MQ: Dawnbringers

[Cydnar]

As the shadows faded and Cydnar deftly parried a low-strike from the necromancer, something in the dark stirred. Beneath the shadows, and beneath the dark beneath the dark, Yrene opened his eyes with a low keen growl and spiralled from his cavern; his seat and throne of power. As magical energy flew into the last of the Salthias, the Wailing Sons of the Hummel, the World Eater rose to aid him and crush him with equal determination.

Lillian’s magic worked, but horribly so. Without warning the elf spiralled upwards, arms outstretched as if pinned by an invisible force. He began to spin mid-air, and a dense and deep hum permeated the noise of battle. At each of his fingertips dark purple lightning arced and above each palm, two small spheres of quartz of a colour Cydnar had not seen before appeared; violet, crimson and pearl in a swirling pattern of change.

The pain swelled in his chest as he caught a vision of the Snake lunging up from the pit. Realising what it was he had done, Cydnar gave in to the corruption he felt, a sickening and unending greed. He had suddenly tasted the very powers he was trying to crush, the very wealth of knowledge and magical prowess the Hummel kept at bay – he doubted himself, for was this any better than Xem’Zund? Was this simple act of sacrifice on her and his part worth the hypocrisy of being?

A vibration filled the air in the cavern, very slight at first but growing exponentially until it became audible by all but not distracting enough to test their concentration or mettle. Each pulsating rock rumbled, like a snake wavering across the desert, or a great earth worm crushing rock and pushing geode aside in a behemoth like advance. The lightning arced stronger and brighter and more violently as the transfer reached its zenith and the geomancy that was instilled in Cydnar took over with a will of its own. From the ground beneath, the great maw of the world serpent rose in all its terror and wonder.

Even a god such as he could not destroy Xem’Zund himself. Such corruption consumed would have tore Yrene apart from within, but the god could not sit idly by and watch the world come undone at the hands of the very thing he embodied and was formed to protect, so many millennia ago. As it roared, and the cavern shook with its mighty presence, it shed a single scale that plummeted down and dug into the ground with a shudder and a scattering of rock. The deep purple quartz shone in the twilight for a moment and then with the same gusto and might, the World Snake dove back into the cavern’s floor and tore a hole down into the bowels of the world.

A faint rumbling of Yrene's passing lingered long after he had gone.

The monolith of quartz sung an ancient and crackling song and Cydnar was drawn to it, like a moth to flame. As his toes slung loosely beneath his cross-like form touched the very tip, Lillian’s magic, along with Cydnar’s own pious nature and the very essence of the Hummel combined together. It unleashed a fury that was never meant to be wielded, let alone endured. His back arched, his wrists snapped straight, his eyes glowed with inner fire and vengeance.

The monolith shattered into a hundred smaller chunks, shards and a cloud of sparkling but ever deadly dust. It spun about his feet for a few moments, like a galaxy compressed into a puppet’s form. Cydnar spoke through gritted teeth to the clone he had been sparring with moments before, who held a calm and casual indigence about him, even as the elf ascended. “The Ancient Magic has spoken. The Ancient Lore tried and tested, you have been found wanting.”

The dry cracked lips spoke, “I am forever wanting, and forever tried – your words mean nothing.”

Cydnar smiled, graced and touched by his deity’s presence. As he did so his incisors lengthened, reinforced and curved into vicious fangs that leant out as his jaw lowered. For a moment, he thought it a mistake but realised suddenly that he had been chosen as a Salthias for a reason. Even if such a thing were an illusion, or an avatar of Yrene’s will, belief was a powerful weapon against the darkest of enemies and gave life and light to the weakest of men in times of need. He resisted the overwhelming surge of connection he felt to the crystal storm pent in anger beneath his floating form, and let it rush outwards across the cavern with as much force and rampant aggression as his mental will could muster.

The Salthias…the Sacrifice. The leader of leaders and the warrior who survives, only to give his life for the cause of the World Eater – falling as champion, scion, lord and master of all and none…

He passed his judgement, and arced backwards in sheer pain as Lillian’s life force acted as boon and curse, propelling the swarm of quartz to engulf all of Xem’Zund’s mirrors but also driving his own bones under thumbscrews, racks and iron maidens.

“For eternity’s sake, I succumb to destiny…”

The first wave of the storm struck the clone that was closest to Lillian, pummelling the adamantium with a torrent of larger chunks and battering it down and lose and asunder with brute force. As it spiralled around like a swarm of locusts, the fine dust and dagger sharp shards found their way into up and around the leather straps, stripping plates off the lich so that some of him lay exposed. Such was its power in consuming the energy of the first and second clone, the wounds healed with dark strands before it could notice; but that was not the storm’s purpose.

The second found itself under similar attack, as Cydnar guided the galaxy of violence to each of the Dawnbringer’s enemy’s in turn. One by one, he tore a path through the defence of Xem’Zund, inflicting nothing more than minor wounds to skin, ego and patience alike. The third and fourth lost as much, and the elf drew the quartz storm back around him like a shield of scorn. As the storm returned, the lightning shot about his body, lifting the hem of his deep purple robes into a sail stripped almost bare by a heavy hurricane's kiss.

The silence from the fifth and as yet untouched clone permeated realities far beyond its own. It spoke, slowly, and lifted a slender finger to point at the levitating Dawnbringer. “You shall certainly give your life, as will all of you.”

A black sphere erupted from his slender digit and collided with the moving shield. The feedback from the kinetic energy swirling around Cydnar rocked his mind and caused his muscles to tense, rupture and drain of energy. With the last ounce of concentration he could muster, he drew the quartz shards igam ogam* to form a solid wall before the slowly advancing spell, which even he knew would ring a death knell more transitory than simple, sudden and painless.

Energy built up and the fabric of reality in the air around the two men's will shattered. Lillian’s life-force slipped from Cydnar at last in a single finale. The quartz storm gathered in one giant mass, and drained the spell of all it’s worth. A mass of crystals fell to the floor like sleet, some evaporating from the intensity of their connection, others falling colourless and lifeless, like mosquitoes on the dawn wind.

In the last opening Cydnar rose further still and lifted his right hand back, then his left; each motion pulling the mass apart into a floating maelstrom of sundering. With a smile and a sense of ironic defeat, he pushed it forwards to strike the last clone with a downward and definite motion. It tore the armour apart and cracked bones and sinewy flesh, before tumultuously cascading onto the cavern floor like a wave of gems.

As Cydnar fell backwards, still half held aloft by the remnants of his geomancy and the wings of Yrene the fifth clone clicked upright and hissed; holding onto its unlife only through bitterness and hatred of being hurt so much by someone so meagre. The elf fell slowly, until his descent was almost suspended. There was a faint twang, like the threads of fate snapping and then he fell with the momentum of a star.

Thud.

The elf came to a standstill and fell unconscious. His swords scattered either side of him with no proof of his passing or his deeds remaining - other than a bed of crystals hidden deep within the earth.

*igam ogam, celtic (Welsh) term for zig zag.

+ Cydnar damages the armour of all the clones revealing weak points. He significantly damages the clone he was fighting, but falls unconscious doing so. This will be temporary, but he cannot use The Crystalline Conflux for the remainder of the thread, and his telekinetic control of the quartz will be severely weakened.

[Mage Hunter]

(Assuming that Duffy's post will not be done soon, so rather than wait to incorporate I'm going to post and go back to edit in changes later.)

Things began to change rapidly; to the point Drusilia wasn't sure what the hell had happened. One second she was hacking away into Xem'Zund and the next she was flattened onto her back as some explosion rocked the room. Things moved on at a quick pace, as Xem'zund rallied his forces once more for another round of punishment. Even then the group threw themselves with all the lathering frenzy of berserkers, and none of the martial prowess to back it up. She almost wanted to begin barking out orders, but wasn’t sure it would help any.

