Flight From Ironheart IC

[Lonna]

Pyrene the Emotionless

Coolly assessing the situation, Pyrene quickly realized that Duke Volesin's impatience and anger were making Rose's panic attack even worse, which of course, only exacerbated her father's frenzy. Stepping forward carefully (she thought it prudent to keep her enhanced strength and speed until they reached safety, and she had already discovered what could happen if she misjudged her new abilities) Pyrene gently laid a hand on Rose's trembling arm.

"Please allow me to help." It was not a request.

Without waiting for an answer or further explaining her intentions, Pyrene closed her eyes, leaned close to the other woman, and inhaled deeply. The breath was infused with her power, summoning the fearful panic rising off her target in a palpable wave that she absorbed herself. Instantly Pyrene felt her scalp prickle and her skin tighten, her breathing became fast and shallow, and fear dampened her palms and underarms with cold sweat. Fighting down a rising urge to scream or laugh hysterically, Pyrene forced herself to take a deep breath - she had worked through panic before, and this time there would be no hallucinations to distract her and give focus to the terror. She realized her hands were trembling and clasped them together as she opened her eyes.

The transfer of emotions had taken a mere instant, and Rose and her father were in nearly the same position as before. Rose, however, looked much calmer, and the Duke glanced back and forth between the women as if trying to understand what had just happened. Pyrene's eyes darted around the small area nervously, and when she spoke her voice held a tremor despite her best efforts.

"We- we should go. Go now."

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent

Leaving from Theresea, Isera returned to the room. Carlain should not have said anything maybe, but it was a good thing to be honest. Maybe he was hoping to redeem, and that was a good thought. But dangerous. Duncan did not say anything she doesn't know, so Isera waited until after the teleport.

Now that she was here, she was uncertain. She wanted to go see her father, but there was no time now to have a talk. It would be business. Carlain being injured would be a burden on his family, and surely Cerise would already be stressed and busy. Isera would go help her, and then meet her father that evening.

So she went down the nostalgic street, to the house she knew very well. And she knocked, hoping there was not too much of a problem.

Oh, but Isera remembered. She was still in 'disguise.' Maybe once inside she would change back.

[The_Snark]

Marisiel

She was silent for a long moment, while the city burned and profane magic oozed across the crimson sky. "I never meant to hurt you, Istomilo," she said at last, falling back on that bastion of truth. "You were dying, and... I thought if I broke the prison you built, it would set you free. I didn't know. I'm sorry."

She looked away, and her gaze fell on a charred corpse lying in one of the streets below. When she looked up again, her jaw was clenched. "Yes, I am here for duty. When Phaedra fell I asked the Lady leave to stay and protect the survivors from the demons they unleashed, and she granted it. That is my duty as it always should have been, to protect. And you! I don't understand you. You claim in one breath that Miriam and I turned our backs on mankind, and in the next boast how you will cast your fellow men down for the fiends to rule! You were the only one in Phaedra - angel or human - who did the right thing, kept his head and refused to join in the killing while the rest of the world went mad. That was how I remembered you all these years. I cannot believe I find you murdering these people to save your own miserable stitched-together hide! I didn't come here because I hated you, Milo - I thought you were gone! - but I think I am beginning to."

Angry. Marisiel had hardly spoken to anyone in decades, and now all her frustration was threatening to spill out. She breathed deeply, tried to find calm within herself. "The man I knew threw himself in front of a sword to save someone he cared about. He would not be doing this. You don't have to either, no matter what they threaten you with. Please, Istomilo, stop this. I don't want to kill you again."

[Dorizzit]

Korram the Purifier

Korram hadn't really expected to be able to defeat Cheran in the air. The exercise was more intended to boost Cheran's confidence back to the point where he would keep making mistakes. Still, Korram isn't ready for Cheran's utter superiority in their exchange, and eventually the Baron's son gets in a lucky shot that leaves Korram pinned to the ground, disoriented. Unfortunate, but he could still come back from it.

Straight fight? Bah! I'd like to see him try to fight without all his powers.

Korram waits for Cheran to reach closer, already preparing his counterattack. Before he can strike back, however, a...ferret(!?) made of fire leaps up out of nowhere and assaults Cheran before he can do anything. Korram grins malevolently as Cheran struggles, then flips himself back onto his feet in a crouch, withdrawing his wings back into his back. He is about to attack while Cheran is distracted when Purifier's confused words reach him.

The Baron's got his fingers in all kinds of stuff. We can look into it later.

Korram waits for Cheran to come at him, but the attack never comes. Instead, Cheran seems to have forgotten Korram entirely in favor of cursing the ferret's creator. Korram growls.

He's just ignoring me. He really thinks I'm not enough of a threat!? He's not even looking at me!

Korram stands, and crosses his arms in front of his face. He then snaps them to his sides, bending his arms at his waist and clenching his fists into tight balls. As he does so, flames erupt from his body, creating a sheath of fire around him.

"FINE! NO MORE F****** AROUND!"

Korram releases a massive jet of fire behind him, rocketing himself at Cheran. Cheran barely has enough time to turn before Korram's knee collides with his jaw, knocking him back. Korram doesn't let up for an instant, however, spinning and kicking Cheran across the face, then burying his elbow in Cheran's gut. He finishes by releasing an explosion of fire point blank, launching Cheran away from him. Korram pursues, landing a powerful headbutt before vaulting over Cheran entirely. Planting his feet on the ground, Korram grabs Cheran by the shoulders and throws him, face first, over his head and into the ground. As Cheran tries to rise, Korram slams him back to floor by planting his foot on Cheran's back, between the wings. Keeping Cheran pinned, he speaks, allowing the sheathe of flame to disperse. Instead of the enraged roar from before his words are quiet.

"You're right. I do strive. I do reach for something more. It's brought me nothing but trouble. But each time I get kicked to the dirt, I get back up. My life is a string of failures, but they're my failures. I will never accept anything as unchangeable. It has ruined my life. It has hurt or killed everyone close to me. But if I just give up...it was all for nothing. You? You can never match my will. It doesn't matter how many times you beat me. I'll claw my way out of hell if I have to, but I will never stop."

Cheran tries to knock Korram off his back by hitting the former revolutionary with his right wing. Korram catches it by the leading edge, holding it still with an iron grip. His next words are even softer, but carry an undertone of menace horrifying enough to match Cheran in his cruelest moments.

"You rely a lot on your regeneration. You take hits that would end a fight normally because you can just regenerate. But I wonder...how far does it go? How much can you regenerate? Can you do it infinitely? Does it stop after a while, or maybe slow down? I wonder...what happens...if I do...this?"

Korram grips Cheran's wing in both hands, his hold tight enough to crush bones. Using his foot for leverage, he pulls back on the wing, the appendage stretching painfully. Cheran tries to defend himself with his other wing, but Korram blocks it with his leg and steps on it, pinning it to the ground. Several seconds pass, then with a sickening snap Cheran's wing is torn from his back. Korram engulfs it in flames and tosses the burning wreck of flesh and feathers aside.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

”I developed a vaccine for the disease, yes,” Sohssal responded to the Baron, in what little time he had. He was mildly frustrated at the Baron's abrupt cutoff of the communication, but there was no sense getting worked up about something that can't be helped.


Seeing Arlan this often did nothing to reduce his frustration at his prior imprisonment, however. But working with the Baron introduces the very real possibility that he could get promoted to a position above Arlan. That by itself was almost worth this mess.

”The vaccine is actually a spell, complex enough that it should not be reinvented by anyone else. Anyway, the disease has an incubation time, so it would be prudent to start this as early as possible. I don't have any questions that wouldn't be better asked in the field,” he said. Sohssal didn't really want to talk for Arlan for very long, so he ended the communication after he was done.

Sohssal hesitated for a few moments afterward, then cast a quick scrying on the given coordinates. It couldn't hurt to be cautious around his former jailors, after all. Assuming everything was as promised, he would gather his remaining companions.

”I am going to run a field test of the contagion soon. This is your last chance for any objections. You may come watch the test, if you wish. It won't be pretty,” he explained. Then he started gathering up a few supplies for the travel (relevant notes and, of course, samples of the disease), along with whatever combat magic items were left from his sojourn in Amaranth. There was always the possibility of the infected or even the observers getting too aggressive.

After all that, he would cast the teleportation for whatever and whomever he would bring along to Stonefall (but not before casting the vaccine on Shanks, if he came – he couldn't imagine the disease affecting Omega). Sohssal would make sure to present a stern mien upon arrival. That sort of thing came pretty easily, as of late.

[Inspectre]

Meanwhile

Theme Song

Istomilo, in the guise of Maya Weyborn, mystic and healer, strolled thoughtfully down the main street of this wretched speck of civilization. Stonefall had exceeded his expectations as a place of shelter for Marisiel, but that time was now coming to an end. Even if he had the patience to indulge her fantasies of a peaceful life here, events beyond his control were about to shatter this pathetic hamlet.

No doubt the final dance between the Baron and Miriam would follow shortly thereafter, and Istomilo found he couldn’t care less who would win. True he had aided the Baron greatly during his rise, but that wasn’t done out of any sense of kinship with the man. He wasn’t even interested in punishing Miriam for Her role in all of this misery. No, there was ever only one thing he cared about, and now he had it.

Well, that wasn’t true actually, as he had come to learn the hard way over the years. And after this one last grand show here, he would be on his way to go reclaim one of the other two. The thought of all the creative ways Titania must have come up with to torment Marisiel over the years made him quiver with excitement. But first, he needed to re-introduce himself to the filthy Markash. Markashiel? Hrmph, he cracked himself up sometimes!

Coming to the center of the deserted main square, Istomilo threw his arms out and twirled around, surveying the area. Yes, the climax of the show would take place right here. Tomorrow. That should give him more than enough time to finish enchanting the townspeople. Simple fools had come to him for healing all sorts of aches and injuries, and they got that and more in return!

Oh yes, tomorrow Istomilo would put on quite the show for the little bitch that ruined his life. It will be a show to die for!

**********

Theme Song

Gilgaem snarled as he poured fresh potions into the pool at his feet. Although like his followers he had no need of air to breathe, he had still ordered construction of a dry room at the center of his palace. It made mixing compounds so much easier and without the risk of an accidental transference via seawater. Despite himself he found that he was spending more and more time in here.

The search for Marialta’s ashes was going not at all well. His minions had already combed the sea floor in the valley where he had awakened, gladly shedding their own blood in the hopes of it drifting down to Marialta’s remains. Given their proximity at death, one would expect her ashes to be there, somewhere. But apparently the Lord of Blood once famed for her extraordinary luck was still on Fate’s black list.

The failure to locate Marialta’s final resting place did not deter Gilgaem from his search. Although he had a world to re-conquer, he saw to it that regular search patrols still went out, slowly combing the ocean inch by inch. But the ocean was vast, and to methodically search it all for one handful of ashes was a madness that would take centuries to play out. Ergo, Gilgaem’s attempts to scry on the ashes’ location, which failed time and time no matter what variations he tried. In this too, he proved his indomitable will by endlessly trying, over and over again.

That did not mean to say he was possessed of infinite patience, and when this latest attempt failed too Gilgaem drove his foot down into the pool with an ancient curse. The stomp was hard enough to crack the bottom of the pool, and the floor below it, creating a small spring of sea water to begin bubbling up into this previous sealed room. With an exasperated sigh Gilgaem worked a spell to repair the stonework, sealing up the cracks and expelling the seawater. He hated to admit it, but he needed help, particularly as this divination crap was never his specialty.

What really burned his ass, however, was who exactly he’d have to go ask help from. Kartul was too obnoxious, and even if the corpse-humping nitwit did agree to help he’d probably say something stupid that would cause Gilgaem to stomp his ass into ash again. Zariel and Shiakti were nowhere to be found, shielded from his gaze by magic, either their own or some powerful patron’s. That left only one person – Umber.

Gilgaem already knew where his old rival was thanks to help from that Sohssal fellow – an interesting magician to be sure. But there was no way he was going to get Umber’s help without the smug **** rubbing his nose in it. And of course, Fianna would be there too, at his side . . . that wasn’t going to be pleasant either. The cards had already been dealt on that subject though, and Gilgaem had been happy enough with his consolation prize. Still . . .

Growling curses under his breath, rehearsing how he’d greet Umber, Gilgaem heads for the room’s airlock. He had an army to gather. He would go to the capital city of Narle in force, and if Umber was there he’d demand the arrogant prig’s aid. If Umber no longer was there, then Gilgaem would get some new seafront property instead.

***********

(Hey, OverWilliam? Choo-choo, my friend! Choo-choo. )

Mumbling a half-remembered song to himself, Ulrich crossed from the open front worship area of his chapel into the back. He had just finished this evening’s ceremony, and had been pleased to note an uptick in attendance. It had been awhile since his humble chapel had been so full, no doubt a result of the troubles plaguing the kingdom recently. Ulrich had been sure to encourage his gathered flock to keep hope, and for once even he was feeling hopeful.

True to his word, Tare had somehow gotten the herbs necessary for the she-elf’s cure. A messenger from Brock himself had shown up at Ulrich’s door earlier in the day, asking him what he needed. And to Ulrich’s surprise, the lad had returned swiftly with the requested herbs, assuring him that the Guild would be picking up the tab. The fact that Brock had agreed to help surprised Ulrich, especially so swiftly. Tare must have been particularly persuasive – not that Ulrich had ever doubted the lad. Although still young, the boy held definite potential, a fact confirmed by his amazing escape. He’d go far if his martyr complex didn’t kill him first.

With the herbs now in hand, Ulrich had all he needed to construct an antidote to the poison threatening Adamé’s life. It would take time to find the proper combinations of herbs for the exact cure, but Ulrich had already administered several treatments. The last one Ulrich had delivered just before going out for the ceremony looked especially promising, but he’d keep checking on the she-elf’s condition to make sure she was truly improving. Which was, in fact, what he was on his way to do right now.

When he found the back hallway deserted Ulrich was not immediately alarmed. The she-elf’s betrothed had hung over her like a ghost, and it was only recently that Ulrich had managed to convince him via pantomime that the best thing he could do for her was to go out and take a walk. Most likely, he was either still doing that or once again standing vigil over her as she continued to rest on Ulrich’s own bed.

When Ulrich opened the door to his bedroom to find it empty, however, his mind immediately screamed in alarm. There were no signs of a struggle, nor any fresh bloodstains on Ulrich’s bed to mingle with the ones already befouling it from Adamé’s occasional bouts of sickness. Teareal was nowhere to be found either, and Ulrich cursed his stupidity at sending the elf out into a city growing increasingly hostile to his kind. It had been a necessary risk with the way Taereal got in Ulrich’s way while he treated her, but gambles always looked stupid after you lose.

From the front came a sudden chorus of panicked screams, drawing Ulrich’s attention away from the mysterious disappearance. Guessing the two events were somehow linked, Ulrich dashed back to the front to find a new horror awaiting him. The last of his chapel’s guests were just fleeing out the door when he arrived, leaving a lone figure standing in the middle of the room, emptying a cask of oil out onto the floor. Limier.

“Hello Ulrich. It’s been quite a while.” Limier said conversationally, tossing the empty cask aside and reaching into her cloak.

“Not nearly long enough for me. I thought I told you that I never wanted to see you again.”

“Mmm, I do recall you saying that, yes. But it’s been so many long years, Ulrich. I missed you. We were quite close once – partners even. Surely that buys me a few minutes of your time?”

Clenching his hands into fists, Ulrich takes a bold step forward, but stops there. He was aware of how dangerous Limier could be when threatened.

“No, it doesn’t. Not when you come into *my* chapel, a place of peace, and threaten me with burning it down! I assume that’s what the oil is for?”

“Quite right.”

Limier said, studiously stepping back to avoid the spreading oil while drawing a match from her cloak with one hand and a loaded handcrossbow with the other. The assassin levels the weapon at Ulrich, and then strikes the match along the side of the crossbow, igniting it.

“Get over by the altar.”

Limier commands, and Ulrich obeys. Once satisfied that Ulrich can’t escape without risking a crossbow bolt in the back, she continues.

“Now then, believe it or not Ulrich I don’t want to hurt you. Despite the way you broke off our partnership, that was a long time ago and I don’t like to hold grudges. I want you to understand that this is simply business.”

Limier continues, holding the match threateningly over the pool of oil as it begins to burn down towards her gloved fingers.

“All right. I’ll assume you’re telling the truth that this is nothing personal then and that you’re here for information. Although why you’d go to all this trouble just for me I don’t understand. I’m just a simple preacher now.”

At this Limier gives a mirthful chuckle, bringing back memories of a much earlier time when Ulrich used to enjoy that laugh, as it was breathed into his ear.

“Maybe now, but once you were Ulrich the Couatl, Master of Poisons. A natural choice for Tare to approach about a cure for his new she-elf friend. Just to indulge my curiosity, what did he have to say about me?”

Ulrich wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but he knew it could very well end with a crossbow bolt in a fatal spot of his anatomy. He worked his tired brain towards coming up with a plan to get him out of here. For now, the best thing he could come up with is keeping Limier off-balance and angry – a frustrated opponent was more dangerous, but also clumsy. Maybe an important bit of information would slip.

“Nothing good. He did out you as female - something I understand you’re sensitive about these days? Awfully sloppy work on your part.”

“What can I say, I have a soft spot for him. He reminds me of you, and my son – who’s not yours, by the way. And when Tare mentioned your *good* old friend Limier, what did you say to him?”

“To be honest, I wasn’t even aware that “Limier” was you. Not at first, anyway. After I figured it out – well, what would the point be? It was a long time ago and would have just confused the kid. I wanted him to trust me, and considering you were already using my poison, describing our sordid past was unlikely to engender a whole lot of trust. And you have a son, really? Well, I guess that makes you even more of a slut than I figured!”

In response, Limier’s aim shifted from the middle of Ulrich’s chest to a somewhat lower location. His tactic of angering his old companion seemed to be working quite well. Perhaps too well.

“Careful, Ulrich. I don’t have to kill you with the first shot. And since pleasantries are apparently over, let’s get down to business. I know Tare brought the elf here. I know you got the herbs you needed to make a cure. I want you to tell me right now where she is, so I can put an end to her and finally complete this pain in the ass job.”

For a moment, Ulrich had to simply blink at Limier in confusion. He had thought Limier had already dealt with the elves, and was now planning on going after Tare. But there was no point in questioning him about the elves in that case, and Limier tended to dislike mind games.

“I don’t know where they are. I thought you had them!”

Ulrich answered honestly, but as is often the case in such situations, the truth did not set him free.

“Bull****. I saw them come in here Ulrich! And I didn’t see them come out. Regardless of what you might believe, I had nothing to do with their disappearance. So who did if it wasn’t you or me!?”

For a moment the two stood in awkward silence, and then the pieces clicked into place. Now it was Ulrich’s turn to laugh.

“You realize I had a secret tunnel built underneath the chapel, right? A relic from my younger, more paranoid days as this chapel’s pastor. I told Teareal about it, afraid you would show up, just as you’ve done now. Both he and his betrothed are long gone by now!”

Limier swears loudly as she waves the match out, tossing the burnt-out match aside before gripping the crossbow with both hands.

“Show me.”

Turning around, Ulrich starts to walk back the way he came. If Teareal really had taken his betrothed away, that was both a foolish move and a lucky break. Assuming Limier couldn’t track them down, that would save Adamé’s life – assuming Ulrich had indeed cured her of the poison. Either way, he had to buy Teareal as much time as possible – at best he currently had a little less than an hour’s head start on the expert assassin.

Theme Song

Passing a rack of candles, Ulrich hit on a desperate plan. He snatched one of the lit candles up, turned around, and threw it at the oil patch Limier was now crossing to get up to him, all in one smooth motion. The candle luckily didn’t go out from the sudden motion, and a moment after striking the ground the patch of oil went up in brilliant flame.

Screaming in alarm, Limier danced through the flames as her cloak caught on fire, still having enough presence of mind to fire her crossbow. Ulrich felt the bolt whistle past, scouring a line of pain across his right side. With a pained grunt he charged forward, planning on continuing his assault. Limier meanwhile continued to fight against her panic outside the radius of the burning oil slick, throwing her crossbow aside and removing her burning cloak. She turned to see Ulrich coming just in time to twist away, allowing him to sail past her as he leaped in for the tackle.

“Too slow, Ulrich!”

Limier taunted as Ulrich sailed past, just snagging the edge of her armor with his fingers before falling to land right outside the leading edge of the oil slick. Flicks of flame began to extend out from the burning oil as the fire found the wooden floor and broken pews, reaching out for Ulrich’s chest and face like a lover’s hands. For a moment he felt searing pain as the heat roiled over him, and then he was out, rolling and rolling and rolling away from the fire. He stopped off to one side of the altar, pausing a moment and lying still to catch his breath. This proved to be a bad idea as something slammed down into his left kidney, and then against his wounded side – Limier.

“What were you thinking, Ulrich?”

The assassin demanded as she stomped her boot down into Ulrich’s back a third time.

“Neither of us are as young as we used to be, but you’ve had years to go soft!”

Limier raised her boot a fourth time, and Ulrich braced himself. He was only going to get one shot to make this work. As Limier’s boot came down, he pushed himself up off the ground as hard as he could, springing up and backward. Limier’s foot hit his back again, but far sooner than she expected. The impact threw her off-balance, and then Ulrich crashed back into her, sending her sprawling. Or it would have if he hadn’t kept dashing backward as fast as he could, legs pumping like pistons, shoving Limier ahead of him. There was a loud clatter as they crashed back into a candelabra next to the altar, sending it tumbling off to one side. Then they were at the altar, and Limier gasped in pain as her back crashed into the edge. Ulrich kept pushing, carrying them up onto it until they were lying half-on, half-off the altar.

Twisting himself around to be face to face with Limier, he paused a moment to take in that he was effectively lying on top of her on top of the altar, and grinned at her.

“Just like old times, eh?” He remarked, and then drove his head forward into her, aiming his forehead at her nose. There was a soft dry crack, and Limier went limp. Had he won, just like that? It seemed a little hard to believe, and Ulrich didn’t quite trust it. Reaching around, he caught hold of Limier’s right wrist. Instantly, her eyes flashed open, and there was a soft click before a knife appeared in her left hand, coming up at Ulrich’s face. Prepared for something of the sort, Ulrich managed to block the thrust with his left hand, and then snag her left wrist. A deft twist later and Limier was disarmed with her left arm joining her right in being pinned down to the altar. For a few moments Limier desperately struggled to get free, but quickly slumped down against the altar in defeat. Although Ulrich was no longer a hardened assassin, he still had superior weight and leverage.

During this brief lull in their confrontation, both combatants tried to catch their breath. Ulrich’s breath had more of a wheeze than he would have liked but he realized with a start that he was feeling more alive than he had in years. He glanced nervously over at the rapidly spreading fire that would inevitably consume the entire chapel, and then resumed looking down at Limier. The assassin’s goggles were askew, leaving her half-blinded as she stared up at him with only one lens-covered eye. The scarf covering the lower half of her face was likewise out of place, and swiftly darkening as a wet spot began to expand from the area of her nose. And although she tried to hide it, Ulrich was familiar with her enough to tell that she was feeling her own age and pain right now.

“Look, I can keep holding you down to the altar until we both burn up, or you can surrender right now and agree to cooperate. I’ll keep you locked up for two days, and then turn you loose to start hunting the elf again.”

“How generous.” Limier grunted, writhing underneath him for a few moments before giving up again.

“It’ll give you a chance to catch them, and a chance for them to get away. Fifty-fifty, I figure. Or you can burn alive here in my arms, and have zero chance of completing your job. Or living for that matter – I assume that’s still important to you!”

“And it isn’t for you!?” Limier shot back, and Ulrich paused a moment, his bluff called. But then after a moment’s thought, his resolve hardened.

“Not if it means my death will save Adamé’s. I’ve seen how important her life is to Teareal. To Tare – do you know how hard he’s worked to save her from you? I’ve taken a lot of lives in my day, and I wish like Hells I could give them back now. But I can’t, and I’ve dedicated my life since to helping people. If I can actually use my talents to save someone’s life for once, then I’ll die a happy man.”

At this Limier once again laughed.

“You really *have* gone soft, haven’t you?”

For several long moments silence reigned as the flames continued to creep closer. Then finally Limier sighed.

“Fine. You win Ulrich. Now, is this going to be something where you trust my word, or are we going to play Ironheart?”

Ulrich hadn’t really thought this far ahead. He had no idea how much he could actually trust Limier to keep her word. As such, prudence dictated that he keep her as trussed up as possible for the duration, followed by letting her go by dropping a knife at her feet and running for dear life.

“Let’s play it by ear.”

Ulrich replied, beginning to ease himself off her when she suddenly tensed.

“Actually, wait. I do believe I just thought of a counter-offer.”

Ulrich didn’t like the sound of that, and certainly didn’t as Limier brought her legs up, grinding her thigh against his wounded side. Despite his best efforts, his grip weakened as pain surged into his brain, and he felt Limier slip her left hand free a moment later. There was another soft click, and Ulrich pulled his left arm back, up to his chest, hoping in vain to block the fatal thrust. As it turned out, there was no fatal thrust, but instead a slash to his right hand. The muscles there betrayed Ulrich as his right hand spasmed open, and Limier was free. Instead of attacking however, Limier instead dragged herself further up onto the altar, allowing her legs to join the fray. She jammed her knee into his wounded side again, and then curled her legs up in front of her. Followed by extending them again directly into Ulrich’s chest in a hellacious mule kick that sent him flying backward.

Realizing he was once again in severe trouble from the verge of victory, Ulrich desperately pushed himself back up onto his feet. As he did so, Limier swung herself down off the altar, holding her dagger at the ready while using her free hand to tear her goggles and scarf off her face.

“I think you broke my nose. Bastard!” Limier nasally growled, while gingerly probing the area with her fingers while blood continued to stream out her nostrils.

“All’s fair.” Ulrich shrugged, casting his eyes around for a weapon. His gaze fell onto the toppled candelabra, and his hand followed as he stooped down to pick it up. The darn thing was made of heavy wrought iron, and Ulrich had no idea how long he was going to be able to swing it around. Still, it was once again all he had as he shifted his grip to the middle of its length. Her face now fully revealed, Limier quirked an eyebrow at his chosen weapon.

