Prelude To Ascension

[Paragon]

Closed to Enigmatic Immortal.

Magically invisible, the black dragonling Fallow floated above the Ixian Castle, watching as the Dragoon Corps chased away The Cult's stragglers. His telepathic voice reached into the minds of the men whom Dorian gave magical equipment to, guiding them with a bird's eye view of the conflict.

Where did Dorian go... ? I feel like he's... lower. In the catacombs?

Fallow flew down and glided into the castle, through the bloodied halls and walls littered with injured soldiers. He tilted his wings and swung down into the endless maze below the castle. His soul link with Dorian allowed him to feel where the Dragoon was like a type of scent, and he found himself in a hall with cracks in the walls and blood on the ground.

Oh no! This... is this Dorian's blood? H, he's getting further away! Why?! Ugh...

The dragonling felt himself weaken, the growing distance between them straining the soul link. He flew through a shattered section of the wall and found himself in the same room as the body of Jensen's father. Dorian was here, he felt it. Fallow was not used to being this close to a corpse, but he fought through his fear. There had to be someone around here who knew what happened. Fallow flew around some more, seeing various knights attend to the wounded, but stopped when he came across Jensen and Azza. They both looked miserable, and Fallow floated in the air in front of them for a few minutes before working up the courage to speak out.

"H-Hey! J, Jensen!" he said telepathically to the immortal, who looked up in confusion. "I, I need your help. Have you seen Dorian?"

Jensen looked around, wiping his eyes, "Sei? Is that you?" Azza's bewilderment was even more evident, because there was no voice in her head. "Your voice is... different."

"No! I'm Fallow, uh, the fierce dragon!" Fallow backed up to a safe distance and revealed himself, surprising the two into standing up. "I'm Dorian's friend, and I'm looking for him. Did you see him in the room with... your father... ?"

"What the shit? A tiny dragon?!" Jensen put up his fists. He was in no mood for games.

"Wait! I've been with Dorian from the start, just invisible! I can prove it- I was there when the black dragon attacked that village in Salvar! I allowed Dorian to talk to him and calm him down, remember? I was there when you met again in Corone, when you were chasing that enchanter girl. I was there the whole time..."

Jensen put down his fists, the memories flooding back into his mind, "Talking to the air... so it was you he was talking to?" Jensen sighed, but Azza stayed back, unsure of what to think of this small dragon. Fallow asked again about Dorian, but Jensen shook his head. "I didn't see him in the room. What's going on? Is he missing?"

"Dorian wouldn't just take off without telling me! I saw his blood, and I feel him moving further away... I think he was taken!"

"Why... ? And you can track him?" Fallow nodded. Jensen looked at Azza. "I need you to go tell Sei."

"What about you?" she asked.

Jensen put a hand on her head, and he took a deep breath, clearing up his sniffles. "I'm going after them. Fallow's secret may have given us the one shot we need to find them, and there's no time to wait."

[El Diablo Perro]

"Wake him," the cold, measured voice spoke in the darkness. A splash echoed in the cavern room, the floors cracks greedily soaking up the spilt liquid as it dripped off the brow of the man chained by his hands to the wall of the makeshift prison cell. He awoke with a start, spitting and coughing out the disgusting grey water, groaning as he looked to see the robed man before him step forwards, two other men stepping back with short swords in their hands, one with a bucket he tossed to the side with a clatter.

"You've been un-compliant with my requests to teach me your artisan skills. I once more implore you to understand the stressful situation that puts you wholly within. You have survived thus far based on the knowledge you have." he spoke rapidly, annoyingly, as if this very conversation were keeping him from busy works. He stood with his black robes flapping softly in the caves breeze, an unnatural and cold feeling of dread that exuded from the very air everywhere and nowhere at the same time. If one focused to hard upon it, soft, haunting chuckles and words of harm could be heard upon the whispers in the wind.