Blueraven was down again, not that that was much of a surprise to her. It was simple attrition math, the more Blueraven pulled off his tricks, the more it hurt him. When he died, Xem’zund would have access to the same tricks, without the downside of losing that minion if it got itself killed performing them. Ingwe was probably thinking up his next spell to be spectacularly dismissed by the Necromancer. Not that Druslia wasn’t impressed by his actions it was just that she couldn’t exactly call them helpful, just flashy.

Cydnar was trying desperately to lead the charge anyway he knew how, before pulling back and trying to perform some version of the arcane when he realized it wasn’t going to work. Gods bless him for trying; at least he had the right idea. The pressure had to be kept up on Xem’zund, otherwise Blueraven’s tactic accomplished nothing. Lillian however, took the first steps towards bolstering the group, rather than using sacrificial techniques to almost no effect against their foe.

Forging a link between the group and her, she seemed to wield the very essence of life in a way that didn't immediately set Drusilia vomiting on the ground. Instead it bolstered her, if anything strengthening her ties to the anti-magic that fueled her being now. She felt it surge to heights she had only heard of, and were theoretically beyond her possibilities now. She knew she could pull off something spectacular given enough time to build up some more; she just had to buy time. Her head went from swimming in pain, to clearing, and she knew what had to be done.

It seemed that Xem'zund was trying a shell game, with his essence hiding in the corpses of the fallen guardians. Grumbling she muttered, "I'm getting tired of this shit..." She then stabbed her titanium sword into the ground, letting it stay there, even as she reached forward with her hands before she crowed, "If you're going to hide like a petulant child, then you should have no problem with me taking your toys away!"

Her hands clenched into a fist as she gripped the strands of magic in the area, and began to rip them towards her, opening up herself to store the excess mana. The results were quickly noticeable as Drusilia began to take on a black glow, absorbing the strong necromantic energies that suffused the cavern. Her hands continued to shred and tear the mana away, before she opened the vortex, slowly pulling in more and more mana as the effects continued to drain the magic from the area. She only needed to start the process, before it became automatic, her only need was to make sure it was held aloft through her willpower.

He savage grin lit up her face before she said firmly, "I'm not sure if I can drain all of it out of him, but I'll do what I can. Just make sure the bastard doesn't get a good hit in. I can't exactly move while controlling the funnel..." Already she found sweat forming on her brow, but ignored it. She had bigger fish to fry than worrying about working up a sweat. The fact it had taken her this long to start draining the magic from the corpses was amazing, but perhaps it was best she hadn't tried it earlier.

This was probably the best trick he had to stop them before they began the fight in earnest. If the shell game failed, and he was forced to drop the charade, they could focus on the real Xem'zund and finally get this fight over with. Until that happened he was going to win a war of attrition by reanimating the corpses every chance he had and draining their resources. She only had to hobble his ability to hurt them, and that would be enough to give the others their chance at doing the same.

Strands of hair fluttered into her face before she softly canted the rites of battle. She was reassuring herself that she was finally upholding its truths, rather than the perverted version she had once clung to, “It is my sworn duty to fight the aberration wherever it may hide. May its disguise be unfurled and its lies unfolded. Let it hide in the weakness of magic, for one day it shall be torn from them, and their true weakness exposed. For the natural order, this must be.”

Even when she reached the end of her canting it, she said it again, reminding herself she could not fail.

[Flames of Hyperion]

It was cold. So very cold.

The air was cold. It seeped pervasively through the layers of clothing and armour he wore, an insidious stillness that cocooned him in silence and paralysis. The sounds of battle that reverberated throughout the chamber, the clash of steel on bone and the heated cries of war, didn’t even come close to reaching his ears.

The floor was cold. The exposed skin of his hands and cheek were raw with pain, as if somebody had placed his unresisting form upon a bed of ice, and even where armour and tunic protected him somewhat he could feel the chill inexorably taking over. Every now and again the ground shuddered beneath him, quaking with fear at the immense energies that were being released in the titanic struggle, and all he could do was quake helplessly along with it.

His body was cold. He could feel something sharp in his back, and the waves of power emanating from it that were desperately fighting to keep him alive, even as he was showered in dust and rubble that he could not even attempt to avoid. But stronger still was the corrupting necromantic chill that crept through his body from the wound he had sustained, cutting off synapses and sensation to his limbs before encasing his heart in an icy grip.

His mind was cold. The best way he could describe it was as a numbing, drifting sensation that slowly but surely seemed to be slipping from his grasp. From the very corner of his eyes, he could just about make out the skies overhead, but it was not left within him to tell whether they were blue or grey, cloudy or starry.

Soon, even that slipped away, and the young man’s dark irises were blank and lifeless.

***

He swam for what seemed almost an eternity, in a dark sensation-less void that was as unfathomable as it was comfortable. Slowly, however, he was drawn to a faint light in the distance, one last shattered shard of reality that his mind seemed unwilling to give up. Barely even knowing why, he clung to it like a drowning man would cling to a sliver of floating wood, stubbornly refusing to let go.

The scene shifted…

***

Ingwe found himself seated in a small stone room, its furnishings consisting of little more than a small bed, a chest of drawers opposite, and a single set of table and chairs in the far corner. The interior fittings were clearly Raiaeran in make, carefully designed and graceful even in their simplicity; the walls, however, hinted to him of a slightly older architectural style, of intricacies of construction long since lost to the relentless march of the ages. The open window behind him allowed a brisk wind to blow lightly upon the back of his head, cloudless blue skies as bright as any hope extending for great distances beyond. The moving air ruffled his hair soothingly, whispering words of comfort into his ears as it danced gently around him.

The young man’s mind barely acknowledged any of his surroundings, however, as his eyes were instinctively drawn to the figure sleeping peacefully beneath the clean white covers of the bed. The face nestled there was straight out of his memories, delicately pretty features that he had not laid eyes upon for nearly two full years now framed by fine black hair that barely reached to her slender shoulders. The expression on her face was tranquil and serene; so much so that, for a brief heart-stopping instant, Ingwe feared the worst. Then he realised that the duvet was rising and falling slowly in time with her gentle breaths, and that she was only sleeping deeply.

Yuka…

The young man allowed himself to relax, forcibly at first, and then with a great sigh as he released every last one of his worries and fears from the confines of his head. Somehow, none of them seemed to matter any more: not the long conflict-torn path that he had walked from far-off Nippon in search of her, not the constant mental and physical pressure he’d been placing himself under ever since she’d disappeared, not even the fact that vaguely, mere moments ago, he thought he’d been on the verge of death. For years of his life he’d chased after her shadow in the distance; now, at long last, he was face to face with her in person once more.

Ingwe sank to the floor with his back against the window, allowing the heated friction of the wall against his back to convince him that this was real. From his new position he could only barely see the side of her face, but somehow that seemed far more appropriate; even such a restriction was more than enough to bring a small smile to his face and to suffuse his being with sheer bliss. He hadn’t felt so happy in so long… it was like rediscovering the light once again after years of walking in the darkness.

Not once did his eyes waver from her features, peacefully composed in sleep. He knew that it was criminal for him to stare so, knew that he didn’t even deserve such a privilege, but he was unable to draw them away nonetheless. For once in his life, Ingwe Helyanwe allowed himself to fully bask in contentment of the moment, absorbing in perfect tranquillity the gentle chirp of songbirds in the courtyard, the feel of the fresh crisp air upon his face, the quiet serenity of the dream-like situation…

How quaint.

In less time than it took for Ingwe’s heart to beat once in shock, the Necromancer took control of the scenery. What had once been peacefully serene was now menacing and malevolent; the window slammed shut, the skies darkened in anger, and air that had before been light and fresh was now heavy with corruption. Xem’zund – or at least, a manifestation of his will, all gilded black robe and adamantine plate with a hole darker than any night where his face had once been – materialised in the room opposite the young man, triumphantly glaring at him over Yuka’s motionless form.

And to think you once masqueraded as a warrior, a soldier. To think that people actually looked up to you to lead your petty Legion. To think that the Elf-lords actually thought of you as the Tella’karythar and entrusted you with that relic. How pathetic.

