Brother of my Blades

[Devin Argente]

(( Solo that is the sequel to Of Sterling Steel and Putrid Plot (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=3084). Reading the previous installment of this story is not expressly necessary, but can serve to provide the reader with greater insight as to why Devin acts the way he does, and is recommended to any who would like to add another piece to the puzzle of his general storyline. ))

Echoes of clattering steel shattered the silence that the stonehenge usually bore in blessing. He had never visited this inhospitable place, and yet he felt as though he'd been here a thousand times before. Snow-covered peaks as sharp as his blood-covered blades rose high around the scene. They grasped deeply into the lightless veil that secluded his peril even from the gods. Beads of sweat were as plentiful on his body as there were patches of dead grass on the soil, a reflection of his own desperation as it attempted to stay alive amidst the ever-encroaching, charred dirt that threatened to consume it. Another blow to his liver, fatal if struck true. He forced his weary left arm to meet it, and again a metallic clash ripped through his ears, almost making him wish that he'd chosen the alternative: the sweet serenity of death. An end to this anguish, this torment that induced haunting laments even from the twelve lifeless stones that surrounded the gruesome battle in a perfect circle. A flurry of quick blows. Each consecutive stab took exponentially more energy to block, and he felt that he was being driven back, driven back until there was no where to withdraw to, save for the cold embrace of his opponent's shortswords. To die, alone.

What he was fighting, he didn't know. It was a mere shadow, darker than the deepest night. The same shadow every time he came here, voiceless, formless, merciless. The silver shortswords in its hands were the only attributes that made it more dangerous than the plethora of other shades assembled inside the stonehenge. He knew that his foe did not tire, possessed skill that transcended human ability, and that everytime he managed to land a blow on its crepuscular entrails, a new arm grew out of its shapeless core. A new blade to fight. It strode forward relentlessly. All he could do was defend. Hope to survive. He parried another blow. He was waiting for something. Another clunk. But for what? Thick steel gashed through his abdomen, sending burning shocks through his entire body. Would aid come if he held the brutal shimmer off long enough? He jumped backwards, leaving a trail of blood to wetten the burnt floor. Where were his mercenaries? His associates? Of course! They were late! They would come and help him! A spark of hope lit up inside his chest, reigniting his fury. He spun around his axis and hit three shortswords away at once.

No.

The shade spoke, and the mountains trembled with fear. He was alone. His arms grew weary once more as the foreign thought overtook him. No willpower would prove sufficient to repress that dark voice that mirrored the inevitability of his fate afront his eyes. There was only one way out. He already knew what would come next, as though it were a play that he'd visited one too many time. His entire mind was put through a sieve as he concentrated, turning the depressing colours of the environment to mere shades of slate. Worry was sifted, separated, put aside. The blade-wielding darkness had not stopped its attack, but he knew what it would do. It had done so, so many times before. Time slowed to a crawl. He knew that this event would prove to be his saviour, and yet his fear of what would come was far greater than the six-armed darkness could ever hope to inspire.


Three swords from the left. Parried.

Two stabs from the right, then one through the centre. Blocked.

A shortsword flew from the shade's grasp, but he did not notice.

Double overhead slash.

He kicked into the darkness's core before the blades could reach him.
For once, it was affected.


Desperate diagonal thrust.


His left katar flashed upwards, severed the blackened hand from the shade's arm at the wrist.

It yelped in pain, was forced to retreat further.
Then he stood straight in front of it.

Both katars were thrust into the shadow's heart.


It should have brought relief. What he felt was all-consuming terror.



For he knew what he would see.


The shadow gained form and life as it dropped to the ground. A black jacket over a white vest that was quickly turning crimson at the bottom. Unruly, auburn hair spread out over the soil, mingled with mud and blood. Expressionless orbs of mahogany stared up at him from a pale, jagged face in disbelief, horror. Thin lips attempted to produce one final whisper, but life seeped out of the slender hull before they could finish their message. Devin Argente was dead. He looked down at his own attire. Black jacket, white vest. Crimson at the bottom.

He was dead.

[Devin Argente]

He awoke with a howl. As the shriek of terror ricocheted off the deserted hallways of the Argente Sanctuary, Devin sat up straight, his naked torso covered in sweat, his hard mattress drenched in humid fear. He breathed heavily, and felt incredibly tired, despite the fact that he'd gone to bed earlier than usual last night. He jumped up from the bed, his nightmare having been so terrifyingly real that even his legs had not been coaxed into paralysis by sleep. It took him several times to find the oil lamp that extended leisurely from the ceiling. When the flame inside it finally grew to satisfactory size, Devin noticed that he'd flung his blanket halfway across the room - while he was sleeping. Thinking back of the vivid dream sequence, he decided that it wouldn't have been strange for him to be moving. He had been fighting for his life, after all. He shivered. For his life, but at the same time against it. The eerie stonehenge, doing battle with shadows, win at the same time as lose... By day, it drove him into a frenzy that his peers could not understand. By night, it deprived him of rest. It had been so for a fortnight, and it slowly shoved him to the frayed ends of sanity.

A pounding headache slowly pulsed into his skull, and he sighed. No sleep for him tonight. Firmly pressing two fingers against his temple to fight off the piercing blows that tortured it, the ropy enforcer walked over to his closet. He was annoyed with the lock - it wasn't as compliant as usual, and he ended up nearly ravaging the key before he realised that he was wrenching it the wrong way. Angrily, he stepped backwards and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Careful now. Think before you act. This time, he opened the oakwooden doors without too much difficulty, opening the path to a batch of identical clothes. His own, traditional attire in twentyfold. Now that he'd left the warm embrace of his sleeping place, the subterranean air proved rather cold. Still, he did not feel much like donning the same garments as he'd worn in his dream. The garments wherein he would... die. He swallowed harshly. Didn't he have something different? No. He grimaced and put the prophesying effect of his dreams aside. It wasn't hard to predict in which clothes a person would die if they always bore the same outfit.

After drying the excess sweat with a fresh towel, he slipped into his black-and-white raiments, free from blood and dirt - much to Devins relief, although he tried to repress that feeling best as he could. Banning worry to the back of his mind, he stepped into the hallway, his black shoes gleaming in the artificial moonlight cast about by the teal fungus that covered the cavern's entire ceiling. Mosaics on the left and right walls reflected the fungal beams slightly, warping around a trail of different-coloured scintillas. Although his quarters included no clockwork, night could not have been much deeper. The entire Sanctuary breathed with calm, and Devin felt much like an intruder as his feet sent long-echoing thuds through the yawning stonework on the floor. Now that he was here, trudging aimlessly through the familiar maze wherein he had grown up, the heavy pain inside his head subsided. Although his mind was beyond normal fatigue, he could think clearly. He rounded a corner, and jumped backwards in reflex when he noticed that he was not alone. Apparently, an other too had found gazing at the mending mosaics a nicer way of spending the night than resting in bed.

"Devin, is that you?" The mellifluous voice struck him like lightning. Emerald eyes looked straight into his. He felt like he melted before her.

"Yeah," he replied as casually as he could muster - which proved rather difficult as the woman let a tanned finger run innocently through her long, chestnut hair. Devin was rather ashamed that his eyes rested on the upper part of her torso before noticing the bandages wrapped tightly around her abdomen; that wound was a remnant of the battle against the Skull of Radasanth - an injury for which Devin had partly blamed himself while he'd carried her to the healing chambers. "Anzala, shouldn't you be sleeping? You'll only make the wound worse if you move to much."

She smiled mischievously. "Nah," she replied, waving his spoken worries away. "The flesh is nearly whole. Want to feel it?"

Devin staggered backwards, bringing forth little more than the sound of a mouse being squeezed as he goggled at her suddenly lustful visage. As he returned to his feet, he saw that the faked desire had quickly turned into the white-teethed warmth of a genuine smile. The blush rising up to his cheeks must've been so ridiculously deep as Devin thought, for the mercenary burst out in well-meant laughter as she got a look at his face. "Oh Devin, you're soooo easy..." she chuckled. He would probably have made unkind gestures and sharp insults against others who attempted to make fun of him, but not when she was doing it. In fact, he suddenly felt rather good about entertaining her, although he didn't say a word. What was happening to him? Where was the focus, the math?

"So... we the only ones awake?" He gave another try at starting a decent conversation while he stepped closer.

"Apart from the smith and his forge, yes," she responded, still not permitting the grin to leave her face. Of course. The smith here was a Dwarf named Sedi, with a single, simple but effective motto: if ye're not hitting steel with hammer and anvil, ye're not living life properly. Presumably a veteran guard from Kachuk, Lodan Argente, Devin's father, had taken the robust Dwarf with him when he returned from one of his expeditions to Alerar. Most details surrounding Sedi's history were vague at best, but for some reason, the little smith refused to take any money for his masterful metalworks. The only thing he required was a smithy of his own, and a constant flow of rare metals streaming his way, allowing him to build new, lethal contraptions within days. His equipment had saved many an Argente associate's life on the job, and so there were few that regarded Sedi's presence here as unwished, even if the fellow drank more ale in one evening than seven Salvic barbarians could imbibe in a fortnight.

"I've asked Sedi to enhance my crossbow. He said it'd be ready by tomorrow, but knowing him, he already finished it yesterday," Anzala continued. "Want to go and pick it up?" she asked. Devin, who could not have hoped for better company this morning, nodded briefly. She stretched out her hand, but when Devin helped her up, she convulsed slightly. She continued to smile as she returned to her normal, proud stature, but the young Argente could see that she was in pain - and in some way that transcended his human understanding, that thought hurt him more than two dream-wielded katars ripping out his entrails.

[Devin Argente]

Sedi's forge was situated in the deeper parts of the Sanctuary, for practical purposes. After all, the sounds of a muscular Dwarf hammering steel and damascus twenty-four hours a day were fairly deplorable to any who longed to rest in their safe haven. Especially when the smith itself seemingly did not require any respite from his clamorous craft; at least, Devin had never seen Sedi stop to sleep. Now that he thought of it, it was amazing how the Dwarf retained his good-natured spirit amidst his metal-encumbered toil. Then again, Sedi wasn't human, and Devin knew little of the Folk under the Mountains, other than that they were hardy warriors and great craftsmen. Perhaps none of them ever slept. His thoughts were taken off the subject by dull clunks, resounding rhythmically in the distance. He smiled. No sleep needed, indeed. The ringing of hammer, anvil, and anything inbetween grew louder as Devin and Anzala drew closer. Where their path had first been illuminated by ceiling's cerulean fungus, it now flickered from orange to shadow in old-fashioned torchlight. The temperature had slowly risen, as well - perhaps that was the reason behind the fungi's gradual disappearance.

Considering the dimensions of many rooms in the Sanctuary, Sedi's smithy was of impressive size. It was furnished to suit Dwarven standards, with a ceiling too low for the rooms length and breadth. There were three, great fires opposite the entrance, the flames in each burning with different intensities, to suit the nature of the metal being worked in them. Weapon racks and armour stands lined every wall, obscuring the rocky thresholds with metallic glimmers as they caught and rebound the forgefires' redgolden rays. Several yards in front of each fire stood an anvil, black and sturdy, though far too close to the ground for any human smith to use. The clunking of hammers had stopped only just a minute ago, and yet Sedi was nowhere to be seen. Anzala knocked on a nearby rack, causing a beautifully engraved mythril helmet to fall to the floor with a hollow cadank; she quickly placed it back on its stead, embarrassed. Devin followed her as she stepped into the smithy slowly. Only when they were past the drawing desk that stood in the centre of the forge did they see something moving amidst the many armour pieces piled up in the left corner.

"Now where did'e put the damn thingy?" They heard mumbling from beneath the beautiful breastplates and greaves.

"Sedi?" Anzala requested politely.

"E'can't have threwn it away... Maybe..." the Dwarf continued as though undisturbed.

"SEDI!" Devin called out as Anzala looked at him, not knowing what to do. She was not renowned here in the Sanctuary, and - perhaps more importantly - not a member of Lodan Argente's biological family. Devin, on the other hand, knew full well that when his father died, Sedi's mysterious debt of which no one save for the Dwarf itself knew the contents had been passed unto him. The Dwarf could have taken offence to a shout on Anzala's part, but would never feel that way when Devin requested immediate audience, however boisterous. Strange folk, those Dwarves.

"Oops, big boss is calling," Sedi spoke and before long, a thick, bearded head stuck out from the heap of armaments. The smith's wrinkled face was covered completely in ash, and his beard - which Devin knew to usually be on the brighter side of red - was infested just as well. Nonetheless, behind the giant bristles that formed a moustache below a potato-like nose, a grin quickly appeared as he saw Anzala's slender frame standing close to his blood brother's offspring. "And look, he brought his girl with'em, too!" The Dwarf chuckled as he clawed his way out of the pool of metal he'd been digging in. Although he was annoyed with the Dwarf tackling his main problem with Anzala so lightly, he gave no retort - and neither did the auburn-haired beauty beside him. They looked at each other, and the feeling that came with the silence that followed bore much resemblance to a caterpillar crawling across his intestines. He looked at Sedi again, who'd already begun looking through the racks on the other side of the room. Anything. Anything to break away from the query in that green gaze.

"Sedi, we came here to..." he started as coldly as he could.