“Seriously, Ulrich? I want you to remember as you lie bleeding out, waiting to see if you die from smoke inhalation or blood loss, that all this could have been avoided if you had just shown me the damn escape tunnel!”

“And you could have just surrendered and spent the next two days as my guest!”

Ulrich grunted back, and raised his unwieldy weapon to defend himself as Limier dashed forward. Despite its weight, the candelabra was well balanced, and Ulrich managed to deflect several slashes with one end while using the other to keep Limier at a distance. He wouldn’t be able to do so if she got in close, but it just seemed like a matter of time before that happened.

Yet another desperate plan flowering in his mind, Ulrich faked tiredness, even more than he actually felt, and choked his grip up on the candelabra, towards the top. Dashing in to take advantage, Limier feinted low, and then stabbed high, aiming for Ulrich’s throat. He got the head of the candelabra up just in time, trapping Limier’s knife in between the tines. With a rapid twist, Ulrich tore the knife out of Limier’s grasp and then spun around, swinging the legs of the candelabra up into her side. The impact threw her back into the altar, and from the way she was acting, Ulrich guessed he had broken at least one rib.

“I’m getting . . . too old . . . for this ****!”

Limier rasped, pushing herself away from the altar and clenching her hands into fists. Hefting the candelabra up once more, Ulrich put all his strength into swinging it around in a wide horizontal arc. Unfortunately, Limier saw the slow-moving blow coming, and was able to duck under it. The end of the candelabra swung around, the legs slamming into the altar instead, the impact finally tearing the unwieldy weapon out of Ulrich’s hands. Limier was on him a second later, driving a fist into his chest followed by a cross to the jaw that left him seeing stars.

Stumbling blindly back, Ulrich threw up his arms, narrowly blocking another punch aimed at his head. He retaliated by flailing with his arm, slapping Limier in the nose. She screamed and pulled back, giving him a brief respite. It was getting hard to breathe in here, and Ulrich’s gasps for air were met by acrid smoke. Soon it would be impossible to see or breathe in here as the fire continued to spread unabated and filled the chapel with deadly smoke long before the fire claimed everything. His body couldn’t take much more of this.

Trusting in his audacity, Ulrich charged forward yet again. He nearly ran into a kick from Limier, but as she raised her leg her broken rib kicked in and she pulled the kick short with a gasp of pain. Ulrich stumbled forward into Limier, shoving her back into the altar again and taking a tired swing at her face as she bounced back. Limier dodged, feinted once, feinted again, and then stumbled as her footing failed her. Ulrich tried to take advantage of her momentary lapse, but then Limier suddenly found her footing again and dodged the punch, grabbing hold of his wrist as she danced aside. Then it was her turn to deliver a deft twist and a shoulder turn, and suddenly Ulrich’s world was spinning. At least, until he slammed into the floor behind Limier, looking up dumbly at her. He tried to rise, found he couldn’t. His fight was over.

“You always did fall for that. Everytime.” Limier said sadly, and then finished the fight for good with a hard kick to Ulrich’s jaw that sent him into darkness.
---------------------------------------

As the flames leapt higher within the chapel and spread to consume everything within, they were finally noticed by passerby. Strange figures breaking into a chapel and telling everyone to get out or die, and the sounds of fighting were not alarming signs within the filthy slums of the capital. Fire, however, was and within minutes a bucket line was arranged to dump water from every nearby well into the blaze. The chapel was doomed, but with hard work the slum dwellers would be able to save their own homes from the same fate.

In one such building not far away, an abandoned tenement once inhabited by drug peddlers, a closet door is thrown open. Limier staggers out, falling to her knees with a desperate gasp of agony just a few inches beyond the closet. But she grits her teeth, and somehow wearily struggles back up to her feet. She digs her feet in against the rotten floor as the rope harness digs into her chest, biting into her side and the broken rib hard enough to make her nearly black out with a scream. But slowly, practically crawling on all fours, she makes it the rest of the way into the room, dragging the stretcher attached to her into the room as well. Then, and only then, she finally allows herself to collapse onto the floor.

A few minutes later, she stirs, weakly coughing up a wad of blood onto the floor. Wiping her mouth and chin clean of blood with the back of one gloved hand, Limier chuckles as she cuts herself free of the harness. She then turns back to examine her cargo, examining the open wound in Ulrich’s side first. It was a painful, deep scratch but ultimately just a scratch – he’d live. Still, she loosely bandaged it with a couple cloth scraps and then sat, watching Ulrich to make sure he was still breathing easily while she caught her own breath. Her wounds were likewise not life-threatening, although they were all painful and likely to grow even more so tomorrow morning. Hopefully healing potions could handle enough of it that a few drugs would eliminate the rest.

Finally, she had recovered enough, and it was time to move on. Wearily pushing herself up onto her feet, she took another strip of cloth and wrapped it around the lower half of her face, wincing at the pressure this put on her injured nose. She could probably have tracked the elves out into the street, but didn’t bother. Before resuming her hunt she would need to head back home for more supplies – most of hers had been destroyed along with her cloak. A new disguise would also be necessary, and although she hated to admit it probably at least a few hours of rest as well. By then the trail from here would be cold – no, she’d just have to accept that she would need to begin her hunt anew once she was ready.

Limping to the rough-cut doorway leading out of the room and down to the stairs that would take her out of the building, Limier paused and looked back. She regarded Ulrich one last time and shook her head with a self-conscious sigh.

“You’re not the only one going soft in old age.”

She whispered to the unconscious form of her former lover, and then she was gone.

[Inspectre]

*************

“So Mel – are you from around here? Do you have any family in the city?”

Hanna asked, continuing her relentless assault on Melcara for answers. Really, it never stopped! Melcara might have had an easier time fending off a horde of angry paladins than fending off this dumpy woman and her husband’s prying. As soon as Tare had left, they had pounced, turning the dinner table into an interrogation table. But there seemed to be a purpose to their questions – Karami sat at the table with them, looking at Melcara as much as she looked out the window into the dark street. Melcara knew exactly how the poor girl felt, and so despite how uncomfortable the questioning made her she continued to allow it. In truth, figuring out how to dodge their questions while still telling an entertaining story helped keep her own mind off of Tare’s situation.

Wherever he was going with his friend turned enemy turned friend, it sounded life-threateningly dangerous. Melcara longed to be there to protect him, afraid that he wouldn’t come back despite his promises. But he had entrusted her with an important task, protecting someone he considered perhaps more important than his own life. And she would be thrice-damned if she allowed any harm to befall the innocent child sitting across the table from her with glistening eyes.

As she prepared to answer this latest question with a smooth series of half-truths and bald-faced lies, a harsh knock came at the door. Silently, Melcara breathed a sigh of relief at this interruption, and however brief a respite it would provide. Perhaps it was even Tare, already returning triumphant, but somehow Melcara doubted it. No, Melcara was pretty sure trouble had come to this lovely family’s door instead. The hateful perversity of the universe practically demanded it.

Smoothly, she rose to her feet as the knock came again, louder and more insistent this time. Discretely, she flexed her limbs, getting ready for violence should that prove necessary. She then fixed Jonas with a smile, the man having already gotten up to his feet as well with a similarly trouble-expecting glower on his normally jovial face.

“Why don’t I get the door?”

Melcara said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She was met with a slight shake of Jonas’s head.

“It’s my household. I’m coming as well.” He rumbled, shooting a glance at his wife. Quietly, Hanna got up from the table to pat Karami on the head and retire into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a frying pan while she held behind her back out of sight, but ready to be produced at a moment’s notice. She gave Jonas a nod, and then the man walked over to the door, Melcara falling into step behind him.

The knock was just starting for the third time when the two of them reached the door. Jonas carefully unlatched it, and pulled it open a crack. Whoever it was on the other side immediately slid a foot through the crack and shouldered the door hard, throwing Jonas back. The door swung wide open to reveal Inquisitor Albert Silverton, standing there with a Cheshire grin and flanked by two cloaked men. Behind them stood another dozen, all heavily armed.

“So sorry to alarm you all on this fine evening, but this is an official Church Inquisition Investigation! Now if everyone present would all please come forward and line up against the wall, I would appreciate it. We have some inquiries to make of you, and then hopefully we can set all this unpleasantness behind us and be on our way – but only if you cooperate.”

Silverton barked, causing Karami to jump in her seat and simply blink at the angry yelling man in confusion. Jonas and Hanna are considerably less frightened, but still consciousness enough of Silverton’s authority to back away towards the indicated wall. Melcara was outraged at this violation of an otherwise pleasant evening, and moved to bar the door as Silverton’s associates moved to enter the room while the rest began to shuffle up the stairs behind him.

“I’m sorry Inquisitor, but is it customary for such investigations to take place at night? By whose authority are you entering this home and conducting this . . . “investigation” of yours!?”

For a moment Silverton simply looked at Melcara and then grinned in a most unsettling manner.

“Ah, yes. Sally, wasn’t it? I’m so glad that you are here. To answer your questions, this investigation is being conducted by my own authority. Inquisitor, you see, are given a wide latitude when the safety of a neighborhood is on the line. As it is now, because we are looking for – well, I have a theory. Do you think you could help me with it?”

Still smiling as viciously as any devil, Silverton leans in conspiratorially. The movement catches and hold Melcara’s attention just long enough for him to slip a vial of liquid into his palm and pop the cork. An instant later, and he splashes the contents of the vial directly into Melcara’s face, aiming for the eyes. Holy water. Melcara’s skin bubbles and peels upon contact, and she screams in agony, clutching her wounded face and staggering back.

Anticipating just this moment, the two Inquisitors flanking Silverton step forward into the house at last. Karami and her family, not expecting anything of the sort, scream in horror and recoil, moving away into a far corner, as far away from the now-revealed abomination as they could. Meanwhile, Silverton’s two friends grab Melcara by the arms, wrestling them down away from her face and behind her back. They locked a set of manacles around her wrists, and then kick her in the back of the knees, forcing her to kneel down onto the floor. Silverton then enters, moving to stand in front of Melcara while addressing the horrified family in an educational tone.

“Now, Inquisitors are trained endlessly on how to identify demonic entities intent on mingling with society and infecting it from within. How do we do this? Well, the first two things an Inquisitor learns are as follows. First, no matter how hard they try to cover it up, a demonic entity always has a peculiar smell, the stench of sulfur. Second, they all have a varying weakness to blessed holy water – it burns their skin like acid. As such, uncovering fiends masquerading as normal people merely requires a sharp nose and a willingness to get people wet.”

Silverton pauses to grin at his own joke, and then continues on, now adopting a business-like tone.

“Now, I have just uncovered one fiendish infiltrator, which leads me to believe that there is a second one afoot. Her companion, whose name I do not know but who I can only assume was here with her. In fact, I saw him leave, and I want to know where he went. Right. Now.”

For a moment, the family simply stared at the Inquisitor, still in open shock at the nightmare being played out in front of their eyes. But then Karami recovered, and she stepped forward, glaring daggers at Silverton.

“You’re wrong! Tare’s not a demon! He’s nice, and kind, and you’re a jerk for thinking ill of him!”

Silverton merely quirked an eyebrow at the young child challenging him, and then quirks the same eyebrow at his parents.

“I don’t know for sure what he is. I merely suspect him, but perhaps he is simply a mere dupe, fooled by this fiend’s disguise as you have clearly been. But I need to find him to confirm that, and if I don’t I’m afraid I may need to make things . . . dangerous for him.”

“You wouldn’t!” Karami shrieked at Silverton, who simply shrugged and kept his focus on her parents. Hanna and Jonas exchanged a look, and then the man of the house sighed and cleared his throat.

“Begging your Excellency’s pardon, sir, but we don’t know where he has gone. He met up with an old friend of his, a man we know as Uncle Brock, and they went away together? He didn’t say where, but he seemed to be in a hurry.”

At mention of Brock, Silverton’s eyes light up.

“Brock, you say? Ah yes, I believe I was interested in a certain Brock, with certain ties to shall we say, other unsavory elements within the city. Oh yes, I was very interested in having a polite discussion with him. And you say he came here to pick up Tare, and they went away together in a hurry? Most curious indeed.”

Apparently satisfied, Silverton turns his attention away from the cowering family to his dozen men standing just outside the door.

“Sweep the house and take the family into custody. We’ll interrogate them fully back at the sanctuary to determine their level of involvement with this fiendish conspiracy.”

From her position on the floor, Melcara coughed.

“Silverton . . .” She rasped, catching the inquisitor’s attention and causing him to look down at her with a leer.

“Yes? Any pithy last words, fiend?”

“Oh yes.” Melcara replied in a stronger voice, looking up to reveal to the inquisitor that her face was now fully healed.

Theme Song

“You won’t touch a hair on any of them!”

She roars, shifting into her full dark angelic glory in an instant. With a single gesture she tears her hands apart, rending the simple iron chain between her manacles as if it were paper. She grabs the two inquisitors holding her by the chest and throws them away from her, sending them each crashing into walls on either side of her. Then she rises menacingly as Silverton backpedals rapidly, it being his turn now to be wide-eyed with horror.

“A Hell Angel . . .” He breathes, stumbling back into the door frame. Then he seems to recover, and glances behind him at his dozen men.

“We need more men! You, get everyone here, NOW! The rest of you – DISTRACT HER!”

For just a brief moment, the twelfth man, presumably the youngest member of the group, blinks in confusion at his superior.

“What do you mean, everyone?”

“EVERYONE!” Silverton screams, and finally the subordinate seems to get it.

With a battle cry eleven of Silverton’s men draw their weapons, igniting them with holy fire as they charge through the doorway, while the twelfth turns and runs off down the street. He shouts at the top of his lungs as he goes, waking the entire neighborhood that trouble had indeed found its way to this sleepy corner. Considering what was going on elsewhere in the rest of the capital city this night, it was hardly remarkable.

It seemed Melcara’s wish to fend off a horde of paladins rather than continue answering Hanna’s probing questions was to be granted. Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a good trade to Melcara.

As the inquisitors filter in through the front door to join the battle, Melcara lets them come. She waits until they are all inside, and then with a mighty cry turns and picks up the dining table. Grasping it by the legs, she holds it in front of her, and then charges forward to meet the group of onrushing inquisitors. The table crashes into the onrushing group at chest-height, and the entire group is pushed back by the enraged fallen angel. She drives them all before her, smashing them back into the doorframe and sending the lucky ones tumbling back outside. Except Silverton, who by this time has already retreated to the front lawn. Melcara has just managed to finish shoving the last inquisitor out the door and was just beginning to consider how to shut the door with the table in the way when she is attacked from behind.

The two inquisitors she had initially thrown against the nearby walls to being the battle had recovered and drawn weapons. The two of them had come up behind her as she was escorted their fellows out, and as one they hack at her unprotected back. Both of the blessed blades bite deep into her back, and Melcara issues a scream that was part agony, and part fury. Flexing her wings, Melcara batters them back, solidly slapping one of the men in the face with the tip of her wing, leaving him to stagger back in blind pain.

His companion is made of sterner stuff, weathering the wing buffets before he can duck under them and deliver another slice, this one to the back of Melcara’s right leg. The fallen angel begins an ancient curse, remembers that a human child is present, and bites her tongue instead. Keeping one hand up against the table to hold it against the open doorway as an impromptu barricade, Melcara turns to face her attacker with a furious glare.

For a moment, the glare is enough to deter the man from further attacks, but then he regains his courage and steps in front yet another attack, this time a thrust. Melcara catches the weapons as it comes in with one hand, stopping the thrust immediately even though the blessed weapon begins to cause smoke to rise from her hand. She rips the weapon out of his grasp, tossing the blade aside, and then grabs the man by the throat while he stands there dumbfounded. Briefly she considers snapping his neck, but then reconsiders it. She would not risk damming any man to an early trip to the Hells. At least not one that was just doing his job to protect humanity and didn’t clearly deserve it. So instead she jerked the man down into the path of a rising knee, driving the wind completely out of his body. She then raised the limp body of the man into the air again, and threw him at his companion, sending them both crashing back into the wall one more time.

From the other side of the table, Melcara heard a thunk as something struck the table, followed immediately by a high-pitched whine. An instant later, and the table exploded, filling her world with pain again as the divine-powered explosion threw her to the floor.

“Stop standing around, you idiots! GET IN THERE!” Silverton yelled from the safety of the front lawn as he slid another bolt into the crossbow he had produced from somewhere. As the inquisitor began to bless the bolt in the same way as the first, his companions charged back into the house and got in some free blows against the stunned angel.

Recovering enough to use her wings to shield her body from the worst blows, Melcara looked at the innocent family, dragged into all this by her presence here. They were still cowering in the corner, uncertain what to do after this madness had descended into their home.

“Run!” Melcara implored them, twisting around on the floor to avoid several more blows and lashing out with her feet, sending two assailants crashing to the floor, and then sliding along the floor away from her.

“RUN!”

This simple command finally seemed to resonate with the family, and they moved to obey.

“Karami, go up to your room!” Hanna shouted, giving the terrified young girl a shove towards the stairs.

“And out the window!” Jonas added helpfully. And then the two parents glanced at each other again, and seemed to make a joint decision in that single moment. With a battlecry of their own, they both waded into the fray, Hanna swinging her frying pan left and right and Jonas methodically collecting his well-crafted, homemade chairs from around the room one by one to break across some inquisitor’s back. With this new assault from an unexpected direction, the inquisitors’ attention wavered, and Melcara took full advantage of it. Surging back to her feet, the fallen angel once again waded into the middle of the inquisitors, delivering savage but nonfatal blows to each of them. Within a minute the room was once again cleared of hostile combatants, the broken inquisitors all lying mewling on the floor, nursing serious injuries. Picking up two of them by their cloaks, Melcara carries them lightly over to the front door, holding them up for Silverton to see.

“I suggest you get out of here and don’t come back! You are not welcome here!” She shouts, dropping the two men unceremoniously onto the steps, wherein they roll down them with a joint groan, crumpling into a mingled heap at the bottom. Silverton responds by bringing his crossbow up and firing another bolt at Melcara. The bolt, as it is aimed, sails past her shoulder . . . striking somewhere in the room behind her.

“Get down!” Melcara screams, an instant before an explosion rips through the room, destroying the remaining furniture and sending Hanna and Jonas tumbling to the floor. With a murderous glare, Melcara turns back to glare at Inquisitor Silverton, who is methodically loading his crossbow for a third shot. The fallen angel takes an angry step out onto the porch, confident she could reach the inquisitor and break his cowardly toy right in front of him before he could finish readying it again. She is stopped only by the sight of at least two dozen more inquisitors charging down the street towards the house, moving to fall in behind Silverton. So instead Melcara goes with her original idea, stepping back inside the house and slamming the door shut.

She turns back to regard the inquisitors still sprawled out on to the floor, and Karami’s parents still huddling on the floor, but with defiant looks in their eyes.

“Thank you for the help. Do you think Karami is safe?”

She asks, receiving a dazed look, followed by an uncertain nod.

“Karami’s window overlooks the back alley. We try to keep it locked, but she knows where the key is. She slips out every now and then, but she rarely goes far. And she’s *always* back before nightfall. She knows how dangerous the streets are.”

Hanna explains, earning a nod and a grimace from Jonas.

“Aye. She should be safely away by now . . . assuming they don’t have anyone watching the back alley.”

Melcara thinks for a moment, looks at the two kind and gentle people who had nonetheless rushed to her defense even if they considered her a monster, and then sighs.

“There’s more of them out there now. A lot more. They’re going to smash the door down, probably in less than a minute, and then we’re going to be fighting again. It’s going to get ugly when that happens. I . . . I think we should surrender.”

“Surrender!?” Jonas growled, clutching an appropriated inquisitor sword tight to his chest.

“Yes, surrender. We might be able to fight off this group too, but there’s no telling how many men Silverton is willing to commit to this. You heard him yelling at his subordinate to get everyone. I . . . I don’t think I’ll be able to protect you against so many. You will get hurt . . . you could die.”

“We already got involved in this. They aren’t going to just let us go.” Hanna said, as if explaining something to a child. Melcara shook her head in response.

“Listen! Both of you. You need to live. For Karami! The only thing you did willingly was let me into your home, unknowingly. I mind-controlled you into attacking the inquisitors to help myself, bent your will into doing it. Tell them that, they’ll believe you. With any luck they’ll let you go . . . eventually.”

“But –“ Jonas started to argue, and Melcara was touched at the two’s sincerity. Even frightened – of her, of the inquisitors, and what they had done, they were still willing to admit they helped her of their own free will. Because they thought it was right. Melcara knew that she could not allow either of them to come to harm, even without the promise she had made Tare.

“It has to be this way! You *have* to do it. For your daughter! You want to see her again, don’t you?”

“And what about you?” Hanna asked. Melcara sighed. What was going to follow was not going to be pleasant, given the horror stories she had heard of Inquisitors.

“Don’t worry about me. They’ll slap me around a bit, preach at me and beat their chests some, and then probably kill me. But . . . Silverton was right. I do come from the Hells, I belong down there. At least if I get sent back there, I’ll go knowing that I saved both of your lives. I’d rather have that than survive this battle only to live with one or both of you going to the afterlife in my place.”

“Your mind is made up?” Jonas asked, and Melcara reluctantly nodded.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do it. Before Silverton decides it’s best to just blow up the house and kill us all.”

At that, Melcara shouted through the door.

“Hold your fire! I surrender! And I’m willing to give up my hostages as well!”

“Why should I believe this isn’t some damned trick!!?” Silverton shouted back, no doubt deploying his fresh men to positions surrounding the house.

At that, Melcara threw open the door, and threw her hands up.

“Please I am rendering myself at your mercy right now!”

Slowly, Melcara walked out onto the porch, and from there down the steps, and from there onto the lawn, where she knelt down and placed her hands onto her head. Cautiously the Inquisitors approached her, surrounding her while sending several of their men to go into the house to treat the wounded and capture Jonas and Hanna. Both of them were led out in chains, but the inquisitors were not especially rough with either of them. Particularly as both of them were sobbing and blubbering about how awful it was, their bodies not responding to their commands but those of that “evil demonic bitch”. Melcara was quite impressed with their acting, and only hoped they could maintain it in the face of an interrogation from whatever these inquisitors could muster.

I’m sorry Tare.

Melcara thought as more inquisitors came up the street, taking up positions to guard her.

I guess this is goodbye.

---------------------------------

“How many casualties?” Silverton asked his subordinate after the house had been thoroughly searched.

“None, sir. All inquisitors have been wounded, but all should make a full recovery.” The subordinate explained as his superior looked at him incredulously.

“A Hell Angel here, sitting around having dinner with a nobody family tonight in the middle of the capital. She fights viciously, manages to take down a dozen inquisitors, but doesn’t kill any of them despite opportunity to do so. And then she just up and surrenders.”

Silverton murmurs, starring at the fallen angel still peacefully kneeling on the lawn, seemingly not concerned in the least by the inquisitors surrounding her and holding blessed weapons against her neck.

“What do you make of it, sir?” The subordinate asks, and receives a scowl from Silverton.

“I don’t know yet. But I do intend to find out.”

Silverton growls, standing in silent contemplation for a moment before seeming to reach a decision.

“Get in touch with the sanctuary and tell them we’ve got a Hell Angel in custody. Tell them I want every length of adamantite chain, every scrap of enchanted leather they’ve got. I’m *not* taking the chance of this fallen angel going ape**** again, and I want her locked up so tight she can’t even think. I want that done five minutes ago. Then tell them I want the Judgment Chamber prepped for an aggressive interrogation scenario. I want that done ten minutes ago. Alert the rest of our men to spread the word that we’re looking for Brock and a “man” who should be with him, goes by the name of Tare. Maybe if we get lucky we’ll catch sight of them before they scurry down some dark hole, and then we can go dig them out. I want that done fifteen minutes ago. Now get to it!”

The subordinate turns to go, but is stopped by Silverton’s hand grabbing his arm.

“Wait. What happened to the child. Where is she?”

The subordinate blinked in confusion, and then rapidly flipped through his collection of scrawled notes.

“Uhhh . . . we did not take any children into custody, sir. Just a woman, a man, and the Hell Angel. Ah, wait! I have a report here from the man you had waiting around back, sir. He says he saw a child climb out a window and run down the back alley. She managed to evade him, and escaped into the city at-large, sir. Apparently he is still in pursuit sir – he hasn’t reported back yet.”

At this piece of news Silverton rubs his face in frustration and throws his hands up into the air.

“Of course! The child . . . they always take the form of a child. Sweet, innocent . . . who would ever suspect a doe-eyed child! Listen, after securing the Hell Angel and getting her back to the sanctuary, the next priority for everyone is to locate and secure this “child”. She may be the key to all of this!”

---------------------------

Having unlocked her window, opened it, and climbed down into the dark alley in record time, Karami’s heart was already racing. The man suddenly popping out of the darkness to yell at her to stop didn’t do that any favors. Instead, it sent a surge of adrenaline shooting through her body, which gave her the desperation and speed to dash directly towards the man and slide under his arms. Then, scramble back up to her feet before he could turn around and dash down the black alley as fast as she legs could carry her. The scary man followed, still yelling at her.

She wasn’t supposed to be out at night. Jonas and Hanna always got a worried look in their eye when they told her not to try and sneak out at night. Uncle Brock supported them by telling her all kinds of horrible and gross stories about kids he’d heard of who went wandering the streets at night, never to be seen again. A shadowy figure named Moloch featured in a number of them, who Uncle Brock claimed chopped the kids up and made them into pies. Gross!

But her adoptive parents and Uncle Brock didn’t need to worry. Karami didn’t like going out at night. Truthfully, she was scared of it. The night frightened her. It didn’t use to, when she was a small child – indeed she was fascinated by the brilliant points of light shining down from the sky, one big bright sun replaced by millions of stars. That all changed on That Night. The night her parents were killed.

She didn’t remember a lot of the details of that awful night. But she remembered the heaviness in her limbs, in her eyes. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, smelling the burning stench of smoke, getting thicker, getting closer. Paralyzed, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to do anything but wait in the dark helpless, as her death approached. A dark, rough figure scooping her up into her arms, a figure more real and terrifying than any Moloch, carrying her not to safety but down in the Hells. More dark figures, a veritable council of them, saying words she mostly can’t understand, although she gathers their dark intent just fine.