The man lifted his hand up, a soft word of power spoken from his lips lighting a lantern on the other side of the room. Within that lantern was a single candle, one that was red and dripping quickly the wax like an open wound. "This candle is your life now, Dorian," he said angrily like a disappointed parent. "You have pushed me to this measure. When that candle is snuffed out, unable to light anymore, you are dead to the Cult of Blessed Torture. Do you understand me?"

He stepped forwards, his hand darting out to grab the boys face and force him to look him in the eyes. "This blasted place has many unpleasant ways of making people talk. The warden could steal your soul and force the information out while your shell of a body is turned into a ghoul. You could be slowly cut apart piece by piece by the Dark Grandfather, Jebb Remi, and fed to the wolves. You could be forced to spar with my pet project, Draug and test just how long you can survive against someone who decimated the Ixian Knights single handedly. Or worse yet, you could be given to the Dark Children; a fate even I cannot comprehend."

He shoved Dorian away, standing back up and turning so swiftly his robes tapped the boy's cheek. The heavy cloth felt like a light slap as his boots echoed towards the doorway. "I'll be back in an hour, Dorian. By then I expect you to talk, or the pleasantries will be over."

The door slammed behind him as he looked to the two Cultists at his side.

"Do you think he will talk, Lord Memnar?" one asked, his tone not far from sarcasm.

"For my sake, he better," Memnar admitted. He began to pace away from the two guards.

"But what you said..." the other stammard.

"Is all true, I just may not be alive to witness it." Memnar shrugged as he turned the corner.

[Paragon]

He was left with the two guards and cold silence, his body shivering from the dripping water, rings around his eyes and bandages around his waist and lower jaw. He could still open his mouth, and for the most part his wounds were healed by Memnar's alchemy. He wondered why they were going easy on him, but it was apparent that they knew something they weren't supposed to: His craft. They couldn't mean something as common as his blacksmithing, so it had to be... Fate-Crafting; The birthright of The Sesthali. To Fate-Craft is to change destiny itself, and the potential for abuse was limitless. He was expressly forbidden from ever performing it on a living being, and the only time he truly used it was during an emergency. He had no idea how they could have found out about it.

"You're lucky," said one of the guards. "If your weird power didn't require you to be whole, we would've just chopped your limbs off and tortured what was left of you." Dorian wondered how exactly they knew that, and yet they didn't know the specifics of his power. It was as if his knowledge was scattered among them, only bits and pieces available to their understanding.

The chains around Dorian's arms jingled every time he tried to pull them together. He was affixed in a standing position, with more chains around his feet, his belongings stripped except for his pants. On a table near the door were the rest of his equipment, including his Dragonet footwear and what was left of his spear after Draug snapped it in half. His lance was likely still in the catacombs below the Ixian Castle. Fortunately, he still had Malanthar's earring on, which allowed him to translocate equipment from Malanthar's Domain in Salvar to his person. There was nothing there that could help him, however, just his mobile workshop. Then again, maybe that was what he needed.

If they wanted to see Fate-Crafting so badly, he had no choice but to oblige.

Twisting his wrists as much as he could, he pressed his fingers into the cold steel of his bindings and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the world was dark. He was blinded to the material realm, but the world of fate revealed itself to him. As quickly as it came, the darkness was broken by thin lights all around him of varying colors. They were infinitely growing threads, with no top or bottom in sight, and in them flashed tiny images, too small to see. He felt like he was inside a loom. While his physical body was bound, in this realm he was free to move around how he wished, his will guiding him to the correct thread. Despite there being an infinite number of them, he waded through and reached the one that called out to him, that spoke to his will. When he touched it, his vision returned, and he was back in the prison.

There was only one change, and Dorian exploited it by pulling his hands from their bindings, the chains shattering like dried twigs. It was The Fate of Brittleness. One of the guards immediately ran out of the room, while the other brandished a short sword and charged the dragoon. Dorian concentrated and in front of him appeared... a blacksmith furnace. Burning coals caused an uproarious flame to separate him from the guard while he undid the shackles around his legs using the same Fate-Crafting as before. The process was exhausting, and sweat poured down his body while his consciousness nearly faded from the act.