"Yeh, yeh, I know why ye came," Sedi interjected, dusting off his thick garments. Devin had always wondered whether those robes were made from some specific sort of enchanted yarn, as they never caught fire. However, at the moment his mind was trying to find a way how the Dwarf could have possibly known they were coming, in the middle of the nights. Before he could raise a question, Sedi returned to the workbench with a pair of strange contraptions which the enforcer recognised as the katars he had found in the deepest cavern of the Sanctuary: wooden cylinders, hollow, with roughly the diameter of Devin's lower arm. This time, however, the magnificent blades did not extend from the end of those handles; instead, they lay directly over the top of each cylinder. He looked at the Dwarf questioningly. Sedi took away his confusion: "I've made these lovelies retractable, so that ye can wear'em in public. Just switch this handle here," he spoke, and he put his arm into the weapon, taking hold of the handle and pulling it until it protruded from the top of the cylinder, "and the blades'll jump right out." Indeed, within a flash, the katars' silvery edges had sprung back to their original position. Devin nodded. He was pleasantly surprised: he'd only given the mythical weapons to Sedi for research.

"Thanks, Sedi. Have you found out anything about their history, as well?" he asked. Sedi's face darkened, as though he'd been preparing for the question and still could not quite handle the fact that he'd have to admit something he rather didn't.

"Yer blades are strange lil' thingies," he started out, hesitantly. "I can't make a dent in the stuff it's made from, and yet it doesn't seem to be any stronger than good quality steel. It's like it's some sorta... amalgamation, containing both metal and organic material. Like it can... grow. And that's why it's so strange..." his gruff voice fell still for a moment, before Devin spurred him out of his thoughts with an impatient gesture. "Katars aren't uncommon on Althanas, ye have to know, young'un. The Fallien military uses 'em. Back in Alerar, some of 'em Dark Elves preferred 'em, too, to enhance 'er martial arts abilities. But this material... The only ones who know to actually make metal alive, like this, are 'em Nekojin druids from Akashima." He stopped, but Devin remained silent, as though he hadn't entirely heard the Dwarf's words. "Ye know," Sedi clarified, "strange, hooded catmen wid'em stone circles?" The young Argente nodded absently, but inside his mind, he re-experienced his nightmare so vividly that he could not find the words to reply. Sedi shook his head, mumbling something along the lines of: youngsters and listening... before turning his gaze to Anzala.

"Eh, Anzala, girlie, 'f course I've got yer crossbow finished, too!" Anzala smiled as the Dwarf scurried away to yet another armoire, nearly choking in the layer of ash that was released when he opened the door. He returned with what Devin vaguely recognised as Anzala's small, trademark crossbow. However, Sedi's masterwork had crafted another, even smaller crossbow below the normal weapon, with a small cartridge of tiny bolts attached to it in the centre, maintaining balance throughout. Anzala took hold of it wide-eyed, and Sedi was visibly proud. "Took me a while to make, but 't was darn worth it. If we're talking 'bout Akashima, this 's the best thing that ever came from it. Repeatin' crossbow fire. Fires two bolts a second, 'ntil tha' cartridge at the bottom is empty. 'T contains only twenty bolts, so be careful - ten seconds of shootin', and ye're outta ammo. 'F course, the normal crossbow still functions, too." At a loss for words, Anzala showed her gratitude by hugging the Dwarf tightly - not the greatest of choices, for her wounded torso once again drove her into bodily spasms. Sedi and Devin quickly supported her as she breathed heavily, tears running from her eyes. Still, she looked at Sedi.

"Tears of joy," she started, although her panting suggested otherwise. "It's the greatest. Thanks a thousand, master Sedi." Devin did not echo her compliment, and Anzala pulled his ear hard before he returned from his pondering. "Yeah, thanks, Sedi. You're still the best."

"I know, I know," the Dwarf waved their appraising words away, but he was beaming with joy. "Now, out with ye, lads and lassies, I've got me some work to do." Devin attached his katars to his arms, and Anzala carried her new weapon with a respect that bordered on reverence. She couldn't stop talking about Sedi's craftsmanship all the way back to the upper parts of the Sanctuary, but Devin would later have to acknowledge that he hadn't heard a single word of what she'd said. He had made a decision.

[Devin Argente]

"To Akashima?!" Anzala's voice rang with utter unbelief as she followed Devin on the swirling staircase leading to the Santuary's exit. She winced as the last vestiges of her wound shocked through her body, but tried to keep up with the Argente's firm steps ever so impetuously. Although he admired her persistence, Devin could not help but feel annoyed by her continual rants - why was she trying to understand his decisions, when she couldn't possibly identify with the dreams he'd had? Chasing illusions was a waste of time, yes, but the wicked stonehenge that rendered him afraid of the nocturnal was more than just a nightmare. He felt the katars below the sleeves of his jacket, constricting his lower arms like wooden vipers, the retractable blades resting unseen below his elbow. Sedi's revelations had done little good for the relation between Devin and his weapons - where he had first felt like he was wielding stolen goods of ancient rulers, he now viewed the white-silver metal as a pair of leeches, slowly ingesting his sanity to the point where he would travel to inhospitable kingdoms, led by nothing more than a nightly phantasm and a Dwarf's vague conjectures. At least, that was what most of his peers thought he was doing.

Anzala did not let up on her verbal assault. "You're needed here, in Radasanth, Devin! The entire Sanctuary is in turmoil! Your family will be torn apart by those longing to replace your father! He's dead, Devin! Take your responsibilities, for once!" He had just passed the final stairstep when these words reached him, and he turned around immediately. His rugged features were expressionless as always, but his eyes spewed fire and brimstone upon the mentioning of the fate of his father. Anzala was taken slightly aback by the sudden reaction, but her eyes did not register fear, as he hoped they would have. Instead, he looked straight into green pools of pity. He turned around with jerking shoulder and resumed his march. What was happening to him? "Devin Argente," he heard behind him and the mercenary's voice stung with stubbornness. "If nothing will deter you from venturing out on this madman's quest, you'd better prepare to take me with you!" With his hand clenched around the lever that would open the pathway to the Chapel of Force, Devin turned around. This was getting ridiculous. Go with him? She was wounded, and the road to Akashima would not be without peril. Thereby, she had nothing to gain: he wouldn't be paying her. Still, she stood there, totally still, her fists on her hips, looking up at him with sheer challenge burning from her cheeks.

"No, you're not," he simply stated, again turning his back to her adamant stare. End of discussion.

"Yes, I am!" Or not. Devin sighed and once more turned to face her. Before he could assure her that she was definitely not going to Akashima, she continued to speak. "You see, Devin, I had this 'dream' last night. It looked terribly 'real'. In it, some shadow told me that I should go wherever you went, if only to make sure that your sorry arse doesn't wind up dead!" If Devin felt hurt by her jeer about his own dreams, he did his best not to have Anzala notice it. He did grit his teeth at the foolish woman's reasoning - she had made an argument that he couldn't declare void without making a laughable concept out of his own decision to go to that semi-independent, snow-covered state near the Comb Mountains. He sighed in a sign of acquiescence. If only he had never told her about his dreams in the first place...

"Fine," he gave in. "But make sure you pack enough warm clothing. And enough ammo for that new crossbow of yours. We'll be in for a rough ride through no man's land." But this last attempt at proving that he, Devin Argente, was still the leader of this operation was quickly dispersed when Anzala eyed him with a contemning grin on her lips. Nice lips. Stop thinking that! "E've been threw more already than ye'd ever hope to see, young'un," she gave a near-perfect impression of Sedi's belittling accent. What? She was exactly one year younger than him! Devin didn't know when she'd started doing mercenary work, but it couldn't have been before he'd drawn first blood on his very first assignment! He felt himself at a loss for words; now that he thought of it, that happened far too often when Anzala was around. He wasn't used to not having a retort at his disposal, so he stayed silent and still, chagrined by his defencelessness. Anzala's smile broadened as she turned around to go back downstairs, stating that she would have to see to her own rations for the journey. Devin could have sworn that he heard the echo of well-meant laughter rolling through the Sanctuary once she was out of sight.

That woman...

He couldn't help it. He smiled as well.

[Devin Argente]

Anzala trembled as the unforgiving cold pierced her flesh, numbing muscle and skewering bone without mercy. Her face, usually bearing a healthy tan, was nigh vampiric in tincture, and no matter how hard she pressed her cheek against Devin's shoulder, the rage of the winter would not renounce its icy assault on her soft features. Why had she done it? Why did she travel through a godforsaken realm of subzero temperatures? She looked up at the one that guided the great horse she sat upon to their destination. Devin's face was stern, his face no paler than usual, but she could feel the shivers that undeniably traversed his body, although they were much less in amount and force than those that pestered her own. Why had he done it? He had said that he had wanted to find out about those foreign weapons of his. And, of course, the dreams he'd had. Anzala could not believe that someone like Devin, who was a known sceptic of the supernatural, would journey through wintery wastes merely on the account of a repeating nightmare. Ever since their awful encounter with the Skull of Radasanth in the Sanctuary, ever since he'd taken hold of those damned katars, he'd changed. Whether it was for the better or the worse, she could not yet tell. He was acting intuitively, and even though that sudden sway had brought her with him to these frozen wastelands, it had also served to make the man susceptible to her flirtatious ruses. He looked down at her, and she looked away, afraid that in her eyes, he would see what she craved; something that she could not make his mathematical mind understand, yet.

In the meanwhile, Devin's thoughts were mostly focused on what he would do once they reached the subtly named Capital City. To be honest, he had no idea of where to start. Sedi had mentioned Nekojin druids, but he couldn't just start asking around about those, could he? He did not know Akashiman society too well, but if somebody asked him about half-beasts forcing ritualistic life into blades of suspect origin, he'd probably be venting his goodbyes before the conversation could actually finish. Another merciless gale bashed against his face, ripping him out of his pondering and into reality. He could hardly move his lips, and his forehead hurt immensely with the frost rushing over it, but the rest of his body was rather comfortable. The fur coat he'd taken with him had proven a life-saver, indeed. He looked down. Anzala, who had judged her normal winter armour enough to withstand a ride north through the open plains, was alike a porcelain doll in his lap - fragile, unable to fight off the grasp of Akashima's icy touch. She had insisted on sitting in front of him, like all women did, even when he explained that the freezing winds would besiege her unceasingly if she did. Now that she sat there, crumpled up against the warmth of his furry attire, he felt bad about not having pressed the matter back then. Of course, it wouldn't have helped any against the mercenary's indomitable determination, but it would have spared him the guilt that weighed on his shoulders today.

If everything went according to plan, they should be reaching more civilised lands in half a day or so. It could take less than three hours if he forced the black steed to gallop at full speed, but he did not, for fear that the beast would collapse in fatigue or trip over the ice sheets that lay hidden beneath the snow, leaving them without transportation in these wildlands without food or drink, at a time where they had already been forced to eat only one ration a day. At the moment, he saw absolutely nothing that suggested human intervening in nature's ways. Wherever he looked, he saw the foothills of the Comb Mountains covered in a sea of snowflakes, several lonely spruces embellishing the pristine landscape here and there. In the distance that Devin presumed to extend north, he could see the sharp contours of the Comb's peaks. To a man that had spent most of his time inside Radasanth's walls, where buildings stood more cluttered together than chambers in an antheap, this void of ice and clouds was as miraculous as it was deadly. However much he'd prepared for the journey, Devin could not wait to sit at a warm hearth again; perhaps to be able to feel his fingers again, too. He eyed Anzala again. She'd need more warmth than one hearth could offer... Despite the cold, he turned red-faced by the images that entered his mind, and he quickly reverted to thinking about how he would get in touch with the Nekojin druids.


Thud... Thud... Thud...


It took a while for the unfitting sounds to register in Devin's mind. The monotonous cold had driven the rider to shut out all but one purpose: to reach Akashima's capital. However, the dampened throbs grew greater in volume at an alarming rate, as though something were closing in at high velocity. Devin looked around, alarmed, keeping his hands clenched tightly around the horse's reins. He felt Anzala's head turn, too, but she couldn't look over his shoulder, since the cold had taken away much of her ability to move on the saddle. Not that it mattered much, for Devin's eyes perceived nothing but snow and clouded sky. The threatening rumbles drew even closer, and the young Argente involuntarily drove the steed to greater velocity with a few short jerks of the reins. This only seemed to enrage their unseen assailant, as the thuds became louder and more rapid in succession. Devin could feel the earth shake beneath the black horse's hooves. There was no need to spur the steed on more, for the terrified beast's ears lay flat on its neck, and it had already burst out in a powerful sprint. Anzala held on to his coat as though her life depended on it, and he himself bent slightly forward to reduce the chilling winds being smashed into his face by the sheer pace at which they were fleeing.


Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. CRASH!


A humongous frame burst out from the soil in their wake with a horrifying roar. Paralyzing fear caught hold of their limbs, and the only thing that was keeping them from being devoured by the worm-like monstrosity behind them was their horse's instincts. Devin could not have felt more empathic with the animal. Faster! FASTER! his mind raged, purposefully blind to the danger behind them, his eyes entirely focused on the roadless path ahead. He did not know how many minutes went by, could not bear to count the horrific screeches that the Mountain Worm pursuing them exerted whenever their horse barely escaped from its hungry jaws. The wild steed surpassed even the great speed that was commonly attributed to its species, drawing on pure, primal horror to fuel its strained muscles; yet it was that same horror that rendered the beast reckless and single-minded. Devin knew what would happen before the horse's hooves slid away into the snow, its charge for survival finally ended by the treacherous frost that snowfall had concealed. He slipped his feet out of their braces, and made sure to hold Anzala as he leaped away from the uncontrollable steed. It was fortunate that the worm was just as surprised to see them so suddenly diverging from their straight route, for it had merely needed lower its head to instantly ingest its flying prey. As it was now, the monster passed them obliviously, its eyes firmly set on the tasty steed that slid onward over the white surface.

