deflected mid-flight; their sacred white flames blackened by the corruption, they impacted randomly upon the rocky walls and ceiling of the cavern, showering him with shards and splinters that tinkled harmlessly from his mythril armour. The young man could not help but shiver at the consummate ease with which Xem’zund had nullified his magic, even augmented as it was by the power of the ancient artefacts he wielded.

“Come, now. Don’t you wish to play?”

Almost languidly the Forgotten One straightened tall and took a step back, robes of velvet black flowing like viscous oil in his wake. Deft sleight of hand revealed six sleekly smouldering summoning stones nestled in his right palm; before any of his enemies could react beyond recognition, he cast them skittering upon the smooth stone floor and uttered a single word of activation.

“Yala.”

Summon.

The bright flash of light and the puff of grey smoke that accompanied the spell were only embellishments, cheap parlour tricks designed to shock and awe those without experience of the arcane. The half-dozen new foes that stood in their way, however, were nothing of the sort. Vaguely humanoid in form, their armour was of heavy black star-metal with a lustrous purple hue; it encompassed their entire body without exposing any weaknesses, only a faintly glowing slit over their eyes giving away any hint whatsoever of what manner of man or beast dwelled within. Additional protection was provided by the oversized rectangular shoulder-guards that hung like large shields, reminding Ingwe of the o-yoroi armours that had fallen out of fashion in his homeland nearly a century ago. They were armed with long spears tipped on both ends with obsidian blades resembling straight double-bladed daggers, equally at home whether cutting or thrusting. The dully matted volcanic glass channelled the dark necromantic energies that sustained their wielders in a barely audible hum, freezing the very air itself as they dropped the temperature in the room by a full five degrees.

These were Xem’zund’s personal bodyguards, perhaps the most powerful of all the warriors in the necromancer’s service. Their presence indicated that the Necromancer meant business, and that he had no intention of being even remotely light-handed in the extermination of those who sought to defeat him.

This was a battle to the death, and they all knew it. As the harsh reality of that fact hit home, Ingwe grit his teeth and moved to engage the closest of his foes.

[Cydnar]

Shadow prevails, even in the most glorious of sunshine; encroaching on humanity like a plague eternal. In the caverns beneath the earth, the darkness clung for just a little longer, untouched by the dawn and fraternizing with the twilight between life and death, night and day. With each perpendicular strike and elegant swing of hematite blade, the last Salthias, a survivor of the Battle of Dead Marsh fought for the principal concerns of destiny and servitude. With each blow struck to the servants of the dead lord Xem’Zund, Cydnar came closer to understanding the importance of his faith, of his bondage to Yrene.

Exasperated and brought close to reckless abandon, his sword came down across a ghoul’s chest and tore through it with ease; expecting to succumb to the horde in a blind moment, he shielded his eyes from a rush of fire and conflagration that turned a dire situation into one of balance. Suddenly he felt weak, feeble and useless – who was he in this fight, if these titans of time could so easily wipe away all that he could never overcome?

“I…” his belief in his motives brought him to speak, but he stopped in awe of Ingwe’s mental display – the others fought with equal valance, each pitting their strengths against the necromancer’s presence. He stopped, like a statue contemplating its nature and watched the battle unfold in a chill silence. At the back of his mind, vulnerable in his doubt, a whisper encroached once more into his head, assailing his nihilistic personality.

Watch…as you can do nothing to save them.

Watch…as all about you people lose their lives, whilst you are left with yours…

Coward!

Cydnar roared a bestial and primal rush of rebellion – it shook away the tantalising thought and urges to drive his blade through his own chest and he ran forwards to the last clump of undead – spinning on one foot to bring the blade down in a display of aggression more drow than Hummel.

The din of battle faded, replaced instead by the necromancer’s swift tossing of balls and a scattering of chimes and rattles. Standing upright and alert and panting through deep drawn breathes, Cydnar watched the stones come to a standstill on the abyssal floor and felt a deep sense of revulsion as the beings conjured by the dark, selfish magic sprung into existence, called forth from whatever personal hell they had been entombed in.

Xem’zund’s nightmares spiralled around in his head as he watched, the slow and deadly gambit of emotion coming to a boiling point. Gripping his blade with a firm and resolute hand he stepped slowly towards his allies, watching the dense armour plating and wavering spears with a sudden curiosity that came with a love of battle and an astute affinity with…crystals…

“How….ironic,” he began, his voice tainted with fatigue and uncertainty, splashed with a wry sense of fun. He spoke to Ingwe but looked to those others he could see, “this man, this thing – this abuser of life is so content in his power, that he does not inspect his enemy…”

You killed them…and it shall be you who joins them in the shadows… Cydnar flinched, fighting the corruption in his mind with whatever courage he could find.

Freya rose and tumbled in a coy spiral, accompanied with a gentle rocking amble, like a boxer loosening his muscles before a bout. “There is little I can do to aid you in this fight – except offer myself to the last, no doubt in my mind will ever make me succumb to these tricks – haunt me!” He turned to the necromancer, “Tear out my soul and offer it for the world to see in all its wretched, empty glory!”

“But you shall fall – like all the civilisations of man who succumb to the greed of magic that is not theirs to command,” he smiled, sheathed his blade in the spring-loaded sheath and conjured sparkling dust into the air before him, tracing a serpent’s body through it.

“Magic has laws, rules, divine mandates – break them, and it shall return unto you threefold.”

That was the mandate of Yrene – even if Cydnar would die delivering it, even if he would not witness their triumph or ultimate failure – the message was sent with a flick of the serpent’s tongue, like a dart through the ochre twilight.

Xem'Zund's voice burnt into Cydnar's mind with a reckless retort, "I have re-written the laws - I AM the mandate - death has become me."

He clenched his fist and roared the arcane words of True Magic – as weak as it was, he pulled at the ether and pushed the energy onto the spear tips of the first of Xem’Zund’s Guardians, causing it no end of confusion, if such a thing could think in such ways, and giving the scion of the World Eater his opportunity to deal a blow to the thing that had taken his love, his brother, his kin from him.

“Foolish…” The necromancer muttered a word of command and turned his attention to the others. As Cydnar conjured the crystal to the spear, the hulking creatures began to advance.

“Elthiar nummel, tia’k lar!” The spell finalised and the quartz, a deep red shined for a moment as manna left it. Smiling weakly, fearing the brute strength and outmatched nature of the beast walking towards him Cydnar crouched, placed his hand on the hilt of both his swords, and prepared to put his money where his mouth was. He narrowed his eyes and pulled at the spear tips, fighting to wrench it from its grip in time to throw it with a mental pulse – like a javelin to the gods, like David’s sling to Goliath, like a twig hitting a giant….

[Caden Law]

It was dark and the cavern was cold. Then it was bright and the cavern was hot, and musical at that. Caden knew Elvish magic when he heard it, and even if the other mage was a human, his spellcasting still had all the hallmarks of Raiaeran spellwork going for it. The sizzling roar of flames actually had a rhythm to it, not unlike drumbeats. The mage tried to challenge Xem'zund directly.

