The Field of Sighs and Sorrows

[Caden Law]

In the formless, insubstantial land of Mental Turmoil, Caden was considerably less fortunate than those around him. Instead of flashbacks, hallucinations and psuedodemonic possession, he just blacked out for a good minute or two and opened his eyes to a crisp, clouding sky and a moment or two of near total numbness and deafness that felt like novacaine and sounded like underwater drumbeats.

The moment passed, and the world came back into focus; tinted yellow and red to match the colors of his bloodstained goggle lenses. He sat up and immediately took stock of everything: He had all the limbs the Sway gave him, none of his insides were spilling out, and his Hat still rested snug atop his head with the light weight of the Grimmoire inside it. All things considered, this was a comfort.

But then you get to all those other things and the considerations about them, and it wasn't a very big comfort at all. He still wore his chestplate, deformed as it was with an impression of Warson's gauntlet spanning the width of his chest from side to side and stomach to collar. He still clutched his sword in one hand, but that only seemed to be because his fingers had gone unresponsive -- and they stayed that way for a few seconds too long for Caden's comfort. His clothes had seen better days, but that's what alchemy and spare thread are for.

He used the sword as a prop to stand up not long after that, and then he took stock of everything else in much the same way he'd examined himself.

The short of it: Everything had gone to Hell in a handbasket.

The long of it: Everything had gone to Hell in a handbasket, but it was a very finely made wicker picnic basket filled with sandwhiches and whoever was holding it had conveniently forgotten something in the house. The undead were everywhere, moving with a little less intensity and cohesiveness than before, but the Elves and the Men were rallying in turn and pushing them back. Everywhere came song and scream, and more than a few severed limbs that often seperated the two of them. Swords and arrows blurred by, and a ghoul leapt right over his head into a Turlin blade. The wielder spun around and something very much like a spider tackled and gored it down through the shoulders, even as the blade thrust up into its gut.

The elf petrified and the spider did the same, and Caden watched it rather stupidly since the fight played itself out too quickly for him to do anything about it. He heard a song like tenors gone to war, and then a horn blaring like the screams of eagles. He turned, took a blind swing, and had the ridiculous good luck to cleave off an ancient Elf's face; bone and leathered skin crumpled at the tip of his sword, then simply tore away.

Caden stared, blearily, into the gaping maw of what used to be brain and sinus cavities, as well as a mangled upper jaw and a relatively complete lower one.

It's about this time that his adrenal glands decided to come back from their coffee break and kick him in the fight or flight mechanism. Much to Caden's credit as an ambassador of humanity to All Things Good And Right, he decided on the former. With a less-than-epic scream and a lunge forward that put his foot straight into the dead elf's chest, knocking it over. He motioned blindly, sensing magic and letting his fingers do the rest with a puppeteer's tug: the other, much more recently dead Elf's Turlin sword went spinning up into his left hand so forcefully that it almost wrenched his arm, shoulder and back all in rapid succession.

Caden stopped the sword high.

Then he brought it back down.

The magic of Wizard and Turlin slammed into the ancient elf's body, and reduced it to a spray of purple ash and dust after a quick flash of gold and a harp's cry. Caden straightened back up, and again took stock of the situation: He had a sword in each hand, his wand was lying in ruin back at the bridge, and his Company was all, probably, dead.

He could sense a familiar presence though. A presence whose Name he knew almost intimately after today's back-and-forth: "I know you're there, Little Reaper," Caden said again, and though his Voice lacked the depths of power he'd spoken with on the Bridge, there was a challenge in it. He looked for her, and there was an awful, terse little smile on his face as he did it.

Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, a wise man once said, For they are subtle and quick to anger.

Caden wasn't subtle, but he sure as hell was angry.