With his body in pain from the excessive use of his ability, he willed the furnace away and then summoned a crafting table. It was not a very long table, but it was sturdy and made from good Salvic wood. He kicked it as hard as he could and it went flying into the confused guard's stomach, sending him falling to the ground. Dorian ran over to the table and grabbed his equipment, only having time to put on the Dragonet gear. He took the two pieces of the spear and they disappeared in his hands. It was a precious gift by Malanthar, and he had no time to repair it.

He grabbed the short sword from the fallen guard and was about to run out the door when a hand stretched from beyond it and pressed itself into his face, growing and surrounding his head. Its strength pushed him all the way back into the wall, and from behind the long arm Draug came into the room. The arm receded and Dorian slid down to the ground, gasping for breath.

"No matter how many times I take your memories, the secrets stay hidden," Draug said. "Your... ability... " Draug wanted to say more, but decided not to. At least now Dorian knew the reason for their knowledge. Draug was somehow extracting it from his head, albeit with limited success. The Abomination walked up to the young man and punched him in the gut, causing Dorian to cough up spit and blood. From behind Draug the other guard entered and helped the first one back up. "Use the potion."

The guards grabbed Dorian and removed his footwear, tossing them aside and holding his arms steady. Draug knew that he couldn't break Dorian's body without risking the use of the ability, so he took a potion from the table and splashed it over Dorian's body. "This is one of Memnar's favorite interrogation devices." He lifted a finger and pressed it gently into Dorian's shoulder.

"Nngh!" Dorian squirmed. He felt like he was just stabbed, and his whole body shivered. The potion somehow amplified his body's reaction to touch, causing him to feel extreme pain. Draug smiled and opened his palm, lightly touching Dorian across the chest. Dorian's vision went white and his knees buckled, only the strength of the guards keeping him up by his arms. He nearly passed out from the shock. Blood trickled down his mouth from where he bit his lip.

"You two should be able to handle him now. Don't let him sleep." Draug turned around and left the room, leaving the two laughing guards who balled up their fists. As the door closed, Dorian's screams could be heard from inside.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen wandered through the thick brush of the Concordian forest, his eyes scanning for any signs of traps or Cultists. Fallow, his dragonling companion, kept a measured calmness, but the immortal could tell the welp was concerned for the safety of his friend. Jensen too felt a nagging concern for the boy. Dorian and Jensen were two odd shaped peas in an odder shaped pod, but they were friends true enough. Much of their time at the castle had been spent training, and the two also talked about the future they were building. A future where the events of last night would never happen again.

“You’re flapping harder,” Jensen commented with a grunt, bending low to avoid a spider the size of his fist. His dagger came up and pierced into the thick belly of the insect, it’s whining barely audible as its legs curled around the blade edge. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” the dragon lied. He flapped higher into the air, looking side to side before he lifted a clawed hand and pointed in the direction of the mansion. Jensen pulled out a small rock, its surface was smooth and round, and as he held it he spoke directly to it, the rock turning red in his hand.

“Two miles north, heading east now.”

There was a pause before Jensen heard the voice penetrate his skull, the calming tone of Sei Orlouge speaking clearly to him. “Understood, continue on. I’ll be behind you shortly. Misery is also capable of a few quick jumps, but Aislinn insists he be used only for the attack in and the attack out.”

“I can’t disagree with that plan,” Jensen replied to the rock. The rock turned a soft blue and he lifted it to his ear.

“You’re about half a mile ahead of us. Continue on Captain Ambrose,” the words were crisp and efficient, the exact reason Jensen handed him the communication rock. He was one of Dorian’s Dragoons, the warrior helping him with the clean up during the early morning. The Salvarian man had taken the responsibility with a grimness, assuring Jensen he would do his part to retrieve his Captain. “We can use our enchanted boots to drop in quickly. Just send us the word and we’ll be there in less than three minutes.”