At some point, she finds out that although paralyzed and barely conscious, she can still pee herself just fine, the warmth spreading down the length of her thin nightgown, which is inadequate protection against the cold. One of the dark figures notices it and laughs.

Eventually a consensus is reached. She is bound, the rough ropes biting into her soft skin. They blindfold her as well, and gag her. They shove cloth into her ears as well, and then she is completely cut off from the world, unable to move, touch, say, see, taste, or hear anything. Her only proof that she isn’t dead and her soul is in some dark oblivion is the gentle swaying as she is carried someplace far away from the only home she has ever known. But before they take her drug-addled senses away completely, she is granted a sight that will be seared into her mind for the rest of her life. The sight of her home ablaze, flames soaring up into the night sky as everything is consumed. And with it, the certain knowledge that her family is dead. Everyone is dead. Maybe she is dead too, and these dark figures are the demons come to steal her soul away as the preacher warned. What followed that night certainly convinced her for a time that was absolutely true.

Even now, her knees quaked when she thought about that dark figure. The evil blob that conveyed her from her bedroom and her peaceful childhood into a hellish nightmare. He was the worst of the bunch, and whenever she needed to paint a force of darkness in her paintings, he was in there somewhere, watching and waiting, but unable to hurt her ever again. Usually, he was opposed by the Wanderer, Karami’s stand-in for Tare, the savior of her body and her soul. The Wanderer always drove the darkness and the Shadow away, just as Tare had driven away the hellishness her life had become between her kidnapping and his arrival. Now that he was back, Karami would have to paint an extra special picture to commemorate the event. But that would have to wait.

Once again violent people had broken into her home to hurt her and her family. And just as before, she had no idea why, just that they were here and people were getting hurt. At least this time she had the opportunity to run away, get away somehow, and escape whatever horrible fate awaited her. But it was at night again, and all the similarities to that other night long ago kept bubbling up, threatening to trip her up. It was enough to cause her to nearly pee herself yet again.

Somehow she managed to keep ahead of the man chasing her, although he didn’t give up. He just kept coming after her, and she had to keep running. That was hard, she wasn’t used to running so much. Her legs were starting to burn with the effort and every breath was a searing blast in her throat. She had gotten beyond the streets she was familiar with, leaving everything just a dark tangle of buildings. And, of course, it was night out.

Despite herself, she was starting to slow down, and the angry man was getting closer. She was just about to think maybe it was just best to stop running and give up, and let him drag her away to Hell or wherever, instead of continuing to suffer as her legs and throat burned. Then she passed a dark alley, and another figure loomed out of the black.

Karami stumbled back and opened her mouth to scream, but the figure reached down and clamped a hand over her mouth. He pulled her into the darkness of the alley with him, hissing a curse at her as she desperately started chewing on his hand.

“Ow! Hey, stop that! I’m trying to help! Relax!” The figure hissed at her. “That guy is after you, right? So, just stay still and be quiet until he leaves. Then we can talk, okay?”

Reluctantly, Karami nodded in the man’s grip, and together they hid in the shadows. The angry man, having been around a bend in the street when Karami got pulled into the alley, had not seen or heard this exchange. As such, he kept on running past the alley, thinking she had continued and somehow pulled ahead. She could hear his angry cursing to himself as he passed, and then again, louder as he got to the end of the street and didn’t see her.

Eventually, the sound of the angry man’s shouting faded to nothing, and her grabber let her go. In the darkness of the alley, he was just a dark blob to her, but she fought with her pants-wetting fear as she looked him. This was just a man, not some demon come to drag her into the Hells.

“So, how about a thank you for that save, little lady?” The figure asked, and Karami opened her mouth to find her voice stuck in her throat. The words wouldn’t come. Eventually she managed to choke something out.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

At this, the dark blob laughed.

“Well little lady, whoever told you that was very smart. But I think having just saved your life, I should be exempt from that, don’t you think?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Karami nodded her head. For a dark blob from the Hells, this guy wasn’t so bad.

“Alright, so now why don’t we exchange names. That’s a good start, don’t you think? Why don’t you go first?”

Apparently sensing that he was frightening to her, the dark blob shrank, growing smaller as the man knelt down in front of her. This did indeed, help her, and she managed to pronounce her name with a minimum of stuttering.

“K-Karami.”

“K-Karami. That’s a pretty name for a pretty little lady.” The dark blob answered.

“Well K-Karami, my name is Jim. And why don’t we go someplace safer, where we can continue this conversation. And then we’ll figure out where to go from there, agreed?”

Slowly, Karami nodded, and the dark blob extended a hand to wrap around one of hers, leading her gently back the arm further back into the dark alley.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

Peering into the wide-open worship area over Wulfric's shoulder, Tare's mouth dropped open and he found himself wanting nothing more than to simply stare at the scene before him. Some training-hardened corner of his brain sprung into mental action, however, latching onto details and storing them for later retrieval. Tare's eyes played back and forth, flickering from mini-scene to mini-scene within the chaotic panorama that continued to unfold before his eyes.

The rampaging beast.

The bizarre pile of dirt; some sense he didn't have a name for informed him on a frequency somewhere between smell and sight that the pile felt morbidly 'greasy,' even from across the room.

The people standing around the pile-- were those wings?

The Leaping Beauty (Tare didn't mind letting his eyes dwell for a moment) and her apparent companion. Wulfric's recognition of her identity sounded genuine, but he'd mistaken Tare himself for Jaqueline once already, so his identification skills might need to be taken with a grain (or four) of salt.

The Baron.

Tare's blood ran cold. If Brock had been telling the truth, and Tare had to believe that he was, he was the only Thief of the shoddy and rushed Heist that had received the Death Knell that was an Ironheart sentence. Why? Thievery and organized crime warranted hangings, behandings, and beheadings, but usually not indefinite incarceration. Not in Ironheart. Tare could feel the numbers of his inmate tattoo burning cold enough to read them on the surface of his skin, as though they were not already burned into his memory. This man had known his Name, recognized him on sight. Why? Tare had ransacked his memory back in the room, but he'd never seen the man before in his life. Was the reverse not true? How was that possible?

And then their eyes met. And in an instant, Tare knew. All of his questions had answers-- and those answers lay behind those cool, dispassionate, almost affable eyes. But evil. Affable, but Evil. He inclined his head, almost a fencer's salute, and Tare's confusion reached an all-time high. But self-preservation is a swift sobering agent, and Tare snapped back to crystal reality (almost painfully... was that the beginning of a headache?) when the Baron's scarily-skilled agents began moving toward them. "A staircase, you say? Let's go that way. Quickly." Tare began backpedaling, but didn't turn around in time to miss what happened next.

Tare honestly didn't know if he was even capable of replicating the blurry, cloaked man's decent from the rafters if he wanted to, not given all the time, black cord, and lack of consequence for repeated failure in the world. But before Tare had even finished processing the highly improbably gymnastic that brought him down, he proceeded to do, more or less, exactly what Tare had been wishing someone somewhere would do for him at exactly that moment.

And then came the Shapeshifter. "HOLYCRAP!!" Tare blurted, unleashing nervous panic energy into his throw as he sent Brock's lent stiletto whirling scything toward the cat. Without waiting to see the exact mechanism by which whatever-it-was proceeded to completely ignore his surprise attack (Throwing daggers? Deadly? Only from the receiving end, it seemed, faceless goons dispatched by Cloak the Gymnast notwithstanding) Tare hurled the door shut, regardless of the slam, and turned to hurry after Cloak-and-Dagger, Brock, and Wulfric when he was struck by a flash of intuition. The whatever-it-was wouldn't slow down much for the simple door, and that would leave him at the back of the group and closest to the thing's claws. Rather than sit in a boxed-in hallway and wait to get filleted, Tare dove to one side and, with a flicker of hand foci, dropped a veil of invisibility around himself. He stilled his breathing as best he could, tried to be ready to take off at a jackrabbit sprint, and waited...

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

Rising slowly and carefully as Sara awakens Incom listens at the rest of the household to make sure that they were not awakening as well. Sara’s words ring true about leaving early. Such kindness that the family has given them, it seems almost wrong to take advantage of their hospitality even further by taking the blankets.

”They probably will mind, but I hope they will understand. We must move quickly for they will be awakening soon.

Wrapping the blankets carefully into a bundle Incom looks around. Spying the kitchen he steps in close and obtains a loaf of bread, some salted beef and a few pieces of fruit. Honestly he would have preferred to take more for Sara but judging from her expression as he wraps the food into the blankets she was uncomfortable with their thievery.

”In the old tales, when the unlikely hero’s would leave a home after taking what is not theirs, they would leave something of value to help offset. It is sad that reality is so cruel.”

Securing the blankets there is one last thing that catches Incom’s eyes. A pair of leather boots sized for a child. Looking at Sara in her tattered clothing and torn shoes that she had been wearing when they made their escape the need was obvious. Picking them up he hands them over to her, his senses telling him that they would fit her with the aid of the shoes that she is already wearing.

”Put them on, over those old ones of yours. Where we are going you will need all the protection you can get.”

As soon as Sara has her new boots on Incom slowly opens the door and the two of them leave. Looking up at the sky as dawn slowly breaks he looks down at Sara.

”Someday we will be like the hero’s in the tales, and pay the family back. For now we will walk, and once we are clear of this town we will fly to our destination. I feel that we are racing against time, and can’t waste any on stealth anymore.”

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber sighed as he flitted down the passageway. Ross. The man had a way of showing up where he was both unexpected and unwanted. Still, more chaos could only help him in his escape, and so long as the lycanthrope stayed out of his way, he saw no reason to seek the mangy furball out for a reckoning of past accounts.

The Baron's appearance - or, at least, that of his image - was a more predictable response to Umber's sudden change of tact. He gave his poor, ragged replacement a brief and brittle smile, Umber's crimson eyes alight with evil good humor.

"Ah, your grace. So good to see you. I thought about leaving a note, but this seemed somehow more... emphatic." He gestured to the woman over his shoulder with a flourish. "Let's face it, my good man - we can never be allies. Both of us strive too much for dominion - or, at least, you do. You are something like what I used to be, before my long years of exile. So, in short, I'm declining your offer. I'm sure you'll now do everything in your power to destroy me. That in mind, I have prepared one final parting gift."

Umber's hand lashed out, sinking his fingers into the phantom forehead of the Baron's projection. It was no more solid than gossamer - it didn't need to be. All Umber needed was a connection, and the Baron had given him one. Umber barked out a harsh word - a black, snarling thing that clawed its way out of his throat like razorblade slime. It seemed to hang in the air, a living and malignant thing, before oozing up the trail of Umber's arm and into the Baron.

Umber had no doubt the Baron was shielded well - but there had to be some sort of connection for such a sending, however tenuous it might be. And into it, Umber poured fifty years worth of stored pain and pent-up malice. Every dark memory of Ironheart - every torture endured, every blow of Ross's hammer that even now sang out in the chapel beyond. Every grief, every agony, every sanity-eroding second of abyssal blackness in the confines of his tiny silver prison. Into that tenuous silver cord Umber sent every ounce of suffering he had experienced in a single moment of screaming, tortured agony. It was only with an effort of will that he slammed shut the door before that snarling blackness found its target, banishing the image.

For a moment he swayed on his feet, staggered by the effort of will involved in channeling that much pain, in remembering all those years of darkness. He righted himself, just barely, and stalked towards Cheran. He set the girl down against the wall, and moved quickly, picking up speed. With a flick of his wrist, a dagger tumbled out of his sleeve and into his hand like a conjurers' trick. It was cheap steel, and ill-forged. But for this, Umber hadn't needed or wanted anything expensive.

He had to admit, that Korram fellow had style. And quite a bit more rage that Umber remembered him having at Ironheart, if that was possible. Curiouser and curiouser, as some bard had once written. Still, things to do, people to see.

"Hope you don't mind if I cut in." Umber commented with aplomb as he tossed the dagger in a smooth underhand throw, already turning back to retrieve Fianna and the blushing bride as he heard the now-glowing metal sink with a hiss into the mutilated monster's flesh, stabbing into Charon's back just to the right of his spine. "But time is wasting, and I'm afraid your little melee is in my way." He was just settling the girl back onto his shoulder when the dagger exploded.

It wasn't even a particularly powerful spell - just a little minor enchantment he'd laid on the blade last night. For what he'd had in mind, it didn't need to be. It was enough explosive force to send shards of white-hot metal ripping through the creature's body without enough power to actually exit the flesh. The sound was a wet, muffled thud, and Cheran jumped as the detonation rocked him on the floor and displaced most of his organs, likely severing and breaking his spine in one or two areas as well.

Flesh, even magically enhanced, was a fragile thing. And so very, very easy to break.

[Dorizzit]

Korram The Purifier

Korram, about to punish Cheran further, turns and looks as Umber approaches the fight. It only takes him an instant to recognize the other former inmate; he was the vampire from Ironheart. He seemed...different, somehow. That was irrelevant, however. Korram is about to turn back to Cheran when he sees the dagger. At first, he is ready to ignore it. He then realizes it's glowing. Probably enchanted with some kind of destructive magic. Umber intended to end the fight.

"No."

Korram almost annihilates the blade in a cascade of fire. Still, there was no point in totally denying Umber. Moreover, Korram is curious what the knife will do. With lightning speed, Korram grabs Cheran's remaining wing and yanks it back, into the path of the knife. When it explodes, it lacerates the wing but leaves Cheran's main body mostly intact. Korram shoots Umber a withering glare.

"My fight. Stay out."

In a moment of concession, however, Korram steps off of Cheran and kicks him viciously in the ribs, sending him down the hall and out of the way of the intersection. He follows, planting his boot on Cheran's chest and forcing him down as he tries to rise.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber rolled his eyes at Korram's reaction, helping Fianna to her feet and hobbling down along the hallway. He gestured backwards, and the tunnel he'd formed began to collapse, burying a few screaming guests who'd tried to follow him. He had no desire be followed more immediately than he suspected he already would be.

"Idiot." He spat. Torturing your enemy before finishing them is on an indulgence one can afford only in the most secure of circumstances. That does not include the middle of bedlam like this! He gestured broadly with one hand, sighing disgustedly "Ameteurs."

He began to move, wincing as he did. That last spell had taken more out of them than he had thought. His throat felt raw, and every muscle in his body felt like it had been stretched to the breaking point.

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Archpaladin Zousha

“Fine. I offered you the chance to have your victory without further bloodshed, and you question my motives.”

Crane growls, putting on a wounded air, but you can see it in his eyes. While he might not have been planning one of the exact betrayals you had mentioned, he had an ulterior motive of some sort behind this offer.

“You wonder why I have nothing but contempt for you paladins? This is why. You sit on your high horse and make noble proclamations, blind to the world burning around you! You will have your unblemished victory, but it will be paid for in rivers of blood! Do you think the common man understands why their religious leaders are putting each other to the sword? No, and a thousand years from now this will all be forgotten! It will all happen again! Your victory will accomplish nothing and –“

At that point, Belroar draws his weapon and slams it into the table, smashing the communication crystal into a thousand pieces. For a moment, each one holds a tiny reflection of Crane, still ranting at you, and then the images all fade as the crystal’s magic dies out.

“I think we’ve all heard enough of Crane’s bull**** for one lifetime.”

Belroar grunts, sheathing his weapon and turning away.

“Now let’s all get some sleep. The next couple of days are going to be more than enough to keep us all busy.”

For the rest of the night, you remain in planning sessions with the rest of the Grandmasters. You allow them to do most of the in detail planning, simply giving the okay when asked to provide confirmation. You suspected that this was a fair bit of the Lord General’s job – simply confirming that your subordinate’s detailed plans were acceptable. All of the Grandmasters offered you a spot to accompany them on their order’s own individual part of the siege, but you remained noncommittal for now. In all likelihood, you’d bounce around from position to position, providing what encouragement you could as the siege dragged on.

Cathedral City’s walls were quite strong, built to withstand a prolonged siege, just in case of the Church’s enemies began to openly march forth. From most of the projections, it seemed as if you’d be in for a long siege, possibly up to three months if Morganna’s followers really dug their heels in and fought for every single inch. Something told you that you didn’t have that much time. Unfortunately, no one was able to come up with a better idea, so while your victory was almost assured, it would be long and bloody. Unless one of the other Exarches was able to finish Greyson’s work with Project Angelus, in which case an army of corrupted angels would swoop down on your army and destroy it within hours.

When the planning session was finally over, you retired to your tent at the crack of dawn to drag a few quick hours of sleep before the siege began. You are not entirely surprised to find Zariel, the Reaper calmly kneeling in the middle of your tent, waiting for you.

Ready for the battle to come?

The master assassin writes into the air.

The Council is hosting a similar meeting. They are trying to figure out a way to save their own hides, from executing Ander to releasing all imprisoned within the Reliquary. I trust Morganna will prevent them from doing anything foolish, but their desperation will grow as the siege worsens. She may not be able to control them forever. Which is why I am here.

For a moment, the assassin almost looks human as he sighs and hangs his head, running a hand over the tattoos adorning an otherwise bald surface.

All of Morganna’s followers are loyal and willing to follow her into death. All except one, who is here while she struggles to maintain control of the Council. I can’t stay long, but I can offer you a treacherous alternative to a months-long siege. I can show you a tunnel leading from outside of the city into my domain beneath it, and from there up into the city. You can assault the defenders from behind with a small force, taking control of the gates to open them and allow the rest of your force inside. From there it will be a brutal but open fight within the streets of the city – one which you should win with superior numbers. I expect you to honor our deal.

For a moment Zariel stares at you intently, and then his gaze glides away again.

I can show you the tunnel entrance right now, if you’d like. But then I should really depart back into the city, before Morganna misses my presence.

Stonefall

The_Snark

Theme Song

“You’re sorry.”

Istomilo snorts.

“Are you sorry for seducing me away from my wife? From my home!? You’re no better than the succubuses that infest the Hells – in fact, you’re worse! At least they offer one night of passion in return for your soul! What have you given me!? Nothing but a single apology and admonishments!”

Istomilo turns away, but then seems to think better of it as he whirls back to face you. His face contorting into a rage-filled grimace, and he stomps right up to you, looking you directly in the eyes.

“You call me a good man, but do you know why I did the things I did? I did them for YOU! Like a love struck fool, I followed you blindly, seeking the merest scrap of affection. At the time I hoped I could become . . . better, someone worthy of your love. But I see now that is impossible – you are incapable of love. All you can ever understand is duty – the perfect little tin soldier to carry out Miriam’s orders!”

Istomilo nods, disgust practically oozing from his eyes before he turns away to regard the burning city again.

“Yes, I was a “good” man. And what did I get for it? A ruined family, a destroyed home, a shattered soul, and a broken heart. So now I will see what the other side has to offer? No, they are just as bad as you! After this I will seek my own path, and follow nothing but my own desires! Selfish perhaps, but the only hope for ever filling this void you have left in me.”

Istomilo gestures dismissively at the burning city.

“These are not my people, either. My people are all dead, slain at the hands of you and your sisters! The people of this city are merely the sad wretched excuses of men that Miriam has deigned to keep around as pets. And not even as well-cared for pets, given the demons still swarming over the earth unopposed! I feel nothing for their suffering.”

Istomilo turns back to regard you and gives a bitter laugh.

“Furthermore, I have just been the death of my only daughter – I trust you saw her as you descended. I cannot go back on this plan now.”

Istomilo throws his head back and throws his arms wide.

“So go ahead and kill me, you filthy Markash. It’s not as if this will be anything new to either of us. But my death won’t save this city.”

Istomilo pauses a moment, waiting for the blow, and then lowers his head with a grin.

“Oh, so my words give you pause? How surprising, given they did nothing to stay your hand before.”

At that moment, a wave of nauseating evil pulses throughout the city, setting off another earthquake. The tower groans and shifts beneath you, coming one degree closer to toppling. Istomilo falls to his knees with a scream, and even you have to bite back giving voice to your pain as the air around you momentarily sears your flesh before returning to normal. The city was hovering on the edge of toppling into the Hells now.

“You really should be going if you don’t want to join this city in enjoying the fiends’ hospitality.”

Istomilo grates out, managing to struggle back up to his feet.

“The ritual is almost over now. It will end with my death – or at least, this body’s. The fiends have promised me another along with my freedom. So really, killing me will just accelerate the process. Of course with a premature ending, not all of the city will fall into the Hells. But the ritual’s far enough along now that what’s left won’t be worth saving. You are simply too late, Marisiel.”

Istomilo slumps, trembling as an aftershock races through the city. He suddenly breaks out into mad laughter.

“Of course.”

He chuckles, slowly regaining control of himself.

“Since the ritual lasts until its powering life force is extinguished, you could throw yourself onto the pyre to extend this city’s funeral. That might give some people enough time to make their escape from the city. Assuming of course the city’s high walls could be broken – the demons made sure all the gates were barred and sealed before I began.”

Istomilo gestures, and you feel a surge of power flow out from his body into the surrounding ritual, an arc of power racing down the tower and into the ground. A moment later, another tremor races through the city, concentrated near the walls, where the earth roils and pitches, shattering the stone bulwarks in several places.

“Whoops. Looks like that tremor ended up breaking the walls. A pity, now some people might be able to escape!”

Istomilo looks at you, and for a moment something approaching concern enters his eyes. But then it is replaced by something else, a kind of malevolent calculation.

“If you add your strength to mine, the ritual’s end can be extended – but no more than a few hours. This body’s time is nearly up, and when it is the ritual is over. Even so it will be painful, and if you stay here there is a very good chance you will be dragged into the Hells with the rest of the city. Given what I’ve already experienced, I can assure you that spending eternity as a prisoner of the Hells will not be pleasant. And considering what they did to me, I can only imagine the torments they’ll inflict on you, an archangel. But this is the only way you’ll be able to save anyone.”

And now, the malevolent calculation.

“One other thing. My aid in this endeavor isn’t free. If you want to go through with this, then I want something from you in return, as payment for having to spend the next several hours still in tremendous pain. A single kiss, freely given, right now before we start. If this is unacceptable, then fly away and be gone you accursed siren. Or run me through right here and now, and I’ll see you in the Hells!”

Pwenet

At your thievery of the kind family’s belongings, Sara is silent. She nods sadly at your reasoning, although there is clear disapproval in her eyes. Once you are safely outside, Sara wraps one of the blankets around herself like a makeshift cloak.

“Yes. After this is all over . . . we will come back here to repay them. I swear it.”

For a time, the two of you walk side by side in silence, moving deeper into the woods. Once far enough away from the cabin and the village that your ascent into the sky would not be noticed, you pick Sara up and resume flying. Up you go into the mountains, where despite the onset of Spring some time ago, a thick coating of snow still covers everything. Thanks to your flight, you are unencumbered by the snow and rough terrain, but you can do nothing for the cold. Sara suffers terribly despite the blankets wrapped around her, but she shivers in silence. Periodically you are forced to stop and briefly make camp, shredding nearby trees and igniting them with a blast from your wing cannons in order to make a fire. Otherwise, Sara might well have contracted hypothermia.

As a result, you do not make quite as much progress as you would have liked for a day of travel. You are only a few valleys away from Ironheart now, and the thought of being near your old place of imprisonment fills you with dread. Not just due to the decades of bad memories, but the fact that you had no idea what prowled the mountainous forests surrounding it now after the prison’s destruction. Regardless of your feelings, however, you had to stop. With nightfall, the air up here would grow only colder, and Sara would not likely survive without shelter.

Once again you land to set up a makeshift camp, this time felling trees all around your chosen ground in an attempt to create a barricade. In the middle you set up camp, little more than a flickering fire and a rough lean-to for Sara to sleep in. Gradually color returns to the girl’s face, and she seems to grow comfortable enough to regard the contents of the provisions blanket. She shows just how ravenously hungry she is then, devouring most of the loaf of bread while waiting for a slab of the salted beef to cook on a stick over the fire. Afterwards, although she seems to be comfortable, she remains awake, staring somberly into the fire. Finally she looks over to you and speaks.

“Incom? I . . . have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you about. You don’t have to answer! That is, if you don’t want to . . .”

Sara swallows nervously, and then presses ahead.

“What’s it like to die? Oh! I’m sorry, that came out so bluntly!”

Sara looked away from you, back into the fire. But a minute later she spoke up again, her voice barely more than a haunted whisper.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Since Ironheart. I nearly died in there several times – and would have if it wasn’t for you. But I don’t know if you can protect me from what’s to come.”

Sara sighs, still staring into the fire but risking a glance at you.

“I’m scared. I know what I have to do, and I *want* to do it, but . . . the ritual is dangerous. I could die trying to complete it, or immediately thereafter for all I know, my soul discarded in place of Miriam’s! Or . . . afterwards, when this is all over and Miriam leaves. You remember how I was in the Medical Bay immediately after Ironheart. I overheard the doctors and Mother talking, something about divine energy being poisonous to me. If I got that sick over being possessed by Elandra, how much worse will it be after an actual Goddess inhabits my body!?”

Sara pulls her blanket-cloak around her tighter, but sets her jaw.

“So, I want to know what it’s like, so I can know what to expect . . . in case it happens. I want to be brave, like you.”

Sara looks back over towards you.

“Will you describe it for me? And, what it was like immediately after? Did it hurt? Were you scared? Was it like you were asleep afterwards, or were you still aware of your surroundings?”

Sara listens attentively to whatever you have to say, and then looks down at the ground.

“There’s . . . something else I want to ask you. I was hoping you could do something for me. When this is all over, Miriam was going to give you another chance at life. I want you to take that chance, and use it. No matter what happens, I want you to promise me that you will go out and live. You suffered for so many years, but you never stopped fighting. When the fighting’s finally over, I want you to go live in peace. Forget all that’s happened, and go find a way to be happy again. And maybe I’m pushing it, but if you can . . . will you forgive Mother too? For all the evil that she’s done, and for her part in all this? That’s all I want anymore.”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

“Uhhh . . . will there be looting afterwards, Cap’n? If so, then count me in!” Shanks declares, which is fortunate. It will give you yet another subject to test the effects of the vaccine on.

I will be coming as well, of course.

With both of your remaining companions agreeing to come, preparations for your departure are swift with their help. With the necessary supplies all packed, the only thing left to do is teleport to the rendezvous point. But you have learned to be cautious around the Baron and his lackeys, so before you went you decide to do a little scrying. This turns out to be a prudent use of your time, although you are unsure if what you see changes anything.