The landing was harsh and painful, but the thick layer of snow prevented their bones from being broken. Sore and devastated, Devin stood. Anzala did not. A spark of terror nestled itself into his heart as he kneeled down at her side. He was relieved to feel that she was still breathing, however slight, and that she was merely unconscious. Perhaps she had been so ever since that chase began. He couldn't quite remember anything, as if his memory from the monster's emergence to their fate-defying leap from the horse were a gaping black hole, filled with naught but the feral will to stay alive. The ground rumbled once more, stronger and stronger as seconds passed. Devin knew what it meant, and yet, he took his time to get up and turn around to face the worm's gaping maw. Innumerable teeth lined the predator's circular mouth in multiple rows. Devin was shocked to see part of his horse's saddle inbetween. The stench that the beast's slimy body emitted was unbearable, its bestial roars triumphant. He wanted to step back. His heel touched Anzala's spiritless body, and he sighed. Sighed not because he was afraid, but sad that it should end this way.

The creature's shadow descended upon him. The last thing Devin remembered before blacking out were the echoes of battlecries in the distance, and another hard screech from the worm as he finally managed to make his katars shoot out of his sleeves. Too late.

[Devin Argente]

He regained consciousness slowly. At first, his sight was drowned in a sea of swirling colours, and he squinted his eyes with a groan, turning his head away from the painful luster. He was surprised to find out that he pressed his cheek tightly against a warm surface of carefully braided wickerwork. Lifting his head from the comfortable mattress with furrowed brows, he figured that he was surprised to even be alive. Again, he felt the darkness of the wormbeast's wide-open mouth close around him, smelled the stench of a thousand corpses. He shivered. How could he not be dead? As much as his limbs ached, he could not resist his desire to know what had transpired. With effort, he heaved his upper body up from the bed he'd been placed upon, sitting up straight and waiting until his eyesight returned to him. When it did, he scanned around the room he was in - if it even were a room... He ran his fingers along the 'wall' next to his bedstead. It bent slightly under his touches, and the texture reminded him of deerskin, affirming the thought that he found himself in a tent. There was no fire to warm the habitat, yet due to the tent's cone-like form and isolating materials, the temperature was comfortable enough for him to get out from beneath the sheets, even though he was only wearing his undergarments.

Sitting on the edge of the low wicker platform, he noticed that while not of architectural brilliance, the tent did harbor a distinct atmosphere. Each of the eight tanned deerskins that converged to a central point several yards above ground level was adorned with mysterious black-and-white paintings. Most did not portray the famous humans or battles many nobles back in Radasanth would have placed inside their mansions. Instead, they showed feline creatures, running through pastures and over hilltops - the drawings were so full of motion that the depicted creatures appeared to run freely around the tent, again and again, travelling the same road ad perpetuum. He pulled his gaze away from the strange images because a wave of dizziness overcame him. His gaze jumped from the tent itself to its contents. The furniture was little more than functional. A single, round table stood in the middle of the shelter, with two reed-braided pulpits around it. Devin had been allowed to rest on one of them, suggesting that they were used for both sitting and sleeping. The other platform was empty. Empty? Where was Anzala? Had she survived, too? Before he could lose himself to worry, Devin inhaled deeply and focused on the main problem. He first had to find out where he was, and who had been so kind to bring him here.

A glimmer in the corner of his eye drew his attention. He turned his body to the triangular entranceway to get a better view, but before he could properly discern the shadow that peeked around the deerskins, he heard faint giggling and all that was left for him to look at were the curtains that served as a primitive doorway, bellowing in the breeze outside. Curiosity drove him into an attempt to arise, but his legs would not properly support him, quickly returning his backside to the makeshift bed. He listened intently to the goings-on outside, but all he descried were the high-pitched voices of children playing outside, with the occasional man or woman growling warnings at them in an oblique dialect wherein the 'r' was pronounced with a rolling quality, and the final syllable of each word was seemingly assimilated by the first tone of the term that came after it. In all, Devin could not quite understand what anyone was saying; if somebody told him he was no longer in Corone, he'd be inclined to believe it. Wheezing at fate's ugly contrivances, he stretched his legs out in front of him, stimulating his knees with the palms of his hands. Soon, a tingling feeling spread through his legs, repowering the muscles with fresh blood. The ability to walk would a most welcome addition to the rather limited supply of schemes he had left.

"Y'mit notizzat bloodztrim dznt returny zily to thoz'ho inhaleze toxzof Bonvirn,"* a voice resounded from the tent's entrance. Although the speaker was much closer now, Devin still could not make much of the strange tongue in which he spoke. He turned to face the visitor and had to repress a shriek of fear as the owner of the growling voice stepped nearer to him. Due to the creature's bipedality and the correct number of physical features in the correct places, many would have called it humanoid, but in Devin's opinion, past those rough similarities, the comparison reached a dead end. The stranger wore a simple, white gown with long sleeves from which protruded four-fingered hands covered in fur, exhibiting pointy and yellow-hued nails. His feet were little less beastlike, with the arched, long toes of a sneaking predator. The gown's hood was down, whereas the young Argente would have preferred to see it casting shade over the being's head. A large mane of copperbrown hair framed a fur-covered face that was altogether out of proportion: the cheeks and nostrils jutted out from the surrounding skin, forming a big snout over a jagged jaw. Fangs lay over the beastman's lower lip, which was deformed into a curl that few would have mistaken for the grin it was. Devin was speechless.

"Wzematter?" The lion's eyes twinkled with inquiry as it observed him sharply, and he suddenly felt like prey, trapped, his fate sealed. He shifted uneasily in his seat, looking into golden eyes wherein lay a spark that he mistook for ravenous hunger. Silence ensued as the two pairs of orbs kept locked, neither body performing the slightest motion - Devin's out of fear, the other's out of curiosity. Then, entirely unexpected, the bipedal lion threw its head into its neck and slapped its forehead with its right paw, letting out a stuttering outcry as though it were laughing. "Of courz," it spoke with snickering bawl, and Devin was abashed that the creature spoke in a language he could understand. "I alwayz forged thad humanz have a hard time underztanding our lingo..." As if that explained everything, the lion comfortably sat itself on the wicker stead opposite Devin, who suddenly felt compelled to shove his body slightly more backwards. His eyes shifted endlessly in their sockets, his gaze travelling all over the tent. Where were his katars when he needed them most?

"You speak Common?" he asked hoarsely, hoping to provide the hunter with food for conversation rather than a taste of actual meat.

"No, I growl id," the lion commented dryly, whereupon it chuckled at its own joke. Devin frowned. A lion was trying to outwit him? Well, at least it hadn't proved to be hostile. And it couldn't be worse company than a carnivorous worm, could it? He repositioned himself slightly. His choking desire for information crawled up from his lungs, unleashing itself in a barrage of questions.

"Where am I? Where is Anzala? Where are my clothes and weapons? How did we get away from that slithering horror in the foothills? And what are... you?" The final question shocked out of his dry throat only hesitantly, for it wasn't the politest question to pose. However, the lion appeared to take no offence, brushing a long nail through its mane as Devin rattled on, until the pale enforcer had no more air to utter. It took its time before it responded to his queries.

"You're in Hanpahach, a Nekojin zettlement zeveral milez wezt of Ninyama Village, where ze zpirit watchers rezide. I am Nanpach, one of ze village elders." Devin's eyes brightened. Nekojin? So he wouldn't need to ask about their whereabouts, after all. Could this half-human be a druid? The Argente eyed the lion-man more carefully, but it didn't seem to notice as it continued its line of replies. "Ze female iz in bad condition, but she will zurvive. The cold haz pierzed her lungz, making it hard for her to breathe." Concern etched itself into Devin's mind, but the prospect of fulfilling his journey's goal was still too fresh in his mind for the worry to push it back. "My daughter will bring you your clothez when I take my leave. And the ztory of ze worm iz not mine to boast, but I will show you ze hunter that zaved your livez, later." The Nekojin kept its jaws clenched together to maintain the silence that followed, but Devin instantly realized that the lion was leaving one piece of the puzzle unspoken - unfortunately, it was the very piece Devin had made the entire, wretched journey for.

"What about my weapons?" he asked cautiously. The Nekojin's snout jarred, and the smile disappeared.

"Ze zilver armbladez? Zamari took zem az payment. A trophy for zaving an innozent's life." Nanpach spoke quickly, monotonously, as though getting it over with quickly would lessen the blow it would be to the Argente. "But ze woman ztill haz her bow," the elder added even more swiftly. It was but a raindrop on the flaming forest of Devin's seething fury. His katars, taken as a price? For a moment, he wondered whether he would go find this 'Zamari', and show him just how much exactly he liked his belongings being taken from him. He wanted to scream in annoyance, but produced nothing more than a groan. He'd found the Nekojin... but he'd lost the object that had brought him to them in the first place. He sat down and grabbed his forehead with both hands. He couldn't steal the katars without having a village of vengeful Nekojin on his tail. Shaming the trust of his saviours might very well be enough incentive for their druids to refuse to help him. There had to be a solution, somehow. There just had to be. All the while, Nanpach watched him, sitting helplessly. He arose, his furry face void of emotion.

"I zee zat zese weaponz were very dear to you. But a claimed trophy cannot be retaken but through blood, and it would be very unkind to repay ze one zat zaved you wiz death," the elder enunciated. Devin sighed and buried his head deeper in his palms. Nanpach left the tent silently after assuring him that he would be brought all of his clothes. Too angry to reply, the enforcer nodded slightly and grunted: "Thanks, Nanpach."

[Devin Argente]

Back safely in his Radasanthan attire and warm coat, Devin felt much calmer. He paced around the camp-like village that the Nekojin had erected in the steeper parts of the Comb's foothills. His fur-lined boots crunched the thin snow beneath his feet with every step he took. The orange hue of sunset crept over the snow-filled road that led back to his home, veiling the many huts and tents of the beast-people with heatless fire. It would have made for a fine painting, but of course, the Nekojin would never see the aesthetics of such lifeless ambience - it was clear that they much rather depicted life. Wherever Devin looked, he saw drawings of moving Nekojin, composed from black, white and sometimes crimson. Engraved on their pottery. Knitted into their clothing. According to him, those were the last vestiges of the beast-people's will to run free, a feral instinct that appealed to their most primal desire, a craving that they could never realize without becoming hunted down by full-blood humans. The Nekojin's instincts were much more present than his own, and however gallant they acted, Devin had seen the reticence in the large eyes of Nanpach's daughter while she brought him his clothes, the fright of the children when he casually walked the paths of Hanpahach. He did not know much about the beast-people of Akashima, but from what he'd read about them, they were not treated as second-rank citizens, and lived peacefully with the rest of Akashima. Why would bears and lions be scared of a small, lean man like him? He'd asked Nanpach about it, but the elder had refused to yield any insight.

"Heyo!" The girlish voice behind his back drew his gaze away from sunset's coppery gleam. He was surprised to notice that his ponderings had led him to stroll out of the camp mindlessly. Barely audible footsteps hopped over the snow behind him, and he turned around just in time to stop the onstorming small creature from bouncing into him. "You can't leave the village. It's dangerous out there!" she squealed as she took a small step back. Devin looked at her and had to repress a chuckle of disdain. The girl's height was unimposing, as her head narrowly came to his chin, and although her body was built rather athletically, her appearance did not reflect the despotic image she was trying hard to convey. She was more human than any Nekojin he'd seen so far; there was no fur on her flat body, but she did sport large, green eyes and pointy claws for nails. Apparently, his doubts as to her authority could be read on his face, for the Nekojin planted her fists firmly into her hips. Devin swallowed. He'd seen that pose too many times to not know what it meant. Trouble. He tried to direct his voice in apology, but was not allowed a chance.

"You could at least pretend to be a bit more respectful! You owe me your life, you know!" She uttered childishly, her thin nose pointing up at the sky in attempt to look aristocratic. When Devin did not respond, she inclined her head slightly, only to meet with mahogany orbs wherein incredulity and ridicule strove for supremacy. The Nekojin's face flushed with indignity. "Don't insult a huntress!" Her movements were lightning-quick. Within a second, she stood diagonally in front of him, only a pace away. A clawed right hand cleaved the air towards his face. Years of martial arts training immediately flooded back into his mind. He leaned his left arm against the girl's frail lower arm while stepping around her in a circular motion. She seemed to be taken off-balance by the movements, balancing on the tips of her toes with her back arched uncomfortably. Just when Devin wanted to driver her down to the soft bed of snow, she growled and jumped up, flipping her body backwards. Still clinched with her arm, Devin had no time to get away, and no tool to block the naked feet that carved a crescent path towards his skull. The impact was devastating; the world turned black for a second or three, and when he came to, he found himself lying in the snow, the proud Nekojin bent over him, one nail extended dangerously close to his groin.

"You can choose to lose part of your foolish pride and apologize, or you can lose the pride that every man would rather die for than forfeit," she hissed. Devin swallowed harshly. She wouldn't. He looked deeper into her furious emeralds. No, she would.

"Yeah! Yeah! I'm sorry! Remove the nail!" She did so, hesitating, far too fond of the dominating power her current position gave her. Devin sat upright. Warm relief slithered down his spine, relaxed his tensed entrails. He got up, careful to look the Nekojin straight into the eye this time. "So... you are Zamari, I presume?" he queried innocently. In rhetoric, of course, but the girl seemed all too eager to reply.

"Yes, I am Zamari, the Huntress of Hanpahach." A broad grin split her face in two while they walked back into the village; her earlier hostility seemed to have molten away like snow made way for the sun. At least, the snow in Radasanth did. Here, the winter sun seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the thin veil of alabaster snowflakes that crunched beneath his feet. A wave of homesickness meandered through his gut. Realising that he was daydreaming, he returned his attention to the huntress who had so gracefully floored him only moments ago. The back of his head still pounded with the beating it had received. Zamari looked at him, questioningly. Devin felt rather anxious. Had she asked a question while he had been caught up in pondering? He didn't fancy another backbrain kick. Needless to say, he felt alleviated when she repeated herself without entering another fit of rage. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" he responded absently, confused.