“Increase your speed and drop that to less than two minutes. I can’t hold out forever. Wetworks out.” Jensen lowered the rock to his pocket, closing his eyes and feeling a sudden wave of fatigue cripple him. Without realizing it he leaned against a tree, yawning loudly and popping his eyes open, punching a tree so hard his knuckles flared with pain. “This is going to be hard,” Jensen muttered. Fallow flapped nearby, looking to him with the eyes of one who wanted to say something, do something more, but also was aware just how limited they were in the situation.

“We have to press on! I can tell they are beating Dorian!”

“I know little guy,” Jensen insisted, moving forwards again. “But even with the best men we have, we’re all exhausted. Walking into the lion’s den in this state is going to be harder than I thought.” Fallow flapped ahead, leading the immortal on. “Don’t worry,” Jensen said again, following the dragonling. “The Cult will not kill another one of my friends…”

[El Diablo Perro]

Memnar observed Dorian in his cell, watching the boy like a hawk. Every minute detail suddenly was taken in, transcribed to paper, and thought over for hidden meanings. He was thought stripped of his gear, but Memnar had heard the scuffle, running to see Draug slam the Ixian back into his cell. He inquired with the guards what they had seen, but their reports were useless to him.

Only the data Draug could dredge up from Dorian seemed to be of any use. Even leaving the Captain with the earrings in hopes he would use his powers again had not gleaned new information. Annoyed he rubbed his eyes from the sleep he wanted. The Night of Debauchery still was fresh in his mind, but he had only taken lives. That wasn't why he went to ransack the Ixian castle. He went because of the powerful artifacts and tomes in Sei Orlouge's keep. Yet in the end he only assisted a colleague by the name Amelie Boheme find her lost treasure; Panacea: the miracle cure all.

Soft clicks of boots echoed behind him and he turned from his perch to see Amelie approach. She had a troubled look on her face, one that a person wore debating on how best to present information to another. There was no greeting to her opening words as she spoke his name, his real name, which indicated she was deeply troubled.

"Has he broke?"

"You know as well as I do that he has not," he replied irritably. The two gave each other a concerned glance. It spoke a thousand words instantly. "The terms have changed."

"If we do not get the fate-weaving from him, he is to die."

"I can get the information, but I need a day to pull-"

"We don't have that long," She interrupted quickly, waving a hand in the air with frustration. "Jebb Remi informed me that if the two of us cannot figure it out, he dies, and so do we."

Memnar rubbed the bridge of his nose. How did things get pushed so quickly forwards? Why was suddenly everything changing? He knew the variable, they were concerned with a sudden attack. But who could push them to this level?

"We have work to do then, how goes your Crimson Angel project?"

"Catherine is beyond my control. We gave her independent thought like Draug, but she became more aware of her personality. She's killed a ghoul and seven cultists, and now that she has calmed she remembers everything."

"So she cannot be controlled?"

"No, not at all. Even Jebb got an axe to his throat. Thats when he got angry and heard the news."

"What news?"

"Our ravens," she said ominously. "They detected Jensen Ambrose. He's coming for the cult."

Memnar felt a lump build in his throat. It wasn't the immortal that concerned him, but his goal. He looked back to Dorian and spoke quickly. "Get all your poisons and potions. We have to make him talk, now!"

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“He’s close,” Fallow said to Jensen, the immortal looking through the thick fog that had no earthly reason to exist. He barely, just barely if he squinted hard enough, could make out the trace edges of what may pass for a home. The dragonling and the knight moved cautiously, not sure where the entrance may lie, and where the more obvious problems may rest. He was positive there were some kind of traps and other nefarious means to keep people out.