It didn't end well. Caden didn't bother watching. The Elf and the girl were doing well enough for themselves. The hunter was starting to prove her worth.

"And, oh, look," Caden mumbled a few seconds later. "The big guns."

Six big leaguers. Ancient Dead or Necromantic constructs, or maybe some combination. There were probably demons or spirits or something bound to the lot of them. Caden couldn't tell and didn't especially care. Both he and the other mage had taken the opening shots and were, effectively, useless against the six-pack's backer, who in turn looked to be in the middle of some dread working of power.

Caden grimaced. He was already bleeding from somewhere under his hat, and his glasses were a pleasant memory. The ghouls weren't a problem. The big guy, the last arrival to their little party, was frozen solid in what looked like a self-contained horror show. That left the kill crew outnumbered five to seven and the presumed heavy-hitters' magic wasn't doing any good.

"Right then," he said, taking the time to put on his goggles. Caden took one last look at the action and used it to plot his next moves about five or six spells in advance. Maybe seven. He arranged the magic in his head, wiped the blood from above his brow and slicked it on his staff of power. Runes and sigils lit up from base to tip. Caden tapped it to the ground and drew in power from the nearest leyline.

"Mage! You and I deal with the back-ups. Drow, Jailbait! Hit the Necromancer! Elf, do whatever it is you're good at!"

A running start. Caden mapped out the cavern as he took each stride. It was big. The outer-cavern, where they'd met, was originally separated from the inner-cavern, where they were now, by a sturdy marble wall. The wall was gone now. The only entrance or exit was blocked, either by fire or rubble or burning corpses or some combination; Caden didn't look. The inner cavern was big. Very big. Not quite as big as Denebriel's Sanctum had been, but still large enough to cram a few taverns and a brothel into, maybe with room left over for a church. The ground sloped down to where the others were fighting, then leveled off abruptly. Lots of circles in the stone, ancient writings on the walls, and even some furniture now that Ingwe's corpse-candles were lighting the place enough to see.

Xem'zund wasn't big on decorating. And he didn't keep any particularly attractive artifacts lying around the way Denebriel did. Caden spotted a crystal ball the size of a grandfather clock on the far end of the cavern, accompanied by a table covered in scrolls and maps, and just one shelf with some books and trinkets on it. Nothing useful. Yet.

The Wizard was close enough to see sparks flying where the good guys met the bad. He bullrushed past the still standing Godhand, and the ground began to move with his feet; more speed for each step, until Caden looked like a lunatic iceskater more than anything else. He flanked the kill crew and the bodyguards, then changed course and the ground rose beneath him. In the span of a second, Caden Law went from a skater to a surfer on a tidal wave of dry earth, staff held high and back for balance.

He took three of the guards in one pass, almost grabbing an ally or two while he was at it. The undead went from standing, fighting, leaping, to being grabbed by the earth and pulled into its rock-smashing, bone-grinding embrace.

"NOW!" he Screamed at the younger Mage, and the Elf for that matter. It looked like he was able to hold his own, and there were three left and the situation was changing faster than Caden could really keep track of: Jailbait looked darker now, more inhuman, and the Wizard didn't know if the Mage had it in him to take two guards since he was meeting one in melee, and the Elf was an unknown quantity and that meant-

"Dammit," Caden spat to himself as he surfed the earthen wave around Xem'zund, trying to leave a path clear for Lillian or Drusilla. It didn't look like either was going to make it in time. The Necromancer had his arms drawn up and power was building in the air above him, every single gesture causing it to increase in size and potency alike. It looked like Xem'zund's own rendition of Blueraven's Siege Arcana. "Dammit."

Caden leapt off the wave and hit the ground running, staff in hand. It wasn't far. He didn't have time to put any spells to use. All the Wizard could do was become a lightning rod.

Point blank and Caden drove his staff of power hard into the Necromancer's spell. With an effort of will and intellect, he tore the magic right out of Xem'zund's grasp and negated the working completely. It went from being a tiny black necrotic sun to looking like a puff of smoke. Caden vented the energy right back into the ground behind him, guiding it through his staff and firing it into the earthmound where the three bodyguards were still trying to claw their way free. The mound disappeared in short order. The guards collapsed to dust. About three hundred feet of solid bedrock ceased to exist, leaving behind a twist in reality that didn't fade away for more than a minute. Demons blinked in and out of sight there, and it hurt just to look at.

For a split second after that, Caden was able to stand in place. For all intents and purposes, he was shoulder to shoulder with a physical demigod.

And then Xem'zund turned to him and Said, simply, "Be somewhere else."

The words hit like a shockwave of raw malicious intent. Dust whipped up at the Wizard's feet and his Hat came perilously close to blowing off while his coat billowed hard and his boots scraped in place. Caden planted his staff and stayed put by sheer force of will. He met the Necromancer, Sorcerous blue eyes to Necrotic green ones, and Said only, "No."

The air actually sizzled a bit between them.

"What? No monologue?" Blueraven asked.

"Not for you," Xem'zund answered.

And then he suckerpunched Caden square in the stomach, putting a fist-shaped imprint on a solid steel breastplate that'd been restored by one of the world's elder Gods. The Sorcerer went flying backwards and there was nothing willpower could do to stop him. He crashed down on Xem'zund's work table, bounced off without even jarring it an inch, then slumped to the ground and didn't move again.

"I'll deal with you later," the Necromancer decided, a bone-hilted sword already materializing in his left hand as he spoke. He turned, ready to defend against whoever had made the most of the Wizard's stalling tactic.

[Ataraxis]

Spires of blistering flame rose all around the sanctuary, cremating the hordes of ghoulish beasts that had only come to Lillian’s attention by the unholy screeches they let loose in the throes of their final death. She realized this was the fine work of the black-haired sorcerer, who continued to unleash his elemental prowess without missing a beat as he engaged the Necromancer in mystic combat, now that his grunts and a few combustible sections of his lair had crumbled to nothing but cinders and ashes.

Unfortunately, Ingwe’s flaming artillery had been easily neutralized by the Forgotten’s fetid exhale, blown away like dead leaves in a storm. Worse, with the use of eldritch jewels and a single word of power, the Accursed had beckoned far-off minions to gather before him: six had answered the summons. His funerary guardsmen emerged from the smoke, their exoskeletons glistening balefully under the subsisting flames. The armor of chitin fused to their flesh glowed with a vitriolic tint, almost as ominous as the obsidian spears they held at the ready for battle and bloodshed. In the ghastly light of their eyes, Lillian only saw mindless abandon to their master’s cause: she feared they would prove much more trouble than any of his generals.

And so, all hell broke loose. The robed elf named Cydnar had leapt into the fray, using a strange magic – a distant derivative of geomancy perhaps – to somehow disarm one of the armored patsies. The wizard with the archetypal pointy hat then shouted, hailing her with some obscure but almost certainly offensive term. She sighed: his request could be loosely translated to ‘carry on’. “Sure thing, Hats,” she muttered loud enough for him to hear, her sarcasm only slightly offset by a hint of amiable humor.