"How do you keep your face so still, so inscrutable, like a masked snake?" She didn't notice the paradox in her own words. Devin struggled to find an answer; he'd been asked that question many times before. It wasn't a feat that anyone had ever taught to him. He'd just been able to do it from childhood, as though it was an inborn trait, inherited from his progenitors. Still, he was quite sure that his late father had not been able to perform it, so that was not a satisfactory response. All he could come up with was: "I don't know, huntress. It's as if you're asking a lion how it knows how to hunt. It just does." She seemed rather taken aback by his evasive analogy, but a smirk of amusement quickly covered up the confusion his retort had caused. "Are you a lion?" she asked mischievously. He scratched his head, wondering briefly how he managed to get himself into these situations, time and time again.

"Only if there's no way to be a masked snake," he spoke softly. Although she was rather good-looking and more human than any other Nekojin he'd met, Devin did not fancy having a cat-girl as a casual flirt. Or is it because you hope for the love of another? He pushed the thought back to the void it had sprung from, but could not quite shake the itch it awoke inside his stomach. The two of them ambled over Hanpahach's snow-filled paths. Zamari was an avid teller of tales, and even if only half of them were true, the Argente reckoned that she'd seen much, maybe too much, in her life. Her eyes sparkled viscerally whenever she described how her claws tore through yet another enemy. The story of the Boneworm was very impressive, but Devin had not been conscious at the time, and so could not verify its truth. Zamari perceived battle as something natural, an inevitable clashing of the fates of two different creatures. Although refreshing, Devin could not quite comprehend on the wildheart philosophy, perhaps because it was so different from his own approach to life.

The burn of sundown was slowly being overtaken by the murky, deep black of winter's night. Even inside his coat, Devin could feel the chilly breeze biting at his skin. He looked to his left. Zamari was silent. She seemed unaffected by the mountain's icy grasp. He had wanted to ask her why she had taken his weapons when she'd saved him from the Boneworm, but it was late, and he figured that it would be better to ask in the morning, after a good night's sleep. Somehow the prospect of confronting her with what he thought of as a crime irked him. The Nekojin's passionate personality incited vague sympathy in him. Yes, tomorrow would be a better time. He took one last look at the Comb Peaks as twilight slowly shielded them from sight. He must have taken longer to gaze at the horizon than he first thought, for Zamari tugged at his sleeve impatiently.

"Devin, it is time to go to sleep. See you in the morning," she stated rather formally. She turned around and walked away, but Devin was quick to catch up with her.

"Wait a minute, Zamari. Anzala? How is she? I haven't seen or heard of her the last few days. I... I'm worried," he uttered hoarsely. She looked at him, her face expressionless, but there was a twinkle in her eyes that Devin could not discern the source of.

"I'll take you to her," the huntress offered. Devin nodded gratefully, and stepped firmly in her wake. She led him to a tent much like any other, and without even knocking or giving any signal, she pulled away the curtain blocking its entrance. With a gesture, she invited him to enter first. Devin crouched and moved through, into the welcoming embrace of contained flame.

[Devin Argente]

The tent's main area was cut off from sight, a corner crafted into the portal so that the Comb's reaping cold would not be able to impair the recovery of the illnesses caged within. Devin heard Zamari crawl past the cloth behind him, silent as the nightly wind that cleansed the outside of each Nekojin residence with passionate whirring. No sound came from Anzala's berth. Could she be sleeping? He hoped not; it would be rather embarassing for the uttering of his worry to meet only with snore and silence. He swept aside the next, thick batch of draperies that shrouded his destination. The two visitors quickly slipped inside. Warmth fondled at Devin's skin. The sharp scent of healing herbs pervaded his nostrils, brought on uninvited tears. He wiped his eyelids dry while his senses accustomed themselves to the torrid atmosphere. He looked around. The tent was far more furnished than his own quarters. A soft carpet of deerskin covered the ground, and a soft mattress slept on wicker supports on the far end of the room. Waves of heat constantly emanated from a brick fireplace, a tower that furrowed smoke up high and out of the chamber. Multiple stands littered across the room displayed roots, grasses, and vials with liquids of questionable origin. And that was it. No living, no breathing. No Anzala.

"Where is she?" He turned to Zamari with a frown of annoyance as the feverish warmth extracted beads of sweat from his forehead. The huntress remained silent, and did not seem affected by the heat, which only added to his vexation. Her eyes were locked in a glazy stare, and one of her clawed fingers absently ran over her right thigh. She appeared mesmerized. Devin sighed. In disappointment, he turned around to leave the uncomfortable embrace of swelter, but he quickly found himself in another. Before his mind could connect with his body, he found himself pressed flat against the ground, the sultry catgirl pressing his arms down. For a moment that would have best been spent otherwise, he was surprised at her strength. He uttered a growl of query, but his lips were quickly sealed by hers. His mind went blank, and the huntress took the opportunity to shove her arms under his neck, keeping their mouths locked tight as Devin finally started to resist. This can't be happening, this is wrong, this must stop!

Cloth rustled in the background as Devin managed to sit upright, trying wildly to separate his face from the Nekojin's. The white draperies next to him moved, split apart with a taste of the outside chill. A surprised gasp. Although he would be faced with fate's sardonic sense of comedy many more times in his life, the young enforcer would always consider this moment the greatest example of its dark ambiguity. His mental rejection of what was happening grew stronger, and his arms finally managed to push the catgirl away to a more prudent distance. Too late. He crawled up to his feet and tried to look Anzala in the eye, not quite knowing how to explain. He was spared the blame in her gaze, however, for she was looking expressionlessly at Zamari. The huntress still lay on the ground, her arms and legs cradled together in a show of vulnerability. Very slowly, she turned her tanned face to Anzala, fearful, as though the chestnut-haired mercenary had struck her. Anzala remained silent, and to Devin, she did not seem furious. Of course, if there was one thing on Althanas he did not understand, then it was the treacherous spider's web known as a woman's emotions.

"Zir'gaash," she stated gutturally while she pointed her finger at Devin's chest. For some reason, those words evoked a dark red flush from Zamari's cheeks. He was more confused than ever. Seeing how Zamari understood the word, Anzala must have spoken in Nekojin language. But how could she have learnt that tongue when she should have been in bed, recovering from her wounds? What had she been doing outside, anyway? Zamari nodded slightly in Anzala's direction and, without giving him a second glance, jumped out of the room and fled into the night. Anzala turned to him with a questioning look in her emerald orbs, and Devin knew that his questions would have to wait until a later time.

"Listen," he started, trying to stay calm and choosing his words carefully. "I can explain. We were just..."

"...fondling around?" She added before he could continue, not moving a muscle. He looked her in the eye. She was not angry. His confoundment reached a peak. Was the whole world going crazy?

"No. No! Really!" His words gained in volume and desperation as she turned around, her irresponsive back now facing him. Her hands went up to cover her face, and Devin heard her breath shake. "No! Anzala, I didn't know what was happening," he struggled to find the right words and wanted to impale his heart for every single one he could not find. The shaking became heavier. This was going the wrong way. Several more forlorn attempts at making amends left his lips before he noticed that the mercenary's breaths were far too high-pitched for her to be crying. He stood frozen as it dawned on him. She was laughing. Laughing! Devin felt his sanity slowly tilt over the edge as she turned around, and indeed, tears of laughter pearled in her eyes as she looked at his downcast frame. He stood completely silent as her laugther slowly faded away to a giggle. She wiped off her face and walked across the room to sit herself on the mattress. Devin did not move, afraid that a fissure would open beneath his feet to send him to oblivion. As he viewed things now, anything could happen.

"Devin, now listen to me." Her voice sounded amused, but pity was interweaved with her words. "You should have known better than to bring a Nekojin at the height of puberty to this place. The herbs here warp their hormones into a cyclone of eroticism. She could not help it." She paused as she looked intently at his upper arms. "Although I would have thought you'd easily be able to push one little catgirl away with those arms of yours," she added with a smirk. An explanation. Finally. He felt somewhat assured that he'd just been out of the loop, and that people weren't going crazy for no reason. He ignored the stab at his pride. He somehow felt he'd earned it. Instead, he vomited questions in her direction, hoping that she could at least partly enlighten him.

"Weren't you sick? What's happening here, why are all the Nekojin ignoring me? How do you know so much about them? How can you speak their language?" He inhaled deeply, prepared to fire another round of queries, but she gestured him to calm down. Her soft features curled into a grave expression.

"Yes, I was sick, but I was cured several days ago. I was denied all contact with you," she said, more sonorous than usual.

"What? Why?" he responded as events and memories began to dance around his head once more.

"I don't know exactly. They think you're some sort of demonic harbinger..." Devin's jaw dropped. This was ridiculous. A demon, he? Before he could sputter refusals, Anzala continued. "It's not you, it's those blades you carried. The elders told me that your katars bore Nekojin magic, but not in its pure form. It had been mingled with something murky they denounce as demon blood. They think that, in your hands, those blades will cast catastrophe over the village. They think you summoned the Boneworm that was trying to kill us in the foothills, then somehow lost control of it." She grimaced, as though she herself did not believe the story, but could not do anything about the situation. Devin tried to restrain himself from running rampant. He focused his thoughts into a single query.

"Why haven't they told me?" he spoke gruffly.

"Because they think you'll ignite in fury and burn Hanpahach to cinders," came her hesitant response.

"WHAT?"

"Listen, Devin, the Nekojin are incredibly spiritual. I've learned that during my conversations with the..." Anzala tried to calm him down, but to no avail. "Conversations? What conversations? Why do they tell you?" Devin blabbered. The mercenary let him rave on until his futile sputtering came to a close.

"They tell me, because they think I'm the only one that can stop you," she stated calmly. She looked at him, awaiting a jeering retort. It should have come to him naturally, but it did not. She shrugged. "But I've asked around, and they'll allow you to take the blades to the Spirit Warders of Ninyama for closer inspection, as long as you do not wield them. They assumed that ancient Nekojin spirits might be able to tell you more about the origin of those weapons... and how to cleanse them of the taint that scares the Nekojin away. Of course, we'll have to be guided there," she concluded. Devin wanted to argue with her, ask for more clarification. But he realised that she had done her best to progress their quest. She still supported him. A veil of fatigue wafted over his limbs. He nodded. If the only way to divulge the monster behind his nightmares was to inquire with these spiritists, then so be it. "Thank you," he whispered softly while he turned around to leave the place. However, one final query penetrated his mind as he stood between the alabaster draperies.

"Anzala, what does Zir'gaash mean?" He looked over his shoulder. The mercenary was blushing sheepishly.

"Love of my life," she answered hoarsely. Devin nodded indifferently and trudged into the night. A chilling wind blasted fiercely into his face, but the sparkling fire kindled inside his chest would not allow him to feel it.

[Devin Argente]

The threesome walked upon the rocky brink between the unforgiving Comb Mountains and the endless expanses of white in the south. Here, under the slate embrace of the northern peaks, the harsh winds could not besiege them at full strength, and snowflakes were no longer the arrowheads they had been when Devin had first travelled here. The air was fresh, silent but for their rhythmic footsteps crunching through gravel and small patches of snow. Still, the enforcer was not at ease, and he did not need to be an empath to conceive that his two companions shared his apparently unwarranted fretfulness. The collar of his coat caused a ceaseless itch in his neck, and he was sweating slightly beneath his attire whereas his face was bathing in a winter breeze. Thereby, both Zamari and Anzala had driven him to a peak of edginess with their wordless accusations - Zamari because she had to be his guide after her shameless behaviour, Anzala because of his determination to continue upon what she still perceived to be a madman's quest. Needless to say, he was glad when night finally cast its gloomy gaze over Corone, chasing the sun's rays to a point below the horizon. At least in sleep, he would find the restfulness he craved, and perhaps solace, too, in a fancy dream or two.

A spatious niche offered them refuge. Zamari quickly went to work - how she did it, Devin could not tell, but within ten minutes, a small fire ousted the Comb's cold with golden glimmer and welcome heat. He suspected it had something to do with the strange, charred pebbles the Nekojin bore in a small pouch hanging from her belt. However, he was not about to inquire about her ways, nor did he wish to compliment her, for whenever they locked eyes, her orbs stood ablaze with admonition: don't you dare speak! He looked to Anzala, who was stoically clearing a part of the alcove's floor to sleep on. Not much better - strange, considering how good he'd felt when she'd so softly spoken the meaning of the word that had chased Zamari away from him in the herb-filled tent. He felt like a mute. With a sigh, he settled down on the rough stone below, his coat now more a hairy blanket than prestigious clothing. The Nekojin huntress would keep the first watch, Anzala the second, and during third watch he would be the one keeping the fire alive - until early morn. He closed his eyes, diverted his thoughts from the throbbing pain in his feet and the impalpable incentives of womankind.

When his eyelids gave way to light once more, it seemed like only a second had passed. The Argente felt more tired than ever, but the impatient tugging of female hands against his shoulders could no longer be ignored. He grumbled, sat upright, and found emerald eyes drilling straight into his half-open orbs. Moist drops dangled from Anzala's eyelashes, suggesting that she'd cried, but it was the gaze itself that shocked the enforcer. Bare sorrow was all it conveyed, more powerful than any tear could tell of. Before he could assess what was happening, she had put her arms around his torso and dug her head into his shoulder. He did not know for how long they sat there, was only vaguely aware of how much her warmth aroused him whereas she was merely looking for consolation. They did not speak. When she finally broke free of him, her eyes were still teary, but also determined, somehow.