By merely thinking it the trap had sprung, as if in answer to Jensen’s curiosity. Four men dropped from the trees, slowly as if repelling from something. They stood ready, hands at their side as Jensen looked to them and pulled out his throwing weapons. He let one fly, and the weapon hit the throat of his target. Instead of gurgling for air and blood spilling everywhere, the body merely collapsed. They all did in a creepy unison. Jensen looked to Fallow, who gave him a shrug. He turned back and looked to the corpses.

All of them were wearing Ixian insignias.

His fingers gripped the Zodiac Weapon Cancer’s Pincer quickly, the blade diving upwards as the sword swapped into scythe mode with an audible click, the immortal looking up to see a colossal abdomen with eight, fuzzy and segmented legs anchoring across a thick web as it scuttled to get behind him. Eight beady black orbs looked to him, mandibles chirping in strange speak. The fog made more sense now. With so many thick webs blocking the sun it was natural.

With a giggle the immortal rolled away, Fallow flying off, his body turning invisible or his speed incredibly fast. Either way Jensen didn’t have long to dwell on it as he rolled to his feet, the Concordian giant spider landing on the ground with two legs, followed by the remaining six as it snapped off the silky rope it dragged down from.

Jensen took his blade and aimed for a leg joint, the beast crying out in pain as he bisected it cleanly. It stumbled and received a mouthful of dirt and debris, the other seven legs pushing itself back up. Jensen moved on the attack, his body fueled by pure adrenaline now as laughter escaped his lips. He spun and twirled, cutting the beast spilling ichor and other fluids as it tried to ensnare him. Each time it darted for him he moved too fast for it finish him off, its mandibles clicking air as he retaliated with a strike taking two of its eyes. Jensen rolled back to a tree, ducking a strike that broke the trunk but didn’t tip it over. He rolled back forwards, letting the spider anchor itself against the tree.

The immortal grinned, made to move, but miss-stepped and tripped. He let out a chuckle of concern, eyes wide as exhaustion attempted to claim him. The spider saw the opening and struck hard, pinning one leg on the edge of his jacket. Jensen felt his body tug to be free, but he was tossed back and up before being slammed on the ground.

His body gave out quickly. He groaned, his eyes woozy and heavy from the impact as he strained to flex his fingers around the grip of his switchblade weapon. The spider maneuvered around him, turning him over and over as it prepared to wrap him up. Then he saw something dart in front of the spider, a strip of green flame blasting it in the face.

“Hurry! Run away!” Fallow cried as he flapped in front of the broken tree, preparing another wave of green flame. The spider, clearly annoyed, turned to the dragonling and charged, each spindly footfall digging deep into the earth. Jensen rolled onto his stomach, pushing himself up and half ran to the side. Watching as Fallow spat more fire into the eyes of the beast, flying up and over it. The spider slammed hard into the broken trunk of the old oak tree, and with a shatter of wood snapping the large wooden tower collapsed. With a cry the Spider realized too late what happened, and was crushed under the weight, abdomen exploding in gooey glory as Jensen covered himself from the guts.

Fallow flapped near him, the immortal sure of his presence. “We’re almost there,” Jensen nodded standing up and jogging. He could already hear the hissing sounds of the spiders mobilizing as he caught the sight of the massive Mansion home of the Cult of Blessed Torture.

[Paragon]

Jensen make a break for the mansion, hoping to reach it before any of the monsters that lurked in the darkness caught up to him. Fallow kept up with him in flight, but showed hesitation as he trailed behind. Why was this place never found before? The Ixian scouts could not have been missing long, otherwise they would have sent a followup squad. Fallow could only think that all this was recent, that the mansion was not occupied for very long. It had cracks running through its frame, its windows were just shards of glass barley connected to the frames, and vines grew in thick patches across the structure.

"Wait, Jensen!" Fallow yelled into the immortal's head.

Jensen stopped and turned around, "What's wrong?" Broken twigs snapped underfoot, and a dusty wind traveled through the spider nest woods. This whole place felt like a breeding ground.