You find yourself looking about a ruined town, standing at the foot of a tall stone cliff. Only a few buildings are still standing, the rest collapsed piles of scorched timber and ash. Despite the devastation the town is not deserted, at least not yet. Indeed, the townspeople seem to be planning on how to rebuild their town, the owners of the few standing buildings offering shelter to everyone else without complaint. The compact quarters should enable your disease to spread even faster, although now there is the concern that some infected individuals will leave town before their transformation is complete. That could become a serious problem, so you don’t think the Baron wants to turn your contagion lose on the entire world just yet.

You also have to wonder why the Baron would send you to a destroyed town. True it is an isolated hamlet that no one would miss, but it would seem someone has already smashed it. Which leaves you wondering just who that someone happened to be – although a fire has gutted most of the buildings, it doesn’t seem to have been a concentrated attack given how many people are still alive. Too many questions, too few answers at this point, and with no real way to get said answers without traveling there directly.

Canceling your scrying spell, you gather up your materials, ask Omega and Shanks to move close, and teleport everything to the rendezvous point. You find Arlan and two assistants who you don’t recognize waiting for you.

“We have a problem, Sohssal.” Arlan announces as soon as you’ve finished materializing.

“The village of Stonefall has been attacked! We don’t know who did it, but most of the village has been smashed. A good portion of the inhabitants seem to have survived however, so we should still be able to test your plague. I’ve already contacted the Baron and he has said to proceed with the test . . . he didn’t even seem surprised when I mentioned Stonefall was destroyed.”

For a moment Arlan frowns in consternation, attempting to puzzle out the reason for the Baron’s lack of surprise. Finally he shakes himself and nods at your supplies.

"Is the vaccine in there, or is it spell-based? We should probably begin by protecting myself and the other two against the plague.”

Are you going to provide him with the vaccine? He was one of your captors in Ironheart . . . it would be unfortunate if your vaccine was not 100% effective. But then, would that be the vaccine’s fault, or yours for just giving him a placebo? On the other hand . . . I’m sure the Baron would not be happy to lose a subordinate, so there would be a cost to eliminating him.
Outside the Capital

Kasanip

Going over to Cherise’s house, you knock gently on the door and wait. After a few minutes, which is a surprisingly long time given Cherise’s family had a butler, the door opens. Instead of the butler answering, you see Alfred, Cherise’s father, standing there, looking rather unkempt with bloodshot eyes. He peers at you cautiously for several long moments, apparently not recognizing you.

“Yes young miss, can I help you?”

Finally recognition dawns in his eyes, and he manages a weak smile.

“Oh! Hello Isera . . . I didn’t recognize you . . .”

He mutters, stepping back and opening the door wide.

“Cherise is up in the master bedroom with Selvi. We finally got Selvi to get some rest. I’ll go fetch her and get her to come down and meet you in the den.”

Alfred gives you a tired nod and then leaves you in the manor’s lobby, trusting you to find your way to the den by yourself (and giving you time to change out of your youth magic if you wish). Alfred trudged up the curving stairway to the second floor, disappearing into the upper west wing of the manor. A few minutes later, and Cherise arrives by the same route, joining you in the den (or wherever you happen to be then). Judging by her puffy eyes, she had been crying recently, although she manages a smile upon seeing you.

“Hey Is. How was your trip?”

Cherise collapses into a nearby chair and closes her eyes, continuing to speak to you with her eyes closed.

“Mother’s condition worsened after we parted ways at the Perist Estate. Solinar and his wife have made a full recovery, thankfully. I don’t know much else, as I’ve been helping take care of Mother. Where’s Carlain? I expected him to be with you . . .”

A dark thought occurred to Cherise, and her eyes snapped open.

“Did something happen to him!?”

Fishtown, The Fishiest Place on Earth that Never Fished

Gorgondantess

As you explain yourself and extend your hand, Augustus looks at it skeptically.

“Well, to be equally honest with you, those men were doing their duty. Archdemons are to be destroyed on sight if at all possible, before they can inflict widespread destruction upon the land. As such, Omnicron is a traitor for forsaking his vows and speaking with you instead.”

Augustus favors you with a smile.

“But, perhaps those vows are wrong. We have only the historic past to draw upon for guidance, rules handed down from a more desperate and savage time. Perhaps it is a mistake to believe that those very same rules can be applied to every situation in today’s world. It is certainly unfair to judge a being for the acts of its predecessors, and to assume it is the same, although it was done out of prudence’s sake, I assure you. Nonetheless, perhaps this is a time for change.”

And then to the gasps of the assembled Dusk Wardens, the boy reaches out and places his hand in yours. At his touch a wave of sensation washes over you, alarms at this stabbing directly into your brain.

You had never had much patience for the human dichotomy of good and evil. Only humans (and you knew from Maurice, angels) seemed to get wrapped up in the morality of an action. It was not so in nature – an action either furthered an animal’s survival or it did not. Certainly, the mouse might think of the owl eating it as “evil”, but there was no objective morality to that act. What was simply was, and you thought it foolish for the humans to try and assign labels to their own acts. You realized in that instant that you were perhaps wrong.

What radiated from this boy at your mere touch was Evil. Within him you could sense an unabating hunger, a desire to consume unlike anything you had ever known. And there could be no mistaking what it was he wished to consume. Behind the hunger, resonating it up from within him like the faintest echo, were the anguished screams of his former victims. Beings, you could sense, that were once just like you.

As suddenly as the glimpse came into the nature of your very important guest, it ended as Augustus pulled his hand out of yours. He gave you another, knowing smile and then pulled away, sliding back several steps.

“Although I hope you will not take offense at this, we will investigate your claims of peaceful co-existence first. Should they prove to be genuine, we would be happy to stay in your village for a time while we discuss the potential of a new future. With your permission, I’ll send some acolytes into the town to check for any ambushes or traps, and to interview the townspeople. Assuming they come back to report nothing, we would be happy to enjoy your hospitality. Unfortunately, I will not be able to acquiesce to your request regarding our oracle. She is much too valuable to release from service at this time, and she has renounced all ties to family as part of her initiation. She is less of a person now, and more of a tool. I can understand how it looks from the viewpoint of an outsider, but I hope you can accept that our ways are our own.”

Augustus says evenly, not backing down from this point either. At your side, Omnicron clenches his hands into fists, but then relaxes them with an effort of will.

“Would it be permissible for me to at least speak with your oracle, then?” He asks, and again Augustus smiles that tight-lipped devil’s grin.

“I am afraid divining our destination has taken a toll on her. Since her services are not required at this moment, I think it would be best for her to rest. And although it was only through your actions that we have come to this moment, you have nonetheless forsaken everything that made you one of us, Omnicron. With your loyalties in such question, I am not sure it is a good idea anyway to let you near our oracle.”

With a dismissive shake of his head, Augustus turns his attention away from Omnicron and back to you.

“Now then Archdemon. While some of us conduct a survey of the town, perhaps we can continue this polite conversation. I am sure you have many questions to ask of the people who until recently were trying to kill you. I will answer the questions I can, provided that the answers do not compromise our safety. In return I hope you will answer some questions of mine. You say that you were following a group of salmon before we first found you. What were you doing before that? Essentially, where did you come from? Your kind is not exactly common, particularly in today’s world. From where, then, did you emerge into it?”

[Inspectre]

The Capital

The Wedding of Amelia Ashargrin and Cheran Gast

Lonna

Immediately following your magical exchange of emotions, Rose straightens up and politely but firmly breaks her father’s grip.

“Pyrene is correct. We should be on our way – come on, I know the quickest way to the air carriage.”

As Rose pushes her way past her father to the stairs, Duke Volesin looks back and you and quirks an eyebrow.

“Let you help indeed. Well done.”

The Duke extends a hand to you, offering you his support should you need it. He does not react with hostility to your own fear however, either out of fear of your now freed magical power or simply because he keeps his abuse limited to family only. You wouldn’t put anything past him though, now that you knew his secret. The mother-murdering bastard!

Rose still in the lead, the three of you swiftly make your way down the balcony steps and around the corner, heading back the way you came by a parallel corridor running alongside the main worship chamber. You think you catch a glimpse of Cheran and Korram brutally fighting at the end of one hallway – with Korram surprisingly having the upper hand in the fight. Up ahead, another intersection looms, this one guarded by a pair of cloaked figures.

“Mrs. Gast. Your Excellency.” One of the two guards says by way of greeting, extending a hand towards the intersecting corridor.

“An air carriage is waiting to take you to safety just at the end of the hallway, in the courtyard out – hurk!”

The guard collapses, revealing a knife embedded in his spine. The other guard whirls, only to receive a knife in the throat. At the same time, a trio of figures emerges from an intersecting corridor further up from the one you are currently standing next to. You don’t recognize two of the figures, but the third is immediately identified, despite his bizarre and colorful attire – Wulfric.

“JACQUELINE!”

He shouts out, drawing all eyes to his little trio. Rose wisely decides to make a run for it, aiming for the nearby intersecting corridor that leads to an air carriage. Volesin, however, chooses instead to reach into his cloak for another weapon, receiving a dagger in the shoulder courtesy of Wulfric’s companion, an intense-looking man dressed all in black. As Volesin slumps back into the wall with a curse, his own blade clattering to the floor, the dark-clothed man draws another dagger and throws it into the wall just ahead of Rose. Taking the hint, Rose slows to a halt and raises her arms over her head.

“There is no need for further violence. Unless your intent is to kill us all?”

“I have –“ The man in black begins, before Wulric answers for him.

“Of course not! We’re just trying to get out of here!”

“I have no intention of harming those who are innocent.” The man in black growls, pressing onward while shooting Wulfric a dirty look. Meanwhile, the third man, dressed in cheap clothes designed to give the appearance of elegance, hangs back, clearly confused as to the proceedings and just wanting to move along.

“Although it is hard to call you innocent, Rose Volesin-Gast, wife of one of the Baron’s abominations.”

“Who are you?” Rose demands, looking intently at the dark figure’s cowled head. In response the man flips his head back, discarding the hood. Rose seems to recognize him, but you do not.

“You . . . I remember you! You were one of the Baron’s Hands!”

“Yes. I *was* one. My name is Argan, and I shall be the man who slays your Father-in-Law! One day . . .”

Argan’s eyes narrow in rage, and suddenly Wulfric laughs.

“Yeah right buddy. You’re doing a bang up job so far. Keep up the good work, I’m sure the Baron is quaking in his boots right now. Meanwhile, let’s get out of here.”

Wulfric chortles, slapping Argan on the back while he moves down the hallway to stand in front of you.

“Jacqueline . . . hey, it’s me! I came to get you out of here. C’mon, we’ve got an escape route and everything!”

“Hostage too?” The third man finally speaks up, pointing at Rose. Wulfric and Argan just turn to look at him.

“What? She’s the wife of one of the Baron’s kids, right? That’s bound to give him a little pause in coming after us!”

“The Baron cares for no one. But holding the life of Rose Gast in the balance may cause a few of his guards to hesitate. And there will be heavier resistance from here on out.”

His mind made up apparently, Argan snags Rose by the wrist and uses his other hand to press a blade to her throat when she moves to break his grip. They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment.

“Move.” Argan commands, and after a moment Rose relents, allowing him to drag her swiftly down the hallway. As they pass Volesin, he suddenly springs into action, but is met immediately by a hellacious kick to the jaw from Argan, sending him collapsing back onto the floor again. The murderous duke groans through his aching jaw, clutching his shoulder as his lifeblood continues to ooze out onto the floor.

“Come on Jacqueline, let’s go!” Wulfric says, grabbing you by the wrist and preparing to drag you along the hallway behind him. The third gentlemen who has still not introduced himself brings up the rear, nervously looking around as if anticipating the Baron’s men to descend from the ceiling. No one makes a move to help Duke Volesin, still bleeding out alone on the floor.

(Pyrene can choose to interfere in the events at any time, of course. Between her absorbed traumatic fear and the rapid flow of events, I figured I would simply list everything that happens until they start to drag Rose and Pyrene away. Volesin’s wound is serious, but he might recover on his own – receiving some sort of medical help will turn his survival into a certainty. Assuming you want that, of course. )

WhiteKnight777

The Baron’s image attempts to pull back, but too late as you plunge your hand forward and inject all of your pent up rage and pain from your years spent in Ironheart. (Considering Ironheart itself was only a prison for forty years, fifty years of imprisonment is probably a little much. Even so, years of abuse experienced in a few seconds is going to be just plain unpleasant!) The image blinks out immediately, but you hear nothing from the direction of the worship chamber. Disappointed, you turn away, collapsing the hole you made behind you and crushing a few unfortunate and stupid nobles attempting to follow you. As you start to walk away, however, you hear it – a lung-bursting howl that was more rage than pain, coming from the direction of the worship chamber.

Moving onward, you find Korram battling it out with Cheran, right in the middle of the intersection you were planning on using to move further away from here. Although torturing might be a more apt word, as the grim warrior tears one of the wings from Cheran’s back. You attempt to help him, but the arrogant young fool will not be helped. At least he throws the Baron’s son further down the hallway, out of your way.

Moving on down the hallway, Cheran’s bride still energetically thrashing and screaming in your arms, it occurs to you that you aren’t quite sure how best to make your escape. No doubt by now the Baron’s men outside are gathering together to come in, and his pet angel constructs are swooping down from his over-compensating airship. You could probably fight your way out, but doing so would likely take time. And time was something that you desperately needed to conserve right now, because the Baron would bring the full weight of his forces to bear against you now. He had no other choice. You needed to be away before they could all focus on you.

As you begin to move down the hallway, still weighing between breaking out the front door and taking a branching hallway to an unknown destination, a curious sight comes into view. A young woman with a scar trailing up from one of her lips comes running around a corner ahead, looking over her shoulder to wildly fire a crossbow back behind her. Judging from the padding of her armor and her hair style, the woman was attempting – and fairly successfully – to pass herself off as a wiry boy, but you had experience with such things. This was definitely a woman now running in your general direction, although she was a bit bony and young for your tastes these days.

From the corridor behind her, two of the Baron’s lackeys appeared, ducking under the wildly fired bolt and throwing daggers as they came. One dagger found purchase in the girl’s back, and she bit back a scream and kept running, reloading her crossbow as she moved. With a gesture, Fianna sent a curtain of fire racing along the ground, consuming one of the attackers and forcing the other back. As the unfortunate guard melted away into ashes with a cutoff scream, the flames moved to block off the hallway, leaping up higher to create a curtain of fire. The girl slowed to a stop in front of you, finished with loading her crossbow but possessing the sense not to point it at either you or Fianna while she tried to catch her breath.

“Thanks! I’m Kris. I take it you’re no friends of the Baron either?”

Kris seems to finally note that you have a struggling woman thrown over your shoulder, and her eyes leap open with recognition.

“Hey! Is that our unlucky bride this evening, Countess Amelia!”

At the sound of Kris’s voice, the Countess finally stops her pointless struggling and looks up at the newcomer. She grunts yet another indecipherable curse through her gag.

“Hmph. Nice to see you too!”

Kris retorts, shifting her attention back over to you.

“So hey – the Countess is a friend of mine actually, and no offense but I don’t know you people. Considering you just fried one of the Baron’s men though, I’m guessing you’re no friends of his either. So how about a trade – I tell you where our secret escape route is, and you give me the bride?”

Seeing something over your shoulder, Kris snaps the crossbow up to her shoulder.

“KORRAM!” She screams, and then fires. While she is distracted apparently rescuing Korram from his own idiocy, Fianna leans in to whisper into your ear.

“You know love . . . I could always charm the information out of him instead. Then you wouldn’t have to give up your prize . . . although I *am* starting to wonder why you’re clinging to her so.”

Fianna concludes, a jealous note entering her voice.

(If you want Cheran to die to some dramatic irony, you can let the Countess go so she can go finish off Cheran. Otherwise, you are welcome to hold on to her for a little while longer, and either ignore Kris/Katrina’s offer entirely or charm the information out of her. Whatever! Although I’m pretty sure Korram would not be happy if Katrina was invited into a foursome. )

Dorizzit

Theme Song
(Why is this the theme song? I dunno . . . One Winged Angel just seemed apropos to me. )

Unprepared for the savagery of your latest assault, Cheran is beaten and thrown to the ground. With your foot on his back, he is pinned there, despite his attempts to muscle his way out. When he tries to slap you off with his right wing, you grab it and start to pull. The wing resists your attempts to tear it free, and Cheran struggles mightily to break your grip, but you are relentless. Finally with a wet ripping sound the wing tears completely free of his back and you ignite it before tossing it aside. This, finally, gets a scream out of the son of a bitch – music to your ears.

From the corner of your eye, you see Umber appear, carrying the Countess and accompanied by some woman you don’t recognize. Your ally in the depths of Ironheart once again comes to your aid, this time unnecessarily and unwelcome. Setting his burden aside, Umber stalks forward and draws a blade, a mere dagger. But as it travels through the air towards Cheran, it begins to glow with heat. In a blinding move you catch the dagger before it finds the bastard’s flesh, and instead deliver the blow yourself, stabbing it into his remaining wing. Again Cheran screams as the dagger explodes, shredding his wing into a mangled pile of useless, bloody flesh.

Telling Umber to stay out of it, you kick Cheran down the hall, clearing the way for Umber to leave the way you came. Mercilessly, you follow after Cheran and again stomp down onto his chest, preventing him from rising. His injured back and wings forced down onto the floor, Cheran bites back a third scream, his face an angry grimace of pain as he looks up at you. And then, he gives you a bloody smile!

“YOU . . . BASTARD!” He roars, as a golden glow emerges from his eyes, spreading to suffuse his entire body. Grabbing your foot, he pushes upwards with renewed strength, throwing you back off him. He is up on his feet in an instant, fighting with an even greater speed and intensity than before. You are forced back down the hallway, barely able to keep up with the barrage of attacks he unleashes on you, one flowing into the next.

“YOU’RE NOTHING!!” He screams, grabbing your arms and holding them down before driving his own head into yours. Pain explodes across your face as your nose shatters, Cheran headbutting you once, twice, three times. Blood streams down both of your faces as he pulls away to throw your into a nearby wall. Nearly throwing you through the wall might be more adapt, as the stone cracks and gives way, leaving you half in, half out of the wall and momentarily trapping you.

You are just finished with extracting yourself in a shower of rubble when Cheran unleashes his next attack, tearing down one of the nearby pillars holding up the ceiling and using it as a makeshift club. You twist away and try to get out of range, but are just a tad slow as he clips you in the back with the top, smashing the last foot or so off the pillar and sending you crumpling to the floor. You try to rise but find your movements sluggish, your own regeneration now beginning to fail.

At least Cheran still looks like Hells too, as despite this magical boost giving him increased strength and speed, he still carries all of the wounds you have recently inflicted. That might not matter, however, yet another narrow victory snatched away into defeat for you as Cheran steps forward and raises the crumbling pillar over his head to deliver a finishing blow.

“Korram!” Katrina yells, and a moment later a crossbow bolt shoots down the hallway to strike Cheran directly in the chest. The Baron’s son grunts loudly, taking a step back from the impact. His frenzied concentration broken, the golden glow surrounding Cheran begins to fade, and he staggers under the pillar’s weight. With a final shout of frustration, he loses his balance entirely and topples, the pillar falling down on top of him, pinning him beneath it.

This gives you the breather you need to pull yourself back up onto your feet. As it turns out, the fight is *still* not quite over, as Cheran manages to roll the broken chunks of the pillar off him with one hand, dragging himself out from underneath the wreckage. He staggers back up to his feet, or foot rather as he seems unable to put any weight on the foot that had been trapped beneath the pillar. His arm on that side likewise hangs limply at his side, useless. But his eyes still smolder with pure malevolent spite.

“Let’s finish this.” He rasps, pulling his good arm back and limping pathetically towards you.

(If you’re in the mood for some dramatic irony and Umber cooperates, we can have Countess Amelia land the killing blow on Cheran. Otherwise, Korram is free to finish off Cheran this post. )

OverWilliam

As you form up an invisible rearguard, you don’t have long to wait. A second after you take up position, the wooden door shatters inwards. As the lengths of shattered wood go flying in all direction, you catch a glimpse of the creature responsible and are momentarily confused. Instead of a cat, some sort of gray colored, thick-skinned, four legged beast equipped with a long horn at the end of its elongated face now charges into the room. (It’s a rhinoceros, although Tare has no freaking clue what that it is. )

The creature pauses in the doorway for just a second, and then it turns to look directly at you. With an animalistic shriek it bounds towards you, its form melting and shifting in disgusting ways from this living tank back into a humanoid. A dark-skinned woman, her ebon skin softened into more of an ashen grey color, clad in a grey cloak and with a black cloth tied over her eyes. And even still, she sees you perfectly, somehow following your movements exactly as you turn to the next door and make for it at top speed. Not quickly enough, as the woman snags you with an outstretched, claw-like hand, slamming you into the wall. She holds you there then, and leans in, inhaling deeply. She gives another shriek of indigent rage and reaches up towards her blindfold, tearing it off to reveal solid milky white eyes. As she does so, she berates you in a heavy accent.

“Zariel! I knew et! I whant you ta look inta mah eyes, you bastad! Look inta mah eyes, and see da pain you’ve caused meh! And then DIE!”

She pulls you away and then slams you into the wall again. At this point you manage a gasp, and are grateful you manage just enough composure to avoid soiling your pants in some way. At the sound, the woman/shapeshifter/banshee/demon thing recoils, although she keeps her iron grip on you.

“You! You’re not Zariel! Who are ya!!? Ta Baron will know!”

Maintaining her grip, the mad woman drags you back out into the main worship chamber. Things are much as you left them a moment before, although now most of the Baron’s guests have managed some form of egress from the room and most of his security is converging on the chimera. The creature reveals its own ability to shapeshift, adopting a similar lion-like form, only with a single head and a spike-like tail. The beast launches a hail of spikes with a flick of its tail at its attackers, and then morphs again. Keeping the lion’s body, it grows a set of spider legs, and begins marching up the wall backwards, still flinging spikes in all directions. It doesn’t seem to help as the Baron’s men resolutely close in around the creature, intent on bringing it down despite the Baron’s orders to take it alive.

Meanwhile, the Baron is still standing in the same spot, seeming to concentrate on something distant. Suddenly he tenses, reflexively balling his hands into fists and biting back a scream. He struggles silently for a moment, and then whatever it was that had a hold of him fades. After it passes, the Baron lets loose an animalistic roar of rage, and a look of fury crosses over his face.

“Shiakti!” He shouts, turning towards you. “Shiak – ah, there you are! I have a new assignment for you –“

“Who is dis!?” Shiakti growls in reply, shoving you forward.

“He smells like Zariel, but e is not im!”

The Baron looks blankly at you a moment, the fury still evident on his face. But then he pulls that back inside him, and suddenly is once again the genteel monster.

“Of course not, Shiakti. Zariel is a coward, he would not dare come here if it meant having to face you. This is Tare, formerly a member of the Thieves Guild here in the city. And I suspect you have detected your former lover’s scent on him for the same reason you smell Umber in me.”

“Ah. Dat twas the only reason I didn’t kill you when we first met. I thought you were im.”

The Baron didn’t seem to like this reminder of his almost-mauling at the hands of this . . . well, whatever this woman was. But he ignored it in favor of a nod.

“Quite. Now then, you can leave the young thief here with me – I have a new job for you. Umber has decided to do something very stupid. I want you to remind him that such idiocy has a price! Find him and his little bitch Fianna! Cut her throat right in front of him, and then bring him back to me!!!”

The Baron shouts this last order, his mad rage from a moment before breaking through his façade of civility once more. Shiakti immediately releases you, turning into a raven as she does so. Once again, a black streak flashes across the worship room, this time in the opposite direction as Shiakti, the shapeshifting monster heads out after the crowd of fleeing nobles, and presumably towards this Umber fellow. Meanwhile, the Baron turns back to you, straightening his elaborate suit and regaining his smooth control.

“I suspect most of that made no sense to you. That’s alright, it needn’t concern you. Just know that it confirms something I already suspected about you, boy – you’re quite special. In time you could grow to be quite powerful, and I have a use for powerful people right now.”

The Baron favors you with a conspiratorial smile, while his men continue to chase after the shifter in the background.

“Truth be told, you remind me of myself in my younger days. A little bit. I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time, Tare. But unlike me you’ve expressed a fatal flaw, one which Brock has harped on constantly – perhaps in a misguided attempt to protect you – and the same one that I sent you to Ironheart in the hopes of correcting. Do you know what that flaw is, Tare? Compassion. You lack the killer’s instinct, and it’s really quite disappointing. Sad, even, how you cling to your inferiors.”

The Baron’s smile fades into a judgmental frown.

“Brock warned me that you would never go along with my plans for this city, so we arranged your capture by the constabulary. But I knew that sending you to rot in prison was a waste of your burgeoning talents that I sensed were lying beneath the surface. So I had you sent to Ironheart instead, to test you – to strengthen you, the way a blade is hardened on the anvil, if you will excuse the clichéd metaphor. I figured you would either die there, thus proving yourself to be a waste of my time after all, or you would survive – perhaps even contribute someone to the great battle that eventually played out in Ironheart’s black depths. Can you imagine my disappointment when I learned that instead you escaped, rescuing poor Adamé and dear Teareal in the bargain?”

The Baron shook his head with mock sadness while making “tsk” noises.

“Now, don’t get me wrong. What you did was quite extraordinary. But it also clearly showed that you’ve learned nothing from your time in Ironheart! The way you feverishly clung to the idea of saving that one already dead she-elf. Not only was it pathetic, but you had inadvertently stumbled into the way of one of my own plans! I’m sure you already know that I want Adamé dead and Teareal returned to his people. The death of his betrothed would be the last straw for an already abused and enraged crown prince – and, if what I’ve heard about his father’s health is correct, soon to be king - of the elven people. That’s just the sort of unstable personality on the throne that will provoke an unending war between the elves and this kingdom. And what better foe for the people of this kingdom to rally against than an outside aggressor? Do you see now why that one little she-elf has to die?”

The Baron folds his hands up in front of him.