"I'm sorry, Devin," she started without a stutter, but hoarser than usual. "It's just that... the elders... they told terrible things about you..." Even in the darkness, Devin could see her eyes shooting every which way, as though she were being forced to say something she did not want to say. "I... just... Watch after yourself, okay?" Without another world, she turned shoulder and crawled over to her blanket of fur, leaving an astonished Argente behind on guard duty. Devin slowly slumped over to the cave entrance, not once looking over the campfire. After several nights, he'd noticed that Nekojin fired did not require any kind of re-fueling to burn. His only concern were predators, and those were thinly sown among these inhospitable parts. He pulled his coat closer around his fatigued limbs. Although he was supposed to be alert, his eyelids continually slid down over his mahogany gaze, leaving him on the borderline between dreams and verity. Thus when he first heard the faint whispers coming from behind him, he did not show the remotest reaction.

Baz'h'akh... Imprisoned... Khal'dari...

However soft, those insidious curses Devin was all too familiar with. He shocked into alertness, his arms flailing wildly in an attempt to unsheath his katars - katars that he was no longer allowed to bear. The whispers continued, grew not in volume, but in malevolence. A hint of fear washed through Devin's mind as he discerned things within the moving shadows that were not actually there. Outside, morning's twilight was trying to conquer night's darkness, but had not wholly succeeded. The whispers did not stop, fell into repetition, which took away some of the enforcer's anxiety, though he was still perplexed as to where the sound was coming from. He looked around. Zamari and Anzala were fast asleep. He stepped further into the cave. The whispers were coming from a place near Zamari's feet, and as he drew nearer, he noticed that the voice was somehow dampened. Curiously, he shoved away the bundle of cloth covering the source of the whispers. His eyes widened. He took a step backwards. His eyes were fixed on the katars that gleamed with an eerie white aura, the runes on its argent surface slithering around as though alive. Devin violently shook his head. Was this a dream? The whispers continued. Everytime a new cycle of words burst forth from the steel, the runes repeated their mesmerising motions. Devin felt dizzy as his hand reached out towards the steel. It was not cold, as usual, but emitted stale warmth, as if something were brewing within. The whispers grew stronger

Aha... Thinks it can control us. THINKS, hihi. But he can't. Haha. Oh no, he cannot. Baz'h'akh! We'll show him... hehe, yes we shall...

He knew that voice. He'd faced that insanity. Memories of the deathly tombs below the Sanctuary in Radasanth flowed back into him. These katars were the weapons that had ultimately slain the beastly necromancer known as Arghazabad, scourge of all that lived and breathed. How could their silver now be stained with his poisonous tongue? It wasn't right. He was dreaming. He had to be. The light grew stronger, pained the Argente's eyes, but he could not avert his eyes. To his despair, a shrill shriek of marrow-piercing proportions suddenly sprung from the blades, causing Anzala and Zamari to instantly awaken. The huntress looked at him, jumped up from her blanket and leaped towards him. Before she could reach him, an incredible boom emanated from the katars, rocked the very foundation of the mountain. Zamari was thrown back onto the floor. Small stones crumbled down from the ceiling. Devin's ears buzzed. He could not walk, for the bang had disoriented him greatly, and he could see to his left that Anzala had a similar problem. The katars had returned to normal. Devin casually attached them to his lower arms, as though they had not caused a small earthquake mere moments ago. His body was acting without his mind to dictate it.

"FOOL!" Zamari screamed as she clawed for his arms. Devin jumped away from her. Did she know what had happened? Seeing the rage in her eyes, he felt very much tempted to take off the weapons and return them to her, but when he moved to unclasp the handles, she gestured frantically that they should pack their belongings. "Idiot! We have to get out of here!" she shouted as she bent over her blanket. Devin did not understand, but left his katars in place regardless. Was Zamari expecting an avalanche, or something? The strong blast had shook the very earth, indeed, but the alcove showed no sign of collapsing. Why was she so hurried? Her outburst of quick movement only added to the confusion that the mysterious shockwave had evoked inside his mind. Still, he grabbed his backpack from the floor and followed the two women out of their stone hideout. A soft rumbling behind him caused him to look back. And that saved his life.

From the lightless alcove, a ghoulish frame launched itself forward at the enforcer, long, dirty claws extended for the pale youngster's throat. He staggered backwards in surprise, fell ungracefully into unyielding stone. Something heavy landed on him. Ivory blades slashed at his face once more; he blocked the initial strike, but could not press the gray arm of his attacker back. A hideous visage of slate flesh appeared over him, rotten breath boiling like acid through his nostrils. Slowly but surely, the ghoul's lethal claws drew nearer to his jugular. Devin tried to find focus, but could not. His thoughts started to fade away. Something sharp pierced through the skin of his throat. A feral cry from outside the cave kept him conscious. The lithe body of the Nekojin huntress raced over his head in slow-motion. Her left leg swiped up at the ghoul's horrific features. The burden of the undead on his chest was blasted back into the cave. Devin crawled backwards, out into the snow, trembling but alive. He heard Zamari utter a battlecry as she crashed further into the cave.

Someone grabbed one of his arms and heaved him up. The voice belonging to that someone was desperately screeching. "Zamari! Come on! Get up, Devin, RUN!" And then he saw the cause of her panic. The daze of the earlier surprise attack lifted - yet Devin would have given anything to see the ghoulish paralysis return. His attacker had not been alone. Zamari was slowly being pushed back, out of the cave, by an ever-increasing number of gray-skinned creatures. Sour stench wafted over the rocks. The ghouls arose from every niche, burst up from patches of snow. They were hideous; their flesh was corroded, but they brandished inhuman strength. They walked on all-fours, and each limb ended in a prehensile paw with five lethal claws. Their eyes were plain red, glowing like coals with ravenous hunger. No hair on their bodies, and only stale cloth, tinted yellow and brown by time and dirt, covered their lower bodies. One of them jumped for him and Anzala, but this time he was ready. With an unearthly ring, his argent katars sprang from his sleeves. The metal showed no more sign of being alive; the light was gone, the runes were in place. But the strange steel was deadly nevertheless. He placed a surgically precise blow at the ghoul's neck. No blood spurted from the wound; the undead simply turned around and assaulted him again. Anzala's arrows struck true time after time - not difficult, since they were caught in a sea of monstrosities - but they did not seem to hamper their foes in the least. Within a minute or so, the threesome was fighting back-to-back, desperately seeking to survive.

"THIS WAY!" Zamari shouted while she rammed away a particularly thick ghoul with her feet. Devin, whose katars were gleaming with novelty despite having ripped through tons of cold ghoul flesh, followed in her wake to keep the circle closed. Slowly but surely, they waded through the horde of undead, which - although powerful - did not possess the intelligence required to keep their prey surrounded. A surge of relief beamed through the enforcer's adrenaline-filled body as they broke free of their foes' deathly grasp. His shoulders shivered with weariness, blood buzzed in his ears, but the pervasive will to escape fuelled his legs as they leaped over rock and stone. Zamari kept shouting in their direction; as a Nekojin, she could achieve much greater velocity than Devin and Anzala, and annoyance clearly rang through her otherwise frightened inspiritment. He did not look behind. Anzala was several paces in front of him. Zamari was too far ahead to worry about. Claws grasped at his tendons from behind, were constricted in his furry coat. He felt himself being pulled back. Grunting loudly, he freed himself from the vestment's sleeves, throwing his body to the front. Chilly winds blasted into his bared blouse, but he was too preoccupied to feel them. He kept running, breathing heavily. His energy was steadily being drained away. Fear grew stronger. It would not be long before a ghoul would jump onto his back, digging claws deep flesh...

He kept sprinting, tears running down his face. It would not be long... It would not be long...

[Devin Argente]

The unearthly disturbance shocked the majestic mountain range, and though not through quake or rumble, the humanoid that hung leisurely from its long arms, fingers wrapped steadily around a precarious ridge, nearly lost its grasp on the jagged outcroppings of the steep canyon's side. Razzal, Adept of the Spirit Warders, had felt many spirits' griefs and galls over the years, but against this sudden ocean of soul-piercing teardrops, even he, despite his experience and skill, was helpless. To any who were so in tune with the Comb and its ethereal residents, the surge of overwhelming force felt like the accumulated laments for the death of an entire nation. The Adept's oversized limbs trembled, desperate to hold on, and his lungs roared a shrill howl into the crisp air, to offer release from the physical strain that the spiritual befoulment brought upon him. He squinched his black eyes together harshly and jerked his head in every which way, until his eyes caught the horde of movement transpiring at the foot of the precipice he clung to.

At first, Razzal believed that he had lost his mind. A rockslide? On a plain surface? But then, he recognized the swarm of slate forms pursuing the three desperately fleeing humans as being the source of the spiritual convulsion that plagued him. Within a heartbeat, he had released the ridge and skidded off the side of the mountain, finding footholds to restore his balance where even the most renowned of human explorers would have been at a loss for supports. The speed of his descent was incredible, and it was not long before the Adept could vaguely make out the ghouls' prehensile features. Although the danger was great, Razzal had shielded his mind from any kind of emotion - the fundamental ability of any Spirit Warder to let go of the natural - and did not fall prey to the deathly fear that had taken the retreating threesome in its heartless embrace. It was next to impossible to commune with spirits if the Warder performing the ritual would fall to the very first outburst of emotion forced upon them, and Razzal had performed many such rites in his lifetime.

The heart inside the Adept's disproportionally small torso skipped a beat as he saw how the man closest to the charging horde slipped over a frozen stone and fell upon the unforgiving rock rather harshly. The high-pitched screams of the traveller's companions hardly reached him through the veil of pure spirit magic that Razzal was conjuring up around his soul. As the auburn-haired man crawled up to his feet, propelling himself forward moments before a ghoul impacted the location of his unfortunate landing, the two females came running towards him. A second ghoul that jumped at the man was cast back to the soil violently by a black crossbow bolt that struck it where its heart had at one time been. The man recovered just in time to see how the throng of undead creatures beleaguered them, and they could do no more than creating a circle and wait until one of them made a mistake that would cost all of them their lives. The ghouls, smelling triumph and freshly slain meat, redoubled the vigor behind their assault, bouncing each other off the steep slopes of the Comb merely for the opportunity to join in on the relentless attack against the battered trio.

Razzal leaped from the mountainside with improbable force. During his time airborne, which seemed like an eternity, he saw how the two women protecting the man's back fell to the claws and bites of the pestilent troop. It was strange how even amidst the cyclone of deathless turpitude encroaching upon him, Razzal could feel the strength of the remaining human's resolve to survive, his armblades flashing and slicing determinedly, yet ever slower as fatigue broke his fortified spirit. For a moment, the Adept feared that he would be too late. But then, he was next to the lean traveller, distinguishing the sense of utter bewilderment in said warrior's eyes before he let the stream of his previously summoned magic take him under. His black eyes shone with sapphire power as he heaved his hands to the sky and uttered words that no human's tongue could form, a ceaseless cascade of consonants that grew in intensity with each passing second.

Although none but the Adept itself and the momentarily oblivious ghouls could see it, the three humans and Razzal were suddenly protected by an orb of translucent, silver ribbons. As the undead felt the heavy hands of Gingitsu, the Spirit Fox's rage deplaning mercilessly upon them, they scattered, howling insults and frightful outcries in the same language that Razzal had used to invoke the Fox's fury with. The horde dispersed as swiftly as it had formed. But as he let the bitter-tasing residue of his spell course back into the earth, his disquiet intensified a thousandfold. The stain upon the Comb persisted, strong as it had ever been. It confused the Adept; he'd been so sure that, amidst the undead horde, he'd been standing at the epicenter of the ethereal taint. He turned around, locking eyes with the mahogany orbs of the man he'd saved, and then it dawned on him.

He'd been right.

"Thank y..." was all that the pale man could utter before Razzal's extraordinarily long arm shot forward and his fingers curled themselves around the man's head. There was no time for the enforcer to react, no escape as Razzal whispered the word of the most powerful encapsulation spell known to him. A flash of unseen light blasted over the Comb as Devin's eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to the floor, to join his two companions in the thin layer of snow covering their footsteps. Razzal looked over the threesome quizically before taking a decision, uttering several more arcane litanies before turning around and marching toward his home in steady pace.

[Devin Argente]

The absence of pain and algor throughout her awakening appeared to affirm Anzala's initial assumption that she had died, and, through some miraculous twist of fate, arrived in heaven. Slightly disoriented and her limbs heavy with the feebleness of sleep, she sat up straight, blinking several times until the emeralds behind her squinted gaze were relieved of the drought of awaking. After scanning around the small, domed room she lay in, she concluded that if this were heaven, the stories about it were grossly exaggerated. Although the chamber certainly bore several mystical qualities - for example, she could distinguish every detail in the carved walls without any light source to aid her sight - she would have at least expected paradise to have silken veils to sleep under instead of the thin, roughspun fabric she lay beneath at the moment. Thereby, although the room's temperature was by no means uncomfortable, she would have expected some clean clothing to don, whereas now she lay completely naked. In all, she quickly readjusted her judgment and reasoned that she must have somehow survived the undead's onslaught and been brought here.

However, she could not think of any reason short of divine intervention that would have allowed her, Devin, and the Nekojin huntress to escape that mass of murderous, dead flesh. She remembered how Devin had tripped several yards behind her, recalled how she and Zamari had rushed to his aid, brandishing bow and claw. Together, the three of them were very capable defenders, but the assault of the undead had known pause nor mercy, and eventually, their defenses had weakened. She shivered. She'd been the first to fall, brought down by a grievous gash ripping right through the old wound near her stomach. Strangely, her body registered nothing special from the afflicted area at the moment. Curiously, she cast off her blankets, her fingers cautiously trailing the soft skin below her breasts. The tanned tissue was completely whole; even the scar of her old injury had vanished, somehow. But even more amazing was the way she felt on the inside; despite the tiring and hazardous events of the days before, she felt completely revitalized and battle-ready, as though she'd only just stepped out of a perfect crossbow-practise session. Even if this weren't the divine refuge she'd mistaken it for, it was beyond doubt that some powerful healing magics must have been worked here.