Ingwe’s first instinct was to protect Yuka, to place himself in between his friend and the Forgotten One and to shield her with his life if necessary. To his despairing horror, however, he found that he could not order his limbs into action; it was as if his adversary had taken complete control of his body, leaving his mind a helpless prisoner confined to an immobile prison. Helplessly he was forced to look on, desperately fighting against his bonds and gnashing his teeth in frustration as he screamed a mental warning. There was no way, however, that she could hear. Xem’zund took one threatening step towards the bed, then another, never once wavering his gaze from Ingwe’s fearful eyes.

What’s more, you followed her all the way here, sticking your nose into every last bit of trouble along the way… after she willingly abandoned you? The Necromancer’s voice turned insidiously mocking, and a million dark echoes seemed to laugh at Ingwe from the background. Combined with the oppressive mental presence he exerted on the young man, the sheer hopelessness and despondency that he incurred in his victim, his words were nothing short of mental torture of the most sadistic kind. Did you not realise how much she despised you for following in her every footstep… and even after she escaped to the far side of the world to get away from you, you dared to stalk her this far? Oh, the merry foolishness of those blinded so much by their own ego that they can’t even see past the tips of their noses… she hates you, Ingwe Helyanwe, and the sooner you realise that and give up on your irrational hope, the gladder she’ll be when she’s rid of your presence.

The spirit of Ingwe’s resistance died there and then, pierced by the dark blades of Xem’zund’s tongue as the corrupting control that the Forgotten One wielded over his dream turned hidden fears into gruesome reality. But the Necromancer was not to be satisfied with mere death… his intent was to crush the young man’s very existence into dust, never to be resurrected again.

Conjuring a bone-hilted blade from thin air, suddenly he was alongside the bed, looming tall over Yuka’s still-sleeping form. Slowly, with deadly intent only exacerbated by the emotionless hollow where his face might once have been, he lowered the sword, prolonging the instant as the blade pierced her flesh for what seemed an eternity. The tortured Ingwe was forced to watch it all through the bars of the prison that was his paralysis, not even allowed the luxury of closing his eyes against his friend’s screams of agony: the look of helpless terror and pain upon her face, the necrotic plague that slowly ate away at her flesh at the fringes of the wound, the pleading look she gave him as the pure white sheets were stained with bright crimson.

At length, the Necromancer removed his sword, raising it high above his victim once more. Then, the million voices under his command laughing at the helpless young man, he repeated the process, drawing out Yuka’s cries of excruciating agony for as long as possible.

An eternity later, Xem’zund repeated the process again.

And again.

And again.

And…

***

What seemed an eternity in Ingwe’s mind was in reality only brief moments. But for all the good it did him, he may as well have suffered through every last minute of his torture over and over again. As the three remaining Dawnbringers took the battle to Xem’zund’s clones in hopes of yet salvaging something from the showdown, Ingwe’s fallen form remained an immobile silhouette upon the cavern floor, the latest nameless victim of the Forgotten One’s genocidal reign of tyranny.

[Cydnar]

When Cydnar opened his eyes, it was not Althanas he saw. This new world was unfurled before him, like a tapestry of many colours; a strange and alien landscape, devoid of the comforts and idolatry he had come accustomed to. This was an illusion, a false existence, a lie. He scanned the horizon with distant eyes that seemed to be unable to focus, trying to make out the shapes that blotted the terrain; he saw something, and almost screamed.

But no sound emerged, leaving the elf to wallow in his fear without a release, without the ability to express. His resolve in the cavern amidst the treachery and hatred had been steeled by his will and his belief in doing the right and just thing. He remembered falling, tumbling to a cold and sudden resolution, but in this strange land, was he alive, or just dreaming? The great tree that slowly grew turned his fear into terror, and he watched its uppermost branches rise and rise into the clouds far above, so that it resembled at last a king donning his regal and ethereal crown.

The tree was Yggdrasil.

Cydnar ran forward with all his might, his hand outstretched and clamouring for its salvation as he went. In the legend of his people, this tree, the source of all creation would perish at the hands of Yrene, the World Snake, at the end of time as it was known. Such was the providence of the tree, that its form was known on many worlds far beyond Althanas, by myriad names; but its purpose was immutable, its destiny concrete.

As he approached, Cydnar caught a glimpse of a shadow at its foot, taking a stance in the gnarled roots and the foliage of creation. He did not need to speak his name, and pattered out the syllables harder and faster as he closed the gap; each step brought him closer to the realisation, and each step brushed past reeds and wheat and grasses from all manner of places he nor any other soul would see again - if they did not succeed in rekindling the flame they fought for.

“All your effort for nought, rendered insane and dire by the simplest of facts.” Xem’Zund’s voice permeated the very fabric of the dream, rocking Cydnar’s mind and causing his body, even in its lifeless state to twitch and convulse with disgust.

“What facts do you possess that could strike me down, sorcerer?” His foot connected with the outer tendril of one of the roots, and he began his ascent up to the clone with nimble grace and agile perception, hoping left and right and climbing like a monkey through the densest and most primal of jungles.

“I have all the time in the world, time neither you nor any of your puppets can claim to possess,” with the goad came a long and gentle breeze, carrying a hint of cinnamon, thyme and lavender with it.

“You have taken all I care for, destroyed all those I would share my time with, no matter how short!”

“So why continue?” He raised an archaic hand as an expression of danger, and let loose a single black orb, much weaker than any other but one which still possessed the power of absolute finality. “Why waste your moments in toil with me?”

Cydnar’s eyes keened onto the orb and he ducked, dropping to a stance similar to a jaguar hunting its prey. The orb whistled other head, its path sucking the non-existent air from his lungs and sending tingles of foreboding closeness down his spine. He waited for the silence to return, and looked up.

“Because I would do no other thing with it, and I will make this moment, this hour golden!” He sprinted on, closing the gap between the two dream projections of mentality. He could see the once white centre of Xem’Zund’s eyes and began to feel sorry for the drab and lifeless creature. To think that such a thing once was mortal, once had dreams he could call his own, aspirations and culture and fears to cling to…

“So feeble, so easy to manipulate, so easy to crush!”

As Cydnar leapt onto the same branch as Xem’Zund, and drew his swords to form a cross before his advancing and nimble form, the necromancer held his right hand palm facing the elf, and punched backwards with his left. His claw like fingers slammed against the ancient bark of the World Tree, and Cydnar jumped into the air to perform a coup de grace.

The rush of air and explosive force that rocked the bark echoed in Cydnar’s chest for decades to come in a moment of simple revelation and shock. Xem’Zund shattered his own mortal body, even if false, and sent his corrupting life-force into the living embodiment of life. The mists that covered the tops of the tree rushed outwards, as if repulsed by some unseen hand, as if sickened by the mere thought or smell of the necromancer’s taint. The telekinetic force which grasped Cydnar forced the elf’s head up, so that he could behold the spectacle.

Nothing happened, and the silence grew deafening.

A single crack formed on the surface of the bark, slowly widening before rushing upwards. As if the tree had been struck by lightning, black ooze rushed out of the fissure and great cracks of thunder dropped from overhead. The death and decay tore at the heavier branches in the canopy first, rotting the wood so that the foliage simply buckled and began to fall away in a plume of autumnal regret. Then the birds nesting in the heights scattered, and the creatures in the roots scurried away like a blanket of teeming chatter.

Cydnar watched Xem’Zund’s display of power and realised that this was not the world tree’s fate, but the fate of all of Althanas if they did not bring the light to the cavern, if they did not persevere. The branches continued to fall, and the clone relinquished his grip at the same time as one great and burning plume fell into alignment with both of them.

The elf fell forwards, as if suspended momentarily and cut his blades through the figment of his imagination with a triumphant roar. He landed with a pad and breathed a long sigh of relief, thinking himself free of the torment. The echoes from above and the rush of air pulled his attention up, and through teary eyes of desperation and revulsion at the horrors he had been tormented with, the first of the falling branches fell onto the Hummel.