“I suppose you still don’t. But that’s alright, because this very important decision is not up to you. I have already dispatched Limier with orders to finish this for good. While we’re hearing talking, Limier is slitting the pointy-eared bitch’s throat. There’s nothing you can do to stop it!”

The Baron spreads his hands magnanimously.

“Or perhaps not. Perhaps the torture he endured in Ironheart and the attempted murder of his betrothed is enough to motivate him to irreconcilable war. That’s all I want, and I’m willing to concede that the objective might be accomplished without further bloodshed. Tell me you want Adamé spared, and I will contact Limier immediately to call off the assassination – assuming it’s not too late of course. Wait, I am not finished!”

The Baron holds up a hand.

“There is another piece of information I think you should know. There’s a certain obnoxious Inquisitor running about the city – Albert Silverton, I believe you have met? He’s been a thorn in my side for quite some time, but removing him would prove to be . . . inconvenient. And so I simply keep an eye on him instead, and shift the board about whenever he gets too close to discovering any important pieces. Unfortunately, I think he’s developed the mistaken idea that *you* have something to do with all my plans. My informant has alerted me to a raid that he’s planning right now, on a certain house you were visiting. How do you think little Karami will react to yet another group of men barging into her home?”

The Baron gives you a true smile then, leaving no doubt that he was a real son of a bitch.

“Perhaps, despite our differences, we could work together to resolve this Inquisitor problem of ours to a satisfactory conclusion. But here’s the catch, Tare. You haven’t shown me any indication that you’re willing to work with me. So I’m only going to help you with one of these problems for free. Because I *do* still feel you have potential, and want to help you. If you want my help with the other, well then I guess we’re going to have to figure out how to really work together. And although it may not seem like it now, trust me when I say that you want to work for me. I can give you anything your heart desires. Head of the Thieves Guild, your own pet angel – Hells, an entire harem if you want – I understand you have a thing for them, and well . . . they’re going to be an endangered species soon enough. Someone’s going to have to take care of the few that are left! I want to help you Tare. But first you’re going to have to convince me that you want to help me, and aren’t some sap that’s going to cry over a few broken eggs!”

A challenging look comes into the Baron’s eye then.

“Of course . . . even if you are unwilling to embrace this necessary change in your life, the fact remains that you will still be dealing with me even if all you take is my freely offered assistance with one of your many problems. All of which are far beyond your ability to solve alone, no matter how hard you try. Perhaps if you want to refuse to sell your soul to the devil, as it were, you had best do nothing more than leave. The door’s right over there behind you. One of my men will show you the way out safely from this fiasco! You’re free to go, completely unharmed . . . but your compassion *will* be the death of you, boy. And if you aren’t careful in the future, even if you survive your current problems, you may become one of the eggs I have to break.”

The Baron shrugs and half turns away from you, although he keeps his eyes on you.

“Now then, I am a busy man and it seems I have quite a large mess to clean up! I am afraid I can spare no more time for you. Choose your fate!”

(As a note, despite the bold proclamation, the Baron is willing to answer any remaining questions Tare has about his time in Ironheart and the like. The Baron might be willing to answer, but reserves the right to lie through his teeth to you. )

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

"The way of the paladin is to conduct oneself with honor and loyalty. But there's no honor in a siege, or in war in general. This seems like the best way to end the siege with the lowest loss of life. Show me this tunnel, Zariel."

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber sighed slightly as he watched Korram's little drama unfold. "You see?" He asked no one in particular, gesticulating vaguely with his free hand. "This is why you always end your enemies quickly. Ugh, I swear, it's like the universe is populated solely by people who've been nibbling on lead and whose parents were competitive baby-droppers. I think Fate keeps me around so she can exasperate me with morons." Realizing this probably wasn't the best place for one of his arrogant little tirades, Umber was about to move on down one of the passageways when the newcomer showed up.

She wasn't bad-looking, and she had a certain wiry musculature that he found aesthetically enjoyable. He'd gone through a phase a couple of centuries back where he'd found such tomboyish androgyny rather delightful. But at the moment, the fact that she wasn't Fianna put her firmly out of his mind as a sexual conquest. What interested him more was how she could help him escape. He was feeling somewhat out-of-sorts after dredging up his time in Ironheart (which probably explained the uncharacteristically fate-tempting outburst a moment ago,) and he was ready to get the hells out of here before the Baron could mount an effective pursuit. He considered acceding to Fianna's suggestion, then had a better idea - though before answering the young woman, he leaned over and kissed Fianna on the cheek. "Don't worry, love. I don't have any nefarious plans that don't put you first."

Smoothly, as if he were performing a complicated little dance-step, he rolled the blushing bride off his shoulders and cut her bonds with a few quick flicks from yet another concealed knife, his movements easy and fluid despite his weariness, and he handed it to the Countess - if she was going to be free, it was better she be armed, and he wasn't afraid of her at this juncture. They'd probably all be going the same way, and he doubted anyone here would be able to stop him if he decided to take his erstwhile rescuee back later. "You've a deal, young lady. I'm Umber, this is Fianna. I've just recently raised my banner against the Baron, and I've no doubt he's quite irate. I suggest we leave quickly - the Baron is an arrogant jackass - though admittedly that's probably the demon calling the devil a bastard - but his people are competent, and one in particular is probably the greatest hunter to ever walk this world, though admittedly a bit mad at the moment."

[Gorgondantess]

She returns the smile, glad at his progressive mindedness... until she grips his hand.
For a moment, she considers rending him to pieces at that moment. He was Evil, so he deserved destruction... Or not.
Really, what was evil? A glimpse of cruelty? If Augustus could peer into her own being as she did his, what would he see but a reflection of what she did. Evil? For sure, at least by a Human's definition thereof. She'd spilt plenty of blood, and more. The only reason she wasn't now was out of the sense of self preservation. A hunger? Desire for power? She felt these things. And consuming beings such as herself... well, if she should meet another "Archdemon" on her travels, she might just consume it just to see what happened. The only reason she hadn't consumed Maurice was out of respect for her.
This man wasn't a fiend. He was kindred. No, if she wanted him to respect her for what she is... then she would have to respect him for what he is.
She went back to her smiling, waving a hand at his responses. "Of course. You will do what you must, with your people... all I ask is that you recognize that, in my past, I've done what I must. Your terms are acceptable."

"I... am afraid I cannot answer that. To be frank, I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."
She grins mischievously. "As for my own questions... well, Omnicron has seen to many of those. At this point, I don't believe there's much information I could attain from you of any intrinsic value, assuming our peace holds: it's all quite academic, nuances.
Of course, there is some information I might find of intrinsic value, and that is that of my confidants. Might I leave you to inspect the village, while I speak with my allies? Consider it a measure of trust."

She nods, and makes off with Maurice and Omnicron, his acceptance permitted.
Once there's a wall between him and them- and any other Dusk Warden- she immediately turns to Maurice, laying her words out before her without much ceremony. "What did you see in this Augustus?"
Of course, at this point it was all a formality. She knew what the answer would likely be.

[Dorizzit]

Korram the Purifier

Korram smiles sadistically as the wing is torn from Cheran's back, finally eliciting an acknowledgement of pain from him. He has no time to savor the victory, however; Umber intervenes and Korram is barely able to keep Cheran alive. That can go on his list of things he never expected to do. Remembering that Umber was generally apathetic about things that didn't concern him, Korram kicks Cheran away from the hallway so that Umber can pass and leave him be. After pinning Cheran to the ground once more, Korram pauses before delivering the finishing blow. He feels like he has forgotten something. During his time with Seraphan. Then it comes back to him.

Spoiler

Show

Before you can step in, however, you see Seraph grimace in anger, his eyes flashing and then literally beginning to glow. A brilliant aura of golden light snaps into being around him, concentrating down into his fists. Raising his right arm high above his head, Seraph gives a wordless battlecry as he rams his shining fist down into the tentacle holding him to the wall. To the cultist’s clear surprise, the tentacle is torn apart by the impact, its clawed tip falling lifelessly to the ground as Seraph’s arm continues plunging down through the misty remains.

Kicking off of the wall with a beat of his wings Seraph again flies towards the cultist, leaving a blurry trail of light behind him. In desperation the cultist flings his other tentacle arm forward, which Seraph dodges with a slight course correction before turning to grab the tentacle about its middle. Bringing his left knee up into the mass of muscle Seraph repeats his trick of tearing the tentacle apart.

But this time he keeps a hold on the clawed end, spinning around in mid-air to drive the clawed end of the sheared tentacle into the chest of the cultist and driving him back into the wall before leaving him pinned there. Hovering in mid-air before the crippled cultist with steady beats of his obsidian wings which also seem to have a glossy reflection now, Seraph attempts to interrogate the creature. Like the rest of his features, even his voice seems to have changed, having acquired a booming resonance over the normally dry and terse tone.

“You must be the ones planning to sacrifice my wife. Tell me where she is. Now.”
In response the cultist attempts to continue the fight, cocking back his remaining human arm to throw a punch. Seraph blocks the blow, snaps the cultist’s arm, and retaliates with a crescent kick to the face that burns away most of the remaining flesh, leaving the skull exposed on one side.

“I’ll not ask a third time. WHERE. IS. MY. WIFE!”

Still, the cultist does not appear intimidate, breaking out into a harsh, wet laugh before it grates out a reply.

Your wife kneels before the Master, screaming in agony. But she’s not dead – yet. She gets to watch the Master consume your child first. And after the two of them, the Master will send you to join them in the oblivion beyond all existence!

Howling in rage Seraph drives his fists into the cultist’s head, vaporizing it, before proceeding to deliver a flurry of punches and kicks into the body of the creature. As the creature’s torso is tore apart by Seraph’s fury, a tentacled, mandibled eye erupts from the remains of the cultist’s head with an unearthly shriek. Seraph pauses in his assault on the cultist’s body long enough to swipe at the eyeball with a fist, but the creature manages to dodge before zipping off down the hallway, back the way the cultist had came.

By now breathing heavily from his exertions, Seraph floats down to the floor as the holy glow begins to subside. He sinks to his knees for a moment, but manages to prevent himself from falling further by planting both hands against the ground. He looks over at you for a moment, before staggering back up to his feet, stumbling over to his handaxe and bastard sword to retrieve them. With trembling hands he manages to sheathe both weapons, and takes a step back towards you before stumbling back down onto his knees again.

“That’s . . . all out.” Seraph grunts, struggling back up onto his feet again. “Takes a lot. Must keep moving though. Rose . . . my son . . .” This time, as he takes a few drunken steps forward Seraph steadies himself with a hand on the wall.

Maybe Cheran couldn't do anything similar, but Korram is not about to take any chances. He lifts his arm back, preparing to strike a blow that would crush Cheran's throat. Then Cheran's eyes begin glowing. Before Korram can deliver his attack, Cheran has already grabbed him and heaved him away. Korram manages to land on his feet, but has no time to steady himself before Cheran is on him, in a complete reversal of the previous conflict. Korram is barely able to keep up with the empowered Cheran's attacks, and has his nose crushed by Cheran before being hurled halfway through a wall. Worse than either of these, however, is the sensation he gets from his nose. As with all injuries, the nose was regenerating itself. Halfway through, however, it halts, still somewhat injured. Korram was running out of steam. Distracted and weakened, Korram is unable to stop Cheran from hitting him with a pillar. With his flagging regeneration, Korram feels the blow heavily even if it only glanced him. Korram lands on the ground, and tries to push himself up and move as Cheran lifts the pillar for the finishing blow.

Then Katrina intervenes.

Korram smiles insolently as Cheran's aura fades and he struggles under the weight of the pillar. As Cheran falls, Korram rises, staggering to his feet. He looks down the hallway at Katrina and nods his thanks before returning his focus to Cheran. As the Baron's son emerges from the pillar's wreckage, he declares that it was time to end the fight. Korram couldn't agree more. With a concentrated effort of will, Korram focuses his fire into his right arm, much like he used to do with Calcifer. He approaches Cheran, somewhat more steady on his feet but no less exhausted. As they near each other, both wind up their arms further, and finally lash out at the other with the rest of their strength. There is no time or effort for defense, only the one, single attack. Korram feels his blow connect at the same time as Cheran's fist finds his jaw, hitting harder than any normal strike despite Cheran's exhaustion.

Korram falls backwards, hitting the ground. The flames fade from his arm, and he rests for a few seconds before pushing himself into a sitting position. Korram is exhausted. Cheran is unconscious. Korram falls back and takes a few more seconds to catch his breath. At the end of this, he stands, somewhat unsteadily, and lifts Cheran over his shoulder. Slowly, agonizing every step of the way, Korram approaches the others in the hallway. Finally, he stands before them and drops Cheran to the ground, directly in front of Countess Amelia.

"Countess...your wedding gift. I'm sorry...I didn't have enough...time to...wrap it."

Having finally gotten the last word in, Korram staggers over to the wall and collapses, panting softly. He directs his next words at Katrina, his voice steadying as he catches his breath.

"What's...what's going on? What happened in the main room?"

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

Tare's stomach fluttered when the--whatever it was?!--glared directly at him. This was a new and entirely uncomfortable experience; in the past, his Veil had protected him from eyes sharper than knives, and dozens upon dozens of them at a time. Though of course those with sharp ears might hear him moving, or those with sharp intuition sense somehow that their eyes were being tricked, when Tare was sitting absolutely still and hardly willing himself to breathe, nothing had ever seen through his Invisibility. Tripped over it, yes. Dropped things on him, yes. But seen straight through it? Never before.

All of a sudden Tare felt extremely vulnerable. While seconds before the Veil had felt almost as tangible as a shield against attack, the illusion of safety vanished in an instant. Whatever this thing was, it was far beyond his ability to outmaneuver. He quickly discovered that it was beyond his ability to outrun, as well-- the Blur could have danced circles around him before reaching forth, almost with impunity, to slam him by the throat into the wall behind, instantly halting his momentum in a decidedly painful manner. But, he noticed, it did not; for some reason, an almost excessive amount of speed and force was put into the strike, as though it expected him to be a slipperier target than he had any right to be.

And then rational thought was replaced by swirling stars in his head for the next number of seconds.

Blearily, Tare realized that the thing had resolved into the form of a woman. He felt himself make eye contact with those milky, pupil-less eyes and sense nothing behind them. If once these had been eyes, they certainly were no longer-- not in any meaningful sense. Tare almost consoled his ego then; it had not seen through his veil at all-- she had merely not been vulnerable to it at all.

Of course, this did not have time to make it all the way across his mind before being driven back out by another impact, again as though delivered to someone more sturdy than Tare's mere humanity. The world grew red as the blood began to throb behind his eyes and Tare felt himself beginning to pass out before--mercifully--the Huntress realized his frailty and relented upon his windpipe. Bizarre, that she would be surprised by his need to breathe??

Who in the hells is Zariel?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tare landed in a heap before the Baron. Reflex had him attempting to salvage the landing into a crouch, but exhaustion brought on by pain and oxygen deprivation forced him to collapse into a half-sit on the stage beneath him. Tare glared up at his Captor (Shiakti, apparently?) and the Baron interchangeably, resenting their treatment of him as little more than an upstart pup-- but then, if Might makes Right, they certainly seemed to have a lot more Might than he. Determined to somehow turn this against them, however, Tare hung on every word that passed between them, resolved to use the information to his advantage-- in the event that he ever understood what they were talking about, of course. Umber? Isn't that like, a clay of some kind?

It was around that time that he noticed the warm, dribbly sensation coursing slowly down his left arm. He didn't bother looking down-- the acrid tang of blood was confirmation enough, and better not to know how injured he was, so as to prevent being unduly hindered by it. All over my new shirt, too. ...Dammit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tare listened to the Baron's monologue with a growing sense of dread. Even the Baron's hints at Tare's 'potential' sounded like something to run away from, really fast. Quickly Brock's story was confirmed-- even the parts to which he was blind to the significance. The mention of Tare's escape (through HELL nonetheless) came across as a reproving scold, and it was creepy as hell. Who is this guy, anyway?? Why is he talking to me like he had the greatest expectations for me, and I've disappointed him somehow!?

Tare considered firing up his lightning hand-blade and making a dive for the Baron's throat like he had at Brock. Surely, the man was too engrossed in his villainous monologue to have any reflex left over. But a moment of common sense kicked that idea out on its butt-- and probably saved Tare's life in the same motion, he realized with a shiver. As the Baron kept talking, more and more questions piled up. It became too many to bother organizing them into words and sentences, so instead they just bounced around on the inside of his skull in the form of unfocused confusion, futilely wishing for answers.

...Well. He's not fool enough to be vulnerable to any attack I can try to hit him with, especially unarmed as I am. But the weapon that will cut him no matter what defenses he has is Knowledge. ...I'm not sure if it'll be to a question I really want to ask, but I know how to get one Answer for sure.

With that thought, Tare sent his Awareness questing toward the Baron, triggering the same metaphysical impulse that he had accidentally tripped over in the last Worship Area he had visited that day-- though that one had been considerably smaller, to say the least.

((This is sortof just reaction to the first half of Tare's DM just there-- it is a long one. I have the other half written (including his answer to the Baron), pending the results of that attempt there. Maybe we could do a double-DM back-to-back to keep the scene moving along, and keep from falling behind the rest of the players.))

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Relieved of his burden, Umber's arm wrapped around Fianna's waist and he pulled her close, nuzzling her neck affectionately. She still smelled sweet - warm, delicate, and faintly redolent of spices - despite the day's exertions, not to mention the odd bit of fire and smoke. There was a simple pleasure in the feel of her body pressed against his, and it was almost addictive just to feel her there, warm and so very, very alive after her most recent feeding had driven the chill from her soul. He wondered, briefly, how long it would last - but he decided that if it began to fade, he would have to seek out the young woman - Pyra? Pyrene? - and find a way to duplicate the effect. Even if she was a bit... unstable at the moment, he would not let Fianna lose herself again. He whispered softly in her ear for a moment, sweet, simple nothings of the kind that are sickeningly saccharine to anyone but those who give and receive them, and then turned his attention to the show unfolding in front of them.

He watched Cheran's beating with no small amount of amusement. The man was a simple, sadistic brute and Umber had seen enough of his kind to loathe him almost instantly. He wondered - if the Baron was Umber's shadow, would that mean the Baron's children were the shadow of what his own might have been? He hoped not, if this twisted little should-have-been abortion was the result.

As Korram collapsed against the wall and began to interrogate the young tomboy, Umber cleared his throat. "This is a discussion better held while moving. Let the young lady finish this cretin off and let us get to the secret exit. The Baron will not remain distracted for long."

[Inspectre]

(Because Tare is probably the furthest behind on his own subplot, and this will give me a chance to lay out some more of the Baron’s background, just this once, I’ll give you a bonus DM. This better not open a can of worms though, or you’re cleaning the mess up. )

Although you hadn’t really meant to create a connection with the man in the chapel, certainly not with the intention of looking into his past, you remembered how to do it. And although you weren’t sure you really wanted to make the same kind of connection to the Baron, doing so might give you a valuable piece of information. And so, hesitantly, you reach out with your mind, and touch the Baron’s, diving into his past.

The experience was much different this time, as instead of finding yourself a witness to a singular event, you find yourself caught in a whirlpool of memories. Snared by the irresistible tide, you find yourself swept along, unable to control the process at all now. Down and down into the darkness you go, past events from the Baron’s life flashing before your horrified eyes, every cruelty, every depravity revealed. A few of them catch your eye in particular, and again propelled along by a force beyond your control, you dive into each of them in turn.

Somewhere in a chamber deep underground, a stone slab slides aside to reveal countless mounds of gold coins and other treasures, the total combined value nearly incalculable. A young woman with shining blond hair steps into the chamber, mouth agape as she holds her torch aloft. She turns to face her sole companion, a young boy just barely beyond puberty, with a nervous giggle. Although just a boy, there is enough similarity in the lad’s face that you can recognize him as the Baron.

“We did it! We found the Vainglory Cache! I’m . . . I’m still going to get my cut, right?”

The woman shies back as the lad enters the chamber – apparently even as a boy the Baron demanded a fearful respect. He looks around for a moment, and then favors the woman with a tight-lipped smile.

“Of course. You’ve done everything I’ve asked. Help me survey all this so I can pick out the best pieces for the first trip back, and then you can go. With your promised cut.”

The woman managed a worried smile back, and then proceeded deeper into the chamber, the boy one step behind. As they went along, the boy discretely picked up a heavy gold urn as he passed it, hiding it behind his back. When the woman became distracted looking at a fine piece of jewelry, all gold and sapphires, the boy struck, stepping forward and swinging the urn around into the back of her head.

Whistling a low, mournful tune to himself, the lad checked the crumpled woman’s vitals, and not liking what he found, drew his sword. He held the blade to the woman’s throat, and was about to draw it across when he paused. Pulling the blade away, the young Baron looked down at the woman intently, as if noticing her for the first time. Reaching a trembling hand up to the woman’s face, he touched her right temple, and then slowly dragged his hand down the side of her face, down to the hollow of her throat, and from there down further still, stopping at her bosom.

The Baron paused a few seconds more, and then seemed to determine a new course of action. He sheathed his sword and then produced a length of rope from his pack. He swiftly and thoroughly tied the poor woman up, making sure to pull the knots cruelly tight. Once he was satisfied, the boy slapped the woman across the face repeatedly until she stirred with a low moan.

“Good morning, Cassandra.”

The boy said, leering down at his victim. The woman immediately grasped her situation and started sobbing, trying ineffectually to squirm away.

“You said –“ She began, before the Baron cut her off.

“I lied. The plan always was to kill you, just like you killed everyone else. The Vainglory Cache can have only one owner – ME. But then, it occurred to me that you had . . . one more thing left to offer me. Something that it never occurred to me until now to ask for – I hate to admit it, but I’m not experienced with such things. Time to rectify that right now.”

Any remaining confusion that Cassandra had vanished as the Baron started to lift up her skirts clumsily, clearly having no idea what he was doing. She struggled even more fiercely now, but it made no difference.

“Oh gods! Help me!” Cassandra cried out, and the Baron simply laughed.

“We’re alone down here, my dear. There are no gods – just me.” He replied calmly, leaning forward to kiss the side of her neck awkwardly.

What followed was unpleasant, even for an invisible, impartial observer such as yourself. You tried to leave, only to find yourself coming back around to the same spot, trapped here and forced to watch. Even if you closed your eyes, you could still hear what was going on. When it was finally over, the Baron drew his sword again, placing the tip right over Cassandra’s heart.

“Well, thank you for that. Unfortunately, it still changes nothing. You’re still going to die down here, and I’m going to go on to become a very rich young man. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He gloated, and prepared to deliver the killing blow when another person miraculously appeared. The newcomer looked strikingly similar to the Jacqueline woman Wulfric had pointed out to you, and she was mad as hell. Rattled, the Baron quickly attempted to hold Cassandra hostage, but that failed when the Jacqueline-clone claimed to want Cassandra dead as well. With the same tight-lipped smile he had offered Cassandra only minutes before, the Baron stepped back with a bow.

Focused entirely on her quarry, the would-be Jacqueline moved to stand over Cassandra, ignoring her attempts to explain what was going on as she lowered her crossbow to point down at the poor woman. She never even noticed as the Baron smoothly stepped forward to run his sword into her back, all the way up to the hilt. As the blood-soaked tip emerged from her chest, “Jacqueline” collapsed forward without a word, landing on top of Cassandra. The Baron rode her down, adding his weight to her own to drive the remaining length of the sword down into Cassandra. As the light began to fade from both of their eyes, the Baron leaned in to whisper into the newcomer’s ear.

"Sorry, but you really should have listened to your friend. I don't like to share, and I don't like to leave loose ends."

Then he rolled off the two bodies and smoothly came back up onto his feet. He spent a minute trying to tug his sword free of the two, and then gave up. Walking away, he began to whistle again as he stalked amongst the immense piles of wealth, quickly finding a new, gem-encrusted sword that he eagerly buckled around his waist as a replacement. Only then did the tides of the past grip you firmly once more, tearing you out of this scene and propelling you onwards to the next.

***********

You stand in the middle of another underground chamber, this one decorated in opulent style. Bodies lie scattered about the room, while a trio of figures circle each other warily near the middle. One is a cloaked figure you don’t recognize, but one is the youthful Baron, perhaps a year or two older from your first vision. The third man quickly proves to be of no consequence, as the Baron shoves him forward, onto the cloaked man’s blade.

As the cloaked man struggles to shove the dead man off his blade, the Baron leaps forward to deliver a brutal overhead chop. The blow catches the man in the shoulder, and he falls to his knees with a scream as the Baron rips his sword out, the saw-toothed edge of the blade tearing his latest victim’s shoulder to shreds. The Baron kicks the man in the chest, sending him tumbling onto his back, his own weapon tearing out of his hands, still caught in the rib cage of the Baron’s sacrificed lackey. Allowing no respite, the Baron lands heavily on the man’s chest, shoving the bloody saw-edge against the man’s throat.

“Now then. Before I kill you, I think I will see who the masked vigilante is who has been giving my guild so much trouble!”

The Baron lifts the man’s cowl back away from his face, and tears off the mask he had been wearing. Again, you don’t recognize the face, but the Baron clearly does as the boy grins.

“Why, Duke Volesin! What an unexpected surprise! I wonder who they’ll get to replace you – although I suppose a man of your stature has a few bastards lingering in the wings.”

“No . . . no children. I – I can’t.” Volesin wheezed, struggling to remain conscious as his ravaged shoulder spilled blood onto the floor.

“Really? Well, that’s too bad. I guess the duchy will descend into chaos after you’re gone then. Hopefully they’ll sort it all out before too much of the duchy falls into lawlessness. That would be really quite sad, the duke who seeks to help his people personally as a vigilante dies as a result, plunging his duchy into an even worse situation than when he started! Yes, quite sad.”

The Baron tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, but pauses as a thought occurs to him. He favors the beaten duke with a tight-lipped smile.

“Hrm. Y’know, regardless of the upswing your death will give to my business, someone’s going to come after me sooner or later. I can’t imagine the king will tolerate his nobles being murdered, regardless of their reckless proclivities. Plus having the . . . undying . . . gratitude of a duke is an attractive benefit to me. And I can only assume you don’t want to die, no matter how appealing the thought of dying in the defense of your sad little serfs is. So how about we make a deal instead? You owe me a couple favors, and you get to keep your head. Considering you’ve already wiped out most of my people, I’ll pack up shop entirely and give you your city back. You get to save face, and I’ll get to start over somewhere else. And we’ll never have to see each other again – until I’m ready to call in those favors. Sound good?”