That was when he rode in on a colossal moving ridge of stone and soil, carrying off and swallowing three of them in its earthen maw. Seconds later, he leapt from his moving perch to intercept the body of distorted space and energy that had been massing above the Necromancer, using his staff as a conduit for the raw destructive force. Struck by the redirected stream of sorcery, the surf of stone and its three captives disintegrated into nothingness.

Alas, their elation ended there.

The wizard formerly known as Hats flew across the cavern sanctuary a second time today, the shape of the Black’s fist immortalized in his breastplate as one sizzling imprint. World-rending punches were no strangers to the girl: even as she ran for the Necromancer, Lillian reacted instinctively to the wizard’s dire straits. Exchanging her glass dirk with a throwing dagger of matte black, she closed her fist about the blade with enough pressure to draw blood. One unseen flick of the wrist later and the dagger flew to the wreckage in which he had collapsed, trailing wisps of red before burrowing effortlessly into the wood.

The dozen threads of blood lingered on, billowing above the weapon as would the pistils of a carnelian flower. They extended, circling the wizard’s inert form, slipping into his sleeve, coursing about his arm. From his shoulder they spread out over his chest in a web of pulsing veins; the infestation thickened and darkened until it seeped into his body, absorbed through the pores of his skin. The web empowered with her lifeblood had thus begun its work, resettling ribs, mending broken bones and staunching any internal bleeding. Lillian was healing him, as fast as she could: they had already lost Godhand… they could not afford to lose him, too.

She never saw the spear coming. Not from the front, not from behind, neither left nor right: it struck from the ground below. Caught in the ensuing rain of dirt and stone shards, Lillian suffered hundreds of cuts, and the spearhead had slashed her forearm open. The girl gritted her teeth, reflexively conjuring dark webs within the enormous gash to stop the bleeding. The guardsman clambered from the hole in the ground with one arm, the other torn at the shoulder and dripping a black sludge more oil than blood: he had likely lost it while escaping the necromantic black hole that had devoured his two comrades. Before she could even think of retaliation, the shadow of a second foe came into sight, twirling its long weapon in preparation for a heart-rending lunge.

They came at her without any shred of mercy: she had her arms full now, and nothing could keep Xem’zûnd from capitalizing on that perfect situation.

Clouds of power gathered about his upraised palm, and in its center globules of something terrible had begun to form. It was the stuff of nightmares, a hellish blend of black pus from lanced boils and masses of festering rot: a single touch of the necromantic substance could very well turn any living being into a monstrosity of undying but ever-suffering decay, if it did not kill them outright. It was too late to act upon her instinct to disengage her adversaries: the second guardsman had rammed her down to the ground, pinning her there with an unyielding fist. Its fingers curled about her throat, tightening like pincers. She gasped, hacking for breath.

Xem’zûnd lobbed the wicked matter with a laugh, watching as it crossed the room in a perfect arc that ended at her abdomen. The sludge struck her like a boulder, but that pain was nothing next to what followed: it spread from the point of impact, spread like an infection that would ensnare her in an oozing cocoon. The black film began to bubble, and she screamed: it was as if millions of flesh-eating insects had begun feasting upon her. The moving tendrils were already at her neck when the darkness in her eyes had become absolute.

A great chill coursed through the sanctuary, and in that fleeting instant, those attuned to the waves of sorcery would have felt an impossible presence…

That of a second Xem’zûnd.

The black sludge became inert, seemingly frozen stiff upon Lillian’s supine form. That is, until it leapt from her flesh and onto the guardsman that had brought her down. It unleashed a guttural bellow as its armor fell apart, fissuring along with the substance’s infectious propagation; blobs of grey flesh dribbled out from the cracks in its midpoint, covered in that squalid oil these monsters bled. Within grueling seconds, its towering body had been broken down to pieces of corroding exoskeleton, simmering in a mixture of their own fluids, filth and rot. Lillian stared at its remains, stared at the fate the Necromancer had reserved for her.

“What did you do.” The Necromancer was not amused: not once, but twice had his own powers been used against him. The frayed folds of his great cloak billowed with the waves of his rising anger, and she knew he was about to unleash something much worse: the Black had no intention of waiting to hear her answer. The bone-hilted sword rose high above his head, pulsating a sickly violet as he wrapped his spell with layers upon layers of raw destruction.

In that terrifying lull, Lillian reached deep within her soul, clawing at a different source of power. Within the glassy black of her eyes, rings of burning crimson came alight: raw and unrefined, constantly spilling out, this new force would be familiar to all – it belonged to the only warrior absent from the battle. Facing the elite guard that had lost its arm, she grabbed onto its obsidian spear with one hand, the other drawing back like a coiled spring. The amber pendant she wore about her neck shimmered like an earthbound star, matching the rings of flame within her gaze, infusing her body with far more power than any single human was ever meant to handle.

There was no moment more fitting for her to unleash the wrath of Godhand.

Her knuckles met chitin. A great boom tore through the cave like a cannonball breaking through a rampart of steel. Splinters of armor and smarmy oil sprayed out from the gaping hole her fist had left behind. The exposed muscles rippled outward as its body left the ground, careening through open space in a mad swirl. Lillian twirled the spear she had stolen from it, the shaft almost breaking within her grip as she readied it for a throw. Two quick forward steps; the flagstones burst underfoot, sending plumes of dust and dirt in her wake. Every muscle of her body tensed as one, and the colossal spear left her hand like the blur of a crossbow bolt.

Before the battered guard even came close to touching the ground, the spear’s tip burrowed into its guts midflight. Its body jerked, soaring even faster across the sanctuary… soaring toward the Necromancer. Charged with pure destructive sorcery, his blade swung down, too fast for him to retract. A tidal wave of power burst from the bone sword, grinding even rocks and rubble to fine dust in its explosive advance… but it had caught its first victim too soon.

Lillian was blown back from the ensuing blast wave; her body skittered and rolled across the slope, almost hitting the walls of flame Ingwe had conjured when her back smashed against a large stone column. She slipped from the dark basalt in a mist of dust, falling to her hands and knees while coughing up blood. The girl could not believe what force the Necromancer had mustered, but she thanked the gods that her impulsive action had managed to detonate the spell prematurely. Lillian could only guess what would have happened, had she been caught in the nucleus of the explosion… could only guess what had happened to Xem’zûnd.

When the clouds of smoke, dirt and debris cleared, the Necromancer was still standing. There was nothing left of his cloak but tattered rags hanging from his shoulders, and the black leather of his armor was charred, melted right off at some points. The inlaid scales of adamantine glistened underneath, marred only by stains of dried sludge – the only remains of the minion Lillian had thrown at him. He was crouching slightly, holding his weight with the broken blade of his immense bone sword, the rise and fall of his chest a telltale sign of onset exhaustion.