Crunch.

“Arghhhhh!” He awoke with a sharp and sudden rush of breath, clamouring for air through the tightness in his chest and the perspiration which lathered his skin to suffocation. As he fought to regain control of his breathing, his eyes settled and he saw the copy of the necromancer that he had injured the most standing a few feet before him, still recovering from the storm. No idea or notion of time could be worked out, but from the noise behind him he knew the battle still raged. The black threads pulling the necromancer together gave some indication that he had not succumbed too long to the horrors of Xem’Zund’s nightmare, but if he dwindled for an age, his effort, if not the effort of all the Dawnbringer’s would be for nothing.

He grabbed to his right for the hilt of Freya, and left for Altheas, before pushing his weakened and tired body upright. Slowly he vectored around the right side of the necromancer with shaking steps and perspiration plastering his long hair to his neck and brow. Cydnar bore his newly formed fangs with a defiant hiss, and charged once more into their personal war with tears streaming down his face; ignorant of Ingwe’s dwindling life force, and the emerging counter attack of the drow behind him.

Such foolishness was greeted with a bone blade and a laugh that could raise the dead…

[Caden Law]

"Oh. Hey. I'm not dead yet."

A very good sign, really.

"Can't feel my toes."

Not necessarily so good.

"...webs again." Caden sat up, poking gingerly at the dagger sticking out of the ground next to him. Red silk ribbons, the stuff of raw magic by the look and feel of it, billowed from the weapon's pommel and seeped into his skin where ever it was exposed. This was another relatively good thing, because the Wizard felt exhausted straight to the marrow of his bones. War-weariness practically defined the blood running in his veins, and he was still too numb from shock and mage's high to be afraid or worried about the battle still raging through the no-longer-roofed cavern.

The moon was out. The sky was relatively clear. It could've been worse. Caden took the small victories where he could get them, if only to blend every little win into a much bigger one.

He spent a few seconds taking inventory of himself. His magic felt like someone had doused it in novacaine. Instinct casually informed him that he wouldn't be chucking around any more Sorcery for this fight, and self-preservation noted that Necromancy wouldn't be a very good idea either. Not that Wizards are particularly well known for their survival instincts. Caden groped at his weapons, confirming the presence of everything but his Staff, and then he used his rod to stand up. He leaned on the arcane focus for a few seconds, catching his breath as the dagger finished its work and the spells bound to it finally petered out. He would have to figure out who kept doing that. They deserved a biscuit or something.

"Now then," he sighed, looking at the battlefield. Counting himself, four Dawnbringers still stood. The big guy was still standing too, but he was catatonic with whatever horrors Xem'zund was still inflicting on him. That left the other mage. Who, Caden noted, was, "...striking off on the bloody job."

The Wizard hobbled a few steps, using his rod as a make-shift cane. Then he lifted one arm and summoned his staff without even bothering to look. It erupted from the ground some thirty or forty feet outside of the crater, tumbled end over end and actually bounced off of one of the Xem'zunds before finally crashing into the Wizard's hand hard enough to spin him to the ground. A minute later, Caden determinately got back up, hooked his rod back into place, and made his way out of the crater. He stalked over to where Ingwe still stood.

The younger mage was trapped inside of a black Circle of Power. His personal Xem'zund knelt right in front of him, funneling power and purpose into the Circle through his sword. He was knelt as if in prayer, while the mage just sort of drooled on himself. And cried. A lot. Whatever was being done to him, in his mind, Caden didn't want to know. From the angle the Wizard approached, it looked like Xem'zund had found a weak spot in the upper back of the mage's armor, and necromantic power was funneling into it, blowing the cloak up out of the way in the process. Incidentally, the Necromancer was focused.

Enough that Caden was able to get to point blank unmolested. So focused, so intent on his spellwork, that the Wizard could actually hear just a little of whatever the Necromancer was inflicting on his victim. It sounded like a voice. A woman, probably young, screaming. A name, repeated over and over again, along with accusations of failure and worse.

"Ingwe," Caden heard. And then he heard the mage finally blubber out, "Yuka," as he fell to his knees and then flat on his face. He was still crying. There was nothing especially artistic, tragic, or moving about it. Real emotions rarely do more than discomfort an outside observer, especially one as detached as Caden.

"Y'know," the Wizard said as he came to a stop beside the Necromancer. "You really are an absolute bastard, Zundalon."

Focus wavered for just a fraction of an instant. The Necromancer looked at him. Acid green eyes widened by fractions of centimeters and Blueraven replied with a tired smile and the Words, "Stone Maiden Mausoleum."

Four pillars shot out of the ground around the Necromancer. Spikes erupted from each to the next, forming a solid, outhouse-sized slab of stone -- a standing tomb. The roof formed in less than a second, and then there came the sound of rock shredding leather and breaking against adamantine. There was no way a spell like that could make someone of Xem'zund's caliber itch, let alone actually hurt him. It didn't have to. The spikes cut off freedom of movement, and a little inventive subtlety put runes all over the surface to cut off the flow of magic into or out of the Mausoleum.

It bought Caden the time to catch his breath and draw in more power. Enough to move the standing tomb a few dozen feet away, taking Xem'zund with it. Again, the Wizard stopped to catch his breath.

Then he nonchalantly broke the Circle of Power with a twist of his staff and a good stomp. With its support structure broken, the spell didn't have much life (or antilife) left in it. The mage -- Ingwe -- would probably be free within a few minutes.

But the Mausoleum was already cracking and Caden had no idea if any of the others could hold out on their own. Ingwe didn't have time to recover properly, and with the Sorcerer downgraded to Wizard for the duration...

"I'm gonna regret this in the morning," Caden said to himself as he rolled Ingwe over with his boot, then fell to his knees next to him. What followed was not any kind of mouth-to-mouth, assisted respiration, dramatic revival or anything like that. It wasn't even remotely that dignified.

Caden pried Ingwe's mouth open and jammed two fingers down his throat. Then, using his knowledge of Necromancy and general magic, the Wizard literally yanked Xem'zund's spellwork out of the mage's body. All that vile power congealed into Ingwe's stomach, then bubbled up into Caden's fingertips, and finally emerged as raw, black ectoplasm. It was probably accompanied by a fair share of vomit and gagging and maybe some blood too. Bad aftertaste at a minimum since Caden's hands were filthy, covered in blood and dirt, and the added effects of necromancy always tasted like frigid peppermint on top of that.

"So, yeah," Caden said as the younger mage probably hacked his lungs out and wanted to die all over the place. "Ingwe, right? Guessing you're Ingwe. My name is Caden, and you're welcome. It was extremely uncomfortable for me too. Please vent all rage, hatred, personal desecration and feelings of oral defilement in that direction, yes." Caden pointed at the cracked, crumbling Mausoleum. Xem'zund already had an arm free. "I recommend not getting suckerpunched this time. Don't worry, that Yuka girl is still alive. Yes, it was an illusion. Now try to knock his mask off. I'll help as best I can."

The Wizard stood up on wobbling legs, leaning against his staff for support. A flick of his wrist and the rod again flipped off of his belt and into his hand. He aimed for the Necromancer and gave it another flick, adding stone to the makeshift prison.

"You might want to hurry, by the way. I don't think that's going to hold him much longer."

Caden just triggered Ingwe's supernatural gag reflex as a Dispel Curse mechanism. Hilarity and awkwardness ensued.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian was relieved to see that her gambit had proved successful: Cydnar’s vast storm of crystal shards and dust had struck all four remaining clones with devastating force, tearing away at their skin and the leather of their armor like a swarm of locusts. The hundred scales of adamantine fell away, each intact but no longer bound together, leaving most of their form vulnerable to physical attacks. Moreover, the drow woman had begun to siphon away the magic within the foul creatures, stripping them of their arcane defenses and offensive power with each and every enfeebling second. Lastly, while Ingwe had not exactly been woken by either her healing or wave of life force, the other wizard had once more returned to the world of the living to finish the job, albeit crudely.