For a few long moments the two stared at each other, and then Volesin looked away and inclined his head slightly. The Baron chuckled and lifted his blade away from the man’s throat, putting a hand of his in the hand attached to Volesin’s shoulder. He shook hands with the duke, actually more of painfully twisted the duke’s wounded arm, and then stood up.

“Splendid. Now I’m going to go pack up a few things. Meanwhile, I trust you can show yourself out. Might want to get that arm looked at – it looks nasty.”

And with that, the Baron strode out of the room, leaving Volesin to slowly pull himself up unsteadily onto his feet and limp away.

***************

A new room, no less opulent than the previous, but much darker and quieter. The Baron, once again a few years older but still a teenager, standing before a tall figure cloaked all in black and wearing an iron crown.

“So – so far this sounds like a good deal. I become a Baron, and have you as a patron. Although that leaves me to question how you will accomplish that – surely they’ve all met the old Baron’s son. How are you –“

“The Baron’s son has been isolated from the rest of the world, deliberately so. He has not been seen by anyone for many years. Anyone who questions . . . will be dealt with.”

The cloaked figure replied, rasping and croaking its words.

“Hrm. Fair enough I suppose. You still haven’t told me what the catch is, however. What exactly do you want in return for all this?”

The dark figure pauses a moment, and then rasped back an answer.

“You will assist me as I deem fit.”

“No. I want exact terms.”

The Baron’s guest gathered itself up, rising up in height, while the room near to him seemed to grow dark in response.

“Do not test my patience. But if you must know, you will provide me with whatever assistance I require in releasing Azguloth the Destroyer from his imprisonment beneath the dread fortress of Ironheart. I do not expect your mayfly lifetime will enable you to see the end of the project. And it will grow shorter still should you speak of this to anyone.”

The Baron nods slowly, and then kneels, favoring the creature with a tight-lipped smile.

“Very well. I accept your generous offer. Let us work together to release a dark god back into this world! Just one more thing . . . do you think you could teach me some magic?”

****************************

For once outside, you watch as the Baron, still a young man just exiting his teenage years, sketches some complex pentagrams into the dirt beneath a starry sky. Satisfied with his work, the Baron pricks his thumb and allows blood to drip onto the sketches, muttering a dark incantation as he does so. A bright fire leaps up from the markings a few minutes later, and as the fire winks out a gaggle of demons are revealed.

“Excellent. Now then, I wish to know if any of my family still lives – I grew up alone on the street, but I know I wasn’t born there. I’ve been given to understand that you are the beings to talk to for that information.”

In unison, the demons growl at him, and their designated leader snarls.

“Information is not free, mortal! And –“

“Yes yes yes.” The Baron said, waving them off. He points past them, towards a nearby farmhouse.

“Tell me what I want to know, and I will scuff the binding ring holding all of you. Then you can run free, and go have fun tearing that farmhouse and everyone inside to pieces. Deal?”

“And what if we tear you apart instead for daring to summon us, mortal!?” One of the other demons shrieks, prompting a tight-lipped smile from the Baron as he conjures a ball of flame into his hands.

“Try it. I think you know who I am, and who I worked for. And I think you also know just how pissed he would be if you somehow managed that. Now, are you going to continue to waste my time, or are you going to go enjoy some innocent souls?”

After a moment’s pause, the demons gruffly nodded, and the Baron snapped his fingers.

“You first. Do any of my family still live?”

“Yes. You have a brother.”

For a long moment the two sides looked at each other.

““Splendid! Now how hard was that? So more questions now. Who is he, where does he live?”

Now it was the demon’s turn to smile.

“We’ll tell you after we consume the family living in that farmhouse.”

“Oh, alright, fine. Here.”

The Baron said as he scraped the remaining ring of runes with his foot, breaking the seal. The demons immediately turned and ran towards the farmhouse.

“Have fun in there!”

The Baron called, pausing to watch them work. For several minutes chaos reigned as the demons tore the farmhouse and its inhabitants apart. But as they prepared to drag their captives back down into the Hells with them, a brilliant light filled the area. On wings of purest white, an angel descended from the sky and proceeded to wreak havoc. The demons had no chance at all, and although the angel was too late to save anyone, she spared the family from a worse fate after death. For his part, the Baron looked on in confusion and shock. And then after the demons had all fallen, he crept back into the darkness to escape, glaring in anger at the interloper.

“Of all the nerve . . . now I’ll have to summon them again to get the rest of the information! Quite possibly a different group too, depending on how long it takes that lot to reform. How dare she interfere!? What gives her the right!?” The Baron hisses as he slinks away into the forest, making good his escape before the angel can find him.

*************

Only a short jump ahead in time now, as the young Baron flees from a group of pursuers. The rest of them as magically capable as he is, they are able to keep up with him despite his tricks. Eventually they manage to cut him off and surround him. Two men and two women nearly as young as he is, they close in with the confidence of youth.

“Surrender, warlock! You have no chance against the Hellrazers! If you surrender now, we’ll spare your life. Otherwise.”

The apparent leader of the quartet demanded, a cocky young man wearing a hat at a rakish angle. The Baron’s only response was to roll his eyes and snort.

“Funny. I was going to say something similar!”

And then the Baron was off again, teleporting away a short distance and running deeper into the forest. Three of the Hellrazers immediately moved to pursue, but one of the women lagged behind. Pausing at the edge of the little clearing they had just been in, the woman stops to look back intently. Her eyes widen a moment later, and then an invisible force throws her against a nearby tree. The Baron reappears beside her as he plunges a knife into her chest.

“Aw, you saw through my little ruse. How unfortunate – for you!”

The Baron hissed as he twisted the knife.

“By the way.” The Baron said almost conversationally as the girl slumped to the forest floor, and the three Hellrazers, now realizing something was wrong, came running back with an angry cry.

“I coated that knife in a rather nasty poison. I’ve heard that it mimics the effects of a rare and deadly disease that occasionally afflicts our magically gifted kind. Enjoy the rest of your short and painful life, bitch.”

And with that, the Baron was gone.

***********

Again, the Baron stands before his dark master, now finally a young man.

“Listen, you’re the one who told me to contact you if I had any problems! So . . . I have a problem.”

The Baron holds up a crystal, displaying an image of a formal party amongst nobles. Centered in the image is a beautiful young woman, who seems to be off by herself.

“I want her! But she seems to be a bit of a prude and an ice queen. I was hoping you could help with that.”

“I am not here to satisfy your physical urges!”

The dark figure growled, clearly angry. Even the Baron flinched a little at the anger radiating from the croaking voice.

“Find your own solution, and bother me no more! You will have to rely on your own talents.”

The Baron refusing to let this matter go, however, moving to block the figure’s way.

“Listen, you want me keep everything in Gast nice and under control so you can toil away at freeing your god in peace, right? Well, I’m one of the most eligible bachelors amongst the nobility! People are going to start getting curious about why I’m still single . . . they’re going to start asking questions. About me, about what I do with my time . . . who I’m friends with. I want her, end of story.”

At this, the dark figure gave a rumbling, gurgling laugh.

“You are too late. She has already married, in –“

“In secret, yes I know. To him.”

“This is about him, isn’t it? You only want her because of her love for him.”

The Baron gave a nonchalant shrug, but it was written all over his face.

“Perhaps. Perhaps because she’s really hot and I’d like to bed her. I think she’d make the perfect mate, the other half of my soul, and all that other nonsense. And anything that makes me more effective is ultimately a win for you.”

“Hmph. She has already given her heart to another. She will never love you, especially should you come between them.”

“No ****. Which is why I’ve been trying to tell you that I need your help! You’re all powerful, right? Can’t you mutter some mysterious mumbo jumbo that will twist her around to fall in love with me instead?”

“Perhaps. But such an effort will not be easy. I still see no reason to expend such effort on your behalf.”

“Ah ha, hahaha. You’re funny. Call it a bonus for doing a fantastic job in helping you accomplish your goals. Listen, it’s occurred to me that when the time comes you’re going to need a lot of sacrifices. And even if you track down all those very special sacrifices you need, you’re still going to have to keep them from wandering off until you’re ready. Which is why I got the brilliant idea to turn Ironheart into a prison! You and your . . . people . . . can hide down in the depths, and I’ll use the top portion as a prison to store all the sacrifices you could ever possibly need! Worthless criminal scum that nobody will ever miss – and if a few important people are hidden in amongst the filth, who’s ever going to know? You’ll never have to worry about anyone coming to investigate any “mysterious disappearances”, or any of your sacrifices escaping! I’ve already got the King’s approval . . . I just need yours to start the process. Oh, and before you answer, there’s also the fact that I may have found one of your precious sacrifices already – a real, live archangel. I need to check on my source though, it may have been a hoax. But if it’s real . . . well, you’re going to need someplace to stash her for the next ten thousand years . . . or however long it takes us to find the remaining sacrifices you need.”

“What!? Hrm . . . very well. Collect the archangel. You will get your prison . . . and your bride.”

“Excellent. Now, was that really all that hard?”

“Don’t push it, mayfly.”

****************

The scenes begin to move more quickly now, as the years fly by. You watch as the Baron meets his promised archangel, a beautiful creature that he tortures personally with gusto, before handing her over to an equally sadistic “priest”. He begins harvesting her blood, distilling it down into some form of elixir that both he and his new wife imbibe.

The Baron goes down into the jungles to the south, pursuing rumors of an ancient beast. He meets Shiakti, his pet assassin originally flitting down onto his shoulder in the form of a bug, before transforming into her humanoid form and nearly tearing his throat out with her sabertooth canines. A few moments later, and she’s crying in his arms, while he comforts her with a tight-lipped smile.

Still pursuing rumors of ancient beasts, the Baron ventures into the frozen north, finding a ruined palace that he extracts a handful of ashes from. Pouring blood onto them triggers a magical reaction that results in the resurrection of another Jacqueline-clone (this is starting to get really weird). Unlike with Shiakti, the two of them don’t seem to get along, and the woman departs to Ironheart to assist the Baron’s master.

The King angers the Baron’s master, and so he goes personally with his Shiakti-trained assassins and kills him. Along the way they are challenged by the King’s captain of the guard, whom one of the Baron’s guard cuts deeply across the face and leaves for dead. It seems you had found the dark, evil man you had glimpsed walking down the corridor after the guard fell, for the wounded man is clearly the man you met in the chapel, many years hence from this terrible event. After killing the King, the Baron sticks around to gloat. The Queen refuses to listen to his taunts, snatching up a weapon and moving to attack him before she is swiftly killed. The Baron remains unimpressed and convinces the two children present, the sole remaining heirs to the kingdom, to come with him. A young boy who looked eerily similar to the dark stranger who had leapt from the rafters, and a young girl who looked like the silent blond girl now acting as the Baron’s bodyguard.

The Baron begins the construction of an immense airship, the Gastly Truth, keeping the project secret from everyone, including his master (maybe or maybe not successfully). He has plates of metal taken from Ironheart used exclusively in the construction. He begins kidnapping angels en masse, torturing and abusing them horribly until they break and then shoves their souls into crystals, evidentially to serve as the vessel’s power source. But the airship proves too unwieldy for a crew to pilot without assistance, so the Baron begins looking for a mind to serve as the airship’s control system. He finds a potential solution in an old crone who seems to hold special significance to him, and in his own granddaughter, still just a baby. But the two, despite being sufficient to manage the airship, were uncoordinated and worked at cross-purposes. Eventually, he found the solution in the form of a young peasant woman, who he had kidnapped from her home. He greeted her personally, and offered the full extent of his hospitality as he discussed the rare gift she had to offer him. Always, he looked at her with that tight-lipped smile of his. With the other two, he locked her away, connecting her being directly with his monstrous airship, and now together, the three of them could act as the thing’s mind.

Still more images flash pass, endless instances of betrayal and cruelty on the part of the Baron. You seem to be moving closer and closer to the present as time goes on, although thanks to the elixir, the Baron and his wife seem to age less and less as the world around them continues to age. Finally, you pass another image of the Baron plotting something, but your consciousness recognizes who he is meeting and it clings to the image, pulling you into it instead of flashing past.

***************

Limier stands before the Baron, in disguise and armed, although the Baron didn’t seem particularly concerned. In the shadows of the room lurked his own assassins.

“It’s really quite simple. I need you to go to Ironheart, slap the crown prince of the elves around a bit, and kill his betrothed right in front of him. Make it messy, unpleasant. The sort of thing that will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, and turn him irrevocably against us.”

“You called me out of retirement to kill one she-elf? Who’s already locked up in Ironheart and probably scared out of her mind?”

“Precisely. I need some plausible deniability, so that Teareal thinks it’s the kingdom as a whole, and not me specifically. So that rules out my own people. And, based on the timetable . . . well, let’s just say that things may get hairy during your stay. I need you to ensure that Teareal escapes successfully, and makes it back home relatively unharmed. That second part is the most important, and likely the most difficult. Don’t expect me to explain why.”

“Fine.” Limier growls, clearly displeased at the Baron’s flippant tone. But she keeps her voice even as she addresses the next point.

“Now, about my payment . . .”

“As we’ve already discussed, half of the money is already waiting for you at your designated drop-off point. The other half will be sent after I’ve received word that Prince Teareal has returned to his people – alone.”

“And . . . the other matter?”

“It’s not exactly easy for an inmate to leave Ironheart. Easy of course to get in, I’ve seen to that, but getting them back out is . . . problematic. It’s never been done before, in fact.”

“Ahem.”

“But, in this special case, I’ve decided to make an exception. Assuming you complete your assignment in a timely manner, I’ll arrange for his release. Someone in a nearby village will find him wandering in the snow, delirious, and claiming to have escaped from Ironheart. Nobody will believe him, of course, and there’ll be no proof to substantiate his claim. But he’ll be alive and free to pursue his own destiny once more. Of course, if things go the way I’m expecting, he may escape on his own – I’ve been watching him closely and he seems to have quite a bit of potential. Or die horribly, but that’s the way things go in Ironheart. I will not be held responsible if the latter occurs, of course.”

“Of course.” Limier replied, quietly clenching her fists.

“By the way, what’s your interest in him?”

“None of yours.” Came the reply, prompting a tight-lipped smile from the Baron.

“Right. Well, I trust we have a deal, then?”

“Yes.”

********************

A few more images swirl past. The last one that stands out from the monotony of cruelty and atrocity is a very recent event, on the bridge of the Baron’s airship. He turns a crudely formed stone knife in his hands, examining the faint runes scratched on them intently. Then he hands the weapon off to a nearby crewman.

“I want copies of that weapon made immediately. I also want a team examining the runes and trying to trace the arcane linguistic source immediately. I want to know who these people are right away. They might make quite useful friends!”



And with a final jolt, you return to the present, and in your own body. Your knees immediately threaten to betray you by collapsing, and you have the overwhelming desire to puke. What you had seen . . . although informative . . . you wanted to take a bath and scrub your skin off. You doubted you would ever feel clean again, and it would be a miracle if you could sleep a night in the rest of your life without horrific nightmares. And you thought a stay in Ironheart was bad!

Although the Baron was perceptive enough to note the sudden change in your demeanor, he didn’t seem to understand the source of it. Which was probably good, because if he did realize you had been digging around in his past, he’d probably invent some innovative torture to use on you on the spot.

“Something the matter, Tare? You look a little green. Is the pressure of everything I’ve told you too much to handle?”

The Baron gives you a tight-lipped smile. You nearly vomit again, along with discovering that your bladder now has an overwhelming desire to void itself, regardless of the current position of your pants.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

Tare's horror did not exactly deepen as the visions exploded behind his eyes, but it certainly compounded. Each new scene that clung to his memory, and also with each of the dozens that found no purchase in his overwhelmed mind and would be thankfully forgotten, added a new variety of revulsion and denial, their screaming voices building into a flood of evil emotion that nearly made Tare's heart want to stop.

A subjective eternity later, the snap back to himself was so intense that he nearly passed out. And here he was. That demon. In the flesh. Tare's soul quaked. How long had he been gone? Had he gone temporarily catatonic as Melcara had described before? The Baron was still blinking in surprise as though he had just seconds ago noticed something wrong. That was a mercy. Tare coughed, his throat raw with unvoiced screams. "Merely the effects of blood loss, Baron, but I've had worse," He lied without even trying to sound convincing. The Baron would probably see through it anyway.

Fortunately, the Baron seemed to decide that his own explanation was closer to the mark, but instead of taking it as a cue to stop, he instead found the effect pleasant, and with a smile (that evil smile) continued to heap more nausea-inducing revelation upon Tare.

It wasn't until near the end of the monologue that Tare realized that somewhere along the line, reproving monologue had turned into a job offer.

Hells. No.

Hells.

No.

This guy-- This-- THING is talking about murdering Adame' like she was somebody's pet goldfish. He murders as easily as drawing breath. He was plotting to unleash an imprisoned god?! I'm going to play errand boy for THAT?!

Memories danced through his head again, and with no small amount of renewed horror, Tare found them as fresh and perfect as though he was seeing them again. Would those memories ever fade, ever give him peace? Or were they printed there in stunningly fresh quality until the day he died? This Gift was part Curse then, it seemed. He would have to be a great deal more careful about how he used it in the future.

And that smile. Tare shuddered, unable to escape the meaning behind it. This thing is no longer human, if it ever was. Where a human would have a Soul, he has only a predator's lust. He means to devour me. To chew me up and spit out the bones the instant he is less distracted with doing the same to bigger game. No.

No.

Tare was right in the middle of formulating the exact level of descriptive explicative by which he was about to suggest where the Baron should shove his offer, and exactly how deep, when the Baron held up a hand.

"There is another piece of information I think you should know. There’s a certain obnoxious Inquisitor running about the city – Albert Silverton, I believe you have met?"

Tare froze.

"How do you think little Karami will react to yet another group of men barging into her home?"

Tare found that, abruptly, the cacophony of emotion that raged in aftershock to the Seeing vanished. Completely. Suddenly, it became very easy to breathe. Very, very easy to think. Silverton didn't know or care about Karami. But he'd noticed Melcara. And nothing about the man had suggested even the possibility of him even knowing the meaning of the word 'Kind'. He didn't know about Karami, but that wouldn't stop him from causing as much collateral damage as possible. It was the man's style, Tare could tell, even having met him for all of three minutes. The self-righteous bastard would tear the home apart and call it justice. And that was nothing compared to what he'd do to Melcara.

What began life as two, twin points of focused heat in his chest exploded on the inside with two separate, but identically ferocious infernos, one for each of the Precious ones that Silverton might even now be harming. And then they burned cold. If I'd never come home they would never have followed me back there. Guilt evaporated, fuel to the fire, which only burned hotter. And colder.

When Tare finally spoke, his voice seethed. "Ok. Here's the deal, you murdering son of a b****. We share a common inconvenience, you and I. Give me what I need to make the good Inquisitor beg for Mercy, and I will send that thorn in your side straight to hell. After that, our working relationship is effectively dissolved. You can go back to being the creepiest old guy on the planet, and I'll go back to not giving half a damn. I don't know how many souls you've stolen from poor saps like me over the years, but I doubt it ever turned out well for the seller. I bet the Devil himself sold his soul to you, and got a raw deal on it. Well, you're not getting mine. And the thought of owing you a favor makes me sick to my stomach. For now, just once, Mutually Beneficial is as good as you're going to get." Tare glanced over at the Chimera, even now gleefully tearing through humanity and masonry alike. "As you say, you have more pressing matters to attend to." He spat, sarcasm seething in his tone.

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

The creeping feeling of dread chills the metal of his body as Incom stares off in the distance. Far too close was Ironheart.

…Screaming as he was yanked out of the cart onto the ground, the filthy rags of his uniform barely clinging to him as he tries to stand up only for one of his guards to kick out his knee…

”What is this?”

The maimed Sara emerges in the corner of his vision, looking at Incom, or more rather, the memory of Incom the day he arrived at Ironheart.

”What a detailed memory. I swear I can’t even reconigze you.”

Looking at himself Incom could only nod in agreement. One eye was swollen shut, the other barely open thanks to the bruises. Already one of his ears was gone, with one hand clinging the other where several fingers had been broken slowly.

”I remember praying that this was a dream, that this was not happening, that my wife would come back, that the guards would see who I was.”

”But nobody came”

The scene dissolves into dust and sand and Incom sees himself locked in one of the smallest, deepest cells in all of Ironheart. The brand with the number 1 freshly burned on his arm as he huddles in a ball. Scratching at the brand, scratching so hard he broke the skin on the brand, only for the brand to regenerate, restoring itself without healing.

The angelic Katashiko brushes away a lank of hair from Incom and looks back up at him.

”You are afraid. You lost your mind here.”

”Some of the Mavolent Seven thought that I was bonded with the dragon right away. They were wrong.”

More flashes. His one proper meal in Ironheart, served to him on a white satin cloth of roast ham, potatoes, and even a flagon of wine. The wine was drugged of course, a stimulant that made the agony of the gelding all the more clearer. Having the skin flayed from his left hand with the rest being left to rot until he begged to have it cut off. Hundreds of other tortures flashed by, down in that dark cell where no one but the tortures could hear him scream out in pain.

Then the day of the dragon. Looking down at his ruined body being placed onto the alter, bound in place with leather and rope while the cultists cut into his body with knives of sweet pain.

”It was almost a relief, to wake up afterwards, to feel my hand again, hundreds of pains of the flesh gone. Yet then the flesh turned toxic, and I raged.”

”Oh yes you raged, you raged so loud to put some of my partners to shame. Yet why did you hold yourself better than beasts who would have sold themselves to kill everything in their path?”

”I don’t know. Why have you two stopped fighting?”

Then a gasp in the real world. The scene dissolves and Incom finds himself standing in snowdrifts. His body was too cold, absorbing heat far to much to let him be near Sara while she rested by the fire near the lean-to. Moving his legs, causing the snow to shift and slide around he approaches Sara as she starts to tear into the last of the supplies.

”Incom? I . . . have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you about. You don’t have to answer! That is, if you don’t want to . . .”

“What’s it like to die? Oh! I’m sorry, that came out so bluntly!”

Dim memories flash in front of him. Dying at long last a death far prolongied, the reaper pateintienly awaiting to collect its due. Impaled on the blades from the Hierarch, watching the sword coming closer, closer, realizing that the taste of blood and sweat was the last thing he would taste, that the smell of burning flesh would be the last thing he ever would smell, that the sight of the Hieracrh would be the last thing he would ever see…..

…. Awakening on the Ghastly Truth…. Mind blank from the pain and agony…. A simple life…. A simple duty….

”I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Since Ironheart. I nearly died in there several times – and would have if it wasn’t for you. But I don’t know if you can protect me from what’s to come.”

“I’m scared. I know what I have to do, and I *want* to do it, but . . . the ritual is dangerous. I could die trying to complete it, or immediately thereafter for all I know, my soul discarded in place of Miriam’s! Or . . . afterwards, when this is all over and Miriam leaves. You remember how I was in the Medical Bay immediately after Ironheart. I overheard the doctors and Mother talking, something about divine energy being poisonous to me. If I got that sick over being possessed by Elandra, how much worse will it be after an actual Goddess inhabits my body!?”

“So, I want to know what it’s like, so I can know what to expect . . . in case it happens. I want to be brave, like you.”

“Will you describe it for me? And, what it was like immediately after? Did it hurt? Were you scared? Was it like you were asleep afterwards, or were you still aware of your surroundings?”

”It was…. Like everything you were was amplified, like you realized how wonderful all the little things were, even the pain for it was a sign of life. When I died, I never felt more alive. Then it was like stepping through a door, and everything changed. I can’t place it into words, I don’t think they have words to describe it.”

“But I will protect you. Miriam will have to answer to me personally if anything happened to you. I will protect you.”

”Why are you making promises that you can’t keep?”

“There’s . . . something else I want to ask you. I was hoping you could do something for me. When this is all over, Miriam was going to give you another chance at life. I want you to take that chance, and use it. No matter what happens, I want you to promise me that you will go out and live. You suffered for so many years, but you never stopped fighting. When the fighting’s finally over, I want you to go live in peace. Forget all that’s happened, and go find a way to be happy again. And maybe I’m pushing it, but if you can . . . will you forgive Mother too? For all the evil that she’s done, and for her part in all this? That’s all I want anymore.”

Silence. Watching a snowflake falling to the ground Incom tries to think of what he would do if everything was set RIGHT. A normal life, a simple life, what he always wanted, would he be able to accept it. Would he be able to live it once again?

Looking down at Sara Incom wished that he could smile, show some kind of emotion. Feeling like he was wearing a mask of Iron burned into his flesh Incom holds a hand over the campfire, taking in some of the heat before resting it briefly on Sara’s shoulder.

”I forgive your Mother. What she is, is not what I remember when I think of my wife. I will live, as best as I can once all of this is over, as long as you are there as well.”

Looking up at the sky Incom sees darkening clouds on the horizon. The wind starts to pick up, blowing the snow around. He starts a practiced routine of warming up the blankets to insulate Sara from his cold iron form for the flight.

”The storm is almost upon us, we need to fly.”

[Lonna]

Pyrene

Whether from pride or fear even she was not certian, but Pyrene refused Duke Volesin's assistance following the magical exchange, hugging her arms tightly to herself to keep her shaking under control. Every sudden noise or movement (of which there were many) sent another jolt of adrenaline rushing through her system, making it more and more difficult to focus on following the nobles ahead of her. The glimpse of Cheran in the midst of battle, even a battle he was losing, made her flinch so violently that she stumbled and nearly fell, though she still refused to accept her companions' assistance. The sudden attack on the guards, however, was too much for even Pyrene's iron self-control. She fell back and slid down the wall, her body cowering as her mind frantically tried to beat down the rising panic, to breath slowly and deeply so that she would not pass out. It was a difficult task, especially when Wulfric and his companions sent the bleeding Duke into the wall inches away from her. Yet through the overpowering physical fear response wormed a thread of something quite different: gladness.

Wulfric had come for her.