But it was far from over… though she had injured him to an unknown extent, Lillian knew there was nothing more dangerous than a wounded lion. She conjured within her the same healing webs that were currently treating the wizard, recovering enough from her wounds to charge once more.

After all, Lillian could not waste the opportunity to bash his mask in while his defenses were still down.

Convenient Summary

I figure keeping track of everyone else's posts might have been trying for you guys too, so I'll put this here to make things easier.

• Lillian throws dagger imbued with her blood and her webs: the webs seek out wounded Caden and begin to heal him.
  
• One of the 3 guardsmen (G#1) caught in Caden's rock wave escaped Xem's magic black hole, dug its way under Lillian and attacked her.
  
• Another guardsman (G#2) jumps in and flanks her.
  
• Xem takes advantage of that and casts a ball of death and rot at her.
  
• Lillian uses the power she stole from Xem to protect herself against its effect, then hijacks the spell.
  
• G#2 dies in horrible agony under the redirected spell.
  
• Xem begins to casts an explosive death ray.
  
• Lillian uses Godhand's power, boosts it with her amulet, and punches Guardsman #2.
  
• She throws the spear she stole from it, impaling G#1 midflight.
  
• Xem unleashes the death ray, but it hits G#1 who's flying toward him, only a few feet away.
  
• Explosion.
  
• Xem is injured. Broke his sword. Guardsman #1 is a stain on his armor.
  
• Lillian charges: exact actions open-ended.
  
  Note: by my count, there are only two elite guards left. Caden caught 3 in his wave, 2 of which were disintegrated by Xem's black hole spell, but one escaped. That one later exploded. Another unrelated guard was dissolved. That's 4 killed out of 6.

[Mage Hunter]

Everything went to hell at once. Ghouls erupted from about them to entertain, even as the younger of the two humans brought flames to bear upon the necromancer’s lackeys. A gesture of the Necromancer made it all a moot issue as he summoned forward his minions to guard him. Judging from the rough shape and size, Drusilia was more than certain these had been heavily augmented by magic. If she tried to strip them to their component parts, she’s risk becoming one, and that was a feat she didn’t need occurring.

The next step of the groups rather masterfully crafted plan was to have the other mage charge the front lines, hoping to clear a path as he ordered the Drow and the girl about. Dru was not used to being ordered around, by a mage of all people, but when he offered up the primary target, she didn’t complain too loudly. She only grumbled at the mage’s audacity. Still it seemed he was a bit of a glory hog himself, when he slid along the earth and through the minions right next to Xem-Zund stopping another arcane assault from hitting the group. As helpful as that was, there seemed to be the sin of pride in all of them as he refused to be cowed by the elder magician's magics.

The fact that the necromancer merely threw him across the room and through the furniture made things even worse. The mage was now by far the most injured of the lot, after Drusilia who had been shoved into a wall none too kindly. The situation was looking rather dour, until the girl threw a knife towards the downed form of Blueraven. Looking at the girl skeptically Drusilia watched as the necromancer threw an orb of magic upon her, only to have it rebounded and thrown back at him. That feat along seemed to take some effort from the girl, and Drusilia’s tactical mind told her not to bet that it could happen another time.

Soon after she was tearing through one of the constructs with a speed and grace the Huntress had only seen in Godhand, who was still battling with his personal demons. She tore the spear from the grip of the necrotic elite, before chucking it straight through the erstwhile attacker and right at the necromancer himself, who had charged up yet another spell, and was firing it off. The result was the once whole guard took the obliterating blow himself, and the spear did no damage to Xem’zund.

By the same token however, he didn’t do any damage to them either, just to a fourth guard who was now a pile of ash smeared across the floor.

From the get go Drusilia knew this would be a tough fight. She hadn't even gotten warmed up before she had taken damage, and already there were a couple of monsters between her and the almighty asshole himself. Things were looking rather grim, as one mage's magic was stopped cold, while another mage was lying amidst the ruins of the Necromancer's table, being healed by a third magician's magics. The situation was looking dire, until the young female mage managed a rather fancy trick in turning Xem'zund's magic back upon him.

Drusilia almost wanted to throw up again, so thick was the stench of magic in the air.

Still she kept her composure, she'd have plenty of time to throw up later, when she was collecting the pot in fact. Moving through the area slowly yet deliberately she saw the odds had evened, if only a bit. Three constructs were dead, one even becoming a black ichor smear across the necromancer's robes. The young girl who had redirected the Demi-liches power was already on the run, attempting to capitalize on the fact Xem'Zund was hurt to cause even more grief, and Drusilia knew her cue to act when she saw it.

Charging forward the scenery rushed by even as one of the necrotic elite sought to gut her with the spear. A snort left her lips even as she jumped and rolled forward, stumbling to her feet, as the spear tip plunged into the dirt, forcing the soldier to pull it out the old fashioned way, even as Drusilia recovered. Bringing her foot about in a solid kick the helmet of the necrotic guard flew off, twisting the head in such an angle a resounding snap echoed through the chamber. Her first sword brought down upon the now slack neck saw that the head was severed; before sword was planted firmly through the thing’s chest plate to the hilt. A savage stab into the earth saw that the thing was pinned down at the least, if she hadn’t killed it.

Wiping a bit of sweat from her brow she looked to the real target. She knew her drill sergeant would have kicked her ass for the horrible forward roll, but she had to keep moving at all costs. Pushing forward she saw the girl even now beginning a rain of blows upon the necromancer's head. Each step seemed agony, as the very presence of the necromancer sent her senses into overdrive, telling her a dangerous and volatile mixture of mana was present in the area. It was so overwhelming she had to shut off her sense of magic in order to proceed, figuring she couldn’t spit without hitting something magical in the area. It was a useless gesture to try and keep up with the auras.

She twirled her blade a bit artistically before she brought it before her in the first stance of the Kyorl. Her face lit up in a vile grin, happy to see she would get the honors of carving into the necromancer, washing her blades in his blood. Sizing up the big man even as the girl continued to pummel the demi god she let out a cautionary voice, "If I were you, I'd watch where I was punching, I'm about to slash this fucker back to the abyss he crawled out of..."

Bringing the sword down she let out a triumphant yell as the sword connected with the robes tearing through to the body that lay underneath and began her litanies, "Faer zhah whol l' yibin!"

Summary of Actions;

1) Drusilia watches the events unfold faster than she can react, somewhat nauseated by the magic flowing freely in the area.
2) Seeing a chance, she rushes forward pinning one of the undead guardians of the necromancer to the earth with one of her swords.
3) Moving on to the Necromancer she begins to recite the litanies of hate, and begins the hail of blows to hopefully finish off the necromancer.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Planting the adamantine Sceptre of Valour firmly into a vein of soft dirt amidst the rocky floor, Ingwe whipped both short swords from their sheathes upon his back as two of the guardians closed in upon him. To his right, the Wizard Blueraven shouted orders and raced into a sprint, the very ground itself churning to his aid beneath his feet. To his left, three more of Ingwe's comrades advanced to engage the Necromancer and his bodyguards, their blades singing death upon their enemies. Godhand Striker remained fused to the ground behind him, still caught in whatever distortion that Xem’zund had prepared; the flames of Ingwe’s previous spell danced from his craggy features, carving in them shadows almost as deep as those in the rest of the room.