‘I need to act,’ she told herself, gripping at the tearing pain across her chest with trembling hands. Her necromantic infusion of life in her comrades had left her struggling to keep conscious, but she knew there was still more within her – that in the end, what she had transferred them was only the excess within her little body. There was so much more she could do… so much more she had to do. With one glance at the outer walls of the cavern, she saw that Ingwe’s columns of flame still burned brightly despite the critical state of their conjurer. “Perfect,” she muttered lowly, her breathing a worrying staccato as she shuffled a few feet closer to the fight. Those inert flames… she could use them.

The void of energy left by the transfer was slowly vanishing, her own power pooling into it until her legs stopped wobbling with each step, and she no longer saw double. At once, the closest necromancer came toward her, and his bone-blade met the edge of the Delyn rapier she had drawn in the blink of an eye. Her glass dirk remained in her offhand, serving as parrying dagger with every crushing blow she caught, deflected and redirected behind.

Her huffing and panting was painfully audible now, and little of her borrowed strength remained; yet, she fought on, cutting away at his bare arms and exposed midriff twice. Unbeknownst to him, black threads had begun festering within the wounds, spreading outward and out of sight to enclose as much of his body as they could. Without wasting any more time, she dashed away from her current opponent to engage the next closest, managing to catch the latter by surprise: her rapier slid across his shoulder blades, and that was it.

Lillian ran like the devil was on her tail, and in certain ways the comparison held much truth. Two of the necromancers were now hot on her trail, limited to the blow of their blades due to the drow’s empowered siphoning of hostile magic. The girl knew there would be no way to engage three, let alone four necromancers in a sword fight without losing her life; so harried, the girl had no choice but to change tactics and go for broke. Still running, she swung both her blades and hundreds of thin, black, spidery webs shot outward. They sped across the air like filamentous clouds until they caught the remaining two, one of which had only just clambered halfway out of the hatted wizard’s stone mausoleum. They hacked away at the clouds, but the webs were as weak as she could make them so as to dramatically increase their numbers: even as the threads were easily severed, nothing stopped them from catching onto their skin like the most annoying of adhesives.

Now that all four were infested with her webs, Lillian turned her gaze toward the walls of searing flame. Just as her two pursuers were about to charge and bring their swords down upon her, she threw her glass dirk away, watching it tumble upon itself through the air until it crossed the flaming barriers. The sound of breaking stone reached her ears, and she knew the blade’s tip had embedded into the rock walls behind.

A loud boom came from the point of impact. Now following the dirks’ wake in reverse was a fiery arrow from Ingwe’s burning spires, and it devoured the thread that connected her dirk’s pommel to the blade of her rapier, all of it encased in a sheath of webs. When the magical flames reached the tip, her rapier became a blazing lance: it caught the downward arcs of both her opponents’ bone-blades, and she used the last few ounces of her gargantuan strength to steel herself. Their blades bounced off hers, and in that split second she saw a crucial opening. In one swift motion, she slashed across both their chests, igniting the webs that had festered within.

The cavern floor shook as two immense deflagrations occurred in unison, the two necromancers engulfed in cocoons of ravenous flame, their skin charred and devoured as they screamed: without their magical defenses, they were as vulnerable to fire as any other creature of bone and flesh. Lillian, however, knew this was only the beginning. She saw the same spark of fire travel across an inconspicuous web that connected her burning foes to the remaining two. It came at them like a speeding arrow, and there was no time to sever that link. In the blink of an eye, so were they engulfed, the hundreds of spreading webs that stuck to their skin combusting and exploding at once.

Lillian fell to the ground, knees striking harsh stone, her whole weight carried by the rapier she held onto with both hands. She panted and coughed; her lips felt sticky as the air thickened, filling itself with burnt fat. Moreover, the smell was curdling her stomach, and the sight of bubbling flesh was enough to ruin her rising appetite. Still, the girl was happy. Though the sight and smell and texture of burning men repulsed her… she found an odd delight in hearing the screams of the immolated.

Summary

• Triple Combo achieved: with the clones made physically and magically defenseless by Cydnar's Crystal Storm and Drusilia's Magic Syphon, Lillian covered them in her magic-reactive webs by engaging two in a sword fight and shooting webs at the remaining two.
• She used Ingwe's columns of fire to ignite a thread connecting her dirk to her rapier, and another thread connecting all four clones.
• Four big-ass explosions.

[Mage Hunter]

Mana accumulated quickly, as she worked towards cleansing the area of the tainted foul magic of the necromancer. Sweat was dripping off her body as she clung to the strands, tearing them apart and stuffing them inside her, trying to contain the tainted mana as long as possible. The result was such that with her ripping apart the spells, even the corpses began to lose their cohesion. However, every interaction with mana for a Mage Hunter had a price.

Hers required she lived through this battle to actually care about.

Touching necromancy meant she had to inevitably fuel it. It was a tough decision to make, as something had to slowly start dying. The more mana she took upon herself, the faster it went from being harmed, to actually dying and ceasing all function. Drusilia knew something inside her had died, she knew this. She, had to wait till later to figure out what, and knew it wasn't anything vital, not yet. She merely continued her chosen task, sacrificing her life to keep the necromancer's spells from gaining any potency.

Lilian destroyed the bodies; bruning and razing the corpses, making it difficult to even cobble them back together. Yet she felt it, strong, powerful, subtle, and deadly. In taking the mana within her, she felt its resonance throughout the cavern in places. It told her of the bristling energy that coursed through the area. A leyline of magic was held here, and perhaps this was why it had been chosen for this final confrontation. For now, the resonance told her the one thing she needed to know most as well...

The bodies were now saturated in Necromancy, slowly yet surely they were regenerating.

Rage filled her mind as she gripped the strands of magic on the corpses, focusing the intent of siphoning off the mana. It seemed this wasn't enough anymore. She couldn't focus the funnel near them and hope that it would siphon it off fast enough. The result was what she had feared from the start. The more she pulled off the bodies, the more seemed to cling to them. It was a cascading effect and she couldn't keep up if it continued.

So, she changed the rules.

No longer was she merely placing the funnel. The surge of life she had taken from Lilian was now affording her a level of control unsurpassed by anyone she had seen. Now, the funnel was within one of the bodies, tearing apart the mana before it lay there dormant. The body’s shrieks went silent, as a feral grin crossed her lips. Muttering softly her litanies of hate, she let the cold rage filled her frame, as she moved the funnel to the next body, stripping the mana quickly.

This process continued, until the crackle of flames and the burning stench of fat. She panted, reaching behind her to grab the null stone one last time. Her body felt so tired, so drained of the vigor it once held. She sank to a knee, never losing the feral smile letting Xem'zund know what she felt of him. He was her prey, and she would do almost anything to take him down.

You sacrifice much to hurt me, but are you even striking into me? Are you really as smart as you claim, or have you fallen for the same trap that your friends have?

She ignored the voice, gripping the stone tightly, her face never losing the grin, even as the leather thong finally fell from her hair. Gripping the stone she focused her will, and shattered the mana she had collected. The pulse went out, stretching almost to the edges of the room, yet it didn't seem to affect anyone else. Spells still fired off, enchantments remained firmly in place. To the casual onlooker, she had failed in properly using the stone. Her null stone had for the first time failed.

When she stood up, she felt herself brimming once again with energy. The lethargy was gone, as was the sense of death she felt about her body. Grabbing the blade from the ground beside her she casually flipped it up. Grasping the hilt, she quickly pocketed the nullstone in her other hand, before drawing the other blade, looking about the area. Her eyes prowled, seeming to tear apart the enemy with their harsh gaze.

She finally responded to the voice that had whispered in her head, "If you're quite done playing, perhaps you'd like to actually give us a threat."