"Are those why he likes you?" the mercenary heard Zamari's casual voice beside her, and even though the hunter's nubile tone was familiar, she was startled. She turned her body towards what she'd previously thought to be a pile of cloth on a small pulpit beside her. The Nekojin had crawled out from under the bundle of rough fabrics, equally exposed as she. It took a while before the question registered with Anzala, its meaning lost on the threshold between daydreaming and pondering, but when she found the huntress's eyes on her bare chest, she understood what had piqued the Nekojin's curiosity. After all, from what little views she'd gathered in Hanpahach, she'd noticed that female Nekojin were far less voluptuous than the average human woman - maybe because of their predatorial nature? She was momentarily at a loss for words; it wasn't the least intimate question to pose, but she'd noticed long before that Nekojin were totally oblivious to what would have been called carnal disrepute in human society. In fact, had they lived in a warmer climate, she surmised, it was likely that none of them would actually wear any clothing.

"Maybe," she responded ambiguously as she looked down at her curves. "I hope they're not the only reason, though," she added with a smirk as she looked back up at the huntress, feeling somewhat relieved that the object of their uncomfortable talk was not present. On the other hand, she would have given much to see Devin's expression at the sight of the two women he'd been travelling with, undressed and unblemished by blood or dirt. Repressing a fiendish chuckle, she almost wished he'd been here. Where was he, anyway? Her thoughts returned to the present situation. Perhaps the more suitable question was: where were they? Silence stretched on for a moment, and Anzala noticed that Zamari acted rather perplexed at her response, as though it violated all that her childhood had taught her. Radasanthan and Akashiman customs truly were far further apart than Anzala ever could have dreamed.

"I don't get it," Zamari spoke with a sigh, as though she'd been pondering an issue for days on end and finally realized there would be no solution, no matter how hard she tried.

"What?" Anzala responded, slightly confounded. Zamari eyed her strangely, one thin brow raising into her forehead.

"You and Devin, zir'gaash?" she explained, as though it were as simple as adding one plus one. "I mean, we've been travelling for quite a while and you haven't as much as had a decent conversation. It's just not..." she paused, trying to find the right words to explain her confusion "...you're supposed to be enjoying each other's company, quarrel, make up again and get kissy-kissy." She frowned slightly, obviously disappointed by the childish way she'd phrased that. Anzala could not help but be amused by her down-to-earth view of the relationship, but at the same time felt rather guilty for having expressed herself that way to the huntress earlier. At that time, in the herbalist's tent in Hanpahach, she'd seen no other way to keep the drugged huntress away from Devin. Although she had not told the Argente enforcer, she had deemed him her love at that point only so that Zamari would give up her attempts to mate with him without complaint or gainsay. Nekojin women were fiercely predatorial, particularly so when it came to their men. It had seemed the best course of action at that point in time, and only now she realized that her words had left a rather wrong impression of her and Devin upon the young huntress.

"We've been through a lot," was all she said, noticing instantly that Zamari found that answer far from satisfactory. Anzala's smile widened. "But maybe you should tell him that sometime..."

Zamari laughed softly, knowing quite well how the young enforcer would react to such an insinuation. "Sure, I will. I don't expect him to listen, though. Sometimes I suspect that men were bred for gainsaying us." They both chuckled, although Anzala silently wondered how the huntress could already be so worldly-wise at such a young age.

"Ah, I see you are awake," came a deep, sonorous voice from the doorway; it was so obviously male that Anzala's first reaction was to pull all the fabric she could grab up from her legs over her exposed physique. Zamari, on the other hand, jumped up from her bed shamelessly, muscles tensing across her body as she adopted the fight-or-flight posture that Anzala had seen her use when they'd been faced with danger in the past. Uncomfortable silence ruled for several seconds, and Anzala turned around within her cocoon of blankets so that she could see the man that had interrupted them. She trembled at the sight of something that was so disproportionally built that it could not be human. The hairless newcomer's arms were so long that his hands almost reached his shins - and emphatically, his legs were far longer than any she'd ever seen, too. In contrast, his torso was wholly unimpressing, and his head had several ape-like qualities. But his most astounding feature was the great tattoo of blue ink that stretched out over every piece of his body not covered by the belted loincloth he wore. It was as though an endless maze of indigo had been depicted upon his frame, and even now, after just a second of staring at it, the mercenary felt lost within its mysteries.

"Who are you?" she heard Zamari inquire, and looking at the huntress, Anzala noticed that she had dropped her hostile facade, equally mesmerized by the newcomer's mystifying appearance.

"I am called Razzal," the tattooed Nekojin spoke, and when he did, it was as though an entire choir echoed his words in tones that ran ever deeper. His eyes were the deepest black that the mercenary had ever seen, and although they lay deeply incased by jagged cheekbones, she felt as though those onyx orbs were staring right through her, peering at every corner of her soul. "I am an Adept of the Spirit Warders of Ninyama Village," the ape-man elaborated in an amicable tone as he noticed Zamari's expression of inquiry. Almost immediately, the huntress's stubborn demeanor vanished and she bowed her head in reverence, her face flushing with a feeling that Anzala had thought her not to possess, shame.

"Now, now," the man snickered at his kin's sudden humility, "there is no need for such docility, Huntress of Hanpahach. The spirits have been so kind to tell me of your... rather grisly endeavors." Anzala noticed that like Zamari, Razzal spoke perfect Common, over-the-top polite even, though the background voices gave it some disturbing properties. "And the slaying of a Boneworm is definitely no feat for the modest." The mercenary cast a quick glance at the huntress, who seemed to feel truly complimented, a broad grin splitting her face in two. Although she was relieved that they were in friendly company, she could not repress the myriad questions that boiled up inside of her. Just as she wished to open her mouth, the orbs of shiny black locked with her emerald gaze, and her words were stymied by an invisible barrier.

"You have questions, child of Radasanth," he stated mellifluously, as though he could read her mind, "and so do we," the Adept added as a reason for his interruption. "Yet I would ask of you that you answer the questions of us Warders first, if only as a show of gratitude for the flesh I gave to restore the two of you to life," he said with a grimace, heaving up his left hand. Anzala had to restrain herself from gasping as she viewed the bandaged stumps where the Nekojin's index and ring fingers should have been. "O-oh... I'm very sorry, I mean..." but the Adept waved her stammered apologies away. "I'm not sorry, and glad to see you in good health. What are two fingers if the weight of two lives hang in the balance on the other side of the scales?"

"But why...?" Zamari queried. Her voice was quite brittle, unlike usual. She, too, had obviously been shocked by the offering that this Adept, Razzal, had made for the sake of two total strangers.

"You were on the brink of death," Razzal recounted after several seconds of grave silence. "According to some, already too far over it. The sacrifice of part of my body was the only thing that would return you to the living - flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul." As the many voices uttered the mystical litany, Anzala felt a shiver running over her spine. "You must understand," Razzal continued, his smile fading more and more from his face with every word he uttered, "that there was little choice in the matter. The ghoul horde that assaulted you was the greatest anomaly in the Spirit Realm that any Warder had ever experienced. The greatest, and by far the most dangerous."

Anzala and Zamari listened breathlessly as the Adept narrated dryly and without exaggeration how he had driven away the undead swarm by drawing on the power of Ninyama's patron deity, Gingitsu, the Spirit Fox.

"... and then I noticed," the Adept concluded.

"Noticed what?" Zamari queried hoarsely, confused by the abrupt end to the man's story.

"The horde wasn't the anomaly. Your friend was. He summoned them."

Zamari and Anzala looked each other in the eye, then shook their heads at almost the same time.

"Impossible," Zamari spoke while Anzala decisively added: "Devin doesn't know any kind of magic, let alone necromancy." But both were quickly silenced by Razzal's tranquil gesture.

"Indeed?" he pondered. "Well, we did know that there was something decidedly wrong about those ghouls. Minions aren't supposed to attack their masters under any circumstance..." his voice trailed away in mumblings.

"What did you do to him?" Anzala asked, almost frightful.

Razzal looked her in the eye for a moment, as though he were carefully weighing his choice of words. "He is in a spiritual stasis, awaiting the judgment of the Warders Council. Speaking of which, now that you're awake, the Council has requested that you relay your stories. This will be the chance to convince them that your friend was not catalyst of this ethereal disturbance we suffered, as you so adamantly stand by." His words were filled with a tone of neutrality, as if he trusted that in the end, his leaders would take the correct decision.

"And what if we cannot convince them?" Zamari posed the question that Anzala was too afraid to ask. Razzal looked at the two of them, and his response, regardless of the softness of his voice, edged itself harshly into the mercenary's consciousness.

"Then he will be executed."

[Devin Argente]

They were silent as they trudged through the hallway in the wake of the strange Adept, but the lack of sound was not at all incommodious. It left one of Anzala's six senses at peace, allowing sight and smell to fully perceive and immerse themselves within the wonder of Ninyama Village's staggering allure. It was as though the entire village had been masterfully carved from a particularly steep foot of the Comb, and as the mercenary knew now, the residences of the Warders extended far into the heart of that indomitable mountain range. The floor of the small hall they walked through had been polished to perfection, but the natural colors of the stone involved had been preserved, so that its hue changed from the darkest-black to gold-veined white to anything inbetween with every step they progressed toward the Council's antechamber. The wall was different, sporting recurring patterns of darker stone types that were wholly devalued by the silver-crafted fox heads protruding from it every so many yards. Clear water ran from the foxes' opened mouths, clattering softly into a slightly elevated, hollowed track below them that - as Razzal had explained to them - took it back to the reservoir from whence the argent statues received their everlasting flow of liquid.

Yet the most astounding feature of the hallway was what Anzala could see on the opposite side of that wall. She looked far and wide over the landscape, as though through the eyes of the mountain itself, for there was stone nor wall there to block her sight, save for the thick supports that briefly obscured the breathtaking panorama every now and then. Particularly at this time, wherein the glow of dusk cast ribbons of gold and darkened orange through the half-bare hallway, giving the cold stone an aureate quality, the mercenary felt that this was the most beautiful sight she'd ever set her eyes on. From this height, the Ninyama residences were like pebbles upon the Comb, though she could still see the myriad movements of small specks as they went about their daily business. She almost felt hesitant to end their journey through the magnificent gallery, and she could feel that the huntress walking alongside her was equally impressed with the stonecraft confining them. The shadows on the other end of the hallway engulfed them far too quickly, and even before her eyes had readjusted to the scarce torchlight that lit this part of the vestibule, they stood faced with a heavy gateway. The door blocking their path was not made of stone, wood or metal. It was a strange fabric which appeared soft, flexible, but was very cold and harsh to the touch. It could have been crafted solely from solidified shade had it not been for the plethora of runes that glimmered upon its surface, their intensity ranging from dull teal to eye-piercing turquoise.

Instantly, the restful feeling that the snow-covered foothills outside had evoked was torn away as the prospect of facing the Council of Spirit Warders returned to her mind. A meeting with some of the most powerful and most empathic beings in Corone, and most certainly in Akashima, judging by what little information Razzal had seen fit to provide them with. The fact that the being which had driven away a swarm of ghouls with little more than a flick of his fingers spoke of these five Warders with a respect that bordered on outright fear did little to ameliorate her worries about the situation. She cast a swift glimpse to her right. Zamari, too, had shifted her expression from appreciative bewilderment into one of grim determination. Although the mercenary knew there was little friendship between Devin and the huntress, she was relieved to see that the Nekojin took her task as their guide rather gravely, even now. Having someone with knowledge of Nekojin and especially Ninyama customs would be somewhat of an advantage, and Anzala was grateful for anything that could shift the status quo in her direction. She was vaguely aware of Razzal, who had been leading them on silently for half an hour now, as the Adept solemnly placed his oversized hand upon the mysterious entranceway. The image of their savior's injured hand nauseated her even after what anxiety had put her through in previous moments. She held her breath as the runes upon the door's surface gleamed in response to the Adept's whispered words. The impregnable material melted into the floor like butter on a stove, offering the trio a clear view of the room beyond.

"Enter, children of Gingitsu and the Thayne," a female voice resounded through the gateway. It was a very soft, yet very commanding statement, for even though the room beyond the secret doorway was quite large for the five wise Warders it harbored, the woman's words seemed to fill all available space, ringing harmoniously in the ears of the mountains far beyond the chamber's confines. As the three of them slowly progressed over the floor of polished onyx, Anzala felt hard-pressed not to let her jaw drop at the sheer brilliance with which the room had been crafted; it made even their glorious trip through the mountainside pale in comparison. The entire chamber appeared to be a humongous dome consisting entirely of jagged formations of crystals in all colors of the spectrum. Merely trying to discern the actual light sources and their reflections that made the entire structure gleam with purity required a dazzling effort, and Anzala quickly cast her eyes down at the placidity of the sable mezzanine. A rebellious voice in the back of her mind asserted that doing so also made her look far more humble than necessary, particularly because she was supposed to defend Devin's actions in front of this intimidating jury, but she ignored it, intent to stay clear-minded during the confrontation.

She and Zamari took up position several yards in front of the five elevated platforms that harbored one council member each. As the neutral party in the discussion to follow, Razzal formally trudged to the sideline of the conflict, facing no party directly, but keeping an eye on both. The Adept began to monotonously recite the titles, birth places, and names of the Warders that were to decide over the young Argente's fate, allowing the mercenary the time to take a good look at the quintet of sages opposite her. Only now she noticed that the thrones they were sitting on had not been purposely crafted; like all the ingenious constructions in Ninyama, these crystallized pulpits, too, appeared to simply have grown out of the floor and then polished into a comfortable seat. Since the council's seats were somewhat elevated, Anzala felt much like a small child being gauged for earnesty as its members scanned over her and Zamari. Suddenly, she was very glad that she'd been allowed to don her usual armor, though her weapons remained locked in a chest in her quarters. Zamari, on the other hand, had not as much as touched new garments ever since she'd awakened; her original hunter's attire had been torn to pieces during their hopeless battle with the undead. Yet Anzala had long given up on trying to convince her that she should dress herself; after a hundred or more remarks about how clothing was far more unnatural than the body itself, she'd simply decided never to invite a Nekojin to Radasanth.