The blinding whirr of twirling spears brought the young man's mind back to reality, and instinctively he stepped in to parry, engaging his two foes in a whirling dance of steel and starmetal. The flaring purple tips of his opponents’ weapons spun in graceful arcs almost hypnotically beautiful, were they not threatening to carve crimson streaks in his body. Instinctively he knew that a single touch would be enough to incapacitate, if not outright kill.

I can’t afford even a single mistake.

Normal steel weapons would likely have shattered beneath the stronger metal, but Ingwe kept just enough magic channelled through them to protect against that eventuality. Still, the very precision of his foes, the choreographed movements that kept him under relentless pressure no matter which way he turned, gave him no time at all to exploit any openings they might have shown. Outnumbered and outflanked, it was all he could do to protect himself whilst drawing the two guards away from Xem’zund, his twin tanto working in increasingly tighter arcs to parry their attacks.

And the stench of rotting flesh behind him suddenly made him realise that he was being driven into a trap. The last pair of ghouls who had survived the Elf’s onslaught were closing in from his unprotected rear, to take advantage of his distraction. At this rate…

A chance. The Drow’s rush forward drew one of his opponents away, peeling off with his spear sweeping forward in an attempt to divert her from Xem’zund. That left only one opponent to his fore, and half a second in which to take advantage of it before he was swarmed from behind as well.

Now!

Deliberately he slipped away, lowering both swords and leaving himself defenceless. The unorthodox movement seemed to confuse his opponent for a split second, just enough time for the young man to gather his power. By the time the skull-faced bodyguard had brought the purple tip of his spear to bear once more, Ingwe was more than ready.

Kuhazan!

Blades of translucent air swept forth from his twin swords, arcing as swiftly as any zephyr through his foe. Both of the bodyguard’s arms fell to the floor with dull thuds, followed an instant later by the clatter of the starmetal spear. By then, Ingwe had already stepped in with purpose; a sweep of his offhand blade took off the undead construct’s head, and a thrust of the other plunged steel through heavily armoured chest like a hot knife through wet snow. The constant crimson glare of the guardian’s eyes flickered once, twice, before slowly fading completely.

Ingwe was not off the hook yet. Shadows looming over his head warned just in time of the two ghouls behind him. Their wickedly clawed limbs were spread out wide, ready to rend flesh from bone…

A pair of flaming streaks, followed closely by another, put paid to their ambitions. Calm as a frozen pond despite the heavy breaths wracking his bony frame, Ingwe returned his swords to his sheathes; behind him, the last of the ghouls toppled to the ground as sacred flames ate away at their tinder-dry bodies.

That… was close…

Working hard to catch his breath at the same time as trying to analyse the situation, Ingwe carefully made his way back to where he’d planted the sceptre. The Wizard Blueraven now lay in another crumpled heap, this time slumped against what seemed like the Forgotten One’s worktable. On the other hand, it seemed as if he’d managed to buy his remaining allies enough time to engage Xem’zund in close combat, as a furious melee was erupting around…

Around…

That’s not Xem’zund!

Something was wrong, something fundamentally off about the darkly-robed figure at the centre of their attention. Ingwe couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was almost as if the opponent they fought was an echo of Xem’zund’s power, an empty vessel… a decoy.

The young man tried to scream a warning, the words welling up in his throat like a swelling tide. But the Necromancer was quicker. The build-up of explosive arcane power, focused on the false Xem’zund, was unmistakable.

There was no way they would make it away in time.

Quicker than thought, Ingwe’s mind reacted. His hands clenched tightly about the golden adamantine sceptre; his eyes closed shut as they focused on the dark power building up in the centre of the cavern. He had mere moments to act, even less if he wanted to actually stand a chance of stopping Xem’zund’s ploy. Concentrating his will on the swelling magic, Ingwe literally threw it in the Necromancer’s way, seeking to disrupt and divert the flow of mana into the material world. Even if he could not dismiss it completely, if he could shunt it away from his allies to save them from the blast…

Sudden fire and flame engulfed the chamber, followed closely by a heated shockwave and a powerful surge of dust and grit. Even this deep within the bowels of the earth, Ingwe feared for an instant that the rock roof would give way, and that they would all be buried alive beneath an overwhelming avalanche. Luckily, the worst of his fears did not materialise, and as the powdery after-effects of Xem’zund’s magic finally began to settle, he made out three forms thrown away from the blast… shocked, perhaps, but not badly wounded.

Ingwe’s brow relaxed from grim concentration, a relieved smile briefly taking over his youthful features. They were still in this fight yet…

The dark ray came from nowhere, speeding out of the shadows far quicker than anybody could react. It pierced through two layers of arcane warding as if they didn’t exist, before penetrating Ingwe’s flesh at the precise spot where the Dawn Armour failed to protect the base of his neck. To the young man, it felt like an eternity before the spell finally exited from the small of his back; in reality, it was all of a microsecond.

With no further sound, an expression of innocent surprise still carved onto his face, Ingwe’s body folded facedown to the floor.

Ah, but of course, the Forgotten One’s dark voice echoed throughout the still air, reverberating painfully in the depths of the mortal ears. Briefly he hung still above his worktable, and they were able to catch a glimpse of his true form: larger, more magnificent, and more malevolent than ever before. You have grown far too powerful for my pets to handle… that is why you are now here in the first place. But you were not so powerful as to be able to unravel my disguise, were you? How long I’ve had to prepare for this encounter… you didn’t really think I wouldn’t be ready?

With a wave of his ethereal hand, dark magics once again flowed about the chamber… past Godhand’s immobile prison, over Ingwe’s unresponsive body, around the three warriors at the centre of the room. It was not an offensive spell, but in the brief moment of respite before the arcane power began to coalesce, it was obvious to all that it was still a spell of great magnitude.

The first sign they had of its effects was when the undead construct speared to the floor by Drusilia’s sword tore itself free and turned to face them. Soon, it was joined in its action by three others – the two that had been buried beneath Caden’s spell of rock and rubble, and the one that had been carved into pieces by Ingwe’s magic. The fifth and last was slowest in arriving, reassembling itself grotesquely from where it had exploded all over the chamber. Only the guardian that had borne the brunt of Xem’zund’s own wrath, the one that Lillian had used as a shield against the Necromancer’s fury, did not regenerate.

This time, however, they bore little resemblance to the faceless guardians that they had once been.

This time, they reappeared as clones of the first Xem’zund, with the exact same powers as he.

Defeat me, if you can…

With an evil echoing laugh, the ethereal form of the Forgotten One swept across the cavern, dissipating into fine mist as it divided itself amongst its puppets. The implications were clear: they would have to defeat the Necromancer’s bodies one by one, but as they did so, his hold would strengthen over his remaining puppets until they became too powerful for the Dawnbringers to deal with. Furthermore, there was no way of telling for sure which body contained Xem’zund’s true essence… as long as it remained safe, the Forgotten One could keep on transferring consciousness until the end of time.