[Flames of Hyperion]

Wan moonlight filtered down to the underground chamber from above, drowned out by the sheer intensity of the battle below. A ferocious storm of flying crystal was devoured by an even greater whirlwind of swirling dark energy, and then by the staccato thunder of chain explosions that engulfed Xem’zund’s bodies: first the two on the far side of the cavern, then the remaining two on the near side, arcane fire racing along invisible web-lines like living flame through the darkness. Caden’s spell of shifting stone literally seemed to implode as it barely contained the force of the deflagration, Ingwe’s – his own – sacred flame, siphoned from the spell that he had nearly forgotten about now, devouring the necrotic flesh whole.

Even the Wizard seemed to be summarily impressed by the fireworks, whatever words he had been trying to utter next cut off in mid-syllable. And, for a brief moment or two, there was respite for the embattled Dawnbringers.

Slowly, Ingwe urged his battered frame to a seated position, trying to drive the last dredges of necromantic chill from his body with a pained shake of his head. The intense light of the flames in the background having dimmed a little, he was now aware through his wavering tunnel vision of the steady glow building up behind his golden armour. It seemed to be emanating from the pendant on his chest, a growing light seeping along the contours of his slim frame until for all intents and purposes it felt like he was on fire. On the other hand, it was not yet bright enough to attract any undue attention, and it did a good job of disguising the fact that his skin was the colour of bleached parchment, lifeless, clammy, and cold with the effects of what he had just been through.

It also did a good job of camouflaging the mauling he had received at the Necromancer’s hands, like the wounds of most of those present enough to debilitate or even kill a lesser warrior outright. His mind swam in tidal waves of overwhelming agony, but perhaps if he could concentrate on the task at hand, there was a chance that he could fight off the beckoning darkness. There was a neatly drilled hole through his shoulder, but perhaps if he didn’t allow his thoughts to dwell upon it, there was a chance that he could convince his battered body otherwise. The Wizard Blueraven hadn’t seemed to notice the latter, or if he had, he was doing a grand job of not allowing Ingwe to focus on the pain. In any case, there was little time for reflection; he had to get to his feet before the Forgotten One returned with vengeance.

“Thank you, Caden,” the warrior-mage spoke for perhaps the first time to his allies, his weak voice sounding hauntingly in the sudden eerie silence, his mind barely making sense of the more experienced wizard’s babble but latching onto the words like a lifeline nonetheless. For all his powers, for all the situation, Ingwe was at heart a shy and withdrawn young man, and although he hadn’t allowed himself to even admit it, at heart he had been quite intimidated by the gathering of the greatest warriors in the land, It had quite literally taken long minutes of heated battle and a disturbingly brusque act of resuscitation for the ice between them to crack. “I owe you one… and I’ll owe you another if you promise me never to speak of it again. That… was disgusting, even if necessary…”

The Wizard’s reply was lost to the blaring tinnitus that engulfed Ingwe’s mind as he next sought to regain his feet, beating back the tides of pain as he staggeringly fought to bring himself fully upright. The oversized frames of his pair of glasses, lost and abandoned amongst the shadows upon the cold stone floor, bore lonely and silent witness to his desperate struggle.

The wound through the base of his neck had not closed, and blood streamed from both it and the corner of his mouth to soak the ashen tunic he wore beneath the mythril. The glow upon his chest was quite noticeable now, a warm and comfortable sensation that was a complete contrast to the deathly chill of the Necromancer’s curse. But his grip upon the sceptre that he bore was as deathly tight as it had been before the battle had begun, and his feet slipped forwards in silent steps that were as unsteady as they were purposeful.

“We should prepare,” he addressed the others, trying to draw out what strength he could imbue in his voice and saving the apology that was what he really wanted to communicate for later. He had let them all down in a single moment of slack, and his weakness had allowed Xem’zund to keep him away from what mattered the most in their attempt to banish the Forgotten One once and for all… the fact that they had to work together as one to deal with the threat. “There’s no way that…”

Impressive, the Necromancer’s voice cut through the night, timely interruption of Ingwe’s warning that the temporary setback was not the end of the battle. A sixth and last body materialised in the darkness, the essence of the guardian construct that had been annihilated by Xem’zund’s own spell; like its fallen brethren, it was now unrecognisable from what it had once been, bearing the unmistakable face-print of the Forgotten One’s personal influence. Ingwe realised with almost grudging admiration that the Necromancer had allowed them to believe that it had been completely destroyed beyond possession, a failsafe prepared in advance for just this tactical eventuality. Xem’zund was nothing if not thorough.

However futile your resistance may be, I applaud your courage in delaying the inevitable… With a wave of black robe and cursed flesh, the Necromancer cocooned himself in a protective sphere and began to gather his powers to him for an epic spell. It was not long before the dark swirl of magic betrayed his intentions; he sought to reassemble and revive the clones that had taken the Dawnbringers so much effort to destroy.

On the other hand, it was also blindingly obvious – at least to Ingwe, even in his less-than-ideal state of mind – that Xem’zund had not expected to lose all four of his remaining bodies at once. What was more, the Necromancer now felt the need to protect his being against his foes, whereas before he had been confident if not disdainful, the entirety of his physical vessels being dedicated to their destruction. Chinks were beginning to appear in the Forgotten One’s armour, and sooner or later his hand would be forced.

And the young man was beginning to tire of the charade. His companions, unsurprisingly, shared exactly the same feelings.

A veritable storm of spell and steel reached out to batter at the Necromancer’s barrier. Fuelled by their anger and their resolution, it hammered with devastating speed through the defensive cocoon, exposing the Forgotten One to their wrath far earlier than Xem’zund would have liked. The ancient mage was forced to abandon his spell mid-incantation in an attempt to drive them back, but the Dawnbringers did not give him the time even for that. The Drow leeched away at his arcane powers; the young woman bound him with webs of magic while the Elf blinded him with a storm of crystal.

Even then it seemed as if the Necromancer might prevail, through sheer force of will alone. At least, until twin flashes of light carved limbs from torso as, for the first time in the battle, Ingwe brought the full power of the Regalia Valora to bear.

“You had no right to bring her into this,” the young man murmured beneath his breath, his eyes – not hiding any more behind the spectacles that shielded him always from the outside world – focused in forceful concentration upon his foe. His face was pale with exertion and exhaustion, his strength seeping from his wound with every passing breath, but for one of only a handful of times in his life there was true intent in his actions. “You had no right, and now you’ve given me no choice.”

The flaming glow that surrounded him suddenly flared like a miniature sun, and raw unfocused power followed explosively in its wake.

“I won’t let you harm her!”

His words amplified into a shout that quickly escalated into an unintelligible roar, Ingwe directed the energy in the direction of his foe. The sceptre amplified his power to the extent that even the Necromancer could not afford to ignore it; Lilian’s boost from earlier served to make it positively lethal, even to the Ancient One. With little choice left, Xem’zund sought to avoid the barely-controlled magic with an ungainly forward roll… but hands of mighty stone reached up from beneath the ground and held him fast.

Robe and armour, flesh and bone were incinerated where he stood. Metal and crystal literally disintegrated beneath the crude but violent onslaught; what organic components were left in the body possessed by the Forgotten One were vaporised in an instant. Only a wispy flutter of black fabric escaped the incendiary flames, and even that was soon lost amongst the dark recesses of the cavern.

The brief silence that followed was dominated by two separate events. The first was the heavy breaths of the young man decked in the golden armour, and the glances sent in his direction by those who began to suspect that there were darker costs to his sudden display of power than was apparent at first sight. The second was a stirring of the chill in the air, an ominous foreboding that warned them that the battle was not over, not quite yet.

Oh, I’m so going to make you regret that… the ethereal voice from before echoed throughout the chamber like an intangible wind, before beginning to materialise once more in the far reaches of the room. This time, it did not even threaten to coalesce, instead expanding like a black cloud of decay until it obscured the night itself in the skies above.

You will pay for making me angry, Xem’zund’s true form uttered from amongst the mist, and the sheer power in his voice caused the ears of those who heard to bleed profusely. His malevolent influence reached out across the room, and only the bravest amongst them could stand tall to face it.