He had come for her and she was undeniably glad to see him. Despite his violence, despite the nearly overwhelming panic she had absorbed from Rose, something in her warmed slightly simply because he was here. Pyrene latched onto that feeling, using it as a life-line to bring herself back under a modicium of control. She still trembled uncontrollably and her breathing was still rapid and shallow, but she could think again, albiet with difficulty. When Wulfric grabbed her wrist she flinched, but allowed him to pull her up from the floor and down the hallway with a minimum of resistance. A little voice in the back of her head screamed that she couldn't leave Volesin like this, but it was competing with another voice that demanded she finish off her mother's murderer.

Pyrene ignored them both. Wulfric was leading her, and for now she would follow.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

No, it would be too risky to infect a spellcaster. We can find another way to dispose of him later, he mentally responded to Omega. Letting Arlan get infected was really, truly tempting. But in his rush to develop the plague, Sohssal never tested it on spellcasters. He could not say with full confidence whether someone retained use of their magical ability...and how they would use it if they did.

”The vaccine is a complex spell, but the protection should be long-term in a healthy subject,” Sohssal announced. Having decided cooperation was best for now, he cast the vaccine spell on Shanks, Arlan and his associates. Given that Omega was already part demon, she shouldn't need the vaccine, but he would cast it on her if she wanted it.

”Now, remember that the infected will aggressively try to spread the disease after transformation. They are likely to try to leave this area after testing. The disease has an incubation time, so I would have time to set up wards to keep the infected here, should I be allowed to do so. Setting up a patrol would also be prudent. Either way, I am ready to deploy the plague,” he explained.

[The_Snark]

Marisiel

It was really no choice at all. She knew what she would answer before she said it; still, she hesitated. She felt a flicker of fury that Istomilo would demand this of her, that he would ask it as part of a deal—as though she could be bought if he only found the right price! Except, of course, that she could, and he'd found her price: the lives of innocents. It stung because it was true.

Her anger faded a little when she realized that. It was true and there was no shame in accepting it. She'd come here prepared to lay down her life if need be, and she would gladly sacrifice a piece of her dignity if it meant that even one person could escape the city alive. But to consign oneself to the Hells: that was not a thing done lightly. She stood on the top of the tower while the sky blazed and looked at him for a few moments, silent.

"Do you know, you never asked that of me before?" she said at last. It was perhaps the cruelest thing she had ever said. "Not once." Then she leaned forward and kissed him, not chastely. Marisiel had never kissed a man before, but she'd been among humans long enough to see how it was done.

It was surprisingly easy, kissing Istomilo. Part of it was because she wanted to hurt him, to give him a taste of what he could never have and torment him with the longing he'd so obviously tried to forget. But the greater part of her simply wasn't thinking about the tattered hell-spawned body before her, or the burning ruins around them. She'd spent such a long time thinking of Istomilo as a good man, someone who'd done the right thing regardless of what it cost him; she could only hope to acquit herself so well as he had in Phaedra. She would not forgive what he'd done today, but it would take more than a few minutes of shock and anger to undo years of looking up to him. In the absence of a real person to remind her that he had faults and flaws, she'd constructed an ideal one out of memories, and that was the person Marisiel kissed now.

After a little while she released him and drew back. She shook her head, wiped her eyes with one hand. Then she looked up to meet Istomilo's gaze, and let go of that perfect picture of him she'd carried around. It was hard. "All right." she told him, her voice steady. "Your price is paid."

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent

"Sorry to bother you, sir." Isera said to Cerise's father when he entered. It had been too long since she had come to visit here.
When Cerise's father left her alone, Isera concentrated on the spell she had worn. It was subtle and hard to grab clearly, but she said the word to release the symbol, and then there was the feeling of nausea she had, though it felt a lot worse this time. She had certainly used the spell for too long.

She felt herself grown and shift, until she was back to her normal self. Isera rubbed her head to deal with the headache, before resuming waiting for Cerise. When her friend arrived, she immediately noticed how bad she looked, and moved over to hug her and help her down.

"It's been a dark affair. Carlain is alright, don't worry. Just...injured his hands. Not like my hand, he'll heal well. There were some dangerous situations...imps, demons...a close encounter with a cult..." She did not mention how that had happened. Cerise had enough worries and pains right now.
"But he managed it well. Probably due to your teaching." She took Cerise's hand and gave her a small comforting look.
"I'm back here for business concerning the cult, but I'm here for you too."

Isera knew she would have to tell Cerise about the cult and the traitor search, and everything else. She would learn from her father at least soon. But for now, she wanted to help her friend.

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Archpaladin Zousha

At your acceptance of his offer, the assassin nods and silently rises to his feet. He slides past you and walks out into the night, no doubt expecting you to follow. Outside, he gestures to the edge of the camp, and then slinks off into the shadows. No doubt he had no wish to be seen by the guards still patrolling at this late hour, even with your unquestionable status. It was better if he was not seen at all, something you were sure he was capable of, given the lack of alarm at his entrance. On your way out of the camp, the patrolling guards give you a wide berth, nodding as they pass but otherwise not questioning you. The guards at the perimeter are somewhat more curious about your presence, and a few even offer to accompany you, but you eventually manage to convince them to let you wander off into the night alone. After all, you were the Lord General now, and your word was to be obeyed even if no one understood your reasons.

Once out of the camp, a dark shadow appears beside you and leads you onward. Eventually you come to a small hill, crowned by an outcropping of rocks. At first they appear solid, but then Zariel manipulates a hidden switch and the largest of the rocks splits open, revealing a narrow stairway leading down into darkness. He makes a few complex, arcane gestures and then reaches out to touch your forehead. Immediately at his touch you find yourself able to see in the dark perfectly, the former inky blackness of the stairwell now bright as day. Zariel descends the stairwell and you follow, Zariel closing the passage behind you by flipping another concealed switch at the bottom of the stairs.

Beyond the stairway is a long narrow tunnel that seems to go on forever until at last you come to an intersection – you are once again in the claustrophobic maze of tunnels beneath Cathedral City. Zariel leads you through the maze without pause, taking turns seemingly at random but no doubt moving directly towards his destination. You do your best to memorize them all, a difficult task given the number of sudden turns, but one you have no choice but to succeed at – failure could lead to an eternity of being trapped down here, lost and wandering in circles. Finally Zariel stops at a ladder and points up.

Beyond this ladder you shall find yourself in the basement of a tenement on the east side of the city. The gatehouse itself is only three blocks away. I trust you will be able to find your own way back.

Zariel gives you a wide smile, revealing his teeth . . . strange. For a vampire, he does not seem to have the enlarged, fang-like canines so common amongst his kind . . . or any canine teeth at all, for that matter.

Should the Fates will it, we shall see each other again, one last time before I depart from this place. I hope that Miriam and Athelion smile upon you during your struggle in the oncoming day. Farewell.

And with that, the strange assassin was gone, leaving you alone. Thankfully, Zariel’s magic did not depart with him, and being able to see was not one difficulty you had to contend with. Reversing the directions you had seared into your mind was difficult, but you had to admit also a good way to check that they were correct. You could only hope Zariel was somewhere nearby to correct you if you were wrong, otherwise no one may ever see you again. You have more than one pang of doubt on your way back that perhaps that was the very idea, a plot by Morganna to trap you down here. But eventually, after some false starts and nervously-made choices, you find yourself back in the singular tunnel leading out of the city. You emerge back out into the fresh air to discover that it is dawn already. So much for being able to get some sleep before the battle – but then, you doubted you would have been able to sleep anyway.

You arrive back into the camp to find the paladins are already assembling, hurriedly cooking breakfast over the restocked fires before readying their armor and weapons for the day’s battle. The Grandmasters had already assembled in the command tent and were waiting for you – along with, thankfully, a plate of food.

“Sleep well?” Belroar said with a knowing chuckle.

“Do did ye spend the whole night staring up at the stars and waiting to watch the sun rise?”

Belroar’s mood abruptly turned less jovial.

“That was what Ander used to do. Said it helped him focus. Of course, down in the Hells there wasn’t much of a sunrise or sunset . . . might be why he did it whenever he was back home, then.”

“The men should all be battle-ready within the hour, sir.”

Jamkas spoke up. He gave a quick look around at the assembled Grandmasters and frowned.

“Although I cannot speak for Rickster’s men, as he has not shown himself yet. Quite possibly due to having his wound checked out by one of the nurses.”

“That what they call it these days?” Belroar quipped, and Jamkas’s scowl deepened.

“Apparently. Disgraceful.” He muttered.

“In any event, unless you have come up with any modifications to the plans, we’ll begin setting up the trebuchets.”

It occurs to you that with Zariel’s revealed secret entrance, your plans have entirely changed. It was going to be a risky effort, however – you could not make it seem like your forces were expecting the gates to open. But everyone had to be ready to rush in whenever you did manage to take the gatehouse, otherwise the defenders would descend on you to retake it before any reinforcements could arrive. And even though breaching the walls in this way meant avoiding months of hammering the city with siege engines, blood would still be spilled in the messy street fighting to follow.

You also needed to decide who you were bringing with you into the gatehouse. Katashiko seemed a natural choice, although from what little you’d seen in camp, the foot soldier paladins didn’t trust her. They certainly wouldn’t follow her orders, nor would she probably have the tactical sense to command them properly. Which meant in addition to the handful of paladins you would bring along with you, you’d need to take a commander. Most of the Grandmasters would be best served by leading their individual orders into battle, but any of them would be someone you could trust to rally the troops as needed. Which actually raised another question – should you go along with the secret squad? You were the only one who knew the way, of course, but with a little effort you might be able to give suitable directions to someone else. If you were not seen on the field of battle, would the city’s defenders get suspicious? But of course, there is always the old adage – “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”

(Just need to figure out if you will be going on the secret gate capturing squad or not, and who will be going along. For the sake of speeding things along, I’ll likely narrate most of the battle in the next DM. Hondshioh has a date in the capital to get to. )

Stonefall

The_Snark



As you broke off the kiss and dried your eyes, Istomilo looked away, no longer able to meet your eyes.

“Marisiel, I –“

Whatever Istomilo was going to say next is cut off in a groan that turns into a scream as another wave of power washes out of him. Pushing himself back up to his feet, Istomilo hardens his face back into a mask.

“We need to hurry. I cannot hold out much longer.”

Walking over to a fallen sword, Istomilo picks the blade up and mutters an enchantment over it, causing it to glow darkly.

“Extend your arms. Now, this is going to hurt . . . but what follows is going to be infinitely worse.”

With no choice but to obey, you extend your arms and prepare yourself for the pain to follow. And it does hurt as Istomilo carves channels down your arms, the wounds not resealing but continuing to bleed abnormally slowly. The true pain, however, begins as Istomilo begins rapidly carving runes into your flesh – on your shoulders, your abdomen, your face. All of them continue to slowly bleed, open wounds that should have been sealed easily by your regeneration. And as Istomilo completes the last, they all begin to burn with a searing intensity. You were connected to the ritual now, and immediately you can begin to feel your strength leaving you, your very life force slowly ebbing away. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.

You are unsure if Istomilo had simply grown numb to the pain, or if your divine nature caused the foul magic to have an increased effect, but you quickly find yourself wondering how the man had been able to withstand it. True, it comes in waves, the ritual always rising and falling in slow steady pulses, but even at its lowest you find it had to concentrate on anything but just how much this hurts. Occasionally, the ritual’s energies would spike, tearing at the very core of your being and ripping pieces of you away, and your vision goes white, you only dimly aware of the sound of your own uncontrollable screams.

Things get still worse when you come out of one such episode to see a cadre of demons swooping down on the tower. They had been too afraid of you to approach before, but now you seem injured their eagerness for the kill has outweighed their concern.

“Excellent work human! Didn’t think you’d bag an archangel in the bargain! Our master will be most pleased!”

They screech, descending to land on the tower and advance menacingly toward you. Weakly, you raise your sword, painfully aware how sluggish the movement is already. How would you defend yourself after an hour of this? Two hours? And what would happen if you were caught by one of the power spikes in the middle of a fight?

“She’s not for you! Back off!”

Istomilo snarled, moving to stand in front of you, even though he could barely stand himself. The demons paused a moment, and then snarled in unison.

“Treacherous mortal! You don’t get to decide such things! Our deal is off!”

Istomilo pulls back his lips in a death grimace’s smile.

“In that case . . .”

With a gesture, Istomilo conjures an array of icy spears. With a second gesture, he sends them rocketing towards the demons, the lances tearing through them in a geyser of ash. The mage begins to sink to his knees from the exertion, but pushes himself back up as a cacophony of angry screams echoes through the city – the demons somehow all knew of Istomilo’s betrayal now.

“****, they’ll all be coming now.” Istomilo groaned, looking around.

“Can’t fight them all . . . gah, I’ll have to erect the runic shield again. Protect me!”

And then Istomilo sinks to his knees and begins hurriedly sketching a series of runes around himself. Meanwhile, the fiends previously capering about the city converging on the tower, descending with cries of outrage. You slay any who come close to Istomilo, although your fighting is clumsy, a far cry from the efficient series of death-dealing movements you had used since the day of your creation. More than one fiend’s weapon finds your flesh, hastening your demise but failing to prevent theirs in turn.

Suddenly a strand of force grabs you by the wings, yanking you backward. The sudden force of it snaps one of your wings, and you grimace in pain as you are dragged across the ground, the wounded wing bent further underneath you. At first you can only assume it is some sort of attack, but the source is revealed to be Istomilo as you land beside him. He lunges forward, scooping you up in his arms and then rocks back onto his heels, shouting an arcane word as he does so. A moment later, and a shimmering bubble of force snaps up around you and Istomilo, the impermeable wall painfully pushing against your injured wing. Indeed, the space within the bubble is cramped, and you and Istomilo are forced to sit entwined, clinging to each other as the ritual continues to tear at both of you.

“We’re safe now.” Istomilo manages to grate out, shivering in your arms.

“I apologize for the wing and the cramped accommodations, but haste was more important than comfort. I was not trying to take further advantage.”

Istomilo says, not entirely sincerely. Outside, the demons and devils rage impotently, smashing their own bodies against the shimmering wall in mad fury. No weapon, magic, or attempt made by them is able to pierce the wall, something that causes Istomilo to grin triumphantly.

“They’ll never be able to break it – I made the spell expecting you, actually. Of course, none of that will matter in a few hours.”

Istomilo explains, his mood souring as he remembers that you’d both be dead soon enough. Suddenly, he cackles madly.

“You know, when I used to fantasize about being together with you, I never thought that would mean we’d end up sharing a cell in the Hells! I suppose the old adage of being careful for what one wishes for is only too true.”

Then Istomilo lapses into silence, and the two of you focus on enduring your suffering. You aren’t sure how much time has passed – maybe an hour, maybe only a few minutes – when Istomilo suddenly speaks up, his voice much quieter and unmistakably weaker.

“You know, it never was love at first sight. Hah, oh no, I fell in love with you just after *hearing* about you! You probably don’t even realize it, Marisiel, but you’re special. All of the angels who came to help build Phaedra were cold and aloof. None of them seemed to want to be there, and it felt like their aid was given only begrudgingly. Even Ysora had an inapproachable air about her, as if she wanted to be friendly but wasn’t sure if that was appropriate. But not you. You wanted to be there, and no one doubted you held humanity’s best interests at heart. When I heard you were going to be at the coronation ceremony, I knew I had to seek you out and see if what I had heard was true.”

Istomilo sighs, and shifts in the cramped room provided by the bubble.

“For what it’s worth Marisiel, I know I’m not a good person. I never was . . . but for a time, when I wanted to please you . . . you made me better.”

Again, Istomilo lapses into silence, and you both continue to die a torturous death. Finally, the end seems to be close indeed – your vision is beginning to grow dark, and you have never felt so weak. It was an experience you were going to have to get used to, as down in the Hells you would be powerless – the mighty Marisiel just another victim for the fiends to abuse for all eternity.

“It . . . seems . . . the end . . . has come.” Istomilo rasps beside you, audibly struggling to draw in each shuddering breath.

“Ready . . . to die?”

After a moment, a look of fury blazes itself onto Istomilo’s face, and he seems to rally what was left of his strength.

“No! No . . . I will . . . not . . . allow this! Hold on . . . tight!”

He gasps, and then breathes a final incantation. Suddenly, you are no longer standing atop the tower, but are in the sky. Miles below you, the city of Vallon continues to burn. Too weak and with a broken wing, you are unable to keep yourself or Istomilo aloft, and so begin to plummet back down to earth. But Istomilo isn’t done, as he hefts the sword he was still holding.

“At least . . . this way . . . only . . . one . . . of us . . . goes. Goodbye . . . Marisiel.”

And then Istomilo with the last of his strength brings his sword around and plunges it into his neck. Instantly his body melts away into ash, leaving behind only the sword and the crystal containing his soul to fall alongside you. There is a final flash of pain, and then you find your strength slowly beginning to return, in reverse to the agonizing drain you had so recently felt. Below you, a massive fireball engulfs Phaedra, a final loud chorus of screams from the damned and the soon-to-be damned echoing up. And then, the city is gone. Or rather, most of it – some sections of the city remains intact, but hopelessly smashed and ruined. In many other places, the city simply doesn’t exist anymore beyond bare, scorched ground. But beyond the city, out in the waters, you see boats, and swarms of people desperately swimming for shore. Some people had survived this disaster, spared from damnation by your sacrifice. And Istomilo’s.

You aren’t entirely sure why you do it, but as you plummet down towards the ruined city you reach out your hand, and firmly close it around the blood red crystal. Instead of grinding it to powder between your fingers, this time you merely clasp it protectively to your chest. And then the ground rushes up suddenly to reclaim you, and all you know is darkness.



You awake to cries of alarm – Caroline’s cries. You just barely have time to process the words before the little girl is on you, practically jumping up and down on your chest.

“They’re gone they’re gone they’re gone! Incom and Sara are gone!!!”

(If you have any additions – or perhaps corrections ( ) to make to the ending to the dream sequence, you are welcome to make them in addition to having Mar start her new day. As evidenced by Caroline, Incom and Sara are gone, and presumably everyone else is already up or will be momentarily thanks to Caroline’s screaming. )

Pwenet

At your promise to forgive your former wife, Sara manages a weak smile.

“Thank you.” Is all she says, and then she simply stares into the fire as you make ready to depart. The sun is just beginning to peak over the mountains as you finish your preparations, and Sara pulls her blankets tight around her as she climbs into your arms. And then you are off again, flying into the morning light towards a place that will hopefully put an end to the Baron of Gast.

You have been flying for several hours and are just thinking of making a stop to allow Sara to warm up when she points down at a narrow valley below you.

“There!” She cries, and although you cannot see anything special about the spot, you trust her divinely-given insight. As soon as you have touched down Sara hops out of your arms, scanning the area intently. After a moment she again points to what appears to be merely a snow-covered hill.

“That’s where we need to go!”

Sara shouts, and then takes off at a run, the thin layer of snow remaining crunching beneath her every footstep. As she nears the top of the hill, she stops and drops to her knees, beginning to hurriedly brush the snow away with her bare hands. By the time you get over to her, she has already cleared out a circle roughly a foot across. Satisfied with the width, Sara begins to work her fingers down into the frozen ground, tearing up only small clods of dirt. When she pauses to suck on her frozen and abused fingers in an attempt to warm them, you help out by driving your fist into the earth and ripping out a huge chunk.

For a hill, the dirt is surprisingly thin here, only a few inches deep before you strike rock. After helping Sara widen the hole a bit, you realize in turn that it’s not just solid rock, but rather a densely packed series of smaller rocks that is covered by the thin layers of dirt and snow. Only then do you realize that this was not a hill at all, but rather a grave.

“We need to get down inside. But be careful!” Sara explains, working her fingers in between two stones to tug the smaller one free. As you work to clear the stones, Sara slips into a trance, her voice taking on almost a monotone as she drones on.

“Miriam’s greatest servants are the three archangels – Hephestia the Judicator, Ysora the Teacher, and Marisiel the Protector. But once, long ago, there was a fourth archangel – Genevieve the Champion. Genevieve was the greatest of them, and Miriam’s closest friend. She loved humanity, and always advocated on their behalf. When Azguloth created His avatar, Genevieve volunteered to serve as the birth mother for the Divine Couple’s own avatars. She traveled the world, and fell in love with a mortal man, one of the first paladins.”

Here Sara’s voice drops to a low, mournful whisper, her hands continuing to pry at the stones.

“The pregnancy was difficult, but Genevieve gave birth to two healthy children – Elandra and Dacian. As she was recovering from the ordeal in the human camp, Azguloth’s forces attacked. A spy within the human ranks had informed Him of the twins’ birth, and he sought to destroy the threat immediately. Genevieve flew out to fight them alone, demanding that the humans take her children to safety. Despite her exhaustion she held them off long enough for the humans to get away. But the Herald struck her down, and then he consumed her soul! When the humans returned in force later, there was nothing left, not even her body . . . all there was where she had fought was her sword, planted in the ground.”

Moving aside yet another stone, you suddenly catch the glint of metal. Pushing aside another stone reveals a sword, dirty from its burial but still whole, its elegant design unmarred by so many long years in the earth.

“The humans took the sword with them, and although years later Elandra would wield the Dawnblade in battle, she always kept Genevieve’s blade with her. After Azguloth was defeated, Miriam imprisoned Him near where Genevieve died, and buried her sword in the valley where she met her end – this valley. It was meant to honor her sacrifice, but Genevieve was never one for ostentatious gestures. A simple unmarked grave was a fitting resting place for her sword.”

Reaching down into the hole, Sara closed her shivering fingers around the blade, and twisted it free of the remaining rubble. Holding the sword up before her face, Sara’s shivering slows as her eyes focus on the blade.

“And now there is a use for this blade once again. Although long dead, there is still the merest spark of Genevieve’s essence within her sword. I have already met Ysora, Hephestia . . . and even Marisiel. From each of them I have taken a spark of their divine essence, and together again, Miriam’s four archangels will guide the way for Her return!”

Shaking her head slightly, Sara’s eyes lose their intense focus for a moment. She shoots you a glance and a reassuring smile, seemingly herself again.

“That’s the plan, anyway. If it works, we should know pretty much immediately. If not, well . . . I guess you’re going to have to stop the Baron yourself. Whatever happens . . . remember what you promised me.”

And then Sara’s expression turns serious again, and she closes her eyes. Softly, just above the level where you would no longer be able to detect it, she breathes a prayer.

“Miriam the Valkyrie, Lady of Light, hear my desperate plea. To you a cry out – ‘Save us!’. Hear me in our hour of need. Give me the wisdom to know how to save this world. Give me the strength to do what needs to be done. Give me the serenity to accept the price I must pay. Light my path through this darkened world. Come forth, Valkyrie. Come forth in me, and use me to fulfill Your will!”

Suddenly, the valley is bathed in brilliant light. In the sky above, the clouds part, not flying apart naturally but burned away as a blinding column of light shoots down from the Heavens. This column crashes into being around Sara, separating you from her and obscuring her from even your augmented sight. For a brief moment, you can hear Sara give a loud scream, which quickly turns into a loud gasp. This is followed by an equally loud intake of air, and the column of light begins to dim. No, not dim – absorbed, breathed in by Sara as she continues to inhale. Within seconds, the column of light is completely gone, and then Sara’s eyes roll back up into her head and she collapses.

Scarcely have you had time to move, however, before she is suddenly carried aloft into the air. Sara opens her eyes again, to reveal that her pupils are now a shining yellow, the color of burnished gold. Wings of radiant light begin to emerge from her back, and from the ether a suit of ornate armor blinks into being and begins to form itself around her.

“It is time for this corrupt world to face the wrath of the Valkyrie!”

Sara announces as she floats back down, now fully armored and looked far more like a goddess than a teenaged girl. Her golden eyes flit over to you, and Sara favors you with a slight smile, although it is all wrong, including her voice. This is no longer the shy but determined girl you once knew – this was someone else in her body. This was Miriam.

“Thank you for your assistance, Incom. Now that I have returned to the mortal world with the aid of this brave young girl, there is nothing left to fear. Together we shall return, and put an end to the Baron’s evil!”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

Very well. For prudence’s sake, I think you should protect me with the vaccine as well. There is enough of me that is still human that any potential infection could prove . . . dangerous.

Although the vaccine spell was complex, you had practiced it enough that it took very little time to render Arlan, his two assistants, Shanks, and Omega immune to your plague. Being already an incorporeal demon mage, you had no need for such protection. Once that was finished, you expressed your thoughts on how to control the experiment, at which Arlan nods.

“Yes, all of that does seem wise.”

Arlan shoots a look at his two assistants, and then at your own associates.

“I don’t think we have enough people to regularly patrol the area to ensure nobody wanders in or out, but wards could work. Once transformed by the disease, are the infected individuals vulnerable to conventional binding circles? We could just put one big one around the village if that was the case. Of course, if some animal happens to start digging for tubers in the wrong spot, well . . .”

Arlan grimaces at the imagined consequences, and his expression remains grim as he clears his throat.

“Um, Sohssal . . . the Baron had an additional test he wanted to conduct. You told him that the contagion was waterborne. He wants to know if that means the plague can only be spread by the fluids from infected individuals, or if seeding a rainfall with the plague would also be effective. My associates and I can supply the rainclouds necessary for the test if you can seed the contagion into them, but . . .”

Arlan licks his lips and fidgets, clearly uncomfortable with conducting this particular test.

“We haven’t figured out a way to ensure that the rainfall doesn’t contaminate the groundwater, however. Nor how to prevent the tainted cloud from going elsewhere after the test. Any ideas? The . . . the ah, Baron wants this test conducted regardless of any other considerations.”

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

At your reassurances, Cherise slumps back into her chair with a relieved sigh.

“Oh, thank the gods he’s alright. But imps, demons, and cults . . . oh my! It sounds like you’ve had quite an unpleasant time of it then! I’m glad to hear Carlain was of help to you though. I can’t take full credit for his training though – Uncle Duncan has been stopping in from time to time to teach him a few things too. Unfortunately his position has kept him busy so he’s only been able to stop by now and then. Always more work to do in the service to the Canticles!”

Cherise gives you a tired smile.

“So . . . you said you were back here as part of your investigation? Anything I could help you with? I don’t know if I can leave the house – certainly not looking like this! – but maybe I could give you some advice? I was really sad we didn’t get more of a chance to work together . . . even though taking care of the Perists let me come back here.”