And of course, there was no way that Xem’zund was going to make it easy for them to work it out, either. Five bodies as one, he began to incant.

[Caden Law]

A lot of things happened. Caden missed most of them by virtue of being off in his Happy Place, somewhere between La La Land and Wheeeeeee. He came to with the distinct sensation of needles racing across his skin and gave a bleary-eyed look at the red lines coursing over his right hand. The damage to his body was mostly undone. He could taste blood. He was still bruised something fierce. But the healing spell represented a gap in his metaphorical -- and metaphysical -- armor. Caden cut the spell off through a dazed effort of will, severing red strings and leaving the last traces of Jailbait's magic to run its course. He straightened his goggles up and tuned out the endless dime store villain talk that the Necromancer was subjecting the others to.

The Wizard had, of course, landed in what passed for Xem'zund's personal workshop. He wasted no time between coming to and plundering the table, the floor, the shelves all in short order. Books that probably cost more than the island-nation of Scara Brae were yanked down, pulled open and thrown away in rapid succession. Scrolls older than countries were crumpled and cast aside when they revealed nothing useful. Caden stopped to examine a map of the leyline structure of Raiaera, but even that was useless to him.

The only thing that stood out enough to catch his eye was a small book with a yellow cover and the words, The Truth Beneath All Truths, written in Old Diamonic with a flourish Caden didn't recognize. The binding looked like the carapace of an insect. A spider, perhaps.

Or a mantis.

It was in that exact instant that Caden felt a breeze that was not there, smelled a scent that didn't exist, and reveled in an epiphany that would probably yield him nothing in the long run. He had known Xem'zund enjoyed the patronage of an Elder Thayne since Eluriand, when the Necromancer threw N'jalian iconography at the Elves, up to and including zombies riding on spiders the size of rhinocerouses. He had known that Xem'zund was operating with the patronage of an Elder Thayne since his trial at the Icehenge, when one of the Thaynes explicitly told him about the Forgotten Ones. When three of his own selves demonstrated what that would look like. And now he knew the truth.

And the truth was stale, like the heat of a desert at high noon. It smelled like dust and old books.

"You magnificent son of a bitch," Caden muttered, looking up from the table without an ounce of fear anywhere in him. There were five Xem'zunds now, but that didn't matter. None of it mattered. "I just figured you out," Blueraven declared with a manic little giggle.

The nearest Xem'zund stopped suddenly, thrusting an arm out to the side. It conjured a sword, bone-hilted with a blade almost as long as he was tall. Caden laughed at him.

"Finally gone insane, have you," the Necromancer said, then lunged forward.

Caden ducked under Xem'zund's own study table, geomancing the ground to slide all the way to its other side. Xem'zund flew right over him, the air scorching green as his blade passed through the space previously occupied by the Wizard's head. Caden came back up with one hand held out, calling his staff back from wherever it had landed. The weapon crashed heavy into his palm, almost knocking him over, as Xem'zund landed and turned around. The Necromancer threw power at him without bother of an incantation, and Caden rose to the challenge -- literally. The ground surged beneath him, carrying the Wizard up above Xem'zund's spell and giving him the chance to laugh harder.

"I FIGURED YOU OUT, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH!"

"You talk too much," spoke the Necromancer in a crowning moment of irony. Which promptly turned to unbelievability.

The Wizard jumped down and, wielding nothing more than a completely blunt staff, dove right into melee combat with one of the most powerful magi to ever menace Raiaera. He drove the point into Xem'zund's throat with the skill of a swordsman adapting on the fly, ducked under the Necromancer's blade and came back up with a swing that was all feathers and arcana -- point blank Blast, and the Necromancer actually staggered back a step.

"It's not that I'm talking too much," Blueraven Said as he ducked and sidestepped successive attacks, never meeting the Necromancer strength for strength. Armed with Dueril's training and his own experience, he kept giving ground and manipulating the flow of battle, always staying just a few inches clear of the Necromancer's strikes. With magic alone did the Wizard vy with his foe: Xem'zund cast spells at point blank, and Caden attacked them instead. Somewhere along the way, he added that, "I haven't been talking enough."

Caden jumped back from a swing and came in with a thrust like a pool player gone to war. It caught Xem'zund in the left eye, and the Necromancer stopped cold. He wasn't hurt.

He was just irritable.

"All this time, you've been blowing me off because you didn't want to talk to me, on the off chance that you'd slip up and give me a little clue here or there. You were actually afraid, weren't you, Xem?"

The Necromancer pushed forward and the ground beneath Caden gave in kind. Aside from being pushed back, the Wizard didn't move an inch.

"All this time, you've been fooling everyone."

The Necromancer stopped. Caden met him eye to eye with a bloody toothed grin that bordered on psychopathic.

"You've been drawing your power from Khal'jaren since day one. You're nothing but a necromantic fraud. All knowledge, but your corruption is formulaic. In the end, it's the difference between a seeing a fire burn and knowing how it works at a chemical level. You use ritual and entropy, technique and skill to mask what you're actually doing."

Silence. The Xem'zund that was fighting Caden simply stopped moving.

It even went so far as to drop its sword. The weapon didn't clatter so much as it went thump and then collapsed to dust and rust and ruinous age.

"What else do you know."

The Wizard lowered his staff by inches. He Said, "When the Elves came to Raiaera, they exterminated a people called Durklan. The Durklan fled to the Black Desert in their last years. Khal'jaren's library is fabled to be in the Black Desert. He's your true patron."

"Is that all?"

"I'm thinking."

"Good," Said the Necromancer, just before lunging forward and grabbing for the Wizard's throat.

Caden was faster by an inch. He clasped Xem'zund's wrist with one hand, then drew his staff across his own back with the other so that the tip aimed squarely at the Necromancer's face. An instant later, the ground beneath them twisted and deformed, runes simply collapsing into place as if hammered by unseen hands. The air turned green and then blue in rapid succession as Xem'zund called up power and Caden Law stole it in short order.

"Knowledge Arcana: Sorcery," Caden invoked, "Cutting off a Sorcerer from his Patron. Concept Bypass: The Naming Arcanum Bound by Strings of Dominion.

Energy levels were fluctuating madly around the two. Caden's veins were showing, starting to turn green. Sorcerous Marks lined their way all over his skin, all glowing blue, and every single syllable caused birds or feathers to flutter around him. Xem'zund's free hand worked frantically through somatic gestures while his Voice raced through seven incantations at the same time and his eyes blurred at the iris until the bolts of his black mask were all glowing like tiny stars.

"This will never work," the Necromancer spat, perhaps accompanied by a few of his other selves trying to intervene.

"It already is, Zundalon the Cantor, Possessor of Abbot Xem, last survivor of the Durklan." The grin came back. "That's how you do it. Underneath that mask, you're wearing Devin dan Sabriel's face because your first true power was the ability to take the identity of anyone who killed you. That's how you became a Sorcerer, acquired access to the Tap and everything else."