[Ataraxis]

In the moments of respite that followed the cremation of the last necromantic replica, Lillian had fallen on her back, her breathing haggard as she held a clawing hand over her chest. The rapier’s tip remained firmly embedded into the stone-cold ground, the weapon rising before her supine form in a silver cross. Even now, she could feel the sticky wetness of sublimated fat on her lips, even taste some of the airborne remains of Ingwe’s burning victim. It sickened her to no end, but she was ready to endure that if it meant prolonging this rare lull in a battle that had taken everything from the girl. Of course, Lillian was no fool: she knew the Necromancer would soon return, with a new or final trick to exasperate them all. It was an overwhelming sensation to stand before an obstacle and not to know how high or steep it was. She had to wonder: how much more of his reserves would they need to waste before the end? How much longer would she even last?

A sense of danger pricked at her skin, as if the pins and needles in her legs had migrated throughout all of her body. She looked to the vastness of the underground sanctuary, where even the starlight from the hollowed ceiling could not reach. Black winds were brewing in the shadows – formless, without texture, yet very much felt to the core of their souls. What she saw there was like a growing storm as seen from a bird’s-eye view, dark clouds melding and parting and melding again as they rumbled from within. Having expected to see their enemy emerge from this eldritch darkness, Lillian was shocked to realize that he was the darkness.

The putrid mist suffused throughout the room, slowly and in waves. The caliginous matter seemed a mixture of poison gas and murky waters, all wrapped in wicked shadows and spreading outward like Death’s exhale. At once, Lillian leapt to her feet, recovering with a flick of her wrists the daggers that had carried her healing webs to both wizards, sensing she would need all of her mystical arsenal for the looming menace. In one practiced motion, she joined them together, and the black and white daggers became a single blade of blue-metal. The scholarly girl observed the dark mist, mildly glad to see that the stones were not melting under its baleful touch… but she still had to wonder if her newfound resistance to necromancy would save her from this fog of death and decay.

Lillian shook her head at that, clearing away that defeatist train of thought. Her purpose was not to survive it, but to defeat it. She need to stop wasting time, looking for ways not to die, and focus on figuring out how to kill it, once and for all. ‘But... how to kill that which has no body?’ she asked herself gravely, finding with increasing alarm that the time she had to find an answer was running through her fingers. Her first hypothesis was fire, but she was quick to discard it: it seemed unlikely that his amorphous form was constituted of real gases rather than a worldly manifestation of some deep and ancient magic. Even if it were flammable, they would most likely all die in the ensuing deflagration, with no guarantee that the Necromancer would even die with them. ‘I’m forgetting something. I have to be.’

It was too late when she noticed the strange eddies whirling inside the advancing gloom. She felt a hundred spikes of power in the vicinity before the very air seemed to blur. Blasts of invisible force stormed throughout the lair, battering them all. Each were relatively weak, crashing against stone and soil without shattering; Lillian was able to stomach each blast that had not missed her, but the intense pain broke any hope of an uninterrupted analysis in her mind. It was not difficult to guess, however, that this first wave had only been a distraction.

Globules of mist and hazy black water parted from the fog, hovering above them like spheres of stale blood. Lillian cursed, screaming for everyone to scatter and find shelter, only to realize that she was in the middle of the sanctuary, right beneath the gaping pathway to the night sky, with no broken column or pile of rubble to hide underneath. As the spheres of rot came down from their arc, Lillian thought she heard the Necromancer cackle.

The girl did as best she could to avoid the raining projectiles, sidestepping back and forth as she looked up with terror in her eyes. In her mind, she could only think of how it felt as if she were standing under the rain, trying not to get wet. Yet, somehow, she had managed to accomplish just that… until her foot sought purchase on a tract of slippery rock. While she had focused on looking up, she had not realized that each drop of rot had splashed at her feet, forming dark puddles that even now were burning holes into her boots.

The rain grazed her skin once, twice. Then, she felt the torrent upon her. It burned like hellfire, and she could smell the repulsive fumes waft up from her flesh. Without a stop to her agonizing cries, the girl stood up, her stark white form trickling with black rivulets. Her eyes were black again, vitreous and wicked as she exuded the same evil aura that had saved her before. Still, so much of her skin had been burned off, leaving her bleeding from a network of red and raw flesh.

The horrifying sight, however, was not one she let her allies witness for long. Black threads burst from her wounds, knitting the flesh closed as they formed a loose network of webs upon her body. Even now, she was healing from the raw punishment she had just suffered, just like she had healed the others before, though the process seemed much more excruciating. She panted painfully, her vision blurred by her own blood… yet she smiled.

“Why aren’t you tossing more of those at me?” she muttered with difficulty, yet with enough volume and arrogance for the Necromancer to hear. “Go on. Bring the rain.”

When he said nothing from the mists, she understood with certainty. She knew the reason why he had not continued his onslaught, and the reason why he had needed to distract them with a blasts of kinetic force in the first place. He was not made of the ravenous stuff that had been eating away at her, or at least he was only in part, but nowhere near as potent. Whatever it was he had fired at them, he needed to produce it, and this took time…

‘From these premises, I have induced your weakness.’

Before he could batter at her with a new wake of telekinetic force, Lillian acted as fast as she could. She shot her hands outward, and her threads burst out in two thick ropes that caught onto what remained of two of the immense pillars that once lined the sanctuary, invading every crevice until they were deeply embedded into the stone. She held onto the ropes, wrapping them around her forearms, and with what strength remained in her little frame, she kicked away from the ground, pedaling backwards until they were taut enough.

She jumped. Just as her feet left the ground, her body was flung across the room like a rock from a sling. The dark aura wrapped around her form, as potent as she could make it, and she vanished into the devouring mist that Xem’Zûnd had become.

Rather than striking the wall of stone behind, she had landed with force on something soft. She could barely see in the enshrouding mists, but she was relieved to notice that they had not begun devouring her like fire ants would a honey-covered corpse: the necromantic layer atop her skin was fending off the dark corrosion. With enquiring gropes, she sought to understand just what she was hanging from, and the fleshy pulse that coursed past her hand told her everything she needed to know.

‘You’ve been hiding in here from the beginning,’ she spoke in her mind, wary not to open her mouth inside the mist. She knew he could hear her. ‘But this isn’t something as typical as your ‘core’, is it? This… is what has become of your real body.’

“I have told you before, have I not?” he answered calmly, the emotion behind his astral voice of a nature she could not guess. “We can never return from our chosen paths.”

‘I know,’ was all she deigned to answer before sinking the blue-metal dagger into the lump of flesh.

The horrific bellow that followed had curdled her blood. Her blade, the Dvaita, had been her ace in the hole all along, because it was the bane of all magical beings. Humans and elves would feel numbness and pain as the enchanted dagger pumped their bodies with poisonous chaos, corrupting all magic it could find… but to beings whose very existence had become magical in nature, much like Xem’zûnd in his current form, it was out-and-out torture. She knew this very well: she had inadvertently used it on a fragmented personification of the Ethereal Tap, so long ago, and it had killed him. If rumors of the Necromancer’s deep connection to the Tap were true, then…

The mist flickered, fading and thickening, as if whatever body inside had lost control of its emission. The poisonous chaos was affecting him: magic was prone to malfunction in its presence, even backfire. The fog that sheathed the Necromancer’s body had finally receded enough for them to see him, in all his unholy glory.

It was a creature neither man nor beast, a colossus of twisted flesh and sickly tendrils that stood the height of seven men. Immense black eyes, much like Lillian’s under his darkly influence, covered his back and torso. His upper body was a grayish-red, skeletal in its gauntness, and a coat of flesh-like vines wreathed his neck like the billowing crown of a colossal anemone. His arms were bare and long, taut with corded muscles but devoid of any horrendous excrescence; they were slender and noble in their powerful simplicity. His ungodly weight was supported by a body reminiscent of a centaur’s in shape, but there was neither brown coat nor hoofed feet to carry the comparison any further: he stood on six gnarly legs, crooked and wrinkled, each broader than some of the largest oaks in the world, winding and loosening with his every rancid breath.