"While you were fighting I scouted around. I think the mansion is a trap, we shouldn't go that way!"

The immortal shook his head, a few beads of sweat running down his chin, "We don't have a choice! If they figure out we're here, then Dorian..."

"Exactly! If we just barge through the front door, we're putting Dorian into danger! I've found an alternative way in with my dragon sight. There's a trap door nearby, follow me!"

Jensen followed the dragonling to the base of an old, rotten hollowed out log, and upon Fallow's instruction, kicked it as hard as he could until a section of it was in pieces in front of him. Digging through the debris, Jensen found a handle. He pulled, and a square-shaped door rose up from the broken log. "Good job, little buddy! Let's get our friend out of there!" Fallow paused at the mention of little buddy, a common phrase uttered by Dorian. He hoped they weren't too late as he descended down the dark tunnel.

They soon found themselves in a long, branching torch-lit hallway. The pattern of the stones that lined the floor and walls and the sense of deja vu that permeated the atmosphere gave Jensen pause.

"This place... it's just like Sei's Tomb. How is that possible?" Fallow took off in one direction and Jensen followed, a feeling of dread washing over them as they traversed the familiar-looking catacombs. "The Tomb under the castle housed dormant dragons... does that mean The Cult... ?"

They encountered a few stray cultists, but with Jensen's speed he was able to dispatch them before they reached for help. Soon, they reached a wooden door. Jensen nodded at Fallow, and then kicked it open to see two guards standing near a body...

"Dorian!!" Fallow screamed out, the telepathic message hitting everyone in the room.

"What's going on?!" yelled one of the guards. They both brandished their swords, but Jensen was already upon them, laying into them with maniacal rage and laughter. They were knocked out within moments.

Jensen kneeled down before Dorian, who was lying face first in a puddle of his own sweat, "He's still breathing! Let's get him out of here!"

Fallow flew in front of him, "Wake up, Dorian! Please!" Jensen lifted Dorian and threw the dragon knight's arm around his shoulder.

Dorian roused awake, his head feeling like it was about to split open, "...Ugh... J-Jensen, Fallow... is that you?"

Jensen grinned, "No time to catch up on old times, we need to go!"

The three of them made way towards the exit, and retraced their steps back to the tunnel they came in through.

[Paragon]

After a while, Dorian didn't feel it anymore. The pain, the stress, the searing hotness that coursed through his body. It all just faded away, leaving him empty, stuck in a void where time passed quickly. When Jensen found him, he could barely speak. He took step after labored step out of the room, supported by Jensen, encouraged by Fallow. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't think straight. Why was he here? Why did this happen to him? Delirium added to his exhaustion. He started hearing a voice in his head, but it wasn't Fallow.

You are nothing but a tool.

Dorian's blurry vision scanned the hallway, but there was no one else with them.

The Cult, The Ixians, you are nothing but an object for them. A purposeful fool.

Who are you...?

I am your doubt, your fear, your despair. As a Sesthali, you never dwell on any pain, but having experienced so much of it at once, I have come to the forefront of your subconscious mind.

What do you want?

I am the root of your self-preservation, the base instinct that every person has. This little Ixian adventure has gone on long enough. It is time you went your separate ways.

What...?

Dorian was shocked back to reality by a deep roar from far behind the trio. Jensen glanced behind, wondering what it was.

"...D, Draug..." Dorian stammered out between deep breaths.

"Is he?" asked Jensen. The ground started slightly shaking beneath their feet, bits of dust and rock vibrating more and more. Draug was on their tail and gaining fast. "You know, I think it's time I paid him back for all the shit he put us through. Hell, I've never even meet the guy, why don't I just take him out right here right now?"

"Jensen, you can't! You don't understand, this isn't a person... It's a monster!"

"I've fought monsters before," Jensen said, cracking his head. "We got Dorian, they have nothing on us now. We could take them all out!"