"Which is why this won't work!"

Fear.

The Necromancer actually felt fear.

"You wear the mask because you're tired of not having your own face, Zundalon. The face is part of the identity. That's how I hurt you at Eluriand, and how you've been hurt elsewhere. Lose the mask and you lose the anchor of your identity."

For every spell Xem'zund was crafting, Caden was simply eating that power raw before any of it could be used, siphoning it out and channeling it into an increasingly large, glowing, somewhat unhealthy looking array of runes circling the pair. But he couldn't diffuse all of it. Sooner or later, there would be a price to pay.

"Lose the anchor and Zundalon is just one of a thousand, of tens of thousands! All vying for control, all wanting to be free!"

"You're wrong," Xem'zund Said, full of an all too mortal sense of conviction when he spoke.

"No. I'm a Sorcerer. A real one." No grinning this time. Not even a chortle. "You're not."

The array reached critical mass and collapsed, the circle forming a ditch less than a foot wood and more than twenty feet deep, positively overflowing with the stuff of magic. Every single rune deformed, and the air started the catch fire in trails around the two of them. Letters wrote themselves in the wake of every flame, congealing into words and then sentences, paragraphs and more.

"Concept Bypass: Greyspine's Tower Incarnum and Blueraven's Sanctum Severance."

Energies, putrid and otherwise, warped into a tower around Caden Law and Xem'zund #5. It was close to a hundred feet wide at the base, easily three or four times as well, and shot straight up into the ceiling of the cavern and kept going until it burst out of the earth above. All the while, the tower turned and turned and turned, blue feathers clashing horribly with green bones and ectoplasmic bricks; the feedback loop finally overloading itself as the Wizard tried to play damage control and at least keep his spell from killing everyone else.

The Tower endured for all of twelve seconds.

Then the top of it exploded into a bona fide mushroom cloud, complete with a shockwave that perfectly sliced trees and stones in half for a few dozen yards in every direction. The Tower's base actually imploded up into the ceiling, and took every single bit of debris with it, leaving behind nothing but a wretched looking crater in its wake.

There stood the Wizard-Sorcerer, his Marks no longer blazing, veins standing out starkly all over skin that looked pale as cheap parchment. A rusted mask clattered to the ground in front of him, a jagged break running from its forehead to the upper lip.

Caden coughed up a glowing blue feather or two, looked up to the sky and promptly collapsed where he was standing. It was a pyrrhic victory at best, and only one of the five or six that they were going to need to actually win this battle...but it was a victory, and that was good enough.

tl;dr Caden just ate Xem'zund #5. The nuke-vomited him up through the ceiling. The other four are still functioning as normal and I leave it to whoever to determine whether or not Xem got any of the power back for #5. Most of the info/etc in this post has been established, implied, hinted at, or otherwise had the groundwork set for it since the beginning of the FQ, and Caden's little read-your-name trick was established way, way, way, way, way back in the Siege of Eluriand. It was named here in order to give it more power, allowing it to actually work. Concept Bypass worked faster than usual for expediency's sake, and can be handwaved for any number of reasons. Given the nature of Caden's Voice, there's a pretty good chance at least one of the others would've heard his spiel clearly.

Barring another heal or some kind of interaction with XemCo or the Good Guys, Caden is basically down and out for at least two or three rounds of posting, if not the rest of the thread. He's certainly not going to be in much shape to do more than support the others now, and he will not be able to use any further Sorcery or bona fide Necromancy to do so.

Caden dodged the total identity hijack by virtue of only (technically) wounding Xem'zund as a whole (or something; like chopping off an arm instead of shooting the head). Feel free to tweak that as you will.

[Cydnar]

As Cydnar pulled back the spear to throw at the guardian, a light erupted from nowhere and cleaved through Xem’Zund’s resistance. Silence descended, blocking out the elf’s perception of the events still ongoing around him.

Slowly his hearing returned, and the sickness brought on by the wall of manna thrown into the atmosphere dimmed to a faint throb of his temples.

Secretly he sighed, thankful that he would not have to endeavour to bring such a hulking and brutal creature to its knees by merit of skill or effort. But his words were unheeded by the great serpent in the shadows, as the shattered creature churned and moved and reformed even from death beyond death. A whisper peeled away the momentary shock, dark tendrils of taunting nightmares seeping up through the cavern’s floor to lash at the elf’s mind once more with promises of succubus dreams.

“I will not listen!” He wobbled his hand to concentrate on the pull between his fingers and the long shaft of the spear, still laden with the crystalline chunks at each end. You shall perish, you shall wither, you shall fall. “I will, not, listen!” Then you shall meet the death you have come to barter with, did you think your pathetic race could ever hope to stand against the ancient magic that spurns your young god to life?

The voice spoke to Cydnar not with lips or maw, but through the shadows themselves. As he wrestled to maintain focus, the guardian’s corpse turned into a copy of the necromancer, who moments ago had finally succumbed, or seemingly died. He had not witnessed the battle between the necromancer and Caden, but had his own mettle to test. “Puppetry – dangling taunts before me to see if I will succumb to your lies. I will not, and shall not. The Hummel are meek and feeble in the face of your selfishness, of your anger. But we, like all life, will persevere to maintain that state. I will not give up, not for vengeance, nor for hatred. I fight only for the altruistic truth that is existence!”

Xem’zund’s shadow flicked its wrist and the fabric of reality began to rupture, its voice joining the others in an unholy incantation.

“In the name of the World Snake, and of the ancient lore,” he pulled back his arm that held the spear aloft and keened his eyes onto the flamboyantly adorned chest before him.

“I condemn thee to death; on the charge of abusing the tenets of magic,” he pushed, and the spear flew forwards like a bolt thrower’s defiant challenge to a siege tower.

It took a mere moment for the clone to levitate and blast the spear with a ball of darkness that hummed the anathema of the world; in a cloud of splinters and purple dust it exploded, and in a hairsbreadth Cydnar spiralled about and attached his mentality to the largest of the fragments of quartz with agile grappling hooks of will.

“Yrene’s grace is with you!”

They rushed up and around the debris and hovered for a split second before Cydnar clicked his fingers and delivered a counter-attackt. The sickening sound of heavy blunt material connecting with arm, leg, forehead and shin broke the silence that followed with a ray of sunshine, a little glimmer of hope.

He breathed heavily and slowly, pain wracking his lungs and a wave of nausea rocking his temples. He regained a momentary smile, one brought about by the thrill of battle he had discovered in the Citadel, and at the heart of the dark marshes in defence of the Magister’s Prophecy. He had lost so much getting here, he dare not consider letting down the Council now. He turned to survey the scene behind him and traced the outline of the others who had gathered to fight through the gloom. Magical spells and witty retorts were flying left and right, and some of them were injured.

He made a single step forwards, and stopped.