Cherise was a true friend – even with her own troubles she was desperately wanting to help you. Seeing her on the verge of having to deal with the same sort of tragedy that defined your childhood was almost enough to break your heart.

“Hrm. Duncan was supposed to stop by later today with some supplies. We’ve been trying to keep Mother comfortable, at least. He did say something about going out to meet with you though. I assume Carlain is with him, then? Mother’s been asking about him. We were worried he wouldn’t be back before . . .”

Here Cherise cannot finish, and she dabs at her suddenly watery eyes, her voice cracking with half-voiced sobs.

“I’m sorry Is. You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

You couldn’t lay the stress of knowing that members of the Canticles had betrayed everything they believed in, and that there might still be other warlocks lurking behind friendly faces. Most certainly, you couldn’t tell Cherise about her brother’s involvement. But she clearly wanted to know where he was and how he was doing, and you didn’t want to have to lie through your teeth to her either.

Fishtown, The Fishiest Place on Earth that Never Fished

Gorgondantess

At your offer, Augustus politely inclines his head and crosses his arms in front of him.

“Very well. After our survey is completed, I would like to speak with you again. Alone, if possible.”

“Sir, I . . . I don’t think that is a good idea.”

The underling seemingly in direct commands of the other Dusk Wardens – you believe Augustus called him Nu - says suddenly. It is blatantly obvious that he is concerned by Augustus’s offer and is struggling to keep the disapproval from his voice.

“Patience, Nu. All things in good time. While I came expecting a fight as much as anyone, it is a pleasant surprise to discover a non-hostile Archdemon. The records are very clear that such a thing has not existed before – and should this one prove to not be malevolent, perhaps an exception to our duties is in order.”

“If . . . if you think that best . . . sir.”

Forcing a smile back on to his face, Augustus favors you with a nod as he turns back to you.

“I hope we can meet again shortly, Archdemon. Until then.”

This initial meeting with the Dusk Wardens over, you depart back to your stronghold within the town with Maurice and Omnicron while the Dusk Wardens cautiously begin to spread out and set up camp. Maurice has a slightly confused expression on her face and is lost in thought while Omnicron seems to be approaching what you would call “giddy”.

“He actually agreed to the possibility of not killing you . . . I don’t believe it!” Omnicron gushes as soon as you are in private.

“This is . . . this is unexpected, but very very good! The support of the High Warden is going to make your safety virtually certain, beyond some sort of rogue splinter group. Not everyone is going to like the idea, of course, but . . . without official support I can’t imagine anyone posing a serious threat. Augustus is fairly young for a High Warden, so maybe that explains his willingness to explore alternatives but still . . . I never would have dreamed he would do anything but support the traditional policy! Haha, fantastic!”

Finally, Maurice clears her throat and speaks up.

“I am uncertain we should be so enthusiastic to embrace him as a friend. While I got the sense that he was sincere about trying co-existence, it also felt like he had an ulterior motive for doing so. His followers were also shocked and angry – undoubtedly more than one of them will come to feel betrayed by this decision.”

Maurice frowns and pauses, seeming to struggle with the words.

“As for Augustus himself, well . . . his aura was . . . strange. Like yours, almost. He is very clearly human, but . . . more, somehow. It’s hard to describe. He has done some harsh things even in his short life, but nothing I could entirely fault him for in this world. Much as I dislike such things, I have found that sometimes human have to do “wrong” things to survive.”

Omnicron blinks and stares at Maurice.

“Wait, what? Are you . . . are you saying the High Warden isn’t human!?”

“No! No . . . not exactly. His aura was just . . . different. The only time I have seen anything similar was the first time we met.”

Maurice explains, nodding at you. Very interesting, if not particularly informative. Maurice did not seem to pick up on the overwhelming hunger and malice you got when you touched Augustus. From the sound of it, she thought of him as an ordinary human, flawed but not “Evil”. She did say that he felt like you though . . . which would match up with your sense that he has consumed “Archdemons” before you. And yet Omnicron seems surprised by the insinuation that he is not fully human. Curioser and Curioser, as the human saying goes.

[Inspectre]

The Capital

The Wedding of Amelia Ashargrin and Cheran Gast

Lonna

With Argan and Rose leading the way and the stranger bringing up the rear, Wulfric is able to devote his full attention to you. Which doesn’t do much for your flight response, as despite the comfort of his presence the words he growls out are largely reproachful.

“I don’t know what the Hells you were thinking, running off again like that! No, of course you don’t think when your sister is involved. Did you at least get proof of her existence this time? Do you even know who that old geezer is!? That was Duke Volesin – father of the men you killed in your Escape from Ironheart – and a downright shifty bastard if the rumors I heard about him as a boy are true! What’s an old geezer like him doing with you dressed up like this!? Gods!”

Wulfric huffed, his words comes out in a rush that nearly blended them all together into one long, drawn out growl. He thumbs his cloak open, a short-length piece of bright yellow silk with a purple underside, and pauses a moment to carefully drape it over your shoulders. It still doesn’t help cover much. It also draws Wulfric’s attention to your neck.

“What the hells happened to your neck!?” He growls a moment later, gently prodding the makeshift bandage still wrapped around your throat and helping keep your dress intact.

“Honestly Jacqueline, I have no idea how the Hells you manage to get yourself into these situations. Or how you manage to survive them, for that matter. You aren’t going to keep getting lucky, and I’m getting a little tired of having to play the white knight only for you to throw yourself head-long into danger again.”

If Wulfric was going to continue his lecture, he is unable to do so as more guards spill forth from side hallways ahead. They halt as Argan presses the edge of his blade threateningly into Rose’s soft skin, but make no move to step aside. Surprisingly enough, it is Rose herself who breaks the stalemate, smoothly bringing her elbow up and back into the armpit of the hand Argan was using to hold his knife. Proving his desire not to deal harm to someone he considers an innocent, Argan drops the knife rather than risk the blade slipping into a fatal slice from the impact. This leaves Rose free to spin away, throwing her other arm up and around to twist it out of Argan’s grasp on her wrist. Then she is running away, towards and then past the guards who eagerly rush forward with a battlecry.

“Well, it was a nice plan while it lasted!” The stranger yelled out from the back, as Argan smoothly pulled another blade out from beneath his cloak.

“Pyrene, stay down!” Wulfric says, herding you off to one side of the hallway before abandoning you to join the fight. What followed was a furious and desperate fight as Wulfric and Argan met the guards head-on, while the last man stayed in the back and tried not to be noticed . . . much like you, really. This proved to be his undoing as you heard the muffled sounds of a struggle behind you.

Turning, you find Volesin standing there, pressing a cloth into the man’s face! After another moment of struggle, the man’s eyes roll back up into his head and he collapses into Volesin’s arms, leaving the duke to drop him unceremoniously to the floor. Although his clothes are still bloodstained in addition to being torn and ruined, his wound seems to have sealed – probably the work of yet another healing potion. The duke tucks the knockout cloth back into his sleeve and then glares at you, his face a mask of barely controlled fury.

“I am quickly running out of patience. Come with me right now, or your little sister is dead. First thing when I get home!”

“Jacqueline!” Wulfric shouts, having glanced back to note the return of the duke. Leaving Argan to deal with the dwindling guards, Wulfric charges to your aid. The duke scowls and extends his other hand, throwing out a rapidly expanding cloud of powder that Wulfric charges right into. Immediately the proud warrior doubles over, gasping and clutching wildly at his face.

“Bastard!” He grates out, blindly taking a swing that Volesin is easily able to sidestep. The duke retaliates with a right cross into Wulfric’s jaw, and then uses his shoulder to shove him into the wall. As Wulfric rebounds Volesin brings his foot up into a kick to Wulfric’s midsection, doubling him over again. Mercilessly, Volesin continues the assault, driving his elbows down into Wulfric’s back and sending him crashing to the floor. Volesin delivers several more savage kicks to Wulfric’s side, who is only able to wheeze and curl up to try and protect himself as best he can. Volesin then turns away from him with a sneer of disgust.

“Now! Come!”

“Jacqueline . . .” Wulfric croaks, weakly reaching out to snag Volesin by the pant leg. Volesin shakes free of Wulfric’s grip easily, and then stomps down on Wulfric’s extended arm. This does not seem to satisfy him, and so he delivers several more brutal kicks to Wulfric’s side. In fact, the duke, caught in the throes of rage, seems intent on not stopping until Wulfric was dead or near enough. Only Argan stops him.

“Volesin.” The assassin intones, managing to pull the duke’s attention away from his victim. For a moment the two have a stare down, Argan as calm and collected as ever despite having just killed several men, Volesin wild-eyed and struggling to compose himself.

“I have no quarrel with you now that my daughter is away! All I want is the girl – she means nothing to you!”

Volesin rasps, and a moment later, Argan bobs his head.

“Then take her and begone. Pray we never have to meet again.”

Not pushing his luck, Volesin grimly nods and then reaches down to take you by the hand. He jerks you up to your feet and drags you along behind him, leaving Wulfric for dead in a sudden reversal of the situation moments before.

(This will be the last post of Pyrene suffering from traumatic panic. The spell will be wearing off, so to speak, after the next DM, and Pyrene can return to her new semi-emotionless self. Whether that bodes well for Volesin is hard to say, although I imagine the wedding is not going to last much longer. The fallout from it, however, might be considerably more lingering.)

WhiteKnight777

Not particularly interested in the dispatching of the Baron’s freakish son beyond the implications his existence might hold for your own progeny, you turn your attention back to Fianna. You are unsure whether this return of emotions would eventually stabilize or fade away, but for now it was simply good to have her by your side again. Not the hollow shell that she had been, but the vibrant passionate woman you had chosen as your life-mate. She responds to your whispered declarations of love with those of her own, as well as a few suggestions for when you finally did manage to get your alone time. Meanwhile, the Countess celebrated her union by hysterically and brutally killing her own husband.

Once she was finally done, a process that took entirely too long by your estimation – although to be fair to her, the Countess recovered remarkably quickly compared to most wives who madly kill their husbands – it was time to turn your attention back to escaping. Or not quite, as the Countess revealed yet another impediment to a quick getaway – namely the shackles locked around her ankles. This was one of the reasons why carrying her off seemed like a good idea to you, but oh no, everyone had to waste time trying to remove them instead!

After nearly yet another minute, Fianna finally steps in, magically unlocking the shackles with a swift incantation. A little disappointing, that, although you suppose the Baron could not magically ward everything, particularly when not expecting your interference. As Korram’s daughter got back up to her feet, she growled at Fianna.

“Showoff. You couldn’t have done that before?”

“I could have.”

Fianna replied, shooting a sideways glance and a smirk at you.

“But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you down on your knees.”

Katrina simply stared at Fianna, her mouth dropping open for a moment before she managed to recover with a shake of her head.

“Ugh, okay then . . . let’s just . . . let’s move along now to getting out of here finally.”

Katrina swiftly steps past you, moving down the hallway. Fianna stares at her back in curiosity for a moment, and then giggles, leaning up against you.

“Oh that’s right, you did mention “he” was a she. I never was very good at telling girly boys and tomboyish girls apart. Part of the reason I was so attracted to you, I suppose – there was never any doubt as to what you were.”

She whispers, patting your stomach in a way to suggest she was referring to an area several inches lower. Unaware, perhaps deliberately, of this exchange, Katrina continues on down the hallway, yelling back behind her.

“We need to get up to the roof! If I remember those floor plans right, there should be a stairwell with roof access down the hall and to the left. Guards are probably going to be swarming over it though – we’ve kicked the hornet’s nest good and hard.”

Speaking of the hornet’s nest, at that exact moment Seraph came around the corner. Taking in Cheran’s body, the bloody bride, and you and the others, he freezes for a moment. And then he swears.

“You have to get out of here! Father is going to be pissed! You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry. Come on, I can show you –“

Whirling around, Katrina raises her crossbow.

“We don’t need your help, freak boy! Get out of here or we’ll show you exactly how your brother died!”

Rolling his eyes, Seraph raises his hands and takes a step back. More trouble arrives an instant later, as a pair of GHASTs smash down through the ceiling. Seraph swears again as they both land and begin to bring their wings around to fire their cannons. Then with a shouted battlecry, he draws his sword and charges forward. He leaps up into the air and swoops down at Korram, slamming him back into the wall. He holds him there for a moment, leaning in to whisper to him.

“Let’s make this look good. Keep running!” Seraph whispers, before pulling away to slice at Korram with his sword, a precise slash that leaves only a thin scratch across his chest instead of tearing it wide open.

And then at the intersection you need to traverse to get up to the roof, Rose comes running into view from the opposite direction. She shoots a quick look over her shoulder at something behind her, and then sees the confrontation in front of her and skids to a halt. With Seraph in your midst, two GHASTs ahead of you, Rose beyond them, and Shiakti and the Baron undoubtedly closing in from behind, this was going to get messy fast.

Dorizzit

With a final blow, you fell Cheran, although the Baron’s freakish son is not quite dead yet. Purifier voices his congratulations at your triumph, followed immediately by his confusion as you pick Cheran up and set him onto your shoulder, half-carrying and half-dragging him on quivering legs. You dump the unconscious bastard down in front of Umber, who is likewise dropping his own burden.

Why, you don’t know, but given the looks exchanged between Katrina and the two former Lords of Blood, your daughter had something to do with it. With a few swift strokes of his knife, Umber frees the Countess, and then hands the weapon to her. She shakes her hands free of the remains of the bouquet, and then takes the weapon with a slight bow. With a moment of effort, she slides the blade up along her face, sawing at the cloth wrapped around her mouth until it gives way and she can tug the gag apart.

“Thank you for the rescue. I am also glad you finally decided to release me. I was trying to ask you to let me go help Korram with my bastard husband. Although it seems he needed no one’s help after all.”

The Countess flashes a quick smile at you, and then turns her attention down to Cheran.

“Yes, this is exactly what I wanted Korram. It’s the perfect gift – thank you.”

Theme Song

Shuffling over to Cheran, the Countess kneels awkwardly down beside him. She carefully presses the blade up against his throat, and then reaches up with her other hand to gently caress his face.

“Cheran . . . Cheran, wake up.”

She says softly, with a note of false sweetness. The Baron’s son stirs with a groan, his eyes cracking open as his minor wounds slowly begin to seal. The Countess continues in her falsely sweet tone.

“That’s a good boy. I wanted to make sure you’d be awake . . . for this!”

And with a sudden sharp motion, the Countess presses the blade down into Cheran’s throat with all her strength and jerks it across, slitting his throat wide open. Blood geysers out of the wound, out onto the floor, onto Cheran, and onto the Countess, proof that she had indeed severed his carotid arteries. Cheran’s eyes snap fully open now as he gives a muted gasp, weakly flailing up with his remaining good arm. The Countess ruthlessly bats the arm aside and then rises the dagger up, plunging it down into Cheran’s chest.

“What was it you said? Oh yes, I looked fetching in crimson!”

She half-screamed, half-sobbed into his face as she pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. And again. And again.

“Until death do us part, husband! So die! Bastard! Monster!”

The Countess shrieked, blubbering several other insults as she continued to repeatedly stab him.

“ . . . Bitch . . .”

Cheran gurgled, somehow managing to croak out the word enough for it to be discernable, and then he collapsed, his head turning aside and his entire body going slack. And thus Sir Cheran Gast, Son of Baron Demetrius Gast, Husband of Countess Amelia Ashargrin, a complete and utter despicable bastard, perished.

Countess Amelia continued to stab his body for another minute, until the blood-soaked knife slipped out of her grasp, causing her to slip in turn and collapse on top of Cheran. Retching, Amelia pushed herself back up and crawled rapidly away from the body, stopping only after she hit a wall.

Pressing her back up against it, she in turn presses a quivering hand up to her mouth, fighting back more sobs, her eyes locked on Cheran’s body. Closing her eyes, she seems to struggle with her emotions, gradually calming herself. When she opens her eyes again, she wipes her hands off on her back, the only part of her dress still white, and then rubs at her face, trying to remove the blood there but in reality just smearing it further. What had once been an elegant wedding dress was now a butcher’s apron, the Countess’s elegant hairweave undone to hang in disordered, bloodstained clumps, and Amelia herself looking almost as bloodied as Cheran’s body.

Taking a steadying breath that threatened to end in another bout of retching, the Countess pushed herself up to her feet, and brushed a strand of blood-sodden hair out of her face.

“Let’s get out of here.”

She says, taking a step forward that causes her to stumble into the wall, narrowly stopping herself from falling. The Countess pulls up her dress to reveal the set of shackles snapped around her ankles.

“But first, could someone remove these?”

Katrina recovers from her open-mouthed shock to step forward.

“Yeah, I can get those off you in a minute. Hold on.”

Katrina grunts as she moves, stopping to twist around and regard the knife still protruding from her back.

“Just . . . give me a sec.”

She grunts, reaching around to firmly grasp the knife by the hilt, pause a moment to steel herself, and then rip the blade from her back. Sending the knife clattering to the floor, Katrina leans against the wall for support while she digs into her cloak. She pulls out a vial which she uncorks, throwing back half the vial’s contents in a single gulp before reaching around to pour the rest directly onto the bleeding hole that the knife left in her back. She bites back a scream as the healing potion does its work, leaning against the wall for a moment more before pushing herself back onto two steady feet.

“Ugh, I hate how these potions feel, but they do come in handy. Do you need one Korram?”

Going over to the Countess and kneeling down, Katrina pulls out a pair of lockpicks and goes to work, still talking to you.

“Anyway, in short, the assassination failed. Argan shot at the Baron, got through his defenses, only to have his bolts plucked out of the air by some blond bimbo I’ve never seen before. He’s on the run now, being pursued by gods know what, and we need to get going too. Y’see, I kinda figured for all his talk Argan was going to bumble the whole thing. And unlike the rest of you suicidal idiots, I spent the last day figuring out how to get our asses out of this mess!”

“Wonderful. You’re a genius. Are you almost done down there?”

Countess Amelia snarked, earning a sigh from Katrina.

“Not quite. This is quite the high-quality lock! What the hell, did they think you picked up thieving in your spare time between learning how to host a tea party and – well, whatever you nobles do!”

“But it’s not magically warded.”

Fianna said, stepping forward. She breathed an incarnation, gestured, and suddenly the shackles clicked open and fell from the Countess’s feet. Katrina looked up at Fianna with a dark frown as she tucked her lockpicks back into her belt and stood up.

“Showoff. You couldn’t have done that before?”

“I could have.”

Fianna replied, shooting a sideways glance and a smirk at Umber.

“But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you down on your knees.”

Katrina simply stared at Fianna, her mouth dropping open for a moment before she managed to recover with a shake of her head.

“Ugh, okay then . . . let’s just . . . let’s move along now to getting out of here finally.”

Katrina swiftly steps past Umber, moving down the hallway.

“We need to get up to the roof! If I remember those floor plans right, there should be a stairwell with roof access down the hall and to the left. Guards are probably going to be swarming over it though – we’ve kicked the hornet’s nest good and hard.”

Speaking of the hornet’s nest, at that exact moment Seraph came around the corner. Taking in Cheran’s body, the bloody bride, and you and the others, he freezes for a moment. And then he swears.

“You have to get out of here! Father is going to be pissed! You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry. Come on, I can show you –“

Whirling around, Katrina raises her crossbow.

“We don’t need your help, freak boy! Get out of here or we’ll show you exactly how your brother died!”

Rolling his eyes, Seraph raises his hands and takes a step back. More trouble arrives an instant later, as a pair of GHASTs smash down through the ceiling. Seraph swears again as they both land and begin to bring their wings around to fire their cannons. Then with a shouted battlecry, he draws his sword and charges forward. He leaps up into the air and swoops down at you, slamming you back into the wall. He holds you there for a moment to lean in.

“Let’s make this look good. Keep running!” Seraph whispers to you, before pulling away to slice at you with his sword, a precise slash that leaves only a thin scratch across your chest instead of tearing you open. Purifier’s wrath flares within you. Although you had not fully recovered from your bout with Cheran, your strength was beginning to return.

Whatever you had with this guy in the past is over! He’s the son of your nemesis! He deserves no more mercy than the rest!

Purifier roars inside your mind. As his strength begins to flow through you again, it occurs to you that oh yes, you could put on quite a show for anyone watching. But Seraph might be surprised at just how very real this fight could get!

And then at the intersection you need to traverse to get up to the roof, Rose comes running into view from the opposite direction. She shoots a quick look over her shoulder at something behind her, and then sees the confrontation in front of her and skids to a halt. Purifier, with access to your memories, knows who she is immediately, and he crackles with delight in your mind.

Perfect! All we have to do is use her to wound this freak! She’s mortal . . . a simple little flick of flame, and we have the perfect distraction to get rid of him and teach him what it’s like to be our enemy. It’ll be so easy . . . go on. Do it!

Your hand is already halfway up before you realize it. And Purifier was right. All it would take is one little conflagration . . . and Rose Gast would be no more.

OverWilliam

At his side, the blond woman you now knew to be the princess to the kingdom glowered as you ranted at her master. She took a menacing step forward, stopping only as the Baron held up a hand. The Baron stared at you for a moment, and then he laughed. The bastard actually laughed!

“Boldly stated, boy. But I wonder how long your resolve will last after your compassion has dragged you into a fight you cannot win. I suspect –“

At that moment, the Baron is interrupted by an anguished cry from the shapeshifting menace. A woman with an aura nearly as dark as the Baron’s – presumably his wife – had just conjured a host of iron spears. With a gesture she had sent them flying up with a mind of their own, skewering the abomination and the wall all around it. This seemed to be the first time the creature had been injured, and it was clearly in agony now with a dozen of the iron shafts embedded in its flesh.

It seemed to have lost all control of its body as well, trying and failing to assume a different form – something about the iron held it in place. It began to try to dislodge the shafts from its body, but the . . . well, angels for lack of a better word, although they most certainly were not, pounced mercilessly on it. They shoved the already embedded spears deeper into the shifter’s body, and tore the missed spears out of the wall to add them to the shifter’s collection. Losing its grip on the wall, the shifter crashed gracelessly to the floor. Immediately the Baron’s wife conjured up a second batch of spears above the shifter, sending them raining down on its prone body. Propelled by gravity, a number of the spears penetrated all the way through its body, embedding themselves into the floor and pinning the creature in place. Its shrieks of agony become more of a high-pitched keen, and it simply lies there, broken.

The Baron paused to clearly savor the moment, and then favored you with a tight-lipped smile.

“Well, it seems I have more important business to attend to indeed. Perhaps now I can get some answers as to this unprovoked and tactless attack on my son’s wedding. An agent of mine will approach you in a few hours with pertinent information regarding our mutual pest. What you do with the information from there is up to you. Aedra, please escort this young man out of the cathedral – safely. Good evening.”

Turning away from you, the Baron walked over to the fallen and helpless shifter. Scarcely had he arrived, however, before the beast roared, and smashed its malformed jaws together, shattering several teeth.

“I WILL SEE YOU IN THE HELLS!”

Immediately the creature began to quiver and shake violently, a thick foam shooting out of its lips as a wad of spittle that just narrowly missed the Baron. A moment later, and the creature fell still, quite dead. Immediately the Baron turned to his subordinates, no longer attempting to hide his fury.

“Idiots! You didn’t check for a suicide capsule!!?”

Meanwhile, Aedra, the captured princess, the Baron’s pet assassin among assassins, takes you by the arm and leads you back into the room Shiakti had so recently dragged you out of. Only this time you successfully make it out of the room and into the hallway, Aedra leading you even further into the cathedral’s labyrinthine back half.

“It’s too late, you know.”

She suddenly said, her voice an unpleasant gravelly whisper. Little wonder then, that she generally remained silent. Unbidden, your eyes are drawn to the black scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, and you can feel a residual Baron memory skittering at the edges of your consciousness, daring you to call it forward to explain this enigma.

“Once He has His sights on you, there’s no way to escape. You will serve Him, one way or another. Or die. But not even Death can save you if He wills it. Much better then to serve willingly, and avoid having to be broken first.”

This creepy proclamation given, Aedra stops you and turns to regard you with her cold, dead eyes.

“You are bleeding. This will fix it.”

From her cloak Aedra produces a familiar powder, which carries a familiar scream-inducing flash of pain as it is rubbed into the wound. Do all assassins use such painful substances on themselves as a way to harden themselves, or is this some sort of an inside joke they play on the hapless victims they decide to help? Regardless, as with Limier’s version before it, after the initial sharp pain the injury fades from your mind as the wound closes. Apparently satisfied with her cure, Aedra continues on down the hallway in silence, dragging you with her.

Finally, you come to a door, and Aedra opens it to reveal a small courtyard beyond, which contains another unexpected treat – an air carriage. Every day a handful of the conveyances flew over the slums you had once made a living in, and you and the other up and coming thieves had always joked amongst yourselves that once you had made it big, you’d stop by to give everyone else a ride. Somehow, you doubted this was anything more than a rental, but it was still the fulfillment of a dream.

“The driver will take you anywhere you wish to go.”

Aedra explained, and then paused to place a firm hand on your shoulder, leaning in to hiss even more quietly into your ear.

“Tell him to take you to the outskirts of the city. And then run. Run, and never stop. It is your only chance.”

Her uncharacteristic warning given, Aedra gives you a slight shove out the door towards the air carriage. Inside which was the driver who would take you wherever you wanted to go, as the next step to fulfilling whatever sort of destiny you chose.

(As with the Baron, if you’d like to have a conversation with Aedra you may. She will be considerably more terse with her answers, however. )

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

"Actually, yes, the plans have changed. One of our "allies" inside the city has shown me another way in, under the walls and into the gatehouse. I'll escort a small strike team through this entrance to take the gatehouse and open the gates from the inside so our armies can advance and take the city quickly, with a minimum of bloodshed and without the starvation and misery of a lengthy siege."

He turns to Katashiko.

"You're with me, as always. While your capabilities regarding rock and stone would serve well against the fortifications, I think it'll be safer for you by my side. I don't want to lose you in the battle. You as well Belroar, since I'll also need a second commander to keep the strike team in order. I think the other Grandmasters will be able to keep the battle under control without my help. Are there any questions? The battle is about to begin and none of us may be around later to ask or answer them."