His bald head was featureless: a clean slate of ashen red, veined like crimson marble. Only a gaping slit could be seen, a distorted mouth that he held open to pant as the chaotic venom continued to course in his monstrous body. Lillian stood in awestruck silence atop his forehead… and she never saw it coming.

He swept a hand across his face, swatting her away like a mosquito. It was a long fall, and the bone-splitting crash was followed only by silence. He plucked the dagger from his forehead, his humongous mouth set in a hateful scowl. He tossed it away, and it clanged in the distance with the sound of a falling needle.

“I…” the monster began, his voice a slow, resounding boom across the sanctuary. “Am weary.”

Convenient Summary

Considering the current circumstances... yeah. Godhand, I think your fists can touch this guy, now.

• Xem-Mist shot hundreds of relatively weak balls of telekinetic force as a distraction.
• Xem-Mist made balls of decay rain on everyone, and Lillian screamed for everyone to take cover right before it started.
• Being completely exposed, she dodged until she got pelted, but protected herself just enough not to die with her necromantic aura.
• She induced that Xem-Mist stopped his battery to produce more of his decay, and she slingshot herself with her webs into him before he could do it again.
• Poisoned him with the Dvaita, her 'magebane' dagger. Weakened him substantially enough to make the ensuing battle one notch below a massacre. Made his mist-emission malfunction.
• Xem's form is revealed to be, basically, a six-legged giant centaur mix of Lovecraftian Gods, the huge creature from The Mist, and that arguably eyeless monster from Pan's Labyrinth.
• Swatted Lillian away from his forehead, and removed the dagger. She crashed and is dying.

[Godhand]

The monstrous creature inhaled deeply, the entire cavern seeming to shudder with his every breath. There was a brief moment where none of the Dawnbringers said a word, blinked or even breathed. They had finally come face to face with the throbbing black heart of the necromantic blight on Raiaera, and by god it had lived up to all their expectations. A hulking engine of terror, pulsating with every forbidden magic there was and cursed with his nightmare visage after clawing at the brow of a god.

The first one to overcome his apprehension, his innate evolutionary fear of such a monstrosity was Caden, perhaps because his knowledge of the arcane had already afforded him a brief glance at the true nature of Xem'Zund. He drew symbols in the air with his hand, his staff crackling with electricity before he thrust it forward and a massive arc of lightning surged out of his prevalida staff-head. Some forked harmlessly against the walls of the cavern, but the brunt of the energy converged on the beast's upper body and empowered as it was by Lillian's lifeforce, managed to stun the creature.

For his part, Ingwe wasn't far behind. Enjoying the twin boons of the Regalia Valora and the dark seamstress' lifeforce, he was quite possibly the most powerful being in the cavern, Xem'Zund himself excluded. And he was determined to take the rare, brief window of opportunity both Lillian and Caden had afforded him to smite the abomination with the full force of all his powers. He traced symbols in the air with the tip of his staff as Caden had, but also loudly chanted the True Names of fire and wind itself, and all of their creations.

A massive conflagration of fire began to form, swirling into existence from nothing and pulsing with the heart of flame. A red star of energy. Then Cydnar, the envoy of the world eater Yrene, though his own reserves of power were dangerously taxed, joined Ingwe in his chanting. He twisted his body and blade, danced, summoning shards of crystal and quartz from the stones of the cavern and added the essence of earth itself to Ingwe's masterwork. Caden, though he knew it was extremely perilous to divide his attention between two spells when facing an enemy such as Xem'Zund, saw an opportunity to end the beast once and for all. He wielded his staff with one hand, shooting lightning at Xem'Zund's many eyes, occasionally scalding some of them shut, and with the other he added what elements he commanded into Ingwe's spell. Gravity, Death and Lightning.

The red star changed and pulsed with each new element, crackling and shifting different colors before finally setting on a purple-black hue as shards of charged quartz floated around it, making rings and refracting the light of the different elements into a negative rainbow. It had started with the Pyroclasm, bolstered by the Regalia Valora and Lillian, focused by Cydnar's crystals and finally energized with the most complicated elements by Caden; a freezing hot, dark white sphere of energy that tore at the edges of reality itself. It was contained only by their will, and only barely at that. Occasionally strands, mere tendrils of its essence about as thick and ethereal as a single hair managed to escape it's gravity and brush against the stone walls of the cavern. Where the stones did not freeze, they melted; where they did not melt, they crumbled; and where they did not crumble, they burst. The mage hunter, for her part, had already stepped forward and with what remained of her magic-soaked soul's integrity, began tearing at the magical shield Xem'Zund had raised as an afterthought once his mist had been dissipated.

And then, when the sphere of energy had reached its nuclear peak, Ingwe launched it towards the necromancer.

Setting the sphere into motion seemed to have slowed down time itself and all the colors drained out of the cavern as it slowly floated towards Xem'Zund. Nearly frozen in place, he knew he'd never be able to dodge it. He also knew that not even he would survive a direct hit. So instead, he did the unthinkable. A gaunt hand reached into his chest, ripping into the flesh and producing a small dark vial where his heart should have been. His phylactery.

He held the recipient of his immortality before him, which cast a seething light throughout the dark sanctuary. So full was it charged with the very essence of the Eternal Tap that the power it exuded seemed infinite, and the Necromancer coerced every drop of it out in an all-consuming flood of destruction. Time and space lay broken in its wake, and the singularity of power detonated at once, punching a hole through the very fabric of existence: it stretched open like the maw of a chthonian beast, a Hellmouth, swallowing the eldritch bomb the Dawnbringers had meshed from their will and lifeblood. The two entities threshed to a standstill, arcs of primal energies lashing out as one sought to overpower the other... until the eternal void clamped down like thunder, devouring whole the light of their last hope.

Yet even with its purpose met, the rift did not vanish. The hundred eyes of Xem'zund were fixed on the pulsing black hole in dead space. The singularity was becoming unstable, crackling terribly as it diffused the power it had consumed in excess. Spectral bolts arced around it, flickering in and out of sight as the very air burned in their backwash. The necromancer's monstrous hand was now seething with red smoke, sublimated blood from his veins as the vial flared up in his grip. The monster let loose a hellacious bellow as the phylactery began to overload. He had miscalculated: the onslaught of the Dawnbringers had been too powerful for the artifact to endure. And then, as his harrowing roars reached an ungodly apex, the black hole collapsed and vanished with an explosive swoop of wind. The vial in his hand shattered, bursting into a dark nova with him only barely managing to rear his monstrous form back and avoid being sucked into the singularity.

The sight of his shattered immortality had left the Beast in a stunned silence. His dark eyes were wide in disbelief, hundreds quavering but unblinking. And then, the bewilderment was gone from their glare, replaced by the seething fury of a hundred wronged gods. He hefted his hands high overhead, dark blots forming about his palms as he summoned his weapons. There was a sizzle in his hands, however, and he felt something had gone awry: within the blink of an eye, the shadows of his armament had detonated, and the beast reeled back in a cry of rage bolstered by frustration. The poison that was coursing through his body remained even now, and the summons had backfired, shattering the wicked bone-blade that had formed in his left hand, while sundering in half the great sword of obsidian in his right. He cursed the name of the feeble girl that had infected him with her dagger, his hatred of every soul within this lair reaching new heights.

He cleaved the very earth with his broken sword, the displacement of stone and soil caused by the sheer shock-wave many times greater than any of the hatted wizard's antics with geomancy. He had buried them under a rain of massive stones and choking dirt, and even now their hacking and coughs, wet with blood, reached his delighted ears. His head twisted monstrously behind, and his lower body followed suit: he saw the girl, lying unconscious and defenseless. She had mocked him and foiled him long enough. He lifted one of his six legs, its bones creaking as would uprooted trees. He readied his aim, seeking to make her nothing more but a smear of blood and pulp on his foot.

And then there was a hand on his shoulder.

And a blade through his chest.