"The council extends its greetings," the middle-aged man on the throne to the mercenary's far left spoke. His tone was cold, but not malevolent or shady - someone who took the written word as law to the very letter. Emotionless but just, Anzala hoped as she looked the man into the eye. His hair was millimetered, but a long, pointy beard that cascaded down his chest more than made up for the lack of a haircut. He seemed to be the one of the two only pure-blooded humans Anzala could distinguish amongst the five, the other being the red-haired woman on her far right, who appeared to be only slightly older than Zamari, as far as the mercenary could tell. That woman was the only council member that had chosen to cover herself with more than the plain robes of unstained white that her colleagues wore; a diadem of pristine platinum rested upon her beautiful curls, and Anzala would have felt envious had there not been more serious matters at hand.

"We are grateful for the council's attention for our cause, and offer our obedience to your verdict in return," Zamari responded stiffly. Her voice was different, deeper than her usual, shrill speech. Despite the huntress's unnerving change of attitude, Anzala was relieved that her companion knew the rigid litanies and codes of conduct that went along with an audience such as this. It would do much to make them more credible as verbal opposition. Each of the council members nodded in turn, silently declaring the gathering to have commenced. Anzala shifted uneasy in her seat as she awaited the Warders' words.

"We have felt the disturbance in the foothills of the Comb," the Nekojin upon the central throne started out. From what Anzala could tell from the man's half-green skin and the strangely deformed protrusions around his neck, he was half cobra, though the man's eyes showed the twinkle of intelligence instead of the snake's ferocious glare. "We have felt it," he repeated, "but we have not heard what has happened from your point of view. Enlighten us," he commanded amicably, and then added while he looked to the right: "and I must ask Adept Razzal to keep his silence in this instance." The ape-man inclined his head in obedient affirmation. Together with Zamari, she told the most definite account she could remember from that horrid day, the night before, the flight, the fight - and eventually, their deaths. Although her own voice trembled at inopportune times, and Zamari could not resist adding a few grisly remarks about how she'd ripped through ghoul flesh, in the end, Anzala was quite satisfied with their story.

The frowns of the council members showed that they were not entirely agreeable with the mercenary's contentment. "Were there any other entities with you before the undead attack began?" the woman to the left of the cobra-man inquired with a slow, pondering voice. Anzala shook her head. "And you say that when you woke up, all you noticed was that your friend was holding the weapons which he knew would be dangerous to him and to you, not even mentioning the fact that he summoned a horde of undead with them?" The woman's voice dripped with blame, and although she did not gainsay the sage, Anzala was darkly satisfied that the features of the Nekojin in question were very reminiscent of a goat.

"I do not think that the boy summoned the ghouls, Warder Mersha," came a polite voice from cobra-man's other side. It was more a peep than a decisive statement, probably because the being uttering it reached no higher than the average man's abdomen, but Anzala could see that his words were taken in careful consideration. "It is highly unlikely that one of his age would be able to control that many undead and, at the same time, shield the origin of the necromantic spell required so that we would not be able to pinpoint its source," the Nekojin continued its rationale. "And, considering the account that Adept Razzal kindly provided us with, it would be highly unlikely that someone with such skill would allow his own horde to assault and nearly kill himself, and his companions." The council nodded in agreement, and Warder Mersha showed her wiser side by joining in on the silent endorsement of the tiny Warder's theory. Anzala felt somewhat better. At least, with Razzal's help, they'd been able to clear Devin of the heaviest charge put forth against him.

The relief did not last long, however, for the spike-bearded human directed their attention toward the next issue. "Remains the question, however, why your friend sought to possess his weapons again despite the fact that the Hanpahach elders had explicitly forbidden him to do so." Within seconds, the council's noses stood pointed in their direction, and Zamari looked at Anzala, questioningly, at a loss for an answer. The mercenary, too, did not know how to respond, and she could feel tension and impatience build as the silence stretched on and on.

"It were the dreams," she said eventually, after much thought, even though she knew what a flawed argument it would make in any proper Radasanthan court of justice.

"Dreams?" the Warder Mersha repeated, though her tone was not jeering, more contemplative - much to Anzala's surprise. "What kind of dreams?" Anzala quickly gathered all that Devin had ever told her about his nightmares from the corners of her mind, trying to put all of it in some kind of logical order. She grew desperate as she noticed that much of her story was totally incoherent and filled with "maybe", "perhaps", and many suitable alternatives. But despite the lack of stylish verbalization, the Warders' faces grew creased with worry as her narration progressed. By the time she finally concluded by mentioning Devin's intent to find out more about the origin of his weapons, and perhaps to find a way to end the nightly illusions driving him to the edge of insanity, she was quite aware of the grim glances that the council members had interchanged between themselves. Silence ruled the crystal cavern for more than half a minute. Then the uproar started.

"... the ancient forges..." Anzala heard a slither of the cobra-man's hypothesis.

"...impossible that we have not noticed..." she heard the small Warder beep between the ever more vehement voices of his peers.

"...soul of the blades?..." Warder Mersha questioned, and it was the last thing that the mercenary could make out from between the whirlwind of different voices. Eventually, the discussion abated, and despite the chaotic nature of their conflict, Anzala noticed that they had reached a decision.

"If what you say is true," the cobra-man spoke, his plain voice breached somewhat by the emotion involved in the earlier stages of the meeting, "then any situations wherein your friend is united with his blades are dangerous, lethally so."

"What? Why?" the mercenary asked, baffled. This time, the council did not seem fazed by her lack of formality, as though they themselves had not entirely found a way out of their own confusion.

"Because the weapons have chosen to bind with him while in an impure state," the male human Warder explained. Noticing the two women's confoundment, he elaborated. "Weapons of the Nekojin druids are crafted for a single bloodline - at the moment the original owner dies, the blades pass on to his nearest offspring or an heir of the owner's choosing. At that time, all magic that has ever been worked upon the blade is wiped away - a clean slate for the new wielder, so to speak." He paused momentarily, his brows furrowing into a worried frown. "The binding process of these katars with your friend, however, started after an other, foreign magic had infested them. This makes it so that every time your friend attempts to claim the blades for himself, the weapons try to forcefully expel the magical infestation that came before him."

Anzala listened breathlessly. She had never believed much in magic, until the day she'd had to free Devin from the shadowy tendrils of the Skull of Radasanth.

"The unusally violent reaction that resulted from your friend's attempt to regain his birthright several days ago," the man continued gravely, "suggests that the force that inhabits the blades at the moment is loath to let go of it, and thus far, it has proved powerful enough to overcome the Nekojin's erasing magic, even managing to exercise its own magic through the weapons' runes. Necromantic magic." When he had finished, Anzala felt rather burdened. Every time she'd made fun of Devin and his nightmares, every time she'd complained about the journey to Akashima... it had all been for good reason. The atmosphere in the crystallized vestibule, however magnificent its walls, was rife with depression.

"What happens now?" the mercenary inquired hesitantly, as though she did not really wish to know.

"We must manually disperse this infestation in your friend's blades," the tiny Warder stated in shrill tone. "The five of us should be able to overcome the necromancer that rules within, even though he has already proven to be a mage of extraordinary progress."

Slowly, the memory about the deepest cavern of the Argente Sanctuary returned to Anzala vividly, leading her to wonder whether what they had thought to be the end of the necromancer there was actually merely a trigger for the chain of events that had led them here. She did not voice her concerns, however. If Razzal had been able to defeat the horde of what she now knew had been Arghazabad's minions down in the foothills, then the five most powerful Warders would definitely be able to destroy his weakened, vile spirit, once and for all.

"To do this, however, your friend will have to give up his blades voluntarily." the diadem-wielding Warder spoke, and Anzala was surprised by the harsh edge to her voice. It did not befit her smooth features, which were more reminiscent of a spoiled princess. "Seeing how attached he feels to the weapons, I fear it would be better if we ensured some... leverage... before his stasis is removed." The other council members nodded grimly at her cryptic statement, but Anzala felt an eerie chill travelling down her spine, thoroughly discomfited by the cold tone of the young woman's voice.

"I believe Adept Razzal would be best fit for that job," the cobraman proposed, and the council's face turned towards the tattooed Adept as if one. Razzal nodded, though Anzala could see within the black beads of his gaze that he was far from happy with the situation. "Also," the cobra-headed Warder continued as the council's attention returned to the two women in front of them, "I am afraid that you will not be allowed to see your friend until we have completed the ritual. It is not that we wish to take from you the pleasure of a swift reunion, but it is commonly known that, if forcibly kept away from their weapons, wielders of Nekojin steel could do things that they normally wouldn't." Anzala nodded. The last drop of optimism regarding the results of the meeting had silently seeped away from her.

While Razzal led her and Zamari out of the shimmering anteroom, back into the open hallway, where night had finally cast its leaden blanket over the Comb, Anzala's mind was filled with horrific memories of the Argente Sanctuary and the ominous sense that, despite the clear-cut course of action in the near future, events were about to take a turn for the worst.

[Devin Argente]

Warmth. Peace. He had no idea where he was. That should have bothered him, but it didn't. His mind refused to convert thought into clear language, or action. He was blind. He could not feel his arms, his legs, anything. It was as though he didn't even exist here, and yet, his sentience was perpetually caught between half-dream and awakening, palatially languid in the swirl of slate nothingness that he drifted through. It was tranquil, thoughtless, serene. Although he had been bereaved of all of his senses, he had no doubt that he was safe here. There was no time, no space here - no end to this joyful void, no limit to his unprotested imprisonment within it. It was perfect. Yet after what could have been minutes, days, weeks, or years, his blissful plight changed. The difference was subtle, like water oozing from creek, to stream, to sea. Behind the veil of grey, a duo of evenly shaped sapphires gleamed with ever greater intensity, as though two magical orbs were approaching him through the nebula at a steady pace.

Awaken!

The thundering command raged through every fiber of Devin's being, and though he wished against it with all that remained of his will, suddenly he was upright, and Althanas returned to him in harsh shadow and unforgiving stonework. The abruptness of the transition caught him like a death blow, killing him anew, this time sending him into the realm of the living. The tranquillity of his secure sojourn vanished, and the resurrected Argente was forced to learn anon how to breathe, how to move, how to think. Despite the walls surrounding him, which suggested he was indoors, he felt indescribably cold. Every movement, from the twitching of his brow to the dilation of the shocked pupils within his mahogany pools, was tense, painful even. But all these vexations paled in comparison to the flood of memories that poured back into his mind. Murder, plotting, treachery; the foundations of his existence stood bare afront his weakened conscience - and so did their untimely end, in a diffuse flash of white light reflecting off rock and snow in the Comb. His breathing was irregular, the blinking of his eyes rapid and uncontrolled.

"It might be better if you stay down for a little while." The voice was the same as the one he'd heard in the slate void, but this time, it was more restful, friendlier. Despite the amiable advice, Devin was determined to shake the horrible feeling of loss that pierced his flesh, the anguish as he realized that he would not be able to return to his placid purgatory. But as he turned to lift his body off the rough-hewn pulpit he'd been placed upon, a wave of malady rushed through his body. He narrowly managed to direct his head in the direction of the wide-necked jar that was thrust into his hands with a precise but hurried movement. His limbs trembled as he vomited, despondently clinging to the jar with both hands. Only when his foul-tasting plight had finished, and his eyes had finally been able to accomodate to the darkness of the chamber, he looked up at the man that shared the room with him.

Unbeknownst to himself, the enforcer felt very much the same reaction at Razzal's distorted physique as Anzala had, though he managed to hide most of it behind a neutral expression. His confoundment was rapidly fading, memories falling back in chronological line, and he was very certain that the last thing he'd seen before he'd been incarcerated in that void of grey, were the same two onyx orbs that were curiously observing him now. Apart from that eerie recognition, however, the room they were in was far from familiar. Many bedsteads, like his own, had seemingly been carved out of the walls, and next to each different platform, there was a separate pulpit supporting a frail-looking, empty vial. He looked to his side. The vial beside his own resting place looked slightly out of place; residue of a silvery fluid sparkled in its angleless form, as though it had recently been used to contain quicksilver or a similar substance.

"The speed of your mental recovery is surprising," the strange man casually remarked - he did not at all seem hampered by Devin's lack of response or the enforcer's continual, paranoid surveys of his surroundings. He himself, in turn, felt rather discomfited by the tattooed half-man's presence, not in the least because he suspected that the words, however lighthearted, rolled from the tongue of his killer. Awkward silence reigned for a moment, and Devin took the opportunity to put the bile-filled ceramic on the polished floor before attempting once more to stand from his stead, this time succesfully. His hands felt unusually light, and his fingers twitched involuntarily every so often, but overall, he was glad to feel strength returning to his muscles. He looked into the humanoid's pools of black again, but the tar-like gems divulged no emotion.

"Who are you?" he fired the most scorching of the blaze of questions burning inside his skull.