"Even I can see how tired you are, you haven't gotten any rest since the attack. And what if he ignores you and goes for Dorian? We can't take that risk!"

"Even if you say that, we can't outrun him like this. We have to make our stand."

Dorian pushed himself off Jensen, and limped over to the wall, nearly falling on it while reaching out and grabbing the stone for support. Sweat poured down his face.

"Dorian, what are you... ? Wait, don't! If you do that while you're this exhausted, I... I don't even know what will happen!"

With hoarse breath, Dorian pressed his palm into the wall. He clenched his teeth, his entire body shaking, barely able to keep him up.

What have they done for you? What do you owe them? This will not end until you're dead one way or the other.

You're wrong.

The voice was silent.

I may have tagged along at first, but after a while... I realized something. I was helping people. And I saw firsthand the kind of horrors instigated by The Cult. I will fight them, not because I'm some asset of the Ixians, but because I don't want to idly stand by while The Cult ushers in a world of chaos. I have traveled this beautiful world, and I will not let it be reduced to ashes, to let kindness turn to scorn and despair. I will do what I can, even if it costs me my life.

"Fate... of..."

"Dorian! Don't!

"...Brittleness..." With those words, Dorian collapsed. the walls around them did not appear any different at first, but cracks started running along the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The entire hallway was threatening to collapse.

Jensen quickly ran up to Dorian and got the unconscious dragon knight on his back. As the catacombs collapsed behind him, the threat of Draug had briefly subsided.

"We don't have much time!" lamented Fallow. "He'll find another way to us. We need to get as far away from here as possible!"

Fallow was right. This was only a temporarily delay. If Draug caught up to them, they were as good as dead.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

They moved in a hurry, Jensen's feet pounding the floor in heavy trots. He was beyond exhausted now, his endurance reaching the limit of what he was capable of. Nothing mattered but to get Dorian back to safety. He held onto his friend tightly, dropping to a knee at times as he huffed out each exasperated breath.

"I'm...to heavy..." Dorian was in a fog of his own and Jensen didn't bother to answer him as he just kept moving. HIs legs felt like they were on fire, filled with building tension until he was shambling forwards. The catecombs were long and twisted, and not even Sei knew which directions they all led. It was only rumored you could get to anywhere from the catacombs on Althanas. How hard Jensen prayed to find a trail he recognized.

"They can' be much farther! Find them!" The voice was feminene, cold, and harsh. Jensen cursed as he collapsed into a side wall, looking around for a more convinent place to hide than the open. The clicking of heels on stone alerted him to their location, followed by several boots slapping the ground hard.

He strained to hear them, know exactly how many there were, but the voice spoke up again.

"Jensen Ambrose," her voice was coy, sly with a confidence. "You cannot escape me this time." Jensen knew that voice, but he couldn't place where. And he didn't dwell for long as he lowered Dorian. He pulled out his weapons, their weight monstrous in his tired hands. "If we can catch up to you, then you should know you cannot fight us. Your tired and exhausted. Maybe some miracle Panecea can cure you."

"Amelie Boheme," Jensen replied walking away from Dorian and drawing attention to himself. Cultist feet stoped moving. Jensen kept walking forwards, into the open. Fallow flapping in front of Dorian.

"Be careful," the little dragon said. Jensen nodded. He had an idea that may just work. But it would be the last of reserve of strength for anything other than running. When he reached the location where Amelie was she was flanked by six Cultists who all had weapons trained on him. Jensen smiled to them all, a vile, wicked smile as he chuckled.

"It seems you do have a brain cell left to remember me," Amelie snorted with bitterness. "After you so eloquently stole my work!"

"You left me for dead," Jensen replied.

"I thought you were dead."

"Funny how that never applies to me," he giggled. She snapped her fingers once, and the Cultists jumped Jensen instantly. With a shriek of mirth he moved in, bringing his weapon up to claim lives.