“Did you think that would kill me?” Xem’Zund’s voice glued the elf to the stone. “Such an innocent thought – rocks, petty little fae incantations.”

Defiantly Cydnar turned to watch the clone stand upright very slowly. With each minute movement bones clicked back into place and the caved in skull, a crater of carnage in the mind of a madman rebuilt itself in a flurry of black threads. The rush of cold from behind him suggested that he had been invigorated with a new life, a new modicum of being, and a new aegis of power with which to crush an already feeble resistance. How could Cydnar have known that with each death, his opponent in his own personal war would grow in power?

They did not have much time.

“-Úccfë”…Cydnar pulled his twin blades from his belt and started to walk forward, his robes trailing behind his opening arms like an eagle descending on its prey. As he closed the gap, Xem’Zund drew his long blade and smiled with teeth and grimace. He neared his target and Cydnar dropped to his knees, bringing both sheathes down hard and leapt into the air in a forward flip.

He landed with swords crossed before him, their tips pointing downwards and their hematite pommels glinting in the half light. “Anyone!” He shouted, “lend me your aid, lend me your valour, lend me the magic you wield in the Truth of the Ancient Lore and we shall crush these abhorrent fiends!” The necromancer ran forwards and Cydnar met his charge with a clash of blades and a new beginning in his tale; he hoped his plea would be heard as he pulled back, scooped up and around and swung Freya into the path of the necromancer’s weapon.

They clashed once more, a deft defence rising in front of the remnant of an old god’s prominence.

'Oh Fuck.'

[Ataraxis]

The more protracted the battle became, the more Lillian depended on nothing other than reflexes and instinct. Events began to blur into one another: newer, stronger enemies rising as the previous fell, more wounded allies to restore with her blood and sorcery. This, she knew, was in no way a good thing. Ingwe had been pierced through the base of the neck by a lance of black energy, the fallen guardsmen became replicas of their dark master, and Hats the wizard had fallen twice now. Granted, his revelation of the Necromancer’s origins, of his powers and of his weakness, had been of interest to the scholarly girl. More relevant, however, was his prompt disposal of one among the five clones. The earth gave way, beneath and above: nothing but rubble remained underfoot, and the ceiling of the great underground cavern had been blown clear off.

The girl thanked her stars for surviving the spire of raw eldritch power, and that was all. She had cleared away from the other clones, whose united spell-casting had been interrupted by the magical surge, standing closer to her comrades who had escaped the blast just as she did. With a flick of the wrist, she retrieved the blue-metal dagger she had invested with her blood, the same that had carried her healing webs to the wizard the first time. Applying pressure on its flat, she split the weapon in half, the left piece turning a glossy white sheen while the one in her right hand took on shadows of matte black. The twin blades bit into her palms, drawing her lifeblood, and she threw them again: one at Ingwe, the other once again at Hats. There was, however, no time to watch them work her magic.

The robed elf – Cydnar, she remembered from their meeting in the hidden grotto – had called for help. More explicitly, she understood from his embellished supplication, he requested power: the power to bring his bizarre variant of geomancy to new levels, to cause the wretched Necromancer a pain that would prove permanent, for once in this god-forsaken battle. Lillian wondered just how she could comply; she tried to work out the mechanics of life-force transference, but she feared that was no feat to be achieved like this, on the fly. That is, until she realized what new power she had gained.

“Necromancy,” she muttered darkly, the ink in her eyes roiling in malignant ripples. Lillian had gained a parcel of his necromancy: she had learned to resist its rot, to commandeer dark spells not her own, but more importantly, she had learned its gruesome mechanics. The knowledge to infuse life where it no longer belonged, to drain it from those it still served... it was hers, now. It was hers, and she knew how to use it in conjunction with her own inherent abilities. There was still much residual power in her body, a temporary boon granted by the unleashing of the amber amulet she wore. It quadrupled her physical prowess, already empowered by the blood of Godhand, but it was of no use to her, now – not against four necromancers armored in scales of adamantine.

Lillian flung her hand outward, fingers spread-eagled as five threads of jet black shot out from their tips. They spun and spiraled, cutting through the air, weaving about with only the power of her mind guiding their path, guiding them to Cydnar. They wrapped about his form, and she screamed for him to let them entangle him; thankfully, that had stopped him from slicing them with his blades in fear and reflex. While he would not have been able to, considering their shear and tensile strength, Lillian did not want him to waste his strength trying.

A dark thought went through her mind, and in response, shadows coursed across the webs. They lost their solidity, lost their texture: they were now wisps of half-darkness, strands weaved from the very stuff of Elder Shadows. She had only ever used them to drain the life out of her foes, to rid them of their defiance, their perseverance and sometimes even their will to live; however, with what she had stolen from the Black, today… she had learned to reverse its flow.

And to reverse it explosively.

Mists of pale light fired across the black lines of power, like a rain of shooting stars or swarming comets. The life had not been drained from her: it had been wrung from her very soul, from her mind and from each and every taut cord of her muscles. The raw wave of life struck Cydnar like a lightning bolt, and Lillian cursed: there was too much of it already, and still more to come. He screamed, taking in the power as best he could without letting it tear him apart, but there was only so much he could do for so long: she needed to divert the rest elsewhere, and quickly.

Her right hand shot up, and more threads burst from her fingers, seeking all of her allies: The fallen Ingwe, who she hoped was still alive; the wizard with the pointy hat, who had banished one of their greatest foes from all of existence; the mercenary Godhand, who still struggled against his personal nightmares; lastly, the drow woman whose presence seemed an anathema to the wielders of magic surrounding her. Yet, Lillian knew the power transmitted through her webs would not break helplessly upon her like transient waves against a stalwart reef. What she sent her way was not magic in and of itself, but the raw force of her own breaking body and soul. When there was nothing left within her to give, the threads burst into puffs of shadowy smoke, breaking her link with all five warriors.

And in the blink of an eye, she was spent. Her body felt light – too light, as if the bones that held her weight were suddenly gone, turned to nothing, carried off in the wind and through the great gaping hole in the ceiling. There was no force within her limbs, and she wondered how she still stood on her legs, how she had not fallen over, bursting into dust like a desiccated corpse. Until, she wondered no more.

It was only curiosity. Yes, she was simply curious… curious to understand what manner of devilry had charged the air all around them.

Curious to understand what destruction Cydnar was ready to wreak upon them all, with this new power he was never meant to wield so soon.

Summary

• Dagger-healed Ingwe and Caden.
• Created a link to Cydnar with her webs: used her Shadow Twist ability in conjunction with Necromancy to transfer her lifeforce to him instead.
• Because there was too much residual energy from her quadrupled Gargantua's Might, she divided it amongst everyone: Cydnar, Drusillia, nightmare-trapped Godhand, even the KOed Ingwe and Caden. This extra boost could possibly revitalize them much faster than her healing spells could on their own.
• Everyone besides Lillian now has a free pass to do things they couldn't do before due to individual limits.
• Lillian is spent, and will not be able to post any more this round. Cydnar, however, is posting next to finish his spell.