"I am called Razzal," the man answered. Then, before the enforcer was able to utter any additional sound, the Adept interrupted. "But I'm afraid there is no time for questions. Your friends have made sure that the Spirit Warder Council has not convicted you of any crime, but you will still need to partake in the ritual to cleanse your weapons." He spoke very quickly, business-like, but still, Devin had trouble coping with the large stream of information coming his way. Apparently, he'd been out for quite somewhat more than a few hours after his unpleasant death on the mountainside. Had he not seen his share of incredible sights in the past, he was certain that his jaw would have dropped to the floor as the Adept proceeded to enlighten him about what had transpired while he'd been locked in necrotic stasis. And still, despite the objectiveness of Razzal's narrative, he felt that half his questions were left unanswered by the strange Adept's story, and that a new, greater batch readily arose once the tattooed man had finished speaking.

"The ritual will commence shortly, and I'm afraid I'll need all the time we have to prepare you for it." Razzal's tone had not changed, but Devin sensed that this was not the time for further questions. Although he despised being uninformed, especially about subjects as sensitive as his weapons, he knew better than to protest. From the tinge of graveness slithering through the Adept's friendly words, Devin had long concluded that this ritual wasn't without its dangers, and that his own role in it would not be the most pleasant imaginable. He nodded coldly in the tattooed man's direction, stymying the torrent of curiosity and admonition licking at his tongue. In response, Razzal walked over to the stone stand that bore the peculiar vial Devin had noticed upon awakening. He wrapped his long fingers around it, carefully, as though the slightest pressure would shatter it.

"This," he started as he held the vial in front of the enforcer's mahogany orbs, "is called a Soulcage. The Spirit Warders use it to keep any threatening entities from bringing Ninyama into danger." New information, new questions - but he remained silent. "Since you've been cleared of the charges against you," Razzal continued monotonously, "there's no longer a need to keep you contained. But be warned." His voice became deeper, ominous. "This vial is still connected to you. During excorcisms such as the one awaiting your blades, the weapons' owners often become unstable, violent. As soon as you show signs of interrupting the ritual, it will take but a single word from a single spiritist to cage you, once more. Thereby, if you ever try to destroy of the vial, to open it, or dispose of it in any other way, your soul will automatically be sealed into the cage again."

"But why awaken me in the first place, if all I add to your ritual is uncertainty?" Devin could not help but inquire. These Spirit Warders had him on a tight leash, and he resented the fact that this was one of the rare situations where even he could think of no escape route, no hole in the meshwork of conditions posed by the existence of that Soulcage. He could only hope that a suitable means out of this mess would present itself in the near future. On the other hand, the desire to finally learn more about the origin and powers of his silvery katars had never been greater. The prospect of no more nightmares, no more undeath - it was a future so sweet that he nearly missed Razzal's answer to his question.

"Because the owner of the weapons has to relinquish the blades to the altar for the ritual to work," came the Adept's explaining voice. "If the blades are taken without permission, the bond between you and those blades will cause all magic - even that as powerful as the Spirit Warder Council's - to glide off its surface, ineffective. We would never be able to reach the infestation that resides within, that way." From the way he ended that sentence, Devin took it that the conversation was over. A moment later, the vial lay in his bewildered hands, colder to the touch than any glass he had ever felt, and Razzal walked casually toward the chamber's doorway. "Your friends are fine, by the way. Someone will come and pick you up within an hour or so. Make sure you are prepared."

"Wait," Devin urged him before the Adept could turn around the corner. Razzal looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Where will the ritual take place?"

Although he was by no means a diviner, part of him already knew the answer before it came from the tattooed man's lips. It was as though the icy vial had suddenly encased his heart.

"The Henge of Gingitsu, upon the vale that separates this mountain from the one to its north."

When his mind finally cleared, Razzal had long left the room. In that moment of clarity, he wondered why during their dialogue, the only image shimmering in front of his mind had been an umbreous representation of those two, gleaming armblades he craved. Not for a single moment had he even thought of posing questions about the fate of Anzala, or Zamari - or Razzal himself, whose unwhole hand suggested that he, too, had not left the ghoulish brawl unscathed. He shivered.

[Devin Argente]

The scenes of his nightmare blared vividly through the soft chill that gnawed at his bones. In this vale, they stood protected from the lethal algor of the Comb's unforgiving winds, but they also stood concealed from the rays of the pale sun above. The jagged, snow-covered peaks surrounding the vale reflected most of the warmth that the golden ribbons attempted to bring to Althanas. But even though it was cold, the tendrils of a foreboding fear had dug so deep into Devin's mind that he'd decided to continuously conjure up the walls of vague emptiness that usually existed only when he attempted to tap into his hidden, inhuman ability for hallucination. This also exempted him from the voices shouting in the background, where Anzala and Zamari stood perched atop an overhanging cliff, accompanied by the strange spiritist, Razzal. Perhaps, that was for the better. Deep inside, where his void of mind could shield nor penetrate, he knew that if he took his eyes off his destination, he would lose heart and attempt to run away.

The Council stood gathered around the central stone of the Stonehenge. The wild-haired enforcer recognized each stone surrounding the sacred locus, each weathered crease upon their ancient surfaces. Dry dirt and patches of grass crunched beneath his soles - the rhythm of his footsteps crackled through the heavy silence that lay over Gingitsu's retreat. His katars felt unusually encumbering, even though his arms hung limply by his side. Much like his surroundings, life seemed to have been drawn from his body. It was as though nature was aware of the powerful magic that was about to be worked within the circle, for during the short trek through the narrow gorge separating Ninyama village from the Stonehenge, he had not heard a single animal, not even the whispers of rock grass within the mountain drifts. It made him feel even lonelier than he already was.

With every step that brought him closer to the mysterious altar, Devin's revulsion grew, and his blades urged him to escape, to run away at the very last moment. He'd contemplated the possibility of a succesful escape many times in the few hours he'd had before they had started their journey to the sacrosanct henge. Indeed, he'd been quite certain that if he truly tried, he and Anzala would be able to abscond from the scene within the short timeframe he'd been given - not in the least because he was quite experienced in the craft of stealth. But all the while, the memories of his nightmares shimmered through the plots he concocted, and just when he was about to stand up and head for the exit, a burning, determined curiosity took hold of him. And so it was that he now stood in front of the central altar, staring down at the rock's polished top. It was different than the humongous boulders making up the stonehenge. The material was soft, cold, veiny with thin threads of turquoise, much like the door leading to the Council's antechamber - although Devin, of course, could not know the latter. In one final exertion of willpower, he released the wooden contraptions from his lower arms, placing the runic blades upon the natural tabernacle. When he finally stepped back to let the Council begin the ritual in earnest, his breathing was rapid and shallow, and his mental attachment to the weapons manifested itself in a physical fever.

Yet at that moment, when he was about to storm back towards the altar to regain what he had surrendered, all five Spirit Warders started to chant in unison. Their mellifluous vocals were without instrumental support, and yet it was as if Devin were listening to a grand orchestra. The quintet of voices transcended any song he had ever heard, a choir whose tunes caressed not the ear drums or the heart, but the soul itself. But although it was beautiful, he could hear the commanding undertone that swept through their incomprehensible litanies, an overwhelming force set to sever the vile spirit residing within his katars from its druidic steel. The song of power ricocheted off the mountainsides in ominous echoes, nailing him to the half-frozen soil. It was too late to stop the Council from rending through his weapons, but the grief about that revelation was quickly drowned out as the Spirit Warders' chant rose in volume, its crescendo accompanied by a turquoise haze rising around the altar that held his valuables.

A vile spirit rose from the weapons that had appeared so pristine, black smoke oozing from what had seemed to be imperturbable silver. It circled up slowly, besmudging the crisp air of the Comb, attaining a vaguely humanoid form occluded by solid shadow several feet above the altar. Devin felt rather odd - he trembled, but not of illness or fright. It was more like filth was being forcefully expelled from his body, rendering him pure, and curing him from depression and lust for several seconds, until he laid eyes upon the abomination that had resided within those valuable blades. He felt healed, rejuvenated even, but at the sight of a necromancer's jet-black soul, no living being could hold on to such purity. Even though the Skull of Radasanth was but a shadow of its former self, its presence remained intimidating. Even the Council Members appeared startled by the demonic appearance, though they did not stop chanting their mystifying song, leading Devin to believe that the summoning of the most notorious black mage in the history of Radasanth hadn't been wholly unexpected.

Although the wraith was supposedly caged within the pentagram of turquoise energy that glistened unnaturally upon the altar, it still exuded a veil of malevolence. But however unnerving, the five most powerful Spirit Warders were firmly in control, even though Devin could discern sweat pearling on the forehead of the Council's two human members. Their endlessly reiterated litany increased in speed and intensity, battering away at the shade in their midst with intangible armaments. Slowly but surely, the gathering of black clouds shrinked, each tone of the ethereal tune now shattered by the shadow's shrieks of despair. It helplessly attempted to return to the safety of the silvery katars beneath him, but the weapons cast him out with argent gleam, the bonds of anti-magic having reconnected within the druidic steel as soon as the Skull's putrid blackness had left it. Despite that he knew the wraith's malicious nature, Devin still found it hard to look at the screeching entity as the Warders guided it toward its inevitable demise. Dozens of different voices, men, women, children, cried for mercy in all languages Devin had heard of, and more. They reached him even through the void he had conjured around his mind, and he would have found them quite compelling, had he not been certain that each of those voices' owners had suffered a gruesome death at the hands of this necromancer in front of him.

Not one second after the thought crossed his mind, the humanoid shadow became silent. Somehow, that sudden soundlessness was even more frightening than the helpless screams of before. Devin felt the hairs on his neck rise; he felt as though the wraith had finally found a way to stop his imminent destruction. His feelings did not betray him. Although still declining in size, the necromancer's shade appeared to have turned in one particular direction, focusing its eyeless gaze upon the youngest of the council members: the young woman with the beautiful red curls, whose diadem glinted like platinum within the scarce sunlight that fell over the vale. And when its voices again resounded around the mountainside, they were no longer hopeless or dissonant. They spoke in unison, and their words were enticing but gelid, piercing easily through the Council's eternal chant.

"Yevanna." The young woman's shoulders trembled slightly as she heard the abomination utter her name, but she sustained the chant that constrained the wraith's movement, which Devin found admirable. But at the same time, he was worried. In their short trek here, Razzal had told him several things about the different council members, and from that conversation, Devin had come to know that the red-haired woman Arghazabad had targeted for his scheme was the least experienced Warder of the five, despite being the most powerful. According to Razzal, Yevanna had a hard time controlling the spiritual magic bestowed upon her - she expected too much of it, desired to channel more than any human could hope to survive. Attempting to undo the untimely death of her parents was the only example the Adept had provided, but judging from the tattoed man's tone, Devin had guessed that Yevanna had attempted magic even more dangerous than resurrection. As the vile wraith continued its monologue, Devin realized that the necromancer had sensed that weakness in the circle of Warders that attempted to vanquish him. But how could it possibly know that? Had it visited Akashima when it'd been still alive? It seemed unlikely.

"... but we can bring them back," the wraith's voice seeped in through the enforcer's remarkably distant train of thought. The tone was soothing, but poisonously so. Devin's heart skipped a beat as he noticed that the point of the pentagram that Yevanna had been guarding was blurring, the depth of its turquoise gleam fading with every word the shade sent her way. "Together, Yevanna. Khal'dari! You and me. Your power and my knowledge. You know that we can bring them back." The voice sounded almost beseeching, now. The enforcer was amazed by the Skull's persuasiveness, and he was clearly not the only one affected. Devin swore he'd seen it coming the moment the wraith had directed its attention toward the youngest Warder, and yet he could do nothing to stop it, for fear that he would completely disrupt the ritual and set his ancient archnemesis free. A voice in his head urged him to act, but he could only watch as Yevanna's barrier of bluish energy faded, and the wraith's blackness seeped from the weakened pores that the young Warder's silence had created. The remaining four Warders tried desperately to make the shield secure once more, but to no avail, because although they were able to stop the necromancer from breaking free entirely, Yevanna had opened herself up to the infestation with a longing smile on her beautiful features.

Devin watched in horror as the Warder's allure was drowned in corruption. Even from a distance, he could see Yevanna's veins bulge within her skin, turning from pink to purple to the deepest black as the wraith's depravity defiled her bloodstream. The Council's magical chant stopped abruptly, and the four Warders slowly moved away from their youngest colleague. Yevanna's skin turned an unhealthy shade of blue, and as the deathly color spread over her face, Devin could have sworn that she looked him in the eye, and that he was falling into pools of infinite regret; too late, she realized the mistake she had made. Only for a second. After that, he stared into orbs of darkest onyx, like Razzal's, but at the same time completely different, for they were filled with indescribable hate at the sight of the man that had destroyed him in the caverns of the Argente Sanctuary, some time ago.

He vaguely heard Anzala shouting from her safe perch, noticed the admonitions of the other council members as they backed up towards him, but did not heed them. Instead, he finally gave in to the urge that had plagued his mind from the very moment that Arghazabad had started to persuade Yevanna. With a speed that surprised both himself and his allies, he sprinted at the altar and dove at the gleaming katars lying upon it. A gloomy projectile raced past his shoulder, leaving a burning feeling in his left arm, but his focus would not allow him to dwell on pain. Finally, the two blades, now pristine, lay clenched firmly within his hands. He ducked behind the stone to avoid another arrow of black energy, and clenched Sedi's mechanism around his wrists, unsheathing the lethal weapons instantly. They emerged from his sleeves with a sound unlike what he had ever heard before, almost as mystical as the lyric that the Council had used to contain the necromancer previously. A warm feeling tingled through his arms, and the pain of his left arm's injury immediately receded. He rose from behind the stone, locking eyes with Yevanna's corrupted form, and for the first time in his life, felt more a warrior than the stealthy rogue he'd emulated in the past. His mind was void, but the surprise - yes, even fear - registering in the possessed Warder's blackest eyes drove him to step from behind his cover, so that he now stood face to face with a force he'd previously thought invincible. Not anymore.

The Argent Katars had finally been claimed.